As the droid moved closer, Rhee hugged herself and, as if in response, the wooden walls of the ship enfolded her even more tightly. As she waited in the darkness, Rhee thought of when she’d explored the sand caves with Julian, his crooked smile when he looked at her, the rough stone walls against the skin of her palm—it was the first time they’d ever done a cube-to-cube transfer. She’d felt goosebumps, seeing and feeling his life through his memory.
Now, without her cube, even this memory was gone. Distorted, like all organic memories were. The cave walls closed in and all she felt was terror.
Rhee urged her mind to somewhere calm, and a new memory emerged: a game of hide-and-seek with Josselyn, the time she’d gotten lost in the cellars.
Her parents had thought it was filthy down there and never uploaded the layout to her cube to prevent her from exploring the tunnels. She’d been down there for hours, blinded by the torchlight when Joss had finally found her—relief and shame clutching at her insides as she hid her face so her big sister wouldn’t see her tears . . .
“Hmm. The material makes heat signatures impossible to detect,” the sergeant continued. Rhee placed her hand against the wood as if to thank it. She knew so little about Fontisian tech. “You’ll have to enable your cube playback for us.”
“I’m from a Fontisian order,” Dahlen said. “I turned off my cube once I took my vows. It’s against our practices.” She could tell, now, that the calmer he sounded, the more annoyed he really was.
The sergeant grunted. “Fontisians, sure, the great Vodhan, I’ve heard. Freedom to practice and all that is fine and good, but since you don’t have playback, we’ll need to ask you some questions. NX-101, enable interrogation.”
“Interrogation mode enabled. Level six.”
“Dahlen of Fontis,” the sergeant said. “What is your directive?”
“Missionary work,” Dahlen said evenly.
“Affirmative,” the droid said.
“My brother fought in the war. He was stationed on Yarazu and said you lot don’t feel pain. Should we test his theory?” the man asked casually. Then after a silence: “Break his finger anyway.”
Rhee brought a fist to her mouth as she heard a terrible snap, and wondered if the droid had done what it was asked: Dahlen had not cried out in pain. The walls around her shifted and contorted her into a new position, pushing her leg at an awkward angle.
“In hindsight, we should’ve avoided the ring finger. It will prove difficult to remove . . .” Niture said without emotion. “Next question: Are you sympathetic to the royal family of Kalu?”
“Of course,” Dahlen said. She thought she could hear a slight strain in his voice. “The last Ta’an girl has just died.”
She shivered, despite herself. It was strange to hear him talk about her like she was already a ghost.
“Let me rephrase. Do you support the Urnew Treaty?”
“I’m not a political man.”
“Let me guess. You’re a man of god,” the sergeant said, his voice dripping sarcasm. “Next question . . .” But his voice trailed off, and a terrible silence hung for a minute. When the sergeant spoke again, his voice was very soft. “Interesting piece. Is it silver?”
Rhee’s heart seized. Julian’s telescope—she’d left it on the console.
The sergeant continued in that soft, falsely courteous voice. “I thought your kind was too good to mine sacred metals. Where did you get this?”
After a short pause, Dahlen said, “It was a gift.”
The soldier droid whirred in the silence. “Negative.”
“Ah.” The instructor paused, a sneer in his voice. “Why lie about a telescope? Robot, second finger.” Another sound like the harsh crack of a whip. Rhee flinched as nausea rose in her throat. Dahlen only exhaled, a small sigh. How long could this go on? How long could she let it?
The walls and floor around her shifted again angrily, clamping down her leg. It seemed to be pulsing, as if in response to Dahlen’s pain—and the other man’s hatred. This was all her fault. It was her telescope. And if she’d just taken the scrambler, then she could’ve saved them both.
She heard her dad’s voice. “Ma’tan sarili” was the last thing he’d told her when he’d kissed her forehead. Such a simple phrase but such a tall demand—to pledge your highest self to someone else, to ask someone else to do the same.
Rhee felt for the knife and moved into a crouch. The wood released her as if it knew her intention. She’d fled her family’s ship and left them to burn up without her. Killed a man she loved like a father. She could not allow someone to die for her.
Get up, Joss had said the day she found Rhee alone and sniveling in the cellars. She hadn’t teased her or called her a baby, but Rhee had never forgotten the look on her face, as if Joss had expected more. Get up.
Now Rhee pounded on the hatch. Outside, Dahlen cried out for the first time. But she knew she had to save him.
“What the—?”
Rhee squeezed the knife in one hand. She breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth. She imagined her muscles expanding. Focus. That was what Veyron—dead Veyron, traitor Veyron—had always taught her. Too many fighters fell because they lost focus.