Unconquerable Sun

by Elliott, Kate

  She gestures to James, and he zooms in the view. It’s a real-time view of the temple district. Translucent figures like ghosts move along the streets and alleys, fading in and out, hard to get a grasp on.

  “Interesting,” says James. “Someone is running a scrambler through the visual. Compare the real-time images from the camp, which are precise and being routed through military channels.”

  Ti nods. “Like I said, the temples have power. Enough power to limit surveillance by the military.”

  Sun raises a hand. “That’s all very well, but there’s no way a gunship load of Phene special forces in company with lifepods, consoles, and a captive banner soldier stood in line for full-body scans.”

  Ti smiles. “The temples have individual private keyed entrances for spiritual personnel. So who among the temples is likely to have Phene agents or sympathizers?”

  “The basilica.”

  “Too obvious. And as you can see, that’s not where the ring is.” Ti indicates a modest hermitage with actual stone walls that lies opposite a lane crowded with souvenir stalls. “He’s here, in a community of the seers of Iros, where people can get mediation for disputes.”

  “The seers of Iros.” Sun glances at me, then at Hetty.

  “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” I tip my chin toward the map. “Did you not believe me when I said my father fled town just like he was painted in guilt?”

  Abruptly Hetty speaks. “My father is not here. He has retired to quiet reflection in the fatherhouse that stands on Yele Prime. He is not here.”

  “I never thought he was here.” Sun touches Hetty, two fingers brushing her forearm like a promise. The delicacy of the gesture makes my face heat, as if I’ve seen an interaction that ought to have been private. Sun breaks the moment by turning to me. “So your father really is a traitor?”

  “He’d say, not to the Yele. But I think this is bigger than my father.”

  “You still think Baron Voy is involved?”

  “I guess we’re about to find out. Ti, I’m wagering you have a suggestion for how we can get in.”

  She arches a playful eyebrow at me. “Why yes, I have access to a back way in. There’s a Campaspe Guild annexed to the House of Healing Waters. I worked there for a few years.”

  “You worked as a campaspe?” I can’t decide if I’m surprised Ti got her start as a sex worker. James blushes, looking away. Hetty crosses her arms, looking a bit prim and prudish, but maybe that’s her Yele upbringing. Of course Alika’s not paying attention to the rest of us lesser creatures; he’s deep in the comms doing I don’t know what except he’s whistling softly under his breath, working out a melody I’ve never heard before. Isis isn’t interested in anything except our weapons. Solomon gives Ti a brief nod, as in solidarity, making me wonder what kind of off-license work he did for his family’s illegal enterprise when he was younger.

  Ti gives me a look, disappointed in my response, and I’m immediately ashamed of myself. “It was the best work a girl in my circumstances could get when I was fifteen, and we were really desperate for money. It worked out well for me. The guild sponsored me into Vogue Academy, so I’m grateful to them.”

  “It’s honest work and nothing to shame someone for, as you all ought to know,” says Sun with a wave meant to scold us. “Ti, what does this mean for our mission?”

  “It means I still have my access key to get into the guild annex through its private entry. Which gets us into Repose District without going through the security line.”

  “Ah! That’s what I want to hear.”

  “But you all will still stand out, dressed as you are.”

  “That’s your other job as Perse’s cee-cee. Get us outfitted so we blend in.”

  “As much as you’ll ever blend in, Your Distinctiveness.”

  Hetty gives her a sharp look. Ti’s teasing smile widens, and she holds the Honorable Hestia Hope’s gaze until Hetty relaxes and chuckles.

  “You have a style that lesser lights might envy,” says Hetty.

  “Then not you, Honored Hestia,” says Ti so graciously that I swear a faint blush of sweetest rose brushes Hetty’s pale cheeks.

  “Enough talk,” says Sun, jumping to her feet. “Let’s go.”

  “There’s one hitch. I don’t have the key on me. I left it behind when I went to Vogue Academy. It’s at my family’s tent.”

  “You really grew up in the tent city?” James drags his cap off his head and presses it against his chest.

  “I really did. I can go alone.”

  “I’ll go with you,” I say.

  Sun says, “We’ll all go. James, you’ll stay here to monitor the environs in case there are any unusual movements we need to know about.”

  Ti glances toward Isis. “The camp is a no-weapons zone.”

  “I can get clearance for that,” says Sun. “You get us into Repose District.”

  So it is that an hour later we’re walking the dusty streets of the tent city like a heist crew in a Channel Idol crime serial. We’re all carrying laden tote bags to suggest we’ve been shopping. Filter masks conceal our faces, which is fortunate because at every ganglion intersection between a confused gaggle of enclosed food stalls, permit kiosks, and dry goods stores we pass screens projecting the latest results from Idol Faire. I didn’t even realize the contest started thirty-six hours ago.

  What’s even more shocking is that while ribbon-wielding fresh-faced returnee Ji-na is in number-one place, the number-eight contestant is “Princess Sun and her Companions.” We’re racing up the charts with what is evidently our first entry, a montage sequence of the battle at the industrial park that finishes off with Sun’s stirring speech to the cadets underlaid by music that enhances her phrasing. Candace must have uploaded it from her hospital bed.

  There’s even a spinning image of the ten of us posed like any other idol group. It’s an animated rendering with Sun positioned in the center, bold and bright, the Handsome Alika at her right hand, and the rest—James, Hetty, Isis, Ti, Candace, Solomon, and a stern Octavian at the very back—arrayed around them in various dramatic positions. The person that’s me is crouched with chin resting on a gloved fist. I have never owned a pair of glittery gloves in my life, although I have to say they look pretty great and, even better, are the color of pomegranates. There’s a fade-out behind me that winks in and out with a ghost outline of Perseus and Duke.

  What a kick in the gut. I can’t believe he’s dead. The concept of death doesn’t compute. It’s more like I haven’t seen him for years, which was how we lived anyway. Has Sun commissioned a spirit tablet for him yet? Where will she place it?

  Did my parents ever love him, even a little bit? Did they miss him after they sent him away? I doubt it.

  Did they miss me?

  “Hey, Perse.” Solomon snags my elbow. “Don’t fall behind.”

  A thrill of panic rushes through me as I realize the others have vanished. But Alika has brought his ukulele in its hard-shell case and slung it over his back, so we follow its curve bobbing through the press of the crowd. Sun’s in the lead with Ti guiding her. Isis strides right behind her, followed by Alika and Hetty, who walk with heads together, conferring. Solomon’s been given the privilege of rear guard. All our weapons are concealed in bags or tucked into deep pockets of the long canvas coats Ti found for us in one of the military storerooms. I’ve strapped my tonfa on my forearms, hidden under the sleeves of the duster I’m wearing.

  “Isis must trust you,” I say to Solomon as we hasten to catch up.

  “She trusts I can defend the princess. Nothing else matters to her. She’s all business. I checked her military record. It’s pretty intimidating.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Did you know Colonel Isis is House Samtarras too? Like the Honorable James? Except she’s from a minor branch, the kind that’s one ladder rung up from having to sign off as an ordinary citizen. Like what happened to Asshole Kim’s family line. That’s why she’s a cee-cee and no
t a Companion, I guess.”

  “Right.”

  It’s midday, windy with a constant pall of dust, but the streets are as busy as if a work shift just changed. About half the people out and about are wearing filter masks, most of them grimy, pitted, and worn with age and rust. Those without masks look haggard, ashen circles dark under their eyes and sweat beading on their brows even though it’s not hot. Fever stalks those without clean air.

  The deeper we walk into the camp, the more people are out without masks. The scrubbed-clean tents near the main gate give way to older tents repaired with glossy sealant. Farther on, fraying tents are patched with squares of repurposed fabric sewn or taped to walls and roofs.

  The food stalls lose their sealed enclosures; sellers who can’t afford masks wrap cloth over their noses and mouths. The stores become awnings draped with clear plastic walls with reverse fans sucking out the worst of the grit. The locals glance at us but, with our faces behind the masks and our unremarkable gear, no one pays us much mind. A janitor mech grinds past, sounding on its last gears as it nuzzles along the ground for litter and waste to toss into its rubbish bin.

  Ti whistles. The mech halts, reverses, and trundles over to her. She rests a hand on its forward picker.

  “This is one of my dad’s,” she says proudly. “He repairs mechs that’ve been discarded as too old or broken down to bother with.”

  “How can you tell it’s one of his?” I ask.

  She traces a doubled chevron burned into the metal. “This is his mark. It brings the bin back to him and we sort and sell anything of value.”

  Sun examines the street with its patched tents lining the packed-dirt street. Her head tilts as it does when she’s thinking hard, running whatever calculations go on in that formidable mind. There’s nothing here except people subsisting day to day, waiting for something to change in their lives. Even the poorest neighborhood in Argos must seem paved with glory compared to this. No wonder the people stuck here are desperate enough to endure the fenced-in barracks at the industrial park. No wonder Ti talks the way she does about the money she gets paid, even in death.

  Two tents down a boy stands behind the clear plastic window of a tent’s entry porch, a kind of airlock between the street and the air-sealed interior of the living quarters. He’s staring down the other direction of the street with a wistful expression, watching a pack of children about his age kicking a ball up and down the street. Ti glances in that direction and sees him.

  I’ve seen her polished smile, her friendly grin, and her serious profile. What crosses her face is new to me: a flash of alarm in the flare of her eyes that she immediately shutters away, succeeded by tenderness as her lips press together in a pained, compassionate, loving smile.

  42

  The Heat of the Wily Persephone’s Lust

  Ti releases the mech and hurries toward the tent. The boy notices the movement, then her. A grin breaks wide on his face. He starts bouncing up and down but stays behind the seal as Ti lets a lock-strip read her retina. When the strip blinks green she peels it open and steps inside. He flings himself into her embrace with an open, tactile enthusiasm that isn’t Chaonian at all. It reminds me of people in Phene dramas, always hugging and back-slapping and spilling their emotions all over everything and everyone like so much sticky syrup that will have to be laboriously peeled off the skin when it dries.

  “What are you doing out here?” she asks him in a low voice. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

  “Ma said it was okay if I just look with my eyes.”

  She turns him to face us as we politely file onto the porch. Plastic mats cover the dirt, and there’s a rack to put shoes on before you step up onto a raised floor where another sealed entry, this one opaque, leads into the interior.

  “Princess Sun, this is my brother, Kaspar. Kas, this is Princess Sun and her Companions.”

  “You’re on Channel Idol,” he says, taking us in.

  Sun considers the child gravely. “In eighth place, for now. But we’re going to win.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I win.”

  “Oh. Okay.” He’s a stocky boy, thick through the middle, wearing an oversized tunic meant for an adult that’s been hemmed up so it hangs to his knees. A striped knit cap covers his head. “Did you really fight that battle at the broken sky-tower, or was it just a made-up story?”

  “We really fought. People who think it’s all right to build a reputation, or an idol campaign, on fake battles aren’t to be respected.”

  He shifts, like a ripple in his torso, then scratches his chin as Ti watches him anxiously. “Do you want to see my drawings? I can’t go out, so I draw.”

  “Of course I want to see them,” says Sun, “but we don’t have much time.”

  He looks at me, studying me closely. He’s not as dark as Tiana, and he doesn’t resemble her, his features being lean and long and with a cute beaky nose he’ll have to grow into. His eyes are hazel instead of brown, and his hair is entirely concealed beneath the knit cap, which is pulled down over his ears all the way to his neck.

  “You are the Honorable Persephone. Ti works for you, doesn’t she?”

  “That’s right, little brother,” I say, deciding to treat him with respectful informality. “How about I go with you to get the drawings while your big sister takes the princess to get the thing she needs.”

  “What do you need?” Kas asks.

  Ti tweaks his nose affectionately. “Classified. Where’s Ma?”

  “Inside.”

  “Are we going in?” Sun gestures toward the sealed entry flap that hides the interior.

  Ti bites her lower lip. Alika is scanning the porch, the view of the street as seen through the plastic, and the fresh-faced boy.

  She takes in a deep breath. “Princess Sun, please let there be no images of this street, this tent, or anyone in my family.”

  Sun says, “Are you ashamed of your living conditions?”

  Ti lifts her chin. “I’m not ashamed.”

  “Yes, I didn’t get that impression before. If anything, you’ve been quite insistent on describing the plight of the refugees and the conditions they labor under. Giving Alika full access can help educate people, don’t you think?”

  “Educate them in service of your Idol Faire ratings, do you mean?”

  The boy’s mouth drops open at this plain speaking.

  Sun’s steady regard does not waver. Maybe Ti’s words have angered her, or maybe she’s intrigued. I don’t yet know the princess well enough to tell. “How can citizens learn about what needs to be changed if they’re never allowed to see it? I would suggest you have a responsibility to educate people.”

  Ti’s in full statuesque mode, posture proud and stately, face a study in composure. It’s hard not to admire her and the cool, clear way she answers.

  “You say that, Your Gloriousness, because you don’t comprehend how dangerous it is for people like us to come to the attention of the authorities.”

  Sun raises both eyebrows, then lowers them. “Alika, erase whatever you’ve recorded here. Very well. Let’s get what we came for so we can finish this mission.”

  “Tiana? Is that your voice I am hearing? What brings you home?” The interior flap is pulled aside. A woman appears in the opening. She looks so much like the boy, with that same lean, long face and long torso, that it’s evident to everyone who she must be. Her shock on seeing us clamps off whatever she meant to say next.

  Smoothly, Ti says, “Princess Sun, may I present to you my mother, Nanea kin Kavan.”

  It’s a Karnoite name style, identifying themselves by their clan rather than a surname and place name. Nanea is tall like Tiana, but her extreme slenderness and long torso gives her height a more ethereal sense, unlike the weight and impact of Ti’s presence.

  Leaving Solomon on guard duty on the porch, seated on a cheap reconstituted bench, the rest of us take off the grubby shoes we’re wearing. Ti wouldn’t let us keep on our mil
itary boots; she said footwear is a dead giveaway in a place like this.

  Inside, the tent measures eight meters by fifteen meters. I’d expected it to be crowded with several families, but instead it feels spacious because it is sparsely furnished. There are a pair of double racks for sleeping and a curtained-off double bed. A long shelf is neatly lined with clear boxes. The only other furniture is a black table for eating and viewing. Braided throw rugs cover the plastic flooring, giving the room a bit of warmth and texture. Most surprising is a remarkably elaborate kitchen that takes up the rear third of the space, with four ovens, eight burners, a double sink, lots of stainless steel counter space, and a large refrigeration unit. Loaves of bread are cooling on a sideboard beside a tray of crescent-shaped pastries. The smell makes my mouth water.

  “Ma has a baking sideline,” says Ti, sounding nervous for only the second time since she and I have met.

  “Please, Your Highness, have a pastry,” says her mother, who is watching our group as if we all have stingers hidden about our persons and are bringing her a wealth of trouble. “I’ve got a barley-and-squash stew ready to heat, if you’d honor us by staying for a meal.”

  Sun hesitates. To turn down an offer of hospitality is the height of rudeness.

  “Ma, there isn’t time. We can come around later, but right now we’re in a hurry.”

  “My apologies,” says Sun. “Your offer is generous. Only the urgency of our situation prevents me from accepting.”

  “What have you been getting yourself in with, Ti?” Her mother grasps Ti’s elbow with a loving concern that makes me envious. My mother never cared about me except insofar as my activities or performance reflected on her.

  “I need my guild key.”

  “Your father decided to store it in the lockbox in his shop. But let me go first, and warn him. He’ll be…” She breaks off. There’s a vent at the back of the kitchen that I assumed led to a toilet, laundry, and shower area, but it rips aside now and a big man pushes through, saying, “What’s going on in here? Did I hear Ti’s voice?”

  He stops short, comically stunned. He has to be Ti’s father with such a similar complexion and build. She got her beautifully long-lashed eyes from him. Past the open vent I can see into a second tent, exactly as big as this one. Two big worktables, a wall of mech arms, and shelves stacked with random parts and baskets of bits and bobs fill the back half of the tent. Farther forward, an opaque front wall is rolled up so passersby can see in. Several people are in the tent, one bent over a worktable and another at the front talking to a pair of customers. The person at the worktable looks up toward us; he looks enough like Ti’s mother that he could easily be her brother. Ti’s father shuts the vent to block the view.