LEGACY RISING

by Rachel Eastwood

  The automaton returned with another flute of the fine liquid, which Malthus gulped. It was only then that Trimpot rose his own glass to his lips, then pulled it away with raised pink eyebrows. “That is extraordinary,” he agreed. He suddenly began to feel—like himself again, here, with the duke. “What exactly are you saying, Malthus?”

  The duke bore this informal title with a wincing smile. “Well, Leopold, you might find your assignment pleasantly altered, if you are willing to bend rather than to break.” Malthus tilted his head as the idea therein took root and blossomed. “Perhaps you could be introduced to my cabinet of advisors. Perhaps you could be brought on as a diplomat. It’s no secret, after all, that I have all the charisma of a ghoul, and I prefer my mandates to be announced long-distance. Perhaps I could use a professional speaker to improve upon public relations.” From his pocket, Malthus extracted the slender cylinder of a cigarette, followed by a miniature blowtorch. He lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply, and relaxed into himself. “After all, you understand the common folk. You know the way in which to best phrase things. Thereby, you could even maintain the respect of your peers. Because you would not be deserting their cause, would you? You would be championing it from even deeper inside, wouldn’t you? Yet, at the same time . . . you would have the guarantee of success rather than of failure. You would have the fine things which you so clearly prize. You would be paid handsomely for your efforts to quell the herd, rather than to incite them, and no one would be the wiser.” He took another deep inhale and exhale from his cigarette. “No one but you and me.”

  Trimpot glared at his now empty flute. Then he snapped his fingers.

  The queerly beautiful automaton sprang to the ready, bowing deeply and swinging erect again. “Yes, sir?”

  “More champagne,” he commanded, handing the duke’s servant his glass.

  Morning was maturing into evening, and she still hadn’t eaten a thing in almost twenty-four hours.

  Maybe they’re just going to let me starve in here, she thought. I wonder if Trimpot is still alive.

  Curling up onto her bed of tattered rags, Legacy buried her face in the cloth, in spite of the odor, as if subconsciously seeking the comfort of another body. A hug. A hand. A simple word of encouragement. Anything to which to hold.

  She was certain the stars from this vantage point would be particularly beautiful, but at the same time, what did it matter? Her wishes weren’t going to come true, even if they all fell around her head.

  “Oh, god.” A familiar, rich baritone filled the room. “I only just heard.”

  Legacy jerked into an upright position, scouring the shadows for the man she knew owned that voice.

  “Kaizen!” she cried.

  In her heart of hearts, she had dared to hope that the Earl of Icarus would come to her, would take pity on her, might even set her free, if it was within his power. After all, as regrettable as the scene on the CIN-3 stairwell had been, would it not serve to endear her to him? This train of reasoning had filled her with such remorse, though, such self-loathing, that she had forbidden herself to give it the form of words.

  But here he was, as if he had sensed the shiver of her helpless body along the chords of the ether between them, advancing toward the bars of her cell. His hands wrapped there and his eyes roved her circumstance with anguish and empathy. She staggered to a stand and came close enough to nearly press her face to the iron bars of the cell, but again the tension of the chains stretched her arms taut behind her.

  “We’ve got to get you out of here,” Kaizen said. He slid his hand between the bars and threaded his fingers into her silver-white braids. She couldn’t help but press her cheek to his palm and let her eyes close, so grateful for the warmth, for the tenderness of anyone who was moved for her.

  Emotions welled and surged through her body, tidal waves pulling her in every which direction. Mingled with the guilt was gratitude, and with her delirious relief came the pinpricks of harsh judgment.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked, opening her eyes.

  She saw the way he was looking at her, and it wasn’t entirely with pure concern, but also with elements of desire. His gaze swept across the cloying fabric of her simple gown, down to the high slash of its hem. Until this moment, he had only ever seen her in the garments of a boy.

  Legacy chose to ignore this. She had to. She needed help too badly to be discriminatory of its source, or its motivation.

  “I’ll get you out,” Kaizen promised. “I wish I could’ve been here sooner. I’m sorry. But I’m here now.”

  Kaizen’s other hand slid through the bars of her cell as well, his arm snaking around her hips and pulling her body closer, almost against the irons. He pressed his face toward hers, his eyes shutting, and she knew what he wanted. To kiss her. And even knowing that she might die here and never see Dax again, Legacy resisted.

  “Kaizen . . .” she said.

  His eyes opened, dark with confusion.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I can’t, I—I’m already—I have someone,” she explained.

  “You told me you didn’t want to be with your Companion.” He glared at her, frustrated. His mouth sullen with rejection.

  “And I don’t want to be with my Companion,” Legacy agreed. “I want to be with someone else.”

  “What? Like who? Neon Trimpot, is that it?” he snapped. His arms abandoned her body, and he stepped back from the bars like he might explode.

  “No, not Neon Trimpot,” she said. But she didn’t clarify Dax’s identity. She suspected that might be dangerous for him.

  “Then why did you kiss me like that on the stairwell?” he demanded. His demeanor devolved as he ran his fingers through his hair and his eyes searched the dungeon, seeking something to throw or break. Some outlet for this terrible, brand new feeling, so wickedly sharp and cold, digging into him. “Why did you kiss me at all?”

  “I didn’t—You kissed me,” Legacy iterated, however petty of semantics they were.

  “You kissed me back!” he yelled.

  “It was an accident!”

  “An accident? I suppose your legs just spasmed involuntarily around me, did they? Your tongue just—fell into my mouth!”

  “It doesn’t matter!” Legacy cried, cheeks flaming. For the first time, she forgot that she was in a dungeon, famished and exhausted. “It’s not going to happen again!”

  “Fine,” Kaizen said. His eyebrows settled low over his black ice eyes. “You should rest. You must conserve your strength.” He turned to exit the dungeon, leaving Legacy to stare after him in despair. “Never know when you’re going to get fed again in this place.”

  Kaizen stormed over the castle grounds, taking care to rip every flower he saw from off its stem. He stalked through the sweeping entryway of the grand hall, past the servants’ quarters—I would have been happy to send her a fleet of automata, if nothing else!—and past the kitchen—I would’ve brought her lemon cakes and real steak, she should know! She could’ve had champagne and cheese!—and along the twenty-four chaired, polished wood table of the dining hall, where he had envisioned her joining the family for dinner, which was crazy, if he was being honest with himself, then through the drawing room, with its plush animatronic chairs and beautiful rotating paintings . . . Why had she kissed him back? It was still a question she’d never answered! As he pounded up the stairs, he took care to rend the tapestries from the wall and heave them, fluttering, to the ground below.

  “I would have dressed her like a true lady! She would have never felt such material before as I would have demanded to grace her skin!” he ranted senselessly, his voice booming in the acoustics of the rotunda.

  He threw open the door which would lead to the west wing, where his and Sophie’s quarters could be located. Automata lined the wall, awaiting commands brightly as the keys twisted in their backs.

  “I would have seen to it that she was tended by an entire court of you ball-jointed creeps!” he fumed.

/>   “Yes, sir?” Newton-2 rolled forward, anticipating a command. Its head tilted eerily, its face of bone-like glass peering up expectantly, blinking its mechanized eyelids as if that made it remotely human, with those rosy circles of blush painted onto its cheeks and that froth of golden curls sewn into its scalp. It was not quite Kaizen’s size, but he still took great relish in pulling his fist back and smashing it into the thing’s face. He took great relish in the visceral crunch of the porcelain footman beneath his knuckles, and great relish in the smear of human blood which now painted the empty eye socket, the blue marble which had once been its eyeball collapsing into the rolling gears of its “brain.”

  “Y-y-y-yes, s-s-s-sir . . .” Newton-2 repeated, jerking, spasming, its head slowly tilting forward.

  Kaizen brought his shredded knuckle to his mouth and suckled at the wound, glowering down at the destroyed robot. The other automata in the hallway trembled awake, alerted by their malfunctioning brethren.

  “I would have appealed every amendment she desired,” he went on, as if the footman were still “alive,” as if it’d ever had any capacity to listen in a meaningful way. “I would have helped her, she should know. I would have . . . I would have.” He glanced up and glared at the circling automatons. One of the porcelain servants—the closest one—removed the shuddering blond bot’s key.

  “Y-y-y-yes, s-s-s-sirrrr . . .” Newton-2 slumped, eyelids rolling down.

  Kaizen pivoted toward his chamber, then froze.

  Sophie stood at her bedroom door, staring at him in unbridled horror.

  “What did you do!” she wailed, rushing past Kaizen and to the robot down the hall. “Newton! Newton!” Sobbing, she shook the ruined doll. Its head snapped back and forth on its neck, and the marble eye rattled somewhere in its skull.

  Sophie whirled on Kaizen with tears streaming down her face. “What the hell is your problem! He doesn’t understand, you know!” Her cheeks bloomed bright red. “It’s not his fault! He’s doing the best he can! It’s not his fault! It’s not his fault!”

  “Sorry,” Kaizen spat.

  Then he took a deep breath and tried to regain some form of clarity, of control. The jealous fury which gripped him was slow in receding.

  “Sorry,” he repeated with less force, then turned, striding to his chambers with head down, a fine tremble to his hands and mouth. He’d never felt this way before. It was like a poison leaching into his system through the pounding of his heart. Her stupid big eyes, like a dark gold, like cat’s eyes, and that wild, ridiculous mane of braids, and her peasant’s gown, which was surely the finest thing she owned. Her wiry strength, which was too hard anyway, her hands doubtlessly rough. Her dirty feet. He could do better. He could do better even if it was merely a selection made by the difference engines. He could do better if his only Companion ended up being a key-backed, porcelain-fleshed gear brain.

  He opened his bedroom door and slammed it shut in his wake, leaning and loosening, eyes turning blindly over everything sprawled before him. The empty luxury of the personal fireplace, the lonely bed that could fit five if it wanted to, the writer’s desk with its ink and quill, both antiques from Heliopolis which seldom saw use.

  Kaizen flung himself into its cushioned chair, sighing deeply and sinking.

  What the hell is wrong with me? he wondered.

  Sprawled across the wooden desktop was Flywheel, Legacy’s mechanical dragonfly, unwound and dormant.

  Kaizen plucked the tiny assistant by one emerald wing, examining its limp coils of brass, the speaker irises and flexible joints. He had intended to return it to her, but now . . . maybe it could answer the questions which Legacy would not.

  He rolled open a drawer in his desk and rifled, then extracted a bell and rang it.

  A moment later, one of the automata from the corridor came coasting in. They were, in many ways, much better than “real” servants. This robot had no hesitation in its step, no hint of a leeriness as it entered the room. The robot had no knowledge of the way the earl had just destroyed his own footman, Newton-2. Now that the errant node had been removed from the system, its fellow nodes were unaware of its existence.

  “Yes, sir,” the automaton piped, bowing and extending one hand.

  “There you are.” He scrawled a list of his requirements: the thinnest screwdriver, sharp miniaturist’s hook, and a radio coil linked to the keep frequency. “Bring me these three items from Master Addler.”

  While he waited, his forehead sank into his palms, and he tried not to think about the girl in the tower dungeon less than a hundred meters away. Even more than her beauty, there was her strength. Purity and honesty and the way, even barefoot in a prison cell, even hungry and staring down the barrel of execution, she had the integrity to reject him . . . Damnit. Damnit. Kaizen peered up from his hands. Would she deserve anything that his vindictive father might be poised to do to her?

  Duke Malthus Taliko had migrated to the throne room in order to mull over these very issues with his attentive cabinet of advisors. Sentries lined the wall, various models of firearm weighing down their holsters. The only automaton present was Valkenhayn-2, the Duke’s personal footman.

  “There’s the matter of these prisoners, now,” the Duke began, casting his gaze about the assembled court of six. “It’s most important that I must not look weak. Or be a fool. It’s also most important that I send some kind of statement which . . . really and truly disembowels that idealistic hogwash Chance for Choice has been spouting.” Malthus nodded to himself. “And I do have Trimpot right here . . .”

  “But they’re so young,” the Steward, Claude, hawk-nosed and black-haired, spoke up. He looked for confirmation from his colleagues, though none vouched for the truth of this, regardless of its truth.

  Hm. I suppose he believes that I am insinuating an execution is in order. And, in all honesty, Malthus had considered it. Just cut the head right off the snake; why not? But then, what if its spasming tail whipped around and caught him? What if another head grew in its place, and one not so easily bought? As the old saying went, the evil which he knew was better than the evil which he did not. But could he trust Trimpot?

  “Hmm, yes,” Malthus grumbled. “He’s doubtlessly beloved by someone or other, isn’t he.”

  “And only guilty of vandalism in any provable capacity,” Claude went on. “It would seem harsh and unfounded, perhaps--” Again, he looked for support, even from the Chancellor, who was bound to see the tenuous legal position an execution would place on the judge. Still, he found no quarter, and forged on. “Perhaps it would seem imbalanced.”

  “Though, certainly, the leap to treason and conspiracy is not a vast one,” the Duke’s primary advisor, Abner, added caustically.

  “I’m losing my grip on the people, you see,” the Duke said to him, idly massaging a temple. “So I wonder if, perhaps, a display of leniency is necessary to calm the masses. But how to appear gentle without appearing also weak, or strong without being a tyrant?”

  “Well, that’s all an issue of how to frame the incident,” Claude chirped. “Completely reasonable! I suggest we contact Dyna. She’s always been quite the resource in a public image crisis.”

  The door to the throne room was flung open, and every sentry along the wall drew their death rays without pause, only hesitating as they recognized the lanky stalk and billowing blond mane of the Earl of Icarus.

  Malthus raised his eyebrows, only partially interested as his insolent son strode purposefully across the room. What is it now? he had to wonder with a grimace.

  “I know what you’re talking about and you simply can’t!” he barked dramatically.

  Malthus fought the urge to roll his eyes. He couldn’t remember ever being so young as his son was today.

  “Can’t what, Kaizen?” he asked dully.

  “You can’t just decide what to do with Legacy, like she’s some rag doll who’s fallen into your possession!”

  Leg--? Oh yes. The girl. Forgot about her. Should se
nd someone to feed her, I suppose.

  “So that is what you need to become interested in the responsibilities of a duke, is it?” Malthus asked darkly. “A pretty young thing to be at stake. Leave us, counsel. You have been much appreciated. Thank you.”

  The Duke steepled his fingers and regarded his petulant progeny thoughtfully as his court filtered from the throne room. “What would you have me do, Kaizen?” he murmured, glowering. “If you were in my position, what would you do?”

  “I-- I suppose I would listen to her complaints!” Kaizen said.

  Malthus could have laughed if the answer weren’t so completely without the lightness of humor. “Truly, Kaizen?” he asked, making his sense of superiority clear.

  “She’s a smart girl!” his son cried. “And she’s strong! I would consider her an ally, an advisor, the voice of the . . .”

  Well, it’s clear that Kaizen has gotten his first crush, Malthus thought as his son went on and on about the girl in the tower. And on a rebellious peasant . . . That figures. It’s a shame I can’t use the boy to make my statement. He’s certainly weak enough to throw himself onto the blade of the monarchy in my stead. Certainly would do anything his little heart desired--so long as it displeased me. But, for once, I’ve actually got that worm in my grip. That’s not half a bad idea.

  “. . . isn’t even the real problem, you know, but only a symptom of the problem! She’s not a bad woman!” Kaizen paced, ranting, oblivious to the shrewd glare in his father’s eyes. “She’s just unhappy with the lack of options, and honestly, the hallmark of a doomed society is one which refuses . . .”

  But how could I use Kaizen to make my statement? What kind of statement can someone as minor as an Earl make? None, really . . . None except to clarify the lineage of the crown. Solidify things . . . Hm.