“Ridiculous,” the pregnant woman says. I’ve just realized who she is. Victra au Barca. “Politics is such a bore without a little murder. Honestly, I don’t know how you people sit in the Senate listening to blowhard softbodies yammer on about universal welfare at a time of war. I’d cut my gorydamn ears off.”
“Dancer is going to take the Senate,” the woman at the window says. My heart skips a beat. I know the voice. Virginia the Lionheart turns around. My heart rushes under my sternum. Years of anger, resentment, now compromised by the subtle beauty of her, by the rolling power of her calm voice. The muted magnetism strikes me dumb, even as I realize she is barefoot. “He will take the Senate when we vote next week,” she repeats. “It’s not a matter of if. It’s only a matter of when. Caraval will fold. He’s just drawing this out to get a deal for his people.”
“And the Obsidians?” Niobe asks.
“Sefi will not meet with me.”
“What does that mean?” Victra asks.
“I don’t know. But we must assume it means we don’t have their votes; so Dancer will have the majority needed to ratify the peace accord. Seven blocs to six. Then I’ll veto it. No senator will sit across the negotiating table with that Bellona. It will pit the executive against the legislative….I’m afraid Darrow was right, this is a ploy by the Ash Lord to distract us. But Dancer will have to keep his flock of senators from straying, while I just have to mind myself. Who do you think will cave first? Me or a few senators?” They laugh. “His momentum will run upon the mountain and founder. Dancer is smart enough to know this. So the question that keeps me up at night is: where’s the twist? How will he break the impasse?”
Her eyes settle on me and I feel their massive weight, knowing I look like I’m eavesdropping. The others follow her gaze and suddenly all are staring at me. “Lyria…” Kavax says, rising. He brings me Sophocles, who claws as he’s handed over. “This little man needs to go piddly. Go on now, lass.” My cheeks are aflame. The most powerful people in the Republic staring down a ruster of Lagalos.
“Now can we please talk about who the hell stole my ship?” Quicksilver rumbles. I finally let out the breath I’d been holding. I grab Sophocles by the collar and rush out of the room. My blood is pumping so loud in my ears I can hear no more of the conversation. The door shuts behind me. Directed by the valet, I follow a trail of golden footprints that appear on the floor toward the garden and mull over what I heard.
Sophocles suddenly growls, his hackles rising as a small chrome globe no larger than my fists held together floats toward us in the center of the quiet hall. One of Quicksilver’s drone sentries. Sophocles snarls at it as it draws closer. The drone floats politely upward to wait for me to pass.
“Good day, Lyria of Lagalos,” it says.
“Good day,” I reply with a laugh. Sophocles sniffs the air, less impressed, and then squats and takes a piss right in the center of the floor. A light on the drone glows red through its silver carapace.
“Bad,” it says, and shoots a thin line of rancid liquid onto Sophocles. He yelps and darts down the hall. I’m pulled right along with him.
“Have a splendid day, citizen,” the drone says.
“Damn robot,” I curse as I catch up to Sophocles.
In the garden, I free the fox. He sniffs under bushes searching for the perfect spot. I sit down, still thinking of the Sovereign. I’ve seen her from afar, but never been seen by her. Under her gaze I felt she could hear all my evil thoughts. All my anger toward her and the Republic. She may have been larger than life on the HC. Brilliant, perfect. But never once did I think about her as flesh and bone.
She was tall, beautiful. But that’s not the impression she left on me. No, the Sovereign is tired. What would it be like, I begin to wonder, to be responsible for so many lives? Is that what you felt, Ava, when your children ran with you in the mud?
“Who are you?” a voice asks. I jump and look to see a boy in a tuxedo sitting on a rock amidst the garden’s trees. A holo plays in his irises. I recognize his strange eyes and his dusty gold hair, and for a moment I think I’m looking at the Reaper himself. But he’s a child, one I’ve only ever seen on the HC and from a distance. I look at the ground.
“Lyria, sir.”
“The foxwalker.” I’m surprised he knows me. “I’m Pax.”
“I know, sir.” It’s a false humility, introducing himself. He’s the most famous boy in the Solar System. The bloodydamn First Child. Head’s as bare of sigils as his father’s.
“Sir.” He wrinkles his nose. “Don’t start with that.” I bend awkwardly at the waist, forgetting I should bow even though he’s a boy. “Or that!”
“Sorry.”
“Can’t be helped, it seems. Were you lot watching the race?”
“The race?” I ask. He taps the corner of his eye. “No. I mean the others were. Don’t know slag about races.”
“Really? Well, time for an education, I think!”
“I really should just—”
“Oh, Uncle Kavax can stand a moment without the beast.” He smiles sincerely. “Please. It’d be nice to talk about anything but politics. Mother makes me sit in on those little councils of theirs. Had to listen to Senator Caraval for two hours yesterday. That man can bloodydamn talk.”
I flinch.
That is not his word.
He pats the bench beside him. I awkwardly join, fearing what Bethalia would say if she walked in, but I can’t very well say no. He switches the feed from his eye back to his datapad and then into the air. Ships suddenly fill the garden. The cherry racer is still out in front, darting between three star constellations suspended above the Hyperion cityscape. A pack of other ships follow in a tight line. “The Circada Maxima,” he says over the roar. “I begged Mother to let me go, but she said it would be bad form to miss Quick’s birthday. And a security risk.” He points at the cherry racer. “That’s Alexia xe Rex. Best pilot in the Solar System.”
“I thought Colloway xe Char was the best,” I say.
“The Warlock? Psh. You’re brainwashed already. Pity.” He examines me with a wide smile.
“I heard Char has one hundred and twenty-six kills.”
“If we’re counting kills as skill…sure, he’s good. Class to himself. But he’s a gunslinger. Rex is a ballerina. Both outliers. Both artists, but…here, here, watch this turn. Most’ll ease up on the accelerator so they don’t crash into the wall. But they lose speed. She’ll cut her rear engines, shunt power to her starboard thruster, and then pump the energy back to the rear, all without stalling or blacking out. Watch.”
I watch him.