Unbound by Jim C. Hines Page A

in a floating vault in space was too horrific, no matter what he had tried to do to me. Bracing myself in the open doorway, I shoved his remains toward the Earth. He shot away like a torpedo from a submarine. Between the sunlight and the heat of reentry, he should be gone soon enough.
    I double-checked my bag and fire extinguisher, pulled myself through the doorway, and yanked the electronic lockpick loose. The door slid shut. I tucked the lockpick into the bag and made sure my gun was at the top where I could reach it.
    Mahefa shone a light in my direction to orient me. I crawled to the side of the satellite, braced myself, and jumped. I was a little off course, but Mahefa had no trouble intercepting me. He caught my harness with one hand and reached for the bag.
    “Not yet.” I yanked it out of his reach. “Tell me which sample will let me talk to the dead.”
    He looked genuinely saddened by my mistrust, like a disappointed parent. “Søndergaard18.”
    The name sounded familiar. I prayed it wasn’t the one I had sacrificed fighting the vampire. I dug through the bag, checking one tube at a time. I found it near the bottom. According to the label, this sample was twenty-seven years old.
    “Go ahead and hold on to that if you’d like,” said Mahefa. “I’ll carry the rest—”
    “Not until we’re on the ground.” I kept my hand in the bag, gripping my shock-gun.
    He laughed. It was an ugly sound, heavy with mockery.“You think I plan to double-cross you? Perhaps to ‘accidentally’ drop you on the way down?”
    “Most criminals don’t like letting witnesses go free,” I said warily.
    “You’re not a witness, Isaac.”
    He was too damned confident. “How do you figure?”
    He pointed to the satellite. “If this was simply a matter of bypassing a lock and fighting a single guard, I’d have gotten myself a magical signal dampener and helped myself to their stock years ago.”
    It was like the vacuum of space had seeped into my chest. “What are you saying?”
    “I needed someone with no connection to me,” Mahefa continued. “Someone who could have plausibly discovered the vampires’ secrets.” He smiled. “Someone who would appear to be acting alone when the controllers in Chernobyl reviewed the video feed.”
    Oh, shit.
“And it never occurred to you to wear a damn mask?”
    “A mask wouldn’t block the scanner you passed through on the way in. They peeked right through your suit to record every wrinkle and birthmark on your body.” He pulled me closer, until our helmets touched. “You’re not a witness, Isaac. You’re a scapegoat.”
     
    I can’t decide whether to kill him or commit him.
    I don’t pretend to know what Isaac is going through. The entire town mourned the loss of so many innocent people, but Isaac hasn’t allowed himself to grieve. He blames himself. I don’t know if he’s searching for punishment or redemption. And then Gutenberg took away the thing that most defined him. I watch him fight to hold on to that world and that purpose, clinging like his life depends on it. He’s lost and angry and terrified.
    Isaac isn’t the only one in pain. I lost most of my career. I lost clients and colleagues I worked with for years. Lena was forced to kill Deifilia, the only blood-family she’s ever known. Lena has been spending far more time in her tree than she used to, and grief blunts her joy. Whether that grief is her own or Isaac’s, or even mine, I couldn’t say.
    I worry about them both, but if Isaac continues on like this, with the depression eating away at him, his pain could smother Lena as well.
    In some ways, his reaction tracks closely to the grief and anger that follow an unexpected amputation. So far, he’s turned most of that pain inward or tried to focus it through action. His tunnel vision keeps him pursuing a vanished child and a thread of hope.
    It was a mistake to bring him to Euphemia. The aftereffects of her song have driven his loss deeper, like