Kyon’s broad chest. She covers the angry red stab wound I gave him. His masculine, steam-shovel jaw tenses. Blood raises the color in his cheeks. Readouts on the lid of his pod go ballistic. His eyes open wide, the irises of which shine pure silver. When his mouth falls open, that same silver light emits from deep within him, gray embers from a blast furnace.
When she removes her hand, there is a thin silver scar in place of the angry wound. The Flower glances behind her with a radiant smile to one of the granite-cut men she arrived with, but that stone won’t notice her. She loses some of her smile.
The Bee flutters forward, helping Kyon to sit up. He does so awkwardly, which is very uncharacteristic of him. He rubs his blue eyes, trying to clear his head. His blond hair is pulled back from his face and tied so that it doesn’t fall into his eyes when he slumps forward. He’s weak , I think, but I don’t have a moment of guilt about it.
“How do you feel?” the Bee asks. Her fingers rest on his shoulder, covering the dark military tattoo that interconnects to form circles there. The tattoo spans his neck, chest, and abdomen, stopping where his hip forms one angle of a dramatic vee.
Kyon ignores her, choosing instead to gaze over her shoulder at the Bee’s consort. “Chandrum, was Kricket brought to Alameeda? Is she here?”
Chandrum shakes his head. “She’s still with them. The extraction was a failure.”
Kyon growls. “What’s being done?”
“There is a new plan,” Chandrum offers as he watches the Bee wring her hands.
“Tell me,” Kyon insists.
“In due course,” he says before looking over his shoulder and snapping his fingers. A medical attendant rushes forward with a blanket, forcing the Bee to step back from her post.
The Bird looks in my direction, piercing me with her eyes. She sniffs the air and says, “She listens now. Your Kricket.”
“I feel her too,” the Bee agrees.
A slow smile spreads over Kyon’s lips. “Kricket,” he says with a rough voice of someone who has been unconscious for a few days. I startle, not expecting him to say my name, let alone speak to me. “Must I wait for you to catch up to my time?” It’s a rare joke, since in my time he’s still in the pod, stabbed and unconscious, but here, he’s maybe a day or so ahead of me, unconscious as I am in the overup.
The Bird giggles. “You’ve frightened her, Kyon. You mustn’t amuse yourself at her expense or she’ll never love you.”
“As long as she respects me, I can live with her fear,” he replies.
Oh, I’m so going to put a knife in the other side of your chest , I think, feeling stabby.
“Fie! Now she’s angry with you. She indicates that next time the stabbing will be on the other side of your chest,” the Bird crows. “Oh, I like her!” She claps her hands like this is all a game.
The Bee’s tone is waspish. “Permission to make her go away?”
Ugh, you have to ask for his permission? Gross.
The Bird clasps her hands together with a look of pleasure. “She’s a free spirit!”
Kyon looks in my direction. “Catch up, Kricket. I’ll be along soon.” With Kyon’s approving nod, the Bee’s hands lift in my direction.
“Can’t wait, freak—” I’m blown off my feet and out into the blackness of space where I’m falling, falling, falling. I land on my back upon the enormous mahogany desk in Minister Telek’s office. Grasping my head and holding it, I realize I’m still somewhere in the future. I search around, trying to decide when I am.
Sliding off the desk, I rifle the room, looking for anything that will indicate a date. A steampunk-looking clock on the shelf nearby makes a metronome sound. Drifting near it to watch the pendulum, I see that it swings faster than it would on Earth. I read the dials that whirl as I interpret the date: it’s sixteen parts, Fitzmartin, which is Wednesday, two days ahead in time. In my time it’s still Fitzlutzer—Monday.
I move
When she removes her hand, there is a thin silver scar in place of the angry wound. The Flower glances behind her with a radiant smile to one of the granite-cut men she arrived with, but that stone won’t notice her. She loses some of her smile.
The Bee flutters forward, helping Kyon to sit up. He does so awkwardly, which is very uncharacteristic of him. He rubs his blue eyes, trying to clear his head. His blond hair is pulled back from his face and tied so that it doesn’t fall into his eyes when he slumps forward. He’s weak , I think, but I don’t have a moment of guilt about it.
“How do you feel?” the Bee asks. Her fingers rest on his shoulder, covering the dark military tattoo that interconnects to form circles there. The tattoo spans his neck, chest, and abdomen, stopping where his hip forms one angle of a dramatic vee.
Kyon ignores her, choosing instead to gaze over her shoulder at the Bee’s consort. “Chandrum, was Kricket brought to Alameeda? Is she here?”
Chandrum shakes his head. “She’s still with them. The extraction was a failure.”
Kyon growls. “What’s being done?”
“There is a new plan,” Chandrum offers as he watches the Bee wring her hands.
“Tell me,” Kyon insists.
“In due course,” he says before looking over his shoulder and snapping his fingers. A medical attendant rushes forward with a blanket, forcing the Bee to step back from her post.
The Bird looks in my direction, piercing me with her eyes. She sniffs the air and says, “She listens now. Your Kricket.”
“I feel her too,” the Bee agrees.
A slow smile spreads over Kyon’s lips. “Kricket,” he says with a rough voice of someone who has been unconscious for a few days. I startle, not expecting him to say my name, let alone speak to me. “Must I wait for you to catch up to my time?” It’s a rare joke, since in my time he’s still in the pod, stabbed and unconscious, but here, he’s maybe a day or so ahead of me, unconscious as I am in the overup.
The Bird giggles. “You’ve frightened her, Kyon. You mustn’t amuse yourself at her expense or she’ll never love you.”
“As long as she respects me, I can live with her fear,” he replies.
Oh, I’m so going to put a knife in the other side of your chest , I think, feeling stabby.
“Fie! Now she’s angry with you. She indicates that next time the stabbing will be on the other side of your chest,” the Bird crows. “Oh, I like her!” She claps her hands like this is all a game.
The Bee’s tone is waspish. “Permission to make her go away?”
Ugh, you have to ask for his permission? Gross.
The Bird clasps her hands together with a look of pleasure. “She’s a free spirit!”
Kyon looks in my direction. “Catch up, Kricket. I’ll be along soon.” With Kyon’s approving nod, the Bee’s hands lift in my direction.
“Can’t wait, freak—” I’m blown off my feet and out into the blackness of space where I’m falling, falling, falling. I land on my back upon the enormous mahogany desk in Minister Telek’s office. Grasping my head and holding it, I realize I’m still somewhere in the future. I search around, trying to decide when I am.
Sliding off the desk, I rifle the room, looking for anything that will indicate a date. A steampunk-looking clock on the shelf nearby makes a metronome sound. Drifting near it to watch the pendulum, I see that it swings faster than it would on Earth. I read the dials that whirl as I interpret the date: it’s sixteen parts, Fitzmartin, which is Wednesday, two days ahead in time. In my time it’s still Fitzlutzer—Monday.
I move
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