Blood of a Thousand Stars (Empress of a Thousand Skies #2)(25)
“I think it would move us in a mutually beneficial direction,” Nero replied.
After a pause, Rhee said: “I’ll consider it.”
“Don’t wait too long to decide.” Nero smiled—a real, genuine, pearly smile of predatory satisfaction that made Rhee’s stomach turn. He paused, eyeing both of her guards again. She saw every muscle in Dahlen’s body stiffen out of the corner of her eye. His anger was practically vibrating off his body—she could feel it coming at her in hot waves—but she resisted turning around. “After all, I wouldn’t want something terrible to befall you, Empress.”
She suddenly felt cold; she realized she’d balled her hands into fists unconsciously. He probably knew that her death now would be terrible press, even for him. But they both knew the truth: She was a target. The Empress was still far from untouchable, and Nero garnered more support with every day that passed. There were those who resented a young girl on the throne—one who had intentions of making decisions and challenging the existing order. The idea of her as Empress had been much more attractive when she was a withering rose on a far-flung moon, waiting to be plucked up and saved.
She ushered Dahlen and Lahna quickly back toward the elevator. The daisies awakened suddenly, and hovered over them as they passed.
“My next broadcast is in two days,” Nero said behind them. Rhee paused at the threshold of the doors. “I’d be obliged if you were my guest.”
Dahlen glared out the window over the city. It was Lahna who grabbed her arm and led her inside the elevator.
“Let’s not delay, Empress,” she said. “There’s still much to do.”
Part Two:
THE ABANDONED
“The honorable transcend; you of pure hearts must shed all desires that do not serve your purpose.”
—The Teachings of Vodhan
EIGHT
KARA
THE Frontline Physicians medcraft was a piece of machinery so enormous and so ancient, Kara could barely believe the artificial grav still worked on board. It had blasted off from Nau Fruma two days ago, and Kara had been sure to be on it—putting as much distance as she could between her and the place where Aly had abandoned her.
In another room, a DroneVision personality was reciting Rhiannon’s plummeting approval ratings. Again. Kara was thankful when someone turned it off. She wondered if the Empress would be better off if she hadn’t put a call out for Josselyn. The second-wavers were using that as an opportunity to call her coronation into question and undermine her rule.
Now, Kara fished the cylinder she’d found in the Lancer’s dojo out of her pocket. It had nearly broken in the blast, and she’d had to dig it out from piles of rubble.
It had become a habit, almost a reflex, to touch it, to handle it, to watch it unfold its holo. How many times had Kara projected its message, the one that had opened specifically for her? The coordinates led to Ralire—which was apparently where the overwriter was hidden. Kara was en route there now; the craft she’d chosen included a pit stop on the very dwarf planet to which she was headed, and now there was little she could do but wait.
When Kara had woken on Nau Fruma, she realized she’d been thrown by the blast and landed behind a concrete wall—miraculously, shielded from further harm. When she clawed free of the rubble, she saw the marketplace had been destroyed. The ground, the debris, her clothes and skin—the gray was everywhere, and she felt it seeping into the folds of her own brain. Ash blotted out the sky, and she breathed it in, coughed it out. Choked on it like everyone else running past and around her. She’d been knocked out from the blast. Her clothes were in shreds, and the prayer beads Aly gave her were gone. Somewhere she’d lost her backpack too, which contained the last of her meds. She searched for Aly, mystified how they could have gotten so far apart in the fighting. In the distance, her eye caught someone who looked just like him, boarding a craft without her.
Kara hadn’t even called out; she was so sure it wasn’t him, and that he wouldn’t leave her. But when she saw the blinking lights of the droid he had been dragging beside him, she knew for sure—and by then she couldn’t call out. Her throat had closed off, and she felt paralyzed with shock and humiliation. Aly had left her behind. Neither of them even looked back. Not once. Even though she’d risked everything to save him.
At least there was no room for heartache on the Frontline Physicians ship—not hers, at least. It felt like Kara had heard every sound of suffering a human could make in these past two days. It made her forget her own headaches, the way her jaw hurt, the nightmares she had. The medfloor was nonstop triage, though her primary duty had been carrying food and blankets around, translating as needed. No one used their cubes here, Kara included. In some cases, people’s had been damaged, mangled underneath the skin. But Kara just felt paranoid, safer if it was off.
She knew of military-issued translation nets that you could cast around a room, but Frontline Physicians couldn’t afford anything like that—and it wasn’t like the military was going to donate one anytime soon. Droids could do literal translation of rudimentary language, but Kara could speak in a handful of languages—and have an actual meaningful dialogue. Lydia had insisted she learn them, and would do things like switch from Derkatzian and Wraetan mid-sentence just to see if Kara could keep up. In retrospect, it was hard to tell if Lydia had been relentless and exacting because she expected Kara would one day be a princess or a fugitive. And it was hard to tell if Kara was thankful for such a skill set or still pissed she’d been lied to, had her memory erased.