Sea of Stars (Kricket #2)

by Amy A. Bartol

  I lift my eyes to stare across the gallery from us. A lone figure leans over the railing, his elbows on the balustrade with his hands clasped together. He’s between two columns that are carved in the image of saers. What sets this Etharian apart to make me notice him is that he’s not Rafian; his dress uniform is that of a Comantre Syndic. His long, golden-brown hair is rolled into dreadlocks and secured in a ponytail. He looks like a surfer—someone you’d see on a beach in Chicago’s North Park playing two-man volleyball. The paler skin on his jaw suggests that he had a beard, but shaved it recently. I can’t tell what color his eyes are from this distance as they bore into mine, returning my stare, but I’d bet Wayra an entire venish that they aren’t violet.

  Dreadlock-man watches us move to the palatial staircase that leads to the main concourse below. My skin prickles with goose bumps as I begin my descent on the stairs, feeling an eerie sense of déjà vu. I’ve read some things regarding quantum physics: how everyone and everything is made up of energy. It’s as if I feel the energy between this soldier at the gallery railing and me. Taking the first few steps down, the hard foam securing my hands behind me cracks, loosening to allow my fingers to move.

  My breathing quickens and my heartbeat thunders even faster than it had in the last few minutes. For a moment, I’m unable to look away from the man at the railing above. When I reach the main concourse of the station, the pull between us is broken. The soldier steps back from the railing so I can no longer see him, disappearing behind a column.

  I inhale deeply, as if coming back to myself. Wiggling my fingers, the pressure that made them numb is gone. Did he do that? I wonder. I try to track where Dreadlock-man went, but it’s impossible to see behind me as my upper arm is tugged forward and I’m hustled across the crowded room.

  A wave of citizens parts for us as the soldiers in front usher them to the sides. Some of the onlookers we pass have starstruck expressions. When we reach the center of the room, a life-size holographic projection captures my attention. It’s a newsreel playing out events. I almost trip over my own feet when I recognize one of the realistic images as mine. Dressed in the torn, lavender ball gown from the swank last night, I’m made of light, looking pale and fragile as I’m carried from the palace ballroom in Trey’s arms. It also shows light images of Wayra and Jax flanking us with their guns up, braced against their shoulders. That clip isn’t long, lasting only a few moments before the camera pans to the chaos of artillery fire and mortar blasts. There’s a heart-stopping shot of a hovering, ferocious-looking Alameeda E-One crouching over the palace.

  Citizens in the station crowd around the hologram news clip, murmuring to one another in agitation over the events they’re witnessing. In a few moments, the newsreel changes again and an image of me is back, descending the elegant palace staircase at my debut, smiling a plastic smile to the crowd below before the fighting began. As I look around, I realize that there are more life-size holograms displaying the events of last night.

  People near us begin to lose some of the shock our presence seemed to instill. There’s confusion as we continue on. Those who were watching the holograms now trail behind us, hoping to get a longer look. Ahead of us, three dronelike orbs the size of basketballs fly around us. One darts in close to me, crowding me like a hungry seagull at the beach. A black camera lens protrudes from the front of the white-metal orb, making blink-click noises. The other two have lenses, as well, that survey everything, circling us with the speed of hummingbirds to capture three-dimensional images.

  Trey gestures with his head to the drone cameras. “The media are here.”

  “What do they want?” I ask as I’m jostled from the pushback of the crowd.

  “They want to see you,” he replies. His lips thin in a grim line.

  The Brigadet soldiers are shoving everyone back, but members of the press keep trying to get to me. Flashes of light strobe us as the reporters shout above the aggressive crowd. A beautiful, dark-haired girl with a small star embossed above the arch of her eyebrow yells to me, “Fay Kricket, is it true you knew about the Alameeda attack before the event last night?” The camera drone swoops near to my face, blink-clicking as the black lens focuses in. “Whose side are you on, Rafe or Alameeda?” I drop my chin, confused by the frenzy that surrounds me. “Do you know what the Alameeda are planning?” “Is it true you tried to kill the Regent at the swank last night?” “Is that why you’re being restrained?”

  The Brigadets are funneling me ahead toward a niche in the wall. It contains a larger overup than the others. This lift is also different because whereas the other overups have embedded video screens in their smaller doors that stream the same newsreels we saw in the holograms, these much larger doors are inlayed with iridescent mother-of-pearl. Etched within the double doors are two Art Deco saers. The saber-toothed tigers are on their hind legs, breathing shiny gray, lavender, and blue flames as they face each other in mirrored symmetry.

  I’m pulled away from Trey’s side by a yank on my arm and herded toward the enormous elevator with the saers on the front of it. Trey, Wayra, and Jax are taken in the opposite direction, toward the smaller overup doors.

  “Trey!” I call his name, twisting as I try to see him being led away from me.

  Trey fights the soldiers pulling us apart. “I need to stay with her! We have to stay together.” He head-butts the soldier holding his arm. Camera drones hover above him, capturing the fight as Trey roundhouse kicks another soldier who tries to grasp his arm. Wayra and Jax fight the soldiers near them too. Wayra lowers his head and uses it rampaging-bull style as he forces it into a soldier’s stomach. The crowd around us begins screaming, as soldiers try to push them back by force. The AFA arms again, focusing its lethal gun barrels on Trey.

  I wrench my arm away from the soldier holding me. The cracks that have formed in the foam shackles shatter the restraint, allowing my hands to go free. I stumble into the middle of the fight. Pushing past Raspin with an elbow to his face, the Comantre Brigadet holds his bloody mouth. I run to Trey, throwing myself against him. My arms wrap around his neck as I plead near his ear, “Don’t fight them! They’ll kill you! I’ll be okay; I’m stone, remember? Nothing touches me.” It’s not true. I have a paper heart and he has written notes all over it.

  “Kricket,” Trey whispers against my neck. I tilt my face so I can see him. He kisses me hard on the lips. It’s a desperate kiss—a last kiss.

  My arm is seized and I’m forced away from Trey once more. Behind me, I hear them beating on him. I stumble and try to tear myself away from the soldier holding me again, but he forces me into the ornate conveyance in front of us.

  Inside, the chamber is much larger and grander than a standard elevator. A low-lit crystal chandelier hangs down from the center of the twenty-foot-high ceiling. High-back cushioned benches line three walls with dove gray velvet upholstery. The large velvet-covered buttons in the benches make diamond patterns in the fabric. The glass above the benches is antiqued and smoky, reflecting our images in blurred impressions.

  When the doors slide closed, I feel the overup move laterally before it begins to rise at a stomach-dropping rate. I’m still panting from the struggle. The soldier beside me lets go of my arm, since there’s nowhere for me to run in here. Every part of me wants to sink onto one of the soft gray benches, rest my cheek against the cushion, and cry my heart out, but I refuse to give in to it. Instead, I stand among the handful of soldiers, watch the doors in front of me, and wait.

  CHAPTER 2

  DON’T MESS WITH ME

  None of us move when the doors glide open. I stare ahead into the dim room. The sliver of light from the overup’s chandelier falls on a round, dark wood table ahead. In the center of the table is an enormous vase, dripping with a vibrant arrangement of znous, the deadly killer-insect-carrying, turbine-boring-worm flowers. Their scent and stunning color make the blood drain away from my face as I stare at them.
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  A stern, masculine voice calls from somewhere within the room. “Fay Kricket, you may come in.”

  I push back images of a brutal foster father I once had, thinking, Don’t show fear. They live for it. I take a tentative step off the overup. No one else accompanies me.

  The dark, hardwood floor beneath my feet squeaks from a loose floorboard, the noise echoes in the tomblike atmosphere of the room. The overup doors slide closed behind me, shutting off the sliver of light. As my eyes adjust to the dimness, I realize I’ve been let off in the center of the room where just this table resides to greet its visitors.

  “Take a flower, if you’d like,” the man in the room offers, his tone far from warm. I squint toward the right side of the chamber. In the direction from which the voice came I see a wide, beautifully carved mahogany desk. The dark wing-backed chair behind it is turned toward the wall-window, the glass of which has been darkened so that it doesn’t let in much light, but does not impede the breathtaking view of the skyline. Nothing of the man is visible above the black upholstery of the chair.

  I clear my throat before I say, “I would take a flower, but I have this thing against cranium-boring worms: I don’t like them.”

  He doesn’t turn to face me. “I was told that znous are your favorite. I had the worms removed especially for you.”

  “It’d be a shame to spoil the carefully planned arrangement,” I decline, speaking less about the flowers and more about whatever he has in mind for me.

  From the left-hand side of the room, a watery-blue light flickers on, drawing my attention to it. My breath catches in my throat. I reach out to the table in front of me to hold it for support, disturbing the flower arrangement and causing several white and fuchsia znou petals to fall to the dark surface.

  “Manus!” My whisper is involuntary.

  Ahead of me, the entire wall on the left-hand side of the room is a tank, like the kind I’d seen at Shedd Aquarium for the shark exhibit. This one is a bit different, however, in that it doesn’t have exotic fish in it, or a sunken lighthouse, or a treasure chest. It only has one occupant: Manus. With a partial mask over his nose and mouth, he’s encased in a maze of tubing amid bubbling, gurgling fluid. Readouts light up one side of the glass, pulsing and flashing in waves and colors. My hand sweeps the table; I grasp some of the fallen znou petals in my fist.

  I steady myself before I walk to the tank on trembling legs, gently touching the coolness of the glass that separates us with the tips of my fingers. I pull them back as a display lights up.

  The male voice is just behind me now. I don’t look over my shoulder at him when he says, “They just finished installing him here a few fleats ago,” he explains, using his word that means “minutes.” “I said it was for his protection, but between you and me, he’s more of a souvenir.”

  “A souvenir?” He’s totally evil, I think. I’m afraid to turn around and see him.

  “We never did get along.” He walks to stand next to me, leaning near the glass. He taps on it with his fingernails. I give him a quick glance, just catching his profile. He’s old-looking, with streaks of white in his once-black hair. It means he must be ancient, maybe thousands of years old.

  A thin, red scar runs from his left eye to his mouth; it puckers his lip on one side, giving him a snarl. I wonder at the reason he never had it removed—or wrapped, as they call it, like most citizens do when they receive wounds that scar. I doubt it’s for the same reason Wayra doesn’t: I don’t think the blushers would be attracted to him, scar or not. However old he is, though, he’s still formidable. He’s nowhere near grandfatherly, unless the grandfather was ex–Special Forces and addicted to steroids. I doubt very much that I’d last more than a second with him in a fight, not a fair one anyway. He towers over me.

  He holds a very stylized handheld cig-a-like smoker. It’s silver with a few gold cog-like coins embossed on the long shaft. He puts the black mouthpiece to his lips and sucks in the water vapor from the pipe. He exhales a puff of fragrance not unlike brown sugar. I silently vow to never eat anything that smells like that again.

  I turn away from him, facing Manus in the medical stasis tank once more. “What happened to him?” I ask. One shoulder looks as if it had been bitten off by a rather large shark, and there are burns that go to the bone on his legs, abdomen, and face.

  “Haut Manus”—his stress on Manus’s elite title is less than respectful—“was wounded quite severely. I believe he was struck by sonic sayzers—he has contusions—”

  “Excuse me, but what are sonic sayzers?”

  “It’s a weapon strapped to the arm.” He moves his liver-spotted wrist between me and the tank and makes gestures indicating the weapon is affixed somehow on one’s wrist and aimed Spider-Man style. “It projects sound in bursts at frequencies that can shatter bones and rupture cells.” He drops his wrist to his side, drawing another puff from his cig-a-like.

  “Where does the sound come from?”

  “Preprogrammed frequencies. Some are milder than others. Injuries can be superficial or substantial, based upon the calibration. The Regent suffered injuries that are consistent with a lethal frequency.” He doesn’t sound unhappy about the unfortunate injuries suffered by his sovereign.

  “So they’re killer noisemakers.” I interpret. “Where did this happen?”

  “The Alameeda caught him in the floral gardens of the palace. The sonic sayzers ruptured cells in his upper right torso, right shoulder, neck, and cranial areas. He had to have regenerative skin grafts and cell modifications.” He touches the tank and a log of the procedure lights up, projecting images of Manus and his injuries onto the glass so that I can view it. I wince. It’s gruesome.

  “But he’ll live, right?” I ask, irritated that I’m worried about Manus after all he did to me. He’s a complication I don’t need, but I don’t hope for his death.

  “Your fiancé will survive,” he assures me.

  “I’m no longer the Regent’s fiancée. That ended last night.”

  “Oh, I know. You were never going to commit to him. You haven’t asked me who I am yet,” the man adds in a sinister tone. This is a game to him and he’s enjoying it.

  “I know who you are. You’re Head Defense Minister Telek.”

  “You surprise me,” he says disdainfully, with a cold glare. He must not like surprises. “Is that one of your priestess gifts?”

  “Hardly. Your soldiers read your order to us when we were arrested. You ordered me into your custody for interrogation. So . . . here I am.”

  “Yes, here you are,” he agrees. “It has been reported that you had some prior knowledge that there would be an Alameeda attack last night.”

  “I knew they were coming, if that’s what you mean.”

  “That is what I mean. How did you know?”

  “I witnessed the attack before it happened,” I answer, meeting his unwavering stare. His violet eyes make me want to shiver from the hatred I see in them.

  “You . . . witnessed it?” comes his skeptical reply. “In a crystal ball perhaps? Isn’t that what human witches use?”

  “I’m neither human nor a witch,” I reply, trying not to let him rile me. It’s what he wants and I won’t do what he wants, not for anything.

  “No, you’re an Alameeda priestess,” he agrees.

  “I’m a coriness of Rafe,” I counter.

  He doesn’t miss a step. “You didn’t answer my question. Do you use a crystal ball?”

  “Not quite. It’s more of an out-of-body experience.” I blush because saying the words out loud makes me sound crazy.

  “That must be a departure for you, not using your body to get what you want.”

  I know what he’s implying, but I ignore the innuendo. “I rarely get what I want, Minister Telek,” I reply honestly, “within my body or outside of it.”

  “Speaking of bodies,�
�� Minister Telek segues, “do you know what the surgeons plan to do to Haut Manus’s?” he asks me.

  I stare for a moment at Manus. His eyes are closed. There are several swimmi-bots tending to him. One looks to be a flesh-layering bot, patching skinlike material over a segment of his calf where the burns are not as severe. Another is like a suckerfish-bot, extracting dead, floating, barely attached skin from his shoulder.

  “No,” I admit warily.

  He gestures to one of the two thronelike chairs behind us that face the tank and orders, “Have a seat and I’ll show you what a regeneration looks like.”

  I slip into the soft chair; it makes me feel tiny by comparison, and my toes have to point to touch the floor.

  Minister Telek takes the other. We’re angled toward each other but still face the tank. A side table separates me from him, yet I feel as if we’re still too close.

  “On screen,” Minister Telek says, “Trey Allairis—cue to Regeneration file.”

  The tank containing Manus darkens to opaque. It becomes the backdrop to holographic images, like the video walls at the palace.

  My breath catches when a hologram projector shows Trey’s three-dimensional images in a rapid stream from his infancy to his childhood. Most of the younger images are Trey with his twin brother, Victus. There are several in which both brothers have one arm over each other’s shoulder with Trey holding a rather atrocious-looking fish out to the camera.