by Tessa Elwood
THE CHIP PINGS AGAINST THE TABLETOP, BLEEDS RED glue. I grab all the gauze I can find, and press it tightly to his shoulder. Blood seeps and drains and it doesn’t help that my shaky hands are as sticky as the wound.
“Eagle?” High, off-balance.
A thick, hoarse, “Yeah?”
“I need you to hold this. I—I’ve got to get the kit.”
Slowly he reaches across and over his shoulder, finds the gauze.
I let go and bolt the two steps to the cabinet near the cockpit, yank it open, and grab his wing’s emergency kit from the top shelf. Haul it back to the table and dig. My fingers print everything red but it doesn’t matter and I don’t care because here’s more gauze and sealant and stronger, thicker bandages.
I clean his blood away, press the seams together before too much more ebbs out, squeeze sealant along the lines. Cover everything with gauze and tape until his shoulder is a padded mountain. His breath evens out, almost steadies.
I should ask how he feels. Move around and check his face to see the damage I’ve done, but the answer is crusted on my fingertips. The room spins, overbright, my head is a disconnected bubble. I reach soft, softly for the shoulder I haven’t mauled. Rest my forehead against his hair without pressing too close. He smells like exhaustion and woods and firelight and it’s so impossibly hard to move.
But I have to. He needs meds. And better bandages. And fresh gauze and sealant and disinfectant and none of those things will magically appear.
“Can you stand?” I ask. “I’ll get the bed down.”
His hand finds mine. Clasps my wrist and tugs until I move around the chair, his eyes hollow etches of hurt.
“I’m sorry,” I say, as if that makes up for anything. “It’ll only take a second, I’ll move the chair back and you can sit while I—”
He pulls and keeps pulling until I sink into his lap.
“Eagle.” I try to rise without shifting or hurting him but his arm’s an anchor, holding me close. As if my strength will feed his. Except I haven’t any.
If I did, I wouldn’t bury my face in the warm safety of his neck and press my hand to his heart to make sure it’s still beating.
We sit a long, long time.
THE IMPLANTER GLOWS BLUE IN EAGLE’S HAND. WE sit side by side on the bed. Remapping was easy. Put the chip in the implanter, connect the implanter to Wren’s digislate. Load the updated schematic tied to her blood. Reboot the chip. Take it out then put it back in to make sure the schematic stuck. Apparently, I’ll need time to acclimate.
Eagle needs time to acclimate. I’m not sure how he’s sitting up.
“Ready?” he asks.
I climb onto the bed and sit facing the wall. Pull off my shirt and fold it in my lap. My back feels as raw as my scrubbed hands.
As long as it’s going into me, not him, it’s okay.
The stuffy air stretches across my skin, promising bites that don’t come.
I half turn. “Eagle?”
His gaze jumps from my back to me then away. Two blinks, less than a second.
I face forward, hands overhot and clutching my shirt.
The mattress slopes as Eagle balances on his knees behind me. He slips my bra strap over my shoulder, smooths the area where the chip will go. “It’s quick. There’s a numbing agent.”
The implanter eats the warmth away. The drifting metal mouth beep beep beeps over my skin, until it finds the place it wants. The beeps morph into one solid tone.
“Okay?” he asks.
I nod.
Cold barrels through my skin and explodes fire. A scream rips from nowhere, jerked short by my constricted throat, which won’t open. I curl forward, bend double.
The chip crawls. A beetle. A living, multilegged beetle burrowing deep bloody dens.
“Asa?”
My forehead’s on the mattress.
“Asa, what’s wrong?”
The chip twists and writhes and I won’t scream anymore I won’t I won’t.
Except fire spreads. I jerk but the beetle panics in all the wrong directions and digs.
I’m screaming or someone’s screaming and there’s blood on my tongue and under my skin and between the beetle’s teeth and—
“Asa!”
Nothing. There’s nothing.
I can’t feel anything.
Eagle’s saying something, a lot of somethings. He’s close, head and chest curled over me. Maybe arms and hands. I can’t feel him.
“Your shoulder,” I say against the muffling sheets. “Let me go. You’ll mess it up.”
“Asa?”
“I used up all the gauze. You’ll bleed through.” I push myself away, up the bed. At least, I think I’m moving.
“It shouldn’t have done that.” Eagle sinks beside me instead of staying still like he should. The bandages will break and I can’t feel my fingers to fix them. “The numbing should be instant. I remember. Something’s wrong. Something’s really wrong. We have to get it out.”
“No.” I reach up, grab his wrist with all my strength. Except I miss, and my fingers won’t close.
He keeps moving. “Stay still, I’ll—”
“No,” I yell, try to, wavering desperation. It takes the last of my air. “Please. I didn’t cut you open for nothing. Don’t make that for nothing.”
He freezes, maybe, I think, and leans close. But it’s too dark to see, and I can’t hear anymore.
THE WRISTLET BUZZES UP MY ARM AND DOWN THE sheets. The ceiling blazes, every light on and blinding. Eagle’s close, on his stomach, arm across my waist. I check his shoulder. The bandage is messy and somewhat twisted but not red. The sealant worked. I sink back, lifting my wrist. Read the floating text on my palm.
TRANSPORT IN TWO HOURS. PLEASE PREPARE.
My arm drops to the bed.
“How long?” Eagle’s eyes are open, more awake than his words.
“Two hours. Dad’s sending a transport.”
He nods.
“Will the chip acclimate by then?”
Eagle rises enough to check the digiclock above the cockpit door, then pulls me a little closer. “I don’t know. Mine didn’t hurt.”
“Neither does mine.” Now. I can’t feel it.
Actually, I can’t feel much on that side.
“Shoulder?” he asks.
I reach for his bandage, trace the edge. “I don’t think it bled through, is the pain bad?”
He scrunches his nose into the sheets. “Yours, not mine.”
“Mine wasn’t shredded.”
“I’m fine,” he says.
The wristlet buzzes. I shake my arm and check the band. “You told me that already.”
Eagle raises his arm then taps the band until the text changes in acknowledgment. He tugs at its smooth edge, as if there’s room for his fingers to slide under. “This is coming off.”
“Don’t mess with it, the drug will activate.” I place his arm back where it was. It is rippled and warm and very, very still.
“What drug?” he asks.
“To knock me out if I don’t show. It’s a retrieval wristlet.”
“You said it was a tracker.”
“It is.”
“With a drugging agent.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not,” he says into my neck. Then his lips stay, just stay, not quite touching.
“Eagle?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you okay? Really?”
His arm tightens. “Yeah. You?”
I nod. We’re lying, but if we both know maybe it doesn’t count.
“Eagle?”
“Yeah?”
“I want to bring Wren home.”
“What?” He raises his head.
“I don’t know which medicenter,” I say. “I haven’t researched enough. But there are more treatments in Westlet and new things we haven’t tried and she’s so far away now.”
His expression is a spun balance of this or that and too much of both.
“I know there’s not a lot of hope, but there’s some. Enough not to give up yet.” The tears press and expand and I let them fall. “And if, if it turns out there isn’t any, then maybe she could come to the main complex? For a week or two? So she isn’t alone?”
“I’ll tell Father.”
“And you’re really okay? You’d tell me?”
He eases back down and kisses my jaw.
“That better mean yes.”
“Yes,” he says.
GAMES
THE WESTLET CAPITAL IS A FOREST WITH SKYTOWERS folded in. Trees own the city—some impossibly tall—leaves green between sun-kissed buildings that curve like branches from a spiral. There’s no high-level wing traffic, no winking ad-screens. No hint the buildings breathe.
Even SolTech tower, the official headquarters of Mekenna Solis’s biotechnology, seemed abandoned from the air. Inside, people bustle in lab coats past blue wall-screens with office itineraries.
The windows encompass the hall from the docking bay and I wish Eagle would come back. He asked me to wait, but somebody passed by a second ago and now people peer around corners. No one’s supposed to know why I’m here, but they all know who I am.
The medichip hasn’t scratched more holes under my skin, so I must be acclimating. Even if my bones feel strung with string.
I smooth my cuff over the wristlet. Dad sent clothes with the transport. Functional more than frilly, but definitely House. White slacks and shirt, with a thin brown band high on each sleeve. There were even a few suits for Eagle in different sizes, tagged with, In case the boy is with you. Not proper Westlet colors with embroidered cuffs—Dad wouldn’t have access to those—but formal dark neutrals that promise power without spelling it out. I helped Eagle into the one shirt that fit.
Eagle had to sit down. I thought he was going to pass out. Maybe he has. I rebandaged his shoulder, but maybe it bled through. Maybe—
Brisk echoes and there he is, rounding the corner down the hall. Very much the soldier in deep gray, boots gleaming with the floor.
Dad is with him. Compact edges and heavy tread, messiness gone.
Eagle sweeps the corridor until the peering faces disappear, then says, “Take it off.”
I lift my wrist and Dad presses his thumb to the band. The gelled metal morphs back into a solid disc, and he palms it into a pocket. Eagle weaves his fingers through mine, his eyes on Dad.
Neither say a word.
I squeeze Eagle’s hand. “After.”
They can not-yell at each other after.
He squeezes back, but tells Dad, “This doesn’t happen again.”
“She is my daughter.” A statement, not a paternity claim. I rub my chest against the burn, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll make it true anyway.
“Asa,” Eagle says, “is the Lady of this House.”
Not future, just Lady, as if the office is already mine. Because it is. Will be.
The hall shifts and I brace against the full weight of what that means. What Wren woke up every day knowing. What Eagle must have as well. That one day, every House responsibility will come down to them, whether they are ready or not.
Now it’s down to me. Us. Here.
I rise up on tiptoe and kiss Eagle’s jaw.
“Baby!” calls a bright someone and I jump out of my skin.
Lady Galton dances forward, sunny hair wafting over purple silk. Her nails are indigo, her scent lilac—her graceful arms flying around my neck. “My beautiful, beautiful daughter. I was so worried! Are you well? Let me look at you.”
She’s everywhere, hand slipping between mine and Eagle’s, tugging me down the hall. Fingers fluttering over my cheeks like maybe I’m not real. “I was so worried. You have no idea.”
“You had no reason.” I pull away and Dad’s hand appears in my peripheral, on my shoulder, before she can reclaim me. I can’t feel it.
His pale knuckles say that’s a good thing.
“Lady Galton.”
I was wrong. Dad never once swore with my name. Not like that.
Her smile turns phosphorescent. “I’d like a moment with my daughter.”
“That would be a first.”
“And you would know that, how?” A more-ness slips into her voice, history and depth, and the air skitters between them. In the same room, almost sharing the same breath, they’re the twisted inverse of Wren and Emmie. Everything wrong and right and broken, and I slide away before they break me, too.
“I’m ready,” I say. “Let’s go.”
EAGLE OPENS THE DOOR AND THE ROOM STUTTERS. The Triplicate’s here, all of them. Multihued iridescence amid the nondescript couches of a formal discussion room. Lady Westlet in deep orange to the Lord’s silver. Genevieve’s purple sparkle floating to confer with Lord Galton’s waiting blue.
Dad in unbroken brown to my encompassing white. As if we are Lord and Heir, not Lord and youngest. I hadn’t noticed, getting dressed.
Everyone notices now.
“Darling.” Lady Westlet steps forward in an asymmetrical dress that scorns sparkle, and kisses my cheek. “Welcome to Mekenna’s labs. Charming, aren’t they? She’s promised us a full tour once the matter is sorted.”
“My Lady,” I say.
She pats my shoulder and moves to kiss Eagle with a razor smile. “My, don’t you look well? Though House colors might have been appropriate.”
Eagle stares straight ahead.
“It was what he had,” I say, instead of, then you should have brought him some.
The thought must come through anyway, for the Lady only says, “Ah.”
“Speaking of sorted.” Genevieve threads an arm around my waist and pulls me toward the man who is absolutely not my dad. “Shall we get that out of the way first?”
“It would be about time.” Lord Galton takes my chin between three fingers and tips my head back. His round face matches his round vowels and square, digging fingertips.
Genevieve touches his wrist. “Remember what she is. Punctuality can be taught.”
“Yes,” he says. “It will.”
No, it won’t.
I pull back and smack into a wall.
Or rather Eagle, who reaches for my arm and holds tight.
His shoulder. I can’t make him sit down or check the sealant or yell because everyone’s watching.
So I ease away and ask, “Where is the test?”
“Here.” The Lady sweeps in and directs me toward the only non-House individual in the room. “Mekenna has everything set up.”
Mekenna has replaced her glitter earrings for simple studs that match her noncommittal suit. She nods a formal greeting, then pulls a green disc from her pocket. “The other signatures have already been drawn, m’lady. Yours will conclude the test.”
She presses the disc’s center. It jumps, glows white, and floats above her palm. Stays airborne as she removes her hand. “Lay your wrist on the hover, please.”
I do as told, tugging up my sleeve, arm outstretched. The hover hums, static energy locking my arm in place. Binding my wrist steady even as my body shivers.
Mekenna next takes a shiny black thing from an end table. “This evaluation is for parentage only. Any viral anomalies outside the defined zone will not be shared or recorded. The results will forward automatically to a secure deposit in the greater House network, where they cannot be deleted, overwritten, or tampered with.”
“Sweet Mekenna,” says Lady Galton. “So efficient.”
The shiny thing turns out to be two metal strips, crossed at the center, that curve down into four even legs. Mekenna settles it on the hover so the crosshairs pin my pulse. The legs lock and a mini 3-D holorecord appears, zipping through a stream of text before ending with, Initiation complete. Activate when ready.
Mekenna taps the reader and a needle spears. I jerk.
“Easy.” She holds my palm flat while metal slits its way down and down, and holo letters spin.
It doe
sn’t hurt, not actual pain. Just presence. A thirsty pull under my skin, in my blood. Like the medichip.
Which has absolutely, positively acclimated.
Compiling . . . flashes the holo text. Compiling . . . Compiling . . .
Wrinkles skitter across Mekenna’s face. She releases my palm, flips her hand, and taps the crosshairs of the reader with one hard knuckle. The needle burrows until my stomach stings.
Flash flash flash.
“What’s taking so long?” Lord Galton asks. “Mine was instantaneous.”
“No doubt due to your thick veins,” says Lady Westlet.
“The transmission is instant, my Lord,” Mekenna says, “not necessarily the—”
Parentage compiled, reads the holo. Subject 3 child of Subject 1. Transmitting results.
The needle disappears.
Genevieve glows. “That would be Jaered, yes?”
I shake my head. Eagle’s blood is on my hands and under my nails and that will not be for nothing.
“No,” I tell the reader, the floating text, the entire room. “It’s Dad.”
“If by ‘Dad’ you mean Lord Fane,” says Mekenna, “then yes. He was the first subject.”
The world stalls between heartbeats. Suspended as my wrist, my blood, my dizzy head.
Dad’s. I’m Dad’s.
“What?” barks Lord Galton.
“Oh, what a lot of fuss.” Lady Westlet says, tumbled as her smile. “Now, Mekenna, dear, how about that tour you so beautifully promised.”
“Of course, my Lady.” Mekenna reaches for the reader, but Lord Galton grabs her wrist. “Test again.”
I try to pull free of the reader, but the energy field holds me in place.
Mekenna pastes on a smile. “The results are sent, my Lord. They cannot be overwritten.”
“And if they’ve done something to her? Given her one of your famous blood chips? Test again.”
She stares pointedly at his locked fingers. “Medichips heal. They do not rewrite DNA.”