Tim Akers - Heart of Veridon

The grand hall wasn’t packed, just a few clusters of men, sometimes women, holding drinks and nodding to one another. There was a bar and a fireplace, both lively. The walls inside were different, though still beautiful. They were steel gloved in warm butterwood, the gloss at once brilliant and soothing. The hall smelled like warm bread and linen, with a tinge of wood smoke that hinted at the countryside around us.

The broad length of the hall was all latticework windows and doors, leading out to the terraced balcony. There was a lot of light out there, and music. I got a drink and went outside.

The night sky was crystal bright, thousands of stars and the silver moon bearing down on the darkness. The city was far below, just as beautiful as it had been on the Glory of Day in the moments after we cleared the falls. Veridon glittered across the sloping delta, laced in blackness by canals and rivers, lights hunched up in avenues and buildings, a warm haze of streetlights and the illuminated domes of the Holy Houses of the Celestes. They still looked bright, no matter how dead their religion, how empty their shrines. I could even pick out their successor, the massive Church of the Algorithm, crouched near the Reine, shimmering with the flames of its deep engines of God. The whole city was like a stone broken open to reveal a heart of precious fire, washed up on the riverbank.

Out here on the balconies there were a lot more people. Frictionlamps hummed softly on sturdy tables, offering a place to lean or set your drink while encouraging mingling among the guests. A lot of the faces were younger than I expected, and unfamiliar. A lot of them were in uniform, as well, testament to the feast’s honor. I walked among the crowd, nodding and smiling as necessary. I paused at the railing, leaning against the cold stone and looking out at the Tomb grounds. Below me and to one side there was another terrace, and a third below it. There were others, I knew, smaller and more discreet, but they remained unlit tonight. It was on these terraces, visiting as a child and leaning dangerously far over the rail, that I first dreamed of flying. A child’s dream.

Laughter interrupted me. The Lady Tomb, holding court on the terrace below me. Her dress was trimmed in black and grey, the colors of the Corps. I found the stairs and went down to present myself.

The orbit of people around here was tight, mostly young folks in nice suits and dresses. I couldn’t tell if they were the sons and daughters of merchants, hoping to curry favor among the Council’s Named Seats, or if these were the very capitalists who had leveraged away most of the old Families, bought up their named rights and property. Either way, it was unusual to see their kind at a party of the Tomb. Tomb’s seat was bought out, too, but the debt hadn’t yet come due. Old man Tomb still lived, though barely. The Lady held the seat in his absence, as had generations of Tombs. When he died, the seat would go with him. Maybe to one of these young bucks.

I couldn’t force my way to the Lady directly, so I joined the slow social progression, drank and chatted, or listened to others go on about nothing. It took a while, but I was able to work my way in, slowly, circling, shaking hands and patting backs, then slipping forward a little more, a little closer. Eventually I found myself in the presence of the Lady Councilor-in-Standing Angela Tomb. I nodded at her.

“Councilor Tomb.”

She looked at me between long lashes. Her eyes were dusty, the faintest gray, and her hair was pulled back into a golden rope that trailed over her shoulder and down her back. She had a pretty chin and lips, but the smile she dressed them in didn’t make it to her eyes. She raised a hand, almost offering it to me but not quite, as though she was prepared to receive a kiss or deflect a blow.

“Pilot Burn. The hero of Glory. Good of you to come.”

“Always a pleasure to see the old estate, Councilor. But I wouldn’t dare assume the name hero.”

“No?” She raised a nearly empty glass to her mouth and let the ice clink against her teeth. She wasn’t drinking wine, I noticed. “I understand that you’re responsible for rescuing every soul that survived.”

There was a brief, embarrassed wave of laughter around us. I clutched my glass.

“Yes, I suppose. As the only survivor.”

“Ah. I misunderstood. Still, I’m sure you did what you could. As a Pilot, I mean.”

I didn’t like that. I wasn’t sure what she knew about my reasons for being here, if she knew that I was standing as a representative of Valentine, or if she thought I was just here in my role as disgraced nobility and fallen Captain, an example to others. Whatever she knew or believed she knew, I didn’t like this.

The uniform standing next to Tomb leaned forward, a little smile on his face. He was older, wearing the plating of a Commodore. I didn’t recognize his face, but by his age and rank it was a fair bet I had reported to him at some point.

“Let’s not throw that title around, my Lady. Pilots, as you know, can fly. Can you fly, Mr. Burn?”

I was silent, awkwardly aware of my eyes and the hum of the dead machine in my heart.

“You know I can’t.”

“Ah. Then we have misnamed you twice. Hero and Pilot. It’s too bad so much blood has been wasted on you, Jacob Burn.” The man seemed satisfied to have used my full name, as though the absence of titles was insult enough. I put my hand on his shoulder and dropped my glass to the stone floor. It popped, and the crowd became quiet.

“Can you, Commodore?” I flicked my eyes to the nearby railing and the empty space beyond. “Fly?”

No one moved. No one said anything, the tight suits and uniforms all around held their glasses and their tongues and just stared. The Lady was looking at me cautiously, but made no call for help. The Commodore was white. I could feel his heart hammering under his skin. I liked this better. I laughed.

“Nevermind. It’s a good party, My Lady. We should have more like this.” I patted the Commodore on the chest. “I like your friends.”

I left, and conversation resumed. I took a drink from a passing waiter, found a smaller staircase that led to the third, and lowest, terrace and found a quiet spot. There was a garden here, a ledge that had been built up and landscaped, an unnaturally smooth bit of grass and tree dangling over the ridge’s height. There was a zepliner drifting in from Veridon, perhaps the last of the night. Upriver, far up the Reine, an accumulation of storm clouds was piling up. Lightning flashed deep in its heart, pink flickering into white. A breeze lifted from the delta valley, bringing a smell of wetness and growth and hot metal. Storms rolling in.

I thought about my little encounter. If Lady Tomb knew my purpose, knew I was there on behalf of Valentine, she might have just been trying my steel. Testing the limits of Valentine’s broken monster. Then again, if she was just being a bitch. Well. Maybe I should have thrown her friend off the balcony.

I finished my drink and went to get another. The sky was changing, clouds stealing away the stars, getting dark.

The Zepliner brought the girl, riding hard against the gathering storm. They docked at the same mooring gate we had used and hurried her down the cobble walkway while the zep jerked and bobbed. She was beautiful in the non-specific way common to engram-singers. She was wrapped tight in a black shawl and dress, surrounded by the blue tunics of the Artificer’s Guild.

Tonight’s performance was to be The Summer Girl. It was an old song, a favorite of the Corps. The original performance had been at the christening of the first zepliner, the awkwardly-named Lady of the Summer Skies. The later exploits of this vessel, nearmyth in the Corps circles, had solidified the song’s place as the unofficial anthem of the Corps. That it was also one of the oldest recorded engram-songs, performed at the earliest cusp of that still-shady technology, added to the mystique.