4. Caecus

caecus ~a ~um, a.

1. (literally and figuratively) blind

2. devoid of light

One does not bow in space to show respect after a match. One takes off their helmet.

If I somehow survive this match against Red Rider, I will take my helmet off in the saddle. I will be arrested and questioned, and then I will be executed. The guards will eventually find Duke Hauteclare’s body orbiting the Station. House Hauteclare will cry false, but the results of my corpse’s DNA test will come back true—Duke Farris von Hauteclare sired a bastard out of wedlock, and she killed him, then rode his steed in a tourney. Not a skirmish, not a qualifier, but a tourney—the most hallowed proving ground, the one place nobles can go to show the entire Station that they are beyond reproach in their honor, strength, and morals. That they rule for a reason.

It’s the tourneys where nobles believe nobility is the most sacred, second only to the bedrooms where their purebloods are sired.

The only thing nobles value more than their riding competitions is their blood.

This is why Father hired an assassin to kill Mother and me. It took me months to dig and bribe and fuck my way to this truth, but it eventually rose to the surface like all scum does. Duke Hauteclare killed us because he was planning to run for the open seat on the king’s advisory board. A bastard is the one true disgrace—if his rivals found out about my existence, they’d have used me to politically ruin his grand aspirations.

Mother and I were sacrificial lambs on the altar of Father’s lust for power.

I feel like a sacrificial lamb magnetically lashed against this tilt, a hexagonal altar holding me still for the final blow. It rotates slowly in space, and I rotate with it, stars turning upside-down and back again. Red Rider waves to me from the tilt opposite—with any luck, he’ll be punished for crossing lances with a filthy bastard like me. All I can do is wait. Space truly does go on forever, naked and black, but I won’t let the yawning fear of it in.

The saddle’s silver-whorled gel smells vaguely like citrus. It reminds me of Mother’s baking—artificial lemon and synth-vanilla, things so rare we could only afford them once a year for my birthday. She loved to bake—no matter how poorly she was feeling. If I brought a parcel of mealy flour home from the scavenge pits, she’d always find the energy to get up and make something. Our oven would hum and shudder, and the fresh-baked scent would cloud our little apartment, momentarily driving out the sulfur fumes and the scream of the tram.

I swallow the hard lump in my throat. I’d forgotten. Among all the blood and death and plotting…I’d forgotten that today is my birthday.

A commentator’s voice pierces my thoughts.

“In the red corner stands the illustrious House Hauteclare and their magnificent steed, Ghostwinder! Let’s give a warm round of applause for Ghostwinder’s endlessly bold and effortlessly graceful rider—Mirelle Ashadi-Hauteclare!”

The crowd’s applause shudders through my helmet.

“Lady Mirelle has too many wins under her belt to count, Gress,” the second commentator adds.

“That she does, Bero,” the first commentator agrees. “We’ll see if she can notch one more today. If you’ll turn your attention to the blue corner, we have the relentless House Velrayd and their steed, Sunscreamer! Sunscreamer’s rider is none other than the one, the only, the former child prodigy with the highest scores in academy history—Rax Istra-Velrayd!”

The applause is ten times louder for Red Rider. Rax. It’s a terrible name—like a dry protein bar on the tongue.

“Rax specializes in decisive timing,” the second commentator muses. “But Mirelle’s more of a power striker. Things could get messy, Gress.”

“Absolutely, Bero, but in the world of riding, ‘messy’ is just another word for ‘exciting.’ Riders, prepare your tilts!”

The tilt suddenly spins me upright and locks into place. I blink away dizziness—it’s a clear shot from me to the grav-gen, from me to Rax on the opposite side; his tilt is locked upright, too. Something hard begins to materialize in my hand, crawling piece by piece out of the metal of the steed’s palm—white, long, ending in a needle-sharp golden point. I know what it is even before it fully takes shape: a lance. The enormous weapon every steed has within them—a lance made to kill the enemy so long ago, but now used only for sport.

“Let the countdown to round one begin—in the name of God, King, and Station!” a commentator shouts.

“In the name of God, King, and Station!” the audience echoes titanically. Reality seeps in with their booming voices—I know the two steeds are pulled into each other by the grav-gen, and I know it’s a straight line at blistering parses per minute, the two of us passing each other barely parallel. In that moment of passing, we attempt to strike each other with our lances: helmet, breastplate, pauldrons, gauntlets, greaves, tasset…six places to hit, but only the helmet is considered an automatic win. Everywhere else is one point. How do I know all that? I don’t. I’ve never cared about how this game is scored. It just spilled out. Who…?

The thing in here with me knows. It eagerly tells me everything in wordless streams of certainty; it knows we hit. It knows the two gigantic humanoid steeds then separate out into space. It knows the grav-gen pulls us around and in again like a loop, an infinity symbol, for two more rounds. Whoever has the most points at the end of round three wins. If a rider is flung from their saddle, they lose. If anyone hits their opponent’s helmet, they win. The only thing allowed to touch the opponent is the lance—all else is considered a foul.

It knows all this because it’s been trapped here for ages. Trapped? It’s a machine…but I have no time to ponder this as the tilt suddenly disengages the magnetics and thrusts me into open space toward the grav-gen, which is spinning its core ever faster. The blue glow brightens—not enough to hinder sight but enough to guide me to the end. I should be terrified, but with the end so close, with Mother so close… It’s been six months since I’ve seen her. It won’t be much longer now.

I don’t know how to ride. I don’t know how to win.

But I know well how to grip the weapon.

The lance isn’t a dagger—it’s bigger. Heavier. I struggle to hold it steady, arm straining under the weight even though my human hand in the saddle cups emptiness. I feel it; just like Rax and his elbow touch, the lance’s handle is real and hard in my palm even when it only exists outside me in space.

Swallow. Push down the fear. Faster, I think. I want to ruin him faster.

I want to see her faster.

Gold plasma suddenly bursts hot from my back vents, my leg vents, pushing me out from the tilt as the generator pulls me in. The speed lurches my guts, my heart into my throat, and the stars start to blur to ribbons; the Station melts to gray-rainbow sludge, Esther’s stormy green surface blends together, and all I can see is the red steed as it nears horrifyingly fast, my white-gold lance biting forward like a gilded fang into the darkness. Rax’s red lance narrows to a point in my vision too close, his steed moving in slight shifts, changing, he’s somehow bracing against the massive g-forces crushing the life out of me—

We impact.

Too fast to breathe. Too fast to move. A millisecond of everything sears across my mind all at once: metal, light, fire, pain.

And then black.

The next thing I sense is darkness. Death, maybe.

The end is soft and shrouded in rhythmic beeping. Can’t move. My body—if I still have one—feels heavy, head heavier. Faint voices echo in my ears.

“—recovery time?”

“—months, at most. The nanomachine treatment was very—”

“What of— DNA results for the—”

“—as you asked, sir.”

Something soft lands on my forehead, and then one of the voices moves close to my ear, calm as still water.

“I’ll see you on the other side, brave one.”

I’m not brave. I merely endure.

My mouth doesn’t move, my throat doesn’t rattle—I’m a prisoner in my own body. There’s the shuffle of footsteps, a click of something closing, and then darkness claims me again.