The yacht commenced banging its sides into a slip.
What kind of girl, Justen wondered, possessed such a gorgeous vessel as this and treated it with all the care of an old shoe? The same kind whose papa had purchased her a personalized pet, Justen supposed. If she did end up sinking her yacht, Justen had no doubt her aristocratic father would just buy her another, and another, and another still.
If Persis weren’t the quickest way to gain access to Princess Isla, he would have found a way to ditch her by now. But he didn’t have a better plan for getting into court, and he had to admit that before the docking procedure, the trip around the point of Scintillans and up the west coast of Albion had been picturesque—all blue, sunlit sea and wind that smelled of salt and fire. Justen had remained on deck, enjoying the view of the cliffs receding into the smooth slopes that characterized the outer shores of Albion, watching the sea mink frolic in the wake, and wondering if maybe, all things considered, he hadn’t been spending a bit too much time in his lab.
At first glance, Justen decided the royal court wasn’t so very different from the stories they told about it in Galatea. The water organ was gorgeous if ostentatious, the outrageous clothes nearly blinded him, and the appallingly decadent flutternotes whizzing every which way were apt to give him a headache if he remained in their midst for too long. He’d learned about their operation during his medic training and had always been relieved that the craze hadn’t caught on in Galatea. Parasitic biotechnology that drained the body’s own nutrients to operate? It was foolish and unnecessary. Why couldn’t the Albian aristos use oblets, like everyone else? He fingered his own precious oblets, still hidden away in his pockets. Their smooth edges clinked against each other, solid and reassuring. He may have left his homeland and his sister, but at least these would be safe . . . and out of his uncle’s hands.
Thankfully, he saw no fellow Galateans in the crowd of the courtyard. Though anyone in the Albion court would probably be an enemy of the revolution, he didn’t need a report of his whereabouts to reach Uncle Damos so soon. Even more thankfully, his host ushered him quickly through the throng and into a small, white, orchid-draped antechamber to await an audience with the princess regent. Persis had walked into the palace with her sea mink like she owned the place, and had to brush off several courtiers along the way. And she’d managed to bring him to the princess straight off, too. Persis must have been telling the truth, then, that they were friends.
And, yet, she was the daughter of an aristo married to a reg. Would wonders never cease?
The princess, too, looked just like the images he’d seen of her. She was a few years younger than he was—about Persis’s age, with silvery hair and an all-white gown that seemed almost practical after the rainbow of colors and iridescence he’d passed through outside, even if it was covered in waves of floating feathers and crystals that tinkled as she moved.
One of the standard complaints about the old Queen Gala had been that she’d acted like an Albian woman rather than a Galatean one. Shallow, silly, and more interested in parties than politics, in clothes than in culture. Justen could only hope that Isla defied expectations. Her friendship with Persis boded ill. He’d heard the princess didn’t wield much in the way of true power in Albion. And with an airhead like Persis as her lady-in-waiting, perhaps there was good reason for that.
Then again, beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“Greetings, Galatean,” said Princess Isla, spreading her arms in a gesture of welcome. “My friend Persis tells me I’m about to be bowled over by you. But given the number of Galateans that wash up on my shores these days, I wonder what she finds so impressive this time.”
Persis looked at the princess and scowled. Isla smiled serenely. The aristo favored her princess with the ghost of a curtsy. She was holding yet another half-empty bottle of supplement drink. Justen imagined her tongue must be just about curdled from the sugar overload by now. She obviously couldn’t wait to get back to her palmport. Why anyone would subject their body to that kind of punishment when an oblet could run off its geothermal battery for weeks at a time was beyond him.
“You two go ahead and have your little chat. I think I’m recovered enough to boot this up again, right?” Persis waved her left hand at Justen.
He gave a noncommittal shrug. She’d probably be fine, given her supplements, but he couldn’t imagine she had any messages left to send after the flurry on the Daydream.
Palmport advocates said it was as close to telepathy as the human race had ever come, but Justen didn’t think it was worth the cost. Besides, you still needed oblets for data storage and any large information transfers. Palmports were only as good as the memories of the people using them, their data little more than digestible, untraceable nanosugars. And given the type of people who ran them—people like Persis—they were useless for anything more than silly games and gossip.
Persis seemed satisfied anyway. She plopped onto a nearby cushion and ripped off her wristlock. He swallowed his scowl. What he had to say was not fodder for Albian gossips.
And what, exactly, would that be? Certainly not the whole truth. Princess Isla was an aristo. If she knew about his involvement in the revolution, she’d put him in prison and then he’d never be able to right the wrongs he’d caused. Better to start with part of the story.
“Your Highness,” Justen said, finding those words every bit as difficult to speak as “Citizen” had been to hear. He guessed not all his revolutionary principles had been extinguished, despite what he’d learned. He gave her a short, stiff bow, then straightened and looked her right in the eyes. She was a royal. Not a god. “My name is Justen Helo—”
Her eyebrows rose and when she smiled this time, she looked less like a monarch and more like a teen getting a birthday present. Even from royalty, then.
“I’m the grandson of Darwin and Persistence Helo. And I’m here to ask you for asylum.”
At this, Isla blinked in surprise, but Persis just looked bored. Justen wondered if she even knew what “asylum” was.
“And,” he added, “I need it to remain a secret.”
“Why?” asked Isla. “I assure you I would have no compunction celebrating far and wide that a Helo would prefer living in Albion to braving the revolution.”
She was sensible at least, even if she had silly taste in friends. Maybe she just kept Persis around for fashion advice, though Justen wondered how advisable even that was. “I’d prefer my countrymen think I was just visiting your island,” he said, “at least until I can contrive to get my little sister out of Citizen Aldred’s house.” Even if his uncle guessed the truth, a public lie might be enough to protect Remy.
Persis lifted her head, her eyes keenly trained on his face. “Wait, that . . . revolution guy in Galatea has your sister imprisoned? Now that’s interesting!”
The princess batted her hand at her friend, and Persis sighed and returned her attention to the diagnostics hovering above her palmport disk. Justen bit back his frustration. Isla didn’t seem to mind the girl’s presence, and as a foreign reg, what right did he have to ask for an aristo’s removal? Besides, it was Persis who’d brought him here. He’d just have to bear it.
“Not imprisoned,” Justen corrected. Brainwashed maybe. Just as he’d been until recently. “Citizen Aldred is her guardian.” He’d been Justen’s guardian, too, and probably still thought of himself as such, though Justen was eighteen now.