Golden Son

A true friend.

“Of course,” he says haltingly. “But only if you stop blubbering, man. We’re still Golds.”

I pull back from him, embarrassed, wiping my face on my sleeve. I think I mumble an apology. My vision’s bleary. I sniff. He hands me a towel, which I blow my running nose into. He makes a face.

“What?”

“That was for your eyes.”

We laugh together and then sit in an awkward silence. In time, I ask him how long he’s known. He suspected something since the Institute, he says, where he heard me say “bloodydamn” to Apollo. My voice went all thick, all rusty. Then Dancer showed him the video of my carving.

“Somehow they knew you could trust me, even if you didn’t, shithead. Always been that way. Always will be that way.”

“It doesn’t … bother you?” I ask him. “What I am?”

“Bother. That’s a tiny ass word for a gory big thing.” He scratches his buzzed head. “A crotch rash bothers me. Bad fish bothers me. Entitled dickweeds bother me. This …” He shrugs. “Piss on it. You like my angle more than any other pisshead in the worlds. Figure I’d return the favor, even if I really am bigger than your rusty ass.”

I laugh at that. He would have dwarfed my Red self. “You must know what I’m here to do? It isn’t just infiltration. It will end with the fall of the Society.”

“Rise too high, in mud you lie.”

“That’s it?” I ask incredulously. “You’re on board?”

He snorts. “It took me six months on a torchShip to reach you. Three months from Triton after Dancer showed me the truth. Was I confused? Damn straight. But still I boarded the ship and had three months to reconsider. Still I am here. So I think the time for second-guessing my commitment has passed. Anyway, my Gold ‘brethren’ have been trying to kill me since I was born.” He looks around, uncomfortable even after all we’ve shared, despite the jamField. “Only people to ever treat me decently are people who don’t have a reason to. LowColors. You. I think it’s time to return the favor.”

“And what of the others?” I ask intensely. “Pebble, Clown?”

“Not my secret to share. Quinn would have understood,” he says slowly, fighting back something. “Rest might go along. Thistle won’t. Roque won’t. Not in a million years. Too in love with their own species. Don’t know about the tall arrogant one.”

“Victra. And Mustang?” I ask.

“I don’t give love advice, shithead.” He stands. “Say, just because I’m a revolutionary doesn’t mean I can’t get a massage from a Pink, does it? That would suck sack.”

“I don’t know,” I laugh. “I’m still figuring it out, to be honest.”

“Slag it. I’m getting one. Back feels bloody broken.” His crooked teeth bare themselves as he laughs. “Feels good. That’s how I know it’s right, Reap. Despite all this shit. It feels good in here.” He taps his thin chest. “It feels … how do you say … bloodydamn good.”

Victra finds me after I’ve said my goodbyes to Sevro. “Augustus sent me to tell you the Ash Lord’s stateroom is yours.”

“Augustus is giving me the largest room?”

“Your ship, your spoils, he said. You know how particular he is about order.”

“I hope you know the way. I’m already lost.”

She motions me along. We walk in silence through the halls. I’m weary, but happy enough knowing Sevro is with me, that Ares still believes in me, and that Dancer is still alive out there. It’s a salve on the pain from Quinn’s death.

“I suppose you know my family has betrayed the ArchGovernor,” she says.

“I’d heard. But you’re still with us.”

“As I said. I do what I want. Mother doesn’t control me, or my accounts, like she does Antonia’s.” She grins sideways, watching me. “I like you when you’re like this.”

“Like this?” I can’t help but laugh. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. You seem calm. At ease. Despite what’s happened.”

“And you seem particularly kind,” I say.

“Kind? A quaint fiction. But we both know I’m far from kind.”

We walk in silence till we reach the door to my stateroom. I glance back and see Ragnar trailing in the halls behind. If it weren’t for the bandages on his body, I wouldn’t have seen him at all. I motion him away.

At the door, I search Victra’s haughty eyes. “You could have sent a lowColor to tell me I was to be in the stateroom.”

“But then I wouldn’t get to see you.”

“Is that the only reason?” I ask.

She smiles mischievously. “I think I’ll keep my secrets.” After a moment, she looks up at me. “But I do worry for you.”

“For me?” I roll my eyes. “What are you playing at, Victra?”

“Nothing,” she says, offended. “You’re such a hypocrite, Darrow.”

“Me?”

“Remember when Tactus discarded your violin because he was suspicious that you wanted something? Now you treat me the same way. Same as when I came to you in the gardens on Luna. Is it too much to believe I’m your friend and care about you?” She wrinkles her nose. “You’re making me emotional, and I hate it.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “You’re just …” I try to find the right words for the tall woman. There aren’t any. So I shrug and say, “It’s hard knowing you’re Antonia’s sister. That’s the full of it.”

“But I’m not her.”

“I realize th—”

“Do you?” She reaches out and touches my face. Her lips part searchingly. I remember the feel of them on mine before I launched myself through the spitTube. I let her kiss me then. Even if she is a cold woman, there is something in her heart for me. Different from Eo. Different from Mustang. I move gently away from her hand and shake my head.

“You are a strange man,” she says with a soft sigh, all the vulnerability that was in her now gone. Her claws are back on. She leans back against the wall opposite me, bending a knee and putting a boot on the wall, laughing at me with her eyes. Here’s the Victra I know.