Empress of a Thousand Skies

by Rhoda Belleza

  In the hours since leaving Nau Fruma, they’d almost been caught by a UniForce ship and had nearly burned up while breaking into Fontis’s atmosphere. Dahlen had fired commands at her: Be quiet, stay down, stop asking questions.

  “Is it not obvious?” he asked. “Our planet benefits from a Ta’an on the throne.” The Urnew Treaty dictated as much, if there was to be lasting peace between Kalu and Fontis.

  Rhee refused to back down. “You say so, but what isn’t obvious is how you knew of the assassination attempt before it happened. How you infiltrated a Kalusian network and knew of a secret plan ordered by the Crown Regent himself.”

  “You seem smart enough, and yet you speak like a child.”

  “And you’re so much more worldly for all your years,” she fired back. Was this boy, who goaded and insulted, her best shot at staying alive?

  A vine sprung up from the console and coiled around Dahlen’s wrist, as if urging him to stay calm. His eyes flickered slightly. “My order obeys no man-made boundaries, and has spies everywhere. We didn’t know for sure that you were in danger, only that it was extremely likely.”

  She was desperate to replay every single memory of Veyron, to track his betrayal, to see if and when a change occurred. But her cube had to stay off or she risked being tracked. Rhee had to rely solely on organic memory: Slippery and uncertain, it was like trying to hold on to mist with her bare hands.

  “I’m not in the mood for a lecture.” She squeezed Julian’s telescope, still safe in her pocket. It was cold and heavy, but it felt good to hold on to something solid, something to tether her to the life she’d known—to a best friend she’d trust with her life.

  To a best friend she’d betrayed.

  “What you’re in the mood for is not my concern. Your life is no longer dictated by what you want. At this moment, your survival is dependent on anticipating your enemy’s next move.” Rhee looked up at him. He reminded her of Veyron in that moment, the way he demanded discipline and restraint in the dojo. “When Seotra learns you escaped, and he will, he will send another assassin. And another, and another—and he won’t stop until the job is done.”

  “But at least I will die a Ta’an.” Rhee tossed the pill back onto the console. She wouldn’t die as Veyron had—a traitor.

  Dahlen turned away from her, obviously disgusted. “What do you know about death?” he muttered.

  “Plenty,” she said sharply.

  “Because you’ve lost your family?” Dahlen asked. She pictured the still holograms of her family among her ancestors lined up in a row, gazing down at her from above the religious offerings. “Because you’ve killed one man?”

  “That makes me more qualified than most,” she said, lifting her chin. Veyron’s words echoed in her head then: You’ve been blind. Blind and willful. Had he been right? She felt blind now. Her coronation had been highly publicized, the dates and details planned with care. She was overwhelmed by how many people might have been involved in her assassination attempt. Could she trust anyone, in any corner of the universe? Her own Tasinn? Had anyone who’d resisted Seotra’s influence remained loyal to the dynasty? She second-guessed everything—even Tai Reyanna.

  “You haven’t a clue. That makes you just as qualified as most, which means not qualified at all.” The leaf tendril around Dahlen’s wrist uncoiled toward her, and she shooed it away. Many plant varieties on Fontis were sentient. It was well-known and scientifically documented, but it still made her uneasy.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” She felt insulted, and swatted away the dark hair that had fallen into her face again.

  “No fewer than a billion souls perished during the Great War,” he said. “There were massacres, famines, clouds of chemical gas that scorched whole cities to dust. Everyone loses something or someone when planets go to war. To think your loss sets you apart is childish.”

  “I don’t need a lesson from a Fontisian in my own history, thank you.” She lifted her chin. It was her own father who’d signed the treaty that had ended the war, after all. “And who are you to talk?” Rhee asked. “What is it you’ve lost?”

  “Everything.” He said it without scorn, in a way that embarrassed her because it seemed so honest.

  “Your family?” Rhee asked.

  “Everything,” he repeated. After a pause he added: “A sister who would’ve been your age, though not nearly as foolish.”

  Rhee regretted she’d asked. She felt a rush of resentment for him, her own curiosity, and for the way war had somehow made them the same. The two of them, broken. Violent. Adrift.

  “Are you not still the Princess, no matter what your DNA says?” Dahlen continued, motioning to the scrambler. “Once we reach our contact on Portiis, there’s a procedure to reinstate—”

  “To reinstate my identity. I heard you the first time.” He wore her patience thin. “How is it that you benefit from having a Ta’an on the throne?”

  “Your father was the one who brought the Great War to an end,” he said. “He ensured we did not become a race of slaves, that our planet was not ravaged and burned, like so many others. We intend to repay the favor.”

  Kalu had been well on the path to victory when her father had signed the treaty. History painted him as merciful, and he was. But he hadn’t done it just to spare the Fontisians and the Wraetans. He’d signed the treaty to spare his own people, too—the hundreds of thousands of Kalusians who would still lose their lives before Kalu could triumph. Those who had opposed the treaty, like Seotra, hadn’t understood that. They thought the truce had been a form of surrender, just when their victory was in reach.

  But Rhee knew there must be more to Dahlen’s motive than just repayment. His order had gathered intelligence on her, had been observing her, had anticipated Seotra would make a play for Rhee’s life on the day she left Nau Fruma.

  She picked up the pill with her thumb and forefinger and held it inches away from her face. Had it been served on a plate atop a doily, it would’ve looked like a fancy dinner digestive. A meal in pill form. They had been common during the union strikes, when produce wouldn’t come for weeks and the greenhouses on Nau Fruma couldn’t grow enough to feed everyone on the moon.

  But it wasn’t a synthetic meal. It was a dangerous little pill that would shake out her insides and put them back together, different than before. Even her face would change, Dahlen had warned.

  “Have you seen anyone take a scrambler before?” she asked.

  His expression remained neutral. “If you’re worried about the pain—”

  Rhee nearly snorted. “I’m not afraid of pain.” She thought of Veyron slamming her to the ground. How her heart broke when he’d died. The sharpness in her chest when she thought of Julian’s smile. None of these moments had been recorded, but still they returned to her again and again, as though on a loop. Organic memories were somehow more visceral, more real; experiencing them through the cube was more like watching them through a screen. “I don’t know you. Why should I trust you? This could be poison, for all I know.”

  “Wouldn’t I have killed you earlier if I wanted you dead?” Dahlen asked bluntly. The wall of vines shifted behind him, as if in agreement.

  Rhee had always appreciated people who spoke plainly, but the Fontisian talked about murder with the same tone as he might his lunch. Even if the pill didn’t kill her, it would be a clever way to strip her of her title, especially if it turned out the scrambler wasn’t reversible. With a different DNA sequence and no recognizable features, she would no longer be the last Ta’an, the final heir to the throne.

  “I could announce my survival instead.” She thought of Nero and his coronation coverage. Thanks to his pretty words and even prettier mouth, the universe hung on his every word. Should Rhee choose to come forward, she could reach out to Nero in a moment’s notice. “Not hide—not take some pill that will change my DNA.”

&nb
sp; “You have no following.” Dahlen shook his head. “To the public, you’re merely the Rose of the Galaxy. Even if you could prove Seotra was behind your assassination attempt, you’re not a leader. You’re a sheltered girl. What does one have to do to earn your trust, apart from saving your life? Princess, listen to me: You’ll have little luck finding anyone you can trust.”

  She turned away. The truth rubbed her raw. He was right, again. She didn’t know her people, and she wasn’t sure they would rise up for her. She’d been busy training, plotting her revenge. And Seotra’s reach was long. The people liked him. Under his rule, the planet had become wealthier. Now not a child was born in Kalu who couldn’t afford the cube. Some critics said this was deliberate, so that Seotra and the UniForce could spy through the network. But most people thought only of their own comfort and convenience.

  “With Seotra on the throne, the stability of the galaxy is at stake. Surely even you can understand that.” He picked up the pill, holding it out to her. “The order can protect you—long enough to gather public support, to rout out the traitors and return you to the throne. To do all that, you have to stay alive.”

  Rhee took the pill from Dahlen’s hand once again. Her own palms felt sweaty. She knew he was right. If the Ta’an bloodline died out, so did the validity of the Urnew Treaty. There would be nothing to stop Kalu and Fontis from going to war again, and from dragging the rest of the universe into the conflict. “I’ll take this on one condition.”

  Dahlen’s expression remained flat. “Which is?”

  “I want to go after Seotra first.” A flower bloomed within seconds off the side of the stump she sat upon, and angled itself up to her.

  “Go after the Regent himself? The celebrated war veteran who wants you dead?” he asked. Rhee couldn’t tell if he was mocking her or if he was simply intrigued by the idea. “Isn’t it enough that he is trying to kill you? Why seek him out; why give him the chance?”

  “If he’s trying to kill me,” Rhiannon said, “he won’t expect me to come looking for him.”

  Dahlen squinted at her, and for a moment he looked almost impressed. “He’s not without his own contingent of Tasinn. I understand that all the important Kalusian officials have escorts.”

  “We’ll have to figure out a way around them,” Rhiannon said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt.

  He tapped his fingers across the wooden console. It was practically the first human gesture she’d seen from him. In the hours she’d known him, he’d been all straight lines and sharp movements. She saw in detail the ring she’d noticed when he was fighting Veyron: The outline of a horned animal was etched into its black metal. She wondered if it was another religious relic.

  Dahlen started to speak—but just then, a red light began to blink on the screen of his console.

  “What’s that?” she asked. Rhee saw they were approaching the Outer Belt, near Dembos and the remains of Wraeta. “What’s happening?” A red blinking light was never good.

  “It’s a checkpoint,” he said tersely.

  Their pod shuddered violently, and the pill fell from Rhee’s hand and through the grating. She dropped to her knees and peered through the metal slats to see where it had rolled.

  A low beep sounded through the bridge. The unfurled leaves and open flowers closed up into tight buds and retreated toward the walls.

  “They’ve locked a grav beam on us.” Dahlen was losing his cool. “We’re being hailed.”

  “I thought you said we were undetectable.” Panic was drilling through Rhiannon’s blood, like a secondary pulse.

  “We were,” he said. “At least we used to be.” He shook his head. “The UniForce must’ve upgraded their systems.”

  Dahlen held a finger to his lips, indicating silence. He pressed the comm link on the console. “This is the Genoma answering hail 2787 from Dembos. Over,” he said. He spoke in Kalu, the official language of the UniForce.

  “Genoma, this is Dembos,” a male voice said. He had a twang that Rhee would’ve placed from the southern hemisphere of her planet. “You’re flying in Kalusian airspace. We’ve instituted a mandatory checkpoint across the southern belt. Your vessel is unscannable—looks like organic matter? Either way, we’re going to have to board. Over.”

  “I regret to tell you that’s not possible. This is actually a Fontisian vessel, composed of organic matter from the sacred forest of Dena,” Dahlen said, sounding light and self-assured, as if he weren’t harboring an escaped princess. “According to the Urnew Treaty, article nine, these vessels are under religious protection. Over.”

  “Genoma, please be advised that Kalu has declared martial law. Boarding your vessel in three minutes. Cooperation mandatory. Over.”

  The transmission went static, and the ship shuddered once more. The Dembos grav beam was pulling them in.

  “Martial law?” Rhee repeated.

  Dahlen’s blond eyebrows angled down toward his nose. His complexion was ashen. “It means your military can use force—”

  “‘—use force and suspend certain civil liberties in periods of war or civil unrest,’” she said impatiently. “I know what it means.” Everyone always expected princesses to know nothing except how to bow and smile and curtsy. “Martial law hasn’t been declared since the start of the Great War . . .”

  She trailed off. Because suddenly, she understood.

  Martial law meant that Kalu was preparing for war.

  SIX

  ALYOSHA

  “COME on come on come on!” Alyosha muttered. Air whipped up through the overhead vent as soon as the bay door sealed behind him. He needed to get to Vincent, but the Revolutionary was as old as dirt—the air lock took forever to stabilize. His suit was a one-man sauna. Sweat stung his eyes. His tank top was plastered to his chest and back. The visor of his helmet had fogged up so that he could barely see.

  Even after all these years, the air lock freaked him out. He’d never gotten used to the change in pressure, never could shake the feeling that a giant with a vacuum was up there sticking it to him. But what was worse was the suctioning sound—loud, vicious—like something had crawled into his ear and was pulling out his soul.

  Soul. A word hardly anyone on Kalu used. The truth was he still thought about his soul a lot. Blame it on all those years of prayer. They were all the same: dark, drooping tents with a Fontisian preacher front and center while he riled up the Wraetan folks to praise Vodhan. An impossible, stifling heat that left Aly feeling like he’d spent the entire service three inches from a bonfire. But if Aly stayed very still, if he behaved, if he didn’t fidget, maybe he’d have a cushy afterlife. That’s what he had been told, at least. He’d believed it for a long time, too, back when he still prayed, and back when he believed in a lot of things.

  He looked up at the thought of heaven—a force of habit he didn’t think he’d ever shake. Instead of the divine, all he saw was a vent working overtime. He willed himself to forget the noise, but in that muted space his thoughts became crowded. The image of the old Nau Fruman came to mind. It wasn’t so much the blood that bothered him. Aly could handle that. No, it had been the little red handprints on the Nauie’s wrinkled shirt, and that long, black braid placed across his chest.

  The lightmount on the wall switched from red to green, and the inner door of the chamber finally creaked open. He pushed the helmet off and threw up in a trash can. Relief was short-lived. He gulped at a breath of recycled air, his stomach clenched a second time, and he purged himself again. He looked up, suddenly self-conscious that the daisies would zoom in and catch him puking his guts out—way worse than getting caught with his pants down, which had happened plenty of times. But then he remembered they’d stopped broadcasting.

  “Vin,” Aly said into his cube. He caught the pitch of his own voice, rusty, like it needed oiling. “Get out here. Suit up. Over.”

  Pavel rolled toward
him. A panel opened at the top of his domed figure, and dozens of magnetized pieces emerged. Stacking and clicking into place, the droid extended to his full height, just short of Aly’s waist. Aly nodded at him distractedly. He’d programmed the droid to detect subtle motions—greetings like nods and waves, disappointment like a head shake or crossed arms. Pavel blinked his blue eyelights in response.

  “Did you get my hail?” Aly asked.

  “I went into sleep mode during the upgrade.” His eyelights went red. “I did not see any incoming messages.”

  “VINCENT!” Aly said again, touching the spot just below his ear. Silence. He wondered if Vin still felt weird about how they’d left it earlier. “Where is he?”

  “Heat signature reads his bedroom,” said Pavel. “Pulse is low, delta waves have slowed.”

  “Are you telling me he’s asleep?” So much for mourning.

  “He’s likely in NREM, stage three of the sleep cycle. Humans often—”

  “Hold that thought, P,” Aly interrupted. “Vin, WAKE. UP.” He yelled a string of what he thought were particularly colorful insults into his cube, and threw in some Wraetan ones for good measure. He could say whatever he wanted with the daisies off, but his whole rant was met with more silence.

  Aly found his rhythm despite the bulk of his suit. Pavel enabled his density mode and rolled closely behind him. Slipping and sliding, Aly finally reached Vincent’s threshold and burst through his door. His cramped room was a disaster zone. Vin was still in bed.

  He kicked his way through the piles of clothes. “Get up, taejis face.” Aly hopped over a gadget he didn’t recognize—one of Vin’s new projects, probably. “I found an escape pod from the royal ship.”

  “Alyosha—” Pavel started.

  “Look, I’m sorry for being kind of pissed earlier, but we gotta go. Rise and shine, you lazy son of a choirtoi.” Vin had made Aly teach him a bunch of Wraetan curse words, and that one was his favorite. He flung the sheet off him, but Vincent wasn’t there. All he found was a pillow and some balled-up clothes. What the hell was going on?