Across a Star-Swept Sea

Twenty-one

EVERYTHING DISSOLVED INTO CHAOS. Persis vanished from his side, hurrying to her princess. Justen tried to focus, taking in the situation. Moments ago, he’d been kissing Persis Blake like his life depended on it. Now, everyone was pointing up into the sky, gasping and chattering.

“What is it!” cried Lady Blocking. “What is it?”

Justen shielded his eyes and peered into the cloudless blue. It took a moment, but he found it, a tiny, golden glitter in the sky. At first, he thought it was a flutternote, but its movements were too measured for that. Flutters moved in lazy floating motions only to a certain height, and then they zipped off at maximum speed to their intended recipients. This . . . thing, whatever it was, was circling. Also, he got the sense that it was a lot larger, and a lot higher up, than any flutter ever went.

Persis reappeared in front of him. “Do you know anything about this?” she spat at him. “Is this one of Citizen Aldred’s new tricks? Attack the princess regent of Albion from the air?”

Justen shook his head, baffled.

“I thought,” Isla said, her voice faint and a little lost, “I thought it was just a flutternote gone astray. But it’s not. It’s high, and big . . .”

Tero took the princess by the arm. “Your Highness, we must go below for your safety.”

“Um,” said Lord Blocking, “maybe we should all go below. We’re the perfect targets out here.”

Andrine was staring up at the object hanging in the sky. “For a sniper, I suppose. But if they wish to bomb us, we’re as much in danger in the cabin as we would be on the deck.”

“No one is bombing anyone,” Isla insisted. “Not even Citizen Aldred would dare such a move.”

“And if he did?” said Lord Blocking. “What would be your response?”

Princess Isla shot the aristo a poisonous glare and went below. Persis was still on deck, staring at the thing as if she could bring it down by will alone. Justen couldn’t decide what was more unusual: Persis or the object that held her transfixed. All the other women had gone below, but she remained, in her silly green dress, like some ancient sea nymph defying the sky.

Flying machines. He’d read about them, of course, and seen the images. In the last war, unmanned flying machines had been the ones to carry the explosives that had torn apart the world. It was his ancestors who’d done that—his and all the other regs’. Safe and secure in their own, giant flying machine, they’d sat far above the Earth and destroyed the rest of it.

When the creators landed on the pristine soil of New Pacifica, they’d made a pact: no more flying machines. Even skimmers hovered less than a meter above the surface. Never again would mankind be able to destroy the world from a distance. It was inconvenient for travel but worth it for the preservation of the scraps of humanity who remained alive.

What if Uncle Damos had broken the creators’ pact? After all, he could argue that it was a limitation set by the aristos, and the revolutionaries were not bound to follow it.

“Whatever it is,” Persis said, still staring upward, “it’s leaving.” Her tone was clipped and businesslike, nothing at all like the husky, breathless whisper she’d graced him with after their last kiss.

They were the only two left on deck. She strode to the side, dipped her head over and called out, “Slipstream, up!” The mink came scrambling up the hull and onto the deck. He shook himself until his sleek fur stood out in all directions in damp spikes, chattered once at Persis, then rolled over.

“Good boy, Slippy.”

Justen rolled his eyes. This was a time to practice pet tricks? “So are we turning around?”

“And ruining the party?” Persis asked. “Just as it was livening up?”

“Persis. There are flying machines. Shouldn’t we . . . I don’t know, warn someone?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure Isla, the actual ruler of our nation, handled sending a warning quite neatly. How can we, a socialite and an unemployed medic, do any better?”

Above them, the flying machine faded from sight. It hadn’t gone south, though. If anything, it seemed to have gone west—same as they were headed.

“Persis?”

She threw open the door of the cabin. “All clear! Next stop, Remembrance Island!”

The rest of the party emerged, some looking visibly shaken by the events, and a few, like Lady Blocking and Dwyer Shift, looking relieved that the commotion had ended and they could return to their useless, silly existences. Persis had adopted the attitude of the latter group, much to Justen’s dismay and a little to his surprise. He supposed he should be used to the idea now that, despite flashes that Persis could think of serious things, she’d shown a marked preference for not doing so. For a few brief moments—in his bedroom after he’d first met her parents, in the cove when she’d told him about her inheritance, with her mother the previous night, and even just now when she held him on the deck—he’d thought that maybe, just maybe, there was something in Persis, dormant, atrophied from disuse, that they had in common.

She had passion for the plight of DAR victims, due, no doubt, to her mother’s situation. But, like so many aristos, she seemed to want to keep it buried, as if not talking about it would make it go away. Her reg heritage did nothing to change that, and the fact that she refused to have herself tested for the potential to develop DAR only underscored it. Persis preferred to live in ignorance. She preferred to devote herself to silly, useless pursuits like clothes and parties and playing courtship games.

And yet he couldn’t dismiss her entirely, either. Justen had never felt so unmoored. When he was younger, it was easy to pick out the worthy people of his acquaintance. They weren’t the ones who cared about fashion or social status or parties or romance. They were people like him and Vania, who were smart and well-read and ambitious and wanted to change the world.

But what had they changed it into? Vania was off imprisoning and torturing her own countrymen; and Justen had helped, then run away to hide. Compared to the damage they’d done, perhaps Persis’s idle concerns were the better ones. In her shallowness, she was harmless, and when she did use the brain she liked to pretend she didn’t have, it was to create beauty or to comfort her mother with silly stories, to compose entertaining poems or to playact a romance that would help the princess she so obviously loved avoid the same kind of war that he’d fled in Galatea.

Persis—silly, superficial, genetemps-partying Persis—was a far better person than he was. And if he ever hoped to correct the damage he’d caused, he needed to learn to emulate her.

There were no docks on Remembrance Island, but several mooring balls had been sunk near the shallowest bay, and it was to one of these that the Daydream attached. While most of the guests chose to travel to shore in the dingy, Persis defied the odds again, leaping over the side, dress and all, to swim in with her sea mink at her side. By the time the boat reached them on the beach, Persis had repinned stray locks of her wet hair, and Slipstream was shaking himself dry. Justen watched Persis make a sign to the animal, who snapped to attention and scampered off.

“What was that command?” he asked her, as Andrine and Tero began unloading the picnic supplies.

Persis shimmied her hips, and the seaweed-green petals of her skirt unstuck from her thighs. “Oh, you know, don’t go too far, be back after lunch.”

“He knows all those commands?”

“Don’t underestimate Slippy, Justen. You’d be surprised what he knows.” She clapped her hands and raised her voice to the rest of the party. “All right, what’s first? Food? Historical lecture and exploration? Cocktails?”

“I vote cocktails before any lecturing,” said Lady Blocking. “Otherwise I might not survive it.”

“Agreed,” said Persis. “Besides, we all know the story.” She turned back to Justen. “Though I’m curious as to the Galatean revolutionaries’ take on Remembrance Island.”

“We’re revolutionaries,” he replied smoothly, “not revisionist historians.”

Remembrance Island—a tiny speck situated halfway between the westernmost points of New Pacifica’s two main islands—was a sanctuary, a monument. It had been left completely barren and uncultivated but for a single ceramic obelisk, a remnant of the ship that all their ancestors had once lived on. Generations ago, when they marooned themselves on New Pacifica and destroyed their ship, they’d kept this one piece and inscribed it with a memorial to the Earth they had destroyed and the societies they had lost, promising to carry on, to live in the world that they’d made and to commit themselves to someday atoning for it all.

It was this promise that Justen’s grandmother Persistence Helo had used when trying to convince the old Queen Gala, the old King Albie, and all the aristos of her generation to distribute the cure she’d created. It was this promise, one of moving on and protecting the humanity they’d almost destroyed, which eventually led to the widespread adoption of the cure and the end of the Reduction that had triggered the almost total destruction of mankind in the first place. The Helo Cure had saved the world.

And in only two generations, they were trying to wreck it again.

Justen shook his head. He had to fix the refugees. He had to. He couldn’t let his family legacy be destroyed because he’d been too naive to understand his uncle’s true purpose.

Armed with kiwine cocktails as if the Albians viewed them as some sort of vital hiking accessory, the party began the ascent to the island’s summit, where the monument stood. The path was narrow and rocky, requiring the group to walk in a line of ones and twos, and explained the uncharacteristically simple outfits and shoes the Albians had chosen. He had never seen Isla without her towering high heels before, and it had been a surprise to realize how short she really was. She barely reached Tero’s chest, and they made a comical pair as they hiked beside each other. Persis was the tallest woman in the group; even in flats, she was only a few centimeters shorter than Justen.

As they went, they shared stories about their first visit to Remembrance Island. Justen was surprised to learn that most Albian aristos made it a yearly pilgrimage. He’d been once or twice on field trips in school, but the Galateans had never thought it such a vital part of their culture. Only the Peccants visited regularly, but they were generally considered a tiny and bizarre fringe.

“Perhaps,” said Isla when he shared this information with the group, “that is why your people were willing, once more, to go to war.” She didn’t sound superior when she said it, however, only sad. At the moment, she was walking near him, at the very head of the group. “Growing up, my father took my brother and me here many more times than yearly. We were constantly reminded of our duty. Whenever Albie—my older brother Albie—whenever he got particularly hotheaded on some matter of diplomacy or other, Father would pack us up and sail out here to reflect on what anger and strife can do to humanity. On how there should always be another solution.”

Lord Blocking, behind them with his lady, snorted. “Is that why you are so reluctant to help put an end to the atrocities happening in the south, Princess? Because you have interpreted your father’s teachings as a call to passive inaction?”

“No,” replied the princess smoothly. “It is because I govern by the will of the people and shall not go to war, risking who knows how many of my own citizens’ lives in the process, until the people of Albion will it.”

“And if the people of Albion will a revolution? If the people of Albion will you stripped of your power?”

For a moment, Justen wondered how far the man planned to go with this.

“Oh, come now,” said Andrine, who seemed annoyed equally at the direction the conversation had gone and the fact that she was walking alongside Dwyer. Somehow, in the last few minutes, Persis and Tero had fallen way behind the rest. Andrine kept looking back at them and scowling. “Surely the fact that our leaders bother to take into account their people’s opinions is an argument for not revolting. What do you say, Citizen Helo?”

Justen started. Despite being the only Galatean present, he’d not expected to be put on the spot in this way. “Queen Gala was a distant and indifferent ruler,” he said.

“Oh, and you knew the queen so well?” asked Lord Blocking.

“I met her a few times,” Justen admitted. “The first was when my parents died ten years ago and there was a question of where my sister and I would go. It was suggested by some that the queen take us in herself, given the debt the Galateans felt they owed our family.”

“What happened?” asked Dwyer Shift.

Justen forced a smile. “I was not raised by Queen Gala.”

“No,” said Persis, who’d at last caught up to the group. “She pawned you off on her trusted military general Damos Aldred.”

The group fell silent. Isla paused on the trail, causing everyone else to stop short as well, and turned to Persis. “So what are you saying, Persis? That I’m safe from a military revolution as long as I don’t stick any of my councilmen with a bunch of orphans to raise?”

Persis smiled sweetly. “Couldn’t hurt.”

A few of the guests chuckled, and, just like that, the tension diffused. How was it that Persis was so good at this? Maybe he should have left her to deal with her mother as she wished last night.

Slipstream appeared out of nowhere, hurrying to his mistress’s side. When he got there, he lifted himself up on his hind legs and proceeded to do a strange little dance, hopping back and forth, then dropping, rolling over, and repeating the process again.

“What’s he doing?” Dwyer asked, incredulous.

“He’s glad to see me,” said Persis. She stripped off her wristlock and leaned over to pet the sea mink, running her fingers deeply through his fur. “Aren’t you, boy? What a good, good boy you are.” Something gold glinted near the animal’s green collar, but Justen figured it must be sunlight reflecting off the buckle.

“Let’s just get to the stupid monument,” grumbled Lord Blocking.

“Stupid?” Isla drew herself up, looking quite majestic and almost supernaturally grand all of a sudden. It appeared to be part of royal training. Justen would never understand. “I’m sure you meant to say dumb—as in silent—as in magnificent and lonely and ever so sacred.”

The man looked away.

Isla appeared satisfied. “Perhaps in the next election cycle, it shall be the will of the people in your district to revisit the wisdom of placing you on the Council.” She strode off, and only Justen heard as she passed close, “And then I’ll no longer be forced to place you on my guest lists.”

“Princess,” Justen said, jumping on his first opportunity to be out of earshot of the others. “I need to speak to you. I know we’d originally agreed that I’d be available for your publicity purposes, but I feel my true purpose in Albion lies elsewhere.”

“Oh?” Isla responded. “So you want to be relieved of the duty of sucking my friend’s face off like you were back there on the boat?”

“Yes—”

“Didn’t look like it.” She walked on.

Justen caught up. “I’ve had the opportunity to see the Galatean refugees. As a medic, I know my place belongs in the labs, helping your scientists develop a treatment for their condition. I can be so much more useful to you there. Even Persis will agree . . .”

Isla groaned and pressed her fist against her brow. “Certainly, Citizen Helo. I shall look into it as soon as I’ve managed to prevent the imminent uprising in my own country.”

Justen drew back, chagrined. “I know you’re busy, but—”

“I’m not happy about you hiding away in some Darkened sanitarium, and switching that up for a secret refugee lab is even less appealing. However, if you’d like to do a few propaganda videos for me about the importance of stopping the Reduction of your people, I’d be more than happy to arrange it. All right?”

No. Not all right. Not all right at all. He needed to keep a low profile until his sister was secured. Vania’s visit had proved that. After all, she’d as good as threatened Persis yesterday.

And Justen had almost bitten her head off for it.

“Please, Princess—”

At the rear of the party, Persis rose and for a minute, it looked like she’d lost her balance. Tero grabbed her hand, and they held on to each other until she regained her footing.

“Are you hurt?” Justen called.

“Fine.” Persis dropped Tero’s hand and strode up to where Justen stood. “Why, are you jealous you aren’t walking with me?” She batted her eyelashes at him and tossed a few ropes of her hair behind her shoulder. Lady Blocking ducked to avoid being hit in the face with them.

“I think,” Tero said, “that I’m going to do a quick survey of the beach. Given the day’s events, we can’t be too safe.” Bizarrely, he shook his sister’s hand in farewell before vanishing down the trail.

“Let’s keep going up!” Persis cried. “Up, up, up! The sooner we get to the monument, the sooner we can get back to lunch—am I right, Lady Blocking?” Not waiting for an answer, she rushed forward, past Justen, past Isla, and kept up the pace until she reached the next curve in the path, far above their heads. Isla also quickened her pace, and the rest dutifully followed. As they passed the curve, Justen looked down at the beach and stopped dead on the path.

“Who is that?” Far below them stood a figure. From here, he could make out little more than orangey hair and a dull brown dress.

Persis practically ran down to meet him. “Oh, look, another Albian, out to pay her respects to the monument. How lovely. Who knew this would be such a popular trip? Of course, the weather’s so lovely today. Everything is so lovely. All right, onward—” She tugged at his hand, but Justen was riveted by the girl on the beach.

There was something strange, and yet oddly familiar, about her movements. He struggled to place it. Perhaps the distance was just playing tricks on him. But as he peered closer, he saw her joined by another woman, whose hair was a color he’d never seen outside history books and videos. Not yellow like some of Persis’s, but a soft, sunshiny gold. “Blond,” he said to himself. It was called blond. He’d yet to see any Albian who’d chosen to dye their hair a color that had once appeared on humans in nature.

“Come on,” Persis insisted, and pulled him away. “Stop spying. I don’t know how they do things in Galatea, but in Albion, it’s considered rude.”

“Odd,” he replied. “Since the most famous spy in the world is Albian.”

Persis allotted him a pity chuckle.

Two more turns, if memory served, and they’d reach the summit of the island and the ceramic obelisk that marked the sanctuary. Isla still led the way, her pace now almost as fast as her friend’s. Everyone had stopped talking, concentrating mostly on keeping up.

“And here we are!” Isla announced, a bit breathless, as they rounded the last turn. “The monument of Remembrance I—” and here words failed her.

There were two people already there. At first glance, the strangers standing before them appeared Galatean, to judge by their natural, dark hair and more somber dress. Except “somber” wasn’t the right word for it. The young woman wore a simple, faded shirt and patched trousers hardly fit for the most downtrodden of Galatean peasants before the revolution. Her hair hung down her back in a braid almost long enough to skim the earth as she knelt and examined the writing at the base of the monument. The young man, dressed notably better, almost like an aristo or at least a rich reg, stood facing them, as if he already knew they’d arrived, though he couldn’t possibly have heard them over the wind here at the peak. Justen wanted to say the strangers were nearly the same age as he was, but that didn’t seem right, either. Surely he’d remember a Galatean of his social class who looked like this. The other boy’s skin was paler than Justen was used to, and the shape of his eyes and cheekbones gave him pause. But though the stranger looked on their party with extreme wariness, he couldn’t hide his expression of unmitigated delight.

“Hello.”

At the sound of his voice, the girl looked around, then jumped to her feet in shock. Quick as a flash, the boy maneuvered until he stood between her and the rest of them, his hand stretched back toward her in a gesture of both comfort and protection.

“Hello,” said Isla, pausing haughtily in expectation of a bow that never came. She shot Justen a look. “Galateans, I see. Well, we’re on neutral ground. I won’t stand on ceremony.”

But Justen, the only Galatean in the group, felt in his bones that he wasn’t looking at his countrymen.

The young man came forward, his back straight, his head high and his eyes, Justen could now see, glittering with a light no one on Earth had seen for generations.

“My name is Captain Malakai Wentforth of the ship Argos,” he said, his words so distorted and odd sounding that they were practically unintelligible. “We have come from the end of the world to search for other survivors. You are the first we’ve met. Tell me, what is this place, and why does it not appear on any map?”