Golden Son

The gang of three from House Falthe try to ambush Tactus as he returns to the main body. He wheels on them and with little help lays all but Lilath low. She scampers off as he kills Cipio and stomps on the dead man. “Babykillers,” he spits over and over, till Victra pulls him away. I watch for the Jackal. Every moment I expect a dart in the back, to die as Leto did. But the Jackal merely follows, as does his father. No one saw what he did to Leto. Or if they did, their fear silences them.

When we reach the stone halls beyond the forest, finally crossing a white limestone bridge, the rules of the Society seem to return. LowColors skitter out of our way as we, now seventy strong, storm through the halls to the hangars to leave this moon. But when we reach our hangar, we find that our ship is gone. We rush to the landing pads lined with trees and grass. All the family ships are missing. Society ripWings patrol the sky.

We question a shaking Orange. Tactus holds him up by his collar. He shudders as he looks at us seventy bloody souls. He’s never spoken to a Gold before, much less ones like us. Victra knocks Tactus’s hand away and speaks quietly to the Orange.

“He says the ships were required to return home two hours ago.”

“First they don’t let Obsidians into the gala, now this,” Tactus mutters.

“That means the Sovereign planned something,” says the Jackal. “A something that was never allowed to blossom. She removed our Obsidians, our ships, to isolate the houses from their sources of power,” he explains, eyeing the Telemanuses warily. “Marooning us. What do you suppose she had up her little sleeves, Father?”

Augustus ignores his son, looking to the sky.

“Mothermercy,” Victra curses.

“Gather yourselves!” Kavax bellows to his warriors.

“Piss on my face.” Tactus goes pale beside me.

I look up and see doom coming. “Praetorians!”

Seventy razors curl out and we fan apart in case they have energy weapons.

“Darrow. You’re with me,” Augustus says.

The enemy is little more than black dots in the night sky. But our eyes are keen. The dark bastards streak from the night clouds and impact the ground like fallen devils, always in their threes.

Thumpthumpthump. Thumpthumpthump. Thumpthumpthump.

They land between the trees on the grass, blocking our way back to the Citadel. Obsidian Praetorians and Gold knight-captains. The Praetorian Obsidians are titanic, like golems pulled from the stone of some mountain. Crueler by far than those we used at the Academy. No armor like theirs in all the worlds. Dark purple inlaid with black, like coral curling over their titan bodies. They stand in tight squad formation, loyal and bound to one another as they are to their faith.

Thumpthumpthump till there are ninety-nine.

Thump. Their Golden commander lands last, on a knee. He rises, tall helmet a laughing wolfskull. His cape of gold, emblazoned with the pyramid of the Society, kicks sideways in the wind. An Olympic Knight. There are twelve in the Solar System, sworn to protect the Compact of the Society against all who’d defy it. This is the Rage Knight, the post Lorn filled for sixty years till he left for Europa. They represent what the Golds see as the dominant themes of man, the same as our school houses. A man slighter than myself wears the armor. So the Sovereign’s already filled Lorn’s former post.

“Declare yourself, knight!” I shout.

The knight allows his helm to melt back into his armor. His flaxen hair falls over an ugly hatchet face. Wet from sweat, lined with age and stress. I bark out a laugh when he smiles out that sideslash of a mouth. I draw stares. Now they’ll only think me madder. The Rage Knight falls from the sky, and I laugh in his face.

He cackles. “Don’t you recognize me, you little shiteater?”

“Fitchner, you look uglier than I remember!”

“Fitchner?” Tactus snorts. “How nostalgic.”

“Hello, boyo.” Fitchner laughs at seeing Tactus in the ArchGovernor’s cloak. “Nice cape, but you’re not ArchGovernor Augustus.” Fitchner clucks his tongue and sets his hands on his hips. “ArchGovernor! ArchGovernor! Darling, where the devil are you?”

The ArchGovernor rolls his eyes and steps past me. “Proctor Mars.”

“There’s the darling! And that’s an old title, didn’t you know?”

“I see you have a new helmet.”

“It is pretty, isn’t it? The ladies love it. Can’t remember when I was laid so much by Golden stock.” Fitchner moves his hips suggestively. “It was such a bother getting it. Thought there’d never be an end to the duels and tests! We did it in front of the Sovereign, boyo. Each man, each woman, making their case. Everyone who thought the post should be theirs. Time and again. But fortune favors the nasty!”

“How …,” I wonder aloud. “You beat everyone?”