CHAPTER 19

M y mouth falls open and, for a second, words won’t form properly. “I can’t… that’s…” I shake my head, shifting my feet in the sand. “I can’t accept that kind of help. I can’t owe you like that.”

Mitchell’s already helped me too much. He risked his licence to get us past Customs. He pulled me from that tree. He saved me from death-by-overdose. He’s quite literally carrying my weight as we speak, since I wouldn’t be able to stand facing him without his strong hands supporting me under the elbows. I can’t allow him to also pay for a hack job.

“Gemma.” Mitchell squeezes my arms where his hands circle them. “You saved Sam’s life. I’m so deep in debt to you that this won’t even scratch the surface. There’s nothing I could do. No amount of money. Sam’s worth more to me than—”

“That’s ridiculous,” I cut him off. “If I hadn’t conned my way into your life and screwed things up for you, Sam wouldn’t have been on this planet in the first place. He would never have been attacked by that creepy thing.” I pull an arm from Mitchell’s grasp to gesture toward the treeline and the cliffs as I speak, which, embarrassingly, causes me to totter and sag .

“That’s not the point.” Mitchell catches me under the armpit, steadying me. “Sam was dying. And you knew your mods were failing. You risked your life for him.”

The way he’s looking at me is so warm it scrambles my brain. I’m in danger of doing something stupid. Like last night, when I kissed him.

“And you don’t know what your music has done for me. It’s got me through some…” He pauses, glances toward the turquoise bay, and swallows hard. “Some very difficult moments. I’m doubly indebted to you. For helping Sam, and for helping me.”

Captain Perfect releases my elbow and reaches up to touch my face, still supporting me under one arm. The move brings our bodies so close they nearly touch. He slides two fingertips lightly across my cheek to tuck a strand of dark-blue hair behind my ear.

I don’t flinch, don’t resist. I just stare up into Mitchell’s hazel eyes, searching his face as my foggy mind swirls with confusion. Stare for way too long as the tide hushes in and out, lulling me dangerously toward acquiescence. Even the stupid wind is against me, choosing this moment to waft Mitchell’s narcotic scent straight to my nostrils.

Oh God.

My heartrate climbs. My breath pumps into panic mode. He’s so close to me and his hands are on me and the way he’s looking at me is far too like the memories of the men who once made me feel valued, protected, safe. My father. My grandfather.

It was all lies.

“Stop!” I cry. “Stop being nice to me. Stop trying to help me.”

If he knew who I was, he wouldn’t be offering this. If he knew who I was, he would abandon me on this planet to rot, like I deserve. Like my whole family deserves.

I can’t run. I’m too dizzy. So I sink onto the wet sand instead, escaping him by removing myself from his eye level.

I curl my body tight-tight-tight, head against my knees, as if the pressure could turn me into a pebble on the shore. If I squeeze myself tight enough, maybe my whole body will become the lump of coal I’ve been carrying in my chest since that day . Maybe I’ll burst into flames and burn burn burn to nothing.

My behaviour should clue Mitchell in, show him how completely unsalvageable I am. Make it clear he should walk away.

Instead, I hear the scrape of wet sand, feel his presence shift down to my level.

“You don’t trust people. You don’t want help. I get that. Those things scare me, too.”

Captain Perfect? Needing help? Scared? I can’t imagine him afraid of anything. But his tone isn’t patronizing. It’s rough, a little strained, like he really means what he’s saying and it’s not easy to admit. I stay curled in a ball, but I lift one eyelid to peek at him from under a swatch of blue hair. He’s sitting next to me, leaning back on his hands, staring out at the water.

“The way you described your family, well… mine was a lot like that, too. My dad was a…” He pauses, glances at me, and his lip tweaks up when he finds me looking at him. “A high-ranking general. Great strategist. Knew how to use every soldier, every ship, every battalion to the best effect. Expected excellence from all those around him. A great man, people said.”

Mitchell sighs and shakes his head, and I get the feeling he doesn’t agree with that assessment. So I’m surprised when he adds, “He was a god to me. I wanted to be just like him.”

As he speaks, he begins to gather small, whitish pebbles half-buried in the wet sand. My eyes follow his movements.

“He was cold,” Mitchell says after a while, opening his palm. I uncurl and lean over so I can peer at the collection of little white, ivory, and blond pebbles dotted with grains of wet sand. “He’d sacrifice lives for strategic gain without batting an eye. He didn’t see people. He saw pieces on a chessboard.”

Mitchell leans forward, tracing something in the sand in front of us with a fingertip. A series of zig-zagging lines.

“He brought that attitude home. His own children were pawns in his game. He placed us where he wanted us. Used each of us to the greatest strategic advantage.” As he speaks, Mitchell drags his index finger to make lines that intersect the first set at angles, forming a hex-grid.

I see where he’s going with this. Despite my dislike of strategy games, I’m intrigued as Mitchell begins to set the small stones he’s collected into the hexagons like soldiers in formation.

“He expected us to prove our value. Earn our place.” I like the rhythmic way Mitchell matches his movements to his words, dropping a stone into a hexagon with each accented syllable. Prove— drop . Val— drop —ue. Earn— drop . Place— drop .

I feel a little like a snake being charmed out of its hiding place by music. And dammit, it’s irresistible.

I’m sitting up straight, watching intently as Mitchell plucks more stones from the sand, this time selecting greys and light browns. He shakes the collection in his closed hand. I think he knows I’m enticed by the way the stones rattle.

“You play Hex Chess?” His stupid smile is so welcoming that it makes me want to accept any invitation he’d offer. Even one to get my ass thoroughly kicked at a board game. I don’t get how he can smile at me that way after—

But no. I’m not thinking about last night.

“Not well.” I hold out both hands for the pieces. There’s a satisfying clink of stone on stone as he drops them into my cupped palms. The pebbles are small and light individually, but as a collection they’re heavy and grainy with sand, filling the cup of my hands to the brim.

I lean over the makeshift gameboard and begin to set formations. “A lot of my classmates played.”

Skyside wasn’t a military academy, but it was a boarding school for genius children of the ultra-wealthy, on track to follow in their parents’ footsteps as heirs to political and business empires. Strategic powerplays were a lifestyle, so it made sense that the war game was popular.

“Not you, though?”

“I was busy doing… other things.” Like getting high and messing around with boys, ignoring the expectation that I would be working alongside my father once I graduated. That I’d someday take his place. Become him. Those expectations would have come crashing down on me one week from now if I hadn’t run, coinciding with both my graduation and my twentieth birthday.

I hold my last two stones, clicking them rhythmically in my palm. “Okay, I’m ready to be slaughtered.” I drop the pieces into riskier positions than I’d normally take. “Since you’ll probably destroy me in one move, can I at least go first?”

Not that there’s much of a point. The headache has receded but my mind is still sluggish. At least I can look at the ocean without its sparkle sending lightning bolts through my brain.

“Go ahead. I’ll give you a three-move handicap. One for being hungover, one because you’re glitching, and one for the pleasure of your company. ”

I snort, but I take what I can get. I move three small stones representing light-brigade pieces toward the centre of the hex-grid, reserving my stronger weapons for later.

“You were telling me about your dad,” I say when it’s Mitchell’s turn. If I keep him talking, I can distract at least one small part of his mind. “He sounds like an ass. No offense.”

An all-too-familiar brand of ass. I’ve been my own father’s pawn since my conception. Maybe Mitchell understands my trust issues more than I give him credit for.

“I won’t argue that,” Mitchell says, sliding one of his own low-value pieces toward midfield to challenge my infantry. “He sent me for my first stint on the front lines when I was fifteen. And I”—he chuckles and half-grins as I capture his piece—“I wasn’t ready. We went through all these psychological tests, countless hours of war games and VR training at school. But the real thing was still too much. I blanked. In the middle of a maneuver, I blanked.”

The calloused fingers of his right hand hover over the ivory stones. “Alice, a girl from school, was in my squad and she…” He hesitates, slides a cream-coloured pebble into my strike zone. “She went back for me even though it was strategically disadvantageous. Even though I was at fault, and I would have deserved what I got.”

I capture his piece the moment he lifts his fingers from it. He must have something up his sleeve; there’s no way I can truly be winning. I rattle the captured stones in my hand. “So, she got you out?”

“She did. At great risk to her own life, and I…” Mitchell moves a heavy-brigade piece from the back of his formation.

Shit. Of course.

He sacrificed the others to make a path. Not only a path through his own ranks, but a path where my attacks on his pieces have left my high-value warship vulnerable. He takes it. “I was ashamed. I didn’t deserve her help. Hadn’t earned it. Didn’t want to accept it. Later, I kept thinking she’d hold it over my head. Use it to her advantage somehow.”

I hesitate with my fingers over a grey pebble, looking up at Mitchell. If I’d been in his situation, that’s exactly what I would have been expecting, too. Glancing back at the board, I change tactics, moving a mid-value piece to correct my defensive hole, while also pressuring the heavy-brigade piece that’s encroaching on my territory.

Mitchell nods in apparent approval of my move. “You’re not that bad, all things considered.”

I roll my eyes. “Gee, thanks.” It was a good move, though. I’m secretly just a little bit pleased with myself. My head’s finally starting to clear, and maybe it’s only because I’m sitting, but I barely feel dizzy at all.

Mitchell appraises me with a thoughtful expression. “What if we made this game a little more interesting? ”

I shoot him a skeptical look. “Like a bet? I already told you I’m broke.”

“A small one, just for fun. Not money.”

“Then what?”

He shrugs, trying to look nonchalant as I eye him. “If I win, you’ll accept my help.”

I narrow my eyes. That’s hardly a reward for him. And yet it would certainly be a hard-felt loss for me. “And if I win?”

“You promise you’ll at least consider my help, and”—he sucks a breath through his teeth as if it hurts him to say the next part—“you can have your burn-blade back.”

I raise an eyebrow. He knows how to tempt me.

Since he’s being so generous, I shoot him the smile that, as a little girl, guaranteed anything I asked from my grandparents. “How about all my weapons?”

“Don’t be greedy.”

“One burn-blade and one blaster?” I counteroffer hopefully, head cocked.

Mitchell sighs. “One burn-blade and the smallest blaster. And you keep it concealed. Don’t let Vince know you have it.”

I grin and take in the board with newfound interest. It is so on.

The sluggishness is gone, and I hear the call of distant birds that were mute to me earlier. I think I’m back to normal.

When it’s my turn again, I purposely make a foolish attack, allowing myself to lose a low-value piece for the sake of keeping Mitchell’s guard down. He’s been going easy on me because he knows I’m glitching, and I want to keep it that way.

“Did Alice ever end up calling in your debt?” I want to keep him distracted. And to be honest, I’m kind of interested to know what happened.

Mitchell smiles as he examines the board, warmth lighting his eyes. “She never held it over me. It was the first time someone ever did something for me out of kindness.” He swallows my bait, capturing the piece I left open for him.

I scrunch my face into a disappointed grimace. Secretly, I’m ecstatic. I have a real chance at getting my weapons back.

“Accepting Alice’s kindness was hard.” Mitchell looks up from the board, catching my eye. “But it put me on the path toward learning to trust. And if I hadn’t learned that , all I would ever have known of family or friendship or love would have been spartan and cold. I never would have had what I ended up having with Alice, and I wouldn’t have what I do now with Sam and Ballga. I’d be alone.”

I stiffen, look away. I don’t like how his words resonate in tune with my worries. I bet he knows. I bet he’s trying to get to me.

I swivel back to glare at the board, executing an offensive move. Mitchell counters. I move aggressively again. We go fast now, capturing pieces back and forth like it really is a war zone. The rhythm of our fast-paced attacks and counterattacks appeals to me. And, incredibly, I think I have a decent chance at winning.

I glance up at Mitchell and he looks happy. But he’s not smiling over what’s playing out on the game board, he’s looking at me. I realize I’m smiling, too.

Then I realize the side of my leg’s wet. I look down. A stray wave has snuck up and washed over our board. “No! I totally had you!”

Mitchell shakes his head. He’s not quite smirking, but it’s close. “I was three moves from destroying you.”

I angle my head, reimagining the lines of the board.

“The frigate, there, and the squadron on your left flank.” He points to a grouping of light-coloured pebbles next to my greys.

“Shit.” I cross my arms and glare at Mitchell. “It doesn’t count. I might have found a way out.”

“There was no way out.”

I slam a fist in the sand like the mature woman I am. “I want my burn-blade, dammit!”

“You’re a sore loser. No wonder you don’t like the game.” Mitchell’s grin only widens. “You’re good, though. You used every resource available. Not just your pieces, but the whole social and situational context—distracting me with conversation, making me believe you were still glitching.”

My mouth drops open. “You knew? ”

Mitchell shrugs. “I’ve been playing this game for a long time. They used it as a teaching tool in school. We were taught to observe our opponent and our surroundings. All of it affects the outcome of the game.”

The way Mitchell talks about observation reminds me disconcertingly of Vince’s behaviour the other night, how he pretended to nurse his flask, secretly alert and watchful the whole time. The two men have weirdly similar skill sets.

Through this whole game, Mitchell’s been using his tactics to draw me out of my sullen little pity party, coaxing me toward accepting his help.

But why ?

And Vince. I don’t know what end he’s playing toward. And now that my brain’s functioning at full capacity, something’s gnawing at me. Something Vince said this morning didn’t make sense… but I was so out of it I can’t put the fuzzy, half-remembered pieces together.

“How about we call it a tie?” Mitchell offers, reaching his hand over the washed-out board. “You accept my help, and I give you your weapons. Win-win.”

I sigh. What choice do I really have? I take Mitchell’s hand, shaking on the agreement. At least I’ll get my weapons back. And we’ll see about payment when we get to Hack Town. “Good game,” I mutter .

Mitchell uses the hand that’s holding mine to pull me gently to standing. I’m weak, but not dizzy. I take a tentative step and manage not to wobble. He keeps close by my side anyway as we retrace our footsteps in the sand, making halting progress back toward the ship.

“What happened to Alice?” The question slips out before I have a chance to repress my curiosity. There’s no reason I should care. No reason I should want to know more about the captain than I’d needed to win my weapons back.

Mitchell doesn’t answer for so long I think maybe he won’t. But then he clears his throat. “Alice and I were together until we were nearly of age.” His voice sounds strained. He coughs again before he goes on. “I wanted to marry her, but my father arranged a strategic betrothal to solidify a business deal.”

I understand all too well the world of the strategic betrothals often used to secure alliances within the Great Houses. Several of my classmates at school were already promised to future spouses, destined to marry upon coming of age.

I glance at the captain’s profile as we walk. He looks sad.

“The girl—my fiancée—was young. The marriage would have been years off. I could have stayed with Alice. But I felt I had to be true to this wife I’d never met, and it didn’t seem fair to string Alice along when I couldn’t give her a future. So, I broke it off.”

I peek at the captain out of the corner of my eye. Faithful to a wife he was years away from marrying? No one at school thought twice about hookups, regardless of impending nuptials. In our world, only the mirage of fidelity matters, even after marriage.

Wait. I stop in my tracks. “Are you… Are you married?”

Apparently the look on my face is hilarious, because Mitchell glances at me and a huge laugh bursts out of him, despite the serious topic.

I try my damnedest to ignore the butterflies his laugh sends dancing through my body all the way from the tips of my toes to the hair follicles on my scalp. No matter how good it feels to make the captain laugh, I’d only hurt him in the long run.

He’s wise not to want me.

And anyway, his laugh fades quickly.

Mitchell’s tone is sombre when he says, “The arranged marriage fell through less than a year later. There had been… restructuring in the business owned by the girl’s family. The new leadership didn’t see the union as advantageous.”

No surprise there. We’re all just pieces on a chess board. But I can’t help hurting for Mitchell. He had something good with Alice, and his father’s manipulation stole that from him. How much was stolen from me by my own father’s manipulation?

My mother. My grandparents. My sense of self-worth .

“The day I found out, I bought a ring. I travelled to where Alice was stationed, intending to propose against my father’s wishes. I was of age. He couldn’t stop me. And I couldn’t stand the thought of losing her again.”

Something in his tone makes my stomach tighten… This isn’t just a breakup story. This is… This is more like what happened to me than I realized. I’m reaching for Mitchell’s hand before I can stop myself. Lacing my fingers through his as if I can help brace him for an ending that’s already come and gone.

I half expect him to flinch away from my touch, but he doesn’t. He curls his fingers around mine, like he’s grateful for the support.

“I shouldn’t have asked.” I squeeze his hand. “You don’t have to—”

“No, it…” He squeezes back. “It feels good to talk about her. Makes it all feel… real.” He glances at me and smiles, but his eyes glisten with unshed tears. “When I reached her outpost, I found her in a body bag.” He swallows. Breathes. “Alice was killed in action the day before I arrived.”

Mitchell keeps holding my hand tight all the way back to the ship, like he needs me for comfort as much as I needed him earlier just to stand. And I know it’s stupid, but it feels… it feels good to be able to give him something. Some little reflection of the support he’s given me in so many ways. A meagre offering to prove he’s not alone, if only for this moment before we part ways .

When we reach the docking ramp, the captain finally releases my hand, and I know I can’t let myself reach for him again.

Someday, I’ll compose something, just for Mitchell. Hope it reaches him through the vastness of the void. The thought gives me some sense of the ground under my feet even as my hand feels cold and empty where his skin no longer touches mine.

If Mitchell was able to heal after Alice… maybe there’s a chance I might be able to heal someday, too. It’s just that I’m so damn broken I don’t know where to start. How do you begin to pick yourself up and put yourself back together when every bone in your body’s been smashed?