by Jenny Martin
“I am,” he says.
“Why?”
“Because I owe you much more.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“Because if Joanna were in her right mind, she would want me to,” he adds. I’m shaking my head, but he’ll have none of it. “Because I don’t know what will happen to me, or to you, or any of us, tomorrow. Because it’s time.”
“You want me to take all this money and . . .”
Again he nods. “Do with it as you see fit. All you have to do is sign.”
Hesitating, I look back at the screen. I faced another document, every bit as intimidating as this one, not so long ago. I sat in a conference room, in a space just as luxe, and took Benroyal’s circuit deal. Once, I signed my life away. At the time, I was so perfect for the job. Who better than a spitfire girl who rages in circles? What better than a blaze that roars—all crackle and curl and blinding smoke—but never really burns?
But I am not that girl anymore. Today I won’t be signing myself away. This time I aim to start a real fire, with a great big pile of kindling. Seventy billion credits. Even now the sum’s big enough to make me gasp. How much would it take to win back my name and finish Cash’s work? How much to buy back all our lives?
My hand hovers over the signature line. I take a deep breath . . . and it’s done. A second later, James and I are frozen in awkward silence.
“Well then,” Miyu says, breaking it. “I’m assuming someone has a plan? Seventy billion is nothing to gamble. What’s the play here?”
Expectant, we both turn to James. He leans over the table. “The plan? We need to regroup. For now, the play is survival.”
I sit on my hands and sink deeper into my chair. I could probably stay this way for a long, long time. Secure enough. Hidden away. Surviving. But Larken warned me: The wisest victors don’t wait for the enemy’s next move. They strike, rather than defend. He’s right. I can’t bide my time. I have an objective. There must be a plan.
“Survival isn’t good enough,” I say at last. “We have to find out what happened to Cash and rescue my mother. We have to stop Benroyal.”
Slowly, James sits up. “We can try.”
“You said no one’s giving up,” I press. “Try harder.”
“We can’t just buy more weapons,” James replies. “Benroyal will always find a way to outspend and outgun us. And we can’t fight him on the stock exchange anymore.”
“We’re past that now,” I say. “We can’t just fight on the ground. We need hearts and minds. A real revolution, both here and on Castra.”
Miyu’s listening, but my uncle’s unmoved. He shakes his head. “You’ll never sway Castra, not as long as Benroyal’s propaganda machine—”
“That’s why we’ve got to shut it down.” I close my eyes and reach for Cash, for all his impossible dreams. Straightening, I try again. “We need the people on our side. They can’t see through Benroyal’s lies. Somehow, we’ve got to rewrite the headlines and win them back. And we’re not going to do that unless we expose him.”
“She’s right,” Miyu says. “We have to control the message. It’s Benroyal’s favorite strategy.”
“And maybe it’s time we learned from that strategy,” I say. “We cut off his public support. We go for the throat.”
“How, exactly?” An old spark flares, and James is almost himself again. “I told you Locus is gone. You think I still have access to every feed? That I can just snap my fingers and broadcast something across every network?”
I sigh. “I didn’t say that.”
While we argue, Miyu cradles her jaw. Thumb to chin, forefinger to temple. “You’re still thinking like a suit, Mr. Anderssen,” she says. “You don’t need Locus anymore, for access or for anything else. You need . . . flex hackers.” I read it all over Miyu’s face—the gears are really turning now.
“Flex hackers?” James says. There’s so much contempt in his tone, it’s not even really a question.
Deadpan, Miyu stares back, and I imagine her asking, Did I stutter? But her real reply is far more diplomatic.
“What have you got to lose?” she says. “You’re already enemies of the state. There are plenty of hackers out there, and most of them already hate Benroyal. It’s not as if it’d take much convincing to rally them to your cause. Why not listen to Phee, and fight back on the feeds?”
I don’t give James the chance to answer. “Benroyal stole my true identity, and we can use every credit we’ve got to expose his, in the biggest possible way. We show the people what he’s done. This time, we take the offensive.”
“If you . . .” James pauses. “If we do this, there will be no more hiding. Not here. Not in the Strand. You go after him publicly, and he’ll fight back with everything he’s got.”
I nod. “I accept that. I refuse to hide out any longer.”
He leans in. “If we fail, I won’t be able to protect you. You’ll pay with your life.”
“We can’t live like this.” I reach out. I touch his arm. “We have to try.”
When he looks down, I swear, a lifetime’s worth of regret and unshed tears haunt the smoke-signal gray of his eyes. Seconds tick by. Suddenly, he straightens; his gaze turns steely. I don’t know what’s hardened his heart: resignation or resolve. I wonder if it matters.
“Ms. Yamada, Phee, settle in,” he says, raising his head. He swipes the table clear. “This battle of yours, for hearts and minds . . . it’s not going to engineer itself onto the feeds. We’ve got a revolution to plan.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WE SPEND THE NIGHT IN THE VAULT. THIS MORNING THERE are the same number of steps between the canal and the abbey as there were yesterday. But the climb takes so much less from me. Miyu leads the way, steady as usual. I’m at ease because under my robes, tucked inside my pocket, is a double-blind, encrypted flex card loaded with seventy billion credits. And, of course, a blueprint for an uprising. A last-chance campaign, waged with images and words. A battle for the truth.
All I have to do is get back to the Strand and share the plan.
I flex Larken again, and tell him we’re fine.
PV: BE READY. SOON.
“Almost there,” Miyu whispers. “Careful. It’ll be bright.”
Finally, we reach the little alcove and we’re back in the abbey. And Miyu’s right. At first, even the light filtered through the curtain nearly blinds me. I blink, then realize too late we are not alone.
Three hooded toughs. They were waiting for us. Probably all along.
Betrayed. The word hums through my body.
We’re no match for our attackers. Miyu gets one solid hit in, a perfectly executed right hook, but it’s no good. Half a breath, half a stumble, and he’s already recovering. The second lunges at me. Both fists closed, I jab once, then twice, but I’m bugging out, sloppy and out of control. My enemy’s ready for it, dodging the second punch.
He turns away from me and in one elegant twist, he’s got Miyu. He pulls her into a sleeper hold. She stabs the air, gesturing wildly, but the second goon assists, batting her hands away. Her wide eyes scream at me. Behind you.
Too late. A sting at the back of my neck. The needle sinks deep near the edge of my old scar.
For a moment, the needle’s venom electrifies me. Roaring, I twist to catch a better glimpse of the third man. I take a wild swing, but my adrenaline fails and I’m fading out. My fist connects with the air, then falls heavy at my side. One quick glimpse under the hood is all I get before the black bag’s pulled over my head. But I know who sold us out.
“My apologies,” he says.
Rasping, I spit out his name. It’s the last thing I say before the drop.
Fahrat.
For me, there is no dull sense of waking up. Instead, my chin jerks, my eyelids snap open, and my heart explodes. I rasp and cough. Everything is to
o bright and I’m lead weight in a straight-backed seat. There’s a gloved hand near my mouth. The hand holds a damp square of cloth against my nose.
My eyes water and sting. I can’t see through the pungent veil of balm leaf and . . . something else, chemical and bitter. I try holding my breath to shut it out.
“Take a breath,” Fahrat says.
I blink and strain, but I’m still seeing stars, little more than blurred streaks of light. I try to stand up, but I can’t. Pain rips through my shoulders. A sawtooth ache blooms around my wrists and ankles. I’m strapped, arms behind my back, tied down to the mother-rusting chair.
For a second, my whole body kindles in expectation. This is it. Interrogation by Benroyal’s men, then execution. I brace for the sting of another needle or the slide-click sound of a gun. When it doesn’t come, I strain and jerk and squirm hard enough to teeter the chair. I’m about to topple over, but Fahrat holds tight. He steadies me, his hand still holding the cloth under my nose.
My brain cries out for oxygen, and I’m forced to rake in a breath.
“Easy,” Fahrat says. “That’s it. Don’t fight it. It’s not poison.”
I struggle again, and he tries to talk me down. “It’s balm leaf and anti-gel. It’ll clear your head.”
“Look at me,” a woman says.
I don’t recognize the voice. Stubbornly, I refuse, my only answer a half growl, half groan through the cloth.
“Impossible girl,” the woman complains, then mutters something in Biseran. I sense the swish of movement as she steps closer. “Forget the remedy. Captain, let her go before she hyperventilates.”
His hand drops and I look up. As my vision clears, my eyes sweep from her jeweled flats to her delicate crown. But it’s her gaze that paralyzes me. The gold-rimmed irises, the black-hole sparkle of oh-so-familiar eyes.
Queen Napoor. Cash’s mother.
“Your Majesty?” I gape.
She nods. “Welcome to the Summer Palace.”
I look around. Elaborate mosaic floors. Carved-stone walls with no windows. A bone-bare fireplace big enough to hold court in. One door, heavily barred. I have no idea if it’s day or night or how long I’ve been here. The wall sconces cast enough artificial light, but with all the drop cloths on the tile and the dusty sheeting covering just about every other surface, it looks more like we’re in a forgotten corner of a very creepy, very deserted wing.
The queen watches me scan the room. “Dakesh has insisted we bring the palace into the twenty-third century, but renovations of my quarters have come to a temporary—and deliberate—halt,” she says. “We are safest here.”
“Really? Because I don’t feel very safe,” I say, testing the rope binding my wrists.
“I apologize for the unusual introduction,” Fahrat replies for her. “Precautions were necessary. No one can know you’re here.”
After the shock wears off, a couple of curse words ping around in my head, but I manage a little control. “Precautions? You mean the black bag over my head? The way you kidnapped . . . Hey, where’s Miyu? What have you done with her?!”
The queen waves me off. “In due time. We have business first.”
“I want to see Miyu right now.”
“I can assure you,” she says, “she is safe. You will see her when we are finished here.”
I don’t answer. Honestly, I’m not sure what else I should say. This is Queen Napoor, Cash’s own blood. I’d like to think that Mary taught me some manners.
My head clears a little. Perhaps it’s the sting of the ropes. Yeah, maybe manners are better spent on people who don’t have you drugged and abducted. “Cut me loose.”
She laughs.
My cheeks catch fire. She’s so . . . small. No bigger than I am. I’m letting this tiny woman get the best of me.
“You’re a bold one.” She turns to Fahrat. “Is that what he sees in her?”
When Fahrat shrugs, she shifts back to me. She leans over. Lifts my chin to get a better look at my face. When she does, I wince at the unexpected strength in her fingers. “What does he see in you? I have to wonder.”
Like me, she won’t surrender Cash. He still exists in the present tense.
“What do you want with me?” I ask.
“I was bold once too,” she says. A shadow passes over her. Her hand drops from my face.
“Reckon you don’t have to be bold,” I snap, jerking my chin Fahrat’s way. “Why should you? You can hire people for that.”
Another wisp of laughter escapes her lips. I haven’t rattled her at all. “Phee or Phoebe or Phoenix or whoever you are . . .” she says. “When you’ve watched king and kingdom fall, as I have, it takes a lot more to get under your skin than a few cross words. You’ll have to do much better than that.”
“Let me go.” I try again, more resolve and less sass. “What do you want?”
“What I want . . .” She touches the pendant at her throat. Its five points sparkle, ruby bright. She wears Cash’s beloved Evening Star, the royal symbol of the House of Bisera. “. . . is to know what you’re doing in Bisera.”
She hovers over me, a thundercloud of suspicion, and suddenly, I am certain my life hinges on my answer. From Fahrat, she must already know about my visit to the vault. If I lie, I may never leave this room. “I came back for my inheritance.”
She turns her back on me.
“Is Cash alive?” I ask. “I need to find out what happened to him.”
The queen doesn’t answer. Slowly, she circles my chair. I sit, mesmerized. It’s like watching the planet’s only four-foot-eleven apex predator. “Can she be trusted?” she asks Fahrat.
I don’t give him the chance to vouch for my good character. “You want know to if I can be trusted?” I snort. She stops circling. I have not amused her.
Rust, my head hurts. I should’ve listened and taken a few more whiffs of that cloth. Not that I’ll be asking for it now. Temples aching, I match the queen’s icy stare. “Funny, I’m the one tied to the chair here. Pardon me, Your Majesty, but from where I’m sitting, I’m not much inclined to pledge anyone allegiance.”
She steps back and gestures at Fahrat. He pulls out a dagger. Before I have the chance to bug out, he cuts me loose. The relief is immediate. The fire in my pinioned joints simmers down and the blood rushes back where it should. I move to stand up, but Fahrat puts a warning hand on my shoulder. I drop back into my seat, and he puts the blade away.
“Thank you, Captain Fahra.” She nods.
He bows. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
I give him the side-eye. “I thought your name was Fahrat.”
The word Fahrat puts a wrinkle in Queen Napoor’s brow. Almost imperceptibly, her right hand twitches at her side and I get the distinct impression she’d like to slap someone or have them beheaded. Probably me. But she wheels on him instead.
“I must take the blame in this, Your Majesty.” He bows again. “She asked what to call me, and I told her as much. I meant it in jest.”
“It’s enough that you have to tolerate such disrespect from Dakesh. You shouldn’t encourage it.” Her words are stern, but there’s softness behind them. “I’ll not hear you called that, Captain Fahra. Not by anyone else. We owe you our lives, and—”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he says, daring to cut her off. Deeply, he bows a third time.
They share a look, both contrite, and I’m sure his interruption bore no disrespect. No, he was sparing her, somehow. The indignity of further explanation.
Now that their little argument’s ended, they both come around again. Captain Fahra hands her a flex card, then rearranges the edges of the drop cloth on the floor, revealing a flat metal ring. A slipstream ring, just like the one at my armory hearing.
“I’d like to show you something,” the queen says to me. She swipes the card and the palace disappears.
<
br /> Queen Napoor and Captain Fahra move behind me as the virtual scene comes to life. I’m still in the chair, but now we’re in the middle of a sterile, white-walled cell. There is little else here, except for the medical examination table, about fifteen feet away. There’s a patient strapped to it, but a man in a suit blocks my view. Overhead, wires hang from the ceiling. Enough to string marionettes, but I can’t see exactly where they end.
The suit’s back is turned to me. The way he looms over the table makes it hard to see much. I get a glimpse of the patient’s legs, a flash of his shoulder. There’s something distinctly institutional in his blue-gray cotton pants.
I don’t know why, but I laugh. Maybe because I’m scared. I try one of Mary’s coping techniques. Pay attention to your breathing, she’d said. Keep your eyes open. Focus on the present. I glance at my surroundings, which is now only an immersive, virtual stream. If Mary were here, I’d ask her: What about when the present’s invisible? When someone pulls the rug out from under you, and there’s no staying in the moment at all?
In the background, the low, ambient buzz steals my focus. An air conditioner? A generator? I can’t place it. “Is this streaming live?” I ask. “What is this place?”
Fahra shakes his head, his deep voice almost cracking. “Just watch.”
But I can’t watch. The suit won’t get out of the way.
The suit straightens up. His back still turned, he says something inaudible to the patient, then swipes a control panel. I catch the flinch of movement. A hand, tethered at the wrist, startles. The painful knee-jerk twitch of a foot. The wires at the ceiling jump, and I realize they’re the same kind Mary used in Aram’s treatment the night he lay in the infirmary. In half-second glimpses, I see they’re attached to the prisoner’s shoulders, hands, and wrists. But I don’t think they are de-stimulating this patient. They aren’t here to turn the volume down. They are here to turn it up.
I’m not laughing anymore.
The suit touches the panel again. Makes an adjustment. The prisoner hisses. I’m sure it’s him and I know that it’s not, and I’m certain I’ll break if either is true. Stretched between horror and wishful thinking, I strain to get a better look. I shudder when his hand jerks up, struggling against the cuff of his wrist restraint. His fingers stretch and he reaches out, as if to me.
