Precision, Kit.
“And the second virus isn’t about power?” I clip the words, space them out.
“Oh no,” says Mom. “It is all about power, but not all power is energy.” There it is, the assurance again, the self-righteous traces. She’s elegant and sleek and full of the power she describes.
Just like the Prime.
He said he knew why she destroyed the Archive, that her real project was never about destroying the grid.
And Mom had said something, in one of the dreams. Not destroying, but “rewriting.”
The Archive controls information, the repository of the House complete with histories on everyone—us, the lordlings, even bloodlings—our heritage, our line.
Mrs. Divs said something about my line, that I looked like it and Dad sullied it.
Mrs. Divs was an Accountant, like Mom.
“Who are you?” I ask, but that isn’t right. “Who were you, before your planet fell? Who were you on Casendellyn?”
Mom fazes out, dotted lines remerging into a new position. She sits on her heels, back straight, hands in her lap. “I am Millisant Evantell Runellen, granddaughter of the High Lord Amanant Fenshia Runellen, ruler of Casendellyn—oldest of the Independents. Our line predates the Galton and Westlet, rivaled only by the House of Fane. You are Kreslyn Amanant Runellen, Heir to the Casendellyn court.” She hesitates, smile slipping in and out. “I haven’t said that aloud since the gutting. Oen was my mother’s middle name.”
Oh . . . shit.
Have you ever seen the future, Kit? Mom had said in that dream. Have you ever had a moment where, without any evidence whatsoever, you just knew?
And I do.
“You’re turning me into a bloodling,” I say. “You destroyed the Archive to get rid of any physical DNA backups, because it’s the only place in the House where they keep it, and you’re using the second virus to rewrite the digital bloodling files. You’re turning me into the next Heir.”
Mom closes her eyes and exhales a sigh so deep her body nearly collapses with it. “That’s my girl.”
It’s perfect, simple. Galton gutted her planet, but Casendellyn was only one planet. Galton has one hundred and nine. How then to return the favor?
Why, annihilate their data structure and hijack the Lordship.
Mom, years ago, at the kitchen table. The Accounting. I’ve cracked it.
Her digital image blurs out and a space scene takes her place. A three-dimensional planet, twined in clouds and black slender flight stations. The same fuel extraction vid the Brinkers showed me.
“This is, was, home,” Mom voices over, as the stations start to spin. “Galton invaded when I was seven. Most of our population was on-planet when the extraction began. For thirty years, Galton has powered its cities with our blood. No longer. They will be held to Account.”
My chest is a void, the narrow hall a hell of ghosts and history. I can’t watch, can’t look.
“Was I—” I stop. Precision. “Was making me a bloodling always part of the plan?”
“No.” Mom reappears and leans forward, elbows on knees. “That idea came with Lord Galton’s death.” She hesitates. “No, it came to me the moment you marched into my office, demanding treatment for Ricky’s mother. You looked so much like my grandfather—the determination, the power. The willingness to accept any consequence. You were meant to rule, Kit. You understand cost.”
“No,” I say, or maybe mouth since she doesn’t stop.
“But it wasn’t until after Yonni’s death, when you kept your bargain and didn’t blow my cover or make more demands, that I knew you could be trusted. And it wasn’t until the Lord’s death that I saw the way to make it happen—bring the story full circle. I’ve never believed in fate, but this?” She reaches out, hand brushing my cheek as if she knows where I am. “This has me converted. You were always meant to rule, Kit.” Her fingers drop to the heart at her neck. “I left an override script in the blackout virus. You can stop it now or let it run as you so choose. Rebuild your House from a dark wasteland, or reclaim the grids before the virus completes and there’s no getting them back. Not ideal, I know, but you’re a bloodling now. When you say rise, the House stands as one.”
“No.” I jump up and away from her, back slamming into the cockpit door. “You can’t—no. Stop. End transmission.” I kick the air-freshener sticks over, grab Yonni’s heart from her neck. “I won’t be your devastation, I won’t be you.”
She pops out like a bubble, taking the light with her.
I’m alone in the dark.
I reinstate the lights and pace the flightwing’s tiny hall. Up, down, up, down, my head shaking until my brain rattles like a ball.
The data structure blown, grids House-wide forever busted, me the Heir to make up for it—how is this a legacy? How is this something I’d want?
I stop and slam my fist into the wall. It hurts, so I do it again.