Dark Age

by Pierce Brown

  Electra leans back in her bunk, no doubt eager to dream of nightmares beyond the void. I lie back in mine, thoroughly disturbed.

  “You’re shit at bedtime stories,” I say.

  “Apologies. Next time I’ll tell you the tale of Sophocles the clone, a creature so noble and so wise he learned to cheat death.” He rolls over to go to sleep. I lie awake for a while, and roll on my side. Ozgard stares at me from his adjacent bunk. His eyes like two black mirrors. He was listening the whole time.

  On the fourth day, the vibration of landing gears reverberates through the ship. The shuttle makes contact with a metal hull outside, and I feel the more substantial pull of capital ship gravity.

  “We’ve rendezvoused with their fleet,” Electra guesses. Pax shakes his head, but doesn’t correct her. I don’t know how or when he figured it out, but he alone is not surprised when we step out into the VIP hangar of an old baroque cruise liner.

  Thousands of bloodbraves prepare for war in the hangar. I don’t recognize these men or women from Olympia, because they aren’t from Olympia. These are the frontline veterans, still wearing the deep sunburns of Mercury. Jogging troops carry tattered war standards of the tribes Sefi formed into her forward legions: the Ice Ravens, the River, the Blackhearts. Pax stares at his father’s former soldiers. They should be on Mercury, or in the lands the Republic gave them for barracks on Earth. Somehow they’re here, and I think I know why.

  “Horn!” Freihild calls as we descend the landing ramp. Ten of my skuggi are arrayed beneath a giant coral archway gilded with golden letters reading Heart of Venus. I thought the design looked familiar. It’s an old luxury cruise ship.

  “So this is where you snuck off to,” I say as we are herded toward them.

  “We’ve been preparing for your arrival, sir,” Freihild says with a crooked smile for Ozgard.

  “Where’s the rest of the skuggi?” I ask.

  Freihild shrugs. “Come. The Queen awaits.”

  I know this ship all too well. I thought the Heart was destroyed in the war. Instead, it is as if the cruise ship has gone schizoid. The halls, long ago looted, are cluttered with refuse. Automated doors to staterooms and spas open and close at random. The lights inside flicker, with climate zones oscillating between freezing and swamplike. And everywhere there are Obsidian bedrolls, meal stations, stacked arms of a bivouacking army, and dust, so much Mercurian dust, from their gear, the engines of their ships, even their boots.

  So that’s how she smuggled them under the nose of the Republic. They must have left when the Senate recalled half the fleet. Pax and Electra watch them with contempt. Left the Reaper in quite a lurch.

  To leave the VIP zone, we take an eccentric gravLift upward. The glass tube rises through an aquarium in the heart of the ship. Once, it treated tourists to a view of the rainbow life beneath the Venusian waves. Now the glass is crusted with barnacles and smeared with algae. Without her caretakers to maintain balance, the ecosystem seems to have been hijacked by predators. They lurk under coral reefs and lumber through unfiltered murk. Ozgard chews his walnuts and watches as an ebony tentacle ripples through the shadows.

  He murmurs something reverential in Nagal. Eyes wide and delighted, he points toward the shapes and murmurs to the children: “It is battle of strength. They eat each other. Soon one will remain…” He looks out at the water, the word a song on his tongue: “…victorious.”

  I pick the threads of my Alltribe uniform. “Then he’ll starve. Or eat himself. King of a kingdom of one.” They all stare at me. Ozgard and Electra in annoyance, Freihild in amusement. Pax in agreement.

  The mezzanine level fares no better than the aquarium.

  The central playground where tourists would throng to restaurants and ballrooms and pleasure palaces has become a parlor of ghosts. As if a fine old party was in full narcotic-fueled bloom, and everyone suddenly vanished, leaving their glasses on the table and their jokes half told. The air is freezing. A thunderstorm rumbles through the halls. Fizzling here and there from dead speakers.

  “Trapped in echo,” Ozgard explains reverently.

  It ain’t the only one.

  Some decade and a half ago, I vacationed here for the month round-trip to Venus. I walked its seafoam green carpets, martini in one hand, designer burner in the other, pockets weighed down by casino chips purloined from Silver tycoons mystified at how they could lose to a Gray. Karachi has the tendency to humble those used to playing life with a stacked deck.

  Cost me half a year’s wages to rub shoulders with the highColors here, but Trigg let me pretend. It mattered to me. I was an uppity idiot desperate to prove I could spend money too. He tried his best to make me happy. He really did. That first night we danced to Venusian wave, then bit by bit he withdrew into himself until all he did was sit in his room and watch the news.

  I know the Obsidians see what he saw.

  How we drank as they froze and killed and sold off their men to gods to eke out another season in the poles. How the Gray phalanxes stood in orderly ranks to form the chain to their collar. Gray. So frail on our own. So impregnable when we lock arms.

  Been a long time since that happened.

  “What happened here?” I ask.

  “War,” Freihild says. “Sons of Ares released achlys-9 years ago. Left the ship to drift in the Ink. Scavengers, looters, thieves, all come in seasons. Time passes. Servants of our Queen found and put to purpose for tribe.”

  “Sounds more like Gorgons than the Sons of Ares,” Electra says.

  Freihild shrugs. “All trees bear bad seeds, some bloody in bloom.”

  “The Red Hand,” Pax clarifies. “Or its early form. Harmony, one of Ares’s more violent agents, composed it from radicalized Sons who believed Ares’s Gold origins was my mother’s propaganda. They claim her brother killed Ares. And that Ares’s true identity was Narol, my father’s uncle, instead of Electra’s grandfather.”

  “You have a fucked-up family,” I say.

  He frowns. “Yes.”

  I feel half frozen and haunted all the way through by the time we reach the rococo entrance to the Heart’s Starboard Theater.

  We follow Freihild into the dilapidated theater to the sound of a soprano delivering her aria. The impossibly thin Violet—a girl the color of a rainy street with a neck twice the length of mine—sings on a star-backed stage beneath an ivory mermaid. The theater is a sea of mouldering green silk, with a lone island of life near the front row. We draw closer down the aisle. Each step taking me deeper into the dream.

  The Queen of the Valkyrie sits watching Wagner.

  I would laugh if it all weren’t so damn haunting. A dozen Valkyrie veterans lounge in the rows behind their Queen. Valdir lies on the floor, giving an exaggerated yawn to Freihild as she sweeps in with us. She hides a smile. Xenophon sits rigid several rows behind the Valkyrie.

  Onstage, the giraffe-necked Isolde now cradles the body of Tristan, her lover. The audio snags. The soprano begins to crackle, distort, and then dissolve.

  Holograms.

  Amel, Sefi’s Pink, sweeps onto the stage, tapping his datapad. “The file is corrupted, Your Majesty.” Sefi waves a hand for silence. She greets me with a nod and motions for the children and me to sit beside her.

  “Welcome to the Heart of Venus,” she says. “You are just in time for the show.” She gestures to Amel, who looks suddenly confused standing in the center of the stage. “Amel here was a whore of the Aphrodite House, before I killed his owner. He was no more than the well of pleasure he could provide his clients. They would dip into it and sip. But there was always less in the well. Age comes for us all.” She glances at Valdir, who frowns, then back to Amel. “The Silvers would call this a well of diminishing returns. Soon he would have no purpose. I offered Amel aeta. He receives one hundred thousand credits per year. Less than a whore of his pedigree would earn in a L
unese brothel, but more than ten welders. Do you think that fair, Amel? That you earn less than whore, but more than welder?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” If the Pink is nervous, he doesn’t let on. I, on the other hand, notice the shadows moving in the wings of the stage. Skuggi. Freihild seems surprised by their presence.

  “Do you miss being a whore?” Sefi asks Amel.

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  “Good. I am happy you are happy, Amel.” She smiles at him. “There are some who believe Pinks cannot be trusted. My people believe that the spirit rots when the body is weak.” Her eyes are on Valdir, not Amel. “It rots and rots until the rot turns to poison. Do you believe this to be true, Mr. Horn?”

  “I know a few who live up to that,” I reply carefully.

  “What do you believe, children?” she asks, taking her eyes from Valdir.

  “Spirits are imaginary constructs derived from human fear of mortality,” Pax replies.

  Electra shrugs. “You heard him.”

  “Amel?” Sefi asks. “Are you rotten inside?”

  “No, Your Majesty. The rot my Gold master put upon my spirit was cleansed when you bathed his dining table with his blood and set his children to the knife. You are my Deliverer.”

  Sefi sighs. “Finish the song for me, Amel.”

  The Pink blinks. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Finish the song. I know you can.”

  Amel flinches as the skuggi step from the shadowed wings of the stage. Gudkind leads them. Freihild glances at Valdir for explanation. Amel’s shoulders sag, and slowly he begins to sing. His voice is not that of the Violet’s but has a purity of its own. The skuggi slip onto the stage and begin to light a fire in the refuse of the set design. Flames lick over wooden boulders and trees as the Pink’s voice breaks from fear.

  He glares at Ozgard. “I do not know what the madman has told you, my Queen, but you have cleansed me. I serve only you.”

  “Amel is loyal,” Valdir protests to his mate. “Do not be misled by the madman.” He glares at Ozgard as if this were all his doing.

  Fear has taken Amel. “I did not betray you, my Queen. On my honor!”

  “A man has little, a whore has none,” Sefi replies.

  He stands there trembling. The soprano hologram sputters back to life, echoing the Pink’s song as Gudkind and the skuggi descend on Amel and hack him to pieces with cleavers. I watch in horror as they toss the pieces of the beautiful man into the flames.

  Black smoke swirls.

  I grow very still inside as the scent of burning flesh hunches through the opera house. I don’t know who this was for. A warning for Valdir and Freihild, or for me. And neither do they. Is their secret known? Will they join Amel? Is Sefi proving her skuggi are loyal to her, and not Freihild? The children watch this in dead silence. If Sefi wants them to learn about Obsidian virtues, she’s doing a fine job of it.

  “My people have a word,” Sefi murmurs to me, “rahgschni. There is no translation in the Common tongue. As close as can be said is: the sorrow one feels in seeing fresh morning snow, knowing its beauty cannot last.” She looks back at the fire. The flames saw her black eyes. “The Sovereign is dead.”

  I grow cold, realizing why the city of Olympia was lit up with candles and Eagle Rest went on lockdown. Pax does not move. “What?” Electra bolts to her feet.

  “She was butchered in the Senate by a mob along with my senators,” Sefi says as she stares into the flames. “It was the signal to begin a general coup. The ArchGovernor of Mars was shot in the head by his butler within his sanctum in Agea. Sevro was captured on Earth, Howlers slaughtered. More than a dozen others were killed. Valdir, heat of my heart, you say Amel here was loyal. But he received coded message from deepspace relay station home to Gold intelligence. I was to be assassinated with the rest.”

  “Amel is loyal,” Valdir says.

  “I sensed a quavering of his spirit long ago,” Ozgard confirms.

  “You fat devil!” Valdir bellows. “You will be the death of us all. Maybe you sense a quavering of mine next. I know your game, serpent. I know how you coil close to heat, for the cold blood in your own veins.”

  “Am I stupid, heat of my heart?” Sefi says to Valdir. “To act only on the senses of shaman? To be guided like puppet? It was Xenophon who brought this to me, not Ozgard.” Valdir’s anger cools somewhat as he spares a look at the trusted White. “For some time, Amel has been passing information to this relay station, to his Gold overlords. Including my diet, and list of preferred vintages. A poisoned bottle was found in his possession. He served me many years. But was rotten in the end.”

  Valdir grows quiet. To him, Xenophon’s word is worth far more than Ozgard’s hunches. Yet he cannot accept it.

  By the way Sefi’s looking at me, I might just be joining Amel in the fire. She’s cleaning house.

  She watches me for a moment, her black eyes peering deep into me before flicking away toward Electra, who is still on her feet.

  “Who did it?” the girl demands. “How did a mob kill Virginia au Augustus? Is my father alive? Tell us!”

  “We do not know,” Xenophon answers. “Publius cu Caraval seems to be the instigator and perpetrator of the coup, and allied with ArchImperator Zan and Vox elements in the government. We have confirmed this with Niobe au Telemanus, who now leads the Ecliptic Guard to Luna to demand the Sovereign’s return. Whether she is dead or alive, we do not know.”

  “Publius? That dreary little shit?” Electra is stunned. “Naw. He doesn’t have the juice, even with Zan.”

  “He is likely the puppet of Atalantia,” Sefi says. At that, Pax loses his ability to listen. He stands, quivers, and bolts from the opera house. Electra glares down at Sefi.

  “How long have you known? Three days? You cold bitch.”

  Sefi nods. “World is hard. He must be too.”

  “You weakened her by leaving,” Electra snaps. “You abandoned them. This is your fault. I know it. He knows it. We all fucking know it.”

  “Your mother weakened her too.”

  Electra flinches at that and storms after Pax. Sefi jerks her head, and Ozgard pursues. Valdir watches the child go with a deep sense of sadness. He is more complicated than just a warrior. The loyalty he feels to Darrow must be immense, and I wonder if Sefi isn’t the villain here after all.

  “You didn’t have to do it like that,” I say.

  “I did not bring you here to play nursemaid to children or lecture me, Mr. Horn. You asked me when first we met what Julii would pay for her firstborn. Today, I tell you. She has provided us with information and ore ships on which to transfer my forward legions under nose of Republic fleet.”

  At Sefi’s instruction, Xenophon still steps forward to fling a holo onto the opera stage where Amel’s remains still burn. Blueprints unfold from a tiny mote like the tendrils of jellyfish. My eye darts, my brain decrypts, analyzes, reverse engineers the Byzantine mess to see the hundreds of complexes, sophisticated killzones, subterranean bunkers. No. Not bunkers. I feel for my Z dispenser.

  “I was right. You want to start another war.”

  “No. I want to end war. The Republic breaks under its own weight. Obsidian must not. These are schematics for helium mines of Cimmeria. I was hesitant to act when Virginia sat upon Morning Chair. Now, no precautions, no hesitation. We strike.” The Queen’s smile crawls upward, her devious nature burning hot and bright beneath that ice exterior. “Helium is blood of empires, Mr. Horn. Master it, master destiny. And I will master our destiny. In one week’s time, we take mines of Cimmeria, and the continent as our homeland. It is time to test your skuggi.”

  “They are not ready,” Valdir says with a worried glance to Freihild. “My battle plan will get you the—”

  Sefi holds up a hand. “You break planets, Valdir. I do not want a broken Mars. That is the last resort.
I want a Mars that welcomes me as protector, as Great Mother. Mr. Horn, I need defense grids lowered. Tell me. Are your skuggi ready?”

  With the smell of Amel’s burning body in my nostrils, I look at Freihild, who gives me an eerie smile.

  “Yeah, they’ll do your dirty trick. World’s burning anyway.”

  I WAKE FEELING MORE TIRED than before I slept. It is still dark out. The quiet sounds of the soldiers preparing for the day’s trek north surround me. I sit up and gag at the pain of my wounded face. It is infected. My dreams were warped by fever and fear. Again the chair, again the door, again the shadows and laughter on the other side. I don’t know how I get to my feet.

  It is in silence that we set out into the cool dark. Kalindora walks closer to me now, always keeping herself between me and Cicero. Despite her grievous wound, I feel safer in her shadow. She whispers quiet poems to herself as the sun begins to rise.

  “What think you the dead are? Why, dust and clay,

  What should they be? ’Tis the last hour of day.

  Look on the west, how beautiful it is

  Vaulted with radiant vapours! The deep bliss

  of that unutterable light

  Perhaps the only comfort which remains

  Is the unheeded clanking of my chains,

  The which I make, and call it melody.”

  The words keep me walking. But temperatures ascend as the sun climbs over the mountains. Just when I believe I can’t go another step, I feel Kalindora’s hand on my lower back, steadying me. Always it lingers there, and I find I miss it when she takes it back.

  We walk and walk until we break for water in the middle of a playa.

  “Nobody move,” Cicero says. We freeze at the tension in his voice. He gestures slowly to a cactus, beneath which is a hole in the hardpan. “If you value life, slowly, back away.”

  We put a hundred meters between us and the animal hole. “What was that?” I ask him when we collapse down for water in the shadow of a yellow cactus as tall as five men.

  “Hydra burrow,” he says. “They hunt sunbloods. We’d be a nice little aperitif for them.” He wanders off to inspect a nearby cactus blossom. Kalindora squats in the dirt beside me and stares east. The remains of an unmarked bomber lie several kilometers off. Several of the Grays hack at cacti with utility knives to suck water from the meat. It’s barely worth the effort. The storms have thrashed the flora. I take enough water from the canteen to fill my mouth. There will be none left after this break. “Take more,” Kalindora says. “That burn is sapping you dry.”