Across a Star-Swept Sea fdsts-2

by Diana Peterfreund

  Could she have left her refugees in the hands of the man responsible for their torture?

  REMY HELO WAITED WITH her charges at the rendezvous point. The Wild Poppy hadn’t given her any instructions on what to do once the prisoners were clear of the city limits, so she was pleased that Lady Ford had the presence of mind to corral her people out of sight until the Poppy rejoined them.

  When she did, she appeared frazzled. Already, the genetemps of the spy’s disguise was fading, and she looked more like a woman in a fake beard than the salter who’d shown up at the prison.

  “Is there a problem?” Remy asked.

  “Not at all,” the Poppy replied. “As expected, the prison guards followed me, searched my skimmer, and found nothing.” She looked at the escaped prisoners in their prison guard uniforms and blinked twice as if forgetting for a moment why she was there.

  This was not the cool-headed spy who’d wrestled her gun away with a devil-may-care smile on her face. This wasn’t the elegant handmaiden who’d laid bare Remy’s soul on the floor of Princess Isla’s throne room. Something was wrong.

  “Are all the Ford prisoners accounted for?” she asked at last.

  “We are,” said Lady Ford. She took off her guard’s cap and shook her hair free. “And you must be the famous Wild Poppy. Younger than I’d thought. And . . . more feminine.”

  The Poppy inclined her head. “My lady. We’re not out of the danger zone yet. I need you and your companions to board my ship for the journey back to Albion.”

  “I’m eternally grateful for all you’ve done for me and my people, Poppy,” Lady Ford replied, “but I would never be able to live with myself if I abandoned my country in its time of need. My place is where it’s always been, on the Ford estate, protecting my lands and those who live there.”

  “Madam,” said the Poppy, “it’s dangerous for you here.”

  “It’s dangerous for you here,” said Lady Ford, then gestured to Remy. “It’s dangerous for this revolutionary soldier who led us from the prison. But that doesn’t absolve any of us from our duties. I will give my people the option to go with you if they choose. Some already have children in Albion and may wish to be reunited with them.”

  “Three of your children await you in Albion, too,” the Poppy argued.

  “My children know that my separation from them is in service to our homeland.” Lady Ford shook her head. “It’s no use arguing with me, young lady. You aren’t alone in fighting to save Galatea. I have other friends on this island. We’ll find ways to hide. And we can be more of a help to you here than we could hiding out in Albion.”

  The Poppy’s bushy, mannish eyebrows furrowed, but she relented, and Lady Ford left to speak to her people about who was leaving and who was staying behind.

  “Now I see,” said Remy, “why the revolution thinks the Fords are so dangerous.”

  “Indeed,” replied the Poppy. “Maybe one day we’ll grow up to be like her.”

  Remy raised her eyebrows at the Poppy. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that the spy was only a little older than she was. “Oh, I think you’re plenty like her already. Probably even more so, since, unlike Lady Ford, you’ve never made a mistake and gotten caught.”

  Beneath her beard, the Wild Poppy frowned. “No, I never have been caught. But we’ve all made mistakes.” She shrugged it off. “And everything is going well for you?”

  “Yes. No one even noticed I was gone.” Remy shrugged. “They don’t even care if I’m at school or not.”

  “Have you spoken to your brother?” she asked now.

  Remy shook her head. “No. I— We had a fight before I left, and since I got back, I’ve been caught up in collecting information about the Ford transfer. He’s hard to get in touch with, you know. He’s either living at the royal labs or out at a sanitarium in the middle of nowhere.”

  “He’s in Albion,” the spy said abruptly. “Has been for a week.”

  This did surprise Remy. Justen had been there at the same time as she? And he hadn’t even left her a message saying he was going? She recalled his fear in their last conversation, his certainty that he was about to bring the wrath of Uncle Damos down on his head. Had he done something even more foolish while she was away? “Do you know what he’s doing there?”

  “I was hoping that you, as his sister, might tell me. Furthering his research, perhaps, on the Reduction drug that’s ravaging your countrymen?”

  Remy clamped her mouth shut.

  The spy eyed her, eyes blazing. “You do not deny, then, that it was your brother who developed the method Aldred is using to torture his citizens?”

  Remy’s heart pounded in her chest. A week ago, she’d been terrified that Justen had succeeded in sabotaging the Reduction program Uncle Damos was basing his rule on. Now, she feared the opposite. What might the Wild Poppy do to her brother now that she knew the truth?

  “Please,” she said softly. “Don’t hurt him. He’s the only family I have left. And he’s not a bad person, I promise. I don’t think he had any idea how far this would go. None of us did. And Uncle Damos—Citizen Aldred—he was so encouraging of Justen’s research, in a way that the queen never was. You have to understand that. To Justen, the science is everything. And Uncle Damos was the one who made it possible.”

  “Naturally,” said the Poppy, her voice soft and strangely sad. “I imagine that to Citizen Aldred, Justen Helo is quite the hero.”

  Eighteen

  JUSTEN SIGHED AT THE pile of half-assembled nanorectors littering his desk. The brain stem model the minuscule computers were in the process of constructing was getting him nowhere. Might as well start from scratch. One downside of not having a palmport like the other medics at the lab—while they could wave their hands at the nanorectors and dissolve them into blocks again, he had to type his instructions into an oblet.

  He chuckled to himself. He’d better watch it—he was beginning to sound like Persis. Next he’d be calling typing “primitive.”

  Not that he was going to get a palmport. He’d already had quite enough of Albian fashion, thank you very much. He’d woken this morning to find his clothes either hidden or—if he knew Persis—destroyed and several new outfits hanging ready for him in his closet. As Persis had been nowhere to be found, he hadn’t yet had the opportunity to complain that her idea of proper attire included collars that chafed his neck and inappropriately shiny trousers cut entirely too tightly at the crotch.

  Even Fredan hadn’t been able to hold back a chuckle when Justen had emerged in his new outfit and asked to borrow a skimmer to drive to the lab.

  The clothes might be appropriate for a cocktail party or lounging about in court, but after ten hours on a stool in the laboratory, Justen was ready to strip naked. Why Persis preferred such clothing was beyond him. Maybe they should stick to bathing suits.

  They got along a lot better in those, anyway.

  Justen had done his best to push the memory of Persis’s kiss from his mind while he worked today. It meant nothing—just a publicity stunt, like everything else they did together. And it hadn’t been the taste of her mouth or the feel of her skin that had flitted around the edges of his mind while he worked to save the refugees. Instead, it had been her words.

  We can only be responsible for what we ourselves do. Bad things happen in this world, and we are judged on how we respond. Do we take part in evil, or do we fight against it with all we have?

  He was truly off course if Persis Blake was the one talking real sense. Though, make no mistake, Persis Blake was not as stupid as she’d first appeared. Maybe Justen had underestimated her, the same way he’d dismissed every aristo. Sure, they were spoiled and could be silly and shallow. But they weren’t all like that, and that’s not all they were, either. Persis was certainly frivolous and overprivileged, but she was also charming and playful and kind. Not everyone was made for saving the world. It didn’t necessarily make them bad people. And maybe some aristos in Galatea deserved to be removed from power
, but none of them deserved to be tortured as the revolutionaries were torturing their prisoners. None of them deserved Reduction.

  If Justen was to be judged for what he did, he’d like it to be for fixing the problem he’d created and curing the refugees before it was too late.

  He punched a code into his oblet, and watched the brain model on his desk disintegrate. But it wouldn’t be tonight.

  Instead, he shut down his oblet and headed out of the facility. On his way, he stopped by the refugees’ chamber. All those months in Galatea, he’d avoided the lab where they made the pinks, he’d avoided the prisons and the labor camps, as if not seeing the victims of his work would somehow lessen his own responsibility.

  Never again. Standing before him, the people he’d hurt were impossible to forget, impossible to ignore. He wouldn’t rest until he’d helped them. What Justen had done was an accident, but he was to blame for failing to stop it before people’s lives were destroyed.

  Today, a few Reduced were sitting before a large music keyboard, plonking out random notes. An older man sat before them, clapping heartily—for encouragement, Justen figured, since he couldn’t really be impressed by the atonal noise. After a few minutes, he seemed to notice Justen’s presence and joined him at the threshold.

  “Good evening. Are you here to visit friends or family?”

  Taken aback, Justen replied, “Neither. I—I work here, actually.”

  “Oh.” The old man’s eyes widened. “Forgive me. With your hair and lack of palmport, I mistook you for a Galatean.”

  “I am,” Justen replied. “I’m also a medic. I’m trying to help the refugees—”

  “How wonderful!” he exclaimed, and held out his hand. “I’m Lord Benzo Lacan of Galatea. What’s your name?”

  “Justen,” he mumbled. Just Justen. So here was Lacan, the man he’d tried to save by sabotaging the pinks sent to his estate. He’d failed—but the Wild Poppy had succeeded. Justen knew this aristo had been an ally of his grandmother’s. His Reduction had been proof Justen could no longer ignore regarding how perverted the revolution had become.

  “So they put you to work right away, did they?” Lord Lacan went on. “That’s good. These Albians need all the help they can get it seems, especially given the problems we’re facing. This Reduction drug”—the lord’s voice turned dark—“it’s the worst evil to be visited on the world since the wars, I think. Reduction almost destroyed the human race. The fact that the revolutionaries have resurrected it to achieve their political goals—I can think of no punishment severe enough to repay them, can you?”

  “No,” Justen said softly. “I can’t.”

  VANIA HAD BEEN WAITING on the outlandish inlaid-stone terrace belonging to Justen’s aristo girlfriend for a full hour by the time she heard the unmistakable whirr of skimmer lifters over gravel out front. She could hear the abominably rude butler who’d shown her in—he of the appalling orange-dyed hair—greeting Justen at the front door, then informing him stiffly that a young woman from Galatea was here for him. There was a pounding of feet as Justen rushed toward the terrace.

  Poor boy. Vania had been right. He must be positively suffocated by these Albian aristos. She smiled as he came out into the sunlight. He frowned and skidded to a dead stop on the terrace before he reached her.

  “Vania.” Justen’s tone was flat.

  Vania swallowed and lifted her chin, resisting the temptation to smooth her hair. It had been, perhaps, a bit of a rough journey across the sea. And there was quite the wind down on the docks. But he should have been far happier to see her. Had Albion corrupted him already?

  “Justen.” She eyed his outfit. A little shinier than he’d been wont to wear back home but not too outlandish. Judging by what she’d learned about this Persis Blake girl, Vania had been half expecting feathers. Had they no idea how ridiculous they looked? Even the workers she’d met at the base of the cliff had dyed hair. No wonder the Wild Poppy was so skilled in the art of disguise. It seemed every Albian, from the lowliest servant on up, cared too much about fashion. “Been keeping yourself busy here in foreign lands? Where is your aristo girlfriend?”

  As she hoped, Justen flinched at that. Good. So he hadn’t lost all his revolutionary principles.

  “Vania. This is . . . a surprise.”

  She lifted one shoulder. “Well, I’m visiting Albion anyway, so I thought I’d drop in on my dear friend, meet his fine lady—”

  “Persis is a friend,” Justen said quickly. Again, very good. “And why are you here? I thought you were stationed at the Ford barricade.”

  Vania smiled. “It fell yesterday. The Fords, their heir, and any of their servants still foolish enough to stand by their side are imprisoned in Halahou, awaiting their sentencing. They will all be properly punished.”

  “You mean Reduced,” Justen replied in a low voice.

  “Of course. What else?”

  Justen said nothing for a long moment, as if carefully weighing his words. “Do you think the revolutionary government is overusing that form of punishment? It was never meant for regs. It was never meant—”

  “Don’t be so modest!” Vania laughed. “Pretty soon, we won’t have to use it at all, ever. Just the threat of Reduction is usually enough to make people realize the importance of supporting our policies. Once everyone is in agreement, things are going to be so much more harmonious back home. For everyone. The revolution won’t last forever, Justen. It’s a little violent right now, but it’s all in the service of creating a better future.”

  “A better future for whom?” Justen said. “The regs you’re about to Reduce from the Ford estate?”

  “They were royalists,” Vania pointed out. “They’re enemies of the revolution.”

  “And the heir?” He wouldn’t let up, would he? “She’s a child. What’s her crime?”

  “She’s an aristo!” Was this what came of being in Albion for any length of time? You started siding with royalists? You took up with some aristo whose greatest skill in life was coordinating her jewelry with her dress? Why were they even having this conversation? The old Justen would have congratulated her on a successful campaign.

  Though honestly, Vania didn’t think she’d heard one word of praise out of his mouth about her work since Queen Gala died. He’d been far too caught up in his research, in all that he’d been doing for the revolution.

  “Look, Justen,” she said, annoyed, “I came here with nothing but good intentions. I want to congratulate you. I want to meet this girl who—aristo though she is—has apparently stolen your heart.”

  Justen’s expression softened. “I’m glad you’re here, Vania. You’ve always been such a good friend to me and—I need a friend right now.”

  “These Albians you’re so enamored with don’t fit the bill?” she scoffed.

  “You know me better than that.”

  She groaned aloud. “Then what are you doing here, Justen? Research? What hold can these aristos possibly have on you?”

  “Vania—” Justen’s voice dropped to a whisper and he moved in close.

  Vania inhaled, waiting for the familiar scent of Justen to hit her nostrils—but he smelled different, too. Probably perfumed with the Blake family flower. Revolting.

  His voice was little more than a breath. “Do we really know what we’re doing with the Reduction drug? What if we’re hurting people?”

  She frowned, incredulous. Of course they were hurting people. That was the whole point. What kind of punishment didn’t involve pain? “They’re traitors. Enemies of the revolution. Do you think we should give them a parade?”

  “I think we should stop using the drug,” Justen replied, his voice louder now and steady as the cliffs themselves. “We have no idea what the long-term effects are. It hasn’t undergone the proper testing—”

  “You should have thought of that before.” Vania sniffed and backed away. So he was turning his back on the revolution. It was good he was here, then. This kind of talk back home would hav
e cast a dark light of suspicion on Justen, Helo name or no. “And if you plan to stay in Albion, then I can’t imagine what happens with the revolution should actually concern you so much anymore.”

  “I’d better stay in Albion,” Justen replied. “If I go to Galatea, one wrong word might see me Reduced as well.”

  How astute he was! “Don’t worry about yourself,” Vania snapped, “but do take a care for your aristo girlfriend.”

  Justen gave her a murderous glare and Vania bit her tongue. Perhaps that last part had been over the line. “I’ll ask again, Vania.” Any trace of friendship had left his tone. “What are you doing here?”

  Fine. Two could play that way. She stood up as straight as she could, though she was still a few inches shorter than Justen. “I’m here in service to my country. I’m trying to track down the Wild Poppy.”

  Justen appeared nonplussed. “Any leads?”

  “None of your business.”

  Justen sighed and shook his head. “Well, I’d wish you luck, but . . . I actually don’t. The Wild Poppy is the only man on Earth who seems capable of stemming the tide of destruction this revolution has caused.”

  Vania’s mouth dropped open. “Treason. Open treason? Justen, what’s become of you?”

  “What’s become of you!” Justen cried. “Listen to yourself. Celebrating the Reduction of the Ford child. It’s disgusting.”

  “Disgusting?” Vania clenched her fists around the hem of her coat to keep from punching Justen right in his silk-clad stomach. “I’m sorry the revolution isn’t as pretty as one of your girlfriend’s soirees. I’m sorry it’s not all flutternotes and luaus. And I’m sorry that you can’t handle the reality. This is what it takes to make a better future, Justen. There are people who are going to fight against what we’re trying to do in Galatea. There are people who are going to try to stop us if we don’t stop them first. You’d think, after all those years with my father, you’d understand that better.”

  “I understand a lot of things. I understand that we have no hope for a better future if it’s built on a foundation of torturing our fellow citizens over political disagreements. We’re torturing children, Vania. Children. I have no love for cruel aristos. I’ve met some Galatean refugees here—”