These Broken Stars(9)
Lilac Rose LaRoux. Untouchable. Toxic.
I should’ve been named Ivy, or Foxglove, or Belladonna.
“You next saw her when the incident occurred?”
“That’s correct.”
“Did you try to figure out what was happening?”
“You’re not military, you don’t understand how we work. I’m not supposed to ask questions. I was just following orders.”
“What orders were those?”
“We have a duty to protect civilians.”
“So there wasn’t a specific order that drove your decision?”
“Now you’re nitpicking.”
“We’re being exact, Major. We’d appreciate it if you tried to do the same.”
THREE
TARVER
THE AIR LEAVES MY LUNGS WITH A RUSH, pain shooting up my back as I slam down onto the practice mats. The other guy falls with me, and I realize I’ve still got a handful of his T-shirt. I suck in a quick breath as I shove my weight to one side, coming up to my knees in one movement so I’m looming over him, instead of the other way around.
I can’t believe I made such an idiot of myself tonight. Everyone in the galaxy knows who Lilac LaRoux is, and I couldn’t have glanced at one lousy newscast, watched one of those damn gossip shows, and learned what she looked like? I must be the only guy alive who doesn’t know.
Normally you couldn’t get me near a girl that rich and entitled if you held a gun to my head. What was I thinking? I wasn’t thinking at all. I had my mind on dimples and red hair and—
The guy underneath me pushes up against my shoulder, and I roll it back so he can’t get purchase, planting a knee in his chest and drawing back my arm. My fist makes it halfway to the guy’s cheek before he catches it, gripping and twisting so I have to throw myself backward to break free. He scrambles after me, grinning and panting.
“That all you got, kid? Try harder.”
That’s all I ever hear. That all you got? Try harder. Be richer. Be smarter. Learn which damn cutlery to use. Speak like us. Think like us.
Screw that all the way to hell.
A ragged chorus of shouts and swearing in a dozen different languages erupts from the blur of fatigues and faces around us. The only officer down here is the sergeant overseeing the sparring, and he’s not about to tell us to watch our mouths. Well—the only officer other than me. But they don’t know that. It’s only upstairs that everyone recognizes my face from their magazines and newspapers and holovids.
Still, I bet they would have recognized Lilac LaRoux.
I can’t get my mind off of her. Did she think it was funny to play with me like that in front of her friends?
I lash out so quickly we’re both surprised, and there’s a crunch, and then the other guy’s rolling away, hand up in front of his face, blood seeping through his fingers. I draw a breath, and before I can move, the sergeant is leaning down to stick his hand between us, showing me the flat of his palm—bout over.
I lean back on my elbows, chest heaving as he helps the other guy to his feet and hands him over to one of his buddies to head for the sick bay. Then the sergeant turns back to stand over me, arms folded across his massive chest.
“Son, one more like that, and you’re off the mats, you understand? One more and I’ll be speaking to your commanding officer.”
Down here it’s all plain fatigues, khaki T-shirts and pants, and I can ditch my stars and bars and pretend I’m a private. Down here I’m just eighteen, not an officer, not a war hero. He doesn’t imagine for a moment that I could be a major. I prefer it that way. Some days I wish it was that way. That I could earn my stripes in official training, rather than out in the field like I did, where mistakes cost more than marks on a piece of paper.
“Yes, Sergeant.” My breath’s still coming quickly, and I climb to my feet carefully. I want to stay a little longer.
The military quarters are utilitarian, the metal skeleton of the ship showing, but I’m more at home down here. The air is humid with so many bodies working and sweating, the filters chugging on overtime without much result. These guys are on their way to one of the colonies to put down the latest rebellion. Take away my medals and my field promotion, and I’d be traveling in military quarters too, waiting to see what terraformed wonders and pissed-off rebels were waiting for me. I wish.
The sergeant sizes me up a moment longer, then turns his head to bellow, parade-ground style. “Corporal Adams, front and center. You’re up next.”
She’s a few years older than me, a couple of inches shorter, blond hair spiked. She shoots me a quick grin as she shakes out her arms and readies herself, and I suck in a breath and square up. I’m going to do this until I’m tired enough to sleep.