All the Feels (33 page)

“Oh, there are other ways to get answers,” Tekla growls. “Care to test me?”

Most men would cower at the threat of torture, but Malloy’s chin rises. He could be standing at a podium, not as a prisoner.

“Not particularly,” he drawls. “I’d suggest checking Darthku’s intel first. It’ll save
me
a world of pain and
you
a world of embarrassment.”

“I don’t embarrass easy,” she scoffs, “and there are other ways to fact-check.” Tekla steps closer and pulls a folding blade from her pocket. “You see?”

“Tekla,” Spartan warns quietly. She doesn’t hear him (or doesn’t listen).

“You can either start talking … or I start helping you.” She opens the knife, dancing it over her fingertips, an angry smile on her curving lips. “It’s all up to you.”

Tekla and her damned blade
, Spartan thinks. She likes the fear it brings. Malloy’s eyes widen as she brings the razor-sharp edge to his chest.

“There are men and women who
died
because of you,” she murmurs, dragging the tip of the knife along the front of his shirt. A thin tear appears where the fabric is tight. A line of muscle jumps in Malloy’s jaw, but he otherwise seems calm. “I’m sure they’d like to make sure I get the truth.”

“You can play your little game,” Malloy says in a haughty voice, “but it isn’t going to change the—” Tekla digs the blade deeper and a red flower appears under its tip. “Facts,” Malloy finishes.

“I’ll know the truth when I hear it. Keep talking.”

The knife slides up Malloy’s neck, pausing on top of his pulse point. The skin puckers. Malloy is leaning as far back in his chair as he can, his neck corded with muscle.

“Tekla.” Spartan’s voice is louder this time.

“You led the attacks on the Ceres shipyards,” she hisses, her face only inches from Malloy’s. “Tell me why you’d do that if you actually intended to rebel.” The blade wobbles, tip disappearing for a split second.

“Tekla!”

“You led that attack, Malloy,” she says, voice rising. “You were Darthku’s hand. You brought his justice!” The knife goes higher, a dotted line appearing as it notches the smooth skin of Malloy’s jaw and cheek. “That attack killed friends of mine. Men, women, children.”

“I was following orders,” Malloy says, his eyes dark with rage and pain. “Everybody follows them in the fleet. Everybody—”

He gasps as she reaches the hollow under his right eye.

“So what do you say?” Tekla snarls. “Eye for an eye?” The blade leans in, closer … closer … “Seems fair to me.” The knife dips in and Malloy’s gaze jumps to Spartan, pleading.

“Tekla, for the love of god,
stop
! I’ll vouch for him, all right?!”

The knife clatters to the floor, and she spins to face Spartan. She’s breathing hard—looking much as she does after sex—cheeks flushed, eyes wild. Beautiful in her anger, but no longer in control.

“You’ll do
what
?!”

“I’ll vouch for him.” He steps up and puts a shaking hand on Malloy’s shoulder. “I trust Major Malloy. He’s my friend. And if he says he’s honest, he is.”

Tekla’s eyes turn to ice.

“Th-thank you,” Malloy says hoarsely. “I-I owe you one, Spartan.”

*   *   *

Spartan sighs as the image fades. It’s a memory, of course. Malloy’s not actually there. (He’s had a hundred such thoughts in the weeks since they parted ways.) On the other side of the command center, Tekla looks up and frowns. “Do you need something, Spartan?” Her words are more gentle than he deserves. They have a war to fight, after all.

“I … I was thinking about Io again.”

Tekla nods to her second-in-command, gesturing Spartan to follow her into the hallways that spread like a spiderweb through the star freighter.

“What about Io?” she asks sympathetically.

“The people who joined us there. The refugees.”

She frowns and waits for the rest.

“There were people on the surface when we escaped,” Spartan says. “People left to die. They won’t …
can’t
 … survive a winter on their own they’ll—”

“Yes, there were Rebels left behind,” Tekla says firmly. “But their deaths let us live.” She shakes her head. “You can’t save everyone, Spartan. This bloody war has certainly shown us that.”

“But, but … they can’t live like that!” he argues, voice rising. “What happens when winter comes? They’ll kill themselves before they let themselves be taken by Darthku’s troops. You have to go back for them, Tekla. To leave them to starvation, it’s … it’s inhumane…”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, voice catching. “But I can’t.”

It’s an endless argument. One that’s been raging since Darthku destroyed the base and they escaped to fight another day. Spartan puts his head down, his gaze on the grated flooring, so she’s almost upon him before he catches sight of her boots. Seeing them, his eyes rise in panic.

She knows his weaknesses.

Tekla’s got her arms on her hips, her lips pursed in that look of obstinacy that months of living with her taught Spartan to both love and hate. He doesn’t say anything to her, just stands there. Watching
her
watching
him
. Without conscious effort, a memory floats to mind. Tekla standing in the watery light of the windows in the apartment they shared.

It is the morning of the end.

Tekla’s words interrupt before the cancerous memory can take hold.

“If I thought it would do anyone any good, I’d go back to Io,” she says gently. “But it won’t, Spartan. You know that as well as I do.”

“It
will
. There are people there. Our people!”

Her expression changes. He sees the emotion at once—sympathy—and he hates her for it.

“Returning won’t change what happened,” she says. “It won’t bring him back to you.”

He’s too angry to respond.
Of course he knows that!

“I love you, Spartan,” Tekla says, “but I—”

Spartan turns on his heels and storms away.

*   *   *

The dream begins with a memory.

It’s early morning on Io, and Spartan’s moving over the top of Tekla, his hands tangled in her silver hair. His tongue plunders her mouth while she runs her fingers over his skin, tracing the striations of muscles. Tekla’s body is soft and pliant in his arms, leaving no sense of where she begins and he ends, the feel of her a drug.

Suddenly the door bangs open, the two of them jerking apart in an instant.

Malloy stands in the doorway, a jaunty grin on his lips. “Didn’t mean to interrupt the happy little reunion,” he drawls, “but we’re all about to die.” He tosses a blaster on the bed. “Grab a gun, you two. We’ve got company.”

Tekla’s the first one out of bed, yanking on clothes before Spartan has even processed what his friend is saying.

A sonic boom rattles the windows, and the three of them turn as one. Framed by the shuddering panels is Tekla. Behind her is the bulk of the Star Freighter Hyperion roaring toward the base.

“Hyperion just broke atmosphere,” she says in a hollow voice.

“Hurry up!” Malloy shouts. “There’s not much time!”

*   *   *

Spartan wakes in the star freighter, bile rising in his throat. He takes a sobbing breath, his body shaking like palsy.

“It was the dream again, wasn’t it?” Tekla says from the darkness at his side. “The last day on Io.”

He doesn’t answer. Can’t.

A faint light wraps around her when she climbs from bed, her body leaner than it was six months ago. She’s wearing the loose tee and gray pants that were her uniform in the Rebel quarters on Io. (Six pairs of the same folded neatly in the dresser of the bedroom they once shared.) She stands watching him in silence, her head tipped to the side.

“Spartan? Answer me.”

He pulls on his clothes in jerky movements. He can’t push the dream away anymore. Can’t make the memory disappear. He sees it everywhere, the words of that long-ago day taunting him at random moments. Memories of the dead abruptly too real.

All the death, the death, the death …
his mind screams.

Tekla’s shoulders slump, her voice breaking. “You’ve got to talk about this. It’s not healthy to pretend it didn’t happen.”

He grabs her shoulders, shaking her as a dog shakes a rabbit. “Why?!” he screams. “Why should I remember?!” He lets go, and she stumbles and falls.

Tears fill Tekla’s eyes. “Because he did it for you.”

*   *   *

The windows are shuddering, screams rising around the Rebel base. Two more booms follow the Hyperion’s appearance, Imperial ships in quick pursuit.

“What the hell?!?” Spartan growls.

“Darthku’s found the base!” Malloy shouts. “We’ve got to
go
!”

Tekla grabs the blaster from the bed, dragging on a shirt as she darts from the room. She meets Spartan’s eyes in the doorway. “Meet me in the hangar!” she orders, then disappears. (She says nothing to Malloy at all.)

“Dragnat all!” Spartan mutters, grabbing clothes thrown willy-nilly across the floor. Malloy turns to leave. “Wait for me!” Spartan bellows. Everything’s moving too fast.

Malloy pauses and smiles. (Spartan will remember that afterward.) “I’ve got to delay Darthku’s troops,” he says. “You catch up with me later, all right?”

Spartan tugs on a pair of pants, slides bare feet into his boots. “Fighting side by side,” he says. “Just like old times.”

Malloy’s smile fades. “Yeah … Old times.”

In seconds, he’s out the door, leaving Spartan to follow. When Spartan reaches the courtyard, the world is falling to pieces.
Io burning.

There are raised voices in the compound. Spartan presses himself against the lee of the wall until they pass, then jogs down to the hangar deck where the interstellar transports await.
Hurry … hurry …
an inner voice warns. Every second of delay is too much.

Malloy’s not there.

But where’s he gone? Spartan needs to find him! His friend and comrade in arms is the last of the Imperial Guard to turn coat, and Darthku will never let him stand trial if he’s caught. The major will be an example. A martyr. Stripped and tortured until agony itself destroys the person he is. (Spartan’s seen it happen before.) With Io under attack, there will be no reprieve.

Spartan’s mind darts cat and mouse through the places Malloy might have gone: the hangar, command, ammunitions room. Panic rising, he finally reaches the barracks.

“Malloy!” Spartan cries, listening with half an ear to the fighting going on outside the walls. “Where are you?!”

There’s no answer.

Spartan heads to the washhouse at the same time a single report of gunfire echoes. This time it is nearer.

“Malloy!” Spartan shouts. “Where
are
you, dragnat all?!” He pulls open the door to the showers, stepping inside the darkened bathroom without turning on the light.

Two things strike him at once. First, that the door won’t open all the way; something is blocking it. Second, that it smells like copper.

In that moment, Spartan’s foot slips. His legs go out from under him and he falls forward, landing, with a thud, against Malloy’s still-warm body. The young man’s eyes are wide and blank, black hair matted with blood. His mouth hangs open, silently screaming, a blaster clasped in limp fingers.

“No!” Spartan shrieks. “No, you can’t! Please, God,
no
!”

But even saying it, Spartan knows it’s true. He considers staying, waiting until Darthku’s Imperial Guard takes the holdout and dying at his friend’s side, but he knows Malloy would want him to live. He also knows Malloy’s death has given him one last gift: the cover Spartan needs to escape.

*   *   *

Spartan wakes in Tekla’s quarters. She has her arms wrapped around his chest, and she’s rocking him like a child.

“Shh…” she croons. “Just a dream … just a dream…”

Spartan takes a sobbing breath and buries his face against her chest.

It was never just a dream.

“I—I keep dreaming of that day,” he gasps. “I keep dreaming of Io!”

“What about it?”

“About Malloy.”

Tekla pushes him back onto the bed, kissing Spartan until his sobs fade, then moving down his body. “Relax,” she whispers against his skin. “Let me help you forget.…”

He closes his eyes as she tastes him, his hands tangling in her silver hair. Flashes of the past rise in time to the sensations: Spartan and Malloy standing outside the elementary school side by side. The same friends, years later, sitting in an academy dive, a redheaded woman with her arms around them. Malloy arguing with Spartan on the deck of their last post. Spartan flying away, not looking back. Two friends in a war with no end. Spartan hanging onto Malloy’s neck in an Imperial jail cell. Malloy in a chair, Tekla’s blade to his neck, the blade glittering red. Malloy’s eyes wide and empty, a sheet of blood spreading in a pool beneath his still body.

Malloy … Malloy … Malloy …

And finally, after weeks of denial, the dam breaks. Spartan rolls to the side, catching Tekla in his arms and sobbing against her chest.

“Why?!” he roars. “Why did he have to die?”

“I don’t know.”

“I tried to find him that day! I wanted to save him!”

“Shh … I know,” she whispers as she strokes his hair. “It’s all right.”

“He’s gone, and I never—” His voice hitches with sobs. “Never told him the truth.”

“I know.”

“I loved him, and he still died.”

Her hand on his head pauses for a long moment before she resumes her petting. “I know, my love. I know,” her voice breaks. “But Malloy
knew
.”

And for some reason, at that moment, that’s exactly what Spartan needs to hear.

A Coffee Date

with author
Danika Stone
and her editor, Holly West

“About the Author”

HW: I’m going to start with my favorite question. If you were a superhero, what would your superpower be?

DS: I’m going to tell you that I
am
a superhero, and my time-stealing ability is actually my superpower! Of course this is kind of a joke, but my husband always accuses me of that, and all I can say is that I write lists, and I do things off my list constantly. Like, if I have two minutes, then I try to do a paragraph of editing or something like that. And I swear that’s the only way I get anything done. So, yes, that’s my superpower. I would steal time from other people so I can efficiently get things done.