Thirteen Rising

by Romina Russell

  A troop of Zodai is standing guard nearby, and a guy with a bushy brown mane and pierced eyebrows waits among them. Traxon is wearing the white outfit he wore when I first met him on Taurus, when he spoke on a panel with other members of 13.

  “We release you into Traxon Harwing’s custody,” says the Lionheart who let me in, scrutinizing me curiously through rainbow-colored eyelashes. “Enjoy your stay, and we wish you a happy ending!”

  As soon as I trade the hand touch with Traxon, his feet start moving and his mouth starts running. “Rho, always exciting to see you! I’m glad you decided to do the honorable thing and hold up your end of our bargain, but you could have given me more of a head’s up.” His feet work at the speed of his words, and I hurry to keep up with him. “I had a speaking engagement for 13 today that I had to walk out on—”

  “I’m not here for—”

  “But it doesn’t matter because this interview will be worth it! Obviously, I would have much rather done this in my studio on the Truth Pride, but at least Artistry is crawling with production hands. We’ve managed to improvise a decent setup—but here, you can see for yourself!”

  Beaming, he pulls open the door to one of the abandoned storefronts, and we step into a small, dark space. Only a couple of chairs and camera equipment have been set up, and there’s two Leonines dressing the set with flowers and water glasses.

  “Okay, so we should be ready to go in a few minutes, but in the meantime, maybe you can run me through the main talking points—”

  “Trax, stop,” I say, stepping up to him so he’ll see me and not a headline. “I’m here for something else.”

  He furrows his decorated brow. “We had a deal. I kept up my end, I told you who was funding the Tomorrow Party, and you—”

  “Look, I’ll give you an exclusive. I will. Just not now, okay? First I really need your help.”

  “No,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “We do the interview first, and then I help you.”

  I clench my jaw and try not to snap. “Can we talk in private?”

  He wordlessly turns to his two production hands, who’ve stopped working to watch our argument, and they step outside.

  “I need you to take me to the Tomorrow Party,” I say once we’re alone. “They’re hiding somewhere on this Pride.”

  My request seems to stump Traxon, and he looks more confused than upset. “What makes you think I can find them?”

  “Because you’re an incredible investigator.”

  Rather than appease him, the compliment seems to inflate his ego, and his chest swells with pride. “Well I’m not interested unless you do this interview. You and your Aquarian friend were so pleased with yourselves when you offered me an ultimatum last time we met, remember? Now I’m offering you one: If you want my help, do my interview.”

  “There are more important things going on!” I shout.

  “Great!” he roars. “Let’s hear about them!”

  “You’re being a child—”

  Traxon’s eyes suddenly shift away from me, and the dark tan drains from his skin until he looks as pale as an Aquarian. His mouth opens and closes, like he’s finally run out of words, and I know better than to believe I could have that effect on him.

  I wheel around and see that Ophiuchus has deactivated his collar.

  20

  IN HIS TOO-SMALL UNIFORM, WITH his too-wide eyes and his too-big clawed feet, the Thirteenth Guardian looks too large for this world.

  Tears streak down Traxon’s cheeks, and he bends into a low bow that goes on for an uncomfortably long time. When he straightens, he says, “Your holiness, I—”

  “Traxon, we need to go now,” I say, my hands curling with impatience. “There’s no time for this!”

  But he still isn’t looking at me, nor does he appear to be listening. “Your holiness, I want to apologize on behalf of the Zodiac for what’s happened to you and your House,” he murmurs, hanging his head.

  “Thank you,” rumbles Ophiuchus, his booming voice shaking the walls of the small space. Then he turns to me and says, “He will get us where we need to go.”

  “Stellar. Then let’s move,” I command. “You should reactivate your collar—”

  “No need,” says Trax, looking away from Ophiuchus long enough to remember my presence. “Everyone’s always playing a character here—people will just assume you have killer costumes.”

  When we’re outside, Traxon dismisses the two production hands, and he reaches out to his sources to inquire about the Party. Ophiuchus and I hang around a few moments while Trax consults his Lighter, and then he says, “This way.”

  “Have you found the Party?” I ask as we hurry down the street.

  Traxon clings so close to Ophiuchus that he reminds me of the tiny fish that hitch rides with crab-sharks. “I have a friend who lives nearby. Whatever’s going on, he’ll know.”

  Soon we arrive at a busy shopping district filled with restaurants and stores and theaters and street performers. More holograms of Zodiac celebrities float through the crowd offering additional services.

  “The present is so fleeting!” I hear one of them say. “Don’t let your Storyline end when your vacation does—relive the experience again and again and again by purchasing the film!”

  “Isn’t there a faster way to get there?” I ask Traxon. “Some kind of public transportation system?”

  “It’d take us longer to reach the wall than it would to cut through the crowd,” he says, and seeing my confusion he explains. “There’s a train that runs inside the wall enclosing this Pride. But like I said, walking will be faster.”

  I look to Ophiuchus to see if he’s as exasperated as I am, but his expression is distant and detached, like Trax and I are kids at an amusement park and he’s the parent with bigger things on his mind.

  I glimpse a young Taurian girl eagerly unwrapping a purple chew candy at a treat stand and shoving it into her mouth. “Slow down,” chides her mom as the girl’s jaw works exra hard to eat it quickly. When she swallows, her parents and the salesperson all stare at her expectantly.

  Suddenly she releases a shockingly loud burp, blasting her parents’ faces with purple smoke.

  The little girl and the Leonine salesperson are in hysterics, but her parents don’t look amused. I look up at the holographic sign over the stand: PURPLE URPLES—YOU’LL BURP PURPLE SMOKE!

  “Please, I want them!” I hear her begging her mom long after we’ve passed them. “Pleeeease!”

  I fall back a step as a man in an inconspicuous black getup sidles up to Trax. “I’m hiring people for a major jewel heist. Max told me you’re the man for the job.”

  Trax glares at the Leonine and adopts a deep, husky voice unlike his usual one. “I’ve got other plans today, old man. Now scram, and don’t breathe a word about me to Max. I’m undercover, understand?”

  The man nods and hurries away.

  “What the Helios was that?” I ask.

  Traxon shrugs. “People don’t come to Leo for judgment—they come to give in to their passions. Sometimes you need to shed your inhibitions and let your weirdness out, so when you hear a Storyline you like, you take it.”

  I feel like under other circumstances, I might be charmed by the playful nature of this world, but right now I just want to find the Party and awaken Nishi.

  “Your holiness,” Traxon says, turning to Ophiuchus, “I would be honored if I could ask you a few questions, if you’re feeling up to it. I have a show dedicated to exposing politicians’ lies, to keep them from doing to others what was once done to you—”

  I roll my eyes so hard I think I see the back of my head.

  “You see,” Trax blathers on, “it’s been my life’s dream to find proof of your existence and help you reclaim your place in the Zodiac, and now—well, you can’t imagine what meeting you means to me.”<
br />
  As Traxon professes his adoration, I’m relieved to see he’s steered us away from the tourist district and onto a quieter street that looks like a real residential area. No one seems to be selling anything here, and the Leonines entering and exiting buildings are dressed up for dramatically different occasions, like the travelers at the spaceport.

  I dodge a woman wearing a pink tutu and ballerina shoes who’s dancing her way down the street, and a block later I edge around a painter who’s planted himself in the middle of everything to capture the scene with his brush. Then a man in a top hat emerges from his townhome, sucks in a huge breath, and starts belting out a song:

  Life is a story

  About seeking glory

  Whose plot isn’t always so clear . . .

  He strides up the street, tipping his hat to people as he sings, and some of the passersby join his song, like they’re familiar with the lyrics.

  So when they told me

  To pick who I would be,

  I asked for a heart with no fear!

  A group of girls starts dancing around him, and soon there’s a mobile musical number making its way down the street. Some people join in by playing their instruments from their balconies, and others contribute by drumming on windows and walls. Even those who are too busy to participate don’t look put out by what’s happening—performing seems to be as natural as breathing here.

  “He must’ve just gotten some great news,” says Trax, like that justifies the man’s decision to burst into song in public.

  “Is this whole Pride just one big production?”

  Right as I pose the question, Traxon stops before a rundown townhouse and knocks on the door. After a moment, a disheveled teen guy opens it and studies us. “Traxon.”

  “Tomás.”

  Both guys nod and trade a complicated hand touch greeting, then Tomás stands back to let us in. His home is small but cozy: We step into a narrow sitting area that’s adjacent to a kitchen and a study, and in the back of the space a staircase spirals up.

  The seating area has a couch and two armchairs around a coffee table, and all the furniture looks beat-up and heavily used. Tangible paper books line the shelves that were built into every wall, and painted canvases of every size and at varying stages of completion clutter the floor. When I look at Tomás again, I notice the paint on the underside of his hands and the back of his neck.

  “Tomás is a member of 13,” says Trax, swinging an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “In exchange for helping us, I’ve promised him a secret.”

  “A secret?” I ask.

  “Truthers trade in secrets,” he explains. “It’s the most valuable currency we can offer. So, Tomás—my secret is this.” He turns to Ophiuchus, who’s standing beside me, and says, “That, my dear fellow, is the one and only Ophiuchus.”

  Tomás’s eyes widen with awe as mine fill with fury and fear. “Are you insane?” I shout at Traxon.

  “A Leonine always pays his debts,” he says simply, no apology in his voice. I turn to Ophiuchus for backup, but now he’s sitting on the floor beside the coffee table, his eyes closing like he’s descending to his Center. Perfect.

  Tomás orbits the Thirteenth Guardian, scrutinizing him closely like a collector evaluating a new piece. “Incredible,” he murmurs every few seconds. When he finally looks at us again, his eyes are just as shiny as Traxon’s.

  “Given that you’re all about the truth,” I say to Traxon, “you must hate this Pride since everything seems to be a performance.”

  Tomás answers in place of his friend, frowning at me. “This is a land of performers. That’s not the same as a performance, which is something you put on for others. Simply put: Performers perform. Making art is just how we live our lives. We’re not doing it for an audience, but if people want to consume our art because it makes their lives meaningful or enjoyable or even bearable, we welcome them.”

  Tomás’s speech sounds rehearsed, like he’s defended his profession before, and I wonder if he realizes that even now he’s performing.

  Then again, I’m probably the last person to know what’s real anymore. I’m no longer sure any of us can be completely certain where performances end and truth begins.

  “So can you help us find the Tomorrow Party?” Traxon asks his friend.

  “I might have a lead. But you and I should go alone—any non-Leonines would be suspicious.”

  Trax nods and turns to me. “We’ll be back soon.”

  Alone with Ophiuchus, I sit on one of the faded couches and try not to think about how much time has already passed. How much pain Nishi has already endured.

  Tick, tock, tick, tock, crab.

  I distract myself by contemplating the Thirteenth Guardian. Even though he’s nothing like the godlike being he was in his original form, he’s no mere mortal either. Being around him feels like I’m in the presence of something holy, yet undeniably dark.

  He’s a fallen god who succumbed to the worst kind of evil.

  A broken star.

  The front door opens, and I’m relieved the guys were so quick. I stand up in anticipation—only instead of Trax and Tomás, a dozen masked Marad soldiers in white uniforms march inside, training their Murmurs on us.

  I can almost delude myself that it’s just a bunch of Leonine actors, but then a thirteenth Lion strides into the room.

  The leader of the Tomorrow Party.

  21

  I RAISE MY HAND AND make a fist, releasing the blue sword of my Barer. “Wake up!” I shout at Ophiuchus, but he remains on the floor, deep in his Center.

  Blaze Jansun eases in with the same conqueror’s confidence he always exudes—like every room he enters instantly becomes part of his domain. He’s wearing a royal purple Lionheart uniform, and his russet eyes and bright brown skin glow against his newly dyed white hair.

  “I’ll kill you,” I warn as he walks closer, holding the sword as steady as I can. “Your master wants me alive, so you can’t hurt me,” I remind him.

  “I have no intention of hurting you, Rho,” he says, sounding wounded by the mere suggestion. He settles into the center couch cushion, stretching his limbs and taking up the whole thing. “These weapons are for your friend.”

  “Did you hurt Trax?”

  Traxon comes forward from behind the wall of soldiers, and for the first time I hear how truly gullible I am.

  “We knew you spoke with Traxon on Aquarius because we saw you meeting with him in the Pegazi stables,” says Blaze. “So once you left, I found him and offered to hand over the one thing he’s always wanted from both of us.”

  The truth.

  Traxon doesn’t shrink from my glower because by his standards, he didn’t do anything wrong. He’s stayed true to his own code—truth above all—and he probably sees me as the one in the wrong for manipulating him. And maybe I am.

  Every truth is relative. I hear Gamba’s words in my mind, but I shake them off by digging into Blaze. “And what version of the truth did you give him?”

  “We told him everything.” From the way Blaze says the word, it’s clear that Traxon’s knowledge of the Party now far surpasses mine. “And in exchange, we asked that he tell you Untara was funding Black Moon—which, full disclosure, was all along just a ploy to draw you in and steal your followers.”

  Fire flames inside me at the thought of how they used Nishi, but for her sake I keep it tamed. I need to save her first—I’ll worry about making them pay for what they did after.

  “I thought you were honorable,” I growl at Traxon.

  “I don’t go back on my deals,” he says, glaring back at me just as angrily, and in his hurt expression, I see the pain of my refusal to trust him. “Besides, you wanted me to take you to the Party, and now I’ve brought the Party to you.”

  I lower my hand but don’t turn off my Barer. Instead, I transf
orm the energy into electric brass knuckles, and I keep my arm ready to swing if the need arises. “So what exactly are you doing for Aquarius, Blaze?”

  “It’s what he’s doing for us, Rho,” he says, sitting up with excitement. “He’s freeing us from the old ways and the old politicians and the old prejudices—he’s giving us a chance to re-create our universe. To make it the way it ought to be. All of us living as one, not twelve or thirteen.”

  “That’s inspiring, but I’m curious: How does murder play into that utopia?”

  “That’s what you Cancrians don’t understand,” he says, shaking his head. “Sacrifice.”

  I hear Fernanda’s accusation in his words: On Cancer you believe the loss of one life is as unacceptable as the loss of ten thousand—but on Taurus, we’re team players and we believe in making sacrifices for the greater good.

  “Sometimes a broken building can’t be repaired,” he goes on. “Sometimes you have to blow up its foundation and build it anew.”

  This time, it’s Deke I hear: To change the norm, you have to break it.

  Words can be so easily manipulated—all you have to do is assign them new meanings, and the message changes. They’re as inconstant as the streets of the Artistry Pride, and that’s what Aquarius—a wordsmith by nature—realized. It’s what he’s used to change the Zodiac.

  Words have always been his weapon of choice.

  But they’ve also been mine.

  “So what are we waiting for?” I ask, and the electricity snuffs out from my Barer. “Take us to him.”

  “You friend is a little large to carry,” says Blaze. “We’ll wait for him to wake up.”

  Ophiuchus’s silver eyes open, and he rises to his impressive height.

  “Well then.” Even though Blaze is still playing it cool, there’s a tense note in his voice now. “As they say in Artistry: It’s time to meet the director.”

  • • •

  Rather than marching us out, Blaze and his soldiers force Ophiuchus and me upstairs, and then they open a hatch in the ceiling and make us climb onto the rooftop. Traxon and Tomás stay behind.