Across a Star-Swept Sea

Twenty-two

ON THE ONE HAND, the picnic would forever be remembered as the most disastrous party that the Lady Persis Blake had ever thrown. On the other hand, every guest was present to see history made, so that was a point in its favor.

The established mode, according to the old stories Persis and her father used to read before bedtime, was for the impossible aliens to ask the natives they encounter to take them to their leader. However, in this case, the leader in question, Princess Isla, was already one of the party. And she wasted no time getting the full story out of the two visitors, who called themselves Captain Wentforth and Chancellor Boatwright, as if the titles weren’t utter nonsense and the way they pronounced the words almost impossible to understand.

It was called an “accent,” if Persis remembered correctly; a change in vowels or pronunciation in a language, like you sometimes saw in history videos. And, in this strange accent, the strangers told Isla they meant no harm, and as their story emerged, even Persis was inclined to believe them.

And yet it was impossible that they were here. There were no survivors elsewhere. The population of New Pacifica was utterly alone on the world. Everyone knew that. They’d always known that. It was the whole point of Remembrance Island. And if there were, surely they would not come to New Pacifica with any purpose other than revenge—revenge against the descendants of those who’d destroyed the world to begin with. Right?

Persis would have loved to take part in the interview, but she was trapped in hostess mode, in Persis Flake mode, shuttling the whole party down the mountain. Isla had already fluttered Tero, who Persis had earlier sent off to investigate the empty golden glider that Slipstream’s new surveillance app had shown the sea mink finding on the beach. When Justen had seen the two figures below them on the trail, Persis had deduced that they’d found the owners of the illegal glider, though she’d been surprised to see by their hair that they were Albian. But apparently in that, too, she’d been mistaken.

They weren’t Albians with illegal gliders and dyed hair. They weren’t Galatean revolutionaries planning a sneak attack. Instead, they were something far more shocking and infinitely more dangerous.

And Persis was stuck playing a stupid aristo while Isla and Tero got to have all the fun.

By the time they’d reached the beach, Tero had rounded up the other two strangers, and was waiting with them.

“Ro!” The one who called herself Chancellor Boatwright ran toward the one with the orangey hair. Tero tensed but otherwise did nothing. “Are you all right?”

“Of course she is,” drawled the light-haired one. They were both dressed in the same simple, homespun fashions of the two they’d met at the monument. “Do you really think I’d let anyone hurt her?”

The girl in question, Ro, shrank back from the group, pointing in fear at their hair and clothes. She said nothing, but the gestures continued, fluid, graceful, and utterly silent. Was she mute? No one was mute, except . . .

“She’s Reduced,” Isla whispered in amazement. “I mean—really Reduced.”

There was a chorus of oohs from the Blockings and Dwyer Shift.

The other three strangers all exchanged glances. “Are there no Reduced here?” asked the one who’d identified himself as the captain.

Justen looked away, Persis noticed immediately.

“Not real Reduced,” Lady Blocking blurted. “Not for about two generations, since the cure.”

The male stranger’s bright eyes got even brighter. “There’s a cure?” He looked at the dark-haired Chancellor Boatwright. “There’s a cure.”

The girl was already nodding, her severe face utterly transformed by a breathtaking smile. “There’s a cure. You did it, Kai.” Her voice was breathless, ecstatic. Persis imagined this is what Darwin and Persistence Helo must have once looked like, when they realized what they had on their hands. The dark-haired strangers were facing each other, gazes locked, hands floating out toward each other, like they’d completely forgotten there was anyone else on the beach, anyone else in the world.

“Oh, please,” groaned the blonde, looking nauseated. “Not this again. Honestly, I’m glad we’ve found land, if only because it means I’m not trapped on a boat with you two.”

Isla cleared her throat, understandably baffled by how this revelatory meeting had somehow turned into a discussion about the visitors’ interpersonal relationships. “Persis, if you would be so good as to return your guests to Albion? I have already called for a royal guard ship to escort our visitors—”

“We’re not getting on any of your guard ships,” said the light-haired one. She turned to Captain Wentforth, who had drawn away from Chancellor Boatwright, though their hands were now clasped tightly. “Tell her, Malakai.”

Captain Wentforth sighed. “I agree with Captain Phoenix.” Phoenix. What ridiculous name was next? “We’ve come to find other survivors of the war, not be imprisoned by them. If you want us to come with you, we will do so in our own vessels.”

“Absolutely not,” said Lord Blocking. “We don’t allow flying machines in New Pacifica. Yours will be destroyed.”

“Oh, no they won’t!” said Chancellor Boatwright. “We don’t know your laws. If you won’t allow the gliders, we’ll just remove them. Boats, I assume, are all right? We’ll just go back to our sailing ship.”

Isla turned to her. “And how many more of you are there . . . on your ship?”

Chancellor Boatwright shut her mouth and cast a long look at Captain Wentforth.

He swallowed. “We mean you no harm, but we must insist that we be allowed our freedom.”

“By what means,” said Lord Blocking, “are you insisting? What weapons have you got?”

A flutternote buzzed against Persis’s palm. She shifted the edge of her wristlock to allow it entrance to her palmport. It was from Isla.

This is a disaster. We must keep the visitors a secret from the court until we learn their full story. I wish to agree to their autonomy, but I can’t show weakness in front of the Council members. What do you advise?

Persis advised a diversion. Quickly, she manufactured the Poppy’s knockout dose. It was a stretch of her resources, but as long as she got back to the Daydream soon, she had the proper supplements to counteract any negative effects. Once made, she instructed the nanos to aim it at Lord Blocking. He was as good a victim as any, and deserved to be shut up.

Seconds later, he slumped to the sand.

“Oh dear!” Persis exclaimed as Lady Blocking screamed. “I do believe the hike was too much for our dear Lord Blocking. He needs a medic!”

“He has a medic,” Justen growled. He was already kneeling at the man’s side, fingers of one hand pressed against the aristo’s neck, while his other hand pried open the man’s mouth. “Odd. He’s asleep. No sign of tachycardia or obstruction of his airway—”

“Oh! Oh!” Lady Blocking squealed. “They did it! They hurt him! My poor husband! They—they—”

“They made him go to sleep?” asked Andrine, her tone mocking. “Oh, the unmitigated horror. What a tragedy.” She glanced at Persis, who shrugged. If Andrine wasn’t speaking to her, then she wasn’t getting kept in the loop when Persis deployed her knockout drugs.

“We did nothing of the sort!” the one called Captain Phoenix cried.

“He needs medical attention I can’t give him here,” said Justen. “Persis, I need the wallport on the Daydream. Perhaps we should transport everyone back to the yacht, as the princess requested. The sooner, the better, for Lord Blocking’s sake.”

Persis narrowed her eyes at him, but his expression was utterly guileless. A medic would recognize drugged sleep. A medic as skilled as Justen would recognize exactly the nanodrug Persis had used. Which must mean—

He was helping them?

“Right away,” was all she said, and rounded up the others.

“I’ll stay with my brother,” Andrine said, and Persis nodded. It wasn’t quite a conversation, not exactly a reconciliation, but they didn’t have time for anything else. Andrine knew what to do, and neither of them wanted Isla left alone with the newcomers with only Tero for protection.

After all, Andrine’s brother was an excellent gengineer, but it was Persis and Andrine who were the spies.

And it was Persis who assisted Justen into the cabin with the unconscious Lord Blocking, while Dwyer walked beside them, aristocratic and useless. Persis and Justen dumped the sleeping lord on the nearest hammock belowdecks and engaged the privacy screens before Lady Blocking could slip in, too.

“The wallport is right here.” Persis pointed it out for Justen, while she checked her supply of supplements in the cabinet. The one for the knockout dose was there, and she grabbed it, patting away the sheen of sweat that had sprung up on her face.

Justen smirked. “I don’t really need it. Blocking will be fine once he sleeps it off. I suspect Tero slipped him a knockout drug through his palmport to shut him up, since he was making the situation with the visitors so much worse. He probably has all the latest applications, as well as access to the supplements to run them.”

“Tero.” Persis nodded and popped the cap. “I suppose that makes the most sense.” And as long as Justen was the one coming up with her alibis, she had no business disagreeing with him.

“Though I do worry about leaving them alone out there. Even though that one with the orange hair is Reduced, our party is still outnumbered. I’m surprised Tero didn’t knock them all out.”

She took a long draft. “Maybe he didn’t take enough supplements to make more than one dose.”

Justen made a noncommittal hmmm. “Or maybe he thought that knocking them out is no way to respect their autonomy.” He looked down at his sleeping patient. “Though it’s not as if Blocking’s has been respected, either.”

“Well.” Persis lifted her shoulders. “He didn’t deserve respect.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Persis,” Justen said sadly. “We all deserve it. We all deserve to live in a world where our rights aren’t violated at the whim of our leaders. It doesn’t matter if our leaders are kings and queens, or the people who claim to save us from them.”

Persis blinked at him, unsure how to respond, no matter who she was pretending to be at that moment. All of a sudden her luxurious cabin on her fabulous yacht felt very stuffy and cramped. Justen stood an arm’s length away. His face shone with perspiration and his short hair stood in black spikes all over his head. She recalled quite vividly that they still had not had a chance to talk about the urgent way he’d kissed her the last time they were on this boat.

They still hadn’t had a chance to discuss the way he’d invented a terrible pharmaceutical weapon, either.

Justen wore an expression that switched between disappointment and apprehension. “I didn’t say anything back on the beach—not because I agree with what Tero did but because I didn’t want to cause a scene. These people, these visitors . . . they’re going to be difficult enough to deal with.”

Persis couldn’t argue with that. Justen might be her enemy, but right now he was the only New Pacifican she could talk to about what they’d just seen. “Is it possible that their story is true? Could they really be from elsewhere?”

Justen shrugged. “I don’t know. There isn’t supposed to be any elsewhere.”

“Maybe they’re descended from people who abandoned New Pacifica a long time ago.” In school, Persis had learned of people who’d left the islands. Back when the creators had first landed, there’d been a few aristos here and there who’d threatened to secede, to pack up their plantations of Reduced and go elsewhere. The histories Persis had studied had made note of it. But the books also always maintained that those who’d left had led suicide missions. There was nowhere else to go.

Justen looked skeptical. “There was a lot of genetic variation among those four—did you see it? We don’t have that here. Wherever they’re from, it has a population much, much larger than ours. And they said they didn’t expect New Pacifica to be here, which means they’re using old maps. And their eyes—” But now Justen shook his head and chuckled dismissively.

“What?”

“Nothing.” But Persis had learned to read that expression. He was lost in that brain of his. Unlike her, Justen had always had the luxury—indeed, the privilege—of letting people know when he was thinking hard and had never had to hide it. Right now, he was thinking very hard indeed, and it was all about the single realm where Persis’s skills did not lie: the scientific.

Since the arrival of the visitors, she’d been strategizing about all the things this would mean to Isla, to her reign, to the country, to the entirety of New Pacifica and the revolution going on down south. She needed more information, of course. Who were these people and what did they want? And yet, even without his being privy to the questions the princess and her captain were no doubt asking the visitors back on the beach, Persis suspected that Justen was already drawing quite a few conclusions of his own.

“What is it, Justen?” she pressed.

“Nothing. Just—the very thought of other people, out there in the world. This changes everything.”

His expression shone with excitement and Persis stared at him, wondering exactly how scared she should be.

WHILE THEY SAILED, DWYER Shift and Lady Blocking remained on deck, chatting about the newcomers. Persis rejoined them, the perfect hostess, while Justen chose to stay below with the still-unconscious Lord Blocking. That the councilman’s wife hadn’t chosen to do the same hadn’t escaped Persis’s notice. Perhaps their marriage was based on as much true affection as the arrangement she had with Justen. In fact, it probably was. Just because Persis’s own parents were madly in love didn’t mean any other couple on the island was. Aristos married for wealth and property, just as she’d explained to Justen in the star cove.

“It’s so odd,” Dwyer was saying. “I can’t wait to hear what my uncle thinks of these people. I tried to message him, but this crummy palmport’s been on the fritz since we left Remembrance Island.”

“Oh, what a shame,” Persis said. “Another kiwine cocktail?” The dampening agent she’d spiked the drinks with wouldn’t last long, but it would render the aristos’ palmports useless until Persis received further instructions from Isla. The last thing anyone needed was the Council discussing the visitors before Isla had even arrived with them.

“Perhaps your wallport—”

Persis’s lower lip jutted out. “Sadly, Citizen Helo drained all the power making medicine for Lord Blocking. I’ve asked and asked my papa for a better port, but he’s so stubborn about these things sometimes.”

Lady Blocking gave a sympathetic tsk. “I feel for you. Listen to me, Persis. Before you marry this Galatean of yours, you’d better work out exactly what kind of say he gets in your pocket money. I didn’t get that spelled out in my marriage contract with Blocking, and I’m still paying the price.” She took another swill from her drink while Persis tried to hide her amusement. She’d have knocked out Lord Blocking long before this had she known it would make his lady infinitely more interesting.

“I for one think it’s a good idea that a husband have a say in where his wife spends his money.” Dwyer’s tone was the type one uses when surrounded solely by those who already agree with your opinion. “Otherwise the entire estate may fall victim to her lack of proper decision-making skills. I think many of the political problems we’re facing now can be attributed to the fact that the princess remains single.”

“Your uncle thinks it best she marry soon, then?” Persis asked.

“Oh yes!” Dwyer nodded enthusiastically. “He talks of little else. The sooner she has a husband to take her in hand, the better.”

“And naturally,” she added innocently, “your uncle thinks it best that the husband she gets has firm opinions of his own?”

“Absolutely!”

Persis gave him a close-lipped smile as the sound of a chuckle carried across the deck on a breeze. She turned to see Justen standing at the cabin door, shaking his head. She excused herself from the party and joined him.

“Didn’t think you’d find a member of the Albian court more stupid than me?” she asked him.

“I don’t think you’re stupid, Persis.” Really? Well, that was an error she’d have to rectify. “Though to be completely honest, that man makes even Lady Blocking look clever. So it’s not a fair standard.”

“And yet a leader on the Royal Council thinks him an excellent match for Isla.”

“Well, he has a different object in mind than you and I would.”

Persis began to nod, then stopped. She didn’t want to think that Justen shared any of her opinions about—anything. And she didn’t want him laughing as she teased the idiots at court either. It was much easier to think of him solely as the person responsible for the Reduced refugees in Noemi’s sanitarium. Anything more—his sense of humor, his medical talents, his obvious intelligence, his stated interest in curing DAR—well it may be true, but it didn’t cancel out what he’d done in Galatea. They didn’t have to disagree about everything for him to be her enemy.

And she still needed to learn more about his plans. The boating party had been a delay, and the visitors would be another one. If the Wild Poppy wanted to get to the bottom of Justen’s story, she wasn’t going to be able to count on Isla—or her neuroeels—for help.

“You know, Justen,” she said, “I’ve been thinking about your visitor from last night. What’s her name?”

“Vania.” Justen sighed. “Persis, not this again. I—”

She raised her hand and he stopped. “I don’t want to fight,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I just wanted to say that if it’s so easy for Vania to flit back and forth across the sea, maybe she can bring your sister on her next visit. Once you have Remy, you won’t need to continue any sort of charade with me.” Not that it would convince Isla, but Persis wasn’t worried about that now. Her words were a test.

If Justen truly was concerned about the shape of the revolution and his sister’s well-being back home, he’d surely leap at any chance to bring her to Albion. But if his presence here was a ruse, he wouldn’t care.

He chuckled. “Thanks, but I’m pretty sure Vania would see right through that plan. She’s suspicious enough about me being here.” He gave her a patronizing shrug. “I think Vania’s too smart to fall for something like that.”

She simpered at him, which was probably preferable to giving him a good, hard smack. “If Vania is suspicious about your reasons for being here,” and Persis didn’t doubt it, “then your sister is no longer safe.”

Justen considered this for a moment, while Persis read his face for any clues. “Remy is like a little sister to Vania. I’m sure . . .” he trailed off. “Actually, I’m not sure of anything anymore when it comes to Vania. She’s so changed by the revolution.”

“What if the Aldreds were to make an example of her!” Persis let out a little gasp, then covered her mouth with her hands and made her eyes as wide as they would go. “What if—oh, Justen! What if they were”—she lowered her voice to a breathless whisper—“to Reduce her, while you’re here in Albion. Oh no.”

What if they were to Reduce her with your own drug?

Persis watched as Justen’s face changed, as real fear overtook his features. “You’re right,” he said, and couldn’t quite hide the note of surprise in his voice that he thought she was right. “I need to talk to my sister.”

“Don’t let our guests know your oblet is in working order.”

“Why does it matter?” he replied. “It’s not compatible with your flutter system anyway. It’s why I’m always forced to use wallports.”

“I’m keeping them from contacting the shore until Isla has decided how she’d like to release the news about the visitors.”

“You’re doing what?”

She shrugged. “Royal orders.” She didn’t need to justify her activities to a war criminal like him.

Justen looked disgusted. “Do you and your princess believe you can do whatever you want?”

“Everyone believes that,” she said flatly. “Or at least that they can do whatever they’re able to get away with. Don’t you agree, Justen?”