Princess of Lies and Legends (The Evolved Book 2)

by Veronica Sommers

  "We have arrived." Ridley's voice is cold and stiff.

  Rak gives me another long kiss and steps out of the pod.

  "Watch Berri's live newsfeed tonight," I call after him. "And tell Alik and Safi to watch it, too."

  "I will. I love you."

  And then the pod doors close, and he's gone.

  As soon as I reach home, I get to work.

  I notify the North Dixan coach that I'm accepting the spot on the team, and that my consort will be coming with me to study medicine at Rippan College. Within a half hour I receive an enthusiastic message and a very lengthy contract, plus travel papers. I already have the medical reports from the exam I underwent upon my return from Emsalis, so I submit those as part of the packet and return everything to him, filled out and ready to go.

  Then, taking a deep breath, I wave Berri, feedrunner extraordinaire.

  She greets me warmly. "Miss Remay. What can I do for you?"

  "I've got another scoop for you. Something bigger and juicier than last time. Any chance you'd let me come on your show tonight?"

  "Tonight? I've already got a guest—"

  "You can't bump them to another night?"

  She sighs. "Listen—I like you, and your story last time gave me a nice boost—but I'm not your personal broadcast service."

  "I promise this is the last time. It's big stuff, Berri. But if you can't have me on tonight, I'll check with the Chandrey Chatfeed." I have no intention of going to Mals Chandrey with my information, but I'm betting that the mention of her rival will sway Berri in my favor.

  She groans. "You've got something juicy, you say? Can you give me any hints?"

  "Not yet. But your listeners will want to hear it."

  She taps her chin with her finger. "Your little kidnapper romance tale earned me more views than I've ever had, so I suppose I can swing this. Come by the studio about an hour before live time and we'll prep you for camera. Last time you looked a little greasy."

  "Don't tell my stylist that," I say, grinning.

  "Wouldn't dream of it. See you then."

  I don't call Demi to style me for the interview, mostly because I want to be alone for the remaining few hours until the big moment. I can dress myself and fix my own makeup—and that's all secondary anyway. What matters most is crafting my speech.

  I've learned many speeches for my goodwill tours in the past. Those were polished, emotionless collections of pretty words, spoon-fed to me by my father's publicists. On this night, I need words that will connect with the deepest emotions of my people, the people of Ceanna. Most Ceannans seem to experience life on the surface, their disappointment and happiness floating like bits of driftwood on a bright sea, while hulking shipwrecks laced with skeletons drown in the dark below. I have to make them look past the glittery lives they lead, to the rotting truth underneath.

  Over and over I work the words, until I have something decent. I'm so tired of crafting and polishing it that I have no idea if it's good enough. But I'm out of time. I need to get to Berri's studio, so it will have to do.

  Quickly I squish most of my clothes and cosmetics into a large travel case, along with a few keepsakes. Right after the session with Berri, I plan to go to Rak's for good, and leave Ceanna with him as soon as possible.

  With the travel case and my aeroball gear bag, I slip out of the house. Tram calls my hoverpod, and he and Ridley escort me aboard without commenting on my extra baggage.

  On the way to the studio, I take out my com device and message Safi. In one hour, I need you to go live with the suppressor data on all the public feedlines we discussed. Post as much as you can, as fast as you can. And make sure no one can trace the posts back to you.

  I wait, chewing my lip, until her reply pops up on my holoscreen. Will do. Are you going public? Rak says be careful.

  Meet you after, I respond. Tell him I love him.

  Gross. No.

  I smile. Then I swipe away the message service and read my speech again and again on the holoscreen, doing my best to memorize it word for word. As long as I can get the main points across, I'll have done my duty.

  My stomach roils and clenches. I'm glad I didn't eat anything for dinner; I doubt it would stay down.

  "Miss Zilara." Ridley's cool voice carries a note of concern. "Are you all right?"

  A hysterical laugh bubbles up in me. Those were the words my head of security, Vern, spoke to me right before we landed in Emsalis—minutes before the bomb went off in the exit chute, days before a hole was blown through his head, right in front of me.

  "I'm all right," I say, taking a deep breath. "Or I will be, after this."

  "What are you doing?" Ridley asks.

  Startled, I meet her dark eyes. She never asks me what I'm up to, rarely questions my moves or motives. It's not her job. But after all I've put my guards through lately, they have a right to know about this.

  In the quiet of the pod, I read my speech aloud to Tram and Ridley.

  When I'm done, Ridley reaches over and takes my hand. "Do you really need to do this? Your father—he won't like it."

  "He'll hate me for it. But what more can he do? He has already cut off my allowance. He can't very well place me under house arrest, can he? And I've already made arrangements for my schooling that don't involve him, so if he threatens to cut my university funding, it won't matter."

  The pod halts outside a tall building. "Here we are," I say. "Let's do this."

  The next hour passes quickly—some waiting in the reception room outside the studio, a form to sign. An attendant adjusts my makeup and adds what feels like an avalanche of powder. I hope to the stars it's a match for my light brown skin—otherwise I'm going to look oddly color-blocked on the vid. Why am I even worried about that? I have far greater things to fear.

  Finally I'm sitting on one end of a sofa while Berri lounges at the other, greeting me and telling me, in phrases laced with slang and swear words, how happy she is to have me on the show again. "I hear you have interesting news to share?"

  I take a deep breath, because this is it. These are the words that will change my life. "What I told you before, about Rak and I in Emsalis—it was all true. But it wasn't the whole truth. While I was there, I discovered that the Magnate and his generals have been lying to all of us."

  25

  Berri stares at me, her face alight with glee. She waves for me to continue, so I keep going, the words I prepared rolling off my tongue.

  "Emsalis is not at peace. She is a nation ripped apart by fighting factions, while Unity and the Ceannan Peace-Keepers are actually making the problem worse. The Fray rebels are striving for autonomy and independence. They just want Ceanna out of their country so they can enter into peace talks with Unity and join forces against the Vilor."

  Quickly, colorfully, I describe the murderous habits of the Vilor; the suffering and starvation of the people in Saghir; the poverty and despair in Ankerja; and the desperation of the Fray rebels. I have to keep it short. Once my father hears of this interview, he'll have his staff shut down Berri's live feed.

  "While our troops occupy Ceanna, peace talks cannot happen, and the conflict will never stop. The people will grow poorer and the economy weaker. Women and children will continue to suffer rape and violence. Men and boys will be thrown into the neverending battle, only to die uselessly for a cause they are helpless to achieve."

  I take a deep breath and drive the last nail into my coffin. "Ceanna needs to pull out of Emsalis. Let them work it out on their own, or let a coalition of nations work with them to achieve peace. What we're doing isn't working."

  Berri clears her throat. "That's quite a statement, Miss Remay. I'm guessing your father, the Magnate, wouldn't agree with you there?"

  "I'm quite sure he wouldn't. But I hope he will grant me the courtesy of having my own opinion, since I've actually been on the ground in Emsalis and he has not."

  Berri raises her eyebrows. "Anything else you'd like to say to your father, or to your fellow C
eannans?"

  "Just one more thing." And this is the second bomb I have planned to drop. My words will light the fuse. "When the Fray rebels removed my skull implant, I discovered that my parents had included a suppressor in the implant, without my knowledge. I have since learned that many young Evolved humans throughout Ceanna have similar additions to their skull-port implants—suppressors, put there by the government to keep them under control."

  Now Berri looks horrified. I can tell from her face that she knew about this technology, and she knows this isn't a topic we should be discussing. Too late.

  "I have proof," I say quickly, and I rattle off the list of feedline addresses where Safi is posting the information. "I can't tell you where I got the evidence because I have to protect my source, but check out the images, the data files. It's all real. And to all my fellow Ceannans—stop letting your elders decided who you will be. Ask questions. Don't trust the skull-port tech. Find out—"

  "That's all the time we have," says Berri, with a chopping motion at the vid camera operator. "Off! Now! Julep, run adverts!"

  The pink-haired girl in the tech booth nods, and the vid guy lowers his device. "Is that true, Miss Remay? About the suppressors?" he says.

  "Yes," I say, looking him in the eye. "We can't trust the skull-port technology."

  Berri's lips are tight, her eyes angry. "I'm going to be shut down," she snaps at me. "The first part, the political stuff, you might have gotten away with—but suppressors and skull-port tech? You're going down for that, and you're dragging me with you." She waves the vid guy away. "Get out of here, Platten. Don't bother coming in again until you hear from me. Most likely our feed is going to be crunched."

  "I'm sorry," I say. "But it was an important message, and I needed to get it out. Your feed has the most live viewers."

  "I'm well aware. Do you know how long I've worked to build up this level of viewership?" She's marching to the door of the studio, cursing, and I follow.

  "That doesn't fix what you just did."

  "Maybe it won't be as bad as you think," I say. "I wish you the best."

  "Screw you." She shakes me off and hurries away.

  Rising from a couch nearby, Tram and Ridley don't ask what I did to piss off Ceanna's most influential independent newsfeed host. They simply escort me to the hoverpod.

  "Where to?" Tram asks.

  "Rak's new place" I say, and the nav system chimes in response. The pod soars into a lane and skims along it, toward the man I love.

  My heart thumps in my chest, and smiles break over my face like waves as I think of how he'll react when I arrive. I imagine his eyes glowing with pride. He'll fuss at me for being reckless, but then he'll tell me how much it meant to hear me defend his cause to my people.

  The hoverpod jerks, stutters. Freezes in midair. Then it swerves, taking a completely different route.

  "Tram?" I ask. "What's going on?"

  "I'm not sure." He presses a few buttons.

  "Pod AI, engage," I say. "Why are we going this way?"

  "Your destination has changed," says the cool female voice.

  "Why?"

  "Your destination has changed because the primary operator has changed. A new route has been entered."

  "What route?" I say. "To where?"

  "You are en route to the Offices of the Magnate."

  "No, no!" I exclaim. "Engage previous address."

  "To change your destination, please enter the primary operator code."

  Quickly I rattle off the combination of letters and numbers.

  "I'm sorry. That is incorrect," says the pod AI.

  I swear loudly.

  "I'm sorry. That is incorrect," she repeats.

  "Tram?" I look at him desperately.

  He tries his code, and it fails as well. "I'm sorry, Miss Remay. It appears your father wants to speak with you."

  Dread, heavy as stone, drops in my stomach.

  I knew something like this might happen—would happen; but I didn't expect it to be so immediate. I had hoped to hide out at Safi's or Rak's place while the storm of my father's anger raged. I didn't think he would have his security guys hijack my pod.

  The pod carries us to the front of my father's office complex. The pale peaks of the building glow like poisonous horns in the dark.

  At the entrance to my father's office suite, four black-clad guards block our way. "Miss Zilara, you may go on in," says one of them. "You two are dismissed." He nods to Tram and Ridley.

  "Dismissed?" Ridley frowns.

  "Your services will not be needed for the foreseeable future," says the guard tonelessly.

  "What?" I gasp. "They're my bodyguards. I do need them."

  "If you do not leave the premises, you'll be escorted out and served with an official reprimand," says the guard, without looking at me.

  Ridley's eyes meet mine, fierce and furious. She's ready to challenge this man, to take them all on, if I give the word. Tram actually cracks his knuckles.

  "No." I shake my head. "Thank you, but—I can't let you get into trouble for my sake. Go—I'll be fine."

  Ridley takes a step forward—but when I nod to Tram, he hooks a meaty hand through her arm and tugs. "Come on," he says.

  She lets him lead her away, down the hall, but when she glances back at me, her dark face is tense with worry.

  I wet my dry lips with my tongue and walk between the black-clad guards, through the quiet carpeted reception area, to my father's office doors. Four more guards flank the entrance, two on each side.

  I pause, trying to steady my breathing. Trying not to be that little girl, so long ago, who told her teacher about a scary argument at home and caused nationwide embarrassment for the ruling family. That little girl who was locked in her room all day without food as punishment for her indiscretion.

  Our family rules are simple—follow the political line. Don't talk about private things publicly. Never openly disagree with the Magnate.

  I've broken the rules.

  But I'm not a little girl anymore—and if a band of Fray rebels and a gang of Vilor and a wretched desert couldn't break me, I'll be damned if my father will.

  I touch the doors, and they slide smoothly aside.

  My father sits at his desk, facing the wall of windows, his profile crisp and austere.

  I won't cower by the door. I haven't done anything I'm ashamed of.

  Squaring my shoulders, I march across the carpet, red as spilled rubies, or blood—and I face him across the desk.

  "Next time you want to see me, wave me—don't hijack my transportation," I say, bracing both palms on his desk.

  "You forget yourself, Zilara," he says quietly. "Do not think that you can speak to me as a daughter, after what you did tonight."

  His eyes, poison-green with muddy streaks, lock with mine. "I'll make this quick, because I have emergency meetings to attend and a statement to give, thanks to you. Sit."

  I take one of the chairs, folding my arms.

  "You have undermined me," he says. "Openly rebelled against my policies in a way that I can't ignore."

  "What I said is true. You must know that at this point, our troops' presence in Emsalis is only destabilizing the country further. They're not getting the chance to work things out for themselves."

  "You said as much in your little interview." His expression darkens. "I get enough of this ignorance and emotional thinking from the idiots on the International Panel. I thought I could expect support and comprehension from my own daughter, my flesh and blood—but I suppose it's too much to ask, even after we've given you the very best life and education you could possibly have. After all of that, after everything I've done for our country, you don't trust my judgment."

  "You're complaining that I don't trust you? That's funny, coming from the man who had a suppressor installed in my skull-port so I wouldn't realize the extent of my ability." I stare him down.

  His eyes gleam, not an ounce of regret in them. "We repressed your ability for your ow
n protection and that of others."

  I lean forward. "Whatever your reasons, it was wrong to keep this a secret. Evolved kids and teens all over Ceanna are being suppressed by the government, and now everyone knows about it. You can't hide it anymore."

  "How do you suggest we handle the problem?" he says. "Allow Evolved freaks to unleash themselves upon our population? If anything, Zilara, you've made the issue worse. Before, we inhibited Evolved humans of Rank 5 and up quietly, without their knowledge. They didn't know, so they didn't mind. They could live normally. Now we're going to have to make the suppression mandatory. People will fight it, because they love to fight what's good for them, and I'll have twice the mess on my hands." His eyes burn so fiercely at me that I half-expect green fire to shoot from the sockets.

  "Freedom is always the right choice."

  "Is it? And what makes you the expert?" he sneers. "Zilara Remay, only eighteen, a political expert and self-styled freedom fighter. You are one girl, not even out of university yet. Your popularity may have had a cheap spike after Emsalis, and after your stunt with the young rebel, but it will fall again—trust me, it will plummet to depths you've never imagined." His voice shakes. "I'll see to it. You have no influence, no voice, no power but what I allow."

  "I don't belong to you. I'm not someone you can bend to your will."

  "Oh, you'll bend. You know your mother was like you, once. Full of ideas and questions and interference. And now—you see how she is. She does what she's told. She's been tamed, as a woman should be."

  "More like broken," I retort. "What did you do to her?"

  Instead of answering, he rises from his chair. "It seems the doctor who evaluated you underestimated the extent of the psychological damage inflicted by your captors."

  "That's how you're going to play it?" I raise my eyebrows. "That I've been brainwashed, or that I'm crazy?"

  My father snaps his fingers, and a thin man unfolds from a chair in the back corner of the office. I didn't even see him there.

  The man crosses the floor with quick steps, holding out his hand to greet me. An old-fashioned gesture, one we don't often use in Ceanna. Odd. I glance at his hand—and something sharp flashes between his fingers.