“Your father hopes you will choose a daughter of Earth,” Kyrartine continued. “Specifically, a daughter of the council. He feels the marriage will strengthen diplomatic ties and quiet those whispering that the Grand Imperator, and our family, have become too removed from the workings of the monarchy. Your mother disagrees. She believes you should choose a daughter of the Atlas. Your father did acknowledge that he will give you the final decision in choosing a bride, so long as you adhere to the deadline.”
“How gracious of His Eminence,” the prince said bitterly. He made a fist with his hands, his fingertips digging into his palms. To make the announcement without so much as speaking to him, and then to send others to break the news? It was cold. Emotionless. As usual, any discomfort was passed into the hands of someone else.
He should have expected as much from his father.
Against the far wall, a hiss signaled the opening of the chamber’s door, revealing the Grand Imperator and Imperatoress. Behind them, Station Commander Grey escorted Chen Yao, High Chancellor for the Neo-American States. Both Yao and Grey appeared deep in conversation until they spied the prince.
The Grand Imperator’s gaze shifted to the Prime Heir and the laughter dissolved, his good humor tempering like a hot iron sizzling on the surface of a glacier. His large hands folded in front of the gold breastplate he wore during council meetings, as he gave Kyrartine a knowing look. The Imperatoress glanced between her husband and her son, sending the prince a pleading look to remain calm. Commander Grey adjusted his uniform, clearly uncomfortable from the unexpected tension.
The Grand Imperator nodded curtly. “So you’ve told him, then.”
“I have,” said Kyrartine, squeezing the prince’s shoulder, seemingly trying to reassure him.
The Imperatoress tugged her husband’s sleeve. “Nikolais,” she pleaded. “Maybe we should discuss this later.”
“It’s time he understands what it means to be the Prime Heir, Vivienne.” The prince clenched his teeth as the Grand Imperator pierced him with a frozen glare. “We must look to the future of the First World Union with the cards we’ve been dealt. Isn’t that right, Tomasz?”
The prince snorted. “I should have known you were planning something underhanded when you invited me along on your little trip,” he said, barely concealing the bitterness from his voice. “I wouldn’t have come if it weren’t for Freiter—”
“I will not hear any more of your conspiracy theories!” the Grand Imperator suddenly roared, causing Chen Yao to start. The High Chancellor bowed to excuse himself, quickly darting out the door. The commander made to follow, but the Grand Imperator motioned for him to stay. “No, Grey, you may as well hear this nonsense so we can put this ridiculous idea out of my son’s head. He seems to find security measures on board the Atlas rather lacking.”
Grey’s features lifted in surprise. “Excuse me, Your Eminence?”
The Grand Imperator’s tone became overly sweet, like poisoned honey. “Are you aware of any Restoration sympathizers living on the station, perhaps even smuggling weapons aboard?”
Commander Grey bristled at the accusation. “Of course not, sir. My team reviews the transfer paperwork for every single ounce of shipment that comes through our docking bay. If any part of the documentation was questionable, the entire cargo would be placed in quarantine. It’s simply not possible for an unscheduled military shipment to somehow make its way onto the Atlas.”
“And the sympathizers?”
Grey shifted slightly. “We’ve had the occasional disgruntled citizen, but nothing we haven’t been able to handle. And when the attacks on Earth increased, I immediately ordered security forces to compile a list of those most liable to turn against the First World Union. That way, we’ll be ready if any whispers of rebellion are heard on the station. If the prince would like to see the list...”
“I would—”
“No.” The Grand Imperator’s voice was barely more than a growl, but the prince knew better than to press the issue. To push him any further would be to risk violence. “Anyone who indulges the Prime Heir’s ramblings beyond this conversation will answer directly to me. This discussion is over. You have a very big decision ahead of you in three days’ time. I suggest you focus your efforts on your engagement.”
It was the Grand Imperatoress who finally broke the room’s heavy silence. “The eligible daughters of the Red Council are all well-bred ladies befitting your station. In three days, you will change one young lady’s life forever. As your bride, she will want for nothing. Surely you have someone in mind?”
Commander Grey coughed politely into a gloved hand. “And if Prince Tomasz prefers a girl outside the realm of politics, there are many beautiful young ladies—accomplished, intelligent, innovative young ladies—living on the upper decks of the Atlas.” He nodded eagerly. “I am certain any number of them would be honored to accept the Prime Heir’s hand in marriage.”
“Isn’t that Rienne girl arriving today?” asked Kyrartine with a grin. He shot a teasing look at his nephew. “I’ve seen some of the more detailed messages she’s left for you on the palace telecomm. Seems very interested in the LaRose family jewels.” He chuckled, and the prince resisted the urge to swat his shoulder.
Cerise Rienne was a beautiful, rising actress in the Neo-American States. He’d met her six months ago, at a gala event for the National Portrait Gallery back when she’d just completed her first, very minor role. Cerise had spent the evening stalking him from table to table, impertinently taking his arm as if they’d known each other for years. No doubt counting on the fact that I wouldn’t throw her in the fountain. The next day, paparazzi splashed pictures of the two together on every news outlet and trendmag. Her career had immediately soared, and they’d been an item of constant gossip and speculation ever since. He shuddered slightly to think of her glee at hearing his father’s announcement later that day. Naturally, the entire First World Union would expect her to be the one he chose.
“Well, I don’t care who it is, as long as she’s respectable and honors her superiors,” snapped the Grand Imperator. “I don’t want you showing up to the ball with some companion junko on your arm.”
Before the prince could issue a snarky retort, a knock sounded loudly against the conference room door. Kyrartine answered, speaking in low tones to someone beyond the doorway. “Commander Grey, it seems there is a security captain outside who would like a word. It may be best if you discussed the matter outside. We wouldn’t want to bore His Eminence.”
The prince straightened, his ears perking at the curious exchange. A security captain? Had something happened on the Atlas?
“Nonsense,” scoffed the Grand Imperator. “It’s not like Grey keeps secrets from his sovereign.” He turned to the commander. “Put my brother’s fears aside, Mattias, and show us all that you have security on this station firmly in hand.”
“Of course, Your Eminence,” Grey said with a slight bow, gesturing for Kyrartine to bring the captain into the antechamber.
A few seconds later, a uniformed security forces guard appeared, holding the electro-cuff of a disheveled girl in overalls and a rumpled work hat pulled low, concealing her features. The captain shoved her forward, and the prince heard the girl mutter a curse under her breath. She lashed out with her foot and stomped on the man’s gravity boot. The captain’s face briefly contorted in pain before saying, “My apologies, Commander, but you told us to alert you to any suspicious activity during the Centennial of the Crown. We found her in the junkyard past her shift, scavenging illegally.”
“And what exactly were you doing in the scrap zone after crew duty?” barked Grey.
The girl gave no answer.
“Who is she?” Grand Imperator Nikolais asked as though the girl were not in the room. His nose furrowed at the smell of grease now permeating the air.
The dusty prisoner straightened, no doubt horrified upon recognizing the room’s occupants. She sank into an awkward bow, which was made ev
en more so by the tension of the electro-cuffs. As she bent forward, the hat fell, releasing a waterfall of curls as white as snow.
The prince stared in stunned silence.
She was here. But how?
The commander opened his mouth to speak, cut short by the Prime Heir’s sudden, manic laughter. The faces of the room turned to him in surprise. As he stepped forward, the girl’s eyes finally met his own, her expression changing from shock to disbelief.
The prince grinned. “Father, I’d like you to meet Tesla,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “My date for the ball.”
NINE
IT WAS AS IF THE PALATIAL ROOM were being reflected through a trick mirror, distorting the image into something altogether foreign. Tesla gawked at the prince, all thoughts of propriety as dead as her last fighting bot. He stood by the synth-glass window, wearing tailored attire: polished black boots, dark slim pants, and a white linen shirt overlapped by a crimson side-cape secured by a silver crest on his opposite shoulder.
Nothing like his clothes from the night before.
It wasn’t possible. There was no way the Earthen boy named Daxton from the night before could be Prince Tomasz LaRose, Prime Heir to the Grand Imperator and future leader of the First World Union. She swayed slightly and pinched her palm, wincing at the small shock delivered by the electro-cuffs.
Not a dream.
This was really happening.
She had actually helped the prince sneak back into his suite the night before. She was actually standing before the royal family, dressed in welding overalls smelling like a blend of scorched engine parts and the coppery odor unique to the station’s junkyard.
No, not just standing.
Arrested.
The carpets beneath her feet bled into a sea of blues and greens like the view of Earth swirling far beyond the antechamber windows. Blood rushed to her head. The ceiling’s beautifully painted fresco blurred into an impressionist masterpiece. Everything in the room was gilded, expensive, lux—
Royal she reminded herself.
She examined the prince’s face, wondering why his expression wasn’t one of revulsion or embarrassment at having spent the evening sitting next to a Gulch rat and not a station pilot, but his face remained a mixture of decorum and amusement.
He’s laughing.
The realization made her teeth clench so hard she thought they might shatter, but then her thoughts began spinning faster than the wind turbines along the monorail tracks. How could she talk her way out of this now? Would Daxton—Prince Tomasz—tell Commander Grey she’d been above the deimark after curfew the night before? If security forces found out she’d accessed the database...
The Grand Imperator spoke. “Tomasz, you know this girl?”
The prince nodded. “We met while I... toured the ship.”
“Your Eminence,” Commander Grey began in a voice that made Tesla’s muscles stiffen. She’d been expecting this. The moment he brought up her father’s charges. “It may be of great interest to you that this girl was—”
“—Scavenging the ship’s scrapyard for a new data circuit to replace the one in my wristcomm,” Daxton finished as though it were the most normal thing in the world. He waved his hand, and the device, with a look of chagrin. “I broke mine during our ride to the Atlas. I had heard of Tesla’s repair skills and requested she fix it. She graciously agreed to help as a courtesy to the crown.”
Tesla’s mouth wasn’t the only one agape. The entire room stood in disbelief.
“How kind of her,” the Grand Imperatoress said with a gentle smile. “Surely given the Prime Heir’s explanation, we can release the young lady from custody, Commander?”
Tesla studied the prince’s mouth, looking for some sort of tell. Some reason as to why he was covering for her. What in space was going on here?
Grey stammered, unsure of what to say. “But, Your Eminence—”
“I’m glad that we could clear up this misunderstanding, Commander,” Daxton intoned with authority, a practiced smile stretching the corners of his mouth. “The scrap yard is property of the Atlas space station—and thereby the crown. Seeing as how she was under royal command, I don’t see how she has committed any offense.” He turned toward a man in an immaculate uniform, a cloak pinned neatly at his shoulder. “Kyrartine, would you do the honors?”
Upon the prince’s instruction, the man named Kyrartine deactivated the electro-cuffs, but not before sending a bemused glance toward the Grand Imperator. Tesla rubbed her sore wrists, uncertain of what to say. Why was the prince helping her, a girl he barely knew? A girl who had lied to him only a few hours ago?
Anger now swelled in her rib cage. She wasn’t the only one who had lied. He’d sat beside her discussing planes and aviation and freedom as though he weren’t the richest boy on Earth, free to do whatever he pleased. He’d been making fun of her, treating her like some idiot stationer too stupid to recognize the Prime Heir. And here she was now, a joke for his entertainment.
She felt sick.
The Imperator and Imperatoress watched their son with increasing curiosity, and Tesla got the distinct impression her appearance in the room had interrupted a heated conversation. The prince looked at her intently, but she broke eye contact, staring at the elaborate carvings which lined the wooden table at the center of the room. Her ears burned as she stood with as much dignity as her stained overalls could afford.
“And you’re taking... her... to the ball?” asked Imperator Nikolais, clearly nonplussed. “But she’s a station worker.”
Tesla bristled at the look of revolt on the sovereign’s face. “Actually,” she countered, glowering at the prince. “As it turns out, I will not be attending the ball after all.”
Daxton frowned at her words, his immaculate composure faltering. A look of—was it disappointment?—crossed his features. At her side, Commander Grey’s shoulders relaxed, no doubt relieved he wouldn’t have to explain her family history to the room, but Imperatoress Vivienne examined her with growing interest.
Tesla needed to leave immediately.
“I’m glad I could be of service to you, Your Highness,” Tesla said with a mock bow, her words souring with every syllable. Without waiting for a proper dismissal, she pushed her way past the guards and into the hallway, her hands still trembling from anger, humiliation, and disappointment. She stopped near the main elevators, leaning against the cold of the corridor walls, her heart feeling as though it would explode from her chest.
A low rumbling signaled the arrival of a lift. Two doors slid open and a female operator glanced up from an article on her HDP, giving only the slightest hint of surprise at finding a welder climbing aboard from the diplomatic suites. They traveled in silence, past the red glow of the deimark, shooting downward toward Level Eight.
“Boy trouble?” the large woman guessed as she swiped past a photo of Daxton on the trendmag, but not before Tesla caught the headline: EARTH’S MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELOR TO MARRY MYSTERY GIRL—DATASYNC FOR TRENDING UPDATES!
She groaned. “You have no idea.”
The doors opened with a soft whine, leaving Tesla standing in a foyer just a few dozen yards from Level Eight’s marketplace. Gone was the fresh air of the royal antechambers, replaced by the smell of sweat and ash. The furnaces were burning more than normal; Minko must be in a foul mood. Somewhere in the distance, a man hacked and coughed, phlegm rattling loud enough to cut across the sounds of the holovision screens broadcasting from the market.
Her nerves relaxed at the familiar surroundings, her mortification waning slowly. She didn’t belong in some glitzy royal room, standing in front of the royal family, and she certainly wasn’t going to the ball with a prince.
She felt like laughing at the absurdity of it all, turning her boots toward the dormitories and her apartment. Just as she rounded the corner, a shadow engulfed her. Naamah stepped forward, rows of crooked teeth flashing behind her scarred lips. Beside her, two of Yosef’s foot soldiers cackled, hed
ging around the sides until the trio formed a wall.
Tesla backed toward the lift and punched the button to call the operator back down to the Gulch, but the signal didn’t light in response.
“There you are, Tessie,” Naamah taunted. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Too scared to come out and play?”
“Why? Can’t get enough of me?” Tesla spat back. Where had the lift gone? Why wasn’t it returning?
“A lot of sass from a girl who has to build an entire suit in less than a day.”
Tesla stifled her surprised. “Minko promised me two weeks.”
The woman shook her head, lips curling into a satisfied smirk. “I thought your fellow Red Ashes would have told you by now. The fight has been moved up. Some diplomatic richies are hungry for less polished entertainment. Seems Minko thinks the payout is worth the risk of hosting a fight during the Centennial of the Crown.”
Heart racing, Tesla tried to process Naamah's revelation. Building a fightBot in that short a time was impossible, and Minko knew it. He'd sentenced Tesla to death, all for some mucking richies looking for a good time.
The two men beside Naamah shifted, flanking Tesla. She rolled to the balls of her feet, like Kiyo had once taught her, keeping herself out of arm’s reach. Surviving the fight might become irrelevant if the Skinners killed her before she even had a chance to enter the ring.
Naamah clicked her yellowed nails against her cheek. “Do you know why you lost the fight, little ghost? How Radek outmaneuvered you?”
Tesla didn’t. She’d run the fight over and over in her mind a thousand times, but still couldn’t figure it out. Neither she nor Radek were exceptional electricians. They were evenly matched as far as building skills, with Tesla only surpassing his reflexes thanks to her bioNexus. Because of this, she’d suspected Radek had won due to some new modification, but the only way he could have afforded the upgrades was if someone else were footing the bill. Someone with enough corpCredits to make Radek bold enough to risk Minko’s rage at beating his prize fighter.
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