Across a Star-Swept Sea (19 page)

His jaw tightened. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. It was never, ever supposed to be this way. Justen rested his head against his hands, massaging the tension out of his forehead. He’d never actually seen the Reduced in person before, and when he met refugees like the Seris, fully recovered and as loathsome as ever, it was easy to pretend that things weren’t quite as awful as he imagined.

There was no escaping it now.

“Medic Helo?” He looked up to see Noemi waiting with the next round of brain scans. “Do you want me to make you up a cot? I think you should call it a day. You made a lot of progress last night, and we won’t know much more until we can see the results of the new treatments.”

“Because the current treatments are so effective?” he replied, his tone angrier than he’d intended. He knew already from his short stay at the sanitarium that DAR treatments in Albion were not so different from the standard regimens they used in Galatea. They could delay the progression of the disease for maybe six months, but they were incapable of gaining back any brain functionality. Once you began showing symptoms, there was nothing any medic on the islands could do to stop it.

But with the help of his grandmother’s records, Justen had sought to change that. His research attempted to stop the mechanics that triggered DAR before they began. And he’d been on the right track six months ago. He had the mechanics down—it was everything else that was backward.

“You’re not going to invent a new treatment today, Justen,” Noemi said softly. “You may be talented, and you may be a Helo, but you’re still human. An eighteen-year-old human. And you’re no use to me unless you get some sleep.”

He nodded stiffly. “Sleep.” A lack of conscious thought that would rejuvenate him, while it only further damaged the people he’d hurt. He’d come to Albion to get away from what he’d done, and here he saw its full, gruesome effects. He’d asked Princess Isla for asylum, when really he should have turned himself in and begged for mercy. The paltry sabotage of the pills he’d attempted when he was still back in Galatea—the sabotage that had caused the fight between him and his sister—that was hardly enough to atone for the damage he saw before him.

This was his fault, all of it. The queen, the revolution, the suffering of his countrymen. He’d invented the Reduction drug that was tearing his homeland apart. How could he sleep? How could he ever sleep again now that he knew the extent of the damage he’d done?

He looked into Noemi’s kind, intelligent eyes. Here, in Albion, he was all alone. Persis, stupid as she was, had practically torn him to pieces at the mention of having an alternate motivation for leaving Galatea. What would she think if she knew the real depths of his deception? How could he explain to someone like her the complexities of the trap he’d fallen into back home?

Uncle Damos had been his guardian since he was ten years old. He’d encouraged Justen’s scientific mind, his research, his intention to help those with DAR. He’d arranged for Justen to do research before he’d even finished his degree, and been so enthusiastic about every breakthrough.

Uncle Damos had been especially excited six months back by early test results from a treatment Justen had developed after studying his grandmother’s notes. It showed wholly unexpected side effects when applied to a control brain model—an aristo brain model. The test drug hadn’t halted the process of dementia. Instead, it had caused it. Justen had been distraught, disappointed at how his latest avenue of research had led to a useless dead end, but his Uncle Damos had comforted him, reminding him that even Persistence Helo had suffered setbacks in her search for the cure and that no effort was ever
truly
wasted.

And how right he’d been in the end. His research hadn’t been wasted at all. It had been put to wider use than he’d ever dreamed. And it had led the entire revolution down a dark and twisted path.

Justen had been a fool to think escaping Galatea meant escaping his demons. Here he was, standing in a place the Wild Poppy created, viewing the results of his handiwork that the Wild Poppy had rescued. Forget what
Persis
might do if she learned the truth about Justen. What he really had to concern himself with was that Noemi—and by extension, the brilliant spy she worked for—never learned that Justen had invented the Reduction drug. It was clear the spy was a man of action who wouldn’t rest until he’d righted all the wrongs happening in Galatea. The Poppy must be very clever and resourceful to secretly put all this together while his figurehead of a princess regent fooled around with creating fake romances between Justen and her favorite stylist. If Justen didn’t tread carefully, he might inadvertently reveal the truth and find himself the next target of the Wild Poppy’s activities.

But it was a risk Justen would have to take. He couldn’t abandon the victims he’d created, even if it meant putting himself in as much trouble as he’d been when he’d fled Galatea.

“You’re right,” Justen said to Noemi at last. “Maybe I should rest.” Someplace far from where the Wild Poppy might find him before he had a chance to redeem himself by figuring out a solution to the problem he’d caused. Someplace like Scintillans. “Do you know if Persis is still here? Or did she get bored and leave last night?”

Noemi smiled. “She’s been entertaining the children with that weasel of hers.”

Well, if there was anything that might distract from the specter of permanent brain damage, it was Slipstream. He set off to track down the girl and her sea mink, and followed the sound of laughter and splashes into an underground bathing chamber.

Carved from the same rock as the rest of the facility, the baths were lit by submerged lights in various shades that color coded each pool’s temperature—a blue glow in the cold bath, a soft amber in the tepid one, and a fiery red for the hottest. The air was filled with clouds of steam and the voices of children, and Justen smiled, remembering his last visit to the public baths in Halahou. They’d been closed ever since the death of Queen Gala, when a riot had broken out that resulted in the drowning of several aristos sympathetic to the crown. Citizen Aldred had deemed them too dangerous in this period of unrest. It wasn’t such a loss if you had a private geothermal pool in your home, as they’d had, living in the royal palace, but now Justen wondered exactly how many Galatean citizens had been deprived of the baths.

So many things he hadn’t questioned when he should have.

As he walked further into the baths, the din of the children’s voices settled into coherency.

“Make him do it again!”

“Me next! Me next!”

Before him, the curtain of steam dissipated to reveal Persis seated on the ledge of one of the tepid pools, her skin and yellow dress shimmering like gold in the amber-tinted light. Around her stood a half dozen refugee children, squealing with delight at the antics of Slipstream, who was flipping into the water and performing marine acrobatics in return for the morsels of food the children tossed to him.

Justen smiled despite his exhaustion. “Surrounded by a crowd of admirers, as usual, Persis.”

She looked in his direction and beckoned wearily through the steam. “Citizen Helo,” she said. “At last you emerge from your lab. Discover anything interesting?”

“We have a few leads,” he replied. He took a seat beside her. “Have you been here all night?”

“
I
slept.” She looked like it. Her golden-brown skin glistened with vitality and maybe the steam as well. Justen found himself mesmerized by the sheen of moisture along her collarbone, in the hollow of her throat, cresting her jaw and the top of her lips.

He dragged his gaze away and yawned. He must be more exhausted than he realized. “I’ve been instructed to do the same.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable here? Noemi would be more than happy to find you a bed.” Slipstream finished his latest circuit and returned to his mistress for more food.

“If it’s all right by you, I think I’ll go back to Scintillans. It’ll give me a break. A chance to clear my head.” A chance, but not a large one. His dreams would probably be haunted by the faces of his victims wherever he slept.

Persis ran her hands through Slippy’s wet fur, and touched the creature’s nose with her own. “I suppose spending any length of time around the people whose lives your guardian destroyed is terribly exhausting.” She didn’t know the half of it. “I can’t imagine how you manage.”

He wasn’t entirely sure about that. Persis could be—well, if not serious, at least caring—when the situation warranted. She clearly took care of her mother, and here she was, distracting the children from their troubles with her silly pet. “It’s my job. As a medic, I’m trained not to get emotional about my patients but to concentrate on their diseases and the science.”

“You’re excellently trained,” she responded, and sent Slipstream out on another quest, to the delight of the children. “How beneficial it must be to be able to stay so detached and clinical when there’s so much suffering around you.”

That was a far more pointed comment than he’d expected from her. “Believe me, I’m very affected by what I learned today. But what good will my getting emotional do for these people? Nothing. I can’t fix anything by getting angry. I have to act.”

She gave him a look that cut right through the steam. Her lips parted and for a moment, he thought she was going to say something. He leaned in, and she seemed to shake herself free of the notion. Instead, she gave him her usual carefree smile. It must be a trick of the steam that it didn’t quite seem to reach her eyes.

She rose and snapped her fingers once. Slipstream glided to her side. “I’m so sorry, but Slippy and I have to go now,” she said to the children. A wave of whines and pleas for “just five more minutes” rose up from the assembled crowd. “I promise we’ll come back soon and you can play some more. There’s nothing Slipstream likes better than doing tricks for treats.”

“Are you serious?” he asked. “You’re going to make room in your crowded social schedule to entertain a few refugee children?”

“Why, Justen Helo, I’m surprised at you. Do you really think I’d pass up the chance to share with these impressionable young newcomers to Albion the importance of proper hair color techniques?”

P
ERSIS TOOK THEM BACK
to Scintillans via a land route, skimming inches over the lush green landscape of the western peninsula at speeds that would have kept Justen awake even if they hadn’t been sitting in an open-air cab.

“Do you always drive like this?” he asked, squinting at her through the afternoon sunlight.

She slowed down a fraction, and the fans lowered to a dull roar. “Are you always such a stick-in-the-mud?”

He chuckled. “By your measurement, I think the answer to that is definitely yes. For instance, did you know I own only three pairs of pants?”

She cast him a horrified glance. “Please don’t tell anyone else that. It’s embarrassing enough to be in your company.” She flicked on her palmport. “I’m making a note to get you an appointment with my tailor as soon as possible.”

At that, he sobered. “Don’t be too hasty. I’m likely to be spending a lot of time at the lab.”

“Darling,” Persis scoffed, “my tailor comes to
you
.”

When they got back to Scintillans, Persis hopped out of the skimmer and skipped up the terrace. Fredan, the butler Justen had met his first morning, stopped them both in the front room. “Lady Blake, your parents have retired early today, but I can prepare you and Citizen Helo supper on the back terrace.”

“How about the lawn beyond my room?” Persis asked. “The sunset is so lovely from that side of the house.”

Fredan cleared his throat. “Lord Blake wished for me to remind you that Citizen Helo’s room is at the
other
end of the house.”

Justen’s jaw dropped, but Persis laughed. “He’s teasing me,” she explained. “Papa’s not going to let me get away with hosting you here without a little needling.” She waved Fredan off and the older man shrugged and retreated.

“We should tell them,” Justen said, “about the princess’s plan.”

“Not a chance,” she said. “There’s a reason my father’s sticking to joking warnings rather than setting up a guard around the perimeter of my room. I think there’s nothing my parents would like more than if you really did fall head over heels in love with their daughter.” But her own tone was mocking, and Justen was relieved. They were on the same page, then. “So act devoted, if you please.”

“Whatever you say, Lady Blake.”

She paused on the path and gave him an appreciative smirk. “That was impressive, Justen. You almost sound … unrevolutionary.”

The ended up eating on Persis’s lanai anyway. It was a sumptuous meal of roasted taro and noodles and salads of star papaya and edible orchids, with vanilla foams for dessert. Despite the obvious care the Scintillans chef had taken, it tasted like sand to Justen. His thoughts were far away, in Galatea. He’d finally gotten a message from Remy, asking to meet him in person to talk, and he wasn’t quite sure how to tell her that would be impossible. Halfway through the meal, a second message flared up on his oblet: Vania, wondering where he was, disturbed by rumors she’d heard about him and an aristo in Albion.

Guess he wouldn’t have to tell Remy why they couldn’t meet, after all. Justen ran a hand through his hair. How could he muster a reasonable response to either of his sisters’ concerns right now, when he was exhausted and appalled and more certain than ever that he’d made the right choice in leaving Galatea? How could he even risk responding without breaking down and telling Vania everything he’d learned about what the Reduction drug was doing to its citizens, everything he’d realized about the way her father had been manipulating him? And if he’d thought Remy had reacted poorly last time, who knew what she’d say when he told her he’d defected and he wanted her to join him?

No, he wouldn’t message either of them back until he’d had some rest and could organize his thoughts.

The sun dipped low in the sky, and Justen noticed a dark streak darting toward them across the lawn. Moments later, Slipstream scurried up the steps and clawed at the hem of Persis’s gown. His fur was streaked with seawater, and droplets still glistened on his whiskers.