Dust

19 the monster who rules

Rien woke to Tristen shaking her. She blinked muzzily, protesting, but as soon as she caught his wrist he relented. In a melodrama, he would have had one hand over her mouth to silence her, but apparently he didn't care if she shouted. And so she didn't, and didn't panic either. "Come to the dining room," he said, and stepped into the hall so she could dress in privacy.

She was grateful that he waited. She had no idea of the way, and wherever Gavin had gone off to, he had not yet returned. He might be on his way back to Mallory, but she didn't think he would leave her without a farewell.

She hoped, anyway.

"What happened?" she asked when she caught up with Tristen in the hall. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail, revealing the fine blue-tinted points of his ears, but he'd missed a few wisps that curled this way and that.

As they walked, he told her—efficiently, a soldier's report—about Samael and his brief history of the world.

"He's trying to force Perceval to marry him? Did he say why? He's not even a real person. Can a machine intelligence marry?"

"Well," Tristen said, "she is a Conn. And has a better claim on the chair than even I have, by primogeniture. If she were Commodore, or stood close to the Captain's chair, then he would have a legal link to it."

"Space," Rien said. "Is that why they're squabbling over her? They're trying to marry an heir to the throne? I'm sorry, Tristen, but that's like some medieval play."

"I suspect there's more to it." He sounded both amused and angry; a glance at his expression confirmed her opinion. "But Samael isn't telling."

She blew through her teeth. "And I thought the Exalts were horrible."

She was happy, she thought, to have Tristen in her family. He was more like Oliver Conn than like Ariane. Instead of reminding her that he was Exalt, and so was she, thank you kindly, he chuckled mournfully and sucked his lip.

"And do we believe him?" she asked, when they had paused in the hall so Tristen could straighten her collar.

He shrugged. "An excellent question."

They came up on the dining room doorway. He rested his hand on her shoulder in reassurance or to keep her from bolting.

She stepped into the room.

Benedick and Perceval were seated side by side at a round, heavy-looking table. Across from them was a slight man, not too tall, who hunkered forward like a vulture on a branch. All three glanced up as Tristen and Rien entered. The resurrectee servant who was laying another place at the table did not.

The one who must be Samael stood and made as if to bow over Rien's hand. She kept it firmly at her side, and over his shoulder saw Perceval smile at her. Bull by the balls, she thought, and looked the Angel of Biosystems in the eye before she said, "We're going to have to move the world."

It didn't quite set him back on his heels, and anything he gave away would be intentional, anyway—she wasn't about to forget that he was an animation—but he did nod, and meet her just as directly. "The lady is correct."

"But the world has no engines," she said, and thought: Oh, Space. He likes me. Or at least, she imagined that that was what the angel's steady smile meant. She didn't tell him that it was Hero Ng's knowledge he smiled at.

He ushered her away from Tristen, toward the table, and into a seat, which he pulled out for her. She permitted herself to be seated, appreciative that her chair was next to Perceval's, as Samael said, "And perceptive. As you observe, this does present a difficulty. Because first, we are going to have to further repair the world."

Silence greeted his proclamation.

And then Perceval said, as if she had been expecting Benedick or Tristen to step in, "How do you propose to do that, sir, when all of Engine and all your brothers have been unable to do more than keep the ship alive and patched up for the past half a thousand Solar years?"

"Metatron is dead," Samael said. "And so is Susabo, the Angel of Propulsion. We'll go to Engine, and we will teach them how to heal those wounds."

Rien had to reach out and grab Perceval's forearm to steady herself. "We can't," she said, quick and firm—like Head speaking to the butler. "We have to go to Rule. There's sickness there—"

"Didn't you want to head off the war?"

"How did you know that?"

He touched the lobe of one ear, obviously amused that she had even bothered asking. "Still a demiurge. In any case, your best chance for stopping the fighting is to bring Perceval back to Engine."

"Someone in Engine betrayed her," Rien said, as Tristen put a hand on the table and reminded, "I have business in Rule, as does Sir Perceval."

Benedick nodded. "Business better addressed with an army at your back, brother, if you arrive back in Rule while Ariane is Commodore."

Silence. Rien squeezed Perceval's wrist until Perceval wrapped Rien's fingers in her own much longer ones. Tristen tapped each nail in turn on the tabletop, and Rien looked down. Predictable. The men were ganging up on them.

In the following silence, the servant reappeared. Silent as always, he slid a plate of egg-sub and toast in front of Rien and then slipped away again.

She let go of Perceval's wrist and picked up her fork. Tiredness and frustration aside, she needed the food. She hoped there was more in the kitchen.

"Very well," Perceval said, saving Rien one more time. "We will go to my home in Engine, then."

How quickly the years fall away and the passage of time ceases meaning. We have each a purpose: we are bred to it, engineered for it, or we are drawn to it out of some fathomless innate longing that we cannot explain. Some unlucky few must discover—or create—it on their own, but those are rarer in these days, when by the grace of the forebears we are manufactured to our place in the order of the world.

We have our destinies. We race for them, fight for them, fulfill them.

Or we fail them.

Listen, Perceval. Do you hear your long immortal life stretched out before you, before the stars?

I have so much to teach you, my dear.

The young do not believe in endings. They do not believe in death. They do not believe in time. Everything takes forever to happen, and twenty years is a long time.

Under those circumstances, the apocalypse can seem sexy. Death is a fetish, a taste of the edge.

It is not real.

And so the days are long, and though time holds us green and dying, we cannot feel the drag of our chains hauling us forward to the end.

But the old, Perceval. The old have forgiven time. Whatever time you may have is too little. If you live a thousand years—as I nearly have, and you surely will—it does not matter. Unless you have given up, laid down your tools, and folded idle hands to wait, beloved, you will still be in the middle of something when you die.

The world is a wheel, and we are all broken on it.

And that is fine and just.

For there is never any hurry, until there is no time.

A presence touched Dust's fringes, and a voice spoke from the vortex of the air. "Musing on the fate of worlds, dear brother?"

"Asrafil," Dust said. "Well. I greet thee, Angel of Blades. I was expecting brother Samael."

Dust turned from his contemplation, and coalesced. Not in his own chambers; less greatly daring than Samael, perhaps, but Asrafil not chosen to enter Dust's domaine. They met where their edges brushed, in one of the voids in the world's great Tinkertoy structure.

Contrary to the epithet, Asrafil carried no weapons. When he coalesced, he wore an avatar Dust knew of old, which gave Dust pause for a fraction of a second. Why did they still wear these human skins, when they so rarely spoke to humans anymore?

It was in the design, of course. Reflexive.

Part of the program, a kind of junk DN A.

Asrafil's chosen form was that of a man, bird-boned and frail, without Samael's hard muscularity. His scalp shone bare, more polished than shaven, and he wore black— gloves, shoes, an ankle-length wide-lapeled coat like a pillar—that only accentuated his slenderness. He seemed far too small to be the source of the air of wicked malice that surrounded him, but Dust knew better. "I trust we need not debate the gravity of the situation?"

Dust chose not to acknowledge the pun. The crinkle at the corner of Asrafil's left eye was enough to tell him it was intentional. "You want help."

Inevitable. You never saw your family until they wanted something.

Asrafil smiled, the corners of his mouth lifting to "his ears in an expression that was chilling even by angelic standards.

"You know, brother. I did not murder Metatron." One long gloved finger tapped his temple, just in the dimple of the sphenoid bone. "I keep him by me, always handy. All is made right: he hasn't left me since we quarreled."

"I am going to assume that was not meant as a threat."

"How can it be a threat, Jacob, when we both know how this must end? If we survive, if we preserve the world, one of us will inevitably subsume the other."

Dust studied his fingernails. The great wheel of the world turned in the suns, shadows drifting across its latticed surfaces. The cold of space was nothing to him, and his avatar would not drift; he was anchored in the invisible fringe of his own being. "You think it shall come down to you and me?"

Asrafil's motionlessness remained unnerving, no matter how long he floated there, arms crossed, head angled slightly. "Already, you snatch Samael's servants away. I should think that a very clear message. How many of the others could stand before either of us? It must be you or me, in the end."

Dust made a noncommittal noise. "I should come out here more often," he said. "Look at that."

That was the suns, entwined in their love that was death, the dominant dwarf partner gleaming like a diamond at the center of its barred accretion disk, the red giant mottled with sullen spots. The luminous hues of the accretion disk were as lovely as any sunset, infrared at the outer edges and stark white at the inner, shading through crimson and vermilion and a lucent orange that pierced Dust to the heart of his aesthetic protocols.

"Gorgeous," Asrafil said. "It is a pity we must leave it."

"It won't be here much longer in any case."

Asrafil nodded and let the silence linger for a little before he filled it. "But in the meanwhile, we each bring certain resources to an association. I think it would behoove us to combine them. We can fight over who gets to be king when we've preserved the kingdom."

"Funny," Dust said. "Samael came to me with a very similar proposal not long ago at all—"

The attack was untelegraphed, but not unexpected. Asrafil struck along Dust's entire leading edge, rending, gnawing, attempting to overwhelm him with a blitz. But Dust had been braced, focused behind his apparent distraction, and when Asrafil tore into him he gave way, fell back, creating a hollow at his center for Asrafil to tumble into.

Asrafil was not fool enough to dive into the trap. He struck out to all sides as Dust stretched around him, and Dust was not large enough to engulf him. They fell together, warring in the silence. Any naked eye would have seen nothing but the emptiness they moved through, their combat invisible and carried out at supersonic speeds. And then, like sparring cats, they broke apart again, dragging their ragged fringes up.

Dust had let his avatar lapse in the skirmish; now, he did not bother to recollect it. Asrafil, too, had fallen apart, and Dust thought they seemed equally bloodied. He tidied himself, tucked his edges in. Pictured Asrafil spitting teeth.

It cheered him.

"That was stupid," Dust said.

"It wouldn't have been if I'd won," Asrafil answered as, with elaborate precautions, they began to disengage.

The wood rang with silence, and Rien was happy to be alone in it for now. She was used to spending time with others, but this enforced closeness wore on her.

She didn't know how big a Heaven could be, but this one had to fill the entire inside of the holde. She wanted to walk alone among the bare black trees, touch the cold bark, feel the snow creak under her boots again. Just for a little while.

She didn't know if she was ever coming back.

And she needed to at least look for Gavin, if they were leaving nearly immediately.

Benedick offered her skis, but she didn't know how to use those, and the snow wasn't really that deep. Just awkward to walk in, when it crushed and slid, and prone to making her ankles and the arches of her feet hurt. It has a smell, too, a distinct one, which she hadn't expected. It was just water, wasn't it?

Gavin left no tracks, so she wandered, trusting that one of them would find the other. Her breath hung on the air, silver in the reflected light. One of the external mirrors was angled just so she half-blinded herself every time she glanced upward, so she quickly broke the habit of looking up. Black birds—big birds—moved among the trees. The silhouettes kept catching her eye and turning her head.

And of course, as soon as she gave up and turned back, calves knotted with the unfamiliar effort, she found him. He perched on a tall stump beside the trail, his tail flipped over his talons, for all the world like an old man sitting, watching the day go by.

"Hey," she said. She leaned her hip against the stump, her elbow atop it, grateful of the excuse to rest.

"Hey," he said. "What's going on?"

"Were getting ready to go to Engine. Are you going back to Mallory?"

"Staying with you, if you'll have me."

"Of course." She didn't even need to think about it. And the words brought an easing of the knot tight in her chest. "Where did you go?"

"Angels don't agree with me."

"Yeah," she said. "They kind of give me indigestion, too."

She made him laugh, for a change. And when he stopped, she said, "Gavin. You know a lot of things."

"I am old," he said. And then, wryly: "I contain multitudes. Not vast, however."

She leaned her cheek against his wing, and he let her. "You're a good size for carrying."

He hopped onto her shoulder, as if it had been an invitation. Well, Rien thought, questioning her own motives, perhaps it had been.

"Then thank you for carrying me. Now tell me your question."

"Who said I had a—oh, never mind. Yes. My question is, do you know my mother?"

Silence, and then he hmm'd, softly. "We're going to Engine? To seek your mother?"

"No," she said. "But that's where she is, isn't she? That's the whole reason I was born. To be a hostage."

"Not the only reason. But yes, your mother is in Engine."

"Who is she?"

"Your mother is Arianrhod Kallikos," he said. "Does the name mean anything to you?"

She thought hard, and said eventually, "No."

"This is because you are ignorant." She felt his shrug, the rise and fall of his wing. "But ignorance can be remedied with time. She is an Engineer. You will find her interesting."

Interesting wasn't entirely reassuring. "Oh."

"You might meet Perceval's mother, too."

Rien jerked. "We have different mothers?"

"Perceval was a hostage against Alasdair, after all. Her mother is Caitlin Conn."

"There is no—" Rien started. And then she craned her neck way back and stared at Gavin, who sat placidly on her shoulder, eyes closed, waiting for her to finish. If beaks could smirk, she would have sworn him to be smirking. "Who is Caitlin Conn?"

205

"In Rule, there are three portraits turned to the wall," Gavin said. "Do you know them?"

"I dusted them. Or the backs, anyway."

"They are the portraits of Alasdair's treacherous children, the sisters Caithness, Cynric, and Caitlin. His eldest; his initial heirs. They tried to overthrow him, you see."

"So they're dead?"

"Alasdair killed Caithness himself. Cynric was captured and executed."

"Oh." Rien swallowed, her throat feeling abraded. "And Caitlin?"

"Exiled," Gavin said. "To Engine."

"Pregnant with her brother's child?"

"Perceval is your age," Gavin reminded. "What I speak of happened centuries ago. You'll meet Caitlin in Engine, too, most likely," Gavin said. "That is where her exile took her, in the end."

"And what is she there?"

Definitely a smirk. Even if he did it only with the angle of his head. "The Chief Engineer."