Shards and Ashes

die.”

“And Eldest thinks,” Mag says slowly, “that doing this to me would stop a revolution if I started one?”

“You fool!” Doc bellows. There’s a flurry of motion—I think Doc tries to shake her, and she wrenches out of his grasp.

“You know what I think Phydus really does?” Mag says, a hint of anger in her voice now. “I think it takes away choice. That’s all. And I don’t care if it does destroy the whole ship—if that’s what we choose to do, at least we’ll have made the choice.”

After a moment, I hear footsteps heading toward the door. Doc leaves without another word.

Mag’s determination doesn’t change, but after Doc’s visit she is, at least, more careful.

I try—once—to ask her to consider slowing down her rebellious plans. Eldest’s power extends from more than just the drug. She’s risking a lot for a single chance.

We need plans. We need contingency plans for the original plans. This is all too important. One wrong move, and the ship descends into chaos. One wrong move, and people die.

But Mag doesn’t see it that way.

I was the one who questioned Eldest first. I was the one who was strapped to the table while Doc held a needle full of poison over me. I was the one who hid like a starved, beaten animal, waiting to see if my own exile would finish the job Eldest started.

And Mag is the one who will throw all that away on a haphazard plan to cobble together a revolution as quickly as possible.

“You know I love you?” she asks, both hands wrapped around the sides of my face. I remember her words about the baby, how easy it was for her not to love him.

I kiss her, the bitter taste of regret mingling on both our tongues.

“It’s important,” she adds. “Giving people a choice.”

I nod slowly. I do agree with her. But I worry that we can’t carry a whole revolution on just our shoulders.

“But,” I say, “you’re doing this so people can have a choice. What if they’re happier without one? What if they’d rather stay on Phydus? There’s that old Sol-Earth saying, ‘Ignorance is bliss.’ Maybe, when they find out all these truths, they will choose Phydus.”

She has no answer for that.

Mag spends more and more time in the book rooms. She pores over blueprints of the ship, schematics of the engine, diagrams of the Phydus pump. She studies how to build explosives and weapons. That’s stage two. First, destroy the pump. Then hand out weapons so the people can destroy Eldest. And, I think, the whole ship with him.

When I bring her breakfast, she stares at the little capsule of Inhibitor meds a long moment before she swallows the pill.

“You agree with me, right? You think I’m doing the right thing?” she asks. This is the first time she’s ever shown doubt.

“No,” I say simply. “I don’t.”

“But you were the one who first questioned Eldest!”

I nod. “And look where it’s gotten me. I was nearly killed; I’m in hiding now.”

“Once we start the revolution,” she says, “you won’t have to hide anymore.”

“If there’s one thing I learned,” I answer, “it’s that a real revolution will take much more than a bomb on a water pump to start.”

When I come with breakfast a few days later, I find Mag staring vacantly. I wave my hand in front of her face a few times before she blinks back into focus.

“Sorry,” she mumbles. “I must be tired.”

“Mag, I want to talk to you,” I say, pushing the tray of breakfast food toward her. She fiddles with the Inhibitor pill.

“I want you to know,” I say, “that I think it really would be better if we wait. There’s a lot that Eldest has kept hidden. I think his heir will ask the same questions I did, and when he does, that will be the time to bring him to our side. We can’t change anything by ourselves. But if we can crumble the Eldest system from within, we have a chance to really change the ship. We need change, but we don’t need a revolution.”

I’m thinking now of the things Mag doesn’t know, of the secrets that make me question whether or not Phydus really is wrong. I may not agree with Eldest’s methods, but at least I understand why he’s done what he’s done. And I know, I know deep inside of me, with the same conviction that led me to question Eldest in the first place, that a mutiny will fail. It will be crushed just like the first one was.

“No.” Mag speaks with more force than I’ve heard from her in a long time. She swallows her Inhibitor pill dry. “No,” she repeats. “I know the only way to do this is with a revolt.”

That’s fine.

I’m patient.

Haven’t I already proven that before?

Another week goes by. Mag’s plans crawl, then stop. She goes to the book rooms, but she doesn’t read. She just stares.

I place the breakfast tray in front of her. She looks at it, but doesn’t think to pick up her fork until I put it in her hand.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about your grandfather,” I say.

“He was the Recorder.” Her voice is meek, quiet.

“Yes, he was. And then you were.”

“And then I was.”

“Mag, remember how he switched places with you?” I ask.

She chews on a bit of her breakfast.

“Remember what you said about the baby, Mag?” I ask gently.

“No,” she whispers.

“You said you didn’t have to love it.”

She rests her hands on the table, still holding her fork.

“I realized something then, Mag,” I say, still using the gentlest voice I can muster. “I realized then that love can be a choice.”

Her big, empty eyes stare at me.

I reach across the table and pick up the Inhibitor pill capsule on her tray. I break it apart between my thumb and forefinger. White dust sprinkles out. “You gave me the idea for this. Or your grandfather did. He opened his own capsules up and sprinkled your food with the meds until they suppressed the Phydus in your system.”

I lick my finger and touch the tiny pile of white dust. “I just did the opposite.” I press the powder-dusted finger to my lips and taste the salt I used to replace the meds in her pills.

“Mag,” I say, forcing my voice into a conversational tone. “I want to thank you. You saved me. You gave me more than sanctuary. You showed me that my mild questioning of Eldest wasn’t enough, and that things will have to change.”

Her grip slackens, and the fork slides from between her fingers to the table.

I set it back on the tray. “But I can’t risk your carelessness. I’ve faced Eldest and nearly died for it. This is too big, too important, for you to throw everything away with reckless plans. It doesn’t matter if I like you or not.”

“Like? Love?” she whispers, the words struggling to escape from her Phydus-fogged mind.

“I can choose to love you,” I say. “Or I can choose not to.”