A Million Suns

“If I could, I’d make myself not care anymore.”

We’re both silent for a long moment.

If I could quit caring about my parents, frozen below, would I? It would make things easier. I wouldn’t wake up every morning with a hollow ache inside of me.

And then I think of Elder. It’s the question I ask myself every time he looks at me with those soft eyes of his, every time he jumps to do something just because I asked it: do I love him? I don’t know. But I do know that I can at least tell myself I don’t.

“I think love is a choice,” I say. That’s why I can’t love Elder. Because I don’t have anyone else to choose from.

“But who,” Victria asks, “would choose this?”

We both look up when the elevator doors slide open.

Shit.

Really?

After all this, he has to walk in? What, does he have a stalking meter on me or something?

“Get out,” I say.

Luthor grins.

“My two lovely carros, all in one room together.”

“Get out,” I say again.

He moves toward where we are sitting. I jump up, but Victria doesn’t; she curls her legs up under her and wraps her arms around her stomach.

“You know,” Luthor purrs, “I think it might be fate. To see the both of you, here, together.”

I put my hand in my pocket, but I don’t back up as he draws closer. There’s nowhere to back up to, anyway — we’re trapped in front of the windows.

He reaches out to touch me. He strokes my left arm in a sickeningly gentle way until his fingers brush against my elbow, then he grabs me and pulls me roughly to him. Victria chokes out a sort of sob-scream, but I jerk my right hand out of my pocket and slap him full across the face.

It’s a strong slap — but not strong enough to make a full-grown, well-muscled man fall to the ground. Not without a little help, anyway. He crashes down, his fingers still wrapped around my elbow. My shirt rips before I can shake him off. He lies on the floor, looking up at me passively.

“What the frex?” Victria whispers. She’s still curled in on herself, but she leans forward to stare at Luthor’s body.

“Kit gave me one of those new med patches,” I say. I nudge Luthor’s face with my foot, showing her the pale green square outlined by my handprint on Luthor’s cheek.

“You were pretty fast to get that out.”

“Yeah, well,” I say, “I don’t exactly trust Luthor.”

“Yeah.” Pause. “Me either.”

I look at her, really look at her, past the hard shell she always wears. Luthor spoke to both of us with that purr in his voice. And, even now with Luthor on the floor, she holds her arms around her stomach. In protection, but not for herself.

“Are you pregnant?” I whisper.

Stupid question. Nearly all the women on board the ship are pregnant — the Season did most of that, and Doc’s needles did the rest. But the ones not on Phydus, people like Harley and Luthor and Elder and Victria, chose whether to participate in the Season or not.

She nods.

I step over Luthor’s immobile body and sit down on the couch next to her. “What did he do to you?” The words come out as a whisper.

She stares at Luthor. He blinks at the ceiling. The Phydus patches are stronger than when the drug was in the water. He’d do anything I told him to, I think. He would walk off the roof of the Hospital if I led him to the edge. Nice thought.

Before, Victria was crying. Now, her eyes are dry, even though I can see the still-damp tracks of tears snaking down her cheeks. Now she keeps the tears inside her, controlling them in a way she can’t control the past.

She curls tighter, her knees under her chin.

“It was him,” she says, eyes shut.

I’m afraid of what she means, but I’ve already guessed the truth. I touch her shoulder. Her whole body shifts into me, but she doesn’t let go of her knees, of the way she’s made herself into a tight bundle around her stomach. Because she lets me, I wrap my arms around her.

“It was him,” she says again. Her voice sounds like a faraway echo. “During the Season.”

“Luthor?” I whisper. My voice catches in fear of what she’s saying.

“I didn’t want to,” she says. “He was so violent.” She glances up at me, her eyes wet and red. “He mentioned you. Because he didn’t get you…”

Because he didn’t get me, he went to her.

“I tried to…” Her voice cracks. It doesn’t matter what she tried to do, or didn’t. I understand.

I remember that moment when I gave up. When I waited for it to be over.

For me, though, it stopped.

But not for her.

No wonder she hates me: because I was spared, and she was not.

And now, with her body curled up in protection around her baby, I realize that it’s not stopped, at all, during the past three months.

What lasted for minutes for me is still with her, growing inside of her, a thing she must hate and love all at the same time.

I wrap my arms tighter around Victria and pull her closer to me. “It’s over,” I whisper, even though I know it’s not. It never will be.

I tug at Victria’s left hand until she releases the death grip she has on her knees. She looks at me curiously as I flatten her fingers. Her hand is cold and clammy, but it’s no longer shaking. I wrap my pinkie finger around hers.

“This is a promise,” I tell her, squeezing her pinkie with mine. “A promise that you don’t have to be alone with this secret and pain anymore.”

Her finger lies still in mine — she doesn’t believe me. She stares at Luthor’s immobilized form.

I think we both get the same idea at the same time. Our eyes meet. Luthor can’t move — he’s helpless.

For the first time, we have the ability to take back a little bit of what he took from us, months ago.

So we’re going to.

Victria uncurls from the couch. She’s hesitant at first, but then she gets up slowly, deliberately. She stands over Luthor’s body.

And she kicks him as hard as she can, right in the stomach.

He gives out a sort of breathless Oof! but doesn’t move.

She kicks him again, and again. Water leaks from his eyes, but he doesn’t protest or move to defend himself, even when Victria kicks him in the groin, hard.

She drops to her knees, beating his chest with her fists. “How could you,” she gasps. “I knew you!”

I squat down next to her. “Let it go,” I say, “Come on.” I touch her shoulders to pull her away, but she jerks back — not to hit him, but to bury her face in her arms, sobbing.

I can’t stand to see her break like this. I can’t stand to know that when the patch wears off, he’ll blame her, he may still try to hurt her, or me.

I drop to my knees near his face. His eyes still stare straight up, but I can tell by the way they twitch that he knows I’m here.

“I want you to know something,” I whisper in his ear softly. “I want you to know that I know where I can find a gun. If you don’t know what a gun is, look it up in the Recorder Hall. My father taught me how to hold a gun