Seek the Traitor's Son, page 19
“You’re a Scout,” Larke says icily. “I’m given to understand you’re all talented at subterfuge.”
Elegy stiffens, but she knows better than to respond in kind. She understands why Larke is angry, after what happened at Theren’s “hearing,” and she’s afraid of making it worse.
“Let’s just go to the banquet,” Elegy says.
They walk through the maintenance tunnels in silence, flanked by Larke’s guards. Elegy listens to the churn of machinery and the hiss of steam and the clinking of her dress’s scales, and tries not to think about what awaits her at this banquet. Questions about where she’s been. Sympathy for what she’s lost. Expectations as heavy as dread.
When they emerge from the tunnels, it’s crowded, since everyone has to move through a small antechamber on their way to the banquet hall. At first, no one notices them—not until they reach the antechamber itself. Inside it is a stone plinth, and on top of the plinth is a decryption device.
No, she reminds herself. Not a decryption device—the decryption device.
When the visitors from outside the solar system first contacted Earth, it was through a crash landing. An object—the records aren’t clear about what it was, exactly—fell through the atmosphere, and all that survived the impact with the ground was the decryption device, a heavy metal cylinder with tiny characters inscribed all around it. No one knows how long it took Earth to make sense of the message the cylinder carried, but when they did, they read an invitation to meet at a set of coordinates just beyond Mars.
It was there that Earth’s ship linked up with an extraterrestrial craft. There are no transcripts of the conversation, no explanations of how a conversation successfully took place between people who didn’t speak each other’s language. All that’s left is a fragment of a report from an Earth representative upon her return. We have been invited to join a greater order, she said. We do not know exactly where they were from, as they refused to tell us for their own security—they’re as wary of us as we are of them. But if we agree to their terms, they’ll lead some of us there, to another world.
Of course, they never managed to come to terms before Earth nearly destroyed itself.
Elegy stares down at the decryption device, trying to read the characters inscribed on its otherwise smooth surface. The only language she recognizes are bits of Old Hànyǔ, but she can’t read them.
“No one knows how they knew one of our languages,” Elegy says. “To this day.”
“There are theories.” Larke is standing at her shoulder, looking impatient. “Come on, smile for the picture.”
There’s a man with an old-fashioned camera standing across the plinth from them. While Elegy was staring at the decryption device, he seems to have cleared the room of everyone but her and Larke. Larke links arms with her and smiles; Elegy does her best to smile, too. The man with the camera steps aside, leaving their path to the banquet clear.
Elegy reluctantly continues on.
The banquet hall is huge and lofty. In its center is a large, sprawling tree with delicate orange-yellow leaves. Above it is a light fixture, as big as the tree is wide, that fixes a beam of white light on the branches.
All around it is the shimmer of water. At first she thinks it’s a pool—but then she sees someone walk across it, and she realizes it’s glass. Beneath the glass are the tree’s roots, stretching out in every direction and tangling with the structure of the ship itself, all its struts and ducts and pipes.
“There’s one just like it in the Sundial’s arboretum,” she hears a man say as she passes, in conversation with someone else. “Grown from seeds from the same mother tree. So that when the Sundial launches, it will carry a piece of Cedre with it forever. Poetic, don’t you think?”
The man in question is wearing a pin shaped like the Sundial, the symbol of the Pilgrimage Party, the one that advocates for sending the Sundial in search of the visitors’ planet in the hope that the Cedrae will be welcomed there. It’s optimistic of him to speak of the Sundial’s launch with such certainty. The Restorationists—those who are determined to reclaim Earth from the Talusar instead of seeking another home—have the majority, now.
Where we come from is where we belong. That’s their motto.
There are people everywhere, gathered in clusters with plates in hand or seated on the chairs that are arranged here and there around low tables. The food comes from buffets in the back corner, and it’s a decadent array of dishes, some of which she doesn’t even recognize, some of which she does. She thinks her father would have liked to see so many different kinds of dumplings all in one place like this. He used to philosophize about dumplings—almost every culture had one, even if they called them by different names or prepared them in different ways. They were like a symbol of Cedre.
Elegy rushes toward the first person she recognizes: General Thompson. He sits in a group of chairs with a drink in hand, wedged between two people in uniform, one older and one younger.
His eyes light up when he sees her. “Miss Ahn. Lovely to see you again so soon.”
She smiles. Something tight and hard in her chest releases. “General.”
“Let me introduce you to General Ngozi Okoro of Temasek Stronghold in Nusanta—”
The woman stiffens, and Elegy knows immediately that she’ll never be referring to General Okoro as “Ngozi.” She’s the younger of the two soldiers, her hair dyed indigo and her nails painted an incongruously muted pink. She looks skeptical as she bows her head and says, “Your Grace.”
Elegy returns the short bow, feeling uneasy. Even though “Your Grace” is the appropriate honorific for any close family of the Sword, it still feels like an ill-fitting shoe to her.
“—and General Jeda Saetang, leader of Naarm Stronghold in Austra—”
He gestures to the soldier on his left, who’s older than Okoro. They wear a ring in their septum that’s a gesture of nonbinary identity. Their hair is worn in a high knot. They offer Elegy a smile.
“You’re welcome to join us, Your Grace,” Saetang says to her, gesturing to the chair behind Elegy. Elegy is aware of eyes on her from all directions. She perches on the edge of the seat with her skirt arranged around her.
“We were just talking about that dustup last year about our name,” Thompson says. “The anti-Cedre people.”
“What is it they actually called themselves?” Saetang asks.
“There was an acronym,” Okoro says, her voice clipped. “As a general rule, I don’t memorize acronyms.”
Thompson asks, “What was the issue again? Something involving the root word of Cedre—”
“Ceder,” Okoro says. “An old word for yielding. Since we yielded Earth. Their position was that we shouldn’t wear our surrender as a badge of honor.”
Saetang looks thoughtful, but Elegy snorts.
“You don’t agree?” Saetang says.
“What a person is willing to give up in order to save a life says a lot about them.” She thinks of Theren, running from her in the Getty. Unwilling to risk his safety for her life. She clears her throat. “The same goes for a nation. We gave up our land for our people. I’ll wear that as a badge of honor.”
“Your sister told me you’re a bit of a . . . Pilgrimage supporter,” Okoro says, as if the word “Pilgrimage” tastes bitter. “I’m not surprised to discover you don’t long to return to our planet.”
Pushing off the Sundial’s scheduled launch by a decade was easily the most controversial decision Elegy’s mother had made as the Sword of Cedre. All the Swords before her were in favor of the Pilgrimage. They had advocated for the Sundial’s refurbishment, citing Cedre’s small population size—just over three million—as an argument for seeking a new planet, one free from Fever.
The decryption device that carried the visitors’ first message is the key to the Pilgrimage’s plan. It emits a signal that some Cedre scientists insist they can trace, if they’re given enough time and resources. Once they succeed, a crew that includes a group of Cedre’s representatives will set sail to make contact. It’s a distant hope, but then, so is the hope of reclaiming Earth from the Talusar.
Elegy’s mother, on the other hand, was a Restorationist. She dreamed only of returning to Earth. These days, the majority of people on Cedre Station agree with her. They see their planet not as a real place—a place with as many problems as Cedre Station, if not more—but as a distant paradise. And who willingly surrenders a paradise?
The movement had picked up steam in the last ten years, thanks in no small part to Larke.
“I’m Losan-born, General,” Elegy says to Okoro. “Of course I long for Earth. I just long for something else more.”
“Like no more war?” Saetang supplies.
“We must always fight for the things we want,” Okoro argues.
“I wouldn’t get the wrong idea about Miss Ahn here,” Thompson says. “More than most, she joined the army to fight the Talusar.”
Okoro looks unimpressed. Elegy gets the feeling, based on the familiarity with which Okoro called Larke “your sister” a moment ago, that she’s close to the Sword—which means she’ll never be a fan of Elegy.
“Yeah, we remember your team pretty well,” Saetang says to Elegy. “You served with Primary Shir Alexios, right? May he rest in peace.”
They raise their glass, and drink.
Elegy touches her heart with two fingers, since she doesn’t have a drink of her own to raise.
“Search and rescue, yes, I remember,” Okoro says. “Though I was lower-ranked then. And you were just behind Talusar borders the other week, weren’t you, Miss Ahn? What was that for?”
Elegy shrugs, and says, “Private rescue mission.”
“A hell of a way to put yourself at risk,” Okoro says.
Yes, Okoro has definitely been talking to Larke.
“I don’t consider my life more valuable than other people’s,” Elegy says.
“Noble of you.”
“You caught me. I love to sound noble.”
Their eyes lock for a few seconds longer than is comfortable. Saetang clears their throat.
“You need a drink, and I need a refill,” they say. “Come on, Your Grace, let’s hit the bar.”
Elegy stands, and lets the general lead her over to the bar, nestled on one side of the room near the food tables. When they’re a few steps away, the general leans a little closer.
“Sorry about that, Okoro’s just a pill.”
Elegy shrugs. “I’ve met worse.”
“Bet you have.” Saetang’s eyes glint a little. “Friend of mine told me there’s a rumor going around that you’re a Scout.”
Elegy tries not to react. “Wild rumor.”
It’s not illegal to be a Scout, but it’s not the kind of thing you broadcast when you’re trying to maneuver in respectable society. Especially when you’re ex-military.
“That’s what I said.” They reach the bar, and Saetang orders a glass of red wine. Elegy gets gin.
“If you were a Scout, I know that would scandalize quite a few people,” Saetang says. “But it wouldn’t scandalize me. We’re a rougher sort in Austra. We work with Scouts all the time.”
“If I see any Scouts, I’ll let them know.”
Saetang laughs, and touches their glass to Elegy’s.
A clinking sound catches Elegy’s attention, and she looks around to find its source. Larke is standing at the base of the tree, glass of wine in hand, beneficent smile on her face. Elegy doesn’t trust that smile.
“Good evening, everyone,” she says, and though her voice isn’t amplified, it still carries through the space. It’s a talent she must have learned from their mother.
“Elegy, would you come up here, please?” Larke’s voice is warm. Everywhere, heads turn and eyes find Elegy. Her face heats, but a path clears in front of her, so she walks it, not knowing what else to do. She squeezes the stem of her glass so hard she worries it will crack, and stands beside Larke under the tree.
“I’m so pleased that my sister is finally recovered enough to join us,” Larke says, with that same warm smile. Elegy stares at her, her mind going blank. Recovered?
“Especially on this day, Evacuation Day, which is so meaningful for our people.” Larke looks out at the crowd. “Perhaps you all heard rumors, years ago, that the augurs had given us a great gift: a prophecy that declared Elegy Rosyk the Hope of Cedre, destined to lead us in triumph over the Talusar.”
In the air above them, Eyes swarm like bees, recording this moment to be broadcast in news pavilions all over Cedre.
“I am pleased to confirm those rumors for you today,” Larke says, and she takes Elegy’s hand, which is hanging limp at her side as she tries to root herself in the present. Larke’s fingers squeeze her tightly. “And it is with that prophecy bolstering our confidence in Cedre’s triumph that I am announcing a renewed effort to reclaim Earth from our enemies.”
Elegy stiffens. She feels like she’s waded into water that’s deeper than she expected, and she’s lost touch with the bottom. No—she feels like Larke has dragged her there.
Their plan had been to announce Elegy as the so-called Hope of Cedre—not for Larke to use her as Restorationist propaganda.
“There has always been considerable risk in sending the Sundial out to contact outsiders we have no real knowledge of,” Larke says. “Assuming we could even find them, there’s no guarantee they will be sympathetic to our cause or peaceful in their approach.” Elegy hears harsh whispers from the crowd, presumably coming from their Pilgrimage-supporting attendees. “With these risks in mind, I think it’s wise to redirect resources from the Sundial. There’s no reason to launch if we already have a planet to call our home. Instead, I intend to convert the Sundial to a museum, to commemorate the great work that our people have done over the centuries to prepare for any outcome, no matter how difficult it is to achieve.”
Elegy tries to pull her hand away from Larke’s, but Larke is holding her too tightly. She feels trapped in her own anger like a fly caught in honey. Cedre has been preparing the Sundial for its mission since its founding, aware of how impossible it will be to fight an enemy that outnumbers them ten to one, as the Talusar do. Though sentiment has been shifting in the last decade, she never thought the Sundial would turn into a museum.
And she never thought Larke would use her to justify it.
Larke raises her voice as the crowd starts to mutter.
“Our orbit has encircled Earth for all my life,” she says. “This planet, which gave us all life, which still sustains us, has felt like an unreachable, impossible dream. But now it is within our grasp, and we must close our fist around it.”
She raises her glass with her free hand. Her knuckles are white where they grasp Elegy’s fingers.
“ ‘Where we come from is where we belong,’ ” she says.
Elegy remembers what General Thompson told her—that she could either be a pawn of the Sword or a tool.
Larke raises her glass even higher. Elegy wrenches her hand out of Larke’s, but it’s too late—most of the crowd is already joining the toast, a sea of glasses held aloft.
“ ‘Where we come from is where we belong,’ ” they murmur.
20
Theren’s head throbs. He probes at the corner of his eye to relieve some of the pressure, and looks up at the image of a man projected above the obsidian glass between him and Specialist Gylle.
Again.
The man in the projection is familiar in the way that some faces are always familiar, whether you’d encountered them before or not. Theren has been searching the recesses of his memory for the man’s face for the past hour. The problem isn’t that he’s coming up empty—it’s that he’s come up with too many possibilities, too many meetings that Rava called him to, too many bland faces.
Specialist Gylle taps her neat fingernails on the table in front of her. She’s a woman of precise lines, whether it’s the angle of her hair along her jawline or the shoulders of her jacket. She feels, to him, like touching the pad of his thumb to the edge of a razor. If he makes one wrong move, she’ll cut him.
Every day for the past week, he’s sat in this room for hours, going over every face she wanted him to recognize, every name she thought he might have heard, every detail he could summon from the miasma of memory that was the last four years. There are no windows here, no adornments. Just a table with an obsidian in its center and two chairs. Just Specialist Gylle’s gray eyes narrowing every time he fails to answer a question to her satisfaction, and the ringing of her voice when she makes a demand.
“I don’t know,” he says to her, and she’s already shaking her head.
“You aren’t even trying, Mr. Forint.”
“Not trying?” he says. “A mind isn’t a mine; you can’t just chisel into it and expect to find a diamond.”
“At this point I would be thrilled to discover anything of value at all,” she replies. “So far you have brought me nothing of clarity, nothing of substance. Did you have your eyes closed for four years, Mr. Forint?”
He clenches his teeth so hard they squeak. “If you would just—let me get some rest.”
She sweeps her fingers across the obsidian, and the image of the man between them disappears.
The first day he sat across from her, she told him his cooperation would be rewarded with restored privileges. The first of those privileges would be seeing his brother. At the end of every day, though, she informed him that he hadn’t been cooperative enough yet.
When will you give me something of value, Mr. Forint? she asked him at one point.
When I unearth this goddamn buried memory, he thought, but couldn’t say. Elegy said she would work on it, and he believes her. But he knows how crucial it is that he remember whatever it is Rava wants him to forget.
