“Mr. Horn. Ephraim, my people deserve a future without war. It cannot be done in my time, but in Volga’s it may be. I need her. My people need her—”
Her world is Freihild on a hook. Ozgard scheming and poisoning his way into halls of power. Valdir butchering women and dreaming of the war I ran from. Sefi was crueler from the start than Volga ever could be, and even she drowns in yellow death and deceit. Now we’re adding barbarian enemies from the Ink? Fuck that.
“This place would eat Volga like it’s eating you. That girl might have your blood, but I’m her people. She deserves more than dying for yours. If you want her as your heir, it’ll be over my dead fucking body.”
I FOLD THE NEWEST LETTER from Volga so that the light can catch the words. Written on a strip of her jumpsuit’s legging, it is her longest yet. The penmanship is poor and untidy. The letters awkwardly cramped together. I smile to think of the large woman hunched over a bit of nail trying to cram as much in as possible. Though my handwriting is better, I know fewer words than the thief, and puzzle over the longer ones. It’s a right shame Kavax and I never got very far in our lessons. Felt safe in that big man’s company, him stooped over my cramped writing, then leaning back with a smile to praise it.
I squint down at the letter.
You are lucky to have had a father, even if he was not so kind all the time. I wish I had a father to tell me ghost stories of Golback the Dark Creeper. It sounds like a legend I once heard in Hyperion from a deepspace trader. Long ago, after the Dark Revolt, the Obsidians who survived the great purge went beyond the moons and there they became less than men. In darkness, they learned to hunt other men. After hundreds of years, a king amongst them rose. They call him Volsung Fá, Volsung the Taker. Eater of men and ships. He is said to be out there now. Waiting for new ships to eat. They say he carries a chain of enemy skulls. It is a ridiculous story but very scary. Ha. Ha.
Your brother Dagan sounds much like Ephraim. Very mean because he fears loss. So he makes himself alone. I like Aengus better. Happy people make me happy. But there are so few of them. I hope they are safe on Mercury. If they are with the Reaper, they will likely come home heroes. It is good Aengus showed you how to explore the vents. All should explore. I do not know why they make you girls wear dresses, though. Maybe to make it hurt more to explore. Who knows. Maybe they made Red women weaker than Red men on purpose? Ephraim says Obsidian women are weaker but smarter than Obsidian men. I think we are smarter than all men. Ha. Ha.
Smiling, and finding myself unable to decipher only about twenty percent of the words, I flip the strip of cloth over.
Like you I did not see the sun until I was grown, when they sent me from Luna to Earth. My world was small too. There were many doctors. Want to know something ridiculous about me? My body is backwards. My liver to the left. My heart to the right. Not even close to center. I don’t know why they did that. Maybe just to see if they could.
I remember many needles, and they would watch us sleep, and sometimes hurt us if we did not obey. A dark woman would come and watch us play. She had a great skull ring and many beautiful dresses. And a necklace made of a snake. A snake! One day she gave me a toy ship. I would lie in my bed at night with that ship and dream of space. I thought one day, I would sail it and be a pirate like in the stories. Not a bad pirate. But not a good one. Good is boring. I would be dreadful but fair, and would only steal from bad people. They deserve it, you know? I would not have a bird like Orion xe Aquarii, but a gorilla. Have you ever seen a jadeback gorilla? My Jove, they are scary. Maybe when we leave here, we can be pirates together. You can have the sword, but only I get the gorilla. Ha. Ha.
Tell me about the Sovereign, if you do not mind. I have always wanted to meet her. Her soldiers were very frightening, but not cruel. That is the sign of a good ruler. Strength, but decency. Yes?
—Your friend, Volga.
And I will have Manchurian steak, rare, with corn and greens when we escape. Your fresh fruit is boring. Had too much on Earth. Berries are for Pixies.
She ends each letter the same. “Your friend.”
It seemed a quirk at first, but reads more desperately with each letter, as if she’s pleading for me to end my letters the same. I won’t. We ain’t friends. We’re both just desperate to not disappear without a trace. In the real world, she’s a killer. I’ve seen her in action, all kitted up with hardware. She was made in a laboratory anyway. What the Hades do Golds make in a laboratory with Obsidians except weapons?
Still…she did fail. They did drop her on Earth to haul freight.
There I go again, trying to make excuses for her. It’s damn hard not to.
She’s adorable, for a killing machine raised by a devious cur.
I carefully tear a strip of cloth from my jumpsuit. The sleeves are already gone, soon both legs will be too. I pick the scab on my finger and dab my nail into the wound. Then the light freezes in the middle of an indigo pattern. For the first time in months the music stops.
Light pours in from a hallway as the door opens.
I stare like an old bat. This cell is mine now. My territory.
Two terrifying Grays in heavy combat gear emblazoned with a screaming Julii sun enter. Fuck, they look scary. Both are modified with metal facial implants connected to sockets on their thick necks. One’s nose is as flat as my chest, and pitted with some weird pattern like he caught the bad end of a chemical attack or something. Sol Guards.
Maybe it’s not my cell after all.
Then a woman joins them.
If I weren’t hanging from the ceiling by my own legless, sleeveless jumpsuit, I’d probably rush her all manic and get my skull split by one of those Sols.
This woman once stuck a needle in my chest, but she doesn’t look like a devil.
If anything, she’s got the look of an old, tired owl. Brown, frizzy hair. Lean and small compared with the Grays. But athletic. She stands like a dancer. Her skin is bootleather, her eyes narrow and mean, and she has a nose you could shelter beneath in a downpour.
Yet there’s something off about her.
She seems like she’s in pain. Not emotional, pure and physical.
The woman tidies her expensive silk leisure suit as if she was some highborn Gold. Her only weapon is a slim silver pistol in a lowslung holster. “I see you have adapted,” she drawls. “But adaptability is never something Reds have been accused of being short of. Intelligence, on the other hand…”