A Conspiracy of Whispers

by Ada Harper

  At that, Olivia frowned down just in time to see the silver packet sailing at her head and catch it. She blinked down at a familiar field ration. Then to Alais’s waiting upturned face. “You’re tempting me to eat with Syn field tac? This is the only stuff that tastes worse than Imperial cooking.”

  “I thought perhaps you were homesick.”

  The last time she’d eaten a ration, she’d been sharing them with Galen in the Caeweld. She touched on a memory, teasing him for eating two at a meal, silver wrappers next to a silver stream. It was like touching a live wire and her mind leaped away. Her mind was a minefield, but if she looked up bombs would be falling. All she could do was hunker down.

  Olivia bit on the inside of her cheek. “At home I would eat street skewers and cups of noodles with enough synth-spice to melt your face off. Your delicate Imp sensibilities would die.” She tossed the ration back down. “This is government fodder.”

  “Somehow it doesn’t surprise me that you eat fire.” Alais caught and pocketed the ration with one hand. She waved the other. “It’s not face-melt but if you prefer...”

  Olivia leaned over in spite of herself. Alais popped open a small container, so hot that a fragrant steam rose from brightly colored slurry inside. “Is that...curry?”

  “Or our chef’s closest approximation to it.” Alais’s smile was rueful. “Not many cookbooks coming out of the Syn these days.”

  An “approximation of curry” did not sound like an optimistic endorsement, but it looked at least peppery enough to clear her misery-clogged sinuses. Olivia’s empty stomach made her decision for her. She grabbed the sill and swung down. Alais passed her the bowl and spoon without comment.

  “Oh, gods, this is awful.”

  “So awful you’re smiling?” Alais raised a brow.

  “Curry is best when it’s awful.” She felt moisture in her eyes. Familiar spices rolled over her tongue and made her homesick for things she’d never had. Things she’d lost before she could taste them. She sniffed at herself, tearing up over godsawful curry, and managed a watery smile. “Needs more hot sauce.”

  Alais braced her shoulders against the sill with a self-satisfied smile. She pulled a small red bottle out of her coat pocket. “Is that so.”

  Olivia upended most of it into the bowl. She took another bite and squinted. “You’re enjoying this. You know, most get their creepy altus fix by being overprotective assholes.”

  “What can I say? I’m the exception in all things. My ‘creepy altus’ as you put it is deeply satisfied to see those I care about coddled, comfortable, and well fed. It’s not all charity, of course.” Alais took on a conspiratorial tone. “I have designs to feed you so many sweets you’re too round to run away.”

  Olivia’s good humor died and the curry turned to mud in her mouth. “I’ll honor the deal as long as Yoshi’s safe.”

  “The empress says both diplomats and forces are securing his extraction now,” Alais said before gently adding, “I would like this to not be a ‘deal’ between us forever, Olivia.”

  “The deal is all I’m here for.”

  “For now. I’d hoped after I bravely and selflessly rescued your friends from this Syndicate plot—”

  “Pretty sure Lyre will be doing that—”

  “After I rescue friends, plot, etc—” Alais continued, hand flourishing, unabated, “I’d hoped I could find myself counted as one of your very dear friends.”

  Olivia measured Alais carefully. The relaxed pose, the effortless open jacket and the perfectly tousled silver-white hair. None of it quite hid the anticipation in her eyes. Anticipation, but not malice. Olivia tried for gentle. “I can’t be your mate, Alais. Even if I could—and I quite clearly can’t—you said dancing—”

  “Oh, a posh on dancing. There’s a hundred things more fun than dancing anyway.” She waved a hand. “World travel! Food! Cheesy holo movies! Watching you eviscerate sniveling senators! Not desiring to dance doesn’t mean an absence of everything pleasurable. Even I can feel alone.”

  Olivia fought back an irrational flare of guilt, but Alais continued on.

  “So forget dancing. You don’t want a dance partner and I don’t have the knack for it. One does occasionally take care of the...ah, footwork...oneself. Lady’s tits, this analogy of ours is getting complicated.” Alais huffed to the ceiling, then met Olivia’s gaze directly again. “I’m saying I would like to be a good friend. A companion. A partner, even if I do not share your bed. I’m offering you more than a temporary political alliance. You have my support, my ear, as much companionship as you require. I suppose if, well, dancing-related needs arise, we can put our heads together and work out—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Olivia hurried to interrupt. She’d had a healthy appetite for sexual thoughts before—even if generally not acted upon—and Galen had fed it. It’d gotten worse since she’d arrived here. She was not uninformed—the Syn did have the pulse feed after all and anything could be bought—but the real thing was so much more. Playing their game for “proof,” taking advantage for a taste of all she’d never had. She’d begun to entertain the idea that such things could be reality, that she could have desire without losing herself.

  She got a lump in her throat just thinking about it. She rubbed her eyes with the hand not engaged in curry. “I think I’ve been put off any desire to dance for a while myself. But your...support is appreciated. I’m sorry it had to be under such circumstances.”

  “Good.” Alais took it with grace. “If given the chance I’d like to comfort you. Put these ridiculous war games to bed, take you on vacation, feed you our awful, awful curry until you burst and—figure out what you want from there.”

  “Do duchesses have time for vacations?”

  Alais winked. “The ostracized ones do. I am not taken seriously by the senate.” Her voice was light as always, but Olivia could taste the bitterness underneath. “I suppose it’s my own fault. I rarely take myself serious.”

  A series of distant thuds vibrated from deeper in the palace, causing them both to pause. A moment later, a queer sensation rippled through the air. A static discharge that nearly made her ears pop. Alais’s face registered confusion, then alarm. She stepped toward the window, tapping the aetheric stud in her ear. She began murmuring inquiries into it under her breath.

  Feeling disquieted, Olivia set her bowl on the floor and moved to the room’s CHARIS interface. The panel of wall remained dead and decorative, no matter how much she tapped. Alais threw the door closed and approached. Her smile was off-kilter.

  “How bothersome. It appears the estate security center, a system with enough redundancies to satisfy even Syn standards, is offline. I can’t raise anyone. That explosion we just heard had all the hallmarks of a pulse device set to knock out our aetheric systems. That ripple was the shield dropping. And I do believe I heard blastfire in the hall. Ah.” Alais reached up and brushed her fingertips past Olivia’s ear. “Curry in your hair. Really, my dear?”

  “What—” Olivia blinked rapidly, trying to make all of that mesh with the altus’s attitude. “We need to evacuate then. If there’s been an attack or a bomb—”

  “Nothing so simple as that. If the shield dropped, then I’m fairly certain what we’re experiencing is a coup.” Alais’s smile was thin, and Olivia’s nerves spiked. “The estate’s likely already been sealed. We weren’t important enough to take in the first wave but I’m sure someone will fetch us shortly.” She stroked Olivia’s hair distractedly again. “The important thing, sweetling, is we remain calm.”

  Her fingertips were cool and soft as they glided to the hairline at Olivia’s neck. An involuntary blanket of calm whispered over Olivia’s brain even as it fought for alarm. The fingers paused, but the thought to pull away came a second too late. Olivia’s voice sounded soft and distant to her own ears. “Alais, you said we were friends. If you even think of scruffin
g me I will never forgive—”

  “I know you won’t.” Alais’s eyes were sad. The noises in the hall sounded louder now, closer. The fingers at her nape stroked soothingly again, once, twice. “But at the very least you’ll be alive to hold a grudge.”

  “Alai—”

  Alais’s palm clasped slow and firm around Olivia’s nape. Pressure clamped down on her nerves and Olivia ceased to process the world in whole. It wasn’t as violent and terrifying as it had been at the hands of the Whisper in the bar, but the undertow of disorientation was just as strong. Soft, muted bits came to her from far away. Her legs gave out and Olivia crumpled into waiting arms. Distant yelling, more explosions and then, insistent banging on the door. She felt more than heard Alais moving with her around the room, and then the light dimmed as she was tucked somewhere dark.

  “Without assistance, it will take you a good ten minutes to recover.” Alais’s voice was clearer, she must be leaning into her ear. “When you do, there’s a weapons locker at the end of the hall. East staff corridor is your straightest shot out to the courtyard. From there...”

  The banging at the door turned violent. Metal sheared as someone started trying to force the lock.

  The hand squeezing her nape pressed hard and withdrew. Olivia heard a sigh. “Call it my last creepy altus act. Hate me if you must, but I won’t hand you over. Quiet now, Olivia.”

  Darkness fell over Olivia, disorienting the little of her mind she retained. Heavy steps burst into the room and there was a garble of shouting and threats. She struggled to make her limbs respond as she caught snippets of words:

  “—don’t fucking move—”

  “—Syndicate visitors? How unexpectedly delightful. Did I miss a party?”

  “—altus bitch—”

  “I’m alone, of course, but where’s your insignia—”

  A scuff of boot. A crack that Olivia could identify from painful experience as rifle butt to the skull. Stamping feet as someone swept the room. A flurry of muffled movements as the noises receded. It was another five minutes before Olivia finally regained control of her fingertips and could open her eyes.

  A chest. Alais had folded her into an empty storage locker like a spare blanket. Olivia cursed every blighted altus trait into the darkness. If they weren’t selfish cretins they were godsdamn white knights and at that moment she wasn’t sure which was worse. Fucking idiots.

  Olivia waited another painful minute until she could lift her head without the floor tilting, and stiffly pried the lid up an inch. Nothing moved in the room, though she could hear a methodical search going on farther down the hall. She moved slowly, suffering through painful pins and needles as her body came back under her own control and she unpacked herself from the chest.

  Syndicate. Alais had said they were Syndicate. The realization made Olivia’s unsteady legs wobble. Pieces fell into place with overwhelming implications. The shield had fallen, which indicated a traitor inside. But the forces taking over the royal estate were Syndicate. Syndicate wearing no military insignia. Like the Imperial rebels in the Caeweld. Which meant it had to do with the insurrection, which meant it had to do with Olivia and they’d just been waiting for their chance—

  A chance when the city would be empty of its normal military forces, all gone. Mobilized and baited out with the promise of a decisive battle. Gods, what was Galen walking into?

  At least he wasn’t here.

  Galen wasn’t here. Alais was...not here. The unease that rippled through her at the thought of being alone...well, that was new. She shoved it to the back of her mind, along with so many other things, to be considered when she wasn’t sitting in the middle of a foreign coup.

  She was vulnerable. They’d missed her, but whenever the invaders got the estate systems back up, one sweep would signal where she was. So: weapons locker, end of hall.

  Olivia pushed to her feet and slid along the wall to the door. It hung on a busted hinge, giving her enough cover to peer through and verify the hallway was empty.

  Olivia slid off her hard-soled Imperial shoes, flexed her toes against the cold marble, and ran.

  * * *

  A pantry. Olivia pawed through stacked cans and boxes and cursed every Imperial she’d ever met. Alais’s directions led her to a tiny closet, an auxiliary fucking pantry full of odds and ends bored nobles might request of staff. Food stuffs, wine, fresh blankets, children’s toys. No guns. Every so often, heavy steps and heavier voices approached and Olivia would have to plaster herself against a crate until the moment passed.

  Her thoughts raced, too fast and urgent to rein in. Faster every second as she listened for the hum of the estate network to come back online. Syndicate—or whoever—obviously had control of the grounds. That was bad, super bad, but perhaps it was to Olivia’s advantage. The forces were Syn; they’d follow familiar Syn strategies. She knew what they would do. They’d be thorough securing the grounds: setting up patrols, sorting prisoners into groups, wresting control. That’d take time. If she was very lucky, that would take a lot of time because the Imperial techs would have had the sense to cycle the access when they saw what was happening. It might take them even longer if CHARIS had any kind of automated protocols to resist once they rebooted.

  She could escape and steal a vehicle before then.

  But first she needed a weapon. Her foot kicked the box of children’s toys and she growled under her breath. Alais... Alais had no reason to lie about it. That meant what she’d told her was true and Olivia was just not understanding it. Alais had sent her here for a weapon. Alais, an ostracized altus noble who hated dancing but loved stuffing her with sweets and wanted to coddle her out of some blasted idealized notions of honor and protection of fam...

  Oh, hell, Olivia was thinking too much like a Syndicate.

  Her eyes fell on the chest of toys at her feet. This was the Empire, of course they would hide weapons close to their families. Olivia threw open the chest, not caring how colorful blocks and holobugs clattered on the floor. Her fingertips found an oblong box of gritty plastic at the bottom. Heavy, double latches. Olivia hauled it up, opened it, and smiled.

  Lady bless the Empire.

  * * *

  The staff corridor was quiet. Quiet enough that Olivia could hear footsteps clear enough to avoid using her blaster pistol so far. That was prudent. Even armed, she didn’t stand a chance if she alerted them to her location. She’d counted enough Syn mercenaries by now to know she’d be overwhelmed in minutes. Judging by the distant sounds of struggle going quiet around the estate, she needed to get out. Head away from the roads until she’d cleared the capital, look for a transport from there. She didn’t know how she’d clear the border again but the smart thing to do would be to run, to go back to the Syn, rescue Yoshi, and forget about this place, to forget about Galen being ambushed and—

  A scream. Distant, but clearly in the direction of the residences. The resident wing, the caricae wing. Olivia’s feet faltered with her heart. Gods. The invaders had the caricae wing. The invading forces were Syndicate.

  And Olivia knew what Syndicate did with caricaes.

  She was three steps back the way she’d come before she decided to turn. It took a violent effort to force herself not to run. To pause at each corner. To check every door. To not run in there and launch herself at the first soldier with a gun because her thoughts were not frantic rabbits now, they were rabid wolves and they were not fucking touching Maris. Kieran. Oh, Kieran.

  There were some things you could live through but not survive. So much for forgetting.

  She leaned hard on the wall. She had to think. The Syn would value caricaes as a fresh genetic pool. They would lock them down, with more firepower than Olivia could handle at her best. Let alone barefoot with a single backup blaster. She was a single ex-Whisper against several dozen well-prepared forces. She was a single caricae exile against several dozen
altus soldiers. Fuck.

  The screams had ceased. Olivia closed her eyes against what that could mean. They wouldn’t kill them. They might terrorize them, but caricae were too valuable to the Syndicate. She had time. She had a gun. She just needed a plan. She stood in the staff corridor that led from the residence wing to the courtyard. The yard had the lawn—shuttle craft long gone—and the training ground—would there be weapons there? No—and the preserve pens—useless beasts that would sooner eat her than—

  She was a single caricae exile against several dozen altus soldiers.

  Olivia opened her eyes and pelted toward the courtyard.

  * * *

  It took time to skirt around the grounds. A desperate, painful amount of time. And every time Olivia had to drop what she was doing to hide herself she wanted to scream. By the time she’d finished her feet were filthy from crawling through dirt, hands chapped and bleeding from wrestling blind with metal gears, reprogramming locks. She took the time to tape up her hands—no use getting this far and being outed by an altus tracker—but it was ready.

  She walked up to the darkened pen and stopped when propane-blue tails flared into existence. She said a prayer to the gods of people with more faith than she had. The wraicath tracked the fall of her breath. “Please don’t let me be wrong about this.”

  Olivia took one step away from the pens, and began to scream.

  Growling sounds stirred from the pens around her, but more important, shouts came from inside. The pens were a straight shot to the nearest double doors of the estate, which burst open. Men bristling with guns charged out. They swept the lawn and faltered. She imagined she could see herself in the mirror of their visors. A single, barefoot caricae, filthy and bandaged, crouched alone on hard-packed dirt in front of the pens. Their guns centered on her and stopped.

  It wasn’t close enough. Olivia took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and tried for the first time in her life to pull.

  Caricae pull was always described in floral poetic language. A flower, a sweet enticement, a delicate song. Olivia was none of those things. She didn’t know how to be sweet, alluring. She was not the warmth of the sun, a song on the breeze. These were not things Olivia knew. The only thing Olivia knew was hunger’s edge, a sharp demand denied. The slow pull of fear and rage and scars that every caricae carried in her. Olivia’s siren song was the cry of a dying star. She would be a fucking black hole. Just try to stand against her.