Goddess in the Machine Page 25

  Maret had never felt so dangerous. So out of control. Something had happened, and he had snapped. Andra’s mind was whirring, but some instinct led her hand to her pocket, almost unconsciously.

  Maret pulled her closer, painfully, muscles tightening. His breath was heavy as he lowered his mouth to Andra’s ear. “You’ll see. You’ve sole had a taste of power, but that’s all it takes.”

  Andra’s hand closed on the icicle dagger in her pocket, something in her unsurprised to find it there, had known all along. Calm washed over her.

  She felt it this time—something burgeoning up inside of her. In her and of her. Some extension of herself that had always been there, but she’d never known. It was as natural as breathing. As thrilling as flying. She called. She answered. She soared.

  “You’ll see,” Maret snarled. “One day you’ll make the same choices as me.”

  With nothing more than a thought, Andra rallied a ’swarm of nanos. For a moment, they hung in the air above them, a glittering fog. Maret’s eyes widened in fear, and Andra’s mind sent them a single purpose. Attack. And they did.

  TWENTY-SIX

  schism, n.

  Definition:

  a breach of unity.

  the division into separate and mutually hostile organizations.

  Maret dropped like a stone at Andra’s feet.

  Oh shit.

  What had she done?

  It hadn’t been conscious thought. It had been intuition and will and fear, and now Maret lay unmoving at her feet.

  She looked down at the dagger in her hand. It shone, the first rays of the morning sun glancing off it, sending sparks of color through it like a prism. Zhade had been right. Every time she’d been holding the dagger, she’d been able to use her ’implant. It must somehow be translating her ’implant’s colonial code into the updated Eerensedian code.

  It had been her who killed the man by Dr. Griffin’s statue. And it looked like she’d just killed again.

  She knelt next to Maret.

  Maret’s body.

  Maret.

  His skin was cold and slick, like Doon’s had been the night before. Tiny dots covered his skin, his pores expanding. Except they weren’t pores.

  They were nano’clusters.

  The Guv’s expression was frozen, like there was still something going on in his brain. Except there wasn’t. Whatever synapses that had been firing were suspended. He wasn’t dead. He was on pause.

  She’d put him in stasis.

  And based on the tight feeling in her chest and the wave of exhaustion overtaking her, it was costing her.

  “I reck that’s a bit problemistic, marah?” Doon asked.

  Andra had forgotten she was there.

  Doon raised a sword in question. “Should we?”

  Andra didn’t answer. The tile path was cool against her skin.

  The street-side door swung open and Andra jolted. A black girl with a modded eye and shaved head stood in the open gate, an arsenal of weapons strapped to her person.

  Andra tensed, ready to fight, but then remembered the dagger in her hand. The wrong thought at the wrong time, and she could accidentally kill or freeze someone else.

  The girl looked between Andra and the Guv’s body. “That’s not what I was expecting.”

  “Xana?” Doon asked. “What are you doing here?”

  The girl rolled her biological eye, while the modded one zeroed in on Doon. “I came to save your ass, what do you reck?”

  Doon sheathed her weapons. “All these rescue attempts. I could have gotten myself out evens.”

  “Fishes and wishes,” Xana muttered, approaching Andra and offering her a hand. Andra hesitated. “I had full opportunities to kill you if I wanted. Several times.”

  Andra let the other girl help her up. A cool breeze fluttered through the garden. Maret lay unconscious at their feet.

  “Prepped to peace, Goddess?” Xana turned back to Doon and clamped a hand on her shoulder. “Skilla is going to feed you to a pocket.”

  Andra tensed.

  “Relax. It’s mereish a figure of speech.” She tapped the Guv’s prone body with her toe. “Congrats. You killed the bastard.”

  “Actually, no.” Andra bit her lip. “He’s just . . . temporarily dead. I mean, yes I killed him, but I can bring him back.”

  That got Xana’s attention. “How? And why would you want to?”

  Andra swallowed. “I put him in stasis . . . I mean, to sleep. I can wake him up later. It’s kind of like what happened with Doon.”

  “For certz?” The younger girl bent over the body and poked it. “Massive!”

  Xana watched Andra, her eyes narrowing like she was trying to sort something out. “You want to bring him back?”

  Not really, no. But she had to. Maybe Maret was right, and he was the only thing standing between Eerensed and his mother. His rule was oppressive and cruel, but Tsurina would be worse. She would let the ’dome fall, destroy all the technology keeping Eerensed alive.

  “I need to bring him back,” she said. “I can’t leave him dead.”

  “Why?”

  Andra let out a long breath, running a hand through her hair. “If he dies, Tsurina takes over.” She didn’t have time to explain why that would be such a bad thing, but Xana seemed to understand.

  “Rare point. But you can’t stay here. You attacked the Guv. Even if you bring him back, your life is forfeit.”

  Andra turned the dagger over in her hand. It was beautiful and deadly, and if she could understand how and why it worked, she would be able to protect herself. She could force Maret to tell her where the AI was. She could fix the ’dome and avoid being sacrificed.

  Of course, she could also accidentally kill someone.

  Again.

  “I can take you somewhere safe,” Xana said.

  Andra didn’t look away from the dagger. “Where?”

  “The Schism.”

  “Uh, no thanks. Aren’t those the people who hate me?”

  “If I said neg, would you believe me? If you stay here, Maret will kill you. Even if you bring him back to life. This is your sole option.”

  The AI was here. As was Zhade, probably bleeding out on the dungeon floor. The palace was dangerous, but familiar. Better the devil you know, Andra thought.

  Maret stared unseeing at the sky, his pale hair stark against the bright-colored tiles.

  “We can’t just leave Zhade.” Andra looked to Doon, but it was Xana who answered.

  “You don’t have a choice.”

  Andra didn’t trust her, but she was right. A few feet away was the space where her maids had been killed. It could be her next. She just had to trust Zhade had known what he was doing.

  She sighed and held out her hand. “Andra.”

  “Scuze?”

  “My name. It’s Andra.”

  “Xana.”

  Xana stared at her hand, but didn’t move to shake it.

  “Follow,” she said, and Andra did.

  On the other side of the gate, she paused, gripping the dagger tightly. The city spread out ahead of them, and it was early enough that no one was around to witness their departure, or what Andra was about to do next.

  She didn’t really know what she was doing, but something did. Instinct or intuition. She told the nanos to release Maret, and it was like letting her heart beat. It was like running a marathon.

  She gasped for air.

  A masculine scream rent the air. It had worked. Maret was awake.

  They took off running toward a nearby alley, but it was too late. There was a shout behind them and then the sounds of a laser’gun. Shots pinged off the cobblestones at their feet. Doon reached for her swords, but Xana stopped her.

  “Neg, let’s go!”

 
They ran, and several realizations bubbled to the surface of Andra’s mind.

  Swords were ineffective against ’guns, so why did the guards and soldiers use them? Because, Andra knew, complex tech could only be controlled by Maret’s crown. Her mind went back to the day of the Awakening ceremony. The assassin’s attack that Maret had stopped. Just in time.

  It had been a setup. Maret had sent someone to kill her, bringing the weapon to life with his crown, just so he could be the one to save her.

  Andra’s memory skipped forward to the man in the alleyway, the one Maret claimed had been a Luddite, just like his mother. Had that been a sham too?

  All of this ran through her head in an instant, and on its tail, the reminder that Maret wasn’t the only one who could control tech-nology right now.

  Shots rang out around them as Andra pulled the dagger from her pocket and stopped, standing her ground. Maret stood silhouetted in the courtyard gate, pale hair hanging limp, black robes disheveled, a silver ’gun pointed at her.

  “Don’t!” Xana said, grabbing Andra’s arm, pulling her out of the path of the ’gunfire. A shot pinged off the icepick dagger, shooting it out of Andra’s hand. It clattered against the cobblestone.

  “Wait,” she shouted, but Xana pulled her away. “I need that!”

  “Do you need it more than your life?” Xana growled.

  Doon grabbed Andra’s other arm, and together, they dragged her through the empty streets of Eerensed, leaving the icicle dagger behind.

  * * *

  Andra and Doon followed Xana through the city, the Rock looming behind them, a dark silhouette against the ’dome. Andra felt hollow. Extra aware of her faulty ’implant, like one of her senses was misfiring. The sounds of ’gunfire had long faded, but Andra still felt a prickling sensation on the back of her neck.

  The sun peeked over the horizon, pricking the rainbow sheen of the ’dome. She could now see clearly the black decay of dead nanos, thousands of jagged scars running across the ’dome’s surface. Wind pounded against them as they ran, and Andra thought she could hear a distant groan, as though the ’dome was straining against the weight of just existing. Andra ran faster. Sweat slicked her skin and she peeled off the cos’mask that made her look like Ahloma, tucking it into her pocket.

  The farther they went, the tighter the streets, the smaller the houses, until suddenly they found themselves at the edge of a cliff.

  Not a cliff of rock, but houses. Dark ragged homes were stacked one on top of the other, rising up in jagged, tilted levels, the floor of one home’s porch forming the roof of another. Like a hive. Xana tilted her head, gesturing for them to follow, and then with a leap, she descended onto the top level.

  They had to zigzag from one platform to another, sometimes dropping farther than Andra would have liked. The ground groaned when they landed, unstable. It wasn’t made of rock, but of compacted dirt. It felt like one good leap would level the entire cliff.

  “The Hive!” Doon chirped, hopping from porch to porch (or roof to roof, depending on how Andra looked at it). She landed deftly, as though she were a rock skimming across a pond. “This is where I aged up. Before Wead left.”

  Andra followed awkwardly, her feet unsure, the nagging sensation of danger getting stronger, a dull throb in the back of her skull.

  The sun had breached the horizon by the time they arrived at the bottom, and the Hive was starting to come alive. People were calling to their neighbors across rooftops. An old man beat a rug into submission, plumes of dust sparkling in the sunlight. Kids chased one another, hopping from porch to porch, their mothers yelling after them.

  Andra didn’t know what she was walking into, and she’d already second-guessed herself a dozen times since they left Maret at the palace. This didn’t actually solve anything, except allow Andra to live another day. She needed to come up with a plan that got her back into the palace to find the AI, to fix the ’dome. For now, all she could do was run.

  “Hurry,” Xana hissed, and Andra realized she’d been staring.

  Xana led them to the edge of the Hive. Behind a large boulder lay a small, unguarded entrance, nothing more than a glorified sewage drain. Xana brushed off an overgrowth of vines and trash, revealing a rusty grate underneath. It lifted with a squeal, and Andra winced. They climbed down a ladder into the dark. The rungs were both gritty and slimy, and Andra tried not to think about why as they descended into the black underbelly of the city. When she reached the bottom, her feet landed with a squish. It was too dark to see, but she imagined they were in a tunnel of some sort. It was murky and dank and smelled like sick. She followed the sound of Xana’s squelching footsteps.

  Within a few steps, her boots were drenched with . . . whatever she was walking on. The hem of her pants grew heavier. Then started clinging to her legs.

  But you’re alive, she told herself. She wouldn’t be if she’d stayed at the palace.

  Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dark, and after a while, she could almost see Xana ahead of her, this stranger leading them to god-knows-where.

  “I wish Zhade were with us,” Andra mumbled.

  “Why?” Doon whispered. “He’d just get us into trouble.”

  “He rescued you,” Andra hissed back, cutting Doon a sideways glance. She could just make out the girl’s shape in the dark. “You didn’t have to stab him so hard.”

  “Scuze. He’ll be evens. Sides, you imagine he did that for you? He could have come with us. The stabbing was to give him an excuse. He wanted to stay.”

  Andra bit her lip. A few weeks ago, she would have agreed—that this was just some grand plan of Zhade’s, that he was being selfish. But now, she wasn’t so sure. He’d saved her from the men by the ruins, he’d held her while she’d cried, he’d taught her how to survive Eerensed. More than that, it almost seemed like they were building a friendship, tossing jokes back and forth, giving each other support. If he’d needed to stay in the palace, it must have been for a good reason. At least, Andra hoped.

  Their footsteps quieted as the ground grew firm under their feet. Andra followed Xana’s silhouette, until she realized she could distinguish the color of her jacket, see the stubble on her shaved head. Doon turned and grinned—the expression either cheerful or foreboding—before skipping ahead, her swords still sheathed. There was light in the distance. The end of the tunnel.

  It took longer than she thought it would to reach, but not long enough. Xana gave her an appraising look, or maybe a warning, her modded eye glowing in the dark. She stepped out of the tunnel and Andra followed.

  She found herself in a huge underground cave lit by flickering torches and crude kinetic lamps. People were everywhere, the soft murmur of voices filling the space, punctuated by raucous laughs. The air was crisp and chilly and stale. Most of the cave was a giant open space, filled with kiosks and carts and scrap huts, but a few structures were built into underground ruins. The whole place had a slapdash, hurried feel to it, and Andra didn’t have time to take it all in before someone saw them and gasped.

  A murmur built up among the people, and then suddenly they were backing up, hands pressed over their mouths or hearts, eyes wide with fear.

  At least they weren’t trying to kill her. Yet.

  “You’re always bringing back strays,” a husky voice said.

  Andra barely had time to register the shame on Xana’s face before she was shoved against the wall of the cave. Jagged rocks dug into her back, and she gasped as a hand tightened around her neck.

  “What is this?” the woman choking her asked. Andra coughed. Damn it, this was the second time she’d been grabbed by the neck in as many hours.

  “It’s the Third,” Xana said.

  The woman raised a perfectly shaped brow. “I can see that. What is she—”

  Before she could finish, a sword landed at the base of the woman’s neck. Andra saw a single drop of blood,
but otherwise the woman was unhurt.

  “Let her go,” Doon gritted through her teeth, her other sword poised to strike.

  If the woman was nervous being held at sword-point, she didn’t show it. Her expression only changed by a fraction, just a bare curling of her lips.

  She relaxed her hold, and Andra fell to her knees, gasping. No one came to help. Xana didn’t seem particularly fond of her, and Doon was busy holding their host captive. Andra spluttered and propped herself up against the cave wall.

  A crowd had gathered, their eyes fixed not on Andra, but on the woman who’d choked her. They seemed ready to jump to the woman’s defense, but only if she asked. No—commanded. Something about the way she held herself, about the look of adoration in the crowd’s eyes—in Xana’s eyes—made it clear this woman was their leader. She wore formfitting pants and a tight tank top. Some kind of dagger was strapped to a thigh holster, a sword hung at her side, and a battle-ax was slung across her back. Her dark hair was pulled sharply away from her pale face, revealing a myriad of scars and fading bruises.

  “Put down your swords, Doon,” she said. “You’re outnumbered.”

  A few members of the crowd tensed, hands drawn to their sides, to hidden weapons. Guards, or perhaps a militia. They were dressed in plainclothes, and there weren’t many of them, but the undisciplined gleams in their eyes felt more dangerous than even Kiv’s intense stare.

  “Outnumbered, dunno,” Doon said. “But not outmatched.”

  Something flashed in the woman’s eyes, and Andra tensed, but she just huffed out a short laugh and raised her arms in surrender.

  “We’ll convo later,” she said, and Doon relaxed her stance, but didn’t put away her swords. The woman crossed her arms and surveyed Andra. “So you’re the new goddess.” She gave her a look that said she wasn’t impressed. “And the Guv’s new pet.”

  Andra was about to argue, but Xana beat her to it.

  “She killed the Guv,” she said, turning a cold eye on Andra. “And she’s not exactish a goddess. She’s a fake.”