It helped Simon put one foot in front of the other to know that going back and finding Jace and O meant that he could repay a very little part of that debt.
He came to the double doors of the Tank and pushed in to the gloom. The bar was an old stretch of beaten metal over which dusty-clothed men leaned. Heads turned when he stepped inside, and tables to his right shimmered into sight.
From one of these, O raised a glass and said, "Oi!"
Good. This could be fast. Simon approached, leaned in to speak low. "Where's Jace?"
O lifted his glass higher, which meant Jace was above. Not so fast, then, unless Jace was too quick on that trigger, too.
Simon was tempted to intervene himself, but that would keep him here three minutes longer that he had to be.
"Well, get him and meet me—" Gods, but where? Simon scrubbed a hand in his new beard. Everyone recognized him in the city, thanks to Mica and her consort bit and the vids streaming his attempt to save the scavenger's life. "Find me outside the city port. We're going to need that flyer." And maybe he could hide in the waves of people arriving in force today for the wedding.
But it seemed Otis had stopped listening. He'd leaned out beyond Simon's stance to see something behind him.
Simon went slick with sweat. He felt caught, but he didn't know by whom. The Peace? He didn't care about them. The wives of his partners in the red mica stake? He owed them his face, to take whatever they had to give.
The cords in his neck drew tight, but he turned.
A group of miners, all men, stood in the doorway. He recognized Len, and there was Juan, and behind him Alex, but the others were just familiar faces, drawn into questioning glares.
And it suddenly occurred to Simon that he might not get out of the Tank alive. Or if he did, he might not get five paces from the door, or if he got that far, he might bleed to death trying to drag himself back into the city.
He raised his hands. "I'm not here for trouble."
One of the men in back leaned out the Tank's door and shouted, "It's him!"
And to the sudden answering cheers, Simon stumbled backward and fell into an open seat at O's table. The doors were thrown wide. People started to push inside the Tank—men and women and children skinnying through the gaps. They swelled around him like living water threatening to drown him in their deluge. He couldn't leave if he tried.
"The booze is free for us," O said, grinning. "Whores, too. We're heroes."
A terrible noise was rising from the clamor of the crowd, shaking the bottles on the shelves behind the bar. It was a nightmare sound, one he never could've imagined on his own.
"Si-mon. Si-mon! SI-MON!"
It made his insides turn to water.
"What is this?" he demanded of O. A current of fear ran through him; his hands trembled with the lightning that zapped from within. This was worse than all the attacks and reprisals he'd ever imagined.
"He was born a son of Schist!" someone with a loud, booming voice called out.
The throng cheered again. "Yah!"
Simon was afraid. For the first time in his life, truly afraid and quivering with it.
"He went down into the belly of Sol when he was a child, but he was stronger than any man on his crew. He made foreman when he became a man!"
The cheers grew louder, the crowd closer. "Yah!"
Right there—there was one of the wives. Laura. And she was not smiling. The other, Mirielle, didn't seem to be here. He didn't blame her.
"He seduced a princess!"
"Yah!" exploded inside his head. The other faces went fuzzy, except for hers.
"He threw off the yoke of Sol and went into the dark deep of the mountain, and she gave up her secrets to him. Gave him red!"
The pounding in his head muted the cries from the crowd. He was going to be sick. He'd gotten red down in the mine, all right—bloody red.
"When tragedy stuck, his partners killed, his fortune was stolen by the Sols and he was cast out to die." The crowd quieted slightly, until the man shouted. "But he lived! He lived!"
That wasn't life. They had no idea. It was his fault and his pride that had cost two lives. Ask her. Ask Laura.
"And he bided his time and when the chance presented itself, he shot a Sol from the sky. They aren't too lofty for his reach!"
More incomprehensible sound. The avid expressions of the children made his blood run cold.
"And he captured that same princess and used her to come back to us! Simon is reborn! Consort to the heir of Sol corp!"
He passed a hand over his eyes to hide from the press of the people, but even that little bit of darkness was shuddered by the rising sound of his name again, repeated over and over so that it made no sense to him anymore. Nothing made sense.
A knock to his shoulder brought his head around to Otis, who grinned and shoved a drink toward him. His mouth made the shapes of a word. "Heroes."
This was bad. Only Mica would understand how bad.
He stood to tell them, to ward off any more of this.
They quieted almost at once to a murmur of hushes—a sound like wind on the grasses of the scavenger's plains—eager to hear. Once, years ago, many of them had liked him. He'd worked alongside too many shifts not to make a few friends.
"No," he said to the crowd. "I'm one of you."
The yah! that followed was deafening. Hell, that's not what he meant. He had no gift for words. Where was Mica? She knew all the words.
But this went beyond like or friendship. They'd built up an idea of him, but it made him feel very small.
An arm was suddenly slung around his neck. It was Jace, with a grin wide enough for the both of them. His chest was stuck out to inhale all the cheers.
"I mean, I have work to do." Simon's throat was dry; the drink O offered was looking better and better. "Just as you do."
Anything to get him out of here.
A sound of agreement, yes, to work. Work, they all understood. Their days were circumscribed by work, by shifts, to earn the rations needed to survive.
The "Si-mon's" started to rise again from a group of older boys in the back who beat clenched fists in the air.
Jace shouted his own name right along with them. "Jace! Jace! Jace!"
Simon found himself raising his own hand for quiet, like a Sol.
He went for the truth again. "I'm still a short step away from a prison barge."
This got a murmur of approval. His gut twisted at what they'd think of him when so much pax appeared in the accounts of his partners' wives. The cheers would only get louder. A few years ago he'd wanted to be a hero, but not like this.
"So, I thank you for this "—the word got stuck in his throat— "homecoming. Yes, I am a child of Schist." They'd all raised him. "If you'll let me pass "—please let me pass—"then I can get back to the day's business."
The crowd was silent and unmoving.
So he added, with a grimace of a smile, "And frankly, today's business is likely to bring that prison barge here quicker."
The crowd finally let him pass with Yah! cut with laughter. Jace and O marched behind him, his dubious crew, and when he passed Laura, he nodded to acknowledge their strange relationship.
Her eyes were shadowed, but she returned the nod, once, slowly.
His pace quickened, his stride was stronger. Because she knew differently than the rest, knew the truth about him, he could breathe again.
***
Pilar's apartment door was ajar, so Mica pushed it open and peered inside. "Hello?"
The rooms had been transformed into a labyrinth of trunks and crates, and for a second Mica thought that this must be what a rodent felt like in an intelligence maze. Smelled like packing. "Pilar?"
Pilar darted out, but didn't look like herself. Her long dark hair had dried into tangles. She wore no cosmetics. And she stood in her shimmery sleepdress though the hour approached noonday.
"Mia?" An old nickname. Pilar sounded like a child. She sounded like her little siste
r.
Mica rushed inside, swatting the door closed behind her. "Are you all right?"
Where was their mother? Where were the dozen attendants?
"I'm getting married today," she said. Dark circles lurked under her eyes.
"I know," Mica answered, smiling. "The stylist just had me pinned into my dress. I thought I'd never get out alive."
"I'm going to go live with Hakan." Her brows drew together in worry. "With the Frusts on the Nyer Transit Hub." The Frusts were a transport corp.
Mica embraced her, though Pilar was still limp with helplessness, clearly overwhelmed. When Pilar's head touched down on her shoulder, Mica's eyes burned with tears.
"Just think of all the people going through the hub," she said. "Think of the celebrities you'll meet, the parties you'll throw."
"But I love Sol," Pilar choked.
Mica remembered feeling just this way when she'd left for Encantada, except her love, Simon, had been behind her, while Pilar's was ahead.
"This is an adventure," Mica said. "It's hard to go, but once you're in the middle of it, you'll be too busy to miss home. And you'll have Hakan with you."
"But you won't be there."
Mica thought it too obvious to point out that she'd been gone for the past five years, so she moved on to the material point. "I'll miss you, too. And we'll comm every day. And plan trips to see each other—think how convenient it will be to be a Frust then. You can throw me a party and introduce me to everyone."
Pilar pulled back, her big amber eyes heavy with feeling. "Then he didn't tell you."
Mica shook her head. "Who didn't tell me what?"
Hakan? They'd said all of ten words to each other. No, had to be Simon.
Pilar's gaze dropped. Shame. Mica remembered the moment in the car yesterday when it had seemed that Pilar knew something.
It was unlikely, but… "Were you somehow involved in the accident with the miners?"
Pilar's gaze lifted quickly. "No! That was terrible." Tears, now. "But when he was exiled, I was so relieved that you wouldn't ever know how stupid I'd been." Her chest caved a little. "But I also wanted him to live, for you. And I even planned a drop of supplies, but Mother caught me hoarding ..."
"What happened, Pilar?"
Her gaze darted away, but then met Mica's squarely. This time as an adult. "He didn't want me."
Ah. Mica could almost see it. Simon had always been something to look at. If she'd fantasized about him, it made sense that others had, too. And no, he hadn't said a thing. He wouldn't.
"You were seventeen," Mica said, taking and gripping her hands. "Everyone is stupid at seventeen. And thank you for planning a drop, even if it didn't go off. It means more than I can say."
Pilar squeezed back, growing taller again with resolve, tears of relief in her eyes. "You're not angry?"
Nothing had happened. "No, baby sis. I would've yelled at you." And felt sorry for you. "But no, not angry."
"If you want him, really want him, I'll stand by you." They were Pia and Mia again, time whipping back around from childhood to pick them back up and tie them together. "I'll speak on your behalf to the shareholders and to Father."
"I do want him," Mica said. "But today is your day. How about we get you ready, and I'll comm you when it's time to make trouble over Simon?"
Which might actually be sooner than later. She didn't want to think about what he was doing at that moment.
Chapter Seven
Otis maneuvered the dragon flyer into a low hover in the palace plaza. The dragon's descent stirred the haze so Simon could see the guards who'd collapsed into slumber at their posts, the canisters of neurolyzing whitemist broken open on the cobblestones. He shoved plugs in his nose to avoid the same fate and jumped out of the flyer. The common area was usually bright and busy with palace guests and staff, but now the lights were dimmed and the space deserted as interest shifted and fixed on the ceremony occurring in the Sol Hall, which was located at the palace's highest rise and lit up like a star.
The fact that the dragon was registered to Mica Sol had helped them avoid questions from the Peace directing the crush of traffic around the palace. Her consort had all sorts of privileges. But the moment of danger came when they'd broken from the flow of flyers, circled, and used the family code to penetrate the resistance field that protected the plaza's airspace. Now the dragon crouched, as if at its prey, while they heaved red load after red load into its belly.
"Right behind you." Jace jumped out behind Simon and directed a float carrier that would speed loads from the artfully laid display of red mica to the cargo hold of the dragon. Simon tried not to think about how the mica had to have come from the cache he'd found.
Simon relished the flex and strain of his muscles; it meant he was doing work, and work was good. Physical labor cleared his mind and cleansed his soul. But his attention was fixed on the many windows that looked over the plaza, some dark, some yellow, some with shadows passing within.
He felt too exposed, too many eyes on him—though there was no evidence of being sighted. The crawling feeling was similar to his homecoming at the Tank—conspicuous.
Each cheer had remade him into something different, better, than he could ever hope to be. That veneration made him feel like more of a thief than the quiet hulk and grab of stealing the mica back from Drum Sol.
Another sharp glance at the windows, and he shoved the float carrier toward O, who was unloading. Simon bent down to grab another box of red treasure, when he felt a queer wash of awareness across his back.
This time, when he looked up, ready to fight, he caught the shadow dance of a dark, short group dodging among the leveled byways between the gabled roofs.
Simon made a tsss sound with his teeth, brought Jace over to see. He pointed upward to track the movement. Wait…There!
"Scavs," Jace said, unsurprised. He wiped sweat from his neck with the bottom of his shirt.
"What do you mean?" Simon demanded. How were they getting inside Sol City? Who was harboring them?
"Coming in through the mines," Jace added. "I thought you knew."
"No." Gods, no. "How?"
"Miners were shit-pissed about King Sol taking some mica or somesuch bad business."
Red. And the bad business had to be his. He'd been so angry about Sol appropriating the cache, that he hadn't considered that his brother miners would be angry too. That morning's show of solidarity took on another layer of dark feeling. They hadn't blamed him for the other miner's deaths—they thought he was a hero for finding it in the first place. The Sols were the target of their rage and grief.
The scavengers would be just the beginning.
Jace pulled out his plugs; the whitemist had lifted. "Seems like they've been letting them in through some secret dark passage."
Simon knew where. All the lifers did—it's where they sold mica on the black. Where he planned to unload this haul to his buyer.
Not important now. "How'd they get into the palace grounds?"
"I dunno."
But Simon could guess. If the miners were letting them inside the mountain, then someone equally as stupid or angry or greedy might be opening a door on the palace—somewhere the resistance fields didn't protect. Like the guest areas.
Simon held out his hand. It was steady considering the rage burning inside. "I want your slicer."
"Hell, no." Jace did a quick check of the shadows, as if he might have to use it himself.
"Give me your slicer, or I'll kill you."
Jace lifted both brows at the cold ferocity in Simon's voice, but handed the slicer over. The weapon felt slim and deadly in Simon's grasp. His hand was used to larger, heavier tools.
"What are you going to do?" Jace asked.
It was too far to shoot at the shadows from here. The resistance fields would diffuse the energy pulse anyway. He had to get close. Save her.
"Finish loading," Simon said. "I'm going to a wedding."
***
Mica check
ed the wedding program, which was printed on real paper and handwritten in curving, flourishing letters that sparkled with flecks of muscovite, white mica, at every shift of the page. So far, the wedding had progressed one third of the way through the thirty-two programmed performances, readings, and pledges.
…a lover's spat?
…where could he be?
She disregarded the empty seat at her side—Simon!—forced a pleasant face, and lifted her gaze to Lavinia Supernova, a virtuoso opera singer who now entertained during an interlude between the calling of the Frust genealogical line and that of the Sols.
…well, I'll take him if she's finished…
…heard he was once a miner…
Mica couldn't see who whispered, as she sat in the innermost of the concentric circles reserved for blood relatives or, it appeared, any famous actor or personality calling themselves close friends of the family, whether they were or not. The circles banded out, and since everyone was wearing a wavering aura of light, the effect was the same as if the sun blazed just as brightly right there in the room; only stars were visible through the domed glass overhead.
The singer dropped her voice down low enough to break the soul, and then lifted up exquisite sound to call down the stars, but Mica only heard perfect notes of anxiety.
He had her ship. Her codes. Was her consort. If the Peace were smart enough to ask questions before firing, he might just have a chance. And then there would be questions, but she could take those on. She had the appropriate answer ready.
In spite of her fears, a little glow burned in her chest. She knew exactly what she would tell her father. Exactly what to say to the shareholders:
Consider it my dowry, given to my husband. An exchange made, and therefore binding. It was also a little trap for Simon, too, but then he'd captured her a couple days ago. It was fitting that she capture him right back.
Had he started yet? How long would it take three strong men to move all that mica? Would he find her tonight, or did she have to endure until tomorrow?
The opera singer leapt octaves until she warbled an extended note at the extreme limit of human hearing. Her uplifted hand trembled with her vocal power, and then clenched at the terminating blast of sound.
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