Across a Star-Swept Sea

Eighteen

JUSTEN SIGHED AT THE pile of half-assembled nanorectors littering his desk. The brain stem model the minuscule computers were in the process of constructing was getting him nowhere. Might as well start from scratch. One downside of not having a palmport like the other medics at the lab—while they could wave their hands at the nanorectors and dissolve them into blocks again, he had to type his instructions into an oblet.

He chuckled to himself. He’d better watch it—he was beginning to sound like Persis. Next he’d be calling typing “primitive.”

Not that he was going to get a palmport. He’d already had quite enough of Albian fashion, thank you very much. He’d woken this morning to find his clothes either hidden or—if he knew Persis—destroyed and several new outfits hanging ready for him in his closet. As Persis had been nowhere to be found, he hadn’t yet had the opportunity to complain that her idea of proper attire included collars that chafed his neck and inappropriately shiny trousers cut entirely too tightly at the crotch.

Even Fredan hadn’t been able to hold back a chuckle when Justen had emerged in his new outfit and asked to borrow a skimmer to drive to the lab.

The clothes might be appropriate for a cocktail party or lounging about in court, but after ten hours on a stool in the laboratory, Justen was ready to strip naked. Why Persis preferred such clothing was beyond him. Maybe they should stick to bathing suits.

They got along a lot better in those, anyway.

Justen had done his best to push the memory of Persis’s kiss from his mind while he worked today. It meant nothing—just a publicity stunt, like everything else they did together. And it hadn’t been the taste of her mouth or the feel of her skin that had flitted around the edges of his mind while he worked to save the refugees. Instead, it had been her words.

We can only be responsible for what we ourselves do. Bad things happen in this world, and we are judged on how we respond. Do we take part in evil, or do we fight against it with all we have?

He was truly off course if Persis Blake was the one talking real sense. Though, make no mistake, Persis Blake was not as stupid as she’d first appeared. Maybe Justen had underestimated her, the same way he’d dismissed every aristo. Sure, they were spoiled and could be silly and shallow. But they weren’t all like that, and that’s not all they were, either. Persis was certainly frivolous and overprivileged, but she was also charming and playful and kind. Not everyone was made for saving the world. It didn’t necessarily make them bad people. And maybe some aristos in Galatea deserved to be removed from power, but none of them deserved to be tortured as the revolutionaries were torturing their prisoners. None of them deserved Reduction.

If Justen was to be judged for what he did, he’d like it to be for fixing the problem he’d created and curing the refugees before it was too late.

He punched a code into his oblet, and watched the brain model on his desk disintegrate. But it wouldn’t be tonight.

Instead, he shut down his oblet and headed out of the facility. On his way, he stopped by the refugees’ chamber. All those months in Galatea, he’d avoided the lab where they made the pinks, he’d avoided the prisons and the labor camps, as if not seeing the victims of his work would somehow lessen his own responsibility.

Never again. Standing before him, the people he’d hurt were impossible to forget, impossible to ignore. He wouldn’t rest until he’d helped them. What Justen had done was an accident, but he was to blame for failing to stop it before people’s lives were destroyed.

Today, a few Reduced were sitting before a large music keyboard, plonking out random notes. An older man sat before them, clapping heartily—for encouragement, Justen figured, since he couldn’t really be impressed by the atonal noise. After a few minutes, he seemed to notice Justen’s presence and joined him at the threshold.

“Good evening. Are you here to visit friends or family?”

Taken aback, Justen replied, “Neither. I—I work here, actually.”

“Oh.” The old man’s eyes widened. “Forgive me. With your hair and lack of palmport, I mistook you for a Galatean.”

“I am,” Justen replied. “I’m also a medic. I’m trying to help the refugees—”

“How wonderful!” he exclaimed, and held out his hand. “I’m Lord Benzo Lacan of Galatea. What’s your name?”

“Justen,” he mumbled. Just Justen. So here was Lacan, the man he’d tried to save by sabotaging the pinks sent to his estate. He’d failed—but the Wild Poppy had succeeded. Justen knew this aristo had been an ally of his grandmother’s. His Reduction had been proof Justen could no longer ignore regarding how perverted the revolution had become.

“So they put you to work right away, did they?” Lord Lacan went on. “That’s good. These Albians need all the help they can get it seems, especially given the problems we’re facing. This Reduction drug”—the lord’s voice turned dark—“it’s the worst evil to be visited on the world since the wars, I think. Reduction almost destroyed the human race. The fact that the revolutionaries have resurrected it to achieve their political goals—I can think of no punishment severe enough to repay them, can you?”

“No,” Justen said softly. “I can’t.”

VANIA HAD BEEN WAITING on the outlandish inlaid-stone terrace belonging to Justen’s aristo girlfriend for a full hour by the time she heard the unmistakable whirr of skimmer lifters over gravel out front. She could hear the abominably rude butler who’d shown her in—he of the appalling orange-dyed hair—greeting Justen at the front door, then informing him stiffly that a young woman from Galatea was here for him. There was a pounding of feet as Justen rushed toward the terrace.

Poor boy. Vania had been right. He must be positively suffocated by these Albian aristos. She smiled as he came out into the sunlight. He frowned and skidded to a dead stop on the terrace before he reached her.

“Vania.” Justen’s tone was flat.

Vania swallowed and lifted her chin, resisting the temptation to smooth her hair. It had been, perhaps, a bit of a rough journey across the sea. And there was quite the wind down on the docks. But he should have been far happier to see her. Had Albion corrupted him already?

“Justen.” She eyed his outfit. A little shinier than he’d been wont to wear back home but not too outlandish. Judging by what she’d learned about this Persis Blake girl, Vania had been half expecting feathers. Had they no idea how ridiculous they looked? Even the workers she’d met at the base of the cliff had dyed hair. No wonder the Wild Poppy was so skilled in the art of disguise. It seemed every Albian, from the lowliest servant on up, cared too much about fashion. “Been keeping yourself busy here in foreign lands? Where is your aristo girlfriend?”

As she hoped, Justen flinched at that. Good. So he hadn’t lost all his revolutionary principles.

“Vania. This is . . . a surprise.”

She lifted one shoulder. “Well, I’m visiting Albion anyway, so I thought I’d drop in on my dear friend, meet his fine lady—”

“Persis is a friend,” Justen said quickly. Again, very good. “And why are you here? I thought you were stationed at the Ford barricade.”

Vania smiled. “It fell yesterday. The Fords, their heir, and any of their servants still foolish enough to stand by their side are imprisoned in Halahou, awaiting their sentencing. They will all be properly punished.”

“You mean Reduced,” Justen replied in a low voice.

“Of course. What else?”

Justen said nothing for a long moment, as if carefully weighing his words. “Do you think the revolutionary government is overusing that form of punishment? It was never meant for regs. It was never meant—”

“Don’t be so modest!” Vania laughed. “Pretty soon, we won’t have to use it at all, ever. Just the threat of Reduction is usually enough to make people realize the importance of supporting our policies. Once everyone is in agreement, things are going to be so much more harmonious back home. For everyone. The revolution won’t last forever, Justen. It’s a little violent right now, but it’s all in the service of creating a better future.”

“A better future for whom?” Justen said. “The regs you’re about to Reduce from the Ford estate?”

“They were royalists,” Vania pointed out. “They’re enemies of the revolution.”

“And the heir?” He wouldn’t let up, would he? “She’s a child. What’s her crime?”

“She’s an aristo!” Was this what came of being in Albion for any length of time? You started siding with royalists? You took up with some aristo whose greatest skill in life was coordinating her jewelry with her dress? Why were they even having this conversation? The old Justen would have congratulated her on a successful campaign.

Though honestly, Vania didn’t think she’d heard one word of praise out of his mouth about her work since Queen Gala died. He’d been far too caught up in his research, in all that he’d been doing for the revolution.

“Look, Justen,” she said, annoyed, “I came here with nothing but good intentions. I want to congratulate you. I want to meet this girl who—aristo though she is—has apparently stolen your heart.”

Justen’s expression softened. “I’m glad you’re here, Vania. You’ve always been such a good friend to me and—I need a friend right now.”

“These Albians you’re so enamored with don’t fit the bill?” she scoffed.

“You know me better than that.”

She groaned aloud. “Then what are you doing here, Justen? Research? What hold can these aristos possibly have on you?”

“Vania—” Justen’s voice dropped to a whisper and he moved in close.

Vania inhaled, waiting for the familiar scent of Justen to hit her nostrils—but he smelled different, too. Probably perfumed with the Blake family flower. Revolting.

His voice was little more than a breath. “Do we really know what we’re doing with the Reduction drug? What if we’re hurting people?”

She frowned, incredulous. Of course they were hurting people. That was the whole point. What kind of punishment didn’t involve pain? “They’re traitors. Enemies of the revolution. Do you think we should give them a parade?”

“I think we should stop using the drug,” Justen replied, his voice louder now and steady as the cliffs themselves. “We have no idea what the long-term effects are. It hasn’t undergone the proper testing—”

“You should have thought of that before.” Vania sniffed and backed away. So he was turning his back on the revolution. It was good he was here, then. This kind of talk back home would have cast a dark light of suspicion on Justen, Helo name or no. “And if you plan to stay in Albion, then I can’t imagine what happens with the revolution should actually concern you so much anymore.”

“I’d better stay in Albion,” Justen replied. “If I go to Galatea, one wrong word might see me Reduced as well.”

How astute he was! “Don’t worry about yourself,” Vania snapped, “but do take a care for your aristo girlfriend.”

Justen gave her a murderous glare and Vania bit her tongue. Perhaps that last part had been over the line. “I’ll ask again, Vania.” Any trace of friendship had left his tone. “What are you doing here?”

Fine. Two could play that way. She stood up as straight as she could, though she was still a few inches shorter than Justen. “I’m here in service to my country. I’m trying to track down the Wild Poppy.”

Justen appeared nonplussed. “Any leads?”

“None of your business.”

Justen sighed and shook his head. “Well, I’d wish you luck, but . . . I actually don’t. The Wild Poppy is the only man on Earth who seems capable of stemming the tide of destruction this revolution has caused.”

Vania’s mouth dropped open. “Treason. Open treason? Justen, what’s become of you?”

“What’s become of you!” Justen cried. “Listen to yourself. Celebrating the Reduction of the Ford child. It’s disgusting.”

“Disgusting?” Vania clenched her fists around the hem of her coat to keep from punching Justen right in his silk-clad stomach. “I’m sorry the revolution isn’t as pretty as one of your girlfriend’s soirees. I’m sorry it’s not all flutternotes and luaus. And I’m sorry that you can’t handle the reality. This is what it takes to make a better future, Justen. There are people who are going to fight against what we’re trying to do in Galatea. There are people who are going to try to stop us if we don’t stop them first. You’d think, after all those years with my father, you’d understand that better.”

“I understand a lot of things. I understand that we have no hope for a better future if it’s built on a foundation of torturing our fellow citizens over political disagreements. We’re torturing children, Vania. Children. I have no love for cruel aristos. I’ve met some Galatean refugees here—”

Vania pounced on this. “Who?”

He waved her off with a distracted “the Seris.”

She made a face. “They’re terrible. The Poppy will pay for kidnapping them!”

“That’s not the point. I hate the Seris. I will always hate them. They hate me. They hated Persistence Helo. But when they disagreed with her, they debated her, they voted against her, they argued and fought like civilized people. They didn’t torture her or give her drugs to destroy her brain. And that’s what we’re doing, Vania. We’re worse than people like the Seris ever thought of being.”

Vania stared at him, jaw clenched, eyes blazing with anger and what she absolutely refused to admit might be the seeds of tears. This could not be Justen. Her best friend. Practically her brother. If he’d been back in Galatea, would she have the strength to report his words to her father? Since he was in Albion, she could afford to be lenient. After all, he couldn’t damage the revolution from here. But it still broke her heart.

If he couldn’t understand the difference, she didn’t know how to explain it to him. The Seris had the luxury of avoiding violence. Their power was centralized, firm, absolute. They were aristos from a long line of aristos. They were certain of their position. Until the revolutionary government had complete control of the island, had the respect and recognition of Albion, had consolidated its sovereignty—things were too fragile to allow dissidence.

“The Ford heir was dangerous to our cause,” Vania said at last, “not necessarily because of anything she did herself but because of what she represented. She has power because of who she would be allowed to become, unchecked. An aristo, the head of an estate. Given power for no reason other than her birth. It’s a difficult decision but unfortunately she has to suffer the consequences. She has to bear the punishment for the crimes committed by her ancestors.”

“And when our children are judged for our crimes?” Justen asked coldly.

“Justen—”

But he wouldn’t listen. “Before the cure,” he said, “when aristos treated our Reduced forefathers poorly, they said we deserved it. We deserved it because it was our ancestors who’d ruined the world. Our ancestors who performed the gengineering that caused the Reduction, who started the wars, who cracked open the Earth.”

“Yes,” she said. “And now the aristos are being repaid for their cruelty.” How was this not obvious to him?

“And then we will be repaid for ours, and then the cycle will start all over again. When does it end, Vania? Does the world have to be completely destroyed?”

“I hope not,” came a silky voice from the far end of the terrace. “I rather think we’ve destroyed enough of it already.”

Vania turned, and was confronted with a figure who could be no one but Lady Persis Blake. She was swathed from chin to toe in what looked like form-fitting chain mail, and despite herself, Vania’s first thought was of some ancient female knight.

What seemed like acres of yellow and white hair was piled up on top of the girl’s head, making her tall, slim figure even more towering. Her features could not be seen clearly, as her face was obscured by a tight silver veil embroidered thickly across her cheeks with silver beading in a starburst design.

Vania blinked. It was late afternoon. This was Persis Blake’s daytime wear? She was more ridiculous even than Vania’s research had led her to believe.

“Justen.” Persis glided toward them. “You didn’t tell me you were expecting a guest.”

“I wasn’t,” he grumbled. “This is Vania Aldred, an old friend from Galatea.”

“Lady Blake,” said Vania, inclining her head a full millimeter, which was more than her father would want and more than this glittering statue deserved. “I’m Captain Aldred of the revolutionary army.”

Persis laughed, a musical sound that instantly grated on Vania’s nerves. “How fascinating. A captain! Who knew that my Justen was friends with members of the military?” She smiled so broadly, Vania could make it out even through the mesh of her clinging veil. “And what brings you to my home? Merely here to visit Justen, or are you opening diplomatic relations with our princess regent?”

“She’s looking for the Wild Poppy,” Justen muttered.

Persis pressed a gloved hand against her chain mail–encased throat. “How extraordinary! And here I’d been under the impression that the revolutionaries thought our celebrated spy was an actual threat to them. He won’t be half so much fun to gossip about if the Galateans don’t even care.”

“We do care,” Vania snapped. “That’s why I’m here to find him.”

Persis cocked her head. “They can’t care too much, if all they sent was a little girl.”

Justen groaned and stepped between them before Vania could do what she wanted. “You’re going to have to indulge Persis, Vania. She’s Albian, remember? She doesn’t really understand the concept of women having leadership positions.”

“Oh? I thought she was friends with the princess,” Vania growled.

“I am,” Persis trilled. “She wouldn’t dare leave her dressing room without getting my approval on her footwear.”

Justen turned to Vania with a look on his face that said see?

Except Vania didn’t see. She didn’t see at all what Justen could possibly find attractive about this empty-headed, shallow, crazily clothed aristo. She looked on in horror as Justen tried explaining to Persis that Vania actually had a very important job back home. He spoke to her as one might to a child.

“Persis, you know that’s not how things work in Galatea. Vania is a very well-respected captain of the military police.”

What sort of affection could possibly grow from this? Was this what men liked? Was this what Justen liked? No, she’d never believe that. Justen needed someone who could match him intellectually.

“And because she’s Citizen Aldred’s daughter, she has much more experience than most her age.”

Well, he needn’t have added that part.

“I suppose,” Persis said at last, “that’s good news for the Poppy. And for any aristos he might wish to save.”

“I assure you it is not,” Vania stated. “I will stop the Wild Poppy from undermining my homeland’s new government.”

Beneath the veil, Vania saw Persis’s eyes slide in her direction. “Shall you? I’ll be curious to see that.” Then the aristo addressed Justen. “How fierce you all are in Galatea. Tell me, Justen, is this what most men of your nationality prefer in a woman?”

Finally, a good question. Vania turned to her old friend, who looked like he wanted to sink through the polished stone floor.

“Persis,” he said with a sigh, “not now.”

Ah, so all was not perfect in his aristocratic paradise. And, really, how could it be? As they liked to say in Galatea, his aristo girlfriend didn’t need pinks to be an idiot.

The girl shrugged. “Well,” she conceded, “I suppose it must be their fierceness. It certainly isn’t their sense of fashion. Will your friend be staying long, Justen?”

“No,” said Justen with a definitive shake of his head. “She won’t be staying at all.”

Persis nodded regally. “It was nice to meet you, Captain.” She sashayed off.

Vania congratulated herself on her remarkable restraint. She hadn’t even rolled her eyes. “Justen,” she said, “you’ve gone mad. Aristos? Albion? This moronic, spoiled brat? I don’t even know you anymore.”

“No, you don’t. And I don’t know you. When the revolution began, it was about making a better Galatea. Is this better? Torturing and imprisoning your own citizens? Threatening your best friends?”

To be fair, she hadn’t threatened him, just the spoiled aristo brat he’d taken up with. And it hadn’t even been a threat so much as a statement of fact. “Stop being so dramatic. It’s impossible that you’ve changed so much so quickly. What’s happened to you, Justen? Don’t you remember the day the old queen was sentenced? Don’t you remember how happy we were? Finally, we’d been able to change the world.”

“We changed it,” he agreed. “But not for the better.”

Vania sighed. This was going nowhere. Justen must have had his brains sucked out by his new girlfriend. She gathered her strength for another argument, but was interrupted by a message ping. She pulled out her oblet.

Captain Aldred,

Report: There’s been a break-in at the prison and the entire Ford family and their servants escaped. Their cells were left empty except for the sign of the Wild Poppy.

Where are you?

Long live the revolution,

General Gawnt