by Tara Sim
It was in these moments the world fell away. It was just the two of them, one heartbeat, two bodies, soft whispers. Danny’s heart was bigger than himself; it crowded the room, the house, the town, all of this island on a cold battering sea. He drowned in it, starved for air and enjoying it—this terrifying surrender, the idea that someone could tie themselves so closely to him that there would be no life without that connection. That gentle reminder, and sometimes not so gentle, a pounding pain in his heart that expanded it and weakened it at the same time.
Colton traced the arc of Danny’s ribs as if they were a pathway to another world. Then his arm reached around, hugging him, bringing him close. Their bodies pressed flush together, their mouths still attached, Danny shuddering at the horror and the wonder of it. His hands still framed Colton’s face, digging into his hair. His lips shaped his name around kisses that stole his mind and his breath. He heard it in Colton’s voice, that singing sweet voice.
“Danny.”
He clamped onto it, needing it to survive. Again, his name. Again, a reminder he was here, lost and found in the middle of his beating heart, with someone who held it reverently between his palms.
They didn’t have to say anything, because it was all spread out before them. Spoken on fingertips, read in goosebumps and shivers, heard in soft gasps. There were secrets older than the universe between them, in the places they touched. How stars were born and died, and how the dust from those celestial bodies had formed their bones, fragments of a galaxy long forgotten. Colton murmured something against Danny’s stomach, but he was already breathing the truth into his lungs and exhaling Colton’s name like it was the only word he had ever known.
He still saw the thought blast across Colton’s mind like a firework. The raw sparks landed on his skin, singeing them both. Danny pushed him back and straddled him. They arched and dug fingers into the sheets as moonlight bathed them, turned them pure, washing out their sins. For just a moment. For just a night.
In the light, they burned into new stars.
They lay awake as the night pulled onward. Colton was too busy tracing the soft curve of Danny’s shoulder to pay attention to time passing. Too intoxicated by the pliant press of his mouth. He wanted everything. He was so full of want that it pooled in his belly and nestled in the hollows of his collarbones. It limned the creases of wherever they touched.
Colton leaned their foreheads together and closed his eyes. It was an easy bridge to Danny’s mind, a simple turn like glancing out the window for a different view. Danny let him in; there was no resistance. Just a long sigh and letting go.
And that easily, he was there. Surrounded by a familiar voice that seemed somehow both magnified and quiet at the same time.
—strange. He caught the tail end of a thought.
Colton fell in deeper. Gently exploring. Felt doors opening willingly, none of them locked, everything bared. The sound of clocks. A man and woman laughing. The kiss of snow on his cheeks, the sting of cold air. The smell of oil. The taste of gingerbread. The shape of tools in his hand, a simple pride in knowledge. Chasing after an auburn-haired girl in the rain. The glowing face of Big Ben. Cool fingers sweeping the hair off his forehead. The sound and weight of water, gray raindrops rolling down a windowpane.
The gray had a taste, a shape in his mouth, something heavy and aching. A hole, or a ridge, a falling off into something too deep to explore.
Loneliness.
It was there, a looming presence in mind and body. He wore it like a shroud. Even with Colton, even surrounded, it was unshakable. Unmistakable.
I’m here, he thought into Danny’s mind. He felt it echo across him, and Danny’s lips parted in surprise. His voice traveled into the grayness, making it ripple. Turning it a shade lighter.
Yes, Danny thought back, and relaxed against him.
Colton kissed him awake the next morning. Danny smiled and pulled the spirit closer, wanting to stay like this forever. No thoughts of the world outside, or the stirring in the next room.
“I need to go downstairs,” Colton protested between kisses.
Danny leaned back with a sigh. He watched Colton dress and then reach for his cog holder. At the door, Colton smiled over his shoulder, sending Danny an image of the night before that made him blush.
After readying himself for whatever the day would bring, Danny joined Colton and his parents downstairs.
“I can’t just leave,” Leila was arguing.
Christopher put a hand on her arm. “There’s nothing we can do from here. If something happens, I’ll come get you.”
Danny easily read what was underneath those words: his father wanted her to be away from any danger.
He bent to kiss her cheek. “I’ll be all right, Mum. We all will.”
“Just be safe. And ring me if anything happens,” she insisted before reluctantly departing for work.
After a small breakfast, Danny put the dishes away and turned to his father.
“I’m going out.”
“What? Why?”
“I want to find Brandon. He might be willing to help us.” Danny also wanted more information about the state of the city. “Maybe I can find the Lead and—”
“It’s not safe,” Christopher cut in. “I should at least come with you.”
“And leave Colton here by himself?”
“I can go, too,” Colton argued, but Danny shook his head.
“You need to wait for Zavier to radio.”
Christopher scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Cassie can stay with Colton. I’ll go with you.”
“I’m not a child,” Colton muttered. “I’m perfectly fine here by myself.”
“Dad—”
“That’s final, Danny. Give me a moment to get ready,” he said before disappearing up the stairs.
“I’m going,” Danny whispered. “It’ll be easier to move around on my own.”
Colton nodded, trying to mask his disappointment. Danny gave him a quick kiss.
“I’m sorry. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
He snuck out the front door and into the street, keeping his head low. Once around the corner, he broke into a run.
He breathed in the cold, brittle air. It felt good to be outside, to stretch his legs. There was an omnibus stop a few streets down. If he made it there—
Someone grabbed his arms. Danny barely had time to cry out before a hand covered his mouth. Remembering the ether the Builders had used, he thrashed in panic, but he felt no drowsiness—just fear, hot and potent in his stomach as his captors dragged him into the nearest alley.
“Knock the wrigglin’ bleeder out already,” a man grunted by his ear.
Another loomed before him. He only had an instant to recognize the uniform of a London constable before a baton crashed into the side of his head.
The house looked abandoned. And for good reason—it was abandoned. No one had lived there for at least six months. The windows were dark, the paint of the frames peeling from the recent harsh winter. The hedge beside the brick entryway had grown wild, reaching for the road with its bloated branches. Unread papers sat deteriorating on the front step.
Daphne walked through the front door. It stuck a little, but opened to reveal a dim interior crowded with dust and memory. Both made her eyes water.
“I’m home,” she murmured to no one.
She set her bag on the receiving table by the door. She tried not to look at the dried, brittle flowers in the blue and green vase her parents had bought at a boutique shortly after marrying, or the dusty round mirror hanging on the wall she hadn’t been able to reach until she was nine. Ghosts tugged at her arms, wanting her to slow down and acknowledge them.
The stairs creaked under her boots. Her bedroom was straight ahead, but she turned left, toward her mother’s room.
The hinges protested loudly as she nudged the door open. Her mother hadn’t lived in the house for a couple of years, but Daphne had kept the room clean all the same. Maybe it had been ho
pe, or impulse. Maybe she couldn’t stand seeing more of her life fade into nothingness.
A doily was draped over her mother’s vanity table. On top sat an old hairbrush, a mostly empty perfume bottle, and a container of stale face powder. Daphne lifted the perfume and pressed the pump, spraying some into the air. Faded roses.
Daphne skimmed her fingers over the white and cream counterpane of the bed. When she was much younger, she used to run into this room when she had a nightmare, crawling under the safety of the sheets. The counterpane had often served as a shield during games of hide and seek with her father. She had run her fingers over the embroidered edges until she had memorized the whorls and lines.
Shaking her head, she took a small jar from her mother’s vanity before going to her own bedroom. She’d put away her childhood possessions long ago; they sat in a box in the closet downstairs. Now, the room was sparsely furnished, only a mirror above her dresser and a painting of foxgloves serving as a contrast against the salmon-colored paint.
The jar of whitening mixture in her hand was crusted around the edges, though still gelatinous inside. Sticking her tongue out in disgust, Daphne swirled the cold cream with her finger and applied a dab to her tattoo.
She knew she’d been labeled as missing for months now. There were probably plenty of people out there who knew her face and name. Yet despite the restlessness of London, she had pleaded to come to the city to check on her mother.
“I’ve been gone for months,” she’d told Zavier when he hesitated. “If Danny can see his parents, I should be able to see to my own affairs, too.”
“Just make sure you aren’t seen. We can’t afford anything happening to any of you.”
She’d asked Akash if he wanted to accompany her, but he insisted it wasn’t wise.
“I’ll draw too much attention.”
Which was true after the events at Victoria’s camp, but she had still been disappointed. Lately, he always had a glassy look to his eyes and barely said a word. Meena’s death hadn’t been easy for any of them, but for Akash it was as if someone had ripped a piece of his soul from his body; without it, he was directionless.
Daphne had hoped—
Well, it didn’t matter what she hoped. They had a job to do. Still, she ached for him. And for Meena.
Rubbing a knuckle under her eyes, Daphne sniffed and then rose, going to her closet. She picked out bulky clothes, finishing off the ensemble with a scarf she could wrap around her lower face.
Downstairs, she took the keys to her motorbike from the peg by the door and stopped. On the wall was a portrait of her family. Her mother’s blond hair curled elegantly around her shoulders as she stared out at the viewer with a wide smile on her face. She looked happy. She looked like a stranger. Beside her stood her husband, tall and broad and dark, his brown eyes intelligent even in a painting. And between them, a younger version of herself, entirely unaware of all that would happen to her.
Daphne touched her fingers to her lips and rested them against her father’s cheek. Taking a deep breath, she walked outside and around the back to the shed.
At first, her motorbike wouldn’t start. She fed the condenser water and changed the oil, but even then it stuttered with neglect. After a swift kick to the side, it finally purred to life.
She blew out the dust from her helmet and strapped it on, then grabbed goggles and wheeled the bike out to the street. Straddling it, she kicked the bike into drive and sped off.
She’d almost forgotten how exhilarating it was to zoom through a congested London. While other passersby were stuck in their steam cars and omnibuses and horse-drawn carts, she glided easily between them, dodging pedestrians and piles of horse manure, breathing deeply the steam and smoke and fog.
Stopping for a traffic automaton, she took in her surroundings. She was near Blackfriars, where people clogged the roads, the curb, the shops. A group armed with picket signs nearby protested with upraised voices. She thought she heard “God’s judgment” being chanted before the automaton dropped its arm and she was forced to speed on.
Following a growing suspicion, she drove toward Westminster. The closer she got, the more she could feel the familiar pull of Big Ben. But as she turned the corner, she gasped. The tower was still there, bright and golden, but before it—and before the Mechanics Affairs building—even more protestors had gathered.
She slowed to a stop across the street to watch. People were yelling up at the building, demanding answers. Demanding the resignation of the Lead. Demanding that the clock mechanics fix things. Someone had thrown a brick through one of the lower windows; another threatened to set fire to a nearby tree. Constables had erected barriers around the tower, and the disapproving eyes of the London police swept over the panicked crowd.
How long has this been going on? What have we started?
Throughout her time on the Prometheus, all she had wanted was to come back to London, to walk through the familiar halls of the Mechanics Affairs building and resume the job she was so good at. Zavier had threatened to erase that, and now the result was before her eyes.
She had wanted consistency, normalcy. She had turned a cold shoulder on the truth: nothing could ever stay the same for long.
Shaken, Daphne turned her motorbike around and headed for her mother’s asylum. She parked and removed her helmet, rearranging her cap so that most of her blond hair stayed hidden.
Heart beating a nervous rhythm, she entered the building, ducking her head as she approached the receptionist. Thankfully, she didn’t recognize the woman.
“I’m here to see Mrs. Richards.”
“She should be in the garden. She likes sitting there in the afternoon before she has her medication.”
Daphne knew that, but it was nice to have confirmation of an old routine. That at least one thing hadn’t changed. She walked down a hallway with a polished wooden floor to the rear of the building.
The garden wasn’t large, but there was enough space for four main plots: a hedgerow, flowers, vegetables, and herbs. Her mother sat with an attendant on a white bench near the hedgerow, taking in the flowers.
As she moved toward them, the attendant politely rose and stood off to one side, giving them privacy while still keeping an eye on her charge. Daphne sat beside her mother and looked her over. Her hair was more white than blond now, her wrinkles deeper around the mouth, her eyes more sunken. Her knobby hands twisted an old handkerchief into knots.
“Mother,” Daphne whispered.
There was no response.
“Mum, it’s me. It’s Daphne, look.”
Her mother blinked, then glanced at her. “What?”
“It’s Daphne. I’m here to see you.” A sudden fear pierced her stomach. “You … You do remember me, don’t you?”
“Daphne. Yes, of course.” Her mother bit her lower lip and kept twisting the handkerchief. “Daphne, where is your father? Where’s James?”
“He … He’ll be by later.”
“I hope he’s not flying again.” Her mother squinted upward. “That ratty old plane. He’ll kill himself.”
Daphne swallowed back the lump in her throat. “Mum, I’m sorry I’ve been away so long. I wish I could have called you, or written. Something terrible has happened—several terrible things, to be honest—but I’m back for good now, all right? I won’t leave again.”
Her mother just kept staring at the sky.
“Mum? Did you even know I was gone?” Did you even care?
“Rosemary,” her mother whispered. “That’s what I’ll use. A nice stew, and rosemary from the herb garden.”
Daphne drew away. “Mother …”
“Where is that girl?” she muttered. “Daphne? Daphne!” she called into the garden. “Fetch me some rosemary!”
The attendant stepped forward. “Pardon me, miss, but I think it’s time I bring her back in.”
“Wait.” Daphne grabbed her mother’s hand, forcing their eyes to meet. “Mum, please, just say something to me. Say yo
u missed me. Say you were worried. Just tell me you knew I was gone!”
But the woman before her was no longer her mother. Only a shade of her. She shook her head slightly, pale hair swaying.
“I didn’t say crimson silk, I said blue.”
The attendant gave Daphne an apologetic look. “Let’s get you up, Mrs. Richards. There we are. Would you like a nice cuppa?”
As her mother shuffled back inside, Daphne was left sitting on the bench while clouds churned above her head. Left to contemplate how one’s existence could be erased within the span of several months, how the only life you had ever clung to could be ripped from your fingertips.
She thought about that empty room in her parents’ house, preserved only through her own stubborn efforts.
It would always remain empty.
She found Jo at the hangar where she had been dropped off. Parking her motorbike, Daphne asked the woman in charge of the hangar if she could look after it before they returned to the Prometheus.
“How was your visit, dear?” Jo asked, but Daphne remained silent.
Once aboard, Daphne went in search of Zavier. She found them in the mess hall, having returned from the city himself to gather information. Zavier saw her and opened his mouth to ask a question, but decided against it at the look on her face.
“What’s the plan?” she demanded.
He cleared his throat. “Builders have been seen throughout the city. Some have been involved in, or even started, the riots. They’re gearing up for an attack, and soon. My contacts believe they want the city distracted while they target the tower.”
“Nothing about your sister?”
Zavier’s face tightened and he shook his head.
“There’s still time,” she said.
“About that. I was thinking …” Here he turned to include the others. “I wanted to go after Archer and rescue Sally, but I need to free Aetas. Alone. I think I know how, and Oceana will allow me to pass. The rest of you will be in charge of getting Sally back.”
Prema’s eyes widened. “Alone? Zavier, that’s not a good idea. What if Builders are there? What if something happens?”
