“Please, Abraham Seventh,” another voice said. “There is no need for questions and plans. I have taken care of all that.”
Robert glanced across the room. His body stood in the doorway, a gun in his hand. It was beyond strange to see himself standing there, more whole than he’d ever really considered himself to be.
It was beyond strange to see that the orange stitching that crossed his face and head brought out the blue of his eyes, and somehow made him look strong.
But the strangest thing was to see the alien intelligence behind his eyes, and to hear words spoken in a cadence he had never used.
“Step away from the bed,” Slater said. “The bullets in this gun are filled with Shelley dust. One shot, and your stitches will begin to dissolve. Two shots, and you will be unconscious. If I empty the clip, you won’t wake for years.”
Abraham looked down at Robert, saying good-bye. Saying more than that, as only a brother could. Robert nodded. It had been a long and ultimately good life. He had no regrets.
“What do you want, Slater Orange?” Abraham said as he stood. “What is your play in this game?”
“Immortality, which this body provides. Power, which I will obtain after your House is brought down by your actions, Abraham Seventh.”
“Where is Quinten Case?” Abraham asked.
“Nowhere you’ll ever find him.” Slater squeezed the trigger. One shot, two, three. He unloaded the clip into Abraham, even as the bigger man threw himself to one side.
Slater might be new to the body, but he was not new to killing. His shots struck true, and Abraham fell to his knees, then to the floor, unconscious and bleeding on the plush carpet.
Robert couldn’t move. He could barely breathe.
“And for you,” Slater said, strolling over so he could look down upon his own image. “A mercy. I will put you out of the pain I know so well.”
“Why?” Robert asked. “Why kill me when soon I would die?”
“Your death will be on Abraham Seventh’s hands. Your death will fall on House Gray. I will rise in your absence, I will speak for House Orange until your successor is secured. And I will take from House Gray all the knowledge and things that I want. Including Matilda Case.”
The gun he raised was of a more standard design. Bullets to kill a more standard man.
Robert did not look away. If this was death, his final death, he wanted to see every moment of it.
The gun fired. The bullet bored through his brain. And then there was no pain.
31
Some say Alveré Case and his descendants knew exactly the day the world would end. They are not wrong.—2198
—from the journal of L.U.C.
Delightful was not the word I would use to describe Hong Kong. Huge, bright, noisy, maybe, but so beyond anything familiar to me, I found myself wishing I’d kept the gun in my jacket pocket instead of back in my duffel at Gray Tower.
No matter. I didn’t need a weapon. I was a weapon.
Plus, I’d packed my hunting knife. And I was wearing the time scarf Grandma had knit.
The city rocketed past us as we traveled the glass speed tubes that blossomed above, through, and around the buildings like the petals of a massive flower pulsing with golden light.
House travel meant there was nothing to stall us—no checkpoints, no searches, just a clear drive, private flight, and private tubes. It was surreal to find myself here. Just a couple days ago, I’d been hiding on the farm, killing crocboars for the lizard and tossing apples into the pond for the leapers.
Now I was going to not only attend the gathering of the most powerful people in the world, but I was also going to have to represent one of those powerful Houses. And reveal that I was a stitch. For all the world to see.
That wasn’t what mattered to me, though. Reeves had promised I would get my brother back. As soon as that happened, I’d find a way to make sure Grandma was safe from House Silver and all their damn spies.
Abraham still hadn’t checked in.
Oscar tried not to look concerned about that when he bid me good night, leaving me to my ultramodern and ultraluxurious room in the corner of the entire floor of the hotel that had been reserved for House Gray. But he was concerned. And so was I.
It was late afternoon, and the gathering was tomorrow morning at dawn. I should have slept, but nerves kept me on my feet, pacing and reading through the information Elwa had given me.
The galvanized would be announced from one to twelve and take their place inside the huge coliseum. The heads of the Houses would walk out with their galvanized and stand beside them. Security was ridiculously high, and every eye in the world would be tuned in.
Reeves said he’d bring Quinten to me after the gathering and that I could look for him there. I didn’t know how I’d get away from everything and everyone to be with him. What I needed was luck and a little time. I drew my fingers over the soft beige scarf I was wearing. Time I could manage; luck was going to be harder to come by.
I watched afternoon fade to evening beyond my suite’s window and then the night pulled fire out of the streets and buildings until the city glowed in dazzling shades of luminosity. From here I could see the building where the gathering would take place tomorrow: a spiraling pinnacle with a globe balanced at the top, rising above even the tallest building in the city, the coliseum at its feet.
If Reeves Silver was true to his word, I’d have my brother back in just a few hours. Whatever happened after that, I would just find a way to handle.
And even though I wasn’t tired, I crawled into the bed that was big enough to sleep a dozen, and waited for dawn.
• • •
Before sunrise, Elwa powered into the room with an entire entourage of stylists, assistants, and I didn’t know what all else, who saw that I was fed, dressed, and fancied up to acceptable standards.
They went with the gray dress I’d tried on, pulled my hair up into curls and swirls to show my stitches, and then applied makeup and shading to better highlight my best features, which, in their opinion, appeared to be the stitches that held me together.
“I bring you a gift,” Elwa said, placing a box on my lap and shooing away the woman who was still fiddling with the ends of my hair, even though it looked fine an hour ago.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Open.” She glanced at the small screen in her hand where a million messages, images, and announcements for the gathering buzzed, flickered, and chattered.
I lifted the lid on the box and pushed aside the soft, thin paper there.
“Boots,” I said. “They’re . . .”
“Magnificent,” Elwa provided. “Yes, they are. Put them on. Go.”
I pulled one up out of the box and could not argue with her. They were magnificent, made of a sturdy leatherlike material, gray, with grommets and buckles and a second zippered layer that all came together in a graceful symmetry. But under all the good looks was a sturdy heel that was not too high, and the waffled sole of a work boot.
I slipped them on and one of Elwa’s assistants laced them up.
“Stand, and let’s see what you have become,” she said.
The cluster of people around me all took a simultaneous step backward, leaving me room to stand, and clearing a pathway to the full-length mirror.
I had insisted I wear the scarf. For hours. Undaunted, Elwa had reknotted and wrapped the scarf across my shoulders so that it actually looked stylish, then pinned it in place with a fist-sized pendant set with a smoky gray stone that probably cost half a year’s wage.
“See now, here is the pride of House Gray,” Elwa said from where she stood at my elbow.
I finally glanced in the mirror.
I didn’t know how they’d managed it, but somehow I didn’t look like I was wearing a layer or two of makeup and a coating of hair product
s. My hair was pulled back away from my face to show all the angles of my features, then wrapped into a loose bun.
The feminine cut of the dress was offset by the hard slashes of my stitches, the slit in the skirt kicked open to show boots I could wear into battle. Put a gun or sword into my hands, and I looked like someone who could wade into the fray and come out stylish on the other side.
“Is that even me?” I asked.
Elwa squeezed my arm gently, her gaze holding mine in the mirror. “This is you. This has always been you. But there is no more hiding, no more fear. You are House Gray. You are immortal. Strength. Protection. Wisdom. Warrior.”
And when she said it, I almost believe her. But she’d left out one word that described me: vengeance.
Because once I had my brother back safe, and once I knew I could keep Grandma away from the manipulation of other Houses, I was going to make someone pay for all this.
I was going to make Slater Orange of House Orange pay.
Elwa waved hands and barked orders, clearing out all the people and their equipment. It gave me just enough time to smuggle my knife into my boot.
As soon as she shut the door behind them, she strode over and dropped a small electronic device into my hand.
“Place over your ear, and you will be in the loop for the entire event. You will hear the public commentary and you will hear my instructions. It is like having a tiny Elwa on your shoulder. Nothing will go wrong.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Thank me tomorrow morning when all this is done. We will be exhausted, darling. Come. It is time.”
She hustled me toward the door as I affixed the earpiece to my left ear, where it settled in snugly. “What about Abraham?”
We made our way to the private car and private tube that would take us to the gathering.
“Do not worry,” she said. “Everything will be fine.”
And since that wasn’t much of an answer, I figured that no, he hadn’t checked in.
Three soft chimes rang out in my earpiece, and suddenly a flood of music and noise and voices poured out as clearly as if I were standing right in front of them.
I was shuttled, ushered, and hustled into lifts, moving walkways, and a car. Finally, I was left alone in a small private room attached above the arena, waiting for my cue to walk out into the main gathering.
I’d read up on this. I knew what I had to do. Wait for Elwa to tell me I should walk down the hall and then through the door, out into the arena, where I would take my place on the raised platform. Images of me would play across screens, and the history of my work and success . . . whatever that might be . . . would be broadcast to anyone in the loop.
Since I was thirteenth, I would go out last.
Oscar, and the other heads of Houses, would follow just behind me.
The room was decorated in shades of gray, and while it wasn’t anywhere as luxurious as our hotel, it was still very nice. I made a cup of tea and moved the plush chairs to one side, so I could pace in front of the window while I watched the arena and crowd of people below me.
“Now,” Elwa’s no-nonsense voice chirped in my ear. “First there will be galvanized and you. Then the heads of House will walk the field and the great spectacle begins—each House declaring their new advancements, projects, and allegiances.
“They say House Blue, Water—the strongest of all—will announce a breakthrough in life expansion. They say Troi Blue has now genetically regressed to twenty years old, the youngest regression ever preformed. We shall see with our own eyes, won’t we?”
I’d read all this too, but it was nice to have Elwa’s voice reminding me of what I’d need to do.
I stood in front of the window that looked out over the coliseum and sipped the tea. Elwa’s voice was gone, replaced by a male and female voice that announced how excited the world was now that the gathering was here, and speculated on what new advancement each of the Houses might be bringing to the event.
The chime rang in my ear again, and the gathering began. The announcers switched over to historical bits about Foster First. A door opened on the field and Foster First walked through it. He stood while the cheering people gathered in the arena, chanted his name, and flashed yellow shirts and screens, and threw yellow ribbons.
He was grim and arresting, and no longer wore his long dark coat. A sleeveless vest the color of saffron covered his torso, spread open down the front. The huge screens around the arena flashed with images of him, his heavy scars knotted and twisted across his flesh, held together by thick yellow stitches across his chest, stomach, arms, neck, and face.
As he walked around the track to his platform, the screens lit up with older pictures of him, stitches in black, white, red, and brown, each adding new scars, new lines to his already monstrously scarred body.
The pictures flashed by: a smoke-covered battlefield, the dead spread out in a gruesome carpet of blood and bodies, with only one figure standing: Foster. Foster in a jungle, wielding a machete; leading men across a minefield; carrying a child out of a fallen building. Foster dragging a ship to shore with a cable slung over his shoulder. A lifetime—two—flashed past, until the pictures of Foster standing beside Welton Yellow paused on the screen, then faded.
The crowd cheered, and the camera swung to capture audience members with hair dyed white and styled like Foster’s. They even had fake pink eyes and fake yellow stitches on their faces, necks, and hands like Foster.
I scanned that crowd, looking for Quinten, but didn’t see him.
Foster took to his platform, which caught yellow light around him, bringing out the stony edges of his face and body and making his yellow stitching glow neon.
Before the cheering died down, another chant rose from the crowd: “Second.”
Dolores Second walked through the door, wearing a flowing green, sleeveless blouse and wide-legged forest green trousers, her hair pulled away from her face but falling in waves down her back. The crowd went wild. Green ribbons wrapped around leafy branches fluttered down through the stands, as green shirts, screens, and stitches stood up and cheered.
Where was Quinten? Reeves had said to look for him, but there were almost two hundred thousand people here.
Images from Dotty’s past flashed on the screen, her stitches in white, gray, blue, brown, and green as she shoulder-carried a man out of a fire, swung an ax to cut a ship free from the rocks, stacked boulders against a raging river that had burst its dam, and wielded a flamethrower to burn the plague-carrying crops. The announcers listed her accomplishments until she stood on her platform, lit in a green light.
The camera swooped through the crowd. Still no Quinten.
The introduction for the next galvanized, Clara Third, began.
Despite the fact that it was a spectacle that took place every year, the crowd hummed with excitement. It was a sportslike atmosphere as the crowd tried to outcheer each other when their favorite galvanized took the field.
Clara was serene and graceful in a sleeveless lavender dress that draped her lean body in gauzy Grecian gathers, lace cutting thin floral designs over the violet stitches on her legs and arms. Her history showed only violet stitches in her pale skin. There was one image of her on a battlefield, wearing the white band of House Medical on her arm as she tended a wounded woman while bullets fell all around her, but the rest of her images were of her helping the poor and rebuilding disaster-ravaged lands.
Purple scarves of every shade rained down out of the stands like soft petals.
Next up was Vance Fourth, who strode onto the grounds in a blue military-cut, short-sleeve shirt that accentuated his compact, muscular build and the blue stitches tacking his skin.
His history played out, stitches flashing brown, yellow, black, and silver as he piloted experimental jets, broke the land speed record, and manned an exploration vehicle through the ocean’
s deepest trenches. Sprinkled between those deeds were images of him carrying wounded out of the ash-clogged streets of burning London, and the famous shot of him throwing himself without a parachute to catch and save the little girl nicknamed Rose Blue.
The crowd shouted even louder and tossed blue roses onto the field. He scooped up one rose and tucked it into the buttonhole of his breast pocket as the images stilled on him standing beside Troi Blue.
Wilhelmina Fifth strolled out next, her pale blue skirt and blouse all the colors of the ocean. Her hair had been braided back into ropes that looped up in intricate curls pinned in place with sapphire flowers. The soft blue of her stitches looked almost like feathers against her skin.
The crowd cheered and sent little folded paper cranes down upon the field.
Images of her history flashed across the immense space: Wila’s stitches in brown, gray, green, and red. Wila taking down the warlords in Africa, Wila pulling people out of the great oil-line explosion, Wila carrying food and medicine through the two-year blizzard, Wila overturning train cars in the bridge collapse of ’93.
And the last image: Wila standing next to Troi Blue.
January Sixth was the next to arrive, but I was scanning the images of people in the crowd.
“Quinten,” I breathed. For a flash, for a moment, I saw him, standing between two large men with silver bands on their arms.
And I knew Reeves Silver had placed him there, in that exact spot, knowing I would see him.
He was on his feet—that was good. But he was pale and thin. I think if the two men hadn’t had their hands on his arms, he might not be standing.
He was alive. He was breathing. Reeves had come through with his part of the deal.
So far.
I clenched my hands into fists. I wanted to run out there, up into the stands, and take my brother away to safety. But right now, that was the worst thing I could do.
January Sixth was already gliding out onto the field.
She was the image of wealth and couture. Tall and beautiful, her white dress slicked over her perfect body like a silken glove, glittering with diamonds. Her hair fell in soft waves against her bare shoulders where white stitches laced her skin.