Page 78 of The Brightness Between Us

“I created this problem, by letting Devon Mujaba near theCoordinated Endeavor,” Ambrose says. “And I’d like your help fixing it. For the sake of our future selves.”

“All of our anger at Cusk and our home countries, all the reasons why we were open to Devon Mujaba’s promises in the first place, still hold,” I say, speeding up my hiking. Ambrose and Sheep kick up their own pace to keep up. Sheep huffs in complaint. “None of that has changed. This escalated war is only further proof that humanity should be stopped.” I slow to climb over a fallen log, brambles at the far side pulling at my pant legs. “We of all people should be disillusioned with humans.”

“Yes, but I guess I’ve discovered that I’m not,” Ambrose says.

“I guess I am, and I am not,” I say. I scramble for words. They are not easy to find, not in this realm and on this this topic and with this person. I’m about to say something the likes of which I’ve never said before. I force myself to continue, and it feels like leaping off a high ledge into a pool of unknown depth. “I was raised to be alone, to be powerful by being contained. To beat away human needs. I think sometimes that it is too late for me, that I will never relate to anyone else. That is why I retreated here. But there’s another me out there. Another Kodiak. Who will spend his life relying on you.” I furiously avoid Ambrose’s eyes, because it is already hard to speak. “I know nothing of what his life will be like. Maybe he and that Ambrose will decide that settling Sagittarion Bb is a big mistake. Maybe they will die of illness or injury there. Maybe they will never arrive in the first place. But what if... what if that me has found some happiness? What if he has found someone, some people, to rely on? If he even has a family? And that will all be taken away by what Devon Mujaba did. Sending out the flies would mean giving them the choice, on Sagittarion Bb. They can decide what should become of humanity. They will have more information about what it’s capable of.”

Ambrose stops hiking, and Sheep and I stop beside him. He glances back along the trail, likely looking for signs of pursuit. Then he looks at me. “That sounds like a yes.”

I finally look into his dark eyes. “It is a yes. A last-ditch mission to the Glasgow observatory sounds like a better way to spend the final days of my life than wandering aimlessly through some wet woods.”

Ambrose holds his hands up to his mouth, like he’s kissing his palms. I look at his fingers, feeling stirred, then start off at a fast clip. “Come on, then, we can’t waste time.”

Chapter 5

Six days later, and we’re deep in the Scottish woods. Despite being on track by every indication of my study of this region, it feels like we’re lost. We’ve stayed off the highways, but I’ve still used them to gauge our progress, seeking a glimpse of upturned gray rubble every hour or two to keep our bearings, sometimes scaling a pine tree to do so, the scent of fresh sap bright under my calloused palms.

Ambrose proves more than capable of keeping up—in fact, he’s our main pacesetter, his leaner and rangier body easily vaulting obstacles I have to clamber over more carefully. For long stretches, it’s him and Sheep ahead in my view, lush greens and browns hemming those living beings in on either side as they pass through the narrow brambly canyons of these wet wilds.

Days of travel without rest have dampened Sheep’s pace from bouncy and excitable to sullen and deliberate. Her head hangs as she places hoof after hoof, only looking up at Ambrose when he addresses her directly or pats her woolen head. Sometimes when we rest, she takes a while choosing the softest bed of pine needles and then refuses to get backup. Each time we hike onward toward the Glasgow astronomical observatory, letting her pass out of view behind us, my heart quakes. But then, hours later, when we break for our next meal, there’s Sheep walking along the path toward us, glaring.

The monotony of this long trek combines strangely with the urgency of our mission. There is so much to do, and the stakes are so high, and yet hour by hour there is only the crunch of old leaves, foraging for food in abandoned homes and shops. I’m revving but not feeling like I’m getting anywhere, and it makes me even more incapable than usual of conversation. There’s nothing further to deliberate about our mission. But nothing else compares to it. So we’re quiet.

Tonight’s dinner is a years-expired kielbasa sausage, still sealed in its wrapper, the cells of lab-raised meat dry but still edible. We found some oats for Sheep, and even though they’re artificially flavored with blueberries she seems quite pleased with them, knocking the polycarb container against the rocks of the firepit as she tries to tongue out every last morsel.

For the first few days, I had to sneak my glances at Ambrose, but now that we’re in this peaceful zone, with Ambrose too exhausted to chatter at me, I find myself able to stare at him more frankly. My curiosity about him, my interest in making him an erotiyet, has risen from a flicker to a steady flame. I needed space to approach him on myown, without the constant assault of his attention. I almost wish I could stick this information into a fly and shoot it to theCoordinated Endeavor: just be quiet for a while, Ambrose—then Kodiak will come to you.

His technical gear—a shimmery charcoal fabric, run through with the glitter of temperature-regulating fibers—has accumulated layers of stains. Bright terra-cotta colors from sliding down a muddy hill outside of Inverness, and grass stains along the strong curves of his legs. His rugged clothing, the days-old scent of exerting human, is a stirring contrast with the delicate golden filigree of the body modifications adorning his neck. As he stokes the fire, I watch a metallic vine trace its way from the hollow of his throat to disappear beneath fabric that’s been stained crimson from one of his many scrapes.

He looks at me suddenly. In his squatting position, from the side, I can take in the long, beautiful outline of him. He probably knows this. “What’s on your mind?” he asks innocently.

I swallow. Decide on something to say. “Our ridiculous pet.”

Sheep looks up from where she’s knocking her empty oatmeal container against a rock, then returns to trying to lick up food that is no longer there.

“Yes, she certainly is that,” Ambrose says.

Our silence has gone from companionable to freighted. Idon’t like it, but I don’t know how to fix it.

“I was thinking about Devon Mujaba as we walked this afternoon,” Ambrose says, “and what’s happened to him.”

“He is almost certainly dead,” I say. I can’t help but sound impatient. I thought this conclusion was obvious.

“Yes,” Ambrose says heavily. He looks up into the starry sky. “It makes me sad to imagine. Captured and executed. His goal unreached.”

“Changing the essential exploitative nature of human civilization would have been a lot to pull off,” I say.

Ambrose pokes a stick through a fire that doesn’t need poking.

I decide to ask him a question. “Why do you have the wordViolencetattooed on your chest?”

“This?” Ambrose says, looking down at his shirt. He lowers the neckline, so the whole word is visible, riding in the valley between his pectorals.

“Yes. You don’t seem like such a fan of violence.”

He laughs, then lifts the front of his shirt over his head so it’s pinned behind his neck. I’m surprised by the unexpected delight of his torso; it takes me a moment to remember to read the words.Labels are the Root of Violence.

“Oh,” I say, disappointed. How insipid. The words are far inferior to the canvas. “What does that even mean?”

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