Heart of Iron

  “She’s a murderer!” Ana shouted up to the old woman on her throne, the Royal Captain pulling harder at her hair, the blade sizzling against her skin. “You HIVE innocent Metals, and you kill everyone who disagrees with you. That’s not justice—that’s being a coward!”

  “Silence!” the Royal Captain barked, slamming the hilt of her sword into Ana’s jaw, sending her to the ground.

  “Ana!” Robb cried as Messiers caught him, twisting back his arms, and held him back. He squirmed against them, but from the look of pain on his face, his side must’ve started hurting again. “Your Grace, please—”

  The Royal Captain raised her blade, readying to strike.

  The Grand Duchess raised a hand. “Wait, Viera.”

  The Royal Captain paused.

  Ana glowered up at the Duchess and spit a mouthful of blood onto the plush runner, her hands bound behind her tight and uncomfortable.

  The Grand Duchess studied her.

  Just kill me, Ana thought. Just get this done with.

  “Fine—if Robbert Valerio truly believes a dirty little girl like yourself could be my granddaughter, then who am I to call him a liar?” asked the Grand Duchess. “The Goddess will show me the truth. Fetch the crown.”

  The Adviser gave a start. “But Your Grace—”

  “I did not ask for counsel, Gregori.”

  Yielding, the Adviser gave a short bow and left through the back hallway, as the Royal Captain forced Ana to her feet, unlocking her handcuffs. She rubbed her wrists so no one would see her hands shaking.

  A few moments later, Lord Rasovant returned with the circlet of metal, the rust like bloodstains across its pointed edges.

  The Iron Crown.

  She had never seen it before. It was said that a thousand years ago, the Armorov bloodline had carved the crown from the Goddess’s heart, and only those worthy could wear it without its rusting. But Ana had never seen the Goddess in all the seven years she’d flown across the kingdom. Not in the sky, or in the worlds, or in the stars—she’d never seen the Goddess anywhere.

  If she was the girl of light, then there was no Goddess.

  But what if you were looking in the wrong places? a voice in the back of her head asked.

  The Grand Duchess took the crown, and rust bloomed across her fingers where she held it. “Come, see if this crown fits; and if the Goddess decides you are unworthy, then both you and the Valerio boy will be sentenced to death.”

  “But Robb’s innocent,” Ana argued, even though he probably deserved death just for dragging her into this. “He shouldn’t be—”

  The old woman extended the crown. “Take it.”

  She glanced back at Robb, and he nodded as if to say, Go on. She wanted to punch him. She wanted to drive his face into the Goddess-damned floor. How could he bet his life on the crown somehow not rusting for her? Because it would.

  Wouldn’t it?

  She was afraid as she took the cold metal crown. It was heavier than expected, and colder, too, the tines sharp enough to cut. A small crowd had gathered in the doorway, mostly servants and royal guardsmen, and they leaned in, holding their breaths, waiting for her death sentence.

  Her hands shook.

  This was the end, and she wished it weren’t here. She wished it were somewhere in the stars, beside her best friend. She just wanted to see him one more time. Being near Di had filled her with so much light and goodness that every moment without him felt like suffocating in space. He was gone, and there was no rescuing him. There was no way back. If she’d never boarded the ship, if she’d stayed on the Dossier like Siege had asked, maybe Di would be alive.

  And maybe they would have had more time to say good-bye.

  Goddess bright, let me see Di again, she prayed for the first time in her life, and pulled one hand away.

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  “It didn’t rust,” murmured the Royal Captain—and the young Cercian fell to her knees, touching her forehead against the cold marble floor. “Your Grace.”

  She stared in awe at her fingers, dirty with blood but clean of rust. There was some mistake. She was still dreaming. She was not . . . she could not be . . .

  But then one of the servants in the entryway fell to his knees, then the Royal Guard, then Robb, like dominoes tipping over. The Iron Adviser lowered himself to the floor and pressed his face to it, and the Messiers bowed with him.

  And finally, the Grand Duchess stood from her twisted throne, and bent as low as her old age would let her, until Ana was the only one left standing.

  Di

  “Stand by. . . .”

  There was a light.

  “Rebooting . . . Importing memories zero through zero-zero-zero-seven-five-eight.”

  He blinked—blinked? Darkness, light, darkness, light—

  Warmth spread through his wires, igniting fuses, as data rushed into dormant programs, bringing them to life with a single spark. Another line of data joined it, and another, piecing together like swirls of DNA. The warmth connected synapses, united links, corrected damage, reassembling something that had broken on the far side of Palavar.

  “Forty-five percent complete . . . fifty-five percent . . . sixty percent,” the computer relayed.

  Memories—a word. A word meaning events. Meaning moments. History. But whose history? His eyes wandered the room. The immaculate cabinets. The rusted metal walls. Thoughts filled the darkened crevices, lighting them, expanding energy to his fingers and toes. He raised a hand over his face to block the bright light. His fingers moved when he told them to.

  “Eighty-nine percent.”

  His hands began to shake.

  Memories—oh, oh, memories.

  History. His history. Moments. Seconds. Days. Years. They took shape, every missed opportunity and fractured mo-ment and borrowed minute. The anythings, the somethings, the everythings, so vast and so full and it—it was over-whelming.

  “Ninety-five percent complete,” the computer chimed. “Stand by.”

  He cringed—pressed his hands against his face, trying to stop it.

  It hurt.

  Everything hurt like despair hurt, an ache so deep in his chest, it felt like a hole at the center of the cosmos. Like hope hurt, too, rising, suffocating, a tingling in the back of his throat. Everything hurt like laughter hurt, all over his sides and abdomen. Like anger hurt, nails buried into his palms. Like happiness, rushing across his fiber optics like fizzy soda. Like heartache.

  Like love.

  Longing.

  Remorse.

  Hate—

  His body went rigid, tensing, reactions he couldn’t control, couldn’t stop.

  “Ninety-nine percent complete. Installing rationalities.”

  The hurt doubled, tripled, the whys and the hows colliding. His head felt like it would explode. Empty and full at the same time, the pain dissolving all his thoughts while filling him full of—of something else entirely.

  Of so many memories.

  He—he wasn’t sure he wanted to know them anymore.

  Those seven long years. The fit of a pistol, the weight of induced gravity as the starship sped through the finite expanse, the night watches he spent alone in the cockpit, and the moments sailing across the stars, the way his fingers folded between someone else’s—but whose? He remembered another code invading him, scrambling him, making him less and less and less until he was nothing at all.

  He remembered that he hadn’t thought about himself in those moments, that there was something else spread in the space between those seven years ago and now.

  Something curious, and something rare.

  “One hundred percent.”

  Then—the memories stopped.

  “Transfer complete. Subject is now free to disconnect.”

  He squeezed his eyes tightly closed and groaned. His head throbbed.

  “Subject is now free to disconnect,” the computer repeated.

  Something cold and metallic bumped up against his che
ek, bleeping.

  “Subject is now—”

  “I heard you,” he rasped, and rolled over onto his side, pressing the heels of his hands against his forehead, afraid to open his eyes because the light was too bright. It made his head ache.

  It . . . It what?

  Hesitantly, he tried to open his eyes again. His vision, blurry at first, focused. He looked at his hands. Flesh. He told himself to move his fingers, and the fingers in front of him moved. Those fingers—his fingers? His hands?

  He sat up, slamming his head against something hard. He hissed in pain as E0S whirred up, beeping angrily at him. It yanked something out of the back of his neck—a cord.

  The infirmary—why was he . . . why was he here?

  He rubbed his head where they’d collided, and hissed against his throbbing headache. It hurt—no, that must have been the wrong word. His programming must be corrupt. He tried to think, but his processors felt heavy and sluggish, as though his head was full of molasses.

  Molasses. There it was again. A metaphor. A metaphor?

  Something was wrong.

  He tried to slide off the gurney, but his legs tangled in a black tarp. A body bag. He was in a body bag. With a cry, he scrambled out of it, but his legs didn’t want to cooperate. They slipped out from under him. He caught himself on the medic console and pulled himself back up.

  Something was very wrong.

  E0S nudged his cheek.

  “I do not understand,” he told it—and with a jolt, his hand went to his throat. His voice?

  Not metal. Not broken.

  “Reflection,” he said to the infirmary’s computer console, and a screen swirled into color, showing an image. A serious face, strong cheekbones, shoulder-length red hair. And incredibly naked. When he bent closer, the reflection did too, dark eyes staring at him. He blinked.

  So did the reflection.

  He recoiled, his foot bumping up against something on the ground. Something dull and silver. A silver arm. A bent shoulder. A Metal face. His Metal face.

  Staring down at himself, he trembled.

  This was not right—he was malfunctioning. Glitching. Everything in his system was chaotic. He scratched at the side of his head with his fingernails—why did he scrub at his head? Why did he have fingernails?

  Why was he here?

  He. D09. But . . . not. Not D09. That was quite evident by the skin, the length of his fingers, the sudden dire need to find clothes, and the collision of thoughts and emotions in his head. Not D09—not anymore. But who, then? Who was he if not—

  Just thinking about it made his head hurt worse.

  At least he was on the Dossier, but how had he gotten back here? The last thing he remembered was being on Rasovant’s fleetship. He remembered the malware, he remembered it screaming as he pulled out the ship’s hard drive. . . .

  And then the program invaded. Told him things. Whispered. He remembered it whispering, but he couldn’t remember what it said. Its cold code creeping into his functions like a virus, curling around his processors, and—

  And like a sunrise, he remembered Ana.

  Pain blossomed in his chest. A pulling, constricting kind that tasted like panic. She had to be alive. She must be.

  E0S bumped into his shoulder, beeping.

  “Where is everyone?” he asked it. “What happened? Did you do this?”

  The bot began to beep again when they heard a voice from the cargo bay.

  “C’mon, Captain, just tell us about the rest of your fleet. I know you got some outlaw friends, don’t you? No?”

  —And then the sound of something being struck.

  “Sixteen,” replied a familiar voice. Siege. Captain Siege.

  He pressed the lock on the infirmary door, and it slid up. He followed their voices, E0S hovering over his shoulder, and hid behind the skysailer.

  On the other side of the cargo bay, the captain knelt in front of two guardsmen. Crimson uniforms. The crest of a snake eating its own tail—Ouroboros insignias.

  They were Valerio guards.

  One of the guards struck her in the face again, but the captain did not even let out a sound. She licked her busted lip, glaring up at the man. “Seventeen,” she kept counting.

  “I can start breaking her fingers,” the other Valerio guard said—a female. “Or I can start killing her crew. It’s all she got left, isn’t it? I heard she used to be an Ironblood, but she deserted them.”

  “You’re shittin’ me.”

  “That’s the rumor. I could start with her wife—”

  “Our orders are to turn them in, not kill them.”

  “But she isn’t talking. She’s just counting.” But then the female guard sighed. “Fine, I’ll start with her pinkie finger.” She moved around behind Siege to untie her hands. “You know, Captain, I can break your fingers so you can never fire a gun again. Or you can just tell us about that fleet of yours.”

  The captain stared straight ahead. The wires in her fiber-optic hair flared a bold orange.

  Di hesitated behind the skysailer. What could he do? He did not have full control over his body. He did not even understand his body. Despite that, he searched for a weapon.

  There was nothing around he could use as a—

  The female guard began to bend Siege’s pinkie finger. “One . . .”

  He grabbed E0S out of the air and threw the bot at the female guard. With a pitiful bloop, it struck her in the side of the head.

  It must have been with more force than he realized, because the female guard slumped to the floor, unconscious.

  “What the—” The man spun toward him, drawing his gun, when Siege swung out her leg, knocking him in the back of the knees, sending him onto his back. She grabbed his hands, and pressed her knee against his throat.

  “One, two,” Siege began counting as the man beneath her struggled. “Screw this, I’m impatient.” She slammed her fist into the man’s face and knocked him unconscious.

  Then Siege unholstered the guard’s gun and stood, turning it toward Di. He froze, quickly raising his hands into the air.

  “Not another step,” said the woman, her green eyes flat like sea glass.

  “Not a single one,” he agreed.

  She narrowed her eyes.

  Captain Siege had always been imposing—the way she stood, feet apart, shoulders back, giving off the impression that she was taller than anyone else in the room—but he had not understood it. Now, in this body, while he stood a good inch taller than her, he felt short and infinitely inferior.

  “How did you wake up?” she growled. Dried blood painted the side of her face from a nasty gash hidden under her flickering fire-colored hair. “Who rebooted you? What are you?”

  “I . . . do not know.”

  She clicked back the hammer. “I’ll ask one more time—”

  “I just woke up,” he interrupted, his voice wavering. “I do not know. Captain, I am not your enemy—”

  “Piss you aren’t!” she said. “Barger’s dead, Wick’s dead, my crew’s hostage, and my ship’s been taken over by Valerios. It’s awfully suspicious that a Metal the Ironblood found on that cursed ship isn’t against me, too.”

  “I am not.”

  “And I’m supposed to believe you?—”

  Voices came from the top of the stairs.

  Cursing, the captain grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back into the infirmary. She slammed the butt of the pistol against the door lock, which slid shut, and pressed the barrel against his ribs.

  “I am on your side,” he stressed, “and there is a ninety-three point four-seven percent chance that the others will find those two guards soon if we do not act now.”

  “Then what do you suggest?”

  “I can hack into the ship’s computer from the console in here and reverse the video feeds so we can see what we are up against.”

  “How do I know you aren’t lying?”

  Because I am D09, he wanted to say, but how could he prove it? He wa
s not D09, and the fear of a bullet wound was much too strange. He swallowed. “Trust goes both ways, Captain.”

  Siege studied him before lowering her pistol. “You double-cross me, and you’ll get a bullet straight to the heart, got it?”

  If you can find it, he wanted to reply, but simply nodded.

  The computer in the infirmary was simple at best, but it seemed someone had used it recently anyway. A memory core—it must have been his—sat on a small scanner, pulsing ever so slightly. Was that how he had been transferred? Through this computer? He was lucky that whoever did the procedure had not scrambled his code. The cube—his memory core—looked so small and weak—the source of his glitches.

  It was how all this trouble began.

  Bitterly, he pushed it off the scanner, and it clattered to the floor. The computer hummed to life.

  Fingers skimming over the keyboard, he broke into the internal server. He knew the ship’s antiquated computer system better than the back of his hand. There were at least three firewalls and a viral system, all of which he himself had installed with the utmost security. And now he bypassed them without even a second glance. He ventured a guess that it was from an upgrade to this body.

  It frightened him a little, to think how easily he could undo his own work.

  He reversed the video feeds into the Dossier’s rooms, instead of out of them.

  A holo-screen blipped up with a map of the ship.

  “All but two Valerio men are in the galley, and they are . . .”

  Another holo-screen flicked up.

  “In the showers? Oh, two in the showers.” He squinted at the screen. “Captain, I could be mistaken, but are they . . . ?”

  “My poor, defiled ship,” she scowled, drumming her sharp fingernails on the console. “How many bullets do you think you can handle before getting dead?”

  “I do not wish to find out,” he replied dryly.

  “Do you think you can fit through a ventilation shaft?”

  An informational file blipped up in the back of his head, a file of knowledge. He bit his bottom lip, wondering what good it would do, but did as it commanded. He raised his hand to the screen.

  “What are you doing?” the captain asked. “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”