by Pierce Brown
I MAKE IT TO MY FAMILY’S hut using the sheeting and wood planks that serve as roads through the mud. I slip under the mosquito netting just as thunder cracks open the sky overhead. Rain pours down, hammering the thin plastic roofs all down the narrow lane. Inside the dry hut, I’m greeted with the thick smell of stew. I set the basket down inside the door. Our home is five meters by seven, made of neoPlast stamped with the star of the Republic and a tiny little winged heel where the plastic meets the ground. It’s separated into two small rooms by opaque plastic dividers that fall from the ceiling. The kitchen and living room in the front. The bunks in the back. My sister Ava is hunched over a little solar stove stirring a pot. She glances back at me as I stand panting.
“Either you’re getting faster or the clouds are getting slower.”
“Bit of both, I’d say.” I rub the stitch in my side and sit down at the little plastic dinner table. “Tiran still burnin’?”
“That he is.”
“Poor lad’s gonna get drenched. Bloodydamn, it smells kind in here.” I inhale the scent of stew.
Ava glows. “A bit of garlic found its way into the pot.”
“Garlic? How’d that sneak through Lambda? They stop hoarding the new freight?”
“No.” She goes back to stirring the pot. “One of the soldiers gave it to me.”
“Gave? Out of the goodness of his high heart?”
“And that’s not all.” She hikes up her skirt to show off two brilliant blue shoes. Not government-issue clogs. Real shoes of leather and quality rubber.
“Bloodydamn. What you give him in return?” I ask in shock.
“Nothing!” Ava scrunches her nose at the accusation.
“Men don’t give gifts for nothing.”
“I’m married.” She crosses her arms.
“Sorry. Forgot,” I say with bite. Her husband, Varon, is as good a man as I’ve ever met, and as absent a one. He, along with our two eldest brothers, Aengus and Dagan, volunteered for the Free Legions right after we entered the camp. Last we heard from them was from a Legion com bank on Phobos. Three of them crowded together to fit into the frame. Said they were sailing with the White Fleet toward Mercury. Seems just yesterday I was following Aengus through the vents of Lagalos to look for fungus to fill his still.
“Where’re the boys?” I ask.
“Liam’s at the infirmary.”
“Again?” A pang of pity goes through me.
“Another ear infection,” she says. “Could you go visit him in the morning? You know how much—”
“Course,” I interrupt. Liam, her second youngest, is just past six and has been blind from birth. He’s always been my favorite. Sweet little thing. “I’ll bring him some leftover candy if the other rats don’t gobble it up.”
“You spoil him.”
“Some lads oughta be spoiled.”
I find my niece, Ella, bundled up in her carriage by the table. She’s playing with a little mobile of one of her brother’s broken toys suspended above her. “How’s my little haemanthus blossom on this dreadful stormy eve?” I say, poking her nose. She giggles and grabs my finger, then tries to eat it. “She got a mouth on her.”
“I’ll feed her after dinner. You mind checkin’ Da’s diaper?”
My father sits in his chair watching the HC box I stole from a Lambda too drunk to mind his tent. His eyes are pearly and distant, reflecting the static of the dead channel that writhes on the screen.
“Lemme help you with that, Da,” I say. I change the channel till an image of a gravBike shooting over a Mercurian desert appears. Bad men pursue the roguish Blue hero, who looks not just a bit like Colloway xe Char.
“Is this all right?” I ask. Thunder rolls outside.
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at me, so I bite back the resentment and try to remember him as the man who used to take us to the deep mines. His rough hands would light the gas fire, and he’d whisper ghost stories of Golback the Dark Creeper or Old Shufflefoot in his hoarse voice. The flames from the fire would saw the air and he would boom out a hilarious laugh at our terrified faces.
I don’t recognize this man…this creature wearing my father’s skin. It just eats and shits and sits there watching the HC. Still, I shove the anger away, feeling guilty for it, and kiss him on the forehead. I tuck his blanket a little bit under his bearded chin and thank the Vale there’s no soil in his diaper.
There’s a clatter from the door as my sister’s young sons bowl into the house, drenched in mud and rain. Next comes our remaining brother, Tiran, smelling of smoke from the burning stacks. He’s the tallest in the family, but frighteningly thin. Most nights, he looks like a curled weed, hunched over the little books he writes for the children. Fills them with stories of castles and vales and flying knights. He whips his wet hair at us and tries to give Ava a hug. My sister shows off her shoes to her jealous boys with false modesty. They debate what one of the brighter blue colors on the tongues ought to be called while I set the dishes.
“Cerulean!” they decide. “Like Colloway xe Char’s tattoos.”
“Colloway xe Char. Colloway xe Char,” Tiran mocks.
“Warlock’s the best pilot in the worlds,” Conn says in indignation.
Tiran scoffs. “I’d take the Reaper in a starShell against Char in a ripWing any day.”
Conn puts his arms on his hips. “You’re stupid. Warlock would blast him to bloody bits.”
“Well, they’re friends, so they won’t be blasting each other to anything,” my sister says. “They’re too busy protecting your father and uncles, aren’t they?”
“Do you think Da has met them?” Conn asks. “Char and the Reaper?”
“And Ares?” Barlow adds. “Or Wulfgar the Whitetooth?” He slams his hands like he’s a menacing Obsidian. “Or Dancer of Faran! Or Thraxa au—”
“Aye, they’re probably the best of friends. Now eat.”
We eat dinner huddled around the plastic table as the rain drums the roof. There’s barely enough room for bowls and elbows, but we layer around the thin soup and chatter on about the merits of ripWings against starShells in atmosphere. My sister smiles when the boys say the soup tastes better today.
After dinner, we gather around with Da to watch one of his programs. I break half of a Cosmos chocolate bar into seven pieces to share. I pocket my piece for Liam and smile when I see Tiran give his piece to Ava. No wonder he’s so skinny. The program is a news show. The host a Violet who reminds me a bit of the helions—a tropical bird that lives off our trash. He has an incredible shock of white hair and a jaw you could carve granite with, but pathetically delicate hands for a man.
The very important man is reporting on the Reaper’s Triumph in Hyperion City. My nephews all nudge each other as he theorizes that the next push will be toward Venus to finish off the Ash Lord and his daughter, the Last Fury, once and for all. My sister watches in silence, stroking her new shoes. So far our brothers and her husband have not been named in the casualty report that scrolls along the bottom of the holo.
Tiran leans toward the far-off world. He’s always been the softest of our family, and the most eager to prove himself. Soon it’ll be his turn. He becomes sixteen in just a few months. Then he’ll leave all this mud behind for the stars. I can’t help but resent him already. None of them should have left their family.
The boys don’t see my sister’s quiet desperation. The images of the HC dance in their Red eyes. The color. The spectacle of the Triumph on Luna. The glory of the greatest son of Red standing with his Gold wife—the Sovereign who promised us so much—lifting his clenched fist into the air as they howl. They think they could rise like the Reaper. They’re too young to see our life is the lie behind the lights.
“Reaper! Reaper!” the crowd shouts.
My little nephews join in the chant. And I reach for my sister’s hand, glaring at the HC, remembering the promises undelivered, and wonder if I’m the only one who misses the mines.
—
I wake in the night to a distant roar. The room is still. Sweat slicks my legs. I sit up in bed, listening. There’s a clamor in the distance. The snoring of far-off engines. Mosquitoes buzz outside the netting that’s wrapped around our bunks. “Aunt Lyria,” Conn whispers from beside me. “What’s that noise?”
“Quiet, love.” I strain to hear. The engines fade. I push my legs off the edge of my bunk. Father’s soft breathing comes from below. He’s still asleep. My sister’s bunk is empty. So is Tiran’s sleeping pallet on the ground.
I slip past the mosquito netting and out of my bed in shorts and a cotton shirt soggy from the humidity. “Where are you going?” Conn asks. “Aunt Lyria…” I seal the netting behind me with the adhesive strip.
“Just going to take a peek, love,” I say. “Go back to sleep.” I slip on my sandals and leave the room. My sister is already awake, standing near the door and watching nervously as Tiran puts on his boots. “What’s what?” I ask quietly. “Thought I heard a ship.”
“Probably just some idiot SR airhead buzzing the camp,” Tiran says.
“Not bloody likely,” I snap. “We ain’t had a supply ship land in a month.”
“Lower your voice,” he hisses. “The little ones’ll hear.”
“Well, if you weren’t being thick, I wouldn’t have to shout.”
“Stop it, you two.” Ava looks nervous. “What if it’s the Red Hand?”
Tiran brushes his tangled hair from his eyes. “Don’t get your frysuit in a twist. The Hand’s hundreds of klicks south. Republic wouldn’t let anyone in our airspace.”
“Like that means pissall,” I mutter.
“They own the skies,” he replies like he’s a Praetor.
“They don’t even own their own cities,” I say, remembering the bombings in Agea.
He sighs. “I’ll go take a look. You both mind the house.”
“Mind the house?” I laugh. “Stop acting the maggot. I’m coming with.”
“No, you’re not,” Tiran replies.
“I’m just as fast as you.”
“Not the bloody point. I’m the man of the house,” he says, and I snort. “Remember what happened to Vanna, Torron’s daughter? Girls shouldn’t wander the township at night. Especially not us.” He means Gamma, and he’s right. I knew Vanna since I was a child. She was tattered flesh when they found her, hands cut off. We buried her by the treeline of the jungle south of the camp. “Besides, if I’m wrong, you gotta to be here to help Ava and the little ones. I’ll go take a look and I’ll be back fastlike. I promise.” He leaves without another word. Ava closes the door behind him. She wrings her hands and sits at the kitchen table. I sit down with her, picking at the scratches on the plastic top in irritation. Man of the house.
“Slag this.” I stand up. “I’m gonna go have a look.”
“Tiran’s already gone!”
“Please. His balls have barely dropped. I’ll be back in a tick.” I head to the door.
“Lyria…”
“What?”
She grabs our lone frying pan from the kitchen. “At least take this.”
“In case I find eggs? Fine. Fine.” I take the pan. “Might want to get water and food ready just in case.” She nods and I leave her behind.
The night is grim and humid as air in a smoker’s mouth. By the time I’ve made it out of Gamma township and into the main camp, a tongue of sweat licks down the small of my back. It’s quiet but for the hissing insects. A withered gaboon lizard watches me from the roof of a refugee domicile as it chews on a night moth. Lights glow from the far end of the camp where the landing pads lie. Eyes glint out from plastic doorways as I pass, peering out from behind mosquito netting. The streets are empty. I’m afraid in a way I never was in the mines. Feeling smaller now than I did in our hut.
There’s men’s voices arguing ahead. I creep carefully forward till I’m crouched behind a stack of discarded cargo containers. Two rusty pelican transport vessels have landed on the concrete pads. One is painted with the face of a lithe Pink model drinking a bottle of Ambrosia, a sweet pepper cola beverage that’s given half the camp cavities. She smiles and winks at me, her mouth full of white, gleaming teeth. The lights of the ships blaze in the predawn, silhouetting the group of men from our camp who’ve woken and gone out to inspect the landed ships. My brother is amongst them, loitering in the back self-consciously. I suddenly feel guilt for snorting when he said “man of the house.” He’s just a boy. My boy, my little brother trying to be big. The clansmen are exchanging words with another group of men who’ve come down the ships’ ramps. These ones are Reds too, but they carry weapons and long bandoliers stocked with ammunition across their bare chests.
The new men are asking where to find the Gammas. There’s an argument amongst the men from our camp, then one of them is pointing toward our township. Another shoves him, but soon several other men begin to point not just at our homes, but toward Tiran and several others amongst their group. The other men drift away from my brother and the three other Gammas. The smallest of the men from the ship says something, but I don’t catch it. One of the Gammas rushes him just as the man lifts a long dark object from his side. Acid-green light churns in the ammunition globe of his plasma rifle, then lunges from the muzzle in a rippling ball that gashes the darkness. It cleaves clean through the center of the man. He teeters to the ground like a township drunk. I’m frozen to the spot. My brother flees with the other pair of Gammas. One of the outsiders raises his rifle.
Metal chatters like a broken silk-threading machine.
My brother’s chest erupts. The other gunmen shatter the quiet night, flashing and bleeding fire from their weapons. Tiran spasms, jerks. Not falling quickly. But stumbling one step, two steps, then another gunshot cracks the air and he is tumbling. Half his head is gone. A wailing cry rises from my belly. The whole world rushes past and goes silent as I stare at that shadowy mound in the mud.
Tiran…
The first man to fire walks over to my brother’s body and rakes the corpse with the plasma weapon. Then he looks up at me, the acid-green fire illuminating a face like a demon’s. It’s not a man. It’s a Red woman with terrible scars covering half of her face.
“Justice to Gamma!” Synced to the speakers on both of the ships behind her, her voice bellows out into the night. “Death to the collaborators! Justice to Gamma!”
I YAWN IN THE HUMID DARK, craving a burner because the vapor inhaler I’m sucking on is about as satisfying as fucking through a tarpaulin sheet. My left foot is numb and sweating through the sock in its rubber shoe, and my right arm is bent so awkwardly into the stone that my knock-off Valenti chronometer is drilling into the bone of my wrist with every. Arterial. Pulse.
The only thing that has kept me sane over the past nine hours has been the holocontacts I bought off the rack from that lemur-looking bastard, Kobachi, on 198th, 56th, and 17th in Old Town. But the contacts shorted out, and now I’ve got a corneal abrasion and worse, plenty of time to kill. Perfect.
I try in vain to stretch. The stone box doesn’t give me much room to wriggle my 1.75-meter frame. My main grudge against ancient Egyptians isn’t that they pioneered the institution of mass slavery for public works, it’s that they were all so damn tiny. Still smells like the old raisin we dragged out of it late last night before the delivery.
I check my watch. It was a gift from my late fiancé. One of the cheap silvery types cobbled together by half-blind immigrant lowColors in sweatshops deep in the armpits of Luna. Probably Tycho City. Maybe Endymion or the Mass. Somewhere half a world away from the beating heart of Hyperion—where I am currently entombed. He didn’t know it was a knockoff, so he paid nearly sixty percent market value, half his quarterly pay. His face glowed when he gave it to me. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he could have bought it for the price of a decent bottle of vodka. Poor kid.
Check the watch again. Almost time.
Two minutes to midnight, only several hours left of dusk before Hyp
erion is plunged into the last dark month of summer. Dark or light, a day in Hyperion never truly ends. The caretakers of the day just lock their doors and hand the reins of the town over to the nocturnal creatures. Under Gold it wasn’t exactly a Pink’s paradise. But now, it’s the law of the jungle when the lights go out. Outside the museum, the hot city will be stretching and crooning in the sweaty dusk, readying to make some trouble. On the lamplit Promenade, decent citizens will skitter to their private housing complexes, fleeing the yapping of young music and the roar of hoverbike gangs echoing up from Lost City.
Hyperion. Jewel of Luna. The Eternal City. She’s a beautiful wartime mess. So much to look at, you can only afford to see what you want to see. If you plan on staying sane, that is.
But here, in the Hyperion Museum of Antiquities, behind thick walls of marble is a world with a different set of rules. During day hours, packs of drooling lowColor schoolchildren and Martian and Terran immigrants waddle their way through the marble corridors, rubbing snotty noses against glass containment boxes. At night, though, the museum is a fortress crypt. Impenetrable from the outside, occupied only by a contingent of pale night guards and the dead residents of crypts, statues, and paintings. The only way in was to become a resident. So we bribed a docker and snuck aboard a freighter from Earth as it landed at Atlas Interplanetary. A freighter that happened to hold numerous relics liberated from the private stash of some exiled Gold overlord dead or fled to Venus. Probably old Scorpio. Whole slew of goodies. Fourteen paintings from neoclassical Europe, a crate of Phoenician urns, twenty-five crates of Roman scrolls, and four sarcophagi.
What was yesterday filled with mummified Egyptians is tonight filled with freelancers.
By now the janitorial technicians will be herding up their robot charges and moving to the east wing. A team of security guards occupies a headquarters in the basement.