Zodiac

by Romina Russell

  She taps her Perfectionary. “Has any other Zodai confirmed your sighting of this alleged Dark Matter past the Twelfth House?”

  I bow my head a fraction. “Not that I know of.”

  “And has anyone in recorded history ever witnessed a Psy attack like the one you’re describing? Or seen Ophiuchus?”

  “I . . . I’m not sure.”

  “They have not.” She gives me a quick scowl, then turns away. “What’s your age?”

  “I’m sixteen, galactic standard. I’ll be seventeen in a few . . . days.” I’d gotten used to saying weeks.

  “And how long have you trained?”

  “Not long,” I admit.

  Moira sighs and really looks at me. “Mother Origene was my dearest friend. It pains me how your House has suffered. For these reasons, I will spare a moment to show you that there is no monster in the Psy. Afterward I hope you will return home to lead your people.”

  She gives a quick series of voice commands to darken the glass wall and dim the lights. A small device lowers from the ceiling. It looks like a metal spider. When I understand what it is, I gasp—it’s transforming the entire conference room into an Ephemeris.

  “No!” I shout.

  As soon as the room is drowned in stars, Dark Matter pulses out from the heart of Virgo, and I hear a screeching noise, like the shrieking that came from my black opal. For a moment, I can only stare, petrified.

  Moira stands and looks around, her gaze crinkled, as if she hears the psychic disturbance but it doesn’t overpower her as it does me. “The Psy has been unsteady since the disaster on House Cancer,” she murmurs, more to herself than to me.

  She points to the Triple Virgin constellation. “On Virgo, as I’m sure you know, we have our own version of the Ophiuchus myth. Here, he’s represented as a serpent who tempts Aeroth and Evandria, a virtuous Virgo couple who stray off the pure gardening path. He leads them into temptation. Yet in all my years as Guardian, I have never seen a shred of evidence to prove Ophiuchus is or ever was real. Now show me his Thirteenth House, if you can.”

  “He’ll see us!” I scream, once I’ve regained my voice. “Please, shut this down!” I leap to my feet and reach for the projector, but it’s too high.

  “You’re being absurd.” She moves away as if I might infect her with my lunacy.

  “Empress Moira, trust me. You don’t want to draw his attention. He’s . . .”

  Moira’s not listening. She’s staring into her Ephemeris, transfixed.

  I start to shout, “Turn it off—!”

  But a voice like a hurricane is already blasting through my mind. There you are, Empress Moira. I’ve long been savoring the thought of this day.

  23

  THE PHANTOM BILLOWS INTO THE ROOM, a man-shaped wind devil, overturning chairs and whipping Moira’s clothes. Half tempest, half glacial frost, he whirls around Moira and almost lifts her off her feet.

  Whispers echo from every corner of the room, the words swimming through the air we’re breathing. Virgin Empress . . . first-order master of the Psy . . . so meticulous in all your dealings.

  “What are you?” Moira tries to push him away, but he constricts around her with suffocating force.

  I’ve prepared some entertainment for you, Empress. Today, you will watch your House fracture and fade . . . as I watched mine.

  She squirms and thrashes, her face going gray with shock.

  Don’t struggle so hard, teases Ochus. I want you very much alive to see my little show.

  “Let go of her!” I yell.

  Ochus’s stormy face shifts toward me, and his features harden to glaring ice. It’s not your turn right now.

  Moira’s lips are blue. “Leave her alone!” I shout.

  With a malevolent smile, he releases Moira and moves toward me. Foolish child, you think you’re brave.

  I edge backward, but he’s too fast. His icy hands reach for my throat. “Get away,” I moan, punching wildly.

  Trust Only What You Can Touch, Acolyte, he taunts, gripping my throat. Can you feel me? Am I trustworthy?

  My airways tighten, and the lack of oxygen rushes to my brain, making my vision blurry. I’m desperate to fight him, desperate to defend Virgo, desperate to save these people from what happened to mine.

  The thought of my House focuses me in the Psy, steadying the chaos in my mind. The physical pain becomes more present, like I’m moving closer to its true source. When I’m steady enough, adrenaline and survival instinct compel me to take a swing.

  At last, my fist connects with something solid and bitterly cold. I push against it, straining my mental will. His freezing skin burns my fingers.

  You’re stronger this time. His words fly like hailstones.

  My hand starts turning black, but I manage to throw another punch, and a crack runs down his icy face. His gravelly laughter grates my ears. Stronger, yes, but still unripe. Yet today’s battle is not on water—it’s on land.

  His shape dissolves and he shrinks away, retreating into the Ephemeris, until he vanishes into the region beyond Pisces. I fall to the ground, my skin still burning, as the room grows quiet.

  Moira is still staring wild-eyed at the place where Ochus had been, her hair tumbling loose. I survey my aching hands, but they’re undamaged. The pain wasn’t real. . . . It was an illusion.

  When I look at Moira again, she’s giving me a long, penetrating stare. Just as she seems about to speak, we’re interrupted by an ear-splitting clap of thunder. “Windows on!” she commands, pulling herself upright. “I’ve forecast no storms today.”

  As soon as the glass clears, we see a bolt of lightning streak down and singe the nearby field, followed by another bolt, and then another. Soon, lighting is forking across every visible patch of sky.

  A lurid storm cloud foams directly above us, flashing ugly purple and red. It spreads wider, shading the ground below, and then an acidic rain starts to pummel the ground, burning through the green and grain like fire.

  Moira turns to me in terror. “A Psy weapon? How was this hidden from me?”

  “Dark Matter,” I say. “Somehow, he’s using Psynergy to manipulate it—”

  Thunder explodes right above us, and the floor tilts. Lightning must have hit the capstone. A sconce falls off the wall, and a chair topples. Somewhere, we hear screaming. Then a crack splinters across the window, and Moira lunges to push me under the table, just milliseconds before the entire glass shatters.

  With a sizzling roar, a million shards fly inward, shredding the walls, the table, the chairs, the skin of my arm. I look around and see Moira sprawled on her back, bleeding.

  I rush to check her wounds. She’s clutching her arm to her chest, clenching her teeth in pain. Jagged chunks of glass encrust one whole side of her body. “Help!” I shout at the top of my voice. “In here! We need a doctor!”

  Moira tries to push me away. In a broken voice, she says, “I’ve been blind to the stars. I looked, but I didn’t see. . . .”

  Thunder detonates like a thousand bombs, and alarm horns blare. The head courtier charges in, and when he sees Moira, he kneels and tries to help her stand. “Talein,” she says, “get to your station.”

  Grunting and wincing, she pushes us away and gets up without help. When she stands, her proud posture makes her seem taller than before. She plucks a shard of glass from her hip, then staggers to the gaping window frame. Outside, lightning crackles across a bruised and burning sky, and cinders gust downward, setting the grain fields on fire. In the oxygen-rich atmosphere, the flames rapidly spread. Moira doubles over and screeches, as if this is turning her soul inside out.

  She catches the window frame to keep from falling, and her courtier and I run to grab her. We pick up an overturned chair and help her sit. Her eyes are squeezed tight, and one side of her face is streaming blood.

  “Dear Em
press.” The gray-haired courtier is weeping.

  “Talein.” She pats his hand weakly. “I had hoped to live out my final years in peace.”

  Another lightning bolt strikes, and a temblor rolls through the needle, throwing us from side to side. When it’s over, Moira gazes up at her courtier with a sadness that makes my chest ache. “Talein, call the rest of my Ministers. Call our fleet. We have to evacuate.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” The old man dips a mournful bow, then lumbers off.

  The other courtiers have been waiting at the door, and when they try to crowd in, Moira motions them back. “Get to your posts. Launch our emergency plan.”

  “Your surgeon is coming, Highness. Let us help you,” one of the women pleads.

  “Help the people,” she wheezes. “Get them to safety. This Cancrian girl will wait with me until the surgeon arrives.”

  When they’re gone, I use my sleeve to dab the blood that’s dripping in her eye. She’s sliding out of the chair, so I kick away the broken glass and help her lie on the carpet. Blood trickles from the wounds in her side. Where’s Mathias with his field-medic training? Hysan? What if they’re hurt?

  I can’t think of them now. They’re fine, they have to be. But Moira may be dying. As I dab at her wounds, she gives me a sullen glance. “Let it be. We have little time, and we must talk. I felt Ophiuchus.”

  Her words make me limp with relief. “So I’m not insane.”

  “I have no way to . . . judge that.” Her voice is growing weaker. “But you were right about the Psy attack. You have a potent gift for . . . one so young.”

  I hold her head in my arms. “Let me help with your evacuation. Tell me what to do.”

  “No, you . . . have a more difficult task. You must . . . leave quickly.” Her words come out as hoarse croaks, and I wonder if the glass has punctured her lung. “I didn’t . . . know you at first. I have . . . long expected you.”

  “Me?”

  “You must go to Aries . . . and warn the . . . Planetary Plenum.”

  Talking has worn her out. I gently lay her head on a chair cushion to cradle it, then stumble to the door and look for the doctor. The place seems deserted. Walls are ripped apart, furniture lies scattered, and broken glass litters the floors. There’s another loud crash, and ceramic tiles rain from the ceiling.

  “Mathias?” I call. “Hysan?” Where are they?

  I can’t desert Moira. My glass-riddled arm burns as I stagger back through the crunching glass. I sit beside her as a new bolt of lightning bangs into the needle somewhere below. Smoke from the burning grain rises in columns, and the air’s really heating up. Soon the atmosphere will be too hot to breathe.

  Moira’s trying to talk again, so I lean close. “I’ll speak to the other Guardians . . . as soon as I . . .”

  “Save your breath.”

  At that moment, a young man and woman barrel in with a wheeled gurney. I back away so they can tend to Moira’s wounds, and then I run to find my friends.

  Hysan is lying in the antechamber with a deep gash in his thigh, and Mathias is leaning over him, pressing down on the wound with both hands to staunch the blood flow.

  When he sees me coming, his face brightens. “Rho! They said you were unhurt and tending to Moira. I would’ve come for you, but Hysan would have bled out.”

  I hide my wounded arm. “Don’t worry about me. What happened to Hysan?”

  “Piece of metal ripped through his leg. We need a tourniquet.”

  Dark blood soaks Hysan’s trouser leg. I kneel and stroke his damp forehead. “Equinox has life support,” he groans.

  “Lie still. This is arterial bleeding.” Mathias presses down harder. “You won’t make it back unless we stop it.”

  Hysan grits his teeth, so I spring to my feet and call for help.

  “There’s no one,” breathes Hysan. “They’ve gone.”

  Mathias presses the wound with all his might. “Find something like a cord, a sash, anything we can tie around his leg.” I start to unclasp my belt, but Mathias says, “Our belts are too thick. We need something thin and flexible enough to twist.”

  I look around for something better, but the antechamber’s almost bare. Only one thing comes to mind. I kneel and slip Hysan’s ceremonial dagger from its sheath. Neither of the guys notices.

  The air is so sizzling hot, every breath burns my throat. I turn my back and strip off my uniform tunic, peeling the fabric from my bleeding right arm. I’m bare to the waist, but that can’t matter right now. I clamp one end of the undamaged left sleeve in my teeth, then stretch the fabric tight and slice it off at the shoulder.

  Turning back around, I hold up the sleeve to Mathias with my good arm and try using my injured one to cover my bra. “Will this work?”

  Pain spasms through me, and my injured arm falls. Mathias looks up and does a double take. Hysan stares, too, and I say, “Take the damn sleeve.”

  Blushing, Mathias averts his gaze. “I-I can’t lift my hands. You’ll have to do it.”

  I turn around and yank my one-sleeved tunic back on, scraping the fabric over my wounded arm, regardless of the sting. Part of my bra is still showing, but I can’t fix that.

  I kneel on the baking-hot floor, and Mathias gives me step-by-step instructions. “Tie the sleeve around his leg, about two inches above the wound.” As I slip the sleeve under Hysan’s skin, he stares up at me, wincing but still trying to smile.

  I cut another small square from the hem of my tunic to make a pad. Pulling the sleeve ends together over the pad, I tie half a knot, lay the jeweled hilt of Hysan’s dagger across it, then do the rest of the knot. I twist the dagger until the sleeve-tourniquet tightens around Hysan’s leg just enough to stop the bleeding. Finally, I secure the frayed ends of the sleeve so the tourniquet won’t come loose.

  “Good job,” says Mathias. “You’d make a good field medic.”

  Hysan’s skin looks ashy. “H-Healer Rho.”

  “We’ll have to carry him,” says Mathias. “Can you manage the weight?”

  “Yes.” Playing the drums works out my arms, so I’m strong for someone my size. I grab Hysan’s ankles and lift him up.

  The parking port is so full of smoke, we have to hunker low to breathe, and the heavy gravity doesn’t help. By a miracle, our hover-car is still parked where we left it.

  With a few awkward bumps, we manage to get Hysan inside and stretched out on the floor. Everything’s hot to the touch, but when we seal the door and activate the car’s cooling system, we can breathe a little easier. “How do we program this thing to take us back to the spaceport?” asks Mathias.

  Hysan tries to push himself up on one elbow, but he falls back. “The panel.” He points to a small metal square inset in the wall. “Color coded. Works by touch.”

  I jump up and tap the square, scorching my finger. A grid of diodes lights up, glowing in dozens of different colors. “What next?”

  He closes his eyes. “Return trip is . . . press magenta three times.”

  I frown at the colored diodes. “Magenta’s like purple, right?”

  Hysan doesn’t answer. He’s passed out.

  My fingertip circles over all the purplish lights. Lavender, fuchsia, burgundy, until finally I just pick one. When the hover-car lifts out of the port and sails down the needle’s face, we’re engulfed in pitch-black smoke. Mathias puts on his field glasses, and as he scans the scene, his square shoulders begin to sag. After a moment, he takes the glasses off.

  “Can I see?” I ask.

  “You might not want to.”

  I put on the glasses, and their enhanced optics reveal a sky transformed into a smoldering cauldron. Moira’s grain fields have been reduced to charcoal, and the needle city is listing to one side. “It’s going to fall,” I whisper.

  “Yes,” says Mathias. “How did this happen?”
<
br />   “Moira turned on her Ephemeris, and Ophiuchus saw us.”

  Mathias doesn’t have a response.

  We zoom over the grain fields, parting a path through dense flying ash, but apparently I picked the right shade of magenta because we’re heading back the way we came. In the distance, ships are rising from the spaceport. Everyone’s trying to escape. I wonder what will happen when we all fly through the burning atmosphere overhead.

  Caasy.

  Just as I turn to ask Mathias about him, I see the needle city collapsing. It falls straight down to the earth, and clouds of debris mushroom out from its base. I scream a sob.

  Mathias takes the glasses and looks. He scans for a long time, but I don’t want to see anymore. All I can do is cry.

  “Ochus followed me here. Moira saw him right before the storm. I didn’t imagine it. He blasted Moira’s city using Psynergy.”

  “We don’t know who’s behind this,” says Mathias, “but you were right about the attack on Virgo. You were right about the omen.”

  I rub my face. “I don’t want to be right,” I mumble, gazing up at the darkening sky. “Moira told me to go to the Plenum.”

  He wrinkles his forehead. “I’m not sure you’ll be safe there. From what my parents tell me, the place is full of criminals and spies, and Guardians try to stay away.”

  Our car dodges through heavy traffic, and its onboard cooling system can’t keep up with the rising heat. Hysan’s head lolls from side to side.

  “Then we better watch our backs.”

  Mathias lowers his head. “We have to assume this enemy will try to assassinate you again. We’ll need to take better safety precautions on Aries—physically and metaphysically.”

  The traffic grows thicker, and we chug to a halt, hovering over coal-black embers that were once stalks of grain. It feels like we’re slow-poaching.

  I can’t look at Hysan. I’m worried he’s lost too much blood. Every passing second seems to steal more things from him. One less breath, one less heartbeat, one less smile.

  Mathias keeps checking the wound, releasing the tourniquet a bit, then retightening it. Ahead, more ships are launching. “We should help these people,” I say.