by Ryan Graudin
“I’m not recording,” she tried again. “You can speak freely.”
“I’m a friend. Call me Gram.” These words fit the newcomer’s tongue much better than his Latin. A learned language, not one cobbled together by translation tech. “I’m here to take you back to the Ab Aeterno.”
Again, her heart seized. “You don’t understand. I can’t leave—”
“Gaius isn’t fighting today.” Gram gazed down at the imperial box, where the emperor was arriving to a lash of cheers.
Empra wanted this to be true, which made the lie even worse. Gaius’s match was among the day’s first—he’d told her at the banquet last evening, unable to veil the fear in his voice.
“He is. And I—I have to watch.” The sob surprised Empra. Usually she was better at hiding things. She’d kept her pregnancy a secret from the Ab Aeterno’s crew for six months thanks to loose stolas. “I need to know how his fight ends.”
“We came to an arrangement with Gaius’s lanista. He’s free, and he’s waiting to say good-bye near the Ab Aeterno. I’m here to take you to him.”
“Free?” Empra’s dizziness was growing worse. Her hands fell from belly to bench, clutching through its splinters. “The Corps would never allow that.”
“We’re not with the Corps,” Gram explained. “How do you think I’m sitting here talking with you?”
“If you’re not with the Corps, then who are you with?”
“That answer would take far more time than we have. Your water’s going to break soon, and if you don’t get back to Central before your son arrives, things are going to get very hashed up. Er, pardon my language.”
It wasn’t the profanity that had startled Empra. Son. Her palm flew back to her stomach. Despite Doc’s offer to reveal the child’s gender, she’d refused, because that was a secret she could not keep from Gaius, and it would expose far more than she could afford.
“Hashed up how?”
“Come with me.” Gram stood, extending his arm. “I’ll explain as much as I can on the way.”
The Porta Sanavivaria was going to open soon. Empra studied its latticework. Standard Roman design—composed of triangles or Xs, depending on how one stared. The rest of the crowd watched the door, too, shouts growing hot with restlessness. Her baby—her son—began kicking to their beat.
“Gaius?”
“He’ll be there,” the other time traveler promised. “The sooner we leave, the longer you have to say good-bye.”
That was the farewell Empra wanted—unmarred by blades and bars.
She took Gram’s hand. The steps were steeper on the way down. Empra’s shifted center of gravity didn’t help things, but Gram was as strong as he looked, and held her steady all the way to the exiting arch. She did not miss how often he glanced at her belly. Nor did she miss his pause in the passageway, his last over-the-shoulder look at the sands.
Gaius’s son kept kicking inside her.
This is a miracle. Intervention, maybe not divine, but just as effective.
She couldn’t help but wonder what it cost.
45
MEMENTO MORI
FARWAY GAIUS McCARTHY ONLY EVER WANTED to see the world, not save one.
His view had shrunk down to a door. The Porta Sanavivaria. Gate of Life. Sunlight shone through the grand exit in triangle shards, too sharp after an hour in the amphitheater’s underworld. Tigers and lions roared in the tunnels behind Far, but the beast on the other side of the door was louder. The crowd screaming at morning’s first fight wasn’t driven by primal survival instinct, and that made them all the more terrifying. They wanted to watch men bleed. For fun.
Far’s opponent seemed indifferent, though it was hard to tell. The man’s helmet covered most of his face, two eyeholes hinting at the human beneath. His right arm looked just as robotic, covered in metal armor. The scars on his bare chest spoke of a brutal life; the muscles beneath put Far’s kettlebell/pull-up routine to shame.
It was the sword Far eyed with the most envy. He felt like a fountain statue with his trident and net—armed for display, nearly as naked. No helmet. No legionnaire shield. Not even hashing shin guards. His rival’s blade wouldn’t have much trouble finding flesh, no matter how fiercely Far fought. He was going to fight. That much was decided. It’d take Gram a while to guide his mother back to the CTM Ab Aeterno, more minutes still for her good-bye to Gaius. Far wanted to cling to every second of life left to him. Maybe that made him selfish or stubborn.
Most likely it made him human.
Far stared at the Gate of Life and wondered if he was always meant to end up here, at his beginning, full circle, stop. Priya’s breath joined his own through the comm, reminding him why he stood at this threshold. Love. A love that was bigger than just them. Their heartbreak now had been his mother’s then, and this was the only way to end it. This was the only way to make things new.
He could hear the first fight’s end through the door, stabbing alongside the sunlight. Not long now. Once the first defeated gladiator knelt for his quietus, once the victor’s sword landed in his neck, once the blood clumped garnet on the earth, once the body was dragged by its heels to the Spoliarium, once the arena was cleared…
The door opened. No number of datastreams could prepare Far for the sheer force of fifty thousand throats rattling the sky, showering back to earth. Sand shuddered beneath his feet—grain by unsteady grain—as he strode to the center of the Colosseum. Ahead, the Porta Libitinaria loomed: second passage, Gate of Death.
His grip on his trident tightened.
Not yet.
“Walk to the imperial box,” Priya reminded him. She wasn’t a Historian, but she didn’t need to be when Empra’s datastream played a few seconds ahead on an adjoining screen. “You’re going to bow to the emperor.”
Bright fabrics framed the imperial box, eagle statues’ golden wing tips stabbing the sun. Emperor Domitian could have been a prop in his chair, for all he moved at the gladiators’ tribute. More men about to die… another day in the life. Officials examined Far’s trident and tested Sir Robot Head’s blade. Both weapons were deemed kill-worthy and returned to their bearers.
“Now you walk back to the center of the arena.” Priya spoke quickly to hide the shake in her voice. “At the sound of the horn, you fight. He’s going to come at your right side first—”
“I love you.” Far could say it, now that there were no ears close enough to hear his non-Latin. He hadn’t said it enough, so he tried to make up for lost words as he took his place. “I love you, Priya Parekh. I will find you in the next life.”
“Far—”
The horn sounded. His enemy charged.
“Jump left!”
Far blocked the blow with his trident, tossing his net. It slid off the gladiator’s helmet, became a good-for-nothing pile of ropes in the dirt. Better for catching fish than feet…
“He’s going to strike,” Priya warned. “Feign right!”
Again, Far was spared. He twisted right, thrusting his weapon as he did. Three shining prongs found a gap in the other fighter’s defenses, metal to flesh. Red, red, red down the gladiator’s scarred side, roar pouring out of his eyeholes. The crowd’s cries turned to thunder as he scrambled back.
“The net! Grab your net before he recovers!”
It was too late. Far’s opponent had steel-coated nerves to match his robot head. Though bleeding bad enough to make bettors wince and clutch their coin purses, the gladiator didn’t even wobble. He held his shield close to his side, raised his blade, and attacked.
Left or right or block?
Priya had no directions this time. History was changed and Empra’s datastream could no longer give Far his much-needed edge. His mind went for the parry, but his reflexes chose to dodge. The result was a half-tail combination of both. His enemy’s blade glanced off the trident, path diverted from Far’s neck to his arm. The hurt was too shocking to feel, at first. Far only knew he was wounded because the storm screams were back, r
aising every hair on his neck. Lightning soon followed, nerve endings opening up all at once.
His trident arm. Oh Hades, his trident arm. The sword had found his scar and split it right open again. Had there been this much blood the first time? Far couldn’t remember. The Fade had whittled memories of the injury down to Priya’s needle and swift stitches. She’d hummed then, to distract him, a song called “Fix You,” written by one of her favorite bands of yore. Cold—something? Cold, cold. That, too, was slipping…. Far’s red-rain blood dribbled into the sands as he stumbled away.
This was the beginning of his end.
“Far!” When Priya saw the wound through his eyes, she cried, “Don’t you dare stop, Far! Keep fighting!”
“P…” He was never supposed to win. Both of them knew that.
There was a rustling sound. Far spun around, bracing for a blade, but the other fighter had dropped back, side trauma and heavy armor taking their toll. The noise must have come from Priya’s end.
“I love you. I—I have to go.”
What? No…
“Keep fighting,” she said again.
“Priya?”
Dead air ached in his ear. Far felt as if something far more vital than his arm had been cut. How was he supposed to keep fighting now? How was he supposed to die alone? Like this: The other gladiator began circling, slow, stalking steps. His sword was edged with Far’s blood, poised for more. Not that it was hard to find. Half of Far was red as he switched his trident to his good arm, struggling to secure the slick handle.
Not yet.
But soon.
He couldn’t blame Priya for leaving. No amount of love in the world could make a person strong enough to watch this.
46
THE MOTH WHO KNEW HER WINGS WOULD BURN
PRIYA HAD NEVER BEEN SQUEAMISH AROUND wounds, even her own. Playtime scrapes were a source of fascination, something to be studied through the glittery fray of Madam Wink’s mane while her father sprayed on Heal-All. He often recited facts as he did—things to distract her from the sting, truths to tuck away for later.
“One minute is all it takes for a drop of blood to run through your body. Heart back to heart. The hemoglobin in your red blood cells threads oxygen through your veins to keep you alive. It’s pretty phenomenal stuff.”
“Why are some people so scared of it?” Priya had asked, thinking of Tommy, who’d abandoned his own hoverbike to help her off the ground, only to freeze when he saw her torn-up knees.
Her father went quiet. This silence went past tired, the kind of pause that meant something important would be said. So Priya had waited, squeezing her stuffed unicorn so tight its stuffing pushed back against the practice sutures.
“It’s not the blood people fear,” Dev Parekh said finally. “It’s the pain.”
Now, at eighteen, watching Far’s wound ooze through the screen, Priya understood. Here was a sight that turned her stomach. The pain was not a distant dream, but red and roaring, all of Far’s blood spilling out too fast to replace. His medical readings scrambled across the infirmary screens—fight-or-flight wild, a beat no song could match. Even if there were such a tune, playlists were a thing of the past. Both sets of Priya’s headphones, BeatBix and rip-offs, sat quiet on her desk, mirroring their surroundings in their gold plating: the see-through surface of a dead holo-paper zine, useless needles, Ganesh’s curled trunk. All appeared four times and shining, reminding her that this was the only way to make a way. Everything would be better when the string was cut.
But it hurt watching Far bleed out of life. It hurt watching life bleed out of him. Neither force crackled.
“Far! Don’t you dare stop, Far!” Priya’s own heart bled through the comm.
She was afraid.
“Keep fighting!”
“Priya! Priyapriyapriya!” Imogen appeared, a lemon-colored blob in the headphones—too frantic to register her cousin’s injuries. “We’ve got an emergency emergency. The Bureau jacktail showed up with the Corps, and he’s trying to fritz out Eliot’s equipment with a stunrod. His teleport equipment is working again and he’s chasing her all over the city and she’s still got Gaius in her pocket universe and I don’t know what to do. Do you have something zappy?”
If Gaius was in the pocket universe, then the chip was as well. They were supposed to be passed on to Empra together. Priya had even written a letter to Far’s mother, filling the inside cover of the Code of Conduct with instructions to give the chip to Far on his seventeenth birthday. The guidebook’s paper tore as easily as it folded and was now a tiny square in a small box in a pocket universe on Eliot’s wrist, hopping all across Rome. The Invictus’s whole past and possible future hinged on this: Stay with Far at the hour of his death, or save their lives for later.
All or nothing.
It wasn’t even a choice.
“I love you.” Priya’s finger trembled over the Mute button. “I—I have to go. Keep fighting.”
She cut the audio link before Far could answer and tossed a lab coat over the feed. Grief settled gray below her eyes, dry, yet dark enough to tarnish the BeatBix. “Why do you need zap? What about Eliot’s blaster?”
“Are you an ace shot?” the Historian asked. “I’m not. Anything short of a kill means squat when teleportation is involved. I figure it’s better if we can fritz Agent Ackerman’s jump systems before he fritzes Eliot’s. Less death, less hopping, everybody wins.”
“We don’t have any stunrods on board.” But they were in a ship full of live wires. Priya turned her back to the lab coat’s shine and pushed into the common area. A few floor panels remained crooked from Far’s Rubaiyat ransack. Sharp corners, tilting plane, covered in costumes from a blank-page past. Neon fires flared as Priya shoved aside the flash-leather suit, prying up the panel beneath. More rainbows appeared in the form of wires, bundled together by the dozen.
“Welcome to the Invictus’s nervous system,” she announced. “Very colorful, very electric.”
Imogen knelt next to her, gaping at the Medusa mess. “You’re gonna gut the ship?”
“This is all the zap we’ve got.” The correct combination of wires—high voltage, low current—could substitute as a stunrod, stopping a man, but not his heart. It was the ship itself Priya was worried about. Disconnecting the wrong line could bring down the holo-shield, the comms, the mainframe… any number of systems essential to their mission. “We can do without overhead lights or speakers, right?”
“Affirmative.”
Which wires were which wires were which wires were which? So many colors streamed together, and Priya found it hard to keep her head on when her heart was in the arena. Green? Light blue? Orange? Red? Red? Red?
“Hurry,” Imogen urged. “Eliot’s been through enough jumps to scramble an egg inside a hen.”
Purple and green. Priya wasn’t certain about the wires she chose, but this didn’t stop her from yanking them free. The Invictus’s overhead lights cut out, sparks scattering through newfound darkness. She’d gotten at least one of the wires right. The comm system had stayed online, too. Far’s datastream glowed through the infirmary screen, ghastly in new shadows. Priya couldn’t look at it. Her concentration was best served focusing on the wires in each hand, frayed ends far from touching.
Keep fighting, Far.
One more minute. That was all she needed: heart back to heart.
I’m going to save us.
“These wires don’t stretch much,” she told Imogen. “The Bureau agent has to land on this side of the common area.”
The other girl nodded. “Copy that, Eliot? Your order of save-the-day is ready. Come on home.”
The final word wasn’t even cold when Eliot appeared. Sweat streaked her eyebrows. Her eyes had gone from haunted to hunted. She slouched against the couch, ash in her warning: “Five seconds. He’ll be here.”
Priya’s fists tightened around the wires. A flickering in the infirmary called to her, but she could not look. She could not look. Priya won
dered if she’d feel it—the moment Far died—or if that was a sentiment created by ancient poets. Souls twined so closely together one could feel when the other was severed….
Agent Ackerman’s materialization made Eliot’s teleports look mystical. Where she slipped, this man slammed, crushing the tricorne hat beneath his feet. His stunrod was pointed at Eliot, and it might’ve landed, had he not been so blindsided by the brightness of Imogen’s hair.
“I have had it with you history-hopping betch—”
Poke. Poke. ZZZZZZAP.
Thud.
One touch and the Bureau agent was grounded. Priya stared at the wires she held, shocked in a different sense. She’d never harmed another person before, had never thought she could, under the unspoken pressure of the Hippocratic oath. Everything was upside down, inside out. At the end of the couch, Eliot doubled over, charred fabric crumbling beneath her nails while she heaved. There was a wet splash of something on the floor panels.
Priya took an extra breath to keep her own sickness down. “Are you okay?”
“Too much—dashing—rearranging!” Eliot explained between gasps. “My—molecules—can handle it. Stomach—not so much.”
“Is he okay?” Imogen nudged Agent Ackerman with her toe. The man was face to floor, pinned by a force heavier than gravity. His hat had tumbled into the rest of the clothes, blending in with forgotten times.
“He seems to be breathing.” Eliot gathered herself enough to pick up the Bureau agent’s stunrod. She flicked it on, then off, white charge leaving a jagged imprint in the air. “Good call on the wires, Priya. You just saved the whole hashing day, and more besides.”
“The files? They’re intact?”
“Locked and loaded.” The eyes that were so like Far’s—and altogether different—blinked. “I’m feeding all of the ship’s current datastream into the chip as we speak, including mine. Anything you want to say?”