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  Kevin bobs his head in agreement. We stare at the ships, the red one moving steadily toward the black, for a while longer. We don’t say anything more.

  Because it doesn’t matter. There are no more words to be said. We have a plan in place for this moment—a suicide mission to be sure, but a plan nonetheless.

  We will go. We will fight.

  And we will die.

  But we will have at least tried, and that is why I came here, why I joined the rebellion against the Mind.

  Kevin keys in the coordinates and sets our course to rendezvous with the Capital of the West—a floating tomb that will surely be our own.

  But there will be a fight in it, and a good death. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll bring death to the head of the Mind. To Galen. I know my motives are prideful, risky, personal. But the promise, the hope of it, makes me smile.

  I suck in my breath as I drop the white gossamer sheath over my head, then shiver as it slithers down my skin. Minn’s eyes crinkle in dismay as she notices the material gives her no privacy—in fact, the way it clings accentuates our curves, revealing everything. And since she is at least two inches taller than me, and I am the tallest next to her, Minn’s sheath barely covers her most private parts. She wraps her arms around herself, but soon we’ll have our hands full of serving trays and pitchers—there’ll be no hiding, then.

  The older guard grins wickedly. With one more very pointed gaze at our bodies, he leads us out of the washroom. Fale openly gawks at us as we file past him. I feel bad for curvy Tam who takes up the rear—the guard will surely be leering at her the entire way.

  We enter the kitchen and stand awkwardly while we wait for Cook to finish dictating how the trays should be presented. Sher’s mother, who works the bread ovens, looks over at us, her eyes lingering on Sher, before turning back to her work. Her cheeks are red and she pounds the dough on the table as if it were her worst enemy. I wonder whom she despises more—the guards who rule our lives, or the Masters above.

  “Now! I need them now!” snaps Simeon, who rushes into the room as if he has a monster on his heels. His eyes are so wild I wonder if there really are monsters above-deck. I’ve never seen them—andies, yes, the pale automatons who have boarded the ship on rare occasions. They walk the support level on one task or another, but they are only shadows of the Masters who rule the ship and all the other ships in the royal fleet. Or so I’ve heard.

  Cook shoves heavy trays into our arms and herds us into the transport shaft that runs directly from the kitchen to the levels above. I glance at the faces of the girls around me—they each wear mirror expressions of foreboding, and I am sure I look the same. An unfamiliar emotion, fear, leaves a bitter taste in my mouth while the golden arc of light pulses through the transport as we ascend.

  The trip seems to go on and on and for the first time I catch a glimpse of the size of the ship I live on. I knew its whispers and mysteries went far beyond anything I’d been able to grasp in the sojourns of my mind—but this . . . this is something I haven’t even considered. I count 37 levels before I am distracted by a roll slipping from Minn’s trembling tray. I reach out to grab it before it falls to the floor. We continue upward for a long time afterward.

  The arc of light that surrounds the tube and marks each level as we pass, turns a shade of blue, then gradually deepens into red as we come to a stop.

  Simeon reaches out his baton and presses its end to the hollow of my neck. He holds it there until I meet his eyes. “None of your funny business.” His words are like a breath, a growl of hate and fear. He scowls as he takes in my face and the white ridge that curves from my cheek to my lip. “If they had not demanded four, I would not have sent you.” I don’t trust myself to speak anything akin to an obedient word, so I keep my mouth shut.

  He grunts at my silence and retracts the baton. “Go. And do not disgrace us.” He pokes each of us with the baton as we file past him and into the corridor. Sher is the first one out and she pulls up short, causing Tam to stumble into her, almost losing her tray to the floor.

  “My stars,” she says, her voice breathy with awe. I try not to look, try not to care about the soft carpet beneath my feet, or the shimmering spheres of light that float above our heads.

  “So beautiful,” Minn whispers behind my right shoulder.

  It is beautiful. But it is also something else . . . something familiar.

  “Quit star-gazing,” Simeon demands, charging his baton with a high-pitched whine. “The Masters are waiting.”

  I move forward, letting my tray press against Tam’s, hoping to get them going. It works. Sher lurches forward a couple steps before she finds her feet and we all walk forward in a tidy line.

  For about five steps.

  “I-I can’t,” Sher squeaks.

  “Blazes,” I murmur. I swing out of line and march ahead of Sher. I don’t bother to go slowly. I move and trust the others to follow. I need to get this over with, need to see the blasted Masters. Need to figure out why this place seems so familiar when it is a million light-years away from life in the support level.

  But even I come to a stop when I reach the end of the short corridor and turn toward the only entry—and come face to face with a room the size of twenty kitchens at least. This one room alone is larger than all the space I’ve ever known.

  The room glows with light—from golden spheres that hover in the air, to the light that runs like water down the walls. The women wear globes of light in their hair or around their necks and many men have shining spheres dangling from long chains around their waists.

  Their clothing makes me feel all the more naked, as all of them seem to be wearing layers upon layers in great poofs of fabric, though they all wear shimmering white, similar to my shift.

  A tinkling bell sounds and the guests turn to the left where I behold a table as long as the room. There have to be a hundred guests or more—and there are only four of us.

  A woman glides past us, watching me from the corner of her eye. She wears her hair, white as her gown, piled high on her head, and while her face is powdered white, her lips are painted bright red in the shape of a heart. It makes her lips appear to be pursed and this, coupled with her sidelong stare, unnerves me.

  There is no doubt these elaborately costumed beings are andies, no, Elite. The highest, finest class of androids. The way this woman moves as if her feet don’t touch the ground, the way her gown sways behind her and her long, delicate fingers toy with the globe at her ear, fascinates me. I have never seen an Elite, yet they too seem familiar. Like I’ve touched hands like those, tried to emulate the graceful walk like hers.

  The guests take their seats while a male Elite remains standing at the end of the table nearest us. In contrast to his guests, he is wearing blood red. His black hair is slicked back and gleams in the soft light that radiates everywhere. His broad chest fills out his jacket and he commands the room as if he were the most stunning creature in it. I don’t hear any signal, no chime or clap, yet all conversation stops and every head swivels in the man’s direction. It is so completely quiet that I can hear the faint hum of the light on the walls and Tam’s panting breath.

  “Dearest guests, what a great pleasure it is to be joined by you on this day, the anniversary of what was once our greatest achievement.” He spreads his pale hands wide, a single, tiny globe of light decorating the third finger of his left hand. “Our dynasty has risen far beyond our grandest dreams.” He pauses while the crowd claps and bobs their heads. “We have truly reached the stars, and now? Only the sun remains.” More clapping.

  Sher shifts her weight and adjusts her grip on the tray. It is trembling, the tray far too heavy for her to carry this long.

  “Nine years ago today, we captured the Empire of the West. We eliminated the royal family, rendering the foolish prophecy void of fulfillment.” His voice is mild yet his words stab into my heart like Cook’s sharpest knife. My ears ring and I have to strain to hear the rest of his words. “I have an impor
tant announcement to make.”

  He pauses and the guests titter and whisper to one another behind gloved hands. It’s clear to me that everyone knows what the announcement will be, but they enjoy playing the game. Playing at being human.

  “Within the week, the Empire of the East will be ours.” He holds up a hand to pause the celebration that bubbles upward. “Within the week, we will reach the pinnacle of our creation. We will have surpassed even the Creator’s most daring dream. We will be both sun and moon. We will encompass the fruition of evolution.”

  The guests erupt with applause and shouts of joy. A couple women even swoon, falling back into the arms of the nearest male. The leader gestures with his right hand which I take to mean we should approach with our trays.

  “Celebrate our supreme achievement and prepare yourselves for the fulfillment of all our desires in the days to come. Soon, my friends,” his voice rings above the clapping that has not subsided, “we will claim the head of the snake and crush it beneath our feet.” On the last word his voice rises over the din as if amplified.

  I approach the table, dread slowing my steps. A woman slips a small, flaky roll filled with smoked fish and fragile greens from my tray. I watch her hand, so fine boned, so delicate. Her fingers return, but does not touch the food—instead she reaches out and places them under my chin, drawing downward until our eyes meet.

  I refuse to gasp, though I hear Tam, who stands on the other side of the table from me, make a startled noise in her throat. The woman’s eyes are as pale a green as the leaves in the sandwiches, with silver filaments pulsing within them.

  The woman continues to hold my chin in her grasp, but out of the corner of my eye I see Tam making her way further down the table.

  “Whatever happened to your face?” she says, forcing me to turn my head from side to side. I think for sure her grasp will leave bruises—certainly they would if I’d been as delicately skinned as the other girls. “Such a lovely face, too.” She clucks her tongue. “What a shame.”

  She releases me and I straighten, about to hurry on to the next guest when she speaks again. This time her voice holds a metallic, demanding ring, and I feel certain it would be disastrous to disobey her. “Put down the tray.”

  I do as she asks and fight the red that creeps into my face as the guests around us chuckle into their hands. The woman regards me openly. When a male’s hand touches my hip she slaps it away. “It’s not your turn, Jin-Jonyen. Patience.” The tray slides away from me as the guests pass it among themselves. Despite the lady’s words, I feel more hands creep over my bottom, my thigh, my hip. Perhaps she can’t see them, doesn’t know others are encroaching on her—I hate to think it—property.

  “Though your face has been damaged, there’s something . . . special about you.” She waves her hand in a circle. “Don’t you think so, my darling?” Beside her, a man, who’s been looking down the table toward Minn, swivels in his seat.

  When his eyes come to rest on my body, his lips slowly spread into a wide grin. And it terrifies me. There is no lust in it, no true desire, but there is something else, a cold calculation that weighs me, dissects me.

  “She’s lovely, yes?” the woman asks. She has one hand pressed lightly to my left breast, as natural as one might lay claim to a chair or box. “That is, if you pay no attention to her face.”

  Her companion looks toward Minn who now sits on a man’s lap on the other side of the table. Even from where I’m standing I can see her body trembling, can imagine her fear and loathing. The companion sighs before turning back to his lady. “I suppose she must do.”

  “Come here, my sweet,” the lady says, grasping my breast and pulling me forward by it. It hurts, but I refuse to let this Elite know it. I don’t understand what is going on, and my mind reels with possibilities and options.

  Her eyes have the tell-tale silver threads of an android but she is as unique from the others around her as I am from Minn or Sher. She beckons me to lie across her lap and the man beside her pulls me partway over to him, until I am suspended over both their legs. I haven’t yet fought back, though I can feel power gathering beneath my quiet limbs. While their hands rove over me, I observe the powdered, ostentatious androids around me.

  There is something off about them. They should have been superior to the andies that occasionally visited the ship, but these beings totter in their seats, giggle in response to our whimpers. It isn’t until I see the woman who has me lean over and pluck a pinch of silver dust from a plate in the middle of the table, and deposit it on her tongue, that I get my answer.

  “Mmm,” she groans, letting her head loll back on her neck. “Heavenly.”

  When her eyes fall to my body again, the whites glow with a pearlescent light and it seems she can’t focus on me anymore.

  “Let me,” insists her companion. He leans forward, carelessly pressing my head against the edge of the table. I squirm and he grips my hair with his left hand until I lie still.

  “Naughty, naughty,” croons the woman. Her hand slides up my thigh.

  “No. No!” cries Minn. I can’t see her, but I recognize the low, quiet, pitch of her voice. Soon afterward, Tam and Sher express similar objections.

  At once I am aware. My mind no longer caught up in the swirls of analytical thought.

  “Help,” Minn cries and I don’t think anymore. Instead I push.

  Power surges through me as I shove against the man’s chest and thrust my knee into the woman’s chin. I grab the plate of silver dust and blow on it while turning. All around me the androids gasp and lean back in their chairs. Minn is the first to scramble to her feet.

  “Sera!” she cries, looking wildly around.

  “Grab a plate of that silver dust and blow!” I shout.

  I catch a glimpse of Minn following my instructions before I whirl around and jump onto the table. In one long step I cross to the other side and grab another plate.

  “Come on!” I shout to Sher and Tam who are dumped to the floor when their patrons try to distance themselves from the turmoil.

  I jump onto the table and run down the length of it, knocking things over, spilling pitchers in my wake. Golden globes swim in my view, but I swat them away. I am bent on one task—finding the plates of silver dust and throwing it in the faces of the white-powdered androids I pass. But as I bend to grasp a delicate bowl piled high with the stuff, a cold hand grips the back of my neck, restraining me.

  Red fills my view. It is the benefactor of this event—the man who commanded all who are here, who welcomed them to their seats, who spoke about the greatness of the Elite.

  For a moment, fear paralyzes me and I hang, suspended in his hand. I notice the fine braiding of gold on the rope that wraps his waist and from which dangles a golden globe, its light swirling.

  Then I see the feet of a girl step near and feel the android’s body quake with a blow. Out of the corner of my eye I see him grab Minn’s long dark hair and yank her back—a chair clanking to the floor at her feet.

  Minn shrieks, the sound unstopping my frozen veins. I feel them resume their pumping, feel the familiar and welcome rush of energy swim up from my core. I twist in the man’s hand until I can see his face.

  He is handsome, less powdered and affected than the others, and not high on whatever that silver dust is, either. When he looks down at me, his blue eyes widen—and then narrow.

  “It can’t be,” he seethes through clenched teeth.

  But I don’t stick around to see what will follow—commentary on my finer appearance? On the white-ridged scar that graces my face? Whatever it is, if it comes from him, I don’t want to hear it.

  In that instant I see that he looks much like the man in my dreams, but I push that thought down and lock it away. He isn’t my father. No matter how his eyes look the same.

  Taking advantage of his momentary hesitation, I launch myself up and backward, wrenching out of his grip. I grab Minn’s hand and run toward the door of the great hall.

&n
bsp; “The others!” I shout, pulling up short before we cross the threshold.

  “Already out!” Minn cries. She dashes past me and down the corridor to the transport. I take one last look at the wheeling crowd—the man in red watching me, unruffled, with his hands clasped in front of him—before yanking the big doors shut behind me and running after Minn.

  The band of light above our heads pulses yellow. My pod-mates endure the boredom in games of tactics and combat while I remain clamped to the wall, my gaze fixed on the light. I fight to control my prime directive, but it is becoming more and more difficult. Serantha is near—so near I would not able to suppress the activity of my symbiants should Galen choose to examine me now. The vault in which I buried my true nature gapes wide open within me. I am Archibald, Serantha’s Servant. And she lives.

  So I focus on the pulse of yellow light, grasp the smooth panels beneath my hands, and wait for the light to turn green.

  “Come. On. Come on! Can’t this bucket of bolts go any faster? Ah!” I grab fistfuls of my hair as I pace away from the console, then back again—but in those two seconds we had not been magically transported across space. I shove on the back of Stuart’s seat and launch myself away again.

  A hand lands on my shoulder and I spin around—but it is only Kevin, a man who has become my friend. “Get a hold of yourself, Wallace. Just . . . get a hold of yourself.”

  It feels as if my teeth will grind to dust beneath the pressure of my jaw. I search Kevin’s eyes—and take a deep breath.

  “ETA, Mr. Stuart?” Kevin says, though his eyes never leave my own.

  “Twenty-nine hours and fifty-seven minutes, sir.”

  Kevin grips my shoulder once more. “Thirty hours. Get some food. Get some sleep. In thirty hours you can kill the bastard.” He doesn’t wait for my response before brushing past me and leaving the Con.

  For a moment I stand in the middle of the room, debating my next action. Finally it is the stiff silence, the hunched shoulders of the few men at the Con that make up my mind. They are awaiting another outburst, steeling themselves against my wrath.