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  PRAISE FOR For Darkness Shows the Stars:

  “This novel is a postapocalyptic retelling of Jane Austen’s Persuasion that will be a hit with fans of sci-fi romances.… Readers will keep turning the pages right up to the end.”

  —School Library Journal, starred review

  “A richly envisioned portrait of a society in flux, a steely yet vulnerable heroine, and a young man who does some growing up.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A smart and sexy tale of star-crossed love that’s as thought provoking as it is heartbreaking.”

  —Robin Wasserman,

  author of The Book of Blood and Shadow

  “Don’t you love it when a brilliant idea meets with brilliant execution? Thank you, Diana Peterfreund, for giving us a postapocalyptic Persuasion. This book is meltingly good.”

  —Laini Taylor, National Book Award finalist

  for Lips Touch: Three Times

  “Diana Peterfreund’s For Darkness Shows the Stars is an impassioned ode to Jane Austen, love, and the hope found in stars.”

  —Beth Revis, New York Times bestselling author of

  Across the Universe and A Million Suns

  “A beautiful, epic love story you won’t be able to put down!”

  —Simone Elkeles, New York Times bestselling author

  of the Perfect Chemistry series

  “ Scores high for ingenuity.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Will appeal to science fiction and romance fans alike.”

  —Voice of Youth Advocates (VOYA)

  across a

  star-swept

  sea

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  Also by Diana Peterfreund:

  FOR DARKNESS SHOWS THE STARS

  RAMPANT

  ASCENDANT

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  HarperCollins Publishers

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  across a

  star-swept

  sea

  DIANA PETERFREUND

  BALZER + BRAY

  An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

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  HarperCollins Publishers

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  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

  Across a Star-Swept Sea

  Copyright © 2013 by Diana Peterfreund

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  HarperCollins books may be purchased for educational, business, or sales promotional use. For information address Avon Books, an Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  ISBN 978-0-06-200616-5

  Typography by Carla Weise

  13 14 15 16 17 XX/XXXX 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  First Edition

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  Dedication

  For Eleanor, who is brilliant and beautiful and brave

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  Epigraph

  The history of the human race pivots on two points: the development of agriculture, which created civilization, and the Reduction, which destroyed it.

  Before the Reduction, the few impoverished or dissenting peoples who didn’t genetically engineer their offspring had been the object of scorn and pity. But a generation later, when these “perfect” children could only produce mentally and physically impaired Reduced babies, it proved what a colossal mistake had been made. The bulk of humanity affected by this tragedy—the Lost—did not accept defeat lightly. Instead, they turned on those who’d escaped unscathed, making them the targets of envy, hatred …. and, with the Wars of the Lost, utter annihilation.

  After the wars were over, the survivors looked with horror and dismay upon what they had wrought. There was hardly any place left on Earth to make a life, and few untainted by Reduction left to live one.

  In desperation, two poor servants defied their Lost masters. Out of the wars’ most terrible weapon, they terraformed a new home, an oasis in the wreckage of the world: New Pacifica. There, they declared, they’d rule forever over those responsible for the Earth’s destruction.

  It didn’t work out that way.

  —“HUMAN RIGHTS IN ALBION:

  A TERM PAPER BY LADY PERSIS Blake”*

  * Note: Though Lady Blake received an A—on this essay, her instructor saw fit to send a flutternote to her father, Lord Torin Blake, regarding the propriety of a young lady using such incendiary language. Lord Blake responded: “Actually, that sounds about right to me.”

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  One

  IF THE WILD POPPY dared return to Galatea, Citizen Cutler was ready. He’d stationed armed guards at the entrance to the estate and placed an additional ten soldiers around the perimeter of the taro fields. Though no Reduced could even attempt escape, Cutler knew the real danger came from outside. The flowery Albian spy had “liberated” at least a dozen enemies of the revolution in the last few months, but it wouldn’t happen on Cutler’s watch.

  During the better part of the morning, a sea breeze had moved across the sunken fields, stirring the taro leaves and making the water shiver and ripple like the skin of a snake. The Reduced prisoners moved slowly and methodically through their plots, following an ancient and, frankly, unnecessary tradition of cutting each root by hand and repl
anting the stalk to be ready for the next harvest.

  The former lord of the estate—his name was Lacan, though Cutler doubted the man remembered it after being Reduced—sloshed and stumbled through the field, hacking away at the taro stalks with a knife entirely too dull for the purpose. His gray hair was matted to his neck with sweat and mud, and his once-haughty mouth hung slack and stupid. As Cutler watched, the man’s grip slipped, and the blade sank deep into his thumb.

  Lacan wailed, and the guards began to hoot and holler. Cutler didn’t budge from his position, leaning against one of the unused harvesting machines. Let his soldiers have their entertainment. It was boring enough out here on the rural east coast.

  “Shouldn’t we help?” asked his newest recruit, a girl who hardly looked old enough for basic training. Her name was Trina Delmar, she’d arrived this morning, and she never shut up. “Looks like he cut himself pretty bad.”

  Cutler shrugged and spat into the swamp. Silly girl. It was always the girls who got weepy over watching the prisoners. “That’s the former master of this plantation. Do you think his kind ever cared for the thumbs of your ancestors, back when they kept Galatea in their grip?”

  “Grip’s not so good anymore!” cracked another guard.

  “Don’t feel bad for these aristos, Citizen Delmar,” Cutler went on. “Had they ever cared about us, the cure for Reduction would have been discovered long before it was.”

  That’s why it took a reg to make the Helo Cure, two generations back. For hundreds of years before the cure, most people who weren’t aristos were born Reduced, sickly and simpleminded. They said only one in twenty had been a natural-born reg, with a regular brain and intellect. The Helo Cure stopped Reduction in a single generation—after the cure, every baby born was regular.

  And now, thanks to this new Reduction drug of the revolutionaries, the aristos would have their turns wallowing in the muck. Out in the field, the old lord was wailing and clutching his wounded hand to his chest. Cutler gave him a week—two at most. Reduction wasn’t designed to be a death sentence, but sharp knives and idiots rarely mixed.

  “But Lord Lacan actually fought to distribute the cure to the Reduced,” Trina said, “back when he was young. I’ve seen a picture of him with Persistence Helo—”

  Cutler glowered down at her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Citizen. If he’s here, it means he’s an enemy of the revolution. An enemy of regulars like us.”

  But Trina was still casting pitiful glances at Lacan. The recruit had been an annoyance ever since she’d shown up, questioning the pill dosage and schedule, as if it mattered that Cutler handed out the pink Reduction pills slightly more often than required. Once they were Reduced, it wasn’t like a few extra pinks could make them stupider. Plus, Cutler liked to watch the aristos writhe a little. Not much else to do all the way out here.

  Now that idiot recruit was out in the field. She was approaching Lacan, who’d returned to ineffectually swiping at the taro stalks with his uninjured hand. That was the Reduced for you. They’d work until they collapsed.

  “Back to your post, Delmar!” Cutler cried. He wasn’t about to be shown up by some freshly cooled recruit.

  The recruit ignored him and smeared some ointment on Lacan’s injured thumb before wrapping it in a bandage.

  “Did I tell you to administer aid to this Reduced slime?” Cutler said, churning into the field and slamming the butt of his gun into Lacan’s side. The old man fell into the taro, and Trina winced. “You’d better watch it, Delmar. I’d hate to give a bad report to Citizen Aldred.”

  Trina didn’t even look up. Good. Maybe he’d scared her back into line.

  “You’re not here to help them. You’re here to keep them away from the Wild Poppy. Every time we lose a prisoner to Albion, it undermines the revolution.”

  “What undermines the revolution,” she snapped back, “is—” but she ducked her head and went silent when she saw the dark look on his face.

  Just then, a skimmer zipped down the path between the fields, dust clouding up from its lifters. There was an empty caged platform behind the cab. “Officer!” called the driver, a young man wearing a military uniform.

  Cutler waded back to the edge of the field and squinted up into the cab. Trina trailed after, to his further irritation.

  “Transfer request,” the driver said, holding out his left hand. His oblet sparked to life in his palm, revealing a hologram of Citizen Aldred’s face.

  “All Reduced on outer plantations are to be transferred back to Halahou city prison,” came Aldred’s voice from the image.

  “I’ve heard nothing of this.” Cutler pulled out his own oblet, and its black surface glinted in the sun like the obsidian pebble it was named for. No new messages from Halahou. No new messages at all.

  The boy shrugged. His military cap shaded his eyes. “Figures. I get crummy reception out here in the middle of nowhere, too.”

  Cutler snorted in agreement. “So what’s the problem?”

  “I think—” The boy jiggled his oblet, as the message fizzed in and out. “It’s the Wild Poppy,” he explained as they waited for it to reload. “Citizen Aldred said even the increased guard isn’t sufficient to keep the spy from stealing our prisoners.”

  “I’ve taken care of that.” And if Aldred would leave the comfort of Halahou occasionally and come see what his lieutenants were doing out here in the country, maybe he’d know it. But Cutler would never say that aloud. Citizen Aldred had liberated them all—first from their uncaring, foolish queen and now from the aristos who had followed her lead.

  “Here it is,” said the driver, as the image of Aldred began speaking again.

  “All Reduced prisoners to be fitted with nanotech collars to prevent removal from Galatea by foreign forces.”

  The boy leaned out of the cab and dropped his voice. “I heard the collars will choke ’em to death if the Poppy takes them off Galatea.” The boy smirked, and Cutler grinned. This was the type of recruit he needed around here. Tough-minded and right thinking.

  Nanotech collars. Now that would be a sight to see. If only Cutler could get rid of all his idiots so easily. Then again, maybe he could. “Delmar, you help this boy load up the prisoners and accompany him back to the capital.”

  “That’s not necessary—” the boy began.

  “Oh, but it is,” said Cutler. “I haven’t kept these prisoners under control all this time just to have the Wild Poppy break my streak on their last trip across the island. Her recruit form says she’s good with a gun.” He nodded at Trina, who was already gathering the aristos. “And it’ll do her good to see how the revolution wants these prisoners handled.” It would also get the aggravating recruit out of his hair.

  The boy scowled, but Cutler shrugged it off. Trina Delmar could be his problem now.

  IF ASKED, PERSIS BLAKE would have agreed with the odious Citizen Cutler on precisely one point: the young recruit was indeed her problem. But it wasn’t an insurmountable one. After all, Persis had just single-handedly scooped up the Lacan family right from under the nose of ten soldiers and their officer. Persis could handle one more revolutionary, even if this Citizen Delmar was sitting in her skimmer.

  And though the increased guard presence was a nuisance, Persis couldn’t help but feel a jolt of pride that, after six months of missions, the revolution was finally recognizing that the Wild Poppy was a real threat. Now, she just had to figure out how to get out of this predicament without ruining it all.

  Think, Persis, think. Her long hair itched, shoved up under her Galatean military cap, but she ignored it, focusing instead on the girl sitting quietly by her side as Persis maneuvered the skimmer down the raised path that crisscrossed the swampy taro fields. Citizen Delmar looked too young to be a soldier; but then again, at sixteen, Persis was far too young to be her country’s most infamous spy, so she knew well how deceiving looks could be.

  And whoever Trina Delmar was, she’d gotten on that officer’s nerve
s, which alone was worthy of more investigation. Persis had easily pegged the officer as the sort of petty, sadistic man who wouldn’t even bother to double-check his orders as long as Persis promised to inflict yet more cruelty on the prisoners. Her new palmport app was working wonders—with it, she could remix syllables from any of Aldred’s propaganda speeches to create whatever message she desired.

  “I didn’t realize we recruited so young,” Persis said, as they crossed the old wooden bridge that separated the Lacan estate from the main road. She’d left the jammers she’d used to block incoming messages to the officer’s oblet on, just in case someone on the plantation figured out the truth and tried to message Trina. “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen,” the girl said so quickly Persis knew it must be a lie. “And you’re one to talk. Your voice hasn’t even changed yet.”

  Perhaps this was a bad topic. She adopted a slightly gruffer grumble. “So you’re good with a gun?” Best to know, especially since Persis’s one weapon was concealed beneath the gloves of her disguise, and the supplements she’d taken were only good for a single shot.