“Keep it out of my shot!” said Burr.
A couple of the Cumberlanders came between the Rider and the cameras, making the horse mince backward. But I had already seen the Rider’s face. Remembered in a flash the last moment I’d seen her. I’d been terrified then, too—it had been burned into me. It was the Rider who had come for Sidney, the white woman with the chickadee-cap black hair. Expertly reining in the shying, foaming horse, the Swan Rider lifted her head, and— And she was a different person. When she’d killed Sidney, she’d been so diffident—offensively diffident, as if she were the one with something to steel herself for. Now the soft blue eyes were as intense as an electric discharge. The neat hair was spiky with sweat. She flashed a grin, waggled her fingers at the assembled crowd.
“Hello,” she said. “My name is Talis.”
18
TALIS
Tick. Tock. Drop.
“Talis!” I screamed. Everyone was frozen, and the press—the press was on my hands now. It pushed and it didn’t hurt, but it pushed, and there was nowhere to go, no more margin, no more waiting. This was the part I couldn’t do.
“Stop the press,” said Talis. “Ha! I haven’t heard that in centuries. ‘Stop the presses!’ But do.” The smile was sharp-edged. “Or I’ll have your heads on pikes.”
But the Cumberlanders were frozen. Please please please, I was saying in my head, and Talis Talis Talis. But I could not speak. Tick, tock—the press dropped. Every lump in my wrist, every bony knuckle that couldn’t get flatter—got flatter.
Something went crack.
My panic gave me an impossible strength, and I pulled backward so hard that my shoulders—my shoulders—the pain was a pair of iron spears that shot through me, ripping open my shoulder joints and striking down my dead-straight arms and into my breaking hands. I still couldn’t speak, but I started screaming.
“Cut transmission,” said Armenteros.
Tick. Tock. No one obeyed her.
Tick. Tock. The press dropped. I cannot describe—
“Cut it,” snarled Armenteros. “Raise the damn thing. Get it off her. Make it stop.”
Tick.
Tock.
And no drop. The apple press shuddered, and the oak block began to rise.
“Better,” said Talis. She—or rather, he, for surely Talis was male, no matter what body he had taken—swung down from the panting horse and threw the reins to the nearest Cumberlander. “Here. Good horse. I’d save it if I were you.”
I knelt there with the press going up in front of me, my brain like a camera—seeing and recording, without understanding.
First I saw this: Talis came through the soldiers as if they were nothing. Talis, the great AI, the inventor of the Preceptures, the Butcher of Kandahar, Talis who ruled us and had saved us from ourselves, so long ago he was almost a legend. He was wearing layers of riding gear—jeans, a battered duster, a misbuttoned vest. He was skinny. He was young. “Gotta give you points for audacity, Wilma. But really—you thought I’d let you get away with this?”
Armenteros looked at him with skepticism and irritation. “Who are you?”
“Told you—Talis. Borrowed the wetware, of course. Hope it’s not a shock. Sometimes you need a personal touch.”
He laced his hands in front of him and pushed the palms out with a crackling of joints. The movement displayed his Swan Rider’s tattoo, a wing bent into a cuff that encircled his wrist. No one would fake that mark. No one would dare.
“No wings?” said Burr. “Oh, I wish there were wings.”
“They’re strap-on, honey,” Talis answered. “And I don’t need them. I’m not a Swan Rider. I’m the reason Swan Riders exist.”
Armenteros looked at the hands, at the face. Her tongue ran over her teeth. “Supposing I believe you. Why shouldn’t I shoot you in the head?”
Talis raised his eyebrows. “For starters, Rachel—this body is Rachel—probably wouldn’t appreciate it. But that’s by the by. The real reason is that I’m just a copy, so shooting me won’t get you much beyond the splatter. Also I left some pretty dramatic blow-up-the-whole-of-Cumberland programs running, and it would be such a pity if I didn’t get to shut them off.” He wiggled a hand through his hair, shaking out the dust. “I’m not an epoch-defining strategic thinker for nothing, you know.”
“No,” said Armenteros.
“And neither are you, in your meat-based way. So let’s talk.” He leaned in between Buckle and Armenteros and regarded the monitor screens, frowned, and pulled glasses from his pocket. He squinted through them, his nose crinkling. “I see you’ve got a clever little tight-pierce out through the snow here. Why don’t you check in with base, get up-to-date on any breaking news. That little sheep farm where your daughter lives, it’s in Harrison County, hmmmm? Near Cynthiana?”