“A nebula’s something in the sky, right?” I reply, keeping my own voice low. The distraction is making this process easier for her, and I want to get through it as quickly as possible. Or—and I can barely admit it even to myself—perhaps it’s because this softer, quieter version of Jubilee is fascinating. “I’ve wondered before if that’s how starlight looks.”

She blinks, refocusing with some difficulty on my face. “You’ve never been off-world before.” It’s not quite a question—but she’s surprised.

“How would I get off-world?” Despite my good intentions, I can hear the bitterness in my voice. “Avon’s my home, anyway. Clouds or no clouds.”

I’m bracing myself for a snapped retort, but it doesn’t come. I wipe my fingers clean without looking at her face, replacing the tin in the kit and reaching for the bandages instead.

“I’ve always thought nebulae were beautiful,” she says finally, her voice still quiet. She sounds tired, and I can’t blame her; the injuries I’m treating make my own side ache in sympathy. “When a star dies, it explodes; a nebula is what’s left behind.” She’s still gazing up at the blue-green swirls on the ceiling. “Eventually new stars grow inside them, from what remains of the old.”

“A pregnant star.” I smooth the adhesive bandage over her side, grimacing when she flinches. “I like that.”

The strangeness of the conversation seems to strike her at the same time it strikes me, and she cranes her neck to look down at her freshly bandaged side. “Look, why are you doing this?”

“Because not all of us are like him,” I reply, keeping my voice carefully even. “Some of us realize that just because it’s easier to pick up a gun and shoot than it is to talk, doesn’t make it right.”

“And yet you work with men like McBride.”

“You think I don’t know we’d be better off without him?” As though patching her up was keeping my frustration at bay, now it comes surging back. “If it were as simple as taking him out into the swamp one night and ending it, maybe it would already be done.”

She’s recovering from the pain, her voice growing a bit stronger now that I’m done with my work. “So why don’t you?” she challenges.

“The alternative to fighting will take years,” I reply, suddenly feeling the weight of it, the exhaustion from trying to keep what little control I have over my people from slipping away. “McBride has got them thinking that if they fight hard enough, they can change Avon tomorrow.”

“That’ll never happen. You’re outnumbered. Outgunned.”

“No, really? I hadn’t noticed.” I toss the bandage wrappers back into the kit and lock it shut with a snap. When I turn back, she’s still watching me. Her eyes are bright with pain, but clearer now—thoughtful. I sigh. “McBride’s waiting for something, anything, to give him an excuse to fight.”

“I noticed.” Her voice is flat.

“Anything happens to him, or he finds a reason somewhere, and his people would blame your people, and that’d be the end of the ceasefire. Your nightmares about bombs in your hospitals would become a reality.”

She tries to sit up again, hissing between her teeth but managing to lift her head enough to look at me squarely. “Funny how kidnapping doesn’t seem to bother you, but bombs do.”

Irritation kindles once more, too quick and sharp to be ignored. “You lock me up, and there’s nobody standing between McBride and all-out war. Look, there aren’t just two sides to this thing.”

She doesn’t respond right away, but when she does, her voice is quiet again. “There are never just two sides to anything.”

They’re not words I would’ve expected from a soldier—especially not one with Jubilee’s reputation. I tear my gaze away from her face and look up at the ceiling, cast into uneven shadow by the bioluminescence. “Listen. Your people won’t deal with us for you. If I can’t convince the others you can offer something in return for your passage out of here—”

“I know,” she whispers. “Are you only just now working that out?”

My temper snaps. “What are you doing? You’re not even going to try to save yourself? If you want to be a martyr, this isn’t the way. They’ll dump you somewhere, nobody will know. Nobody will remember you for it.”

She lifts her chin, stubborn, her eyes flinty hard. It’s like she doesn’t understand what’s happening—like she doesn’t understand she’s signing her own death warrant.

“Listen, don’t you have a family?” I can hear the desperation in my own voice. “You should at least try to get out of this alive, for them.”

“Everything I do is for my family.” Her voice is sharp—I’ve hit a nerve, and it costs her. One hand presses to her side as she gulps air against the pain of her broken ribs. Looks like Captain Lee Chase has a weak spot after all.

I don’t know what I expected her to be like, but it wasn’t this. The stories about her say she’s made of steel—she volunteered to come to Avon, the planet that drives men mad. She never runs, never hides, never loses. Stone-faced Chase, inhuman and deadly.

But she’s lying here, half-curled up on the bare mattress, her eye swelling and her lip oozing blood. She doesn’t look like a killer—she barely looks like she’s going to survive the night. I know some of what they say about her is true. Deadly, certainly. Made of steel, probably. But inhuman?

“Jubilee, please.” She looks at me, her jaw clenched, lips pressed into a thin line. “Just give me something. A tiny, insignificant thing. Something I can bring to them to show you’re working with us. Something to keep you alive.”

Jubilee swallows. I can see her throat move, see the way her fingers curl more tightly around her own arms. And in that moment I know I was wrong. It isn’t that she doesn’t understand. She knows she’s going to die if she doesn’t give in. She knows—and she’s choosing death. Her gaze is steady, fixed on mine. Her mouth relaxes, trembles the tiniest fraction. Even now, with that deadly grace muted by her injuries, I could watch her for hours. I was wrong, when I thought she couldn’t feel fear. She’s terrified.

She lifts her chin. “What’s your name?”