Across a Star-Swept Sea

her head.

Another guard snorted. “This one looks like she just got her first pink. If we wait ’til it takes effect, we can have some real fun.”

At this, Justen stiffened, and a chill shuddered through his veins. Her first pink. So this was what it had come to on the streets of Galatea? Making jokes about the Reduction drug? He really had been sheltered. And if he didn’t get off this island, it would get much worse. For everyone.

Caution fled, and he opened his mouth, speaking in a voice more accustomed to addressing lab techs than dock security. “Gentlemen, can’t you see? This woman is an Albian, even if she’s an aristo, too.”

“And who do you think you are?” the first guard asked, looking down his nose at Justen.

Justen straightened, though it still didn’t make him as tall as the soldier. “An interested bystander, sir, and a friend of the revolution. You know Citizen Aldred has granted immunity to visiting Albians. We certainly wouldn’t want to anger their princess over this silly aristo, and neither would those in the palace. Am I right?”

“That’s your opinion, young man.”

“Correct, it is.” He was ready to unleash his secret weapon, when the aristo proceeded to vomit all over the pavement.

The guard grimaced. “Let Albion have her, then.” He let go and the woman collapsed on the dock, senseless. When the guard kicked her, she barely even grunted.

Justen’s mouth opened, but he said nothing. As long as they left, and left her alone, a kick would not hurt her worse than the genetemps sickness already had. He reached down and pulled her up again. The shaking had only worsened.

“My boat,” she croaked.

“Yes,” Justen replied curtly. Messing around with temporary genetics was foolish at best and deadly at worst. Since the revolution, the market for unlicensed genetemping had flourished in the Halahou’s sketchier neighborhoods, offering everything from glow-in-the-dark skin and feathers to snake eyes and sex changes. It was all the rage among the teen regs—even Remy had expressed interest in giving it a whirl, until Justen had explained exactly what could happen to her if things went wrong.

Genetemps were also wildly popular with bored Albian aristos looking for a little adventure on holidays down south. Justen didn’t bother to hate them. The hell that was genetemps sickness was punishment enough. This one, though, was old enough to know better. She looked like she was as old as the Helo Cure.

He dragged the old woman back to her ship, where the turquoise-haired Albian he’d spotted earlier met him at the ramp. She was a few years younger than Justen, with full, rosy cheeks and a keenly intelligent glint in her deep brown eyes. “Thank you, Citizen,” the girl said, grabbing the older woman out of his grasp. “I appreciate your assistance with my grandmother. She’s . . . quite frail . . .”

“She’s got genetemps sickness,” he snapped at the girl. “I’m not an idiot. The code’s breaking down badly and her cells are going into shock. Do you have a medical kit on board?”

Turquoise cast her grandmother a fretful look and said nothing.

“Listen,” Justen hissed. “She needs medical care or she’ll go coma. I’m a medic. I can treat her here, or we can take her to the hospital in Halahou. Your choice.”

Turquoise went for the kit. Justen arranged the old woman’s body on a cushioned bench. He brushed her hair from her face, and gray grease smeared on his fingers. The color was fake, he realized, noting how the gray flaked off her braids.

The woman’s eyes fluttered open. He’d expected the watery, sunken look of age, but they were a clear, golden brown. And her wrinkles appeared fewer and far shallower than they had on the docks.

“An aging genetemps?” he asked, as if he were back in the clinic surrounded by other medics. “There’s a new one.”

“It didn’t work right,” the woman said, the croak subsiding to leave the voice of a girl. “It was supposed to make me look thirty, not ninety.”

“Ah.” Justen nodded. This aristo was no one’s grandmother. She must have been trying to get into an establishment with age restrictions. Though it didn’t explain the gray hair. He’d never understand the motives behind what passed for Albian fashion. The crazy hair colors, the ridiculous ruffles . . .

The turquoise-haired girl reappeared with a medical kit. “You’re awake,” she said with a sigh of relief.

The aristo held out her hand to her companion. “Andrine, is everything ready?”

Turquoise—Andrine—nodded.

“Good,” croaked the other one. “Ready the Daydream for departure as soon as my Galatean savior is done here.”

Justen saw his opening. “Actually, as I was telling your friend, you’re in dire need of medical attention. I’d like to offer my services to you during the crossing. I’m trained as a medic.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“I disagree.” He hesitated. “I am in search of passage to Albion anyway. If you won’t accept my care, I would be happy to pay you for the trip. But either way, as a medic I’m ethically required to offer my assistance.”

The woman regarded him for a long moment. He wondered how old she was really. If she’d taken aging genetemps, she might be even younger than he was. “How nice it is to see that all Galateans have not abandoned their morals. Fine, you can come with us. You must tell us, though, to whom I am in debt.”

He glanced behind him, to the docks. None of the guards lingered. Besides, as long as he was leaving, it didn’t matter. “My name is Justen Helo.”

Andrine stepped back. The aristo’s eyes widened. It figured. Even Albian party girls knew what that name meant.

“Citizen Helo,” she said softly, “it’s an honor.”

“Justen,” he ground out. If he never heard the title “Citizen” again, it would be too soon. And who was this aristo kidding? An honor? There was vomit drying on her collar.

She inclined her head. “Lady Persis Blake, at your service.”

Four

WARM SILK CRADLED HER cheek, and sunlight dappled coral along the insides of her eyelids. Slowly, Persis emerged from sleep. Her limbs felt like washed-up seaweed, and her body ached as if she’d swum for miles. The soft sway of the hammock was her only comfort. She tried to open her eyes, and a dagger of pain sliced through her temples.

Memory flooded into the wound. The mission. The genetemps. The young Galatean on the docks. The one who’d said his name was—

Heedless of the pain, Persis forced her eyes open. Justen Helo. She’d been too out of it on the boat to question the Galatean’s claim. She’d been too out of it, even, to figure out a way to avoid giving him passage after he’d helped her.

Andrine should have known better than to let some stranger on the boat, even if his name was Helo. Persis must have been very sick, indeed, for her friend to have taken the risk. At least Andrine had brought her back home to Scintillans. But what had become of Justen Helo?

There was a soft chirp and the sound of claws against the polished bamboo floorboards. A tug on the silk of the hammock near her legs and then she felt the familiar weight and warmth of Slipstream wriggling up her body and curling into her arms. His whiskers tickled against her skin as he snuffled his otter-like face into the crook of her elbow. He blinked at her, his enormous, round eyes filled with concern.

“It’s all right, Slippy. I’m home,” she whispered.

“And awake,” said a voice beyond the folds of her hammock. Persis clutched Slipstream tightly. “That was sooner than I expected. You must have a great constitution.”

With effort, Persis sat up. The sea mink snuggled against her, his velvet fur sun-warmed and dry, which