by Jenny Martin
“Captain,” he says, tearing off his robes. “Clear the room.”
The whole room snaps. A few of Benroyal’s men try to make a move, but the royal guard takes care of that quickly enough. In seconds, they’ve disarmed his personal detail and the scattering of IP soldiers. Fahra’s done his job well—he packed the chamber with his most trusted sentry. Some in the entourage are shocked, like Prime Minister Prejean. Some are fussing, like Negendra, Dak’s thick-necked foreign minister. Others struggle and fight, but it doesn’t matter. All the extras, they get swept out of the room.
Finally, one of Fahra’s men moves on Benroyal. I stop the guard before he can drag him out of the chamber. “Leave him here,” I say. “We’re not finished with him yet.”
The guard obeys and forces King Charlie into a chair. I shrug out of my robe and reach behind me, where Benny’s gift is tucked in my waistband.
“This is an outrage,” Dak says, springing up. “Treason! I will have you all—”
Cash rounds the cistern, and with one vicious, straining punch, he lays his brother out. Dak crumples. He scrambles to get back on his feet, but Cash grabs him by the collar before he’s even halfway up.
“You want to talk about treason?” Cash snaps. He drags his brother to the bowl and forces him over it, toppling three of the empty jars around the well. They shatter against the floor. Dak trembles; his face hovers an inch over the surface of the water. “You want a coronation? This is as close as you get. I should pour it all out and drown you in our father’s blood.”
“Cashoman!” his mother cries out.
Her voice is the only thing that reaches him. He growls. “She just saved your life,” Cash says to Dak, before tossing him to the floor. Disgusted, he turns away from his brother. “Get him out of my sight,” he tells Fahra. “I don’t want to see him again, until we can call a tribunal.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” the captain says. Dakesh kicks and spits and curses in Biseran as half a dozen sentry drag him from the room.
Under the shouting, there’s a softer voice. I turn and catch the tail of Benroyal’s words. “. . . Joanna. But of course, it’s not too late to discuss your mother.”
In the space of a breath, I’m right up in his exhaust, pistol raised. “Don’t you say another rusting word about my mother, or I will end you right now.”
He smiles. “I could be persuaded to strike another deal. For—”
But then he stops. Looks behind me. Quiet-eyed, Toby Abasi limps another step closer. He touches my shoulder, peering down at Benroyal. “And what kind of deal have you to offer now?” he asks. “Now that the Spire is burning?”
King Charlie doesn’t pale the way Dak did. His mask slips only an inch. Just one small twitch of the upper lip. “It’s of no concern. Capitoline has always—”
Now it’s Abasi’s turn to smile. “You believe the Domestic Patrol will suppress the riots. How many officers have you there? Enough for the half million protesters lining the Mains?”
Benroyal tries again. “But of course, the Interstellar—”
Abasi pretends surprise. “Haven’t you heard? The IP abandoned defense of the Exchange and the Chamber and Assembly houses. Revolutionaries have taken them all, and are commanding a good number of your men now. I expect to join them after we are finished here. You wanted peace, did you not?”
Benroyal’s frozen. He can’t bring himself to nod.
“Peace is coming, yes,” Abasi says. “But not silence. The people have seen the truth. And it is too late to quiet them now.” Another knowing smile. Abasi pauses. “But I suppose you’re probably thinking of the Strand, and your forces there. Ease your mind on that account, my friend. Your admirals have already sensed the shift in the wind. I hear they are set to offer terms of surrender to the Cyanese this very hour. And so I have to wonder, Mr. Benroyal . . . exactly what kind of deal are you offering now?”
Benroyal lifts his eyes to me. Rage is quietly blazing behind his crumbling grin. “My life for your mother’s. I leave, of my own accord, and I’ll let you—”
“She’s being held in Cashoman’s chambers,” the queen interrupts. “In the suite next to mine.”
Fahra makes the call. For a tense line of seconds, we watch him, his flex to his ear. Finally, after a minute or more, he turns to me. “We have her.”
Benroyal’s last card. He knows it’s been laid bare on the table. He opens his mouth and tries to stand, but I shove him back in his chair, pushing the unforgiving end of the pistol against his forehead. “Don’t. Say. Another. Word,” I tell him.
I sense everyone closing in, but I shut out their pleading. I don’t want to stay calm. I don’t want to stop and think about this. “Stay back,” I snap. “Nobody move.” Then I slide the safety off and savor the warmth of the trigger.
Three shots left.
One for my father. One for Mary. The last one, for Bear.
Gods and stars, I see his face even now. I watch him drift away.
One pull of the trigger and it’ll be over.
I take a deep breath and look into Benroyal’s eyes. But there’s something so astonishing and alien in them that it puts a shake in my grip. He is . . . afraid. The cold-sweat panic strikes me like a forgotten wave, and I see myself through Benroyal’s twisted lens. I am the sneering monster of his propaganda. The stone-cold killer. The crazed, unstable girl they’ve made me out to be. I shoot, and he wins.
“Phee . . .” Hal says. “No. Not like this.”
I don’t answer. I’m still locked on Benroyal.
I imagine lowering the gun and backing away. I fantasize about taking the high road. About letting King Charlie face whatever courts are left, back on Castra. But I’m not as disciplined as Cash. And my mother—my real mother, Mary—is not here to stop me. So I’ll have to compromise, and steal a little justice for myself. Just for now. Just for one moment.
I look at Benroyal again. He’s practically quaking now. I circle his chair. Behind him, I lean over his shoulder and hover at his ear. “You see, there’s no need for a new deal . . . I fear it’s too late for that, and justice must prevail. You will have to be dealt with. In prison, you sap-sucking bastard.”
Safety on. Pistol whip to the back of the head. Lights out.
I win.
After Benroyal slumps forward, the tension breaks, and all the fury drains out of me. The guards haul him out and I’m left frozen, all shivers and chattering teeth. Cash takes a breath and finally relaxes, too exhausted for words. We embrace each other. He runs his hands down my shoulders, and I’m glad for the warmth. Hal hugs me. No more tears tonight. We’ve got nothing left.
As Hal backs away, Captain Fahra clears his throat. “Your Highness,” he says to Cash. “Perhaps it is time . . . ?”
Softly, Cash smiles at me. He straightens once more. “Are you ready for this?”
“Ready for what?” I say.
He turns toward the balcony. As Fahra’s men pull back the curtains, there’s a fresh wave of noise and expectant shouting. The people wait for a new king. I step back and try to let go of Cash’s hand. “Go to them,” I say.
He shakes his head and gently reels me back in. “Together,” he says.
The guards part for us, and we step out and onto the riser. For a moment, the light through the bulletproof glass is so blinding, I have to shield my eyes. Cash’s face appears on the flex screens below. And that’s when they realize he’s not Dak at all. Finally, they recognize Cash. To them, he’s larger than life. Stronger than the fiercest lion. A roar erupts, and the air trembles with their cries.
At first, their shouts are nothing but ecstatic clamor. But then, their voices knit together and thunder as one.
Ay-khan. Ay-khan banat bakar. Eb banat bakar.
I know these words. They’re the same ones the people chanted when Cash last entered the city.
The Evening Star. He returns.
But this time, their prince—their all-but-anointed king—is lit up a thousand times brighter. Tears shine in his eyes like unfallen stars. He is here at last. He is theirs. He is home.
I lower my hand and lose myself in the rhythm of their joy. Cash turns to me. His arms reach out and he pulls me close. And when his lips find mine, I yield. Before the crowd, we share the sweetest, tenderest kiss. Finally, we break and I see my face on the screen, next to his. The people cheer more wildly than ever before. Soon, they begin a new chant.
Beharu. Beharu. Ay-khan. Beharu.
“What are they saying?” I ask Cash.
He shakes his head; he can’t hear me.
I shout to be heard. “What are they saying?”
He laughs. “Beharu. You have a new name.”
“Behar-what? What does it mean?” I say.
“Never mind what it means. They love you.” He smiles, then kisses me again, then once more for good measure. “As do I.”
Laced tightly, we turn back to the crowd. We wave for a long time, and drink in their roar.
It should be raining right now. It shouldn’t be this perfect, cool, cloudless day. Days like this aren’t made for good-byes. They’re not made for letting go, and it will probably be a long, long time before we’re all together again.
But it’s time, and James and Miyu have already spent an extra week with the rest of us in the Strand. And already Grace is impatient to see them. Since the mission, she’s hardly left Miyu alone. All those flex chats and plans and special arrangements to meet up in Manjor . . . seems Grace cares a lot more about her daughter than either of them realized.
I’m glad for her. And, I suspect, she is too. It’s not something we’ve talked about, but you can read it in the way she’s started spitting out the word Mom instead of Grace.
Now we stand in the launch yard, and trade embraces.
“I’ll miss you,” I say.
“Likewise,” she replies.
Oh, how I’ve come to love that half smile.
“Better take care of yourself,” I add.
She nods. “I will. But only if you promise to stay out of trouble for a while. I mean it. And don’t be getting any crazy ideas about skybrids. I swear, if I hear from Cash that you’ve fixed up some old Lucky Star and are flying around in it, I will come back here and kick you in the teeth.” She pauses. “Or maybe not in the teeth, but somewhere.”
We laugh, and before I can get in the last word, she ambles up the ramp and disappears into her vac. I’m left standing with James. We turn at the same time. Face-to-face, both of us uncertain and awkward and unprepared for this.
“You’re sure you don’t want to . . .” he says. He takes off his glasses and tucks them in his pocket. He squints into the sun. “I wish you and Joanna were coming with me, or that I was staying, or . . . I don’t know what I wish.”
I don’t finish for him, but I’m pretty sure I know what’s really on his mind. For the first time, I’m stepping out on my own. I’ll be splitting my time between Castra and this world, at least for a while. For now, I’ve decided I’m not cut out to handle billions of credits. I’ve asked him to manage the family fortune, and I think, in different ways, it both satisfies and disappoints him. But, I suppose, James walked away from his old life too. I’ve abandoned my street-racing ways and he’s let go of his corporate goals. We’ve both found a middle ground between rebel and Sixer. I will work alongside Cash, and James will start up the galaxy’s most powerful nonprofit. Rebuilding Castra for all . . . that will be the Anderssen legacy.
I tell my uncle I am proud of that. I am proud of him, and what is to come.
As for me, for the next three months, I’ll be traveling with Cash. In Bisera, we’ll take stock and address the damage to his kingdom. And with Larken’s help, we’ll begin to repair the Strand. The Hill of Kings will stand sacred again; we will see to that.
And then there’s home. I have a few loose ends to tie up on Castra too. We’re breaking ground on a new project, right in Capitoline. Hal will oversee it for James and me—a new hospital for recovering addicts and post-traumatic stress survivors, built in Mary’s name, on Mercer Steet. For her sake, I am proud of this too.
I look up at my uncle, who’s waiting to board Miyu’s vac. We’ll be apart most of the time, but we’ll still be on the same crew. I like to think of it that way, at least. It makes it easier to let go.
“I know what I wish,” I tell him at last. “I wish you well.”
He smiles, his gray eyes brightening up like morning light after a storm. “Wherever the route takes you.”
I nod. One last hug, and he walks away.
Most of the time, my mother doesn’t remember my name. If it’s a bad day, she doesn’t even remember my father. On a good day, she calls me Phoebe and can tell me stories about the great Tommy Van Zant. About the time they first met, or the time he flipped a rig at Sand Ridge. But thankfully, not about the last time they said good-bye. The stories come in tiny gulps. They make her smile, and ease her pain.
The stim treatments seem to help a little, but Hal frets that it’s not enough. After eighteen years of addiction, the black sap’s taken too much from her. She’s so far gone. There’s no telling how long we’ve got before she slips under for good. Maybe we’ve just got right now.
Today is a good day, and I’m glad.
Hal, Hank, and I sit beside her cot under the pavilion. A little makeshift celebration before I leave for Castra with Hal. A reclining chair for my mother. Another for Hank, who’s getting his late-afternoon snooze. He’s perking up a little more each day and almost walking now, so I suspect his napping days are numbered. I smile. Blankets under our feet, and a modest spread of cool drink and good food. Above, the white tarps stretched over us.
We lounge on the eastern crest of our little valley, and I drink in the warm breeze. After months of whirlwind traveling, from the Gap to Belaram to Manjor, I’ve got one more night in the Pearl Strand, and I’m going to enjoy it. For the past few days, we’ve been hard at it. Sunup to sundown, we’ve worked. In a way, it’s been a little like sewing up an old wound. Even Larken and Fahra get along now. Together, they’ve welcomed a thousand civilian volunteers—some Biseran, some Castran, some Cyanese—to clear out debris, turn the soil, and renew the poppy fields.
Right now, this particular field is still its own brand of graveyard—an endless stretch of charred, shriveled petals and ash-covered ground. Not for long. This morning, I spent a few hours driving one of the tillers, while the crew ahead of me cleared out the most stubborn stalks.
Cash is out there now, just beyond the next rise. I can hear him—or rather the tiller—churning the soil. At dawn, he promised he wouldn’t rest until he’d prepared me the best patch of land up here. As soon as he’s done, we’ll get the drill and replant. Not just poppies, though. Not for this sun-kissed bit of earth. Fahra’s getting me a special mix of seeds for this ground.
And here he comes, motoring in a ridiculous little flatbed rig, with a miniscule seat and an open top. At the moment, our captain’s four wheels of funny-looking, but I don’t dare laugh, even though he’s way too big for the thing. He parks beside our pavilion and heaves himself off his tiny perch. I finish giving my mother another sip of watered-down nectar before getting up to greet him.
“Have a look,” he says. “I trust it will be enough?”
I nose through the various buckets of seed on the bed of the rig. “What’d you find?”
“Slipwood,” he says. “Some ice-leaf, some bleufleur, and a few buckets of beryl-bud. A good balance of ground cover and climbers and creeping vines. Is that satisfactory, Beharu?”
I nod. I guess at least Fahra’s stopped calling me a gan-gan. But this Beharu business . . . I really need to drag it out of someone what it means. If I knew exactly how to spell it, I co
uld look it up myself. I make a mental note to flex Miyu and ask her.
I hear another engine rolling up. I look out and see Cash’s tiller chugging along to meet us. He’s sitting high in the cab, and after catching his eye, I cover my ears, then put a finger to my lips. Quickly, he eases on the brake, then shuts the rig down. He understands.
Noises sometimes startle my mother. I glance back at her, but thankfully, she’s still resting, and Hank gives a reassuring wave. She’s all right for now. It’s still a good day.
I turn back to the tiller. Cash jumps out of the cab and lands on the black-mulch ground. But he takes his sweet time getting to me. Impatient, I put a little hustle in my step. We meet between the tiller and the tent.
I start to ask him how it went, but he tackles me, silencing me with a long, sweaty kiss. He’s breathless and rank, but I don’t care. I let him melt into me. No shame, don’t care who’s looking, even when we’re a tangled knot of thirsty lips and sunburned limbs.
Finally, Cash pulls away. “The field,” he says. “It’s ready. Fahra came through with the seed?”
I nod.
Cash waves at Fahra, who’s blushing and averting his eyes. Most of the time, Cash can’t keep his hands off me, and I think it embarrasses the poor captain.
But when you’ve been through what Cash has endured—months of torture and half as many days of stim therapy to ease the nerve damage—it leaves you hollowed out and hungry for better times. Cash seems eager to erase the memory of the white room and its marionette wires. He wants to feel, to drink everything in too hard, too fast, too soon, even when it costs him. Some days, Fahra’s the only one who can fuss enough and force him to stop and rest.
But I don’t begrudge Cash. I understand. It’s the way he’s wired. My Evening Star . . . like me, he’s all spark and energy, made to burn. I know what he needs.
I take pity on Fahra and pull away from His Majesty. Just a little breathing room, for the captain’s sake.
