Across a Star-Swept Sea (30 page)

It was this promise that Justen’s grandmother Persistence Helo had used when trying to convince the old Queen Gala, the old King Albie, and the all the aristos of her generation to distribute the cure she’d created. It was this promise, one of moving on and protecting the humanity they’d almost destroyed, which eventually led to the widespread adoption of the cure and the end of the Reduction that had triggered the almost total destruction of mankind in the first place. The Helo Cure had saved the world.

And in only two generations, they were trying to wreck it again.

Justen shook his head. He had to fix the refugees. He
had
to. He couldn’t let his family legacy be destroyed because he’d been too naive to understand his uncle’s true purpose.

Armed with kiwine cocktails as if the Albians viewed them as some sort of vital hiking accessory, the party began the ascent to the island’s summit, where the monument stood. The path was narrow and rocky, requiring the group to walk in a line of ones and twos, and explained the uncharacteristically simple outfits and shoes the Albians had chosen. He had never seen Isla without her towering high heels before, and it had been a surprise to realize how short she really was. She barely reached Tero’s chest, and they made a comical pair as they hiked beside each other. Persis was the tallest woman in the group; even in flats, she was only a few centimeters shorter than Justen.

As they went, they shared stories about their first visit to Remembrance Island. Justen was surprised to learn that most Albian aristos made it a yearly pilgrimage. He’d been once or twice on field trips in school, but the Galateans had never thought it such a vital part of their culture. Only the Peccants visited regularly, but they were generally considered a tiny and bizarre fringe.

“Perhaps,” said Isla when he shared this information with the group, “that is why your people were willing, once more, to go to war.” She didn’t sound superior when she said it, however, only sad. At the moment, she was walking near him, at the very head of the group. “Growing up, my father took my brother and me here many more times than yearly. We were constantly reminded of our duty. Whenever Albie—my older brother Albie—whenever he got particularly hotheaded on some matter of diplomacy or other, Father would pack us up and sail out here to reflect on what anger and strife can do to humanity. On how there should always be another solution.”

Lord Blocking, behind them with his lady, snorted. “Is that why you are so reluctant to help put an end to the atrocities happening in the south, Princess? Because you have interpreted your father’s teachings as a call to passive inaction?”

“No,” replied the princess smoothly. “It is because I govern by the will of the people and shall not go to war, risking who knows how many of my own citizens’ lives in the process, until the people of Albion will it.”

“And if the people of Albion will a revolution? If the people of Albion will you stripped of your power?”

For a moment, Justen wondered how far the man planned to go with this.

“Oh, come now,” said Andrine, who seemed annoyed equally at the direction the conversation had gone and the fact that she was walking alongside Dwyer. Somehow, in the last few minutes, Persis and Tero had fallen way behind the rest. Andrine kept looking back at them and scowling. “Surely the fact that our leaders bother to take into account their people’s opinions is an argument for
not
revolting. What do you say, Citizen Helo?”

Justen started. Despite being the only Galatean present, he’d not expected to be put on the spot in this way. “Queen Gala was a distant and indifferent ruler,” he said.

“Oh, and you knew the queen so well?” asked Lord Blocking.

“I met her a few times,” Justen admitted. “The first was when my parents died ten years ago and there was a question of where my sister and I would go. It was suggested by some that the queen take us in herself, given the debt the Galateans felt they owed our family.”

“What happened?” asked Dwyer Shift.

Justen forced a smile. “I was not raised by Queen Gala.”

“No,” said Persis, who’d at last caught up to the group. “She pawned you off on her trusted military general Damos Aldred.”

The group fell silent. Isla paused, causing everyone else to stop short as well, and turned to Persis. “So what are you saying, Persis? That I’m safe from a military revolution as long as I don’t stick any of my councilmen with a bunch of orphans to raise?”

Persis smiled sweetly. “Couldn’t hurt.”

A few of the guests chuckled, and, just like that, the tension diffused. How was it that Persis was so good at this? Maybe he should have left her to deal with her mother as she wished last night.

Slipstream appeared out of nowhere, hurrying to his mistress’s side. When he got there, he lifted himself up on his hind legs and proceeded to do a strange little dance, hopping back and forth, then dropping, rolling over, and repeating the process again.

“What’s he doing?” Dwyer asked, incredulous.

“He’s glad to see me,” said Persis. She stripped off her wristlock and leaned over to pet the sea mink, running her fingers deeply through his fur. “Aren’t you, boy? What a good, good boy you are.” Something gold glinted near the animal’s green collar, but Justen figured it must be sunlight reflecting off the buckle.

“Let’s just get to the stupid monument,” grumbled Lord Blocking.

“
Stupid
?” Isla drew herself up, looking quite majestic and almost supernaturally grand all of a sudden. It appeared to be part of royal training. Justen would never understand. “I’m sure you meant to say
dumb
—as in
silent
—as in magnificent and lonely and ever so sacred.”

The man looked away.

Isla appeared satisfied. “Perhaps in the next election cycle, it shall be the will of the people in your district to revisit the wisdom of placing you on the Council.” She strode off, and only Justen heard as she passed close, “And then I’ll no longer be forced to place you on my guest lists.”

“Princess,” Justen said, jumping on his first opportunity to be out of earshot of the others. “I need to speak to you. I know we’d originally agreed that I’d be available for your publicity purposes, but I feel my true purpose in Albion lies elsewhere.”

“Oh?” Isla responded. “So you want to be relieved of the duty of sucking my friend’s face off like you were back there on the boat?”

“Yes—”

“Didn’t look like it.” She walked on.

Justen caught up. “I’ve had the opportunity to see the Galatean refugees. As a medic, I know my place belongs in the labs, helping your scientists develop a treatment for their condition. I can be so much more useful to you there. Even Persis will agree …”

Isla groaned and pressed her fist against her brow. “Certainly, Citizen Helo. I shall look into it as soon as I’ve managed to prevent the imminent uprising in my own country.”

Justen drew back, chagrined. “I know you’re busy, but—”

“I’m not happy about you hiding away in some Darkened sanitarium, and switching that up for a secret refugee lab is even less appealing. However, if you’d like to do a few propaganda videos for me about the importance of stopping the Reduction of your people, I’d be more than happy to arrange it. All right?”

No. Not all right. Not all right at all. He needed to keep a low profile until his sister was secured. Vania’s visit had proved that. After all, she’d as good as threatened Persis yesterday.

And Justen had almost bitten her head off for it.

“Please, Princess—”

At the rear of the party, Persis rose and for a minute, it looked like she’d lost her balance. Tero grabbed her hand, and they held on to each other until she regained her footing.

“Are you hurt?” Justen called.

“Fine.” Persis dropped Tero’s hand and strode up to where Justen stood. “Why, are you jealous you aren’t walking with me?” She batted her eyelashes at him and tossed a few ropes of her hair behind her shoulder. Lady Blocking ducked to avoid being hit in the face with them.

“I think,” Tero said, “that I’m going to do a quick survey of the beach. Given the day’s events, we can’t be too safe.” Bizarrely, he shook his sister’s hand in farewell before vanishing down the trail.

“Let’s keep going up!” Persis cried. “Up, up, up! The sooner we get to the monument, the sooner we can get back to lunch—am I right, Lady Blocking?” Not waiting for an answer, she rushed forward, past Justen, past Isla, and kept up the pace until she reached the next curve in the path, far above their heads. Isla also quickened her pace, and the rest dutifully followed. As they passed the curve, Justen looked down at the beach, and stopped dead on the path.

“Who is that?” Far below them stood a figure. From here, he could make out little more than orangey hair and a dull brown dress.

Persis practically ran down to meet him. “Oh, look, another Albian, out to pay her respects to the monument. How lovely. Who knew this would be such a popular trip? Of course, the weather’s so lovely today. Everything is
so
lovely. All right, onward—” She tugged at his hand, but Justen was riveted by the girl on the beach.

There was something strange, and yet oddly familiar, about her movements. He struggled to place it. Perhaps the distance was just playing tricks on him. But as he peered closer, he saw her joined by another woman, whose hair was a color he’d never seen outside history books and videos. Not yellow like some of Persis’s, but a soft, sunshiny gold. “Blond,” he said to himself. It was called blond. He’d yet to see any Albian who’d chosen to dye their hair a color that had once appeared on humans in nature.

“Come
on
,” Persis insisted, and pulled him away. “Stop spying. I don’t know how they do things in Galatea, but in Albion, it’s considered rude.”

“Odd,” he replied. “Since the most famous spy in the world is Albian.”

Persis allotted him a pity chuckle.

Two more turns, if memory served, and they’d reach the summit of the island and the ceramic obelisk that marked the sanctuary. Isla still led the way, her pace now almost as fast as her friend’s. Everyone had stopped talking, concentrating mostly on keeping up.

“And, here we are!” Isla announced, a bit breathless, as they rounded the last turn. “The monument of Remembrance I—” and here words failed her.

There were two people already there. At first glance, the strangers standing before them appeared Galatean, to judge by their natural, dark hair and more somber dress. Except “somber” wasn’t the right word for it. The young woman wore a simple, faded shirt and patched trousers hardly fit for the most downtrodden of Galatean peasants before the revolution. Her hair hung down her back in a braid almost long enough to skim the earth as she knelt and examined the writing at the base of the monument. The young man, dressed notably better, almost like an aristo or at least a rich reg, stood facing them, as if he already knew they’d arrived, though he couldn’t possibly have heard them over the wind here at the peak. Justen wanted to say the strangers were nearly the same age as he was, but that didn’t seem right, either. Surely he’d remember a Galatean of his social class who looked like this. The other boy’s skin was paler than Justen was used to, and the shape of his eyes and cheekbones gave him pause. But though the stranger looked on their party with extreme wariness, he couldn’t hide his expression of unmitigated delight.

“Hello.”

At the sound of his voice, the girl looked around, then jumped to her feet in shock. Quick as a flash, the boy maneuvered until he stood between her and the rest of them, his hand stretched back toward in a gesture of both comfort and protection.

“Hello,” said Isla, pausing haughtily in expectation of a bow that never came. She shot Justen a look. “Galateans, I see. Well, we’re on neutral ground. I won’t stand on ceremony.”

But Justen, the only Galatean in the group, felt in his bones that he wasn’t looking at his countrymen.

The young man came forward, his back straight, his head high and his eyes, Justen could now see, glittering with a light no one on Earth had seen for generations.

“My name is Captain Malakai Wentforth of the ship
Argos
,” he said, his words so distorted and odd sounding that they were practically unintelligible. “We have come from the end of the world to search for other survivors. You are the first we’ve met. Tell me, what is this place, and why does it not appear on any map?”

Twenty-two

O
N ONE HAND, THE
picnic would go down in history 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?