“Who’s in command?” Harnassus asks.
“Helios has the Dust Armada and Dido the Dragon,” Char answers.
Thraxa and I glance at one another. The Rim brought two of their three main armadas. Helios is not good news either. He is their best astral commander. A steely veteran more than twice my age and experience. “And Quicksilver? Is he back on Mars?” I ask.
Char frowns. “Soc gossip is he quit the war.”
I stare at Char. “Quit the war? He started it with Fitchner.”
He seems to resent how little I know. “Sefi’s dead too. Blood eagled by Ragnar’s father.”
I stare at him. Is he even speaking Common?
“He rules the Obsidians, and stole the best of the Volk fleet before fleeing Mars.”
Thraxa and I share a glance. She’s covered in Obsidian tattoos. “Ragnar’s father would be ancient. If he’s even alive.”
“Imposter,” Thraxa sneers. “They fled Mars? Unshorn too?”
Char looks overwhelmed by our inquiries.
“Never mind that,” I snap. “What about Sevro?” Thraxa makes a sound of contempt, far more interested in the Obsidians. “Where is he?”
Char doesn’t answer. There’s distance between us. Blame. “I thought you were dead. They said you were dead—the smugglers that got us off Mercury. Everyone thinks you are dead,” he says. “You look halfway there.”
I feel a pang of sorrow. Like I’ve been left behind. Outmoded, forgotten.
“I wasn’t sure anyone else made it off Mercury,” I murmur. I search behind him. “I don’t see Rhonna with you.”
“No.” A lump forms in my throat. The last time I saw my niece, Lysander had broken her face after shooting Alexandar in the head. I look down. How will I tell Kieran I left his daughter behind? ArchGovernor Kieran.
“Her shuttle didn’t make it to theMorning Starbefore the EMP went off,” Char says. “She went down in the city. Only reason we escaped is because some of the assault shuttles in theStarwere shielded from the EMP by the hull. We couldn’t make it to orbit, so we hid in the mountains until we hired iron smugglers to sneak us off-planet. We stole the torchShip from the smugglers, who stole it from the Votum fleet. She’s more battered than she looks. Half her guns are gone. Her armor’s patchy. But she has a Votum transponder and she flies like a bat out of hell. Should be enough to get us home.”
“How many are you?” Harnassus asks.
“Two thousand and eleven. All I could get out of Heliopolis. There’s room for more on the torchShip. But we’re packed pretty tight. Hoping you have food.”
“Old MREs,” I say. “Lots.”
His eyes search the tunnel passages at the rear of the hangar. “Is this all your people?” When I nod, he doesn’t look disappointed. He looks angry. I feel the weight of his indictment.
“You were on Mercury for weeks…” I begin. “The rest of the legions. The ones who couldn’t get out. What happened to them?”
He surveys my face. “Do you care?” It’d have hurt less if he stabbed me.
Thraxa jabs a finger in his chest. “Your ArchImperator asked you a question, Char.”
We’re two different tribes now. My eyes narrow. How bad does he want our food?
“Butchery.” Char looks away, and that common grief indicts my narrowed eyes. “Those who didn’t starve to death inside theMorning Staror weren’t eaten by Atalantia’s hounds were impaled by Atlas. From Heliopolis all the way to Tyche. The rest they sent to the Votum iron mines. I saw it from the air. The road they made.”
From Heliopolis to Tyche.I should have killed Atlas when I had him in my grasp. Just as I should have killed Lysander. Does no mercy go unpunished?
“No cheer for the hero of the hour or the helium he’s purloined?” a patrician voice calls from the umbilical. Thraxa mutters a choice curse. With his golden curls shining in the grim hangar light, the bloodydamn Bellona enters and poses like a gallant razormaster entering the Bleeding Place to the amorous cries of fawning Pixies. When only silence greets him, he sighs his disappointment and waltzes toward me with four canisters of processed warship-grade helium balanced on his shoulders. They’re stamped with the Bellona eagle.
Despite the fact that Cassius is offensively handsome, over seven feet tall, built like a highGrav boxer, and resplendent in his gray traveler’s cloak, all eyes drift toward the dusky woman behind him. Though she wears filthy crewman overalls and carries a pistol, Aurae is as out of place amongst us rude soldiers as an orchid in a munitions belt, and not just because she and Cassius still have hair.
Aurae is a rare Pink. Not a cheap thrill with angel wings or horns or a silky tail waiting for a client in a Pearl club. Nor a Helen of Troy either—the type of flashing thoroughbred as might be seen on the arm of Atalantia or Apollonius. Aurae is a Raa hetaera. A beauty of shadow and dust with autumnal tragedy written in her features. Her face is long. Her skin is a shade darker than olive. Her thick hair is wavy and blue-black and never seems to be the same color or in the same braid twice. It is impossible to guess her age. Some have guessed forty, some thirty,some twenty. It’s her eyes that make that last one impossible. They are wide set, dark pink, and ancient.
