by Jo Zebedee
“Kerra!” The voice came from far away, from her childhood. She ignored it. “Kerra!” Louder this time, and insistent: her mum had always been insistent.
Her steps faltered. Mum? She turned, seeking through the crowd, and there in the centre – always in the centre – stood Mum, her blonde hair shining under the street-lights, her eyes filled with tears. What was she doing here? She was supposed to be on Ferran. Mum ran, pushing past those around her, until she reached Kerra and pulled her into a hug, so tight it was like she’d never let go.
“You’re alive,” Mum said. “I thought you were dead.”
Kerra tried to pull away. She had a job to do. She had to keep going – to stop would be to face the wrongness inside her.
Her mum stepped back. “Kerra?” She pushed Kerra’s hair from her face, as if she was five and just in from the garden. “What’s wrong?”
Nothing. Everything. There was no way to explain things, not to someone who hadn’t had this sort of power. Kerra turned to go, compelled by the urgency of the mesh, but one part of her wanted to sink into her mum’s arms and not leave.
“She’s taken the mesh!” shouted Baelan. He was breathing heavily, his face red, but somehow he’d kept up. “And she’s gone completely off her head with it.”
The little sod. She faced him, furious, and he backed away, fear dancing in his eyes. There was no smug superiority now, no sure knowledge that he had more power than she’d ever had. Baelan was scared. She could see it in his thoughts, as clearly as if he’d spoken it.
“Kerra!” Her mum’s voice was sharp, pulling at the part of her that had listened to that voice all her life. “Is it true?” She grabbed Kerra’s wrists, holding them tight, and looked closely at her. “Why?”
Why? Couldn’t she feel the power?
“It’s mine,” said Kerra, and her voice sounded surly. It wasn’t the right explanation; it didn’t even start to explain about the power. Her father would never defeat the Empress himself, but her mum would never understand that; she thought he was some sort of god.
“Your father needs the mesh,” said Mum, her voice shocked. “Kerra, he’s up there with nothing between him and the Empress. You have to let it go.”
She sounded so sure. Mum always sounded sure and, what’s more, she was usually right. Kerra looked into her eyes, trying to tell what was true: her mum’s words or the driving knowledge within her. She wished she could ask herself, the buried girl, but she’d no idea how to find her.
“I can’t.” Even the words didn’t sound like herself, but older, deeper in tone. She met her mum’s eyes, wanting her to know that it wasn’t anyone’s fault, that it was just the way it was.
“Kerra Varnon,” said her mum, as if she was a child, “you give the mesh back to your father now. It’s not yours.”
It is, it is, it is. The mesh swirled, insistent. It was meant for you, it’s your gift.
It’s not. The voice came from within, faint and barely there. Laurena. Kerra nearly sagged at the relief of someone else being in the mesh. She’d been sure she’d broken everything. Laurena spoke again: You’re not the Queen. You’re not ready yet.
That’s what she’d told her dad as he was leaving. That she wasn’t ready. Something woke inside her, the person who’d been proud of him going to the palace to face the Empress. That Kerra wouldn’t leave him in there, powerless. And he was – she’d felt his attempts to take the mesh, had known his terrible fear. The mesh had tried to hide it, and she’d been happy to ignore it, but she couldn’t anymore; not when she thought about him leaving Ferran, a plan in place, so brave and ready. A plan she’d ruined. Her breath was coming in gasps.
“Kerra.” Her mum wasn’t going to let up – she never let up, ever. She crouched down, where she couldn’t be ignored. She radiated authority.
“Now,” she said.
“She’s right, Kerra.” Baelan, the little snitch. She could feel him touching the edges of the mesh, seeking to find her. It pushed him back and he stumbled, but came forwards again, reaching for her. She brought her hands up to her ears, closing out her mum, but Laurena was still there, and Baelan, and the mesh, each shouting the old presence down. She didn’t know what to do.
“I’ll help.” Baelan gazed at her, unblinking, his eyes so like their father’s. It felt like he could be trusted even though he called the Empress his Lady and wore the ankhar of the tribes. He’d also hunted crabs with her on Syllte. He shared her blood. “What can I do?”
Let it go, said Laurena. Ealyn never needed the mesh. Your father didn’t want it. Don’t let it steal you.
Kerra reached for Baelan, her hands shaking, and he took it. She was scared; scared if she let go she’d never get this back; scared it might hurt. Her mother grabbed her other hand, holding it tightly.
“It’s okay,” Baelan said. “You’ll still have your own power.” He didn’t look away, not once. He felt like her real brother. “You’ll be a healer again. That’s something incredible.”
A healer, not someone who would kill people to get her own way.
“I know you’ll do the right thing,” said Mum, and her voice was soft. “Now send the mesh to your father. He needs it.”
He did, too. Kerra could feel him now, a tiny presence, distant and fading. He’d been hurt, he had nothing to use, no way to help himself. It was already too late. She turned all her focus on him and he responded, a touch of his love, a sense of the security he’d always offered. The new Kerra was swept away. She couldn’t remember why she’d been keeping the mesh from him.
The mesh fought her. It tried to burrow deeper. It didn’t want to lose her, it wanted her in its centre, to give it strength and feed it. She clenched her fists. Her great-grandmother had held the mesh and controlled it, and her father; there had to be a way. But it wasn’t the way she’d been doing it.
“How do I let it go?” she yelled. “Laurena, what do I do!?”
“Stop wanting it. Like when you Control – don’t force it.”
Kerra focused on Laurena. She’d go to her. Slowly, she moved from the centre. It was like fighting through mud. She started to fall, knees buckling, but Baelan and her mother held her up.
“You can do it,” Mum said. “You’re not just a Varnon, love, you’re a le Payne, too. We don’t let anything stop us.”
Kerra nodded. That was the way of it; keep moving until it ended one way or another. Because she was either coming out of this, or she’d die trying. She concentrated on Laurena, nothing but Laurena, and found her way through the eddies of the mesh, past other Roamers supporting each movement she made away from the centre.
She reached Laurena. The Roamer enveloped Kerra in her own awareness. With a snap, the mesh slipped from where it had sat. It faded into the background. She took a deep breath of the sweet air of Abendau, and another, and opened her eyes. She’d done it. Everything was okay. It was really okay.
Except Dad; he wasn’t okay. She could barely feel him. The Empress was alive: the fight was over, and she’d won.
“It’s my fault,” Kerra said. Baelan hugged her, practically holding her up, and he, at least, seemed to understand.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The door slammed behind Lichio and Simone, and the footsteps of their escort faded away. Lichio took a deep breath, collecting himself. The soldiers had taken his jacket, damn them, with his equipment, but there must be something going down in the palace – there’d been no body scan, only a cursory search. He winced; cursory maybe, but it had been thorough enough to find his hidden firearms and a few other surprises as well.
No point panicking until he knew what he was up against. The room was in darkness, but when he felt the wall behind, his hand slipped on cool tiles. Carefully, he tapped his foot on the floor and was rewarded with a gentle knocking noise.
“The cells,” he said. Where else?
“It would seem so, sir.”
“You okay?” he asked.
“Fine.” Her voice wasn’t as c
alm as usual. Damn, but he shouldn’t have risked her. The only good to come of it was that her cover was blown. She’d have no excuse not to take a nice, comfy desk job when she got out. If she got out.
To hell with that. He’d get out – he had to. Kare was in the palace, facing who-knew-what. He went to the cell’s door and knelt by the sealed lock. The fools hadn’t considered the skills an intelligence chief might have, or the information he might have at his disposal. They’d taken him like a lamb and hadn’t considered that in his sullen obedience he might not have used up all his tricks. That even as he’d shifted his hip to let them find his second pistol, it might have been to hide other, more important, things.
He wriggled his fingers. In the past ten years there had been three attempts to break out from the cells – and only one had been even halfway successful. There was no point trying to bore out, or set off alarms and rush the guards who’d come running. Those were inelegant.
He hummed to himself. If there’d been a key-pad, the code Kare had given him – the sneaky bastard, keeping something like that to himself – would have overridden security, but it was on the outside. He ran his hands over the wall until he found the dimpled cover of an access panel.
He pulled off his right boot, lifted the insole, and fiddled for a moment to open a cover over the shallow heel, his fingers feeling too thick for the delicate job. Inside lay a small toolkit, one with a sonic pulsor. He set to working around the panelling – the thin, shell-like cover would allow the pulse to reach the lock mechanism.
It took a few minutes. Simone’s breath was soft, tickling the back of his neck as she leaned over to watch. A soft click made him smile, but he touched the door to be sure. It slid under his fingers. Carefully, he pulled his boot back on and got to his feet. Kare mightn’t mind prancing around the palace in bare feet; he had somewhat higher standards.
He stopped and felt through his hair, searching for the thicker strand. He snagged it, pulled it out with a slight wince and heard the soft whirl of the mechanism starting. Careful to hold it by the end of the strand, he set his other hand against the door. Standard operating put one soldier directly outside the cell and one at the end of the cell-corridor. He assumed that hadn’t changed – common sense dictated that both guards didn’t stay where a clever prisoner could grab them.
He ran his finger the length of his thumbnail on his left hand, depressing the implanted chip as he did, and winced as the circuit cut in. No alarms would sound from the cells tonight. He slid the door open.
“What the—?”
He grabbed the soldier, pushed his chin back, and lifted the garrotte. This wasn’t going to be pretty. But he needed effective, not pretty. He set the wire against the soldier’s skin. The soldier fought, twisting in Lichio’s grasp. A soft whirr came from the garrotte and then it cut, the wire scissoring into the skin. Warm blood spurted, covering Lichio’s hand. The man kicked and gave a strangled cry, but Lichio held him, head turned away. It was some moments before the kicking stopped and he was able to lay the man down. He wrapped the wire into a coil, replacing it into his shirt pocket, and red blossoms of the dead man’s blood spread. He reached for the guard’s blaster and unholstered it with hands that barely shook.
He pulled the sleeve of his shirt back, exposing the graft on his arm. A frisson-patch, expensive and top of the range. And as deadly to him as the garotte had been, if he got its application wrong.
“Hey!” The second soldier was approaching. He’d have already called in, but would not know his alarm had been silenced. Lichio ducked into the doorway of his cell and turned his wrist over. He grabbed the edge of the rough patch of skin, and pulled.
The graft came away. He counted down from five, and slammed his hand into the corridor, facing the soldier, depositing the powder it had contained on the wall, allowing extra time for the dry desert air to ignite the powder. A brief flash of light made him cover his eyes; a strangled yell confirmed his estimate.
He stepped out. The man had his weapon up, but his other hand was covering his eyes. Lichio raised his own blaster. He’d told his own people time and time again that no one should be left in the cells without a full body scan. It was shoddy work. He took his time, making sure of his aim, and shot. Especially not an intelligence chief.
The man fell. Even without the alarm, he had little time – the cameras in this corridor were monitored from a guard station above. He stopped at the code-lock for the block and punched Kare’s code in. He set off at a run, his hand hitting the beacon on his belt, calling his people in the palace to him.
***
It was over. Kare watched through slitted eyes as the captain of the Empress’ guard turned Hickson over. The major gave a low growl and the captain gave him the coup de grace of a single shot to the forehead, before moving on to Hickson’s second.
His mother stood by the window, looking over the city, her eyes flashing as if seeking something. Soon, reinforcements would overcome his squad in the anteroom, if they hadn’t already. Pain wrenched through him, coming from the wounds in his chest and stomach, from his arm, bent and broken, from his aching head. He tried to look to the side where Kym lay, but the movement brought sharper pain. Instead he concentrated on breathing, taking shallow breaths, noting from a distance how each was weaker than the last. Something bubbled on his lips each time; he thought it might be blood. Good. Perhaps by the time they tried to take him, he’d be dead.
***
Sonly watched as the troops forced their way through the crowd, using batons to quiet the rowdier protestors. Screams sounded. The thuds of aural-flares split the air, sending the crowd reeling back, hands to ears. Gas-shells followed, bringing tears and burning throats. Sirens started, adding to the confusion of the change of tactic from the palace soldiers. A change of tactics that told Sonly everything about what was happening in the palace, and who was winning – Kare would not have ordered this.
Her eyes streamed, but she managed to draw a breath. Kerra, stunned, stood against her. Baelan also had his arm around his sister, saving her from the hard gates of the palace, making Sonly revise her opinion of the boy.
Another barrage of sound and gas came down, and the last of the crowd scattered, leaving the less fortunate to lie like litter along the length of the Grand Boulevard. Only a few stood with her, the core of the protestors.
Sonly faced the palace and its soldiers, refusing to be cowed. She choked back gas-tears but kept her head up. The Empress could defeat her, and Kare; she could claim this day a victory, but she’d never get Sonly to back down from what was right.
A soldier broke away from the fighting on the Grand Boulevard and made to grab her arm, but she pulled it away. “Don’t touch me.”
“You’re to be detained,” he said.
One holo-recorder was still in place, its operator pale-faced in his defiance, tears washing two rivers of clean skin through grime. Christophe was by her side, jaw tight with fury. His eyes met hers and she couldn’t betray his belief in her. She squared her shoulders and tightened her arms around Kerra.
“I wish an audience with the so-called Empress,” she said, making sure the holo was capturing her words. “The Senate hold the legal authority in Abendau. I lead the Senate and I expect to be admitted to the palace, the centre of my own government.”
The soldier took her arm again, his grip firmer. “You’ll accompany me.”
“Wow.” Baelan’s voice was out of place – not stunned, or shocked, but awed. “Look. Above the port.”
Dark ships descended from orbit, a fleet of them. Freighters, judging by the line of their lights and their size. They filled the skies.
“They came.” Kerra’s voice was sluggish. She tugged Sonly’s arms. “I told the Roamers to come for me, and they did.”
Sonly smiled – the Roamers, here to claim their own; the Roamers with a fleet of ships big enough to take the skywalk and cut the palace off from the port. Big enough for her to force Abendau to its knees? Possibly. No
t hers to command, of course, but who was here to tell the soldiers that?
“Open the gates, or I’ll have them attack the palace.” She raised her voice, so the holo-recorder would capture her words. She hoped it was broadcasting live – she doubted the footage would survive the day if her bluff didn’t work. “I am the elected representative of Abendau; I am” —was, but what hadn’t been officially released didn’t count— “the leader of the Free Republic, the legal galactic entity.” She faced the recorder. “The people of Abendau voted me to lead them. They know your mistress cares nothing for her people.”
She waited, breath held, and stared at the captain, daring him to arrest her. If he did, she’d make sure it was worth it. The holo-recorder remained, the Roamers held their position, the remaining crowd didn’t disperse, and still the moment drew out and the guard didn’t give way.
***
Karlyn! The voice came to Kare from far away, through the mesh’s familiar hive. Farran. He’d said he’d stay in orbit. Karlyn, take the mesh.
He tried, reaching, but it was too far away, too hard for him to grasp. His eyes closed. It was too late, as well. The fight was over, his mother had won. She had Lichio, and Sonly. She knew where the kids were. He’d lost everything, and taking the mesh wouldn’t change anything. He’d gambled and failed.
Take it. The mesh started to fill him one last time and he didn’t fight against it. He was done fighting; let what would be, be. He’d die King of the Roamers. At least he’d end things as his father’s son and not his mother’s.
He reached out with his good arm, his hand crabbing until he found Kym. He wouldn’t die alone, and neither should she. He tried to pat her, to comfort her, but she didn’t respond. He thought she might be dead. She’d said she didn’t miss, and she had. Or maybe his mother had cheated.
It didn’t matter. He closed his eyes, exhausted. The mesh settled within him. He could still feel Kerra’s shape in it, the sense of her powers, not his, and that comforted him. He supposed when he died it would go back to her.