Heart of Iron (Heart of Iron #1)(79)

She was so much more than he remembered, and he was exponentially less.

He needed to find another way to explain who he was. She thought he was here to kill her. She had called him Rasovant’s Metal—he wanted to take a shower to scrub the filth of those words away.

But anger would make him careless. That, at least, helped the rational part of him calm the rest.

“Could you go find the exit code for the moonbay?” he asked E0S once he’d calmed down enough to think clearly. “You should be able to access it from the security station in the East Tower, at the end,” he added, recalling the map of the palace.

E0S bleeped and whirled away.

If he kept down this hallway, it should lead straight to the South Tower, where Ana’s rooms were located.

As he passed another corridor, he heard a sharp shriek—like nails on a chalkboard.

He winced, slowing to a stop.

It was the same noise as on the Tsarina.

Tilting his head to listen, he turned toward the signal. Across the hall. He followed it. Yes, he was sure it was the same signal—the same frequency. It came from an inconspicuous door tucked into the corner of the hallway.

He touched the keypad, feeling for the microchip inside.

With a twist of his wrist, he visualized the data inside it and put it into the correct order. The keypad clicked green.

The door slid open and stepped inside, locking it again with a flick of his hand.

The sound was stronger now, crackling like a mistuned radio frequency.

The room looked like a study of some sort.

It was small and cluttered, with inlaid bookshelves holding massive tomes. Books written in Erosian, the Ilidian tongue, Cercian—even Solani, he realized as he ran his fingers over the strange letters on the spines.

Separating the books sat old globes.

He spun Eros, and somehow he already knew it creaked.

This was the Iron Adviser’s study—Lord Rasovant’s. He was not sure how he knew, but he was certain of it. Perhaps, when he was a Metal at the palace, he had been one of the Iron Adviser’s assistants. Perhaps he had helped the old man in the lab—the lab. Down the North Tower, at the end—

He quickly stopped the globe.

A Royal Guard’s uniform hung from a peg on the wall, not worn in years. Royal badges and medals adorned the breast pockets of someone quite accomplished. The Adviser had never been in the Royal Guard.

A node of information ignited in the back of his head, culling data records from the newsfeeds. While Rasovant had not been in the Royal Guard, his son had. It was around the same time Emperor Nicholii II served. Why had Rasovant kept his son’s uniform after twenty years?

A cold, strange feeling grew in his chest, but he rubbed it away.

Captain? he ventured through the comm-link. No response—except that grating, popping sound. Curious, Di moved around the desk to the sleeping holo-screen.

The signal became stronger, pulsing, jarring.

“Metalhead, your signal’s dropping. Hello? –lo?”

The screen flickered, and words typed out across the blank screen. They chilled him to his metal bones.

YOU SHOULD HAVE LET HER BURN.

He stumbled away from the desk, knocking over the Eros globe. It smashed on the floor.

“Metalhead? Hello? Sunshine, turn me up louder,” Siege’s voice pierced through the signal’s shriek. “Di?”

The sound in his head turned scraping, red, glaring—pain spiked through his programs. There was no doubt now—he knew this terrible sound like a dead man knew his murderer.

It is here, he told the captain, hurrying to the door. The program that infected the ship.

“Are you sure?”

Impossibly—

Through the noise in his head, his audio sensors alerted him to the sound of distant footsteps. Thirty, no, thirty-five feet away. Walking quickly. There were no other rooms on this end of the hallway. Whoever it was, was heading here.

“I’m trapped,” he said aloud.

The realization stabbed him like sharp needles in the back of his neck. If they caught him, they would arrest him, and there was an 83.47 percent chance that they would find out he was not quite human.

The HIVE might be a mercy after what they would do to him.

He tried to think of a plan, but the signal scraped across his thoughts like claws. Focus, he thought, but he could not—this was not like him.

He should not be distracted by a signal.

“I cannot think,” he told the captain. “I cannot—”

“Di, calm down,” Siege said. “Use that metal head of yours. I know you can. You’re the smartest boy I know.”

“I do not have many options—”

“THINK.”

He swallowed fearfully. Think. Hiding in the study was a poor choice—there was nowhere to hide. The bookshelves were impenetrable. But if he left now, he would be caught. He did not know—how was he supposed to—

He searched the room for something—anything—that could help.

Think.

What if . . .

His eyes strayed back to the Royal Guard uniform hanging from the peg.

The footsteps were fifteen feet away and closing. This had a 32 percent chance of success, but what other option did he have? This was Ana-level reckless.

Fitting, really.

He shrugged out of his jacket and trousers and laced up the boots, shoving his stolen clothes under the desk.