Across a Star-Swept Sea

Eight

THE GALATEAN PERSIS HAD brought home to her parents strode forward and bowed to the Blakes. Persis trailed behind, concerned both about how Justen planned to behave and what her parents must be thinking.

“Lord and Lady Blake, thank you so much for your hospitality—”

“Not at all,” said her father. “Had my daughter truly been hospitable, you wouldn’t have spent last night in some back bedroom. I don’t know what Persis was thinking.”

Oh, that was easy. She hadn’t been. She’d been unconscious. Persis was half surprised—and fully relieved—that Justen said nothing. She was in enough trouble for bringing a boy home, Helo or otherwise.

“Papa!” she exclaimed. “Justen isn’t fancy—”

“Please,” her father continued, “we have a suite reserved for our most illustrious guests. You must take it. The king has stayed there.”

And the princess had camped out on the lanai with Persis when they were six. It was hardly hallowed ground.

“Thank you, but your ‘back bedroom,’ as you put it, is more than comfortable. It’s the finest place I’ve ever slept.”

That, Persis realized, was a lie. The Aldreds had been living in the royal palace since the queen had been deposed, which meant Justen must have been living there, too.

“Then you’re welcome to remain there,” said her mother, her voice soft as a sea breeze. She was as stunning as ever—the jewel of the Albian court, the joy of her husband’s eye. Theirs had been a romance of fairy-tale proportions: the beautiful reg who’d won the heart of the richest lord in Albion. But Persis knew the truth. Not only had the heroine of the story been beautiful, but she’d been clever and resourceful, too, and her brains had attracted the handsome hero every bit as much as her lovely face.

If you only looked, you’d think nothing had ever changed.

“Our home is yours, Citizen Helo.”

Beside her, Justen gave a tiny jolt. It wasn’t the first time Persis had noticed it. It happened whenever someone called him “Citizen.” Curious. No matter what arguments he made about the purity of his imaginary revolution, he clearly hated its reality. He hated his new title, and he’d abandoned the homeland that had given it to him. And yet there was no doubt he and his egalitarian ideals would have trouble adapting to the lifestyle of Albion. She recalled his treatment of the Seris and his disdain of her clothing and palmport. For Justen, opulence and snobbery went hand in hand.

“Mama, Papa,” Persis said, “Justen is overwhelmed by all this. You forget, he’s a proud reg.”

“Not too proud,” Justen clarified, “to accept the gracious hospitality of my new friend’s parents.” He bowed again, this time over her mother’s extended hand, and deposited a kiss on her skin. “Your home is stunning, Lady Heloise, and its beauty and good nature are eclipsed only by the people who live here. Persis and I apologize that you were not told earlier of my arrival. It was unexpected. Your daughter took ill on a trip to—on her yacht—and I was fortunate to be in the right place to offer her assistance. I decided it was my duty to watch over her until she recovered. Since then, we have become fast friends.”

Persis raised her eyebrows at him in surprise and approval. Her father was doing the same.

“We’ll make up for our earlier lack now,” her father said. “Come this way. We’ve planned a spectacular dinner. You do like tilaprawns, I hope?”

Justen nodded, and Torin dismissed the servants with a wave of his hand. They all started up the path that led back to the house. Justen walked ahead with her parents, chatting casually about the grounds, the meal, and whether or not he’d need a tailor sent over to make him more clothes for his stay. Whatever contempt he’d shown to Persis earlier, or to the Seris back at the court, seemed to have vanished completely. He was pleasant and engaged. Perhaps her little pep talk down on the boat had done some good, after all. Nice to know he’d been listening to her.

Wait, was it nice? She didn’t want him thinking she was smart enough to dispense good advice on anything more complex than matching his shoes to his shirt, after all.

They ascended the wide, shallow steps of the terrace to the main building, where Persis noted that her parents had moved the formal dining table to the outdoor lanai and arrayed it with leis of frangipani and enough orchids to overwhelm a king. She covered her smile with her hand, sure that the more they went out of their way to impress Justen, the more he’d feel out of place.

“What a beautiful table,” was what Justen said as they awaited their first course. He brushed a lei aside to examine the grain of the wood. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Hardwood like this was a rarity on the islands. Most furniture was made of polymer, stone, or bamboo. The majority of floors in Scintillans were composed of polished bamboo or crushed onyx, and the wide terraces that circled the main house like the lip of a mollusk shell were inlaid with stone in vast, undulating waves of black and red.

“It’s called cherry,” said Torin. He took a sip of his wine. “It’s a relic my family has kept from before the Reduction. There isn’t another one like it in all the islands.”

“Beautiful,” said Justen, his voice laced with proper appreciation. “I didn’t realize the aristos could take anything so . . . bulky . . . with them in their escape from the old lands.”

Persis gritted her teeth, but her father merely chuckled. “You are wondering, I suppose, if my ancestors denied a Reduced passage in order to fit the table into their cargo? I often wonder that myself. Sometimes I think it’s a relief that so many of the records of the old time have been lost. I cannot imagine I would like many of my own ancestors. If we let ourselves dwell on it too much, we’ll end up like those Peccants on your island, in a constant state of punishment to atone for humanity’s sins.”

The Peccants were a tiny monastic order on Galatea that believed New Pacificans should not be allowed to live full lives after the dire fate that befell the rest of the world. Persis could understand why the notion hadn’t ever made it to the mainstream.

“However,” her father went on, “I am comforted, some, by an ancient saying: ‘Every king springs from a race of slaves, and every slave had kings among his ancestors.’”

“That’s Plato,” said Justen. “I’ve read him.”

“Ah!” Torin clapped his hands. “Then you and Persis must have plenty to talk about.”

“Papa,” Persis said lightly, “I just had to read him in school.” No good could come of having Justen think she was up on ancient philosophy.

But Torin Blake wasn’t to be swayed. “But, Persis, you couldn’t stop talking about the classics! You made me take the Blake collection out of cryostorage so you could see them on real paper.”

She rolled her eyes for Justen’s benefit. “Three years ago,” she said, as if Torin might as well be speaking of a time before the wars.

Still, she remembered the occasion fondly. She and her parents had spent hours poring over the stiff, cryoclaimed old volumes, reading the inky words on the dry, crumbly pages. Her mother had never seen real books before, and Persis knew only the few volumes they’d kept in cryostorage at school. Persis’s favorite had been the poem about the clever, seafaring king who’d traveled around magical islands trying to find his way home to his loyal wife after winning a long, long war. Her father’s had been a scary book about an aristo medic who’d gengineered a human out of corpses and lightning and was understandably horrified by the results. Her mother’s had been the sad story about the farmhand with the Reduced brother he’d been forced to kill.

She wondered if her mother even remembered that story now.

“At any rate,” Torin was saying to their guest, “I live in hope that people will judge me for myself and not any evils that may have been wrought by my ancestors.”

Justen nodded solemnly. “I hope to be judged for myself, too, sir. But, as you see, we are both hampered. You by a heritage of aristos stretching back generations, and me by the name of Helo. If I were any simple reg who showed up at your door, I doubt you’d have prepared such a feast.”

For a moment, Lord Blake just stared at Justen, then he threw back his head and guffawed, a sound so loud that his wife startled at it. “I think I like you, young man. There aren’t many who would sit at my table and call out my own hypocrisy.”

“Spend a little more time with Justen, Papa,” said Persis. “You’ll learn needling aristos is his favorite activity.”

Justen looked scandalized. “I don’t think you’re a hypocrite, Lord Blake,” he said quickly. “You and your family have shown me nothing but kindness since my arrival in Albion. Even before. And it’s obvious that, aristo or not, you have no prejudice against regs.”

“Oh no,” said Lady Blake softly and with a wry smile. “We always like regs.”

“I wasn’t speaking solely of you, Lady Blake. All the regs on Scintillans. I met Tero and Andrine Finch at court today, and they told me how your scholarships helped Tero get his gengineering degree. If the estates in Galatea invested in their people like you clearly do, I doubt there would have been a revolution at all.”

How Persis longed to voice a response to that declaration. But her mother was speaking again, and such an occasion had become so rare that neither Persis nor her father dared interrupt.

“I think,” said Lady Blake, “that Plato’s words are apt. The aristos of these islands enslaved the Reduced for generations. They should have been their caretakers, and instead they became their tyrants. And yet, they’re descended from the poorest and most disenfranchised of all in the old lands, which is why they never received the genetic enhancements that caused the Reduction in the first place. And it was the ancestors of the Reduced who began the wars, who destroyed the old lands. No one is innocent in the tide of history. Everyone has kings and slaves in his past. Everyone has saints and sinners. We are not to blame for the actions of our ancestors. We can only try to be the best we can, no matter what our heritage, to strive for a better future for all.”

Even, thought Persis, if we are forced to pay our forefathers’ debts.

Her father laid his hand gently on her mother’s and squeezed. She smiled, but said nothing more for the remainder of the course, as if drained by that effort. Persis, as she had been for months, filled the silence with chatter of her own, tales of the goings-on at court or Slipstream’s antics or news of the twins who had just been born in the Scintillans fishing village. Light, easy topics, suitable both for her mother’s constitution and for the impression of herself she wanted Justen to have.

As the sun set over the edge of the western cliff and a lavender light descended on the lawn and the terrace, Torin asked Persis to go turn on the lights. She excused herself from the table and headed inside to find the controls, and there her father intercepted her.

“Where did you really find your new friend, young lady?” She turned to find him standing at the threshold to the terrace, arms crossed over his chest. His face was in shadow, and she couldn’t tell from his voice exactly how angry he was. “And exactly how did you ‘take ill’ on your yacht?”

She mentally upgraded her assessment of her father’s state of mind from moderately annoyed to highly disappointed. “Seasickness.”

“I think not. You’ve been sailing since before you could walk, and I doubt a Galatean medic just happened to overtake you on the high seas.”

“Papa—”

“What did I say about going to Galatea? Do you have any idea what’s happening to aristos down there?”

“Yes, I do,” Persis said. She had a better idea than almost anyone else in Albion. “But, Papa, the revolutionary government has given immunity to all Albians, and the princess would never let anything happen to me—”

“Something already happened to you, to hear Justen Helo’s version of events. And you’ll forgive me if I’m not willing to trust the announced promises of a man like Damos Aldred, a rebel leader who is torturing and killing his own people, when it comes to the relative safety of my daughter.”

“Princess Isla—”

But her father cut her off. “I think we’ve done quite enough for Princess Isla around here, Persis. I know how much you love her, but you’ve already left school to become part of her official entourage or whatever nonsense you two girls are calling it. I’ll not have you risking your life or your brain to get her a few yards of silk on top of that.”

It was miracle enough that her father had let her quit school. But his mind was too full of care for her mother, and though she hadn’t made it part of her argument, she’d let him believe that her mind was too full of it, too.

The excuse Persis had made at the time was that Isla needed her, that it was her patriotic duty to help her best friend as she recovered after her father’s death and adjusted to life as the unexpected and very young ruler of Albion. The court was beautiful, but if the revolution in the south had proved anything, it was that it could be as deadly as a pod of mini-orcas to a young and inexperienced monarch. Isla needed to make sure there was at least one courtier she could trust completely.

“But you’ve been doing so well in school,” her father had said back then. “I don’t want you to lose yourself in the kind of idle pursuits that characterize most of the ladies at court.” He’d never been much for Albian courtiers. Back when every young aristo girl in Albion had been throwing themselves at his feet, he’d fallen instead for a reg who could gut a fish as easily as read a sonnet. Together, he and Heloise had made history. Persis had no intention of letting the legacy die with her generation. “Gossip and court intrigue? Darling, you’re the smartest girl on the island, not simply Isla’s spy.”

If only he knew that Persis’s activities at court were the very smallest part of her spying. However, Persis would take each argument one at a time.

“Papa, there’s a long tradition of such things. Look at that old story, where the student Horatio left school with Prince Hamlet after his father died and Hamlet needed help—”

“And how did that story turn out again? Maybe you should stay in school.”

Well, Horatio had survived, even if Prince Hamlet hadn’t. And anyway, Persis wouldn’t be swayed. She had more important things to deal with than school—school where they taught her that the Reduction was over, that war was a thing of the past. School, where they argued these things even as Galateans were being Reduced by the score in a war her government refused to do anything about. She couldn’t sit in a classroom while this was going on. She couldn’t.

And she wasn’t going to let a little bout of genetemps sickness stop her now, either.

“I can put a geographical lock on your boat, you know. You won’t be able to sail beyond Remembrance Island without my say-so.”

“Papa! You wouldn’t!”

“I would, and what’s more, I’m going to. I’ve never had to restrict you in this way before, Persis. You’ve always been so responsible. But I can’t have you in Galatea. Listen to Justen Helo if you don’t believe me. He has every reason in the world to be happy with the revolution and even he thinks it’s unsafe there right now. If you get on someone’s bad side down there, they won’t care that your mother is a reg. They won’t have any respect for the fact that you’re a close personal friend of the princess. In fact, that might get you into even more trouble.”

She started to protest but he cut her off.

“I don’t care what Citizen Aldred’s official policy is. You could get caught up by a mob and no policy in the world will help you. I don’t want you in Galatea. Period.”

Well, that was a nonstarter. Period. The Wild Poppy would just have to find alternative transport. The spy’s missions had been doubly complicated by the day’s events. Not only would she have to find a place to stow her new Galatean charge, now she’d have to find another way to cross the sea.

“Persis? Are we clear?”

She nodded. “Yes, Papa.”

He smiled. “Good. Now that this is settled, let’s discuss the rules about bringing strange young men into the house while we’re not around. You’re sixteen. I don’t know what kind of nonsense is going on at court, but this is my home.”

Persis rolled her eyes. “Ask the servants. Justen is a perfect gentleman.”

Torin relinquished a smile. “I knew he would be. A Helo and all.”

Her parents were both starstruck, Persis realized with a laugh and a shake of her head. Even if Justen hadn’t been a perfect gentleman, she couldn’t imagine her father getting too enraged. And that was a good thing, since the two of them were about to embark on their little cooked-up romance. Maybe it would serve as a distraction for her parents—the idea that she’d fallen for a Helo.

They desperately needed a distraction these days.

As they emerged back on the terrace, Persis was gripped by a moment of fear. They’d left Justen alone with her mother. But as soon as she saw them at the table, she relaxed. Justen was talking animatedly, and Heloise Blake was laughing, a light, musical sound that wasn’t heard often enough around Scintillans these days. For a moment, Persis indulged herself with the vision of what this night might have been had everything been different. Maybe Justen Helo was the one from her fantasies: a young, talented medic she’d met on a trip to Galatea, a place where there wasn’t a war. Maybe she was simply a schoolgirl studying politics, and she and Justen could be real friends. Maybe they were all having a nice family dinner, and her mother was well, and her father was happy, and all was right in New Pacifica.

Right. And maybe they weren’t the only living land left on Earth. Fantasies were nothing more than that, and she wasted her time imagining otherwise. So instead she pasted her most enchanting smile on her face, poured herself a glass of kiwine, and joined them at the table for another round of being pretty and giggly and useless. Justen kept up his end of the conversation, and both her parents were utterly charmed.

“I do support gengineering,” Justen said at one point, “but unlike your friend Tero who builds games and pets, I prefer to focus on its more therapeutic aspects—”

“Yes, but like Tero says, you never know what you might stumble across while working on something else,” Torin pointed out. “Who knows if some breakthrough might be lurking inside the code for some silly palmport app.”

Justen seemed to be having a hard time swallowing a bit of fish. “True,” he said at last, coughing a bit. “Sometimes our discoveries are fortunate accidents. Or even unfortunate ones.”

“Like with the genetic experiment that caused the Reduction in the first place, all those centuries ago.” Heloise shook her head sadly.

Persis’s father quickly moved to change the subject. “Tero is such a promising young man. He and Persis have been trying to one-up each other since they were children, you know.”

Justen’s brow furrowed.

“In collecting admirers, I’m far ahead,” Persis said quickly, batting her eyelashes. “Tero is quite handsome with those broad shoulders of his. Like some sort of ancient warrior. But he does chatter on about the dullest subjects imaginable. All this nonsense about chemical reactions and DNA. It’s deadly boring.”

Her parents looked shocked, and Persis wanted to dive under the table when she imagined what they must be thinking of her. As dessert was served and kiwine flowed, she found it more and more difficult to restrain herself to flaky responses and interjections. Usually, dinners at Scintillans were one place where she could still be herself, still talk about politics and history and, yes, even gengineering like the girl who’d once beaten Tero and Isla and everyone else for top marks in school. But now, even that was taken from her. She ducked the odd looks she was getting from her father. Hopefully, he’d write her behavior off as trying to steer the conversation into a light, casual zone that would make it easy on her mother. But she could hardly bear the confused glances her mother sent in her direction. After all, how many more dinners would they have together? Could she really afford to waste the remaining ones masked as an empty-headed socialite?

After dinner ended, Justen said, “Which way is my room? I’m all turned around right now.”

“I’ll show him,” said Persis and led him down the corridor toward the guest suites. But as soon as they rounded the corner, Justen put a hand on her arm. Persis stopped short.

“Your mother,” he said abruptly, his face impassive and somber. “How long has it been going on? Six months? More?”

“What are you talking about?” Persis asked, though dread trickled through her veins at his words.

“Persis, just stop. She’s managing the symptoms well, but it’s only going to go downhill from here.”

“Honestly, Citizen, I haven’t the foggiest—”

He hissed in frustration. “You might be able to hide it from your other silly aristo friends, but I’m a medic. I know DAR when I see it.”