“I will not.”
“Think of Benzo,” Montgomery says, her voice wavering. “She knows it was your attachment to Benzo that triggered this. She’ll torture him, Kenna, him and his whole family, until you write those words off as teenaged foolishness. You need to get ahead of this, before She tears him apart to change your mind—”
“She’s torturing him anyway! She’s torturing his family, and if I concede She’ll keep torturing his family, and all the families She holds in Her thrall! All I’ll do by ‘walking this back’ is make it easier for people like Her to keep Her staff in line!”
Montgomery snaps off her goggles. “I thought you loved Benzo.”
“I do. I love him enough to know I’ll crush the hopes of thousands of other Benzos if I yield.”
Paulius sits down, collar askew, white suit streaked. “They’re going to kill you, Kenna. They’re going to kill us. They’re going to find everything you love, and they’ll twist it as hard as they can until you laugh that speech off. The Sol Majestic won’t exist, your religion won’t exist, your lover won’t exist, and your corpse will be chucked out an airlock. Is that worth it for a speech?”
This decision would be so easy if he were not sitting in The Sol Majestic’s kitchen. He can see the station where Benzo’s stockpot stood, which floods him with memories of how good it felt to spoon up against Benzo’s naked body. He can see the fumellier and the sommelier and the sous chefs and the dishwashers waiting for his answer; his refusal will scatter his newfound family to the winds.
Yet there are other places where the work does not unite you into a family, but makes men into monsters.
And when he speaks, he feels nothing left but this foolish resistance, so much a part of him they’d have to kill him to stop him:
“… yes,” he whispers. “It’s worth it.”
Paulius’s head droops to his chest. He takes Kenna by the shoulders, tears trickling down his wrinkled cheeks:
“Then you’re Inevitable,” he says.
Kenna flinches at the word. Only Mother and Father can judge his Inevitability.
Then Kenna thinks: If Mother and Father can refuse my Inevitability, am I truly Inevitable?
Montgomery taps her bare temple knowingly, approvingly, as if she’d read his mind. He remembers what she’d told him long ago: Back in the glory days, all a Philosopher needed was an incandescent willpower. Even if Mother and Father mustered all their wealthy allies to stop him, Kenna would create a civil war to stop slavers like Madison.
He has reclaimed the Philosophies, and no one can make him give them back.
Paulius’s laughter mixes with tears. He lifts Kenna to his feet, twirling Kenna to face the crowd as he thrusts his hand high into the air and shouts: “He is Inevitable! He is the Inevitable Prince!”
As the staff cheers, flinging their hats into the air, Paulius sags into Kenna, releasing the tension he’d felt over wondering whether Kenna meant that speech or had blurted out thoughtless anger, and Kenna remembers how many times Paulius had thrown that lacquered duck tantrum for the cameras …
“When did you know?” Kenna asks.
Paulius is almost too overcome to respond, refusing to relinquish his grip on the boy he loves. “Montgomery told me. After I wondered about selling the robes.”
Montgomery is quelling the celebration, smacking people to rescue what dishes they can, yes the Prince is Inevitable but so is The Sol Majestic and they’ll use the Escargone to save tonight’s dinner.
“I thought…” Kenna swallows. “I believed Captain Lizzie would shut you down.”
“Oh, she won’t,” Paulius scoffs. “I looked at a lot of stations before I decided where to settle. Most captains would have evicted me for this—and yes, you’ll have to be picky about where you travel—but Lizzie’s far too practical to let a little freedom afear her.”
“What would you have done if I’d chosen differently?” Kenna asks. “If I’d given in?”
Paulius shakes his head, refuting the awful future that could have come to pass.
“I would have let you.”
* * *
Montgomery gets the security guards to clear a path back to the stage, hauling Kenna in her wake, refusing to release Kenna’s hand. She hoists his fist high in the air, brandishing her trophy.
As they clamber up the huge dais, she snaps her fingers: a hologram plays of Paulius, hunched over Kenna in the kitchen:
“They’re going to kill you, Kenna. They’re going to kill us. They’re going to find everything you love, and they’re going to twist it as hard as they can until you laugh that speech off. The Sol Majestic won’t exist, your religion won’t exist, your lover won’t exist, and your corpse will be chucked out an airlock. Is that worth it for a speech?”
“… yes.”
Montgomery’s grin is as bright as a supernova as she gives Kenna a high-five. She yanks her Inevitable Robe off, hurls it into the audience, lets it flutter down like a great butterfly set free.
“Ladies and Gentlemen!” she shouts, exultant. “I am privileged to inform you that despite your best efforts, there remain some people you filthy frog-fuckers can’t buy, beguile, or browbeat! Kenna has asked me to announce his new Philosophy to you all: ‘There is dignity in labor!’ So allow me to present to you—your Inevitable Prince!”
Dinner is a mostly silent affair.
37
Five Minutes to Freedom
Kenna waits in one of Savor Station’s docking ports, letting the luggage carts jostle him, ignoring the vloggers staring in his direction. He’s come to understand this is the cost of blowing up his Wisdom Ceremony so dramatically; millions now follow him on 24/7 livestreams, certain he might do something unexpected at any moment.
Today, at least, they will not be wrong.
He takes the last bite of bhelpuri from the waxed container. He made certain the bhelpuri merchant—his name was Viaan—was his last stop before arriving here. Viaan had even allowed the Prince to fry up some crispy noodles as an experiment, much to Kenna’s delight: one final morsel of enjoyment before a long cold condemnation.
Not the last joy, thankfully. Not yet. It feels good to be back among the passengers, lined up to get an outbound ship. There had been so many important guests arriving on-board for the Ceremony that Savor Station’s private ports couldn’t dock them all at once, so the traffic control stations play a complex and diplomatic game of chess as they balance everyday transport shipping with independent cruisers.
Yet Kenna finds being in the winding lines comforting. Weary passengers will spy him, his stained robe a beacon even among the chaotic docking procedures, and they’ll frown as if to say, That can’t be him.
Then they realize the Inevitable Prince is among them, and he shoots them a merry wink to confirm that yes, his place is in steerage travel, and they come over and shake his hand and tell him how they loved his speech. They assure him that if they’re ever on a ship with him, they will fight the captains to prevent them from airlocking him. And he thanks them, telling them he is grateful for their support.
Then he asks them what they do.
They’re always surprised by that. He wishes they wouldn’t be.
And Kenna—not the Inevitable Prince, he assures them, just Kenna—is licking the last of Viaan’s delicious bhelpuri off his fingertips when he sees Her shouldering Her way through the crowd. Her debtors charge ahead like a sports team to make room for Her, Her shoulders drawn in tight as though She’s loath to touch the passengers.
Benzo trails behind Her, heaving the portable kitchen he uses to cook Her meals. He smiles, a fast-food-worker’s gunpoint grin, dressed in an immaculate orange uniform; beneath the thick cloth, his chest glows, Her reactivated nanofilaments monitoring his moods.
Then She sees Kenna, and waves Her people to a stop. They pull up clumsily, a panicked team of horses.
The vloggers surround them, sensing confrontation.
“O Prince!” She gives a shining gri
n for the cameras: not quite as smoothly as someone trained by Rèpondelle would have done, but She’s been schooled in PR. “Congratulations on your coronation.”
“Thank you.” He offers a genuine pleasure that leaves Her nowhere to take offense.
“So.” She turns around to take in the vloggers, rising to the challenge of dueling with sheathed daggers. “I hear riots have broken out because of your—unusual—speech. You must be quite proud.”
“Every benefit we take for granted was once spurred by riots. Employers prefer to spill buckets of blood rather than give up one drop of profit. I’m hoping, of course, the masters will see the benefits of giving in before heads roll—but that depends on them, not us.”
“Or the quality of their masters. Some are beloved for different reasons.”
Benzo’s teeth clamp together as he staggers forward. Kenna wonders if later video analysis will pick up the faint green traceries beneath Benzo’s jacket as She maneuvers him into place—but to the crowd, it looks like Benzo has obeyed his Mistress’s orders.
She curls her fingers underneath Benzo’s chin, an intimacy to remind Kenna he will never touch Benzo again. “Isn’t that true, my sweet? Don’t you love me too much to love some silly Prince?”
Benzo says nothing. Kenna loves him all the more for it—he knows Benzo is tormented by a thousand invisible anguishes, yet he refuses to speak the words his Mistress would have him say.
A few of Her slaves mutter “We love you, Mistress” in ragged syncopation. She frowns, cataloguing silences for future punishment.
“Anyway,” She sing-songs, “it’s been delightful catching up, O Prince, but it is time for me to go…”
“I am aware. I wanted to ensure you left with the entirety of your property.”
He whips his robe off.
Beneath, he wears Her orange debtor’s uniform.
“That’s…” Her confusion is delicious. “I’m afraid you’re confused, O Inevitable Prince, you are not indebted to me…”
“I must debate that dubious assertion. I spent several months in the Escargone, trained in consommé by your servant. His mentorship came at Majestic rates. As a result, I am several hundred thousand dinari in his debt, which transfers to you.”
He kneels at Her feet.
“You own me, ma’am.”
The vloggers flick on their live feeds, subvocalizing commentaries; the passengers abandon their places in line to see whether the Prince needs rescuing. She hesitates, Her hands held up as if She wishes to slow this down …
“That’s … absurd, O Prince. You have thousands of donations rushing into your account, the starving millions tithing their tiny paychecks to you … You’re wealthy beyond redemption…”
“No, no, those weren’t to me,” Kenna corrects Her. “That was to the charity the ten percent cut from the Inevitable Robes went to. I left that in Scrimshaw’s hands; she’s investing it to create interesting market pressures. But I, personally, don’t own a dinari. Which makes me yours.”
He bows. She pales. “Then I free you. As a gift.”
“That is merciful, but alas, I cannot accept. The others in your debt have no ability to pay their way free—so how could I accept freedom when others languish? Alas, I shall become a slave like the others in your care.”
She bares Her teeth, Her PR façade slipping. “They’re debtors, not slaves.”
“Well. I suppose we’ll have a spirited debate about whether there’s an effective difference, won’t we?” Kenna beams a gentle smile at the vloggers to encompass them in his “we,” watches Her horror as She realizes She’s only gotten away with Her abuses because nobody’s cared.
But now the Inevitable Prince has an audience, and he will bring them into Her slave chambers. Though She’ll try to lock the journalists out, they’ll never stop hunting for exposés on the Inevitable Prince. They’ll investigate the working conditions the Prince and all Her other slaves suffer under. They’ll write op-eds on whether people should be sold with their debts. They’ll call for legislation to break Her stranglehold …
“This is nonsense! I’m freeing you, Kenna!” She taps Her arm, spreadsheets blossoming across Her bioimplants, swiping green refunds across Kenna’s name. “Your debts are erased!”
“Generous indeed,” he says. “Yet you buy bad debt in bulk. Scrimshaw’s told me she’s willing to sell me to you hidden among others, again, and again, and again. Why, you might spend your whole life purchasing me and releasing me…”
She leans in close, whispering so the cameras can’t hear. “Walk away, you emaciated cretin. I’ll lace you with tormenting nanofilaments until you beg to tell everyone that life with me is a paradise…”
Kenna knows what smile Rèpondelle would have him give to instill fear. Yet the unbreakable smile that rises naturally to his face forces Her to take a step back in terror.
“I’m Inevitable,” he tells Her, and steps into Her circle to become a slave.
The cameras never stop rolling.
Epilogue
Eleven Years Later
They had traveled for three months to get to the funeral.
Kenna and Benzo had waited in the transport ship to let everyone else get off first, thanking those who came to pay their respects. And when the time came, Benzo had helped Kenna to his feet, put his cane in his hands, pointed him to the door.
Kenna had kissed Benzo when he got up, of course. They always did that, now that they could.
And waiting at the exit is Paulius—a little plumper around the middle, a little more wrinkled, a little slower to greet them. But it is still Paulius, in his gleaming white suit, still Paulius with that splendid grin, and Kenna realizes he hasn’t seen his home since he sold himself into slavery all those years ago.
Paulius kisses them both on the cheek. “So proud,” he whispers. “So proud.”
Then he glances down at Kenna’s infamously twisted knee: “Will you be all right? Can you make your way to the restaurant?”
“I can forge a path anywhere, if the need drives,” Kenna says. Yet the effort costs him. Both his legs are in constant pain, the aftermath of Her—Madison—having all but destroyed his nerves to get him to recant. She’d turned to outright physical torture at the end, breaking out the hammers, but after eight long years Kenna’s testimonies had led to new laws that had forced Her out of business.
He liked to joke that no man should be a cripple at twenty-seven—but if someone should be, that man should at least be Inevitable.
Paulius leads them through the station’s corridors to The Sol Majestic—or what had once been The Sol Majestic. The obsidian rock in front is streaked with dust, the plants in the thin soil dying. The doors are padlocked—not because the biolocks can’t keep people out, but because a thick iron lock is a sign prior reservations have been canceled.
“It’s not entirely closed,” Paulius says, fishing a key out from his vest pocket. “It’s been like a going-away party, really. All those people I helped back in the day want to see me one more time before … well, before.” The key sags in his hands, and for a moment Kenna worries he might drop it. “So … I’ve been cooking a few meals, sometimes. For the ones who could make it here in time. We talk about the old days, catch up on what they’ve been doing. Captain Lizzie has been quite generous letting me stay here.”
“So they’ve left?” Benzo asks, crestfallen. Kenna knew how much Benzo had missed working in that kitchen. “All the staff?”
“I spent what I had on good severances. I gave them fine recommendations. I repaid their dedication as best I could.”
He pushes open the doors to reveal The Sol Majestic’s degradation—a vast carpet that needs vacuuming, overhead lights that need changing, a wide bar with missing bottles. A lone table sits near the kitchen entrance, where this private service will be held for Kenna, Benzo, and Paulius.
It’s not hard for Kenna to fill in the Majestic’s gaps to remember what it once was, but …
Benzo squ
eezes his shoulder. “You don’t want to try.”
Of course Benzo is right. Reconstructing The Sol Majestic would be its own bereavement, and they are here to mourn Scrimshaw’s passing.
“You mentioned a meal,” Benzo says. “Would you mind if I cooked it?”
Paulius clasps his hands in silent prayer. “I was hoping you would lay the Majestic’s kitchen to rest.”
* * *
The table is laid out for nine courses—even in reduced circumstances, Paulius cannot bear to cut corners. He hears the chok-chok-chok of Benzo chopping vegetables in the kitchen—they’d become vegans after She had treated them as cruelly as livestock—and feels guilty for leaving Benzo alone with his memories.
Then he remembers Benzo is never happier than when he is creating. Tonight will be a simple soup, but Benzo will make it perfect.
Simpleness has become his husband’s strength.
Paulius is halfway through uncorking the bottle before he hesitates. “Do you drink wine?”
“Upon special occasions.”
Paulius tilts the label toward Kenna for his approval; Kenna nods, even though he knows nothing about wine. But he’s certain this is the most precious bottle in Paulius’s storage.
Predictably, it is delicious.
“Have you heard from Montgomery?” Kenna asks.
Paulius slumps back against his chair, grinning, the question flooding him with so many fond memories that he can no longer function. “Once she found herself, I couldn’t keep her on staff. She does pop-up supper clubs now—one-time events held in secret places. She held a tasting menu in the heart of a comet once. She’s done water tastings at the bottom of oceans. She sends me invitations. Sometimes I even show up.”
Kenna spreads his hands apart, mimicking an explosion. “Do you show up via…?”
Paulius sets the glass down. “The Niffeneger syndrome? You’re asking if I pop onto a comet, and then pop back here?”
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