Chapter 18

EIGHTEEN

" Z anderanatolius."

Zed opened his eyes, the sight of the starfield as comforting as ever. It had not taken him long to understand that what looked like a vast emptiness of space was actually a room with walls, floor and ceiling all camouflaged by what appeared to be a live stream of space imagery. It had been disconcerting at first to see an endless ocean of black and yet feel something solid under his feet, but now…he liked it. He didn't really understand why his hosts had chosen such décor, but yeah, he liked it.

He straightened his legs from where they'd been folded under him and looked up, smiling at his foolishness. He didn't have to look anywhere. The voice had no source he could see.

"Yes?"

"How do you feel?"

Zed's smile grew. "Why don't you tell me?"

Warmth brushed his mind—a soundless chuckle. "We think you have adapted very well to this method of communication."

"It's…nice." He let many more layers of meaning drape over that one adjective: freeing, easy, open, honest.

"That is why we use it. You feel calm."

As always, one word brushed multiple concepts. Calm meant serene, content, peaceful, light, steady. Zed acknowledged that he was all of those things—now. It had taken a great deal of work to arrive at this point. When he'd first awoken, he'd been scattered. He'd known his name and who he was, but memories and thoughts beyond that one surety had come back slowly. His mind and his body hadn't wanted to blend together again, the weirdest and most awful sensation Zed had ever experienced. He had felt disconnected from his body, as if it were a robotic construct belonging to someone else and only loaned to him. Without the soft, gentle patience of the voice in his mind, guiding him on how to put the pieces of himself back together, he would've remained broken. Or his mind would have snapped, permanently, irrevocably.

Through it all, the voice had been a comforting, encouraging presence. A metaphysical shoulder to lean on when his strength waned. It had helped him to keep going when he wanted to give up, reminding him of all the pieces of himself he'd yet to find—particularly those featuring Flick.

A sliver of doubt rose to accompany the peacefulness, one that he'd looked at and tried to address more than once. Should he feel so peaceful? Flick was out there—somewhere. Back on Ashie Prime, maybe, or in the black with the Chaos. Zed wasn't sure how much time had passed since he'd…well, since he died. Guilt rose up to intertwine with the doubt. He should be pushing to get back to Flick, shouldn't he?

Something soft brushed his thoughts, like a gentle hand smoothing his hair. The truth settled over him, probably nudged to the forefront by the mental touch, but he accepted it for what it was nonetheless. The physical pain that had plagued him on waking had faded, healed. The emotional and mental pain was a bit more tenacious, and harder to resolve.

He let his gratitude flow through his thoughts, knowing the voice would sense it.

"You have not asked us questions."

No, he had not. His life had settled into a strange rhythm, one where time had little meaning. He woke when he no longer needed to sleep. He bathed in the small bathroom nestled next to the space room, using the facilities that could have been at home on any human ship. He ate when food appeared on the table beside his surprisingly comfortable cot—delivered there by a means he had yet to understand. In between all of this, he meditated, finding the forgotten pieces of himself and putting them back in place. He had not seen another living creature, but he was never alone. The voice was always at the edge of his perception, there but not heard unless it meant for him to hear. He had gotten the sense that he could engage it whenever he wished, but he'd refrained. Why, he wasn't sure. Maybe because it was easier to drift in this place, where the rhythm of life demanded nothing from him? He'd needed the silence, the lack of demands, the space to put himself back together.

He needed Flick, too, but that need was muted. It was there, beneath the glued-together surface of Zed's thoughts and identity, but he avoided looking at it too closely. Not because he didn't want to return to his lover with every fiber of his being, but because…he was afraid of feeling that much again. Here, now, he existed in a bubble of contentment and no expectation—it was like a warm, thick blanket on a cold winter's night, held close and comfortable against his skin. He wanted Flick to be wrapped in the blanket with him. Safe, protected, held apart from all the shit in the galaxy just waiting for him to reappear.

"You are confused." Uncertain, frightened, worried.

Zed nodded. The voice might not be physically present, but he'd discovered it read body language as well as his thoughts.

"We will never harm you."

"I know." Strangely, he did. He had been cared for in this place, given a peace he hadn't experienced since he was a child. His hosts wouldn't have done that if they meant to hurt him. "It's not you that…" He stopped, unable to voice his concerns in a method that made sense—and then realized it didn't matter, the voice already knew exactly what concerned him. "You are the Guardians, yes?"

"That is what you call us."

That was something he'd figured out early on, after he'd slept and awoken a few times, eaten, and relieved his bladder—all things that had made it clear he was definitely not dead.

"May I ask why I'm here?"

"We have been waiting for you to do so." The voice paused, but Zed had the sensation it was merely gathering words and concepts he could understand. Since the insistence that he was the Guardians' proof, whatever that meant, the voice had been careful to choose meanings that were clear to him. "You took into yourself the essence of your enemy. Why?"

"Because my people would have died had I not."

"No."

He blinked, frowning. "No, they wouldn't have died?"

"No. That is not why."

He gave his head a little shake as he looked at the stars. "I…wanted to fight more effectively. I wanted to?—"

"No."

"What do you mean, no? It's the truth!" Zed pushed to his feet.

"It is not, Zanderanatolius." Warmth brushed his mind again, not a chuckle this time but a pat, like how his mother used to tap his nose. "We know you."

Breathing hard, Zed looked at the stars shifting beneath his feet. They seemed so small, but it was an illusion—he was the speck of dust, and they the giants. He thought back to the war, to his time in the Project, to the covert ops that had preceded it. To the fighting and the bloodshed. To the focus, the determination. To the knowledge that no matter how many stin he killed, he would never make the galaxy right, not ever again. Not when it was missing an integral piece, the man he'd loved and had been taken from him.

Fighting was his purpose, his only purpose. They could have done whatever they wanted to him, and he would've agreed to it. Not because he wanted to fight better, but because it just didn't matter. Zander Anatolius didn't matter, because he'd ceased to exist.

"I was lost," he whispered.

"Yes."

His throat tightened. "I didn't matter."

"Yes," the voice said, the word overlaid with sadness.

"Is that what you're trying to teach me?" he asked, waving his arm at the room and its starfield. "That I'm insignificant, that I don't matter?"

"Is that what you want us to teach you? If so, you will be disappointed."

Zed pressed his lips into a thin line. His arms crossed, bunching the soft, thin fabric of the shirt he wore—a defensive gesture, but one he couldn't stop. "If you already knew the answer to why, then why did you ask me?"

"Because you had not admitted the answer to yourself."

No…he supposed he hadn't. He knew the war had changed him. Trying to slide back into life as a civilian once the fighting was done had taught him that, among other things. But he'd placed the blame on Project Dreamweaver, on the stin poison that lived inside of him. The easy scapegoat.

It was not the Project that had stolen his humanity.

"You sought direction. A purpose." Another warm touch. "You sought peace."

Peace, not only with the stin, but inside himself. Yes. A reprieve from the ache that had plagued him for so damned long he hadn't even recognized it until he'd found Flick, alive and well—and even then, it had lingered. Because despite loving Felix again with everything in him, he couldn't escape his fate, and he knew it.

He walked over to one of the invisible walls and leaned against it. Its surface was cool and smooth on his forehead. Slowly, he turned, pressing his back to the steady surface, and let his knees fold. He sat with his knees bent, his forearms draped on them, and his head drooping.

"Do you understand love?" he asked.

"We understand the concept of it. It is a bond, a connection. Your poets have described it as two souls meeting and becoming one. It is unique to your species."

"I knew the ashushk didn't feel it, but you don't, either? Nor the stin?"

"Humanity's capacity for that sort of emotional bond is singular amongst the other races. You are your hearts."

"And that is why I was lost."

"Yes."

"Will I…" He gritted his teeth and then plowed on. He'd already thought it, so the question was a formality. "Will I be able to leave here?"

The voice hesitated. Uncertainty overlaid the next thoughts pushed into Zed's mind. "We can give you purpose, Zanderanatolius. You can choose to know and work with us."

"Stay with you."

"Yes."

Purpose and peace. He'd find both here—he'd already found the second. He didn't know what sort of purpose the Guardians could give him. He didn't know if he wanted to know, either, but the temptation to stay was great. He felt safe here, cared for. Whatever the Guardians' purpose, he had grown to know them just as they'd learned everything about him. That was the amazing thing—and perhaps the drawback—to their method of communication. No secrets, no lies.

He would be welcome here. Useful, purposeful, safe and calm. Would staying be the right thing to do? Zed stared at the space-covered floor for a moment, then scrubbed a hand over his face. Flick might be better off learning to live without him. Though the Guardians had helped him reclaim his mind and body, through whatever amazing technology they had that could reach into a dead body and pull the core of his self back from the void, he'd never be normal. The difference that had lived in him since Project Dreamweaver was still there—quieter, calmer, but there.

Didn't Flick deserve someone who could give him normalcy? Didn't he deserve to leave the war completely behind him? Zed would always be a reminder of the stin and what humanity had had to do in order to survive. With Zed around, Flick would never be able to truly forget being a POW, or the cruelties he'd suffered at the stin's claws.

Intellectually, he knew staying with the Guardians made the most sense. But…"If I choose not to know?"

A thread of disappointment wove through his mind, but he understood it for what it was—genuine emotion, not a means by which to manipulate him . "We value free will above all else."

"Is that why you don't control the other races?"

"Yes. You have aptly named us. We guard, we protect—from yourselves, if necessary."

"That's why you allow war. Free will. Freedom to act."

"Yes."

"Why did you end our war with the stin?"

"It was time."

Other meanings reverberated there, and Zed tried to grasp them. Necessary…needed…pain and sorrow…

Accomplishment.

"What did we accomplish?" he demanded.

The voice remained silent, but it was still there. Waiting. Letting him figure it out.

What had happened in those last days of the war to cause the Guardians to end it? There had been no significant battles, no loss of life then that had been greater than any other time. His team had been active for six months, cutting through stin forces on the ground where they could, but they hadn't made much of a dent in the enemy's army. Even the video of his team's heroics had had little impact on either side's capabilities. It had swung civilian favor back behind the AEF, but it hadn't resulted in anything that would change the tide.

The warm touch in his brain stroked the memory of the video. "Proof."

"You said that before. Proof of what?" His eyes widened and his mouth fell open as the pieces clicked into place. "Proof of what we'd accomplished. Me. My team. What we are."

"Yes."

"Oh my God," Zed breathed. What else had the voice said in that first conversation about proof? "Strength, heart, intelligence, spirit. I still don't—wait." He pressed his fist to his chest. "Heart. Humans are our hearts."

"Yes."

His breath sped up. "Stin are strength, ashushk are intelligence. Spirit is…you?"

"Lift your fingers to your neck, Zanderanatolius."

It didn't occur to him to disobey, even with his hand shaking. His fingers brushed the circular scars left by the stin POW who had been a part of Project Dreamweaver—the alien had gripped Zed and the other members of his team in a ritual embrace, flooding their systems with light doses of claw venom, over and over again. Psychotropic, it had allowed them to find an altered state of consciousness. The Zone. Most days, he tried not to touch the scars. He tried to forget they were there and what they meant.

They felt no different since the last time he'd set his fingers to exploring them. He had decided to withdraw his hand when he felt it. A new scar, a straight line running parallel to the two lines of stin claw marks, right in the middle of them. Gently, he pressed down—and felt something beneath the skin. A ridge.

"What…" His voice trailed off, the air in his lungs leaving in a rush.

"You have within you the essence of four races. You were incomplete before, and that is why you failed."

Smoke began encroaching on his vision and for an instant, Zed thought something catastrophic had happened to the Guardians' ship. Blackness crept in behind the smoke, telling him the true source of the haze—shock. He leaned forward and forced himself to suck in a breath, and the fuzziness receded.

The strength of the stin—their poison. The heart of his humanity. The ashushk's intelligence, the drug they'd created to try to help him. And…whatever that was in his neck, the spirit of the Guardians.

He was proof…of a concept? A prototype? But there had been other super soldiers—the ashushk had them, too, and they were not here as proof. Why?

"The ashushk have reached their potential. Humanity has the capacity for more."

Zed's stomach plummeted to his feet. "You're not…you're not going to do this…" Oh God, please say no.

"We are not," the voice assured him, low and gentle. "We have no need for an army of Zanderanatolius."

He let out a shaky breath. "Then why? Why did you save me?"

The warm touch again. If he left here, he knew he would miss that.

"Because you are proof that for all the differences between worlds, there are commonalities, commonalities that can be embodied by humanity. You could not exist, otherwise. You will be a reminder to all the races, proof that fighting each other is the same as fighting yourselves. Proof, too, that the races are stronger together."

"Is that the purpose you wanted to give me?"

"Yes. A portion of it. It could be more, but it would require you to know." Learn, accept, embrace, understand. Stay.

Could he? Did he have a choice, or was he fooling himself?

"Stay, Zanderanatolius." Meaning echoed around the words, a plea. Here, he was wanted, needed. Accepted.

"What would I do here?" he asked, his voice soft.

"You would help us." Concepts flowed by, just out of his reach, and he understood that if he wanted to grasp them, he would need to agree to the Guardians' offer to know. "You would have purpose, you would have importance. You would have a place."

A sudden longing for the Chaos, with all her imperfections and her oddities, spiked through him. That was his place. That was his purpose. Maybe it wasn't as grand as the one the Guardians offered, but it was his. He swallowed, acknowledging that he needed more than purpose and peace in his life. He needed his crew, his family. His love.

If they didn't need him…

Zed sucked in a shaky breath and pushed to his feet. "You have my gratitude for everything you've done—for healing my body and my mind, beyond the damage done by the Project. But I am no longer lost."

He wasn't, he realized. He really wasn't. For the first time in years, he had an anchor. A reason. He had Flick. And maybe…a third chance at the life he wanted.

"What you said before, that humans are our hearts? It's true." He offered the empty room a small smile. "I need to be with him. I might be small on a galactic scale, but to him, I matter."

"To us, as well."

Their disappointment rocked him. His knees weakened with the force of it. He bent forward, trying to catch his breath, trying to subdue the tears that threatened. In that instant, he questioned his choice. Did Flick want him as badly as this? Did the crew of the Chaos, or his family?

"We require that you serve our purpose, Zanderanatolius."

Something cool clasped his right wrist. He pushed back the sleeve of his tunic to see a silver band had wrapped itself around his skin. He could detect no seam, nor did the cuff move when he tried to adjust it. Power tingled through his fingertips as he tried to pull it off. What was it? A restraint? Something to keep him where the Guardians wanted him?

Fatigue sliced through him. He'd felt this before—the Guardians had encouraged him to sleep more than once in order to speed his healing or…He didn't really want to think about what they might have done while he was unconscious. He held on to the idea that the aliens meant him no harm, using it as a shield against the fear that spiked. After staggering to the bed, he collapsed on it and fought the urge to close his eyes, to go under.

Did they allow for free will only when it suited their purposes?

"Don't make me stay," he begged.

For once, the Guardians remained silent.