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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons,
living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 by Alex White

Excerpt from Far from the Light of Heaven copyright © 2021 by
Ekuntade Thompson
Excerpt from Nophek Gloss copyright © 2020 by Essa Hansen

Cover design by Lisa Marie Pompilio

Cover illustration by Ben Zweifel
Cover copyright © 2022 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Author photograph by Renee White

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First Edition: July 2022

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: White, Alex (Novelist), author.
Title: August Kitko and the mechas from space / Alex White.
Description: First edition. | New York, NY : Orbit, 2022. | Series:
Starmetal symphony ; movement 1
Identifiers: LCCN 2021061175 | ISBN 9780316430579 (trade
paperback) | ISBN 9780316430555 (ebook)
Subjects: LCGFT: Novels.
Classification: LCC PS3623.H5687 A94 2022 | DDC 813/.6—
dc23/eng/20211216
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021061175

ISBNs: 9780316430579 (trade paperback), 9780316430555 (ebook)

E3-20220511-JV-NF-ORI
 Contents

Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication

Part 1: Giant Steps

Chapter One: Our Final Hour
Chapter Two: Front Row Seats
Chapter Three: Back Among the Living
Chapter Four: Spring Blessing
Chapter Five: Rhythm Changes
Chapter Six: Night-Light
Chapter Seven: Flight
Chapter Eight: Shock

Part 2: New Gigs, New Digs

Chapter Nine: Just Waltzing In
Chapter Ten: Arrivals & Departures
Chapter Eleven: Kind of Blue
Chapter Twelve: War Drums
Chapter Thirteen: Star Eyes
Chapter Fourteen: I Came to Rock
Chapter Fifteen: Fuilles Mortes
 Chapter Sixteen: Returns

Part 3: Hell from Heaven

Chapter Seventeen: That Lonesome Feeling
Chapter Eighteen: Return to Eden
Chapter Nineteen: Syncopation & Synchronicity
Chapter Twenty: Set ’Em Up
Chapter Twenty-One: Knock ’Em Down
Chapter Twenty-Two: No Day Like Tomorrow

Acknowledgments
Discover More
Extras
Meet the Author
A Preview of Far from the Light of Heaven
A Preview of Nophek Gloss
Also by Alex White
Praise for Alex White
 For Luno.

For Bea.

And for any other hearts that deserve a

more loving world.
Explore book giveaways, sneak peeks, deals, and more.

Tap here to learn more.

 Part 1

Giant Steps
 Chapter One

Our Final Hour

August Kitko doesn’t want to see the end of the world—which

should be any minute now.
He leans over the stone railing and gauges the distance to the
jutting pediment of the cliff face below. A couple of sharp rocks poke
up from beneath the choppy surf to say hi.
We’re here for you, buddy, comfortable and quick.
Gus grimaces and waves back at them.
He stands at the very edge of Lord Elisa Yamazaki’s estate, one of
a few dozen lucky guests brought in for this momentous occasion.
Behind Gus lies the famed Electric Orchard, full of algae-spliced fruit
trees: cherry luxes and pearshines. They waver in the night like old
diodes, dropping off in places when the breeze rustles them too
much. Over the course of hours, their inner lights will fade, and
they’ll lie upon the grass, gray as a stone.
The taste is ultimately underwhelming. It’s a glowing pear. It
doesn’t have to be good.
Gus was drawn to this place by the long stone wall with crystal
lanterns, the cliffside overlook, and the patch of soft synth grass.
This part of the estate has probably stood since the Middle Ages,
though the lanterns are obviously new—concentrated vials of the
spliced algae Plantus glowname.
Gus missed the taxonomy twice when the lord gave everyone the
tour, and was too embarrassed to ask for a third repetition.
As final resting places go, this one won’t be so bad. The estate
has a commanding view from the eastern rise, so he gets the best
sunset he’s ever experienced. Monaco’s slice of the Mediterranean
glitters in the moonlight like no other gem. The city is a thousand
icicles jutting up from craggy mountainsides, lining the hills all the
way down to the artificial land extensions in the harbor. The
Nouvelle Causeway stretches seaward, a big tube atop massive
struts, its iconic boxy apartments encrusting its underside like
ancient pixels. The Casino de Monte Carlo’s searchlights are on full
blast in La Condamine district by the harbor—because of course
there’s a type of person who wants to spend this once-in-a-lifetime
night gambling. Gus wonders: Why is anyone hanging around to
take their money?
SuperPort Hercule, stretching between Monaco’s two artificial
mountains, is a relic of another era, when single-terrain vehicles
were more common. Rich people still hang on to their water-based
yachts, and rows of white boats nestle into slips like suckling piglets.
Beyond these exotic antiques, a long expanse of water lily landing
pads remains dark—the unused starport. Towering craft loom in the
evening, engines cold.
The last ship from Earth launched three years prior. No one else
dares—not with the Veil across the galaxy.
Gus blinks at the waves. The fall is going to kill him either way,
but for some reason, he’d rather hit the water than the rocks. It
mostly comes down to a choice of who gets to eat him—the seagulls
or the marine life.
And seagulls are assholes.
Gus needs to wrap things up; he doesn’t want to be here when
they arrive. He’d once been a bit more single-minded in his suicidal
ideation, and he finds this last-minute attachment to survival
annoying.
It seems unfair that life could get so fun right before the end.
He’d forgotten the taste of good times, and a dram of happiness has
made him too exhausted to complete his morbid task.
If only Gus can make himself climb onto the railing, he knows he
can take the next step.
Other “bon” vivants cavort nearby, drinks in hand, some clumsily
pawing all over each other. Gus straightens up and stares wistfully at
the sea. He can’t be seen moping like he’s about to jump. They
might try to stop him, and then they’d all waste their last few
minutes of life trying to calm him down.
Or maybe they’d actually let him do it.
Then he’d spend his final second offended with them.
Perhaps instead, Gus could go to his rock star lover, apologize to
them, and pull them in close for the literal kiss to end all kisses—
except Ardent Violet is on the veranda, holding court for their
adoring public. People and holograms no doubt sit rapt before them,
listening to some captivating speech. Ardent isn’t about to even talk
to Gus, much less peel themself away from a scintillating evening of
compliments and basking.
Not after Gus screwed everything up.
The drunken revelers flop down on the nearby grass to step up
their make-out game, hands going for buttons and clasps. Another
team of horny fools joins the fray, giggling and gasping. Maybe Gus’s
cold stare will shrivel their resolve.
They don’t even slow down.
There must be somewhere Gus can find a blissful moment of
peace. He thrusts his hands into his pockets and wanders back up
the estate grounds toward the main house. The lonely path winds
past botanical oddities and designer plants of all shapes and colors,
vibrant like the coral reefs of old. Lord Yamazaki says she takes her
inspiration from Dale Chihuly, but to Gus, she just seems like she’s
really into jellyfish.
La Maison Des Huit Étoiles rises out of the Electric Orchard like an
enchanted castle, its eight glossy blue spires a stark contrast to the
archaic walls surrounding the grounds. Atop each spire is a bright
light, for the Yamazaki family members who… something. Again, Gus
wasn’t paying full attention during the tour of the place. He’d had his
mind on other things, like being surrounded by the best musicians
on Earth.
The bay breeze this evening is unbelievable, the kind of night
best spent at an open window with a piano and a drink. The piano
still exists, but the booze is all gone, guzzled by the revelers, the
staff, and the talent. The staff can’t be blamed; they’ve got their
own partying to accomplish, and it’s not like Gus is doing his job.
Few people are—for any reason. Whole swathes of the world are
going unwatched, on the verge of collapse, and it doesn’t matter.
Gus Kitko, renowned jazz pianist, was flown here to play during
the victory party, but they canceled that two days ago.
More accurately, his job was to play during the victory party after-
party. His style doesn’t exactly draw the millions required to
headline, but he’s a musician’s musician. Some days, it’s like his fans
are all more famous than he is.
Gus has almost reached the sprawling manse when he detects
Ardent’s musical laughter. He doesn’t want to look—he knows it’ll
stop his heart—but he glances out of pure masochism.
The rocker stands resplendent in a flowing robe, textiLEDs luxed
up like a bird of paradise. Their hair is an anodized red this evening,
cut short with an edge like a knife. They’ve painted their exquisite
face in jewel tones, pale skin traced into captivating shapes. Electric-
blue lips remain quirked in a smile—until Ardent claps eyes on Gus in
return.
They don’t rage or scowl. They simply note him with a neutral
expression and move on. Ardent Violet lives in another world of
packed arenas and coliseums, of paparazzi and nightly jaunts to the
most exclusive clubs out there. Gus will never run in their circle
again after Monaco—they’re above him.
But there is no “after Monaco.” Every last person dies here
tonight. Even the beautiful, fabulous Ardent Violet.
Yep. Looking was a bad choice.
As it turns out, Gus won’t have to feel bad for much longer. A
pale streak bisects the sky—a superluminal brake burn and the
crackle of lightning. A flaming comet falls from the heavens, and the
SuperPort’s harbor erupts into a geyser in the wake of a towering
splashdown. All eyes travel to the site of the crash, and even the raw
magnetism of Ardent Violet can’t continue to hold their attention.
A titanic exoskeleton rises from the waves, interlocking armor
plates a sleek purple. It unfolds its long arms, each sheathed in an
ivory gauntlet, and stands atop a pair of legs. It’s humanoid,
bilaterally symmetrical. A fission halo encircles its faceless head,
spitting plasma sparks in all directions. A pair of silver handles jut
from its rib cage like knives buried up to the hilt. It has no eyes, only
a smooth purple dome, reflecting all around it.
This titanic disaster could have landed anywhere else on Earth.
There was an entire planet of perfectly apocalyptic locations, and a
huge pantheon of faiths to satisfy with a melodramatic entrance. But
no, it had to show up at the exact spot where Gus was trying to get
comfy for his own doom.
Juliette the Vanguard, destroyer of six colonies and two worlds.
Soon three—counting Earth.

Two days prior, Gus had hope—tangible hope for the first time in five
years. The remnants of the Sol Joint Defense Force had just
deployed the unfortunately named Dictum, the “solution to the
Vanguard Doom.” It was a big fancy battle cruiser that could drag
travelers out of hyperspace, yanking them into its firing line. That
seemed to Gus like a meaningless achievement, but there was a
sudden surge of hope among the populace.
The United Worlds leadership were eager to tout their coming
success. The plan was to intercept any Vanguards and sucker punch
them with the most powerful particle cannons in existence. With
defense figured out, the Sol system—last bastion of the human
species—could finally go on the offensive.
Gus had dropped his toast when he checked the news that first
morning: “Ghosts Massing, Vanguard Incoming, Dictum Will Destroy
in Sol System.”
The harbinger of humanity’s end was on its way, and the
superweapon was going to stop it—foregone conclusion. Nothing in
the news articles indicated this was an “attempt,” or that it could fail.
Every content outlet talked about the Dictum like it had already
vaporized all fifteen Vanguards. Anything less spelled the destruction
of Earth.
Gus reacted to this news in much the same fashion he handled all
his problems: He sat down at his piano and began to play. The
ivories calmed his nerves like a gentle rain, and he wrestled with the
mortality that everyone on Earth faced. Young or old, they were all
in the same boat, tomorrows potentially truncated.
Then came the holocall: General Landry and a cadre of USO
coordinators, looking to put on a star-studded concert to celebrate
their forthcoming first Vanguard kill. They offered Gus immediate
passage to Monaco and accommodations at Lord Yamazaki’s, asking
him to be ready for the big party.
Gus agreed, and when he terminated the call, a swish Brio XR
idled in front of his Montreal walk-up. Its swept nanoblack form
absorbed all light, coppery windows and lines of chrome the only
reflective surfaces on it. A team of smiling assistants hurried Gus
from his house, promising to send anything he needed to Monaco.
They even gave him a carte with a few thousand unicreds to load
into his account, in case he wanted to relax ahead of time.
It was a hell of a lot nicer than government work was supposed
to be.
A stratospheric jaunt later, he was brunching on the deck of a
yacht with musical luminaries from the top of the charts. He had one
piano song that had been sampled and remixed into a hit, so he felt
a mild kinship with these gods. They’d all been summoned by their
governments to boost morale, and they were excited to meet August
Kitko, “the guy behind that one sample.”
Everyone talked about the various battle watch parties they’d be
attending that night. People spoke to Gus like he’d already been
invited to one. He would’ve been glad to clear his busy schedule of
clipping his toenails in his bedroom and staring wistfully out the
window.
No invites were forthcoming, however, and Gus was too shy to
ask. He could only hope someone would take pity on him so he
wouldn’t spend the most stressful news broadcast of his life alone.
The pundits figured the Dictum’s interdiction would come sometime
in the next twenty hours, pegging the likelihood at eleven p.m.
Victory event details to follow.
To compensate for Gus’s lack of friends, government handlers
arranged activities and meetups. Every minute of the day leading up
to the night was mind-blowing goodness. Champagne and
croissants, wandering the casinos, staring into the seaside sunset
from the little park at Point Hamilton.
Even though the greenway was just a couple of statues and a few
bushes crammed between two luxury high-rise condos, the place
had a peaceful air. Gus’s hiking buddies, a pair of rockers from a
town named Medicine Hat, said they wanted to call a friend to bring
some wine. That friend turned out to be the multi-platinum-record-
selling Ardent Violet, who showed up with a block party in tow.
Food, liquor, and drugs followed, and Gus found himself ensnared by
the wildest rave he’d ever attended in a public park.
When the throng became unbearable, Gus pushed out to the
street for some fresh air. He wound down a few side alleys, trying to
get a little space from Ardent’s many admirers.
Instead, he ran into Ardent Violet themself.
They sported a forest-green pin-striped suit, its edges given
careful folds like paper animals. A few fresh flowers bloomed on
their wide-brimmed hat. The whole outfit looked like it cost a
fortune, which was why Gus was surprised to find Ardent sitting on
the old stone curb, flicking through the Ganglion UI on their
bracelet.
Gus wasn’t a fan, but he knew a member of the pop music
royalty when he saw one. He was always wary of speaking to the big
leaguers like them; half the time, they turned out to be nightmare
humans with disturbing views.
“You okay?” Gus asked.
Ardent rose and brushed the dust from their butt. “Yeah. Just had
to come up for air.”
Gus glanced back the way he’d come, toward the party in the
idyllic park. It was too much for him, a person whose scene was
quiet piano bars, but surely Ardent could handle it. The rocker
regularly flounced about circus-ring stages with all sorts of
holograms, drones, strobes, tractor beams, and earth-shattering
bass.
Gus frowned thoughtfully. “You brought the party.”
“I always do.” A bitter note flavored their voice.
 “That sounds difficult.” Gus sauntered over to a parked CAV and
leaned against it. It squawked a warning at him, and Ardent jumped.
Thank goodness, they both laughed.
“Uh, sorry about that…” Gus resettled himself against an aging
wall near a historical marker dating it all the way back to the 2150s.
The building’s moneyed architecture bore the hallmarks of the
Infinite Expansion—right down to the streamlined, printed flagstones
flecked through with precious metals and gem shards.
“Gus Kitko.” He raised a hand in a brief wave, then crossed his
arms.
“Kitko,” they repeated.
He pushed off the wall. “And I should go, because you said you
were out here to come up for air.”
“Aw, whatever.”
“No, no! I shouldn’t be taking up your time. Being Ardent Violet
looks, uh…”
A raucous roar from the party wafted by on the breeze.
“Exhausting,” he finished.
They fixed him with their gaze, and it was like staring into the
sun. They’d tinted their irises an inhuman red to complement their
dark green suit. What was going through their head? Had his
comment crossed the line?
When the silence grew too painful, Gus reached into his pocket
and pulled out his battered old mint tin. Its contents jingled softly as
he flipped it open. Ardent immediately perked up.
“What do those do?” they asked.
“Taste like mint,” Gus replied. “Would you like one?”
“You’re probably the only person here who carries candy instead
of drugs.”
“Then you need me around, for when you’d rather have things
sweet and calm.”
“Is that what you are?” Ardent asked, red eyes boring into him.
They drew close and plucked a mint from the tin. “Sweet and calm?”
“My friends would say so.”
Ardent cupped the candy in their gloved hand and keyed their
Gang UI. They closed their fingers around it, and the glove flashed
inside: a chemical analysis.
“No offense,” Ardent said. “I’m a target for kidnappers.”
“None taken. Sorry you have to deal with that stuff.”
Ardent popped the mint into their mouth, and Gus took one of his
own, savoring the evolving fizz of classical molecular gastronomy,
the flowing of spearmint tendrils in his mouth.
Ardent let out a happy sigh, resting their hands on their hips to
stare down the hill. “Pretty good mint.”
“Straight from Old Town Montreal. Local delicacy.”
“Really?”
“Nah. Bought them at Trudeau. What kind of a town would have
a local delicacy like that?”
Ardent let out a short laugh. “You’re proud of poutine.”
“Well, where are you from?”
“Atlanta,” they said, and he could almost pick out the accent.
“Ah, biscuits,” Gus said. “So simple, yet so perfect.”
Ardent cocked an eyebrow. “You need to get in the kitchen if you
think biscuits are simple.”
A few of the celebrants from the park made their way around the
corner, screaming “Ardent!” the moment they saw their leader. Gus
had fans, too, but they mostly held listening teleparties and talked
about whether a seventh or a ninth was a more appropriate
resolution to the end of Guy Keats’s “Too Blue a Bird.”
Teleparties were easily escaped. Real parties could hunt one
down, as this crowd did to the unfortunate Ardent Violet.
“You’re coming, right? To the prince’s tonight?” Ardent asked.
“Secret military watch party.”
“I don’t think I’ve got an invite.”
“I’m your invite.”
“Oh! I would love that. How will I get in if we’re separated?”
“You won’t. Better hang on to me, Kitty Kitko.”
They gestured for Gus to follow, and—though he hated this sort
of loud affair—he did.

That night, they gathered in the prince’s palace to watch the action
unfold. The atrium gardens were a labyrinth of wonders, each turn
hiding another botanical curiosity. Torches slow-waltzed over the
silent, somber processional, and Gus kept close to Ardent. At last,
they came to an expansive amphitheater, like a small stadium for the
prince and his friends.
Coats of arms flew from above, hovering in suspension fields. The
prince considered it gauche to holoproject his country’s flag instead
of using the real deal, so he had actuweave banners up everywhere
with recordings of wind playing into them.
Gus found all the magical fanfare silly, but wizardry took over the
royal aesthetic a few hundred years prior and never quite let go.
Perhaps it was their way of explaining their place in the world, which
was esoteric at best, borderline arcane. Either way, Gus preferred his
tech interactions a bit quieter, with fewer moving paintings and
enchanted chandeliers.
A set of crisp, tasteful numbers counted down atop the central
dais amid swaying droplets of crystal—a timer on humanity’s final
trial.
Gus settled into his fluffy polyform chair, happy the prince was a
man of comforts. Ardent took the seat beside him, which expanded
to fit them both, and wiggled in close.
Very close. Hitting-on-him close.
The place brimmed with dignitaries and important folx.
“I am definitely the least cool person here,” Gus whispered.
“Should I move? Are you not good enough?” Ardent pulled a stray
hair back behind their ear. “If you could sit beside anyone in this
room, who would you pick?”
“Ardent Violet, hands down.”
While they all waited, the prince’s fountains played a poignant
water ballet by Maddie West, Sins of a Civilization. Holographic
dancers flitted between fountains, seamless illusions immersing Gus
into the thesis of the piece. It reflected on the evils that’d shaped
their world, and expressed the desire that their reality exist long
enough to be fixed. Too many, it argued, will be cheated out of their
justice if death takes everyone.
Forty-five tearful minutes later, the ballet ended, and the Dictum
appeared abruptly in their midst, white hull shining in the light of
Sol. Gus figured there ought to at least be a bit of fanfare since the
superweapon was their only salvation—maybe a logo or a clever
jingle.
Just boop—starship.
The Dictum certainly didn’t look like humanity’s only hope. It was
mostly cannon, with a little bit of ship appended to the ass-end for
control. A couple of engines salvaged from the remains of a wrecked
fleet provided propulsion, and it was escorted by Sol Joint Defense
Force ships more appropriate for towing and rescue than
countermeasures.
But it was humanity’s verdict, one way or another, so they all
looked on in reverence.
Ardent’s fingers found their way into Gus’s in the cool night air.
They leaned in even more as they rubbed a thumb over his knuckle.
Perhaps, after five years of watching humanity crash and burn
across the galaxy, this day would be the start of Gus’s renaissance.
The Dictum worked precisely as promised, drawing Earth’s would-
be destroyer, Juliette, into the center of the fleet near Jupiter—but
they’d only sprung the trap on themselves.
A swarm of golden robots erupted from Juliette’s superluminal
braking path like glowing dandelion seeds. These choked out the
meager starfighters of the Sol Joint Defense Force, murdering the
human pilots with superior reflexes, awareness, and maneuverability.
Gus couldn’t make out any details, just a lot of small pops and the
murmur of the crowd.
Juliette blasted out of the kill zone like an avenging angel, slicing
up Earth’s dreadnoughts with its glowing whips. The Dictum didn’t
even get a shot off.
The Vanguard and its Gilded Ghosts took one minute and thirty-
eight seconds to finish everyone, saving the observing ships for last.
It would take some time for the Vanguard’s folding reactor to
recharge, but after that—
—Earth was finished.
When Gus understood, he looked to Ardent. Every other eye in
the crowd remained fixed on the holoprojectors, but he was curious.
He wanted to know what the most beautiful person he’d ever met
looked like in this singular moment.
The whites of their eyes had gone pink as cherry blossoms, and
tears spilled over their pale cheeks. The smooth lines of Ardent’s
otherworldly mask of makeup glowed faintly in the dim light,
contorted into an awkward rage. They pulled a handkerchief out of
some hidden pocket and dabbed their eyes and nose. It came away
with the luminance of their highlighter.
“I’m going to bed,” Ardent whispered, gaze falling to the ground.
Gus nodded.
“Will you… will you please take me there?”
Gus nodded again.

They went back to Ardent’s room and fucked like there were only
two tomorrows.
Gus had expected to be thrown out the next day. He wouldn’t
have blamed Ardent if they’d had places to be, other people to do.
Surely there were folx in the rocker’s life who needed them.
But Ardent let Gus hang around, thank heavens. The pair had a
natural chemistry that kept them together in one way or another for
a blissful thirty-six hours. Ardent was an excellent conversation
partner, and let Gus ramble on about pianos whenever it was his
turn to talk. Gus felt bad going on about his favorite instruments,
but he’d essentially been holed up in his apartment looking at music
sites for the past five years. At least Ardent was a good sport about
it and tried to ask questions.
They didn’t have a single disagreement until it came time to
discuss their end-of-life intentions.
Ardent wanted to spend their final hours saying goodbye to fans.
Gus wanted to be alone with someone special. It’d started off a
hypothetical discussion, but without realizing it, they’d both drifted
into actual plans. Gus hadn’t meant to get emotional, but these were
to be his last moments. He’d be damned if he squandered them.
The whole argument tensed up before the sprain.
“You’ll have a front row seat at the fan party,” Ardent said. “At
least we can be together at the end that way.”
It’d been an offer.
The answer came out completely wrong: “But I’m not a fan.”
“‘Not a fan’?”
“No, like I’m just… I don’t want to spend my last few hours
playing the game. Doing the celebrity thing.”
“And I live for it, so you know where I’ll be.”
Ardent returned their attentions to the mirror cams, touching up
their already flawless makeup.
“Ardent, I feel like we’ve got a real connection, and besides, I’d
be out of place. I’m not like… a pop person.”
Ardent’s then-emerald eyes narrowed. “Just because you fell in
love overnight, my little Kit-ko, does not mean you get to own this.”
“I meant I’m not just a fan. What we have is more.”
Ardent’s expression went from bad news to blaring warning
sirens.
“More than the people who care about my art and identity? More
than my wishes for how I want to spend my life?”
“I didn’t mean that—”
“I know what the fuck you meant, and some of these people
have devoted the last five years to my career. They’re my friends
now. Even if they do worship me, I worship them right back. So far,
we know two things about our relationship: I’m a great lay, and you
like to talk about pianos a little too much.”
“I didn’t… only talk about…”
But he had.
They prosecuted him with a single question: “What’s your favorite
Ardent song?”
“I don’t normally listen to pop—”
“Mine is ‘Get the Hell Out.’ Want to hear it?”
“I—”
“Get the hell out.”
After he’d been dismissed, Gus looked the song up, just to be
sure the godforsaken tune existed. It was catchy, with a great piano
solo in the middle. To his surprise, there was a lot going on in the
composition.
 Gus was allowed to remain on the grounds, but Ardent’s people
made it clear he needed to stay away. With only a few hours left to
live, there was nothing to do except wait to die as Lord Yamazaki’s
guest.

Juliette, Vanguard giant, hums like a tuning fork, and Gus has
regrets.
He should be standing on the veranda with Ardent, hand in hand
as they take in the end, not gawking from the garden path. They
might be the most captivating person he’s ever met, and they stand
before him like a phoenix, wreathed in the misty, shattered
holograms of SuperPort Hercule. Even with a world-killing giant
crashing behind them, he’s transfixed. It’s profoundly unfair that this
is how he met them; he wanted more time.
Ardent is swallowed by the crowd—folx rushing to see Earth’s
executioner.
Juliette draws up to its full height, vibrating in Gus’s vision like
ultraviolet light. He has to squint to look directly at it. The robot
raises a white gauntlet, and every harmonic overtone seems to fill
Gus’s mind—possibilities even beyond human hearing. The atoms of
his body thrum in time with unseen oscillations. He’s aligning to
something—attuning.
All around him, activity slows to a halt. Other people’s hands drop
to their sides, and they stare, wide-eyed, at Juliette’s forming energy
field. It’s a thing of beauty, pulsing and beating with a thousand
dancing lights.
This feels amazing. I—
Conscious thought begins to fade.
Another superluminal brake burn splits the air like an elephant’s
shout, this one close enough to send a colorful borealis of solar
particles rippling across Earth’s atmosphere. The shock wave throws
sailcraft against their slip walls, its force rushing up the hill,
flattening every potted plant and partygoer like a ripple of dominoes.
Gus can’t do anything about it.
The hit knocks the daylights out of him, and he goes sprawling
across Lord Yamazaki’s lawn. Others weren’t so lucky, and a lot of
terrified screams go up all at once. People broke bones, hit their
heads and split them like melons. Pained cries join the cacophony as
yet others come to grips with new injuries. In all his years playing
concerts, Gus has never heard a crowd make a noise like that—but
then, he’s never been in a bomb’s blast radius, either.
A jump that close to Earth’s atmosphere is beyond illegal, so that
means only one thing: another Vanguard.
A second titan comes streaking out of the sky in a ball of fire,
pile-driving Juliette into the dark waters. Some bright soul has the
idea to use a holoprojector as a searchlight, filling the bay from the
top of a high-rise. The newcomer thrashes in the water with Juliette,
forming a maelstrom of whitecaps.
That collision wasn’t an accident.
The Vanguards are fighting.
The city booms with joyous voices like an arena. Horns blare.
People set off fireworks. They’re all happy.
Except Gus recognizes the sleek, jet-black form of Greymalkin—
destroyer of seventeen worlds. That bastard has taken even more
lives than Juliette, so it’s not likely to be helpful when it’s done
beating its comrade to death.
Greymalkin’s body is a symphony of black lacquer and sleek lines.
Torrents of water pour down its head, running along a pair of
vertical green slits where its eyes should be. Wicked claws tip its
fingers, engine nozzles on each knuckle. The jets spit and hiss like a
pit full of pissed-off cougars, and Gus has to cover his ears.
Fists ablaze, Greymalkin assails Juliette into the waves, sending
pillars of steam up to join the clouds. Juliette uppercuts from
beneath the water, knocking its assailant loose. In a flash and flurry
of rain, the purple Vanguard is back on its feet. Greymalkin coils and
strikes, but this time, the bots are more evenly matched.
Still, more hopeful whoops and gasps go up from the assemblage
of people. Gus isn’t sure why they’re so excited.
They’re probably just fighting over who gets to kill us.
The Vanguards’ musical ululations fill the city’s glassy streets,
bending Gus’s mind. It’s a language, and whatever they’re saying to
each other, he can almost understand it. The sound resonates in his
bones. These are gods, and they speak with infinite choirs.
He quickly picks out the key—F Dorian, a favorite of jazz
musicians everywhere.
With a perfect view of Juliette’s havoc, the elevated veranda
becomes a choked throng. Celebrities, wealthy elites, and ladder
climbers—not particularly considerate in the first place—run one
another over to get a good look at the two monsters clashing. Gus
hangs back, because if he’s going to spend his last minutes on
something, it’s not gawking.
There’s always the piano. It’s deserted now.
Gus swims upstream against the revelers pouring from the house.
It’s a gauntlet; they’ll trample him if he falls, and they won’t even
have time to feel bad about it. Gus isn’t into going out like gum on
some well-heeled heels, so he ducks and weaves until he’s through
the door into the Maison.
He heads to the Crystal Parlor, its interior holoed over for a
performance that will never occur. Jagged patterns throb gently on
every wall, awaiting musical cues. The room’s many interactive
facets and light shows would’ve made for a fantastic concert venue
back in Montreal. Gus knows a bunch of promoters. He could
probably scrape together enough venture capital to get a club off
the ground and—
Even at the end, he often forgets he has no future.
The abandoned setup of Lord Yamazaki’s house quartet sits on
the neon stage: a grand piano, an upright bass, an electric guitar,
and a drum kit. The ones hired to play the lord’s private party
already quit, so the instruments sit idle.
Cups and bottles lie strewn across the floor where they’d been
dropped in everyone’s haste. Some asshole spilled their whiskey
across the piano bench, but Gus situates his rump on the leather
cushion anyway. No time to tidy up.
He taps the F-zero key, and it’s like heaven under his fingertips.
The Roland Grand Alpha tunes to the ambient noise of the clashing
Vanguards, and Gus lays in a gentle pad of fifths. A light glissando
carries him up and down, and he shifts modes to keep in sync with
his new playmates.
He doesn’t want to dance with these monsters, but they’re the
only game in town. He can face them and make music where it’s
possible, take the party to the very end—or he can hang it up and
wait to die.
Hit it.
Gus unleashes a flurry of hammer strokes across the board. His
sweet music intertwines with the Vanguards’ hypnotic melodies,
subverting them, patterning their voices into a trio under his
command.
The Crystal Parlor comes to life, facets dancing in the lamplight.
This is Gus’s favorite room in Lord Yamazaki’s house—the way it
seems to breathe with his song. Surfaces align, creating impossible
illusions of expansive spaces unfolding into nothingness. Gus plays a
deceptive cadence, and the electropolar glass responds in kind,
translating tonality into color. The room becomes a cathedral to craft
Gus’s remaining opus.
He dances over the Vanguards’ sounds with his own, playing for
life, attacking the attackers, snapping back at them with triplets
made from their own chord progressions. If they want to end the
world, fuck them. At least he can make it catchy.
No one else troubles Gus’s line of sight. They’re all too excited
about the robot devils duking it out in the bay. Alone with the
ivories, Gus isn’t performing for anyone, and it’s exactly what he
wanted for an ending.
The titans shift musical modes again and again, and it takes
everything Gus has to keep up. A smile tugs at the corner of his
mouth; this might be the most fun he’s had in a jam session since he
lost his bandmates in the Gus Kitko Trio.
He plays for them, too.
Lisel and Gerta were his bassist and drummer—a wonderful
couple, and the best friends he’d ever had. They’d been killed in an
attack on the nomadic preservation cruiser Paradise. It was
supposed to be safe there, hidden, but the ship hunters found them.
The dark behemoths caught every spacefaring vessel, eventually.
Gus pushes the Vanguard chord progression into an accusation.
Fuck you for killing my friends.
He parts ways in deliberate dissonance, shoving in Lisel’s favorite
bass lines to the beats Gerta always laid down. They might be dead,
but he has them in his head, ready to jam. They’ve got something to
say to these Vanguards, too, and Gus hears them loud and clear.
When he shifts key to bring their harmonies back into line with the
Vanguards, it’s like slamming the accelerator. He shakes his head,
smiling like the Trio is playing together again at last.
The mirrored hall gasps in delight as Ardent strides beneath the
archway in their glowing robes. It scatters their splendor up its
oscillating crystals before bringing itself back into tasteful alignment
with the song.
Ardent breezes past the piano without a word, stopping at the
guitar. It’s a metal-flaked red Strat with scintillating white accents,
but against Ardent’s wardrobe, it’s positively bland. When they wrap
their fingers around the instrument’s neck, their textiLEDs steal
colors from the guitar body, erupting in a bloody display of light.
Far from being a distraction, Ardent’s presence completes the
need. Gus feels whole, like he can truly cut loose and play humanity
off the stage.
Ardent tosses the strap over their head and slips a silver guitar
pick out of a hidden pocket at their wrist. They lean back, letting the
instrument’s body rest against their hips, as if testing it, before
squaring up to play. Their electric fingernails arc along the strings,
infusing the instrument with a rising drone as they capably run a
hand up the fretboard. They nod in time with Gus, keeping a beat
with quick palm-muted strums as they wait for the right place to
jump in.
Gus digs this improvised jam like he’s never felt a song before. If
this were a performance, it’d be one of the proudest moments of his
life. This should’ve been at Lincoln Center. It should’ve been in a big
arena, even.
Stay in the moment, man.
His fingers go faster and faster. People are screaming outside.
Ardent raises their hand for the first rocking strum; their pick shines
like a guillotine blade.
 “Here we go!” Ardent’s shout is a bolt of lightning into Gus’s soul.
A jet-black robot fist punches through one side of the room, covered
in gore and broken stone. It slams into Ardent, and they go flying
toward an open window. The hand stops short of Gus, sweeping
aside the baby grand as easily as dollhouse furniture. He staggers
backward, trying to get away, but it digs out more of the house and
catches him like fleeing vermin.
Unyielding fingers close around Gus, and he beats on
Greymalkin’s wet armor plates to get loose. He thought he wouldn’t
panic at the end—he’s known he was going to die for a long time—
but it’s still terrifying. It’s crushing him. Breath won’t come.
The fist draws Gus out through the smoking remains of La Maison
Des Huit Étoiles, revealing only bloody devastation in its wake. The
world careens, and Gus’s head lolls atop his neck. When his view
rights itself, he’s face-to-face with Greymalkin.
Its twin vertical slits fill the dripping night with venomous green
light. Up close, the Vanguard’s hum is all-encompassing, and Gus’s
hair stands on end. So many lives have been taken by this thing.
Why did it come all the way from the darkness of space to terrorize
him, specifically?
Greymalkin’s armored breastplate opens up, and electric-blue
muscles flicker along connective tissue. There’s a gap in the middle
of Greymalkin’s chest, a yawning nest of pumping tubes and the
heartbeat of lights. Probes and wires slither about the entrance, and
Gus screams in horror as it plunges him forward.
He’s encased in goo, and the whole world goes dark and quiet.
Every wriggling motion meets with blubbery resistance, and his
muscles burn within seconds. It’s trying to exhaust him, suffocate
him.
It’s definitely going to work.
The mucous wall suctions to Gus’s body, slurping away the
remaining air bubbles, plastering his hair with lubricant, smearing his
face. Gus makes fists, trying to grab on to something, but the
gelatinous material squishes out between his fingers.
His lungs burn and stars dance in his eyes. He can’t take it. Gus’s
body is about to breathe whether he wants to or not.
 This is where you die.
A pair of protrusions slither up his nose, and Gus reaches up to
pull them out. Those aren’t tubes; they’re the goo pressing into his
sinuses.
There’s a popping noise inside his skull, and air flows into Gus’s
nostrils, cold and fresh. He shuts his mouth and breathes hungrily,
coughing with each exhalation. The whistling hiss of air dies down as
the pressure evens out, and he’s oddly comfortable.
Gus stops struggling. He doesn’t see the point. Maybe this is the
afterlife, and he’s actually supposed to be super snuggly and fall
asleep.
Something tickles Gus’s scalp.
That something turns out to be a brain drill.
His pain ratchets from terrifying, to explosive, to personality-
skewing. His vision whites out as the drill bit chews skin and bone,
and he smells rainbows. A spike of lava burns up his insides,
threading along his backbone. Probes stab through his whole body,
and he hopes it will end soon: the suffering, his life, everything.
A cool mist trickles from the back of Gus’s neck into his form, and
all fear vanishes as his extremities pleasantly tingle. Something
alien, yet familiar, creeps into his mind. Thoughts are being forced
into him.
It’s like learning the parameters of a dream, changing the truths
of his world. All at once, he understands that his pain is an illusion
created by the body to illustrate danger. With the right modulation in
perspective, illusions can be destroyed.
Gus’s pain vanishes. In fact, he feels great.
Perhaps a little too great—there are definitely some drugs in his
system.
“What’s happening to me?”
Concepts filter into him, the language of an advanced
intelligence. Gus’s mind isn’t exclusively his anymore. Greymalkin
and Gus are connected.
Light fills his vision, the water and sailcraft wreckage coming into
ultrasharp focus. He’s seeing through Greymalkin’s optical sensors,
and a thousand colors he’s never glimpsed come smashing into his
nervous system. Radiant heat and gamma rays fluoresce in his sight,
rendered in fresh clarity by ultra-powerful sensors across the
Vanguard hull. He could count the fish in the sea if he so desired.
Monaco is even more beautiful than before, but when Gus looks into
space, he’s floored.
A million destinations spread before him, clouds of possibility
scattered across the sidereal firmament. Even background radiation
stands out, remnants of the Big Bang cast into distant nothingness.
Nebulae swirl across the cosmos, thickening into a panoramic arm of
the Milky Way. Curiously, two other lights stand out in the darkness.
Those are other humans, Greymalkin explains, pushing more
thoughts into his mind. Not everyone is dead.
Juliette’s fist plows into Gus’s view, sending Greymalkin backward
into the SuperPort starship pads. He goes stumbling into the dry-
docked Zephyr’s Rest, supposedly the most luxurious starliner in
existence. Greymalkin’s claw snaps out to catch itself, and Gus’s arm
follows suit against his will. Nails dig into the silver hull and rip a
huge gash down the side. Bundles of wiring, metal, nanocomposites,
and a thousand other things tear loose from the Zephyr’s Rest like
whale fat, and Gus seriously doubts it’ll ever fly again.
“Oh my god! I’m so sorry!”
His jaw hurts like hell from taking that last punch. Bones clacked
together across his face that he didn’t even know he had;
Greymalkin’s armor plates—acutely sensitive to the tiniest vibration—
took a hit with the net force of a hypersonic missile. If it weren’t for
the Vanguard throttling its sensor input, the shock of a full-impact
strike would’ve burned Gus out like a tiny fuse.
Juliette goes down on all fours, scrambling toward Greymalkin. It
clambers along the starliner’s roof, punching another half dozen
holes before leaping onto Gus’s Vanguard host. Gus feels Juliette’s
ivory gauntlets around his neck, and it brings another fist across his
face.
Greymalkin wants Gus to know: He will not survive a third hit like
that. Its neck has taken too much damage, and needs time to
regenerate.
They must work together to create an advantage.
 “I’m in control?”
The answer comes through in a flash. Gus is a Conduit, and
Greymalkin contains the Fount: the universal database of all
harvested human memories.
The bargain: Gus will give Greymalkin access to the knowledge in
the Fount. Greymalkin will give itself over to his control.
“You want to put other people’s ideas… in my mind?” he asks,
flinching as Juliette comes at them.
Gus’s arms once again move against his will, blocking blows that
could’ve cratered mountains. Greymalkin rolls and throws Juliette at
the fuel storage depot, but it catches itself on the traffic control
tower, clambering down the side like a spider.
If Gus consents to be connected with the Fount, he can be of
some use to humanity before he dies from his grievous wounds.
“Wait, what?”
In the interest of speed, Greymalkin had to jam everything into
him without anesthesia. There’s a good chance he’ll perish after this;
Gus’s body has suffered an inordinate amount of trauma.
Panic scratches at Gus’s thoughts, but Greymalkin twists his mind
—keeping him in the moment. His Vanguard needs his explicit
agreement. Perhaps he would rather be dead, Greymalkin suggests.
Gus’s choice not to help would damn humanity, but it would also be
understandable. Most humans do not enjoy having their minds
manipulated.
Juliette shoulder-checks Greymalkin, sending it skidding off the
coastal shelf, into the depths of the Mediterranean. The Vanguard
sinks deeper, beyond the reach of Monaco’s lights. Its armored back
comes to rest against the seafloor, kicking up a swirl of silt. Radars
render the 23,168 fish-sized life-forms nearby.
“Will it hurt?” Gus takes a dry swallow.
He can save humanity. Who cares if it destroys him?
He nods and makes a tight fist. “All right. Do it.”
His viewport fills with the words Deepsync in progress…
A thin ray of light spreads through his head, scattering across his
many nodes and subsystems. Greymalkin’s psyche fuses with him,
the connection snapping them together like two droplets of water.
 Middle C, played on Gus’s childhood piano, comes through the
connection first. A sparkle of notes form the backbone of a song,
and his limitless imagination provides dozens of branching paths. An
illusory drummer follows, a snare in a swing time march, then a horn
section hums a tense pad before going sforzando.
The full orchestra builds in Gus’s mind: loud, clear, and soul-
rattling. Memories spill into him at the crescendo, and he becomes
multitudes.
It’s electrifying. Countless warriors of all shades, genders,
backgrounds, and beliefs fill Gus with a battle cry, and his breath
comes in panicked, wide-eyed huffs. They’re so loud—every thought
he has seems to belong to someone else. He feels their lives and
motivations, the core of what taught them to fight. These were the
people who laid down everything to stop the advance of the
Vanguards, and they only ended up being absorbed by them.
Greymalkin informs Gus: He can only withstand five minutes at a
time.
“What happens then?”
His personality will dissolve under the weight of all others. He’ll
be nothing more than a drooling amalgam, unable to think or speak
for himself. In that instance, Greymalkin will do him the favor of
termination.
“Aw, thanks, buddy.”
When Gus sits up, so does Greymalkin. It crouches on the
seafloor, preparing to launch its counterattack.
“Looks like we’ve only got five minutes to dance.”
Gus pounds his fists together and slogs up the shelf. He breaks
the surface, and Juliette is waiting, whips at the ready. It draws back
to swing and—
Elation as she steps forward to preempt her master, taking him by
the wrist and hurling him to the mat.
The memory of another life takes over Gus’s being for a split
second, and he executes a perfect hip throw. Juliette careens
overhead before kicking loose in a tangle of limbs. It lands hard, but
not enough to damage it. It rushes at Gus and—
They spread their feet to receive the linebacker, because they’re
going to teach this motherfucker about inertia.
Greymalkin goes low, grabbing Juliette by the waist and directing
its momentum into the sharp cliffs of the land extensions. The
purple Vanguard rolls into the water, buying Gus a moment to catch
his breath.
Gus looks down at his dark claws, lined with hissing jets. He has
become what he must to save the Earth. He has every memory he
needs to kick this thing’s ass.
Now he just needs to get lucky.
 Chapter Two

Front Row Seats

It’s like getting punched by a bus.

But for the airbags built into the dress, Ardent would’ve been
shattered into a thousand little pieces against Greymalkin’s fist.
Ardent’s agent always insisted on having Stalker Shields installed,
just in case some mouth-breather got handsy.
A giant robot fist is as handsy as it gets.
The guitar breaks against Ardent’s torso—taking with it a few of
their ribs—and Ardent goes flying out the window like a strobe-lit
piece of popcorn. Their whole vocabulary blueshifts in the fall, and
they loose a remarkable streak of swears in a single operatic
screech.
They’re sieved by tree limbs before albatrossing onto the synth
grass. Their exploded textiLEDs flash in alarm, automatically trying
to call the authorities for help on a dead Net connection.
Ardent hasn’t been hit that hard since they botched a flip during
their final tour rehearsals. They gasp, lungs quivering as lights dance
in their reddened eyes. Trying to sit up is a terrible mistake, and
they lie back to catch their breath. Wooziness overtakes them, and
the world spins.
Ardent gives a few weak flips of their wrist to get their Ganglion
UI to appear. With shaking fingers, they push through the menus to
throw a painkiller on their lower back. A choked sigh escapes their
lips as their bodysuit applies soothing electropulses to their spine
and ribs.
 When Ardent overcomes their violent reorientation, they find
themself in the front garden beside a stone fountain. They roll onto
their stomach, flipping the hair out of their eyes and blinking the
focus back into them. If they’d landed even a little differently, they’d
be dead.
Above them, Greymalkin withdraws its fist from the remains of
Lord Yamazaki’s manor, collapsing the building in upon itself.
There’s someone within its black talon, head poking out between
thumb and forefinger. A mop of curly black hair shows up briefly in
the searchlight.
Gus?
Greymalkin opens its chest plate, probes drawing his body inside
like an octopus drags a mussel.
“Don’t eat him!” Ardent screams.
It eats him.
“Listen here, you big bastard—”
Looking into the sky is like staring out at an arena crowd—
swaying devices glowing and glimmering as celebrants dance—but
multiplied by an order of magnitude. Ardent can almost hear the
roar, feel the speakers and the stage beneath their feet. The whole
of the stars convulse, growing brighter in cycles until they have to
squint. Rainbows spill across the heavens, engulfing the planet as
countless more brake burns encircle the Earth.
More folds?
But that would be thousands, right at the edge of the Earth’s
magnetic fields.
The incoming ships carve flaming lines across the sky before
breaking apart into more vehicles. Those divide even further, until
vast fleets of tiny engines crowd out the stars. They fly in formation,
parallel lines deviating from a single branch, barbs in the vane of a
feather.
Ardent has seen the holos, knows what the streaks are: the
Gilded Ghosts, foot soldiers of annihilation. Every Vanguard comes
with a swarm of them, and they’re the virus that will destroy the
Earth—but not with something as clumsy as raw force. If the Ghosts
had wanted, they could’ve jumped into the atmosphere and fried
everyone with solar wash.
Their plan is far worse than radiation poisoning.
This day has ensnared Ardent’s imagination for the past five
years, infecting their music, relationships, and even the safety of
dreams. There’s no escape from this fate, no fleeing Earth. Every
starship has been chased down. To their knowledge, no bunker on
any other world has withstood an onslaught from a Vanguard, or
even a Gilded Ghost.
In the harbor, Greymalkin explodes from the depths to smash its
rival with rocket-propelled claws. It wraps its arms around the purple
Vanguard’s waist and suplexes it into the rocky hills of the land
extensions.
Ardent whoops, but they lose their view of the action behind the
Electric Orchard. They have to get closer if they want to watch the
end.
Golden light passes overhead. Ardent looks up to see an entry
vehicle streaking along, a starmetal spore pod splitting into
thousands. They’re getting brighter—closer.
One of the luminous objects shoots out of the clouds, neatly
lancing a nearby tower of apartments before burying itself in a park.
Screams erupt from the balconies, but there’s no time to watch in
horror—dozens of other engine streaks stab the city, flames gushing
forth from the wounds.
Other guests stumble dazedly from Lord Yamazaki’s house,
survivors of Greymalkin’s initial hit. They cling to one another,
weeping and looking around for safety. It’s getting a bit Ragnarok
outside, though, so they won’t find it anywhere.
Fashion is always intentional, and Ardent has carefully selected
their cataclysmic attire for maximum mobility. They tug at the
various restraints securing their exploded dress, tearing it away to
expose the sleek bodysuit underneath. They’d worn this ultrabright
stage display on their Hellbitch tour, and had grown to love it for
both its breathable layers and sheer goddamned fabulousness.
Ardent taps the sides of their recall rubber stilettos, softening their
heels before squishing them against the ground. After a second
touch, clumsy heels become brisk flats, ready for sprinting.
 Ardent waves to the others. Maybe they should group up for this
part of the apocalypse. “Hey!”
The pack of survivors heads in Ardent’s direction—but a rocket
strike craters the ground between them. Clods of dirt rain onto
Ardent, and they cover their head to avoid any sharp rocks. After the
sand shower settles, everyone straightens to peer at the new hole.
A manipulator emerges from the smoking crater, sharp, robotic
fingers gripping the broken earth. The design of the claw is like the
Vanguards—smooth, sweeping, and organic. Another one follows, a
pair of arms dragging free. The rest of the machine rises from its
cradle, a loose congregation of thin palladium plates, lashed
together by articulating wires. It’s a mesh, a flat surface like a cloak
—draped over a nightmare. It unfurls into a feline body, the metallic
gesture of a great cat stalking the grounds. A lens assembly forms
the “head” of the beast, sweeping its surroundings with cold light.
Beneath these unnatural eyes, it bears a pair of white-hot fangs,
long as Ardent’s forearms, arcing with malice.
It’s almost beautiful.
Almost.
One of the men shouts in terror and takes off running—never a
good move around predators. The Ghost launches after him,
catching him within seconds. Its wired chains of plates tangle
around his legs and arms, and he falls, screaming.
“Help me! Hel—”
The robot flows over him, encasing him in its golden mesh before
sinking both fangs deep into his skull. There’s a flash and a pop, and
the rest of the man’s body jerks to a halt. The Ghost shakes its
head, releasing its prey, and the fellow flops to the ground with eyes
and mouth steaming. A pair of large holes along the top of his skull
weep blood, and the machine steps over him.
“It’s all good!” it says in the dead man’s voice. “I’m fine. You guys
good?”
Ardent backs up a step.
“Oh, fuck that.”
The video is grainy.
There’s a titanic purple robot, accompanied by a swarm of
gleaming locusts, falling from the sky.
Wind buffets a cityscape, and buildings collapse in the distance.
A man in the foreground screams at someone off camera,
“Juliette!”
The robot charges up some kind of field, and the image sensor
whites out.
That file, shared far and wide as “The Juliette Video,” was Ardent
Violet’s introduction to the Vanguards—giant robots built from tech
far beyond human. All 2.2 million colonists of Persephone were
destroyed in under ten minutes, but it took the rest of the galaxy
weeks to understand what’d happened.
After nine hours, the feeds came back online. Videos of the attack
emerged, depicting moderate carnage with a miraculous recovery.
Family members called home, tearful and glad to be alive. They
reconciled old grudges. They mourned the confirmed dead. Four of
Ardent’s biggest fans from the system called, and they were fine.
They were also perfect, real-time fakes.
Every aspect of the victims had been faithfully re-created, from
speech patterns and intimate secrets—to their network credentials
and knowledge of critical infrastructure.
Persephone asked for help, and the United Worlds sent fifty of
their best ships. Those brave rescuers were never seen again, and
the loss of those scarce vessels debilitated humanity for the rest of
the coming war.
The malicious signals eventually caused every world and outpost
to turn inward, walling off their communications for fear of hacking
and reliably false information—and of seeing their own beloved
dead, beckoning them to the end. This gradual corruption of all
interstellar communications came to be called the Veil.
The Gilded Ghosts struck worlds and stations across the cosmos,
absorbing their populace’s knowledge. Ten more colonies
disappeared overnight. Before the Veil smothered the galaxy, new
videos of other giant robots emerged—always under a minute long,
always terrifying.
 Some poor soul got footage of a Ghost Wipe before getting the
big bite themself. No one wanted to believe the images were real.
After all, the Ghosts had fabricated humanity’s dead relatives. Why
wouldn’t they fake this, too, to demoralize the remaining populace?
Ardent had certainly denied it.
But now they stand horrified on the Yamazaki Estate grounds.
This Wipe, this man, his steaming, ruined eyes—they’re real enough
to smell at a dozen paces.
The robot launches for the remains of the group, and Ardent
sprints in the other direction down the estate drive. They won’t die
here—not yet. The fight between Juliette and Greymalkin is the last
great show, and Ardent refuses to be killed before it’s over.
More Ghosts come raining from above, sending up thick columns
of debris and rock everywhere they hit. Terrified screams choke the
night air from the surrounding villas. Horrors stalk the chaos,
spreading in every direction. There is nowhere to run on Earth or in
the stars.
People pour into the streets, headed away from the huge mech
battle in the water. SportCAVs and exotic aircraft launch from every
rooftop, only to be blasted in midair, shot through by Ghosts on the
way down. Anywhere the vehicles crash, bots pry them open and
drag out the screaming drivers. Classic hovercars fare little better,
making easy prey for the shining robots. The road out of the city is
choked with a massacre, because no one wants to walk toward the
final confrontation of two unstoppable forces in the harbor.
But if the world must end, Ardent wants the best seat: front row,
mosh pit.
Down the hillside at the port, Juliette throws a boat at
Greymalkin, who knocks it into the city. The point of impact erupts
into flames, destroying the block that—until recently—contained
Ardent’s favorite chocolate shop, along with the good shoe store. It’s
not like Ardent is ever going back to Monaco, but it’s the principle of
the thing.
Why isn’t Greymalkin “eating” anyone else? There’s no way it
traveled across space just to devour one man, even if that man was
as delicious as August Kitko. Why is it fighting Juliette? No one has
ever seen a Vanguard behave this way—jamming pianists into its
chest and punching another of its kind.
It’s simply not how they do business.
The closer Ardent gets, the thinner the population becomes. The
Ghosts are sparse down by the marina, harrowing stragglers, and
Ardent has to be a lot more careful. Away from the herd, a lone pop
star is easy pickings.
A pod strikes the roadway ahead, and Ardent detours down a
side path, over a greenway, and into a high-rise apartment. The
security guard is absent, probably off getting killed somewhere with
family, like Ardent should be. They still feel guilty about that. Maybe
the bunker will save Ardent’s siblings, unlike all of the other bunkers
in the galaxy—which the Ghosts scraped out as though they were
warrens full of soft baby bunnies, and not military-hardened
structures.
A sprint to a knee slide takes Ardent behind the lobby desk,
where they curl into a tight ball and try not to move or breathe too
hard. Eleven years of ballet and seven years of rocking packed
arenas have given them fantastic cardiovascular health. Running
from Ghosts is way easier than the dance number they had planned
for the victory party.
The lobby remains quiet, save for the distant thunder of battling
Vanguards and dull shelling of Ghosts outside. The front door
chimes, and Ardent balls up even tighter. The tick-tick of metal claws
on marble fills the grand foyer—the Ghost that crashed outside has
followed them.
Ardent’s chest stings like there’s a stitch, but it’s more likely a
broken rib. If they try to get up, the Ghost will catch them for sure.
If they don’t leave, it’ll scan for Ardent and find them
instantaneously. Right on time, blue light washes over their body,
through the stone desk, through their skin—a multispectral sweep.
Busted. Still a pretty legendary end—got punched by a robot and
lived.
But the Ghost doesn’t come tearing over the lip of the desk to
suck out Ardent’s memories. Why not? There’s nothing that stands
between it and them.
 As if in answer, there’s a ding.
“Suivez-moi, tranquillement,” comes a woman’s urgent whisper
from the bank of elevators. She’s cut short by a chorus of screams
as the Ghost goes scrabbling into the elevator car with the
occupants.
The monster is busy; now is the best chance to get away.
Ardent uncoils and rushes around the reception desk, past the
open elevator. They look inside as they flee. There are only minutes
left for the planet. No point in turning away.
The Ghost—now more like a net than a cat—stretches to ensnare
anyone in reach. It hooks them between its segments, wrapping
cables around their necks and drawing them toward its mass of
captive corpses. It takes no time wrapping up their heads for its
grotesque probes.
There’s a kid in the mix.
Ardent wants to help, but what are they supposed to do? Earth’s
big plan is to die. Everyone knew this was the last sunrise. Ardent
can almost hear their grandfather’s voice.
Keep going or that’ll be you.
“No.”
Ardent flicks their wrist; the Gang UI sends their bodysuit into
Stalker Defense mode. They slap the Ghost, and fifty thousand volts
and an EMP loop go shooting through the crowd, seizing everyone
up and rebooting all their wearables. The Ghost is shielded, but it
definitely feels the hit. The creature releases its victims and
scrabbles up the wall, screeching alarms and showering everyone
with marble dust.
It turns its lenses on Ardent, long fangs still dripping blood. Run
or don’t run, this beast is coming.
With a quick spin on their heel, Ardent takes off for the far end of
the foyer. They shoulder through the revolving door and out into the
road. There’s a trash can nearby, and Ardent hauls it over into the
spinning exit, effectively barring the mechanism.
The Ghost yanks the door leaves once, then gives the whole
assembly a shove in the other direction. The revolving door safety
frame turns caution yellow, a pattern of black Xs blossoming across
its panes—not allowed, wait ten seconds.
“Ardent!” says the Ghost in the familiar voice of a screaming fan.
“Don’t go! It doesn’t hurt!”
That’s Narika, the former head of their social team, consumed in
the attack on Abode Colony. Ardent had cried for a whole week after
she died.
Ardent blanches. “Bad kitty.”
They search for some means of escape. There are a few rentable
“Ciao!” scooters hovering nearby. The Net is down; it’s unlikely
they’ll take payment, but it’s worth a try. When Ardent jumps onto
one, they find a message:

There are no more tomorrows. We encourage you to use this

vehicle to be with loved ones.
Thanks for the memories, and
Ciao

“Aww, cute,” they say, revving the throttle and shooting up the
boulevard on their free end-of-days scooter. This might be the first
time in Ardent’s life they can remember reading a corporate
statement that wasn’t totally disingenuous bullshit.
The skies above are bedlam, with CAVs dropping out of the air
left and right, passengers screaming the whole way down. The
House of Grimaldi opens fire from the Rock of Monaco, and a host of
golden bots descend upon the palace to choke out the defenses. It’s
unlikely His Serene Highness is living up to his title at the moment.
A couple of famous hairpin turns bring Ardent out at Portier,
taking a hard left to rocket onto the Nouvelle Causeway’s Skyline
Boulevard. The atrium’s rooftop road never fails to amaze, clear
aluminum stained cyan like old glass bottles. A hundred meters
below Ardent, overpriced neighborhoods whip past—the sorts of
people who’d pay more money to live under an expressway because
it’s in Monaco.
The panoramic battle between Greymalkin and Juliette swells to
encompass all sight. Every jab and kick rocks the earth, and the
clash of starmetal limbs rings through Ardent’s bones.
Salty spray stings their eyes, and they wipe them clear. To miss
even a single minute of humanity’s final battle would be a crime. If
an errant Vanguard fist or foot mashes Ardent into the ocean floor, it
will have been worth it.
A glance backward reveals a host of pursuers—three Ghosts
closing in with teeth arcing, literally thirsting for knowledge. Ardent
hunkers low and twists the accelerator, bobbing and weaving with
the drive assist. Sadly, the Ghosts are faster than a rental scooter
and gain ground with every second.
Keep going. Stay alive. See everything you can.
The Vanguards’ songs fill the whole spectrum of sound with tonal
bliss, sizzling against Ardent’s nerves. Greymalkin plows a rocket
claw through one of Juliette’s elbow joints and unleashes a noise like
a thousand slot machines jackpotting in glory. Robotic eye slits flash
in delight against its shadowed carapace.
“Punch it again!” Ardent shouts up at them, virtually standing
atop their scooter seat to try to get a better view. The safety system
chirps a horseplay warning: Two more of those and it’ll shut down.
“Aw, screw you. I’m in danger! Override!”
“No network activity,” the scooter retorts, unable to understand.
Juliette crosses its ivory arms, reaching into its rib cage. It pulls
free a pair of glowing whips that slice across the night. When the bot
jerks them taut, it’s like a bolt of lightning snapping, unleashing a
hail of sparks to devastate the surrounding hillsides. Balls of plasma
erupt from the impact points, demolishing mansions and toppling
high-rises.
Greymalkin contorts out of the way, taking advantage of its
inhuman center of gravity for a masterful leap. It ducks and dodges,
picking up a mossy boulder from the harbor floor and bashing it
across Juliette’s face. It’s a solid hit, bass rumbling through the city.
A blur of gold comes at the scooter from the side—an attacking
Ghost—and Ardent narrowly swerves out of the way. The killer bot
lands on the glassy road, claws sparking as it pivots after the
scooter, and Ardent ducks another pounce. The Ghost catches on a
lane divider, buying them a bit of breathing room.
 Another horseplay warning buzzes from the scooter console:
strike two.
The Ghost hasn’t given up, though, and it flattens out, rolling
after Ardent like a saw blade. Its companions undergo a similar
transformation, and soon, Ardent is whipping all over the road to get
away from the beasts. The Ghosts’ assault consumes all of Ardent’s
attention, and they’re missing the end of the world because of it.
One of the Ghosts manages to catch Ardent’s arm, leaving a nasty
cut.
“Get off me!” They trigger the Stalker Defense, and the Ghost lets
go before Ardent can shock it.
Another set of Ghosts comes rolling toward Ardent from the front,
and it’s almost flattering—everyone gets a personal murderer, but
Ardent gets several. Instead of netting the scooter and Wiping
Ardent’s brain, however, these newcomers charge directly into the
pack of pursuers. They tussle in a jingling orgy of wires and plates,
ripping and shocking one another with teeth and claws. Deadly
welding lasers ignite inside the whirling ball of death, smoking scrap
flying out of the catfight at high speed.
Just like the Vanguards, the Ghosts have started killing one
another. Ardent certainly isn’t complaining.
If the Ghosts are in open conflict, what the hell is happening?
Throughout the city, green welding beams slice the night—errant
shots from more bot fights breaking out everywhere.
Do humans have a chance?
Juliette’s fusion whip comes down behind Ardent with a light
brighter than any stage beam. Steam surges up from below, and
aluminum glass panels go skyward, orange slag glazing where the
whip cut through. The causeway bucks into Ardent’s scooter, fouling
the repulsor’s spin—and no safety system will fix that. The vehicle
tips forward, giving Ardent just enough time to be sad about what’s
coming.
“No, no, n—”
Without the popcorn suit, the ground is a lot harder this time.
Ardent bounces twice before skidding to a halt. Their face, shoulder,
elbow, and knees all ring with debilitating pain, but they’re conscious
and alive.
The scooter grinds across the pavement, buzzing a third
horseplay strike before shutting down.
Ardent looks up just in time to watch Greymalkin grab Juliette’s
arms and wrench them like a ship’s sailing wheel, tangling limbs until
they snap free at the elbows. Milky blood sprays at all angles, raining
upon Ardent, Monaco, and the surrounding environs in a torrential
storm.
The purple Vanguard blares an agonized wail, its resonant
harmonic voice growing discordant and detuned. The euphoria
Ardent felt at hearing the Vanguard song wilts into dread, and they
cover their ears. Juliette’s scream passes right through their fingers,
into their auditory canals, their teeth, their bones, and the chambers
of their heart.
Greymalkin shuts the noise off by hauling a yacht out of the
harbor and stabbing its bow into Juliette’s head. Purple armor parts
beneath the blow, revealing a thunderstorm of broken electronics.
Not satisfied, Greymalkin hooks its shiny black claws into Juliette’s
rib cage and fires reverse jets on maximum. The purple Vanguard
looses a rising squeal before its breastplate gives way. Wires slough
from its interior, and Greymalkin yanks them free in huge bundles
before kicking the dying Vanguard backward into the ocean.
The gentle wave of Juliette’s demise brushes beneath the
causeway, washing back out to sea. Ardent blinks the robot blood
and salt water out of their eyes, staring thunderstruck at the sinking
corpse. Any moment, a Gilded Ghost will grab them and core their
brains out—but at least Ardent got to see the single greatest fight in
the history of humanity.
Except no fatal bite comes. When Ardent turns to look for their
pursuers, they find the Ghosts at peace. The creatures pad back
toward the city like a pack of lions, and Ardent watches them go
with mounting confusion.
“Okay.”
Greymalkin bellows an agonized cry before doubling over like it’s
going to throw up. Its chest opens, and in the scant details of the
night, Ardent sees Gus tumble into the water from an open cavity.
Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
Newburgh, formed the intention of uniting the endowments of St.
Nicholas within the Castle with St. Mary’s, which was carried out by
his son, whose grant of incorporation was executed in 1123.
Probably the church was built about that time, as the crypt is of
Norman character. In the reign of Edward III., Thomas Beauchamp
ordained by his will in 1369, that a choir should be erected; and
many alterations have at one time or other been made. A great part
of the church was burnt down in 1694, and rebuilt at a cost of
£5,000, to which Queen Anne contributed £1,000. In the crypt is
preserved the ducking stool.

The Oratory.

It is desirable to add a word or two concerning “Guy’s Cave” and

the “Statue of Guy” at Guy’s Cliff, to which the visitor ought by all
means to “wend his way.” Indeed, the town of Warwick, and the
whole of the neighbourhood by which it is surrounded, is one grand
assemblage of interesting objects, of which the mind cannot tire or
become satiated. To all we have described—the towers, the lodges,
the several apartments of the castle, and to the gardens and
grounds—the publicly is freely, graciously, and generously admitted:
a boon for which we are sure every visitor will be grateful.
One of the few remaining “antiques” that yet endure to the town
we have selected for engraving—the East Gate; but, as will be seen,
the base only can be considered ancient; it has been
“transmogrified,” yet is still striking and interesting. The Earl of
Leicester’s Hospital, founded by Robert Dudley in 1586, is a
singularly beautiful and perfect specimen of the half-timber houses;
it escaped the great fire that nearly destroyed the town in 1694.
There are not many other ancient edifices in the venerable town.
 Warwick: the East Gate.

Thus, it will be readily understood that a day at Warwick supplies

a rare treat; not only to the antiquary, and the historian, but to the
lover of nature. The best views of the Castle are obtained from the
opposite side of the Avon, near a narrow stream crossed by a
bridge, which is part of the main road;[36] of the old bridge there are
some remains, rendered highly picturesque by ivy and lichens that
grow in profusion there, and near the old mill, the date of which is
coeval with that of the Castle. Superb trees grow in the immediate
grounds, huge chestnuts and gigantic cedars, that have sheltered
the stout earls time out of mind: the walls are grey with age; but it
is a sober livery that well suits the stronghold of the bold barons,
and suggests the tranquillity of repose after the fever of battles,
sieges, and deeds that cannot fail to be summoned from history as
one looks from the filled-up moat to the towers and battlements that
still smile or frown upon the environing town they controlled or
protected.
It demands but little imagination to carry the visitor of to-day
back through long-past centuries, from the moment we enter the
picturesque yet gloomy passage cut through the rock, covered with
ivy, lichens, and wild flowers in rich abundance, and pass under the
portcullis that yet frowns above the porter’s lodge: the whole seems
so little changed by time, that one might wait for the king-maker
and his mighty host to issue through the gateway, and watch the red
rose or the white rose on the helmets of attendant knights; by no
great stretch of fancy one might see the trembling Gaveston, the
petted minion of a weak monarch, dragged forth to death: a
hundred events or incidents are associated with these courts and
towers, inseparably linked with British history; and it is impossible to
resist a feeling of reverence approaching awe while pacing
peacefully among them.
The “frowning keep,” nearly hidden by the green foliage of
surrounding trees, may be accepted as an emblem of the Castle;
where tranquillity and peace are in the stead of fierceness and broil.
Warwick, while it has lost little of its grandeur, has obtained much of
grace from time; Time which
“Moulders into beauty many a tower,
That when it frowned with all its battlements
Was only terrible.”
 HADDON HALL.

H ADDON HALL is, perhaps, the most

interesting, and is certainly the most
attractive, of all the ancient mansions of
England: and none have been so fertile of
material to Artists. Situate in one of the
most picturesque, if not the most
beautiful, of our English shires, absolutely
perfect as an example of the Baronial
Halls of our ancestors, and easily
accessible by charming routes from
populous towns, it is not surprising that it
should be visited annually by tens of
thousands; and that in America it is
regarded as one of the places in the “Old
Country,” which no visitors, even of a
week, to the classic land of their History,
should neglect to see, examine, and
describe.
Dorothy Vernon’s Door. Haddon Hall is distant fourteen miles
from Buxton; perhaps the most
fashionable, as it certainly is one of the most cheerful, and, we
believe, the most healthful of all the Baths of England. Its waters are
as efficacious, in certain ailments, as are those of Southern
Germany; while the surrounding district is so grand and beautiful, so
happily mingling the sublime and the graceful, as to compete, and
by no means unfavourably, with the hills and valleys that border the
distant Rhine.
The poet, the novelist, the traveller, the naturalist, the
sportsman, and the antiquary have found appropriate themes in
Derbyshire, in its massive rocks—“Tors”—and deep dells; its pasture-
lands on mountain-slopes; its rapid, yet never broad, rivers—delights
of the angler; its crags and caves; its rugged and ragged or wooded
steeps; above all, its relics of the earlier days when Briton, Roman,
Saxon, and Norman, held alternate sway over the rich lands and
prolific mines of this lavishly endowed county; and of a later time,
when shrewd monks planted themselves beside the clear streams
and rich meadows, to which they bequeathed magnificent ruins to
tell of intellectual and material power in the time of their vigorous
and prosperous strength.
Unequivocal evidence exists that the Romans knew the curative
properties of the Baths at Buxton; and it is almost certain, from the
many Celtic barrows and stone circles found in the neighbourhood,
that a still earlier race was acquainted with them. Probably,
therefore, for more than a thousand years Buxton has been one of
the principal “health-resorts” of this island. Yet few remains of
antiquity exist in the town. The dwelling—in which was lodged Mary,
Queen of Scots, on her several visits, while in custody of the Earl of
Shrewsbury, and to which “good Queen Bess,” while sojourning at
Kenilworth, sent the Earl of Leicester, that he might drink of the
healing waters, “twenty days together”—was removed just a century
ago: a handsome and very commodious hotel occupies the site: it is
still called the “Old Hall;” and immediately behind it are the two
springs—the Saline and the Iron—the Chalybeate and the Tonic. On
a window-pane of one of the rooms in this Old Hall, Mary, Queen of
Scots, is said to have scratched the following touching and kindly
farewell—the pane of glass having been preserved until recent
years:—
“Buxtona, quæ calidæ celebrare nomine lymphæ,
Forte mihi posthac non adeunda vale!”

Cheerfulness is the handmaid of health: and, although there are

many patients in and about Buxton, they do not seem to suffer
much: there are more smiles than moans in the pump-room; and
rheumatism is not a disease that makes much outer show of
anguish.
It would be difficult to find in any part of the British dominions a
drive so grandly beautiful as that between Buxton and Haddon.
Within half a mile of its centre is “the Duke’s Drive” (formed in 1795
by the then Duke of Devonshire): it runs through Ashwood Dale,
Miller’s Dale, and Monsal Dale, passing “the Lover’s Leap” and “Chee
Tor”—stupendous crags, from the crevices of which grow small
trees, partially crowned and covered with ivy, ferns, and lichens,
groups of varied foliage intervening; with here and there
umbrageous woods; and the river Wye—not the “sylvan Wye, thou
wanderer through the woods,” of Wordsworth, but its namesake of
lesser fame, that has its source a mile or two north of Buxton—
journeying all the way, until at Rowsley it joins the Derwent (not the
Derwent of the English lakes), from whence the blended waters,
running by Matlock, Belper, and Derby, flow into the Trent, and so
make their way to the sea.
 Haddon, from the Meadows on the Bakewell Road.

To give a list of the several objects that delight the eye and mind
during this comparatively short drive, would fill more pages than we
have at our disposal. The lowest part of the town of Buxton is one
thousand feet above the level of the sea; the naturalist, the botanist,
and the geologist will find treasure-troves in any of the surrounding
hills and valleys: while natural marvels abound, within a few miles, in
all directions—such as Poole’s Hole, the Blue-John Mine, the Ebbing
and Flowing Well, and the Peak Cavern, with its summit crowned by
the fine old castle of “Peveril of the Peak.” Majestic Chatsworth—to
which, on certain days, the people are admitted, the park being at
all times freely open to all comers—is distant about three miles from
Haddon, across Manners Wood and intervening hills: in short, there
are a hundred places of deep interest within a drive of Buxton, and,
if it be a long drive, Dovedale—the loveliest dale in England—is
easily reached; so, indeed, is far-famed Alton Towers.
From Manchester and Buxton the way to Haddon is through the
ancient town of Bakewell, to the venerable parish church of which
we shall, in due course, conduct the reader—for it contains the
monuments of the Vernons. But before entering the old Hall, we must
ask the reader to glance at another route to Haddon—that which he
will probably take if his tour be made direct from London.
No doubt many visitors to Haddon will start from Derby; and if
the road from Buxton is charming, so also is that from the capital of
the shire: it is more open; the vales are wider; the views are more
extensive; there are the same attractions of hill and dell and rock
and river; cottages embosomed in foliage; church steeples seen
among richly-clad trees; clean and happy-looking villages; and
distant towns, never indicated, except in one case—that of Belper—
by the chimneys and sullen shadows of manufactories. For more
than twenty miles there is an unbroken continuation of scenic
loveliness, such as, in its calm and quiet charm, its simple grace, and
all the attractions of home nature, can be found nowhere else in the
wide world.
Leaving Derby, and passing by the famous “Boar’s Head” cotton
manufactory of Messrs. Evans on the left, and Breadsall on the right,
the first station arrived at is Duffield, a delightful village, where was
once the castle of the Peverels, and so on to Belper, famous for its
cotton mills of the Messrs. Strutt; thence through a delightful
country to the pleasant Junction of Ambergate, from whence the
railway runs by the picturesque village of Cromford, the creation of
one great man, Sir Richard Arkwright; Matlock Bath, the most
popular and beautiful of inland watering-places, whose villa
residences peep out from the heights in every direction, and whose
“High Tor” frowns down upon the railway beneath; Matlock Bridge,
whose hill-side of Matlock Bank is studded with famous hydropathic
establishments; and Darley Dale, with its fine old church, and grand
old yew tree, the largest in the kingdom, until the train stops at
Rowsley. Here the passenger for Haddon, or Chatsworth, will alight,
and here he will find conveyances, should he care to ride on. Here
too he will find a pleasant hostel, “The Peacock,” in which to refresh
the inner man.
 The Peacock at Rowsley.

“The Peacock” at Rowsley is one of the prettiest and pleasantest

inns in “all England:” it has ever been in high favour with “brethren
of the angle”—long before the neat and graceful railway station
stood so near it that the whistle of the train is audible a dozen times
a day, and twice or thrice at night. The fine old bridge close at hand
throws its arches across the Derwent; neatly and gracefully trimmed
gardens skirt the banks of that clear and bright river, into which
flows the Wye about a furlong off; and rivers, meadows, rocks and
dells, and hills and valleys “all round about,” exhibit to perfection the
peculiarities of the vale, so rich in the beautiful and the picturesque.
“The Peacock” is the nearest inn to Haddon; and here hundreds of
travellers from all parts of the world have found not only a tranquil
resting-place, but a cheerful home.[37] We have thought it well to
picture it, and have placed at its doors one of the waggonettes that
drive hither and thither from Buxton and other places; and the
tourist may rest assured that this pretty inn is indeed a place at
which he may “rest, and be thankful.”
 Haddon, from the Rowsley Road.

At Rowsley the tourist is but three miles from Chatsworth, and

two miles from Haddon. A pleasant walk through the valley brings
him in sight of Haddon Hall; and from this road he obtains, perhaps,
the best view of it. Partly hidden, as it is, by tall and full-leaved
trees, its grandeur is not at once apparent; but the impression
deepens as he ascends the steep pathway and pauses before the
nail-studded door that opens into the court-yard.
Before we proceed to describe the Hall, however, we shall give
some accounts of its earlier owners—the Vernons—reserving for an
after-part the history of their successors, the illustrious family of
Manners, from their origin, as knights, to the period of their high
elevation, as Earls and Dukes of Rutland, and so down to the
present time.
The history of Haddon, unlike that of most of our ancient
baronial residences, has always been one of peace and hospitality,
not of war and feud and oppression; and however much its owners
may, at one period or other, have been mixed up in the stirring
events of the ages in which they lived, Haddon itself has taken no
part in the turmoils. It has literally been a stronghold: but it has
been the stronghold of home and domestic life, not of armed strife.

H ADDON, at the time of taking the

Domesday survey, when the manor of
Bakewell belonged to, and was held
by, the king, was a berewite of the
manor; and there one carucate of land
was claimed by Henry de Ferrars.
Over-Haddon, a village two or three
miles off, on the hills, was also another
berewite of the same manor. To whom
Haddon belonged in the Saxon period
is not clear; the first owner of which
there is any distinct knowledge is this
Henry de Ferrars, who held it in 1086,
and who, by grant of the Conqueror,
had no less than 114 manors in
Derbyshire alone; he built Duffield
Castle, and founded the Church of the
Holy Trinity, near the Castle of Tutbury.
Haddon was at a very early period
Arms of Vernon quartering held, it is said, by tenure of knight’s
Avenell. service, by William Avenell, who
resided there, and was possessed of
much land in the neighbourhood. Soon after the foundation of Roche
Abbey, in 1147, William de Avenell, Lord of Haddon, gave to that
establishment the grange of Oneash and its appurtenances. One of
the daughters and co-heiresses of William de Avenell, Elizabeth,
married Simon Bassett, of the fine old family of Bassett, owners of
much property in this and the neighbouring counties; the other
married Richard de Vernon; and thus Haddon passed into that noted
family, of which we proceed to give some particulars.
The House of Vernon is of very considerable antiquity, and
derives its name, as do many others in the Baronage of England,
from its primitive domicile in Normandy—the Châtellenie of Vernon,
forming one of the territorial subdivisions of that country: the castle,
with its hereditary lords, is recorded in the Anglo-Norman chronicles.
According to the present territorial division of France, Vernon is a
commune in the Département de l’Eure and Arrondissement
d’Evreux; and as being the chef-lieu, gives name to the canton in
which it is situate. From this locality, one of the most picturesque
and luxuriant of the vine districts, the family of Vernon takes its
origin; and also the ancient family of De Redvers—the two families,
indeed, being originally identical, the name of De Redvers having
been assumed by a Vernon in the eleventh century, from the place
of his residence, Révière, in Normandy: his family were “Comtes de
Révières and Vernon, and Barons de Néhou;” both families tracing
from the d’Ivry stock. Mauriscus d’Ivry (father of Robert d’Ivry), who
was father of Alselin Goël—the names of whose sons, Roger
Pincerna, surnamed “the stammerer,” Lord of the Castle of
Grossœuvre; William Lupellus (Lovel), who acquired the castle of
Ivry on the death of his elder brother; and Robert Goël—are well
known in history; the one as holding the Honour of Ivry in right of
his descent from Count Ralph, uterine-brother of Richard I., Duke of
Normandy; another as the founder of the family of Lovel; and the
third as having held his castle of Grossœuvre against King Stephen;
he had a son, Baldwin, who took the surname of De Revers from the
place of his residence: and two generations later, William, the son of
Richard, assumed the name of Vernon, from the Châtellenie of that
name which he held. His son, Hugh de Revers, or Vernon, usually
called Hugh de Monachus, had a son, William de Vernon, Lord of
Vernon, who founded the Abbey of Montebourg. By his wife Emma
he had issue two sons, Walter and Richard: the latter of whom,
Richard de Redvers (as the name became afterwards spelled), or
Vernon, came over at the Conquest, and was created Baron of
Shipbroke in Cheshire. He married Adeliza, daughter of William
Peverel of Nottingham, and received with her in frank-marriage—that
is, a free gift of an estate given with a wife on her marriage, and
descendable to their joint heirs—the manor of Wolleigh,
Buckinghamshire. One of these sons, Baldwin de Redvers, was
created Earl of Devon, and from him descended the line of earls of
that name; while William de Redvers, who inherited the Norman
baronies of Vernon, Révières, and Néhou, re-assumed the surname
of Vernon from those possessions. He had an only son and heir,
Hugh de Vernon, Baron of Shipbroke, who married a daughter of
Raynold Badgioll, Lord of Erdiswicke and Holgrave. By this lady he
had a numerous issue: the eldest, Warin, continuing the barony of
Shipbroke; Matthew, inheriting the lordships of Erdeswicke and
Holgrave, who was ancestor of the Vernons of those places, and
Richard, already alluded to. This Richard de Vernon married Avice,
the daughter and co-heiress of William de Avenell, Lord of Haddon;
his other daughter and co-heiress marrying Sir Simon Bassett. By
marriage with this lady Richard de Vernon acquired Haddon and
other estates, and thus became settled at Haddon Hall. He had
issue, an only daughter and heiress, who married Gilbert le Francis;
and their son, Richard le Francis, took the name of Vernon, on
coming into the property, and settled at Haddon. He married Mary,
daughter of Robert, Baron of Stockport. His descendant, Sir Richard
Vernon, Lord of Haddon and of Appleby, &c., married Maude,
daughter and co-heiress of William de Camville, by whom he had an
only son and heir, William Vernon, who was only ten years of age at
his father’s death in 1422, when he was found heir to his
grandfather. In 1330 he obtained a grant of free warren, or the
exclusive right of killing beasts and birds of warren within prescribed
limits in the royal forests, &c., from the king. He married Joan,
daughter of Rhee, or Rhis, ap Griffith, and heiress of Richard
Stackpole, and had issue by her Sir Richard Vernon, Knt., of
Pembrugge (sometimes called Sir Richard de Pembrugge), Lord of
Haddon and Tonge, which latter lordship he acquired by his marriage
with the sister and heiress of Sir Fulke de Pembrugge, or Pembridge,
Lord of Tonge in Shropshire. Their son, Richard Vernon, was father
of Richard Vernon, Treasurer of Calais, Captain of Rouen, and
Speaker in the Parliament at Leicester in 1426. By his wife, Benedict,
daughter of St. John Ludlow of Hodnet, he had issue, with others,
Sir William Vernon, Knt., who, marrying Margaret, daughter of Sir
Robert Pype of Spernore, acquired that manor and lordship. He was
buried at Tonge, where a monument was placed to his memory.
His son, or grandson, Sir Henry Vernon, was made governor to
Prince Arthur by King Henry VII., with whom he was a great
favourite. He married Anne, daughter of John, second Earl of
Shrewsbury, by Elizabeth Butler, daughter of James, Earl of Ormond.
By this marriage he had issue, Sir Henry Vernon, who was made
High Steward of the King’s Forest in the Peak by Henry VIII., and
held many other posts. He had issue, two sons, Sir George Vernon
and Sir John Vernon. Sir Henry died in 1515, and was succeeded by
his oldest son, Sir George, “the King of the Peak,” who succeeded to
the Haddon and other estates, as will presently be shown.
Sir John Vernon, Knt., married Helen,
daughter and co-heiress of John
Montgomery, of Sudbury, in Derbyshire,
with whom he received the Sudbury and
other estates, and thus founded the family
of Lords Vernon. He was one of the King’s
Council in Wales, and Custos Rotulorum of
Arms of Lord Vernon. Derbyshire, and dying in 1540, was buried
at Clifton Camville. He was succeeded by
his son, Henry Vernon, who, in his turn, was succeeded by his son,
John Vernon, who married Mary, widow of Walter Vernon, of
Houndhill, and daughter of Sir Edward Littleton, of Pillaton Hall, by
whom, however, he had no issue. On his death in 1600, the estates
passed to his stepson, Edward Vernon, the eldest son of his wife by
her former husband, the family consisting of three surviving sons—
Edward, Thomas, and Walter—and four daughters. By this lady,
while a second time a widow, Sudbury Hall is said to have been
erected. Edward Vernon was succeeded by his son, Henry Vernon,
who married the sole daughter of Sir George Vernon, of Haslington,
in Cheshire, and by her had issue a son, George, who succeeded
him. This George Vernon was thrice married: first to Margaret,
daughter of Edward Onely, by whom he had no issue; and, third, to
Catherine, daughter of Sir Thomas Vernon, Knt., merchant, of
London. By this lady he had a numerous family, and was succeeded
by his eldest and sole-surviving son and heir, Henry Vernon, who
married, first, Anne, sole daughter of Thomas Pigott, Esq., and
heiress of her mother, who was sister and sole heiress of Peter
Venables, last Baron Kinderton; and, second, Matilda, daughter of
Thomas Wright, Esq., of Longston. Henry Vernon, who thus inherited
the estates of the Venables, assumed that surname in addition to his
own. He had issue by his first wife, among others, a son, George
Venables-Vernon, by whom he was succeeded. George Venables-
Vernon married three times. By his first wife, the Hon. Mary Howard,
daughter and co-heiress of Thomas Howard, sixth Lord Howard of
Effingham, he had issue a son, the second Lord Vernon, and a
daughter, Mary, married to George Anson, of Orgrave, the father of
the first Viscount Anson. By his second wife, Anne, daughter of Sir
Thomas Lee, he had no issue; but by his third wife, Martha, sister to
Simon Harcourt, first Earl Harcourt, he had a numerous family, as
will be shown. This George Venables-Vernon was created Baron
Vernon of Kinderton in 1762, and at his death was succeeded in his
titles and estates by the eldest son of his first marriage, George
Venables-Vernon, as second Lord Vernon, who married, first, the
Hon. Louisa Barbarina, daughter of Bussey, Lord Mansell, by whom
he had an only daughter, who died unmarried; and, second, to
Georgiana, daughter of William Fanquier, Esq., by whom he had also
an only daughter, Georgiana, married to Lord Suffield. His lordship
was succeeded in title and estates by his brother, the Hon. Henry
Vernon, as third Lord Vernon. This nobleman—whose brother
Edward took the surname of Harcourt, and became Archbishop of
York, and one of whose sisters, as has been shown, married the
father of the first Viscount Anson, and another, Elizabeth, became
the wife of George Simon, second Lord Harcourt—married twice. By
his first wife, Elizabeth Rebecca Anne, daughter of Charles Sedley,
Esq., of Nuttall, his lordship had issue two daughters (one of whom
the Hon. Catherine, died unmarried; and the other, the Hon. Louisa
Henrietta, married the Rev. Brooke Boothby, Prebendary of
Southwell) and one son, George Charles Venables-Vernon, who
succeeded him as fourth Lord Vernon. This nobleman married, in
1802, Frances Maria, daughter and heiress of Sir John Borlase
Warren, Bart., K.B., of Stapleford, by whom he had issue the Hon.
George John Venables-Vernon, fifth Lord Vernon, who assumed the
surname of Warren by sign manual in 1837, for himself and the
children only who should be born after that date. His lordship
married twice: first to Isabella Caroline, eldest daughter of Cuthbert
Ellison, Esq., M.P., by whom he had issue the present Lord Vernon,
and the Hon. William John Borlase Warren Venables-Vernon (who
assumed the additional surname of Warren), and three daughters;
and second, in 1859, his cousin, Frances Maria Emma, daughter of
the Rev. Brooke Boothby, who still survives him, without issue. Lord
Vernon, as the Hon. George John Vernon, was M.P. for Derbyshire
from 1830 until, on the death of his father, he entered the Upper
House. He was one of the most energetic supporters of the rifle
movement, being himself the most skilful rifle-shooter of his day,
carrying off the principal prizes at the various Swiss Tirs, as well as
elsewhere. As a scholar his lordship ranked very high, and the
“Dante,” edited by him, is the most sumptuous work of its kind ever
attempted. Lord Vernon died in 1866, and was succeeded by his
eldest son, the Hon. Augustus Henry Venables-Vernon, as sixth Lord
Vernon, the present peer, who was born in Rome in 1829, and was
Captain in the Scots Fusilier Guards, and Captain Commandant of
the Second Battalion of Derbyshire Rifle Volunteers. His lordship
married, in 1851, Lady Hariet Anson, daughter of the Earl of
Lichfield, by whom he has issue two sons and four daughters.
Having now shown the descent of the Lords Vernon from the old
lords of Haddon, we return to the “King of the Peak”—Sir George
Vernon—and his heiresses. He, as has been stated, succeeded to the
estates in 1515, and at the time of his death, in 1567, was
possessed of no fewer than thirty manors in Derbyshire alone. He
was married twice: first, to Margaret, daughter of Sir Gilbert
Taylebois, Knt.; and, secondly, to Maude, daughter of Sir Ralph
Langford. He had issue, two daughters, his co-heiresses, Margaret
and Dorothy, whose husbands inherited his immense possessions.
Margaret Vernon married Sir Thomas Stanley, Knt., of Winwick, in
Lancashire, second son of Edward Stanley, third Earl of Derby; and
Dorothy Vernon, whose name has become “a household word” in
this locality, married Sir John Manners, Knt., second son of Thomas
Manners, first Earl of Rutland, and direct ancestor of the present
Duke of Rutland. To this branch we shall presently have to refer at
greater length.
Sir George Vernon lived at Haddon in such a style of princely
magnificence and hospitality as to earn for himself the title of “King
of the Peak.” It is said that he was generous and hospitable, as well
one of as just and strict, of men, although given perhaps to undue
severity and to an indulgence in “Lynch law;” and that he lived and
died in the “good esteem” of all men.
One tradition, briefly told, will sufficiently illustrate the firmness
and decision of his character, and the power he held over the actions
and even the lives of the people around him. It is related that a
pedlar who had been hawking his wares in the neighbourhood was
found murdered in a lonely spot. He had been seen the evening
before to enter a cottage, and never afterwards seen alive. As soon
as Sir George became aware of the fact of the crime having been
committed, he had the body of the pedlar removed to Haddon, laid
in the hall, and covered with a sheet. He then sent for the cottager
to come immediately, and, on his arrival, at once questioned him as
to where the pedlar was who was seen to enter his house the night
before. The man denied having seen him or knowing anything about
him; when Sir George uncovered the body before him, ordering that
all persons present should touch the body in succession, at the same
time declaring their innocence of the murder. The suspected man,
when his turn came, declined to touch the body, and instantly
rushed out of the Hall, and made his way, “as fast as his legs could
carry him,” through Bakewell and towards Ashford. Sir George
instantly ordered his men to mount and follow him, and to hang him
wherever they caught him. The murderer was caught in a field
opposite the present toll-bar at Ashford, and at once hanged, and
the field still bears the name of the “Gallows Acre,” or “Galley Acre.”
Sir George is said to have been cited to London for this extraordinary
piece of Lynch law, and when he appeared in court he was
summoned twice to surrender as “the King of the Peak.” To these he
made no reply, and the third time he was called on as Sir George
Vernon, when he stepped forward and acknowledged himself—“Here
am I!” Having been summoned as “the King of the Peak,” the
indictment fell through, and Sir George was admonished and
discharged. Sir George Vernon is buried in Bakewell Church, where a
remarkably fine and well-preserved altar-tomb bears the recumbent
effigies of himself and his two wives.
Dorothy Vernon, the youngest daughter and co-heiress of Sir
George, and over whom such “a halo of romantic interest” rests, is
said to have been one of the most beautiful of all beautiful women,
and possessed of so sweet a temper, that she was idolised by all
who knew her. If it were so, however, the monument at Bakewell
does not fairly represent her, for it exhibits her with an expression of
countenance far from either amiable or attractive. The story of her
life, according to popular belief, is that, while her elder sister,
fortunate in an open attachment to Sir Thomas Stanley, the son of
the Earl of Derby, and his affianced bride, was petted and “made
much of,” she, the younger, was kept in the background, having
formed a secret attachment to John Manners, son of the Earl of
Rutland—an attachment which was opposed by her father, sister,
and stepmother; she was, therefore, closely watched, and kept
almost a prisoner. Her lover is said to have disguised himself as a
woodman, or forester, and to have remained in hiding in the woods
around Haddon for several weeks, in order to obtain stolen glances
of, and occasional brief meetings with, Dorothy. At length, on a
festive night at Haddon—tradition states it to have been on one of
the “merry meetings,” consequent on the marriage of her sister
Margaret—Dorothy is said to have stolen away unobserved in the
midst of the merriment in the ball-room, and to have quietly passed
out of the door of the adjoining ante-room on to the terrace, which
she crossed, and having ascended the steps on the other side, her
lover’s arms received her; horses were in waiting, and they rode off
in the moonlight all through the night, and were married in
Leicestershire the next morning. The door through which the heiress
eloped is always pointed out to visitors as “Dorothy Vernon’s Door.”
Thus the Derbyshire estates of Sir George Vernon passed to John
Manners, and thus it was the noble house of Rutland became
connected with Haddon and the county of Derby.

Haddon: from the Meadows.

John Manners, the husband of Dorothy Vernon, was knighted

shortly after his marriage. They had issue three sons: Sir George
Manners, who succeeded to the estates; John Manners, who died in
1590, aged 14; and Sir Roger Manners of Whitwell, who died in
1650; also one daughter, Grace, who became the wife of Sir Francis
Fortescue. Dorothy died in 1584, and her husband in 1611. They
were both buried in Bakewell Church, where their monument will no
doubt be looked upon with interest by all visitors to the district.
Haddon continued to be one of the residences of this branch of
the Manners family, ennobled in 1641 by the inheritance of the
Rutland peerage, until they quitted it in the early part of the last
century for Belvoir Castle, of which we shall, on a future occasion,
take note.
 The Main Entrance.

The Hall stands on a natural elevation—a platform of limestone—

above the eastern bank of the Wye: the river is crossed by a pretty,
yet venerable, bridge, passing which, we are at the foot of the rock,
immediately fronting the charming cottage which is the lodge of the
custodian who keeps the keys. In the garden we make our first
acquaintance with the boar’s head and the peacock—shaped from
growing yew-trees—the crests of the families whose dwelling we are
about to enter. This cottage adjoins the old stables; their antiquity is
denoted by several sturdy buttresses. To the right of the great
entrance-door are the steps—placed there long ago—to assist ladies
in mounting their steeds, when ladies used to travel sitting on a
pillion behind the rider: the custom is altogether gone out; but in our
younger days, not only did the farmer’s wife thus journey to market,
but dames of distinction often availed themselves of that mode of
visiting, carrying hood and farthingale, and hoop also, in leathern
panniers at their sides, and jewels for ornament in caskets on their
laps.
The visitor now stands before the old gateway, with its massive
nail-studded door, and will note the noble flight of freestone steps,
where time and use have left the marks of frequent footsteps.
Indeed, the top step—just opposite the small entrance wicket in the
larger door—is actually worn through in the shape of a human foot.
He will also notice the extreme beauty and elegance of design of the
Gothic architecture of this part of the building, and the heraldic
bearings with which it is decorated. Beneath the entrance archway
on the right is the guard-room of the “sturdy porter” of old times:
his “peep-hole” is still there, the framework of his bedstead, and the
fire-place that gave him comfort when keeping watch and ward.
After mounting the inner steps, the visitor
passes into the first court-yard, and will not fail
to notice the remarkable character of the
splaying and chamfering of the building in the
angle over the inner archway. This is one of the
most remarkable features of the building. Its
strange character is to some extent occasioned
by the winding of a double spiral stone
staircase, leading to the tower over the entrance
archway. The inside of this gateway, with the
enormous hoop, said to have been the hoop of
a mash-tub, hanging on the wall, is shown in our vignette.
We are now in the lower court-yard, and at once perceive that
Haddon consists of two court-yards, or quadrangles, with buildings
surrounding each. Immediately opposite the gateway are the stone
steps that lead to the state apartments; to the right is the chapel,
and to the left, the Hall proper, with its minstrels’ gallery and other
objects of curious—some of unique interest. The general
arrangement will be best understood by the ground-plan, which,
however, requires some explanation.
 On account of the abruptness of the slope on which Haddon is
built, it stands so unevenly, that a horizontal line drawn from the
ground in the archway under the Peverel Tower would pass over the
entrance archway. Consequently, that archway, the porter’s lodge,
and entrance to the spiral staircase on its right hand, and on the left
the two rooms entered from the walk behind the partition wall, and
before mounting the steps, form what may, looking at it in that light,
be called a basement story, to which also belongs the cellar, entered
by a flight of fourteen steps descending from the buttery. Lysons, in
his “Magna Britannia,” vol. v., engraves—first, a basement plan,
comprising the entrance archway and the low rooms above alluded
to; second, a ground plan; third, a plan of the upper floor, including
the ball-room and other state rooms; and the numerous bed-rooms
and other apartments on the north and west sides. These plans are
extremely correct and minute: it transpires from letters in the
Lysons’ correspondence (Addit. MS. 9,423, British Museum), that
they were made by the surveyor of the then duke, to illustrate a little
privately printed account of Haddon, written by himself, and were
lent to Lysons for his work by D’Ewes Coke, Esq., barrister-at-law,
then steward to the duke. The designations given by Lysons to the
apartments are therefore probably correct. From his lists, and a
curious catalogue of the apartments at Haddon, date 1666, we
gather the general inference that the rooms on the west side of the
lower court were, in the latter days of its occupation, occupied by
the officials of the household; those on the entire south side were
the state rooms; those on the east side of the upper court were the
family apartments—the bed-rooms extending down to the
intersection of the lower court; those over the front archway, &c.,
were the nursery apartments; and the library is believed to have
occupied the rooms between these and the entrance tower.
There are second-floor apartments, not planned in Lysons, over
the Peverel Tower and its adjoining rooms, and over one half of the
north side, from that tower to the junction of the courts. Also
solitary second-floor rooms in the Entrance Tower, Central Tower,
and over the staircase leading to the ball-room. There is but one
third-floor room, it is in the Eagle Tower, and is the highest
apartment in the Hall.
The plan we engrave will be found the most useful to visitors. It
gives the ground-plan irrespective of levels (which would only be
bewildering to the visitor), with the exception of the slightly elevated
ball-room and state-rooms in the upper court-yard. In fact, from
even these being entered from the terrace, the whole of the plan we
have prepared may, for general purposes, be said to be that of the
ground-floor.
On the east side there are but slight differences between the
ground-floor and first-floor rooms, excepting those over the kitchen
and adjoining offices, and over the central archway. On the south
side the differences are material. The ball-room covers six ground-
floor cellar rooms. The drawing-room is over the dining-room; and
the earl’s bed-chamber and other rooms are over the long narrow
ground-floor passages between that and the chapel. On the west
side also the arrangement differs considerably.

The first Court-yard.

Some portions of the building are of undoubted Norman origin,

and it is not unlikely that even they were grafted on a Saxon
erection. Norman remains will be noticed in the chapel, and,
therefore, it is certain that that portion of the building, as well as
others which could be pointed out, are the same as when the place
was owned by the Peverels and Avenells. Before the year 1199,
John, Earl of Morteigne, afterwards King John, by writ directed to his