Marked (18 page)

AFTER THE BATTLE, I CAN'T SLEEP.

It's four a.m. The war room's packed and everyone's going full tilt. Like me, they're too on edge to slow down. There will be no catching our breath. Not tonight. Maybe not ever again.

I slip next to Hank, who's leaning over the surface of the command table, which is now littered with flex screens and auxiliary parts.

“It's over, Phee,” he says to me, without looking up. “Back home, Prime Minister Prejean has already made the announcement.”

“What announcement?”

“Queen Napoor is finally abdicating the throne. And of course, Benroyal—Castra's ‘humble servant of the people'
and ‘loyal diplomat'—negotiated the whole accord. Dak is to become king, and Bisera is to be annexed and occupied.”

“No,” I snap. “She can't just hand everything over. She wouldn't.”

Hank sighs. “I'm sure she has no choice. For her, I figure the deal's the same old bargain: Cash's life for her kingdom.”

“Then we'll stop him, with Cyan's help. They're not just going to stand around while he—”

“The enemy's already offered a cease-fire. They're asking for a cooling-off period, then formal negotiations with Cyan.”

“That makes no sense,” I answer. “Benroyal started this. He's the one who—”

“These attacks,” Hank answers. “They were nothing. This was a test. To draw out the Cyanese and see where they stand. And it worked. Benroyal has everything he needs now, and all it cost him was two quick strikes.”

“So he knows where they stand. They stand with us. So it seems to me, if anything, he just bought himself a whole heap of trouble by messing with Cyan.”

Hank rubs his forehead, then casts me a sidelong look. Like he's not sure if I'm naive or just plain crazy. “You think Cyan'll stay in the Strand and back us forever? With Larken, our strongest ally, laid out and unconscious?”

“Well, they aren't just going to lie down and roll over, are they? Benroyal struck first, Hank. He hit them on their own holy ground.”

“That's my point, Phee. Benroyal just sent a message: The rules have changed.
There are no rules anymore. There is no holy ground.
And you'd better believe that Cyan got that message. There's already chatter coming in from Raupang. Even among the officers here, there's talk of Cyan getting out while they still can.”

“But what about—”

“What about nothing,” Hank interrupts. “Cyan's gotten a real taste of war, and no one's eager to finish the meal. They know if they don't come to terms, that next time, Benroyal will send ten times the force. And without Larken to convince the Skal otherwise, all those seven-foot soldiers . . . they'll just go back home and write off the rest of us. No one wants another Thirty Years' War.”

I manage one frustrated sigh before Hank cuts me off again. “If we don't pull off some kind of miracle, it's all over for Cash. And not just for him. For Bisera and for Castra too.”

“Never. It's not over. We can still fight.”

“Who's going to fight?” he barks. “I'm telling you, Cyan
will
sign a treaty with Castra, and then—”

“Cash's people won't stand for this either.”

“They will, if an entire IP army rolls in to crack down and make them.”

I shake my head, but Hank keeps dropping the hammer. “Prince Dak's already planning the celebration. A jubilee coronation. He's to take his father's throne, on the anniversary of the old king's death. In three weeks, the annexation will be signed. Then Benroyal won't need any trade agreements to secure his hold on the Gap. Once he's got his own puppet king, even the Cyanese won't be able to stop him from sweeping in and taking everything else. Castra. Cyan. Bisera. Soon it will all belong to him.”

I stare at Hank and watch him fold in on himself. The defiant edge in his voice, the spark in his eyes—it's all hissing out like a crushed ember. His shoulders slump and he leans over the table. “Know what's worst of all, Phee?” he asks. “Everything all those rebels died for—it's all been for nothing.”

Mary, and so many more. I close my eyes and see their faces . . . their lives . . . this cannot be in vain.

“Hank,” I plead. “Don't give up. Please don't give up on us.”

He picks up a broken micro-server. Pulls out the guts and toys with it, like he can't even hear me. When I open my mouth to try again, he shrugs me off with one last, bitter sideways glance. “Better take a good look, Phee. Everyone who's left to fight—they're all sitting in this room.”

I leave the table and find a quieter corner to confirm everything Hank said. And it's all there on the Castran feeds. On a small screen, I nose through a few of them. Not only are there press conferences with the prime minister and statements from Prince Dak, but something else, that leaves me twice as furious.

An interview with Benroyal.

The broadcast starts out harmless enough. Benroyal's lounging in a wicker chair in a garden. Not a fancy artificial one. A real, sprouts-at-his-feet, root-vegetable garden. There are dunes in the background, and King Charlie's not even wearing a jacket or tie. And I have never—not ever—seen him in anything but a sharply tailored, outrageously expensive-looking suit.

But now he's propped in the old chair with homespun sleeves rolled up, like he's a rusting produce farmer. Like anyone's going to buy that image.

But maybe all of Castra already has. After all, they all believe I'm a stone-cold killer.

The interviewer—a slim, focus-group-approved blonde—flies through the script of pre-approved questions. And he answers like the patient and loving father we all wish we had.

“In the past, journalists have focused primarily on your
corporate work,” the interviewer says. “Your stature on the Corporate Exchange. Your innovative labor policies. Over the past decade, your very own mark on so many winning circuit rigs. But I have to ask: Is this the work you're most proud of?”

He shakes his head. “Absolutely not, Lara. If you want to know the truth, that's never been my primary focus. It's funny. You mention the Corporate Exchange, and that's not really where my heart is at all.”

Like an award-winning actor, he glances at the camera, half bashful. “I'm most proud of—and more interested in—developing products and supporting initiatives that make the galaxy . . .
smaller.
”

“You mean, transportation or fuel technologies?”

“No, I mean my work in the peace-keeping industry. Our Interstellar Patrol . . . the way my company has been able to equip these men and women with life-saving armor and tools, and the speed with which we've been able to deploy these resources in areas of disaster and crisis. Nothing makes me prouder than watching one of our soldiers lift up an orphaned child or take down a terrorist threat. It's a dangerous universe out there, but with the work we're doing—diplomatically, and with honor—we're making it a better, more interconnected place. Not just for Castrans, but for all interstellar citizens.”

The feed cuts to a montage of Benroyal Corp's latest “good works.” A clean, well-lit lab where Biseran employees smile while quality checking refined fuel sap. A robotics factory where laser-eyed automatons test blast-proof IP exo-suits. In Capitoline, a fresh crop of Domestic Patrol recruits paint over south sider holo-graffiti. The would-be enforcers erase a crude caricature of Castra's most wanted, Phoenix Vanguard, the girl with a sneer on her lips and a gun in each hand. The real me and the imaginary one—both of us are spectators. Silent. Powerless against Benroyal's gleaming lies.

“It's an admirable dream, Mr. Benroyal,” Lara says as the feed cuts back.

Again, he glances at the camera. His smile oozes false humility. “It's more than a dream. At least if I have anything to say about it. A lasting peace. Finally, it's within our reach.”

I curse, my hands clawed at the edges of the screen. It's as if he's stolen Cash's vision and twisted it into some smiling, nightmare alternative.

“It's not hard to marvel at the prospect of annexation,” Lara replies. “Prime Minister Prejean calls it a ‘triumph of patient diplomacy,' and he hails this as, well . . . primarily, your personal achievement. Would you agree? Any regrets?”

“I can hardly take credit.” He waves her off. “The negotiations were straightforward, and Queen Napoor is a reasonable monarch who cares as deeply about peace as I do. As for regrets . . .” He stops to rub his jaw, as if it pains him to bring this up. “I would say my only regret is losing Phoenix Vanguard.”

My blood boils. At last, some truth.

Lara's pretty good at acting taken aback. “Vanguard? You mean you regret not bringing her to justice?”

“No,” he says. This time, the camera zooms in, and I can't stand the way he seems to search me out. “I regret not being able to save her.”

“Save her?”

He nods. “You have to remember, I discovered this young woman myself. She was an orphan—living in a terrible situation, mind you. And in a way . . . you see, Phoenix Vanguard was like a daughter to me. And I know if I'd taken more care and watched more closely, I would've realized much sooner . . . that she was unstable.”

“Unstable?” Lara repeats.

Benroyal nods again. “Yes. In this case, we're talking about a troubled young woman who became drawn to the worst sort—terrorists who recruited, brainwashed, and exploited her.” He touches his forehead. He seems so contrite. So very earnest. Then he looks back up. “This is a girl
who had so much potential, but in the end, her choices led her down a terrible, tragic path. Even now, when I think about it . . . it's heartbreaking.”

“Heartbreaking?” she asks, because apparently, she's incapable of doing anything but parroting back his answers.

“Yes,” he says sadly.

“That's a generous assessment, Mr. Benroyal,” Lara responds. “But I doubt very many in our audience would share your compassion. And of course, you've spoken with our own Prime Minister Prejean. Unlike you, he has no soft words for Vanguard.” Her eyes flick to the left, and I can't tell if she's scanning or avoiding an unseen prompter. “More than once, when asked about the skyrocketing bounty on her head, Prejean's answered, ‘better dead than alive . . .'”

When Benroyal pretends dismay, she adds, “You don't agree? Tell us. You'd rather see Phoenix Vanguard brought back home?”

He doesn't answer quickly enough, so she drones on. She's pressing a little too hard; it's almost as if she's going off script. “You mentioned instability. As in mental illness? Are you implying you'd like to see her cared for in a suitable facility?”

For one fleeting half second, his eyes flash cold, his gaze as unforgiving as an ice-water plunge. This one moment is the only thing real the audience is going to get. Quickly, he
sits back and folds his hands, a picture of humble serenity. “Oh no. I fear it's too late for that,” he says at last. “I'm afraid Phoenix Vanguard is a lost cause, and justice must prevail.
She will have to be dealt with.
”

SHAKEN, I VISIT THE INFIRMARY. I ASK TO VISIT'S LARKEN
'S
bedside, and Hal takes me to see him. Lying there, so pale and still, he looks like he's just been defrosted. As if at any moment, the color will rush back to his cheeks, and he'll wake up.

“Head trauma,” Hal says. “The swelling on the brain's going down, but he hasn't come around yet.”

“The anti-gel?” I ask. “It hasn't helped?”

“It has. But our supply's nearly gone. Vilette's flying more in for him, and bringing a team of specialists. They'll arrive soon to decide if he's to be moved to Raupang.”

“But he'll be okay?”

“We can hope,” Hal says.

I nod, even though hope isn't good enough right now.
You can whisper prayers into the current and beg the stars to look down in mercy, and sometimes, they'll give you a glimmer of it, maybe even a ray of luck. But when they don't, you have to get up off your exhaust and make your own spark. Fate be damned. I'm ready to light things up. Win or lose, I'm prepared to go down fighting.

I stand up. I look at Hal. “I have to go. I've got to take care of something.”

“What is it?”

“I need to set up a meeting,” I answer, but I'm already walking away. “I'll see you after dinner, at shift change.”

“What about our appointment?” he calls. “You still need to keeping working Mary's sim.”

“I know. I haven't forgotten,” I say over my shoulder. “Tonight, I promise I'll be there.”

Outside the infirmary, I look to the skies. It's like I'm dragged back in time, to the day Miyu first flew our way. Again, two vacs in the air, staggered in arrival. One cruising in from the west, and one from the east. The first, a larger medi-vac, is surely Vilette with her team of specialists from Raupang. But the second doesn't look Cyanese at all, more like a small bootlegger's bird, the kind of vac you'd see parked in a launch yard on the wrong side of Manjor.

A jolt of unease roils in my gut, but I strangle the instinct to bolt. I'm able to talk myself down, and that's progress, I guess. Or maybe my brain knows things have finally gotten so bad, they can't get any worse.

Without fanfare, the first vac lands, and sure enough, it's the doctors. Hal and his infirmary crew rush out to meet them. The second aircraft makes its final approach, and all of camp sits up and takes notice.

No sirens, but the on-duty rebels move in, alert and at attention. I can only guess why they let this bird land. Seems a miracle they didn't turn it back, or blow it out of the sky. The pilot must have some kind of high-level clearance. More soldiers trickle onto the yard, and we gather, cautious. We're all itching to know who'd dare cross the border now, in the wake of a cease-fire.

Captain Nandan and his aide—a wiry young lieutenant—march out of the tomb and onto the airstrip, ready to meet the ship. The bay doors of the vac open, and the lone passenger steps out.

It's James.

Nandan steps in his path, but my uncle strolls right past him. An “Apologies, Captain, would you excuse me a moment?” is all our commanding officer gets. Coolly, and oh so casually, James blows past the rest of his aides. It's a move not even I'd have the bolts to play.

The soldiers trail James as he reaches me. “Hello, Phee,” he says, like he's fully prepared for a mouthful of sass and a pair of crossed arms. And the girl who last saw him is ready to give it to him. But the one who's standing here now?

I tackle him in a lock-tight hug. “You're okay?”

He nods.

“Then what are you doing here?” I ask. “What happened to skulking in the underground lair?”

“You didn't expect me to skulk forever, did you? Not with this ‘new era of peace' rolling in. Naturally, in light of recent events, I thought it'd best to clear out, while I still could.” He glances around. “But if you ask me, it doesn't look so well here either.”

I don't tell him he doesn't look so great himself, what with his whiskery jaw and rumpled shirt. I should probably be worried about what that might mean, but the broken-down spitfire in me is relieved I'm not the only one completely undone. We're all on the same slippery edge. And if we're falling, we might as well tumble together.

“Yeah,” I answer. “We've seen better days.”

Captain Nandan interrupts our not-quite-happy reunion. At his nod, his aides take a step back.

“Welcome to base, Mr. Anderssen,” Nandan says, sounding slightly annoyed. I'm starting to think that's his default.
“We've prepared accommodations, at your request. I trust your flight was uneventful?”

I raise an eyebrow at James. “Hold on here. He knows you're coming, but you left me in the dark?”

He shrugs. “What can I say? Things were a bit . . . rushed.”

Nandan clears his throat, to catch my eye. “I'm sure you won't mind if we have a quick word with your uncle, inside headquarters.”

“Yes, of course.” James steps back, to let them lead him away for debriefing.

“Wait,” I say, catching his arm. “Did you come with good news? Did you get what I asked for?”

“That depends.” Weary, haggard, yet still sly, he winks. “How do you feel about zero-g space travel?”

The next morning, I check in with Moira in the war room, to confirm everything's ready on her end. She'll be linking up with us virtually, using an avatar on her screen. We have a plan. Now it's time to share it. I meet with James, who talks me through the scheme we'll have to run to rescue Cash. Then I gather everyone else. We'll need to recruit as many people as we can for the final gambit.

I haven't been able to find Bear all day, and now his absence leaves me feeling strangely untethered. Tonight,
more than anyone else's, I want to see his face in the crowd.

I flex him one last time.

PV: NEED YOU TONIGHT.

No answer.

“Everyone's here,” Hank says.

I look up. The room's too quiet, and as I scan it, I'm gutted by the looks on so many faces. The hopeful spark of rebellion's gone, and frozen in their expressions, I catch something worse than fear. Everyone here—they've already slid past panic. Now all that's left is resignation.

I'm nothing but sweat and sick knots pulled too tightly. Reluctantly, I begin. “I've asked you all here tonight because I still believe there's a chance that we can . . .” I trail off, paralyzed by the weary stares. “I know you've been through battle after battle, and you've fought so hard. I want you to know . . . you have a choice. No one's holding anyone hostage here. You're all free to stay or to go.”

I brace for a wave of resistance—sarcasm, indignation, anything—but it never comes. Another beat of stillness. Thank the stars, Fahra rescues me.

“Well, I am not leaving,” Fahra says, crossing his arms. Fierce as ever, he looks over us all, as if rooting out unbelievers. “I stand with you.”

“Hear, hear,” Zaide says quietly. She steps forward. I'm grateful for her courage. She nods, as if sending some my
way. Thankful, I accept and turn back to the crowd.

“If you decide to stay . . .” I take a deep breath. I dig deep, curling my toes in my boots. “I'm not here to peddle false hope. But I'd like to talk about what we can actually
do
to turn things around. Before it's too late.”

“Haven't you heard the news?” comes a voice from the back. It's Nandan's quartermaster, Belach. At his word, a whisper of life—the smallest murmur of uncertainty—moves through the room. “It's already too late.”

Fahra curses under his breath, and I can tell he'd like to share a few more choice words with Belach, but I shoot him a quick glance and a shake of the head.

Hal puts a hand on my shoulder, and I take the cue. I drop two hands on the table to nail down everyone's attention. I have to rekindle the fire. I have to. “Maybe he's right,” I say. “Maybe I'm wrong, and it
is
too late. Maybe all that's left to do is to watch while Benroyal snatches up the last bits of our worlds. There's probably still time. You could pack up and hitch a ride to Raupang.” Slowly, I turn to meet each pair of eyes. “You could do that. There's no shame in survival.”

No one answers. Instead, all around me, the pilots and cooks and medics and builders look to one another. In the quiet glances, I still catch uncertainty, but gradually, something else begins to bloom: a silent, steadfast promise, built
on the bonds forged right here, in the Strand. We are no longer just Castran, and Biseran, and Cyanese, looking out for our own. After all we've been through . . .

We are family. All of us.

Now, in this moment, so many faces wear the same pledge:
I will go where you go. You are my people. You're all I have left.

I meet their eyes. I say it out loud. “We are more than rebels. We are brothers and sisters—not by blood, but by choice. And if it's all the same to you, I'd rather fall at your side than live to see King Charlie take what's left. We have one last shot to rescue Cash and take down Benroyal. So if you're game for one more fight, stay and listen. Otherwise, you're free to go.”

My heart beats in my ears.

But no one makes a move, not even Belach. I'm shocked when he finally uncrosses his arms. Along with everyone else, he's cast his lot. We are in this together.

“All right then,” I say, straightening up. “Let's talk about the war we can actually win.”

That buys me more than a few blank looks, but I press on.

“Not the war over the Strand,” I say. “We need to win the battle for hearts and minds.”

Still, they are quiet. Willing to listen, but not yet
convinced. I squeeze out the waver in my voice. “Right now, Benroyal's beating us on every front. His propaganda's turned everyone on Castra against us. His lies have allowed him to occupy Bisera and burn down Manjor. Gave him the power to blow a hole right through the Strand. He burned your own fields and desecrated your most holy ground.”

On the opposite end of the table, a rebel leans forward. “And we answered him. In blood.”

At his words, the crowd comes to life.

“And we paid with blood too,” I answer calmly. “And the whole time, what about the rest of the planet? The rest of the galaxy? No one stepped up to support us. And they didn't because we're fighting the wrong way.”

The room's buzzing. I raise my voice. “We have a plan. An attack on all three fronts: Castra, Bisera, and Cyan.” I look at my uncle, who stands on the other end of the table. “James? Help me out here.”

He leans forward, splaying his hands on the table. “One of the ways the Sixers consolidate power is through the careful management of information. Benroyal owns every satellite and data compressor on Castra. From Mid-iron to Capitoline, official feeds keep the pipeline filled with pro-Sixer propaganda. Everyone else's transmissions are closely monitored, scrubbed and filtered. And that's where our allies come in. We've got an army of flex hackers, ready to help.”

On the screen, Moira's avatar nods. “The Fist's prepared to hack into every sky server, and we've aligned ourselves with the largest coalition of flex net hackers on both planets. Together, we're more than well equipped to hold off any Sixer interference for at least twenty-four hours. On the day of Dak's coronation, we'll send out a message.”

“What message?” Belach asks.

Moira smiles. “A nice little breakdown of Benroyal's dirty little secrets, to be transmitted on all feeds. We've made counter-propaganda, using all the best bits from his files. You name it, we've got it—financial records, illegal interrogation transcripts, black sap lab blueprints, dealer distribution routes, payout lists for bribed public officials. We've even got footage of IP soldiers executing sap miners in the Gap,” she says. “And all of it's perfectly packaged and ready for delivery in super-compressed unstoppable files, which will be pushed to every single networked screen, banner, wall, and flex device on the planet.”