Across a Star-Swept Sea fdsts-2

by Diana Peterfreund

  He gave a noncommittal shrug. She’d probably be fine, given her supplements, but he couldn’t imagine she had any messages left to send after the flurry on the Daydream.

  Palmport advocates said it was as close to telepathy as the human race had ever come, but Justen didn’t think it was worth the cost. Besides, you still needed oblets for data storage and any large information transfers. Palmports were only as good as the memories of the people using them, their data little more than digestible, untraceable nanosugars. And given the type of people who ran them—people like Persis—they were useless for anything more than silly games and gossip.

  Persis seemed satisfied anyway. She plopped onto a nearby cushion and ripped off her wristlock. He swallowed his scowl. What he had to say was not fodder for Albian gossips.

  And what, exactly, would that be? Certainly not the whole truth. Princess Isla was an aristo. If she knew about his involvement in the revolution, she’d put him in prison and then he’d never be able to right the wrongs he’d caused. Better to start with part of the story.

  “Your Highness,” Justen said, finding those words every bit as difficult to speak as “Citizen” had been to hear. He guessed not all his revolutionary principles had been extinguished, despite what he’d learned. He gave her a short, stiff bow, then straightened and looked her right in the eyes. She was a royal. Not a god. “My name is Justen Helo—”

  Her eyebrows rose and when she smiled this time, she looked less like a monarch and more like a teen getting a birthday present. Even from royalty, then.

  “I’m the grandson of Darwin and Persistence Helo. And I’m here to ask you for asylum.”

  At this, Isla blinked in surprise, but Persis just looked bored. Justen wondered if she even knew what “asylum” was.

  “And,” he added, “I need it to remain a secret.”

  “Why?” asked Isla. “I assure you I would have no compunction celebrating far and wide that a Helo would prefer living in Albion to braving the revolution.”

  She was sensible at least, even if she had silly taste in friends. Maybe she just kept Persis around for fashion advice, though Justen wondered how advisable even that was. “I’d prefer my countrymen think I was just visiting your island,” he said, “at least until I can contrive to get my little sister out of Citizen Aldred’s house.” Even if his uncle guessed the truth, a public lie might be enough to protect Remy.

  Persis lifted her head, her eyes keenly trained on his face. “Wait, that . . . revolution guy in Galatea has your sister imprisoned? Now that’s interesting!”

  The princess batted her hand at her friend, and Persis sighed and returned her attention to the diagnostics hovering above her palmport disk. Justen bit back his frustration. Isla didn’t seem to mind the girl’s presence, and as a foreign reg, what right did he have to ask for an aristo’s removal? Besides, it was Persis who’d brought him here. He’d just have to bear it.

  “Not imprisoned,” Justen corrected. Brainwashed maybe. Just as he’d been until recently. “Citizen Aldred is her guardian.” He’d been Justen’s guardian, too, and probably still thought of himself as such, though Justen was eighteen now.

  It was amazing, all the thoughts that oozed out as soon as a single crack appeared in the surface of your beliefs. How long had Uncle Damos been planning the revolution? Had he known ten years ago, when he first agreed to take custody of the orphaned Helo children, how much goodwill he’d earn from the regs of Galatea?

  He couldn’t have guessed that it was Justen who would hand him the weapon he needed to overthrow the government. Even Justen hadn’t known that when he’d done it.

  “Guardian,” Isla said now. “Not that far from ‘guard.’”

  Justen nodded in relief. So she did understand. “Right now, that’s the measure of it. We’re valuable to the revolution as symbols of the cure.”

  “You’d be valuable to us as the same,” said Isla. “I take it you don’t wish to trade one gilded cage for another?”

  “I’m not a symbol,” said Justen sourly. “And I’m certainly not a symbol of this revolution.”

  “I like you better already,” Isla said. The bamboo blinds separating the antechamber from the court rustled. “Persis, darling, go see who it is bothering us.”

  There was a man there, stuffed into yet another garish outfit and looking annoyed. “Who is that Galatean?” he hissed at Persis. “What is the princess doing with him?”

  Persis pressed her hand to her chest. “Why, Council-man, a lady never tells.”

  “Then what are you doing in there?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know!” And she shut the blinds again. “That won’t hold him for long.”

  “Of course,” said Isla. “Councilman Shift can’t stand the possibility that something, somewhere, is happening without his permission.” She sighed. “So far, this conversation has annoyed the chair of the Council and done damage to my reputation. I hope it’s worth it, Citizen.” She turned back to Justen, her skirts swirling around her, and fixed him with a queenly look.

  He shocked himself by feeling the urge to step back, or bow, or sink to his knees. How did they do that, these aristos? He knew they weren’t born with such superiority, no matter what aristos claimed. Rather, both aristos and the people from the lower class had been indoctrinated since birth in their roles as master and underling. He thought he’d been taught to resist it, that the revolution had leeched it out of him, but the instinct obviously ran deep.

  “Tell me, sir, if you please, what excuse you plan to use to your countrymen and your sister as to why you remain in Albion at my court. Surely you cannot prefer our aristocratic ways to the revolutionary ideals of Galatea?”

  “I—hadn’t thought that through, yet.” He’d been too focused on getting out of Galatea before his grandmother’s work could do any more damage. Before he could. Escape was the priority. Excuses—and apologies—could come later.

  Isla clucked her tongue and turned to her friend. “Persis, dear, wherever do you pick up these people?”

  Persis was studying Justen with an appraising eye, as if he were a bolt of silk or a particularly fine hat. “This one picked me up, actually. As in, off the ground. He rescued me from the docks in Galatea.”

  “Rescued?”

  “Yes,” Persis admitted sheepishly. “I was suffering from genetemps sickness.”

  Isla frowned. “I told you that would happen.” She stamped her foot. Royally, Justen noted. The way these two talked—they were real friends. A clearly clever princess and the half-aristo idiot socialite whose idea of a good time was to troll the slums of Halahou for genetemps and cheap silks.

  Justen might be out of his depth here in Albion.

  The princess returned her attention to him. “Why are you fleeing your country if you’re in such good graces with Citizen Aldred? You’re in no danger there.”

  “But I am,” he said. As soon as reports came back from the Lacan estate, Uncle Damos’s suspicions would be verified. And, of course, Justen would be the prime suspect. “I no longer agree with the actions of my countrymen. I cannot support the revolution now that they’ve turned to”—he took a deep breath—“petty revenge and violence against innocents. Social justice is worth fighting for. A reign of terror is not.”

  “So,” Isla said, “if you don’t act like the good little revolutionary, Aldred will make an example out of you?”

  “Exactly.” Of course she knew how it worked. She was probably well versed in such methods of despotic rule. He’d been taught about its dangers by Uncle Damos himself, long before the revolution. How had it come to this—Justen Helo standing in the Albian throne room and casting his lot with a monarch?

  “But you’re a Helo,” said Isla. “Aldred is not so foolish to do anything publicly.”

  “Perhaps not,” he admitted, “but I’ve seen him in private.”

  Persis’s mouth made a little round O. “You mean you think he would give you or your sister that Reduction drug
I keep hearing about?”

  Justen was hoping not, though it would be a fitting punishment for Justen’s disobedience, and Aldred knew it. There was nothing his uncle liked more than poetic justice. That’s why he’d pounced on the pinks.

  Justen couldn’t decide if he was angrier with Remy or himself. A few days before he left, he’d confessed everything to her—all his doubts about the revolution, even how he’d sabotaged an entire batch of pinks ready for shipment to a prisoner estate out east. He expected shock but also support. Instead, his fourteen-year-old sister started brainstorming ideas on how to backtrack from the mess he’d made, as if he could. He’d already been barred from the labs. Uncle Damos suspected . . . something.

  Remy didn’t get it. He wouldn’t take his actions back, even if it were possible. They’d exchanged some harsh words. She called him an idiot. He called her a child. And then she’d run off somewhere, likely to sulk, and wouldn’t answer his messages. He waited as long as he could, but figured Remy would be safe if he left. After all, she was still a model revolutionary citizen.

  Isla began another circuit. “I can’t retrieve your sister for you.”

  “Ooh,” said Persis, popping up from her focus on her palmport. “You know who might be great at that? The Wild Poppy.”

  Justen snorted. “Right. Does he take requests?”

  Isla paused. “What makes you think I have any control over what the Wild Poppy does or doesn’t do?” Another turn, another flick of her cape. “Me? Control one of my own subjects? Hilarious, right, Persis?”

  “Yes, Princess,” said Persis obediently, and returned to her device.

  “And pointless at any rate,” Justen said. “Unc— Citizen Aldred is a dangerous man, Your Highness. I don’t think anyone in Galatea truly understands what he’s capable of.”

  Isla whirled around and faced him. “I believe, Citizen Helo, that I can name several Galatean aristos who do.”

  With a flare of embarrassment, Justen looked away from Isla and from Persis, whose attention was on him again. Was she entertained by watching him implode in front of her princess? Her expression, however, was one of kindly warning, and Justen remembered that though she was an aristocrat, she was of lower status than her royal friend. She had more experience than Justen did dealing with her. And how had Persis been treating the princess? Always carefully and with deference.

  He supposed he could learn something from her after all.

  “What I meant,” he said, more quietly this time, “is that the royal palace in Halahou isn’t some work camp at an old estate.”

  “It’s a good thing the Wild Poppy can’t hear you speak that way,” Isla said to Justen. “Judging from the spy’s behavior thus far, he’d see it as a challenge.”

  “Ooh,” Persis cooed, grinning. “Do you really think he would?”

  “Shut up, Persis.” Isla turned back to Justen and continued, her tone clipped. “And I don’t think it’s a good idea to empty your nation of all its revolutionaries, thank you. We have enough problems here as it is.” She resumed pacing. “You want to remain here. You need a reason that will not arouse suspicion back in Galatea.” She glared at him. “What is it you do when you’re not being a spokesperson for a bloody revolution?”

  “I’m a medic,” he said. “A scientist, like everyone else in my family.” Except his sister, who claimed she wanted to go into the military like Uncle Damos and their foster sister, Vania. Little wonder Remy had toed the party line when Justen had told her how twisted their revolution had become and the steps he’d taken to stop it.

  “Humph.” More pacing. “And how long since you finished your training?”

  “Technically . . . I haven’t. I just turned eighteen, and I’ve been a little distracted recently.” Uncle Damos had pulled some strings to get him installed at a lab despite his lack of a degree. The Helo name had probably helped as well. And of course, it had helped Justen feel quite beholden to his guardian. He’d been played like a fiddle.

  “Don’t feel bad,” Persis piped in. “I dropped out of school, too.”

  “I didn’t drop out. I took a leave of absence to concentrate on my research.”

  “Oh, that’s a good one. I should try that excuse on my father. ‘I’m taking a leave of absence to concentrate on my shopping.’”

  Justen didn’t dignify that with a response. He’d been trying to save lives, not expand his wardrobe. Then again, Persis’s pursuit of silks had probably harmed far fewer people than his own research. “The point is—”

  “The point is,” Isla said, cutting him off, “we have scientists. Grown scientists. All you offer is the Helo name.”

  He clenched his fists at his side. Who was this child princess to say who was grown? He must be allowed to continue his research. If not, then everything—his defection, losing Remy, and the suffering of who knew how many Galatean aristos—would all be for nothing.

  “And every moment we remain here, the gossip about our imaginary romance grows stronger. . . .” Isla crossed to the blinds, peering through at the crowd and shaking her head. “Rumors are everything in this court. Sometimes I think they matter more than the truth. . . .” She gave a little hop, and the crystals on her gown chimed. “That’s it!”

  “What’s it?” asked Persis.

  “A rumor. A romance.” She pointed at Justen. “He’s here because he’s in love.”

  “With you?” Persis looked skeptical.

  The princess turned to her friend. “No. With you.”

  At once, Persis and Justen shook their heads.

  “I’m sure we can come up with a better plan than that,” Persis said quickly. Justen wasn’t so sure Persis was capable, but he was willing to let her try.

  “No,” said Isla. “This is it. Don’t you see it’s perfect? It solves all our problems at once.” She began to tick them off on her bejeweled fingers. “It’s a valid reason for Justen to remain in Albion. And Persis is my best friend. If I approve of your relationship, it will reflect well on the monarchy and give me some leeway to condemn the revolutionary activities. The regs love the Helo family. They won’t be inclined to revolt if they know the toast of the Albian aristocracy is close with one.”

  “You want me to date him?” Persis asked with gritted teeth.

  “Yes!” Isla beamed. “It’s a romantic tale. He saved you on the docks of Galatea. We’ll be . . . vague about the reason. And brought you back, nursed you to health, blah, blah. Love at first sight. People will eat it up, Persis. You know better than anyone how much people adore a good aristo/reg love story.”

  A pout crossed the aristo’s face. Isla was no doubt talking about Persis’s parents. But Justen was beginning to see the plan’s merits, as long as none of his friends back home got wind of what a shallow flake Persis was. They’d never believe he’d fall for an aristo like her, reg mother or no.

  “We’ll parade you around a bit, make sure everyone thinks you’re madly in love, stage a few cozy moments, and everyone’s happy.”

  “We don’t have to . . . get married or anything?” Justen asked, suddenly concerned as to what the princess meant by “cozy moments.”

  Isla waved her hand dismissively. “No, we shouldn’t have to take it as far as that.”

  “Shouldn’t have to?” Justen pressed.

  “I find this . . . inconvenient,” Persis said at last.

  “Why?” Justen turned to her. “Will my presence cramp your social schedule?”

  Persis glared at him, her amber eyes as fiery as her gown. “Why yes, if you must know. Look at the way you dress, for one.” She pleaded with Isla. “Do you honestly think people are going to accept someone like me with someone like him?”

  Justen rolled his eyes.

  Isla was no more patient. “He’s a Helo, Persis. Believing you’d want one on your arm is not going to be much of a challenge. As a trophy, if nothing else.”

  Persis’s pout deepened as she seemed to realize the princess was right. “I’m really busy
right now,” she tried.

  “I’m asking you.” Isla drew herself up to her full height and stared her friend down. “I’m asking you. There’s no one I trust more with our precious Galatean.”

  Something passed between the two women. Something Justen couldn’t hope to understand. But whatever it was, Persis relented.

  She shook her head in defeat, then transformed before his eyes into the sparkling socialite and threw him a coy, seductive smile. “All right then, lover boy,” she cooed. “I guess it’s time to make our debut.”

  Six

  WHEN THEY EMERGED FROM Isla’s private chambers, it seemed as if every eye in Albion was upon them. Persis had to give her new sweetheart credit, as he looped his arm in hers and marched bravely down the stairs of the terrace and into the fray. Slippy skittered beside them, chittering as he avoided people’s heels and stopped to lap from the water organ and groom his whiskers with the edge of his foreflippers.

  “Aren’t you afraid he’ll get trampled?”

  “Oh, Slippy can take care of himself,” Persis replied. Much better than the average sea mink, too, thanks to Tero’s gengineering efforts. She watched him slink up to one courtier’s golden lion tamarrel. The tiny orange creature was attached to its mistress by a long, glittering chain, and there were jewels glinting in its full mane and bushy, squirrel-like tail. In its tiny paws it held a slice of star papaya, and it bared its monkey teeth at Slippy as the sea mink approached. Slippy lunged.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Justen chided, smoothly scooping up Slipstream around his long midsection before the animals could tussle. He smiled and bowed his head as he presented Slipstream to Persis. “Your beast, my lady.”

  She cuddled the sea mink to her chest and eyed Justen carefully. He could be dangerous when he turned on the charm, this handsome young revolutionary, this medic with a famous name and a desire to escape Galatea so strong he’d leave his sister and cleave to an aristo he clearly despised. Maybe he, too, was a spy.

  The next half hour was filled with the bustle of small talk, while Persis introduced her “dear friend, Justen Helo” to the Albian courtiers, who were naturally delighted to make his acquaintance. By unspoken agreement, Persis and Justen kept their conversation easy and flirtatious, befitting a couple that had met only the previous day. As news of the Galatean newcomer spread throughout the court, whispers reached Persis’s ears.