Empress of a Thousand Skies(23)
“In hindsight, we should’ve avoided the ring finger. It will prove difficult to remove . . .” Niture said without emotion. “Next question: Are you sympathetic to the royal family of Kalu?”
“Of course,” Dahlen said. She thought she could hear a slight strain in his voice. “The last Ta’an girl has just died.”
She shivered, despite herself. It was strange to hear him talk about her like she was already a ghost.
“Let me rephrase. Do you support the Urnew Treaty?”
“I’m not a political man.”
“Let me guess. You’re a man of god,” the sergeant said, his voice dripping sarcasm. “Next question . . .” But his voice trailed off, and a terrible silence hung for a minute. When the sergeant spoke again, his voice was very soft. “Interesting piece. Is it silver?”
Rhee’s heart seized. Julian’s telescope—she’d left it on the console.
The sergeant continued in that soft, falsely courteous voice. “I thought your kind was too good to mine sacred metals. Where did you get this?”
After a short pause, Dahlen said, “It was a gift.”
The soldier droid whirred in the silence. “Negative.”
“Ah.” The instructor paused, a sneer in his voice. “Why lie about a telescope? Robot, second finger.” Another sound like the harsh crack of a whip. Rhee flinched as nausea rose in her throat. Dahlen only exhaled, a small sigh. How long could this go on? How long could she let it?
The walls and floor around her shifted again angrily, clamping down her leg. It seemed to be pulsing, as if in response to Dahlen’s pain—and the other man’s hatred. This was all her fault. It was her telescope. And if she’d just taken the scrambler, then she could’ve saved them both.
She heard her dad’s voice. “Ma’tan sarili” was the last thing he’d told her when he’d kissed her forehead. Such a simple phrase but such a tall demand—to pledge your highest self to someone else, to ask someone else to do the same.
Rhee felt for the knife and moved into a crouch. The wood released her as if it knew her intention. She’d fled her family’s ship and left them to burn up without her. Killed a man she loved like a father. She could not allow someone to die for her.
Get up, Joss had said the day she found Rhee alone and sniveling in the cellars. She hadn’t teased her or called her a baby, but Rhee had never forgotten the look on her face, as if Joss had expected more. Get up.
Now Rhee pounded on the hatch. Outside, Dahlen cried out for the first time. But she knew she had to save him.
“What the—?”
Rhee squeezed the knife in one hand. She breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth. She imagined her muscles expanding. Focus. That was what Veyron—dead Veyron, traitor Veyron—had always taught her. Too many fighters fell because they lost focus.
Then there was an explosion of splintered wood as the droid burst open the compartment. Air and light flooded in. She saw Dahlen restrained, staring straight at her—terrified, or perhaps angry with her. It didn’t matter.
The droid was a newer model, made to look like a shiny, metal man. It looked her up and down with its glass eyes. “Rhiannon Ta’an,” it announced, after its program had finished scanning.
“Empress . . . ?” The sergeant nearly choked. “You’re—you’re alive?”
Then the droid picked her up from the back of her tunic, like a mama dog picking up her pup by the scruff of the neck, and deposited her neatly in front of the sergeant. He was entirely ordinary—a paunchy Miseu with a pear-shaped body and deep yellow skin. Antennae came out the side of his head where a human’s ears would be, and the high gravity of Kalu had taken its toll: His face looked like a deflated balloon. Rhee had seen his kind countless times before—little men who squeezed into double-breasted suits, following around some adviser or another, oozing with compliments in hopes of being welcomed into the political entourage. He was like every low-level diplomat she’d been forced to shake hands with, who were quick to point out how articulate she was for her age, or how lovely her light complexion was—as if she were incapable of detecting a backhanded compliment. Essentially, he was an idiot. He was an embarrassment to their military.
“Isn’t this a pleasure?” he said with a traditional bow. “The Regent’s council will be thrilled to know you’re alive.”
He’d no doubt be thrilled to receive his reward.
“The pleasure is mine,” she said sweetly. “But I won’t be joining you.”
In one smooth motion, she threw her arms up, slipping out of the oversized tunic. Still clutching the switchblade, she landed on her knees and drove the knife into the sergeant’s foot with both hands. He screamed in pain. The droid grabbed her head and slammed it down to the ground, and for a split second her vision went black. With her face against the grate, she saw a flash of red as her vision cleared: the DNA scrambler.
The droid picked her up again. For a half second she was staring up into the cool indifference of its metal face. Then she saw a flash of green—a snake?—wind around its neck and yank the droid backward, forcing it to release her.
She scrambled to her feet. She saw now that Dahlen had managed to wrap a vine around its steel throat. For a second the Fontisian and the droid staggered together in a terrible dance, and the droid was squeezing Dahlen’s neck. Rhee was temporarily mesmerized by the sight of dozens of thick vines slithering from the wall, slowly winding their way up the droid’s legs, punching through its steel plates, tightening around its thick metal waist. Protecting Dahlen.