“What do you mean?” I ask with a nervous laugh.

“Turn it on,” he says. “I know you brought one. You’re thorough, Reaper. Always thorough.”

“Why are you acting so—”

“Shut up and turn it on.”

I nod and activate the device in my pocket. A jamField deploys. I’m not so prideful as the Sovereign to believe no one could listen in. Sevro stares as me till I shift uncomfortably.

“So what am I?” I ask.

“Even now?” he asks, shaking his head. “You are wound tight. Say the name of the person who sent me.”

“Mustang sent you. You told me she brought you in from the Rim. Same with all the Howlers.”

“That’s right. She did. Took six months to get here from Pluto. But guess who came to me during my layover in Triton. Go on, Reap. Guess.”

“Lorn?” His lips curl into a sneer. “Fitchner?”

Sevro spits in my face, right under the eye. “Guess wrong again and I leave you like this.” He snaps his fingers. “I will not come back. I will not help you. I will not bleed for you. I will not sacrifice my friends for a man who doesn’t give enough of a shit about me to put his neck out just once. Trust goes both ways, Darrow. This time you have to take a leap.”

He’s not bluffing. And I know what I want to say. But how can it be? Sevro is a Gold. A bloodydamn Gold. He heard me say “bloodydamn” to Apollo. He covered it up. Didn’t he? Or was that a mistake? Is he trapping me? No. No, if that’s true, then the game is already over. Eo’s dream has failed. Who is closer to me than he? Who loves me more than this strange, nasty outcast? No one.

So I look him in his dull gold eyes. “Ares sent you.”

Silence between us.

A terrible five seconds. Six. Seven. He stands and locks the door before pulling a small black crystal from the pocket of his crumpled pants. “For your breath only.”

“A whisperGem …”

I take it tenderly, knowing how much it costs, and blow against its surface. My breath makes it wobble, then shatter. Small motes of black rise, drifting up like fireflies out of the grass as dusk settles in deep summer. They coalesce. Floating and forming a rough holo that hovers between Sevro and me. The spiked helmet of Ares.

“My son,” he warbles. “I am sorry. Harmony has betrayed me and initiated a campaign against our principles. I discovered her intended use of you too late. But you were wise. This is why I chose you. Steps are being taken to curb her efforts. Continue with your own. Set Augustus against Bellona and fracture the Pax Solaris.”

I try to ask it a question, but it is a recording. Made sometime after the gala.

“I realize this must be difficult. I have asked too much of you already. But you must carry on. Sow chaos. Weaken them. You have much reason to doubt me. We have not contacted you until now, because you were watched by Pliny, by the Jackal, and by the Sovereign’s spies. Troublemakers breed interest. But I have watched you too, and I am proud. I know Eo would be as well. In case you doubt the veracity of this message, a friend would like to say hello.”

Ares’s helmet fades and Dancer smiles at me. “Darrow, I want you to know, we’re with you. Your family is alive and well. The end is coming, my friend. Soon you’ll be with us. Till then, trust the man Ares sent; I recruited him myself. Break the chains.”

The image erodes, blackish light decaying into the air. And I’m left staring at the shower floor.

“You look good for all that surgery,” Sevro says. His smile is no less nasty than usual. “Ares sent that cripple to me. The one who sent you to the Institute. Dancer.”

He can’t say any more because I’m hugging him and crying. I sob and hold on to him, shaking, scaring him. He doesn’t move except to pat me on the head. All the weight falls from my shoulders. Someone knows. He knows and he’s here. He knows and he came to help me. To help me. I can’t stop shaking and saying thank you. Eo was right. I was right. “You are my friend,” I tremble out like a child. It almost makes him cry seeing me this way.

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?”