Almost like Andra.
And she’d controlled them, let them inside. Was that what was causing her to cough up dead nanos? Was there now an anomaly in her programming, slowly corrupting her?
Coldness crept over Andra. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Something immense and stark began to open inside her, a yawning chasm, a vast darkness.
Then the voice. Whispering. Eager.
Destroy it all.
The urge, the feeling, the compulsion to destroy was all Andra knew for a moment, but she tamped it down, holding back a cough.
Griffin didn’t seem to notice Andra’s panic. “Our only path forward was to save as many people as possible in stasis until we had a solution for the anomalies.”
Andra swallowed, forcing her focus on Griffin and not the quiet, hissing voice in her head. “But . . . it’s been nearly a thousand years. The pockets have destroyed the planet.”
Griffin shook her head, blue eyes flashing. “Humanity is still fighting. And I am too.”
The voice in Andra’s head faded but not the urge to destroy. Anger welled up in her. Griffin had let this happen.
“Your company destroyed the planet and you just . . . went into stasis? Just let all this happen only to wake up now? And do what?”
“No, Andromeda.” Griffin gave her a sad smile. “I—she never went into stasis. She worked and worked and worked to find a solution. When she realized it wouldn’t happen in her lifetime, she created me. And the rest of the clones you saw. And all those that came before us. We have her intelligence. And access to all her memories and knowledge, plus the memories and knowledge of all the clones that came after.”
Andra sat up. The chair creaked beneath her. “Wait, what? How?”
Griffin’s clone stood and walked to her work’station, a collection of ’desks and ’displays packed into the corner of the room. Andra followed, eyes widening as Griffin brought up a holo. Streams of data flashed before her eyes.
The code was moving too fast for Andra to comprehend, at least without access to her AI state, but the patterns were . . . intricate. Complex and entangled. No one would code like this. Nothing would.
Except the human brain.
“Are these . . . uploaded memories?” Andra looked between Griffin and the ’display. “I thought this was impossible.”
Griffin shrugged. “Impossible is just a word people use when they haven’t found the solution yet. But uploading memories is possible. I—she figured it out.”
“Is it . . . is this her consciousness? Is she trapped in there?” Andra reached a hand out toward the scrolling data, but Griffin pulled her back.
“It depends on what you consider consciousness. This is a collection of memories. But computers had memory long before they could become self-aware.”
Andra studied her for a moment. “So, in a way, you are Griffin.”
The clone froze, and something like panic crossed her face before dissolving into a strained smile. “I just have access to the memories. I haven’t downloaded them. I’m me. Something separate.”
“Sorries,” Andra said, turning back to the data. As an AI, she knew what it was like to not feel like her identity belonged to her. How much more so would a clone feel that way? “I didn’t mean—”
The clone waved the apology away. “I understand.”
Andra cleared her throat. “So, one Griffin dies and the next one takes her place?”
Griffin straightened, pacing back toward the sofa. “I’m not the same Alberta you knew a thousand years ago.”
“Well, I didn’t really know her . . . But you’re also not the same Griffin who was Zhade’s mom, are you?”
The clone sighed, propping herself against the back of the couch, eyes glazed. “I thought about letting the boy know I exist, but it would just be too painful for him. I have access to her memories, but I’m not his mom, and don’t have any motherly feelings for him.”
Andra wanted to argue that Griffin should tell him, that Zhade deserved to know the truth. But she didn’t know if he would understand. He barely understood what Andra was. How could he see his mother’s face, watch her mannerisms, hear her voice, and not think it was her? It was hard enough for Andra, who understood the science, to see this woman and not believe she was Griffin.
“The clone before me fell in love, had a son, loved him. But I’m not her. In many ways, I’m only four years old. And my entire existence, my entire purpose, is to keep doing the work. For the last thousand years, an Alberta Griffin has been working on solving how to save humanity, on advancing technology as much as she could. Just one person, over and over, all solving the same problem.”
Andra looked back at the data still scrolling on the holo’display. All those memories. Lifetimes of them. “But you never found a solution. So what’s left of humanity is either living through the apocalypse, or asleep underground.”
Griffin leaned forward, reaching out to take Andra’s hands in her own, and gave her a sad, knowing smile. “Oh, Andromeda, but we did find a solution. Haven’t you figured that out yet? The solution—the thing that is going to save what’s left of humanity—is you.”
NINE
THE GRAFTER
Zhade passed the even in the guv’s suite working on creating the spell to turn Meta’s face into Tsurina’s til full past midnight. He sat, legs crossed, on the floor, hunched over the graftling wand, sparkshades propped above the Crown, muscles sore from the tedious work.
Doon watched him from the velvet couch, picking at her fingernails. She’d crawled in through an air vent and fake assassinated him with a blade to the kidney.
“You reck she didn’t mereish stay, marah?” she asked.
“What?”
“Andra,” Doon amended. “I’d bet my butter as soon as you left she peaced for this lake place.”
Something turned in Zhade’s stomach, a strange sort of panic, but he ignored it. Doon hadn’t been in the Vaults for weeks. She had no clue what Andra was doing.
“I reck Andra,” Zhade said, not looking up from his work. “She’s not the type to go running into danger unprepped.”
Doon started counting off on her fingers. “Following you to Eerensed, asking Maret not to kill her maids, breaking me out of prison—”
“Those were extenuating circumstances.”
Doon cocked her head. “What does that mean?”
“Dunno. It’s something Andra says.”
Zhade lowered his sparkshades. The next part of the spell used firon to add more wires to the conduit.
The couch creaked as Doon settled back into it. “Evens, I still imagine she’s gone to see the big water place.”
Zhade didn’t answer, focusing on the wand instead. He’d needed a bit of the Grande Advisor’s blood to work the spell, but at luck, she’d bled all over his suite. He’d scraped some from the bottle shard he’d hit her with, before having Fishy clean the full place.
The angel now stood in the corner of the room, pale face lit in a blank expression. On a whim, Zhade reached out with the Crown and felt Fishy’s presence. It seemed distant and fuzzy, but the more Zhade concentrated, the more he could make out the angel’s essence. He was surprised to find it felt loyalty and something likeish affection for Zhade. He’d never considered angels had feelings like humans, but he spozed Fishy must feel something for the man it had recked from a kiddun. The angel had been Zhade’s mam’s favorite, after all.
Zhade bent back to his work.
It wouldn’t be long before people started wondering where the Grande Advisor was. Gryfud was holding the guards busy, claiming Tsurina was ill and sending them on wild moose chases acity. They’d be looking for her tomoren though, expecting to have the day’s first brief at six abell. At hope, Zhade would be finished soon and sooner, but he still wasn’t convinced this was a good plan.
Though Meta might resemble Tsurina, they weren’t as similar as Zhade and Maret. Even after transfiguration, there would be differences. For one, Meta’s height—or lack thereof. For second, her hair. Zhade wondered if they could get free with having her always standing on a platform. Perhaps find a wig . . .
This was bad magic.
He hovered over the graftling wand, sparks flying as he cast the firon spell.
“Have you convoed Skilla bout the angels?” Doon muttered.
Zhade paused, looking up to see Doon still slouched in the sofa. Her eyes weren’t on Zhade, but on Fishy, and Zhade finalish realized her posture wasn’t boredom, but fear. He set down the graftling wand, removed his sparkshades, and turned to her. She shouldn’t be ascared of Fishy. It would never go rogue, Zhade was certz of it.
“There’s no reason to tell her,” Zhade said, trying to sound reassuring. “It’s none of a big. No one was killed. Except the angels.”
“Dzeni was nearish killed.”
“But she wasn’t,” Zhade said, firmish.
He was guv; he had to project strength, even if he was ascared. Sides, after he finished the spell for Meta, his sole focus would be figuring a way to stop the rogue angels, with or without the help of the Crown.
“For true, Doon, no shakes. I’ve control of it.” He gave her a tight smile.
She didn’t smile back, sole stood and stretched, her eyes still locked on Fishy. “Time for me to peace.”
“And go where?” Zhade asked, trying not to sound too curious. “It’s near moren.”
She didn’t meet his eyes. “Out.”
“Are you staying with Dzeni or the Schism this even?”
“The Schism.”
Rare form, little assassin. He’d have to actualish convo Skilla if he wanted to confirm Doon’s where-a-be. And Doon recked that wouldn’t happen. Skilla asked too many questions, had too many suggestions for what Zhade should be doing. If she had her choice, she would not sole decide her fate, but the fate of all Eerensed.
Doon left, and Zhade went back to his work. He’d had years to create and spell the graftling wand firstish. Now, he had sole a few bells, and though he recked better what he was doing, he still felt rushed.
How much faster would the work go if he could use the Crown?
He paused and set down his tools, wiping sweat from the side of his brow unadorned by the Crown. He took a deep breath and tested the air, to convo. He could sense the graftling wand. It was like a tickle at the back of his throat, an itch he couldn’t reach. He could sense the wand’s presence but not . . . the shape of it. It was like seeing something in the distance, obscured by a sandcloud.
He strained to grasp it. Not even to grasp it. Mereish to be more aware of it.
What had Tsurina said? Not to try so hard, to let the Crown guide him?
For certz Tsurina didn’t reck what she was convoing, but maybe Zhade could mereish give it a try.
It was diff to give up control, to mereish drift and let the Crown be. He stopped focusing so much on the details of what he was doing, and instead mereish imagined what he wanted to accomplish. To turn Meta into Tsurina. No small magic. He wished he could make her taller, grow her hair, change all of her into Tsurina. He needed Meta to become her.
The picture of it started to clear in his mind, til his awareness of the wand sharpened, and he recked it the same way he recked himself. He could see the magic within, feel it. And when he imagined bout what he had left of the spell, it started to complete itself.
It was like nothing Zhade had ever experienced. Instead of imaginings turning to actions, they were turning into a collection of being and nonbeing, of somethings and nothings. He fell deeper into the Crown, letting it take over, letting the feeling of it surround him til there was nothing but the Crown. No room round him, no palace. No responsibilities or pressure or wants or needs. It was mereish the magic of the Crown, the dance of a spell being created.
Zhade’s eyes snapped open.
The graftling wand floated afront of him, prepped to be used.
He gasped, and it fell to the floor with a thunk. He was suddenish aware of the intense pain above his westhand eye. He touched the skin beneath the Crown with the tips of his fingers and they came away bloodish.
He had memory of Maret’s face in the last days before Zhade took the Crown. The bruises. The dried blood. Tsurina had said Maret was trying to remove it. That using it shouldn’t cause wounds likeish this.
But for certz she was lying. Zhade couldn’t trust anything Tsurina convoed him.
Then why are you holding her alive? he asked himself.
He didn’t have an answer.
Zhade went to the small room and washed the blood from his face. It wasn’t as bad as he spozed. Mereish a few drops. He put on Maret’s nicest robes (which happened his tightest—sands, what was wrong with his brother?), and waited for Meta.
He’d nearish fallen asleep by the time she arrived. She threw the door open and strode in.
Zhade groaned from the receiving room couch. “You have to stop doing that.”
Meta was dressed in dark guard’s clothes and carried a large pack. “Then get better security.” She tossed the pack onto a nearish chair.
“You’re my security!” Zhade cried.
Meta shook her head in disappointment and pulled out a glittering gown from her pack.
“One of Tsurina’s. A bit long on me, but your angel can hem it.”
“That evens, Fishy?” Zhade asked as Meta threw the dress over her head.
“For certz, sir,” Fishy said.
It still surprised Zhade when Fishy spoke. Andra had done something to “activate the vocal protocols” or something. He rareish comped what she convoed, sole that she was hypergood at magic and had a charred voice.
Fraughts, he missed her.
Meta shimmied out of the guard’s clothes neath the gown she’d just donned, kicking her pants to the side and pulling her shirt out through the neck of the dress. She stood straightish and flipped her spiked hair back, fingers stretched out as though she wore pointed nails.
She raised an eyebrow. “How do I look?”
Zhade frowned. “Do you have any imaginings of who you’re bout to turn into? Who you’ll have to pretend to be? She’s ruthless.”
Meta shrugged, bending to fold her clothes. “I reck. I’ve been a guard for nearish three years anow, and sides, I’ve heard stories. Rumors. Some people convo she beat Maret. That she had a kiddun out in the Wastes that she abandoned to marry the guv. That she plotted the First’s death.” Her eyes flicked up to Zhade’s. “She’s ruthless, firm, but the plan is to be better than that, marah?”
For a refugee turned guard, Meta for certz skooled a lot bout the royal fam in her three years acity. She was a quick study, recked the palace structure, and comped well how the citians and guards saw Tsurina. She was probablish the sole person who could make this work.
“Firm, but . . . people have to believe the change is genuine. It has to happen slowish.”
Meta shoved her old clothes back in her pack and looked up at Zhade. “I can do it.”
He watched her for a moment, taking in the determination in her eyes, the jut of her chin. There wasn’t any fear or apprehension in her expression.
“Why are you doing this?”
She blinked. “Because . . . you need Tsurina to hold control of Eerensed.”
“I reck.” Zhade rolled his eyes. “But why are you doing this? Personalish? Is it because of Maret? Were you and he . . . a . . .”
Meta shook her head in confusion.
“Seeya, did you and he . . .” He cleared his throat and made a simplistic but obvi gesture with his fingers.
Meta burst into a laugh. “Neg! Fraughting sands, neg! Neg.” She shuddered. “Blegh. Neg, we weren’t . . . We had a bit in common. L
et’s mereish convo I comp what it’s like to grow up with a mam like Tsurina.” Her eyes flashed. “She was a fraughted fraught to him. To everyone. That’s why I’m doing this.”
Zhade nodded. He didn’t for true comp, but he’d done crazier things for reasons of less import.
“Evens, have a seat.” He nodded to the sofa and winced. “Maybe lie down.”
He’d stood through the process of his face rearranging itself, but he’d been prepped. And hadn’t wanted to faint afront of Andra. Meta said she comped that it would hurt, but she hadn’t felt it, she couldn’t imagine. By the time she full comped how bad the pain would be, it would be too late.
Meta lay on the sofa, arranging Tsurina’s dress round herself, and fanning her hair on the pillow.
Zhade picked up the graftling wand from where he’d dropped it. It felt different. Lighter. He checked the spell. Everything was as it should be. Whatever he’d done with the Crown had done the same thing he would have done using Low Magic, mereish much, much faster. Maybe Tsurina’s advice hadn’t been worthless after all.
“Evens.” He stood over Meta, hovering the wand over her head. “I can’t stress full bars how much this is going to hurt.”
She took a deep breath, letting it out slowish, then nodded. “I’m prepped. For Eerensed, marah?”
“For Eerensed,” Zhade agreed.
He cast the spell, releasing Tsurina’s blood into the magic, then placed the wand at Meta’s temple and pressed the button.
A magical net released from the wand, gentlish covering Meta’s face like a fog. It was unnerving from this angle. Is this what had happened to him? His face obscured, coated in a dense, translucent web? Had Andra watched this happen, heard him scream, and wondered what he had done to himself?
Meta sucked in a sharp breath. “What’s happening?”
Zhade looked down. The web had reached past her face, wrapping itself round the top of her head, weaving through her hair, then traveling down her neck, below the hem of her gown. Zhade watched as the disruption of the cloth indicated its trajectory to cover Meta’s full body.
Devil in the Device Page 9