PERSONAL RECORD: DESIGNATION ZETA4542910-9545E
ALBANY CITY, NEW TRITON
478.3.1.04
My stomach was in knots four hours later, when we stood inside the central southern buttress, waiting for transport.
Cam rubbed his palms on his pant legs. “I’ve never been to Founders’ Hall.”
“I have.” Tia fidgeted with the hem of the oversized shirt that might have been Eric’s. “I wish I had something nicer.”
“You look fine,” Cam responded, his eyes still on the buildings, which rose into the dome.
“Better than fine,” Eric amended Cam’s abrupt analysis, blushing a little as he added, “Always do.”
Her cheeks pinked.
Two group transports arrived, and we boarded. I took a seat at a window near the front. Nearly a third of the marines who had elected to testify climbed onboard, while the rest waited for the second vehicle. I wanted Nate’s hand in mine but clenched my fists instead. Twisting around on the uncomfortable, rigid seat, I watched the streets zoom past. The faux marble of the Hall of Records flashed in the distance, but trees soon hid it.
“Elinor will be fine,” Jordan said behind me, as if she knew I was thinking of Williams.
Kyleigh tugged on a short, beaded braid, then gestured out the window at the high wall separating Training Center Alpha from the rest of the city. “Is that where you grew up?”
“It is,” Max answered on my behalf, and we both cast anxious glances at James.
My friend should not have come. I told him so repeatedly, but he had insisted on accompanying me since no one had seen through his false identity. Daniel, too, had refused to listen to reason. Not even Yrsa Ramos had changed his mind. She had reluctantly agreed to remain on Thalassa, since all other medical personnel would be in Albany City. Daniel’s hand kept drifting to his shoulder, but no tether held a weapon.
Momentary thankfulness enveloped me. The marines had shaved their heads nearly five ten-days ago, when the Recorder called Rose Parker had died, and in the group of short-haired men and women, Daniel and James were less obvious.
The transport slowed to a stop outside Albany City’s municipal building. We disembarked, and it abandoned us in front of the white edifice.
Tia looked ill. “I shouldn’t have come.”
“You want to go back?” When she shook her head, Eric touched her arm. “It’ll be fine. We’re with you.”
Jordan moved to the front of our group and smiled, unintimidated by the ostentatious structure and its inhabitants. “It’s simply a building full of officious and obnoxious people who also got dressed and had breakfast this morning. Max, Tim, let’s get our guest of honor in there.”
The next transport arrived while we climbed the steps, and the boots of thirty marines followed us in.
Never before had I entered a building like this one. In every direction, decadent wood paneled the walls, graced picture frames, or offered seating. Importing such supplies from Ceres was symbolic of authority, power, and wealth. It disoriented me, no doubt as intended. Nowhere in the Consortium would we waste resources with such extravagance, and the excess did nothing to settle my nerves.
Security stopped us, and we waited while they made Zhen check the knife. She scowled at Alec when he muttered a quiet, “I told you.”
Jordan led us past framed art—abstract or precise, portraits or landscapes, but few as fine as Freddie’s—to a hall lined with wooden benches.
Behind me, someone whistled, low. I glanced over my shoulder.
Lars traced his fingers over the paneling. “And I thought that posh office was fancy.”
An assistant in royal blue stepped through a tall, arched door and offered us what I believed to be an insincere smile. “Venetia Jordan and guests? Please follow me.”
Jordan inclined her head, then seemed to shift slightly. Her businesslike stance did not soften, but grew more . . . catlike? Grace and controlled, easy power had always been part of the way she moved, but now her confidence encompassed something more, something I struggled to identify.
Nevertheless, I had the wild inclination to bolt back down the hall and hide in the city. The medical implant no longer pained me, so I tapped my right thigh before following Jordan through wide, glossy wooden doors. My left hand gripped the cane so tightly that my fingers should have dented the wood.
The room would have easily accommodated a group twice our size, but I did not take in the accessories and artwork, only the whir of drones.
At the far end, the deputy prime minister—an older woman near my height, her silver hair in an ornate pile of braids—waited with her hands clasped before her waist. To her right stood three Elders, their nine drones hovering like an asteroid field.
None of them held my attention.
My focus flew past the deputy prime minister, past the three Elders to the petite woman of Jordan’s age. Her Consortium greys were a shade darker than mine, and her elegantly shaped head gleamed softly as the three drones ranged around her. Solid grey eyes immediately found me. Behind me, I heard Daniel suck in a deep breath, and though they would not hear me, I mentally ordered him and James to withdraw to the center of the group.
Towering double doors shut with a muffled boom. The deputy prime minister probably spoke, but I did not hear her.
Nate leaned over and whispered, “Breathe. It’ll be fine.”
The Eldest’s gaze flickered to him and back to my greys and the blue scarf draped in defiance around my throat. The corner of her mouth lifted.
My blood chilled.
Fine? At that second, fine was the furthest thing from the truth.