Across a Star-Swept Sea (7 page)

The water surrounded them on three sides, vast and glittering beneath the sun-drenched sky. From up here, you could barely hear the surf, and the sharp, living smell of the water faded into a simple salty freshness. Justen paused at the western cliff edge and stared at the endless ocean. Once, long ago before the Reduction and the wars that had broken the very heart of the world, there’d been other lands, other people. People who lived and breathed democracies, people who’d accomplished their goals without spilling a single drop of blood. The Galateans had failed at this.
Justen
had failed.

All he’d ever wanted was to help people, like his grandmother had done. And now, when things had gone so wrong he had no choice but to escape, the only place left to go was Albion. The only mercy he could hope to get was from another monarch.

That was, if Persis Blake ever finished getting ready.

Everywhere he went, he felt the eyes of the estate servants on him. He grew tired of their obsequious attempts to bring him things—snacks, perfumes, changes of clothes in monstrously garish colors. Most of all, he hated the way every last one of them called him Citizen Helo. They probably meant it as a mark of respect, or even support of the Galatean revolution, but if anything, that made him feel worse.

“Citizen Helo, I just wanted to take a moment to thank you—to thank your family—for their gift to the world.”

“Citizen Helo, both my parents were born of the cure. Bless you and yours.”

“I hate to bother you, Citizen Helo, but I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t say it. It is such an honor to be in the presence of someone descended from Persistence Helo. Everyone here at Scintillans is overwhelmed. Is there anything I can get you?”

This last one planted a notion in his head, and he stopped the servant, a blue-haired butler. “Pardon me, but the lady of the house …”

“Lady Heloise Blake? She and Lord Blake are away at the moment.” The servant eyed him. “Oh, you mean Persis.”

But Justen already had the information he needed. He snapped his jaw shut.
Heloise. Persis.
He should have seen it before. Those names were no accident. And yet, why would aristos bear them?

“Citizen?” the servant prompted.

Justen shook his head. “I was just wondering how long she’d be.”

The older man laughed. “Yes, she does like her clothes, our girl. These days, it’s all she seems to care about.”

Our girl.
Now, Justen examined the estate with new eyes. He’d been too concerned for his patient’s welfare when he’d arrived yesterday afternoon, and last night and this morning he’d been busy trying to make a plan for the future, but now he finally began to take in the details of this aristo estate. The little fishing village nestled at the base of the cliffs was filled with neat, tidy houses, not ramshackle cabins like one often saw on the plantations in Galatea. Happy, plump children ran about the lawns of the estate itself. The servants practically whistled while they worked. Were things so very different in Albion?

He knew that the Reduction’s end had been handled differently in the two nations of New Pacifica. In Albion, mandatory education for regs and fair wage laws had been passed. There’d been reg representatives on the Royal Council for more than a generation. But that couldn’t have made a true difference, could it? As Uncle Damos said, they still had a king calling the shots. One only had to look at the way they treated the women of Albion, the way aristos like Persis led such decadent, useless lives, to see how rotten the system must be.

But then again, those names … something was strange about Scintillans.

“Are you ready to go?” came a voice at his back. He turned to find Persis in a sari the color of sunset. Jewels sparkled along the hem and neckline. Her hair was piled on top of her head again, in a fashion he was sure was exceedingly intricate but looked to him like nothing more than an osprey nest. On top of it all perched a ridiculous fascinator shaped like a bird of paradise and made entirely from real feathers. Her skin was clear and golden, glowing with a vitality one would never have guessed possible for a girl so recently recovered from genetemps sickness. Her light-colored eyes were winged with kohl, and her wide cheekbones and full lips were the same sparkly rose color. Perhaps her complexion was being helped along by a good deal of Albian cosmetics, then.

The sea mink, its glossy red coat set off by a jeweled coral collar, frolicked at her feet.

The aristo frowned at him, as her gaze traveled down his body and over his simple black shirt and pants. “Oh, you didn’t change, I see.”

“Where did you get your name?” he blurted.

Her eyes snapped back to his face. “Where do you think?”

“From my grandmother.”

“Well,” she said, with a tilt of her head that sent the feathers shaking. “I see you have at least some of her smarts.”

“Your mother—”

“Is a reg, yes,” she said, her tone clipped. Was she … embarrassed by that fact? Justen couldn’t tell. He had never known a half aristo before. Not a legitimate one, anyway. Not one who was friends with royalty.

Persis tapped at her gloved left hand, then seemed to remember she was still recovering. “Well, let’s go. The royal court of Albion awaits.”

And now Justen realized he had no idea what to expect.

Five

J
USTEN HAD TAKEN TWO
sea voyages with Persis Blake so far but had yet to see her touch the controls. On the way back from Galatea, she’d been unconscious, and now she left the yacht on autopilot while she downed palmport supplements and stationed herself at the cabin’s wall port to exchange what were apparently rather urgent messages with her tailor.

The autopilot’s docking mechanism was somewhat shaky. Justen went below to call to Persis, who rolled her eyes in frustration at the interruption. “The
Daydream
won’t sink,” she said with a wave of her hand. The image of a keyboard hovered before her, its letters flashing. “Now leave me alone. I’m a bit rusty at this wall port business. I can’t believe it actually makes you
type
. With your
fingers
. Like some kind of
primitive
.”

The yacht commenced banging its sides into a slip.

What kind of girl, Justen wondered, possessed such a gorgeous vessel as this and treated it with all the care of an old shoe? The same kind whose papa had purchased her a personalized pet, Justen supposed. If she did end up sinking her yacht, Justen had no doubt her aristocratic father would just buy her another, and another, and another still.

If Persis weren’t the quickest way to gain access to Princess Isla, he would have found a way to ditch her by now. But he didn’t have a better plan for getting into court, and he had to admit that before the docking procedure, the trip around the point of Scintillans and up the west coast of Albion had been picturesque—all blue, sunlit sea and wind that smelled of salt and fire. Justen had remained on deck, enjoying the view of the cliffs receding into the smooth slopes that characterized the outer shores of Albion, watching the sea mink frolic in the wake, and wondering if maybe, all things considered, he hadn’t been spending a bit too much time in his lab.

At first glance, Justen decided the royal court wasn’t so very different from the stories they told about it in Galatea. The water organ was gorgeous if ostentatious, the outrageous clothes nearly blinded him, and the appallingly decadent flutternotes whizzing every which way were apt to give him a headache if he remained in their midst for too long. He’d learned about their operation during his medic training and had always been relieved that the craze hadn’t caught on in Galatea. Parasitic biotechnology that drained the body’s own nutrients to operate? It was foolish and unnecessary. Why couldn’t the Albian aristos use oblets, like everyone else? He fingered his own precious oblets, still hidden away in his pockets. Their smooth edges clinked against each other, solid and reassuring. He may have left his homeland and his sister, but at least these would be safe … and out of his uncle’s hands.

Thankfully, he saw no fellow Galateans in the crowd of the courtyard. Though anyone in the Albion court would probably be an enemy of the revolution, he didn’t need a report of his whereabouts to reach Uncle Damos so soon. Even more thankfully, his host ushered him quickly through the throng and into a small, white, orchid-draped antechamber to await an audience with the princess regent. Persis had walked into the palace with her sea mink like she owned the place, and had to brush off several courtiers along the way. And she’d managed to bring him to the princess straight off, too. Persis must have been telling the truth, then, that they were friends.

And, yet, she was the daughter of an aristo married to a reg. Would wonders never cease?

The princess, too, looked just like the images he’d seen of her. She was a few years younger than he was—about Persis’s age, with silvery hair and an all-white gown that seemed almost practical after the rainbow of colors and iridescence he’d passed through outside, even if it was covered in waves of floating feathers and crystals that clinked as she moved.

One of the biggest complaints about the old Queen Gala had been that she’d acted more like an Albian woman than a Galatean one. Shallow, silly, and more interested in parties than politics, in clothes than in culture. Justen could only hope that Isla defied expectations. Her friendship with Persis boded ill. He’d heard the princess didn’t wield much in the way of true power in Albion. And with an airhead like Persis as her lady-in-waiting, perhaps there was good reason for that.

Then again, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

“Greetings, Galatean,” said Princess Isla, spreading her arms in a gesture of welcome. “My friend Persis tells me I’m about to be bowled over by you. But given the number of Galateans that wash up on my shores these days, I wonder what she finds so impressive
this
time.”

Persis looked at the princess and scowled. Isla smiled serenely. The aristo favored her princess with the ghost of a curtsy. She was holding yet another half-empty bottle of supplement drink. Justen imagined her tongue must be just about curdled from the sugar overload by now. She obviously couldn’t wait to get back to her palmport. Why anyone would subject their body to that kind of punishment when an oblet could run off its geothermal battery for weeks at a time was beyond him.

“You two go ahead and have your little chat. I think I’m recovered enough to boot this up again, right?” Persis waved her left hand at Justen.

He gave a noncommittal shrug. She’d probably be fine, given her supplements, but he couldn’t imagine she had any messages left to send after the flurry on the
Daydream
.

Palmport advocates said it was as close to telepathy as the human race had ever come, but Justen didn’t think it was worth the cost. Besides, you still needed oblets for data storage and any large information transfers. Palmports were only as good as the memories of the people using them, their data little more than digestible, untraceable nanosugars. And given the type of people who ran them—people like Persis—they were useless for anything more than silly games and gossip.

Persis seemed satisfied anyway. She plopped on a nearby cushion and ripped off her wristlock. He swallowed his scowl. What he had to say was not fodder for Albian gossips.

And what, exactly, would that be? Certainly not the whole truth. Princess Isla was an aristo. If she knew about his involvement in the revolution, she’d put him in prison and then he’d never be able to right the wrongs he’d caused. Better to start with part of the story.

“Your Highness,” Justen said, finding those words every bit as difficult to speak as “Citizen” had been to hear. He guessed not all his revolutionary principles had been extinguished, despite what he’d learned. He gave her a short, stiff bow, then straightened and looked her right in the eyes. She was a royal. Not a god. “My name is Justen Helo—”

Her eyebrows rose and when she smiled this time, she looked less like a monarch and more like a teen getting a birthday present. Even from royalty, then.

“I’m the grandson of Darwin and Persistence Helo. And I’m here to ask you for asylum.”

At this, Isla blinked in surprise, but Persis just looked bored. Justen wondered if she even knew what “asylum” was.

“And,” he added, “I need it to remain a secret.”

“Why?” asked Isla. “I assure you I would have no compunction celebrating far and wide that a Helo would prefer living in Albion to braving the revolution.”

She was sensible at least, even if she had silly taste in friends. Maybe she just kept Persis around for fashion advice, though Justen wondered how advisable even
that
was. “I’d prefer my countrymen think I was just visiting your island,” he said. “at least until I can contrive to get my little sister out of Citizen Aldred’s house.” Even if his uncle guessed the truth, a public lie might be enough to protect Remy.

Persis lifted her head, her eyes keenly trained on his face. “Wait, that … revolution guy in Galatea has your sister imprisoned? Now
that’s
interesting!”

The princess batted her hand at her friend, and Persis sighed and returned her attention to the diagnostics hovering above her palmport disk. Justen bit back his frustration. Isla didn’t seem to mind the girl’s presence, and as a foreign reg, what right did he have to ask for an aristo’s removal? Besides, it was Persis who’d brought him here. He’d just have to bear it.

“Not imprisoned,” Justen corrected. Brainwashed maybe. Just as he’d been until recently. “Citizen Aldred is her guardian.” He’d been Justen’s guardian, too, and probably still thought of himself as such, though Justen was eighteen now.

It was amazing, all the thoughts that oozed out as soon as a single crack appeared in the surface of your beliefs. How long had Uncle Damos been planning the revolution? Had he known ten years ago, when he first agreed to take custody of the orphaned Helo children, how much goodwill he’d have earned from the regs of Galatea?