The Song of the Jubilee (The Phantom of the Earth Book 1)

by Zen, Raeden

  “What’re you doing?” Connor said.

  “Piscatorians can’t afford trips to the Naturan resorts, certainly not during the peak.”

  “A resort?” Connor said. “What’ll I do at a resort?”

  “Survive.” Hans slung his pack over his shoulder, as did Connor. “There’re going to be a lot of aristocrats here today.”

  Some of the developers who frequented the resorts were nearly as skilled with the ZPF as Hans, and even if they couldn’t decipher his intrusion into their consciousness, some might sense his meddling in their minds and alert the commonwealth. Put plainly, the skill he used in Piscator would not work at the Spas of Tranquility, but he didn’t want to admit this to Connor.

  “Hold out your arm,” he said. Connor obeyed, and Hans injected him with a cloudy liquid. “Look as I look,” Hans continued. He injected his own arm. “Move and speak the way I do. Be courteous the way Murray taught you. The people here must think we are as wealthy as they and come here as frequently as they do. Does that make sense?”

  Connor didn’t answer him. He narrowed his eyes, looking at his arms. “What’d you do to me?” His animated tattoos of seashells and ocean waves disappeared, replaced by bronze skin. He looked at Hans. He shook his head. “What’d you do to us?”

  “I’ve treated us with E. pigmentation, a synism capable of adjusting the color of transhuman skin.”

  “Why?”

  “To look like aristocrats.” Hans put his dark hand on Connor’s shoulder and connected to his mind. “From this day forward, you are Trent Zimmer. You competed in the Harpoons in 364, received a bid from the Bajocian Consortium, a group known to recruit neophytes for developers in Underground Central. You work with House Tremadoci in Mantlestone Village. You’re at the spa with their approval.” Hans transmitted three terabytes of data to Connor’s neurochip with all details he’d need to understand his new identity. “Now, answer me, does all of this make sense?”

  Connor nodded. “I guess so.”

  “Not guess—yes or no, brother.”

  “Yes.”

  They stepped out.

  Golden lettering rotated in midair beneath a Granville sphere the size of a melon, dangling from the station’s angled glass ceiling, high above. ABUNDANT CELEBRATIONS ARE ENCOURAGED BY THE OFFICE OF THE CHANCELLOR. The chancellor’s Twenty-first Precept appeared at all the transport stations near the spas. Hans felt a swell of anger rise within him. He despised all of the precepts and this one the most: too many of his comrades died during the government-sanctioned Jubilees.

  He looked away from the precept. Beyond the glass walls and ceiling, a firmament filled the territory with light, a burning silver sun above lifeless mountains. A man-made lagoon lay below, its clear water surrounded by porous rock and sage plants, which gave Natura Territory its signature herbal musk. The smell didn’t calm Hans. His thoughts focused on the future. He’d see his brother to safety, rescue his father, fulfill his people’s dreams, then return to Vivo City with Mari.

  “Let’s move,” he said.

  The Selendias blended with the aristocrats, most dressed in golden or maroon robes, tunics, or capes with cashmere slippers. They ambled over cobblestones lined with flowers and bushes, and soon they arrived at a clearing with a doorway labeled SPAS OF TRANQUILITY. Hans knocked, and a scanner emerged from an opening on the side. He pushed his finger to it, and ACCESS GRANTED flashed on the doorway, which disappeared, revealing a hostess. Golden locks sprang from her widow’s peak and curled over her bodysuit to hang at her shapely waist.

  “Welcome to the Spas of Tranquility,” she said with a thick Naturan accent, “do you have a reservation with us?”

  “We do,” Hans said, bowing slightly to her. Connor mirrored his movements. “It’s under Anemone.”

  Her eyes moved rapidly back and forth as she searched her extended consciousness. “Excellent, I see your party.” She waved gently. “Follow me.”

  She took them through passages lined with golden palm trees and clear streams. Connor was breathing deeply and, judging by his stride, starting to relax. It pleased Hans to see his reticence melting. He hated to leave his brother while he underwent the fever and preferred the chance that he might at least enjoy the atmosphere of his new home.

  When they arrived close to the cliffs above the spas, Connor halted. “Gods,” he said, “I never expected this.”

  Hans gave his brother a cautious look, then pushed his consciousness into the hostess’s. When she beamed and did not try to send a message to a spa manager, Hans exhaled. He didn’t want to kill her.

  “These are the finest spas in all the Great Commonwealth, my lords,” she said. “We have over a million cabanas behind the falls.”

  Hans believed her. He knew it had taken his father’s research team decades to fully terraform the spas. Water cascaded down the sides of cliffs in what looked like an oblong canyon. At the bottom of the canyon, fields with flowers and trees of every type and color intermingled with walking paths. At the far end, an archway broke through the falls, leading to a corridor that Hans knew elevated to a ramp, up and up to House Thuddan. The lady and lord of this house developed candidates for the Harpoons. Friends of the Front, they had offered to aid Connor’s advancement with the ZPF and transhuman capabilities, a sizeable risk, for development was heavily regulated by the Masimovian Administration. They’d not dare use developmental synisms on someone unregistered in Marstone’s Database, and they also wouldn’t like that Hans induced the fever in Connor. Hans hoped they’d understand that after Jeremiah’s arrest, he had to.

  Now the hostess took them to a cutout in a garnet stone pathway, down marble stairs to an archway of polished mantle stone covered with holographic letters that read REGISTRATION. An usher in a sleeveless tunic and maroon cape stood behind the counter, surrounded by representations of the spa’s services. Everything from natural currents to ponds to robotic masseuses to aromatherapy shoals to sparkling water was available.

  “Welcome to Natura,” the usher said, “the place of leisure. Where is it you wish to escape?”

  “We’re here to meet with the Anemone party,” Hans said.

  The usher moved as if to adjust the holograms, but his fingers spread shadows on the wall that formed a flapping phoenix.

  “Thank you,” Hans said.

  He recognized the BP signal for Janzers, and tried his best to steady his singing heart. How could Lady Isabelle know? He’d told only Maribel, Arturo, and Murray of his plans to leave Connor in House Thuddan. He hoped this signal didn’t mean Lady Erelah and Lord Turi Thuddan had been arrested. It would be another blow to the Front’s network in the underground. Hans didn’t have time to enquire and wouldn’t risk contacting them telepathically. He searched the ZPF for Janzers, and though he did sense their presence at the spas, he couldn’t tell how many, or where they were. Something, or someone, was interfering with his mind-body-cosmos interface.

  “We’ll be on our way.” He bowed to the usher, as did Connor. Hans leaned next to Connor’s ear. “We have to go.”

  “What’s wrong?” Connor said softly.

  “A problem. Stay close.”

  They moved through the crowd, and Hans took note of the eyes following him and his brother. Developers and district overlords didn’t typically arrive and leave the spas so fast. At Gzhela Station, Hans found an empty interterritory transport and commandeered it the way he did the one at Piscator Shore. He directed it through the supply tunnels.

  “Where’re we going now?” Connor said. He sat with the alloy latch firmly set over his shoulders.

  “Ypresia Village,” Hans said. That village held the largest market in Gaia.

  “Why there?”

  “We will meet with Murray, now be quiet, please, let me think.”

  Hans seethed inside while blocking his mind from Marstone. For no matter the care the BP took in recent years, the commonwealth speared them. Damn Lady Isabelle and damn her Janzers, Hans thought, and damn this godsf
orsaken commonwealth! He used his scrambler to adjust the transport’s itinerary, and they flew through the maglev tunnel.

  Sometime later, Connor unlatched. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  The transport turned up, and the Selendias rolled down to the bottom of it, Connor on top of Hans.

  “Get off me,” Hans said. He flung his brother beside him. A pond, rimmed by colorful roses, geraniums, and oak trees, surrounded them in the transport’s walls.

  “You asked me to trust you,” Connor said, grasping on to a latch, “and I did! Why won’t you trust me?”

  Hans grabbed a seat and pulled himself to his feet. He laughed wanly. “It’s too late, brother.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Lady Isabelle took our father from us and sent him to Farino.” As loud as Hans yelled, his voice seemed absent, dislocated from his body. How could she know? he thought. What gave Father away?

  When Connor’s eyes widened, Hans added, “I’m taking him back—”

  “Farino …” Connor said. Hans had told Connor about the Northern territories, the parts of the commonwealth most dangerous for the unregistered. What he hadn’t told Connor was that in the North, ministerial outreach had led citizens to turn on citizens with such regularity that Father had long ago halted his recruitment to the BP there. “As in, Father’s been taken to Farino Prison?”

  Hans nodded, and Connor recoiled, for all the unregistered knew this prison was where the commonwealth sent them to die.

  The transport slid through and around another service shaft. Connor twisted his face. He exhaled deeply.

  Hans heard his brother’s thoughts as if they were his own, a confused monologue of fearful, angry musings.

  “I can help you,” Connor said.

  Hans shook his head. He had no choice now but to meet with Murray, form a new contingency, and hope he could get Connor to Hydra Hollow before the fever erupted.

  Connor ground his teeth, his nostrils twitched, and his eyes looked a bit glossy. Yet it wasn’t fear or sadness Hans sensed within him.

  “I lift the sharks all day,” Connor said, “my arms are as tough as stone. I can go with you to Farino! We can do this together!”

  He is a Selendia, Hans thought, and a Rupel. He wanted to tell his brother that his physical strength meant nothing in the Great Commonwealth, where the young grew up fast and stayed young forever, and power accrued to those with a genetic edge. To be sure, the Selendias and Rupels had that edge, and Connor knew it and wanted to use it the way his older brothers did. Gods help Hans, he wished he’d induced the fever within Connor years ago. Then he might by now have the ally he lost when Zorian returned to Piscator Territory and received his mother’s severed head rather than her kisses.

  That was the past, Hans reminded himself. If he was going to save Connor’s life, it would be his actions presently that mattered far more. “I can’t go to Farino,” he said, “not the way I’d planned, anyway. I meant to act swiftly. Lady Isabelle has either furthered Marstone’s capabilities beyond what I understood or …”

  “What?” Connor said.

  Hans formed his words so as to not put anyone else at risk.

  “… or she might have someone on the inside, on our side, on her side.”

  “An unregistered?” Connor looked like he might puke. “Working with Lady Isabelle?”

  Hans opened his mouth, then closed it. As much as he wanted to reveal all his family’s secrets to Connor—the Liberation Front, Blackeye Cavern, Hydra Hollow, the plan to strike the iron fist—he could not. Not yet. To hit the boy with all he faced, and all his potential, would not help an untenable situation. Instead, he said, “Someone poisoned our father with a synism called Escherichia barrier.”

  “Escherichia what?” Connor said. “What’d it do to him? Is Father hurt, or de—”

  “Father’s not dead.” Hans exhaled, again considering what he could reveal to his underdeveloped brother with least risk to his people. “E. barrier infects the transhuman brain, temporarily disrupting our connection to the zeropoint field until the immune system can clear the infection, which could take days. There’re many variants of the synism. Sometimes, a skilled telepath can take advantage of that disruption, gaining access to a transhuman mind.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Father couldn’t defend himself. That’s how the government captured him.”

  “Who would poison him?”

  “Only Isabelle Lutetia knows, but we cannot cross her, not today.”

  “I’m not scared of her.”

  Hans leaned forward. “You should be.”

  ZPF Impulse Wave: Johann Selendia

  Ypresia Village

  Gaia, Underground West

  2,500 meters deep

  The line at Hirnan Station stretched farther than the Archimedes River, it seemed. Hans held his brother’s wrist. They again wore their fisherman bodysuits with tattered capes splayed around their shoulders, and worn-out packs upon their backs. On the way, Hans had also injected himself and Connor with a variant dosage of E. pigmentation; their skin again looked white, animated tattoos splayed over it.

  “This is a terrible spot for the unregistered,” Connor said softly. “The crowd’s too thick—”

  Hans twisted Connor around to face him. It’s better than you think, he sent. Be silent.

  Connor nodded. He and Hans rushed through the maze of Gaians wearing tunics and wooden slippers, whose skin was as pale as Southerners. They passed between and through tents with goods ranging from cotton robes to gold canteens to wooden ornaments and artistic Granville spheres of every size and color. At the end of the set, they arrived at a cavern labeled SYNTHETIC HERBS & SPICES. Hans brushed aside the curtain of beads that hung over the wide entryway, and gasped. He felt adrenaline pour through his veins.

  Murray’s hands were tied to the sides of a wooden chair, his mouth sealed by tape, his hair matted, his face beaten, his eyes streaked with blood that dripped down his forehead. The Converse Collar, the commonwealth’s technology to thwart the transhuman mind-body-cosmos interface glowed green around his neck. He rumbled and groaned, but Hans couldn’t understand him.

  Eighteen Janzers arced around the cavern, aiming activated pulse guns at Hans and Connor.

  Marius Arnao, Lady Isabelle’s deadliest lieutenant, lean and rangy in his chameleon military fatigues, glowered. “Gentlemen.” His eyes lifted with his pouty lips. “Welcome.” He clapped twice. “I was hoping you’d come.” The lieutenant sounded confident and calm.

  Connor eased backward on the balls of his feet.

  “Stun them—” Arnao said.

  Hans sent a telekinetic burst through the ZPF. Arnao and the three Janzer divisions collapsed.

  Connor looked at Hans, his mouth moving without speech. Then he found his voice. “Did you kill them?”

  “No,” Hans said. “They won’t wake for a few days, and when they do, they’ll have terrible headaches.”

  “How do you and Zorian—”

  Murray moaned.

  Hans rushed to the back of the cavern to him. Connor followed.

  Hans untied Murray and ripped the tape off his mouth.

  “The alternate contingencies,” Murray said between gasps, “they knew.”

  Hans’s mind was in knots, for to learn of the operation’s intent—a Polemon strike upon Farino Prison to free his father from captivity—wouldn’t have been difficult for the government to deduce. In fact, like Maribel, Hans assumed Lady Isabelle anticipated a strike, but to learn of his contingency plans in Natura and Gaia, which Zorian hadn’t outlined in his z-disk, required entirely different tradecraft. The commonwealth’s advancement with Marstone’s technology was progressing faster than the Leadership anticipated.

  The situation was far worse than he’d imagined.

  Murray rose, grabbed a towel, and wiped his face and arms, cleaning the blood from his animated seashell tattoos that decorated his skin. Then he snatched the key to
the Converse Collar from Arnao’s utility belt and inserted it into the collar. The green light dimmed and the collar unlatched. “Much better,” he said. He stole Arnao’s Reassortment baton—an alloy rod that transmitted instructions for the synthesis of E. agony into the transhuman brain. He kicked Arnao, who slid over the marble ground into a cabinet full of vials, then turned to Hans. “Where the lieutenant goes, the lady follows.”

  “Indeed. Have you warned our allies in the West and South?”

  Murray shook his head. “Couldn’t.”

  “I’ll do it.” Hans calmed his mind, accessed the ZPF, and simultaneously ran interference on Marstone. The unregistered familiar with the cipher heard, The Piscatorian has fled the sea, the Piscatorian has fled the sea. The Department of Communications and any other who intercepted the message through Marstone would hear random musings.

  “It’s done,” Hans said.

  “We should split up,” Murray said.

  “What about Father?” Connor said.

  “We’ll need a new contingency,” Hans said.

  The beaded curtain tinkled.

  “What was that?” Connor said.

  They turned to the entrance.

  Hans reached out with his mind to search the entrance. He clutched Connor and Murray, held his breath, and focused his mind in a manner he’d never done before.

  Lady Isabelle Lutetia burst into the cavern. She wore a loose-fitting gown covered by designs depicting geothermal vents and geysers native to Gaia. Her long lavender hair twisted into a braid with beads and silk cloth. If Hans hadn’t seen her in Granville syntech and learned so much about her appearance from z-disks, the lift to her cheekbones, the point to her nose, the way she pressed her lips together, and her light skin tone—untreated by E. pigmentation, it looked almost white—he might’ve mistaken her for a Gaian.

  Step back slowly, Hans sent to Murray and Connor. She can’t see or hear us. Hans shook as he projected his consciousness onto hers. The perspiration built around his chin, and his face flushed. Beside him, Murray was taking deep breaths, while Connor’s breath grew rapid and shallow.