Chapter 14

FOURTEEN

A fter fighting a war for eight years, Zed had thought he'd known the depths of exhaustion. It had become second nature to him to function on an hour of sleep, two hours, however many winks he could grab between missions. And then he'd signed up for Project Dreamweaver. The exhaustion he'd felt up to then didn't even compare to the bone-deep fatigue he experienced during the experiments and training.

The past few days had introduced him to a whole new level of tired. Not physical—between the ashies' neural inhibitor and Nessa's pain meds, he hadn't slept so well, so soundly, since before the war began. No, his fatigue was all mental, and the gap between his body and mind was growing larger every day. Every hour.

He didn't need Rhyniche's unofficial countdown to know he was going to break soon. He could feel it. Fuck, he almost prayed for it. He was at the point that if this ashie treatment didn't work…

Don't go there.

His exhausted brain listened to him, thoughts skittering away like cockroaches from a light source. He lay back on the bed and watched Flick at the window-wall. Rhyniche and its crew would be ready to conduct the treatment…soon. Zed had no idea when. Time had ceased to have any meaning.

He wanted to care what the outcome would be, he really did. But he was so fucking tired.

"C'mere," he said, his voice soft.

Flick looked at him, but stayed at the window.

"Please."

With a sigh, Flick left the window-wall and walked over to the bed. He stood there, staring down at Zed. Between the ashie light and Zed's own fucked-up vision, his eyes looked hazel—their true color. It struck him that he was actually seeing Flick's eyes as they'd been so long ago, the first two times he'd said goodbye. His cropped blond hair had settled somewhere between purple and gray in the weird spectrum of Ashie Prime. Shadows grasped at the lines of Flick's face, making the ridges sharper, his scars more prominent.

It was still a face he loved.

He hadn't decided if saying that to Flick now would be a gift or a curse. As always, his timing fucking sucked. They'd never got it right, first cluing in that they could be more than friends the night before being separated for years, then choosing to make a go of it only a few months before the war with the stin broke out. And now this.

Flick settled onto the bed and Zed leaned into him, hoping that the Zone would leave him be for enough time to talk to Flick. He might not be able to mark time's passage anymore, but he knew he didn't have much left.

He rubbed Flick's arm, feeling the tension that seemed to never leave his lithe frame these days. Flick's muscles felt like steel cords, tight and unyielding. Zed bit back the apology and shoved down the guilt—they'd been there and done that, and it didn't help either of them.

"I've got some stuff I want to say while I can," he started.

"Zed, no. I don't?—"

Zed lifted a finger to press against Flick's lips, then traced the lower one with his thumb. "Please."

A sigh shuddered out of Flick and he sank back into the pillows beside Zed's half-reclined form. The weird disconnect between his tired mind and rested body pulled him in two directions. He wanted to hold Flick and offer comfort, and be held and take comfort. The disparate needs reverberated in his chest, making him shift for a moment before he leaned his head on Flick's shoulder and let out a long, slow breath.

"I need to say some stuff you don't want to hear, but I need you to listen. Promise me."

A curse slipped out, barely audible. "Okay, go."

"The odds aren't in my favor."

Flick jerked as though he'd hit him. "What, so you're just going to give up?"

"No. No. I'm just…I'm stating the facts. Okay?" He breathed in, taking the scent of Flick, that tang of sweat and metal, deep into his lungs. "If it doesn't work tomorrow, you need to let General Bradley take me."

"Fuck that!" Flick drew away, off the bed and back to his feet. "I'm not giving you to the goddamned AEF. No way."

"Stop and think. Please. You can't—" Zed broke off, his throat closing for an instant, and he fell back into the pillows. "I'm done. Whether this works or not, I'm done. And you can't keep going like this."

Flick froze and stared at him. "I can't believe you're saying that. I can't believe you're giving up!"

Zed stared back at him, Flick's image growing blurry and indistinct as tears rose. He wanted to be strong. He wanted to be the hero everyone thought he was. But here, now, he wasn't. He wasn't whole, he wasn't sane, he wasn't anything but a shell.

"I can't," he whispered.

"Fuck you, Zed, you can. You're not going to leave me." Flick knelt beside the bed and grabbed him, pulling him over. His arms fastened around Zed's torso, a cage Zed never wanted to escape. "I'll be strong enough for both of us. I'll pull us through," he whispered raggedly.

No one's that strong, Flick. You're going to break…

Zed blinked, the movement sluggish, his brain more so. Pain flared at his temples, such a regular occurrence now he barely noted it except as an indicator of what had happened. Flick's face hovered over him, the lines of worry etched even deeper into his expression. Rhyniche, smooth skin belying its concern, stood beside him. Zed rolled his head to the side, noting that he was no longer in the room he shared with Flick. Ashies wearing medical gear milled about, casting looks in his direction as they prepared items they'd need for the procedure.

Details swept in and out of his brain—Nessa had explained it all but he didn't understand much. They were going to inject yet another drug into him, a slower infusion this time rather than using a hypo-syringe. What the drug actually was, other than a step beyond the initial neural inhibitor, Zed had no idea. Or maybe he didn't remember. What he did remember, damned clearly, was how forcefully Ness had spoken, as if she needed him to believe this would work.

Zed felt as though he'd already been drugged and he understood that time had run out. Whether the ashies' procedure succeeded or not, his brain was just too tired to keep doing this. He turned his head to look back at Flick. "Long one?" His tongue didn't want to work.

"Yeah." Flick choked out the word and Zed wanted to apologize, again, for wasting time. Not that he'd had a choice, but…God, why couldn't he have spent these last hours knowing Flick was beside him, with him?

Rhyniche clicked, the sound conveying sympathy. "It is time, Mr. Anatolius."

He looked back up at Flick, words trembling on his tongue. Gift or curse? And now, as the Fates' scissors hovered over his life's strand, did it matter?

"I love you," he said, fighting hard to make sure his words didn't slur. "In case you wondered."

"Never doubted it," Flick said, each syllable crisp. He clenched his teeth together, his jaw working hard. "You're gonna have to wait until after to hear me say it back."

"Incentive?" A crooked smile overtook Zed's lips.

"Damned straight." Flick swallowed, looked at Rhyniche, then back to Zed, and nodded. "See you in a bit."

Zed's gaze followed Flick, watching each movement until he slipped through the door and out of sight.

It's not the last time you'll see him. It's not.

Zed drew in a deep breath and directed his eyes to look at the curved ceiling overhead.

The treatment suite had a higher ceiling than the usual bubbles, opaque walls and a row of clerestory windows that formed a balcony view. The space behind the windows was narrow and lined with a single hard bench that seemed out of keeping with the soft and rounded lines of ashushk architecture. The wall and windows curved, however, so that Felix had a clear view of every part of the room below. His gaze fixed on one point: Zander Anatolius.

Rhyniche and its team—including Qek and Nessa—began the procedure. Plastered against the glass, Felix held his breath until purple spots encroached on his vision. Next to him, Elias was quiet. The shadows behind, General Bradley and two of his lackeys, became just that—shadows.

Rather than use a hypo, they attached a small device to the inside of Zed's elbow. Once the pump was in place and connected to a bank of monitors, Qek looked up at the windows, her face void of expression. Nessa lifted her head as well, but the mask covering the lower half of her face hid any expression she might have. A twinge of envy rippled through Felix as he watched the ship's doctor return to her duty, that of monitoring the patient's vitals. She was down there, in the room with Zed. She could hold his hand, if she wished, and she did just that. Zed stirred out of his latest trance long enough to look at her. He said something, and then his body bucked upward.

His spine curved to an impossible angle, arms and legs rigid at his sides, then he flopped back onto the narrow bed. He seized again, the convulsion contorting his handsome face. Arms spasmed out, one catching Nessa across the midsection. One of the ashushk scientists caught his other arm.

Alarms shrieked, the sound boring into Felix's skull, even muted by the thick window. Felix gripped the glasslike barrier, his fingers slick with sweat. He imagined pushing himself through, careless of the fall. Zed needed him—his voice, his touch, his strength. He didn't acknowledge that no one could pull a man from a fit, that he'd be more a hindrance than a help. Felix had held Zed up for weeks now, perhaps longer. He had to believe he could make a difference.

But to push away from the window, to lose sight of Zed for even the minute it would take him to find the stairs and gain entrance to the suite, would be too long. Surely if he averted his gaze for even one second, Zed would fail.

I'm here, love. I'm here.

The convulsions slowed and the seizure tapered off. Monitors still complained, but their urgency receded into the background—the soundtrack of the drama unfolding across the stage. Nessa let go of the arm she'd captured and folded it over Zed's middle. She looked up at the windows and offered a quick nod.

Felix breathed.

His legs trembled, but he held firm. He would not, could not fall now. The wall needed him, damn it. The window. Felix was then overcome with the weird conviction he had to hold up the entire building, that the weight of it rested on his shoulders alone.

It was heavy.

Elias nudged his side. "You okay?"

Without glancing over, Felix nodded. Elias gripped his shoulder and Felix stiffened beneath the touch. Another weight and already he was straining. He could bear no more.

As the cacophony of alarms subsided to a low burble, everyone in the suite below deflated slightly, shoulders drooping and spines rounding. The altered postures did not affect their efficiency. Still, they buzzed like gray bees, tapping displays, talking at devices, measuring everything.

Thirty slow, endless minutes ticked by. Felix only marked their passage because of the holo set just behind Zed's bed, the large one that showed a composite of all the monitor feeds. In between keeping Zed alive and well with his gaze, his will, Felix measured everything. He learned the lines of each chart, followed the beat of Zed's heart. He chanced a glance at the row of figures in the bottom corner now and again, having somehow decided that every minute that passed was important.

It was, wasn't it?

He didn't notice the upsurge of sound the second time, but he saw the waves swell across the monitors, reaching for sharp peaks. Zed did not buck against the bed, limbs flying akimbo. He simply lay there, oblivious to the alarms shrieking around him, the other measures of his apparent distress.

The ashushk reacted. Like a stirred hive, they flew back and forth with more urgency and purpose. Look up, Felix silently pleaded. He needed someone to look up and wave at him. Nod. Reassure him. Nessa kept her head down. The ashushk remained busy. Too busy.

"What's happening?"

"I don't know," Elias said.

The forgotten shadows behind him moved forward. Felix's back itched and crawled.

"What are they doing?"

No one answered him.

The activity below swept into a frenzy, all the monitors flashing and twisting in the air, the displays warping as various scientists tugged and tapped at readouts. The pitch of the alarms rose, and the discordant beat, up and down, up, up and down, down and up, captured Felix's breath, pulled him into an unsustainable pattern. His head canted forward, skin kissing the window, and the buzz transmitted into his skull and down his spine. His gut roiled and threatened to rebel.

"What's happening?"

Still no one answered.

The alarms rose to a crescendo. Felix waited for Zed to buck off the bed again, but he remained horribly still except for the foam collecting at one corner of his mouth, a strand of drool tracking down his jaw and onto the bedding. A yell echoed through the gallery. When he swallowed, his throat hurt. His legs shook and his arms ached. Someone had plugged his ears. No, someone had turned off the alarms. No, the alarms had fallen silent and the waves pitching across the main display had subsided into barely rippled lines.

Felix pushed off the glass and ran for the stairs.

"Fix!"

A hand grazed his elbow. He shook it off easily as he leaped from the landing to the middle of the staircase, stumbled and reached for the railing. He swung down the second flight, feet missing every riser, and landed at the bottom with a thump that jarred every bone in his body.

The silent alarms continued to shrill in his ears. Even his breath shrieked.

Felix pushed against the door to the suite and grunted as his momentum piled him into the unresponsive hatch. "Open up!" He pounded against the tight swirl of ceramic plates. "Goddamn it, open the fucking door!"

"Fixer!"

Hands caught his shoulders, clawing him away from the door. Felix struggled for breath as he turned into his assailant, surprising him and knocking him back. He got the impression of a dark face—Elias—as he ran to the side, looking for the window he knew he wouldn't find. That was why they'd been upstairs. Regardless, he pounded on the wall, each impact smacking through his closed fists and down his arms.

"Let me in!" he yelled.

He reached a blind end and turned. Two men blocked the way back—Elias and one of the AEF soldiers. Felix charged them. They caught him and he bucked in their hold.

"Let me see him. Please, don't…" Words jumbled on the tip of his tongue. Too many wants, not enough breath. "Help," he moaned.

"Come back upstairs, Fix. We can watch from there."

"Don't." He pulled left. "Want." Finding no opening, he pulled right. "To watch."

He surged forward, losing the grasp of one man, but not the other, and dragged that unfortunate back toward the door. The hatch irised open and a figure stepped through. Barely registering Nessa, Felix pushed toward the closing door. Hands pulled him back. Too many hands, all touching him, grabbing him. Holding him down.

"You can't go in there."

"No!"

"Fix." Nessa's voice was quietly hoarse. Her face told a tale of tragedy.

"No!"

Of its own accord, one of Felix's fists coiled back, bunched and prepared to fly. A hand caught him before he hit anyone. He writhed and turned, pulling against the restraining hands and arms, and all his nightmares converged. The scene beyond the door—Zed, his Zed, lying too still, lips wet with spit, eyes too wide. Gone, gone, gone.

He'd seen too many dead bodies, and in that moment the specter of each wanted to revisit him—and more. His capture—being ripped free of his body armor and taken away. Gone, forever gone.

Torture of the body and mind, everything lost. His family gone. Him stumbling over his own feet and falling hard against an unknown floor. Then or now? Figures grunting around him. Restraining hands, voices. Pleas and cries. Truth and lies. The smell of dust, sweat and blood. The rank odor of the stin.

A tunnel opened up, a dark pit. Felix stumbled toward the edge, looking for a place to hide. The shadows, he sought the shadows.

"Felix, I'm so sorry."

How did they know his name?

Why were they sorry?

Articulated oily-green figures marched in from the darkest corner of his mind, becoming extensions of the hands at his arms and shoulders. Why couldn't he move his legs? They held him down, ready for punishment. He had defied them, again, and they were going to exact a price: his other hand. Voices buzzed around him. None of them made sense. He'd learned so little of the stin language, had not wanted to. Felix tried to hold still, deny them his panic and pain, but if they broke his other hand, he couldn't work the mines. No work, no food. He'd die.

He bucked and screamed. "Please don't."

The voices rose and fell, the cadence of them wrong. Felix struggled anyway, determined to win free. His fist scraped something, a soft grunt turned him around. He had to get away, he had to escape. He had to get off of this rock and find Zed.

Zed had promised to help him.

"Zed! Help me! Help me, please. Don't let them break me. Zed!"

A sob brushed his ear, was it his? Had he been reduced to that?

Another voice, one he'd heard before. "Just do it, Ness. He's going to hurt himself."

"Oh, God."

Another sob.

They caught him again and held him tight. Knowing it was the end, Felix yelled and screamed. Cool metal kissed his neck and he had only the space of a breath to think that's not my hand. The world receded to a pinprick of harsh and horrible light, winked once, and disappeared.