Dark Age

by Pierce Brown

  Quicksilver chuckles to himself, and waits in good nature for me to conclude the show. They look so smug. And why not? They’ve always gotten what they want from me, because it was cheaper to agree with them than to teach them. And they are good at what they do—staggeringly efficient, inventive, ambitious, and productive. But ancient Celts didn’t invent spurs because horses are obedient.

  When the apple is little but core, I toss it on the table. I extend my hand back to Holiday again. She hands me earcaps. I insert them and reach back one last time. Now she hands me her anti-tank railrifle.

  “My answer to your proposal.”

  Spitting an apple seed out of my mouth, I stand, shoulder the gun, take aim over the oligarchs, and fire a round into the Dawn of Hermes. They dive to the floor in terror. The magnetically propelled uranium round carves a trail of blue friction flames over their heads, setting the hair of Senator Krieg on fire, and hits the statue with the force of a pilum missile.

  The oligarchs hold their wailing ears and peek out from behind the table. Smoke twirls through the hole blasted in the back of the room. The statue is in ruins. I admire the gun and toss it back to Nakamura.

  I take off my earcaps to dead silence.

  “You just bankrupted three insurance companies,” Quicksilver says, stirring the dust into his tea before taking a sip.

  One of the Silvers clutches his cravat and, ears deafened by the report of the gun, shrieks in angst.

  “Apologies, Bartus,” Quicksilver says. “I told you, you should have split the liability.”

  “The forty-nine-year-old human male is temporarily experiencing reduced auditory function of ninety percent,” Quicksilver’s sentinel robot explains.

  “Oh. Remind me to tell him later.”

  “Yes, master.”

  Of the thirty-three industrialists, Quicksilver alone did not move. The moment the gun touched my hand, the air distorted around him, bending the flames away. Sound also seems not to have penetrated. Curious technology. Did it come from his Sentinel drone? I can’t tell. It drifts above his head like a pendulum, emitting arcane high-pitched frequencies. Interesting. Holiday tracks it like a scout, no doubt wondering how best to kill it, and how many ways it could kill her. She better be using that sensor packet she brought. I like mysteries even less than bad breath.

  It is time to address the room. “My goodmen,” I repeat four times until I have their attention. “Today is not a day for extortion. Today is the day for patriots. You should ask what you can do for our distressed Republic. Instead you present it with demands. Instead of rallying votes to help your comrades, you jockey for gain.” I look at Quicksilver. I asked for a private meeting, and he ambushed me with this, as I knew he would. For too long, he’s been distracted, cantankerous, as if his coronation were on the horizon and all this was merely an inconvenience. He’s working on something, some project even with all my spies I am unable to identify. We don’t have time for pet projects. What hesitation I had is now gone. The deck must be reshuffled. I soften my tone for him. “There was a time when two men stood against tyranny. Fitchner au Barca and you. Where did that man go?”

  He doesn’t care to answer.

  “Give them the recording, so I know they all heard me,” I tell Nakamura.

  I turn back to Quicksilver. “My answer to your extortion is no. My counteroffer is this: You have five seconds to tell your senators downstairs they will vote with me. Or…”

  “Or what?” Quicksilver asks, as if I am still the aspiring politico he knew twelve years ago. I am not. She had better legs, but far less menace.

  “Or I punish you in proportion to your ransom,” I say. “You are being intractable for some inscrutable reason. So you will be spanked.”

  “Oh dear. How? Will you shoot more of my belongings? Have Sevro drop the ceiling and castrate Daedalus over there?”

  A handsome young Silver caught digging in his ear regains his hearing at just the wrong time. He pales and looks at the ceiling. “What did I do? I make condensed proteins.”

  “Grow up, Virginia. These antics of your family have grown tiresome.” Quicksilver jabs a finger into the table. “This is how the world works. Quid. Pro. Quo.”

  I nod to Nakamura.

  She starts counting. “Five…four…”

  “Ridiculous theatrics.” Quicksilver strokes that Gold eyeball ring of his. “Matteo isn’t even this dramatic.”

  “Three…two…one.”

  I walk toward the door.

  “Remember, we built this Republic!” Quicksilver calls after me. “Us. Not you.” His voice spikes sharply toward anger. “Virginia! Don’t be a fool. Come back and be reasonable. You need us.”

  “That’s what you fail to understand,” I say at the door. “There’s no scarcity principle at play here, goodman. You taught me better than anyone, where there’s need, a Silver will always appear. Doesn’t have to be you.” I toss the earcaps across the room. They land in Quicksilver’s teacup. “Your votes, goodmen. If not for the Republic, for yourselves.”

  I leave.

  Holiday smiles as we enter my shuttle. “Did you enjoy that, ma’am?” she asks.

  “Far too much.”

  “Will Sefi strike before the vote?”

  “I doubt it. We’ve gained half the Silvers today, but in a month they’ll all come begging.” I look at my datapad and glower. “To Sunhall. Looks like the Goblin has made a new mess.”

  THE CHIEF ASSASSIN OF the Syndicate is dead. The Duke of Heads’ cranium has replaced that of a neo-Rococo mermaid who endures the unwanted attention of a particularly immoral agate satyr. The pool beneath is brackish with blood. Scarlet frogs hop along the lip of the fountain. I am thoroughly repulsed.

  Bravo, Sevro. You’ve outdone yourself. Your wrath is so legendary.

  In my private office off Sunhall in the Citadel, I chew the inside of my cheek and cycle the hologram. Theodora’s investigators sent it from the North Hyperion mansion not ten minutes ago. With Daxo managing the vote hunt, I have precious time to spare to search for evidence they missed, just no time at all for my untouched dinner.

  The arch-assassin for the Syndicate was a Gray man with a heavy mustachio held together at the ends by two platinum bands. He had big bones. And a strong neck, before it was severed by a razor. Amplifying the image, I find minor imperfections in the cut. Sevro’s razor. He’s the only Howler who uses a serrated blade. Doesn’t make much difference when the edge is so sharp, but he thinks it looks scarier. He’s right.

  Little else remains of the Duke’s body. The carnivorous fish in the pool below were as thorough as my tax collectors should be. All that remains is his skeleton, and the hook that lowered him. What a waste of a chance. If Sevro finds the Duke of Hands before I do and does this, then I fear we will never find who is truly behind this.

  Since he snuck onto this moon, Sevro has brought the horrors he learned on the front lines fighting the Fear Knight to the prime stream of the holoNet. I’ve managed to cover most of the massacres up, but some slip through.

  To make matters worse, he’s in lonewolf protocol. No contact until the mission is complete, until the Queen is dead. Damn Victra for setting him to this madness. It has netted him little more than eight hundred Syndicate thorns, seven narcotics-processing facilities, sixteen minor nobles, a duke, and a duchess, but no Queen. It has cost him far more. Three Howlers, three weeks of precious time, the attention of the Republic Warden, and a declaration of war by the Syndicate Queen.

  Gruesome details flicker past: appendages nailed to walls, headless bodies sitting around an equally offensive topaz table, corpses in the atrium wearing glossy green armor. Emerald Orphans, by their markings. A freelancer company from Mars, consisting of elite ex-legion Grays. Mercenaries. A predictable but frustrating escalation.

  Unable to stop him on her own, the Queen of the S
yndicate has turned to the free market to rid herself of Victra’s attack dog.

  The highest-priced contract in the history of the war hangs over Sevro’s head. It is sufficient to draw every bounty hunter, hitman, and freelancer in the Republic to Luna for the greatest private manhunt in a century.

  A small economy has spawned from the underworld wagers on who will claim top prize. Sevro will not see it coming. Death will fall from a quiet man atop a skyscraper some kilometers away. A smart-slug or a DNA-seeking hunterkiller drone. And then my brother’s best friend is gone.

  He should be on Mars with Victra, or Mercury with Darrow, or working with me. Is revenge worth that much to you, Victra?

  Gods, she pisses me off.

  They underestimated the Queen. As did I, at first. She has training. Military-style organization and compartmentalization, safe-houses, heavy arms, an impressive network of spies, even several military-grade attack ships.

  Theodora’s women were thorough in their forensic investigation of the scene. I give up on finding exotic clues and deactivate the hologram. Here in a vestibule of my private sanctuary, the walls are covered with fragments of paper. Remnants of my childhood that Darrow thinks best burned. I keep them to remember what madness lurks within myself. To stay on the stiletto path, and realize what waits if I am tempted to wander off.

  Within the frames on the wall of the vestibule are 311 puzzles, all that remains of those that my brother Adrius would make for me when we were children. I stare at them. Many are mazes, others complicated cryptograms or esoteric experiments. Each I solved. But I cannot solve this puzzle of who threatens my Republic. I gently stroke the leaves of the night lily at the base of the puzzles. Many more of the plants decorate the room. My office, like many of the rooms in the Citadel, contains defense mechanisms. Most are violent in nature. But some, like the escape tube concealed in the walls behind the puzzles, are only meant for retreat. I prefer the flowers, personally. The maids and staff know they are never to be touched, on pain of incarceration. They don’t know why. The lily’s necrotic needles quiver at my touch, but it was gentle enough to leave them docile. If one seized the plant, the needles would spring forward. The pain is said to be worse than amputation. The poison spreads slowly, but eventually death follows. Dangerous to keep around, but so incongruent with the rest of my personality that it seems a necessary last line of defense.

  I cross my arms as I look at the puzzles. They all challenged me. My brother was clever. But once they are solved, they seem so simple.

  Will I think the same when I unwind the Queen of the Syndicate?

  When I discover why Quicksilver continues to stonewall?

  I look around. Am I being played right this very moment?

  A fire crackles in the hearth across the room, and I wonder if this isn’t the beginning of my tragedy. If Victra fails in her clumsy gambit to retrieve my son, if no ships sail to Mars, will I reign for sixty more years in the shadow of their memories? An old woman in an empty castle?

  Boots clack against the metal floor behind me, and I seal the vestibule of puzzles behind a security wall. “I just spit in the eye of my oldest ally, Nakamura. While the godfather of my son decorates my doorstep with corpses. I could really use some good news.” I turn to face the centurion at the door. She wears a rare smile along with her black lion assault armor. In her arms is my white box. “She got him?”

  “She got him. Lionguard is kitted and ready to roll.”

  I grab both her shoulders and kiss her straight on the mouth. She gawps at me and then laughs as I rush out the door. “Come, Centurion, the hunt’s afoot.”

  * * *

  —

  Four stealth shuttles filled with Lionguard elite, a Sovereign, and a former Howler fly west as the blitz presses into its twenty-fourth hour. Beneath, Hyperion boils. Armored, with my precious white box in my lap, I watch the holoDisplays.

  Dancer was right. Tempers have escalated.

  On the Via Appenia, a human river of Vox march south toward Hero Center, united now with Lunese who fear war returning to their moon. Optimate supporters and my husband’s zealots march west along the Via Triumphia. Riot police, energy barriers, and mechanized units descend to keep the peace.

  Yet the demagogues keep pouring the fuel.

  ArchImperator Zan stokes fear to swell the supporters of the Vox’s radical wing. She pounds her pulpit, as enthusiastically as a frigid Blue can stirring up a frenzy of Lunese patriotism, claiming Atalantia will come to Luna and not a ship will be left to protect the moon. Vox Blackchains—lowColor civilian shock troops wearing chained necklaces—terrorize highColor neighborhoods, beat Silver businessmen, break windows, and intimidate local magistrates into begging senators to vote for Luna. Worried midColors flock to Dancer’s moderation. He soothes them, his message carrying hope and notions of sacrifice. It is easy for them to feel noble. It isn’t the children of Luna who die on Mercury.

  Despite Publius the Incorruptible’s public support for my cause, we have lost the Silvers and the vote is descending into madness. Back home on Mars, Reds burn effigies of Dancer, and march with slingBlades. The same crowds that sing the Forbidden Song wave lion icons and chant, “Lionheart! Reaper!” ArchGovernor Rollo gives a rousing screed that ends with “Treason might float on Luna, but not on Mars. Any senator that votes to kill the Free Legions and the Reaper of Mars better enjoy that bloodsucking moon, for if they come back, I’ll pull their bloodydamn feet!”

  Thunderous applause.

  To make matters worse, it looks as though the Obsidians will vote against me. Sefi is playing too many games for her own good. Does she not know that every step she has taken since she departed Luna has been part of my design? I thought her wiser than that.

  Amidst all this, a ray of light. Theodora has proven herself worthy of the second chance I gave her after she resorted to torturing Lyria of Lagalos against my orders.

  We unload on the roof of the blacksite before the shuttles can set down. Leading the Lionguard ops team, Holiday jumps out like a kuon hound, her flinty eyes roving the shadows for signs of danger, her ambi-rifle packed with all sorts of Sun Industries mayhem. I land in gravBoots with a heavy clomp, tuck my white box under my arm, and head toward a door stamped with radiation warnings.

  The blacksite is quiet. The lights dim. Behind two high-security doors, several of Theodora’s Splinter operatives, deadly Pink assassins in next season’s Hyperion couture, lounge incongruously atop mass-produced furniture, smoking burners with a famous Violet soprano of the Hyperion Opera. The soprano bursts to his feet upon my entrance. He’s still wearing the costume of a Renaissance courtier: a rapier, a fur-trimmed night cloak, and a carnival mask that dangles from a string around his neck. I applaud as he sweeps up from his low bow.

  “My Sovereign.”

  “Bravo, Basillicus. I heard your performance tonight was one for the ages. Both the aria and the fourth-act seduction. Would that I had seen it all.”

  “We all play our small part.” His voice rings clear and thin. “And what a stage you gave us, my liege. Perhaps you will attend the Orphia again soon, when the days are less dire. Lucreto does so miss your patronage. Of our great benefactors, we see not even the Master Carver these days.”

  In fact, no one has seen Mickey for a month. I have my theories. Daxo’s are hilarious.

  “Perhaps,” I say to the Splinter. “We all would be better for seeing beauty more often. Your service tonight will not be forgotten.”

  “Hail Reaper,” he replies softly, pulling a small slingBlade necklace from beneath his cravat. He kisses the blade as though it were sacred. “We pray to the Vale and the Old Man who stands astride the Path that he and the Lost Legions will be delivered. We also pray for you.”

  “Save your prayers to gods and spirits, Basillicus. Humans made this mess. Humans will fix it.”

  The interrogation r
oom is a soundproof white cube in the center of a dilapidated propaganda factory, the windows of which have been welded over. In the gloom, water slithers down hunched old machines to feed fungus growing on piles of plastic Ajas and toy Vanguards.

  Two of Theodora’s Green psychotechs sit in front of the interrogation cube’s transparent data wall illuminated with neurological data from the prisoner inside.

  “Theodora,” I call as we cross the room. “You beautiful carnivorous flower. I’d kiss you, but it would fluster Nakamura. You’re worth ten legions, you gem.” My spymaster wears a long black citycloak. Her white hair is coiled atop her delicate head like a nesting albino snake. Eyes cold and lovely as rhodolite garnet sweep over us.

  “Only two legions actually, but that was when I was sixteen.” The smile of the shorter woman is slow and minor. A musk barely perceptible to even my senses lingers in the air. I feel a little nauseous. Hardly a coincidence.

  “Do they know he’s missing?” I ask.

  “He snuck away for his deprivations. We probably have several hours before they know. But they may have taken precautions.”

  “And the leak?”

  “Dripping.”

  “Nakamura, what are you doing?” I call.

  She’s crept closer to the interrogation cube. Theodora steps in her path and puts a delicate hand on her breastplate. “Easy, girl.” Holiday pushes her to the side in her eagerness to draw even closer to the Duke of Hands, stopping only when Theodora breaks smelling salts under her nose. Holiday blinks out of her reverie and looks down to see her safety is off on her rifle. She clicks it back on.

  “Sorry. I…what was that?”

  “Pheromonal defense mechanisms,” Theodora says.