Surit stopped barely six inches from Tennal. His own terror and fury seeped into Tennal’s mind through the cracks in his self-control. “I know you don’t care right now if you die.” Tennal opened his mouth to deny it. But Surit knew it, because he was as close to Tennal’s skin as his tendons and veins, because his breath was indistinguishable from Tennal’s lungs. Surit could see that was a lie. His clear gaze was terrible. “But I do. I care about that.”

For an instant his memories leaked over into Tennal’s, and Tennal saw the legislator collapsing from another angle. Her fall was Tennal’s whole world, but Surit saw it differently: in Surit’s mind it was only one of layers and layers of horror. Surit was visualizing not just the fight in the room but the dogfight between ships that must be happening in the orbit of the station, the mobilization of Archer ships, the path to Orshan. Fighting on the newslogs. Soldiers dead on both sides, soldiers he knew.

The balance between the divisions was delicate at the best of times, and now Oma had a trump card with her brainwashing technique. Coup and chaos: the same thing that had happened with Marit, the same thing was happening again, and Surit couldn’t protect anyone, didn’t even know where his unit was, had nowhere to go and no way to put it right.

The vivid terror behind his write command said: Not you as well.

Something inside Tennal quietly broke.

His whole chest hurt. Surit had given his life to the army and Tennal had fought tooth and nail against it, and it didn’t even matter, because both of them had been broken in the impersonal grind of its wheels. Tennal had been useful; he had been used. Surit, golden boy Surit, had been inconvenient, so he had been sidelined and thrown away. Tennal’s aunt had thought she had control of it. She was dead.

Tennal let out an animal noise and swung his fist onto Surit’s shoulder like a hammer blow. Surit didn’t even flinch.

Tennal pressed his fist into the fabric of Surit’s uniform, the rough weave the only thing grounding Tennal as grief washed over him. Their minds swirled around each other, nearly drowned by the silent, earsplitting howl coming from Tennal’s brain.

“Your face,” Surit said.

It had only been seconds. Both their wristbands were giving urgent pings, which Tennal ignored. He raised a hand to his face and recognized part of the awful feeling as physical pain; the skin of half his cheek was dry and hot and hurt to touch. One of the burn gun shots.

He had nearly died, then. It didn’t seem to matter.

“Ignore it,” Tennal said. “What now? What’s on your list, Surit? You didn’t want me dying, so what next?”