by Tania Hutley
“It does feel that way,” I agree.
“Want to go and get some rest before the meeting?” he asks.
I shake my head. Give up alone time with Cale? No way. “Let’s talk first, then I’ll go and wash up.” I sit back on the bed, curling my legs up on its silky cloth. “What do you think it’d be like to live in Deiterra? And where do you think all the people are?”
He sits down too. Not close enough that we’re in any danger of touching, but not so far as to make me lose hope of him ever getting used to this Skin.
“They didn’t have the Welcon disaster on this side of the wall,” he says, leaning back on his hands.
“But even before Welcon, Triton was overcrowded. Why do we have so many people when they have so few?”
“We don’t know anything about their lives. Maybe they’re not allowed to have children.”
I shake my head. “That can’t be it. On the way here, I saw a couple of kids walking down the road.”
“Then it’s a mystery. We’ll need to draw up a list of things to ask Sentin about.” He shoots me a smile that flashes a hint of dimple. “Sentin loves answering questions, so I’m sure he’ll be eager to tell us everything.”
I smile back. After all that’s happened, just to know that I can still sit and talk like this with Cale is a relief. When we joke together, the weight of responsibility eases from my shoulders a little. Or maybe it’s just easier to bear. Without him, I’d be so busy thinking about what to say to the imperator, I’d have tied myself in knots by now.
“You’re right.” I keep my voice as light as his. “Sentin talks too much. I wish I could get him to stop with all the explanations.”
Cale’s expression turns serious. “Speaking of explanations, what was with the legionnaires calling him sir?”
“That should definitely go on the list of things to ask him.”
Cale gets up to take another piece of fruit from the bowl. “Do you think everyone here eats food that’s been grown on trees? I mean, all the time?”
“Judging by all the gardens, they must.”
“Imagine living in all this space.” He holds the fruit to his nose, but doesn’t bite into it. “Now we’ve seen it, would you want to move here? Hypothetically speaking, I mean.”
I shrug. “It seems like paradise, especially compared to Old Triton. But this place must have its drawbacks too. We just don’t know what they are yet.”
“I’d like to grow something and eat it.”
“How long do you think it takes to grow food? Say, that piece of fruit?” I nod at the mottled yellow-green globe he’s holding to his nose.
“Weeks or months, maybe? A lot longer than pressing a button to make food come out of a machine.”
He offers the fruit to me, and I take the first bite before passing it back. We eat and talk about everything we’ve seen so far until it’s time to get ready. I go back to my own room to wash and change into clean clothes, and just before six o’clock, the woman who showed us to our rooms reappears. She leads the three of us down several long hallways, to a luxurious sitting room with gold and white walls. It reminds me of a movie I once saw that was set in the eighteen hundreds. There are chairs grouped together that we could sit on, but Sentin stays standing, so Cale and I do too.
A waiter offers us drinks, and I accept a glass of something cold and delicious, that gets warmer as it goes down my throat. I take a bigger gulp and Sentin shoots me a warning look.
“The drinks are alcoholic,” he murmurs. “Sip it slowly. Try to copy everything I do.” Leaning in close to speak to me, his cologne fills my senses with the sweet and spicy scents of licorice and aniseed.
Sentin puts his untasted drink down on a small coffee table. I take one more sip of mine, then reluctantly do the same. Though it tastes nothing like street brew, I’m willing to be cautious. Cale keeps hold of his glass, as though he’s decided the taste is worth the risk of getting drunk.
A young man comes into the dining room. He’s wearing a silky white shirt and black trousers, and looks to be in his mid-twenties, barely older than Cale or Sentin. He has olive skin, but it’s light enough that I doubt he’s had melatonin added. He has an attractive face, but his nose would be considered too big in New Triton, and his dark eyebrows are crooked and overly bushy. In fact, everything about him looks natural, as though he hasn’t been tweaked at all.
Sentin dips his head in a respectful semi-bow. “Prince Otho, we’re honored to meet you.”
I’m glad I put my drink down or I might have choked on it. A prince who looks like a sinker? They can’t have tweaking over here at all.
The young man extends his hand. When Sentin takes it, he bows over it rather than shaking it. Then he glances at us, clearly wanting us to do the same.
“This is President Morelle, and Cale Rickard.”
I take his hand and bow like Sentin did, and Cale does the same.
“A pleasure.” The prince sweeps us with a wide smile that looks genuine. “My father will be here soon, but I’m glad we get a few minutes alone. I want to hear all about Triton.”
Sentin nods. “Certainly, sir. What would you like to know?”
Prince Otho waves his hand in an exaggerated gesture. “Everything. No, wait. Tell me about the Skins first, then everything else. And there’s no need to be formal with me. You can call me Otho.” He looks at Cale. “You were in the Skin Hunter contest too, weren’t you, Mr. Rickard?”
“Please, call me Cale. I wasn’t in the contest itself, but I used the Saber-Toothed Tiger Skin for a few weeks.”
“What was it like using the Skin?”
Cale glances at me, and I sense his hesitation. He’s wondering if Prince Otho is looking for information to help his father’s efforts to reverse engineer the Skin technology. It sounds like the prince is a genuine fan of the contest, but his boyish enthusiasm could be just an act.
“The Skins combine animal and human DNA,” says Sentin. “Autonomic bodily functions are controlled by the Skin’s brain stem and central nervous system.”
The prince nods politely, but the spark in his eyes dims just a little.
“Their biological tissue is grown around a synthetic core,” Sentin continues. “The transferral technique—”
“They were a lot of fun,” Cale interrupts. “Can you imagine racing up a tower in a body that’s several times stronger and faster than your own? It was the most exhilarating thing I’ve ever done.”
The prince grins, the sparkle coming back to his eyes. “I’d give anything to be able to try it.”
“Perhaps you could visit Triton and use one of the Skins from the contest.” Cale flicks a questioning glance to Sentin.
Sentin nods. “Of course.”
“But I’ve heard you lie in some kind of pod to transfer out of your body. Is that necessary? I’m not comfortable in small spaces.”
“You suffer from claustrophobia?” The spark of interest in Sentin’s tone is subtle, and if I hadn’t gotten to know him over the last few days, I probably wouldn’t have caught it. But for some reason, Sentin’s gaze has sharpened on the prince.
Otho chuckles uncomfortably, his cheeks reddening like he wishes he hadn’t mentioned it. “When I was a boy, I managed to get myself trapped in a tiny storage closet. Pitch black in there and hellishly uncomfortable. It was several hours before anyone found me. A little longer, and it wouldn’t be such a funny story. The air was getting thin.”
“You don’t need a pod,” Cale assures him. “The ones we used checked our vital signs, and kept our human bodies hydrated and our muscles stimulated. But all that isn’t necessary if you only use the Skin for a few hours.”
“In that case, I’d like to experience what it’s like to use a Skin.” The prince leans forward, talking only to Cale now. The two of them seem to have forged an instant connection. “Which of the Skins—?”
The sound of the door opening interrupts him, and we all turn to look at the uniformed staff member who’
s bustling noisily in, clearing his throat. “Presenting his Royal Excellency, the Imperator of Deiterra,” he announces.
A man strides in behind him, wearing long golden robes, so long they sweep the floor. Their opulence is made even more impressive by the imperator’s height. He’s taller than both Sentin and Cale, and much taller than I am. He’s bald and barrel-chested, but his face isn’t nearly as fleshy as the Beast’s. His features are craggy instead and his nose is bigger and more hooked than his son’s. If he were a Skin, I’d be sure he had some eagle DNA mixed in.
“Your Excellency.” Sentin bows low, holding himself down for a second or two at the bottom of his bow.
Cale and I glance at each other, then do the same.
“Welcome.” The imperator’s tone is dismissive, as though we’re not welcome at all. “Formal negotiations will take place over dinner. Until then, I wish to hear about the assassinations of President Trask and Vice President Burns. And our esteemed ambassador, whom I’m told fell victim to an explosion.”
“Of course, Your Excellency.” Sentin bows again, just his head this time. “We have had a certain amount of civil unrest. However, democratic elections will be held in a few months, and until then, President Morelle is acting President of Triton.”
The imperator turns his gaze onto me. His eyes are brown, but nothing like Cale’s. The imperator’s are as dark as some of the patches of soil I saw on the way here, where seeds must have been freshly planted, and the ground was wet.
“I’ve come here because I want peace between Triton and Deiterra,” I say.
Sentin frowns at me. Too late, I remember he told me not to say anything. But what does he expect me to do, stand around like an ornament?
“Negotiations will take place over dinner.” The imperator looks down his beaky nose and speaks in a clipped tone, as though telling off a child. “Until then, we will discuss the current situation in Triton.”
I press my lips together and suck in a long, silent breath. This is already promising to be a very long evening.
“Your company developed the Skins,” the prince says to me, his smile gone. “You created the army that attacked us. How can we believe you want peace now, when you’re the one who—?”
“That’s enough.” The imperator cuts him off with a glare.
There’s a noise from the door, and I turn to see two men and a woman entering. All three are wearing army uniforms, with medals pinned to their chests.
A staff member introduces them, and I immediately forget their names. All three are legates, which I guess must be the top rank in the legion.
They all accept one of the strong drinks from the waiter, then stand ramrod straight with serious expressions, as though it’s a toss-up whether they’re planning to salute or sip their drinks.
“President Morelle.” One of the legates addresses me. “Please tell us, how many Skins do you have left?”
Sentin turns his calm gaze on the man and speaks for me. “I’m afraid that’s classified. We brought forty-seven with us. That’s all the president is prepared to say.”
“The Skins did a lot of damage here. They wiped out several food stores. Then, all at once, they simply collapsed.” The legate’s eyes narrow. “Why?”
“The soldiers’ chips were wiped,” says Sentin.
“Yes, we know,” the imperator cuts in. He makes an impatient motion with the hand holding his drink, causing the liquid to slosh in the glass. “But why? Who did it?”
“I believe I mentioned our civil unrest. There was a short-lived rebellion against the authority of the president, but the insurgents have now been dealt with. The president is once again in full control.”
I keep my expression blank, but can’t stop myself from meeting Cale’s gaze. We were the ones who wiped those chips.
“How can we be sure you won’t bring another army across the wall?” demands Prince Otho.
“We’re here to offer those assurances—“ starts Sentin, but the imperator cuts him off with an irritated grunt.
“If you insist on discussing these things now, we may as well start dinner.”
Instantly, one of the uniformed waiters steps forward. “This way, please.”
The waiter opens a door and ushers us into a dining room. A long table that looks designed to seat at least two dozen people is set with eight place settings, all well apart from each other so we’ll have to speak up to be heard.
Several more waiters join us. One pulls out a chair for me and holds it while I sit down, and others do the same for the rest. Then the waiters bustle around us, pouring us fresh drinks, although our old drinks are virtually untouched.
They bring out platters of food from a door that must lead into a kitchen, and one spoons some of it onto the plate in front of me. The food smells delicious, but looks nothing like what I’m used to. I stare down at some green leaves that must have been picked straight from a plant and coated in some kind of liquid. A thick white tube rests beside it, with something brown and chunky on the side. I can’t wait to taste it all, but I sit patiently while everyone is served.
Prince Otho is sitting opposite me, and on the wall behind him is a portrait of his father, and an older man with the same beaky nose, who must be his grandfather. They were both imperators, so I guess Prince Otho is next in line to take over.
When the imperator picks up his knife and fork, I take it as an invitation to eat. Carefully, I spear one of the green leaves and push it in my mouth. Its flavor is incredible. As is everything else. I can barely stop myself from gobbling everything on my plate.
I’m in the process of devouring my dinner when I look up and catch the imperator watching me. The story Sentin told us runs through my mind, about the boy who ate goldenfruit and grew roots. The imperator probably thinks after we’ve eaten his delicious food, we’ll feel more like being generous.
Holding his gaze, I put my knife and fork down, and swallow what’s in my mouth.
The imperator’s gaze moves deliberately to Sentin. “What exactly do you want from us?” he asks abruptly. “I assume you’re going to ask for something in exchange for peace.”
Sentin nods. “Triton would like to import some of Deiterra’s produce, and export its goods to you.”
“Trade?” The imperator sounds incredulous, as though it’s the most ridiculous demand he’s ever heard.
Sentin inclines his head. “Trade,” he agrees.
“First you destroy our grain stores, and now you want the rest of our food?”
“Our factories manufacture enough food in Triton to supply you with—”
“You’re suggesting we eat chemicals?” The imperator’s lip curls. The legates stay silent, but their expressions make it clear they’re as revolted as their boss. The only one who doesn’t look disgusted at the idea is Prince Otho.
“The food being produced in Triton’s factories is nutritious—”
“Manufacturing food in test tubes goes against the principles Deiterra was founded on.” The imperator makes a disgusted sound, spraying saliva over the table. “My father would roll in his grave.”
“It would be a temporary solution until your grain store was replenished.” Sentin sounds as unruffled as ever. “And new technology is being developed in Triton that I believe could be of great benefit to Deiterra.”
“What kind of technology?” Prince Otho leans forward, his eyes alight with interest.
“Plant fertilization is your farmers’ most labor-intensive task. Have you considered creating bees to do it for you?”
“Creating bees? You mean, engineering them in a lab?”
Sentin nods. “Our scientists grew a sabre-toothed tiger from ancient DNA traces found in fossils. They can certainly bring bees back into the world. And they can make them resistant to the toxins that drove them to extinction.”
Prince Otho turns to his father and widens his eyes.
The imperator looks far less impressed. “If Triton has the answer to every problem, it must
be a delightful place to live.” He folds his arms in front of him. “So why do you want our food?”
“Triton is overcrowded, as you well know.”
“Well you can’t send all your people here,” snaps the imperator. The legates all nod, agreeing with their boss.
“I’m not suggesting that.” Sentin puts his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers together over his plate. “I’m simply suggesting we enjoy closer relations for our mutual benefit. In order to do that, we’ll need to relax some restrictions around entry. We’ll repair the wall, but install a proper gate for easier access. Our scientists will help Deiterra become more productive, and your growers will export a portion of their goods.”
“Never.” The imperator slams his hand down on the table, making all the plates and glasses jump. “You can’t have our food. We only have enough to feed ourselves.”
“When you have access to our technology, you’ll produce a lot more food. Your country will prosper and your citizens will—”
“That’s enough.” The imperator scrapes his chair back and stands up. “My answer is no. My appetite has gone, and I won’t entertain this discussion any longer.” His legates put their cutlery down and stand up too.
“Please don’t leave.” Sentin swivels in his chair. “We have a lot to discuss.”
“We have nothing to discuss.” The imperator fixes his son with a pointed look. “Otho?”
The prince stands up slowly, his expression reluctant. “That was quick,” he mutters.
“Your terms are unacceptable.” The imperator glares at Sentin, then at me and Cale. “You will reconsider your offer before we speak again tomorrow. We will not agree to trade, we refuse your chemicals, and your scientists are not welcome here.” He turns and sweeps out, followed by the legates.
“My apologies,” says Prince Otho. “I thought the bees were a good idea.” He nods at us and goes after his father.
When it’s just Cale, Sentin and I left at the table, I let out a loud sigh. “That didn’t go well.”
“His behaviour could be a negotiating tactic.” Sentin picks up his knife and fork and cuts a mouthful of food. But though he’s making an effort to act like nothing is wrong, his body is tense and his shoulders have lifted. I’m either getting better at reading him, or he’s finding it harder to hide his emotions. Maybe being in Deiterra is bringing old, buried tensions closer to the surface.
