“BLOODYDAMN.” I CURSE AND draw my hand back from the rosebushes. A small drop of blood beads where the thorn pricked me. I suck the blood away and stretch myself deeper into the bushes, feet spread wide so I don’t lose my balance in the low gravity as I scoop up the fox shit with my trowel. Body still hasn’t wised up to its own weight here. I reach the scat this time, taking a clump of dirt with it, and finally dump the waste into the blue plastic container Dr. Liago gave me for sample collection. Sophocles has been mad as a box of snakes since we arrived on Luna last week, trying his best to kill the lovely pachelbel birds that fill the trees of the Citadel’s gardens.
He was well mannered on the return trip from Mars when I was introduced to him by Kavax and told my duties by Bethalia, the terrifying old general of the army of Telemanus servants. Sophocles spent most of his days trotting around the ship with Liam and me, following along dutifully behind Kavax, or curled up in his master’s chambers, but now he catches one whiff of the pink birds and he’s nearly pulling my arm out of its socket to claw furrows in the trunks of trees.
Dr. Liago, the Telemanuses’ personal physician for fox and human alike, can’t figure out what’s wrong with the beast. Which leaves me picking up fox shit samples three times a day. Tedious, but compared with the muggy hell of Camp 121, it’s not a shabby life. I’m paid a good wage, fed three square, given four spare uniforms, and sleep in a climate-controlled bunk room. There’s no mosquitoes, and no fear when I walk the grounds late at night in the dark cycle. I go out most nights to look at the stars and watch ships come and go on the Citadel of Light’s landing pads atop the Palatine Hill to the northwest. The last time I can remember feeling this safe was nestled between my da and mum watching my brother Aengus dance with the lasses at Laureltide as Dagan glowered to himself.
Kavax has been just as kind to Liam as to me. He put Liam in the Citadel school with the children of the other employees who live on the grounds. They board near the north wall in dormitories set in a small forest of cypress. Even though the school is within the Citadel walls, it’s still twenty klicks north of the Telemanus estate, so I only manage to catch the tram to see him three times a week. I stop in at nighttime before they put the children to bed. Each time I have to leave, he clings to me, not wanting me to go. Breaks my heart every time. He says the other kids are kind. But he’s one of the only Reds there.
“Righto, you little beast, time’s up. Back inside,” I say, turning back from the bush. “Sophocles?” He’s gone. I search the sycamores and the elder shrubs. He slipped his leash again and ran off somewhere toward Lake Augustine. There’s no sign of him. “Dammit.” If he kills more pachelbel, I’ll be in for it with Bethalia.
I walk the gravel path that winds through the Esqualine Gardens in search of him. The gardens sprawl around the base of the Esqualine Hills, where the manicured stone estates of old Gold families sit inside the Citadel walls. They are now filled with the Sovereign’s most powerful supporters—chiefly Houses Arcos and Telemanus.
Little ponds and streams are nestled at the bases of the hills, amongst tranquil copses of rosebushes. It looks like a storybook painting of the Vale. But this garden has some deep shadows and the men and women who walk here are empire breakers.
It is early autumn now in Hyperion, a season far kinder than the grueling summers of Boetian Plains. Something of it reminds me of the tunnels of Lagalos, how dew would bead on the outside of the metal doors all throughout our township in the early mornings. You’d love it, Tiran. The way the fog catches on the walls and cloaks the Palatine spires. Just like one of your storybooks.
No. Don’t go there. Don’t think of them. I bite the inside of my cheek till I taste blood to draw me out of the quicksand of memory.
It’s morning. The small datapad on the underside of my wrist reads 7:32 A.M. Earth Standard on the sixteenth day of the bright month of October. Sixty degrees Fahrenheit and cloudy with afternoon showers. The datapad is unlike anything I had in the mines, let alone the camp. Sometimes I lay in bed staring at the slowly turning hologram of Mars before drifting off to sleep, guiltily wondering if I should miss it. I don’t. If anything, I miss Lagalos.
My body still has not welcomed the low gravity here; I feel more trapped on this moon than I did on the three-week journey from Mars. I felt it the moment I stepped off the shuttle that took us down from orbit and missed that first step down from the ramp. The lethargic gravity is at odds with the manic pace of the ships in the blue sky overhead, the constant flow of important people on important tasks. But the worst is the protocol and judgment from the other valets.
I thought Kavax would forget about me as soon as I boarded his ship; instead, he took a liking to me, hell knows why. He had me sup with him every breakfast, first teaching me the intricacies of Sophocles’s dietary and care requirements. But those lessons were forgotten when he gave me a book of lullabies that Sophocles requires sung to him before bedtime. I had to confess that I could not read more than half the words. He stared at me as if I had thirteen heads.
“That will not do,” he roared. “Not at all! Stories are the wealth of humanity! My wife would not forgive me if I denied you the key to that wealth.”
He took to giving me lessons after every breakfast in his stateroom. But they were abandoned after Xana burst into the room in a panic. I learned later that she had just heard news of the Reaper’s demotion at the hands of the Senate, his murder of the captain of the Wardens, and his disappearance from Luna.
Heavy shit.
The news has turned the moon into a madhouse. Protests clogged the boulevards on the day we returned. A crowd of hundreds of thousands flowing like a tide of Cimmerian ants, calling for the Reaper’s arrest, the Sovereign’s impeachment. But they were met violently by a mass of the Reaper’s worshippers. The Watchmen had to disperse the clashing mobs with heat beams and gas.
Does me good to know I’m not the only one who’s lost faith in the Sovereign.
“Sophocles!” I call out again, following a narrow track of gravel past the base of another estate. “Sophocles, where are you?” I feel watched. He’s playing games again. I crouch low and move off the path in between two sycamores to search the bank of the lake. A black swan stares at the shore. There! Jutting out from behind a tree trunk is a bushy red tail, swaying in the breeze.
I creep forward, minding the twigs under my new shoes. Quietly, carefully. The tail moves with excitement. I burst around the tree, and Sophocles pounces on me in a flurry of red fur. Laughing, I let his weight take me to the ground, where he licks my ears till I have to wrestle him off. His cold nose pokes at the side of my neck. I reattach his collar.
Then I hear a strange pop through the trees. I walk toward the sound. In a small clearing, I find a concrete block of a Gray warden speaking with a slender Copper with a familiar face. Though I crouch barely twenty meters away, I can’t hear either man. It’s almost like magic. The Gray shoves a finger into the Copper’s chest as if scolding him. The Copper looks away, my direction.
I dart back into the trees, hauling on Sophocles’s leash. Whatever was happening wasn’t my business. I pull Sophocles along the path back to the Telemanus estate. At the side door, I’m moving so fast I run straight into someone and almost fall down. I look up into narrow, cold eyes. A woman with a face like tree bark stares down at me. She’s Gray and built thicker than any man in Lagalos. I’ve seen her twice before, always quiet and in the shadows of things. The servants say she’s a Howler, and before that, a Son of Ares. Her eyes turn to me as if she could sense me watching. A chill goes down my spine at standing so close to a bloody Gray. I feel like I’m back in the mine as I mumble apologies. She steps past me and continues down the hill.
Feeling twice as small as I did before, I pull on Sophocles’s leash and make for the estate.
I find Liago curled over his botany desk like a long length of old ivy. He’s an old Yellow, maybe seventy? People age slower outside the mines. They use crèmes on their faces. Injections. Laser therapy. Makes some of them look positively deranged. In the mines, you wear your age proudly. You got white hair? Bloodydamn fine for you. Must be quick on your feet. Proud thing, that.
Liago seems to agree very much with my people. His face wrinklier than my father’s knuckles. All crags and fissures and little patches of scaggleweed facial hair. The top of his long-jawed head is crested by great plumes of white hair. Nimble hands prod the base of a slim, violently orange flower. He doesn’t hear the howling of the kettle on his small electric stove.
“Dr. Liago?”
“Lyria!” He wheels around. An odd piece of tech secured by a clear plastic strap around his head covers his right eye, magnifying the pupil hilariously. “By Jove on high, you scared me half to death, sneaking around like that.”
“I’m not sneaking. You’re just deaf as a rock.”
“What what?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “You people are so light on your feet.” He looks me up and down. “But not for long. You’re looking pudgier by the day!” His voice takes on an annoying conspiratorial tone. “Found the key to the cupboards, did we?”
“The valets say you’re mad as a sack of cats,” I say very quietly. “And your head is jealous of your ears because they stole all its hair.”
“What what?”
“I asked if you want me to pour your tea?” I ask sweetly.
“My tea?” His eyes widen. “Yes. I was meaning to get that. Like it extra hot, you know! And pour one for yourself too. It’s my favorite green tea from Xantha Dorsa. Martian, like us. You like tea, yes?”
“I’ve had tea with you four times.”
“Really? Of course you have. It was a test.” He stares at me shrewdly, though I’d wager a good pair of boots that he’s thinking about what sort of jam he’ll have on his midmorning toast.
“Can’t today,” I say. “Bethalia would lash me. Got extra duties.”
“Nonsense. She runs you ragged. Spare a moment with me.” He winks. “She’s got a soft spot for old Liago. I can get away with murder.”
If anything, it’s the other way around. Liago dotes on the old Pink like a lovesick drillboy, sending her flowers he designs personally for her. That would have done the trick on you, Ava. Personal flowers. I let Sophocles off the leash to sniff around the floor and I bring Liago his cup of tea, glancing at my reflection in the shining silver surface of one of his medical machines. My cheeks do look a bit plumper. Not a bad look, that.
“What’s that?” I ask, gesturing to the flower Liago’s bent over. Its stem is pale white and slender. A deep violet stains its buds, which are shaped like human dancers.
He looks lovingly down at the flower. “This? Oh, my dear. This is my pride and joy. Thirteen years it’s taken me to perfect the supple grace of her genetic code. And a lifetime of research. Which is why my greenhouse back in Zephyria is littered with infant renditions. It’s the echo of a woman I once knew.”
I tilt my head and draw close to the plant. “It’s lovely.”
“It’s poisonous,” he says. He smiles when I don’t recoil. “I designed it to sense kinetic reverberations in the air. Reach out…touch it gently.”
“How poisonous? Enough to make me sick up? Or will I get a rash?”
“A rash? Ha! Death, this one courts.” Now I flinch. “Don’t you trust old Liago?”
“No farther than I could throw you.”
“What what?”
“You first, Doc.”
With a lone finger, he touches the stem very carefully. Its pale, fleshy skin ripples indigo and a deep purple. The plant arcs into his hand, like a cat being scratched. Sophocles watches from the floor, cocking his head. “It invites gentleness,” Liago says. “But if you rush your hand upon it…” He takes a length of unsliced cucumber from the remains of his breakfast and hits the plant. Small spines erupt from the feet of the dancer buds and the cucumber begins to shrivel and blacken, filling the room with a rotting stench. Sophocles backs away.
“Cellular death!” he announces.
I laugh in genuine delight. “Wicked. What do you call it?”
“Nyxacallis.”
I sigh. “Is that Latin?”
“It means Night Lily.” He’s lost in thought. I’d ask him who the woman was if I didn’t recognize the pain on his face. Maybe that’s why I’m so fond of the old bat. He’s the only one in the Telemanus estate who wears his pain in his eyes. Rest are all playing games.
“So you brought me another sample?” he asks after a moment. “Let’s see.” He opens the plastic container and takes a deep, satisfied whiff of the scat before slipping out of the greenhouse to a small silver machine in his lab. I follow behind. After a sample has been inserted, numbers and symbols flow from a small holoprojector in the machine into the air.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Those?” He’s confused. “Of course, curious cat. How would you know? Those are chemical notations. That is skatole, hydrogen sulfide, mercaptan, and that…that is carbon. That is in every living thing that is, was, and will be. It’s in me. It’s in you. It’s in the Night Lily.” He watches me grasp the idea. “You know what I like about you, Lyria?”
I glower, knowing it’s with pity that he looks at me. The same pity that fills the eyes of the other servants, and has driven me to isolation. They pity my manners, my poor haircut, and pity that my family was butchered. Here, surrounded by so many people, I’ve never felt more alone. More alien.
“Not really,” I mutter.
“What do you mean ‘not really’?” he says, aghast. “What kind of way is that to think about yourself?”
“I mean, no one’s talked to me like you have, except Lord Kavax, and some of the dockers. Everyone else talks slag behind my back, but they’re too scared to lay it out plain eye to eye, because they’ve never been in a tumble.”
Liago clucks his tongue, thinking he’s not like them, but in a way he is. I’ve seen how he watches me when I leave, when I enter. Like I’m going to explode into tears at any moment.
“Those little uppity pups.” He wags a finger at me over his tea. “You’re proper Martian. I’ve been too long here on this moon. Ten years, only a little back and forth. Everyone’s uppity. Putting on airs. I bet that’s what Lord Kavax sees in you. A breath of home. It’s what I like about you as well. So don’t you worry if the others don’t like you right away. It’s their own insecurity at the wretched creatures they’ve become….”
He puts a hand on my shoulder, like I need fatherly advice. “With all you’ve been through, the last thing you need to worry about is being popular.” I recoil. He can shove his advice right up his drill exhaust. But before I can tell him that, Sophocles darts out from under the table, snarling horribly. I almost piss myself. He pounces up onto one of Liago’s tables, knocking over beakers and test tubes, sending them shattering to the floor as he springs up toward an open window where a small pachelbel sits. The bird titters and flies back out the window. Sophocles hits the wall and slides down. “Out!” Liago shouts, looking in horror at his broken supplies. “Get him out of here! And don’t bring him back till I find out what mangles his wits!”
Later that afternoon, I leave Sophocles with Kavax and collect more treats and shampoo from the huge warehouse that supplies most of the Citadel with food. I spare a few minutes to smoke burners with the Reds who work the forklifts and stocking rooms. All are Martian, since Houses Telemanus and Augustus hire exclusively from home. Security reasons. Most of the older men and women were with them before the Rising.
“Any chance they found out what’s what with Sophocles?” one of the Reds asks. “Heard he’s gone mental.”
“You would too if they cloned you twenty-odd times,” says an old woman named Garla, exhaling burner smoke.
“Cloned?” I ask.
“Aye,” Garla says. “No one told you? Only ever been one fox in House Telemanus. Sophocles is seven hundred years old. This just happens to be his twenty-first life. He’s like me. Fourteen generations in service to the fox.” Her bandy legs dangle off the edge of a box of coffee stamped with Mars import markings. She pulls a chain from around her neck. “Kangax, the father of our liege, gave this to my own da.” She tilts it to me. The other Reds roll their eyes. It’s a monster cast in gold. “One of those wild carved beasties, a griffin. Kangax put a price on the head of a wild griff that was terrorizing their Zephyrian lands, and me father, just a docker like me, went into the mountains and shot it dead with a longbarrel scorcher.” I reach to touch the griffin, but Garla pulls it back and stuffs it in her shirt.
“So he got the bounty?” I ask. I’m at ease with these people, with their bluntness and the dirt under their nails. Some of their accents are even spot on for Lagalos.
“Aye. Bought out his contract and lost it all in a year.”
One of the other Reds laughs. “Got all high and uppity. Forgot he was a ruster.”
“Shut your bloodydamn gob,” Garla snaps. “And don’t use that word round me, hear? Ruster.” She spits. “That’s a slave word.” Her voice lowers and she shrugs at me. “Da liked to gamble. But Kangax hired him right back. No bad feelings. He was a good man. And Kavax is a good one too.” The others nod along. “Even if we just lug boxes and clean up shit, it’s our job to protect him here in this bloodydamn viper nest of a moon. All of us. Remember that.”