LEGACY LOST (4 page)

By comparison, the last time she’d laid in a bed with Kaizen . . . they’d lost their virginities together.

             
I wonder what he’s doing, not that it matters – it doesn’t,
Legacy thought, imagining him in that distant castle.
But. Just. Is he thinking about me, too?

              She found herself tilting the wheel subconsciously on a trajectory toward the palace. She didn’t know why. Well, she did know why, but it was completely irrational. She just wanted to see him. Although the castle’s dome had its inlets and outlets, and was ringed in an exterior aerial dock, it wasn’t as if she could just moor the
Albatropus
there for so many reasons. As usual in her relationship with Kaizen –
the former Duke of Icarus, now, how quickly things can change
– how much she could trust him was uncertain. Even if she could trust him, his world was populated by people she knew she couldn’t. It was best to keep her distance, both literally and figuratively.

             
But he won’t be able to see us,
she argued with herself.

              This was also true. One of the many features the
Albatropus
could boast was a stealthy invisibility shield which only disintegrated within a certain number of feet, causing the airship to always appear to be emerging from an invisible cloudbank when it was closely approached.

             
If I keep a distance, then, of several yards, it should all be fine . . . and if I could just nudge the
Albatropus
a few miles faster . . .

             
Legacy glared at the lever which controlled her speed, considered it, and finally gave it a gentle nudge forward. She felt the ship shift and the pistons below her feet pump faster within the engine room. At first, there came the rush of rebellion, that trill of nervousness and excitement which partially worried that something would go wrong, and was partially victorious that everything seemed to be okay . . .

              The wind whipped at Legacy’s braids, and she stood and dragged in deep lungfuls of the night air, grateful for this distraction from the bigger problems. The longer she could avoid thinking about it, the better.

              The
Albatropus
seemed to be faring just fine at thirty miles per hour.

              Still, though, the castle dome was far from her reach. Its brass propellers twisted in the distance, and other than the general shape of the structure, not much was visible.

              Holding her breath, Legacy nudged the lever again. The airship’s speedometer shuddered up to forty miles per hour. Again, she felt the shift of increased speed beneath her feet, and again, she felt the deck tremble subtly with the fury of the engine room below.

              The castle was closer, but not close enough. She could make out its leafy bushes and its thorny vines now – a rarity to which only the wealthiest were privy: the bounty of the natural world – but could not discern details for the shadows thrown down onto the landscape. Might Kaizen himself be up at this late hour?

              Legacy glared at the airship’s lever one final time.

              She seemed to be coping well enough?

              Legacy’s eyes ticked from the distant castle to the airship’s lever three times before she finally gripped the rod and shoved it fifteen notches higher, almost losing her balance. Now she could hear the engine room rumbling and rattling beneath her feet, and the wind clawed coolly at her skirt and blouse, but finally, the space between the two vehicles was coming to a close.

              She could make out the interlocking triangular plates of the castle’s dome now, could make out the metallic grid which looped the structure as its external aerial dock. There, there were the royal carriages with turnkey chauffeurs welded to the driver’s seat beneath bell jars. There was the sweeping entrance to the grand hall. And there . . . there was Kaizen.

              Legacy lost her breath, and for a moment she forgot that he couldn’t see her.

              He had come bursting from the foyer and rushing along the side of the castle, closing the space between them without even knowing he was doing so . . . peering intently into the vast night sky not unlike Legacy had just done. He wore all black, draping material similar to those of pajamas, and his hair was loose on his shoulders. His feet were bare and his eyes . . . his eyes were wild.

              It had to be her imagination that, as the
Albatropus
approached with the clangor of its fevered engine, he seemed to peer exactly at it.

             
Shit! Of course!
she cursed herself.
Just because it’s invisible doesn’t mean he can’t hear it!

             
But could he have heard it, even through the thick glass plating of the dome? Even the passengers still slept. It couldn’t have possibly been that loud, and yet he was staring, staring right at her as the ship trundled past the floating castle dome, staring at her as if she’d cropped from his thoughts into reality. He wasn’t staring at the vague direction of a sound. He was staring at
her.
She could feel that alchemical magic in the air which only was derived from true connection, frantic, vulnerable. They were looking at
each other.

             
As the ships passed, Kaizen whirled and dashed; Legacy twisted to observe him racing toward the external aerial dock, unlocking and twisting through the gateway, slamming it shut behind him and pounding across the metallic grid until he slammed into its railing. “Legacy!” he belted into the air. The wind warped his voice, but it couldn’t have warped his words, could it? He had called her name! And now, he simply stared across the night sky, directly into Legacy’s retreating gaze, his own so full of anguish, blond hair fretting forward, whipping into his face.

              Legacy turned from him and braced the spokes of the wheel again, mired in troublesome realizations.

              Damnit.

              He had definitely seen her. There was no denying that eye contact, and even still, no denying that he’d called her name.

              How had he seen her? She hadn’t gotten that close! She knew she hadn’t!

              What had she done?

              Kaizen’s brows settled low with disappointment, his chest slowly resuming a standard rate of respiration. She’d turned from him. She’d said nothing back. Now the ship was a speck in the sky beyond.

              When he went to let himself back into the dome, he found a Hermetic transmitter: lightweight, silvery, and winged, small balls containing secure messages relayed often across vast distances. The device was repeatedly thunking itself against the exterior gate, waiting to be allowed entrance. He assumed this was the missive of Ferraday, considering the first castle automata had just come back on-line, and that was how a Hermetic device found its target.

              Sighing, Kaizen plucked the little nuisance from the air and depressed it. A light came flickering out, fluctuating with the gravelly cadence of the Monarch’s voice. “Taliko Castle. Inform me of your status immediately, Duke Taliko. Do not underestimate how tenuous your grip. We –
we
must act quickly to salvage any sense of security in our remaining cities, mustn’t we? Perhaps we shall find a scapegoat. The people will need an enemy in this situation. A threat to be tangibly snuffed and to bring a sense of comfort and safety back into their rustling minds. That enemy will not be me, young man, understand that. I will ensure it. Perhaps it could be that rebel traitor you were harboring in the tower, that Trip Pot or some such? Or that girl . . . Did you ever apprehend either of them? I heard that you invited the girl to a ‘friendly debate’ . . . I assumed, of course, that this was a ruse to capture her. Was it successful? Failing all else, my boy, the scapegoat could always be you.”

              Kaizen glared down at the thing a moment longer, though he wasn’t really surprised. It was just the perfect ending to a shit day.

Coal stretched lightly in this strange cocoon, incognizant of just how strange it was. She often did not even sleep with a blanket, and she certainly never slept longer than six hours, much less twelve. Somehow, someway, she felt amazingly refreshed. That was all she knew. Coal sighed, punctuated by a cough, and rolled onto her side, slinging one arm forward and accidentally striking someone’s face.

Her eyes bulged open.

Lying next to her in bed was an ocher-skinned brunette man, fast asleep. He wore a sub-standard leather rebreather and appeared to be otherwise totally nude.

Shrieking, Coal flailed out of the bed and pulled the blankets down with her onto the floor. Yes, indeed, the stranger was nude. He also had wide, flashing blue eyes that were quite pretty. Of course, most people in this situation would have eyes that were wide and flashing.

The strange man went to cup his privates behind his hands. “Whoa, whoa!” he called in a pleasant tenor. He spared one hand to reach for her, outstretched in the universal signal to stop, steady, calm. “It’s cool! I should’ve been wearing clothes, I’ll admit that!”

Vaulting to her feet, Coal abandoned the blankets around her body and slammed herself into the exit door, fumbling it open, racing barefoot through a narrow corridor of doors, doors, doors, all closed, closed, closed, mind gone blank with shock and fear. Never before, even when being regularly dosed with chemicals meant to suppress her most human of urges, had she felt as animal as she felt now. Clambering up a random ladder at the end of the hall, Coal found herself in a small room cluttered in mechanical devices, bleeping, glowing, even moving, and she realized it wasn’t just her and this man here, wherever they were. It was her, and this man, and several other people, all asleep on the floor, as if kidnapping happened every day around here. They weren’t N.E.E.R. brethren, either; these were those crazy people from the island in the sky. These were those crazy people with tall hats and mustaches and curls and petticoats, the seemingly sophisticated ones who cried for blood in the streets. She knew it was them. She could tell because they had hair. They had a degree of fat on their bones.

Sickened and terrified, Coal took a tentative step and then heard shuffling and hopping on the floor below.

“I can explain, just stop!” the stranger was yelling. “Just wait!”

Scrambling blindly forward, Coal climbed a small set of steps, this leading to a larger room of bunks and tables, again filled with slumbering strangers. The last thing she could remember was the air city. The people howling and pounding their breasts, snatching for her, demanding she be imprisoned – imprisoned at best. She’d ducked into an alley to escape it, and had rocketed from one street to the next, just as she did now, moving blindly forward in an attempt only to stay alive and delay the imminent danger. Then, though, she’d had a coughing fit and become dizzy. The world had tumbled end over end and gone black.

And now . . . then . . . suddenly . . . naked, in a bed, with some guy.

“Hey! Radia! Wait!” his voice rose behind her.

Radia?

Driven forward again, Coal gripped one of the drawers set into the floor and hauled it open. A bag spilled out. Grimacing, Coal replaced it, and pulled another drawer open. This was empty, and she slid down into the cavity created in its absence, pulling the drawer shut over top of her.

Now she found herself in some in-between place, dark and narrow. Tiny threads of light pierced from above, filtering through the cracks created by the uneven luggage drawers set into the floor, which hung down around Coal like a low ceiling. Still, she had a small amount of wiggle room, and was completely hidden.

She wondered where she was. How long she could hide here. When it would be safe.

She’d been brave before. She’d infiltrated the administrative building of her dome, and found the schedule for the next freight lift. Then, when that elevator in the sky had descended, she’d bolted with dozens of others, across dangerous swamps of brackish water and dead mangrove roots, of man-eating plants which smelled as sweet as syrup and shadowy giants that pranced with a speed and grace like fluid and flame, collecting her comrades to a symphony of screams. She hadn’t looked back. Coal had only forged forward, and when the freight lift had been locked, she’d climbed the shaft itself. She’d spilled out into that alien world of buildings and bots, but this was because the unknown was better than the droning hell in which she was mired. This was because she had assumed that, if these people could only see the condition in which she lived, they would have to help her. They would have to see reason. They would have to be moved, wouldn’t they?

The floorboards shuddered overhead as the brown-haired man thundered along the floor. “Radia?” he called. “I’m a friend of your sister’s.”

My sister’s?

These people were madmen.

The sight of malnourished, wheezing orphans had only driven them into a murderous frenzy. So who could know what horrors such beings would have in store for an unconscious girl discovered in the street? Had she caught a glimpse of a laboratory as she’d ascended to this final room of bunks? What did they want from her? Who was Radia? Why was that man naked? Who were all these people?

“What’s going on?” another voice joined his, foggy with sleep. This was a female.

“Nothing, Rain, I just – goddamnit,” the stranger’s tenor snapped. “Goddamnit, where is she?”

“Where is who?” Rain wondered.

“Augh, I lost Leg’s sister.” The stranger’s footfalls thundered over the floor and faded, followed by rapid, shorter footfalls which also then faded.

Coal allowed herself the luxury of another sigh, frantically stifling the resultant cough.

She was trapped all over again.

Trapped in the floor.

Coal wriggled backwards until vertical space, equally narrow, opened overhead, and she drew her bony legs beneath her and stood. Thin threads of light speared the darkness where patches wore thin and cracks gapped apart. Coal glared through one of them, examining the room as a door swept open and in marched the brown-haired man again – clothes thrown sloppily over his lithe frame – with a small, tan girl who had a thick head of silver-white braids and large amber eyes identical to Coal’s own.

She frowned, uncertain of exactly what she was seeing.

Who is that?
she wondered.
And . . . how? How does she look exactly like me?

“So, you figured you’d just go buck naked in our bed, huh?” the girl asked mildly, stooping to examine one of the bunks.

“Legacy, it is ungodly hot in there,” the boy snapped, following her down the small set of steps and into that room of devices.

Coal inched along the space within the wall, fumbling silently after the retreating couple.
So, the look-a-like’s name is Legacy. “Leg.” My sister, the man said,
she recalled, grim and all the more suspicious. The girl, Legacy, may have resembled her – even exactly – but she was still dressed in those gaudy, decadent garments of the air city. She was still ungrateful for everything she’d ever been given. The woman wore a damn vest of gold, after all.

After an hour of unsuccessfully scouring the decks, the forecastle, the berth, communications, the lab, the library, knocking on every individual cabin and even checking the sweltering engine room for Coal-Radia, Legacy and Dax accepted their failure and retired to their cabin near sunrise. Rain offered to maintain the helm until Vector could return.

“Do you see what I mean?” Dax pressed, unbuttoning his shirt and stripping it from his torso. “And it’s cooled down a little bit, even!”

The tiny cabin, sharing its wall with the engine room, seeped heat through the wall – as well as the rumbling of churning machinery. It was hotter than it’d been before, though; a sweat immediately broke across Legacy’s skin.

She hesitated, grimaced, and hitched one leg onto the mattress, unlacing her boots. She
had
tamped their speed back down to twenty-five miles per hour after putting some distance between them and the castle, but it had also been forty-five miles per hour for a while. She hoped she hadn’t damaged anything, and worried now that maybe Vector had reasons for insisting the speed remain stable at twenty-five.

Peeling the shoes from off her legs, she next shrugged off her vest, carefully draping it on the door’s coat hook. This was no ordinary vest. That was why its wings had sprung open when she’d leapt from the shifting ledge of the dome: an automatic, mechanical response. It had been a gift from her father, Patrick or “Patch” Legacy, the one-armed poor man’s inventor of Icarus.

Her father rummaged in a tin full of mechanical assistants. There was every variety of instrument within, dragonflies and figurines and tiny top hats and coiled snakes of glass. Personal assistants were probably his best-selling and most reliable product, easy to make, if you knew what you were doing. Through trial and error, Mr. Legacy had learned. Kind of. Mostly. He’d been getting better.

Mr. Legacy extracted a golden waistcoat from the pile; it was delicate enough to shift with movement and gleam only faintly, so that, upon first glance, it seemed cloth. But a closer glance would reveal the small key, fashioned to resemble a corsage, plunged into the lapel, and the tiny speakers rather than buttons. “Perfect,” he said. “This one hardly talks at all. Good for . . . for stealth.” He shot his daughter a look of understanding and dire importance. “It’s got a lot of tools,” he said, idly extending a pair of matching silken wings folded onto the back of the vest, “but – I – I know we don’t have time, so just register this, okay?”

As she hung the vest –
Flywheel-2,
registered under the alias Audio Swan – her countenance darkened and dampened. She began the suddenly daunting task of unbuttoning her blouse, arms thick and leaden as she worked.

“You should go, Exa,” her mother said, first sympathetic and then stern. “You should go before they come, and don’t – don’t tell us where you’ve been staying. You’re right. It’s better that way.”

Her mother pressed a hard kiss to her cheek, and her father gave her a hug that cracked three vertebrae in her back.

Legacy sighed deeply and shrugged the wilted linen garment from her shoulders.

“You okay?” Dax’s voice perforated her rain cloud of thoughts.

“Yeah,” she muttered, unfastening the fish-tail skirt from her hips and letting it puddle in the floor.

When she turned to face the bed, she found that he was already there, reclining against the headboard and staring at her with level, soft blue eyes. Not because she was almost entirely nude. Because he was worried about her

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

“No,” Legacy grumbled, climbing into bed and lying flat on her back. “You know, Dad was an inventor,” she burst, still not looking at him but into the low ceiling. “Maybe he had something that – You know? Maybe he . . .” Her lashes drooped as she faced the reality of her suggestion. Maybe he’d survived? He and her mother, Furnice? No . . . In order to survive, to even have a chance, they would have had to have been close to the exterior of the dome, capable of escaping the collapsing city before impact. The only publicly accessible point would have been the aerial docks at the corner of Lion’s Head and the business district . . . but her parents, when she’d last seen them, had been home. Almost on the other side of Icarus completely. It wasn’t impossible, but it was very, very unlikely.

“I’m sorry, Leg.” Dax had lost his parents long ago, his mother twelve years ago and his father five, both to cancers likely engendered in the mass production units where they’d worked themselves to death. Still, it wasn’t the type of thing you ever really “got over.” It was just the type of thing you got used to.

Dax patted her hand awkwardly.

“It’s fine,” Legacy murmured, ignoring the way her lungs – or her heart? – felt like an overfilled water balloon on the verge of popping. Involuntarily, however, her chest was oscillating in the style of a panic attack.

“Legacy,” Dax called to her, somber.

“I’m fine,” she reassured him. It was the last thing she could manage to say before the crack developed in her sternum – that mysterious cavern so filled with water – and the tears began to flow freely. Pulling to the side and drawing her limbs in toward her center, Legacy cringed and cradled her face in her clawed hands.

Dax gently drew her toward him and wrapped his arms around her. Both were coated in a light sheen of sweat, but Legacy needed the comfort emotionally more than she needed it physically, and so she bowed her face against his chest and wept.

Her fingers tangled subconsciously in his hair, and she buried into his neck, which smelled so pungently of Dax’s own aroma. Salt and leather and heat.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, along with other senseless lies meant solely to calm. “It’s going to be all right.” He stroked her back and allowed her nuzzling, even though the stifling cabin made it hard for either of them to catch a good breath.

Finally, finally, the pressure in Legacy’s ribcage abated. Like a drug, she wanted more. She felt better, and logically, if she pressed forward, she would feel even better, and could eventually totally blot her depression out. And this felt so good. To be in Dax’s arms again. To be allowed to let go. To forget all the bullshit. To just unravel.