Authors: Rachel Eastwood
“Stay right here at this throne and be polite to our guests,” Malthus commanded. “I’ll be back in one moment. There’s something I need to do.”
The man walked only a handful of paces, held hushed conference with a sentry, and then returned. “All well and done, then,” he announced, patting Kaizen on the back and smiling. “Have a seat with your mother,” he told the boy. “Or go shake some hands, damn you. Don’t just stand here.”
Kaizen stared at his father for a moment. “What did you do?” he finally resolved to ask.
“What? Oh. Oh, yes. I’ve had guards sent to your chambers to extract that girl and place her in the tower, where she belongs.”
Kaizen stepped to lunge for the nearest exit, but his father gripped his arm and pulled him back into place. “You’ll get her back,” he promised, wholly unamused. “You’ll get her back after the ceremony.”
“Father!” Kaizen cried, horrified, terrified.
“I also increased the security at the grand hall entrance,” Malthus added. “It will be fine. Now shut up and smile.”
Vector and Dax separated from the carriage, Dax off toward the prison tower, attempting to blend with the security moving to and fro over the grounds, and Vector into the castle, scanning the crowds for the footman automaton of Kaizen Taliko. Of course, the damn bots were everywhere, and they all looked so alike. The personal assistant of the earl, however, was bound to be in the throne room, where the future duke would be expected to receive guests. It wouldn’t be that hard to isolate.
Vector shuffled along with the mass of the crowd, watching for the royal family, watching for where the throng would split into its two strata: the common and the elite. The elite strata, in their silken petticoats and enormous top hats, diverged toward the front of the room, sweeping along plush, velveteen seats.
There, at the throne itself. There stood the duke and the earl, having a notably intense conversation. Off to their left was the coterie of royal automata. The duke’s bot. The duchess’ bot. And the earl’s bot. Vector couldn’t remember their names, and who would? They were porcelain dolls in greater finery and with more rights than he would ever know. Vector’s jaw clenched, and his doubts evaporated. This had to be done. A message had to be sent. For the present, and for the future, and for the people.
Vector pulled the top hat from his head and nimbly tipped it upside down. The Contemplator fit—very snugly, but fit—inside. Its crank was in the upright position. He reached into the hat, but the crank couldn’t develop the momentum necessary from within.
Oh well,
he thought.
So be it.
Hefting the Contemplator into clear sight, he churned the first ream of celluloid fiber as quickly as he could, and the horn on top of the device emitted its low, unearthly pulse. This was the stop-program, which had effectively disabled simpler bots from their original tasks. He could only pray it worked on something as sophisticated as a castle automaton.
Over the muffled rumble of the crowd, some people examined the throne room, seeking the source of that odd noise.
All the automata went suddenly idle. Even across the castle, automata who offered to take coats and hats froze in mid-sentence, their mouths hanging open dumbly, their eyes glassy as if in shock. Bots who performed functions as simple as polishing silverware stilled, even as their tiny keys turned. In the dungeon tower on the leftmost island, Flywheel tumbled from where he had been hidden in Legacy’s braids.
Vector ripped the first strip from its gears and shakily threaded the second. This was the kill-program, which would instruct the automaton under its influence to focus and attack its imprinted master with all the force of its pulleys and pistons.
He could see that he had attracted the attention of more than one pair of eyes, but the onlookers only displayed interest, not horror. They’d never seen a Contemplator before, after all. No one had. It could have been totally innocent, and at times, it certainly was. But then the horn unleashed its second pulse. The deep, rich bleat of the kill-program.
And then, the coat-and-hat-check automata pulled themselves erect with glowing, intent eyes. Their marionette mouths seemed to form malevolent smiles. Their heads tilted to the other side, as if carefully considering the aristocrats before them.
“Hello? Hello?” they asked, leaning closer, squinting. “Won’t you take my hat?”
And then all hell broke loose.
Every automaton flung themselves forward, dashing gladly against their masters. The throne room, and in truth, the castle grounds as a whole, filled with screams to such a degree that even Dax, who was racing toward the dungeon tower, stopped to behold the madness. It was everywhere, but it was the worst in the castle, and then, the worst in the throne room. Blood slashed the walls as the automata cracked and shattered, but the assaults were ongoing. Shrieking guests stampeded to their carriages—but their chauffeurs smashed against their bell jars with murderous zeal. It was everywhere. There was no escape.
The guards sworn to protect the royal families also dropped, the radio coils in their eyes burning red.
Meanwhile, Valkenhayn-2 heaved himself onto the duke, his program for words overridden and deleted.
“Stop!” Malthus commanded, falling back.
But the automaton footman gripped the back of his master’s neck with one porcelain-jointed hand, balling the other into a fist and smashing it into Malthus’ face. The delicate glass splintered and came away easily, lacerating the duke’s face as it went, exposing Valkenhayn-2’s brass knuckles beneath.
The automaton footman’s mouth opened and shut with a clatter, as if he were laughing, but it couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be.
The duke could hardly see anymore. He could hardly do anything anymore but thrash in the metal man’s embrace, succumbing to an exquisite, singing pain.
Up in the prison tower, Flywheel repeatedly rammed his dragonfly body into Legacy. “Ow!” she yelped, glaring at the thing. He’d been so functional until now . . . “Ow!” she yelped again as the dragonfly pinched her. “Stop it!”
She swatted at him, and her little assistant was flung against a wall, where he clattered and dropped.
“Leg!” Dax’s voice called behind her.
Legacy whirled and felt the cocktail of relief and regret and nausea and desperation that was becoming common of seeing Dax. Only this time, it was worse. It was worse because he was dragging in each breath with great effort, and his skin was gossamer and stark. He wore the garb of a sentry, and no rebreather.
“Dax,” she cried. “Your mask!”
“But you’re—What are you . . . wearing?” he asked, limping toward the iron bars. “That’s awfully . . . sexy for prison . . . don’t you . . . think?” he wheezed.
Legacy’s face clotted with blood. “I—Ow! Shit, Flywheel, quit it!” she cried, as the dragonfly dive-bombed her hair and pulled furiously at her braids. “That really hurts!” she insisted, smacking at her own head until the dragonfly came loose again.
“It’s all the . . . bots,” Dax explained, taking the Cipher-Scope from his pocket and fitting it over the jail lock with shaking hands. “It’s . . . our fault,” he continued. “We’ve got to get . . .” He sucked in a deep, painful breath. “. . . out of here . . . Leg . . . now.”
“Why, what’s—what’s—ow!”
“We used the Contemplator . . . on the earl’s auto . . . maton . . . footman,” he explained loudly. The Cipher-Scope nearly drowned him out. “But something went . . . wrong! It’s affecting . . . all the . . . automata. Even Flywheel, apparently! Like I . . . said! We’ve got to get... out of here!”
Even Flywheel, apparently!
The brass dragonfly dove for her eyes mercilessly, and Legacy slapped him with her open palm, sending him skittering across the floor.
They’re all connected to the castle, all the time, no matter where they go—just like me.
Flywheel’s stained glass wings twitched back to life.
Here. I found this at
CIN-3
. I believe it to be yours? I think I fixed it, too . . .
So, that was how he’d known that she’d gone to Old Earth.
The automaton whistled through the air again, zeroing in on Legacy’s mouth as if to choke her to death, and the girl shielded her lips, clapping her hands shut as Flywheel snapped against them. “Ow, ow, ow, son of a bitch,” she cringed, the thing biting her all over. But the important part was the little key she felt.
Just twisting away between her hands.
And when a key is turned too hard—everybody breaks. It throws the whole grid out of whack. That’s me right now.
Legacy pinched the malicious, struggling Flywheel in her hands and gripped his tiny key, cranking it until it resisted, until Flywheel seemed to be screaming, and then cranking it more.
The dragonfly shattered apart, leaving Legacy holding nothing but that tiny key, and all the gears and springs and even each individual wing went scattering across the floor.
She dropped the key with a hollow little tinkle.
There was the sound of a crunch from the Cipher-Scope, and the door creaked open.
“I . . .” Dax coughed.
“Where is your mask?” Legacy demanded.
“I don’t . . . remember,” he replied.
“Oh my god!” Legacy lunged for him, rifling through his pockets, frisking down his pants, desperate to find the mask. There was no way he would’ve left it. No way he would’ve left it . . .
“Been a while since . . . you had your hands on me . . . like this,” he joked.
“Got it!” Legacy cried, her own hands shaking now as she strapped the device around his mouth. It’d been tucked into his boot.
“We have to go . . . now,” Dax told her, his eyes seeming to loop as he spoke. He’d been on the verge of losing consciousness. Still, he grabbed her hand with his own icy one, tugging her toward the flight of stairs.
“You can’t run in your condition!” Legacy told him.
“If I don’t run . . . the guards will . . . kill me,” he replied, his eyes always so pale when he needed something.
So they ran. They ran on foot across the drawbridge, lost in a herd of other guests fleeing in the same manner, terrified of their chauffeurs and all the gates still open. The town of Icarus waited beyond, unknowing, a safe place for a brief respite, and though Dax collapsed in Heroes Park, he was close enough for Legacy to run ahead to the Chance for Choice headquarters, pound down on the plaque, and yell for help. The unconscious boy was dragged into the copper mountain, and a workbench was swept clean for him. Rain rushed to his side, Legacy staring ahead in her bizarre silk shift and broken handcuffs, utterly numb and invisible.
The blood-drenched castle stood behind them in a hushed shock, the stilled automata painted red and splayed out in pieces, twitching among the living wounded. Duke Lovelace hobbled into the west wing in search of a communication device by which to contact Celestine, and saw there a young blonde girl, screaming like a banshee, running down the hall in a tattered nightgown, barefoot and bloodied. “Are you all right?” he called to her. “Stop! Don’t go down there! It’s—It’s terrible!”
He grabbed at her as she passed, thinking he could help, but she shrieked as if his very touch was painful to her. It likely was. She was badly cut, the most noticeable of these a gash which ran the length of her right cheek, where the flesh hung sickeningly. She hardly seemed to notice. She must have been in shock.
“No!” she wailed. “You’re not supposed to see me! I need Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” she cried, rushing past him, out onto the rotunda. “Mama! Kaizen! Something is wrong with them! Something is wrong with all of them! Master Addler! Master Addler!”
The coronation would have to wait. There was too much blood to be cleaned now. Master Addler would be repairing automata for weeks. But the pomp and symbolism of a ceremony were of little import. The people of Icarus needed a leader, and Malthus Taliko was dead. Bludgeoned to death by Valkenhayn-2.
Was Kaizen ready to lead in his dead father’s stead?
He sat on the red throne, in his torn regalia, and stared out across the enormity of the room. The dead and wounded had been removed, though still, errant gears and springs littered the floor. Shards of porcelain were scattered on every surface. Still, blood was soaked into the carpet and lashed across the walls.
He hadn’t touched the crown. Hadn’t touched the scepter.
But he sat on the throne and turned a sliver of bone-white porcelain over and over in his hand, staring out across this vast dukedom. His ruined inheritance.
Chance for Choice had done this.
Blinded every sentry.
Slain indiscriminately.
The bodies that had been removed . . . It wasn’t just the body of his father. There were bodies of common folk, whom Chance for Choice claimed to represent. There were the bodies of people who did not even hail from this city. The bodies of women. The bodies of children. The carnage had been enough to make him sick.
It was the kind of thing that could change a man forever.
He himself had almost been killed. His footman had lunged to strike, and the earl—the duke—had ducked, thus shattering the automaton’s hand. Leaving jagged, broken glass where his knuckles had been. Then the thing had advanced on him again, and driven his fist directly into Kaizen’s chest. He’d kicked free, fled, hidden, certain of his death, the wails of others rising like a macabre symphony all around him. His mother, beside him, had swung her scepter with an animalism he’d never seen, taking her maid bot’s head clean off.
Later, the royal doctor had seen to Kaizen, and to the shell-shocked Olympia and Sophie. Kaizen had received his stitches with grim, glazed eyes. But he had not received the trauma counseling. He would not be traumatized. He would not be . . . weak.
Not now.
Not again.
His father’s words still repeated in his head like a nightmare he couldn’t shake upon waking.
Is that what you want to show Icarus? What a soft, scared leader you will be when I am gone?
He’d been cowering behind a tufted chair when the automata had all mysteriously spasmed and died, vomiting sparks and coils. It was only for a matter of timing that he was alive now. He had fought with no particular valiance. Deserved none of this.
When Kaizen was well enough, he’d gone to the prison tower for her. Legacy. His weakness.
Can’t you see that this is what that little harlot wants? You! Blinded! Her puppet! Playing perfectly into the CC’s hand!
Had he?
His fist clenched at the memory. How played he’d felt. Just as tiny and stupid as his father had ever made him feel.
Her prison cell had been open. She’d been gone. Not wounded, nor dead, but lost just the same. Back to the city with her comrades? Had it all been part of some greater plan? Had that been why she would kiss him, and then pull away, and then kiss him again? Had she been following orders rather than her heart?
Kaizen’s blood pattered onto the velvet armrest of the throne and his fist relaxed, numbly dropping the porcelain shard.
But then, she had warned him. She had begged him to call off the ceremony.
And her eyes in that moment, so limpid and true, and the kiss . . . the kiss they’d shared just before he walked out the door.
It couldn’t have all been an act . . . could it?
One of the throne room doors creaked open and clattered from its hinges. The other had already been torn off in all the terror of his coronation.
Auxiliary defence, lent by the Constable, Wesley, or donated from the aerial docks and Taliko Center, approached with their dazzler muskets at the ready, and a slender, pink-haired man between them. Although he did not wear a top hat or spats, there was a nonetheless tailored quality to his tunic and trousers.
“What is this?” Kaizen asked dully.
“We thought you might want to hear this,” one of the men announced. “This is Leopold Comstock. Alias Neon Trimpot.”
Kaizen wished he still held that porcelain shard. He’d drive it in the man’s heart. His jaw clenched and his eyes caught flame.
“Yes?” he prompted.
“I know you don’t know this,” Trimpot began uncertainly. He didn’t seem to be the inflammatory, charismatic rebel leader of whom Kaizen had heard, but then, nothing was as it seemed anymore, was it? “But your father—may he rest in peace—your father and I had struck a deal.”
Kaizen wished he could impress upon Trimpot how little he cared. That the only reason he continued to even breathe was due to involuntary function.
“And?” he prompted again.
“And . . . and I . . . I didn’t approve of this move,” Trimpot went on. “It was another of them. One of mine, but not mine. In short, I’ve lost control of them, and I . . . I wish . . . I will give them to you. If you can honor the deal your father made.”
Kaizen grimaced. The day had been too long for all this. Was it really only twenty-four hours ago that he’d bathed a beautiful girl? That his greatest concern had been on principle?
“What deal?” he grumbled.
“A position on your cabinet.” Trimpot flourished the statement with a bow, of all things. “I could advise you. I could advise you against the insurgents, even. They’d have no hope of victory.”
Kaizen glared at the pink-haired dandy.
“Give them to me,” he countered dryly, “and I’ll consider it.”
It was late into the night when Legacy returned to Heroes Park in some regular clothes. She hadn’t left the headquarters until her wrists were cut free, and she’d seen Dax come to on Vector’s workbench.
She still hadn’t seen Vector.
When she returned home, her parents clutched their daughter in that abandon of total relief as soon as she opened the door. They didn’t ask where she’d been. They didn’t ask why she was dressed the way she was. They were just ecstatic that she was alive at all.
CIN-3
had been going wild with reports. They weren’t sure what was real and what was sensationalism anymore.
“It was real,” she’d answered numbly. “It was all real.”
She’d gone to take her shower. It would be too selfish for her to miss the hot bath, so she didn’t allow it. She’d changed into some comfortable clothing. A pair of pants, a shirt. It would be too selfish for her to miss the silk shift, so she didn’t allow it. She’d shoved some old, disintegrating boots onto her feet, and hoped no one asked where her other shoes had gone. They were in a crate of some foul-smelling patties on Old Earth. That was where.
She’d laid in bed, trying to sleep—unable to sleep—when she’d heard her father ask her mother if she’d seen the ocular bot’s eye.
Shit.
She’d had it. She’d left it at headquarters.
So, after her parents drifted off to sleep, and she waited again for the snore and the whine, she slid fully dressed from beneath her sheets and crept down the four flights of stairs, crept through the industrial territory—why was everything so very, very quiet?—and crept through the brass forest.
Dax and Rain came pounding around a corner, gesturing for her to run in the opposite direction.
“Go!” Dax hissed, waving his hands. “Run!”
“What happened?” Legacy whispered as they advanced.
Rain grabbed her hands and wrenched her in the opposite direction, forcing her to keep pace. “They got headquarters!” she answered. “They got everything!”
The trio moved as one through the empty lots of the industrial territory, leaping between the dumpsters, over abandoned carriages, like loosed animals, back toward home—except, could they even go home?
“Somebody must’ve turned us in!” Legacy told them.
“No other way they could’ve known!” Rain agreed. “Not about the Ferraday plaque!”
“What about Liam?” Dax suggested.
Legacy glared, though it was a fair question. “I don’t know!” she said. “I didn’t think he saw, and even if he did—I mean—Vector said no one would ever connect those dots, especially from a distance! I don’t know!”
They reached the domestic district and hesitated, unsure of which complex to approach, if they even should.
“Up the stairs!” Dax commanded, gesturing to their own complex. “Come on, up to Unit #7!”
The three thundered onto Unit #1’s porch, first Dax, then Rain, then Legacy, and Widow Coldermolly’s metallic pooch filled the air.
Rrrah! Rrrah!
Like clockwork, the gray shutters on the tiny window swept open, and the hunchbacked Widow Coldermolly glared.
“Exa. Get in here,” she rasped. “Hurry.”
Legacy blinked, but she couldn’t deny the convenience of the suggestion. The widow stood, shuffled to the door, and opened it for her. Legacy dove inside.
“I’ve got a basement,” Widow Coldermolly told her. She winked, oddly. “There’s the trapdoor, there. Go on and open it up. Don’t think even the landlord remembers anymore. Get on in there. I’ll tell you when the coast is clear.”
Legacy wanted to ask her why she was helping someone who may have been responsible for hundreds of deaths earlier today, but she couldn’t jinx her luck. If the Widow Coldermolly wanted to help, damnit, the Widow Coldermolly wanted to help, and Legacy wrenched the trap door open, choked on the dust, and huddled on an inky stairwell.
Moments later, the police rumbled past, and the Widow Coldermolly’s dog was triggered again.
Legacy sat in the dark for almost an hour before the trap door swung open again.
“Exa,” the old woman called. “Come on out. They’re gone.”
Legacy obeyed. “Thank you,” she whispered to the widow.
The widow tapped her temple and winked once more. “My hearing is better than anyone knows,” she whispered back. “Go on and go. Get out of here. But I wouldn’t go home again. Not tonight. Not for a while.”
Legacy crept out of Unit #1 and scoured the lot for any sign of Rain or Dax.
Dax waved from the roof. The top of a blue head cropped up next to him. The brown-haired boy shimmied down onto his porch, gesturing for Rain to follow, and she swung down, dangling. Dax braced her hips and caught her.
They crept down the stairwell and rejoined Legacy in the parking lot. For a moment, they walked aimlessly in total silence. Away from the complex.
Why was everything so very, very quiet?
Finally, Rain said it. “Where are we going to go now?”
They cast their eyes around the dome. It suddenly seemed so very small, and Dax took Legacy’s hand.
“Beyond Icarus,” she replied.
***
Down below, Coal 106 stood by her window. She stared out across the bleak landscape of city ruins and shadowed bog. To her, though, it didn’t look so bleak at all. For some reason, to her, this landscape held a provocative mystery like never before.
What
was
that floating land in the sky?
~~~
NEXT: Legacy Betrayed