The Second Rebel, page 6
He picks up a painting of Lito—the painting of Lito with his crown of gold—and smiles at it. “The original,” he says. “That idiot’s painting didn’t look anything like Lito.”
His words bring back the bitterness I felt earlier tonight. Fucking Shad, stealing my art, using my brother’s face for his own gain. And fucking it up, adding insult to injury. But the thought also helps to center me. I should ask Castor for my brother’s message now, but I’m halfway scared of what it’ll say. How much of what the news said about Lito is true? How well—or how poorly—did I really know my brother?
Instead, I sit on the couch, gingerly pull off my boot, and dig out a theracast from the first aid kit. My ankle is fat with swelling, but whether it’s broken or sprained, the theracast will fix it.
“Let me help.” Castor’s at my side in an instant, kneeling before me like a duelist offering the use of his blade. He takes the theracast packaging from me, opens it with his teeth, and pulls out the soft binding. I suck in a little gasp of surprise when his hands—long-fingered, callused but elegant—lift my foot and begin to wrap my ankle. The theracast is cold, but his touch is warm.
I lean into the silence, my face burning at the strangeness of it all. I’ve never seen an Aster without their wraps and goggles, not in person anyway, and I’ve never seen an Aster like him. His hair is white, like all Asters’, but not long enough to be plaited; though it’s tied at the nape of his neck, much of it has fallen loose and frames his face. His skin has the softest hint of purple, darkening in places like his lips and beneath his eyes. And while his eyes are large, they’re not the swallowing black I thought they’d be, but slitted pupils surrounded by molten gold.
Castor catches me staring at him and smirks. I forcefully look away, focusing on my hands. “You don’t need goggles?” I ask, hoping the question isn’t offensive as I hit my palms with a dose of pelospray. The burn is even worse than when I washed them, and I bite my lip against the pain as Castor answers.
“Geneassist modification.” He looks at my face instead of my ankle as if to prove a point. “I needed to be able to reliably work in Icarii lighting.” The theracast starts to harden, and Castor moves to sit on the opposite end of the couch.
Now that the moment has come, I want to ask about anything other than Lito. “How long have you been following me?” I ask. Maybe he’s the tail I’ve been glimpsing since yesterday afternoon.
“Just tonight.”
“Before or after I met up with Keres?”
He scoffs. “I have no fucking interest in Keres, if that’s what you’re thinking. Those kids are too busy jerking each oth—” He clears his throat at my glare. “Too busy playing in the sandbox to do anything useful.”
I swallow the insult, and it bubbles in my stomach like poison. I’m one of Keres too. Though after tonight, after what Shad did and how I was almost arrested, I’m not sure I want to be.
“You’re well-connected,” I say. “You have someone backing you.” I gesture to his pocket and the silver device there, trying to think of how to ask him about who he works for in a way he’ll answer.
But before I can, he quirks an eyebrow at me. “Is there a reason you’re asking about everything other than Lito?”
I freeze just like I did when I spotted the peacekeeper’s HEL gun. What if Castor gives me Lito’s message, and I find out he really has been radicalized by terrorists? What if my parents and coworkers are right about all the terrible things they accuse Lito of?
I’m scared—no halfway about it.
In the silence, Castor offers me his compad. I take it from him, fingers lingering a bit too long. Then I see the first line on the screen.
Luce, it begins. Already I feel like I’ve been slapped.
I turn my body away from Castor, not wanting him to see the tears in my eyes as I read.
Luce,
I’m sorry. I love you. I found our old friend the nine-tailed fox, and heard a thousand stories that are truer than myths. I don’t know what they will tell you, so I want you to hear it from me: I chose this, because it is what I believe is right. I can no longer ignore what is happening every day in Cytherea and Spero, on the planets of Earth and Mars. Please be cautious in your new job for Val Akira Labs. Souji val Akira will do whatever he can to control you and, by extension, me. If you can, run. If you can’t… or you don’t want to… disavow me. Tell them everything you know, even show them this message if you have to. And be careful.
One day when there is peace, I hope our paths cross again.
All my love,
Lito
I read it once, then again. Read it one more time for good measure, then hold the compad to my chest.
He’s still the Lito I know. The brother I love. He’s fighting for goodness. My parents and coworkers are wrong.
Reality slowly leaks back in. Not caring if Castor sees the naked relief in my eyes, I turn back toward him.
“You’re working with Lito?”
His eyes burn with something like offense. “Lito works with us.”
Semantics, but I don’t argue. “Who’s ‘us’?”
“Asters. People who want the Icarii to play fairly.” Castor cocks his head, watching me intently when he says the next name. “Hiro.”
“Hiro val Akira is part of your”—I hesitate, not knowing what to call it—“group?” I shouldn’t be surprised. When my brother told me of his mission to hunt down and kill his former partner, I knew he wouldn’t have trouble finding Hiro. But killing them? I feared it was far more likely that Hiro would kill Lito—or convince him to join their cause. Perhaps that’s why I mourned Lito leaving Cytherea; a part of me knew it was the end of the lives we’d built on the top level.
“That’s not all, though. I didn’t come all this way just to deliver a message.”
“What, then?”
His pupils widen as he focuses on my face. “We need your help, Luce.”
A tremor runs through my hands. “Don’t call me that,” I say softly. “Only Lito calls me that…”
“Lucinia sol Lucius.” He says my name like he’s tasting it. “Would you prefer ‘Lulu’?”
I roll my eyes. “Only if you go by ‘Castor the Aster.’ ”
He snorts. “Fair enough.”
“What do you want from me?” I gesture to my apartment to remind him of who I am—an artist, not a duelist like Lito.
“We want certain files from Val Akira Labs, data Lito tried, but failed, to get.”
“The news said he stole confidential information—”
“Not true,” he snaps. “They’re fucking liars when it comes to this stuff.”
“You know I’m a first-tier artist at Val Akira Geneassists, right? It’s just a subsidiary of the labs. I’m not a scientist. I’m not trusted. I’m sure you’ve read Lito’s letter—you know I’m being watched.”
“Yes, but you’re also in the perfect position to watch them back.” His golden eyes burn with a righteous anger, smoldering coals in the heart of a fire.
I sigh. It’s obvious he won’t be put off by me or the lack of status at my job. “What information are you looking for?”
“Proof that Souji val Akira is a hypocrite, a liar, and a mass murderer. Evidence that will take down Val Akira Labs when released to the public.” He straightens as he speaks. Even sitting, he towers over me. “We know the AEGIS isn’t bothered by the slaughter of a few thousand Asters, but the people of Cytherea can force them to care.”
“Is that all?” I ask, trying not to let on how overwhelming the request is. Attempting to control the Agency for Ethical Guidance of Icarii Science sounds impossible.
“We also hope to recover some Aster research confiscated by Val Akira Labs,” he says, either missing my sarcasm or outright ignoring it. “We’d made strides into gene research that could help our people afflicted by experiments and other diseases, but Souji val Akira labeled the information dangerous and sealed it away.”
“Oh, so you want me to personally take on Souji val Akira? No problem,” I say with a heavy shrug. “Let me make a few calls. I’ll have it done by Tuesday.”
He glares at me. “Maybe you don’t understand just how bad things are for us. Maybe you’re like those art school jackoffs who pay lip service to a war they don’t have the spines to fight.”
Guilt and anger battle inside me, the words hitting far too close to home. When the peacekeeper was after me, all I could think of was the things I’d lose—my nice apartment, my good job, my parents’ respect. I didn’t spare a thought for why I was down there painting in the first place.
“I’m from the lowest level of Cytherea,” I say, letting the heat color my tone in response to his. “Why do you think we targeted the Maintenance Guild down there? I’ve seen the way you can slip credits to the right official and jump the line for home repairs. I’ve seen the neglect of the air filters compared to the higher levels, felt that tightness when breathing.”
“But some things you’ve only seen, not felt,” he says. “Like the Asters on that level, bandages yellow with weeping sores, sleeping on streets until peacekeepers make them disappear.” His lips twist. “You can’t know the pain of that.”
My first response is offense, but I smother it, letting out a shuddering breath. “At least I don’t avert my eyes like other Icarii. Maybe that’s all I can do.”
“You can do more. You can help us now,” he says, denying me even the slightest comfort. “You want to help the Asters and the lowlevels, then help me. You say that you see the problem—then look at my request as a solution.”
I’m struck silent. The worst part is that he’s right. I thought I was helping, thought I could make a change by spray-painting slogans on buildings, but I’ve been—what did Castor say?—playing in a sandbox.
“I’m not Lito,” I say for what feels like the hundredth time. “I’m not a duelist.”
“And my sister isn’t me,” Castor says, “but we both do what we can.”
The moment stretches. Faint footfalls and muted voices from adjacent apartments break the monotonous electronic hum of devices and appliances. I let out a long, shuddering sigh.
“How can I help?”
Castor’s smile is wide and bright like day breaking across his face. “All Val Akira companies, whether subsidiary or parent, use the same servers.” He pulls something small and black out of his pocket, a naildrive balanced between his thumb and forefinger. “Plug this into a computer at work. It’ll break into the server and get the information we need.”
“I don’t know,” I say, and my face burns with shame. My apartment, my job, my family—they’re all still haunting me. It’s hard to give up things you’ve always wanted and have finally gotten.
“You will.” He says it like he says everything else: Confidently. Stubbornly. Almost like he can will me into acceptance with his naked belief. “The compad I gave you with Lito’s message? Keep it. You can contact me through it. Don’t say anything you wouldn’t want your enemy reading, so use a code.” He rattles off the list like I’ve already agreed to his terms.
“And if I don’t want to contact you?” I snap.
He touches the compad, our fingers brushing once more. The heat isn’t just in his voice, it’s in his body, and I am warmed against the night’s chill.
“There are recordings on this compad.” He says it softly, as if there is something even he fears. “Hiro’s recordings they made for Lito.”
His words jerk me through time. Back to the morning of Lito’s departure from Cytherea with his new partner to hunt down his old one. I’d opened my door to find an unfamiliar package on my doorstep. There’d been no warning, no drones alerting me to a mail drop, but the box was there all the same. I’d opened it and found an out-of-date pink playback device, and though curiosity got the better of me and I’d started to listen, Hiro’s voice—“Fucking gods, I’ve started this recording over a hundred times now”—had me yanking the device off and shutting it away again.
It was for Lito. I knew it was. And I knew I wanted nothing to do with it.
But as the weeks wore on and Lito didn’t come home, I knew I’d made a mistake. What had Hiro said? Where had they gone? The device could have offered answers I would otherwise never have.
And now they’re back in my hand.
By the time my shock fades, Castor’s at the door. “Later,” he says, as if my helping him is a foregone conclusion, and then he’s gone and my apartment is exactly the same as it was before this disastrous night.
I should take a shower. Go to bed. I have work in the morning. But the compad in my hand sings me a siren song, and my fingers dance across the screen until I find the saved recordings.
I press play.
CHAPTER 5 LITO
Asset #4757828 “SORREL”: Aster male, 215 cm, 95 kg. Clearance requirement: BLACK. Known aliases: HARBINGER, THE. Special notes: DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, WAKE SUBJECT WITHOUT ASSET #5403210 “OFIERA,” OR THE PRESENCE OF A MINIMUM OF TWO SECURITY TEAMS.
Assessment of Asset #4757828 in Val Akira Labs computers
There’s no time to waste. The longer it takes to get out of the labs, the more security will come down on us. With no weapons and Elm’s hacked compad as our only means of defense, we are rapidly running out of options. Ofiera brings up a map of the facility, memorizes a route to the docks, and guides us out of cryo storage and into the unending white hallways.
Not one corridor over, the heavy stomp of boots halts our progress. I quickly press the compad to the nearest door’s bioscanner and lead Ofiera into a darkened side room, what looks like a tiered lecture hall devoid of furniture. We wait until the sound fades, security rushing past us to the cryo storage we were in moments ago, before we emerge and continue our escape.
When we reach a crossroads, Ofiera nudges me through the implant, telling me which way to go. It becomes clear after the third turn that the route we’re taking is indirect in the hopes that we’ll run into less security. But it also keeps us in the labs longer, which only serves to increase my worry about how many guns will be waiting for us at the docks.
A faint voice reaches us from around a corner—“the sweep”—muffled words I can’t make out—“continuing route.”
I press the compad to the nearest door, hoping to repeat our previous strategy, but the bioscanner turns red with a warning message: UNAUTHORIZED.
Shit—obviously whoever’s ID Elm spoofed for this compad doesn’t have clearance to go everywhere.
Ofiera pulls my attention through the implant and gestures to the door she crouches by. I toss her the compad. She snatches it out of midair and presses it to the bioscanner by her head. It lights up green. Swiftly she opens the door and disappears inside.
The security guard is turning down our hallway as I roll across the floor. I slip through the doorway just as he hits a switch, flooding the corridor in pale fluorescence.
There’s no sound of him alerting his comrades, no sound of boots running in our direction. I don’t think he saw us, but… the door is still ajar. He’d be blind not to notice that. I look at the room we’ve trapped ourselves in. It’s little more than a supply closet, full of the shadowy forms of cleaning drones. Though they vary in size, their bodies have been tightly packed together, leaving nowhere for us to properly hide.
I look at Ofiera, and she at me. I can tell through the implant that we’re both thinking the same thing: if there’s no chance at flight, we have to fight.
With what? the part of me that’s a soldier snaps.
With what we have is the only answer.
I track the guard by the light tap of his boots. Every second he comes closer to where Ofiera and I hide. He stops just outside the door. He has to be suspicious, but does he know that we’re inside? I hear a metallic click, and I know immediately what it is: he’s turned off his gun’s safety.
Now! I send to Ofiera.
She kicks the door with all her might, and it slams into the man on the other side. He stumbles back, righting his gun—a heavy HEL rifle that could blast us into pieces—but I’m out of the closet by then, a meter-long cleaning droid held above my head. I slam the droid against his hands; the machine shatters, and he drops the rifle. He dives for it without a second thought, but I do as well.
Then Ofiera is on him, one knee in his back, his neck in the crook of her elbow. His fingers scrabble for his gun, but I pull it out of his reach. He struggles, trying to headbutt Ofiera or kick backward, but she holds tightly until, eventually, his movements soften and then stop altogether. With a grunt, she releases him once he’s unconscious.
Now in the silence, I hear a voice coming from the compad on his belt. “Report, Kristoff.” I look at Ofiera, my guts sinking. “Kristoff?”
“Let’s move,” she says out loud. No point in being silent after the noise of our fight.
But I hesitate, looking between the HEL rifle I hold and the guard.
“What are you…” She trails off, but I know what she’s thinking: the gun is of no use to us when all Icarii weapons have a fingerprint lock.
“We need a weapon,” I say, not adding that without one, we’re not getting out of here.
Her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline when she takes my meaning. Without a word of recrimination, she turns away and searches for something sharp from the destroyed cleaning droid. When she returns, I’ve already pulled the guard’s arm straight and spread his fingers, and she bends over him, the shard of metal gleaming in the hallway lights. She presses the tip of her makeshift shiv to the knuckle of his trigger finger.
“Wait,” I say.
“Want the whole thing?” she asks, moving the blade to his wrist.
“No, just… I saw a first aid kit in the closet.” I slip back into the shadows of our hiding place.
If she thinks I’m being stupid for wanting to cut off a man’s finger but not let him bleed to death, she doesn’t say. “Well, hurry up. I need you to hold his mouth, because he’s going to scream.”
