35. Tempestas

tempestās ~ātis, f.

1. a portion, point, or space of time

2. a storm

I stand outside a Low Ward charnel tower and watch no one burn.

My breath is white among the metronome hiss of carbon dioxide gas venting improperly—not quite Winterfolly season, but close. The eternal smell of rotten garbage wafts up. Yellow condensation clings on buildings, on sidewalks, in every crevasse between the two as hard calcified scabs. This is home—rot and tobacco stains and broken glass.

They keep us like animals and use us like animals.

The charnel tower across the street sits wreathed by neon business signs: pawn shops, apothecaries, barber shops of the bloody sort—all of them hovering, waiting, colorfully begging for scraps. Higher up, countless hologram ads for hovercarriages and teas and water purification systems rotate; luxuries none living here will ever be able to afford. The Supernova Cup plays nonstop—Sevrith’s first fight is still running. Still, he winks at me.

They won’t let him rest.

I stand across from the charnel tower and watch people filter in and out in rags, in tears, in mourning. They don’t know they mourn empty bones; they don’t know the nobles have taken even that dignity from us. Where did Mother’s body go? Is it a flower now in some noble’s garden? Do they coo at her, water her and pick her and place her in their vases just so?

Where did my mother’s head go?

I clench my fist to stop it from shaking. Olric is my next opponent. He hates me more than Yatrice. Less polite about it, too. All I can think about are the databases, the record of how many riders were killed by each other in a match. It’s rare, but it happens. And it’s considered “legal.”

A baby wails somewhere, and the tram screams by in the distant rails woven above, blocking out all artificial sunlight. There’s a far-off drone of vespers in a dilapidated church, the far-off din of a holoscreen blaring footage of the Supernova Cup’s latest. Mirelle’s third match. She won, of course, in a way that looks as graceful as a dance.

An old woman waits beside me, sitting on a worn carpet with jars of stick-fried molerat out before her for sale. Her teeth are the telltale yellow of drinking ochre ale made of her own piss—oft safer than the pump water. She may know me, she may not, but she says nothing and I likewise. We watch the charnel tower billow smoke.

The old woman croaks beside me, “Well, lass? Are you gonna go in?”

There’s nothing left in Mother’s urn, but there are five circles left on marble. I swipe my vis over the old woman’s and transfer her enough credits to buy all the fried molerat and survive another month before turning away.

“Not yet.”

My vis pings: Jeria. I open it instantly, delving deeper into the alley to read in private.

JERIA: Hey Synali! I’ve got your results, but they’re kinda strange.

SYNALI: How so?

JERIA: Well, I’ve never seen a true AI, but I know how big they should be, and this AI’s network signature is five times bigger. So…it’s REALLY advanced. It’d take a lifetime to make something like this. The creator was really good. I say “was” because they’d be really old by now. Or dead.

I was right. Dravik is using true AI, but it predates him. Astrix must’ve made it. The elderly woman’s voice echoes into the street: “Hot, tasty molerat!” My fingers move like blurs.

SYNALI: Where is it located?

JERIA: That’s the strange part; its processing unit isn’t in any of the manse systems, but it’s definitely integrated itself into them. It’s acting like a barrier program—a bunch of incredibly complex firewalls. Except…it’s not trying to keep anything out. It looks like it’s trying to hold something in. Absorbing and scrambling output signals.

SYNALI: Hold what in?

JERIA: Dunno. A signature doesn’t tell you specifics. I think the majority of its traffic is dedicated to something beneath the manse. A steed, maybe.

SYNALI: So that’s it. There IS a true AI inside the steed

JERIA: No, sorry, it’s hard to explain; it’s interacting with the steed’s systems remotely, but it’s not physically located in the steed. It’s in something smaller, something that moves. A drone, maybe? Have you seen any around?

I double my pace back to the tram station, mind racing with possibilities. Would Dravik hide it in Quilliam’s vis as a way to deflect attention? No—Jeria would’ve told me if it was on another vis. I haven’t seen any drones on the grounds—not even cleaning ones or hunting ones. Something that moves, something smaller than Heavenbreaker…

My feet pause on the steps up to the massive flanked doors of Moonlight’s End. My scoff is so quiet I barely feel it leave—how did I not see it before? I cross the threshold, and something gold and little comes to greet me as it always does; tail wagging and sapphire eyes gleaming and rusted paws tap-tap-tapping the marble floor in excitement. Old, cherished, a present for a prince—a true AI gifted to Dravik by his mother. A literal guard dog, guarding her second-greatest creation.

I kneel and pat Luna’s head.

“Hello, you.”

Dravik has his vis open as I approach him in the tourney hall. The angels carved in the ceiling watch me move, the small crowd gathered in the alcoves clutching their autograph books. The prince’s face is placid.

“Your opponent is—”

“I know,” I cut him off. He adjusts his cravat.

“Are you certain you don’t need my advice?”

“I refuse to rely on the advice of someone who doesn’t tell me the whole truth.”

He exhales. “Synali—”

“There’s a true AI in that dog. Your mother made it.”

He’s quiet. I’m not.

“That’s why Heavenbreaker talks to me. That’s why I see other people’s memories when I black out in the saddle. Heavenbreaker sees mine. The AI is affecting us both. You knew. You knew this would happen, and you never told me.”

His words are careful. “Would knowing have helped you win?”

I laugh, bitter. “It would’ve made me trust you for once.”

A girl shuffles tentatively out from an alcove then, autograph book in hand and eyes shining on me, but a man beside her pulls her back. Someone in the small crowd wears a ruffled dress of blue and silver, and then I blink, and they’re gone around a corner. True AI doesn’t explain why I’ve started seeing Astrix’s outline in real life, those invisible feet in the grass, or why the prince sees her, too—our minds are not machines. But both our minds have been in a saddle before.

“What does the AI do, other than make me hallucinate?” I demand. “Does it make Heavenbreaker faster than the others? Stronger? It must have some benefit if you let it run rampant.”

“You sound almost offended,” Dravik says evenly. “As if you think the idea repugnant. Is winning not the most important thing, Synali? Or are you becoming tantalized by the idea of their so-called ‘honor’?”

I scoff. “I don’t care—”

“You clearly do. If I say the AI does nothing to improve Heavenbreaker’s performance, you won’t believe me; even after I gave you answers.”

“You keep giving me answers to questions I don’t ask and ignoring the ones I do.”

His silence is answer enough. Untrust enough. I knew it; he wants power over anything, like all the rest. He pretends to be on my side, but he wants to keep me in the dark so he can manipulate me. That’s all I’ve ever been to him—not an equal but a puppet.

I stalk toward the hangar.

“It used to be called a dragon.”

My boots freeze on the marble, and I look over my shoulder. Dravik stares at the hangar doors embossed with Saint Jorj.

“Saint Jorj and the dragon,” the prince presses. “That was the pre-War story. But then the War ended, and kings began, and the Ressinimus line took the dragon as their symbol. The church changed the story for them—from ‘dragon’ to ‘serpent.’ To the enemy. A sun becomes a supernova, and a supernova becomes a black hole.”

I narrow my eyes. It’s cryptic, but I’ve learned by now—he’s never cryptic in a useless way. He says words beneath words, and I strain to hear them.

“There are things in this universe that do not die, Synali; they only change their names.”

“Here we are again, Gress, with another fantastic match lined up for our viewers today!”

“Fantastic is a grievous understatement, Bero. By another rider’s misfortune, fledgling rider Synali von Hauteclare remains in the Supernova Cup! Today she faces none other than the scion of House Westriani—Sir Olric von Westriani! Will he burn Synali out, or will she ride the fire to unconventional victory yet again? Stay tuned for first tilt, folks!”

The saddle feels different today—stiff. Less like gel, more like plastic. I haven’t relented to Heavenbreaker—haven’t shared a thought with it other than the bark of movement in training. No softness since Sevrith, since the memory it pushed on me, since realizing its fluid was part of the enemy. Still it grasps for me, its bell-sound distant and barely there, almost sickly.

“to_____.”

I close iron boundaries over the word, but Heavenbreaker doesn’t back off. Like hunger, the steed stays heavy on me—a faint pressure on the perimeter of my mind, in my ears. There’s the urge to pop it, but I can’t; no head turn, no jaw flex, no move I make physically relieves the pressure. The floor of the hangar opens, and we drop into space, and the nerve fluid is cold, clammy all around me. The silver whorls move sluggishly, struggling to melt into the glass-clear vision like they normally do.

“something’s wrong.”

Our combined feeling, but I dislodge from it quickly. I jet my way to the sidereal tilt, stick in, and wait for my opponent to appear. He does, his steed thickly orange and cutting across the black of the universe like hot vermillion flame. Gray accents Olric’s steed like ash, like ashes denied—a sick, twisted joke of a color scheme for a graverobber—

Breathe. The pawn only moves forward.

Olric’s is a Destroyer-class steed—what they lack in speed, they make up for in power and maneuverability in their joints. He’s made of cylinders—limbs round and straight and defiant against all vacuum dynamics, a barrel chest thicker than Heavenbreaker folded in twain with the gray two-headed crow sigil overlaid. His cylindrical helmet is reminiscent of a hammerhead shark, and unlike most, his steed has an eye—a single small slit on the right side like a beady iris. He lies in wait on his tilt. There’s a whirring blur as he experimentally rotates his ashen hands at dizzying speeds—effortless. I close my hand, every finger creaking in slow response.

“On the blue side we have a veritable explosion of a man—a rider pulsing with power, presence, and prestige! Known far and wide on the Station for his outspoken personality, he’ll stop at nothing to win! Give it up for the illustrious Olric von Westriani of House Westriani and his steed, Flamedancer!”

The shrill of the crowd rings in my helmet. Flamedancer half bows to the camera drones, struggling against the magnetic tilt but determined nonetheless.

“Over on the red side lies a new addition to this year’s roster—she’s surprised us all with her unusual methods and maneuvers! A wild-card rider with no limits and unlimited gall, she’s shaken the Supernova Cup’s A seed with her unorthodox wins—let’s hear a round of applause for Synali von Hauteclare of House Lithroi, riding Heavenbreaker!”

The audience is always a roar, always eager to see me fail—to see me eaten. The silver lance materializes in my hand, gunmetal gray appearing in Flamedancer’s.

The commentators crow, “Begin the countdown to the first round—in the name of God, King, and Station!”

I am sure, without a doubt, that Olric von Westriani roars along with the crowd.

“In the name of God, King, and Station!”

For a god who’s abandoned us. For a king who uses our dead for his pleasure. And for a Station kept entertained.