Du Lac said, “Insubordination on your first day, Greer?”
Rose’s expression didn’t waver. “No, sir.” She made the honorific sound ludicrous.
This had all the makings of a disaster, and in front of everyone at the mess, to boot.
“Sir?” Gallo asked.
Du Lac and Rose both ignored him.
“You made it through training, then,” du Lac said, with a nod toward the jacket hanging off the back of Rose’s chair, her Rift Walker wings glinting off the collar.
Rose popped the bite of biscuit into her mouth and broke off another. “Top of my class.”
“I don’t doubt it. Why did you want to be a Walker? Because I told you that’s what I was?”
“No.”
Gallo, swapping his gaze madly – but he hoped covertly – between the two of them, saw that Rose never flinched, didn’t even blink, but that a quick flicker of emotion crossed du Lac’s face at her denial. He would have sworn it was disappointment.
“Because it’s the elite branch,” she continued, “and I don’t care about being common.”
Despite Rose’s stony composure, tension stretched taut between the two, fraught with a tangle of emotions that Rose would have denied, and that du Lac, Francis thought, would have gripped with both hands if given the chance. He hid it fairly well, but Francis had caught glimpses of his own face often enough in the mirror, when he’d just gotten lost admiring one of his posters, to know what want looked like. Longing.
When it became apparent that Rose wasn’t going to try to diffuse the moment, Francis said, “Rose is really good, sir.”
Once again, the sergeant didn’t bother to spare him so much as a glance. “She is,” he agreed, eyes still pinned to Rose, the mulish tilt of her chin. His tone shifted, lower, cautionary. “There’s no shame in being a soldier. Being infantry,” he said. “And out here, on the front lines – it isn’t like being in class. It’s dangerous.”
In a move that would have been intentionally suggestive on the part of anyone else, Rose licked gravy off the tip of her finger, her gaze steely above it. “I’m aware of that.”
Again, emotion threatened to tweak du Lac’s expression. He blinked a few times, visibly clamping down on it. Took a breath and said, “Listen.”
Oh no, Francis thought, because somehow he knew what the sergeant was about to bring up, and he wished he wouldn’t do it, not here in front of all these other people.
“About–”
“No.” Rose’s expression didn’t alter, but her voice sent chills rippling across Francis’s skin. No, you will not mention him. No, I won’t talk about him. Beck was her religion; the shrine in the back of her mind, always. Francis knew never to prod, that he could only listen, on those rare occasions she chose to share.
Du Lac stared at her, and, to Francis’s amazement, his lips twitched as if he was about to pursue the matter further. Oh God, Francis thought with a sinking sense of regret. He’s an idiot. A disappointing thing to realize about one’s superior officer.
They were saved, though – and, in Francis’s case, cursed – by the scraping out of the chair beside du Lac. A tray landed on the table.
And suddenly, Francis found himself sitting across from Tristan Mayweather.
Francis didn’t think he could be blamed for his reaction.
(Not true. He would berate himself viciously later.)
“The new kids,” Sir Mayweather said, glancing between the two of them, his face utterly impassive. His voice – only imagined by Francis, until now – was low, and rough; a gruff scrape, like he didn’t speak often, tinged with apathy. He didn’t sneer or glare at them; there was no contempt – there was nothing. Not so much as the faintest spark of interest.
But that didn’t stop Francis’s heart from leaping halfway up his throat.
Here sat his idol – his fantasy – in the flesh. Close enough to see the faint scar that ran below one eye; close enough to count the silver strands of hair at his temples; close enough to see that his eyes were the color of ochre, and cold as the barren, grave-strewn landscape outside.
Francis thought he might pass out. Instead, he made a stumbling fool of himself.
His fork fell from his numb hand. “You’re.” He swallowed with a gulp. “You’re – you’re–” He couldn’t breathe.
Tristan leaned sideways into his sergeant, and, in a bored voice, said, “Is he having a stroke?”
“Tristan Mayweather,” Francis finished, pathetically. He could feel how wide his eyes were, how worshipful. He wanted to die. “I mean. Sir. Sir Mayweather.”
Unlike Sergeant du Lac, Tristan did regard Francis – albeit it with flat disinterest. After a moment, he frowned, and speared a hunk of meatloaf with his fork. “It’s just Tris. No ‘sir.’”
Tris.
Tris.
Francis’s lungs ached.
Du Lac’s voice intruded, a mean laugh threaded through it. “Are you a fan of Sir Mayweather’s, Gallo?”
Don’t answer that, Francis’s conscience said, very reasonably.
But Tristan – Tris – was looking at him, hooded, and dark, and bored, and when he took a breath, I’ve heard of him turned into…
“Yes. I mean, I’ve been studying the Knights for a long time. I always wanted to join up. And I always wanted to be Gold Company. I wanted…” He bit his lip, and trailed off.
Tris’s lip curled, and now there was contempt, a trace of it, before his gaze dropped to his tray.
Francis wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.
“Frank,” Rose said, quietly. “Cool it.”
“Right.” Face flaming, regret and mortification pulsing through him like a second heartbeat, he dropped his face over his tray, and began to force his dinner down, one painful bite at a time.
~*~
My dad was a Rift Walker. He died before I was born.
That night, lying in his stiff new bunk, the wall above it bare, and set to stay that way, because he’d crammed his rolled-up posters deep in the bottom of his new footlocker, Francis blinked stinging eyes against the dark and thought of what he should have said at dinner.
My brothers died in service. But I’m not going to. I joined the Walkers, and I was second, right behind Rose. I know I look young, and too soft; I know I have a baby face. But I’m strong, and I’m smart, and I’m a good shot. I won’t let you down.
Instead, he’d stuttered, and blushed, and stared like an idiot child. Starstruck and adoring.
Tris hadn’t spoken to him for the rest of the meal, and he’d left when he was finished eating, without saying farewell.
Never meet your heroes. That was what people said, wasn’t it?
But what had he expected? That they would strike up an immediate rapport?
Francis had read the magazines, had trolled the gossip sites: he knew that Tris was stern, and unforgiving. It was honestly part of the long-distance appeal.
Tonight had been a wake-up call. One he’d needed. He hadn’t joined up to meet a celebrity crush. He was here to serve; to save lives, and battle back the forces of heaven and hell that threatened humanity.