by Pierce Brown
Gudkind nods. “I do. I am. It is no lie. They are such delight for my spirit.”
“Well, everyone’s got a hobby.” I absently pat his arm. They freeze. I swallow and take my hand off him. Gudkind laughs and pats my shoulder.
“Indeed. A hobby! My hobby is whores!”
I manage to press on. “By the time I’m through with you, you’ll be such lie detectors you’ll never be able to go to another brothel without having an existential crisis.” The word doesn’t translate. “Without losing your…Pax! You still here?”
“Andi,” he calls from the wall.
“Without losing your andi. Your spirit. Now…” I light a match. The wind blows it out. Freihild kneels and cups her hands to shelter the next match from the wind. Making progress here. I light two burners and flip her one, then Gudkind too for equality and all that. “Now…I don’t wager physical pain will make a tick’s prick of difference to you, so we’ll put the pain where it counts. Today, we play Karachi until you are all poor as Reds or learn to read people just as well as snow. And to make sure it is real, you will each make real bets, backed by your war hoard. I know you’re all bloody millionaires. Or were before you found Jewel Street down in the city. So break into groups of seven, and get started.”
It is the fastest they’ve ever obeyed me. As they form into groups, I sense movement on a balcony in the war-wing of Griffinhold. Valdir stands flanked by his braves watching Freihild laughing as she forms up a group of skuggi for cards. They all seem to be competing for the chance to play against her. The look on Valdir’s face is not one of anger, but something far more complicated.
Then his eyes flick to me, and his face betrays him again. He knows I saw how he looked at Freihild. Man might be used to everyone thinking he’s a walking death god, but if Sefi saw him looking at the young skuggi like that, I’m not sure how long he’d be walking. Something about the Queen tells me she isn’t exactly the sharing kind.
“Careful, Mr. Horn,” Xenophon says as Valdir goes back inside. “If I have learned one thing, it is that Obsidians are predators who think they are prey. Never pit them against one another.”
“Didn’t dream of it.”
“Good.”
“Valdir seems to like you. Thought he was all about the Old Ways. You ain’t exactly that.”
Xenophon shivers from the cold. Out of pity, I return the midnight cloak. The logos nods in thanks. “I was a slave of Atlas au Raa since my graduation from the Menta. It was Valdir who found me in a…pitiable state. I have proven my worth to Sefi many times over, including against Peerless.” The word sounds like a curse on those thin lips. “I also advocated she remain with Darrow.”
“So whose idea was all this nonsense?” Alltribe and whatnot.
“The shaman’s.” Xenophon blinks very quickly, the same tic I spotted when they disliked the cards in their hand. “He also advocated for hiring you, against my advice. But I serve the Queen. As do you. And when her mind is made up, the only way is forward. Thank you for the cards. I look forward to analyzing the data.” The White bows. “Until our next game.”
What begins as an awkward, contrived hilarity soon becomes an actual lesson. As the Obsidians play, they act, guffaw, boast, and lie, not well, but by the end of the day of my poking and prodding, five or six could beat one or two lowlifes I knew on Luna. I partake in several games, and even let Freihild beat me on a hand so deep she wins back all I took during my demonstration. After that, going on 2200, I call it a day, and the braves tilt their chins up to me in respect as they pass.
“It is called skillgift,” Freihild drawls to me. She’s the last in the courtyard besides Pax. “Much was hidden from us by the Golds. Many of my people have had their war treasure lost to Reds and Grays. It is a dishonor to us. You give us a chance to reclaim honor with this skillgift. This pleases my brothers and sisters. And me. Even Screwface would lose to you in cards, I believe.”
“It’s just a tool,” I say. “Won’t be protecting the Alltribe with a game of cards.”
“I know.” She lingers for a moment, appraising me. “My brothers and sisters do not trust you.”
“Valdir seems to share that opinion.”
She watches me, trying to understand what I mean. “I would be careful speaking of Valdir, even in respect. He is Big Brother. Our protector and pride. If he doubts you, it is because he senses weakness. He is protective of our Queen, as am I.” She sticks a thumb in her chest. “My tribe was destroyed when Sefi joined the Rising. I had no people. Then Sefi gave me vjr again. Purpose. She gave us all purpose. You will not betray her.”
“Is that a threat or a prophecy?”
“I do not believe in prophecy.” She smiles. “I know it is Old Way. Spirits in Bleeding Place?” She makes a face. “Superstition enslaved my people. I pretend because I must. And because my Queen needs my faith. My tribe needs my faith. Tomorrow we will learn better. The next day, better still. We have much more to do for tribe.”
Pax watches Freihild disappear inside the barracks and comes over to me. “She’s sleeping with Valdir,” he says. I squint at him. He taps his ears. “Their hearts beat faster when they’re in the same room.” He taps his nose. “And she has his scent today.”
I light a burner. “Figured.”
“Do you think Sefi has?” he asks.
“Not our war, little man. Where’s the she-devil?”
“Probably playing with axes.”
He looks lonely. I tousle his hair, surprising him. I do it harder till he swats at me. “You really are a good egg, aren’t you?”
He straightens his hair. “Why’d you say that?”
“General comportment. And you haven’t asked me to break you out of here.”
“Could you?”
His bodyguard of six Valkyrie watches us from a portico. The biggest, Braga, spits toward me. “Rule number one, kid: always have insurance. You think I got you the garage so you could play with bikes?” He perks up. “What do you say we get wild drunk and I show you the schematics for a certain harness we’ll be needing if things start to go south…You can even tell me some crazy stories about your old man if we have time.”
He’s wary of me. “I have work to do in the garage. Speeder’s got a fuel cell leak.”
“Then why’d you hang around here all day? Come on…”
He tilts his head. “I suppose I could multitask if you can picnic.”
I grin. “Sounds like a plan, little man.”
A PACHELBEL SINGS MOURNFULLY OUT the window as I sit on the edge of my son’s bed in darkness. It smells like him: machine oil and pine nettles. His gizmos form a pile on a dark workbench at the far window, next to a shelf crammed with souvenirs my husband brought from his campaigns: hydra eggshells from Africa, sunpetals from Mercury, coral growth from the Thermic Sea. But no totems of war, as if my husband wanted to pretend he’d gone to explore instead of kill. Pax’s clothes still hang in the closet. His shoes line the wall, laces still tied, the backs squished down.
One day he’ll wear them again, but hopefully never learn to wear them properly.
Bring my son back to me, and I’ll leave Luna, I pray. But who hears a prayer to no one? Not Victra. She believes only in the power of herself. I hope it is enough. It must be enough.
Out the gabled window, water laps against the stone stairs that lead down to the lake. Beyond the shadowed trees, the estate’s Lionguard detail patrol, here only to protect Deanna, Darrow’s mother. She hates Luna, but lingers here as if knowing Darrow will need her when he comes back. I turn over an enigmatic device I find under Pax’s pillow. Something he built from the parts of six others. He had a meeting scheduled with Quicksilver to try to market it for his consumer products division. Was it for this? I activate its trigger and it emits a soft hum. I angle the concave projector toward myself and dip into a stream of opera. I tilt it away
and the stream disappears. Elegant.
“He built that for you.” I look up and see Deanna at the door. “He thought you could have your guards use it on you in all those meetings of yours.”
“Always thinking of others.” I set the device down on the bedside table. “It’s a fly in amber,” I say. “The rooms that remain. When your husband died, what did you do with his possessions?”
She leans against the doorframe. It tires her to stand too much these days. Barely over fifty, she’s had a hard life. “Used what we could. Bartered the rest for rations. Darrow liked to eat.” She searches my face. “I’ve spent enough time in the past, love. The dead need no tears. They don’t rest easier for our vengeance, or our guilt.” She shrugs. “They’d want us to live. And life’s about the now and the future, eh? Dale gave me three wee ones to remember him by. I’m lucky at that. And they gave me more wee ones to love. And they’re all still breathin’, far as I know, so don’t start wallowin’ now. We got our family to save, hear?”
“I think you might be the only person alive who still scolds me,” I say.
“That’s because I’m the only one you still need to impress,” she says with a grin. “Now off your ass, lass, the man’s just landin’ and he’s gonna be mad as a piter at me.”
* * *
—
Laughter comes from outside the house. The front door opens with a creak. An engine powers down. Shuffling footsteps come my way. Dancer limps with Deanna around the kitchen corner. His smile dies as soon as he sees me.
“Well, ain’t this the dirtiest of traps,” Dancer says. “Since when did you stoop to politics, Deanna?” He turns to leave, but Deanna blocks him.
“Don’t be a bloodydamn idiot. Either of you. You’ve been like two bickering hands. It’s embarrassing. Now sit. Sit,” she snaps. Grumbling, Dancer takes a seat across from me. Deanna shuffles to the stove and ladles out three bowls of beef stew. “I slaved over this for hours. By the time you’re done eating, you will have come to an agreement. Or I’ll be back here to paddle the shit out of your ears. Hear? Now I’ve got pants to patch. Can’t have Pax coming back to holes in his knees as well as his family.”
When Dancer found out from the media that Pax had gone with Victra on vacation to Mars, he was not pleased at missing a chance to say farewell to my son. He was as much a grandfather to the boy as Kavax was. A cruel ruse, but necessary to dispel his curiosity at Pax’s sudden disappearance. We linger in awkward silence. I’ve always felt very much a slaver in the old Red’s eyes. Guilty for my height, my health, and suddenly feeling foolish for the expense of my clothes.
Dressed in a scuffed brown jacket, leather boots, and drab gray pants, the resilient man makes no airs. In fact, he more resembles a Martian agriculturalist than the terrorist captain who became a senator who became a Tribune. He sits down to shovel stew in his mouth to get it over with. I join him. He pauses. “That third bowl isn’t for Deanna, is it?” He looks around warily, focusing on the open window and the dark gardens outside. Pachelbel twitter in the trees.
“You’re like a desiccated turd, old man.” Dancer wheels about as Sevro parts from the shadows near the pantry. “Must be hard holding back a fleet all by your lonesome.”
“Sevro. You are one stupid bastard.”
“Says the pot to the kettle.” Sevro sits on the counter, one leg dangling off.
Dancer glances to the hallway that leads to the front atrium. “I brought a cohort of Wardens. If they saw you here, at the scene of the crime…”
“Nah.” Sevro draws Tickler from his boot and starts cutting his nails. “Those blue capes hate getting dirty almost as much as the Pixies wearing them.”
“They’re burning down the city chasing after you.”
“Instead of chasing the Syndicate,” Sevro replies. “Well done, them.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, Wulfgar founded them. Just as you did the Howlers. This time they’ll go for the kill.”
“Then don’t invite them in,” I say, annoyed. “Sevro will behave.”
“Virginia, now is not the time for the Sovereign to be sharing stew with fugitives. No matter who they are. Or how untouchable she thinks she is.”
“A fugitive leads our best army,” I remind him.
“Lass, don’t false-equivocate. Mercury ain’t Luna. This is supposed to be the heart of law and order. At current tally, that human right there is wanted for sixty-eight counts of homicide and a hundred more capital offenses, half of which are against the state.” Sevro just stares at him. “I will not reduce my office to meeting with secret cabals. That is beneath us now. We are not the Sons of Ares. We are legitimate. I will act that way, even if you do not….”
He heads for the door, wanting so hard to be legitimate.
“Pax and Electra didn’t go with Victra to Mars. They were kidnapped by the Syndicate,” I say. He freezes. “That’s why Sevro has been on Luna. That’s why he’s in this room, amongst other reasons.” Dancer blinks, processing, then exhales and slumps back into his seat in pain. I glance at Sevro. He watches Dancer without even a hint of affection.
“When?” Dancer asks.
“After Quicksilver’s birthday.”
“Sadly, I know the date.” His lips make a tight line beneath his beard. “That explains a few…irregularities. So you and Darrow would have found out after Venus…” Sevro just watches, so I nod. “And he still went to Mercury.”
“Apex asshole, right?” Sevro chimes.
“Please stop,” I say.
Dancer doesn’t let it go either. “Going back to his men is one of the only good and true things he’s done in the last year, Sevro. Which is more than I can say for you.” Dancer glares and looks down the hall to the sitting room. His eyes linger on the hearth where Deanna knits. It broke my heart, but not my expectations, that some Reds saw my boy as a perversion. Dancer never did, no matter what he thinks of me. He would sit with Pax on his knee by the fire, smoking his pipe as my boy slept. Did it right up to the age where he’d be the one to fall asleep, and Pax would put the pipe out for him, and tuck a blanket under his grizzled chin. Dancer is thinking of the passage of time. How many years ago that was, and wondering where they all went. I know because the same thought monopolizes so many of my own hours.
“So. Tell me. How badly are you compromised?” he asks.
“I’m not the one who is compromised,” I say. He frowns as I pull the datadrop from my pocket. “I’ve long suspected that the Syndicate Queen was working for or in conjunction with another party—possibly one within our government. Thanks to Theodora, and a new method of interrogation, I’ve uncovered evidence.”
“You know who she is?” he asks warily.
“No. Unfortunately, she doesn’t even trust her Dukes with that information. But…there have been revelations.”
“Show him,” Sevro says.
I tell the datadrop to play. Sevro scoots forward so he’s within the three-dimensional perimeter of the holo. Memories are imperfect. They bleed into each other. We skitter through fragments of his life. The Duke is at the beach one moment, bending to pick something up. Then he is riding in a shuttle, speaking to his Queen; her face is obscured with a mask that writhes with what looks like locusts. It was too much to hope for a perfect look at her face, but I’ll get one soon enough. We have her location. But first we will make sure our own house is in order.
Finally, a hotel suite expands around us, faded where the Duke of Hands’ peripheral vision ends. The ceiling is the clearest, carved with cupids and forest creatures. Candles float, beneath the ceiling, dripping down wax. Heavy breathing comes from the memory. The sound of sheets clenched as the breath quickens to agonizing climax. Then a perspective distortion that makes the cupids grow larger than the closer candles. Spasmodic psychedelic light pixelates the cupids above, dissolving their bodies. They drift for what must b
e a minute, before racing back together. Focus pulses out, then in. Breath eases out, and a man’s head rises upward, laying kisses on the Duke’s chest until Dancer’s face fills the memory as he closes his eyes to kiss the Duke on the mouth.
“It seems reveries are imperfect,” I say. “Auditory recall is extremely flawed. So are actions. They reflect latent guilt and sometimes alter to seem more heroic. Faces, on the other hand, are almost never forgotten. The colors are often different depending upon the time extract, the mood more magnetic or colder. A brain is not a hardrive. The spaces between—that jump you noticed—are…Well, I guess no one has ever called them anything before. Let’s name them fissures. The fissures are the time between the memories we retain. I’ve not had long to make a reconnaissance. Some span minutes, some weeks. Most reveries are laced with fissures. I only found this one because it was entirely intact. He cherished this memory, it seems. Unfortunately, a hologram is a poor means of communicating the memory; prime fidelity occurs from sympathetic shadowing.” I tap my head. “Literally experiencing it. I assure you, it is quite strange.”
“How?” Dancer asks, his face flushed a deep crimson. His outsized miner hands are squeezing the edge of the table. The wood is starting to splinter as he stares at the reverie.
“I have technology that maybe one, probably two others are familiar with, though not to my degree of sophistication, I don’t think. But they’re on Mercury.”
“I meant how is that any of your bloodydamn business,” he growls, looking at me like he’s about to lunge forward and rip out my jugular. Sevro slips closer to my side, as surprised as I am by his venomous reaction. “You think you can blackmail me with this for my vote? Ruin me? Drag me in front of the branders like some poetic horror? I don’t care if my people spit on me. If they say I should be gelded. If you rob away the only thing that matters to me. Slag you.”
Even Sevro is rocked on his heels by the anger in Dancer’s eyes.
