Across a Star-Swept Sea (25 page)

Instead, he shut down his oblet and headed out of the facility. On his way, he stopped by the refugees’ chamber. All those months in Galatea, he’d avoided the lab where they made the pinks, he’d avoided the prisons and the labor camps, as if not seeing the victims of his work would somehow lessen his own responsibility.

Never again. Standing before him, the people he’d hurt were impossible to forget, impossible to ignore. He wouldn’t rest until he’d helped them. What Justen had done was an accident, but he was to blame for failing to stop it before people’s lives were destroyed.

Today, a few Reduced were sitting before a large music keyboard, plonking out random notes. An older man sat before them, clapping heartily—for encouragement, Justen figured, since he couldn’t really be impressed by the atonal noise. After a few minutes, he seemed to notice Justen’s presence and joined him at the threshold.

“Good evening. Are you here to visit friends or family?”

Taken aback, Justen replied, “Neither. I—I work here, actually.”

“Oh.” The old man’s eyes widened. “Forgive me. With your hair and lack of palmport, I mistook you for a Galatean.”

“I am,” Justen replied. “I’m also a medic. I’m trying to help the refugees—”

“How wonderful!” he exclaimed, and held out his hand. “I’m Lord Benzo Lacan of Galatea. What’s your name?”

“Justen,” he mumbled. Just Justen. So here was Lacan, the man he’d tried to save by sabotaging the pinks sent to his estate. He’d failed—but the Wild Poppy had succeeded. Justen knew this aristo had been an ally of his grandmother’s. His Reduction had been proof Justen could no longer ignore regarding how perverted the revolution had become.

“So they put you to work right away, did they?” Lord Lacan went on. “That’s good. These Albians need all the help they can get it seems, especially given the problems we’re facing. This Reduction drug”—the lord’s voice turned dark—“it’s the worst evil to be visited on the world since the wars, I think. Reduction almost destroyed the human race. The fact that the revolutionaries have resurrected it to achieve their political goals—I can think of no punishment severe enough to repay them, can you?”

“No,” Justen said softly. “I can’t.”

V
ANIA HAD BEEN WAITING
on the outlandish inlaid-stone terrace of Justen’s aristo girlfriend for a full hour by the time she heard the unmistakable whirr of skimmer lifters over gravel out front. She could hear the abominably rude butler who’d shown her in—he of the appalling orange-dyed hair—greeting Justen at the front door, then informing him stiffly that a young woman from Galatea was here for him. There was a pounding of feet as Justen rushed toward the terrace.

Poor boy. Vania had been right. He must be positively suffocated by these Albian aristos. She smiled as he came out into the sunlight. He frowned and skidded to a dead stop on the terrace before he reached her.

“Vania.” Justen’s tone was flat.

Vania swallowed and lifted her chin, resisting the temptation to smooth her hair. It had been, perhaps, a bit of a rough journey across the sea. And there was quite the wind down on the docks. But he should have been far happier to see her. Had Albion corrupted him already?

“Justen.” She eyed his outfit. A little shinier than he’d been wont to wear back home but not too outlandish. Judging by what she’d learned about this Persis Blake girl, Vania had been half expecting feathers. Had they no idea how ridiculous they looked? Even the workers she’d met at the base of the cliff had dyed hair. No wonder the Wild Poppy was so skilled in the art of disguise. It seemed every Albian, from the lowliest servant on up, cared too much about fashion. “Been keeping yourself busy here in foreign lands? Where is your aristo girlfriend?”

As she hoped, Justen flinched at that. Good. So he hadn’t lost all his revolutionary principles.

“Vania. This is … a surprise.”

She lifted one shoulder. “Well, I’m visiting Albion anyway, so I thought I’d drop in on my dear friend, meet his fine lady—”

“Persis is a friend,” Justen said quickly. Again, very good. “And why are you here? I thought you were stationed at the Ford barricade.”

Vania smiled. “It fell yesterday. The Fords, their heir, and any of their servants still foolish enough to stand by their side are imprisoned in Halahou, awaiting their sentencing. They will all be properly punished.”

“You mean Reduced,” Justen replied in a low voice.

“Of course. What else?”

Justen said nothing for a long moment, as if carefully weighing his words. “Do you think the revolutionary government is overusing that form of punishment? It was never meant for regs. It was never meant—”

“Don’t be so modest!” Vania laughed. “Pretty soon, we won’t have to use it at all, ever. Just the threat of Reduction is usually enough to make people realize the importance of supporting our policies. Once everyone is in agreement, things are going to be so much more harmonious back home. For everyone. The revolution won’t last forever, Justen. It’s a little violent right now, but it’s all in the service of creating a better future.”

“A better future for whom?” Justen said. “The regs you’re about to Reduce from the Ford estate?”

“They were loyalists,” Vania pointed out. “They’re enemies of the revolution.”

“And the heir?” He wouldn’t let up, would he? “She’s a child. What’s her crime?”

“She’s an aristo!” Was this what came of being in Albion for any length of time? You started siding with loyalists? You took up with some aristo whose greatest skill in life was coordinating her jewelry with her dress? Why were they even
having
this conversation? The old Justen would have congratulated her on a successful campaign.

Though honestly, Vania didn’t think she’d heard one word of praise out of his mouth about her work since Queen Gala died. He’d been far too caught up in his research, in all that he’d been doing for the revolution.

“Look, Justen,” she said, annoyed, “I came here with nothing but good intentions. I want to congratulate you. I want to meet this girl who—aristo though she is—has apparently stolen your heart.”

Justen’s expression softened. “I’m glad you’re here, Vania. You’ve always been such a good friend to me and—I need a friend right now.”

“These Albians you’re so enamored with don’t fit the bill?” she scoffed.

“You know me better than that.”

She groaned aloud. “Then what are you doing here, Justen? Research? What hold can these aristos possibly have on you?”

“Vania—” Justen’s voice dropped to a whisper and he moved in close.

Vania inhaled, waiting for the familiar scent of Justen to hit her nostrils—but he smelled different, too. Probably perfumed with the Blake family flower. Revolting.

His voice was little more than a breath. “Do we really know what we’re doing with the Reduction drug? What if we’re hurting people?”

She frowned, incredulous. Of course they were hurting people. That was the
whole point
. What kind of punishment didn’t involve pain? “They’re traitors. Enemies of the revolution. Do you think we should give them a parade?”

“I think we should stop using the drug,” Justen replied, his voice louder now and steady as the cliffs themselves. “We have no idea what the long-term effects are. It hasn’t undergone the proper testing—”

“You should have thought of that before.” Vania sniffed and backed away. So he was turning his back on the revolution. It was good he
was
here, then. This kind of talk back home would have cast a dark light of suspicion on Justen, Helo name or no. “And if you plan to stay in Albion, then I can’t imagine what happens with the revolution should actually concern you so much anymore.”

“I’d better stay in Albion,” Justen replied. “If I go to Galatea, one wrong word might see me Reduced as well.”

How astute he was! “Don’t worry about yourself,” Vania snapped, “but do take a care for your aristo girlfriend.”

Justen gave her a murderous glare and Vania bit her tongue. Perhaps that last part had been over the line. “I’ll ask again, Vania.” Any trace of friendship had left his tone. “What are you doing here?”

Fine. Two could play that way. She stood up as straight as she could, though she was still a few inches shorter than Justen. “I’m here in service to my country. I’m trying to track down the Wild Poppy.”

Justen appeared nonplussed. “Any leads?”

“None of your business.”

Justen sighed and shook his head. “Well, I’d wish you luck, but … I actually don’t. The Wild Poppy is the only man on Earth who seems capable of stemming the tide of destruction this revolution has caused.”

Vania’s mouth dropped open. “Treason. Open treason? Justen, what’s become of you?”

“What’s become of
you
!” Justen cried. “Listen to yourself. Celebrating the Reduction of the Ford child. It’s disgusting.”

“Disgusting?” Vania clenched her fists around the hem of her coat to keep from punching Justen right in his silk-clad stomach. “I’m sorry the revolution isn’t as pretty as one of your girlfriend’s soirees. I’m sorry it’s not all flutternotes and luaus. And I’m sorry that you can’t handle the reality. This is what it takes to make a better future, Justen. There are people who are going to fight against what we’re trying to do in Galatea. There are people who are going to try to stop us if we don’t stop them first. You’d think, after all those years with my father, you’d understand that better.”

“I understand a lot of things. I understand that we have no hope for a better future if it’s built on a foundation of torturing our fellow citizens over political disagreements. We’re torturing
children
, Vania.
Children
. I have no love for cruel aristos. I’ve met some Galatean refugees here—”

Vania pounced on this. “Who?”

He waved her off with a distracted “the Seris.”

She made a face. “They’re terrible. The Poppy will pay for kidnapping them!”

“That’s not the point. I hate the Seris. I will always hate them. They hate me. They hated Persistence Helo. But when they disagreed with her, they debated her, they voted against her, they argued and fought like civilized people. They didn’t torture her or give her drugs to destroy her brain. And that’s what
we’re
doing, Vania. We’re worse than people like the Seris ever thought of being.”

Vania stared at him, jaw clenched, eyes blazing with anger and what she absolutely refused to admit might be the seeds of tears. This could not be Justen. Her best friend. Practically her brother. If he’d been back in Galatea, would she have the strength to report his words to her father? Since he was in Albion, she could afford to be lenient. After all, he couldn’t damage the revolution from here. But it still broke her heart.

If he couldn’t understand the difference, she didn’t know how to explain it to him. The Seris had the liberty of avoiding violence. Their power was centralized, firm, absolute. They were aristos from a long line of aristos. They were certain of their position. Until the revolutionary government had complete control of the island, had the respect and recognition of Albion, had consolidated its sovereignty—things were too fragile to allow dissidence.

“The Ford heir was dangerous to our cause,” Vania said at last, “not necessarily because of anything she did herself but because of what she represented. She has power because of who she would be allowed to become, unchecked. An aristo, the head of an estate. Given power for no reason other than her birth. It’s a difficult decision but unfortunately she has to suffer the consequences. She has to bear the punishment for the crimes committed by her ancestors.”

“And when our children are judged for
our
crimes?” Justen asked coldly.

“Justen—”

But he wouldn’t listen. “Before the cure,” he said, “when aristos treated our Reduced forefathers poorly, they said we deserved it. We deserved it because it was our ancestors who’d ruined the world. Our ancestors who performed the gengineering that caused the Reduction, who started the wars, who cracked open the Earth.”

“Yes,” she said. “And now the aristos are being repaid for their cruelty.” How was this not obvious to him?

“And then we will be repaid for ours, and then the cycle will start all over again. When does it end, Vania? Does the world have to be completely destroyed?”

“I hope not,” came a silky voice from the far end of the terrace. “I rather think we’ve destroyed enough of it already.”

Vania turned, and was confronted with a figure who could be no one but Lady Persis Blake. She was swathed from chin to toe in what looked like form-fitting chain mail, and despite herself, Vania’s first thought was of some ancient female knight.

What seemed like acres of yellow and white hair was piled up on top of the girl’s head, making her tall, slim figure even more towering. Her features could not be seen clearly, as her face was obscured by a tight silver veil embroidered thickly across her cheeks with silver beading in a starburst design.

Vania blinked. It was a late afternoon. This was Persis Blake’s daytime wear? She was more ridiculous even than Vania’s research had led her to believe.

“Justen.” Persis glided toward them. “You didn’t tell me you were expecting a guest.”

“I wasn’t,” he grumbled. “This is Vania Aldred, an old friend from Galatea.”

“Lady Blake,” said Vania, inclining her head a full millimeter, which was more than her father would want and more than this glittering statue deserved. “I’m Captain Aldred of the revolutionary army.”

Persis laughed, a musical sound that instantly grated on Vania’s nerves. “How fascinating. A captain! Who knew that my Justen was friends with members of the military?” She smiled so broadly, Vania could make it out even through the mesh of her clinging veil. “And what brings you to my home? Merely here to visit Justen, or are you opening diplomatic relations with our princess regent?”

“She’s looking for the Wild Poppy,” Justen muttered.

Persis pressed a gloved hand against her chain mail–encased throat. “How extraordinary! And here I’d been under the impression that the revolutionaries thought our celebrated spy was an actual threat to them. He won’t be half so much fun to gossip about if the Galateans don’t even care.”