67. Trucido

trucīdō ~āre ~āuī ~ātum, tr.

1. to slaughter; to massacre

Artificial sunlight shafts through the manse window and onto my white bedsheets, the withered trees and wilted grass outside far more comforting than any lush greenery. My eyes focus on the bloodred steed floating on the vis with its umber lance in hand—feather-shaped helmet, feather-shaped heels, a hawk sigil on the chest.

“That’s the end of the match! Can you believe it, Bero—Rax Istra-Velrayd has won six consecutive matchups in the first round!”

“It’s nearly a record for the books, Gress—two more like this and he etches his name in the Hall of Exalted Knights alongside Prince Lisander, Dyana de la Valfori, and all the other greatest of the greats!”

I watch the replay of Rax’s match frame by frame, watch his lance sink into the helmet of his opponent like projection sword through paper—as if it’s the easiest thing to hit a helmet under multiple g-forces while moving through space at double-digit parses per minute. Now that I know riding better, I can see just how skilled he is; no weaknesses, no reliances, just like Mirelle. Better. No…it’s not a matter of being better with Rax, it’s a matter of being; Mirelle executes flawlessly, but Rax’s steed is his body, his breath, his life force. He moves, and the universe moves with him.

Dravik knocks on the open door. Luna jumps off the bed to greet him, barking excitedly. When he walks over and sits in a chair and Luna calms, I find my voice.

“Leyda said the enemy isn’t really dead. When they’re injured, they turn into the nerve fluid and try to grow back from there…by eating our memories. Our minds.”

The prince smiles mildly. “Thoughts, memories—whatever is in a mind, they evolved to eat it. Pre-humans, they would eat one another’s minds. Mass cohabitative parasitism, I believe it’s called. Like ants if they could raise other ants to eat, and if those ants did not die but continuously grew back.”

I stare at his shoulder blankly, letting his words wash over me and through me and trying not to give in to the rising panic.

“Because of this, they are mentally connected to one another. The terms ‘hive mind’ and ‘neural net’ have been thrown around by steedcrafters, though neither encapsulates the full depth of their existence. Few human words do.”

He leans back in the chair. A curtain in the corner of the room wafts around the shape of an invisible woman.

“All living things require energy. The enemy is no different. Riders are the energy source. They always have been, since the knights of the War. Post-War technology is a hybrid thing, derived by studying the enemy. Hard-light is a derivation of their laser-making. Saddles are their coffins, repurposed into batteries. Anti-grav was created by studying their dark-matter excrement. The Station’s main reactor is, itself, a giant saddle being fed.”

I suck in a dagger-breath. “The heads being sent below the ocean—”

“The Station’s main reactor is there, filled with nerve fluid. It’s known as ‘the core’ by those with high enough clearance.”

“I’ve seen the main reactor,” I argue. “It’s solar powered. In the Mid Ward—”

“A convenient replica used to refine the energy generated by the true core. Telling the populace we’re harnessing the efforts of an enemy still very much alive would not be good for morale, and morale is the only thing standing between the imperative and total chaos.”

I clench my sheets and pinpoint my focus on the fleshy scar of my chest. “They’re feeding people’s brains…to a giant saddle?” His silence, my horror. “Everyone who’s died, every commoner, my mother—” I force words through the grater of my teeth. “All of them? For four hundred years?”

“They’re trying so hard to be born.”

The prince and I are both riveted to the voice; Quilliam stands in the doorway, glassy-eyed and with a pitcher of tea. A silver stream drips beneath his nose and into his mustache…just like when I bled. He doesn’t move for a good ten seconds, instead watching the curtain in the corner. Dravik gets up and takes the pitcher from the old man’s shaking hands with the gentlest voice I’ve ever heard him use. “Thank you, Quilliam. That will be all.”

Quilliam jolts at the weight lifting, as if he’s come back to his senses, dabbing at his nose and backing out of the room. This entire time…it wasn’t allergies at all. He’s slowly overloading, just like me.

“You—” I turn to Dravik. “You let Quilliam ride?”

“He wished to help. After Mother overloaded in Heavenbreaker, the king jetted it down to Esther to destroy it. But it survived. When I found it, it was in very bad shape. I needed to provide it energy to keep it in a steady maintenance mode until I found a proper rider. Quilliam offered to periodically sit in its saddle.”

“Her,” I correct, steely. “Her saddle. You didn’t think to tell me this at the beginning of our contract?”

“Would you have believed me if you hadn’t understood it for yourself? If I told you the enemy was alive and in the saddle, would you not have thought of me as more of a raving lunatic?”

Luna gets up and chases dust particles around the room, nipping at them in pure joy. The curtain in the corner is empty, swinging in the air. I knit my lips shut.

“I’ll send ahead the details of your reward for this win. Be sure to rest well—there is a triumvirate conference tonight. I will be in attendance this time—to ensure there is no repeat of the first.”

Talking to Rax, he means. Rax and Mirelle helping me. Some part of me hates Dravik and can’t hate Dravik, and what spills out is neither asking him to stay or go but something, anything.

“Your mother really is in Heavenbreaker’s saddle. I’m sure of it.”

Dravik pauses at the threshold.

“Leyda’s mother overloaded in Hellrunner’s saddle, and now she can see her. The saddle remembers them. That’s why we can see Astrix—you, me, Quilliam. Do you ever see Sevrith?”

Dravik’s disagreement is so small and sorrowful it only moves his brows. I suck in a breath.

“Just me, then. But why just us? Rax hasn’t mentioned seeing any past riders who’ve overloaded in Sunscreamer. Neither has Mirelle. Why just Hellrunner and Heavenbreaker? The true AI in Luna is holding something inside Heavenbreaker. Why? What needs to be kept inside?”

A thread wavers between us. He cuts it, leaves unceremoniously, and Quilliam toddles in with a pot of hot chocolate, looking much more lucid now.

“It’s good to see you feeling better, miss. Your win was very exciting to watch, if a little worrisome.”

I sit up in bed. “You watched it?”

“I watch all your matches, miss.” He opens his vis, the holographic screen scrolling down a carefully labeled folder of recordings—Miss vs Yatrice del Solunde all the way to Miss vs Her Highness. “I find myself uploading many of your match highlights to the vis before anyone else does—they’re quite popular with the common folk. I have many views.”

The pride in his eyes is unmistakable, shining like a star from light-years away.

“Nothing I’m doing is worth pride,” I murmur.

Quilliam is quiet, the steam from the chocolate pot spiraling, and then: “I know what you and the master are doing is very grim,” he says slowly. “But when I recall how hard you practiced, how much pain you put yourself through…when I see you triumph in the face of adversity, I can’t help but feel proud of you, miss.”

I clench my pendant, and for what feels like the first time, I smile at him.