Marked

by Jenny Martin

  Larken’s here, and Fahra too. We’re a tight knot, anchored over the table. Hank accepts the call, and James’s face springs up on the screen.

  A little throat clearing. “Coming through?” he asks.

  “Affirmative,” Hank answers. “You’ve already read the briefing?”

  “Yes. His Highness is still alive and we’re at war, Commander. These attacks . . .”

  Hank leans over. “Attacks, as in more than one?”

  “Manjor was bombed as well,” James answers.

  “When?” Larken asks. “What happened?”

  “Right after you fled. The summer palace and the harbor.”

  A gasp ripples between us. For a moment, Fahra crumples, as though kicked in the chest. Slowly, he straightens again. When he does, his nostrils flare and his eyes light up in fury. And he is not alone. My heart is burning.

  “No . . .” I struggle against the choke of more bad news. “Are you okay, James? What about Queen Napoor, and . . . what about my mother? Is she all right?”

  “I’m still safe underground and Joanna’s alive. But she and the queen—Benroyal’s now keeping them both in the Spire. He knows you were in Manjor, Phee, and I think he’s certain Napoor betrayed him. The queen is now officially under his ‘protection.’”

  Cash, now his mother and mine. Benroyal has them all.

  Fahra curses.

  “Things aren’t looking good for us from afar,” James says. “The feeds are boiling over, and we can’t risk—”

  “What about the feeds?” I interrupt. “What’s going on?”

  There’s a glitch in the transmission, and for a moment, James’s answer is frozen, and I’m not even sure if he heard me. Finally, he buffers back in. “Both the attacks . . . they’re pinning them on you, Phee.”

  The room seems to wince. I try to shut out the murmur between Hank and Larken.

  James zeros in on me. “In Capitoline, talk of civil war is all but dead now. The feedcasters are reporting that the rebels swarmed and torched the poppy fields. On your orders.”

  “What?” I take a step back, horrified.

  “You heard me. They’re saying the rebels fired first, and that the IP rushed in to respond and preserve the Strand. Between that and Manjor, and the news of Cash’s ‘murder,’ it’s a disaster. For now, our hands are tied.”

  “That is unacceptable.” Fahra turns on us. Wide-eyed, he’s lit like a fuse. “Give me but one squad of your best, and I will lead them.”

  “You will have it,” Larken offers, surprising us all.

  Fahra nods. “We will find Prince Cashoman, and rescue Her Majesty. The House of Bisera must be restored.”

  “It’s a noble offer, Captain,” James replies. “But I’m afraid your rescue plans must be put on hold. We can’t expose Benroyal now. Not while he holds Her Majesty in the Spire and Cash who knows where.”

  Again, the rage sparks in Fahra’s eyes. He looks at Hank, then Larken. There’s more urgency in him than ever before. “Send me now. Today. I will take as many soldiers as you can spare. I must rescue Her Majesty and—”

  James interrupts, destroying all hope. “You could send an entire battalion, but it wouldn’t matter. Capitoline is crawling with Benroyal’s soldiers, and Castra’s crying out for rebel blood now. You’ll find no welcome there, or in Bisera, or anywhere else outside the Strand. It’d be a suicide mission.”

  “But we have to strike back,” I protest.

  James shakes his head. “No. You make a move, Cash is dead. And the queen. And your mother. Don’t think for a second he’d spare her if you exposed him now. He has us right where he wants us. Silent and on the defensive.”

  “But we can’t just sit here and wait for another attack,” I plead. “We do that, and he’ll win.”

  James doesn’t blink. The glasses are off. “He already has.”

  After the briefing, I can’t get out of the war room fast enough. Lead-footed and bristling, I head outside. I turn my face up and scowl at the sun. I curse it. I curse everything, guilty or not.

  There was a time when the string of cuss words would’ve brought relief. Every kick in the dirt and shake of my fist would’ve cut so easy, like a blade slicing through an invisible knot. But now my shoulders slump. Surrendering, I take a breath.

  A rustle in the grass behind me.

  “Dull meeting?” Miyu asks.

  I turn, too defeated to laugh at her joke. Then I see it—the pinched flush in her cheeks. I’m not the only one who’s upset.

  “I’ve been summoned,” she says matter-of-factly. “Grace wants me back on Castra. I’m to leave immediately.”

  I feel the blood drain from my face. I’m turning milk white, right before her eyes. “Why?”

  “My mission’s complete. I was charged with escorting you to James in Manjor, and now I have.”

  “Oh,” I say. Don’t know why the news sucks the wind from my flaps. It’s not as if I’d thought Miyu would stick around forever. “I’m sorry. I dragged you into a war zone, so she’s probably just worried.”

  “She’s not just concerned about my safety. I’m sure she’s irritated that I’m not there, at her beck and call.”

  I straighten up. “What?”

  “Never mind,” she says, angling away. “It’s nothing. I can promise you, my problems are the last thing you need to worry about right now.”

  I slip by her side, until we’re not face-to-face anymore, but shoulder to shoulder, squinting at the sun. “I’m already worried, Miyu. So you might as well spit it out. What’s wrong?”

  She grimaces, then finally relents. “Grace is angry and I’m completely unacceptable. And to top it all off, she found out about my girlfriend, Moira. She thinks I’m wasting my time on ‘unnecessary attachments.’ It’s not enough that I’m good in finance and flight mechanics and geopolitical debate. I’m supposed to go where Grace needs me to go and take care of business more ‘efficiently.’ I’m not supposed—”

  I interject. “To date Sixer interns?”

  “Moira isn’t a Sixer.” She shakes her head. “Not really. But that’s beside the point. I’m not supposed to date anyone at all.”

  “It’s not a crime to have an actual life, you know.”

  “I know that, Phee. But you don’t get it. You don’t get her. My mother . . .” She pauses, struggling over the word, her cheeks pinking up with every breath. “My whole life, it’s like I’ve been conditioned to obey. It’s just not in me to disappoint.”

  I risk a smile. “Well then, stick with me. I’ve been lowering expectations for quite a while now. Watch and learn, and you’ll get the hang of it.”

  Miyu doesn’t exactly snort; it’s a more graceful approximation. But she’s not so upset now, and her half grin is already slipping back into place. “After dinner,” she says, “you want me to sift through James’s intel? See if there’s anything I can think of that we might have missed?”

  “Yeah, that’d be great.” I frown. “But you’re leaving.”

  “Oh, I never said I was leaving,” she says, turning my way again. “I only said she summoned me.”

  “And you told her . . .”

  “Well, I didn’t tell her. I told her second assistant. I told him I was staying, and then he threatened to call her. So I did what you’d do: I told him to go ahead, and that he could suck a giant cloud of exhaust.”

  “You didn’t,” I say, cackling my way back toward the mouth of the tomb. She follows.

  “I did,” she deadpans. “It was great.”

  Miyu’s grin is so wicked and sharp, it pries more laughter from me. But too soon, the distraction’s gone. The breeze dies, and the whisper of battle still taints the air. We stand silent, casting shadows. Neither of us seems ready to go back inside and face whatever comes next.

  “He’s still alive,” Miyu
says, as if reading my mind. “It’s not too late. We could find him.”

  My jaw clenches.

  “Gimme a couple of days,” she says. “I think I may know how to help.”

  I nod, shielding my eyes. She heads back into the tomb.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I FLOAT DOWN THE NARROW HALLS UNTIL I FIND MY WAY TO the east barracks, which isn’t a barracks at all, but another smooth, stone-walled pocket under the hill, stuffed with empty cots. Hal is sitting on his, alone.

  “Hi,” I say, landing beside him.

  “Morning?”

  I shake my head. “Afternoon.”

  He nods, and I take his hand. When he squeezes, it’s like a first sign of life. Such a small thing, but he’s barely moved in the last forty-eight hours. The tray of food I’d brought in earlier still sits beside his bed, untouched.

  “Hungry?” I ask.

  “I’ll eat in a while,” he says. “I just forgot.”

  I reach down and grab a packet of dried fruit, tear it open, and hand it to him. “Lots of sugar-sweet frangi in this mix. Your favorite,” I say. It takes a little nudge to get him going, but he finally pecks at it.

  “No more forgetting to eat.” I’m not very good at forcing a smile.

  “Okay, Mary,” he slips, mouth still full.

  I flinch, shocked. But then I see from the look on his face that it wasn’t a slip. It was a hint of black humor.

  He chews for a second, then he’s the one nudging me.

  “Before you left for Manjor,” he says. “Mary asked me . . . I promised her I’d get you into treatment.”

  A tear slips down my cheek. “I promised too.”

  Hal gives my hand another squeeze. “She had a regimen for you. Counseling and sim exposure therapy. Say when, and I’ll help you start.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow.” He nods. “Pass me that protein mix.”

  Silent, we dig into the rest of his tray. Every bite seems to bring him back. He’s here, with me. A little bit closer to alive.

  We meet after dinner the next day, outside, near flight control. We’ll have to use one of the Cyanese flight simulators to read Mary’s program, Hal tells me. He doesn’t have to remind me that the others were blown to bits.

  Even in the moonlight, I can read the lift in his shoulders. It’s not that he’s ready to get back to work or that he’s any less broken. It’s more like he knows therapy’s probably good for us both.

  Thanks to the battle, with all those fighters roaring in and refueling, the ground out here is a mixture of charred grass and sticky soil. And that’s the least of the changes. In the past couple of days, an ever-expanding tent city has sprung up. Every few meters, the soldiers have punched cloaking stakes into the soil, so the IP won’t have much luck sending drones in to gather surveillance. Anyone scouting from the air will go back empty-handed, with nothing but non-visuals of an impenetrable blur. Benroyal won’t have solid intel on the latest reinforcements; at least we have that. But it’s a shame to see so many scars on such holy ground.

  We pick our way through them, into the largest tent of all.

  Inside, on the far end, there’s a bank of simulators, claustrophobic pods just like the one Bear learned to fly in. He’s probably here somewhere, closed off and inside, fighting his own private war. I follow Hal into the first one, and we both buckle in.

  “Okay,” he says, holding up a flex card. It glows, reflecting the low light of the sim. “I have Mary’s notes, and a program they sent us from Raupang, in Cyan. Larken says it’s a therapy they use with their own soldiers. But it wasn’t easy for her to put it all together and customize it for you.” When I start to cut in, he stops me. “And I know if she were here, she’d tell you. It’s going to get worse before it gets better, and you’re not going to like it.”

  “Will it help?” I ask, jaw already tightening.

  “I think it will.” He’s thoughtful. “The panic attacks may never completely go away, but this’ll give you the tools to deal with them. Working the sim, and opening up—it’s a first step. Tonight, we’ll find out what’s triggering the panic attacks. Then, bit by bit, we’ll build up your coping strategies. You’ll face those triggers. You’ll acknowledge your fears. They won’t go away, but eventually, you learn to deal with the noise in your head. With help, you can get past it.”

  I nod. I dig into my pocket. “Wait. Don’t start. Just a second.”

  “What is it?” he asks.

  I find Auguste’s gift. My fingers close around the racing patch. I focus on the feel of the leather and rough threads. The comfort of fearlessness used to live in every stitch. I pretend it’s still there. I take a breath before letting go. “It’s nothing,” I say to Hal. “Go on.”

  “Okay then,” he says. “Ready or not.”

  He takes the flex card and swipes it onto the nearest sim screen. Let the nightmare begin.

  It starts simply enough. Darkness, a scattering of sound—faraway vacs, distant gunfire. First, flashes of bright light, off and on. Then generic feed clips of battles past, mostly bits from the ground during airborne attacks. And still, my pulse is dead calm. I’m still able to respond to Hal’s questions, listing my level of anxiety from one to ten.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I nod, but a second later, Mary’s sim turns up the heat. It’s as if it can read me.

  Scattered gunfire gives way to teeth-rattling engine thrum and cannon blasts. The wide camera pans morph into first-person angles, and suddenly, I can’t push through the curtain of noise and flashing lights. But it’s the human sounds that reach me. Sweat-laced breathing and garroted screams.

  An alarm pulses, and Hal rechecks my vitals, but even his voice barely anchors me. The final blitz grinds into my skull; the images loop and swim in my vision. It’s the ambush and it’s not. The familiar sensation of panic presses in . . . a prickling tightness in my chest, a suffocating flash of heat. I try to shake it off. I close my eyes and swallow. But the flickering light of the screens burns into me, like a heartbeat drumming on my skin, and even with my lids shut tight, I can’t un-see this. I can’t stop the bullet. I can’t stem the flow. Cash’s blood . . .

  I black out. When I come to, Hal’s already dragging me out of the pod.

  He’s talking, but I can’t really hear him. He’s nothing but static for the longest time. He presses a canteen of water into my hands. I drink. I sip until the noise becomes words.

  “Deep breaths,” he says, pressing a cool cloth to my forehead. “You with me?”

  Still dazed, I manage a nod.

  He reaches out, and I give in. Boneless. Tearless. Pried wide open, I hug him tight.

  “She was right,” I whisper. “I don’t like this.”

  He nods against my cheek, smoothing my hair. “It’ll get easier. In time, I promise. This was the hardest part. Now you know.”

  “Know what?”

  “What frightens you the most. Whatever it is,” he says. “It’s the demon you have to deal with. But the good news is . . .”

  Uncertain, I pull back.

  Hal meets my eyes. “You won’t have to do it alone.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  MIYU COMES THROUGH IN LESS THAN FORTY-EIGHT HOURS, thanks to her hacker contacts. That girlfriend who interns at AltaGen? Turns out, she really does take on some interesting “freelance work.”

  Almost no one else knows that her real name is Moira, Miyu warns, and I have to swear never to use it. Only her digital alias, Thumb. Thumb, as in the rogue leader of the Fist, a rusting powerful limb of the Castran underworld. They’ve never worked directly with us before, but more than once, they’ve passed along news. Clips like the one from Benroyal’s last press conference, my favorite, in which one splattered fuel pod—tossed against the security glass in the Assembly House—started a glor
ious riot.

  But all this time, I never knew who these hackers actually were. No one did. We knew they were friendlies, and we knew some of their screen names. That’s it. And in a million years, I’d have never dreamed they’d have connections to someone like Miyu.

  To list the Fist’s exploits is to rattle off every flex hacker’s Galaxy’s All-Time Greatest Hits. Most folks know this crew best for their harmless pranks. How about the day every single corporate ad was replaced by slo-mo clips of the prime minister picking his nose? How it took the Sixers eighteen hours to stop it and nail down the glitch?

  Hands down, best Tuesday ever.

  But the Fist isn’t just empty snark attack. No, they’ve landed a few bigger jabs too. Last year, when a billion in Castran tax revenue—earmarked for Domestic Patrol stun sticks and riot gear—just up and magically disappeared? Yeah, you can bet the Fist took credit for that. They always tag their work, yet none of them’s ever been bagged or doxed.

  So as I stand next to Miyu in the war room and look at this face on the feed screen, I’m a little stunned. I lean in, all the better to gawk. Moira—interstellar hacktivist—isn’t what you’d expect at all. No bright pink locks or holo-tats undulating up and down her bare arms. Instead, she’s got long dark hair, neatly braided. Dark skin, delicately stained lips. White, high-end shirt, sleeveless and understated, blank as an old-fashioned canvas. She’s a little older than I am—just a girl sitting tall in a beige-y, sunlit room. And that’s when it hits me. Moira could be anyone, anywhere. A young intelligence agent or even a Sixer.

  Or a rusting genius.

  “Thanks for doing this,” Miyu tells her.

  I nod. In truth, I’m a little bit awed.

  “Sure, why not?” she replies, as if scheming with rebels is all in a day’s work. “We started out tapping the hull,” Moira explains. When I blink dumbly, she adds, “You know, looking for anything and everything about Benroyal’s system. Access points. Any of the nasty little wormholes his security techs might have tried to bury for themselves. And there were plenty of those back entrances for them to get back in, but every time we’d find one and fish out a little encrypted morsel, we’d get bounced out. Or worse, King Charlie’s bot-ware would try to follow and ghost in through our own back doors.”