by Pierce Brown
I feel the words coming like a train down a tunnel.
“When they have all gathered nice and tightlike. When the Sovereign stands to give her speech, you kill the Goldbrow bastards with a radium bomb we hide on you. Mickey and a crew of gizmos built the tech. Once we see the bomb has detonated via the dataRecorder we’ll plant on you, we unleash hell across the system. Burn them out.”
This is the sum of all I’ve done?
“There has to be another way.”
“There were always two plans, Helldiver. This, and you. Ares and Dancer said you were our hope, our chance at another path. They boasted like boys that you could destroy Gold from inside. But you failed, like I said you would. You’re gonna claim blood is on Evey’s hands. Well, it’s on yours too.”
“You don’t even know the blood I have on my hands, Harmony. I’m not some bloodydamn saint. But Evey’s attack was a crime.”
“The only crime is if we lose.”
I shatter. “There’s more at play here than you understand. We cannot face Gold. No matter the blow we strike, they will eradicate us like this.” I snap my fingers.
“So you won’t do it.”
“No, I won’t do it, Harmony.”
“Then the war begins without your help,” she says. “We had two Sons ready to try to enter the gala. They are not Gold, so bets are higher they’ll get caught and cut to ribbons in a Praetorian torture cell before completing their mission. Means the leaders of Gold will live on, and our tiny chances of winning this shitstorm shrink, because you don’t trust Ares.”
“Slag this. Ares should have told me this himself if he wanted my help!”
“How? He is on Mars preparing the revolution. There is no way to communicate. They monitor everything. How could he contact you without exposing your cover?” She leans forward, lower teeth exposed ferally. “Tell me, Darrow. Do you even know how much they’ve stolen from you?”
It’s something in her tone. “What do you mean?”
“Here’s what I mean.” She jams a series of orders into the holoCube and an image appears of Lykos mines. My blood goes cold. “The recording of Eo’s death, the one we pirated and broadcast …”
My heart thuds in my throat.
“It wasn’t complete.” She presses play and the room around us becomes the mine. We’re a part of the three-dimensional holo. It’s the raw footage, not the stuff on the newsreels, not the stuff I’ve seen a hundred times. It shows the hanging without a soundtrack.
I hear my own cries of pain as the Grays beat the boy I used to be. Weeping in the crowd. The awkward silence of unedited footage. My mother hangs her head and Uncle Narol spits in the dust. Kieran, my brother, covers his children’s eyes. Feet shuffle. Dio, Eo’s sister, stumbles up the metal scaffold. Shoes scraping over rust. Sobbing. Then Dio leans toward my wife. Eo stands small, so pale and thin, little more than the smoke of the burning girl I remember. Her lips move. Again, I don’t hear it, just as I didn’t hear it that day. Suddenly Dio sobs uncontrollably and clings to Eo. What was said?
“Use the equipment. That’s what it’s there for, eh?”
I’ve wondered it a thousand times but never had access to this footage. I never knew how I’d find it without raising suspicion. And the thought scared me, as it scares me now—what was I not strong enough to hear? What could Dio bear that I could not?
In the news footage that was pirated, they don’t even show Dio. But here, with the raw footage, I can rewind. I do so. I can amplify the sound. I do so. I watch it happen again: My mother hangs her head. Narol spits. Kieran covers the children’s eyes. Feet shuffle. Dio goes up the scaffold. All the sound is magnified. I sort out the white noise with the controls, and I hear what my wife said to Dio.
“In our bedroom, there is a crib I made. Hide it before Darrow returns.”
“A crib …,” Dio murmurs.
“He must never know. It would break him.”
“Don’t say it, Eo. Don’t.”
“I am with child.”
10
Broken
I break.
Sitting in a void. Staring at my hands. The hands that could not save my wife, my child. She was right. I wasn’t strong enough to bear the truth of Eo’s second sacrifice. Eo could have lived. Eo could have given us the child we always wanted. That future wasn’t worth her silence. I wasn’t worth it …
I feel something deep in my chest, a hollow raw ache. Like blackness has opened in the pit of my soul even as my body tightens and coils around grief. I weigh a million pounds. Shoulders slump. Chest compressed. My fingers clutch together. Funny to think these hands have been with me this whole time. They helped pull her ankles. They buried her in the soil. But they didn’t just bury her, did they?
No. They buried another life. One unborn. Our child, dead before it lived. And I never even knew. I failed them both. The amplified video replays again.
“I am with child,” she tells Dio on the scaffold. “I am with child.”
I replay it a dozen times, feeling myself shrink into a corridor of grief.
The Golds didn’t just kill her. They killed what I’ve always wanted to be—a husband and a father. If only I had stopped her. If only I had not pouted like a child when we lost the Laurel, she wouldn’t have thought to take me to the garden. If only I had the strength to pretend losing the Laurel didn’t bother me.
All the family I could have had. A wife. Sons. Daughters. Grandchildren. They’ve been slaughtered before they ever were. Eo will never hold our daughter. She will never kiss our son to sleep and smile over at me as his little hands clutch my finger. I’m all that’s left of that family that could have been. A dark shadow of the man I was meant to be.
The rage rises. We had a chance, and it is gone. Everything I wanted is gone, because of me and because of them. Their laws. Their injustice. Their cruelty. They made a woman choose death for her and her unborn child over a life of slavery. All that for power. All that so they can keep their perfect little world.
“You were not strong enough then,” Harmony says. “Are you strong enough now, Helldiver?” I look at her, tears making warm paths down my face. Her hard eyes soften for me. “I had children, once. Radiation ate their insides, and they didn’t even give them pain meds. Didn’t even fix the leak. Said there weren’t enough resources. My husband just sat there and watched them die. In the end, the same thing took him. He was a good man. But good men die. To free them, to protect them, we must be savages. So give me evil. Give me darkness. Make me the bloodydamn devil if we can bring even the faintest ray of light.”
I stand and wrap my arms around her as I’m reminded of the true horrors our kind face. Had I really forgotten? I am a child of hell, and I’ve spent too long in their heaven.
“Whatever Ares wants, I’ll do it.”
“Pliny sent the bitch,” the Jackal hisses as the Yellow physicians slowly remove the burned skin from his arm and reapply new growth cultures. “It wasn’t Sons of Ares. They wouldn’t kill that many lowColors. It’s against profile. Pliny probably. Or the Sovereign’s Praetorians using cover.”
The lights of passing ships glow through the glass. He curses and shouts at his servants to black out the windows. Grays brought me here to his private skyscraper instead of the Citadel, as I requested. The place crawls with mercenaries. He prefers Grays to Obsidians, except apparently that Stained. I’m the only other Gold, which shows the extent of the Jackal’s trust. His name would certainly bring enough hangers-on to fill a city, but he’s comfortable in his isolation. Like me.
“Could it have been Victra?” I ask. “She didn’t stay …”
“She’s already proven her loyalty. She wouldn’t use a bomb. And she’s in love with you. It wasn’t her.”
“In love with me?” I ask, startled.
“You’re blind as a Blue.” He snorts but says no more about it. “Our alliance must remain a secret until we’re off this damn moon, which means you were not in that tavern. If Pliny knew th
e extent of our plans, he would have been more thorough. I believe he was only targeting me. So you will return to the Citadel. Pretend as if nothing has happened. I will continue my plan with the syndicate lords, then purchase your contract at the end of the Summit.”
At which point, their world will change.
I turn to leave him, but his voice arrests me at the door. “You saved my life. Only one other person has ever done that. Thank you, Darrow.”
“Tell your new skin to grow faster. You won’t want to miss the closing gala.”
The next three days pass in a haze, my mind on Eo and what we lost. I cannot find escape from the grief. It plagues me even as I work myself to death in the estate’s gymnasium. I do not indulge in small talk. I pull back from my friends. None of this matters. Not to me. Life fades in the presence of pain. Theodora notices, and tries her best to relieve my dourness, even suggesting I distract myself with Roses from the Citadel’s Garden.
“Better you, dominus, than some rough man from the Gas Giants,” she says.
News of the bombings sweeps through the Citadel, dominating the news. The Society plays it well—broadcasting their aid relief. Sending out instructions on how to handle a potential crisis. Yellow psychologists analyze Ares on screen, conclude that a latent sexual trauma in his youth makes him lash out to seize control of his world again. Violet actors and entertainers raise money for those families who have lost loved ones. Quicksilver himself volunteers three percent of his personal fortune to relief efforts. Obsidian and Gray commandos attack asteroid bases where Sons of Ares “train.” Gray antiterrorist agents hold press conferences saying they have apprehended those responsible, likely some Reds they pulled out of a mine or Luna’s slums.
It’s a farce and the Golds play it so well. They hide from the cameras and make this seem a fight of all the Colors against Red terrorists. This is not Gold’s fight. It belongs to all of Society. Moreover, Society is winning because our sacrifice and obedience allow us to prosper. Bloodydamn horseshit.
Yet still, blame must be placed. So the ArchGovernor is pulled away to face inquiries regarding his handling of the situation. How have the Sons spread from Mars to Luna? they will ask. The Gold hornets’ nest has been stirred, as I said it would be, but still the gala continues. I watch the Golds play their games of intrigue, diplomacy, spiriting off to galas and conferences and summits, untouched by the dirty games with terrorists. They are protected, shielded from horror.
It would bother me, but they are shadows to me now. As though they’ve already fallen into memory. This present is pale compared to my past.
I touch the bomb on my chest in regret. It is of Mickey’s make. A copy of the pegasus I wore at the Institute, which contained Eo’s hair and now lies secreted away with my other personal effects. All I need do is twist its head and it becomes the bomb. The ring they gave me will activate it.
I draw away from friends, from Victra. She’s asked Roque what is wrong with me. I know he will answer that I’m like the wind, a creature of vagary and moods. Or something like that. He draws closer to me, visiting my rooms when I’ve gone to bed, attempting to spar with me in the gymnasium. But I cannot smile with him or listen to his soft voice read poems or discuss philosophy or even share jokes. I can’t let myself feel for him, because I know he will soon be dead. I try to kill him in my heart before I kill him in the flesh.
Can I add him to the list of those I’ve already sent to the grave?
I finally find my answer the night of the gala, when Theodora brings me my pressed clothing from the laundry. She doesn’t say anything that reminds me of Roque. Doesn’t offer pithy wisdom. Instead, she does something I’ve never seen from her. She makes a mistake. While setting my uniform down on a chair, she knocks over a glass of wine on a nearby table. The wine splashes over the sleeve of my white uniform. What flashes through her eyes chills me—terror. The sort a deer might have when staring at an oncoming aircar. She streams out apologies as though I would hit her if she did not. It takes her a moment to compose herself, for the flash of panic to dissipate. When it does, she sits there on the floor, dabbing at the uniform in silence.
I don’t know what to do. I stand there awkwardly for a moment before putting a hand on her shoulder to tell her all’s well. That’s when she begins to cry in great heaving sobs that rack her small shoulders. She flinches from my touch and composes herself, telling me I’ll have to wear black instead of white. She may not know what is about to happen, but she can feel it in me, in the air.
While the other lancers play with each other, take microabrasion baths, and consult with stylists to prepare themselves for the gala, I lace up my thick military boots with trembling fingers. I’ve never been good at saving my friends. It seems I always drag them into harm’s way. Sevro, I believe, is only still alive because of the distance between us. Fitchner was always afraid I’d kill his son. Said my life’s strand was so strong that it frayed all those around it. Now, seeing Theodora like that … it reminds me how fragile and complicated we really are. I don’t know why she cried. Some past trauma? Some sense of what’s to come? Not knowing reminds me of the depth to the people around me. I am speechless, cold, but Roque is warm … he would have known what to say.
I knock on his door several minutes before Augustus’s entourage is set to depart the villa for the gala. There is no answer. I open the door and find my friend sitting on his bed, holding an ancient book gently by its spine. His smooth features ripple into a smile when he sees it is me.
“I thought you were Tactus come to beg me to shoot some stims before the gala. He always thinks because I’m reading, I’m not doing anything. There is no greater plague to an introvert than the extroverted. Especially that beast. He will run himself into the ground one of these days.”
I force a chuckle. “At least he’s sincere about his vices.”
“Have you met his brothers yet?” Roque asks. I shake my head. “They make Tactus look like a lamb.”
“Goryhell,” I swear. I lean against the door’s frame. “That bad?”
“The Rath brothers? They are terrible. Terribly rich. Terribly talented. And their chief virtue lies in their ability to sin. They’re prodigies at it.” Roque grins conspiratorially. “If you believe rumors—and I love rumors, remind me of Byron and Wilde—Tactus’s brothers opened a brothel in Agea when they were fourteen. Classy affair till they started arranging more … customized experiences.”
“Then what happened?”
“Ruined daughters, sons. Insults. Duels. Dead heirs. Debt. Poison.” He shrugs. “It’s the Rath family. What do you expect from those blackguards? It’s why everyone was so surprised Tactus had taken up with an Iron Gold like you,” he clarifies. “You know his brothers mock him for being in your shadow. It’s why he’s always so sarcastic. He wants to be like you, but he can’t. So he resorts to his usual defenses.” He frowns. “Sometimes I feel like you understand all of us better than we understand ourselves. Then other times, it’s like you could care less.” Roque tilts his head at me when I say nothing. “What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re never one for nothing.” He sets his book down on his chest and pats the edge of the bed, drawing me into the room. “Sit, please.”
“I came because I wanted to apologize,” I say very slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’ve been distant these last months, particularly these last days. I don’t think I was fair to you. Not when you’ve been my most loyal friend. Well, you and Sevro, but he won’t stop sending me strange pictures over the net.”
“More unicorns?”
I laugh. “I think he has a problem.”
Roque pats my hand. “Thank you. But you’re like a hound apologizing for wagging its tail. You’re always distant, Darrow. You don’t have to apologize for how you are, not to me.”
“More distant, perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” he agrees, allowing it. “We all have our own tides inside us. They go in. Out.” He shrugs.
“Not really ours to control. The things, people, that orbit us do that, at least more than we’d like to admit.” After watching me a moment, he furrows his brow in thought. “Is this about Mustang? I know it was hard for you to leave her, no matter what you said at the time. You should seek her out while we’re here. I know you miss her.”
“I don’t.”
“Liar, liar, cheeks afire.”
“I’ve told you a hundred times, we’re not talking about her.”
“Fine. Fine. Then you’re worried, aren’t you? About the auction?” He pauses, smiling and watching me. “You shouldn’t. I’ve settled that matter. I’m going to bid on you.”
“You don’t have the money,” I say flatly.
“Do you know how badly a Pixie would pay to get a Peerless with my pedigree and connections in their debt? Millions. I could even go to Quicksilver if I need. He loans to Golds all the time. Point is, I’ll have the money, even if my parents won’t help me. So never you worry, brother.” He pokes me with his foot. “House Mars has to mean something, eh?”
“Thank you,” I say, stuttering out the words, unable to really grasp what he’s done. And why? It puts his neck out. It endangers him and crosses his parents. “No one else has even mentioned the auction to me.”
“They’re afraid your bad luck is contagious. You know how it is.” He pauses, waiting because he knows me so well. “There’s something else. Isn’t there?”
I shake my head. “Do you …” My words fail me. “Do you ever feel lost?” The question hangs between us, intimate, awkward only on my end. He doesn’t scoff as Tactus and Fitchner would, or scratch his balls like Sevro, or chuckle like Cassius might have, or purr as Victra would. I’m not sure what Mustang might have done. But Roque, despite his Color and all the things that make him different, slowly slides a marker into the book and sets it on the nightstand beside the four-poster, taking his time and allowing an answer to evolve between us. Movements thoughtful and organic, like Dancer’s were before he died. There’s a stillness in him, vast and majestic, the same stillness I remember in my father.