Across a Star-Swept Sea fdsts-2

by Diana Peterfreund

  “Well,” Vania said, breathless with exultation, “that was unexpected.”

  THE DAYDREAM SPED SILENTLY across the moonlit sea that separated Albion from Galatea. Tero stood at the helm, while Justen twitched awake on the long bench nearest.

  “Welcome back,” Tero said. “For what it’s worth, you look . . . stately.”

  Justen sat up, coughing a bit, then looked down at his arms. They didn’t look much different. He brushed his hands over his face, feeling the crags and wrinkles Tero’s genetemps had formed all over his skin.

  “You promise you’ve worked out the kinks from last time?” he asked Tero, and his voice came out as a gruff grunt, like he’d spent sixty years barking orders at people.

  “Pretty sure.” At Justen’s withering glare, he held up his hands in surrender. “I know how touchy you are about the whole operation. But I’m fresh out of fat coding and the male coding won’t help you much.”

  Justen meant to laugh, but it came out sounding more like a growl. “This is going to take some getting used to,” he grumbled. “How far are we from shore?”

  “A good twenty minutes yet,” Tero replied. “Don’t worry too much. If we don’t get to Andrine and Persis before Vania catches and doses them, Isla will get them back, even if she has to tear Galatea apart to do it.”

  Justen wondered if Tero would be so sanguine about the whole operation if he understood the extent to which his own sister was in danger from the drug. Though Tero had told Justen about a fight the Finches had had with Persis recently regarding her drugging Andrine to keep her away from a mission, the gengineer didn’t seem to understand why Persis had made that choice, which must have happened after Justen explained to Persis how the drug worked differently for regs.

  Every conversation he’d ever had with her had taken on whole oceans of new meanings, and every time he started thinking about that, his head hurt more than from the genetemps.

  “That’s not good enough,” was all he said. No need to scare Tero at the moment.

  Tero gave him a wry smile. “The things we do for love.”

  “Persis and I are not in love,” Justen said automatically. “It was all for show.”

  The Albian gengineer remained skeptical. “I saw the images of you two kissing in the star cove, you know. Everyone did. Quite convincing.”

  “Persis is a consummate liar,” Justen said in his gravelly old man’s voice.

  “And you share her expertise in the clandestine arts and other methods of spy craft?” Tero replied. “Impressive. I guess medic training really is more comprehensive in Galatea than I’d thought.”

  “There’s no need to be sarcastic.”

  “There’s no need to deny it,” Tero said, “especially not to me. I know what it’s like to have completely inconvenient feelings for one of these girls. I tried to hide mine for months. It’s hard.”

  Justen sighed. He liked the Albian gengineer, liked him even more now that he knew he was doing something more with his time than tinkering with Slipstream, but the last thing Justen needed was Tero, who’d only come out about his . . . whatever it was with the princess tonight, giving him relationship advice. Especially not when he was about to attempt the hardest thing he’d ever done.

  “Persis and I are not in love,” he repeated at last.

  “Really,” Tero said flatly. “Why not?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Tero raised his hands. “Look, I’ve known that girl my whole life. She’s basically a kid sister. Used to follow me around the beach in the village, bugging me to play with her. But I’m not blind. I know what she looks like in a bathing suit these days, and I know what kind of brain she’s got hidden under all that hair of hers, too. I would never have signed on to this whole Poppy nonsense otherwise. Because of who she is, she has to protect herself. I’ve never seen any guy who could match her. And then you came along and you didn’t care one bit that she was the heir to Scintillans. You called her out, Justen. No one does that. And then, you helped her mom, you’re helping the refugees, and you’re taking genetemps to go rescue her.” Tero shrugged. “I also saw you two making out on this very boat on that trip to Remembrance Island. There’s something there.”

  “Believe me,” Justen said ruefully, “it was faked.” Mostly, at any rate.

  Besides, Justen was pretty sure she hated him for his involvement in the Reduction drug. The Persis he’d thought he’d known might be able to forgive him, but the Wild Poppy, who risked her life to protect the victims of the revolution—no. Not her. She’d made it quite clear in the Poppy’s flutters.

  And Tero would never understand. He’d always known the real Persis, bathing suits or no. To Tero, someone developing real feelings for his brilliant, charming aristo friend was no big surprise. But Justen didn’t have the right to feel the same. He’d spent the last two weeks dismissing every point Persis made because he’d idiotically decided that she wasn’t smart enough to be correct about things. Yet even when she was acting her flakiest, she still managed to make more sense than his revolutionary friends back home in Galatea. He’d known it, even if he hadn’t wanted to believe it. How odd that an array of gorgeous dresses and a few well-placed dumb comments were all it took to disguise her true self. Was it because she was a woman? Was it because Justen was actually far shallower than Persis had ever appeared to be?

  He’d taken her at face value, because she was pretty and rich and dressed so nicely. He’d wanted to think the worst of an aristo, the same way everyone wanted to think the best of him because he was a Helo and a medic. He’d relied on his reputation to bring him to Albion, to get him an audience with the princess, to give him the lab space he’d needed. But the Wild Poppy—Persis—had seen through all that. As Persis she’d urged him to do better with the gifts he’d been given. As the Poppy, she’d neatly cut him off from all the things he’d used his borrowed reputation to gain. She was an aristo, but every member of her spy league other than Isla was a reg, and Persis was not using her aristo status to ply her trade.

  It was Justen, the supposed revolutionary, who had thought he should be trusted merely for being a Helo. And if Persis chose to trust him now—as he hoped—it wasn’t because he was a Helo, it was because he was trying, at last, to make up for the worst thing he’d ever done to the family name.

  He almost laughed. Love from Persis Blake? He’d settle for forgiveness. Any hope of something more was pointless. Justen used to think that, although Persis was beautiful and kind and charming and funny and whatever else he’d most recently realized about his Albian hostess, she did not have the qualities he looked for in a woman. She wasn’t smart enough. She wasn’t serious enough. She wasn’t dedicated to the betterment of mankind enough.

  He’d been such an idiot.

  “I think,” he said slowly, “a girl like Persis Blake deserves someone much better than me.”

  Tero’s grunt sounded remarkably skeptical, even over the sound of the water rushing beneath them. “Maybe you can revisit this topic once you’ve saved her life. I hear girls like it when a boy rescues them from his evil sister.”

  “She’s not my sister.”

  Tero rolled his eyes. “Right. Sorry, I really need to stop trusting my own eyes, don’t I? Vania’s not your sister, Persis isn’t your girlfriend, you’re not wearing a bushy gray wig and trying to sneak into the Galatean royal labs to steal some expired medication on a shelf somewhere. Silly me.”

  “It might be expired,” Justen muttered, “but it’s better than nothing.” And what was he supposed to do? Sit around in Albion and wait while Isla’s royal guard went to Galatea and demanded the return of two Albian nationals? The relative arguments of Albian immunity from the revolution versus the crimes the Wild Poppy had committed on Galatean soil would take a significant amount of time to untangle; and until they were released, Andrine and Persis were in danger every moment of being Reduced. If it wasn’t already too late.

  The port of Halahou loomed large before them
, but Tero moved east, beyond the city limits to the edge of Queen’s Cove. The cove was silent now, the water still and peaceful but for the occasional dark hump of a mini-orca back breaking the surface to breathe.

  “Did you see that?” whispered Tero. “You know, we studied them in school but I’ve never seen them in person.”

  Justen wondered if his companion would be less in awe of the creatures had he seen them eat the corpse of their last mistress. He wondered if Tero would be so calm about the almost-certain capture of both his sister and his friend if he knew what happened to regs who received the Reduction drug.

  Justen had been thinking that if he wound up with genetemps sickness, he’d drop Tero down a lava tube. But if the gengineer’s sister was permanently damaged by the drug Justen created, what would Tero have the right to do to him? If Persis was damaged . . .

  Justen shook his head. He just wouldn’t let it happen. That was all.

  Thirty-two

  IN A BEAUTIFUL ROOM in the royal palace in Galatea, Remy Helo sat alone, searching the news from Albion for any information about the Wild Poppy—about Persis Blake. The gossip was extremely light. There’d been a single item a few days ago about her hair, and nothing whatsoever about Justen—not since the night before Persis’s trip to the prison.

  Not since before Remy had confirmed for the spy that Justen was responsible for creating the Reduction drug.

  And she hadn’t heard from the Wild Poppy since then either. The mission had gone well—Vania had certainly gotten in a lot of trouble for it—but Remy was surprised that the Albians had never contacted her again. Things had been quiet in Halahou for two days, but she expected at least some recognition of the work she’d done for the Albians. Weren’t they concerned that her part in the operation remained secret? Weren’t they worried that she was staying safe and not ratting them out to her uncle?

  Of course, she was a traitor now, so she had as much to lose by telling the Aldreds the truth. And maybe, given Justen’s behavior, the Wild Poppy and her League wanted nothing more to do with Remy Helo.

  Ironic. She’d gotten herself into this mess by trying to keep Justen safe from the revolutionaries. Now she was worried he wouldn’t be safe from those trying to fight the revolution.

  Maybe she should have told the Poppy why she’d gone to the Lacan estate in the first place. Maybe she should have explained how Justen had been sabotaging the pinks, and how she’d tried to step in before anyone noticed and traced the problems back to him.

  Then again, that might just give the Poppy more nanothread to hang both the Helos with. She’d wanted to message Justen and warn him, but couldn’t figure out any way to do so without incriminating herself, should anyone else read it. And given her uncle’s suspicions—and worse, Vania’s suspicions ever since she’d gone to Albion the day the prison had been breached—Remy was certain messages to and from Justen Helo were being monitored.

  Maybe that’s why she hadn’t heard from him. Remy refused to think of other reasons. Still, it was odd that the gossip waves, which had previously been so full of items about Persis and Justen, were suddenly silent on the subject. Tonight, Remy had grown frantic as rumors had leaked out about a giant party to be held at Princess Isla’s royal palace. Justen would have to be at that, right? But so far, nothing had come through. Stupid Uncle Damos and his stupid news delay. She’d even tried hacking the system, to no avail. How ironic that she could borrow her uncle’s oblet to give herself a secret soldier identity, but she couldn’t find some simple gossip. Uncle Damos should really get his priorities straight.

  And Justen had better be safe and sound and at that Albian princess’s swanky luau, or the Wild Poppy was in serious trouble.

  A false identity. No wonder she’d thought that she and the Wild Poppy were such similar souls. But what if she’d been wrong there, too? What if the Albian spy, the beautiful Persis Blake, had deceived her just as the revolution had?

  For if the Poppy truly valued their alliance, wouldn’t she have promised Remy that, no matter what, Justen would be safe from her wrath? After all, Remy had done her a great favor in helping the Fords escape. She’d even hurt poor Vania’s military career in doing so. Not that Remy regretted helping the Fords. The Fords’ hatred of the revolution was not mired in aristo bigotry. They had many reg allies. They just hated the path the revolution had chosen to pursue, one in which people were suffering. Remy was too much of a Helo to do anything other than agree. If the choice was between Vania’s quick promotion up the ranks and people being tortured because they just wanted to be left in peace, Remy knew which side she came down on.

  And the same held true for Justen. He was her only family. She would not let him be hurt, no matter what the Wild Poppy thought he deserved for his involvement in the drug. How was Justen supposed to have known how Uncle Damos might use it? But what if Persis was avoiding Remy now because her plans for Justen would destroy their alliance? After all, if Remy were the Poppy and she were about to hurt one of her spies’ brothers, she wouldn’t let the spy in question know.

  On the desk, her oblet pinged, and she saw Justen’s face glow in the area above her desk. At last! Remy rushed over to view the message, only to find there wasn’t one at all. Instead, it was a notification that he’d accessed the keypad at the royal lab. Remy had activated the notification at the same time she’d arranged a military position for herself on the Lacan estate. At the time, she’d thought it vital to know exactly when Justen might sneak back into the lab to sabotage more pills. At the time, she thought she needed to save Justen from himself. Now, she figured she needed to save him from the Poppy.

  Was he back in Galatea?

  Remy sprang into action. She grabbed her military jacket and rushed from her room. The labs were only a few blocks from the palace. If she could catch him there, she could finally talk face-to-face, without fear of their messages being intercepted by the revolution. She could finally tell him what she’d discovered, what she’d been doing, and what kind of danger she believed him to be in. Together, they’d find a place to hide where they could be safe from both the revolution and the treacherous Wild Poppy.

  No one stopped Remy at the gates of the palace. No one bothered her as she moved through the streets of the city. Was it her famous name? Her military jacket? There was a single guard minding the entrance to the royal lab, but she did little more than nod in Remy’s direction as she approached.

  “I’m Remy Helo,” she said. “Did my brother come this way?”

  “Thought your brother was whooping it up with some swanky aristo in Albion,” the guard replied, rolling her eyes. “Kinda disgraceful, huh?”

  Remy narrowed her eyes. “Thanks for your help,” she said in a tone that was anything but grateful. The guard merely shrugged and buzzed her in.

  Most of the corridors were dark, and a scary possibility came to Remy’s mind. If the guard hadn’t seen her brother, who was it in the lab? Maybe it wasn’t Justen here at all. The Poppy had a lot of resources at her disposal: gengineering, nanotechnology. Maybe she’d found a way to steal Justen’s lab access? Maybe . . .

  Get ahold of yourself, Remy. Maybe Justen is helping the Poppy. After all, last time you talked to him, he was a traitor to the revolution, just like you.

  But the deadly look on Persis Blake’s face when she’d asked Remy about the pinks . . . Remy started running. She rushed down corridor after corridor, searching for any trace of human presence. At last she found lights on, far in a back storage room filled with old oblets and records of immunizations from the time of the Helo Cure.

  But that wasn’t all she found. In the middle of the floor, lying in a heap and twitching, lay a figure. She hurried over and knelt at the person’s side, turning him over to see what was wrong. Steely hair, a lined face, and a pained expression met her eyes, and Remy gasped. This was impossible.

  “Papa?” she whispered.

  “Tero . . .” the man who looked like her father wheezed, “promised.”
>
  The voice was gravelly but familiar. Remy leaned in and her eyes widened as she took in all the details of the man’s face. “Justen?”

  He made no response, unless eyes rolling back in his head counted. He was wearing an unfamiliar set of clothes, but at least they looked Galatean. In his hands, Justen held a tin of lavender pills.

  “Justen,” she said, “what happened to you?”

  “Persis . . .” he struggled to say, and then his whole body went slack.

  Terrified, Remy pressed her ear to his chest. His heart was still beating, and now at least, it looked like he was breathing steadily.

  Persis. Remy clenched her jaw. Persis had done this to her brother. She’d . . . given him something to hurt him, to avenge those who’d received the Reduction drug. Whatever these pills were must be meant to counteract the effects, but he hadn’t gotten to them in time. She grabbed the tin and opened it, crushing one of the pills inside and dusting his tongue with the pulverized powder.

  Nothing happened. Maybe they weren’t meant to work immediately. Remy bit her lip. She refused to cry. She was to blame for this. She never should have run off that night he’d confessed his sabotage to her. If she’d stayed and they’d figured this out together, maybe they wouldn’t be in this trouble. Maybe they would have found a way to apologize to Uncle Damos. To reconcile, to stay safe.

  She never should have trusted an Albian aristo. She never should have let the Wild Poppy have free access to her brother. She’d made the wrong choice.

  She had to find Vania.

  BEHIND HER EYELIDS, THE light was cool and gray, but Persis’s body was on fire. Pain coursed through every nerve and fiber of her being, hot and achy and electric. She dared not move, not that she could move much. Even through the agony, she could feel the bite of nanoropes on her wrists, elbows, and ankles. She lay on her side on soft, springy ground, with her hands bound at her back and the dampness of dawn soaking through her clothes.