And for all her reputation, all her ruthlessness, I realize I’ve never seen Jubilee kill anyone before.
I hear her draw a slow, steadying breath beside me. “Anyone else want to start a war today?”
Just the touch of her skin on mine sends warmth and strength flooding through me. It’s all we can have, right now, but it’s enough. I lift my head. “We need to talk. All of us, Fianna and soldiers. Let us show you the truth of what’s been happening here.”
I see the murmurs run up and down the group of my people, and I suddenly, painfully, want them to be that again, to call myself one of them. But I can’t order them to take me back. They’ll choose it, if they’re willing to trust me one more time.
Sean climbs slowly to his feet, bowing his head as the muffled conference travels in from the edges of the group of fighters to reach him. He glances at the gun he dropped when McBride grabbed him, but he doesn’t reach for it. Instead, our eyes meet as he walks toward me, out into the light.
“Flynn.” Jubilee breathes my name, and I turn my head to follow her gaze.
Out in the swamp, the soldiers are still standing, and now they’re lowering their weapons. Commander Towers is walking in to join us.
The girl is dreaming about the ocean. One day, she thinks, I’ll take the green-eyed boy and go, and we’ll buy a submarine, and live together at the bottom of the sea.
It’s the last thought she has before the dream fragments into shards of places and memories, people she’s fought and people she’s loved, and the spaces between are filled with nonsense, a jumble of things seen and done and thought of, and forgotten.
And the rest of it, she doesn’t remember.
“AND SO IT’S IN THE spirit of peace that we would like to offer our assistance with the reconstruction efforts here on Avon. We may not have our money invested here, but we can’t stand idly by when disaster strikes.”
Listening, I grip the edges of my seat with my left hand, fingers shaking with the effort of keeping still. My right arm throbs in its sling as I keep my eyes on the man speaking at the head of the boardroom. I know his face—everyone knows his face. Roderick LaRoux looks almost kindly, with twinkling blue eyes and silver hair thinning at the crown of his head, but I find myself staring intently, trying to find signs of the monster I know resides behind that mask. I can imagine those blue eyes hard, the firm features turning to granite. I know why his daughter was so frightened of him.
My gaze flicks to Lilac, where she sits behind him next to Merendsen, looking like the perfect daughter. Hair just so, makeup flawless, dress worth more than a year’s wages, but not too elaborate—a dress that says I’m outrageously rich, but I chose something understated for today’s colonial outing. I’m trying to connect what I see with the quick intelligence and warmth she displayed over the hypernet connection, but there’s nothing to hang that depth on. Her facade is as flawless as her appearance.
Her father is still speaking. “As most of you know by now, there have been claims my organization was involved in the inhumane and illegal experiments that led to this outbreak of violence.” Roderick LaRoux gives a sad shake of his head, letting his eyes fall with all the grace and poise of a saint. “I can’t explain these claims except to say that there will always be those who seek to blame others for their failings. Mine is, and always has been, a philanthropic corporation, concerned only with providing the best in cutting-edge technologies to the galaxy. There is nothing these…fringe conspiracy theorists can say to change that.”
LaRoux’s gaze lifts again and sweeps the chamber. For the briefest of instants, his eyes meet mine. He knows what we found there, in the bowels of that facility. Just as he knows his words are true; there is nothing we can say.
Not yet.
Watching him, I realize something. Though he’s used Avon as his own private laboratory, practicing this art of ripping into people’s minds, it won’t end here. The thousands of soldiers affected on Avon mean nothing to him…but what of just a few minds in the right places? The President’s closest advisers; the general in charge of troop deployment; the forty-two senators that make up the Galactic Council?
I tear my gaze away from Roderick LaRoux as he continues his flowery speech to announce the resources and new infrastructure being offered by LRI—a bribe, masquerading as charity, to shrug off any public suspicion about his involvement in these events. I find I’m not the only one gazing at him with dislike, or at least with suspicion. Though we sent multiple squads through the research facility after the ceasefire, there wasn’t a single hint anywhere that LaRoux Industries was involved—even the ident chip I’d found and used to open the whispers’ prison was gone. Though the staff remained, not one of them remembered where they were or what they’d been doing for the time they’d been posted there; and not a single one still had their ident badges.
There was no reason for anyone to believe us that Roderick LaRoux was behind the madness and the secret base. The official story was that some terrorist group had camped out in the swamps and was experimenting with psychotropic drugs, and that was what had led to the open hostilities two months ago between the Fianna and the soldiers.
Still, a few did believe. Commander Towers, for one. Several of Flynn’s people. A few of my soldiers, those with more faith in me than sense. And there are rumors out there now, passed along in secret, gathering strength. Netsites claiming conspiracy theories, articles being written by anonymous authors about secret projects decades back in LaRoux Industries’ history. It’s enough that as I gaze around the room, I can see more than one stony glare among the nodding masses.