Blitz handed her a perfectly square circuit board, its surface stamped with the symbol of the First World Union’s premiere developer, Collux Technologies. “I think this is our ticket to victory. It’s a crypto-circuit. Collux is making them mandatory in all of their new technologies: draadharts, service robots, hover transports, and the newest LiteHover models,” he recited, ticking off the list on his gloved fingers as he blinked rapidly. “Basically, it’s a type of artificial intelligence with highly advanced predictive capabilities. I was thinking about how you said you felt as though Radek’s bot knew what you were going to do. I’m almost positive what happened in your last fight was that this Radek person hacked the datastream from your bioNexus and transferred it directly into his fightBot’s controls.”
“English, please,” Jasmeen and Sav groaned in unison.
Blitz fumbled with his hands, searching for the words as a muscle tick flickered within his cheek. “T-think of it like a translator. This piece takes information, breaks it apart, and programs the logical reaction to any threats, but it does it all within a fraction of a fraction of a millisecond. With it, we can prepare our fightBot for a million eventualities in the blink of an eye, based on Radek’s fight patterns.” He adjusted his goggles. “If my theory is correct, Radek performed a similar—albeit more primitive—tactic by hacking her bioNexus feed and merging it with his own fightBot’s processing unit, essentially reading her mind. Then, his fightBot interpreted Tesla’s feed and programmed counter maneuvers.”
“So basically, I was fighting against myself,” Tesla said, frustrated.
Blitz nodded. “But the Collux chip is reportedly unhackable, meaning not only can we block them from accessing your bioNexus again, we can turn the tables on them. This little piece does all the work for us. There’s just one catch.” Tesla raised an eyebrow, and the boy shrugged. “You have to hold out for at least two minutes without striking him back. That’s the only way I can accurately analyze his motions before activating the Collux chip.”
There’s always a catch, Tesla grumbled to herself. Outmaneuvering Radek for that long without taking some serious damage would be nearly impossible. Still, she felt a ray of optimism at Blitz’s discovery. At least if they understood why she’d lost before, they may have a chance at preventing an encore. She’d tried not to think too much about Daxton’s offer, of traveling to Earth with a brand-new life ahead of her, but now she couldn’t help it. Thanks to him, she felt she might be lucky enough to see that day come.
It was almost too much to hope for.
Jasmeen rubbed her chin as she examined the suit’s massive head unit. “Is it just me, or does this thing kind of look like a steel-plated Tyrannosaurus Rex?” She rapped her fingers against the rusted, half-assembled chest plate. “I mean, she’s no beauty, but I definitely wouldn’t want to be this Radek fellow.” She smiled at Tesla, who felt confused by her sudden cheerfulness. The girl seemed very hot-and-cold.
Sav stretched, throwing an arm around Blitz. “This is all well and good, but I’m starving. Can we talk about lunch?”
“I think the royal kitchens are serving on Level Two. You guys can catch the lift back up and I’ll finish here,” said Tesla.
The medical officer yawned. “I’m not in the mood to rub elbows with the station’s elite. I think I speak for us all when I say we’re far more comfortable eating a normal meal. Well, as normal a lunch as it can be with Blitz’s clothes still smoldering.”
WITHOUT MANY OPTIONS for edible lunch in the Gulch, Tesla had taken the group just below the deimark to Level Five. The holovisions around the market stalls blared loudly in the cavernous space. Every few minutes, the screens shifted as the news reports and telestations changed, sending colors cascading over the dining tables like light through a prism. Tesla guided the group to an open area illuminated by a large window looking out onto the stars.
They neared the food stalls, shoddy lean-to structures made of sheet metal and heavy pieces of canvas material, and Blitz’s stomach grumbled, earning him a playful shove from Jasmeen.
Tesla and Sav settled for toasted papadum while Blitz ate a soup that resembled sludge, but upon closer inspection, actually smelled fantastic. Jasmeen returned with a plate piled high with leafy greens tossed in some sort of orange glaze. They had just sat down at a table when every holovision synchronized, broadcasting a breaking news announcement. An upstation reporter wearing a headdress made to look like the rings of Saturn appeared, hair immaculately placed, and narrated the segment. Tesla watched as Daxton and Cerise stepped into some sort of lux press conference chamber. Lights flashed around the duo, bathing the starlet in a wash of warm glow. Cerise gave the prince a meaningful look hidden partially behind her smile; he leaned down to kiss her, announcing that they would, in fact, be attending the ball together.
“What?” cried Sav, choking on a bite of dry bread.
“Maybe we’re not really up here to find a terrorist after all,” said Blitz, rolling his eyes. “Maybe he really needs our help to find the jar where Cerise keeps his—”
“Blitz,” Sav warned. “Language.”
The boy seemed nonplussed. “What? You swear all the time—even in your sleep.”
Sav laughed. “You little liar!”
“He’s not lying,” Jasmeen said. “When you have a nightmare, your language could make a lunarshine brewer blush.”
Tesla barely heard them. What in space was Daxton thinking? This Cerise girl was clearly an awful person. The way she had yelled at the baggage porters was enough to make Tesla dislike every part of her. And why was the prince just standing there looking like he might throw up?
Jasmeen followed Tesla’s glance, stuffing a bit of lettuce into her mouth. “I’m inclined to agree with Boy Genius about Dax losing his manhood.” Her eyes lifted in exasperation as Cerise began telling the cameras how much she adored the prince. “I wonder what she’s playing at. It isn’t like Daxton to keep his mouth shut.”
Tesla pulled her eyes from the screen, picking at the crust left on her plate. Daxton had every right to take whomever he chose as his date to the ball. Besides, she’d been the one to turn him down in the first place. I’m in this for the ticket out of here, she reminded herself. A few days from now they’d be parting ways, just like Daxton had reminded her in the loading bay.
So why did she feel so disappointed?
A low thunder of gasps rained over the crowded market stalls. At first Tesla thought it was just excitement over the stationwide announcement, but confused whispers left her craning her next to see the source of the commotion. At the far corner of the market, back toward the line of small ovens, a squad of sleek robots began rolling toward them. These automatons looked nothing like Minko’s lifelike draadhart dancers; they were built for efficiency and mobility: spherical base, enforced torso, arms equipped with multi-tools, and a faceless head unit. Each was coated in a matte grey color, with yellow lights glowing at the wrist, neck, and shoulder joints.
“Er—is this normal, Tesla?” asked Sav.
Blitz’s eyes looked as though he’d just received all the corpCredits in the galaxy. “Those are TY-9009 Sec-Bot models. I can’t believe I get to see them up close. Space is officially awesome!”
“Do not be alarmed,” a pleasant electronic voice chirped from a Sec-Bot near a clothing stall. “Due to increased diplomatic presence, we are directed to protect the Atlas station.”
Tesla stepped away from the table to recycle her trash. One Sec-Bot, the squad leader she guessed judging by the yellow rank painted on its torso, blocked her path, scanning her face with a green light. “Tesla Petrov. Atlas resident, Level Eight. Temporarily authorized all levels except Command. Threat Code: Bravo. Your heart rate is elevated, Miss Petrov. Do you require medical assistance?”
“N-no,” stammered Tesla, looking around to see if any of the market’s occupants recognized her name, but everyone seemed engrossed in the new arrivals. With a whir of grinding gears, the automatons spread out
through the room and stood soundlessly at attention along its perimeter.
“Those are advanced Collux sentries,” said Blitz in awe. “I thought they were classified until next year’s release. Guess they upped the timeframe because of the Centennial of the Crown.”
“Of course,” said Jasmeen, breathing a sigh of relief. “Daxton said his uncle was sending more security, but I didn’t realize it would be this high-tech. Kyrartine must have requested squads for every level. At least someone cares about protecting the station.”
“If only the Grand Imperator would take Daxton as seriously,” said Sav grimly.
Blitz wriggled in his seat. “Do you know what this means? We can now monitor their feeds and have eyes all over the station! There’s no way Freiter can stay missing for long with this much coverage.”
It’s a good start, thought Tesla. If the automatons ran on programming, they might be able to accomplish two tasks at once while hunting the terrorist. “Blitz, can you sneak a facial recognition program into their routines? That way we can have alerts sent to our wristcomms if the Sec-Bots spot any signs of Freiter.”
“Great idea,” said Jasmeen. “Tracking the terrorist will take all our skills—and then some. If the automatons can do half the work, it’ll free us up for more pressing matters.”
Her wristcomm chimed with a message. and her eyes quickly scanned the text. “Speaking of which, Daxton wants to know how we’re getting on with the mech suit.”
“I'm surprised Cerise lets him off the leash long enough to talks to us, ” said Blitz. Any further sarcasm was stopped by a scolding look from Jasmeen.
“Daxton's right. We need to focus on the fight, ” Sav said with a crack of his knuckles. He winked at Tesla. “Well, bronze angel—shall we get back to work?"
FIFTEEN
DAXTON HID BEHIND A TOWER of exotic-looking kabob skewers and breathed a sigh of relief. The press had swarmed Cerise after the announcement in order to get a scoop on her latest film, giving the prince the perfect escape route. As the crowd had surged forward, he’d slinked out the side exit and through the kitchens to the royal dining hall.
His mind still reeled from her threats. How could she know about Liam? She said she had used gossip to uncover his secrets, but how had there been any rumors to begin with? The only people who knew the truth were Sav, Jasmeen, Blitz, and Freiter. He believed, down to his bones, that none of them would even so much as whisper a word about that night. Moisture collected in his palms, and he rubbed them on his pants.
He swore aloud, pounding his fist against the table of food, which caused the skewers to shake. She was right—she’d won. He had no choice but to marry her now, regardless of his personal loathing of her. If he didn’t, the scandal would split the monarchy to its core. Restoration rebels would have a legitimate claim that the royal family should be unseated. And then what would happen to the people under his father’s rule? What would happen to peace the world had worked so hard to maintain?
Once they were wed, Cerise wouldn’t dare tell anyone lest she lose her precious crown. The girl would get everything she wanted: the husband, the riches, and enough spotlight to last her three lifetimes. She'd manipulated herself right into one of the highest positions on Earth. The thought was enough to make him consider sicking Jasmeen on her—not to kill her, of course, but perhaps Jasmeen could abandon her on a remote island filled with biting sand fleas.
A guy could dream.
“You look like you could use a snack, my prince.”
Daxton turned to find the jolly flushed face of Chef Jambin. In the man’s outstretched hand was a treacle tart.
Daxton smiled grimly. “Thanks. It’s been a hell of a day.”
The man’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “I recommend the kitchen elevator, sir. It does wonders for those looking to arrive in the royal quarters unnoticed.” He whistled, shuffling his large frame toward the sounds of pots clanging just beyond a set of double doors.
The treacle tart melted on Daxton’s tongue. He scanned his wristcomm against the ID verification on the elevator’s controls. The compartment shuddered, swaying slightly as it accelerated from the kitchen, and seconds later the steel doors opened, revealing an anxious-looking Doyle clutching an HDP.
“Prince Tomasz! I have been searching everywhere. Where have you—never mind that, there’s simply no time—you’re late! We must get you dressed immediately.” The advisor snapped his fingers at an attendant, who ran to fetch the prince’s royal robes.
“Late for what?” Daxton asked with a mouthful of dessert.
Doyle cringed at the prince's lack of manners and pointed at the datapad. “Your father wants you to address the Red Council regarding the Restoration attacks, remember? We discussed this. The negotiations began moments ago, so if we hurry and slip in quietly...”
The attendant arrived, sweating and huffing, holding a purple and black capelet with a polished silver clasp. Doyle briefed him as Daxton donned the princely attire.
“Remember, the High Chancellors expect you to address the recent factory attack and issue a public statement regarding the Grand Imperator’s plan to quell the Restoration rebels.”
Daxton’s heart pounded heavily in his chest. He wouldn’t admit to the advisor that he’d completely forgotten about the meeting. “Are you sure we can’t delay it?” he asked. He needed more time to weigh the options. The possibility of a military response was serious, and not something he could rush into lightly. If he followed the path of his father, he would tell the councilors what they wanted to hear long enough for the public outcry to die down. If he carried on Liam’s legacy, however, he would advocate peaceful negotiations and diplomatic talks with the Restoration leaders.
But what if the councilors called for a counter-attack?
The rebels were torching factories and, as Doyle had pointed out yesterday, those workers were losing jobs and fair pay. His uncle had a point, too. Without those wages also contributing toward taxes, the government wouldn’t have the funds to protect anyone should war break out.
Doyle sputtered, his face turning a shade of purple to match his modified eyes. “N-no, Your Highness! It’s too late to recall the session. Everyone is waiting!” And with that, he thrust Daxton past the liveried attendants, through the two heavy doors, and into the council chambers.
All eyes in the room swiveled like owls in the New London aviary. Plush boxes floated above the floor, ringing the room like a high-tech insect hive, their gears humming softly as the contraptions swayed ever so slightly upon his entrance.
In front of each box flashed a scrolling feed of data and statistics, along with translation apps for those who needed them. The African High Chancellor, Imani Nwotu, inclined her head toward the prince while the Neo-American High Chancellor, Chen Yao, threw down his pen, obviously annoyed at Daxton’s tardiness.
A balcony loomed high overhead, sprinkled with news outlet reporters and flying vid-bots. Daxton stilled his hands, fighting the urge to fidget nervously with his cape.
He activated a microphone app on his wristcomm. “My apologies for the lateness of my arrival. The press conference ran past the scheduled time.” His voice quietly rippled through the speakers of each box, a soft wave of sound across the chamber. It was a sorry excuse, Daxton knew, but not untrue.
You’re the mucking prince, he reminded himself. Start acting like it. He straightened, flashing what he hoped was a confident smile.
Imani Nwotu stood, her lemon yellow sash contrasting starkly with the crimson of the Red Council robes. Traditional locks parted over each shoulder as she bowed. “His Highness honors us with his presence.”
Diplomats in the boxes clapped politely, and Daxton used the moment to cross the floor and enter the royal seats, marked by both the LaRose coat of arms and the First World Union crest. Doyle, who had slipped in more quietly than a mouse, raced after him, taking a position behind the prince. The vid-bots winked brightly overhead, their great, black eyes staring downward.
As expected, his father wore a dire expression. Daxton could feel the man’s anger leaching into the surrounding air.
“It seems lunch and trendmags are more important than your responsibilities,” the Grand Imperator muttered through gritted teeth, nodding at the tart crumbs on Daxton’s cuff.
But the prince wasn’t in the mood for his father’s tone. “Maybe if I weren’t so busy trying to find a wife by your ridiculous deadline, I could make my appointments on time.” He brushed off the bits of food and stood, stepping forward to the booth’s podium beside the holographic display. “I believe,” he said, addressing the room, “that we are here to discuss your grievances regarding the most recent Restoration attack. Since the attack occurred within the Neo-American States, let’s begin with the honorable Chen Yao.”
The diplomat bowed slightly. “Thank you, Prince Tomasz. First, let me say that it is an honor to attend the festivities aboard the Atlas.” He paused, allowing the shutter clicks of the vid-bots to subside before he continued. “While we remain loyal subjects to the First World Union—and the crown—the recent factory fire in the Old York Precinct has shown that these Restoration traitors are emboldened. These attacks are now occurring in broad daylight, with more and more frequency, and our sovereign states have seen no response from His Eminence regarding the monarchy’s plan to staunch this dangerous dissent.”
“Forgive me,” Daxton said, his voice a razor’s edge. “Are you suggesting that the royal family allows these attacks to happen?”
Chen Yao jutted his chin forward. “The Grand Imperator’s lack of response is the same as permitting the traitors to fracture one hundred years of peace.”
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