Heart of Iron (Heart of Iron #1)(52)

“But Robb’s innocent,” Ana argued, even though he probably deserved death just for dragging her into this. “He shouldn’t be—”

The old woman extended the crown. “Take it.”

She glanced back at Robb, and he nodded as if to say, Go on. She wanted to punch him. She wanted to drive his face into the Goddess-damned floor. How could he bet his life on the crown somehow not rusting for her? Because it would.

Wouldn’t it?

She was afraid as she took the cold metal crown. It was heavier than expected, and colder, too, the tines sharp enough to cut. A small crowd had gathered in the doorway, mostly servants and royal guardsmen, and they leaned in, holding their breaths, waiting for her death sentence.

Her hands shook.

This was the end, and she wished it weren’t here. She wished it were somewhere in the stars, beside her best friend. She just wanted to see him one more time. Being near Di had filled her with so much light and goodness that every moment without him felt like suffocating in space. He was gone, and there was no rescuing him. There was no way back. If she’d never boarded the ship, if she’d stayed on the Dossier like Siege had asked, maybe Di would be alive.

And maybe they would have had more time to say good-bye.

Goddess bright, let me see Di again, she prayed for the first time in her life, and pulled one hand away.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“It didn’t rust,” murmured the Royal Captain—and the young Cercian fell to her knees, touching her forehead against the cold marble floor. “Your Grace.”

She stared in awe at her fingers, dirty with blood but clean of rust. There was some mistake. She was still dreaming. She was not . . . she could not be . . .

But then one of the servants in the entryway fell to his knees, then the Royal Guard, then Robb, like dominoes tipping over. The Iron Adviser lowered himself to the floor and pressed his face to it, and the Messiers bowed with him.

And finally, the Grand Duchess stood from her twisted throne, and bent as low as her old age would let her, until Ana was the only one left standing.





Di


“Stand by. . . .”

There was a light.

“Rebooting . . . Importing memories zero through zero-zero-zero-seven-five-eight.”

He blinked—blinked? Darkness, light, darkness, light—

Warmth spread through his wires, igniting fuses, as data rushed into dormant programs, bringing them to life with a single spark. Another line of data joined it, and another, piecing together like swirls of DNA. The warmth connected synapses, united links, corrected damage, reassembling something that had broken on the far side of Palavar.

“Forty-five percent complete . . . fifty-five percent . . . sixty percent,” the computer relayed.

Memories—a word. A word meaning events. Meaning moments. History. But whose history? His eyes wandered the room. The immaculate cabinets. The rusted metal walls. Thoughts filled the darkened crevices, lighting them, expanding energy to his fingers and toes. He raised a hand over his face to block the bright light. His fingers moved when he told them to.

“Eighty-nine percent.”

His hands began to shake.

Memories—oh, oh, memories.

History. His history. Moments. Seconds. Days. Years. They took shape, every missed opportunity and fractured mo-ment and borrowed minute. The anythings, the somethings, the everythings, so vast and so full and it—it was over-whelming.

“Ninety-five percent complete,” the computer chimed. “Stand by.”

He cringed—pressed his hands against his face, trying to stop it.

It hurt.

Everything hurt like despair hurt, an ache so deep in his chest, it felt like a hole at the center of the cosmos. Like hope hurt, too, rising, suffocating, a tingling in the back of his throat. Everything hurt like laughter hurt, all over his sides and abdomen. Like anger hurt, nails buried into his palms. Like happiness, rushing across his fiber optics like fizzy soda. Like heartache.

Like love.

Longing.

Remorse.

Hate—

His body went rigid, tensing, reactions he couldn’t control, couldn’t stop.

“Ninety-nine percent complete. Installing rationalities.”

The hurt doubled, tripled, the whys and the hows colliding. His head felt like it would explode. Empty and full at the same time, the pain dissolving all his thoughts while filling him full of—of something else entirely.

Of so many memories.

He—he wasn’t sure he wanted to know them anymore.

Those seven long years. The fit of a pistol, the weight of induced gravity as the starship sped through the finite expanse, the night watches he spent alone in the cockpit, and the moments sailing across the stars, the way his fingers folded between someone else’s—but whose? He remembered another code invading him, scrambling him, making him less and less and less until he was nothing at all.

He remembered that he hadn’t thought about himself in those moments, that there was something else spread in the space between those seven years ago and now.

Something curious, and something rare.

“One hundred percent.”

Then—the memories stopped.

“Transfer complete. Subject is now free to disconnect.”

He squeezed his eyes tightly closed and groaned. His head throbbed.