Devil in the Device

by Lora Beth Johnson

  When that didn’t work, she thought about going to see Maret again, but she doubted he would give her any answers, even if he had them.

  She slept and worked, slept and worked, burying her feelings deep. Anytime she thought of Zhade, she would throw herself into another project. Interfacing with the pocket. Teaching Lilibet to code. Updating Griffin’s clone on their progress.

  One night, she lay on her cot in the Vaults for the first time since . . . that night weeks ago . . . and the memory of her and Zhade being together was too much to bear. She threw off the covers and headed for Rashmi’s room.

  She knocked lightly on the door. At first there was no answer, so she tried again. On the third attempt, the door whooshed open.

  Rashmi’s room was less cluttered than Andra’s but more comfortable. She’d filled it with a cot and sofa, draped with blankets stitched by Lilibet. The holo’screens projected a rainforest on the walls and played a gentle trickle of water. Rashmi lay on her cot, curled up in the fetal position, a tablet in front of her, shining an eerie blue glow on her face.

  “You know,” Andra said, “if you stay in bed for weeks, you’re likely to get bedsores.”

  Rashmi didn’t look up. “I get out of bed to eat. And use the bathroom. And I’ve showered a few times.”

  “That’s good.” Andra sat on the floor across from her, cocking her knees and resting her head against the wall. “What else have you been doing? Just sleeping?”

  “Naps are for later. I’ve been looking through old files. And I went to see the rocket. It’s a nice, homely place. It will hold them all tight. Like a hug.” She looked at Andra. “I don’t like hugs.”

  “Why did you go see the rocket? The LAC team will be taking over construction soon.”

  Rashmi put her tablet aside. “Then why did Griffin make it my responsibility to build it when I woke?”

  Andra sat forward. “Did you remember something?”

  Rashmi shook her head. “No memories. No memories for me. Just childhood, childhood, then nothing. But computers keep memories too.”

  She turned the tablet toward Andra.

  The holo displayed the rocket blueprints.

  “Things don’t make sense,” Rashmi said. “There are too many holes in the story, too many holes in my memory. I’m always asking, why? Why were you taken from Eerensed? Why didn’t Griffin’s clone come find you? Why did she build the rocket as a generation ship? Why, why, why? Why you and me? Why me and you?”

  Andra bit her lip. “I don’t know, Rashmi. I guess . . . we have to stop expecting humans to make sense. Sometimes the only answer for why they do the things they do is . . . just because.”

  “I am human. I do not do things for just because.”

  “Rashmi,” Andra said gently. “Neither of us are human.”

  Rashmi shook her head, burying it deeper into her pillow. “Maybe I wasn’t, but the wasn’t part of me is gone now.”

  “Rashmi—”

  “No!” Rashmi sat up and slammed her hands onto the cot. “No. You can keep pretending that you’re not human, but you don’t get to decide what I am. You don’t get to take all the things inside me and then leave me to be whatever is left and tell me what that is. I’m human. I’m human. And you’re human too, but you’re too stubborn to admit it.”

  Rashmi plopped back down, burying her face in her pillow. Andra pushed herself up and went to sit on the edge of Rashmi’s cot.

  “Sorry, Rashmi.” She had the urge to give Rashmi a comforting pat but knew Rashmi didn’t like to be touched. “I shouldn’t have said that. You’re right. You are human. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry I took all your programming. I’m sorry about bringing down the ceiling and injuring you, so it made it necessary. And I’m sorry about what Maret said. He’s . . . an asshole.”

  Rashmi sniffed. “More than an asshole. He’s a little bit evil.”

  Andra nodded. “A lot evil. But I’m still sorry. Want me to beat him up for you?”

  Rashmi shook her head. “No. I’ll beat him up myself when I’m ready.” She sat up and made eye contact with Andra for the first time. It was a bit unnerving. “But I think you should apologize to yourself too. You are allowed to be a little bit human.”

  Andra looked down at her hands. “Yeah. I know. I just don’t want to be human right now. There are just . . . too many feelings, and I don’t like them.”

  “Like what?” Rashmi canted her head, and something about her expression opened the floodgates inside Andra.

  She told her everything that was happening. About how exhausting the upgrades were, about how Ophele was in a coma and it was Andra’s fault. About not being able to access her AI consciousness. About sleeping with Zhade only to get in a huge fight with him the next morning. About all the things she’d kept from him. And all the things he’d kept from her—Tsurina and Meta and the Crown. And how no matter how they felt, that was a horrible way to start a relationship. How she didn’t feel like she could have human relationships because of what she was.

  “Sorry,” she said, when she was finished. “I didn’t mean to just . . . dump all that on you.”

  Abruptly, Rashmi stood, her head twitching from side to side as she paced the room, picking up random blankets and tablets and clothes.

  “Rashmi?”

  “The Crown, the Crown,” she mumbled to herself. She stopped and turned to Andra. “You said Zhade was learning how to use the Crown. With Tsurina. The Crown . . . there’s something about the Crown. I don’t remember . . . but . . . something, something, what was it?”

  “Rashmi, stop. What are you talking about?”

  Rashmi shook her head. “I don’t know, I don’t know. It’s foggy hazy can’t remember, but there’s something about Tsurina and the Crown.” She dropped the items she’d gathered and looked at Andra. “We have to go see Maret.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE SANGUINE

  Zhade was surrounded by a thousand angels.

  It had taken nearish a moon, but he was certz he had cleared Eerensed of not sole all the angels in the city but also any magic. If angels could go rogue, then what would stop other conduits from doing the same? The guards, under Meta, had confiscated all of it.

  Zhade had told the people he would destroy the magic, so they would feel safe, but instead he’d put every bit of it in the cathedzal. There would be no more guv-askings til he recked for true he could control the angels, hold them from going rogue.

  They stood in rows, filling the entire space. He’d had to move some of the gods’ dome controls to make room. He’d been at care of the giant metal box that Andra had said contained the dome’s energy, but every other bit of dome magic—all the scrys and such—were shoved against the wall to make more space.

  He tried to imagine bout Andra as little as possible.

  He regretted how he’d spoken to her, how angry he’d gotten. But every time he imagined bout asking for her forgiveness, rage flared back up inside him again. She’d recked his mam was alive. She recked where to find her, and held it from him. It was diff than him not telling her he had captured Tsurina, bout the rogue angels. This was his mam. He deserved to know.

  He was angry.

  But he still loved her.

  And he didn’t reck how to make the two feelings happen together.

  Zhade took a deep breath and commanded all the angels to raise their spears. He was divided into thousands of pieces. He was Zhade. He was Fishy. He was every single angel in the room. So when he lowered his spear, he was all of them lowering their spears. Next he commanded them to face one another. This was harder. They weren’t all doing the same movement, so he had to lean into the splitting of his mind. The most diff part was taking them through battle scenarios, each angel acting separateish of the others, reacting in real time to moves and countermoves.

  He started off easyis
h, having one angel in each pair stab and the other block. His head started to ache.

  “Practicing again?” a voice echoed across the cathedzal.

  Zhade opened his eyes to see Tsurina standing in the doorway. His heart flipped, til he realized it was actualish Meta. For certz. Tsurina was still imprisoned, guarded by Kiv. Meta was mereish becoming more and more Tsurina-like with each passing day.

  She’d mastered all of Tsurina’s hairstyles. Earned the trust of the guards. Taken control of the seizure of the angels with a confidence just like the Grande Advisor’s.

  It was her idea to hold the angels instead of destroying them. Zhade had hesitated at first, but it had given him the chance he needed to practice using the Crown. During each session, he had shakes their eyes would turn red and they would descend into rage and his power wouldn’t be enough to stop them. But not a single angel had gone rogue since coming to the palace.

  Meta’s heels clicked as she entered the room. “It’s a full army. What are you going to use it for?”

  Zhade shrugged. “Whatever I need.”

  With the angels as his army, he wouldn’t have to pretend anymore. He would for true be guv, not as Maret but as Zhade. And he could do so much good. He could hold Eerensed safe, maybe bring his mam back from wherever she was hiding. Maybe one day he could even be skooled how to use the Crown to control the pocket, like Andra had.

  (Andra.)

  “Soze . . .” Meta said, weaving through the angels as Zhade commanded them to spar. “You might convo that the angels going rogue was . . . a good thing?”

  Zhade paused and the angels stopped with him. Was it a good thing? For certz, people had died, but it had given him the opportunity to build an army that was loyal to him and him alone.

  “I spoze,” Zhade said, imagineful.

  Meta smiled and sank down on the wooden throne, next to where Zhade stood. He lifted an eyebrow.

  “Don’t get too comfortistic there.”

  Meta laughed. “There’s no march to comfort on this chair. Especialish not for your bony ass.”

  Zhade scowled. “I had such a nice ass before I lost the weight to look like my brother.”

  Meta watched him for a moment, drumming her nails against the wood. “There was no assassin, was there?”

  It took Zhade a tick to comp what Meta was referring to. The lie he’d told her all those months ago that Maret was in hiding because of an assassin and Zhade was a decoy. They’d bareish ever convoed it, and Zhade had forgotten.

  “Neg, no assassin,” he admitted. “He’s imprisoned in ice, somewhere . . . As a fact, I took his place the same reason you took Tsurina’s. Taking a monster’s face to rule in his place. But better.”

  Meta sneered. “Maret is nothing like Tsurina.” Her long fingers dug into the armrests of the throne.

  Zhade rolled his eyes. “He could have fooled me, marah? All those executions and—”

  “Were Tsurina’s ideas. You weren’t there. You didn’t see how she manipulated him.”

  “He’s an ass—”

  “For certz he’s an ass. But he’s not like Tsurina. Not evil.”

  “He killed my mam,” Zhade muttered, though now he recked it wasn’t true. His mam was somewhere out in the Wastes. Tsurina recked it. Andra had seen her.

  “He’s still your brother,” Meta said, standing, fierceness in her eyes. “You’re at luck you still have the bond of fam.”

  Zhade was going to respond that shared blood was less of a bond and more of a shackle, but something in the air changed, and he sensed the angels shifting, trying to act on their own. He relaxed into letting the Crown guide him, but something was wrong. He felt the angels start to slip from his grasp.

  “What—”

  The angels pulled free of his influence, darkness taking over. His consciousness was still present, in the stardust round them and in them, and he felt their ire and hate and need to destroy. He felt them go rogue.

  They charged him.

  Zhade fumbled for some sort of control, but it was too late. He couldn’t run, couldn’t react. He expected time to slow, for his life to replay for him, but everything happened too quickish as he was knocked to the ground, surrounded by angels, spears pointing at his chest.

  He closed his eyes and waited to die.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Nothing happened.

  He opened one eye. The angels were still above him, eyes red, spears pointed. But they weren’t moving.

  Zhade held his breath.

  The angels straightened, bringing their spears to their sides. Their red eyes faded to white. Zhade didn’t move.

  The room fell silent except for the click of heels. In one quick movement, the angels stepped aside and let Meta through. Her long dress trailed behind her, and there was a self-satisfied smirk on her face. She stood above him and offered him her hand.

  Zhade recoiled from her. “What did you just do?”

  He stumbled to his feet on his own, feeling at his side for a weapon, but there was none there.

  “I couldn’t find a way to tell you,” Meta said. “Soze, I decided to show you.”

  “Show me what?” Zhade sensed through the Crown, gathering stardust to himself but avoiding the minds of the angels.

  Meta rolled her eyes. “For true, Zhade, you are a spoon sometimes.”

  She moved her hair to the side and showed him a small . . . hole in her neck. Zhade didn’t comp what it was, mereish it reminded him of something he couldn’t have memory of. The angels moved again, raising their spears, eyes flashing red. Then, mereish as quickish, lowered their spears, eyes going white.

  Zhade trembled, realization rushing over him. “It’s you. You’ve been controlling the angels. Making them go rogue.”

  Meta nodded.

  Zhade grabbed a spear from the nearest angel. He expected it to fight, but it gave it up willingish. He pointed it at Meta. “You killed all those people.”

  Meta shook her head, emphaticish. “Neg. I purpose firm, but . . . It was . . . unfortunate but full necessary.”

  “You murdered Cheska,” Zhade growled. “Ripped his heart from his chest.”

  Meta winced. “Firm, and neg. I . . . let the angels free, and they chose violence. But that’s not the purpose. Don’t you see, Zhade?”

  She took a step forward, and Zhade stumbled back, spear still raised.

  “I helped you,” she said. “The people never would have given you their magic willingish. Never would have respected you as guv. It was the fear. They needed to feel it so they would surrender their angels to you, and now you have an army.”

  Was it true? Zhade thought back to all the times the angels had gone rogue. Meta had been there every time. Watching him in the market, protecting him in the cathedzal, accompanying him to Dzeni’s apartment.

  But it was impossible. Zhade was the sole one who could command the angels.

  “I don’t comp. Why? How? You don’t have a Crown, how did you control them?”

  Meta gave him a small smile. “I don’t have a Crown like you, neg. But I do have something else. The goddesses called it an implant.”

  She gestured to the port at the back of her neck. Zhade had memory of Andra convoing bout implants, but he imagined sole people from her time had them.

  “Are you . . . like the goddesses? From the past?”

  Meta laughed. “Neg, for certz not.”

  “Then how did you get one?”

  “For serious, Zhade. How do you imagine? From a goddess.”

  Zhade’s heart stopped, and he took a step back. “Andra would never.”

  “Neg, not Andra.”

  “The Second . . .”

  She shook her head, and a burst of adrenaline shot through Zhade. It couldn’t be . . .

  Meta smiled.
“Your mam, Zhade. Your mam gave it to me.”

  The room spun. Nausea roiled in Zhade’s stomach. It wasn’t possible. Why? How? When? And why hadn’t his mam given him one of those implants as well? Why Meta?

  “You best explain full quickish,” Zhade said, teeth bared, “because my patience is blowing away.”

  Meta lifted her hands in surrender, but her expression remained placid. “She gave me an implant when I was young. I was abandoned. Your mother found me in the Wastes on one of her trips to her lab. She took me there and raised me.”

  “Bullshit,” Zhade spat. “She raised me. I never saw you.”

  “That’s because she raised us separateish. You, in Eerensed. Me, in a place called Superior.”

  Zhade narrowed his eyes. “Reck full bars bout yourself, marah?”

  “She skooled me magic, mereish likeish you. After she . . . faked her execution, she lived with me in Superior for a while, skooling me magic. Zhade, don’t you comp? In a way, you’re my brother.”

  She reached out, but Zhade swatted her away. “I am not your brother.”

  He felt dizzy. It didn’t make full sense. She’d been a guard for . . . three years? But where had she come from before that? Zhade had assumed she was like any refugee trying to prove herself, to be accepted. Extra loyal to Maret, so she could stay. But what had she said? That she recked what it was like to grow up with a mam like Tsurina. Did she purpose Zhade’s mam?

  And was he to believe that his mam had sent him out into the Wastes at sixteen to find Andra, while she was raising another kiddun, alive and well? Safe. Happy.

  “I don’t believe you,” Zhade said, teeth gritted.

  There were things you believed. And things you believed you believed.