Either way, the hope was offered, and an instant later, it died.
Amund never explicitly said, “I’ll have you killed.” Because that was such an obvious answer. But what if the river and this world didn’t think that Rococo was enough of a sacrifice? If these entities didn’t approve of immortals, maybe Mere was on the platter, too. Which meant that Amund could step alone into the streakship, and being the only surviving member of this awful mission, he would easily take charge.
These ideas needed time to bake, except there was no time.
Rococo saw quite a lot, but most of his focus was on the gray cone trying to stand above the onslaught of flesh and vengeful rage.
When he stood, he stood quickly, putting his back to the wind. The pack and kit were secured to the deck’s middle. Rococo claimed both and entered his cabin, opened the pack and gave instructions. Was this request too detailed, too odd? Was he wasting valuable time? But no, Remoras had built the kit, and Remoras designed wondrous machines. A sculpture of pure carbon—the narrow diamond blade and an elaborate, bone-shaped graphite hilt not meant to fit any human hand, but useful enough for a man about to commit murder.
The streakship was minutes away, and the towering wave decided to slow itself, beginning a steady, graceful collapse.
Rococo stepped inside Amund’s cabin. Sitting on the mattress, legs too stiff to be crossed, the mortal body was wearing comfortable clothes without boots. For a moment, nothing happened. The man looked as if he might rise any moment, or he might close his eyes and nap. But then the bal’tin ceremonial knife caught the sunlight, flashing like a beacon, and Amund responded with a sudden sound. A laugh, or perhaps something else. It could have been a sob, a muddled word, or maybe just some miserable noise escaping on its own.
Rococo managed two steps before his legs quit working, before both hands failed him and the weapon struck the floor.
Softly, one of them said, “Do what you want.”
Whose voice was that? Rococo wasn’t certain, and he didn’t care. What mattered was that he had done nothing wrong. He was bringing his colleague a fancy memento, and no crimes were being attempted, nothing was behind him but an open door and sunshine.
Except Rococo had said, “Do what you want.”
“Thanks for the advice,” the other man said. “I’ll try to do just that.”
Retreat began with a small step, then a pause. Embarrassment took hold, forcing Rococo to drop his eyes.
Amund pulled in his legs and rose, both arms helping fight gravity. Then he stepped close, saying, “You’re the great diplomat. And so smart, too. If I believed half of what you’ve told me, I’d have no choice but to consider you one of the most brilliant creatures ever born from circuits and salt.”
Rococo looked up, finding hard eyes and a broad grin that quickly turned into an ugly, disgusted expression.
“You’re the genius,” Amund said. “So of course you realized the truth. Probably long ago.”
“What truth?”
“Well, that the rivers, and I mean all of the rivers, have been playing a spectacular game with us.”
“Game?” Rococo muttered.
“Or don’t you see it?” Laughter bubbled out of him, but the man’s expression remained cold, furious. “When the rivers first learned about you, millions of tiny immortal machines riding inside one giant machine, they were afraid. Disasters were looming. Maybe like never before, they spoke to one another. They asked what they could do to save themselves. And after consideration and hard debate, they decided to send you promises. Four worlds offered, and three of those worlds were dedicated to the machines. Except they never wanted you on their shoreline. That’s why they demanded someone like me. One pure river. And after a lot of hard, invisible preparations, they staged a terrible war between stubborn beliefs.”
“Staged,” Rococo echoed.
“Be honest,” Amund said. “Bad as this damage looks, how many rivers were killed? Zero. That’s how many. Each creature is diminished, yes. But still enormous compared to little us. And then they attacked our ship, stripping our resources to a desperate minimum. But of course that should have bothered a genius like you. Against tremendous odds, you survived. So did I. We lived because that was the plan, and then the river spoke to me. Which was the main reason why I was invited in the first place. To negotiate.”
Rococo had no voice.
“The rivers were hoping I’d settle for four worlds, the same as you did. But I saw the game and held out for quite a lot more. Which is why I have to thank you. Half of my life listening to you chatter about how great you were at your job, and I learned a few things. Stupid as I am, I still managed a treaty guaranteeing that these aliens will be surrounded by billions of pure rivers but very few machines.”
Rococo couldn’t remember his last breath. Through clenched teeth, he asked, “And I’ll be the sacrifice?”
“No, I am,” Amund said instantly, without regrets. “I always have been. Aren’t you paying attention?” Then he stepped close and bent just low enough to grab up the knife, holding it sideways on two flattened hands while adding, “You’re not the great diplomat. They pulled a con on you. From the start and without you suspecting. And here I am, the dreamy piece of water that saw what you couldn’t even imagine.”
The knife weighed nothing, and the flesh offered no resistance when the tip went inside the man’s stomach and out again.
Amund collapsed, letting out a long scream.
A tiny portion of the sunlight was blocked when Mere ran inside, grabbing Rococo’s hands. “What are you doing, why would you?” she was asking. “How does this help anything anyone anywhere … ?”
She was carving up her own fingers, trying to yank
