Empress of a Thousand Skies(18)

Dahlen’s expression remained flat. “Which is?”

“I want to go after Seotra first.” A flower bloomed within seconds off the side of the stump she sat upon, and angled itself up to her.

“Go after the Regent himself? The celebrated war veteran who wants you dead?” he asked. Rhee couldn’t tell if he was mocking her or if he was simply intrigued by the idea. “Isn’t it enough that he is trying to kill you? Why seek him out; why give him the chance?”

“If he’s trying to kill me,” Rhiannon said, “he won’t expect me to come looking for him.”

Dahlen squinted at her, and for a moment he looked almost impressed. “He’s not without his own contingent of Tasinn. I understand that all the important Kalusian officials have escorts.”

“We’ll have to figure out a way around them,” Rhiannon said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt.

He tapped his fingers across the wooden console. It was practically the first human gesture she’d seen from him. In the hours she’d known him, he’d been all straight lines and sharp movements. She saw in detail the ring she’d noticed when he was fighting Veyron: The outline of a horned animal was etched into its black metal. She wondered if it was another religious relic.

Dahlen started to speak—but just then, a red light began to blink on the screen of his console.

“What’s that?” she asked. Rhee saw they were approaching the Outer Belt, near Dembos and the remains of Wraeta. “What’s happening?” A red blinking light was never good.

“It’s a checkpoint,” he said tersely.

Their pod shuddered violently, and the pill fell from Rhee’s hand and through the grating. She dropped to her knees and peered through the metal slats to see where it had rolled.

A low beep sounded through the bridge. The unfurled leaves and open flowers closed up into tight buds and retreated toward the walls.

“They’ve locked a grav beam on us.” Dahlen was losing his cool. “We’re being hailed.”

“I thought you said we were undetectable.” Panic was drilling through Rhiannon’s blood, like a secondary pulse.

“We were,” he said. “At least we used to be.” He shook his head. “The UniForce must’ve upgraded their systems.”

Dahlen held a finger to his lips, indicating silence. He pressed the comm link on the console. “This is the Genoma answering hail 2787 from Dembos. Over,” he said. He spoke in Kalu, the official language of the UniForce.

“Genoma, this is Dembos,” a male voice said. He had a twang that Rhee would’ve placed from the southern hemisphere of her planet. “You’re flying in Kalusian airspace. We’ve instituted a mandatory checkpoint across the southern belt. Your vessel is unscannable—looks like organic matter? Either way, we’re going to have to board. Over.”

“I regret to tell you that’s not possible. This is actually a Fontisian vessel, composed of organic matter from the sacred forest of Dena,” Dahlen said, sounding light and self-assured, as if he weren’t harboring an escaped princess. “According to the Urnew Treaty, article nine, these vessels are under religious protection. Over.”

“Genoma, please be advised that Kalu has declared martial law. Boarding your vessel in three minutes. Cooperation mandatory. Over.”

The transmission went static, and the ship shuddered once more. The Dembos grav beam was pulling them in.

“Martial law?” Rhee repeated.

Dahlen’s blond eyebrows angled down toward his nose. His complexion was ashen. “It means your military can use force—”

“‘—use force and suspend certain civil liberties in periods of war or civil unrest,’” she said impatiently. “I know what it means.” Everyone always expected princesses to know nothing except how to bow and smile and curtsy. “Martial law hasn’t been declared since the start of the Great War . . .”

She trailed off. Because suddenly, she understood.

Martial law meant that Kalu was preparing for war.





SIX


    ALYOSHA



“COME on come on come on!” Alyosha muttered. Air whipped up through the overhead vent as soon as the bay door sealed behind him. He needed to get to Vincent, but the Revolutionary was as old as dirt—the air lock took forever to stabilize. His suit was a one-man sauna. Sweat stung his eyes. His tank top was plastered to his chest and back. The visor of his helmet had fogged up so that he could barely see.

Even after all these years, the air lock freaked him out. He’d never gotten used to the change in pressure, never could shake the feeling that a giant with a vacuum was up there sticking it to him. But what was worse was the suctioning sound—loud, vicious—like something had crawled into his ear and was pulling out his soul.

Soul. A word hardly anyone on Kalu used. The truth was he still thought about his soul a lot. Blame it on all those years of prayer. They were all the same: dark, drooping tents with a Fontisian preacher front and center while he riled up the Wraetan folks to praise Vodhan. An impossible, stifling heat that left Aly feeling like he’d spent the entire service three inches from a bonfire. But if Aly stayed very still, if he behaved, if he didn’t fidget, maybe he’d have a cushy afterlife. That’s what he had been told, at least. He’d believed it for a long time, too, back when he still prayed, and back when he believed in a lot of things.