by Zen, Raeden
The crowd gasped.
“Antosha Zereoue, your return to the RDD has brought with it the death you left behind—”
The crowd roared.
“Silence!”
Carmen pounded his gavel.
Antosha didn’t budge. He sat next to a woman Connor didn’t recognize, his arms folded with hers, she dressed in a black dress, covered by a veil, he in a black suit, bloodstone gems down the center. His face remained motionless, impassive, as if he didn’t realize someone had just accused him of murder.
Or as if he didn’t care.
“Silence!” Carmen said. “Or I will hold you all in contempt of your chancellor!”
Charles turned toward the judges. “This man acted out of fear and under the influence of a synthetic hallucinogen, telepathically and genetically delivered by Antosha. This can be the alleged crime’s only explanation, and you would do your best to serve this commonwealth by commuting Captain Broden Barão’s sentence and holding him in the DOP until a full round of—”
“Where is your proof, Minister?” Carmen said. “Words are worthless to this court.”
Charles spoke, but Carmen bashed the gavel, overwhelming his voice.
“We’ve seen the lab tests! We’ve seen the live Granville feed from the forest! We’ve heard from the witnesses! And we’ve arrived at a fair and just conclusion for the greater good of the people of this Great Commonwealth of Beimeni!”
Carmen signed the Decision Decree.
A hologram formed above the judges.
PERSONA NON GRATA
“Gods,” Nero whispered and fell to his knees.
What does this mean? Connor wondered. He’d learned some basic Beimenian law in Piscator, but this was a term he had never come across, perhaps, he assumed, because it was a rare sentencing. For sure it must be terrible.
Beimenians in the Judgment Center moaned and wept and fell. A few Navitans in bow ties and suspenders clapped and cheered.
“Order!” Carmen said. “I will have order in my Judgment Center!”
Xylia screamed, and the crowd rushed into the center aisles. Janzers stormed inside from every opening.
“I will have order—”
Jeremiah cut the feed.
“Was he sentenced to death?” Connor said.
His father put his arm around him. “Worse.” He paused and stared at Nero. “Captain Broden Barão will reside on one of the islands in Farino Prison prior to his departure for Region 7 of the Lower Level. He will serve out his sentence there, for the rest of his days.
“He will die slowly, daily, and by the end not even his developers will recognize his body and mind.”
“How does Xylia know him?” Connor said.
“She grew up with him in Portage Territory, and they were arrested at the same time, but while he was purchased by the Variscans, the Kaspasparons kept her hidden from the commonwealth, and now she’s a—”
“BP spy,” Connor finished. Connor didn’t know much about Xylia, certainly not her history with Captain Barão. She must still love him like a brother, poor girl.
Nero breathed heavily. He sounded incoherent. Snot dripped down his nose, his eyes were as streaked as a nebula. He slumped forward. “Verena,” he said, “Verena, Verena …” Tears ran down his cheeks as he mumbled, “And the twins, my gods,” he covered his mouth, “the twins!”
Nero wiped his grimy face and glowered, breathing hard. He turned to Father, who said, “Whom do you serve now, striker?”
ZPF Impulse Wave: Gwendolyn Horvearth
Palaestra City
Palaestra, Underground Northeast
2,500 meters deep
“Aha, mademoiselle,” Juvelle said, “I have your robe and clothing ready.”
Gwen ignored her keeper bot and scrubbed her arms and chest and legs till her skin was raw.
She cried.
“Mademoiselle?” Juvelle said. “Aha, are you all right?”
The bot’s eye slit shone brightly beyond the cloudy glass and steaming hot water that sprayed Gwen, who hung her head and watched the swirl of suds and muck and skin descend the drain.
Every night since the Bicentennial, she’d let him touch her. Every morning she awoke upset. “Take a whiff of this,” Antosha had told her, “and dance with the good captain, and humiliate him, and all shall be ours.” She’d whiffed and danced and thought the captain’s humiliation complete when he’d wobbled through the orgy, covered with champagne and sweat and women’s kisses that didn’t belong to his eternal partner. How wrong she’d been.
She turned off the faucet.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Marcel isn’t here yet, is he?”
“Aha, no, no, mademoiselle, but your transport leaves soon.”
Gwen opened the door and stepped out of the shower in her new First Ward apartment unit. Antosha had gifted it to her. He lay on the bed, still asleep. Juvelle draped a woolen robe around her that smelled of cinnamon and apricot. She dried herself and handed the robe to Juvelle, then slipped into her undergarments and a summer silk gown. She applied maroon eyeliner and dark mascara and injected herself with uficilin, but it didn’t dull the pain. The dirt would never clean. Her insides would never heal.
Why had she seduced Brody so completely, so deceptively? How could a wiser scientist and captain a hundred years her senior have been so foolish? How could she have been? But Brody had it coming, she reassured herself, for he should never have used Haleya the way he had. He had encouraged her to the surface! How could he! He knew he didn’t have a cure! He understood Reassortment’s disastrous impact on the transhuman body!
But when she thought of Damy, and Verne, nothing could console her.
If only she would’ve sought counsel from Minister Kaspasparon, her friend, her savior, the minister who had sent her to House Variscan after her parents had abandoned her in Transport City. But then she remembered the voices, Antosha’s voice, in her head all the time. Who could she speak to without his knowing?
What would he do if she questioned him?
She ambled into the sitting room with velvet-covered furniture and activated a Granville panel. Suddenly she stood upon a beach with white sand and endless blue skies, endless waves and salty wind. The artificial gusts increased around her and mixed with the neural signals congruent with salt and fruit. She closed her eyes and breathed deep, feeling calmer, until she felt his hands spread over her neck and shoulders.
She opened her eyes. His breath, then his lips, touched her skin.
“A future queen shouldn’t leave without the proper headpiece,” Antosha said. He held a silk-lined tiara shaped like a phoenix feather, coated with gold dust.
“I’m not a queen,” Gwen said. She deactivated the panel and the illusory paradise disappeared. “I’m a scientist.”
He kissed her neck and slipped his hand into his robe.
“Soon you will realize, my violin, that there is no difference in Beimeni.”
Gwen pulled back. “Marcel will be here soon.”
Antosha twisted his face. “I trust that you have some idea for Marcel’s purpose during your travels,” he said.
“It would seem odd for me to be in so many cities alone,” she said. “Don’t you agree?” She could tell by his expression he did not.
“Your campaign for the supreme scientist of Reassortment, the honorary minister third in line to the chancellorship, is in the tradition of the Great Commonwealth, you need no explanation.”
Of course, Gwen knew this. She wanted to tell Antosha that Palaestra’s powerful Minister Charles expressed the views of many ministers at the hearing and that it would take a Vigna-sized effort to convince a majority of the ministry of Antosha’s value for such an important role in the commonwealth. Rather, she said, “Marcel has sworn an oath of secrecy with his transfer to the RDD. He’ll be useful in my effort to garner you votes. Besides,” she wrapped an arm around Antosha and said in his ear, “he’s my brother.”
“Brother-in-development
,” Antosha corrected, removing her arm. “That doesn’t mean I can trust him with you,” he lifted her hair and stared at her reflection in a mirror, “or you with him,” then placed the silken feather around her forehead and splayed the tips through her hair. He turned her to face him. “I need you to be my eyes where I cannot see, my ears where I cannot hear, my presence where I cannot be.” He handed her a satchel filled with z-disks.
She kissed his lips and brushed her face beside his. “I will not fail you,” she said, while wishing she’d never met him.
“You’re acting awfully different, sweet sister,” Marcel said, his head upon a feather pillow as Juvelle dangled grapes over his mouth. The luxury transport announced they were entering the Northern Passage in Xerean. Marcel chewed the grapes with a grin.
Gwen poured herself a glass of Loverealan wine and turned toward the Granville view, the swirls of a nebula, violet and gold with flickering white stars.
I have to tell him, she thought, but I must keep him safe.
She pushed his legs up and sat beside him on the red velvet couch. “Marcel, your constant schemes make me light-headed.” Juvelle lowered a tray with raspberry cream and strawberry tartlets. Gwen shoved one in her mouth. “I’d have thought the Harpoons never ended …”
“Sweet sister,” Marcel said, lifting himself to her side, his brine scent moving with him, “there’s no end to our positioning in Beimeni.”
Gwen fed him a tartlet. “Do you remember the desserts the lord and lady used to feed us?”
Marcel smacked his lips. “Mmm, strawberry and chocolate pie? Ginger tartlets? No, I’m afraid I’ve forgotten those entirely. Maybe if we pay them a visit, they’ll agree to jog our memories.”
“They’d put us in the harness first, of course, maybe make us solve a—”
“Palindrome!” Marcel said. “Ah, our finest moment.”
Gwen smiled to recall that first riddle from Lady Eulalie, passing the phrase, Was it a cat I saw? back and forth with Marcel until they solved it, then spending all their free time that day devising palindromes, enthralled by the idea. Those were the simple, fast times in House Variscan. Gwen wondered what advice Lady Eulalie might offer her now. Would she suggest Gwen turn herself and Antosha in or that she hide the truth forever? Could she allow Brody to be sent to the Lower Level’s Region 7, the deadliest region if the rumors were true, for a crime he didn’t commit?
Marcel lifted her hair as if searching for a trinket. A Granville sphere appeared above his hand as if by magic. “Look at that!” he said. “Where’d that come from?”
Gwen smiled. The sphere was of the artistic variety. It looked like a small, glowing gemstone, and above Marcel’s palm it rendered an image of the surface, layered with forests, ocean, wildlife, and beneath, transports humming near Masimovian Tower in Beimeni City and throughout Phanes, with its man-made lake and Fountain of Youth and dunes and red hills. Gwen knew the curio well. It was Marcel’s work, presently the top seller of holographic art in all Beimeni.
Her brother-in-development leaned in next to her. The holograms lit their faces, and Gwen caught a hint of Marcel’s reflection, studying her.
“You don’t seem the champion I knew.”
Gwen turned toward him, surprised and strangely gratified that he’d seen through her. “I was … a different person then.”
“You never did tell me which of the facilities and on whose team you landed—”
“You never answered my calls after the auction,” Gwen said, “and I assumed …” Marcel handed her the sphere. It felt warm in her hands and turned the colors of dusk upon the surface, with shades of red, violet, and orange.
“You assumed I wouldn’t want to speak or think of the Northeast after the Variscans abandoned me.”
“They’re proud of you.”
“Then why did they all but disavow their involvement in my development? Surely a top twenty-five percent performance wasn’t the worst scenario.”
“Who cares, Marcel? Your work is being recognized.” Gwen lifted the sphere. “And look at what you’re capable of.” She grazed the hologram with her forefinger. “It’s exquisite, as unique as its creator.”
Marcel didn’t seem as if he was listening. He stirred his glass, filled with the finest vodka in Vivo, and sipped, then chewed a chocolate-covered cherry. “And you, sweet sister, you were the champion, you fulfilled the Variscan legend.” He sniffed his glass. “This means,” he smiled as if he’d discovered a parallel universe, “you’ve been assigned to the Reassortment project, doesn’t it?”
Gwen shuddered. Her face felt as if a million embers burned beneath it. “Marcel …” She wanted so badly to tell him what had happened, but her voice caught in her throat. She already had two deaths on her hands. She wouldn’t put Marcel at risk. She composed herself. “All you need to know is that as I rise, I will bring you with me.”
“And where is it you’re taking me now?”
“To the North, for a confab with Minister Genevieve Sineine of Boreas.”
Boreas City
Boreas, Underground North
“It’s an honor to meet you, Minister,” Gwen said. She bowed and kissed the hand extended to her. “Antosha has told me so many wonderful stories that I feel as if I’ve known you for decades.”
In truth, Gwen had conducted her own research on the minister, for Antosha never mentioned Genevieve, except in passing. He had told her they had a history, and she may be hostile. “Do whatever it takes,” he’d said, “get me Faraway Hall.”
Antosha had designed this hall before his exile.
Genevieve closed her eyes, batting unnaturally long lashes curled with blue mascara, pursed her glittered lips, and nodded. Fifteen of her guardsmen formed a crescent behind her, opened toward the pyramid-shaped Northern Passage Transport Station in Boreas City. The guards wore military suits lined with golden buttons on their left sides.
“Windy today, isn’t it?” Marcel said, and as if on cue, the air swirled synthetic snow from the nearby skyscrapers in the cool morning.
Gwen couldn’t imagine how much it cost to keep the temperature this low, this deep inside the Earth! It seemed likely the minister paid the bill just so she could wear the lavish fur coat she had on.
Gwen giggled and covered her mouth. “Please, my lady, forgive my brother’s … boldness.” She extended her hand. “Minister, it’s my pleasure to introduce you to Marcel Auroro, my brother-in-development, famed holographic artist from Marshlands.”
Marcel would’ve turned as red as lava if he wasn’t frozen, Gwen knew. He bowed and kissed the minister’s hand.
The guards shifted and formed a tunnel, saluting the minister and her guests. Genevieve, Gwen, and Marcel made their way along the promenade. After they passed, the guards lowered their forefingers from their foreheads and marched evenly beside them, knees high, chests out.
“Many thanks for meeting with us on short notice,” Gwen said. “I understand the demands on your territory must tax your people enough without a supreme scientist’s interest in your hall.”
“Undeniably, Boreas provides a vital service to the lower twenty-two.” She tsked. “What would they do without the arctic water we provide?” Gwen didn’t know how to respond, so she nodded agreement, which seemed to please the minister, who added, “All the lower twenty-two think of the vast wealth in Palaestra, Phanes, and Luxor, but they forget the riches of the North exceed all three combined.” Gwen had never heard that before and couldn’t hide the confusion from her face. “Oh, I’ve seen that look before. You think I’m crazy, but it’s true, the wealth in our water isn’t fully valued, or paid for.”
Antosha had told Gwen about the North’s gripes regarding fair valuation for the commonwealth’s most valuable renewable resource—cold water. Before Gwen could respond, the minister switched the subject. “Antosha’s reputation for scientific excellence precedes him. Such a pity it was nearly wasted. What was it, ten, fifteen, twenty years ago?” Genevieve paused as if f
or confirmation, and when neither Gwen nor Marcel provided it, she added, “His exile occurred at a time of great construction in my territory.”
Genevieve looked off to a spiral carbyne-and-glass skyscraper in the city center labeled MINISTRY BUILDING with rotating holographic letters.
“What happened?” Gwen said.
“I was in the Ministry Building. Antosha had just returned from a surface excursion when I received the call that he would be held within our quarantine at Area 55 for questioning in the area of synism sabotage. You can imagine the shock I felt having heard such a phrase.” Genevieve looked exhausted even recalling the episode.
“You were close to Antosha?”
The minister gave a bemused smile and touched her orchid hair. “We were … close … at one time. Yes, my dear … so close …”
Marcel stirred next to Gwen, buttoning up his parka as the gusts swirled around them and littered the walkway with snowflakes and debris in the morning sun.
Gwen spied a nearby café. “Marcel,” she said, “maybe it would be best if you waited in there for the duration?”
The fur from the parka covered his face, but Marcel bobbed his head and hopped to the café.
“He isn’t accustomed to these … Northern winds,” Gwen said. She let a hazelnut-sized flake land in her palm. It didn’t melt; it just sat in her hand as if her body temperature had no impact.
“And you’re familiar with the North?”
“My mother’s developer was Xereanan,” Gwen lied, “holographic sculptors in their spare time. My father’s was Vivoan, growers in their spare time. So I have a bit of Central and North in my genes.”
Genevieve nodded and inquired about Gwen’s development and how she came to Antosha’s acquaintance. Gwen told more lies about her birth in Vivo, but told the truth regarding House Variscan and the Harpoons, where she’d received the highest bid, and the tour of Tomahawk Facility with Miss Damosel—