Chapter 16

SIXTEEN

" Z anderanatolius."

"Annadolus." Frustration makes his brows drop. He grits his teeth, then tries again. "Annadolis. Annadolees."

Her bright smile wipes away the hint of tears that crowd his vision. She looks at him with kind gray-blue eyes that are so much like his own and he feels warm all over. "You've almost got it," she says, her voice full of encouragement. She brushes a thumb under one of his eyes to erase the evidence of his frustration. "It's a tough name, I know, but it's yours, baby. Someday, it'll just roll off your tongue."

He sticks out his tongue and tries to look at it, wondering how a word could roll off it.

She laughs and taps a finger to his nose. "Try again. An-a-tol-ee-us."

His mouth forms the sounds before he whispers them, slowly. Then, taking a breath, he tries again. "Anatolius." His eyes widen as he realizes he said it. He said it! "Anatolius. Anatolius! I'm Zander Anatolius!"

"Breathe."

"I know it hurts like a bitch, son, but just focus on your breathing. In and out, in and out."

Nope. Not breathing is better. Anything is better than the spearing pain in his head. His eyes are closed and he fears opening them, fears what he'll see. He hears a moan and it takes him a moment to realize it escaped his lips.

"We're gonna transport you back to the base. You hear me, Lieutenant?"

He tries to nod, but that's even worse than breathing. "Wha…" His tongue feels thick and unresponsive, but the voice knows what he's asking.

"What happened?" A snort seems to echo. "Looks like you got caught with your pants down, sir."

Pants down? "'Tack? Terr—terror?—"

Another snort. "Nah, I don't think pissed-off wives with a shovel fall into the terrorist-attack category. Just keep breathing, sir. Focus on that. Memories will come later."

He does what the voice says. Breathes, keeping it even, keeping it steady. And he drifts.

"Trust."

A shoulder slams into his, harder than necessary, getting his attention in her unique—and occasionally painful—way. He turns to look at his assailant's wide grin and sparkling emerald eyes. She is almost bouncing with excitement.

"You ready for tomorrow, Major?"

The rank is still new, still shiny, and he likes hearing it—something she knows, so she says it a lot. It's a little pleasure, one she indulges, because she knows him better than anyone else left in the galaxy.

"I'm ready," he says, offering her a smile. He doesn't feel the emotions underneath the smile that he knows he should—he doesn't feel much of anything, anymore.

"We're gonna be the difference. We're gonna turn the tide. The stin are gonna shit their pants when they see us coming."

"I know." Futile wishes flit through his mind and his smile falters.

"Hey." Her shoulder bump is more gentle this time. "He's cheering you on. You know that, right?"

He wrinkles his nose. "He's been dead for six years, Emma. He's not cheering anyone on."

She shrugs and looks up, as though she can see the stars instead of the barracks ceiling. "You don't believe there's something after we…you know?"

"Life after death? Like heaven, hell, that shit?"

"Or something."

He watches her for any clue that she's having him on. He sees none, just…a peaceful sort of expression. As if the thought of something after comforts her and that makes him wonder. If shit goes south tomorrow on their first day of this new project, this experimental training, will that be the end? Or will he see…

He shakes his head. "Well, if there is, I hope to hell he's doing something more interesting than watching me."

"Oh, hon." She smiles and leans her cheek on his shoulder. "If he's out there, he's watching you and cheering you on. Trust me."

"Zanderanatolius."

His name rolled around in his mind, not quite a command but not something he could ignore, either. The cadence of it wasn't quite right, the syllables mashed together, but he could understand it. He knew it labeled him, who he was, all his thoughts and memories, dreams and wishes, hopes and emotions. His identity, his self. The knowledge wrapped around him like a blanket, comforting and warm. He knew who he was, and that was the greatest gift he'd ever received.

Secure, anchored to his self, he floated somewhere between waking and not. He didn't mark time passing, didn't count the number of breaths he breathed. He simply was, and that knowledge was comforting too. When had he last just existed, with no thought to plans, no worries about what the future would hold, and without coming up with contingencies to combat challenges and obstacles? Had he ever?

Slowly, his sense of self grew to incorporate his body, not just his mind. His limbs felt heavy, as though they were weighted, but warm and without any pain. He blinked and only then realized his eyes were open, staring at a starfield that stretched overhead and out to the sides. The sight should have sent panic rushing through him, and on some distant level, he felt a twinge of it—but he remembered soft, vague commands. Breathe. Trust.

He could do both.

"Am I dead?" he asked the stars.

Is this what Emma had been thinking of when she talked about the afterlife? Would he have the chance to watch over Flick, to see him live his life? That would…well, it wouldn't be okay, but it would be something. Something more than he'd expected.

Had he expected this? He couldn't remember.

"You are not dead."

The voice came from everywhere, and nowhere. Zed turned his head, looking for the source, but already knowing he wouldn't find one. He was alone in a sea of stars, floating, breathing, trusting. Not dead. Unless the voice lied, but…no, he believed it.

"Are you…" A dozen different names for human deities ran through his head, a trove of information Zed hadn't been aware he'd stored. What label to choose? Generic was probably best. "Uh, a god?"

"We are not."

Okay…what else was there? Demons? Devils? But they were sort of gods, too, weren't they? Zed watched the stars, his thoughts tugged away from the questions by the serenity of the black ocean. He drifted again, floating in time. He was nothing but a speck in the vastness, an atom. Any questions he might ask, any plans he might make, meant nothing. Less than nothing. It was…a freeing thought.

What will be, will be.

Breathe. Trust.

"Do you wish to know, Zanderanatolius?"

The specifics of the question rolled over him in gentle, warm waves, nudging against his thoughts—and he understood, suddenly, that he was not hearing the voice with his ears. The words appeared in his mind, but…they weren't words, they were thoughts. Ideas, concepts, emotions, layers upon layers that shaped themselves into an echoing phrase, one that reverberated with meaning beyond the labels his brain applied. It was the oddest sensation, but not a frightening one.

"You know me," he whispered. How could it not? The voice was there, permeating everything, drawing on his knowledge and combining it with wisps that he could only barely grasp the existence of, in order to form new ideas, new concepts, to learn and grow.

"Everything," the voice confirmed.

A million concepts flew through Zed's mind: memories, emotions, thoughts, hopes, identity, morals, culture, values and so many more, all him, all with his label. He sucked in a breath. The voice knew more than he had ever thought to share with anyone.

"We like you."

Zed laughed, the sound unfettered and genuine. As said by the voice, like meant so much more than like, encompassing approval, respect, admiration and…hope? That was difficult to comprehend, why a disembodied voice would attach hope to Zed. When put up against all of that meaning, like seemed simplistic—but also perfectly simple.

"You are proof."

"Proof of what?"

Wordless, nebulous thoughts filtered through Zed's mind, concepts that went beyond his comprehension. His brain couldn't find labels for them. The warmth and lassitude in his limbs kept him from trying too hard. The intangible river flowed around him and he let it, and he realized for the first time—though, truly, he'd already known—that it was an alien presence in his head, who now knew everything that made up one Zander Damianos Anatolius.

That was…it couldn't be good, right?

Panic flared, a distant flame, as he remembered the training that had taught him what to do in the event of being captured by the enemy. He tensed, and the connection between his mind and body started to solidify.

"Breathe," the voice said. "Trust. You are our proof, and you will never come to harm by our hands."

"I don't understand." Zed looked to the right, at the stars, and to the left, at more stars. Though he still felt warm, safe, some of the heaviness in his body lifted, as though a sedative was wearing off. His train of thought grew more purposeful, questions poking through the haze. "How did I get here? Why am I here? Where—" Oh, God, where was Flick?

"You are our proof," the voice said again, as though that explained everything. It didn't—even with the fuzziness shredding, Zed couldn't follow the reverberations of that word. "Strength, heart, intelligence, spirit. Proof."

"I don't—" He tried to sit up, but pain lanced through his body. The warmth faded, though he still felt the edges of it. It just couldn't hold up to the fact that everything hurt, as though someone had scraped every last centimeter of his skin with the flat of a razor, then used him as a punching bag. What the hell? Before he could ask, before he could do more than just attempt to get up, his limbs grew slack again, and his eyelids drooped. The questions he'd started to grasp for faded, along with everything else.

No, he didn't want to sleep. He wanted…he needed…

Where are you, Flick? Why couldn't he remember?

"Rest, Zanderanatolius. Then tell us if you wish to know. It is your choice."