“Naturally,” said the Poppy, her voice soft and strangely sad. “I imagine that to Citizen Aldred, Justen Helo is quite the hero.”
Eighteen
JUSTEN SIGHED AT THE pile of half-assembled nanorectors littering his desk. The brain stem model the minuscule computers were in the process of constructing was getting him nowhere. Might as well start from scratch. One downside of not having a palmport like the other medics at the lab—while they could wave their hands at the nanorectors and dissolve them into blocks again, he had to type his instructions into an oblet.
He chuckled to himself. He’d better watch it—he was beginning to sound like Persis. Next he’d be calling typing “primitive.”
Not that he was going to get a palmport. He’d already had quite enough of Albian fashion, thank you very much. He’d woken this morning to find his clothes either hidden or—if he knew Persis—destroyed and several new outfits hanging ready for him in his closet. As Persis had been nowhere to be found, he hadn’t yet had the opportunity to complain that her idea of proper attire included collars that chafed his neck and inappropriately shiny trousers cut entirely too tightly at the crotch.
Even Fredan hadn’t been able to hold back a chuckle when Justen had emerged in his new outfit and asked to borrow a skimmer to drive to the lab.
The clothes might be appropriate for a cocktail party or lounging about in court, but after ten hours on a stool in the laboratory, Justen was ready to strip naked. Why Persis preferred such clothing was beyond him. Maybe they should stick to bathing suits.
They got along a lot better in those, anyway.
Justen had done his best to push the memory of Persis’s kiss from his mind while he worked today. It meant nothing—just a publicity stunt, like everything else they did together. And it hadn’t been the taste of her mouth or the feel of her skin that had flitted around the edges of his mind while he worked to save the refugees. Instead, it had been her words.
We can only be responsible for what we ourselves do. Bad things happen in this world, and we are judged on how we respond. Do we take part in evil, or do we fight against it with all we have?
He was truly off course if Persis Blake was the one talking real sense. Though, make no mistake, Persis Blake was not as stupid as she’d first appeared. Maybe Justen had underestimated her, the same way he’d dismissed every aristo. Sure, they were spoiled and could be silly and shallow. But they weren’t all like that, and that’s not all they were, either. Persis was certainly frivolous and overprivileged, but she was also charming and playful and kind. Not everyone was made for saving the world. It didn’t necessarily make them bad people. And maybe some aristos in Galatea deserved to be removed from power, but none of them deserved to be tortured as the revolutionaries were torturing their prisoners. None of them deserved Reduction.
If Justen was to be judged for what he did, he’d like it to be for fixing the problem he’d created and curing the refugees before it was too late.
He punched a code into his oblet, and watched the brain model on his desk disintegrate. But it wouldn’t be tonight.
Instead, he shut down his oblet and headed out of the facility. On his way, he stopped by the refugees’ chamber. All those months in Galatea, he’d avoided the lab where they made the pinks, he’d avoided the prisons and the labor camps, as if not seeing the victims of his work would somehow lessen his own responsibility.
Never again. Standing before him, the people he’d hurt were impossible to forget, impossible to ignore. He wouldn’t rest until he’d helped them. What Justen had done was an accident, but he was to blame for failing to stop it before people’s lives were destroyed.
Today, a few Reduced were sitting before a large music keyboard, plonking out random notes. An older man sat before them, clapping heartily—for encouragement, Justen figured, since he couldn’t really be impressed by the atonal noise. After a few minutes, he seemed to notice Justen’s presence and joined him at the threshold.
“Good evening. Are you here to visit friends or family?”
Taken aback, Justen replied, “Neither. I—I work here, actually.”
“Oh.” The old man’s eyes widened. “Forgive me. With your hair and lack of palmport, I mistook you for a Galatean.”
“I am,” Justen replied. “I’m also a medic. I’m trying to help the refugees—”
“How wonderful!” he exclaimed, and held out his hand. “I’m Lord Benzo Lacan of Galatea. What’s your name?”
“Justen,” he mumbled. Just Justen. So here was Lacan, the man he’d tried to save by sabotaging the pinks sent to his estate. He’d failed—but the Wild Poppy had succeeded. Justen knew this aristo had been an ally of his grandmother’s. His Reduction had been proof Justen could no longer ignore regarding how perverted the revolution had become.
“So they put you to work right away, did they?” Lord Lacan went on. “That’s good. These Albians need all the help they can get it seems, especially given the problems we’re facing. This Reduction drug”—the lord’s voice turned dark—“it’s the worst evil to be visited on the world since the wars, I think. Reduction almost destroyed the human race. The fact that the revolutionaries have resurrected it to achieve their political goals—I can think of no punishment severe enough to repay them, can you?”
“No,” Justen said softly. “I can’t.”
VANIA HAD BEEN WAITING on the outlandish inlaid-stone terrace belonging to Justen’s aristo girlfriend for a full hour by the time she heard the unmistakable whirr of skimmer lifters over gravel out front. She could hear the abominably rude butler who’d shown her in—he of the appalling orange-dyed hair—greeting Justen at the front door, then informing him stiffly that a young woman from Galatea was here for him. There was a pounding of feet as Justen rushed toward the terrace.
Poor boy. Vania had been right. He must be positively suffocated by these Albian aristos. She smiled as he came out into the sunlight. He frowned and skidded to a dead stop on the terrace before he reached her.
“Vania.” Justen’s tone was flat.
Vania swallowed and lifted her chin, resisting the temptation to smooth her hair. It had been, perhaps, a bit of a rough journey across the sea. And there was quite the wind down on the docks. But he should have been far happier to see her. Had Albion corrupted him already?
“Justen.” She eyed his outfit. A little shinier than he’d been wont to wear back home but not too outlandish. Judging by what she’d learned about this Persis Blake girl, Vania had been half expecting feathers. Had they no idea how ridiculous they looked? Even the workers she’d met at the base of the cliff had dyed hair. No wonder the Wild Poppy was so skilled in the art of disguise. It seemed every Albian, from the lowliest servant on up, cared too much about fashion. “Been keeping yourself busy here in foreign lands? Where is your aristo girlfriend?”
As she hoped, Justen flinched at that. Good. So he hadn’t lost all his revolutionary principles.
“Vania. This is . . . a surprise.”
She lifted one shoulder. “Well, I’m visiting Albion anyway, so I thought I’d drop in on my dear friend, meet his fine lady—”
“Persis is a friend,” Justen said quickly. Again, very good. “And why are you here? I thought you were stationed at the Ford barricade.”
Vania smiled. “It fell yesterday. The Fords, their heir, and any of their servants still foolish enough to stand by their side are imprisoned in Halahou, awaiting their sentencing. They will all be properly punished.”
“You mean Reduced,” Justen replied in a low voice.