They were a peculiar comfort.
I loved my godfather, despite his deeds. Whether that is evidence of a personal failing or a moral imperative to love those who were kind to one as a child, I may never know.
“At the Battle of Ceres, the Annihilo was broken nearly in half by Darrow’s flagship,” I continue. “Still she managed to destroy two new Republic destroyers and hold off his fleet until Carthii reinforcements arrived. She is durable.”
He leans forward gamely. “It would be interesting to board her.”
“How would you do it?”
His eyes trace her instruments of death. “Quickly.”
There’s that Moonie dry wit. I have grown fond of the man and his taciturn demeanor, but worry his blunt form of honesty will prove a poor fit for the games of the Core. As Grandmother said: “A courtier without a Dancing Mask is as vulnerable as a Praetor without armor.” Still, Atalantia would be unwise to underestimate the razormaster of the Rim. Not two months ago, he watched his father walk to his own death as a matter of honor. I would not cross him lightly.
“When Atalantia asks how long the journey took, you will tell her three months,” Diomedes says.
“You don’t want her to know how fast your ships are.”
“Strength always fears speed.” His heavy eyes search mine. “You profess a desire to make Gold whole. We are not fools. We know Atalantia will turn on us when she has the upper hand. Helios and the council believe you may be able to convince her against…rash action.”
“And what does Dido think?” He ignores that. “I will do all in my power. You have my word.”
“My mother believes this is a ploy for you to seize the throne. But remember: we will have no part in kingmaking.”
“You have my word on that as well.”
I mean it, and I think Diomedes believes me.
Damn my inheritance. All that matters is that we still the turmoil that wracks the worlds. Gold remains the only viable peacemaker. But not while Gold is itself divided. To defeat Darrow, we must heal the wounds between the Rim and the Core. For that, I sacrificed Cassius. For that, I would sacrifice myself. But would Atalantia sacrifice herself for anything?
I doubt it.
“His word,” a low voice drawls. His sister Seraphina joins us from the main compartment. “We’ve seen how mercurial that is firsthand. Salve, Accipiter Vega.”
She leans past me to pat the pilot’s shoulder with affection. Our pilot, Vega, is a child with ancient eyes. On the Rim, they believe the best pilots start at age ten and end at twenty. Vega is not yet twelve years standard.
My own pilot, Pytha, is superstitious of Rim Blues and has not yet lost her terror of the Moonies after their Krypteia secret police tortured her. Understandable. So for the duration of the journey, she has secluded herself in my quarters watching fifty-year-old Venusian holofilms and eating meditation mushrooms gifted to her by Diomedes’s grandmother, Gaia.
The sound of Gaia’s piano echoes in my memory. Perhaps Atalantia will know if I played it as a child, and how I could have forgotten. There are chasms inside that I cannot explore. Hidden truths, or lies, or evils my brain has hidden in shadow to protect myself. What lies beneath the shadow? If it is a construct of my grandmother’s, Atalantia will know.
“We should trust him as little as we trust that Core slut,” Seraphina says to her brother. Her eyes dress me down. “Less, even. At least she has soldier’s blood, not a politician’s.”
“And soldiers are more noble by default?” I ask.
She blinks and turns to Diomedes. “If I have to share air with this Corespawn any longer, I’ll castrate him.” She looks between my legs and raises a notched eyebrow. “If anatomically possible.”
At the end of our journey together, I find myself unusually embarrassed by my initial attraction to the vicious woman. Upon close-quarters inspection, I have discovered she has few of the virtues I respect—patience, prudence, grace, humility, compassion. What virtues she does have—honesty, loyalty, courage—are contorted by her natural disposition: diabolical hunger.
But my attraction still persists. Credit ten years’ separation from my own species, I suppose. Either that or I’ve discovered a latent predisposition for wild things, and shall be doomed for life by my taste in precocious women.
“If you can’t share air, hold your breath,” Diomedes mutters to his sister.
“We should not be here,” she presses. “We’re not ambassadors. I should be with the forward commandos and you at Lux’s side leading the legions. Not glad-handing sybarites.”
Diomedes kneads the joints of his jaw.
“We are what our leaders ask us to be,” he replies.
“And if they told you to clean latrines again?”
“Then I would be beloved by all Browns. And pray the mess cooks don’t serve Venusian food too often for supper.”
She snorts at that.
“This isn’t a dishonor, Sera. I was chosen by the council to represent the Rim. You were chosen by a consul. It is an honor. It is the honor.”
“Even though you don’t believe in this war?” Her eyebrows crawl upward. “Well, don’t worry, brother. I doubt you’ll see much of it. Damn Lux’s honor. Sending Raa when a Copper would have sufficed. We’re going to be hostages, even if this Core tramp decides she wants to ally with us before she sticks a razor in our backs.”
“I rather think it would be poison,” Diomedes replies.
Seraphina pats her brother’s cheek. “Either way, you’ll be a fine hostage. So good at following orders.”
She stalks back to join the escort soldiers.
“The Core isn’t like the Rim,” I say after she has gone, choosing my words carefully. Diomedes despises only one thing more than gossip. “Blood bubbles from spilled wine.”
“You worry that Seraphina will provoke someone into a duel.”
“Everyone, actually.”
“She is violent, not stupid. She demurs to me.”
“And if Dido gave her directives that contradict your own?”
He ignores my comment, but I know it strikes home. While Diomedes represents the Moon Council, his sister has only one master: her mother. And Dido is anything but conciliatory to the gens Grimmus. After all, along with the Jackal of Mars, they organized the affair at Darrow’s first Triumph, where Dido’s eldest daughter and her father-in-law were butchered.
Dido has not forgotten, nor has Diomedes.