Across a Star-Swept Sea

by Diana Peterfreund

  “Have you heard their story?” she asked. “I have. They were enslaved on their own ancestral lands, put to hard labor for the amusement of their prison guards.” Until the Wild Poppy rescued them.

  “Oh, the horror,” Justen grumbled without turning around. “To have to labor. Like all their servants did for generations. Like your servants do now.”

  Persis bristled. “My servants do their jobs. They work fair hours and are paid fair wages. They aren’t enslaved or imprisoned”—she hesitated, framing the words more carefully, more like Persis Blake ought—“and we don’t give them drugs to make them stupid, either.”

  “But what of the Reduced servants Lord Seri didn’t want to give the cure to?” Justen asked, turning to look at Persis at the helm. “Choosing to withhold the cure from them would have enslaved them forever—in body and in their own minds.”

  Persis gripped the wheel tightly as a shudder skimmed beneath her skin. That’s what was happening to the prisoners in Galatea. And it wasn’t only the revolution that held such horrible fates for its people. Even here in Albion, some were enslaved in their minds, and some had that future looming before them, with no possible escape. There was nothing Persis could do for the Darkened—nothing at all. But even if such inevitabilities were written into her genetic code, she wouldn’t let that kind of suffering befall anyone it didn’t have to. The Reduction was over. She wouldn’t let the revolutionaries bring it back with their appalling pink pills.

  “But the cure wasn’t withheld, in the end,” she said at last. That was safe enough. A point even Persis Blake could make. “The queen who ruled then made its application universal, just as the king here did. Did your revolutionaries spare her descendant in gratitude?” Persis would never forget the night of Queen Gala’s death. Her Reduction had been the first blow, but even then Persis—and all Albion—had been naive enough to believe that it was a temporary insanity and would all be resolved. But when she’d died and her body had been desecrated by an angry mob, Persis could think only of her own princess. Her own best friend, young and ruling and without the power to prevent these things from happening.

  It was the night the Wild Poppy had been born.

  “No.” Justen lowered his head. “We made many errors. I told you, I no longer believe in the way the revolution is playing out. But that doesn’t make the goals that brought us to this point any less valid. Sometimes bad things happen when you try to do something good.”

  Persis knew that all too well, as had her namesake. Since symptoms of the illness didn’t manifest until the victims were around forty, Persistence Helo had been old when Dementia of Acquired Regularity had first appeared among the population of the Helo-Cured regs. She’d spent the remainder of her life in seclusion. Some said it was from embarrassment, but Persis often wondered if she’d been researching, trying to find a way to fix the problem she’d unwittingly created.

  Persis would ask Justen, except she wasn’t supposed to be curious about things like that.

  “Whatever you believe,” she said at last, “you ought to watch your tone in the Albian court. Not everyone is as sympathetic to the ideals of your revolution as the princess is, and you don’t want to make enemies in your position.” He was staring at her now, so she flipped her hair behind her shoulder and gave a careless, flirty shrug. “I’m no politician, but I know how to get by at court.”

  Justen nodded. “You’re right. I’m too used to the attitudes back home. I’ll … try harder.” He gave her what was surely meant to be a hopeful smile. “I am aware not all aristos are evil, you know.”

  “I do?” She cocked her head. He was cute when he smiled. It softened his whole face, making his eyes crinkle up a bit at the corners and turning those cheekbones of his from severe and serious to … well, surely sexy was well beside the point.

  “You’re all right. I mean, except for that thing on your head. Anything with that many feathers that can’t fly is definitely evil.”

  She touched the fascinator and pouted. “I’ll have you know this is my second-best hat.”

  The Daydream glided into its berth and Slipstream clattered onto the dock, catapulting his long body off the side and into the clear green water beneath.

  “Oysters,” Persis explained to Justen. “There’s nothing Slippy likes better.”

  The cliff face rose before them, vertical and seemingly sheer. They strolled down the dock toward the lift and Persis peeled off her wristlock so her palmport could tell the door to open.

  Justen chuckled.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Just a memory from last night,” he said. “Andrine and I had a horrible time trying to activate your port long enough to key in the passcode on the lift. Neither of us liked the idea of hauling you up the switchbacks.”

  Persis glanced up at the ancient, zigzag road carved into the cliff. It was the remnant of another time, a long-ago owner of Scintillans who’d populated the switchback trail with Reduced servants acting as beasts of burden. But the lift had been installed long before the cure. The Blakes had been progressive aristos for generations. “I suppose if you’re going to stay here, we should get you your own passcode.”

  “Am I?” Justen asked as the doors to the lift opened and they entered.

  “Well,” said Persis, “it depends on how well you impress my father.” The round room was large enough for ten passengers at a time, but Justen pressed his hands against the windows as if trying to escape as the lift rose into the air. She stayed where she was, in the center of the lift, watching him. The seaward walls bowed outward, large panes of glass revealing the vast, glittery channel beyond. Sometimes, when the weather was clear enough, you could almost make out Galatea, but though her companion scanned the horizon diligently, a haze blocked the southern view.

  “Homesick already?”

  Justen didn’t respond.

  With a jolt, the lift came to a halt and the solid back doors curled open like petals, revealing the Scintillans front lawn and every last one of its inhabitants, arrayed in their holiday best and standing at attention.

  Her parents were stationed at the head of this ostentatious display. Persis stifled a groan. She knew what was coming.

  “Justen Helo,” said her father, spreading his arms and grinning broadly. “Welcome to Scintillans. It is an honor and a privilege to have you here as our guest.” Her mother, holding tightly to her husband’s arm, smiled as well. Every servant in the household looked ready to break into song, and if Persis knew her papa, they’d been rehearsing all morning.

  Justen turned to Persis and raised his eyebrows. She shrugged. “Don’t look at me. If there’s one thing Papa likes, it’s going overboard.”

  “Oh,” said Justen with a wry smile. “It’s genetic, then?”

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  Seven

  BEFORE THE REVOLUTION, THE royal palace in Halahou had been a monument to the selfish extravagance of its inhabitants. While peasants fought for equal rights against their cruel aristo masters, Queen Gala and her cronies knew no lack, experienced no injustice, and suffered from none of the problems that formed the daily fabric of life for every other Galatean. Was there a sickness? A legal dispute? A case of an aristo terribly mistreating a reg? The queen didn’t care. She didn’t even notice. She did nothing—nothing at all to help the people she ruled.

  Vania Aldred reminded herself of this every time she walked past the old queen’s portrait. She knew her father hadn’t painted over the mural in the public courtyard for that very reason. The only alteration he’d made were the words in nanopaint that now flashed across the monarch’s frescoed face.

  TYRANT

  Vania spit on the ground in front of the portrait as she entered the gates. Queen Gala, the tyrant. Queen Gala, who had died too soon to fulfill the promise of the punishment her father had devised. The other a
ristos would suffer in her place—them and any other enemy of the revolution.

  And that included that stupid, flowery Albian spy. Leave it to some aristocratic idiot to come up with such a deplorable and embarrassing code name. It was a wonder anyone took him seriously at all.

  But they did. And her father would take it especially seriously once Vania reported that she’d lost the Ford children to the Wild Poppy.

  The interior courtyard was occupied by a small group of police trainees in the midst of hand-to-hand combat practice. As she passed, Vania straightened. Most of her classmates were still in the program, while she’d sped through training and was already rising up the ranks of her father’s military order.

  “Citizen Vania!” the instructor called to her. “You’re just in time. I’m teaching a few maneuvers you’ll remember from your own training days. Care to favor us with a demonstration?”

  Vania smiled at him. This instructor was a bit of a suck-up, always looking for preferment from her father, but at the same time, her combat ranking was an objective fact. “Certainly.” She slipped off her jacket and joined the group.

  The cadets lined up, and Vania took her place in the courtyard. Her first opponent was clumsy and slow. She dispatched him easily. The second cadet was skilled at defending herself from blows but had no offense to match. After thirty seconds, she, too, was lying in the dust.

  The third, a tall, slim woman, approached with a determined look on her face. She had at least ten centimeters on Vania, and probably a few years, too. At eighteen, Vania was the youngest officer in the entire Republic of Galatea, just as Justen was the youngest scientist in the royal—rather, the republican—labs. Vania tossed her hair over her shoulder as the cadet, Sargent, took a stance opposite her. She couldn’t afford to lose these sparring matches—not today. Not after her error at the Ford estate. To get beaten by a mere cadet would just lend fuel to the fire of rumors that Vania held her position only because of her father.

  With a swift kick at her midsection, the fight began. Vania deflected the kick with the padded calf of her uniform pants, then ducked out of the way when Sargent followed it up with a punch. They circled each other, swiping and jabbing ineffectually. The cadet had excellent form and good instincts. She seemed to know exactly how Vania planned to defend herself from each attack. Vania moved in, changing her approach. Sargent, being taller, had a longer reach and could more easily protect her body, but Vania had a lower center of gravity. She made herself as small a target as possible and darted in, aiming her blows at Sargent’s knees to try to knock her off balance.

  The cadet jumped back, then landed a punch to the side of Vania’s head. Breathless, Vania landed hard on her back, her hair momentarily obscuring her view. She pushed her bangs from her eyes to find Sargent standing over her, triumphant.

  No, she refused to let it end like this. Vania quickly twisted the bracelet she wore and grabbed Sargent by the ankle. The cadet let out a cry of pain as every nerve from hip to toe shut down and she collapsed.

  Vania calmly sat up and brushed dust from the sleeves of her jacket. She pushed herself to her feet.

  “Cheater!” the cadet gasped between whimpers of pain. “That was a pricker—you didn’t say we could use weapons!”

  Vania blinked innocently. “I’m sorry, Cadet. Question: Do you think the royalists I fight are polite enough to refrain from using whatever weapon they have at their disposal?”

  The instructor gave a nervous chuckle. “And let that be a lesson to all of you. Citizen Aldred has a very good point.”

  Another cadet came to help Sargent up. Her leg was twitching, and Vania averted her eyes. The pricker contained only a little cone snail neurotoxin, but the cadet wouldn’t be in control of her muscles for a good hour. The other cadets looked on, silent and skeptical, despite their instructor’s ruling that her tactics had been fine.

  Who cared what they thought? Vania was right—the royalist resistors wouldn’t play fair in fights, so why should the revolutionaries? The point was to win, not to be fair.

  VANIA HAD HOPED TO see Justen or Remy before dinner, but it didn’t happen. Apparently, neither of her foster siblings had been in the palace since before last weekend. Remy was on some sort of school trip and Justen was no doubt buried waist-deep in research at the lab. Ever since the revolution started, they’d hardly spent any time together. Remy, especially, bore the brunt of Justen’s and Vania’s dedication to their work. It was good she was more mature than most fourteen-year-olds And, of course, she understood the importance of the revolution.

  Showered and dressed for dinner, Vania took the seat at the foot of the table, the one that had once been reserved for her mother. On her left sat two of her father’s must trusted advisers, and on her right were the two empty chairs belonging to the Helos.

  Vania gave a quick shake of her head, her black bangs shivering on her brow. If Remy was out east on her field trip, that was one thing, but what excuse did Justen have to miss dinner yet again? His lab was right here in Halahou, but his absences were par for the course of late. He was glued to his chair at the lab—either that or performing genetic counseling sessions for families of the Darkened in sanitariums. Miserable wretches. Vania didn’t know how Justen could stand even being near them. If she found out she would Darken, she’d throw herself off the nearest cliff rather than wait for the end to come naturally. Word on the streets was that the Reduction drug was better … but not by much.

  There was the sound of a throat being cleared at the other end of the table and Vania raised her eyes. Her father had come at last. Citizen Aldred presided over the head of the table, his back straight, his coat buttoned to the neck and bearing every medal and insignia the old queen had ever awarded him when he was just the head of the reg militia. Vania had asked him once why he still wore them, since the old queen and indeed the entire old system of government were such a disgrace.

  “Symbols are important, Vania,” her father had explained. And right now, the populace clung to symbols of the old regime. They trusted Aldred both for his long service to the old country and for his promises about their new one.

  Symbols, like those stupid leis and nanotechs and wild poppies Vania kept finding everywhere. It wasn’t just that the Wild Poppy was snatching the odd aristo out of the work camps. It was that he had to be so ostentatious about it. It appealed to vain aristo hearts and undermined the purity of the revolution.

  “Citizen Helo isn’t gracing us with his presence again this evening?” Citizen Aldred asked wryly. “And with you home from your siege, too, Vania. We’re to be a small party tonight, it seems.”

  Vania’s brow creased. She’d been too busy with the Ford barricades to contact Justen, but if she thought about it, it had been almost a week since they’d exchanged words at all. Maybe this was what being grown-up was really all about. Justen was busy with his research; she was busy with her father’s revolution. When they were younger, they’d shared everything, but they were no longer children, and they weren’t like Vania’s old schoolmates either, who spent most of their days wandering around Halahou, partying with genetemps and gossiping, as idle as any aristo. The last time she’d made an effort to socialize with them, they’d been more interested in discussing their various romantic entanglements than in the world-changing revolution happening around them.

  Vania and Justen were above all that. They had serious matters on their minds.

  The company at the table joined hands and bowed their heads as Vania’s father began to speak.

  “We gathered here tonight to give thanks to those who came before us: Darwin and Persistence Helo, who witnessed the suffering of the Reduced and devised the cure.”

  Vania smiled into her plate. Even without her foster siblings’ presence at the table, the Helos were not to be forgotten. Remy and Justen were both understandably proud of their heritage. Vania’s father encouraged them to be, and he always claimed the Helos were the best regs who ever lived—at least until now
. Vania was sure that people would start exalting the Aldred name in the same way soon enough. After all, the Aldreds were the ones to finally free the regs from their aristo enslavement.

  “We are also eternally grateful to the creator of New Pacifica, he whose name is lost to history due to tyranny of the monarchs and the enslavement of the people. Without the work of this unknown genius, humanity would have never survived the wars.”

  There was a chorus of nods and murmured agreement around the table. Vania was glad that, since the revolution, the true story was coming out. When she’d been growing up, she’d been forced to learn the monarchy-approved version: that the islands of New Pacifica had been terraformed and settled by the first Queen Gala and King Albie as a refuge after the Wars of the Lost had rendered every other land on Earth uninhabitable.

  But it was far more important to emphasize the truth—that the land itself had been created by the last general, the one who’d won the last War of the Lost by cracking open the Earth and killing all his enemies. Had he not done that—whoever that brave man was—there would have been no New Pacifica in the first place.

  The aristos who’d ruled the land for so long were nobodies—probably descended from janitors or servants on the Lost General’s ship. The only reason they hadn’t ended up Reduced was that they’d been too poor to get the genetic enhancements that had accidentally caused Reduction. And then they’d taken advantage of the Reduced descendants of the people who’d really won the war.

  Like the Lost General. No one knew what had become of him and his family. They were Lost, their children Reduced, and the aristos had never kept records about that sort of thing. It could even be the Aldreds. Probably was, considering that Damos Aldred was such a great military mastermind, too.

  And Vania was determined to be just the same.

  As the first course was served, Citizen Aldred directed his sights on her. “How is the siege of the Ford plantation progressing, Vania?”