by Meg LaTorre
Why does the Mistress want these implants?
That night, when she resumed her role as the Grimm Reaper, she harvested the implants alone.
And this time, it was far worse than ever before.
When she didn’t work fast enough to harvest the implants, courtesy of the pain in her broken leg, the watchmen stepped in. They wielded axes, hacking apart both the dead and living cyborgs to retrieve their implants.
Where the implants from the dead cyborgs had gone to, she had no idea. She didn’t even know if a secret arrangement with a flesh trader to pick up the former performers on Jinx had been made. Who knew which was the worse fate—to remain on Jinx or to be sold as a slave.
Soaked in scarlet, the watchmen hauled Gwen back to the ship.
As Obedient departed the planet of pirates and thieves, she wept on the main deck, clutching the railing with bloodied hands.
Once again, she had failed the cyborgs. Meanwhile, more memories slipped from her mind like the blood of the people she’d tried to protect slipped from her hands.
The Mistress had won.
And now she had Bastian in her clutches, too.
Chapter 30
Victory wasn’t always sweet. But no one said victory was paired with death.
As Cirque du Borge’s massive ship, Obedient, soared toward the emperor’s home planet, all Gwen could see were the images of the broken cyborgs when she’d extracted implants—alone.
It had been weeks since the last competition. Her chest felt hollow, and she shook as though from a chill even though the weather in the capital city of Allegiant would be warm this time of year.
Larger than all thirteen of the other planets in the Union, Covenant boasted its own lush lands and oceans teeming with wildlife as well as several continents with massive cities and booming industries. The ship’s artificial gravity and oxygen fields flickered before shutting off as they entered into the planet’s natural gravity field.
Descending from the sky, they followed the line of lights toward the great city of Allegiant. The emperor’s capital was a massive peninsula surrounded by a lake on three sides. On the water, hundreds of docking stations were set up for ships.
They landed softly in the water before the engines were turned off. The sail billowed in the gusting breeze that pulled them toward the city. The emperor’s palace sat atop a hill, looming over incoming and outgoing vessels.
“Bastian!” Gwen called out.
The former ringleader appeared above deck, heading straight for the quarterdeck where the Mistress and show management team had assembled for their final address to the performers before their arrival.
“There’s something I need to speak with you about—”
Turning on a heel, Bastian looked at her, expression cold as a tomb. “I’m sorry, Ms. Grimm. But I can’t speak just now.”
Without another word, he left.
Sighing, she closed her mouth, unspoken words still on her tongue.
Ever since the third competition ended and they set sail for Covenant, Bastian hadn’t been the same.
During the long flight to the emperor’s planet, she’d done everything she knew to do, but she hadn’t been able to get him alone for even a moment. She’d asked to speak to him in private, mentioning there was a high-level tinkering concern that required his attention at once. When she managed to intercept him on the main deck, it was as though she spoke to the shell of the man she’d met months ago and not the Bastian she’d come to know and care for in recent weeks.
Something’s wrong with him.
Desperate, she tried spying on him. She didn’t have to go far to learn where he spent most of his time. He’d disappeared into Celeste’s room for hours during the voyage and followed the Mistress as though he were her personal hound. But with Gwen’s broken leg making it difficult to get around, she couldn’t learn much more than that.
Now, the show management team—and Bastian—stood at attention behind the Mistress on the quarterdeck. Celeste droned on about how they would descend the ship in their ridiculous finery, how they must carry themselves through the crowd, how it was important they present themselves with dignity since no one will expect such things of cyborgs. Everyone was to use their show names, and no one was to reveal any personal information about themselves or the inner workings of the circus.
Scratching at the silly hat the watchmen insisted she wear during their trek to the emperor’s palace, Gwen pulled the attached veil lower over her face, determined to keep her eyes on anyone but the man at the Mistress’s side. Irritably, she strapped her welding goggles atop her leather top hat before putting it back on. If she was going to have to wear this stupid thing, then she wasn’t going to pretend to be anything she wasn’t.
She was the cyborg tinkerer. And the Grimm fucking Reaper.
And she hated herself more than any of the performers possibly could.
As she had every day since the third competition, she tried to push back the fog clouding her thoughts—the loss of lives on Jinx, the guilt of having not been able to save the cyborgs, and the gaping hole in her chest from losing both Rora and Bastian.
She had to focus.
They were about to enter the viper’s den.
Eventually, Obedient was secured into place at the docks. Descending the gangplank, she struggled to keep pace with the other performers as she hobbled with her crutch.
The humans standing at the edges of the docks and along the streets ahead were dressed in clean, colorful garments rather than the grease-stained browns and beiges Gwen was accustomed to seeing on the manufacturing planets and moons.
But it wasn’t the apparent wealth of the onlookers that had her gut turning. As the performers walked past in their boisterous costumes, people spat at their feet.
“Filthy cyborgs,” person after person hissed.
Individuals of all genders and identities spread out on either side of what must be the main thoroughfare to the palace. The citizens of Allegiant stood for blocks along the cobblestone streets, scowling at the performers marching in a parade toward the palace.
Naturally, the feds standing guard at every paved street corner did nothing to stop the hostility. Even as the people threw rotten produce and animal dung into the street or at the performers, the feds stood at attention.
For once, Gwen was thankful for the silent, masked watchmen surrounding the performers in their march toward the emperor’s grand palace. They pushed back reaching hands and kept the crowds along the sides of the streets. They also cleared the way for the show management team, who rode atop Celeste’s cyborg horses. All of the performers’ gear and equipment trundled along behind them in cyborg horse-drawn carriages and carts.
As they walked, Gwen noted hot air balloons in the emperor’s colors of jade, violet, and gold rising into the sky. Men with top hats and feathers and ladies with laced gloves leaned out of the basket with golden binoculars held to their eyes.
Tourists who’d come to watch the spectacle, no doubt. It was the first time in ten years since the rise of the emperor that Cirque du Borge had entered the capital of the Union.
Gwen couldn’t help but wonder if they knew about the emperor’s plan to convince the Union Council to revoke the Cyborg Prohibition Law.
Men and women hung out of second- and third-story windows overlooking the street. When they started throwing stones, Bastian barked an order for the performers to open their umbrellas, which they had been given for this very purpose.
Scowling, Gwen opened hers, struggling to hold both the umbrella and her crutch as rocks pinged off the top. She glared at the people on the streets ahead, those she could see from where she strode in the middle of the group of performers. They leaned out of massive stone balconies with intricate wrought-iron railings. When one larger woman pulled her top down, flashing her breasts at the performers, she had just about had it.
Dropping her umbrella, she started to push through the watchmen. A rock pinged against her hat,
knocking it askew and pushing back the veil that covered her eye.
The crowd jeered. “Cyborg eye!”
The woman had yet to put her drooping tits away, and Gwen growled. She’d bloody climb the side of the several-story building with a broken leg if she had to. Before she took two hobbling steps, someone caught her wrist. Turning, she was surprised to see Marzanna holding on to her, pressing her umbrella back into her hand.
“Don’t,” she warned.
Something sharp hit the side of Gwen’s head, and she gasped. Grumbling, she shoved her hat back on and took the umbrella, raising it above her head before another stone could hit her. As she did, two stones pinged off the canopy. Thank the stars the things were made out of rubber.
Gwen took a step closer to Marzanna as they walked, allowing the other performers to filter around them. Beside them, Akio’s shoulder was bandaged, and his eyes were drawn.
No one was the same after the third competition—not Bastian and definitely not her friends. The gowns, coattails, top hats, and makeup couldn’t disguise the apparent lack of hope in their eyes or the slowness to their steps.
Rather than the relief Gwen had thought they would all feel by winning the competition and claiming one of the top ten spots, Akio and Marzanna had retreated into themselves—likely replaying the horrors of the carnage on Jinx.
Unlike Gwen, they hadn’t seen the blood of their fellow cyborgs spilled. Perhaps they had been in denial about what the Mistress would or wouldn’t allow. Maybe they had once thought that remaining a part of Cirque du Borge was still the best option for cyborgs in the Union. But now? Hell, even Gwen didn’t know.
“We have to keep our shit together,” Gwen whispered. “If we don’t, then all of this will have been for nothing.”
Marzanna’s eyes were distant, clouded with memory. Eventually, she shrugged. “What will happen will happen.”
A thought occurred to Gwen.
“Rora had mentioned that the emperor has the power to purchase contracts, even from Cirque du Borge.”
Marzanna frowned. “So?”
“So,” Gwen began. “First, we convince the emperor and the Union Council that cyborgs are perfectly respectable citizens and no threat to innocents. Then… well, perhaps we can convince him to bring us on to his court and to be our patron. Anything is safer than returning to Apparatus with Mistress Morbid.”
She gestured to her fucked-up leg.
Slowly, Marzanna sighed. But before she could respond, a large rock smacked into her umbrella and bounced off Gwen’s and several others.
“If the emperor revokes the Cyborg Prohibition Law, it will change everything for us,” Gwen continued. “It might mean the assholes throwing rocks at us might think we’re scientific marvels a year from now. Cyborg implants would once again be manufactured and accessible. You could finally have a new foot that’s installed properly. Hell, I bet the emperor would pay us a salary in marks rather than false promises.”
“It’s worth a shot,” Marzanna said. “I’ll talk to Akio.”
Now, if she could only get a moment alone with Bastian to tell him of their latest plan. Would he be willing to leave the circus behind?
She couldn’t ignore the irony of this most recent turn of events.
Rora—the woman who’d betrayed them to win the competition all for the opportunity to perform for the emperor—wouldn’t be the only one vying for the emperor’s patronage.
Eventually, they made their way to the palace gates, which were opened wide for them. The watchmen entered the inner city first, and the wary performers followed closely behind.
Gwen stuck to the middle of the crowd of performers, slowly lowering her umbrella to look around. Unlike the streets, there weren’t citizens hanging outside of upper-story windows or crowds gathered along the sides. The inner city was nearly empty of merchants or hawkers. Instead, a few horse-drawn carriages clopped across the immaculate cobblestone streets. There was no garbage or dirt on street corners. Men and women stood near shops, laughing and passing gold coins between hands for a scrap of silk or a velvet top hat.
Blood rushed to Gwen’s cheeks.
There were people dying from starvation in the manufacturing districts, and these people were paying gold coins for a hat? Depending on the planet, gold was worth hundreds—sometimes thousands—of paper marks.
Eventually, they made their way to the castle proper where a troop of guards met them. Unlike the watchmen, who had two pistols strapped to their back, a sword sheathed at one hip, and a wooden baton on the other, the emperor’s soldiers wore traditional steel armor and helmets. Swords were sheathed at their sides along with several guns. Their uniforms were far fancier than the average fed officer.
By the time Gwen trundled into the courtyard, her leg was screaming with pain.
They were led through the palace’s main doors and down countless hallways and passageways until they were brought before two massive oak doors. The palace guard stopped, turning to the show management team at the front and the performers behind them. The watchmen stood at mute attention.
A soldier with red tassels attached to his shoulder armor said, “There are to be no weapons past this point.” He gestured to the tables on either side of the door. “Place your weapons here. You will be searched before you’re permitted to speak with the emperor.”
Stepping forward, Gwen dropped her umbrella onto the table. The thing weighed nearly as much as a copper bathtub, and the table shook from the weight. She exhaled heavily before removing her pistol and knives from hidden pockets, holsters, and sheaths in her tinkerer’s leathers and dropping them onto the table beside her umbrella.
The remaining performers did likewise, though most didn’t carry weapons. However, the watchmen didn’t remove their weapons. When the palace guard didn’t allow them entry into what must be the throne room, Celeste spoke up.
“Do as he says.”
Celeste didn’t bother to turn around. Instead, she stood directly before the door with hands folded demurely in front of her. The other members of the show management team stood beside her, waxed mustaches twitching and hands smoothing already immaculate skirts.
As if there was one whit of reluctance or humility about her.
As usual, Bastian stood at Celeste’s side with his eyes focused ahead.
Please just look at me. I need you.
Nothing happened, of course.
Once everyone placed weapons, umbrellas, and a number of questionable accessories onto the table, the guards patted them down, and then the doors opened. They swung inward, revealing a throne room as massive and ornate as the castle itself. The floor was covered with furs and rugs, and beneath that were tiles flecked with gold. On the opposite side of the room was a massive, empty stone chair set atop a raised platform with stairs leading up to it. In front of that was a table with thirteen chairs.
Thirteen chairs for the leaders of the thirteen planets of the Union.
The emperor ruled over Covenant while the governors and governesses were representatives from the thirteen planets, respectively. Though none possessed power over the physical territories. There were more planets and moons in the Union, but those thirteen were the largest.
At the end of the long table was a man in his mid-forties.
Titus Valerius, emperor of the Union—the largest intergalactic alliance in the surrounding solar systems—was a man still in his prime, though silver lined his raven hair and beard. Around his eyes were laugh lines, but deep caverns bracketed either side of his lips. Atop his head was the gilded crown of the emperor. If that wasn’t enough to identify him, he wore a violet, jade, and gold cape with fur lining.
Seeing them enter, he rose from his seat of honor at the end of the table, smiling.
“Welcome!” Titus’s voice echoed between the pillars, booming far louder than the gurgling fountains in the four corners of the room. “I have been expecting you.”
Celeste strode forward, making a sweeping bow. “I
am Celeste Beckett, the Mistress of Cirque du Borge. We are here upon your request.”
Servants pulled the emperor’s chair back, and he strode around the table to meet them.
Guards and servants lined the room, and the governors and governesses turned to watch them. None bothered to stand, but some watched with a slight interest in their eyes. The circus’s soldier escort parted, but they didn’t leave. Instead, they surrounded the cyborgs with their hands on the guns or swords at their belts.
The emperor took Celeste’s hand, placing a kiss on her fingers.
If only he knew about those talons.
“It is an honor to meet you, Your Imperial Highness.” Celeste raised her eyes to his.
Gwen blinked.
It was odd seeing any measure of modesty—fake as it likely was—from this woman. The very same woman who ordered the murder of dozens of cyborgs and the sale of those who remained to flesh traders.
“The pleasure is mine.”
Titus turned to the circus. “Tomorrow at sundown, you will perform for myself and the Union Council.”
The performers around Gwen whispered excitedly.
Although anyone with at least Abrecan’s intelligence could have guessed this was the reason they were here, it was as though it clicked for the first time. Most of the performers smiled, shifting in skirts and straightening jackets.
“After the performances, I would request a meeting with the representatives from the circus,” Titus continued. “It’s my hope that you might answer a few of the Council’s delicate questions about the technology behind cyborgs.
“For now, I invite you to take the east wing. Rooms have been prepared for all as well as a feast in your honor. Eat, drink, and rest tonight. See the sights if you wish, but do not stray outside of the palace grounds. My city is safe for its citizens, but they do harbor unfortunate feelings toward cyborgs.”
And whose fault is that?
“Welcome to Allegiant,” Titus said.
Knowing a dismissal when she saw one, Gwen turned to leave, following the shuffling performers out of the throne room.
