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Dancer was right. Tempers have escalated.
On the Via Appenia, a human river of Vox march south toward Hero Center, united now with Lunese who fear war returning to their moon. Optimate supporters and my husband’s zealots march west along the Via Triumphia. Riot police, energy barriers, and mechanized units descend to keep the peace.
Yet the demagogues keep pouring the fuel.
ArchImperator Zan stokes fear to swell the supporters of the Vox’s radical wing. She pounds her pulpit, as enthusiastically as a frigid Blue can stirring up a frenzy of Lunese patriotism, claiming Atalantia will come to Luna and not a ship will be left to protect the moon. Vox Blackchains—lowColor civilian shock troops wearing chained necklaces—terrorize highColor neighborhoods, beat Silver businessmen, break windows, and intimidate local magistrates into begging senators to vote for Luna. Worried midColors flock to Dancer’s moderation. He soothes them, his message carrying hope and notions of sacrifice. It is easy for them to feel noble. It isn’t the children of Luna who die on Mercury.
Despite Publius the Incorruptible’s public support for my cause, we have lost the Silvers and the vote is descending into madness. Back home on Mars, Reds burn effigies of Dancer, and march with slingBlades. The same crowds that sing the Forbidden Song wave lion icons and chant, “Lionheart! Reaper!” ArchGovernor Rollo gives a rousing screed that ends with “Treason might float on Luna, but not on Mars. Any senator that votes to kill the Free Legions and the Reaper of Mars better enjoy that bloodsucking moon, for if they come back, I’ll pull their bloodydamn feet!”
Thunderous applause.
To make matters worse, it looks as though the Obsidians will vote against me. Sefi is playing too many games for her own good. Does she not know that every step she has taken since she departed Luna has been part of my design? I thought her wiser than that.
Amidst all this, a ray of light. Theodora has proven herself worthy of the second chance I gave her after she resorted to torturing Lyria of Lagalos against my orders.
We unload on the roof of the blacksite before the shuttles can set down. Leading the Lionguard ops team, Holiday jumps out like a kuon hound, her flinty eyes roving the shadows for signs of danger, her ambi-rifle packed with all sorts of Sun Industries mayhem. I land in gravBoots with a heavy clomp, tuck my white box under my arm, and head toward a door stamped with radiation warnings.
The blacksite is quiet. The lights dim. Behind two high-security doors, several of Theodora’s Splinter operatives, deadly Pink assassins in next season’s Hyperion couture, lounge incongruously atop mass-produced furniture, smoking burners with a famous Violet soprano of the Hyperion Opera. The soprano bursts to his feet upon my entrance. He’s still wearing the costume of a Renaissance courtier: a rapier, a fur-trimmed night cloak, and a carnival mask that dangles from a string around his neck. I applaud as he sweeps up from his low bow.
“My Sovereign.”
“Bravo, Basillicus. I heard your performance tonight was one for the ages. Both the aria and the fourth-act seduction. Would that I had seen it all.”
“We all play our small part.” His voice rings clear and thin. “And what a stage you gave us, my liege. Perhaps you will attend the Orphia again soon, when the days are less dire. Lucreto does so miss your patronage. Of our great benefactors, we see not even the Master Carver these days.”
In fact, no one has seen Mickey for a month. I have my theories. Daxo’s are hilarious.
“Perhaps,” I say to the Splinter. “We all would be better for seeing beauty more often. Your service tonight will not be forgotten.”
“Hail Reaper,” he replies softly, pulling a small slingBlade necklace from beneath his cravat. He kisses the blade as though it were sacred. “We pray to the Vale and the Old Man who stands astride the Path that he and the Lost Legions will be delivered. We also pray for you.”
“Save your prayers to gods and spirits, Basillicus. Humans made this mess. Humans will fix it.”
The interrogation r
oom is a soundproof white cube in the center of a dilapidated propaganda factory, the windows of which have been welded over. In the gloom, water slithers down hunched old machines to feed fungus growing on piles of plastic Ajas and toy Vanguards.
Two of Theodora’s Green psychotechs sit in front of the interrogation cube’s transparent data wall illuminated with neurological data from the prisoner inside.
“Theodora,” I call as we cross the room. “You beautiful carnivorous flower. I’d kiss you, but it would fluster Nakamura. You’re worth ten legions, you gem.” My spymaster wears a long black citycloak. Her white hair is coiled atop her delicate head like a nesting albino snake. Eyes cold and lovely as rhodolite garnet sweep over us.
“Only two legions actually, but that was when I was sixteen.” The smile of the shorter woman is slow and minor. A musk barely perceptible to even my senses lingers in the air. I feel a little nauseous. Hardly a coincidence.
“Do they know he’s missing?” I ask.
“He snuck away for his deprivations. We probably have several hours before they know. But they may have taken precautions.”
“And the leak?”
“Dripping.”
“Nakamura, what are you doing?” I call.
She’s crept closer to the interrogation cube. Theodora steps in her path and puts a delicate hand on her breastplate. “Easy, girl.” Holiday pushes her to the side in her eagerness to draw even closer to the Duke of Hands, stopping only when Theodora breaks smelling salts under her nose. Holiday blinks out of her reverie and looks down to see her safety is off on her rifle. She clicks it back on.
“Sorry. I…what was that?”
“Pheromonal defense mechanisms,” Theodora says.
