These Broken Stars(76)

And then, as sudden as a lightning strike, I do see it. A tiny glint of reflected sunlight, winking at me from the tree line.

“Wreckage,” I whisper, staring at it, trying not to believe it’s what I think it is. “It’s a piece of the ship that landed there. Another crashed escape pod.”

Tarver slowly lets his arm fall, but doesn’t shift away again. He’s staring at the thing too. “I don’t think so.” His voice is quiet too, barely audible over the wind. “It’s tough to tell, but I think the trees around it are cleared, uniform.”

I realize I’m holding my breath.

“I think it’s a building.”

There’s no fuel for a fire out among the rolling hills, and it’s bitterly cold, but I don’t care. Tarver estimated a two-day journey to reach the edge of the forest, and as the sun set in front of us on the first day I could see the trees along the horizon, in the distance. The sea of flowers vanished into mist as we climbed back down the wreckage, but we know now where we’re being led. To what end, or what purpose, we can’t hope to guess, but if it’s a building—and it’s real—it might be the key to our rescue.

“Hot water!” I say cheerfully, eating cold, plain pasta with my fingers. I’ve never had anything so delicious.

“A roof,” Tarver replies, munching at his own handful of the pasta I cooked before we left. The kitchen storerooms on the wreck were my best find—after the sick bay, anyway.

I glance over at him, the last of the light lending his still-pale face some false color. We’re camped in the lee of a hill, as much out of the wind as we can be. Still, it’ll be a cold night, even together.

“A bed,” is my retort. “A real one.”

“You win,” he says, downing the last of his share of the pasta and leaning back on his elbows. He’s still moving slowly, carefully. But he looks better, for all his trouble walking today. “I can’t top that.”

I hurry to finish the rest of my dinner and scoot over to where he reclines on the blanket, eager for his warmth and company. He folds his good arm around me, easy, comfortable. I don’t think the old Lilac would’ve thought he smelled very good, but I turn my head toward him anyway, cheek rubbing against the material of his T-shirt.

We’re quiet for a while, perhaps each of us imagining what might wait for us in the building Tarver saw on the horizon. His face has changed, a spark of hope where there had only been grim determination. How long has he been living with the belief that no rescue was coming? It’s obvious that ever since we reached the Icarus, he’s been aiming only for survival. Not for rescue.

Now there’s a good chance we’ll be able to signal for help. No remote outpost building would be without some method of communication.

I shift, pulling myself in more tightly. He inhales deeply, the rise and fall of his chest shifting my face where it’s pressed against him.

“How long do you think we’ve been here?”

“Counting the time I was sick?” Tarver pauses, doing a quick mental calculation. “Sixteen days, I think.”

So long? It knocks the wind out of me. Two weeks and counting. It feels like only two days and like a lifetime. “It was my birthday,” I find myself saying, in a strange voice. “I turned seventeen a few days ago.” The day you came back to me from your fever. But I can’t bring myself to say that out loud.

Tarver’s breath catches, then releases. “Happy birthday, Miss LaRoux.” I can hear the smile in his voice.

I’ve become a year older while stranded on this planet. I swallow.

Perhaps sensing the shift in my mood, Tarver lifts his bandaged hand to trail his fingertips along my arm. I suspect the movement hurts him, but if it does, he makes no complaint.

I clear my throat. “What would be the first thing you’d do when we get rescued? A real meal? Call your family?” I smile against him, plucking at his T-shirt in distaste. “Take a shower?”

“My family,” he says immediately. “Then they’ll probably hose me down and interrogate me for a few weeks. The military will, I mean. Not my parents.”

“Gosh.” Now I’m trying to banish the mental image of someone hosing Tarver down. At least I’m not thinking about my birthday anymore. “I hope nobody tries that with me.”

That earns me a laugh, my head jumping a little as Tarver’s body quakes beneath my cheek. “I doubt anyone will try any such thing with you. It’s pretty much just soldiers and criminals who get the high-pressure hose.”

Even in the realm of imagination, we’re already separated. Him, in his interrogations and debriefings—me, presumably taken somewhere for coddling and polishing. My heart twinges painfully, its beat rapid and strong against Tarver’s ribs.