“You like space travel.” It’s not a question.
“Yes.”
This is my room. These are my things. He’s acting as if he owns it all.
“That’s important.” Before I can ask why, he says, “Where do you sleep then?”
“Bed,” I call out a little more forcefully than I intend. A thin bed panel slides out from the wall just a few inches over the floor.
“So low to the ground?” He sits on the panel. The gel cushion forms to his body. “Interesting. This will do. Thank you.” He smiles simply.
“What do you mean?” I don’t understand.
Again, he cocks his head to the side. Everything he does seems so graceful and absent of guile. It’s as if I’m the one who isn’t following the rules, not him. It’s maddening.
“I mean this will do for my quarters,” he says.
“Your quarters?” Heat rises to my cheeks.
“Surely.” He stands and grabs one of the heavy metallic cases. He presses a thumb to the identifying lock on the luggage. One case snaps open. He pulls out strips of metal and begins assembling them.
“Where am I supposed to sleep?” I ask.
My eyes are glued to his task, fascinated by what he’s doing.
“I don’t know,” he answers calmly. “Maybe the guest room down the hall?”
He finishes assembling the instrument. He connects a taut string from the bottom to the top.
“What’s that?” I ask, my anger momentarily forgotten.
“A compound bow,” he says, stretching his arms while gripping the string, testing the tensile strength of the wire. “You’ve never seen a bow before?”
I shake my head.
“I suppose that’s normal for your kind.”
He pulls out a case holding thin metallic tubes with featherlike things attached to the ends. “Sonic arrows,” he says as he holds one up. “You shoot them. The sound blast of a well-placed arrow can bring down a whole regiment.”
He thumbs another case open, revealing a sword with an ornate handle. It’s sheathed in smooth black synthetic leather.
“A sword!” I exclaim. I’ve seen my father carry one in aquagraphics, but nothing like this, not up close.
“A siren sword,” he corrects. He whips the blade from its scabbard with a whisper. “Rapier and dagger,” he adds as he pulls out a smaller matching knife from the case. He practices against his shadow, moving the blade with lightning speed and precision. Thrusts, pivots, and graceful, flowing retreats. It’s like watching a ballet. “My father had it crafted for his first son, Augustus.”
“His first son?” I ask.
“It took armorers twenty years to make the long blade in the forges of Albion. Another five for the dagger.” He holds the long tapering blade out for me to admire. It’s ringed by an intricate silver handguard with an ivory handle. “I’m the heir of House Julii now, so my father gave it to me.”
“What happened to Augustus?” I ask.
There is a long silence, too long. I start to shift uncomfortably.
Suddenly the sword sings! It sounds like a woman, a siren. He twirls the blade. The sword calls out a melody. The dagger hums, too, in harmony.
“It’s singing!” I’m in awe.
Phaestion smiles mischievously. “The alloy’s a rare substance that reacts to the vibrations of the body. The metal vibrates at the same frequency I do. When it touches something or someone . . .” He looks around. “Throw me your pillow.”
I grab the pillow from the bed and toss it in the air. Phaestion thrusts; the pillow explodes. I’m hurled back by the concussive blast. I shake my head and open my eyes. Burned pillow foam lies scattered all over the floor.
“Sorry.” Phaestion shrugs. “I’m still learning the fine tuning.”
“That was outstanding!” I’m giddy.
“Want to hold it?” he asks with a lopsided grin.
I nod. He slowly hands it over. My fingers wrap around the handle.
Fire runs through my body. I scream in pain as the sonic vibrations of the steel ignite my flesh, my bones. I drop the sword and collapse to the floor, teeth chattering.
Phaestion laughs.
“That wasn’t funny!” I yell. I turn to storm out of the room.
“Wait!” he yells. “Edmon, I’m sorry.”
I stop in my tracks. He seems sincere.
“It takes years to master the vibrations. I couldn’t hold it the first time, either,” he admits.
“But you knew it would shock me!” I say.
“I thought. I didn’t know. People have different affinities. Each sword is tuned differently. The siren steel comes from special meteor ore. Not everyone can use it. These happen to be my signature.”
“Your signature?” I’m still fuming.
“The thing I’m known for—my combat specialty. Your father was known for the spear. Did you know that?”
I shrug. I guess that’s why the Leontes guards always carry those silver pikes.
He puts the swords away. He pulls out a shining silver disk from a case and slides it over one arm. He quickly assembles metallic tubes into a long, fierce-looking spear. He thrusts deftly, demonstrating, before he places the spear and shield in the corner.
“I’ve seen all of Edric’s fights. Even the death matches from the Under Circuit. I like the spear and shield, but not as much as the swords.” He nods. “Spider-weave body armor and polyceramic shields will make ballistics obsolete against our armies in the next war. It will be a new age of individual skill on the battlefield, glory returned to modern fighting.”
“What war?” I ask. “Tao doesn’t have armies. No one threatens us. What do we need armies for?”
He smiles. “You know Chilleus and his foster brother Cuillan used spears and shields mainly. Of course, they were in Anjin mech suits.”
“The characters from The Chironiad?” I ask.
“Our ancestors were expert with them,” he goes on. “That’s where you get your name, right? Leontes? The Anjin pilot who held off a thousand invading ships against Miral with just his squadron of mechs?”
I don’t really know. I shrug.
He looks at me suspiciously for a beat, as if it’s impossible that this is something I don’t care about. “I need some sleep.”
“It’s just after the midday rest,” I say, confused.
He flashes another placating smile. “It’s going to be a long day tomorrow. I need to conserve energy. You should, too.”
He disrobes. I look away. It’s not like I haven’t seen nakedness before—it’s hot on Bone. We have to wear light, loose clothing—but he does it right in front of me, so casually.
The red-haired boy’s skin is smooth and pale without a mark on it. He’s lean and muscular, even at this age. It makes his frame look angular, designed. He stands as confident as if he were armored for battle.
This is what a boy is supposed to look like, I can’t help but think. Not like me, gangly and uncoordinated.
“Where do you keep your clothes?” he asks.
“My clothes?” I repeat.
“I’m not going to walk around in my Julii uniform. If I’m to rule here someday, I need to live as you do,” he says simply.
What does he mean, rule here?
“Dresser,” I say.