by P. J. Fox
And that made him disgusted. He sat up, the last of his lethargy falling away like a cloak. Beside him, half hidden under the covers, Aria stirred. She’d fallen asleep, or started to. It was late. He leaned down and kissed her, brushing the hair back from her face. She’d never know how much he loved her. “I have some work to do,” he said.
“Mm,” she muttered.
“I won’t be long.” Which was a lie. He’d be up all night.
He got out of bed and, slipping on his dressing gown, disappeared silently into his office. The situation in the capital, and in the province as a whole had improved since the Brotherhood’s abortive rebellion. However, to call it stable would be an overstatement. If revolution wasn’t actively fomenting, tensions still ran high and the streets were as unsafe as ever. Resentment was like a head of steam building in a malfunctioning boiler: if the release wasn’t activated periodically, the boiler would explode. The pressure was off for the moment—or as off as it ever got in this accursed hellhole—but only a fool would mistake the current state of relative calm for a cessation of hostilities.
The Brotherhood had crawled back into its collective cave to lick its wounds; in the meantime, Kisten had a city full of angry merchants with compensation claims and an even larger group of farmers unable to ship their produce because the roads were shit.
He picked up a report and read it, settling back into his chair and putting his feet up on the desk. Another couple had been attacked: a local girl and her lover, a young officer. This time, the couple had survived. The officer, a great deal less foolish if no less brave than his enlisted counterpart who’d died defending the young Asta—now several months in her grave—had been armed. When the would-be perpetrators of what Kisten could only think of as an honor killing showed up, led by the girl’s own brother, her companion had shot him in the head. The girl was devastated but she, at least, had the courage of her convictions and enough intelligence to choose the man who’d defended her life over the family that had tried to take it.
As pleased as Kisten was for the young couple—that the girl had since married her brother’s killer was an argument for true love, or at least pragmatism—things like this couldn’t keep happening. The gap between native and colonist was growing. For every local girl who married a soldier, or merchant who braved the censure of his neighbors and did business with the cantonment, a hundred fakirs seemed to spring up on every rubbish-strewn street corner preaching hatred. The Alliance was supposed to be the intolerant entity, pushing mindlessly forward to subsume all in its path. Kisten knew the rumors, had heard more than enough of them from Aria: about how he and his ilk cudgeled each successive planet into submission, absorbing them into their great collective and sucking them dry.
Aria had half expected to be—what? Brainwashed? She’d seemed shocked when she’d disagreed with him and he hadn’t cut her tongue out. Kisten leaned back and shut his eyes. What a mess. Women like that damned Pasha weren’t helping matters, either. She viewed native consorts with great suspicion, treating them as inferior beings. Kisten wouldn’t speak to a gutter sweeper the way Pasha spoke to them. And Kisten was hardly known for his egalitarianism.
The Alliance, he decided, needed more of this assimilation for which it was so erroneously famous.
Kisten personally thought that intermarriage was a fine thing. Joining his life to that of a native woman encouraged a man to understand the culture in which he lived like nothing else could. The men who had intermingled with the local population had truly become part of it and, in turn, had introduced the customs and beliefs of the Alliance in a manner that was non-threatening. They spoke the language, and understood the customs. They were, in Kisten’s opinion, the last best hope of long-term integration.
Pasha and her kind promoted a mixed culture of shame and xenophobia that, if it was allowed to grow strong enough, would choke out the very ability of each side to see each other as people—let alone as potential mates, on an equal footing. Intermingling wouldn’t end, that’s where Pasha was a fool; unions that might otherwise be solemnized by marriage would be driven underground as sources of embarrassment. Consorts would become mistresses. Scandals would erupt and, meanwhile, men and women would keep doing what they always did.
SIXTY
The explosion sent everyone running.
Aria had been enduring an uncomfortable lunch with Sachi and Naomi and then, just when she thought things couldn’t get any worse, Setji had shown up and insinuated himself into their group. She’d never learned to like the handsome, sinister man posed so elegantly in the chair opposite.
He removed a long, thin cigarette from a gold case and held it between equally long, thin fingers. His eyes were disquieting as they studied her. He didn’t speak.
“Commissioner,” she said.
“Princess.” He produced a lighter from somewhere. Smoke curled into the air.
“To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Yes,” he agreed, “I’m sure it’s a pleasure.”
Naomi giggled. Sachi reddened. “I’ll send for another plate,” Aria said, refusing to be baited.
Since their first meeting, Setji had never quite stopped treating her like she was some particularly exotic species of feather dancer, or a display in a store window. He made no effort to disguise the fact that, even now, he was imagining her naked. She could almost feel his eyes slide over her as he luxuriated in her discomfort.
Exhaling, he blew a smoke ring.
“After a morning of interminable meetings,” he offered, “I thought I’d come over and see what you lovely ladies were up to. That,” he added, taking another deep drag on his cigarette and addressing Aria directly, “and I’m looking for your husband.”
“Oh?”
“There’s something he and I need to discuss.”
A slave returned with a plate of sandwiches: watercress, salmon and pureed pea. Aria hated pureed peas. If Setji did, he gave no sign. Surprisingly politely, he asked the young girl for a cup of tea. Blushing, she nodded once and left. Women, Aria had been surprised to discover, found Setji attractive. Which, she supposed, shouldn’t have been such astonishing information; he looked quite a bit like Kisten, who was his cousin in some way.
Setji had, so far, proven a surprisingly effective financial commissioner. He was about as interested in the native population and its struggles as he was in the average dead hamster but ambition ruled where altruism did not. Setji would see the office succeed or see himself die in the effort.
Moreover, he was afflicted with the brittle, almost crippling pride of the impoverished aristocrat. He had something to prove about his place in the world, if only to himself—a place that he’d been raised to believe he merited simply by virtue of his birth but that he’d never been able to truly occupy. His family, Aria knew, had suffered some sort of reverse and lost their entire fortune in the process. She’d never heard the details, only that Setji’s school fees had been paid for by some uncle.
She was just about to ask what, specifically, Setji wanted with Kisten when the ground shook and the air split with a hiss like a warning from the world’s biggest cobra. It was so loud it didn’t even register as sound, and it was followed a split second later by a bloom of flame.
Setji leapt up as, all around them, guards came running. Aria ignored his shouted warning as she leapt up, herself, and headed for the site of the disaster. Gouts of cherry red flame still sputtered, and debris had flown everywhere. Brushing bits of leaf out of her face, Aria heard Naomi shrieking behind her. Sachi was trying to calm her down. Aria had no time for either of them. As explosions went, this—and it was an explosion, of that Aria was sure—had been a small one. She’d seen worse, during what had almost been rebellion.
She thought she knew what had caused the conflagration and suspected that some of the guards at least were inclined toward the same suspicion but they’d been trained to respond in a certain way even so. They surrounded her now, communicating with hand signals, thei
r focus not on her but on the world around them. Thin, acrid-tasting smoke trailed in the air, making her cough.
Kisten appeared out of nowhere. “Are you alright?” he asked.
“I’m fine. Setji is here to see you,” she said stupidly.
“He can wait. He didn’t cause this, did he?”
“No.” Aria gestured.
Having confirmed that the Residence wasn’t under attack after all, the guards began melting back into the greenery. The problem wasn’t theirs to deal with, but the governor’s. And no one wanted to hang around for that second and undoubtedly more epic conflagration. Because the cause of the problem stood in the center of a ring of burned grass, looking miserable. He was covered with soot from head to toe and, a few paces away, he’d somehow managed to open up a crater in the earth.
Kisten turned, gaze settling on his son. “Are you alright?” he asked.
In retrospect, Aria wasn’t sure how she’d known that this was what she’d find. A hunch, she supposed, at the center of which hid some nascent kernel of recognition that father and son were a great deal alike. She imagined Kisten doing things like this, when he was younger.
“I hate you.” Talin glared.
“So this is a political statement?” Kisten surveyed the damage, his demeanor one of remarkable calm.
He walked over to where his son still stood, examining the crater. A long metal cylinder lay at its center, almost its full length blackened with soot. Reaching down, Kisten righted it and then, squatting in the dirt, examined the welds along its length.
“This is good craftsmanship,” he remarked casually, “although I’m not going to question where you got access to an acetylene torch.”
“The garage,” Talin offered, surprise forcing the admission. “I…borrowed it.”
“I see.”
“It was an experiment. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
Kisten straightened. “And you didn’t. Luckily for you.”
“So you’re not mad?”
“Of course I’m mad,” said Kisten, although he didn’t sound it. “What did you use for fuel?”
Doubt replaced terror as Talin studied his father. Aria was surprised, too, and not entirely sure what was going on. Finally, Talin answered. “Potassium nitrate, refined sugar and corn syrup,” he admitted, half apologetically and half angrily. He seemed to be waiting for Kisten to challenge him, perhaps tell him that he was an evil little monster and send him away.
Aria wondered if that was what Talin wanted, or what he was afraid would happen.
Kisten arched an eyebrow. “Does Taj know that you’ve been stealing fertilizer?”
Taj was the head gardener. Talin shook his head, dropping his eyes to the ground.
“You were smart to use potassium nitrate,” Kisten said, as though discovering his son cobbling together homemade explosives were the most normal thing in the world. “It’s much more stable than nitrocellulose. Nitroglycerin is extremely shock sensitive, and shouldn’t be handled much.”
Talin’s head shot up.
“The problem with potassium nitrate, of course, is that it’s humidity sensitive.”
“I kept it in an airtight container,” Talin said defensively.
“Glass?” Kisten asked.
Talin shook his head. “Is that important?”
Kisten looked around the blackened, leaf-strewn garden. All the flowers had been blown off the rhododendrons, and sad little drifts of pink petals littered the grass. “You’d better come with me,” he told Talin. He turned to Aria. “We’ll be back for dinner,” he said, again as though this were the most normal announcement in the world. “Tell Setji he’s welcome to stay and eat with us, if he’d like to talk to me then.”
Aria forced herself to smile. Really? She had to entertain that worthless lech of a man all afternoon?
As she turned back toward the house, the gardeners were already coming out to inspect the damage. Talin was saying something to Kisten in low tones that looked suspiciously like I hate you. A small, unpleasant part of Aria hoped that they had a terrible time doing whatever it was they—Kisten—planned on doing. And what was she going to talk about with Setji? Short of modeling her lingerie collection, she didn’t think much was going to hold his interest. She shook her head ruefully. Men.
SIXTY-ONE
Kisten and Talin sat in the greenhouse, regarding each other in silence over twin cups of coffee. The rocket sat between them on the table, in all its soot-caked glory. The air smelled of growing things, and somewhere an aged irrigation pipe dripped. Afternoon light filtered in through the leaves of the orange trees. This wasn’t the right time of year for them, but Kisten missed the scent of orange blossoms hanging heavy in the air as the sun beat down. Just one more memory of the home he loved, the home that Talin had never yet seen.
They were so different, he and his son, and yet so bizarrely alike. The realization both surprised him and hurt his heart. How could Talin be such a Mara Sant, having never met any of them? He sipped his coffee, his brief flash of distaste so like Keshav’s that Kisten’s breath caught and he was reminded forcibly of something that Aria had said that morning: someone needs to teach him how to be a member of this family.
That, at least, Kisten could do. He only wished that his son had had the sort of life that Kisten had imagined for him: idyllic, pedestrian, dull. A life where the greatest problem one might encounter was a bad grade or a dispute with a friend. A life that, he’d come to realize in what was beginning to feel like his old age, no one had.
“This is your mistake,” he said, pointing, “right here.”
Talin peered at the blackened casing, curiosity for the time being overcoming his hatred. “What?”
“When you attached the engine,” Kisten explained, “you pushed the mount too far in. Don’t be discouraged,” he added, seeing his son’s face. “It’s a common mistake, and one I’ve seen professional engineers make. Either you didn’t use enough glue, or you used the wrong kind. A hazard”—he arched his eyebrow—”of constructing combustibles without instruction.”
“I didn’t think you’d approve.”
“Why not?”
“Because—you’re an adult!” And adults never did anything fun. Of course.
Fathers, in particular—and Talin had less reason to trust Kisten, or suspect him of human impulses, than most.
Since Talin’s arrival, their interactions had been exercises in futility: dislike on Talin’s part and guilt on Kisten’s tingeing even interchanges like pass the peas with animus. That this was his son, Kisten needed no test to prove; one look at the boy was enough to demonstrate the obvious, and there was more to it than the fact that Talin could have stood in for Kisten at the same age. They had the same laugh and the same dark, analytical mind.
Kisten pulled off his signet ring and handed it to Talin. “When I was twelve,” he said, “I made a mistake. I launched a similar rocket and my finger with it.”
Talin leaned forward, peering at the faint ring encircling the base of Kisten’s little finger. “Far out,” he said.
Indeed. “It was reattached at the hospital and it works fine, but a crippling burden of vanity left me extremely self-conscious of the scar. I somehow convinced myself that no woman would ever want me.” He laughed mirthlessly, realizing how this must sound to Talin. “My brother had the ring made for me.” And a copy made, after Kisten lost the original in prison.
“So are you two really identical?”
“Yes.”
“Well that must be one way people can tell you apart—the scar, I mean.”
“One would think, but no. He cut off his own finger in sympathy.”
“Gross!”
Kisten shrugged. “We were young and foolish. Our father was furious.”
“That is a bit dismal,” Talin allowed.
“So is your grandfather.”
Kisten separated the remains of the homemade rocket into its component parts.
“When you ig
nited the starter,” he said, “it melted the casing so the sections couldn’t separate.” He gestured, demonstrating. “A rocket engine uses a nozzle to accelerate hot exhaust to produce thrust.” He held up the blackened lump that had been the engine. “The amount of thrust produced depends on the mass flow rate through the combustion chamber, the exit velocity of the flow, and the pressure at the exit of the engine.”
“So if too much pressure builds up too quickly….” Talin finished with an eloquent gesture.
“Yes, rather. The combustion process produces a tremendous amount of exhaust at a high temperature. Which is the principal reason why, in the earliest days of space flight, astronauts had a tendency to incinerate themselves along with their ships. What you need to remember, when you’re designing an engine, is that the mass flow rate through the combustion chamber, the exit velocity of the exhaust, and the pressure at the nozzle exit all need to correspond.” Kisten paused. “Would you agree that it’s time for a tutor?”
“No, um….” Talin bit his lip, looking worried. “I mean…I’ve never had one.” And then, in a rare moment of vulnerability, “what if he thinks I’m stupid?”
“I can assure you,” Kisten replied, “that there is absolutely no danger of that.” He was also fairly certain, in fact, that whatever poor son of a bitch he managed to engage would just about drop dead after being informed that Talin had taught himself how to construct a working rocket. And mix rocket fuel. Which reminded Kisten that they had another reason for being here. “Come over here,” he said, “I’m going to teach you something.”
“What?”
“How to mix rocket fuel.”
“I’m surprised you know how to do this.”
Kisten fired up the oven in the miniscule kitchenette the gardener kept for his own dubious uses. “Engineers get all the girls,” he said dryly.
Talin laughed.
Kisten laid out the ingredients, explaining as he did their various uses. When it came to explosives, the good news and the bad news were the same news: everything that one needed to end life as one knew it was available in the average pantry. Which was what, in his childhood, had made chemistry so exciting. Potassium nitrate was an oxidizer; the fuel on which the oxidizer fed was the same fuel that yeast used to leaven bread: sugar. Karo syrup had a lower melting point than table sugar, making it more stable and less prone to flare-ups.
