And All the Stars

by Andrea K Höst

  All but black scrapings remained when, disgusted, she threw down the tray and dashed out of the kitchen. She did not want to be this. What would come next? Rats? But, no, all the warm-blooded animals in the region had been finished off by the dust. It would be cockroaches.

  Pounding up the stairs to the third level, she ran along the curve of windows, intent on the grandly mature gesture of throwing herself onto her bed. And stopped so quickly she fell to her hands and knees. On the bar counter a new tray, another carton of milk, three muesli bars.

  One part of Madeleine was incandescently furious. It was a pitiful serving for a Blue. Even before the stain it would have been an inadequate day's meal, and the idea that this was all she would have to combat stain-fuelled hunger made her want to yell and throw things, left her frightened for what state she'd be in after another day. The rest of her wasted no time on anything but gulping down milk.

  Honey-sweetened again, this time with a trace of butterscotch which, even when that sounded a note of caution, was not enough to stop her draining most of the carton before coming up for air. As she gauged the dregs, a sledgehammer of heat hit her squarely, providing a full and unavoidable explanation for the additional flavour. Spiked.

  For long moments Madeleine simply stood, breathing deeply as the alcohol surged through her, but then she snatched up the muesli bars and headed around the curve of the floor toward her vastly empty bedroom. An awareness that there had to be a reason to spike the milk filled her with panic. At minimum, when drunk her ability to control her punches and shield would be near non-existent. Already the world had tilted.

  Stumbling past her bed, she headed to one of the curtains which divided the circular level into segments, and pulled it all the way to the inner wall. Then she slid to the floor behind it, a makeshift hiding place. Tucking herself in, fumbling with the cloth in hopes of making it appear its fall was uninterrupted, she tried to still her shaking.

  It occurred to her that she could have tried to make herself vomit. The alcohol had hit her almost immediately, but expelling most of it would surely lead to a quicker recovery. But then she would be back to licking toasters.

  Determinedly she ate one of the muesli bars and drank the rest of the milk, placing her energy needs above the problem of even more alcohol. Should she fight, when the Moths came? Shields would be too risky, punches more a question of how much she was willing to damage her eyrie prison. She might get lucky and hurt them, but lashing out wildly would not get her friends back. Unless she was on the verge of being completely lost, she would have to restrain herself, try to learn more.

  The tower felt like it was swaying.

  Fingers tangled in her hair, hauling her from behind the curtain. Jolted from a doze, Madeleine cried out in pain, twisting to see her attacker. Gavin. Or, rather, the Core of the Five of the Ul-naa.

  She tried pulling away, but her hair provided far too good a handhold, and he wrenched it agonisingly, slinging her forward so that she tumbled to the blank expanse of floor by the windows. Head spinning, she found herself face-to-face with an enormous, streamlined muzzle. A dandelion dragon, multi-layered wings fanning slowly, the bulk of it apparently draped over the roof of the main tower turret as it dangled over the side peering in at them.

  "In future, you will not hide," said the Moth, and she shifted to face him. "You will drink and you will wait here."

  His tone was curtly assured, allowing for no possibility of anything but obedience. He clearly believed he could dictate her behaviour. The words 'in future' lit her attention.

  Dizzy, and on the verge of being sick, she refused to cower, attempting a little of Noi's blunt defiance: "Go to hell."

  The Core slapped her. A light, casual backhand as if he were cuffing a misbehaving dog. "There are no choices here."

  Face stinging, increasingly angry that this alien so clearly did not consider her a person, Madeleine worked to speak without slurring: "I'm not killing you right now because I liked the boy you're wearing. But you're making it very difficult."

  It got under his skin, just a little: she could see the suppressed annoyance. Then he straightened, and she gasped as that annoyance hammered down on her: a cascade, a torrent. It hurt, was suffocation with needles, and she collapsed down, a small part of her recognising the sensation, though her brief experiments with Fisher had as much resemblance to this as a brush stroke had to nail gun fire. The third power, turned to an onslaught of prickling anger. She could feel his vicious enjoyment of her reaction, and his triumph, a barrage of gloating elation, increasing as Madeleine tried to make herself as small as possible, to curl into a ball, to find some way to keep him out.

  Unable to summon any defence, she retreated into darkness.

  ooOoo

  Madeleine woke, warm beneath the bed's quilt, still herself.

  It was not quite a surprise. There would have been no reason to speak of where she should wait in future if the Core had been on the verge of taking complete control, though she was full of a certainty that that...bombardment of identity was the beginning of a process which would leave her a shell, a vehicle driven by alien will. Instead of all at once, he – it – would possess her by degrees.

  Almost, she could still feel him. As if the air itself could taste of triumph gone stale, of emotion, soul, self, spirit, turned to some tangible substance which could rain down on a person and hurt and hurt–

  Madeleine shuddered, again curling protectively, then forced herself to shift, to sit up. Outside the tower it was dark, the curving array of windows showing city lights and stars. She had been put to bed and left till next time.

  Inevitably, she was hungry.

  Feeling fragile, and terribly alone, Madeleine tried to imagine how the Musketeers would deal with this situation. Fisher would point out the link between her experiments with him and the use of alcohol. The Core had learned of this and starved her, then set out spiked milk to interfere with her control.

  Right, Noi would say. So all we need to do is not take the bait next time, and then slam the bastard when he shows up.

  Steal his dragon! Pan would suggest.

  Like that's going to work, Min would put in. Besides, he knew Maddie had taken the bait. There must be cameras.

  So we get the old carton, fill it with water, and have it ready to fool them. Noi would give a little nod, confirming the plan.

  If they wait long enough, I won't be able to do that, Madeleine thought. I won't care if it's spiked, I'll just care that it's food.

  You can. Emily would take her hand, and give her a look of tremulous faith.

  Then Nash would offer an understanding smile. You have two muesli bars left, he would point out, and have yet to exhaust the possibilities of the kitchens.

  But does that mean I'm willing to kill Gavin? She had no answer, nor did she know what she would do about the dragon, if she did manage to fight off the Core.

  "I'm having imaginary conversations with my friends, because my friends are all possessed," she said out loud, and made herself get off the bed.

  Step C was beginning to resolve. She would assume there were cameras – at the very least where she slept, and the bar where they left the food. She would hide and conserve her muesli bars as long as possible, and hunt for any scrap which had been missed in the clearing out of the kitchens. She would do her best not to fall for spiked milk traps in future. When the Core came again...hopefully by then, she'd have some idea what step D might be.

  Scanning the ceiling, Madeleine failed to spot cameras, and headed into the bathroom to clean up and change clothes. If she was going to use the old milk carton to fake drinking spiked milk, she'd need to smuggle it into place. There would surely be somewhere she could hide it behind the bar.

  Heading around the curve to check, Madeleine stopped short, confused. There was a new tray, mounded high with packages. Did this mean they weren't going to starve her? Surely the Moths didn't expect her to obediently get drunk on command?

  She ap
proached the bar cautiously, scanning for traps, cameras. There was enough food for days: a stack of frozen pizza, pasta, a box of meat pies, cake. The cardboard was damp, everything well on its way to defrosting. There must be some kind of time constraint to the identity assault. The Core couldn't do that to her every day.

  At first insensibly relieved, Madeleine moved on to unhappily wondering how many days this food was meant to cover. This would give her more of a chance to practice shields, but if it, for instance, was supposed to last her for a week, she could still be brought to a state of driving hunger. Common caution led her to prepare a relatively small portion of the frozen gnocchi, and stash everything else in the second floor kitchen freezer. Then she went back to her bed, and debated whether it was worth blasting holes in the ceiling in the hope of destroying any cameras. Sydney Tower really was an excellent choice for a prison – she was tremendously wary of damaging it.

  After thinking the problem through, she simply alternately pushed and dragged the bed around the curve of carpet, to the far side of a dividing curtain. Drawing the curtain halfway, she hoped that would put her at the wrong angle for any cameras. Then she fetched her backpack and surreptitiously tucked the muesli bars into the front pocket.

  Her sketchpads and pencils took up half the space in the backpack. She touched the spine of one, but didn't take it out, hadn't opened any of them since she'd woken in the tower. Looking at images of friends found and lost would be unbearable.

  Someone coughed.

  In the still isolation of the tower, that faint, distinct sound was a clarion call. Madeleine sat frozen, listening for more, trying to gauge direction. She thought, perhaps, above. It wasn't close. Standing, she circled to the elevators as quietly and rapidly as she could manage, to jab the buttons. Nothing.

  Moving back to the bar, she picked up the long knife she'd abandoned after her attempt on the goo, and forced herself to slow, deliberate movements, up the straight stair to the fourth floor, pausing at its head to survey. The fourth floor was less clear than the third, with a raised inner section, an information booth, gift store, touchscreens, even an area with lockers for people heading out on the rooftop Skywalk. It was not until Madeleine had left the head of the stair and started clockwise around the circle that she saw him. Fisher.

  In a chair moved from the locker area and set so he could gaze in the direction of the Spire, he sat legs stretched out, posture weary. His glasses were folded on a closed book on the floor beside him, and she could see his face reflected in the window: brows drawn together in one of those frowns which made him look furious. So familiar, and so wrong.

  What could she do, to get back the person who was so incredibly precious to her?

  "The knife seems a little redundant."

  Madeleine started, and saw that he – the Moth controlling Fisher – was watching her in the thin reflection in the window. She looked down at the knife, decided that she was more likely to hurt herself with it than him, and put it on a nearby counter.

  "I don't have a key to the lift," the Moth added helpfully. He hadn't turned, had straightened in the chair, but continued to watch her via the reflection. He held himself so like Fisher, had that quality of attentive contemplation.

  Her mouth so dry she could barely speak, Madeleine asked: "Why are you here?"

  "Oh, I have various threats and ultimatums to deliver," he said, with a faded hint of amusement. "The theory being that you're less likely to attack me. But before we go on, there's something you should know."

  "What?"

  In the reflection his eyes met hers, inexplicably sad.

  "You've never met Fisher."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  "I don't believe you."

  Hoarse, whispered protest, but Madeleine had to grab the nearby counter to keep herself upright. Because the expression was his. The way he held himself. She'd known on some level even before he spoke. This was the person who had watched her paint. The person she had danced with. The one who had held her, kissed her, become a new sun in her sky.

  "It doesn't make sense. You helped us hide! You...ever since the stair? But why?"

  "Initially my role was forward scout," the Moth who was not Fisher said. "To locate Blues sufficiently stained for the Five's purposes. And, if possible, assemble Blues for the initial dispersal. That practically arranged itself. You, of course, I had marked for the Core." Still watching her in the glass, a reflected boy with a steady gaze. "I don't know if it was due to your sheer strength, or your initial contact with the Spire, but you were able to instinctively defend yourself, and injured the Core badly. My orders changed: to keep you within reach until the Core was able to claim you."

  "They knew where we were the whole time?" All that hiding, a futile game?

  He nodded. "What better way to stop you running than to let you think yourself hidden? The North Building would likely not have remained unoccupied without orders to stay away. Unfortunately your existence was known to the other clans: that Rover's attack was almost certainly an embedded command. And then the challenge, which made it necessary to properly hide you."

  Effortless manipulation. Tiny touches, never pushing. Supporting decisions to stay, to fight. Playing Musketeer while searching out holes in her defences, gaining her trust. Throat tight, muscles rigidly locked, Madeleine faced all which had been said and done between them. She could barely force the question through her lips.

  "It was all an act?"

  "No."

  Those reflected eyes were fierce, his mouth a set line, firm and absolute. Then he looked away, drawing in a deep breath.

  "There's a great deal I can't discuss. Most outside the Fives are barred from speaking at all to the Untaken. I have minor exemptions, but critical subjects can't even be broached, and I've lost some of the leeway I had. Do you remember what I said, the first time we spoke?

  A boy with a head injury, newly possessed, glaring at the Spire with concentrated hatred. All this useless death. Don't you want to tear that down and stamp on the pieces?

  "That was true? But...why? You still – you told them where we were, didn't you? Unlocked the elevator."

  "You've never met a hierarchy like the En-Mott," he said, then winced, as if something had poked him. "I can't explain in any detail. I can't directly act. I've done all I can to...to line up dominos. Time, place, opportunity. The pieces of information you need." He frowned at the window. "Let me get these threats out of the way. You understand what the Core intends to do to you?"

  "Take me over slowly, instead of all at once."

  "Your strength makes that a dangerous process. You cannot be kept permanently asleep – it requires a conscious mind. Each time, you need to be made safe to approach, prevented from attacking. You might choose to harm yourself. You might even manage to escape. And if you do any of those things, the Core will hunt down your parents." At her sharp look he shook his head. "He does not have them yet, though the Press very helpfully traced them to Bathurst. Tell them to move, the first chance you have."

  What was he suggesting? Did he intend to help her escape? Madeleine stared, but he was no longer looking at her reflection, was gazing down toward Hyde Park. She didn't know how to feel. It would be stupid to trust someone who had lied to her from the day they'd met. There was no way to simply step back into absolute certainty. But something about the way he held himself, shoulders tight as if braced for a blow...

  "Do you have a name?"

  His eyes came back to her reflection with a jerk. Startled. Had he expected her to keep calling him Fisher? Then, a thin, wobbling note, a sound she would struggle to describe, and certainly couldn't reproduce. The name of a Moth.

  "Call me Théoden," he said, with a shrug. "He was only possessed in the movie, but it seems appropriate enough."

  After a blank moment she realised he was talking about a character from The Lord of the Rings. A fictional name, to emphasise the falsity of the person she had known, telling her Fisher's hopes and dreams while c
arrying out the Core's orders. And behind it, an agenda of his own. She had been utterly taken in, never for a moment suspecting.

  "You act very–" She stopped, finding herself stupidly embarrassed. "Nash and Pan, the others. No-one from the school noticed any difference?"

  "Why would they?" Her question had conjured the ghost of a smile. "I'm not sitting in a little control room in Fisher's head pulling levers. He is...a layer of knowledge and reaction, a filter through which I experience this world. Of course I would act human."

  His reflected gaze was unwavering, saying things words did not. Madeleine wanted to look away, to deny any kind of response, but she could not. Everything about this was wrong, based on five kinds of lie, and still her heart raced looking into his eyes. This was a person who had connected with her on a level no-one else had, and the air between them thrummed.

  Beyond Théoden, a ribbon of light curled across the sky. He looked away from her reflection to watch it twine once around the Spire, then dive and disappear.

  "Time to start," he said, in a voice which sounded short of breath. He stood, and Madeleine was unable to stop herself from taking a step back, but if Théoden noticed he gave no sign. "Go to this point on the floor below."

  Madeleine hesitated, then obeyed, perhaps because he was walking toward her and she was not sure if she could deal with him any closer. Her mind raced as she headed down the stair, keeping well ahead while she tried to guess his plans. When she reached the window there was no sign of movement in the park below, and so she watched the reflection of a boy walking up behind her, stopping perhaps two metres away.

  "Is it time for another of the challenges?" she asked, mouth dry.

  "Buenos Aires. The Core and two others of the Five will be gone till dawn. Think about how Nash survives."

  She frowned at this apparent non sequitur, and behind her the boy who was not Fisher held out a hand as if to brush fingers against the back of her neck. He'd stopped too far away to make this possible, but the angle of reflection made it seem that they'd touched. She could not begin to describe his expression.