Across a Star-Swept Sea

it’s a relief that so many of the records of the old time have been lost. I cannot imagine I would like many of my own ancestors. If we let ourselves dwell on it too much, we’ll end up like those Peccants on your island, in a constant state of punishment to atone for humanity’s sins.”

The Peccants were a tiny monastic order on Galatea that believed New Pacificans should not be allowed to live full lives after the dire fate that befell the rest of the world. Persis could understand why the notion hadn’t ever made it to the mainstream.

“However,” her father went on, “I am comforted, some, by an ancient saying: ‘Every king springs from a race of slaves, and every slave had kings among his ancestors.’”

“That’s Plato,” said Justen. “I’ve read him.”

“Ah!” Torin clapped his hands. “Then you and Persis must have plenty to talk about.”

“Papa,” Persis said lightly, “I just had to read him in school.” No good could come of having Justen think she was up on ancient philosophy.

But Torin Blake wasn’t to be swayed. “But, Persis, you couldn’t stop talking about the classics! You made me take the Blake collection out of cryostorage so you could see them on real paper.”

She rolled her eyes for Justen’s benefit. “Three years ago,” she said, as if Torin might as well be speaking of a time before the wars.

Still, she remembered the occasion fondly. She and her parents had spent hours poring over the stiff, cryoclaimed old volumes, reading the inky words on the dry, crumbly pages. Her mother had never seen real books before, and Persis knew only the few volumes they’d kept in cryostorage at school. Persis’s favorite had been the poem about the clever, seafaring king who’d traveled around magical islands trying to find his way home to his loyal wife after winning a long, long war. Her father’s had been a scary book about an aristo medic who’d gengineered a human out of corpses and lightning and was understandably horrified by the results. Her mother’s had been the sad story about the farmhand with the Reduced brother he’d been forced to kill.

She wondered if her mother even remembered that story now.

“At any rate,” Torin was saying to their guest, “I live in hope that people will judge me for myself and not any evils that may have been wrought by my ancestors.”

Justen nodded solemnly. “I hope to be judged for myself, too, sir. But, as you see, we are both hampered. You by a heritage of aristos stretching back generations, and me by the name of Helo. If I were any simple reg who showed up at your door, I doubt you’d have prepared such a feast.”

For a moment, Lord Blake just stared at Justen, then he threw back his head and guffawed, a sound so loud that his wife startled at it. “I think I like you, young man. There aren’t many who would sit at my table and call out my own hypocrisy.”

“Spend a little more time with Justen, Papa,” said Persis. “You’ll learn needling aristos is his favorite activity.”

Justen looked scandalized. “I don’t think you’re a hypocrite, Lord Blake,” he said quickly. “You and your family have shown me nothing but kindness since my arrival in Albion. Even before. And it’s obvious that, aristo or not, you have no prejudice against regs.”

“Oh no,” said Lady Blake softly and with a wry smile. “We always like regs.”

“I wasn’t speaking solely of you, Lady Blake. All the regs on Scintillans. I met Tero and Andrine Finch at court today, and they told me how your scholarships helped Tero get his gengineering degree. If the estates in Galatea invested in their people like you clearly do, I doubt there would have been a revolution at all.”

How Persis longed to voice a response to that declaration. But her mother was speaking again, and such an occasion had become so rare that neither Persis nor her father dared interrupt.

“I think,” said Lady Blake, “that Plato’s words are apt. The aristos of these islands enslaved the Reduced for generations. They should have been their caretakers, and instead they became their tyrants. And yet, they’re descended from the poorest and most disenfranchised of all in the old lands, which is why they never received the genetic enhancements that caused the Reduction in the first place. And it was the ancestors of the Reduced who began the wars, who destroyed the old lands. No one is innocent in the tide of history. Everyone has kings and slaves in his past. Everyone has saints and sinners. We are not to blame for the actions of our ancestors. We can only try to be the best we can, no matter what our heritage, to strive for a better future for all.”

Even, thought Persis, if we are forced to pay our forefathers’ debts.

Her father laid his hand gently on her mother’s and squeezed. She smiled, but said nothing more for the remainder of the course, as if drained by that effort. Persis, as she had been for months, filled the silence with chatter of her own, tales of the goings-on at court or Slipstream’s antics or news of the twins who had just been born in the Scintillans fishing village. Light, easy topics, suitable both for her mother’s constitution and for the impression of herself she wanted Justen to have.

As the sun set over the edge of the western cliff and a lavender light descended on the lawn and the terrace, Torin asked Persis to go turn on the lights. She excused herself from the table and headed inside to find the controls, and there her father intercepted her.

“Where did you really find your new friend, young lady?” She turned to find him standing at the threshold to the terrace, arms crossed over his chest. His face was in shadow, and she couldn’t tell from his voice exactly how angry he was. “And exactly how did you ‘take ill’ on your yacht?”

She mentally upgraded her assessment of her father’s state of mind from moderately annoyed to highly disappointed. “Seasickness.”

“I think not. You’ve been sailing since before you could walk, and I doubt a Galatean medic just happened to overtake you on the high seas.”

“Papa—”

“What did I say about going to Galatea? Do you have any idea what’s happening to aristos down there?”

“Yes, I do,” Persis said. She had a better idea than almost anyone else in Albion. “But, Papa, the revolutionary government has given immunity to all Albians, and the princess would never let anything happen to me—”

“Something already happened to you, to hear Justen Helo’s version of events. And you’ll forgive me if I’m not willing to trust the announced promises of a man like Damos Aldred, a rebel leader who is torturing and killing his own people, when it comes to the relative safety of my daughter.”

“Princess Isla—”

But her father cut her off. “I think we’ve done quite enough for Princess Isla around here, Persis. I know how much you love her, but you’ve already left school to become part of her official entourage or whatever nonsense you two girls are calling it. I’ll not have you risking your life or your brain to get her a few yards of silk on top of that.”

It was miracle enough that her father had let her quit school. But his mind was too full of care for her mother, and though she hadn’t made it part of her argument, she’d let him believe that her mind was too full of it, too.

The excuse Persis had made at the time was that Isla needed her, that it was her patriotic duty to help her best friend as she recovered after her father’s death and adjusted to life as the unexpected and very young ruler of Albion. The court was beautiful, but if the revolution in the south had proved anything, it was that it could be as deadly as a pod of mini-orcas to a young and inexperienced monarch. Isla needed to make sure there was at least one courtier she could trust completely.

“But you’ve been doing so well in school,” her father had said back then. “I don’t want you to lose yourself in the kind of idle pursuits that characterize most of the ladies at court.” He’d never been much for Albian courtiers. Back when every young aristo girl in Albion had been throwing themselves at his feet, he’d fallen instead for a reg who could gut a fish as easily as read a sonnet. Together, he and Heloise had made history. Persis had no intention of letting the legacy die with her generation. “Gossip and court intrigue? Darling, you’re the smartest girl on the island, not simply Isla’s spy.”

If only he knew that Persis’s activities at court were the very smallest part of her spying. However, Persis would take each argument one at a time.

“Papa, there’s a long tradition of such things. Look at that old story, where the student Horatio left school with Prince Hamlet after his father died and Hamlet needed help—”

“And how did that story turn out again? Maybe you should stay in school.”