LEGACY RISING

by Rachel Eastwood

  “Such a rebel, you are,” Kaizen said, smirking at her lovingly as Newton-2 secured his belt. “It’s not my dream, but it’s all right. It’s mostly symbolic, and anyway, after my father dies, perhaps I could—petition for those amendments to the Companion laws.” For a moment, he simply stared at Legacy, and she thought that he was implying that, after his father died, perhaps he would make her his duchess. But then he clarified, “And you could be with that—that person you want to be with. Whoever they are.”

  Meanwhile, Dax and Vector shared a carriage which was trundling toward the drawbridge. Many security measures had been disabled for the increased traffic. The second gate was going to be unlocked for the entirety of the day, as was the third gate, and only the first, with its exterior scan, was still operational. There would visual scans and tickets taken between the third gate and the grand hall, the men were sure of that. Vector had his ticket, which allowed for one guest, but he knew Dax was blacklisted. He also knew that neither of them were planning to follow the current of guests into the event hall, anyway. Dax would be branching off toward the prison tower for Legacy. He would have to attempt to blend with the sentries. Vector would be avoiding any and all security as he searched for the earl’s footman bot, likely at the front of the throne room, where the dignitaries and aristocrats would be seated, socializing. The automaton couldn’t be too hard to find; it would be the most complex of the turn-key attendants there, and it would certainly be standing at the ready, stiff and formal, near to the throne.

  If Vector was searched, his Contemplator would certainly be confiscated and destroyed, and he would surely be hanged for conspiracy and treason. But he cared more about his Contemplator being destroyed.

  The carriage lurched to a halt, and Vector grasped and steadied his enormous top hat. The carriage then lurched again, bouncing along the cobbled roadway. Another carriage had joined the traffic. The first gate loomed ahead.

  “Both got a lot to lose,” Vector noted, staring out the cabin window with anticipation. This clenching in his stomach suggested that something was wrong, but he pushed the premonition away.

  “That’s always true,” Dax replied, trying his best to be flippant.

  “When I see you again, I’ll be an unofficial duke,” Kaizen said, stooping to brush a kiss against Legacy’s lips. The gesture had been almost accidental, little more than reflexive, and he was too preoccupied with the coming coronation to even notice he’d done it.

  Legacy didn’t stop him, either. She, too, was moved by the current circumstance, and laced her fingers up into his hair, clutching a handful of the stuff and opening his mouth with her tongue.

  Kaizen responded with the immediacy of a chemical reaction, making sounds as if he were eating a rich dessert, remembering that he normally didn’t kiss Legacy and then forgetting, remembering and then forgetting again, clinging to the fabric of her dress with a groan.

  “Kaizen,” Legacy said the moment his lips left hers. His mouth trailed firm, insistent kisses down her throat. “You’ve got to listen to me.”

  “You should stay again tonight,” he murmured from her shoulder. “And I promise you can leave tomorrow, I promise, promise, promise . . .” His mouth whispered up her neck.

  “Coronation ceremony to commence in one hour,” Newton-2 inserted.

  “Shut up!” Kaizen yelled over his shoulder, as if Newton-2 could understand. “Go bother someone else!”

  Apparently the bot could understand, for he next clinked merrily from the room.

  “Kaizen, listen to me,” Legacy said, pulling from him so as to gaze into his eyes directly. “You cannot accept that crown today. Do you hear me? You cannot.”

  For the first time, Kaizen regarded her with a sliver of suspicion. “Why not?”

  Rain had been kind enough to throw together a crude rendering of the royal sentry uniform, based on Dax’s recollections from his earlier confrontations with the troop, but one key difference between an official royal sentry and Dax Ghrenadel was the rebreather he wore. He doubted any of the soldiers would be shrewd enough to recognize a hurried stitch job or a minor difference in the gradient of the fabric, but the castle would not have hired a man with his deficiency.

  The automaton chauffeur braked as their carriage reached the first gate. The scanner hummed, the carriage idled, and then they trundled on again. Rocking back and forth, as if this were a lazy weekend drive.

  Dax hadn’t mentioned this aloud—although it was possible that everyone had figured it out already—but he would have to take off his rebreather for the entirety of the mission. At least until he found Legacy, if not throughout. The likelihood that he’d simply collapse would increase as time went on, but . . . wasn’t that always true?

  Dax pulled off his characteristic rumpled, collared shirt, and shrugged on the black, militaristic turtleneck. He glanced up and caught the second gate sweeping by in the window. It wouldn’t be long now. He slid a navy blue armband into place, the seal of the Taliko family vaguely rendered in a freehand stitch.

  Vector obsessively straightened his top hat. “Here comes the third gate,” he said. “Does my hat look like a normal hat?”

  “Because—” Legacy hesitated, the enormity of her words jamming in her throat, and then all exploding in a deluge of confession. “Because someone is going to try to kill you!”

  Kaizen didn’t say anything. He just looked at her. A hard, discerning look.

  “You weren’t going to tell me something like that?” he asked.

  Legacy looked down. “There’s—I—There’s a lot at stake for me, telling you that,” she defended herself. She looked back up at him. Her eyes bore all the somber pride of a dying queen. “I’ll probably be executed now.”

  “You and your friends, right?” he asked. “It’s Chance for Choice, isn’t it? That’s how you know.”

  Now that she’d begun to speak candidly, she found it difficult to stop. It felt good to tell the truth. “I’m sorry, but I told you, and now you know, and it doesn’t matter what happens to me or—or anyone else, because the blood of an innocent man isn’t on my hands.”

  Kaizen turned this information over in his head. “All right,” he said. “All right. Stay here. I’ll . . . I’ll be back.”

  He turned from her and strode to the door, and the image of the young earl, wearing the full regalia of his house, struck her like an ill omen.

  “Kaizen,” she called, feeling sick.

  He hesitated and met her eyes, jaw tense, then strode the length of the room back to her and kissed her once more, furiously enough to bend her backwards. He gripped the thin chain of her handcuffs and tore it in half, freeing her hands to travel his body. Then they separated, a fresh ache to throb in both of them, and she watched him leave and not look back. Flywheel crept into her hair as if he, too, could sense the coming storm.

  Duke Malthus Taliko was in the throne room, of course. That was where the royal family should all have been—with the exception of Sophie, who was not allowed to be seen, certainly by a visiting dignitary. Malthus had been patiently and graciously receiving guest after guest for the past hour or so, occasionally forcing himself to smile and explain, as he was to Duke Lovelace now, who had been kind enough to attend the Taliko coronation ceremony, that Kaizen was perfectly aware of the time and certainly was on his way posthaste.

  “Good, good,” Lovelace said, smiling. “Need to be a strong duke in a city like Icarus, I imagine. I’ve heard you’re having . . . problems here.”

  “Oh, no hand stronger than Kaizen’s, I assure you,” Malthus lied. “He’s got the heart of a fire-breathing beast.”

  He caught sight of his wayward son just then, approaching in the regalia of the house, at long last. The coronation was due to start in less than an hour and his damn footman bot had been in the throne room longer than he had.

  “Here he is,” Malthus announced through gritted teeth.

  “Dad!” Kaizen cried, sounding more like a young pauper than risin
g nobility. “We need to talk!”

  Malthus offered Lovelace an apologetic smile of false calm. “Excuse us,” he said coolly.

  Lovelace smiled at Kaizen, shook his hand, congratulated him, and descended from the throne.

  Malthus turned on the boy with hateful eyes. In truth, it was he who breathed fire, and not his son. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, apoplectic. “You’re late! And you’re informal! That was the Duke of Celestine! Celestine!”

  Unprecedented, the earl grabbed his father’s arm in some display of humility, like a beggar. And on the day of his coronation! In the damn throne room! Malthus raged on silently, sick with desire to smack his face. But he couldn’t. Not here.

  “I have it on good authority that there’s going to be an attempt on my life at the ceremony,” Kaizen gushed. “You’ve got to call it off.”

  The duke glared at his son thoughtfully. “An attempt on your life?” he repeated, his voice like a knife of ice. “How? Who? Where did you hear that?”

  Kaizen opened his mouth, but his eyes belied that he had any words to speak at all.

  “It’s that girl, isn’t it?” he growled. “You’ve seen that girl with the CC.” The blankness in his son’s eyes only widened. It was like peering into the night sky, his eyes were so vast and empty. “That is it,” he concluded. “Legacy, wasn’t that her name? But you haven’t left the grounds. You haven’t left the grounds, and she’s been blacklisted from public events, so she would not be permitted here. So, then, where is she?”

  “She’s—She’s not—” he stammered.

  “Can’t you see that this is what that little harlot wants? You! Blinded! Her puppet! Playing perfectly into the CC’s hand! If only I could go back in time, I would’ve let you be with a woman, by God, any woman, a porcelain woman, just so long as you could keep your head on straight when it really counted. Kaizen. If we cancel this coronation, it would be as if you’d bowed down from the throne itself. I might as well stand here and invite every single citizen of Icarus to give me hell, right in the gut. That’s how weak we would look. How tender of foot. Uncertain. Unpredictable. Untrustworthy. Is that what you want to show Icarus? What a soft, scared leader you will be when I am gone?”

  Kaizen was at a loss for words, and Malthus glowered down at him. The duke was always able to make his son feel like a miniature of himself, and as brainless as automata.

  “Stay right here at this throne and be polite to our guests,” Malthus commanded. “I’ll be back in one moment. There’s something I need to do.”

  The man walked only a handful of paces, held hushed conference with a sentry, and then returned. “All well and done, then,” he announced, patting Kaizen on the back and smiling. “Have a seat with your mother,” he told the boy. “Or go shake some hands, damn you. Don’t just stand here.”

  Kaizen stared at his father for a moment. “What did you do?” he finally resolved to ask.

  “What? Oh. Oh, yes. I’ve had guards sent to your chambers to extract that girl and place her in the tower, where she belongs.”

  Kaizen stepped to lunge for the nearest exit, but his father gripped his arm and pulled him back into place. “You’ll get her back,” he promised, wholly unamused. “You’ll get her back after the ceremony.”

  “Father!” Kaizen cried, horrified, terrified.

  “I also increased the security at the grand hall entrance,” Malthus added. “It will be fine. Now shut up and smile.”

  Vector and Dax separated from the carriage, Dax off toward the prison tower, attempting to blend with the security moving to and fro over the grounds, and Vector into the castle, scanning the crowds for the footman automaton of Kaizen Taliko. Of course, the damn bots were everywhere, and they all looked so alike. The personal assistant of the earl, however, was bound to be in the throne room, where the future duke would be expected to receive guests. It wouldn’t be that hard to isolate.

  Vector shuffled along with the mass of the crowd, watching for the royal family, watching for where the throng would split into its two strata: the common and the elite. The elite strata, in their silken petticoats and enormous top hats, diverged toward the front of the room, sweeping along plush, velveteen seats.

  There, at the throne itself. There stood the duke and the earl, having a notably intense conversation. Off to their left was the coterie of royal automata. The duke’s bot. The duchess’ bot. And the earl’s bot. Vector couldn’t remember their names, and who would? They were porcelain dolls in greater finery and with more rights than he would ever know. Vector’s jaw clenched, and his doubts evaporated. This had to be done. A message had to be sent. For the present, and for the future, and for the people.

  Vector pulled the top hat from his head and nimbly tipped it upside down. The Contemplator fit—very snugly, but fit—inside. Its crank was in the upright position. He reached into the hat, but the crank couldn’t develop the momentum necessary from within. Oh well, he thought. So be it.

  Hefting the Contemplator into clear sight, he churned the first ream of celluloid fiber as quickly as he could, and the horn on top of the device emitted its low, unearthly pulse. This was the stop-program, which had effectively disabled simpler bots from their original tasks. He could only pray it worked on something as sophisticated as a castle automaton.

  Over the muffled rumble of the crowd, some people examined the throne room, seeking the source of that odd noise.

  All the automata went suddenly idle. Even across the castle, automata who offered to take coats and hats froze in mid-sentence, their mouths hanging open dumbly, their eyes glassy as if in shock. Bots who performed functions as simple as polishing silverware stilled, even as their tiny keys turned. In the dungeon tower on the leftmost island, Flywheel tumbled from where he had been hidden in Legacy’s braids.

  Vector ripped the first strip from its gears and shakily threaded the second. This was the kill-program, which would instruct the automaton under its influence to focus and attack its imprinted master with all the force of its pulleys and pistons.

  He could see that he had attracted the attention of more than one pair of eyes, but the onlookers only displayed interest, not horror. They’d never seen a Contemplator before, after all. No one had. It could have been totally innocent, and at times, it certainly was. But then the horn unleashed its second pulse. The deep, rich bleat of the kill-program.

  And then, the coat-and-hat-check automata pulled themselves erect with glowing, intent eyes. Their marionette mouths seemed to form malevolent smiles. Their heads tilted to the other side, as if carefully considering the aristocrats before them.

  “Hello? Hello?” they asked, leaning closer, squinting. “Won’t you take my hat?”

  And then all hell broke loose.

  Every automaton flung themselves forward, dashing gladly against their masters. The throne room, and in truth, the castle grounds as a whole, filled with screams to such a degree that even Dax, who was racing toward the dungeon tower, stopped to behold the madness. It was everywhere, but it was the worst in the castle, and then, the worst in the throne room. Blood slashed the walls as the automata cracked and shattered, but the assaults were ongoing. Shrieking guests stampeded to their carriages—but their chauffeurs smashed against their bell jars with murderous zeal. It was everywhere. There was no escape.

  The guards sworn to protect the royal families also dropped, the radio coils in their eyes burning red.

  Meanwhile, Valkenhayn-2 heaved himself onto the duke, his program for words overridden and deleted.

  “Stop!” Malthus commanded, falling back.

  But the automaton footman gripped the back of his master’s neck with one porcelain-jointed hand, balling the other into a fist and smashing it into Malthus’ face. The delicate glass splintered and came away easily, lacerating the duke’s face as it went, exposing Valkenhayn-2’s brass knuckles beneath.

  The automaton footman’s mouth opened and shut with a clatter, as if he were laughing, but it coul
dn’t be. It just couldn’t be.

  The duke could hardly see anymore. He could hardly do anything anymore but thrash in the metal man’s embrace, succumbing to an exquisite, singing pain.

  Up in the prison tower, Flywheel repeatedly rammed his dragonfly body into Legacy. “Ow!” she yelped, glaring at the thing. He’d been so functional until now . . . “Ow!” she yelped again as the dragonfly pinched her. “Stop it!”

  She swatted at him, and her little assistant was flung against a wall, where he clattered and dropped.

  “Leg!” Dax’s voice called behind her.

  Legacy whirled and felt the cocktail of relief and regret and nausea and desperation that was becoming common of seeing Dax. Only this time, it was worse. It was worse because he was dragging in each breath with great effort, and his skin was gossamer and stark. He wore the garb of a sentry, and no rebreather.

  “Dax,” she cried. “Your mask!”

  “But you’re—What are you . . . wearing?” he asked, limping toward the iron bars. “That’s awfully . . . sexy for prison . . . don’t you . . . think?” he wheezed.

  Legacy’s face clotted with blood. “I—Ow! Shit, Flywheel, quit it!” she cried, as the dragonfly dive-bombed her hair and pulled furiously at her braids. “That really hurts!” she insisted, smacking at her own head until the dragonfly came loose again.

  “It’s all the . . . bots,” Dax explained, taking the Cipher-Scope from his pocket and fitting it over the jail lock with shaking hands. “It’s . . . our fault,” he continued. “We’ve got to get . . .” He sucked in a deep, painful breath. “. . . out of here . . . Leg . . . now.”

  “Why, what’s—what’s—ow!”

  “We used the Contemplator . . . on the earl’s auto . . . maton . . . footman,” he explained loudly. The Cipher-Scope nearly drowned him out. “But something went . . . wrong! It’s affecting . . . all the . . . automata. Even Flywheel, apparently! Like I . . . said! We’ve got to get... out of here!”