Page 64 of Fated in A Time of War
There’s a weird sort of tension in the air, like the stillness after a storm when you’re waiting to see if the damage is done or if the sky’s got more punishment left. The survivors—these tired, scraped-down people—have something to lose again. That medicine Krall carried across gods-know-how-many kilometers of fire and ruin?
It bought them time.
Time is dangerous.
I move from cot to cot, checking vitals, adjusting bandages, murmuring reassurances I don’t fully believe. My body does the work. My mind’s somewhere else.
On him.
On the Vakutan who should’ve left me to die more times than I can count. Who bled for strangers. Who didn’t flinch whenchildren glared at him like he’d set the stars on fire. Who carried that case like it was the last meaningful thing he had left.
I remember the way he looked in the graveyard of machines—raw, bleeding, teeth bared against pain, but steady. Steady in a way that made me feel like I could collapse and everything wouldn’t fall apart around me.
He hasn’t smiled since we got here. Not once.
He’s not the same Krall I met.
I don’t know if that scares me or not.
I adjust a monitor, fingers trembling just enough to make me curse under my breath. The kid in the bed—nine, maybe ten, with skin pulled tight over bone and eyes too big for her face—doesn’t notice. She’s asleep, finally, lips parted just slightly, a little wheeze in her chest that means her lungs are still fighting. I brush her hair back and try not to think too hard about what happens if the next batch of supplies doesn’t show.
When I stand, Anderson is watching me.
He’s leaning against the far doorway, arms crossed, a smudge of grease across one cheek like a battle scar. He doesn’t move when I meet his gaze. Just holds it. Measuring.
I nod once. He doesn’t nod back.
Fine.
Later, I’m hauling ration crates from the stack near the old supply tent when he corners me.
He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t threaten. Just steps into my path and blocks the way like a mountain that thinks you’re not worth going around.
“You got a second?” he says.
I shift the crate to one hip and arch an eyebrow. “Kind of mid-haul.”
He doesn’t budge.
I sigh and set the crate down.
Anderson crosses his arms again. He always looks like he’s one bad word away from punching a hole through something. “I’m not here to talk about your alien.”
“His name is Krall,” I snap.
His eyes narrow slightly. “Yeah. I got that.”
I fold my arms, squaring off. “Then what do you want?”
“You,” he says.
That throws me. “Excuse me?”
“I want to know what the hell’s going on with you,” he says. “Because the Alice I remember? She didn’t follow Vakutan war machines through firestorms. She didn’t make excuses for things that used to be classified as apex threats. She didn’t bring them into my camp and vouch for them like they were part of the godsdamn family.”
I stare at him. “You done?”
“No,” he says. “I’m just getting started.”
