Across a Star-Swept Sea (9 page)

“Oh, no you don’t,” Justen chided, smoothly scooping up Slipstream around his long midsection before the animals could tussle. He smiled and bowed his head as he presented Slipstream to Persis. “Your beast, my lady.”

She cuddled the sea mink to her chest and eyed Justen carefully. He could be dangerous when he turned on the charm, this handsome young revolutionary, this medic with a famous name and a desire to escape Galatea so strong he’d leave his sister and cleave to an aristo he clearly despised. Maybe he, too, was a spy.

The next half hour was filled with the bustle of small talk, while Persis introduced her “dear friend, Justen Helo” to the Albian courtiers, who were naturally delighted to make his acquaintance. By unspoken agreement, Persis and Justen kept their conversation easy and flirtatious, as befitted a couple that had met only the previous day. As news of the Galatean newcomer spread throughout the court, whispers reached Persis’s ears.

“Look at him. Besotted!” Justen was apparently an excellent actor in his own right.

“And why shouldn’t he be? She has her mother’s face.” Well, yes, but that face seemed to have left him unimpressed.

“Leave it to Persis Blake to bring home a Helo.” In truth, he was just the latest in a long line of Galateans she’d brought over. Not as rich as some, not as grateful as others.

“Her father married the most beautiful reg of his generation. Why shouldn’t Persis catch the most famous of hers?”

She pursed her lips as the chatter spread. Isla had guessed right that people would be quick to place her latest conquest inside the carefully cultivated “Persis Flake” narrative. And why not? Persis had spent the last six months cementing her reputation in the princess’s court. It was for this she’d sacrificed school, for this she’d reinvented her image, for this she’d scandalized half the residents of Scintillans, who’d gone from thinking that Torin Blake was right in naming as heir his only daughter to wondering what in the world had happened to the clever, hardworking girl they’d grown up with. But what choice did Persis have? She had to protect the Wild Poppy. She had to help Isla. She had to save New Pacifica.

If they didn’t take you seriously, they would never see you coming. Persis was the most stylish, the most glittering, the most frivolous girl in Albion. There was no way she was secretly orchestrating a spy ring.

Eventually they came across an older couple, two aristos whose Galatean origins were clear by their natural hair and more sedate wardrobe. Justen greeted them stiffly, and Persis followed suit, though in truth she knew them intimately, even if they weren’t aware of that fact. Lord and Lady Seri had been the spoils of one of the Wild Poppy’s first raids. They looked much better now, compared to the miserable, Reduced wretches she’d plucked from their ancestral home.

“Justen Helo,” said Lord Seri, shaking Justen’s hand, “welcome to Albion. It is an honor to make your acquaintance. I knew your grandmother well.”

“Yes,” Justen replied in a tone like the depths of the sea. “You argued with her mightily over the universal distribution of her cure.”

But the old aristo merely chuckled and nodded. “Yes, I did. And lost. We will not argue now over who was right, despite the repercussions that have come of her work.”

“If you mean the revolution,” Justen said, his tone even and firm, “it was not a foregone conclusion. It was caused by the mistreatment of the Galatean regs by their aristo masters. You’ll note there’s no revolution in Albion as a result of the cure.”

“No revolution—
yet
,” Lord Seri replied.

Persis groaned. Loudly. “All this talk of politics makes my head hurt. Lady Seri, your dress is lovely. That silk is so rich I think I could drown in it. Does it come in any color but black?” She hadn’t rescued these aristos so that they could export their snobbery to her homeland. And Isla hadn’t granted Justen’s request so he could act like some kind of revolutionary firebrand. His political leanings were obvious—even understandable given the old system in Galatea. But their plan wouldn’t work if he couldn’t keep his mouth shut in front of the court’s more conservative elements.

“Besides,” Lord Seri continued, “I wasn’t necessarily talking about the
revolution
. Darkening is a more than sufficient consequence to call the entire experiment into question, is it not? What’s the percentage of Helo-cured regs who suffer and die from that little side effect? Five? Ten?”

Justen’s grip on her arm tightened. Had he felt her tense? She searched the old lord’s face, but he barely seemed to notice she was there. His comment was pointed, but not at Persis. No one at court knew about her mother. Yet.

“One percent,” Justen said, his voice clipped. “But I think even those would rather suffer from DAR than live their lives Reduced.”

Lord Seri looked amused as he leaned in toward Justen. “And how do you know that, young man? It’s not like you can ask them once they’re comatose.”

Persis saw Justen’s jaw twitch. She rather felt like vomiting, herself.

“Oh look,” she said quickly. “There’s Andrine. Let’s catch her.” She tugged him away before more harm could be done.

Andrine had limited time to spend at court since she was still in school—or, as Persis’s father had put it, Andrine “had her priorities in order.” She’d already devoted most of her spare time to Wild Poppy escapades. And Persis didn’t begrudge her those other commitments. After all, unlike herself, the fifteen-year-old reg did not have an estate to inherit. Andrine and Persis had been friends all their lives, though Persis never would have suspected that their antics on the cliffs and beaches of Scintillans would have so well prepared them for risking their lives in Galatea … and in the only slightly less treacherous environment at court.

“Citizen Helo!” Andrine exclaimed as soon as she saw them. Today, she wore a dress to match her wild blue hair. “I’m glad to see you’re still among us. And what’s this I hear about you planning to stay a while?”

A gesture from Persis and Andrine offered to introduce Justen to her older brother. “Two sciency types like you should definitely chat,” Andrine trilled, taking him by the arm. “You can tell him all about the dangers of genetemps sickness, right, Persis?”

She rolled her eyes. Justen would certainly disapprove of Tero’s more frivolous science, from Slippy to palmports to badly coded genetemps. But she was more than ready to let Tero be the object of Justen’s revolutionary contempt for a few minutes. He deserved it after what he’d done to her.

Once Persis was alone, she sought out Isla.

“A word, Your Highness?” Persis hissed through her teeth.

“Don’t be silly, Persis,” quipped Isla. “You’ve never kept a statement to a single word in your life.” She swept past her friend and toward a break in the bougainvillea. “Keep it quick.”

As soon as they were hidden by the fall of leaves and petals, Persis said, “This is a terrible idea.”

“You’re only saying that because, for once in our long acquaintance, you weren’t the one to come up with it.”

“Forget about giving him secret asylum.” Persis eyed the famous Galatean through the blossoms. “I can go fetch his sister if that’s the fear. Your real trouble is controlling him. He’s a Helo, yes, but he’s certainly a rebel as well. You think his presence will help prevent revolution? If you listen to him talk for five minutes, you’d guess he was here to incite it.”

“What do you want me to do, Persis? Put him in an induced coma like that little revolutionary soldier you kidnapped last week? She’s nobody, and she could still get us in a lot of trouble. Justen is a
Helo
.” Isla fixed her with a very penetrating look. “A Helo, Persis. If he were imprisoned in Galatea for speaking out against the revolution’s atrocities, you’d be moving the very Earth to get him out, and you know it.”

Persis hated when her friend acted as clever as she actually was. It meant admitting she was right.

Life had been so much easier when they had nothing more to worry about than who was getting top scores at school—usually Persis, though Isla always beat her at botany. Had that only been a year ago? Then Isla’s parents and older brother had died, and Persis’s mother had gotten sick, and the Galateans had overthrown their government, and the Wild Poppy had been born. She hardly remembered the girls they’d once been. Day by day, the superficial mask she’d donned chafed more and more; and no matter how many disguises Persis took on as the Poppy, she couldn’t help but feel they fit her better than the one she wore at home.

T
HE FRANGIPANI-SHAPED FLUTTER THAT
melted into Persis’s palmport was delicate to the point of fragility. The message that whispered into her head a split second later was anything but.

Persis, darling. I’ve been hearing some very odd reports about a strange houseguest you entertained in our absence. Return home at once. Love and duty, Torin Blake

Persis scrunched up her face. Her father always sounded so formal in his flutters, like he couldn’t quite break out of the message etiquette he’d learned in his youth.

At once, Papa. Kisses.

She retrieved Justen and herded him back to the
Daydream
as quickly as the crush of the court would allow.

“My parents found out you spent the night,” she explained as Slipstream swirled in excitement around her feet. He hated the court and was always relieved to get back into the ocean. “And now they’re burning to make your acquaintance.” Perhaps the name alone was enough to make up for her going against their wishes and bringing a stranger to their home. Perhaps her mother had rested all day in preparation for Justen.

“I look forward to meeting them,” was all the Galatean said. Was all he said almost the whole trip back, as they skirted the coastline of Albion on their way to the far southwestern point of Albion that served as the seaward entrance to her father’s estate As the cliffs rose above them, turning the water a shadowed shade of teal and blocking out the glare of the sun, Persis watched her passenger stare up in wonder.

“Scintillans pali takes some getting used to,” she said, using the ancestral name of the precipice, “but you saw it when you brought me home, right?”

“No,” Justen replied. “I was down below with you. You were … convulsing.”

“How embarrassing,” Persis said, her tone carefully crafted to reveal only shards of her true humiliation. “I can’t apologize enough.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He was fixated by the rock rising above them. “I’m a medic. Besides, you’re doing me a huge favor by agreeing to this subterfuge. Call us even.”

“Does that mean I can’t count on you for any more medical assistance?” she asked coyly.

He cast her a dark look over his shoulder. “If you mean concocting more genetemps drugs, absolutely not.”

“Humph.” She slouched in disappointment as he shook his head in disgust or contempt or something bordering on frustration.

Well, he wasn’t the only one frustrated. She had a Helo medic who’d grown up in Citizen Aldred’s house on her very own boat and she was unable to ask him anything important. The Wild Poppy’s mission depended on her ability to hide her true identity, to present herself as shallow and disinterested. And it was vital to do so in front of this Galatean revolutionary. He may have asked for asylum, but that didn’t mean she could trust him.

Which reminded her, it was time to school Justen on proper court behavior. “Back at the court, those Galateans you were talking to—”

“The Seris?” He snorted.

“Yes.” In another time, another guise, she might have snorted herself. Horrible Lord Seri, to suggest that the Darkened would have been better off just staying Reduced! For a man who’d been Reduced himself, it was an astonishing assertion. Of course, he was one of those aristos who would have preferred that the cure had never happened. It was good the Seris had lost any claim they once held to control the lives of others. And yet, they still held influence among the Albian aristos on the Council. “You know, you shouldn’t be so hard on them. I heard they were tortured. Given that Reduction drug.”

“I know,” he said softly. “And I regret that—that my fellow countrymen did that. But they are safe now, and I will argue to the death against their bigoted beliefs. People like them are the reason Galatea was driven to revolution.”

Not people like the revolutionaries?
Persis longed to say but could not. She’d never get Justen to change his mind—and she didn’t truly want to. Most Galatean aristos
had
been horrid to their population after the cure had been administered. Though the people were born reg, most had still been treated like Reduced slaves. Many weren’t paid for their work or educated or allowed control of property, and the aristos and more fortunate regs who’d campaigned for equal rights had been shouted down by the queen and her supporters—or worse.

Desire for change was more than justified. Persis couldn’t deny that. But the revolution was changing things in all the wrong ways. More slavery wasn’t the right solution, and torture was torture.

Besides, if Justen was going to be an asset to Isla, he’d need to learn how to tread lightly on the mines scattered about the Albian aristocracy.

“Have you heard their story?” she asked. “I have. They were enslaved on their own ancestral lands, put to hard labor for the amusement of their prison guards.” Until the Wild Poppy rescued them.

“Oh, the horror,” Justen grumbled without turning around. “To have to
labor.
Like all their servants did for generations. Like your servants do now.”

Persis bristled. “My servants do their
jobs
. They work fair hours and are paid fair wages. They aren’t enslaved or imprisoned”—she hesitated, framing the words more carefully, more like Persis Blake ought—“and we don’t give them drugs to make them stupid, either.”

“But what of the Reduced servants Lord Seri didn’t want to give the cure to?” Justen asked, turning to look at Persis at the helm. “Choosing to withhold the cure from them would have enslaved them forever—in body and in their own minds.”

Persis gripped the wheel tightly as a shudder skimmed beneath her skin. That’s what was happening to the prisoners in Galatea. And it wasn’t only the revolution that held such horrible fates for its people. Even here in Albion, some were enslaved in their minds, and some had that future looming before them, with no possible escape. There was nothing Persis could do for the Darkened—nothing at all. But even if such inevitabilities were written into her genetic code, she wouldn’t let that kind of suffering befall anyone it didn’t have to. The Reduction was over. She wouldn’t let the revolutionaries bring it back with their appalling pink pills.