by Pierce Brown
“Stop that,” he says. “Unless you want me to do it back.”
I go still.
Grandmother said I was her only pupil. Could this be why Apollonius wants it so bad? He knows Atlas is yet beyond him?
The man’s cold eyes search the burn on my face and continue to assess without yet coming to a conclusion. So he is humble too, or at least experienced enough to have been wrong more than once before. “Salve, au Lune,” he says in formal highLingo.
“Salve, au Raa,” I reply.
“How did my brother die?” he asks, abandoning the argot before it becomes laborious. “Of course I have been told, but I hear you saw it with your own eyes.”
“He walked to the Dragon Tomb. He died several steps short.”
He is quiet for a full minute.
“All men who live for their ancestors do. How long did he talk before he walked?”
“Too long.”
He chuckles. “Romulus to the end. I hear my niece and nephew are on the Annihilo to talk alliance.”
“Diomedes is. Seraphina is in the desert.”
He doesn’t flinch. “Dead?”
“Yes. Atalantia demanded a Raa participate.”
“Did you see her corpse?”
“I saw her ripped in half by a rail slug. What remained was buried in the sand.”
“Shadows and dust,” he murmurs without irony.
“No grief? No laugh for the dead traitor?”
“She did not betray the Society. My father and brother did. I held no malice for Seraphina. I would have liked to have known my kin.” He sighs and takes the Bellona razor from a pouch on his thigh and lays it between us. “This, on the other hand, is filthy with the blood of Aja and Octavia.”
“I do not believe a man like you should ask anyone to explain themselves.”
“Ah. That’s right. You’ve seen one of my forests. I’m sure you have an opinion. The Two Hundred had many at first. None to my face, of course. They prefer smiles and innuendo.”
“I remember you used to make my father laugh,” I say.
His eyes soften. “Do you?”
“I wonder if he would laugh at your forests.”
“No,” he surprises me by saying. “Brutus would call me a human stain. Anastasia would use far gentler a vocabulary. I’m sure you remember her bleeding heart.”
“No, as a matter of fact.”
He searches my face, as if trying to detect a lie. “She would say I am making more enemies with every man I impale. That is why I impale Martians, not Mercurians.”
“To create dissonance and demarcation between interloper and loyal subject?” I reply pedantically.
“So we’ve read some of the same books, I see. You want to play this game? Very well. I’ve only barbarians for company out here. How many lives did you end in the Iron Rain? Don’t you have a killcount to mark on your breastplate?”
“It is impossible to reckon. Between ten and a hundred.”
“Do you feel their deaths acutely?”
“Vaguely.”
“There it is.” He leans back. “Distance has sanitized war nearly as much as Stoneside’s fucking ramblings. It has made it easy…romantic. I have no interest in sanitization nor romance. I apply scientific methods to produce psychological trauma in our enemies in order to create psychological casualties. To end their willingness to fight and shorten this war. That is my purpose.”
There’s a resentment in him, a hostility that seems intensely personal.
I don’t recall knowing him well enough to wound him. Or does he already know of Ajax’s betrayal?
“Enough digression. Why would you tell my men you are this Cato au Vitruvius? Did it amuse you?”
“Amuse me? What sort of nature do you think I possess?”
“A nature which is the product of your grandmother. The same nature she imparted to all her students. Answer the question.”
So that’s who the anger is for. The woman who gave him this role?
“I didn’t trust your men,” I say. “Ajax tried to assassinate me…twice.” By his expression, I see this is not news. “I could not risk revealing my identity to anyone but you, for fear of him completing the task.”
“And you think I am trustworthy?” he asks.
“You were my father’s best friend.”
“I am also Ajax’s father.” He picks at his cuticles. “Do you mean to kill my son?”
“No.”
He doesn’t believe me. “Do you even know why Ajax tried to kill you?”
“It goes back to childhood—”
He laughs. “It does indeed. She used to groom the both of you.” He leans forward. “Ajax is fucking Atalantia.” At first I thought I misheard. But it begins to makes sense. Ajax’s quiet when Atalantia kissed me. His territorial marking. His fear that I would replace him at his aunt’s side. “You didn’t know. Few do. She took my son as a…paramour before he turned sixteen. She would reward him for the heads of Gold blood traitors with sexual favors.”
“Did Magnus know?”
“Of his daughter’s depravity? Yes. Of its deeper depths and my son’s sexual enslavement to his remaining daughter?” He shrugs. “Magnus always had a selective conscience, especially with precious Atalantia.”
“And you just…let it happen?”
“Ajax may have my DNA, but I was off fighting for my Sovereign for half his life. When I returned…well, that boy is her creature to the bone now. Just as she intended. She and Aja always detested each other, you know. That Aja’s boy is now her personal killing machine is her ultimate revenge.”
“Did Atalantia give the order to kill me?”
“I doubt it. To do so would be to admit to herself that she cannot tame you,” he says. “She would not lose such a prize as you lightly. But if she did give the order, she would not tell me.” He pulls a fig from a bag and pops it into his mouth, offering me one. I take three. “So long as Ajax is ruled by his heart and cock, there will be no place for the boy who used to make him feel small. Knowing this, you still claim no intent on his life?”
“It changes nothing,” I reply. “I am here for the people of the Society, for Kalindora, for my Praetorians. I will not let them burn as hostages of the enemy. I know an assault is pending on Heliopolis. I assume Darrow is besieged there?”
He watches me without speaking for some time.
“You look very much like your mother when you feign nobility, you know.” He ponders over a fig. “It won’t be an assault. I have recently concluded field testing of a new chemical weapon. Atalantia is intent on releasing it, so she does not destroy Heliopolis’s wealth before taking it as her own. The Master Maker will watch as his city eats itself.”
“What does the chemical do?”
“Omnicide.”
I see it already.
A catalogue of horrors wracks Kalindora’s face. I see her convulsing and vomiting blood. I see buboes bubbling on her skin. I see the skin melting away. I did not know until this moment how much I would do to stop that. She is a killer. But the weariness I saw in her eyes, the way she looked at me when the Praetorians came down…It was something close to pride. I can’t let her die, or Rhone or my Praetorians, or any of the loyal subjects caught between two giants. Too many lives have already been spent too easily by people who should know better.
“Did you learn omnicide in the Kuiper?” I ask.
“No. I learned to outsource.”
Cryptic. “You mentioned a Master Maker…”
“Ah, yes. Your old friend Glirastes. He’s no longer just an artificer. He’s proven himself a traitor. He abetted the enemy’s use of the Storm Gods.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Trust me when I say men do strange things out of fear. Now he will die with them. And his pre
cious city.” He does not sound happy about the last part. “Now, where are my manners? Are you hungry for a real meal? In the morning we’ll be departing for the Annihilo, but I’m sure Atalantia will cause a fuss if I haven’t fed you.” He fetches a bowl of fresh bread and two boiled pieces of meat.
“What is this?” I ask as I chew.
“What does it taste like?”
“Bat.”
“Well, there you have it.”
He watches with a strange expression as I eat. It is oddly civilized, this conversation, considering his men only just tortured me. He still has not tendered an apology, nor do I expect he ever will.
“You do not seem to advocate for Atalantia’s plan,” I test.
“I have no tolerance for rebels. But this planet did not rebel. It was conquered. I think you would agree it is a strategic mistake to confuse the two, and to cede the moral high ground to the enemy when we’ve only just reclaimed it. If we kill twenty million, will anyone remember the Reaper’s Storm?”
“Yet you do not contradict Atalantia…”
He laughs. “I am a soldier. Soldiers follow orders.”
“She gives you autonomy. Can’t you infiltrate the city? Bring down their shields from the inside?”
“No. My men inside are dead. The Howlers know counter-espionage all too well. And the loyalists are as neutered as a logos.”
That puts me in a unique position as I ponder playing yet another stupid game.
He grows suspicious. If anything, undermining Atalantia’s plan puts him on guard. I want him at ease. Get him talking about himself. About something he likes. I try his mother, Gaia, and tell him of my time with her, but he replies very little, and grows somewhat defensive. The figurines—they’re the only thing here without utility. I stand and approach them. The detailing is impressive, as is the variety of subject. There are a few Golds, but most are lowColor. I pick up one of a Red woman.
“That one is called Daedre,” he explains. “We became familiar on the outskirts of Olympia. Tough woman.”
“For a Red?”
“Tough woman.”
“Are they trophies?”
He looks insulted as he joins me. “They are meditation totems. Each is for a human who preyed upon my prejudices. Daedra seemed harmless, kind, stupid. She brought my men figs and bread every day for a week, until her figs were laced with a nerve agent. A hundred and four men died because I could not see her for what she was.”
“A zealot?”
“A soldier,” he corrects.
I’m still in his peripheral vision.
I take a step back and look at the figures with a frown. “Where’s Darrow? Surely he’s fooled you a few times.”
“It’s a work in progress. I did the legs before I met him, but how can you understand a man at war with himself?” He turns his back to me to reach toward the far end of the nook. Clenching Daedra in my hand, I ready to swing at the nerve packet located behind his left ear. “If you strike me, I suggest you have a plan.” He doesn’t turn around to defend himself. It throws me off guard. “I assume you saw my escape map? The tunnels can be tricky, and memory for us mere mortals is fleeting.” He turns around and leans against the wall. “It won’t work, you know. Me as your Trojan horse.”
“It might.”
“Let’s say you did manage to subdue me. Possible, given your youth, but not probable, given your state and my vocation. You would then have to free the Arcosians, use my escape map to that blasted labyrinth, evade my men, flee across the desert, pray Darrow lets you inside Heliopolis, gamble that your thin ruse of Cato au Vitruvius holds, and then kill the most dangerous man alive.”
“I don’t intend on killing him.”
“And the rest?”
“Prescient.”
“Is it for auctoritas? Glory? To prove you are the heir?”
“No.”
“Revenge then?”
“No.”
“Humanitarian concern for your men? Or maybe you fancy the Love Knight,” he mocks. “Men will do strange things out of fear, but for love…well, death is hardly the limit.”
“Who are we if we kill a city that did not rebel?” I ask.
“Interesting. An idealist. Don’t fret, it’s a temporary condition.” He actually smiles. “They’re guarding the wall and the shield generator with an army of veterans, you know. Howlers abound.”
“Predictable targets.”
“What is your target then?”
“Glirastes.”
“He is a traitor.”
“I can turn him back.”
He goes quiet, thinking.
“Why are you not calling your men?” I ask.
“Because I have lived off the contributions of this planet. They have sheltered me and my men. They have fed us. They have informed for us. They have spied and died for us. Not the highColors. They turned their backs like craven. But the low, the mid, those with barely anything to their name, because this is not Mars. This is Mercury. If we just let them burn, what is the point of this?” He thrusts a finger to his scar. “Furthermore, for two weeks my men have failed to get me inside Heliopolis. What will you do with Glirastes?”
“I will know once I see the tools available. But I imagine Darrow knows an attack is coming, and so it likely will be necessary to hoist him on his own petard.”
“The chances of it working are…”
“Minute.”
He nods to himself. “Obviously, my men can’t know. Make it look real. Kill them if you must. They know their duty.” He waits for me to hit him. “Well? Let’s see how good the pupil of Bellona, Octavia, and Aja really is.”
Is Atlas really going to be a willing participant after what he’s done to Darrow’s men?
“You know Darrow will kill you.”
“Pulvis et umbra sumus. One servant for twenty million citizens is easy math. You have five days until the chemical attack. Though that may change with my capture.” His conviction makes me doubt myself. “Don’t balk now.” He punches me in the nose, breaking it. Blood spurts out. “Do it.” He hits me again, and I charge him. He ducks under me and tries to strip my left leg to take me to the floor in a kravat central pivot. Cassius loved that one. I counter by leaving my feet and rolling over his back, looping one arm under his right armpit as I go, and wrapping my other arm around his neck as I use my central rotation to roll onto my back with his spine against my stomach. He has a small window to reach his bootknife, but he lets it pass.
I loop my arms over his left shoulder and under his right armpit, pinning his right arm up in a salute. I pin his left arm to his side by wrapping both my legs around it and his rib cage and interlocking my ankles. He grunts there, pinned in a brachial choke. His legs kick as I constrict the blood flow to his head, but not even an Obsidian could muscle his way out of this.
I stare at the doorway as his feet scrabble against the floor. No Gorgons come to check on their leader. There is never any need.
When he is unconscious, I release my hold and stand over him, perplexed.
I haven’t time to understand it. Every moment wasted will make discovery surer.
I take the tacNet from his weapons nook and shoot it at his body. It ensnares him. I take his hasta from the wall. My Bellona blade lies in the dirt. I almost convince myself that I can bring it with me, but where I’m going I might as well wear my mother’s ring. I jump and hide the razor in a cleft in the rock, and use his bootknife to give myself a shallow wound just above my heart. I smear the blood all over my face and neck.
The tunnel is dark and empty. Fear’s men are still busy with their meal. I move as fast as I can back to the prisoners’ room, my bare feet silent on the stone. Two of the Gorgons sit on the floor playing dice when I round the corner. From his place on the wall, Alexandar sees me fill the tunnel.
I could kill the two Gorgons with two neat thrusts, but I make it sloppy. As if I’ve never held a razor. As they turn back at the sound of my feet, I slash half the head off the first man like I’m felling a tree. The blade passes through him as if he weren’t even there and carries on into the second man’s throat—one of Cassius’s favorite moves against the shoddy armor common in the Belt. Then clumsily the razor goes into the cave wall.
Flopping to the ground, the second man stares up with wide eyes, trying to talk, but I made sure my clumsiness severed his windpipe. I hack at him a second time. A third. Then I give a quiet sob and fall to my knees, covered in blood.
“Gorydamn,” Alexandar breathes. He kicks the other knights awake. “Cato. Cato. Look at me.” I look up at him, wide-eyed. “Did anyone see you come in here?”
I shake my head.
“There’s keys on their bodies. Unlatch us and we can help you. Front chest pocket. That’s it.” With shaking hands, I free them. “Cato, have you ever used a razor before?” Alexandar watches the bloody blade in my shaking hands. I pretend not to be able to think. Finally I shake my head and give him the blade. Practiced hands strip the bodies of their night optics, their sidearms, two grenades, and the single long rifle.
“Tell me what happened. Where is the Fear Knight?”
I show them. The professional soldiers miss nothing. In thirty seconds, we have the map, the go-bag, a glowlamp, and the Fear Knight’s datapad. For a moment, I think they’ll discover Cassius’s razor too, but Drusilla only takes a wolfpelt from the wall. She hands it to Alexandar.
