LEGACY RISING (11 page)

Malthus snapped his fingers, and the first automaton in a row of automata, all standing silently along the wall until this moment, sprang forward and advanced with a loose bow. Trimpot jolted. He had hardly noticed the eerie row of gleaming statues in their uniform blue and white smocks. This bowing automaton was androgynous and almond-eyed, only identifiable as “female” by the silken wig of coal-black hair on her head.

“Yes, sir?”
she asked, her marionette mouth opening and closing with the words—revealing, for a brief moment, a small speaker in her tongue and a flash of churning gears at the back of her throat.

“Retrieve Mister Trimpot a flute of champagne, please,” the duke ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

The automaton coasted out of the room.

“M-must be hard to run a castle with those things,” Trimpot observed, attempting to affect an air of casualness. “Bet you find wound-down bots all the time.”

Malthus smiled indulgently. “Oh, boy, that’s 22nd century talk,” he said. “The castle automata are programmed to re-wind each other. They’re all on a system. It’s really . . . just like New Earth, when you think about it. The position we’ve found ourselves in. We’re all on a grid together, and as soon as one of us begins to malfunction, or slow down, it affects the rest of us.”

The automaton returned with the flute of shimmering, pale yellow liquid, which Trimpot considered as warily as he had considered the tea.

“It’s safe,” Malthus promised him. “In fact, it’s extraordinary.”

He snapped his fingers again. The automaton bowed, having never left the table.

“Yes, sir?”

“I believe I will have one as well.”

“Yes, sir.”

She coasted from the room, and Malthus turned his attention back to the pink-haired boy, who just now looked the part of his brothers in squalor. He was still inspecting the bubbly. “Mister Trimpot . . . it is fermented from a process involving white grapes, yeast, and an extraordinary amount of sugar.”

Trimpot regarded the duke. “What are grapes?”

The duke smiled. “Just another part of the secret world above yours,” he condescended to define. “Consider this, my boy. What if an automaton begins performing tasks which were not configured in its matrix? Should we destroy the thing? Or perhaps, would we be better served to assign it an area in which it could serve its new purpose, however unintended upon construction? Which is the less wasteful of the prospects?”

The automaton returned with another flute of the fine liquid, which Malthus gulped. It was only then that Trimpot rose his own glass to his lips, then pulled it away with raised pink eyebrows. “That
is
extraordinary,” he agreed. He suddenly began to feel—like himself again, here, with the duke. “What exactly
are
you saying, Malthus?”

The duke bore this informal title with a wincing smile. “Well,
Leopold,
you might find your assignment pleasantly altered, if you are willing to bend rather than to break.” Malthus tilted his head as the idea therein took root and blossomed. “Perhaps you could be introduced to my cabinet of advisors. Perhaps you could be brought on as a diplomat. It’s no secret, after all, that I have all the charisma of a ghoul, and I prefer my mandates to be announced long-distance. Perhaps I could use a professional speaker to improve upon public relations.” From his pocket, Malthus extracted the slender cylinder of a cigarette, followed by a miniature blowtorch. He lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply, and relaxed into himself. “After all, you understand the common folk. You know the way in which to best phrase things. Thereby, you could even maintain the respect of your peers. Because you would not be deserting their cause, would you? You would be championing it from even deeper inside, wouldn’t you? Yet, at the same time . . . you would have the guarantee of success rather than of failure. You would have the fine things which you so clearly prize. You would be paid handsomely for your efforts to quell the herd, rather than to incite them, and no one would be the wiser.” He took another deep inhale and exhale from his cigarette. “No one but you and me.”

Trimpot glared at his now empty flute. Then he snapped his fingers.

The queerly beautiful automaton sprang to the ready, bowing deeply and swinging erect again.
“Yes, sir?”

“More champagne,” he commanded, handing the duke’s servant his glass.

              Morning was maturing into evening, and she still hadn’t eaten a thing in almost twenty-four hours.

             
Maybe they’re just going to let me starve in here,
she thought.
I wonder if Trimpot is still alive.

Curling up onto her bed of tattered rags, Legacy buried her face in the cloth, in spite of the odor, as if subconsciously seeking the comfort of another body. A hug. A hand. A simple word of encouragement. Anything to which to hold.

She was certain the stars from this vantage point would be particularly beautiful, but at the same time, what did it matter? Her wishes weren’t going to come true, even if they all fell around her head.

“Oh, god.” A familiar, rich baritone filled the room. “I only just heard.”

Legacy jerked into an upright position, scouring the shadows for the man she knew owned that voice.

“Kaizen!” she cried.

In her heart of hearts, she had dared to hope that the Earl of Icarus would come to her, would take pity on her, might even set her free, if it was within his power. After all, as regrettable as the scene on the
CIN-3
stairwell had been, would it not serve to endear her to him? This train of reasoning had filled her with such remorse, though, such self-loathing, that she had forbidden herself to give it the form of words.

But here he was, as if he had sensed the shiver of her helpless body along the chords of the ether between them, advancing toward the bars of her cell. His hands wrapped there and his eyes roved her circumstance with anguish and empathy. She staggered to a stand and came close enough to nearly press her face to the iron bars of the cell, but again the tension of the chains stretched her arms taut behind her.

“We’ve got to get you out of here,” Kaizen said. He slid his hand between the bars and threaded his fingers into her silver-white braids. She couldn’t help but press her cheek to his palm and let her eyes close, so grateful for the warmth, for the tenderness of anyone who was moved for her.

Emotions welled and surged through her body, tidal waves pulling her in every which direction. Mingled with the guilt was gratitude, and with her delirious relief came the pinpricks of harsh judgment.

“What are we going to do?” she asked, opening her eyes.

She saw the way he was looking at her, and it wasn’t entirely with pure concern, but also with elements of desire. His gaze swept across the cloying fabric of her simple gown, down to the high slash of its hem. Until this moment, he had only ever seen her in the garments of a boy.

Legacy chose to ignore this. She had to. She needed help too badly to be discriminatory of its source, or its motivation.

“I’ll get you out,” Kaizen promised. “I wish I could’ve been here sooner. I’m sorry. But I’m here now.”

Kaizen’s other hand slid through the bars of her cell as well, his arm snaking around her hips and pulling her body closer, almost against the irons. He pressed his face toward hers, his eyes shutting, and she knew what he wanted. To kiss her. And even knowing that she might die here and never see Dax again, Legacy resisted.

“Kaizen . . .” she said.

His eyes opened, dark with confusion.

“What?” he asked.

“I can’t, I—I’m already—I have someone,” she explained.

“You told me you didn’t want to be with your Companion.” He glared at her, frustrated. His mouth sullen with rejection.

“And I don’t want to be with my Companion,” Legacy agreed. “I want to be with someone else.”

              “What? Like who? Neon Trimpot, is that it?” he snapped. His arms abandoned her body, and he stepped back from the bars like he might explode.

              “No, not Neon Trimpot,” she said. But she didn’t clarify Dax’s identity. She suspected that might be dangerous for him.

“Then why did you kiss me like that on the stairwell?” he demanded. His demeanor devolved as he ran his fingers through his hair and his eyes searched the dungeon, seeking something to throw or break. Some outlet for this terrible, brand new feeling, so wickedly sharp and cold, digging into him. “Why did you kiss me at all?”

“I didn’t—
You
kissed
me
,” Legacy iterated, however petty of semantics they were.

“You kissed me back!” he yelled.

“It was an accident!”

“
An accident?
I suppose your legs just spasmed involuntarily around me, did they? Your tongue just—
fell
into my mouth!”

“It doesn’t matter!” Legacy cried, cheeks flaming. For the first time, she forgot that she was in a dungeon, famished and exhausted. “It’s not going to happen again!”

“Fine,” Kaizen said. His eyebrows settled low over his black ice eyes. “You should
rest.
You must conserve your strength.” He turned to exit the dungeon, leaving Legacy to stare after him in despair. “Never know when you’re going to get
fed
again in this place.”

Kaizen stormed over the castle grounds, taking care to rip every flower he saw from off its stem. He stalked through the sweeping entryway of the grand hall, past the servants’ quarters—
I would have been happy to send her a fleet of automata, if nothing else!—
and past the kitchen—
I would’ve brought her lemon cakes and real steak, she should know! She could’ve had champagne and cheese!—
and along the twenty-four chaired, polished wood table of the dining hall, where he had envisioned her joining the family for dinner, which was crazy, if he was being honest with himself, then through the drawing room, with its plush animatronic chairs and beautiful rotating paintings . . . Why had she kissed him
back?
It was still a question she’d never answered! As he pounded up the stairs, he took care to rend the tapestries from the wall and heave them, fluttering, to the ground below.

“I would have dressed her like a true lady! She would have never felt such material before as I would have demanded to grace her skin!” he ranted senselessly, his voice booming in the acoustics of the rotunda.

He threw open the door which would lead to the west wing, where his and Sophie’s quarters could be located. Automata lined the wall, awaiting commands brightly as the keys twisted in their backs.

“I would have seen to it that she was tended by an entire court of you ball-jointed creeps!” he fumed.

“
Yes, sir?”
Newton-2 rolled forward, anticipating a command. Its head tilted eerily, its face of bone-like glass peering up expectantly, blinking its mechanized eyelids as if that made it remotely human, with those rosy circles of blush painted onto its cheeks and that froth of golden curls sewn into its scalp. It was not quite Kaizen’s size, but he still took great relish in pulling his fist back and smashing it into the thing’s face. He took great relish in the visceral crunch of the porcelain footman beneath his knuckles, and great relish in the smear of human blood which now painted the empty eye socket, the blue marble which had once been its eyeball collapsing into the rolling gears of its “brain.”

“
Y-y-y-yes, s-s-s-sir . . .”
Newton-2 repeated, jerking, spasming, its head slowly tilting forward.

Kaizen brought his shredded knuckle to his mouth and suckled at the wound, glowering down at the destroyed robot. The other automata in the hallway trembled awake, alerted by their malfunctioning brethren.

“I would have appealed every amendment she desired,” he went on, as if the footman were still “alive,” as if it’d ever had any capacity to listen in a meaningful way. “I would have helped her, she should know. I would have . . . I would have.” He glanced up and glared at the circling automatons. One of the porcelain servants—the closest one—removed the shuddering blond bot’s key.

“Y-y-y-yes, s-s-s-sirrrr . . .”
Newton-2 slumped, eyelids rolling down.

Kaizen pivoted toward his chamber, then froze.

Sophie stood at her bedroom door, staring at him in unbridled horror.

“What did you do!” she wailed, rushing past Kaizen and to the robot down the hall. “Newton! Newton!” Sobbing, she shook the ruined doll. Its head snapped back and forth on its neck, and the marble eye rattled somewhere in its skull.

Sophie whirled on Kaizen with tears streaming down her face. “What the hell is your problem! He doesn’t understand, you know!” Her cheeks bloomed bright red. “It’s not his fault! He’s doing the best he can! It’s not his fault! It’s not his fault!”

“Sorry,” Kaizen spat.

Then he took a deep breath and tried to regain some form of clarity, of control. The jealous fury which gripped him was slow in receding.

“Sorry,” he repeated with less force, then turned, striding to his chambers with head down, a fine tremble to his hands and mouth. He’d never felt this way before. It was like a poison leaching into his system through the pounding of his heart. Her stupid big eyes, like a dark gold, like cat’s eyes, and that wild, ridiculous mane of braids, and her peasant’s gown, which was surely the finest thing she owned. Her wiry strength, which was too hard anyway, her hands doubtlessly rough. Her dirty feet. He could do better. He could do better even if it was merely a selection made by the difference engines. He could do better if his only Companion ended up being a key-backed, porcelain-fleshed gear brain.