Across a Star-Swept Sea (24 page)

Persis handed the sack to Remy and gestured to the cell. “The rest is up to you,” she said. “Welcome to the League.”

Remy nodded and took a deep breath. “Wait—” she said. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“What?”

“I need a wild poppy. They’ll never believe I’m here to help them without one.”

Persis laughed despite herself. When a wild poppy could be found on the side of every road in Galatea, it was hardly a certificate of authenticity. Nevertheless, she pointed at the edge of the battery-turned-bag. “Everything you need is in there.”

There, on the side, glowed the outline of a wild poppy in shimmery nanotech gold.

Remy beamed and headed for the cells.

Back at the skimmer, Persis managed to reassemble, then start her engine again with little trouble. She hovered out to the gate once more, relieved to find a bit of a backup. Everything was going according to plan. The guard transfer at the gate seemed to be somewhat chaotic, with a tangle of new guards coming in and going out—not all of whom seemed to understand the protocol. When everything was sorted, she let out a deep breath and moved up to take her place.

“I apologize for the delay,” said the head guard as she handed over her inventory oblet once more. “Some of these new transfers aren’t especially well trained.”

“I see that,” she replied. “Almost wondered if Citizen Aldred has taken to Reducing his own.”

The guard shrugged. “Heard those rumors, too, huh? These lot are probably untouchable. The Ford estate transfers are all under the command of Captain Vania Aldred, you know.”

Persis swallowed. “The daughter?”

“Explains why they’re such a mess, huh?” the guard said with a snort. “She’s not old enough for her own command, if you ask me. Course, I never said such a thing.”

“Right.” Persis and her genetemps-enhanced vocal cords gave a deep, throaty, salter chuckle as the guard pressed the lever to open the gate. Persis started to move out, but there was a figure blocking her path, a medic by the look of the uniform.

“Citizen Fisher,” the medic called and waved at the guard.

“Citizen Paint,” the guard replied. “Back again? Another problem with the latest batch of pinks?”

Persis decided it was time for her skimmer to break down again. She ground the gears to a halt and the engine died, thumping the machine to the ground.

“What’s this about?” cried the guard. “Get a move on. You’re blocking the gate.”

“So sorry, Citizen!” Persis jumped out of the cab and went around to mess with the fans. “It’s been giving me problems all day.”

The guard gave her an exasperated sneer and turned back to his medic friend. “So what’s wrong now? We had a bit of a fright last week when the last batch turned out to be a dud. Prisoners waking up all over the island.”

Persis bit her lip to conceal a delighted smile. Could this be possible?

“Well, it’s either the pills or the prisoners are building up a resistance to its effects.”

She’d have to inform Noemi of this as soon as she got home.

The medic turned to Persis and snorted. “Need a push, man?” He looked back at the guard. “Apparently not everyone needs a pink to be an idiot, right, Fisher? Anyway, the lab guys are flummoxed, and it’s not like they’ve got the Helo wonder kid around to fix things up anymore. Have you heard he’s run off to Albion? Taken up with some aristo girl, apparently.”

“You never can tell about a person, can you?” said the guard.

Persis pressed a button on the side of the skimmer and the fans clanked together, emitting a shower of sparks.

The medic jumped. “Watch what you’re doing, man! Don’t you know this is a prison? You’re liable to get shot if you start a fire.”

“Yes, sir,” she said meekly. “You’re right about that. Say, did you say you knew a Helo? A real live Helo?”

The guard grunted. “Don’t know how much of a ‘real Helo’ he is to run off with an aristo.”

But the medic puffed out his chest as he replied. “I know him pretty well, actually. He was a few years below me in school. Of course, I didn’t have Citizen Aldred giving me special assignments like Justen Helo did. Smart as a whip, that kid, but he does put on airs. Thinks he’s way too good to just sit in a lab all day and mix up pinks, so we’ve got to do it.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” the guard admitted. “Aldred’s daughter is the same way. Went right to the top, that one. Regs that think they’re aristos, if you ask me.”

Persis risked speaking up again. “But it was Persistence Helo what ended Reduction. Her grandson probably doesn’t want to be involved in starting it up again.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” The guard scowled at Persis. “You’d better watch your tongue, salter. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The medic laughed in agreement. “You sure don’t! Helo’s the one who invented pinks in the first place.”

Persis’s heart dropped somewhere into the vicinity of her kneecaps.

“That’s why he’s so high on himself,” the medic went on. “That’s why he’s Aldred’s right-hand man—or was until he wandered off island.”

But Justen was helping the refugees. Justen hated what was happening to the Galatean prisoners. Justen had defected from Galatea because of how evil the revolution had become.

It wasn’t true. This medic was full of bitterness toward Justen. He was lying to make Justen look bad. Except …

The medic had nothing at all against pinks. He thought that was the best thing Justen ever did. He wasn’t criticizing him—in fact, he was praising Justen. She restarted the skimmer and got out of the prison as quickly as she could, her mind erupting with anxiety.

Could she have left her refugees in the hands of the man responsible for their torture?

R
EMY
H
ELO WAITED WITH
her charges at the rendezvous point. The Wild Poppy hadn’t given her any instructions on what to do once the prisoners were clear of the city limits, so she was pleased that Lady Ford had the presence of mind to corral her people out of sight until the Poppy rejoined them.

When she did, she appeared frazzled. Already, the genetemps of the spy’s disguise was fading, and she looked more like a woman in a fake beard than the salter who’d shown up at the prison.

“Is there a problem?” Remy asked.

“Not at all,” the Poppy replied. “As expected, the prison guards followed me, searched my skimmer, and found nothing.” She looked at the escaped prisoners in their prison guard uniforms and blinked twice as if forgetting for a moment why she was there.

This was not the cool-headed spy who’d wrestled her gun away with a devil-may-care smile on her face. This wasn’t the elegant handmaiden who’d laid bare Remy’s soul on the floor of Princess Isla’s throne room. Something was wrong.

“Are all the Ford prisoners accounted for?” she asked at last.

“We are,” said Lady Ford. She took off her guard’s cap and shook her hair free. “And you must be the famous Wild Poppy. Younger than I’d thought. And … more feminine.”

The Poppy inclined her head. “My lady. We’re not out of the danger zone yet. I need you and your companions to board my ship for the journey back to Albion.”

“I’m eternally grateful for all you’ve done for me and my people, Poppy,” Lady Ford replied, “but I would never be able to live with myself if I abandoned my country in its time of need. My place is where it’s always been, on the Ford estate, protecting my lands and those who live there.”

“Madam,” said the Poppy, “it’s dangerous for you here.”

“It’s dangerous for
you
here,” said Lady Ford, then gestured to Remy. “It’s dangerous for this revolutionary soldier who led us from the prison. But that doesn’t absolve any of us from our duties. I will give my people the option to go with you if they choose. Some already have children in Albion and may wish to be reunited with them.”

“Three of your children await you in Albion, too,” the Poppy argued.

“My children know that my separation from them is in service of our homeland.” Lady Ford shook her head. “It’s no use arguing with me, young lady. You aren’t alone in fighting to save Galatea. I have other friends on this island. We’ll find ways to hide. And we can be more of a help to you here than we could hiding out in Albion.”

The Poppy’s bushy, mannish eyebrows furrowed, but she relented, and Lady Ford left to speak to her people about who was leaving and who was staying behind.

“Now I see,” said Remy, “why the revolution thinks the Fords are so dangerous.”

“Indeed,” replied the Poppy. “Maybe one day we’ll grow up to be like her.”

Remy raised her eyebrows at the Poppy. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that the spy was only a little older than she was. “Oh, I think you’re plenty like her already. Probably even more so, since, unlike Lady Ford, you’ve never made a mistake and gotten caught.”

Beneath her beard, the Wild Poppy frowned. “No, I never have been caught. But we’ve all made mistakes.” She shrugged it off. “And everything is going well for you?”

“Yes. No one even noticed I was gone.” Remy shrugged. “They don’t even care if I’m at school or not.”

“Have you spoken to your brother?” she asked now.

Remy shook her head. “No. I—We had a fight before I left, and since I got back, I’ve been caught up in collecting information about the Ford transfer. He’s hard to get in touch with, you know. He’s either living at the royal labs or out at a sanitarium in the middle of nowhere.”

“He’s in Albion,” the spy said abruptly. “Has been for a week.”

This did surprise Remy. Justen had been there at the same time as she? And he hadn’t even left her a message saying he was going? She recalled his fear in their last conversation, his certainty that he was about to bring the wrath of Uncle Damos down on his head. Had he done something even more foolish while she was away? “Do you know what he’s doing there?”

“I was hoping that you, as his sister, might tell me. Furthering his research, perhaps, on the Reduction drug that’s ravaging your countrymen?”

Remy clamped her mouth shut.

The spy eyed her, eyes blazing. “You do not deny, then, that it was your brother who developed the method Aldred is using to torture his citizens?”

Remy’s heart pounded in her chest. A week ago, she’d been terrified that Justen had succeeded in sabotaging the Reduction program Uncle Damos was basing his rule on. Now, she feared the opposite. What might the Wild Poppy do to her brother now that she knew the truth?

“Please,” she said softly. “Don’t hurt him. He’s the only family I have left. And he’s not a bad person, I promise. I don’t think he had any idea how far this would go. None of us did. And Uncle Damos—Citizen Aldred—he was so encouraging of Justen’s research, in a way that the queen never was. You have to understand that. To Justen, the science is everything. And Uncle Damos was the one who made it possible.”

“Naturally,” said the Poppy, her voice soft and strangely sad. “I imagine that to Citizen Aldred, Justen Helo is quite the hero.”

Eighteen

J
USTEN 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 vehicle to drive to the lab.

The clothes might be appropriate for a cocktail party or lounging about in court, but after ten hours at 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.