Tarnished Are the Stars

by Rosiee Thor

  “Are you sure you want me here?” Anna pulled her arm from Ruby’s grasp, unsure which discomfort she’d rather face: the reunited family that wasn’t hers, or the family in the kitchen that was. “He’s your son. Don’t you want a moment alone first?”

  “Don’t be silly. Roman will want you there when he wakes up.” Ruby pushed open the door, her shoulders slumping and smile faltering.

  The seven-year-old boy, usually bursting with joy and energy, lay still against the pillows. Thatcher had done his best to hide the incision with gauze and bandages, but the effect made Roman look even sicker.

  Ruby rushed to his side, taking his pale hand in hers. “Roman,” she cooed. “I’m here. I’ve got you, my darling boy.”

  Warmth spread to Anna’s fingertips as she looked on, seating herself at the foot of the bed. The love Ruby had for that little boy—at least Anna knew she’d done right by him, bringing Ruby into his life all those years ago. Ruby had been newly engaged to Dalton then, and too young to think of children. But she’d never hesitated, not once. Finding a home for an orphan in Mechan wasn’t impossible; neighbors looked out for one another, and children who lived were as common as children who died. But Roman’s injuries were Anna’s fault, not simply the cruel way of the world. She wanted more for him, better than the cold distance she shared with her grandfather. Ruby was the closest thing to family Anna knew—a woman overflowing with love—and Roman deserved nothing less.

  Thatcher might have mended Roman’s arm and given him a working heart, but Ruby gave him a home and a life. It was Anna—only Anna—who had failed him.

  She looked away, the warmth gone. Thatcher had done what Anna could not. Thatcher was the real hero of the day, and it was he, not Anna, who should have been sitting there with Ruby. Anna couldn’t even make it through a few hours of surgery.

  “He looks all right, doesn’t he?” Ruby pushed back his fluffy hair, so blond it was almost white, like a cloud.

  Anna nodded. “Thatcher’s good at what he does. If Roman wasn’t all right, he wouldn’t have let us see him.”

  That wasn’t exactly true. If the surgery hadn’t worked, wouldn’t Thatcher have sent them in anyway, to say goodbye? At that thought, Anna flew to Roman’s side to feel his pulse.

  It was steady.

  She let out a breath.

  “He’s strong.” Anna sank back onto the bed. “Now we just have to wait. We’ll know for sure in a few days, but there’s no sign he’s rejecting the TICCER yet.”

  Ruby nodded, reaching across Roman’s body for her hand. “I hate waiting. I know it’s just how surgery works, but it’s the worst part.”

  Anna squeezed Ruby’s fingers. “With any luck, this will be the last time.”

  Ruby’s face fell, and she averted her eyes. “Maybe.”

  “Ruby! Don’t think like that. If Roman pulls through, he won’t need another surgery.”

  “I didn’t mean Roman.” Ruby dropped Anna’s hand and hugged her middle. “I wasn’t going to mention it until I was further along.”

  Anna’s mouth hung open, and she didn’t care to close it. “You—you’re—”

  Ruby nodded, her eyes overflowing with tears. “I didn’t even get to tell Dalton.”

  Anna remembered the day as though it were yesterday. She’d been playing with Roman when the runners arrived back from another trip into the Settlement. As they’d been plotting a daring make-believe rescue, a commotion sounded outside. The runners had formed a semicircle around Ruby, who had fallen to the ground, her eyes blank, mouth wide in a whisper of a sob as they gave her the news.

  Anna had stayed in Roman’s room that night, there for him when his mother couldn’t be. She caught Ruby throwing up sometime before dawn. She’d assumed it a result of grief or dehydration. Crying had that effect on some people, as Anna herself had discovered firsthand the night she’d botched Roman’s surgery.

  Anna should have known then. The symptoms were there, the clues laid out for her to see. Thatcher would scold her for such thinking—a diagnosis was not just a collection of symptoms but confirmation of cause. Ruby was her best friend, though; Anna should have known.

  “How far along are you?” It was the clinical thing to ask. She ought to have inquired how Ruby felt or what she needed. Those were the things a friend would ask. But it was easier to be the Technician who dealt only in facts, not feelings.

  “I’m not sure. A few months, I suppose.” She laid her head down next to Roman’s. “This is what I wanted, Anna. I wanted a family … but not like this.”

  “He has you—they’ll both have you. That’s more than some. I don’t have parents at all, and I turned out fine.” Anna picked her nails. Fine was one word for it. Thatcher might disagree.

  Ruby looked up. “That’s not what I mean. I’ll miss Dalton every day of my life—Roman might, too, if he remembers all this—but my children will be okay without a father. I’m talking about this world where we have to fear for our homes, for our lives. I don’t want to sit in your kitchen again, waiting for your grandfather to put metal into another one of my children. I don’t want to worry that one day … that one day they just won’t come home.” She hiccuped, tears streaming from her eyes.

  Anna’s mouth felt dry. She swallowed, but no words came to her.

  Roman saved her the trouble of responding. “Mama?” he whispered, voice rough and cracking.

  Ruby sprang up to touch his hand. “I’m here, baby.”

  Anna fetched a glass of water Thatcher had left bedside, turning to give herself a moment to recover.

  “You’re going to be just fine,” Ruby whispered against his hairline.

  Roman drank with difficulty, but when he finished, he had a smile for them both. “Can we play a game?” he asked.

  Ruby smiled back at her son. “When you’re healed and strong again, we can play any game you like.”

  Roman nodded slowly, his eyelids fluttering with sleep. “Pirates,” he said. “I want to play pirates.”

  Ruby fell asleep next to Roman soon after, and Anna couldn’t help but feel she was intruding. She retreated to the kitchen, where she found her grandfather.

  “He looks good. The TICCER seems to be working.”

  “Looks can be deceiving.” Thatcher stared fixedly at the mug in his hand. “Your faith in technology may be misplaced, Deirdre-Anne.”

  Anna sat beside him. “That’s rich, coming from a mechanic.”

  “I’m a doctor, not a mechanic.” He sipped his tea. “I don’t like installing tech on patients so young. There’s too high a chance for failure.”

  “But it didn’t fail.”

  “But it could have.”

  “You mean like last time.” Anna rubbed her arm, trying to block out the memory of steel slicing through skin.

  “No, I mean every time. The younger the patient, the more possibility for complications. And since he’s not yet done growing, the TICCER isn’t a perfect fit. He’ll need maintenance all his life.”

  “It couldn’t be helped. You saw it—the Tarnish was too far advanced. You saved his life, giving him a TICCER now.”

  “Perhaps.” Thatcher pursed his lips. “I would have much preferred to wait another five years before opening his chest.”

  “You gave me mine when I was an infant.” Anna’s hand drifted to her heart, soothed by the cyclical ticking of blood through her veins.

  “You were different. You were the first. I hadn’t perfected the design yet, so I had to improvise.”

  “I don’t know why you don’t just use this same design on everyone. Old Reliable here works just fine.” She patted her chest.

  Thatcher shook his head as he poured more hot water. “Most of our neighbors here aren’t mechanics like you and me. Think about how much maintenance you have to do; none of them could keep up with that. We’d be tied up here all day fixing machinery instead of saving lives.”

  Anna was a trained mechanic. She was a good mechanic. Most everyone else in Me
chan needed tech to live but preferred to be ignorant of its functionality. Maybe it was better they didn’t know the fragility of their clockwork hearts. He wasn’t wrong. But he wasn’t exactly right, either.

  “Fixing machinery is saving lives.”

  Thatcher placed a mug of fresh tea in front of her. “Is that how you justify it?”

  Anna pushed the mug away, the smell of peppermint stinging her nostrils. “Justify what?”

  Thatcher withdrew the new Tech Decree from his breast pocket and laid it flat on the table. Ruby must have left it in the kitchen. “What in that blasted city is worth risking your life? All our lives?”

  Anna drew back. “The people of Mechan aren’t the only ones worth saving, you know. There are those in the Settlement who need my help.”

  “They choose to live within those walls, under the Commissioner’s laws. If they want our help, they should leave.”

  “Are you telling me you’d never help anyone in the Settlement? Not even if they were desperate?”

  Thatcher grabbed her wrist, shooting her an appraising look. “Not if my life depended on it. It isn’t worth risking all the lives I’ve helped to build here.”

  “Then we have a problem.” Anna stood, reaching for the satchel she’d carelessly discarded earlier.

  “We do, indeed.” Thatcher leaned back in his chair, looking at her squarely for the first time that day. “I’ve tried to be patient with you, Deirdre-Anne, but I can’t sit by and let you throw away everything I’ve worked for. I’m afraid I have to forbid you from going to the Settlement from now on.”

  “That isn’t fair! Being the Technician—that’s my livelihood! You taught me to tinker and make things with my hands. You can’t just take that away from me. I have nothing else!”

  Thatcher sighed, setting down his mug. “You and I have a relationship complicated by our work, I know. I’m your teacher, and I want to see you learn and grow, but I’m also your grandfather, and I must think about what’s best for you. Now sit down and drink your tea.”

  Anna stared at him, dumbfounded for a moment before she regained her nerve. “I’ll be in my workshop. You don’t have to choose between being my grandfather and my teacher—you won’t have to be either.”

  Thatcher’s gray eyes watched her, unblinking. Avoiding his gaze, Anna slung her bag onto her shoulder and turned her back on him. As the door swung shut behind her, she muttered, “And I hate tea.”

  Thatcher’s words trailed after her, whispers in her mind, but her blood pounded too loudly, too intently. She didn’t care what he thought. She shouldn’t care.

  But Thatcher wouldn’t help anyone from the Settlement, even if his life depended on it. Those words proved far more worrying than any of his warnings.

  She could still feel the mechanical tick of the dandy’s pulse, beating against her hand, unnatural, impossible. If Thatcher had told the truth, then another rogue mechanic had installed the TICCER—had built it. If the boy, proper though he seemed, could unravel her riddle, she could ask him herself.

  Of course, there was always the possibility Thatcher was lying.

  Nathaniel woke with the Technician’s cryptic note on his mind. The allure of breakfast paled in comparison to the riddle in his vest pocket. Giving his father’s stack of assigned reading a wary look, he crossed the room to his discarded clothing from the night before and retrieved the locket and folded letter from Eliza.

  What would Eliza think of his exploits at the market? In all their correspondence, Nathaniel had never broached the topic of illegal tech, afraid of what she’d think of the metal around his heart—afraid of what he thought of it himself. Still, he’d need to get it off his chest, as it were, and quickly; after all, they would be married soon.

  He set the locket aside, breaking the seal on Eliza’s note.

  Dearest Nathaniel,

  I hope you’re well. Word has reached us that Earth Adjacent had a very wet spring. I’ve been led to believe this is quite the horrid turn of events, but I must confess, the idea of rain bewilders and bemuses. What must it be like to feel the droplets on your skin?

  The letter went on, detailing Tower politics and Eliza’s take on relations between Earth Adjacent and the Tower. Eliza’s outrageous stories of being one of the Queen’s ladies never failed to capture Nathaniel’s attention, but he liked the end best.

  It is with a heavy heart and hand that I must set down my pen to return to my work. I do hope this letter finds you in good spirits, and if not, that it may serve to liven them. I await your reply, and hope we may exchange words in a more intimate setting soon.

  Ever yours,

  Eliza

  Nathaniel’s chest swelled every time he read those words—not the sign-off. Ever yours was as common as they came, and he never really wanted her to be his. No, Nathaniel cherished the prospect of meeting Eliza when they would exchange words in a more intimate setting.

  There was, of course, the chance he wouldn’t be what she expected when they met. She might not like him as he was, marred with metal, less eloquent out loud than he could be on paper. He could conceal so much behind the written word, but he wasn’t sure he could hide from her in person. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

  At least they were even. All he knew of her was inked onto parchment. Her words had brought him comfort, but also at times great unease. She was his betrothed, but he couldn’t be certain he wanted to marry her. He didn’t truly understand what it would mean. Doubt burned at the pit of his stomach. He had no answer. With any luck, she wouldn’t expect one.

  It didn’t bear worrying over yet, or so he tried to tell himself. He had something much more pressing to investigate anyway.

  Turning his attention to the locket, Nathaniel withdrew the note and smoothed out the crease, letting his thumb drag along the purple letters.

  For your tech-related inquiries, see a consultant when the moon sleeps and the kettle sings. It is a long four to the short nine.

  It was a riddle, but to what end? If a game for children held the key to finding such a dangerous criminal, Nathaniel had only to decode it.

  When the moon sleeps obviously meant during the day, and he could guess the kettle sings meant teatime, so roughly the afternoon—although he didn’t know if common people served tea with the same punctuality as the highborn.

  “A long four to the short nine,” Nathaniel said aloud. It was complete nonsense, perhaps included to throw him off the trail. No, the Technician had given him a time but not a place. If he could decipher the Technician’s code, he could find the outlaw. And if he could find the outlaw, he could bring him in.

  There was only one thing for it. He needed the Technician case file.

  Nathaniel made his way downstairs to a part of the house he never visited: the servants’ wing. Greeted by a flurry of questioning looks followed by bows and curtsies, he had to ask for directions to the laundry room, where he found a stack of neatly folded uniforms—maid, valet, and, finally, officer.

  Donning the maroon and gray, Nathaniel looked every part the soldier. Though he possessed neither strength nor confidence, his tall frame made him appear commanding. Not a soul who saw him walk by would suspect for a moment that he wasn’t a fully trained officer. Besides, it had been a long time since he’d made an official public appearance, and he looked less like his father than most people said. They were trying to be polite, of course, but the resemblance lived only in the subtleties of his bone structure. Nathaniel wondered, not for the first time, which pieces of his face belonged to his mother, gone before he could commit her to memory.

  Science had killed his mother—an accident of alchemy, his father told him when he was old enough to understand—not rebels with knives, but it was easy to draw the line from one to the other. The Tarnished would not heed his father’s laws meant to protect them all, and the Technician brazenly thwarted them. Bringing the criminal to justice wasn’t revenge, but in some small way it felt like action when all his life there’d been noth
ing he could do.

  Nathaniel took one last look at his reflection before exiting the manor through the servants’ entrance. The path from the manor wound through the back gardens and along the iron fence surrounding the manor grounds for a quarter mile before meeting with the bunker wall.

  He entered the bunker to find the halls bustling with officers—officers who worked for Nathaniel’s father. Nathaniel couldn’t help but retreat into the shadows, avoiding gazes. He wasn’t strictly forbidden to be there, but if anyone recognized him and told his father … Well, Nathaniel could imagine how his punishment would play out.

  The archives were at the end of the hall, past the mess hall, several training rooms, and a single holding cell with thick metal bars. Nathaniel edged along the wall, eyes glued to the floor. With a furtive glance over his shoulder Nathaniel dipped inside the archives, letting the door click behind him. Shelves ran in evenly spaced rows, files upon files waiting to be read. Nathaniel slid his finger along a shelf, dust billowing in his wake.

  He caught sight of a label halfway down the first row that said Open Cases. He took quiet steps, casting his gaze around, but it seemed he was alone. With any luck, he’d remain undetected.

  His finger brushed against the letter T, and with a swift motion, Nathaniel removed the file labeled Technician and flipped it open. It was alarmingly sparse, with only a few pages inside. The first page listed the case information and contents:

  Case Name: Technician

  Status: Open

  Active Officer: Benson

  Documents Enclosed: Coded instructions detailing date, time, and place for meeting (2)

  The front page was the only full-size page in the entire file. Behind it were two smaller slips of paper.

  As Nathaniel read the words scrawled across the next document in snakelike writing, his stomach clenched.

  The Technician thanks you for your patronage.

  They were the same words. If his father’s officers had already followed this lead, what good would it do Nathaniel to try? But even as he berated himself for his foolish diversion, Nathaniel flipped the note over, unable to tear his eyes from the page.