Justen nodded, relieved, and took Vania by the hands. “I felt that way, too. Oh, Vania, thank you so much. Seeing Tomorrow, seeing how she lives, the light that shines out of her—I can’t believe I was ever so crude as to call the effects of that drug Reduction.”
“Exactly. For the aristos to truly get their just desserts, it’s only right that they be really Reduced. Permanently. And now that there’s a real Reduced in Galatea, we can figure out how to make it happen.”
Justen must have dropped her hands. He must have stepped back. But he couldn’t tell. His body seemed to go numb. “No,” he whispered.
Vania looked confused, then angry.
There was a roaring in his ears. “You can’t.” He thought he said it. He must have said it, based on the rage that overtook Vania’s features.
“It’s our turn to win, Justen,” she said, her voice sounding sad and a little lost. “How can you not understand that? We’ve been punished long enough for what our ancestors did. It’s their turn for punishment now, and our turn to rule.”
One night, not long ago, Justen had floated in a starlit cove with a girl who told him, There is only one way to recover from the evil humanity does to itself: overcome it. We can only be held 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 had to fight. But he couldn’t stop Vania on his own. There was only one man in New Pacifica who could.
The Wild Poppy.
JUSTEN GRABBED VANIA’S HAND and shouted for a guard. It had the effect of bringing at least three heads swerving in his direction, but no more. A crowd of hundreds, and dozens of flutternotes in the air above them—but not a single chance of calling for help.
“What are you—” She writhed in his grip, then brought the side of her palm down on his wrist.
He winced and his hold on her slipped. She slammed her knee against his groin.
“Are you trying to start a war?” she whispered in his ear as he grunted. “Not so fast, Justen. There’s plenty of time for that after we perfect our drug.”
He grabbed at her again, but she easily evaded him, spun, then took his elbow in her hand. A lightning bolt of pain shot through his arm.
“Honestly, Justen, perhaps you should have spent a little time outside the lab. Have you any idea how much combat training I’ve had?” She let go of him and he stumbled back, gasping. “I’m going to assume that’s a firm no to my offer. A shame.” She bit her lip. “But at least now I know for sure. I’ve tried so hard to help you, but you’ve chosen your path.”
“Vania, don’t.” The agony spread from his throat to his fingertips. This was no mere pressure point. He ran his other hand across his sleeve and pulled out a pricker. Empty. Justen turned his eyes to Vania. “What is this?” he gasped.
“Oh, don’t look so betrayed,” she said, annoyed. “It’s just a mild neurotoxin. I could have used something way worse on you and you know it.”
And with that, she melted into the crowd, leaving Justen fighting for breath. He needed to find the medic station. But more than that, he needed to find the Poppy. If the rumors were true, if he was an Albian aristo, then the spy must be at the luau. But he had no idea how to even begin searching.
Justen clutched at his arm and searched through the crowd with watering eyes, but he didn’t even see anyone he recognized. Persis, Isla, Andrine—where were they all?
Persis was right. He should have gotten a palmport like everyone else in Albion. Instead, he stumbled toward the palace wall. If he remembered correctly, there was a public wallport near the restroom here. If he was lucky, there might even be a medic kit in the restroom.
The kit he found was standard, but it still contained an epinephrine pricker and a pain relief pricker. He utilized them both, then logged into the wallport, his fingers straining with every button he typed as the medicine took effect.
Noemi, it’s Justen. I need you to put me in touch with the Wild Poppy immediately on a matter of utmost importance.
He watched the portal open and a sad little generic flutter zip out. How long would it take to reach Noemi? Should he try Isla, too? At least she was here.
Justen massaged his arm with his good hand, sweating as the pain radiated out from his elbow. How long would he have to wait? Could he even afford to wait? Slowly, feeling returned to his fingers and shoulders, and the pain subsided. He leaned his forehead against the cool stone wall, breathing heavily.
A tiny golden poppy flitted by his nose and sunk into the wallport. Justen turned back to read the screen.
Hello, Justen Helo. What do you want from me
Twenty-nine
PERSIS MOVED THROUGH THE crowd as quickly as she could in her gown, the voluminous fabric undulating about her legs like real waves as she hurried, her eyes searching everywhere for a glimpse of Justen. The flutter Noemi had forwarded to her sounded desperate, but what could Justen possibly have to contact the Wild Poppy about so urgently at the party?
Another generic flutter buzzed her palm. Now that he had a flutter from the Wild Poppy, Justen could contact her directly. It was a risky move, but the chance that someone could follow a flutter back to her, especially in this crowd, was slim. She slipped her wristlock aside to allow his message entrance.
I need to meet you.
She laughed.
I think not. I have a policy of not revealing myself to Galatean revolutionaries. Tell me what you want. Your sister, I suppose?
At last she saw him, leaning against a column by one of the public wallports. She stationed herself several yards away, on the outskirts of a group of people watching the fire dance. From the corner of her eye, Persis saw Justen read her flutter, then bang his right hand against the wallport in frustration. Persis narrowed her eyes. A moment later, she received:
I’m not a revolutionary! Not that kind, anyway. Typing takes too long. Please, you have to believe me.
Well, she had been telling him since he’d arrived to get a palmport. Now, perhaps, he’d learned his lesson. She sent back:
Why would I ever trust the person who invented pinks? Why would I trust someone who takes secret meetings with Vania Aldred? You’ve lied to everyone who has tried to help you in Albion: Princess Isla, Noemi Dorric, even your little girlfriend Persis Blake. But I know who you are, I know what you’ve done, and you’re lucky to be hearing from me at all.
At last, the words she’d wanted to cast at him so long. At the wallport, she watched him read her flutter, and even from a distance, she could see his chest rise as he took a deep breath. He was gripping his arm, flexing the muscles of his left hand as if they bothered him. Clenching his jaw, he leaned over and began typing, while Persis waited impatiently.
Seriously, Justen. Palmport.
There is no apology I can make that would be sufficient. Yet I swear to you that I never meant to hurt anyone. The Reduction drug was an accident. I was trying to make a new treatment for DAR, based on the architecture of the aristo brain, and I stumbled upon a compound that would, if administered to aristos, cause the effects you’ve seen. I made the mistake of telling my uncle.
By the time the flutter reached her, Justen had started typing again, and another flutter soon zipped after the first.
I promise I didn’t know what he intended. The day Queen Gala died, and I saw her body desecrated and her whole court Reduced, I lost all faith in the revolution. I went to Aldred. I tried to get him to stop. When that didn’t work, I even tried to sabotage the pills. He started to suspect what I was doing and restricted my access to the lab. That’s when I ran away to Albion.
She shot back:
My heart breaks for the poor little mad scientist cut off from his lab.
But then she remembered what the medic at the prison had said, about how the pills weren’t working as well as they used to. Had that been due to Justen’s sabotage? After a moment, he replied:
You wa
nt to know why Lacan recovered as quickly as he did? It was because the pills he was getting weren’t full strength. If you were to get my sister, she could tell you herself.
Was that what Remy had been doing at the Lacan estate in the first place? Persis would ask the girl. Justen’s flutter continued, its tone as frantic as his typing.
Believe me or don’t. It doesn’t matter. But you need this information: Vania Aldred has taken two of the visitors back to Galatea, including the Reduced one, and she plans to keep them there. She believes that Galateans can use the Reduced girl to create a drug that will cause permanent Reduction . . . and I’m afraid she may be right.
This is the absolute truth. I have nothing to gain from telling you this—and nothing to lose, either.
Persis frowned. Justen was a medic, and no one knew better than he how to create a Reduction drug. If he believed that scientists could use Tomorrow to make the effects permanent, then it was worth paying attention to. And yet, what if the whole story was a lie, engineered by Vania Aldred for the purpose of a trap?
She watched Justen wait by the wallport, growing increasingly agitated. She watched him pacing, foot tapping, then slamming his right hand against the wall in frustration. He turned around and their eyes met.
She smiled sweetly and waved at him.
He gave her a halfhearted wave in return. Did he honestly think the Wild Poppy owed him a response?
Persis beckoned to him, but he gave a little shake of his head and turned back to the port, typing furiously again. She waited as patiently as possible, but he seemed to be writing some kind of book over there.
Enough was enough. She marched over, the material of her skirt churning like the waves of a stormy sea. “What are you writing, dearest?” she cooed. “Love notes to a strange woman?”
He whirled around, blocking her view of the screen. “None of your business, Persis.”
He had that wrong. “You’ve been avoiding me for the entire party and now you’re melded to the wallport. People are going to think we’re fighting. We can’t have that.”
He groaned. “Not now, Persis. I’m in the middle of— I can’t. Not now.”
She arced her neck to look behind him. “You always say that.”
He slammed his hand over the display buttons and the port closed. “And I always mean it. Now leave me alone.”
Persis looked at him, her gaze steady and dangerous. “Show me,” she said slowly, “what you were typing.”
Justen stared at her for a moment, then raised his voice. “Excuse me, sir?” he called over her shoulder. She whirled to find a young courtier who looked vaguely familiar turning in their direction. “My sweet lady Persis is wild to try the fire dance, but I’m afraid I have not yet had the chance to learn the Albian style. Would you do me the honor of dancing with her for a bit so that I might observe you and learn?”
Persis snapped her jaw shut. The little sea sponge. So he hadn’t been ignoring all her lectures on courtly behavior.
The young aristo nodded. “Of course, Citizen Helo! It would be my pleasure.”
Justen gave her a grim smile and handed her off to the courtier. Carvel? Carrell? His name hovered just beyond the reach of her memory. As the man led her toward the dancers, she cast a glance over her shoulder at Justen, but he’d returned to the port.
Oh well. She’d find out eventually.
She stepped into the dance with her partner and immediately began messaging the rest of the League. The courtier probably thought she was acting a little too familiar with the way she draped her wrists over his shoulders and closed her eyes. That Persis Blake—what a flirt.
She told Andrine to find the other visitors and confirm that Andromeda and Tomorrow had departed. She told Tero to load up a boat with as many supplements as he could think of, as well as at least three different types of genetemp doses, just in case. She told Isla that the party had taken a rather desperate turn.
She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see Justen standing there, his eyes glowing with the flames of the fire. “I think I’ve figured out the steps now.”
He cut in, and the courtier departed. Persis’s eyebrows drew together. How did he get here before his flutter? Were they too close to the fire? Flutters would melt in high heat conditions. She danced a little way from the flames.
“I don’t like arguing with you, Persis,” said Justen as he spun her around. He still hadn’t learned the moves of the fire dance. His motions were too large, his hands too rough.
She found she didn’t really mind. “And I don’t like you sending love notes to other girls right in front of me.”
He gave her a wry smile. “What makes you think it’s another girl?”
What makes you think it isn’t? She almost asked him aloud. Common wisdom held the Wild Poppy was an Albian aristo, and to the Albians, that meant he must be a man. But the Galateans had been ruled by queens for centuries. Women there had as much power as men. Yet even Justen, whose friend Vania was a revolutionary captain, whose own grandmother had invented the cure, took the story at face value.
His flutter sunk into her palm.
I understand now that you are the reason Noemi won’t tell me where she’s moved the refugees, as I am the reason they have probably been moved. And I don’t blame you, either. I can never forgive myself for what I have done to my countrymen. I will spend the rest of my life trying to reverse the pain and suffering I’ve caused and to atone for the shame I’ve brought to a family name that once symbolized hope to all New Pacifica.
I give you this information so you can take it to Noemi, who will confirm that I’m telling the truth. I do not yet know how to heal those regs who have been damaged by Reduction, but I believe I know how to prevent anyone else from being hurt. The answer lies in the Helo Cure.
A few days ago, I offered the cure to one of the visitors, though he is a natural reg. He feared he might have made his offspring vulnerable due to his primitive gengineering. In the old days, it was thought that the cure had no effect on those who were not Reduced, but now I think it’s something more. The cure won’t heal a Reduced brain, which is why it doesn’t fix the Reduced who take it. But it will prevent the damage of Reduction from ever taking place. In natural Reduction, this damage occurs in utero, in the developing brain of the fetus. The Helo Cure prevents that from happening. It will also, according to my models, prevent it from happening when one is given the Reduction drug.
Persis gasped. Could it be that simple?
“Are you all right?” Justen asked.
She nodded, swallowing. Justen’s message continued.
Take this information and guard your friends and allies, here and in Galatea. It might take a while to produce enough of the Helo Cure to protect the entire nation, but if they all take it, they will be able to defend themselves, aristo and reg alike, from the revolutionaries’ terrible weapon.
With your help, I can begin to atone for the harm I’ve caused my countrymen and keep anyone else from being hurt like this again. Once, Persistence Helo was the hope of all New Pacifica. I’d hoped to follow in her footsteps, but I recognize now that you are the one who will save us.
You are the hope of every true patriot of my homeland.
Persis tightened her hands on Justen’s shoulders and buried her face against his chest.
“You’re not all right,” he said. “Too near the fire?”
“Justen,” she breathed. There was no question he was telling the truth. There was no possible purpose his lie would serve. Noemi could easily verify or dismiss his claims. She fluttered the medic at once, to be sure, but not a doubt remained in Persis’s mind. Everything fit—it fit what she knew of what was happening in Galatea; it fit with Vania’s befriending Andromeda and Tomorrow; it fit with the way Justen had been tied to his grandmother’s oblets and his nanorector models for the last day and a half; and it fit, most of all, with what she knew about Justen—what she’d known all along, if she’d been completely honest with h
erself.
And maybe it was time to be honest with him, too. She took a deep, shuddering breath. I’m the Wild Poppy. I’m the Wild Poppy. I’m the Wild Poppy. “I’m—”
Another flutter slipped into her palm.
Persis,
Your mother is ill. Bring Justen at once.
Love and duty,
Torin Blake
Her head shot up. “We have to find my parents.”
Thirty
IT TOOK THE BETTER part of an hour to make sure Heloise was stabilized. Sedation would have been easier, but Torin was desperate to avoid it.
“Please,” he’d said to Justen. The three of them were in Isla’s private chambers, where Heloise could rest among the white pillows and swaying palm fronds. “This may be her last party. If there’s any way I can let her have a final glimpse . . .”
These aristos sure had their priorities screwed up.
When he was done, Persis was nowhere to be found.
“She left a while ago,” Torin explained. “Actually, I’m relieved. There are things she doesn’t need to see.”
“She’s seen them,” Justen argued, remembering the night Heloise had almost clawed her daughter’s lovely face off. “You can’t keep them from her. And you can’t let her go on like this, either, pretending it’s not happening. Do you know she hasn’t even been tested?”
“Actually,” said Heloise from the chaise, her voice so hard for once, the woman reminded him of her daughter, “we do know that. And I strongly believe she should be given that right. If she is to die like me, then she doesn’t need to know at sixteen.”
Torin didn’t respond, but his lips were pressed in a tight line. Justen could imagine his fear—that both his wife and daughter would die young, leaving him alone in Scintillans. If the Wild Poppy got Tomorrow back, Justen would make sure that never happened.
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