Aja grasps Antonia’s neck from behind. She shivers in horror, shrinking to her knees, not even attempting to fight as the huge woman slowly closes her hands and begins to strangle her to death. Antonia snorts, wriggles, and takes a full minute to die. When she has, Aja completes the execution by snapping her neck with a violent twist and tossing her atop Sevro’s corpse.
“What an odious creature,” the Sovereign says, turning from Antonia’s body. “At least her mother had spine. Cassius, your shoes are filthy.” Blood crusts the rubber soles of his prison slippers and spatters the green jumpsuit’s legs. “There’s a complex of sleeping quarters through there, a kitchen, showers. Clean yourself. My valet has been attempting to foist a meal on me for hours. I’ll have him serve it here for you. You won’t miss the battle. The Ash Lord has promised it will last another several hours, at the very least. Lysander, will you show him the way?”
“I won’t leave your side, my liege,” Cassius says very nobly. “Not till this is through and these monsters are put down.” The Truth Knight rolls his eyes at the display.
“You’re a good lad,” she says before turning toward me. “Now it’s time we dealt with the Red.”
Aja drags me to the Sovereign’s feet at the center of the holopad. The cold sneer of command is etched deeply into the tyrant’s marble face. Her shoulders are weary though, pressed down by the weight of empire and the shadowy mass of a hundred years of sleepless nights. Her tightly bound hair is shot with deep rivers of gray. Tendrils of blue worm through the corners of her eyes from relapsed cellular rejuvenation therapy. She’s had no peace from me. Kneeling and bleeding though I am, it does my soul good to know I’ve haunted her nights.
“Remove his muzzle,” she tells Aja, who stands behind me, preparing to administer the Sovereign’s justice. The Truth Knight and the Joy Knight flank Octavia. Cassius stands over Mustang to the side in his prisoner greens among the Praetorians while the Jackal watches from his chair near Lysander, sipping a coffee brought by the valet. I stretch my jaw as the muzzle comes off.
“Imagine a world without the arrogance of the young,” Octavia says to her Fury.
“Imagine a world without the greed of the old,” I reply hoarsely. Aja slams the side of my head with her fist. The world flashes black and I almost keel over.
“Why’d you take off his muzzle if you wanted him to be silent?” Mustang asks.
The Jackal laughs. “A fair point, Octavia!”
Octavia scowls at him. “Because we executed a puppet last time and the worlds know it. This is flesh and blood. The Red who rose. I want them to know it is he who falls. I want them to know that even their best is insignificant.”
“Give him words and he’ll just make another slogan,” the Jackal warns.
“Octavia, do you really think my brother won’t kill you?” Mustang asks. “He won’t rest until you’re dead. Until you’re all dead. Till he takes your scepter and sits on your throne.”
“Of course he wants my throne, who wouldn’t?” the Sovereign says. “What is my charge, Lysander?”
“To defend your throne. To create a union where it is safer for subjects to follow than to fight. That is the role of Sovereign. Be loved by a few, be feared by the many, and always know thyself.”
“Very good, Lysander,” she says sadly.
“The purpose of a Sovereign isn’t to rule. It’s to lead,” I say.
Not even hearing me, she turns to the Joy Knight, who is at the controls of the holodeck preparing her broadcast. “Is it ready?”
“Yes, my liege. Greens have restored the links. It’ll go out live to the Core.”
“Say your goodbyes to the Red…Mustang,” Aja says, patting Mustang’s head.
“Can’t even do it yourself?” I ask the Jackal. “What a man you are.”
He frowns. “I want to do it, Octavia,” the Jackal says suddenly, rising from his seat and walking out to the holodeck.
“Olympic Knights carry out executive executions,” Aja says. “It’s not your place, ArchGovernor.”
“I don’t remember asking for your permission.” Aja bares her teeth at the insult, but the Sovereign’s hand on her shoulder restrains her tongue.
“Let him do it,” the Sovereign says. Strange, the Sovereign’s deference to the Jackal. It’s out of character, but in keeping with the oddness I’ve felt between them on the day. Why would he be here, I wonder. Not Luna. That’s obvious enough. But why would he come to a place where the Sovereign has absolute power over him? At any moment, she could kill him. He must have something over her, to buy himself immunity. What is his play here? I sense Mustang trying to divine the same answer as Aja moves away from me. The Joy Knight offers the Jackal a scorcher, but Adrius refuses. Instead, he picks Sevro’s gun from his holster and twirls it around his index finger.
“He’s no Gold,” the Jackal explains. “He doesn’t deserve a razor or a state death. He’ll go like his uncle. In any matter, I very much would like to begin the transition as the hand of justice. Plus, offing Darrow with Sevro’s gun is…more poetic, don’t you think, Octavia?”
“Very well. Is there anything else you would like?” the Sovereign asks tiredly.
“No. You’ve been most accommodating.” The Jackal takes Aja’s place beside me as the Sovereign transforms before our eyes. The exhaustion burning away from her face as she adopts the serene, matronly visage I remember telling me: “Obedience. Sacrifice. Prosperity,” time and time again from the HC in Lykos. Then, Octavia seemed a goddess so far beyond mortal ken that I would have given my life to please her, to make her proud of me. Now I’d give my life to end hers.
The Joy Knight nods to the Sovereign. A light glows softly above her, empowering the woman with the fury and warmth of the sun. It’s just a spotlight. The lamp deepens its glow. The Jackal brushes an errant strand from his fastidiously parted hair and smiles fondly at me.
The broadcast begins.
“Men and Women of the Society,” Octavia says. “This is your Sovereign. Since the dawn of man, our saga as a species has been one of tribal warfare. It has been one of trial, one of sacrifice, one of daring to defy nature’s natural limits. Then, after years of toiling in the dirt, we rose to the stars. We bound ourselves in duty. We set aside our own wants, our own hungers to embrace the Hierarchy of Color, not to oppress the many for the glory of the few, as Ares and this…terrorist would have you believe, but to secure the immortality of the human race on principles of order and prosperity. It was an immortality that was assured before this man tried to steal it from us.”
She points a long, elegant finger at me.
“This man, once a noble servant of you, of your families, should have been the brightest son of his Color. He was lifted up as a youth. Awarded merits of honor. But he chose vanity. To extend his own ego across the stars. To become a conqueror. He forgot his duty. He forgot the reason for order and has fallen into darkness, dragging the worlds with him.
“But we will not fall into that darkness. No. We will not bend to the forces of evil.” She touches her heart. “We…we are the Society. We are Gold, Silver, Copper, Blue, White, Orange, Green, Violet, Yellow, Gray, Brown, Pink, Obsidian, and Red. The bonds that bind us together are stronger than the forces that pull us apart. For seven hundred years, Gold has shepherded humanity, brought light where there was dark, plenty where there was famine. Today we bring peace where there is war. But to have peace, we must destroy outright this murderer who has brought war to each and every one of our homes.”