by Rowan Rook
"Still, let's not discuss such sad things in such a sad place." Blaker had smiled, then. "You must have happier memories to share."
Anson had smiled, too.
As time passed, he'd considered trying to escape. If he could summon up the strength to do so, he could remove the Translation inhibitor from his chest, just as he had when he'd first begun testing the Not. He could try to hide the wound and catch the scientists off guard when they removed him from the cell.
It wouldn't work. They had recaptured plenty of escapees before. The drugged haze was too much to fight through and still get away. They would simply throw him back inside the cell and force him through the agony of having an inhibitor installed for the third time. And either way...he lacked the will to try. He had already resolved to while away what little remained of his lifespan inside the confines of the Academy. He would accept the punishment he perhaps deserved. It would all end soon, anyway. It was only a matter of whether the research or his natural lifespan killed him first.
There was just one dignity he fought to retain: his defiance of the Butterflies, of the voice still lingering inside his head, mocking his misfortune and begging him to accept Rickard's offers. He had said he was never going back to the Butterfly, and this time, he was going to keep his word. No matter how many times Rickard presented him with the same deal—and she did almost nightly—the answer was always going to be the same.
Shakaya had also visited, once. Her unexpected arrival was one of the few events that stood out as memorable among the terrible blur. When he had seen the achingly familiar soldier enter the specimen room, he assumed that Rickard had ordered her to ask him the same questions in hopes that she might get a different answer. But she hadn't said anything. She'd leaned against the damp wall, only staring.
Her gaze had met his for what felt like a long time, her face more emotionless and unreadable than it had ever seemed before. Anson had managed to stare back, his hands curled around the bars of his door. He'd longed to speak, but dared not.
Shakaya's palms and ankles were wrapped in bandages, as was her right shoulder. Faint bloodstains still marred her white coat. Everything about her was sunken and pale...but at least she was alive. He didn't have to worry about whether his sister had kept her word.
Eventually, Shakaya's gaze had clouded, and she'd turned and left the room.
She'd never come back.
Anson had been left alone with nothing but ample time to think about everything he'd never do again. He'd never again get to sleep in his comfortable top bunk in the Academy dorm. He'd never again get to take a warm morning shower. He'd never again get to have his favorite breakfast of melon and eggs in the school cafeteria. He'd never again get to see the first blooms of spring or the first snow of winter. He'd never again walk through the Academy's courtyard with Shakaya, under an evening sky. There were so many simple things he'd taken for granted before he'd lost them all.
An image of Shakaya's small, stoic smile and the sensation of her hand in his flickered through his memories. He buried his head into his knees, falling asleep against the cell door.
And the days spilled together, one horrid night into another.
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Revolution
Shakaya paced across the Academy's courtyard, gliding through the nightly glow of the city like a ghost in white. It had to be about two in the morning. The only sounds in the Upper District were the echoes of drunken hollers and distant music from the taverns a few blocks away.
The visitors would arrive soon.
She crossed her arms and shook her head, blinking sleep out of her eyes. She needed to pull herself together. The bandages wrapped around her hands caught her gaze, and she yanked down her sleeves to conceal them—partially from herself.
The extermination of Lyrum was both her job and her ancestry. And yet, that Butterfly woman had so easily overpowered her. The Editor's sister. The Anwell bitch. Like a nightmare, she'd found herself helpless, nailed to a tree by the icicles jutting through her palms and her feet. The Lyrum had simply abandoned her, victorious.
"Have fun hanging around until the ice finally melts."
Shakaya gritted her teeth as the Lyrum's smug voice stained the inside of her head, as it so often had in the last few weeks.
The Lyrum could have killed her, had it wanted to. The only reason it hadn't was because the Editor, of all things, had begged it not to. Her face flushed. A month had nearly come and gone, yet she couldn't shake the humiliation, the hollow anger, clinging to her like a parasite.
...Why had the Editor stopped its sister? Try as she might, she couldn't understand its reasoning. It had nothing to gain from keeping her alive. Not anymore. She'd made that clear.
For a while, she'd almost wondered if...
A grunt escaped her stern lips.
She'd found herself going to see the Editor, but whatever she'd been looking for, she hadn't found it. The Editor had been drugged and locked inside those filthy cells just like every other specimen, returning her stare with glassy eyes. It wasn't any different from the rest of them. It was just another Lyrum.
...Life at the Academy was much lonelier than it used to be.
Shakaya shuffled on her feet, trying to stay limber instead of allowing herself to sink deeper into unpleasant reveries.
She was fortunate to be able to return home, at all. It was thanks to Rickard. Her new titles did come with advantages. She could turn rumors into facts and facts into rumors. She could use the city's coffers to fund the development of the device she called the Medium. She could accomplish far more in the public sphere than the Butterfly itself could. The slayings of the Councilors hadn't yet reached Human ears, but the new mayor had promised to conceal Shakaya's involvement in any events related to the Butterfly. At least Rickard still trusted her enough to give her a new task. Butterflies from the Lyrum division would arrive that night to try their hand at speaking with the Editor. Busy with the work in her lab, Rickard had sent her out to deal with them, instead.
Shakaya sighed. First she'd been deceived by one, then she'd been defeated by one, and now she had to talk—knowingly, rationally converse—with them. The thought of sneaking them inside the Academy left her feeling like a traitor. She managed an indignant snort, but lacked her usual vehemence. There wasn't enough energy left in her for that. She only hoped the Anwell bitch wouldn't be among the visitors.
She scratched at the back of her neck. A swollen bump stung beneath her fingernails. It had been bothering her for a while—at least since her last visit to Rickard's office a couple of weeks ago. It seemed minor enough, but it wasn't healing. She'd have to get it checked out soon at the clinic. She grit her teeth. She really was getting weaker. It didn't help that she spent far too much time sleeping. No matter how many hours she wasted in bed, she still had a hard time getting up in the mornings.
Shakaya glanced around for any sign of her unwanted guests as unease bloomed in her stomach. They should have already arrived. As mayor, Rickard had ordered the city guards to allow a small party of strangers to enter Elavadin City at around two o'clock in the morning—of course, she'd neglected to mention they were Lyrum.
She scowled at herself for the goosebumps brewing on her arms. She needed to regain the focus she'd left behind on that damned ship if she wanted to salvage her reputation as a soldier.
Still, this task was a waste of time. The Lyrum division wasn't going to be able to talk the Editor into anything. No one could force a man—or a monster—to kill. While it could be fickle, the Editor was relentlessly stubborn when it came to its own convictions. Rickard's game wasn't going to work. The Editor would wilt away, and they'd be forced to start over with a new one.
Exhaustion—or what she wanted to believe was merely exhaustion—sapped the strength she treasured so much out of her body. It had been her job to make sure the Editor played its part. Even though Rickard had lied to her, her new promises had convinced her to keep trying. So...why did it have to end this wa
y?
She blinked away a memory of the Editor's smile.
There were times when she truly wondered if the next Editor might be her.
"Good to see you, sweetie!"
Shakaya turned. Even from the depths of her thoughts, she recognized the voice. Sylan Rita, the Vice Overseer of the Lyrum Division and one of Riksharre's rebels. Not exactly her idea of great company, even in so as far as Lyrum went.
Her muscles stiffened.
She'd expected one ambassador and a few bodyguards, but this...was more than a few. After a mental scan, she counted at least twenty Lyrum crammed into the Academy's courtyard. Had Rickard even known this many were coming? Even the Lyrum division wouldn't have chosen Sylan Rita to try to win over the Editor—not if that was their actual intent. Hostility emanated from the intruders like steam.
Shakaya's fingers gripped the chakram at her belt. Her glare honed in on Rita. "You're not welcome here."
Rita cocked its head with a mischievous smile. "I didn't expect to be."
The courtyard's vines sprung to life under the control of Translation, lunging toward her legs. Caught by surprise, she managed only a shout before they wrapped around her ankles and took her down. More vines surged in on her like the tendrils of an undersea monster. Thorns pressed into her skin as they wrapped around her face, silencing her from calling for backup. No. She wouldn't allow herself to be restrained again.
She kicked her feet and dragged the vines around her ankles within the reach of her chakram, cutting them down. Her strong legs fought against the makeshift ropes still gnarled around her face and chest as she tried to pull back. The vines wrapped around her throat choked off her air, but they snapped before she did. Ripped stems and leaves fell to the cobblestone.
The Lyrum puppeteers weren't deterred. More vines reached out from the gardens and charged like angry snakes, reaching for her wrists and ankles. She switched her blade from palm to palm as she backed away, hacking in a methodical rhythm. The vines wrapped around the edge of her chakram as she neared the edge of the courtyard. With her other hand, she snatched her dagger and sliced it loose. She lunged out of reach.
The time, the Lyrum didn't pursue her.
She fought for thin breaths, her throat burning where thorns had spilled blood. She didn't have the luxury of caring. The world spun as she tried to force her vision to focus—tried to understand what she was seeing. While the Lyrum puppeteers had kept her busy, the others had turned their attention elsewhere.
Arrows of ice and gales of wind knocked out the Academy's windows. More serpentine vines, alight with flames, slithered inside from the garden, guiding the fire inside the school. Alarms poured out from the building.
Shakaya's eyes narrowed with disbelief as orange light flickered across her face. Her first thought was strangling Rickard for allowing this to happen. For ever trusting the Lyrum, even after Rita's involvement in the invasion. She should have betrayed their wretched division years ago. Her next instinct was simple: charging forward and slaying as many of the monsters as she could. But she was outnumbered. The rebels would destroy her. She didn't want to give them that satisfaction. Her hand wrapped so tightly around her chakram that she nearly broke her own skin.
"I guess we're done with subtlety."
It took her a moment to realize that Rita was speaking to her.
"If you're smart, you'll run like the dog you are. Everything's already in motion."
Shakaya snarled, "What the Hell do you think you're doing! This isn't what the Butterfly wanted!"
"The Butterflies aren't the only ones capable of deception. They used you and the Editor. They let Morak Mayver think he was a spy." A satisfied grin shadowed Rita's features. The thing really did look just like its brother. "And we let them think we rebels were members. Hell, I even made it to Vice Overseer! Being a Butterfly has certain advantages, you see? My idiot brother and the rest of the Council would never approve of our wishes, and the Butterfly gave us both the intel we needed and a way to gather without advertising how large our group had grown. They even eliminated most of the Council and the Monarchy for us, and the city guards let us waltz right in thanks to dear Ransmae!" It tilted its head. "I have to say, the Human queen's assassination at a Lyrum's hand served as quite the opening act, too."
Shakaya held her ground. Everything in her ached to lunge forward and snap the Lyrum's neck, but this disaster was bigger than her or Rita. "What is this?" she hissed.
"This?" Rita's eyes widened. They were somewhere distant, hypnotized by the fire. "This is war! This is revolution! We're taking back what's ours! Even Elavadin was built over our old capital colony." Its laughter seemed more real than any Lyrum's should have. "We make up over half of the Butterfly's Lyrum division and our allies spread from Riksharre to Ledderlot. Aydel and her idiots never suspected a thing—we'll rewrite this world on our own, with our own hands. This place... This wretched place will be the first to fall. Go report that to your beloved general."
Flames burst out from the Academy's roof and sent soot toward the stars.
Shakaya's heart pounded in her head. She needed to act, needed to do something, but her body wouldn't move, torn in too many directions.
"What about the Lyrum held prisoner inside the Academy?" A Lyrum soldier looked at its supposed Vice Overseer. "They'll all die...won't they?"
The light drained from Rita's eyes. "There's nothing we can do about it without endangering other lives. We freed as many of the captives as we could in the invasion." Its smile recovered. "Besides, killing the Editor will hit the Butterfly hard!"
"Don't let them leave the city! The rest of you, help the scientists and students evacuate!"
Shakaya spun toward Edgard's voice. Her boss had escaped the building with many of her colleagues beside him. The Academy's army was finally striking back. Good.
She raced toward her fellow soldiers without a second glance.
Ƹ̴Ӂ̴Ʒ
Anson was aware of Ryn's eyes on the back of his greasy head, but had neither the desire nor the strength to return the stare. His gaze rested on his callused feet. Inside the medical fog, looking at anything in particular had become far too much work.
Ryn had once tried to defend him from Rickard, but now, his former roommate was only dispensing what was considered food. Judging from the pit in Anson's stomach, it was late—not a rare occurrence. Tending to the specimen room was a job every scientist dreaded.
Sirens ricocheted through the hallway. Hidden lights sparked to life and painted the room red.
It was an alarm. Or rather, it was the same two alarms that had gone off before not so long ago. The fire and intruder alarms.
Anson finally forced his gaze to rise.
Ryn froze, fear sweeping over his face.
Clamoring voices rose up from the research hall. Doors hissed open. Frantic herds of evacuating footsteps raced by, barely audible over the metallic shrieks of the alarms.
Ryn's throat bobbed. After glancing around the specimen room, he opened and peeked through the door to the hallway. He nearly toppled backward, his eyes lit up with shock and firelight.
Anson forced himself to turn. His sluggish brain fought to make sense of the noise and the heat pouring in from the hallway. ...Was this really happening all over again? The other prisoners reacted as he did, shuffling toward their cell doors. Anxiety rippled through the room, cutting cracks in the glass coating the captives' eyes. Blaker shot Anson a disbelieving stare.
"Out, now! Evacuate the school immediately. Leave everything behind. Stay calm and keep moving!" a soldier screamed, his voice—not calm at all—echoing through the open door.
Ryn jerked. He tensed to run, but stopped. He looked at the prisoners, his eyes traveling from cell to cell before they met Anson's. He sighed, sounds of sympathy sinking into his breath.
Ryn pulled out his key, rushed to the master console, and flipped a locked switch.
The bolts on every specimen cell opened with a click.
&nbs
p; Ryn never looked back, fleeing into the hall.
Blaker slid forward and pushed their cell door. A grin swept across his face when it opened, followed by laughs entirely out of place in a burning building. "We're free!" He was already stumbling through the door. "We're really free!"
An excitement that wasn't his own—that was the Author's—swept through Anson.
Other specimens dragged themselves out of their cells. The drugs made their movements sluggish, but the imminent danger and the promise of freedom offered fresh strength. A parade of Lyrum escaped into the hallway.
Anson was the last one left in the cells.
Blaker glanced back at him. "C'mon boy, we have to hurry!"
Anson looked up at his cellmate through tired, listless eyes. "I believe I'll stay here."
The Author seethed with anger in Anson's guts. I don't know how I made the mistake of choosing you. You could have been so much more than you are. Don't waste this miracle! You still have a chance to change the world. Don't die like this! Please! You're so close.
Denying the thing's wishes still felt so good.
Blaker's glassy eyes mirrored the Author's horror. "What the Hell do you—"
"I already decided to live out the rest of my life here." Anson managed a small smile. "If I leave, the Butterfly will be waiting for me...and the Author will be pleased. I'm not sure I could move even if I wanted to. For what little time I have left, it's not worth it."
Blaker's grin dissolved into disbelief. "You want to stay here? You'd rather burn with the building than breathe the open air?"
Anson said nothing.
"Listen to me. I'm an Other. My lifespan may not be as predetermined as a Lyrum's, but odds are I'm running out of time, too. I'm forty-six. I could live to be one-hundred or I could die in my sleep tonight. Does that mean I'm content to die here, like this? Defeated? No! Aren't there things you'd love to do again, even if it were just once? Even if it was something as simple as seeing the stars?" He forced a smile. "You were given a short life. That only means that every day, every moment, is all the more precious. Make as many memories to take with you as you can."
