Dark Age

by Pierce Brown

  “Only an animal does not plan past the moment.” I slip sideways as he fires at where I was. “So what does that make you?”

  The sand is cold under my bare feet as I stalk closer.

  It’s a trap. He’s hunched forward now, not bothering to speak. He waits for me to make a sound. Obliging, I toss a rock against the hull. He ignores it. But he does not ignore my feet as I push off the sand to jump toward him. He fires as if I were running. Blisters bubble on my feet as the pulseblast warbles just beneath them.

  I land a hair too close and swing my razor down. He catches it in his hand. There’s a jolt as it splits his gauntlet and divides the radius and ulna bones down the elbow. It sticks there. I sense his razor coming for my belly. I toggle my blade into a whip, and twist to the side, holding on to the razor pommel with my left hand. His blade misses most of me, but bites hard into my hipbone. The pain is excruciating. His left shoulder crashes into my face. I stumble backward, retract the razor out of his arm, and parry his following slash upward. I push away from him as I fall. He pursues. I switch my razor back into a whip and lash it around his ankles as they pass each other mid-stride. Then I transition the razor back to rigid form, and from my knees deliver the coup de grâce of the Willow Way, the Weeping Noose.

  The whip encircling his ankles stiffens and retracts into a straight metal line. It goes through armor, flesh, and bone to do so.

  With his feet cut off at the ankles, Seneca falls with a crash.

  “No!” he roars on the ground, slashing wildly. I gather myself into a crouch and stay out of range. “No! Fucking brat. Fucking child. They said you were a Pixie!”

  “It would seem they judge the wrong virtues.”

  I wait for his riven body to tire. When his protests grow weak, I approach and stand before him. I favor the deep wound in my hip. “Who is your favorite poet?” I ask.

  “What?” Seneca barks.

  “Your favorite poet, man.”

  He sighs. “Kipling.”

  I sort through what comes to mind, and decide upon a passage.

  “Time hath no tide but must abide

  The servant of Thy will;

  Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhyme

  The ranging stars stand still—

  Regent of spheres that lock our fears

  Our hopes invisible,

  Oh ’twas certes at Thy decrees

  We fashioned Heaven and Hell!”

  “Fuck you, you fucking P—”

  I decapitate Seneca. As his head rolls to the sand, I let go of the Mind’s Eye and the world throbs.

  I am spent. Exhaustion falls like a sweaty anvil. There are wounds upon my body that I did not notice until now. Lines of fire race along two deep gashes in my thigh, though the most painful is the last one Seneca gave me because I passed on the pulseFist in favor of the razor. Apparently honor is expensive. Then from behind, a man applauds.

  “Apollonius au Valii-Rath, I presume?”

  “Indubitably. So the Mind’s Eye is real after all. Atalantia swore it was a myth. But to see it…ah, to see it.”

  “Octavia refused to teach her,” I say. “Is that what you desire? My grandmother’s secrets?”

  “Beggar the whole bounty for this chief prize.”

  “The Eye is not a razor to be wielded by any man,” I say, taking a seat on the ground in exhaustion.

  “I am not just any man. Would any man have such demons as I? Ajax, Atalantia, Atlas…”

  “They were responsible for your stay in Deepgrave, I gather. But what of the source of all this? What of Darrow?”

  “A kinship bonds all men betrayed, for they alone know the deepest breaking of the soul. In time, he must fall so I might rise. But what savvy butcher would loosen the vise that keeps his demons in thrall before their comeuppance comes due?”

  “Then the answer is no.”

  “No?” His laugh is beautiful and presumptuous.

  “Atalantia and Atlas are not my enemies.”

  “But Ajax is…after his betrayal?” How long has he followed me? I do not answer him. He chuckles to himself. “One is the father, the other the lover. They will choose Ajax. Without my aid, you will die here, seed of Lune. Without my aid, you will die anywhere.”

  “I have no quarrel with you, Apollonius, but will not be bridled with a debt to you either.”

  “Yet you begged me to aid you.”

  “That was the boy inside. He is dead.”

  “That was five minutes ago!”

  “Are you the same you were then? Is Seneca?” He does not reply as I stand. “You sound hungry, Apollonius.” I do not feel stronger now than I did five minutes ago. I am no supreme being with a plan for escape. All I know is that there is more inside me than I knew. If I die, it will not be on my knees.

  Menace enters his voice. “I could kill you now. I am not these men.”

  “Yes. You could. But you won’t.”

  The sand sighs as his mass steps forward. “Are you so sure, little seed?”

  “Reasonably. Though we have never met, I know there is one thing Apollonius au Valii-Rath cannot resist.” I stand and cut the mission node from my neck and hold it out for him. Huge metal fingers take the device. “A good show.”

  Apollonius stands in silence as I forage from the dead. I am far clumsier outside the Mind’s Eye, but I fear the toll it would take to sustain it. I may die in the desert, but if I took his offer, it would mean war against Atalantia and Atlas. I would give legitimacy to his faction against theirs. After Atalantia’s attempt to take Heliopolis, the Votum might come over to me just to spite her. After Seraphina’s death, the Rim might join Apollonius—they know his martial worth—or they might declare war on Atalantia if my testimony is…accusatory regarding Seraphina’s death.

  I could ruin Atalantia if I went with Apollonius.

  But what would that do to Gold? She is apparently our best tactician, and despite Ajax’s cruelty, despite her capricious vanity, I still love her as family. Ajax’s treachery may still be his own. Moreover, Gold cannot afford that divide. Just as the worlds cannot afford a man who wrecks a planet simply to win a battle.

  I may not be what I thought I was. This world itself may just be a maze without a center. But I will not wait to die. I will not wait to be bridled by another. I will go forward as I see fit.

  I stand waiting for Apollonius to stop me after I’ve taken all I need from the dead Golds. When he does not, I reach for Seneca’s gravBoots. They are gone. Apollonius chuckles.

  “You don’t get everything you want, little seed.” He picks some choice items from my haul for himself. “A good show, says the hopeful autarch.” He pats my head. “Even if you survive this walk, you can never best Darrow, if that is your intent. He would climb up your blade to chew upon your jugular. To best a living god, it is not enough to survive, nor to eat of the ambrosia of conquest. Who would follow a churlish princeling over that Slave made War? After all, you have no sense of theater.” He claps me on the shoulder so hard my teeth rattle. “Enjoy your walk. I will be watching.”

  I walk north, blind, but blinded no more.

  Uncertain of where I go, but certain of one thing. Ajax abandoned me to the enemy. He tried to kill me, Darrow tried to kill me, Seneca tried to kill me, the desert tried to kill me, but I am still here. Pain the only proof I am not yet dead. Be it one of anguish or joy, my life is mine. I have earned it back.

  And I have no intention of wasting it.

  THE BURNER’S ON ITS last legs as I tap it over the railing to see the ash spiral down. I’ve done my bit and submitted a full tactical brief regarding how the skuggi could neutralize much of Quicksilver’s mine security. Now I watch the braves prepare in the gymnasium of the Heart of Venus and marinate in the guilt of being complicit to genocide.

  I’m an old hand
at briefs—in the legions, as an investigator. They sit in digital folders and gather electronic dust until they are deleted to cover the political ass of whatever high-up gave the contrary go. “All analysis supported my decision,” is their favorite line.

  Valdir is Sefi’s varKjr. Her warlord. He’s used blunt-force trauma to pound a legacy from Mars to Mercury—surviving a decade that sent more than seventy percent of Sefi’s commanders to Valhalla. He wants a frontal assault. So a frontal assault it’ll be. No niggling brief from a mercenary will dissuade him. It’ll work, I’m sure. With the hard-boiled legions the Heart is packing, even the Citadel of the Republic might fall. But it will turn so many civilians and backline Republic troops into meat confetti that Mars will loathe them for centuries. The faceless future dead make me think of the sounds my boys made as they were skinned on Luna. It makes my hand shake for Z. That won’t be the end of the killing. It’ll be the beginning. Only famine is uglier than occupation.

  What would Volga say if I told her this was the price of her life?

  I rub my temple, trying to ease the vibrations of the hot drill digging into my brain.

  I’m just destined to be a footman to devils, I guess.

  I light another burner.

  It goes down before I know it.

  Below, Obsidians study Quicksilver’s robots—machines meant to kill blood and bone. I wouldn’t face them for anything in the world.

  “You’ve been avoiding me.” I look over to see Pax coming from a gravLift.

  “Consolation isn’t my thing,” I reply.

  He peers over the railing without expression. He’s grown harder since I took him from that Lionguard shuttle. How could he not? Braga and his other bodyguard amble behind him. They watch me without much appreciation. I’m emblematic of their Queen’s New Way.

  “I guess even a warrior race has to concoct new ways to die,” I mutter. “Death by axe has to get tedious after a while.” I twirl a new burner.

  “You think it’s going to be a massacre.”

  “Either in the taking or the keeping. Don’t you?”

  He doesn’t respond immediately. “I don’t know everything. What I do know is that the Obsidians will defend Cimmeria better than Quicksilver ever did, maybe even rebuild it. Might be better for the Reds this way. Sefi knows the danger of letting them boil over. They’ll outnumber her people a hundred to one. When Atalantia comes…maybe they’ll stand together. Even if they don’t…I don’t know. Maybe the Obsidians have earned this day more than anyone.”

  “Cimmeria is just one continent.” I reply. “The richest in helium, sure, but Apollonia is the heart of Mars. Agea will go into a frenzy. This is civil war within a civil war. The death of the Republic. Without helium—”

  “No, Obsidian is a land power. They’ll have to trade the helium for it to be worth anything. If the Obsidians get Cimmeria and dig in, Agea will negotiate. And even if the Vox have my mother, my tribe is resilient. Victra’s still out there. Telemanuses…maybe.” He goes quiet. “They’ll ally with Obsidian to face Atalantia.”

  “If the Vox don’t eat the Republic.”

  “Yes.”

  He’s written off his father on Mercury then. Without the Sovereign to lead a rescue fleet, they’re as good as dead.

  “Do you think your mother knew about this?” I ask.

  He sighs. “I don’t know. Judging by the scale of the operation, I assume she had to. Subtlety isn’t Sefi’s strength, and she doesn’t know all my mother’s tools. So the fact that it’s reached this point means either Victra clued my mother in, Sevro did, or she just found out because she’s her. Was her.” He rolls his jaw, looking ten times his age. He’s been different since he discovered his mother’s demise. While Electra has squawked on and on about revenge, he’s just gone quiet. Of course Hatchetface thinks life is just a substance to be pushed through. With a brain like Pax’s, he’s already guessed there’s nowhere to push. It’s just a hard road to a cliff, with all the good ones falling over it far too quick.

  “You want to talk about it?” I ask.

  “No.” We stand in silence for a while. “Don’t,” he says when he hears my intake of breath. I lean forward and light another burner and offer him one.

  “I’m eleven.”

  “So, we beat cancer, remember?”

  He shrugs and takes the burner, holding it like it’s straight black smack. I light it for him. “Mother would kill me.”

  “Thought your da was the killer.”

  “He wouldn’t notice.”

  “Come on. Petty doesn’t look good on you. Least your da is slick. Mine was just a horny grunt who passed his seed for a ten-K bonus. Keep the legions strong.” I snort.

  I don’t like seeing Pax like this. It depresses me. I should say something interesting, but I can’t think of something he wouldn’t just shoot down. All right. Let’s get real.

  “Met a man once,” I say as Pax becomes a cloud. He doesn’t cough. Good on him. Neither did I. “Wasn’t much younger than you. It was before the Legion Ward House got ahold of me. Was a lookout for the local tough, when I heard they were selling ice frizeé down by the Light Plaza. You know that mound. Heroes’ Plaza or whatever now.” He nods. “Anyway. Got caught stealing said frizeé and was gonna get cuffed real bad by the local urbanes, when a man piped up for me. Said I was with him. The urbanes gave him one look, a long salute, and went on their way. He was a Gray. Looked such a legend, leaning on the fountain like he owned it. Had a Titan Rain badge on his chest, a shattered Rhea beneath, a shower of golden teardrops on his face, inky in Legio XIII blacks. You weren’t around then, but even Golds gave that sort a nod.” I roll my burner in my hands. “Smoked that burner like the unimpressed footman of a god. I remember that clear as day. Jove, he looked slick. He gave me my first. Like I’m giving you yours. I asked him if he was a hero, and he looked me dead in the eyes”—Pax looks over—“and he said, ‘Fuck heroes, kid. It’s all about being slick enough to squeak through. That’s the last man standing.’ Took that to heart. And here I bloody am.”

  “And what’s that supposed to teach me?” he asks. “Be an asshole?”

  “I dunno. Don’t be like your folks, I reckon. It ain’t on you to save the world. They were some impressive people, all told. I ain’t saying you’re not. But they was them, and look where they are.” I set a hand on his shoulder. “I want you to get old, that’s all.”

  “Why? I’m just a mark to you.”

  “Everyone’s a mark to someone. Bet you a pretty credit, Sefi’s someone’s mark.” I hold the smoke in my lungs until they tighten. “Guess I’m telling you because age doesn’t look good on me. But I think it’ll look good on you. That’s all. That’s the pep talk.”

  He looks back down at the braves. “You’re shit at pep talks.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe that’s why I’m alive, and why you’re wearing Trigg’s ring.” He plays with the chain. “He was as good as we get. Just a shish kebab in the end.”

  “My father wishes he knew him better,” Pax murmurs.

  “You don’t have to pander.”

  “Truly. Say what you want about my da, but don’t ever think he doesn’t notice his men. It’s the best thing about him. When they go, it breaks him.”

  “Well, he’s the one givin’ the orders.”

  “Someone has to.” He looks at the fire of the burner as it works its way through the tobacco. “I don’t hate him. I mean I do, but I don’t. If that makes sense. I hate him for leaving for Venus, but not for Mercury. At his best, he’s how men should be. So maybe that means it’s the world that’s flawed.”

  “That’s the damn truth.”

  We lean and smoke in silence. He really is a good egg. I don’t give a shit about Sefi’s instructions to brown-nose him. If she tells me to use him, I’ll pop her between those black eyes.

 
“Grarnir. It is time.” Pax and I jump at the voice. Neither of us noticed Ozgard sneak up behind us. For once he’s not in good humor. The shaman’s eyes are rimmed with ash. “The kjr assemble for the Kjrdakan. As aefe, you must join.”

  I squint at him. “The what for the what as what?”

  “You’re letting a Gray into the Kjrdakan?” Pax asks in shock. “The Lord Wager,” he explains to me. “The Volk’s war ritual before important battles. My father was the first person not of the Volk to join one. He was an aefespakr—a wise planner. It’s an honor.”

  “Sefi accepted my plan?” I ask Ozgard, dumbfounded. “Not Valdir’s?”

  He laughs at me. “Grarnir is blind. Still he does not see. Freihild and skuggi are already en route back to Mars. We press for Phobos for transfer to ore haulers.” He pauses, black eyes searching mine. “Come. Kjrdakan awaits.”

  Pax understands the seismic statement Sefi is making choosing the plan of a Gray outsider to that of her most successful warlord. It is a declaration of change, and a choice on her part to pick risk over slaughter. Entirely too civilized to be true. But it is also spitting in her lover’s eye while putting me directly in the cross fire between them. Valdir will be pissed.

  More than a little worried, I flick my burner away and follow Ozgard. Pax grabs my arm before I get far. “Whatever you do, don’t bleed into the rib cage.”

  “Huh?”

  “If the campaign fails and you’ve given a blood wager, you’re killed in ritual homicide.”

  “Yeah. I’m going to need a few more details. Walk and talk, kid. Walk and talk.”

  * * *

  —

  Incense burns from braziers on the stage of the opera house where Amel was butchered. It’s so thick my eyes itch back to the retinal nerves. I shift foot-to-foot in my place in the circle of towering war leaders as a giant albino aurochs with twisted horns is led onto the stage by Ozgard’s acolytes. Sefi approaches the muscled cow with an axe the size of a tree on her shoulder. I cross my arms and settle in to watch the pagan absurdity.