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My days of running and hiding behind others are finished.
I will no longer fear my name.
“My name is Lysander au Lune,” I bellow into the cold room.
I did not know what weight my name still had, but the seismic tremors that now shake the room bring chills to my flesh and deep, powerful pride. Hate my grandmother all they like, the blood in my veins came from Silenius the Lightbringer—greatest of our kind. It is the myth of my ancestors these people wrap themselves in. The first Raa elected Silenius Sovereign. They bowed to him, as did all Raa thereafter until this generation. Seraphina almost drops her razor. Her jaw hangs open. Dido curses under her breath and leans back in her seat, unable to comprehend it. Diomedes stands, a look of childish awe on his grave face.
Cassius watches in silence, his heart breaking in his chest.
“I am the blood of Silenius the Lightbringer, son of Anastasia, son of Brutus, grandson of Lorn au Arcos the Stoneside, and Octavia the Sovereign of Man. I was born upon the Palatine, west of Hyperion, at the heart of Luna and the City of Light. I may know little of the Rim, but even in the heart of empire, they spoke of the honor of House Raa. Of the Moon Lords, chief among them the Ionian Golds. Where has it gone? Has it deserted you? Has it fled after the tremors of war? You may have lost it, forgotten it, but I have not forgotten mine. And my honor will not let me sit idly as this travesty unfolds.” I feel Cassius’s agony, but I cannot look at him.
“Your bloodfeud is sated by any measure. The Bellona have been wiped from the face of the worlds. Do not fall prey to the very cannibalism that allowed the Rising to flourish. This man, this Gold, is not your enemy. I am not your enemy. The Slave King is.” I turn in a cold fury to Dido. “Bring me the safe.”
WE PULL OUT OF THE RAIN onto the fiftieth floor of an abandoned building on the outskirts of a reconstruction zone. I turn off the music and look out through the windshield. Lights glare down from the level above. Exposed electrical lines and ventilation tubes snake through the building. In his chrome suit and a black high-collared duster, Gorgo waits in a grand old dilapidated green armchair beside an industrial lift, smoking burners. Purple smoke slithers in a halo around his gigantic head.
“Never thought I’d be happy to see him,” I say to Volga, but I don’t get out of the car.
“Will they honor the contract?” Volga asks. I check the account. Twenty-five million sits in the balance, put there when the operators confirmed we had the prize. We get the rest on delivery.
“Don’t know.”
“You told the others they would.”
“No shit. What else would I say?”
I look back into the passenger compartment. The prizes are twitching under the plastic tarp. The anacene is wearing off. Hyperion is about to be thrown off its axis. The Syndicate is making a play. Can’t even begin to guess what they want. But I wish I could see Lionheart’s face when she finds out. She pardoned Gold rapists, slavers, murderers. Now comes the bill for stabbing the rest of us in the back. And she’ll find, as the rest of us have, that she can be touched by this war as well.
I should feel driven by righteousness, but instead I feel dirty sitting here with my human cargo. A man has to have a code. When did mine begin to include kidnapping children?
“They can’t very well break their own rules,” I say, trying to convince myself.
“Are they broken if no one knows?” Volga asks.
“When did you become a philosopher?”
“I am wise. You are smart. This has always been our way.” She sets a comforting hand on my shoulder.
“You stay here, wise one. I can carry them myself.” I get out of the car. Volga follows. I look at her and she looks back willfully. “All right, together then.”
“Yes, together.”
We haul the prizes out of the car. I lean in and lift the bag off Lyria’s head, positioning myself so that Gorgo can’t see her hidden in the back. “Remember, rabbit. Silence is golden.” I set the bag back and leave her in the car. I let Volga carry both the prizes over her shoulders to Gorgo. He stands as we approach, eclipsing me by more than a foot and a hundred kilos. His black shark eyes drift back and forth between us and the prizes.
“Right on schedule. The Duke awaits.” He puts out his burner and motions for us to stop. “No weapons.” I put my pistol on the chair and Volga sets her plasma rifle down. Gorgo pats my arms, torso, balls, and legs with his huge hands.
“You enjoying that?” I ask.
Wordless, he slides the stiletto out of my boot and takes four more knives out of Volga’s jacket. “Really?” I ask her. She shrugs. Gorgo finds two more knives in her boots and an acid shooter strapped to her calf. He stacks these with our other weapons and seems amused by the collection. “Little crow likes toys. Would you like to be one of mine?” She ignores his predatory smile.
With the children in tow, we take a lonely lift up to the fifty-second floor, where the Duke waits for us amongst a host of Syndicate thorns. They stand in the shadows of the half-constructed highrise, light from their burners catching on jewelry, platinum smiles, and chromejob eye implants. At the far side of the floor, a sleek luxury yacht rests outside on one of the highrise landing pads.
The Duke applauds as we approach. “A debt was owed. A debt is paid!” He wears a jet-black asp skin jacket with long, calf-length tails. His lipstick is violet tonight and he sits behind a plastic table with a steaming pile of half-eaten crab claws and two bottles of wine.
“Punctual. Well dressed. And devastatingly handsome. My dear Ephraim. You are a treasure.” He eyes Volga. “You brought a bodyguard this time. How precocious of you.”
“She’s luggage detail.”
The three Obsidian men behind him stare at Volga. All are ice Obsidian, probably ex-legion, and wear dusters and their bright white hair long and unbound. The biggest is a head taller than Volga and has emerald piercings in his chin. He grinds the haft of a chrome pulseAxe into the concrete floor.
