Page 32 of Mutant Mine

If only I had remembered that in the moment, before my emotions loosened my tongue. I have told the little bird more than I intended to about myself.

This morning, I regretted it. But right now, I am glad. Because she is confiding in me too.

I do not dare to move from where I sit at the table, in case she remembers that I am here and stops talking. I feel as though I have tempted her down to eat crumbs from my hand.

Who would have guessed that the little bird knows exactly what it means to be a prisoner? In some ways, her lived experience has not been so very different from mine. I always did think that she was a survivor.

When I first returned to the rooms this morning, she had finally washed and changed. Her hair had been darkened to gold by the water, and was curling at the tips as it dried. A full night’s sleep has done her good, too, and some decent food. Color is returning to her cheeks. There are no dark shadows underneath her eyes.

But Finch has never been more beautiful than she is right now, at this very instant, as she tells me about her garden. Her hands trace shapes in the air as she describes the plants and flowers. Remembering the nature that she loves, she forgets herself.

I want to reach out and touch. But I cannot. The heat of her would burn me.

I can look, though.

Holding myself still, showing no hint of my reaction toher, I respond to her as casually as I can. But inside, I am focused on remembering how she looks in this moment.

I must memorize every detail, so that I will always be able to revisit this memory. I can keep just this to warm me. Just this — long after she is gone.

19

Roth

THE NEXTmorning, I leave while Finch is sleeping again, as soon as I wake up. It is important to show my face around the ship and make clear that I am not intimidated by yesterday’s bloodshed. I eat my meals in the canteen; win a few games of dominoes, lose at cards.

I spend time on the flight deck, too, checking the instruments and adjusting our course. There is no sign of my brothers yet.

When I return to our rooms at the end of the day, I find a cozy scene. It is such a contrast to the flight deck’s cold, sterile surfaces and the canteen’s reek of testosterone that it feels as though I have stepped into a dream. The tension drains from my body as I cross the threshold and lock the door behind me — sealing her in, keeping her safe.

Finch is curled up on the couch, her head resting against the pillows that I have slept on for the past two nights. She is eating a portion of nutrient porridge, and watching a nature documentary on the entertainment screen.

There is no Internet in space. It would take far too long for data to travel back and forth, making any kind of live interface impossible. But it is standard practice to load up entertainment screens with terabytes of video, audio, and gaming content.

Finch flinches when I come in, as if I have caught her doingsomething forbidden. Her face is so easy to read. I watch the whole process unfold: her eyes widening, the apology on the tip of her tongue, the tightening of her jaw as she decides that she has nothing to be sorry for, and then the defense that she snaps at me instead:

“What? I gotbored, okay?”

Of course she did. I should have thought of it sooner. She has been trapped in this room alone for hours at a time, with nothing whatsoever to do except sleep, eat, and dwell on her thoughts.

Boredom, I know from experience, is an underrated form of suffering.

I furrow my brows, only at myself — but she sees it.

“Do you want me to sit here all day doing nothing?” As always, she is quick to assume that she knows what I am thinking — and completely mistaken.

“No,” I say. “But please, wait here for one moment…”

I go through to the flight deck, and find what I am looking for resting on one of the instrument panels: the Captain’s tablet. I had brought it in there to read myself, but Finch has the greater need. A bird in a cage.

I return to the room and hand it to her. She looks surprised, then hesitantly pleased.

“In case you get tired of movies. It is loaded with a full library of books,” I say. “Both fiction and non-fiction.”

She switches the tablet on and looks down at it. Too late, I remember that it will open on what I was reading last. I brace myself not to react at all.

In turning away from me — something that she has been so careful not to do until now — Finch exposes the vulnerable stretch of her throat. This display of trust is something else that I must not react to. She has not even noticed that she is doing it.

“Frankenstein?” she says. “That’s hundreds of years old, isn’t it? About a monster?”

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