“Who are they?” asks Mathias. “What do they want?”
“We don’t know their objective yet. The recruits are mostly teenagers. Unemployed Scorp dropouts. Child laborers from the Geminin mines. Impoverished slum dwellers from Phaetonis. Risers from every House.” Sirna touches her blue brooch and gets a faraway look, as if she’s listening to a private message.
A Riser is a person born into the wrong House. It’s a change that happens when a person’s exterior persona conflicts so strongly with their internal identity that they begin to develop the personality and physical traits of a different House. And it can happen at any age.
Most people handle it well and either choose to stay on their home planets and continue living their lives, or move to the House that reflects their rising persona. There are rare cases where the change doesn’t take well, and a Riser can have an unbalanced ratio of personality traits from their new and old Houses. Sometimes it deforms them. Sometimes it turns them into monsters.
“Are they being brainwashed?” I ask.
She drops her hand and looks me in the eye. “They’re being fed, clothed, and welcomed into a group for the first time in their lives. You might call that brainwashing.”
Amanta lifts off her heavy armored vest. “We count fewer than a hundred thousand troops so far, but new recruits arrive daily.”
“The expense to house and train them must be substantial,” says Mathias, his voice distant, like he’s lost in thought. “You don’t know who the backer is?”
After a moment, Sirna says, “We’re trying to track the money flow. No single individual could afford so much. We suspect a wider conspiracy.”
Egon finishes bandaging his son’s arm. He’s been quiet throughout the discussion, but now he asks, “Do you think some of the Houses might be in league, like the Trinary Axis of old?”
“That’s what we fear most,” whispers Sirna.
Everyone falls silent. No one wants to believe that could happen again.
Amanta drops her bulky gear belt on the floor. “Please keep this information to yourselves for now. We can’t expose our covert agents in the field.”
I nod and look away, wondering where Ophiuchus fits in. Could he be funding the army?
After a while, Egon switches on the wallscreen, and while they watch a newsfeed about the escalating Sagittarian conflict, Sirna steps into the kitchen alcove to put on a kettle for tea. I follow her in and lean against the cooler. “Why don’t you believe me?”
She spoons tea leaves into a cast-iron pot. “Since the crash of our moons caught everyone off-guard, my agents have searched day and night for reasons. Your classmate’s messages steered us to Ophiuchus. We’ve investigated your story.”
“And?”
“And nothing. That trail is dead.”
My fingers curl tightly. “You mean you can’t see him.”
“Guardian, use your head.” Sirna lays down her spoon and faces me. “The secret army on Phobos is our real concern. Whoever’s funding them almost certainly hired those snipers tonight. They’re your enemy, not some big bad from a children’s tale.”
I have to struggle to stand still. Her sarcasm, like Mathias’s doubt, makes me too furious to form sentences.
“Forgive me, Guardian,” she says, setting out a row of teacups. “Duty demands that I speak the truth to you. Duty can be a harsh master.”
“Keep looking for Ophiuchus then. That’s an order.”
“As you wish, Holy Mother.” She gives me a curt bow. “I’ll look again.”
I start to leave. Then, grudgingly, I turn back. “Thanks for helping us tonight.”
She pours the boiling water. “I live to serve Cancer.”
? ? ?
The safe house clock says it’s early morning in the Ariean capital, two hours before the Plenum convenes. Mathias and his dad have gone up to street level to check for snipers.
Now, for the first time in weeks, I find myself in the company of only women. After living for so long with a pair of testosterone-driven males, I’ve almost forgotten what a feminine atmosphere feels like. Ambassador Sirna and I aren’t exactly two pearls in a nar-clam, but on the surface at least, we’re calm.
Amanta hums softly as she polishes my much-abused boots, while Sirna clips off the ragged ends of my fingernails. I wish they wouldn’t, that they would let me take care of myself, but they insist on keeping every tradition alive, even in these times. I think that to them, letting go of the little things means we’ve given up the big ones.
Sirna seems slightly less hostile to me this morning. She believes some of the ambassadors plan to blindside me at the Plenum, and whatever she thinks of me personally, she won’t tolerate an affront to our House. “Charon of Scorpio is stirring things up, but he’s just the talking head. Someone else writes his script. We don’t know who.”