Page 58 of The Brightness Between Us

Checking every second to make sure he hasn’t moved, I return to the storage under my tarp, pull out a length of rope, and use it to better bind his wrists. Curious about this captive human, Sheep approaches and taps her nose against the rope, rain in rivulets down her pink skin.

“I have to say, this isn’t going quite like I planned,” the stranger says, laughing darkly. This demonstration of calmness—almost friendliness—could very well be being deployed to fool me. I will myself to ignore it, as appealing as it is.

All the same, I wonder: Could he be a local who stayed?Maybe he’s dressed like a traveler to throw me off the fact that this is his land, his home. His sheep or his cabin, even? I can’t imagine why he’d have gone to such lengths to trick me, but I can’t figure out any other possible motive for what he’s done.

“So,” the stranger says, “how are you today?”

Was that a joke? “Don’t speak again until I allow it.” I crouch before him, knife in hand, arranging my leather military skirt to cover my thighs.

“I like your sheep,” he tries again.

“Are you trying to die?”

“I’m gambling that you wouldn’t kill me until you found out why I’d come. It’s just... the reason is a little complicated to spit out casually. And no, let the record show that I officially do not want to die.”

“Project your ID,” I say.

He nods. “Sure. I can do that. I have my fizz. Only...” He raises his bound arms slightly and shrugs.

Fizz is a Fédération colloquialism for “physical card.” Because he can’t project his identification with the EMP dust around, of course. I’d used that phrase in an old habit. “Where is it?” I ask.

“In my breast pocket.”

I lean over him. It feels strange—I haven’t been this near a human in weeks. My thumb is against one of his chest muscles, can read the tattooed wordViolencewhenI peek below his neckline. I pat his breast pocket, and find his plasticine ID. For him to have risked bringing his fizz means he is thinking of this as more than a short-term trip.

I hold the card up to the afternoon sun, reading through the rain-beaded polycarb. It’s emblazoned with Fédération holoseals, as difficult to counterfeit as the Dimokratía ones that authenticate my own fizz.

Ambrose Cusk

Cusk Academy Cadet

Full Fédération Citizen (Onyx)

ID: NYX0009

Ambrose Cusk.

Oh.

That’s why I recognize him. I’ve seen him in news reels. And Devon Mujaba told me all about him before he left to track him down. “You are the Fédération spacefarer who was selected to man theEndeavor.”

“To human it, yes. On... the Titan rescue mission?” Ambrose asks, peering at me intensely. It’s odd that he’s phrased it like a question. I wonder if there’s some subtlety of the Fédération language I’m not picking up on.

“The canceled Titan mission. Yes.”

“Kodiak Celius, that’s part of why I came here. I want to tell you what I know about it. And find out whatyouknowabout it.” He takes in a long breath, lets it out slowly. “I’ll go first. For starters, I know that the mission to Titan was never meant to take off. That the Titan SOS was deployed to make everyone—me and you in particular—believethere was going to be a rescue mission.”

I stab the knife into the bright green moss beside me and rub my hands together for warmth. This accords with what Devon Mujaba said. The abrupt cancellation of the Dimokratía space program had to be for more reasons than the rising tensions with Fédération. I don’t understand thewhyof it at all, though.

“I know Dimokratía has a different philosophy to its mission structures than Fédération does,” Ambrose says. “They avoid letting the glory of individuals rise above that of the program as a whole, so they kept your identity under wraps. But you were the spacefarer who was meant to go on that mission, right?”

I reluctantly nod. This stranger bound in front of me has revealed far more information about himself than I have yet offered. He probably thinks it’s my turn to give something up. I do want to ask him if Devon Mujaba sent him here, like he did me, but I also don’t want to risk Devon’s life by mentioning his name.

“You were manipulated, like I was,” Ambrose prods.

“You came here to tell me this?” I scoff. “You’re too late.” I don’t really believe him, this stranger who claimshe’s traveled across a world in conflict to discuss his past with an enemy. Why would anyone do that? But I am curious to see if I can trip him up, get him to reveal why he’s here.

“Yes,” Ambrose says flatly. “I have. And I have a request, too.”

---