by Adam Burch
“Leave us,” he says. His voice is quiet but hard. His gray eyes hold me in place. The concubines exit through the rear of the chamber. Phaestion presses his palm against a panel on the arm of his throne. The camglobes whisk away, too. Talousla Karr flashes a scowl but slinks off into the shadows.
Phaestion takes a seat. “Those deaths were necessary.”
It was him.
“They were innocent. All they wanted was to be heard. I promised I would speak for them. Now they’re dead. Tell me it wasn’t you.”
“What they wanted was too dangerous,” he says calmly.
“Dangerous?”
“I didn’t make the final decision,” he says evenly.
Thank the Elder Stars. He’s still my friend.
“Who did?” Anger tinges my voice. “I told those people I’d help them. I don’t like being made a liar.”
“Our people were bred as soldiers,” he says. “Soldiers obey, or the army collapses. The commanders became the Patriarchs of the Pantheon. The enlisted became our working class. Hard decisions had to be made for the first colony to survive. We had limited resources and a harsh, yet fragile environment. Too many voices, pulling in too many directions would have torn us apart. So our forefathers made sure not to repeat the mistakes of Miral or even Ancient Earth. They needed an efficient government and a way to ensure that the best among us were given the reins. The Combat was instituted not only as a way to manifest our darker impulses, to give us an outlet for the skills we had been bred with, but also to ensure that the strongest and most capable were the few with power.”
“Thanks for the civics lesson.” My voice drips sarcasm.
He ignores my gibe. “The most successful houses consolidated power through primogeniture. They trained us, their offspring, to master the Combat or sponsored others to win and rule on their behalf, like your father.”
It’s patently obvious why combatants rarely rise from the Under Circuit. Unlike the nobility, they are unable to train their whole lives for the event. It makes the success of my father an even more remarkable achievement when I think on it. His subsequent alliance with House Wusong certainly paid off. He is the old emperor’s de facto heir.
“That structure still needs to be maintained, at all costs.”
“Your structure is barbaric and stupid,” I sneer. “Look what it wrought today—the death of dozens of innocents who were only asking that their world not fall apart.”
“Tao is falling apart. It’s dying.”
His statement hangs in the air.
“It’s not going to explode or anything dramatic like that”—Phaestion waves dismissively—“but our best scientists have determined that even with the Combat and the Pavaka, even with birth controls and plebeian law mandating only one child per healthy couple, the population will reach a maximum capacity within a generation. Tao’s diminishing resources will no longer be able to sustain us, and there will be a crash.”
“What kind of crash?” I ask.
“Population, economic, ecological, technological, famine, plague . . .” His voice trails off. “You name it. Total collapse.”
He has that far-off look he gets when he talks about the future. It’s as if he can see something beyond the edge of normal vision.
“However it begins, the end is the same—cessation of our civilization. Those that survive will be reduced to scraping life from the barren rock of this world,” he says bitterly.
He leans back on his throne, a boy-king of a dying corpse. The prince of nothing.
“The Fracture.” My mind races for a solution. “We can get resources from other worlds now.”
“Paid for with what?” Phaestion says scornfully.
“With the wealth of the Pantheon,” I reply.
“Our gold and jewels? I’ll tell you one thing House Julii learned from dominating the interstellar trade, the same thing the other houses who dare to challenge our mercantile supremacy will learn when they send ships through the Fracture: the worlds of the Nine Corridors care little for our meager offerings. They care about invention, ideas, and technology. We have none to offer worlds more advanced than our own. We have no skilled labor. We’ve even depleted our world of arable land, which is itself a commodity.”
“We still have the resources of the Nightside,” I argue. “Metals and minerals. Mine them, trade them, or use them to build more starships. Become merchants, traders. Our people are skilled fighters. We can be soldiers again.”
“Mercenaries?” He laughs. “Is that what you would have our people reduced to?”
I have no answer to his scorn.
“When Old Wusong dies, Edric will marry you, Edgaard, and your sisters to other noble houses to consolidate his power. He’ll seek to keep Old Wusong’s seat on the High Synod and rule the College of Electors himself. He will keep the houses divided and use the resources of the Wendigo for himself. He would have us be as you suggest—traders.” Phaestion spits the word like an epithet.
If my father’s greed and lust for power would save the planet and our people, maybe that’s a better alternative. What an abhorrent thought—that of all the people to rule this world, it should be the man who beat my own mother.
“Edric’s plans will cause the dissolution of our way of life,” Phaestion continues. “Trade will maintain us for a generation, maybe two, but soon there will be an exodus. Our economy will stagnate. Our culture will be lost as more and more leave, never to return. Our race will fade with a whimper.”
I remember the leviathan’s words in my dreams.
The universe will die. What will it matter?
“All of us live and die. Governments, civilizations rise and fall. Things change,” I say.
Red blossoms in Phaestion’s face. His features contort and twist. His fists clench. Anger radiates from his eyes. “I would not have it so,” he roars. “Ours is the greatest civilization that has ever been born. Our people were forged in the crucible of Combat. We must prove the superiority of our ways!”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
He sits, and the cool mask of beauty falls back into place. He cocks his head to the side, but his eyes remain hard.
“It’s already in motion, Edmon.”
I feel afraid. “What is?”
“You. Me. Us. The Companions,” he replies. “If anyone’s to save this world, it will be us.”
A cadre of spoiled rich children living in an ivory tower? I laugh.
He looks at me perplexed, perhaps mildly annoyed.
“If you think we’re going to save this mud ball from anything, you’re living in a dream,” I say. “Sigurd’s a dumb brute, Perdiccus a sycophantic thrill seeker, Hanschen’s a depraved sex addict. And Edgaard . . .”
“And Edgaard?” he asks.
“Edgaard’s a little boy,” I say.
“What about you, Edmon? What are you?” Phaestion hits a button on the panel of his armchair. Music floods the chamber.
Ho-ho! Ho-ho! Ho-hey! Schmie-de mein ham-mer ein hartes Schwert!
It’s my voice, singing. My cheeks flush.
“The track was released across the nets last week. It’s very good.” He smiles. “The Maestro tried to keep our censors from intercepting it, but our filters are fairly sophisticated. Don’t worry,” he teases. “I don’t mind if people hear. It’s not me you have to fear on that account.”
He’s right. It’s my father I’m worried about. I remember the look in his eyes the day of the christening, when people laughed at my proclamation that I would become a musician.
“The song is about forging a sword, correct?” Phaestion asks. “It was a smart choice. It paints you as a warrior, searching for a destiny. Perhaps a destiny not only for yourself but for all of Tao. Be careful. The warrior in this song thought himself invulnerable until he was stabbed in the back by a trusted friend.”
Is he threatening me?
“I thought you’d given up your interest in music,” I say.
“I haven�
��t given up my interest in you. Or my interest in you being by my side. I can’t do what I plan without you, Edmon.”
What exactly does he plan?
“You’ve been to the arcologies now. You know the responsibility that we’ll inherit as the Patriarchs, as Electors, as members of the Synod. The responsibility to see our people survive. You understand now more than anyone the suffering our people are enduring.”
“We won’t see them survive by killing them!” Anger rises in my voice again.
“You wanted to step into the Arms of Agony?” he mocks. “This is the true agony—having to make a choice between killing a few or saving many more. How does it feel now?”
So this is his punishment. That I should know the pain he assumes he will endure.
“Those people you met today, there are millions more like them across Meridian,” he says. “They can be the fire against the collapse that’s coming, but only if they can be harnessed. Dissonance must be crushed in order to achieve harmony. Don’t you see? Yes, they are suffering. Yes, they are the cause of our planet dying, but that is necessary until the last moment when they become so destitute, so angry, that they are ready to lash out. They will trust in leaders who can direct their anger, who promise to make them great again. We will be those leaders. They will be our siren sword, our blade that will pierce the Nine Corridors and ensure our way of life not only survives, but thrives. That’s why I was born. That’s my purpose.”
He turns toward the bay windows that overlook the city as he becomes lost in a reverie.
He really believes that what happened in the streets was just. All for a higher cause.
“It’s our purpose.” He turns. “The broadcasts of the competition were reedited, excising all footage of the event today.”
“The massacre, you mean.” My blood boils.
“We need the people behind us in order to save them from extinction. Their anger, their hunger, their strength, those must be turned outward, not within, and not until I’m ready. Those people are Tao’s greatest resource, but the timing must be just right.”
“For what?” Dread fills my bones.
Phaestion smiles. “For the thrust.”
CHAPTER 12
DISSONANCE
The hum of the sondi pulses in my ears. I rest my head against my seat.
The Isle of Bone. My home. I’m coming.
It has been three long years since I’ve seen her white shores, since I’ve seen my mother or slept in my own bed. Since I’ve seen Nadia. I try to focus on my breathing as Alberich has taught for fighting, as The Maestro has taught for singing.
“Nervous, Ed?” Hanschen leers. “I’m sure your home is quite lovely, in a provincial way.”
“I hear the surf’s outstanding,” Perdiccus adds. “I’d like to take an ocean screamer out. Maybe see a siren?”
I remember the last time a boy from Meridian wanted to see a siren.
“We won’t be doing any of that,” Sigurd interrupts. He folds his arms across his muscled chest. “We’re going to train,” he says with disdain. “We’ll not be softened by lazy sun or backward people. We must maintain integrity.”
“Aye-aye, Captain Puckered Nuts.” Perdiccus salutes derisively.
Sigurd smirks, willing to take the gibe because he doesn’t think Perdiccus is a real threat to him physically. He’s overconfident.
“You trained alone here with Phaestion, didn’t you, Edmon?” Edgaard asks.
“He did,” a deep voice rumbles. Phaestion enters the passenger cabin from the cockpit. His timbre is no longer a boy’s. His maturity has come faster than the rest of ours, perhaps because of his enhancements. He’s more confident than ever, too. “We trained on the beaches before he became a companion.”
The others eye me with jealousy. I’m the only one of us who has ever been with Phaestion alone. The only one who’s ever seen his skill with a sword close up. They don’t know that I’ve seen even more. I’ve seen how he trains in the Arms of Agony. I’ve seen how he stands in his little control room and watches us all. I’ve seen not only what his body is capable of, but what his mind can process and accomplish. The mystery around him is as intimidating as it is tantalizing for the others.
He’s just a boy, like me, though. When he’s wrong, he’s wrong just like anybody else.
Whatever his special abilities are, his isolation has sparked a disconnect that has allowed him to view people as pawns. Love and affection are merely ways to manipulate, no matter if the feelings are true. Killing is a necessary evil to achieve his goals, too, I’ve learned.
And what of my feelings for him? Our friendship? Is it real or just another tool? Either way, I won’t allow my friendship with Phaestion to permit him to hurt others again, I promise myself.
“Don’t underestimate the heat of sun and sand when you train, Sigurd.” Phaestion claps the giant’s back. “Island pleasures can be delightful.” He winks at Hanschen. “The surf definitely is intense.” He nods at Perdiccus.
“Prepare for docking,” the pilot chimes in over the speakers.
The sondi engine sighs a low hoot as it slows over the bay.
“I’m excited to see your home.” Edgaard looks up at me. I tousle his hair. “Aw, come on, Edmon,” he says and pulls away.
Commandant Vetruk gathers the other teachers, including Croack and Michio, at the entrance to disembark. They’re in the black uniforms of House Julii. Alberich has donned the blue and silver of House Leontes in honor of Edgaard’s win.
Perdiccus is smart in turquoise and white of House Mughal, while Sigurd looks ostentatious in violent red and gold of House Flanders.
Edgaard eyes me nervously. I’m not wearing Leontes colors. Instead, I’ve insisted on the white linens of the islanders. The teachers cast their eyes at me with disdain. I don’t care. This is my mother’s house, and I’ll return to it as a member of her people.
Talousla Karr meanwhile skulks in shadows, watching us like lab animals from beneath his hood.
Maestro Bertinelli wears a frock coat over a doublet and britches of Lyrian origin. He glances at me over his tiny round spectacles under the wide brim of a straw hat. I smile back anxiously. He was not initially invited, being only my private tutor, but I insisted that he make the journey with us. I think he’ll enjoy the music of the island. More than that, I need the support. I don’t know that we’ll have a chance to talk much, but I’m glad he’s here. Perhaps he and I will figure out a way to announce a leave from Tao so that I may study music on Lyria. I just have to get through the next few days.
The doors open. Sunlight streams into the ship. The teachers and Companions step out of the carriage. Phaestion’s hand is on my shoulder.
“Edmon, I tried to tell you before we left. There’s something about your homecoming I need you to know,” he says.
But I’m too impatient. As much as I appreciate his friendly demeanor, I still haven’t forgiven him for what has happened. “Later,” I say, shrugging him off perhaps a bit more harshly than I should.
The glare of hot light hits me. My ears are assaulted with a gigantic roar. I hold up my hand to shield my eyes, peering through the cracks in my fingers. They frame a crowd. The whole of the Isle of Bone is gathered at the docks. Their cheers ring in my ears.
“What’s going on?” I turn to Phaestion.
“It’s good to be home,” he says, arcing an eyebrow. “They’re here for you.”
I turn back to the multitude. I raise my hand, and they cheer. Drummers bang a rhythm as the crowd parts, creating a pathway for me to walk through.
“What were you going to tell me just now?” I ask.
He shifts uncomfortably.
“Phaestion?”
“Go,” he says. “Today’s your day.”
There’s a look in his eye. He’s proud for me, but also something more . . .
I stride down the ramp. The other Companions wander behind with looks of disbelief on their faces. I reach the bottom, and the crowd rushe
s me. I resist at first, not used to letting people touch me. Eventually, the onrush is too much. I give in. They lift me toward the sky. The music plays. I’m floating on hands, gliding on a sea of fingers. They carry me in their arms, on their shoulders, through the town, up the hill toward the summit. The moment is surreal.
This is what it means to come home.
Before I know it, I’m gently placed on the doorstep of the lonely white house my father built for my mother. The crowd disperses. The drums fade. Voices linger, and clasped hands part.
“Welcome home, Little Leontes. We need you,” they say.
I no longer feel little. I feel stronger than ever. The pale-faced Companions and teachers of House Julii remain, confusion painting their faces. I’m the boy they’ve mistreated, and they’ve just seen me worshipped like a king. Maestro Bertinelli steps forward. He places a hand on my shoulder. “Well, Master Edmon, aren’t you going to invite us in?”
I nod. The manse is barely a cottage compared to the gargantuan scrapers of Meridian, but still I’m the lord.
“Wait,” Phaestion starts. “That thing I tried to tell you—”
For some reason I don’t heed him. I open the double wide doors and step into the foyer. “Mother!” I call like a child. To the abyss with the decorum of noble houses. “I’m home!”
I’m greeted by a hollow silence. The summer breeze whisks through the dead building, fanning tattered curtains from an open window.
Hanschen snorts. “This is it? I expected at least a little barbarian hospitality.”
“Quiet,” Phaestion says, cutting him off.
“Mother?” I call again.
“Young master.”
The voice is not my mother’s, but rather one of her ladies in waiting. She enters, pushing a chair that hovers on a pneumolift. A decrepit thing, a rail-thin woman, sits in its seat, the ribs and clavicle at the top of her emaciated chest made visible by the v-line of the medical smock she wears. Her neck lurches forward, barely supporting a swollen head. Her eyes wander independently of each other, rolling at odd, dull angles. A red, puckered scar above her right eye zigzags over her shorn skull to the back of her neck.
