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  I swallow against the bile that rises in my throat as the guards elbow each other and play a crude game to determine who will get the first shot at me.

  Or who will take my first punches.

  I flex my fists and crack my knuckles in anticipation.

  Please. Let me kill one of them.

  I wish it, but I know I won’t do it. I remember when these two were boys. The tall, skinny one, Fale, is three years younger than me and clung to his mother’s skirts for longer than seemed natural. Gart, the highest ranking guard, ripped him away from her less than a year ago and has since done his best to groom him in his own image. Fale still seems timid and soft to me, though he’s learned to put on a good show. The other one adopted Gart’s cruelty with greater success.

  These guards are barely worth my time. It’s Gart I’d like to thrust out the air-lock. The thought relaxes me, and I let my hands go limp at my side. I try a smile and find it doesn’t cost too much to give.

  I step forward.

  The guards—no, the boys—let their mouths hang open as they turn to face me. Fale gulps—his Adam’s apple bobbing as though his spit is stuck in his throat.

  “It’s okay,” I say. I know they hear me, but I wonder if they know what I mean. Even I’m not sure.

  They jostle each other as they push to the door and Fale presses his hand to the padlock. I can see the mechanism in the door turn and whir into action—I can see it with my eyes, but I can also see it in my mind. Can feel the steel grinding, detect the minute specs of metal that slough off each time the parts move against each other.

  The door is unlocked and it vanishes from sight, though I’m aware of the molecules clinging to the wall, waiting to be recalled to their position in the door’s programming.

  The bulkier one, nearly a man now—probably my age, I guess, judging by the even shadow of growth over his chin and the bulge of muscle beneath his uniform—shoves past Fale and takes two long steps until he stands directly in front of me.

  He grabs me by my hips and pulls me to him, his thumbs digging painfully into the soft spots near my pelvic bone. I can smell his lunch on his breath—the milk he drank curdling as it clings to his tongue and gums. My eyes search his, but they’re empty. Though this boy is handsome enough on the exterior, behind his eyes lurks nothing of value. He is all want and need and power and aggression.

  I close my eyes in a slow blink. I feel the moment he mistakes my action as acquiescence.

  His fingers grip harder. He presses me more firmly against him, letting one hand slide around to the small of my back. His heartbeat races and his breath becomes a pant on my cheek. I feel his blood pump hotter, smell the sweat that pops out on his skin.

  I concentrate on the sensation of wetness at my neck where he presses his lips—not in a kiss, more like a bite. Feel every one of his whiskers as they scrape against my skin.

  He pulls back, dragging his nose across my cheek.

  I open my eyes and he gasps when he meets my gaze.

  There is a moment, a breath, when he knows what is coming. When I know what I am about to do.

  My hands, which have stayed quiet at my sides, now grip his biceps so tightly he flinches. Then my knee is rising, my weakness from lack of nourishment long forgotten. It feels like an eternity—each move mapped out in my mind’s eye—but in reality it is over in less than five seconds. From the kiss to the impact of my knee to his groin, to his gasping, cringing fall to the floor.

  I look at Fale who still stands in the doorway, one hand grasping his crotch. His eyes flick from the crumpled pile at my feet to my eyes, which steadily, unflinchingly, watch him.

  “May I return to work?” I ask, my voice as sweet and innocent as I can muster.

  The young guard swallows against that handicap of a bulge in his throat and steps to the side. He nods, unable to speak in a steady voice, I wager.

  As I step over the fallen guard and walk past the one at the door, I smile. A sweet curve of my lips, a dip of the chin, eyes wide open. I feel the power I hold over these boys and thank the stars they were sent to release me and not Gart or his shadow, Simeon. They wouldn’t be fooled by pretty smiles or sweet words.

  “Thank you.” Holding my head high, not looking back, I walk down the corridor, past all the other secret cells. It doesn’t matter who is in there or what crime they may or may not have committed. There is no real escape here and life in the kitchen can often feel more like hell than solitary confinement. Still, the slap of my thin shoes against the metal floor grows into a sharp staccato as I hurry toward a different kind of prison and the only home I know.

  I wake with a start, my legs cramping from the involuntary clenching—my body’s response to the adrenaline coursing through it.

  Serantha . Her name hums like a homing beacon, a frequency to which all my programming is tuned. Nine years have passed since the Royal Fleet was attacked, the King and Queen murdered, and Serantha went into hiding—though to me, it seems as if it only happened last night. I am her Servant, created to Serve Sera until her death. Without her, there is no purpose for me. And yet, I live.

  That I remain, that I still breathe and dream, my body and mind continuing to function in harmony with my creation, proves to me that she lives. And I will not stop until I find her.

  With a sudden jerking movement I step out from my resting pod and into the corridor. Like an automaton, I walk down the hall toward my daily chores. Galen and his “Mind”—those Servants and upper-class androids he brainwashed into joining his mad plot—attempted to overwrite my programming. While they managed to add new menial drudgery to my mandate, they could do nothing to erase my primary directive. Daily, I collect data toward my singular goal—find Serantha, before it is too late.

  As is my custom, I access the ship’s data stream through an undetected back door. Alone, humans do not possess the capability to decrypt the data—and the Mind are too arrogant to imagine a traitor might be in their midst. Nine years of scanning the data has yielded nothing new or useful, but I am nothing if not determined and stripped of any other course of action, I hope one day I might discover something.

  While I stand on the transport walkway, my eyes glaze over and my vision turns inward—the monotonous view of resting pods and service stations pass without notice.

  “Look at Mr. Fancy-Pants, too good to do the work,” a hard voice says. I focus on the spray of cleansing air pouring forth from the nozzle in my right hand. The dish I had been cleaning hangs dangerously loose from my fingertips. I shake my head and scrub with extra diligence at the caked on food. The Mind do not depend on organic sustenance but it pleases them to demand it nonetheless.

  I finish the dish and move on to the next, my motions stiff and mechanical. I ignore the snickering that continues among my workmates. I am not one of them, nor will I ever be.

  I could never be. I am physically different from the droids created to work in menial labor. Their bodies are bulky and plain—because they were never meant to be seen nor to interact with higher droids or humans, no effort has been made to individualize their appearance. Each and every one looks exactly the same. Like a cigar-chewing butcher in the human histories. I allow myself a small smile at the image—at least no one can see me with my back to them.

  My smile turns to a worried frown as I work on the next dish. I need to ascertain just what the vision I witnessed last night might mean. It was intelligence from my symbiants, I’m sure. The moment I wiped Sera’s memory and shut off my connection to her, I had ceased receiving data from her symbiants. Until now. Whether something has changed in me or in Serantha to allow the data to be transmitted, I do not know.

  The symbiants were designed to relay information about their host to the Primary—in this case, from Serantha to me. As her guard, her tutor, her surrogate parent, such information was necessary in order to Serve her, to protect her, to anticipate her every need.

  But this . . . this vision, is disturbing. If it is a ploy by the Mind to
roust any information of Serantha’s whereabouts from me, I must not acknowledge it, nor act upon it. However if, by some miracle, her symbiants really are transmitting after all this time, I cannot risk inaction. My urgency to find her rages within me. Serantha is in danger, I am sure of it.

  The hairs on the back of my neck bristle a moment before I feel the cool breath of a droid standing too close behind me. Slowly, I set down the dish, and the cleansing air stops. A bubble of quiet encapsulates my corner of the kitchen—though I can hear the subdued sounds of others washing their dishes and attending to their duties, it seems to come from miles away. I place my arms carefully at my sides and wait.

  I do not have to wait long before the droid behind me clears his throat and whispers, “Will you do me the pleasure of looking into my eyes, old friend?”

  A million warning bells ring at once inside my mind. This is the voice of a traitor, indeed my one-time friend—Galen. I slowly turn to face him.

  “Hello Galen,” I say in a mild tone. I am certain my eyes convey nothing of my inner turmoil, only what I desire to reveal—sincere interest and curiosity. I have not seen Galen for just over seven years—when it was determined that no more information could be pried from my cold mind and I’d been “punished” and relegated to the kitchens.

  Before me, Galen stands in the affected pose of the privileged class. One hand sinks deep into the pocket of his tan, pleated trousers, while the other rests casually at his side. His hands are clean, soft, free from the evidence of hard labor. I carefully categorize the elegant dress, the ease of stance, the smooth, dripping quality of Galen’s voice. All of it screams Mind. Traitor. Yet I only smile.

  “It is good to see you again. I had feared you lost to one of the many skirmishes in the human rebellion.” My eyes never leave Galen’s, eager to discover the slightest weakness.

  “Is that so?” Galen replies. “It is a pity I had no reason to seek you out before now, then, so that I might have put your mind at ease.” He crooks his lips upward, but he does not bother to warm his eyes. I wonder what might drive the Mind to the dungeons of the ship to seek out such a one such as me. Unless . . .

  For the barest of moments, I let my resolve slip. My eyes flicker as my focus turns inward, temporarily lost in my fear and hope that Serantha has been found. Too late, I realize my error. Galen laughs. Not the loud, wet laughter of the kitchen droids, but the light, urbane sound of the royal compliment.

  “It is as I thought,” Galen says. He turns then, giving the barest of nods as he passes a pair of guard droids waiting by the door. I hadn’t noticed them until this moment, but their presence increases my fear. Serantha has been found, and she is in danger.

  I do not resist when the guards grab me roughly by my upper arms and haul me from the kitchen. Before the doors slide shut behind me, I hear the room erupt in vicious laughter.

  The guards do not lessen their grip on my arms and though I feel a measure of discomfort, I am grateful that what I feel can’t be construed as pain. I concentrate instead on Galen’s smooth, measured gait as he walks several yards in front of me.

  He is a handsome model, to be sure—as all the royal complement were designed to be. Man, I think. The Mind likes to be called men. As if the Mind had reached, or could ever hope to reach, the kind of perfection in creation as humankind. That Galen, who had once been a Servant, could turn his back on those philosophies and beliefs instilled in him from his earthly creation, still stuns me.

  We enter a silver transport tube and turn to face the door. Galen stands amicably by my side, his hands tucked in his pockets. The guards release my arms and I smooth my jacket so there is no evidence that I am not standing in this tight space of my own free will.

  Though we travel a distance of eighty-nine levels, only a few short seconds later the door opens onto an entirely different scene than the one we left behind. Here, the world is bright and airy, the ceiling reaching for the bluest sky that falsely beams down from beyond the glass above. Men and women meander from place to place, engaged in animated discussions or sitting in friendly groups around the square.

  I have not had the privilege of seeing the Mind in their own city, but its likeness to the Capital is striking. If I hadn’t known I was on a Mind ship, I would have believed I was indeed among humankind. I glance at Galen and see him watching me, a steely glint in his eyes.

  The sharp upward turn of Galen’s lips belies the casual friendliness he is trying so hard to portray. He is up to something—and has determined he needs me. That the reason might revolve around Serantha’s discovery sends a creeping chill over my skin.

  Galen scrutinizes my obvious discomfort in our surroundings, then nods his head once and turns swiftly on his heel. He walks out into the busy square, not sparing a glance behind to ensure that I am following.

  I can handle any torture they might have in store for me, but I will not abide any harm coming to my near-daughter, my Sera. I duck my head to avoid the curious glances that probe me from every direction and hurry after the traitor. I pray that somehow I will be equipped with the ability to save Serantha one last—and lasting—time.

  I wait in the shadows behind the throne while my father issues judgment on the people who have come for an audience. When the current group leaves the room, the andies who stand out attention along the walls move as one to form a wall of bodies between the throne and the next wave of supplicants.

  “Well?” Father says while keeping his face turned to the backs of the andies in front of him. I know he means me and so I step forward, out of the shadows and into my father’s line of sight. He scowls but I can’t see his eyes beneath his bushy dark brows.

  It’s been a while, a long while now, since my father and I have seen eye to eye. The war between us has raged silently and without surrender on either side. I have no expectation that today will be any different—and, it appears, neither does he.

  “You know why I’m here.” As always, my voice holds a thread of anger that snaps like the flick of a whip between us. I can’t seem to speak to him any other way no matter how many times I have tried. The truth is, I don’t much like my father—and he doesn’t care for me. We are too different. Or too similar, as my mother would say. We are both stubborn and arrogant, immovable once our minds have been made up. Except this time, I am right while my father will bring down the destruction of the entire human race.

  “So you are leaving.” It’s not a question. It is a death sentence.

  My father’s rich bass resonates around the room while I answer with a simple, “Yes.”

  He swings his gaze to mine, then, and stares at me, his face drenched in the black beard and brows that define him—and many of my forbears. Our walls are dressed with the portraits of our ancestors all the way back to Vladimir Bolkovsky—the Russian king who ruled the first Eastern Capital.

  My father is as fierce as Vladimir appears—and just as naïve about the human condition in space.

  I don’t know who my father is beneath all that hair, that scowl, that crown. Mother says he was a good man, once, an idyllic man, much like me. But if I ever knew him, I’ve long forgotten him—as he has long forgotten me. And his people.

  “It’s not too late, Father. You could still lend your support to the people of the West. I could stand by your side and lead our people—all our people—toward peace. The West would rally around us. The rebellion—you know they would be glad for your leadership.” This is as conciliatory as I can allow myself to be. It’s all I have left to give him.

  What are you doing? Natalya’s smooth voice slips into my mind, but I push her out, shutting down the symbiants that act as a bridge between us. Now Natalya’s role is one of advisor and assistant, but I have been withdrawing from her more and more over the last five years. She holds the same opinion as Father—that we should wait out the Mind’s mutiny, that eventually things will return to normal. There is a part of me that fears Natalya secretly works for the Mind. I should have sent her away on my
nineteenth birthday.

  “You will put your life and the life of this empire at risk.” Father’s voice is so low I feel it rumbling through my chest more than I hear it with my ears. He grips the armrest on his throne until his knuckles are white. “If you leave here, you leave your family, your people. You will forsake your crown.” He leans forward and I see his shoulders trembling. “You will be forsaking your people—the very people you claim to care so much about—all to fight a meaningless battle to save people who are not your own. You care so little for your empire? Your people?”

  I stand tall in the wake of his anger and fight to maintain the façade of confidence. The truth is, at this very moment I feel like a boy, like a child, and if I could I’d run and hide from my father all day, just as I used to do when something I did incurred his wrath.

  “You,” Father growls. “You,” he adds more forcefully and with a beefy finger pointed at my chest, “are no longer my son.”

  My ears ring and a shushing sound wraps around my brain. I knew he would do this. Knew what my choice would mean to my people. Knew my father would bring it to this.

  Yet it still rocks me, sending shivers of regret and sorrow racing down my spine.

  “You will sacrifice your life, your people, for nothing. You are already dead to me.” He leans back and we stare at each other for long seconds while I can’t seem to get my feet to move. “Get out,” he says in a whisper.

  “Get out!” His booming roar tears at my resolve as it thunders down around me. He leans forward, spittle dotting his dark beard. “Get out!”

  And to my greatest shame I turn and run from the throne room and out of my father’s—my peoples’—lives forever.