Read Online Across a Star-Swept Sea by Diana Peterfreund - Free Book Online

Galateans in the crowd of the courtyard. Though anyone in the Albion court would probably be an enemy of the revolution, he didn’t need a report of his whereabouts to reach Uncle Damos so soon. Even more thankfully, his host ushered him quickly through the throng and into a small, white, orchid-draped antechamber to await an audience with the princess regent. Persis had walked into the palace with her sea mink like she owned the place, and had to brush off several courtiers along the way. And she’d managed to bring him to the princess straight off, too. Persis must have been telling the truth, then, that they were friends.
    And, yet, she was the daughter of an aristo married to a reg. Would wonders never cease?
    The princess, too, looked just like the images he’d seen of her. She was a few years younger than he was—about Persis’s age, with silvery hair and an all-white gown that seemed almost practical after the rainbow of colors and iridescence he’d passed through outside, even if it was covered in waves of floating feathers and crystals that clinked as she moved.
    One of the biggest complaints about the old Queen Gala had been that she’d acted more like an Albian woman than a Galatean one. Shallow, silly, and more interested in parties than politics, in clothes than in culture. Justen could only hope that Isla defied expectations. Her friendship with Persis boded ill. He’d heard the princess didn’t wield much in the way of true power in Albion. And with an airhead like Persis as her lady-in-waiting, perhaps there was good reason for that.
    Then again, beggars couldn’t be choosers.
    “Greetings, Galatean,” said Princess Isla, spreading her arms in a gesture of welcome. “My friend Persis tells me I’m about to be bowled over by you. But given the number of Galateans that wash up on my shores these days, I wonder what she finds so impressive this time.”
    Persis looked at the princess and scowled. Isla smiled serenely. The aristo favored her princess with the ghost of a curtsy. She was holding yet another half-empty bottle of supplement drink. Justen imagined her tongue must be just about curdled from the sugar overload by now. She obviously couldn’t wait to get back to her palmport. Why anyone would subject their body to that kind of punishment when an oblet could run off its geothermal battery for weeks at a time was beyond him.
    “You two go ahead and have your little chat. I think I’m recovered enough to boot this up again, right?” Persis waved her left hand at Justen.
    He gave a noncommittal shrug. She’d probably be fine, given her supplements, but he couldn’t imagine she had any messages left to send after the flurry on the Daydream .
    Palmport advocates said it was as close to telepathy as the human race had ever come, but Justen didn’t think it was worth the cost. Besides, you still needed oblets for data storage and any large information transfers. Palmports were only as good as the memories of the people using them, their data little more than digestible, untraceable nanosugars. And given the type of people who ran them—people like Persis—they were useless for anything more than silly games and gossip.
    Persis seemed satisfied anyway. She plopped on a nearby cushion and ripped off her wristlock. He swallowed his scowl. What he had to say was not fodder for Albian gossips.
    And what, exactly, would that be? Certainly not the whole truth. Princess Isla was an aristo. If she knew about his involvement in the revolution, she’d put him in prison and then he’d never be able to right the wrongs he’d caused. Better to start with part of the story.
    “Your Highness,” Justen said, finding those words every bit as difficult to speak as “Citizen” had been to hear. He guessed not all his revolutionary principles had been extinguished, despite what he’d learned. He gave her a short, stiff bow, then straightened and looked her right in the eyes. She was a royal. Not a god.