I’m relieved the Premier can’t yet compel me to obey him. The Chief Architect, the one responsible for my transformation, tells me you can’t erase someone’s mind without also destroying it. The kind of obedience Ghosts show so quickly to the Federation is more difficult to replicate in the mind of an alert, intelligent human. The Architect hasn’t figured it out yet, but her teams are working on it.
Still, the Premier knows there’s more than one way to control someone. He showed me that the day he brought my mother before me, bound and gagged, a knife at her throat. I follow his commands not because I must but because I fear what could happen if I don’t.
My mother remains under guard at all hours of the day and night. Constantine has her moved to a new location every two weeks, depending on my behavior. If I am obedient and do as he says, she will spend those weeks in a luxurious place. If I displease him, he will move her somewhere much worse.
I’m allowed to visit her once every two-week period. He pretends to do this out of benevolence, but we both know it’s only so I can see with my own eyes how my actions directly affect my mother’s life. To make me watch her live comfortably or miserably, knowing it was my doing.
Constantine has eyes watching me everywhere, making sure I do as I’m told. So I do. I force myself to follow his orders for my mother’s sake.
But my mind itself is not trapped. Not yet.
The Chief Architect warns me this won’t always be the case. Every day that passes, our bond strengthens a little more. My clamp on my emotions is a little less effective.
When we return to the Federation’s capital of Cardinia tomorrow, the Architect will continue to work on me in the National Laboratory. Slowly, steadily, my mind will fade, until I won’t be able to tell my emotions from the Premier’s.
In another year, I will no longer have control over my own mind.
Karensan troops have lined up along the rim of the arena floor, two soldiers deep. At one end of the space, a gate slides open to reveal a cluster of prisoners being shoved forward into the light.
I recognize who they are based on the rags of their former clothing. The captured rebel leaders stand out, although their heads are nevertheless still held high. I secretly feel a sense of satisfaction at the sight. One of them has a severe limp, while another is still covered in dried blood. But even Caitoman couldn’t break their spirits.
Others wear remnants of Maran silk coats and fine linen shirts. Constantine hadn’t been lying when he said there were noblemen among them. Six months of wasting away in prison, laboring to clear the land around Newage and hauling supplies off Karensan trains to drag into the city, being questioned by Karensan interrogators and sentenced before Karensan judges, and then waiting, waiting, waiting for their execution dates to finally come.
A part of me is surprised that Constantine bothers coming to a mass execution like this. Surely he must have better things to do as Premier of the entire Federation than hang around Newage, delivering death sentences to Marans. And yet, here we are.
Maybe he just enjoys seeing a country fall to its knees. Maybe he wants to watch with his own eyes as rebel leaders are put to death.
Leaning against the balcony, General Caitoman smiles without smiling. I stare at him, both curious at what he must be thinking and grateful that I will never be bonded to that man’s mind.
As the prisoners draw nearer, I suddenly recognize one of them. His Maran robes are in tatters, sapphires and reds now stained brown. His shoulders, once proud, are now hunched in defeat. Prison and hard labor seems to have aged him decades in mere months. The lines of his face, though, are a crueler version of Jeran.
It’s his father.
My head swims at the sight of him, and I have to grasp my emotions tight to keep them from running away. Before Mara’s defeat, I’d witnessed his cruelty countless times, striking Jeran with his fists or dragging his son away by his hair. I’ve seen Jeran’s arms and face and neck bruised black and purple from this man’s abuses, heard Jeran try in vain to make excuses for his father and shy away from fighting back. I’ve dreamed of sliding my own sword between his ribs, had to have Adena talk me down from lunging at the man.
Now he’s here, about to face execution.
He looks straight up to the stands and locks on to Constantine. The hard glint in his eyes has changed to defeat, and I can see the fear sparking in him now at the sight of the Premier. Then his gaze flicks to me and catches on my face in recognition.
His lips part, as if he wants to call to me, but no sound comes out. I stare back coldly, but somewhere deep bubbles a grim glee. It’s the same feeling I get when Karensan soldiers cringe at the sight of me. Talin, the Basean rat who never belonged in the Striker forces. Now I stand beside the Premier of the Federation, dressed in the black of an executioner, ready to watch this horrible man die.
Immediately, my glee melts into disgust. In that small moment, I allowed myself to ally with Constantine. And in doing so, I have become the monster he has made me. I become a Karensan standing with him.
Constantine senses the shift in my mood. A friend of yours? he asks me innocently.
My hands curl into fists against our ledge and I refuse to answer.
Of the other Maran prisoners, two of them are Strikers—their sapphire coats are still distinct even after so long in prison. I know both of them; they were on a patrol at the other end of the warfront, but I can still remember training alongside them in the arena, getting promoted and chosen for patrols on the same day. The girl is Sana, the boy Eres. They used to be nice enough to me. No crueler than most, at least.
I concentrate on the lump in my throat. Some of these people were horrible to me, and some were kind. But it doesn’t matter. They’re still going to die by the end of the day.
“Any final words?” General Caitoman calls down to them.
There is a long silence. The rebel leaders stare back in defiance. But one of the Strikers—Eres—breaks down, sinking to his knees in sobs. I take a closer look at him and I can tell that every single one of his fingers is broken, the joints twisted and black with infection. He cradles his hands gingerly.
I have a vague recollection of how elegant Eres’s hands had been. I can picture the dexterity he had with his weapons back during our training days. Caitoman is good at figuring out how to take away what matters to you most.
Eres calls out for mercy. But he says it in Maran. So Caitoman just shrugs his shoulders and makes a mocking gesture at his ear, suggesting that he can’t understand.
My heart breaks at the cruelty of it. I look away so I won’t see Eres’s pleading eyes turn to me.
How will you do it? I ask Constantine through our link. When is your executioner going to arrive?
Executioner? At that, the Premier shakes his head at me. Who said they were dying today?
His words make me turn back to him. I look at him, and there, in his eyes, I see the answer.
Of course they’re not going to die. They’re going to be transformed into Ghosts.
And right as I think it, the gates at the other end of the arena open.
I hear the familiar grind of their teeth even before I see them emerge, one by one, from the darkness, blinking in the glaring light of the afternoon. Ghosts, a dozen of them.
Though the beasts won’t attack them, the Karensan soldiers stationed around the arena still shuffle uneasily at the sight of their approach. The largest of the Ghosts raises its head to the sky and sniffs, seemingly puzzled by its newfound freedom. Its long, tapered ears twitch, hungry for sounds to follow.