Nineteen
“Where’s the coffee?” I ask, my eyes scanning the table.
Delalieu drops his fork. The silverware clangs against the china plates. He looks up, eyes wide. “Sir?”
“I’d like to try it,” I tell him, attempting to spread butter on my toast with my left hand. I toss a look in his direction. “You’re always going on about your coffee, aren’t you? I thought I—”
Delalieu jumps up from the table without a word. Bolts out the door.
I laugh silently into my plate.
Delalieu carts the tea and coffee tray in himself and stations it by my chair. His hands shake as he pours the dark liquid into a teacup, places it on a saucer, sets it on the table, and pushes it in my direction.
I wait until he’s finally sitting down again before I take a sip. It’s a strange, obscenely bitter sort of drink; not at all what I expected. I glance up at him, surprised to discover that a man like Delalieu would begin his day by bracing himself with such a potent, foul-tasting liquid. I find I respect him for it.
“This isn’t terrible,” I tell him.
His face splits into a smile so wide, so beatific, I wonder if he’s misheard me. He’s practically beaming when he says, “I take mine with cream and sugar. The taste is far better that w—”
“Sugar.” I put my cup down. Press my lips together, fight back a smile. “You add sugar to it. Of course you do. That makes so much more sense.”
“Would you like some, sir?”
I hold up my hand. Shake my head. “Call back the troops, Lieutenant. We’re going to halt daytime missions and instead launch in the evening, after curfew. You will remain on base,” I tell him, “where the supreme will dictate orders through his men; carry out any demands as they are required. I shall lead the group myself.” I stop. Hold his eyes. “There will be no more talk of what has transpired. Nothing for the civilians to see or speak of. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” he says, his coffee forgotten. “I’ll issue the orders at once.”
“Good.”
He stands up.
I nod.
He leaves.
I’m beginning to feel real hope for the first time since she left. We’re going to find her. Now, with this new information—with an entire army against a group of clueless rebels—it seems impossible we won’t.
I take a deep breath. Take another sip of this coffee.
I’m surprised to discover how much I enjoy the bitter taste of it.
Twenty
He’s waiting for me when I return to my room.
“The orders have been issued,” I tell him without looking in his direction. “We will mobilize tonight.” I hesitate. “So if you’ll excuse me, I have other matters to contend with.”
“What’s it like,” he asks, “to be so crippled?” He’s smiling. “How can you stand to look at yourself, knowing that you’ve been disabled by your own subordinates?”
I pause outside the adjoining door to my office. “What do you want?”
“What,” he says, “is your fascination with that girl?”
My spine goes rigid.
“She is more to you than just an experiment, isn’t she?” he says.
I turn around slowly. He’s standing in the middle of my room, hands in his pockets, smiling at me like he might be disgusted.
“What are you talking about?”
“Look at yourself,” he says. “I haven’t even said her name and you fall apart.” He shakes his head, still studying me. “Your face is pale, your only working hand is clenched. You’re breathing too fast, and your entire body is tense.” A pause. “You have betrayed yourself, son. You think you’re very clever,” he says, “but you’re forgetting who taught you your tricks.”
I go hot and cold all at once. I try to unclench my fist and I can’t. I want to tell him he’s wrong, but I’m suddenly feeling unsteady, wishing I’d eaten more at breakfast, and then wishing I’d eaten nothing at all.
“I have work to do,” I manage to say.
“Tell me,” he says, “that you would not care if she died along with the others.”
“What?” The nervous, shaky word escapes my lips too soon.
My father drops his eyes. Clasps and unclasps his hands. “You have disappointed me in so many ways,” he says, his voice deceptively soft. “Please don’t let this be another.”
For a moment I feel as though I exist outside of my body, as if I’m looking at myself from his perspective. I see my face, my injured arm, these legs that suddenly seem unable to carry my weight. Cracks begin to form along my face, all the way down my arms, my torso, my legs.
I imagine this is what it’s like to fall apart.
I don’t realize he’s said my name until he repeats it twice more.
“What do you want from me?” I ask, surprised to hear how calm I sound. “You’ve walked into my room without permission; you stand here and accuse me of things I don’t have time to understand. I am following your rules, your orders. We will leave tonight; we will find their hideout. You can destroy them as you see fit.”
“And your girl,” he says, cocking his head at me. “Your Juliette?”
I flinch at the sound of her name. My pulse is racing so fast it feels like a whisper.
“If I were to shoot three holes in her head, how would that make you feel?” He stares at me. Watches me. “Disappointed, because you’d have lost your pet project? Or devastated, because you’d have lost the girl you love?”
Time seems to slow down, melting all around me.
“It would be a waste,” I say, ignoring the tremble I feel deep inside me, threatening to tip me over, “to lose something I’ve invested so much time in.”
He smiles. “It’s good to know you see it that way,” he says. “But projects are, after all, easily replaced. And I’m certain we’ll be able to find a better, more practical use of your time.”
I blink at him so slowly. Part of my chest feels as if it’s collapsed.
“Of course,” I hear myself say.
“I knew you’d understand.” He claps me on my injured shoulder as he leaves. My knees nearly buckle. “It was a good effort, son. But she’s cost us too much time and expense, and she’s proven completely useless. This way we’ll be disposing of many inconveniences all at once. We’ll just consider her collateral damage.” He shoots me one last smile before walking past me and out the door.
I fall back against the wall.
And crumble to the floor.