Shards of Hope

Chapter 19

ZAIRA PACED THE corridor outside the infirmary in an effort to reorder her increasingly disjointed discipline. An hour after breakfast and, with nothing but time on their hands, Aden had offered to teach a hand-to-hand combat class to a small group of RainFire soldiers, while Zaira had done the same for a group of older trainees.

She’d been impressed by the teenagers. Though they laughed and spoke to one another far more than Arrow trainees, they also paid close attention and had a distinct advantage when it came to sheer physical coordination. Not that she couldn’t put each and every one on the ground, but she hadn’t had to—it turned out these predatory changelings didn’t make the mistake of judging her weak simply because she was small and female.

The session had kept her from thinking about the aloneness, the silence inside her skull, but now her class was over and she couldn’t outrun the rage creature any longer. It slammed against the bars, fighting to get out, to take her over, to grab at what Aden was offering and hoard it greedily close.

“Pony!”

Stilling, she glanced over her shoulder to see Jojo running toward her. The little girl had to have come through the connecting stairs. She was now dressed in purple corduroy overalls over a white sweater. Someone had gathered up her hair into tiny pigtails all over her head and tied them off with different-colored ties. The care evidenced by the act, especially when Jojo could shift at any time and undo the work, fascinated the insane girl inside Zaira.

No one had ever spent such time on her. No one ever spent such time on Arrow children. Zaira didn’t know if she had the patience for it, but if it would create children as happy and as stable as Jojo, children without psychic wounds that led them to become twisted within, she’d learn that patience.

“Pony!” Jojo cried again when Zaira didn’t reply.

“Zaira,” she reminded the cub as things deep inside her stretched and tried to wake. “My name is Zaira.”

Stopping her headlong rush at Zaira’s feet, Jojo looked up with an intent expression on her face, her soft brown eyes unblinking. “Zai,” she said at last and gave a firm nod.

“Zai-ra,” Zaira sounded out, because the child was intelligent enough to understand.

Frowning, Jojo very slowly said, “Zai-ra,” then beamed. “Zai-ra.”

“That’s correct.” Remembering how Remi had interacted with her, she added, “Well done.”

A proud smile that created cracks in the walls that held back the murderous girl she’d been. That part of her wanted to come out, play with this small, trusting child. In front of her, that child pointed at herself. “Jojo.”

“I know.” Distrustful of her crumbling shields, Zaira nodded at Jojo and began to pace again.

The little girl followed, running on small legs beside her. “Zai, walk?”

“Yes.” She slowed her speed slightly; even she knew that hurting a child’s self-confidence was not care. Her parents had told her she was stupid a lot. It hadn’t helped her become a better person—it had just made her rage bigger.

“Why?” Jojo asked, thumbs hooked in the pockets of her overalls. “Why Zai walk?”

“I’m not used to being inside this way.” Walls stifled her; even the windows weren’t helping anymore. The silence inside her head only multiplied the sense of suffocation, threatening to return her to the small room in which she’d gone insane as a child.

“Grr.” Jojo hooked her hands in the air, releasing tiny claws.

“Why are you growling?”

Jojo retracted her claws, reached up to take Zaira’s hand. “Come.” She tugged. “Jojo show.”

Not quite sure what the child was talking about, Zaira decided to follow her for the same reason that she’d lowered her speed. There was no reason to make Jojo feel as if her thoughts and views were without value. It wasn’t as if Zaira had any other pressing engagements.

“Come, Zai.” Jojo walked excitedly, pulling at Zaira until they stepped onto the outside passageway that led to the dining aerie.

“Wait,” Zaira said. “You don’t have a coat.”

“Jojo, cat,” the little girl said. “Zai cold?”

Realizing changelings must have an advantage in regulating their body temperature, Zaira said, “No, I’ll be fine.” She’d left Aden’s jacket in their aerie, but a short trek wouldn’t cause any physical issues—she’d been thrown into freezing rooms as part of her Arrow training, had learned to bear it.

Allowing Jojo to lead her along the walkway, Zaira was aware of other adult and juvenile changelings always nearby—not overtly watchful, but close enough to intervene if necessary. A number nodded hello as they passed, tugging at one of Jojo’s pigtails or brushing the backs of their hands against the little girl’s cheek.

Touch, contact, she noted. Constant and normalized.

Jojo would never feel alone, never feel like a forgotten piece of trash.

The child took her into a connecting walkway, then another, until they scrambled down a rope ladder into a large open area that was nonetheless protected from the elements by clear plas shielding against which the unrelenting rain hit soundlessly. In comparison to the walkways, however, the temperature in the space was comfortable. That wasn’t the only surprise: the area was filled with climbing frames, complex rope ladders, a rock wall, and more.

“See!” Jojo jumped up and down. “Zai play here!”

Zaira looked down at the child who’d managed to make the connection between her need for freedom and a cat’s need for the same. “Thank you, Jojo.” Consciously copying what she’d seen the adult changelings do, she ran her knuckles gently over the delicate softness of Jojo’s cheek.

The little girl leaned into her, unafraid. “Play?”

“I would like to climb the wall over there.” If she was careful, it shouldn’t break open her healing skin.

Jojo nodded and walked with her to the foot of the climbing wall that sloped in a faintly concave shape, making it more difficult to traverse.

“Jojo, too small,” the little girl said. “Jojo play there.” She pointed to a colorful climbing frame that was clearly sized for children, complete with rope bridges and slides to the ground.

Waiting until she was sure Jojo was capable on the frame, Zaira stepped up to the wall and took the first grip. Ten seconds after she began, she realized it was a much more difficult course than appeared at first glance. For someone with a shorter reach like Zaira, it was close to impossible.

Perfect.

When she slipped, she was aware of Jojo crying out.

It was . . . odd that the child should care so much about a near stranger, but it cost Zaira nothing to make the effort to respond. “I’m fine,” she said, feeling the strain in her abdomen. She ignored it. It’d be worth a dressing-down from Finn to unleash some of her pent-up energy. “This is a difficult climb.”

“Yup,” Jojo said. “Cat climb.”

Zaira’s mind clicked, the almost unclimbable difficulty of the course suddenly making sense: the cats must use their claws to compensate. Since she had no claws, she used the comparative lightness of her body to swing off one hold to the other. Again and again and again. It was a climb that required extreme concentration, logical thinking, and a careful use of strength.

She was cognizant of sounds behind her, and she kept a peripheral eye on where Jojo played on the frame, but the climb held the majority of her attention.

Never was she unaware of individuals who might become a threat, but she evaluated the overall threat level automatically and assigned it a negligible rating. It was becoming increasingly clear that these changelings didn’t want to kill or harm or torture her or Aden. RainFire had offered help simply because it was the right thing to do.

So she climbed until her biceps were quivering, her hamstring muscles and quadriceps tight, and her new skin painful. By the time she hauled herself up to sit on the top edge, she had the feeling she would be getting a serious dressing-down from Finn. Gathering noise from below had her looking down to see a large group clapping—for her.

Jojo was jumping up and down and waving.

Zaira lifted her hand and moved it in a wave motion for no reason except that no one had ever indulged her as a child and she thought of what it would’ve meant. A single instant of kindness could’ve changed everything, could’ve kept her from becoming a murderer.

ADEN watched Zaira wave at Jojo. Others might’ve been startled at seeing his normally ice-cold commander do that, but Aden had always noted how Zaira treated the young. She wasn’t warm and cuddly, but if she was in the vicinity and a child needed something, she’d provide it.

In one case, she’d broken the arm of a trainer who’d been about to do the same to an eight-year-old boy. After that, Ming ensured Zaira was never around any of the training centers. Aden wanted her to help him choose the teams to run what was now a centralized training area for the same reason. Zaira’s thinking might be problematic in a number of senses, but never when it came to the welfare of children.

“If I hadn’t seen that,” a male changeling said from beside him, “I wouldn’t have believed it.”

Aden glanced at the man, who’d introduced himself as Theo. “What?”

“That fucking climb.” The brown-eyed, black-haired changeling whistled. “It’s built to be completed using claws. Never seen anyone do it without.”

“She’s an Arrow.”

“Don’t tell me you can all do that. I won’t believe you.”

No, they couldn’t all do what Zaira had just done. Zaira was unique and not simply in the physical sense. As she began to climb down, Aden found himself moving closer, but he made sure not to go so close that the changelings would notice.

Remi came up beside him, his eyes trained on Zaira. “You want us to put a net under her?”

Zaira slipped right then, caught herself, hanging precariously from one hand.

“No.” One thing Aden knew about Zaira—she wouldn’t want herself to be seen as weak by strangers—not in any way. If he permitted that, it’d be a breach of trust she would never forgive. “She has it under control.”

He had to consciously regulate his breathing as Zaira continued down. Ever since he’d touched Vasic and Ivy’s bond, he’d felt his Silence slipping away and he hadn’t fought hard to hold on to it. He knew he could still be the leader the squad needed without that straitjacket.

Except, according to Zaira, the fact that he cared for each and every life under his command was no secret in the squad. It was also something his parents would term a serious deviation from their aims and plans. More than that, they’d see it as a failure. Marjorie and Naoshi had created and molded Aden for a specific purpose; he had achieved that purpose, but he’d done so on his own terms—and the depth of that success continued to perplex his parents.

To them, he had always been the child who was a pale shadow of the one they wanted. Their aim had been to create a merciless cardinal telepath who could take on even a Councilor. What they’d got instead was a solemn, quiet boy who registered as a 4.3 telepath on the Gradient, along with an even more minor M ability. A child who had been permitted into the squad only because of his parents’ stellar records and because he was useful in a secondary capacity.

Someone needed to be trained as a field medic for his year group—why not the disappointingly low-Gradient child of two Arrows? After all, that child was already loyal to the squad and understood how it functioned. His appointment to the medic position would also free up another more powerful child to devote his or her full attention to combat training.

Aden could still remember his mother’s hands on his shoulders as she hunkered down in front of him when he was nine years old, on the eve of her and his father’s planned “deaths.”

You aren’t what we wanted, but we’ll have to make the best of it. As you aren’t fit to lead, your task is to find a suitable stronger child and do everything in your power to support him to the leadership. An Arrow must be at the helm, one who remembers who and where he came from. We thought Ming was that Arrow, but he isn’t one of us—never forget that, no matter what face he wears.

The irony was that Aden had already found an outwardly stronger child, through no effort of his own. Vasic’s teleportation and telekinetic abilities made him a far more suitable candidate—but Vasic didn’t want the position, and he’d seen in Aden what Aden’s parents never had.

So had Zaira.

You’ll lead, Aden. You already do.

Both the most important people in his life had said that to him at different times, in different words. Their belief had been enough to temper his parents’ disappointment and lack of faith. Marjorie and Naoshi had started then nurtured the rebellion with a number of critical actions, and Aden would never downplay their contribution, but they had never treated their son as anything but a regrettable mistake. Yet they wondered why that son didn’t treat them as elders, didn’t heed their words. They didn’t comprehend that they’d given up that right long, long ago, even before their defection.

The only two people who had the right to question Aden on that level, or to challenge his decisions, were Zaira and Vasic.

At that instant, Zaira slipped a second time and little Jojo ran over to grip tightly at Remi’s hand. Aden, meanwhile, held his position with sheer strength of will, keeping his face expressionless and his eyes resolutely on her.

He was also calculating odds—if she fell from her current height, she’d still break a bone, but she’d survive. He would’ve raked her over the coals for taking the risk but he understood why she’d done it: Zaira did not do well under any kind of confinement, even that forced by the weather in the middle of a sprawling natural landscape.

Why do I have to sleep in a room? Why can’t I sleep outside?

She’d asked him that mutinous question when they’d both been children. He couldn’t remember how he’d convinced her to grit her teeth and go to sleep in the small dorm, but as soon as he had the power, he’d made sure she never had to do the same again.

When the decision was made to turn the slumbering Venice base into an active asset, he’d had to select a commander to lead the op. He hadn’t chosen Zaira because of her need for space, for freedom; he’d done so because she was one of his best commanders, one who could think independently and who had a nature rebellious enough to stand firm against the older defectors who’d assumed they would be the ones actually calling the shots. But the fact that she had a large room with a balcony in Venice was his doing—that balcony was over a canal, meaning Zaira always had a secondary escape route and the option to sleep with the balcony door open if she wished.

Never again would anyone lock her in.

Zaira missed a grip, was left hanging by her fingertips.