Introduction

(I told you before that Brahz and the gang at NewLiberty have nothing to do with the tale yet to come. I believe I told you that twice, Lee, but it was a lie. I made it one when I tried to do justice, starting on NewBern. But justice isn’t easy, is it? No, it’s complicated and grim. And it never, ever ends.

Here in darkness, your sepulchral whisper grows louder, bitter and resigned. You always knew what we were,you say. The smuggler was never more than our shadow.

No! I cry out. But each time denial rings weaker. For now we’ve moved past happy times and into the dark. To the early days of my godlike reign, when I held raw power at my fingertip and had not learned its price.

The Faege’s word for “god” means “sacrifice.”

After killing Nate, I half wanted to be sacrificed--if only to escape you.

When I recall those first months now—the invasion of NewBern, our suddenly eager allies, what happened with Mureen and Sam—oh, Sam--it is as if the memories already belong to someone else.

Perhaps they do. Before I killed Nate, I saw the madness of infinite memory in his eyes. I see the same reflection now, in the glimmer of this primeval pool. His. Yours. Mine.

Last night I dreamed of you again, my loves. Whatever we’ve become… whatever we were or will be, know this: I love you. I miss you.

Still.)

Ledassa’s Interrogation: One Year Ago, Isle of Glos, Earth

Kaygaz’s fabled doomsday vault was even larger than I had expected: salt-lined and damp, with glistening white walls that extended a parade-length above our heads to an open, circular patch of sky. That opening we’d descended from was now fuzzed by a reactivated energy shield whose frequencies made my teeth buzz with misaligned resonance.

I clutched Nate’s sweaty hand for balance as much as reassurance. After the cold ice above, this underground cave felt sweltering. I reached for kamn to cool the air—and then reconsidered. Perhaps the ordnance stored here needed to be kept at this precise temperature. For if it exploded, it could take out half the system.

Compared to the epic space of the chamber, the Tears were tiny things, invisible to the kamn, each about the circumference of a kicking ball. Nine unremarkable beige orbs arranged on pillars, as if in a museum. Six empty pillars.

Each column’s gray plinth was stamped with a rune from the Amercy’c alphabet. Aleph, Braun, Chiaroscuro, Delta, Franz, Greg, Hanover, Ishtar--

“Where are the other six?” Nate’s suspicious voice interrupted my inner tally.

Kaygaz chuckled. “We don’t know. Kick and Edat were lost. Orion is held by the Ninety-Fourth. You will help us retrieve it, yes?”

“Please, Ledassa?” His son, Oeri, gave me a pleading expression that could get blood from a stone—or candy from an adolescent Ken’ri, as the boy had learned quite quickly. “Say you’ll help?”

“I’m not sure—” I began, but my companion cut me off.

“What is it exactly that you want?” Nate slipped his arm around my waist. It still felt new, him doing that so easily.

“Impress some villagers with your stone magic. Speak to the Mothers…” Our mentor shrugged. “I’ll offer the same payment as before. More training modules. Wouldn’t the two of you like to learn about quantum biomechanics? The physics of a dying star?” He made the arcane words sound like precious jewels, forbidden treats that my greedy, sixteen-year-old fingers longed for.

“Of course!” I offered, before Nate could refuse, or worse, say he’d have to ask permission.

“We should tell our Elders that you have the Tears,” Nate said finally, carefully. “But you know that, ser.”

“Do I?” Kaygaz had a handsome face, much younger than he was. The ten tally marks on his cheeks and his scarred bare arm marked him as one of the oldest retired pilots in the universe. That summer of our sixteenth year he’d told us by firelight how the Fifteen Tears were made to be weapons to stop Earth’s invasion of Centauri. After, they were divided among the Associations: a promise of mutually assured destruction, should any conflict get out of hand.

The Great Man smiled at me. “I could tell the Elders what you’ve learned about solar orbits and Lord Hawking’s theories of quantum relations—”

“Stop! He’s joking, Nate.” My laugh was embarrassing, high and too thin.

Nate scowled. “We should tell.” he said, looking at me. “You know that.”

“Do you think you’re too old to be culled by your masters, Natoth? Too valuable?” Kaygaz’s tone had abruptly lost its mirth. “I’ve seen those Glos hermits waste greater talent than yours for opening the wrong oldbook.”

“When was this?” My boyfriend—still so new, calling him that—asked.

“Will you tell us that story?” I added.

I’d meant only to lighten the mood, but the Great Man nodded. “Perhaps it’s time I shared more with you about your masters.” he said. “Don’t you think so, Oeri?”

The boy laughed. “I think it’s time for your breakfast!”

“What?” We were in a vault hundreds of meters below the ground. “What are you talking about?”

His childish voice rang in my ears. “It’s time for breakfast! Did you hear me?”

No, I thought. That’s not right--

“Helllooo?” The childish voice much louder now. And for some reason, in a Lunar accent. “It’s time! HURRY UP PLEASE, IT’S TIME.”

No, Oeri wouldn’t say that. A poem—sometimes my mind jumbles things. Memories before Petal aren’t always clear--

“HURRY UP.” Now shouting. “IT’S TIME! TIME FOR YOUR BREAKFAST! HURRY UP! THEY ONLY GIVE ME FIVE MINUTES TO MAKE YOU EAT--”

My eyes snapped open. The smell of salt was gone, but the underground damp remained. I found myself staring at the double-edged stitching of the bed’s quilt, and beyond it, the granite bars of my prison cell. The quilt was handmade. The Elders concocted all sorts of meaningless tasks for their students, although some Ken’ri even took up stichery even after their apprenticeships, as a hobby. I had never cared for it—I had never cared for any trivial distractions save reading, and that, I would argue had its own merit—

“BREAKFAST!” A boy’s voice, still shouting. “LADY PILOT? I’VE GOT YOUR BREAKFAST RIGHT HERE!”

My cell door was open and a tray hovered at eye-level, above my quilt. On it, a piece of bread, folded, with some filling inside. My stomach rumbled, grounding me in my alien body. I looked up into curious eyes.

A strange child was truly here: now standing in front of me, round-cheeked, shaven-headed.

“Oh. Thank you,” I managed, straightening my sleeping robes. My too-straight hair had tangled oddly in clumps and I caught a glimpse of my alien face in the mirror bolted on the wall.

I’d tried to count the number of children Glos had started sending with my meals in the beginning, but a part of me didn’t want to know how much time had passed. Glos’s virtual moat kept Petal and me separate from news from the outside, and my captors had fashioned a routine as unyielding as the stones of our sulfurous isle. Usually, (I assumed at dawn—from a windowless cell, I had no way to check), I awoke to the sound of boots tapping along the corridor. Each day, a different servitor. Those children ranged in size from cherubic first-years to ones nearly grown.

They had no idea who I was, of course, and I knew better than to tell. This was a test, and not just for them.

“What’s your name?” the round-faced boy asked. He was the first one bold enough to ask my name. I was sure they weren’t supposed to inquire.

“Ysabet.” I could be Ysabet, and the boy was smaller than I imagined my own son, and limping in his stone boots; perhaps a blister or injury from training. I smiled automatically. “Thank you for breakfast. What is your name?”

“Jayme. Ken’ri Jayme.” He pronounced the title as if it was still new. He shifted in his stone boots. When he stepped to the side, those boots clattered as if he hadn’t yet mastered them. I winced as his toes landed flat.

Your boots are as much an extension of self as your gir, we had been taught.

He was too old to be so clumsy. I didn’t like his odds.

“Why are you down here?” he asked.

Curious, too. That was worse.

“They haven’t said.” They didn’t need to. Where else could the Pilot Guild put the memories of Glos’s most beloved heretic, but here among the stones?

“Never had anyone down here who ate before.” He scuffed at the floor, frowning. “We’re not supposed to talk to you.”

“I won’t tell.” I tried another smile, and asked him the date. I should be angrier, I thought, when he told me three months had passed since my death. I remembered feeling anger like a white-hot core. But this body felt too mortal for it, its senses dull and small as its stature. Seated, I felt barely larger than the child.

It had been three months since my brother had killed me. Father would be in arrangements for our funeral, no doubt...