Dark Age

by Pierce Brown

  “How did you come to be captured by the Gorgons?”

  “I stepped on a landmine while trying to put your men out of their misery.”

  “You killed them?”

  “One. Have you ever seen a man impaled?”

  “You did not try to save their lives?”

  “Have you ever seen a man impaled?”

  “How did you kill them?”

  “With a scorcher.”

  “What type?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “It was my father’s.”

  “And you do not know the type?”

  “It was a pistol.”

  “What are the names of your parents?” the machine asks in the fifteenth line of inquiry about my parents. It is the first time it has asked for their names.

  “Actus au Salan and Leticia au Vitruvius.” Real people. Real family. Paid off upon the three visits I made to Mercury to substantiate my identity. Thank Jove Grandmother was paranoid of assassination.

  I would be concerned if I didn’t know that years ago, when my grandmother died, my godfather activated a protocol which erased the census records of all Golds, fearing the Rising would use the list as an assassination tool. Their sole verifier for my tale is a man wildly popular with the lowColors of Mercury and invaluable to their cause, who is no doubt being questioned in another room in a much less menacing fashion as to whether he knows Cato au Vitruvius.

  Glirastes will be shocked to hear the name. But when he does, he will know I am alive. And that man has never wished harm upon me. Even if they press him, a partial truth is hard to detect as a lie, because it comes from memory instead of the creative center of the brain. An entirely different physiological reaction. In any case, artists are fantastic liars.

  “When did you first meet Glirastes?”

  “In Tyche at his offices.”

  “Did you seek the meeting?”

  “Yes.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Six? Seven?”

  “Why did you seek the meeting?”

  “He built the Water Gardens. The Library of Erebos. The Water Colossus. The Ocular Sphere. He’s a god here, as Oranges go.”

  “Why were you in Tyche?”

  “My parents were doing something. I don’t remember what. They liked parties. I know that.”

  “Why Vitruvius?” the machine asks instead of the perfectly functional Green and Pink humans sitting behind it. These people. First the mines, now interrogations. They’re literally roboticizing themselves to death.

  “My mother was…well, it’s embarrassing.” The machine doesn’t care. It just watches. “She made a bit of a cuckold out of my father from the start, metaphorically, then literally. Her family was older. So…”

  “How did you overpower the Fear Knight?”

  “Overpower? I didn’t.”

  “Rephrasing: how did you come to render him unconscious?”

  “I hit him on the head with a figurine and then I choked him. He makes figurines. He is an absurd man.”

  “Why was he showing you figurines?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you view his interest in you to be sexual in nature?”

  “Sexual?”

  “Did he attempt to have intercourse with you?”

  “You’ve seen my face. I look like ground hummingbird tongue. Would you fornicate with me?”

  “I ask the questions here,” the machine replies.

  The door slams open and over two meters of terror walks in as if it intends to stomp the room in half. The techs behind the machine scramble to salute as Darrow pushes the machine to the side. “Can it work in the corner?” he asks.

  “Yes, Imperator.”

  “Then why is it jammed up to his face?”

  “It’s on intimidation setting, sir.”

  “Bloodydamn toaster.” Darrow pushes the billion-credit machine into the corner like he’s setting a rotund child in timeout. “Stay,” he says to it, pointing a finger. He looks around for a chair. One appears at the door, carried by a tiny Red girl with Drachenjäger bolts. They’re using children in their armies now.

  Did she help kill my men?

  “Uncle.” She gestures to the chair.

  Interesting. Kieran’s eldest then, Rhonna. A lancer now, like Alexandar. She looks excited. She smiles at me. I return it in blithe fashion.

  “Thank you.” Darrow sighs down into the chair as if he had the weight of twenty million people on his shoulders, which may be an understatement. “Get out of here, Rhonna. I know you’re dying to see the hero.”

  She blushes. “I am not.”

  “LYING,” the machine bleats from the corner.

  Darrow smirks. “Get.”

  The Red child scampers to the door, turns in a very military-like fashion and salutes, not Darrow but me. “Alexandar sends his gratitude. Be nice to him, Uncle. He looks about to piss himself.” She shuts the door and the killer of Octavia, Aja, and my godfather turns his eyes on me. He wields them like sledgehammers. Yet there is some relatable quality there in those carved organics. Some weariness that lacks pretension and would make you think he’s an everyman instead of a warlord who has started a crusade that has claimed two hundred fifty million lives and counting.

  “Long day,” he says.

  “It would seem.”

  I look down to signify submission. Then up to signal bravery. Then down, as Cato realizes he can’t match a legend’s gaze. Darrow is used to this, and I make sure my hands play their proper role, knowing very well how the Jackal lost his hand. That was always my favorite scene from the recordings. But unlike the Jackal, I won’t taunt him or try to appear anything other than what he wants me to be, and I dare not risk sticking my head in a meatgrinder by attempting to extract information from Darrow.

  “May I just say it is an honor to meet you,” I say.

  “Is it?”

  “I’ve watched all your holos. My favorite is still when you took the Vanguard.”

  “The Pax,” he corrects.

  “Of course. Not necessarily a fan of all your work, but you have style.”

  He grimaces. “Those holos are illegal on Mercury.”

  “So are Storm Gods, my goodman! Sorry. Too soon?”

  “Millions died in that hypercane, and you jest.”

  “To be fair, you did it. But what is the north coast to me? Tyche, the Children, it’s all for new-money arrogants.”

  He looks about to say something, but bites it back. “You don’t strike me as our usual recruit.”

  “Recruit? No. Gods, me, a soldier? Don’t be ridiculous, my goodman. I’m not nearly Martian enough for all that terror.”

  “No?” He already wants to be rid of me, a thousand things on his mind. Good. I’ll fit into his gestalt. “You brought something dear back to me, Cato. In a way…you gave my army hope again. Alexandar saved eighty-three thousand four hundred and twenty-six souls in Tyche.”

  “Did he? He never mentioned it.”

  “No?” Darrow smiles at that, almost as a father would. “Throw in the sadist knight and it’s the best bloodydamn present I’ve been given since my wife gave me this beauty.” He sets his hand on the famous white blade. It is inert and coiled around his arm like a snake. “So you can understand if I’m a little suspicious how a self-confessed libertine from…was it Erebos, brought me all these presents when ten million professional soldiers and my Howlers could not.”

  “Maybe you should ask them that question,” I say.

  He laughs. “You’re funny, but not very likable, are you? I can see why you’re Glirastes’s type.”

  “May I ask what you plan to do for me?”

  “For you?”

  “Yes, I a
ssume I’m entitled to some sort of reward. I mean, you did say I did what ten million men could not.” I give my most self-satisfied smile.

  “You want a reward? Have you looked outside, man?”

  “No. I don’t have windows in my cell.”

  I think he wants to punch my head off my neck. “Gods, I hate you people,” he says. His patience is thinner than usual. “If it were up to me, I would lock you away, humanely, until this is all over. I am short on time and the last thing I need is another spice in the pot. But as it is, you happen to be friends with a very…temperamental Master Maker whose services I require. And he has argued for your release due to your actions. Let’s set that straight. I have no intention of releasing you. The streets of Heliopolis are no place for…”

  “Gold libertines?”

  “More like Gold corpses.” He lets that sit. “My men lost a good deal of friends, and the impalement has…made them reflexive. But I also don’t want you here in my headquarters. Friend of Glirastes or not, I don’t know you, and I’ve taken enough risks. So I will give you to him on several conditions: you do not leave the grounds of his estate and you submit to inspections whenever my guards at his villa ask you to.”

  “That’s acceptable to me. He has a fine villa. Have you ever walked through the orchard there? He has the most lovely orchid gazebo at the center.”

  He stares at me. “Right. Well, take care, Cato au Vitruvian.”

  “Vitruvius. No reward then?” I ask as he reaches the door.

  He sighs. “What do you want?”

  “Several Pinks would do right prime. Come now, my goodman, surely you don’t abstain completely. What man could!”

  “Say that again.” He takes a step back toward me. I look at the ground. “That’s what I thought.”

  * * *

  —

  Accompanied by Republic legionnaires and a fleet of aides, Glirastes waits for me beside a large fountain of Laocoön and his sons in the foyer of the Mound. I can scarcely believe it is him. The bald Master Maker has always been slender, but now his aspect borders on cadaverous. Amongst the slurry of modern uniforms, his crimson linen robe with silver brocade makes him seem an out-of-place actor from a vulgar Plautusian play. When he sees me, those narrow Orange eyes ignite.

  “Cato au Vitruvius, my lad, my heart!” he cries, and I am swallowed in crimson linen. I feel like I am hugging a skeleton. He pulls back to look up at me. The last time we met, he was a half meter taller than me. Now it is the reverse. “Your face…”

  “A mere souvenir of a ghastly affair,” I reply. “Perish the memories.”

  “Yes, let them perish indeed. You have quite the adventure to share. Let us away.”

  THRAXA WATCHES CATO AND GLIRASTES board the flier.

  “You saw how he knocked Drusilla’s bike into the hold,” she says. “That’s some damn fine flying from a Pixie.” She turns back to me. “If you gave me two minutes with Glirastes he’d have been begging to get back to work.”

  “You didn’t see the man,” Harnassus says. “It’s like his prodigal son has returned. He was catatonic at the idea Cato might be a spy. Thinks we’ll torture him or put him in a hole. If we didn’t give him to the old cretin, who’d finish the project?”

  “You,” Thraxa says.

  “I wish I could,” he replies.

  I watch Cato as the door shuts. “What do you think?” I ask Screw.

  “Nothing remarkable there. Just a Pixie twit. Still…”

  “Agreed.”

  One thing troubles me. Alexandar took me through their escape. If Cato is so unremarkable, how is it that he survived and soldiers like Crastus and Drusilla did not? Luck only goes so far. “Screw put a monitor spike in him when loading him with anti-rads,” I tell Thraxa and Harnassus. “You’re both right. We need our Master Maker. But more important, we need to know if he is our Master Maker. We’ll watch and listen. Whether he’s Atalantia’s spy or just a provincial asshole, if Glirastes has gone sour we’ll find out through that Pixie right there.”

  LADY BEATRICE,THE HOME OF Glirastes, is a wonder. Perched several hundred meters up the face of a mountain cliff overlooking the sea, the marble and glass monument to the bizarre would often be seen floating over the Bay of Sirens during the gentle spring months alongside the pleasure craft of the rich and famous. Now, with fuel monopolized by the Rising military, its womanly shape rests on its landing foundations.

  It is colder than I remember. The little details have been forgotten. Flowers rot in vases, scum floats in shallow fountains, rooms are dusty and unlit, apples rot on the orchard grass. Much of Glirastes’s staff, I learn, have been pressed or have volunteered for service with the Rising. Many more were lost in his offices in Tyche or excused for security concerns.

  Glirastes himself mirrors the house. He is guarded and faded.

  He would not speak to me in the shuttle except to extend the ruse. I took his lead, understanding that they likely fixed me with a monitor spike.

  “You remember Exeter, of course,” he says to me as we are greeted at the landing pad by his valet. Exeter is a spindly, bone-pale man with a cadaverous face as emotive as concrete. Few know he is the administrative genius behind Glirastes’s architectural empire. In the three springs I spent with Glirastes, I’ve only seen the eerie Brown smile once. It was early spring and the apple blossoms were in bloom and a mother bluebell was building a nest.

  “Of course, always a pleasure. Are you still collecting those queer insects?” I ask.

  “I fear I haven’t the time for passions these last years, dominus,” Exeter says. “However, my collection has grown since—”

  “He doesn’t want to hear about your eerie collection, Exeter. It is immensely creepy,” Glirastes says. Republic guards loiter in the foyer. “Exeter will see you to your room, Cato.”

  “I rather hoped to have a discussion with you.”

  “I have work to do. I will see you at supper, if I have time.”

  “It is important…”

  “I said if I have time.”

  Knowing the spike will record all conversation via vocal vibrations, and cameras will record all the rest, I play the part of a libertine and treat myself to a long bath in the guest suite.

  Inside, my clock is ticking. Four days before the strike. Four days and I sit in a bath of lavender oil. It takes me back to the horror of the impalement, and I puzzle over the enigma that is the Fear Knight. He is likely being tortured at this very moment. Why would he trust me with his life on so thin a plan? Could he possibly care so much for the people of Heliopolis? Do true servants of the Society exist now only in the most deplorable form?

  After the bath, I stare at my face in the bathroom mirror. I do not recognize myself. The desert has weathered my visage and stripped away much of its youth. My right cheek is sunken and peeling from sunburn. Carefully, I take the resFlesh off my left cheek. The burn is livid. Drained of fluid, it gives the appearance of melted pink wax. It is not as grotesque as it must have been in the desert, but chunks of metal are still embedded too deeply in the drooping skin to be removed by anyone but an expensive surgeon or carver. The eye has gone smoky white. I am not repulsed. I always thought Golds who kept their scars to be a bit vain. But I understand it now. Too much has always been made of my looks, as if I earned them by virtue of being born.

  This I earned. This is mine.

  That night, Glirastes’s rose quartz table is set for one. I eat in silence, catered to by three servants. If they remember me, they do not show it. My old friend never comes.

  The next morning, I learn he has not returned from his labor in the city. I spend my time in leisure, walking the orchard, swimming in his pool, conversing with the Rising guards, as much as they will talk to a Gold. Most want to kill me on sight. But I learn their patterns, and I yearn to investigate Glirastes’s domed workshop, but I d
are not.

  After lunch, I walk the house, bouncing a rubber ball as I go, careful to remain frivolous. I let it bounce awkwardly off a step and chase the ball down a hallway into his library. There, I thumb through his dusty books and play games on a hologrid, and when I tire of them, I make my way up the spiral staircase of the tower, poking around until I stumble upon his old golden telescope that looks down at the city.

  With a yawn, I look through, and make my first surveillance.

  Stretching north nearly as far as the eye can see sprawls an architect’s delight of basilicas, temples, forums, triumphal arches, historical columns, amphitheaters, and the great Hippodrome. Only the distant storm wall does not shine white in the sun. In the western city, Corinthian-inspired office spires, broken only by parks, viaducts, and amphitheaters, stretch all the way to the Bay of Sirens. The mountains cup the fabled city in their loving palms. Their craggy summits are tipped white with snow and festooned with gun batteries. Their ranges stretch hundreds of kilometers, impassable by any land army.

  To take the city by conventional means, Atalantia would lose millions of men she needs for her campaign. Her chemical option is not so insensible strategically, considering her losses in the battle on the Ladon.

  But it is shortsighted and immoral.

  When last I was here, the air above Heliopolis was clear but for the sparkling of an occasional yacht or policing units. Now it is mobbed by an ugly flood of heterogenous military vessels, haulers, and civilian rickshaws. The boulevards beneath teem with even more traffic and pedestrians. The city is near bursting with wounded and refugees. Military camps and field hospitals cover the parks and fill amphitheaters where low and high alike once gathered with chilled wine to watch Sophocles’s tragedies free of charge. Troops jog through the Via Triumphia where victorious charioteers would parade their steeds to the wild acclaim of the crowds.

  To the southwest, on the outer limits of the sprawling city, I see Heliopolis’s spaceport. Beyond the smaller torchShips and destroyers, dwarfing even the mountains, lies a mound of metal.