The Bond: The Bond Trilogy, #1

Praise for The Bond Trilogy

Praise for The Bond

The Bond is imaginative and fresh, and Dinitra is my new hero. What a beautifully tense, wistful, creative, and genius story! Karla F.C. Holloway, Ph.D., A Death in Harlem and Gone Missing in Harlem

Fans of The Handmaid’s Tale and Never Let Me Go will devour The Bond. Lisa Williams Kline, One Week of You

 An adventure and a masterful exploration of what it means to be a human being. Constantine Singer, Strange Days

The Bond is a riveting dark post-apocalyptic romp that hooked me from its very first line. Katya de Becerra, What the Woods Keep and Oasis

Kirk brings the reader into an intricate, well-imagined world— a landscape so credible it instantly feels like a classic. Beth Kander, the Original Syn Trilogy

 A rollicking adventure story whose underlying questions make for a read that is as thought-provoking as it is highly entertaining. Carolyn O’Doherty, Rewind

Praise for The Hive Queen

In this dynamic sequel to The Bond, Kirk takes readers on an intricately-plotted journey as warrior Fir leads his brothers to escape servitude and finds himself faced with a decision with potentially devastating consequences for those he loves the most. Readers will revel in the lush world-building and carefully woven plot. The Hive Queen delivers on every level! Kate Pentecost, Elysium Girls

Robin Kirk has once again blown me away with her vision of a dystopian future where women rule and men are considered the enemy. Tammy Sparks, Books, Bones & Buffy

A dark apocalyptic thriller that will leave readers transported to a completely different world and a story like none they’ve ever read before. Jessica Higgins, Write-Read-Life

The intricate world-building, the cast of characters, and the engaging and imaginative story made for an entertaining read from start to finish. Plenty of action, love, and some twists to keep you on your toes! I’m very curious to see where the final book will take us! Jessica, Goodreads reviewer

Praise for The Mother's Wheel

The Mother’s Wheel is a work of stunning originality, deep poignancy, and non-stop action. Kirk seamlessly blends the dystopian and science fiction genres, creating a world in which the reader can’t help but empathize with the ‘drafts’ who have been bred to serve the Sowers’ will. The determination and bravery of the story’s narrator, Sil, keeps us turning the pages, wondering where Kirk’s vivid imagination will take us next. There are battles, adventures, and struggles for power galore. But ultimately, The Mother’s Wheel is a haunting, heartfelt meditation on love, loss, and what it means to belong to a family." Emily Colin, New York Times bestselling author of The Memory Thief and award-winning author of The Seven Sins series

The Bond Trilogy

The Bond

The Hive Queen

The Mother’s Wheel

Nonfiction

Righting Wrongs: 20 Human Rights Heroes Around the World

More Terrible Than Death: Massacres, Drugs and America’s War in Colombia

The Monkey’s Paw: New Chronicles from Peru

The Shining Path: History of Peru’s Millennial War, by Gustavo Gorriti, with a forward and translated by Robin Kirk

Poetry

Peculiar Motion, a poetry collection

The Bond

Book One of The Bond Trilogy

Robin Kirk

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

Copyright © 2022 by Robin Kirk. All rights reserved.

Cover design by Molly Phipps

Map by Travis Hasenour

Interior design thanks to Atticus

Far Eek Books supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage artists to produce the creative works that benefit us all. In that spirit, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Kirk, Robin 1960-.

ISBN (Pbk.) 979-8-9855841-0-3

ISBN (Ebook) 979-8-9855841-1-0

1. Science Fiction. 2. Young Adult Fiction. 3. Fantasy Fiction. 

813/.6

LOC PCN: 2018910335

Printed in the United States of America

To Frances and Ray,

my best work,

and my own ferocious 12,

RoZee

Love often takes the form of menace, and safe havens are reached, if they are reached at all, only after terrifying adventures. Stephen Greenblatt, My Brother’s Book

All that will remain of us is what is written down. Robert Harris, Dictator

Contents

1. Brave

2. Perfect

3. The Rule

4. Chronicler

5. Legionship

6. Trisk

7. Holdfast

8. 12

9. Tracker Map

10. Two Hearts

11. Tribute

12. Sons

13. The Rift

14. Petal

15. Daughter Feast

16. Mother-bond

17. Sil

18. Ash

19. Death Machines

20. Great Quest

21. Shape language

22. The Fall

23. Fir

24. Gemstones

25. Mother’s Kiss

26. Susalee

27. Renegades

28. Cheese-seller

29. Labyrinth

30. Queen

31. Anku

Extras

The Hive Queen

Interview with Robin Kirk

Acknowledgments

About the Author

1

Brave

My gray is for the fog that oozes over the Black Stairs: ash and egg-white binder. My purple is eggplant skins and vinegar, steeped for a week.

I brewed the paints special to paint Asta’s gift. By the Mother's breath, if I don't finish soon, I’ll be a hank of hair sticking from a block of ice because of this freeze.

My hair: walnut shell. Ice: mica bound with pounded chalk.

I make fists, wiggling my fingers to warm them. The boulder does double duty as a seat, table, and something to hide behind. Collegium students aren’t supposed to be on the green on graduation day, especially so near the Moorings.

No other spot has this view. Plus the boulder has a crack where I wedge my paints. The crack is stained from all the times I’ve painted here. Most important of all: Asta and I first met here nine years ago. She was the one who told me the mountains are called the Black Stairs.

For the billionth time, I inspect them. The peaks aren’t so much pure black as gray-black, when coals burn to ash. I dab in a bit of green for the trees covering the lower slopes. Once the painting’s dry, I’ll hide it in Asta’s trunk, among her shifts and socks. She’ll discover my gift when she unpacks in her new home tomorrow. It’s my way of telling her how much I love her. How much I already miss her.

I’ll never finish if I blubber.

We were six years old on our first day at the Collegium. The professors told us we could wander only as far as the boulder and definitely not beyond, into the pines encircling the green like spiky armor. I wanted a better view of the Collegium’s high black walls and turrets. Close up, I’d noticed how each stone precisely fit to the others around it, as if the Mother herself chiseled them. As young as I was, the stones filled me with wonder. I wanted to fit, to belong, just like my Sower intended.

I don’t remember the ship that delivered me to the Collegium or the Keeper I’d left that morning. I remember Asta perfectly: perched on the boulder, knees to her chest. Asta examined me—my brown boots, brown face, brown curls. I’d never seen a girl with hair as white or with eyes as piercing: gray rimmed in black.

They’re higher than I expected, she said abruptly.

The curl of hair she’d been sucking glistened against her neck. That’s the end of the Weave, she said. Beyond those mountains, it’s only scrags and beasts to the poles.

I felt happy and fearful and curious at once. Then and there, I vowed to paint the Stairs.

You could call them the start, too, I told the girl. If you were on the highest mountain and looked back, you’d see fields and such. Farms. Our Mother. Us standing here at the start of everything.

I’m sitting, actually, Asta corrected me. It’s more accurate to say there is no single start to anything.

Accurate? This girl must be sowed for counting, I thought. I liked her. She saw things other girls didn’t see.

Are you coming up? she asked. The view’s better.

Asta told me her name and I told her mine. We’ve been best friends ever since.

Asta knows me better than anyone. And I know her. I’m the only person Asta allows to touch her, the one person she’ll whisper to when she’s afraid. Some girls have special friendships and sneak into each other’s beds at night, when no one’s looking. That’s never been our way. It’s more like we hold each other inside, in our minds.

The lump in my throat is sour. There’s no escaping today’s graduation. There’s no escaping my separation from Asta. She’ll almost certainly go to a Centrum counting house and leave in the morning on one of the capital’s golden ships.

And me? With my Compendium, I’ll be lucky if my assignment is within a thousand miles of her.

A human avalanche crashes into me: Professor Flicke. She yanks me away from the boulder, black eyes practically vibrating with rage.

My painting–Asta’s gift–tumbles away.

See you not the Legionship a-mooring, you bletherous girl! With a vicious twist of my ear, she has me on tiptoes. Over the Moorings, a Legionship hovers: lozenge-shaped, all black. The silver nose whiskers lock to the Collegium signal straight as sticks. My painting careens purple-and-white toward the pines.

A kernel from the deep-fried corn cake Professor Flicke ate splats to my forehead. Those Legionaries have no patience for underfooting students. Especially you. Of all of the Mother’s bounteous days, you choose this one to go a-roaming?

She shoves me toward the Collegium gate. Get you gone before she sees you.

I don’t dare ask who she is. Flicke glares at the Legionship, then hustles off, quick despite her bulk.

My paints are smashed: pink button flower and orange woolly worm guts ground into the dirt by Flicke’s boot sole. I wipe away the corn kernel. Why didn’t I just snap a photograph with my scroll? I shove the still-wet brushes into my pockets. The other girls tease me about the stains on my study robe, the stink under my bed from peels and mashes. So what? I have to paint just like I have to breathe and eat. I just wish painting didn’t hurt so much.

The wind shifts. My painting lifts on a gust, then tumbles directly at the Legionship.

Bless the Mother and all her fruits, I swear. I race for the ship. I can grab the paper and duck into the pines before anyone sees.

Why is there a Legionship here? The Legion is for Arcadium girls, made by Sowers to join the Legion and catch scrags. In my nine years at the Collegium, I've never seen anyone go to the Legion.

The Legionship settles into the Mooring cradle with a hiss. Just as I’m about to snatch my painting, the hatch opens.

My painting sucks inside.

Before I can duck away, a foot emerges. I freeze. The foot is a black blade connected to the parallel silver rods of a shin. Above, a circular knee joint rotates to absorb the legionary’s weight. A second blade joins the first.

The legionary’s knees bend backwards like a dog’s. On her metal thigh, my painting plasters wet side down. The rest of her body is flesh but for a machine arm, her right.

I know this because her right hand flashes silver as she lifts the paper.

I didn’t order a welcome, she says. Your name?

I smell machine oil and rosemary. My eyes crawl up the metal legs to the black tunic covering where those legs connect to her flesh. Her face is pale, narrow, and with one ice-blue eye. Her other eye is an empty socket. A pink scar divides her face diagonally in two, like a poorly mended plate.

Three silvery pergama sheaves are pinned to each shoulder. I feel like some experiment she’s reviewing. Have you no tongue, girl?

Another legionary emerges. She has flesh legs. A black chain links her left nostril to a hoop in her ear. A lurker! she crows. What hey, the Moorings are off limits. I never believed these Collegium girls were so smart.

With three sheaves, the first legionary has to be a commander. My painting left an eggplant-colored smear on her metal thigh. If you won’t tell me your name, I must find out for myself. Show me your tulip, girl.

I tip my chin down to expose the base of my neck. The commander uses her metal finger to trace the tulip tattoo. Her two black blades are tipped with six yellow claws apiece.

Dinitra 584-KxA. She holds my painting up like some odd discovery: a plant with feet or a snake with wings. Is this what you’re after?

I’m in so much trouble that trouble fills me like rain, drowning every response. If I could, I’d sink into the grass and vanish completely.

But I’m a flesh-and-blood girl.

Looks like her blasted Sower forgot to give her the power of speech, the other legionary comments. Face-chain, I call her. By the Mother's breath, why waste our time at the Collegium? There are Arcadium girls aplenty an hour south.

The commander’s metal joints whir as she lowers to level her head with mine. Is that true, Dinitra 584-KxA? Did your Sower forget to give you speech?

No one knows her Sower. It’s the truth but stupid to say out loud.

Face-chain hoots. Does the sun shine? Is it filthy cold?

The commander ignores her. Tell me, Dinitra 584-KxA. Who taught you to draw?

How do I explain? I’ve always felt color, tasted it. When I was a second-year, Professor Wylla found me with a flat stone, mashed raspberries, and a stick with a softened end. I was painting (surprise) raspberries. Later, she gave me old paper and glass vials to make paint.

I take a deep breath. I taught myself.

Yourself?

Yes. Colors and shapes, the distance between shapes, shapes within shapes. Everything useless and a waste of time if you believe the infractions in my Compendium.

Why not take a photograph and be done with it? You have a scroll.

Those colors aren’t mine.

She considers this. No one owns colors.

I find things and make the colors I need.

Show me what’s in your pockets.

I hand her my brushes: eyelash, thumb-on-a-stick for smudging, and the tuft, which I made from vicuña wool. Vicuña soaks up paint like a sponge.

You’re a little Chronicler, aren’t you, with your paper and such, the commander says.

I’d rather drink Professor Flicke’s sweat than agree. To compare myself to the Chronicler is Egoism, one of the worst infractions. The Chronicler drew the Weave’s founding centuries ago, collected now in the Book of Sowers. Every Founder’s Day, we take an original stored at the Collegium and parade it around the green. The drawing is preserved between glass and framed in filigreed pergama, more costly than silver at a fraction of the weight.

Face-chain peers over the commander’s shoulder. Why, this thing’s good as a map. See there? She jabs west of The Watcher. A scrag could cross the Rift with this. It even stinks of scrag.

I’ve only seen scrags on the news, dirty huddled things. I have no idea how they smell. But I know my own paints. That smell is vinegar. A solvent.

Face-chain mocks me. I’m a Collegium girl and I know about all sorts of useless things. She waggles her head. I’d put this one to shoveling shit in the kennels. Benit’s always complaining about the cleaners.

The thought of working for the Legion squeezes my chest. Then I make a terrible mistake. It’s not a map. It’s a gift. A goodbye gift.

Face-chain pounces. A gift for who? Who gave you paper, anyway? Why, this paper should have been tossed into the Cyclon. Waste of resources. You’re sneaking, that’s it. Sneaking with another girl. Where’s she hiding?

Face-chain scans the Green, as if a girl might be waiting to be caught. Defying orders, wasting time, Face-chain blares. Wasting vinegar!

Enough, Trisk. With her metal finger, the commander lifts my chin. Answer the question, little Chronicler. Who is the map for?

I can’t get Asta in trouble. Or Professor Wylla, who keeps old paper for me. Not on my last day. Not before I say goodbye to Asta, for who knows how long.

The commander has me pinned with her single eye. But I refuse to say another word.

She tucks my painting under her belt. Give me your scroll.

I unhook the scroll from the chain around my neck. She gives the slender tube a quick twist, then flattens the screen, flashing blue. My Compendium records everything about me from the moment I was sown to every test I’ve taken and infraction received. And my few miserable merits.

Time-waster, dawdler, the commander reads aloud. Poor in factoring. Messy, disheveled and—ah, a lonely merit. In History. She pauses, her one eye staring. Professor Wylla gives you scrap paper, doesn’t she, Dinitra 584-KxA?

Trisk shakes her head. That old pile.

The commander points at the ship. Make sure the refueling pipe is set, Trisk.

Trisk glares at me before ducking under the ship’s belly.

The commander returns to me. What’s the merit for, Dinitra 584-KxA?

A tap would bring up my entire Compendium. A wren.

Her eye narrows. A what?

A wren. I mean a wild bird that nested outside Professor Wylla’s classroom. She liked the painting.

For days, I’d pull a chair next to the window, where I could watch the nest. I’d use paper scraps to puzzle out the different browns and whites of the wren's feathers, then how to capture both the stiffness of a feather's central spine and the softness at the edges.

When babies hatched, I drew the featherlets poking through loose skin.

Abruptly, the commander turns the scroll screen toward me: grades, rankings, infractions, my few lonely merits. At the top is my formula: a string of code recorded the day my Sower planted me in a Vessel. At the bottom of the screen, an empty rectangle winks. Waiting for my graduation assignment.

I have the power to enter any assignment I want, Dinitra 584- KxA. Or any assignment you want. Caracol Bay and sea air? Would you go as far west as the Shield? The Sowers might find your drawings amusing. Just give me the name. Nothing more.

Her friendly tone makes the threat worse. If I name Asta, I get a top assignment. What would happen to Asta? If I refuse, the commander could send me to some filthy outpost. Since I was old enough to remember, I've been told I'd get the assignment my Sower intended when she devised my formula. The thought of choosing makes me giddy, like I've suddenly escaped gravity. I could be a Gardener and grow any plant I need for paint. A Spinner and brew dyes to color fabric.

If she discovered I revealed her name, Asta would regret the day she invited me to climb up the boulder.

The commander’s metal finger hovers over the screen. If you don’t give me a name, I might assign you to a containment. You know what a containment is.

The Weave keeps males in containments for our safety. Someone has to feed them, guard them. Seeing a living male would be like coming face to face with a dinosaur, something out of history. I should have never come to the Green. I should have never painted the Stairs for Asta. I should never have taken paper from Professor Wylla in first place. I should never have been sowed at all. Curse the Sower who made me, wherever she is.

The pilot emerges from the Legionship. By the Mother’s eyes! She looks from the commander to me. With respect, commander, we need to get you to a heater before your legs freeze solid. The pilot peers at me. Girl, is Dren still Master Cook here? One dish, what was it, flakes of green. Lamb, if I’m not mistaken.

Oregano. Oregano makes a lovely green paint.

The pilot nods. "Maybe Dren will give us a quick bowlful to warm up. Come, commander. If you haven’t made this poor sprite piss her robe yet, you won’t. She’s got a bit of spine. I need some lamb stew. With oregano."

The commander taps my Compendium. With her flesh hand, she twists the scroll closed, then hands it to me. Trisk and the pilot follow her to the Collegium, skipping to keep up with the commander’s long strides.

My painting is still tucked under her belt.

I wait until I’m standing by the heater in the Biotics lab to see what she wrote. There’s a tang of singed rubber and alcohol in the air. The glass vials, titration tubes, and pipettes are neatly shelved. Asta is supposed to meet me to help put the finishing touches on my Biotics final.

My screen flashes Compendium updated. I expect to see Disobedience or Failure to Respond to a direct command.

The commander issued me a merit. An Exceptional Merit. Even Asta doesn’t have an exceptional merit.

This is it: Brave.

Brave? As I swallowed my words? As I talked about wrens and vinegar solvents? As I refused to give her Asta’s name?

Brave.

I’m an ice block with a racing heart. The commander wanted me to protect my friend.

The commander wanted me to say no.

2

Perfect

Before Asta can even sit on a stool, my story gushes out: the boulder, Flicke, the black lozenge of the Legionship hissing into its cradle. I can’t lift my hand higher than the legionary’s imaginary elbow to show how tall she is, so I climb up a lab stool. Still, my head’s only level with the commander’s imaginary shoulder.

A merit can’t be erased any more than an infraction. Still, I’m astonished to see BRAVE winking on my screen.

Asta shakes her head. You’re the least brave person I know.

Right? The panic I felt at the Moorings comes out as a gurgle.

There’s even a little snot I wipe away with my finger. I’m afraid of open closets, heights, dogs, bees, waves, and thunder (not lightning). I can add: afraid of Legionships. And commanders who step through hatches with machine legs and a single bright-blue eye.

Asta asks, Brave for what?

I can’t confess I almost got her in trouble for a painting she didn’t ask for. The gift was always more for me than for her, so she’d have something to remember me by.

A lie slips from my mouth. I don’t know.

Asta’s eyes narrow. You were painting, weren’t you? She sighs, exasperated. Dini, the Moorings are off limits on Graduation Day. By the Mother, for your own safety if nothing else. You have to put away such foolishness. Mother’s breath, why take such a risk?

Her words sting. I can’t let foolishness be the last thing she remembers about me.

Asta pushes aside a rack of tubes to flatten her scroll on the lab counter. Why is the Legion here, anyway?

Asta searches for Commander, Legion, and machine legs. She taps the most promising result, circling her finger to turn down the volume before the video plays: a clip from last Founders Day. With her machine legs and black blades, the commander is unmistakable. She wears a dress Legion uniform: gleaming black leather with three sheaves on each shoulder, the bright gleam of pure pergama.

Asta whistles softly. She’s not just any commander, Dini. By the Mother’s breath. She’s Legion Commander. Kesh 544-DxL.

Asta’s gray eyes fix on me. The Legion Commander called you brave. She gave you an exceptional merit. Listen. This is the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

Together, we watch the video again. The commander—Kesh 544- DxL—stands among the Sowers. Sowers pluck out their eyelashes and eyebrows, so their faces are like moons of different colors. Next to them, the commander looks like something wrecked. Asta taps older links. Kesh stands beside a hovuck carrying supplies for legionaries fighting north of the Rift, the Weave’s border. Kesh speaks about captured scrags on some dusty plain. Each video has a headline. Legion Commander reviews forces at Holdfast. Legion Commander rounds up scrags. Legion Commander announces new Campaign against the rebel captains.

It’s news we hear all the time and usually ignore. This time, I listen carefully. See if there are pictures of her whole, I tell Asta. Before the legs.

There are none. Why would the Legion Commander even be here? I ask. I thought only Arcadium girls went to the Legion.

A dark thought occurs to me. There’s been a terrible mistake. Maybe I should have been an Arcadium student all this time. Maybe I was never supposed to be at the Collegium. Maybe my Keeper put me on the wrong ship. Collegium girls are supposed to be smart, brewed to manage laboratories, banks, and communications. They make some of the best pilots and controllers on the Signal Way.

Could my whole time at the Collegium have been some awful mistake?

Asta twirls a wet curl around her finger. A three-sheaf commander does whatever she wants, Dini. You know they have Sower rank. There have only been two three-sheaf commanders since Constance.

I don’t say the name Kesh out loud. The name feels spiky as wire ends. Constance defeated the army of men. On the spot where the Centrum stands, she offered terms: surrender, and receive lands to the east. The general’s answer was to spit on her. For this, Constance severed his head. In the Book of Sowers, the Chronicler drew Constance next to the stone they set over the buried head to keep him imprisoned forever.

I’ve always admired that drawing. With just a few lines, the Chronicler captured Constance’s exhaustion. At the top of the page, the Chronicler wrote: We serve the Mother. No price is too high for peace.

The first Sowers contained the men for everyone’s safety. Constance became a Sower and led the Great Quest, to protect the Mother for all time. One day, she promised, Sowers would discover a way to brew new citizens without men. Their terrible violence would be eliminated forever.

We’re thinking about this all wrong, Asta says. You got an exceptional merit. From the legion commander, no less. How can we make sure this helps you?

The we makes me want to hug her tight enough to make her squeal. But Asta hates to be touched. I tap my finger next to hers, our compromise to show feelings.

There’s nothing to be done, I say. It’s not like any of us can choose.

Except. Asta lets the wet curl of her hair drop. You can invoke the Rule.

What?

You know, Asta says, growing more confident. Students can volunteer for the Legion before their assignments chime.

Why would any Collegium girl choose the Legion? We’re supposed to get the best jobs.

Asta taps her scroll again. There was one. Our second year. She made the news.

I don’t remember her.

Asta pauses. You were in the infirmary. The winter the dog attacked you.

The memory makes me catch my breath. Before the graduation feast our second year, I was collecting walnut shells in the orchard to make brown paint. A wild dog leaped from the brush and seized me by the arm. The dog threw me back and forth as if it meant to tear my arm from my shoulder.

Professor Flicke was nearby. She beat the dog off with her huge fists. A fysic later told me it was one of the Legion’s battle dogs gone feral. My scar throbs when I see a battle dog on the news.

Asta peers at me. Dini, you’d be the first Collegium girl in history to invoke the Rule to a three-sheaf commander. That’s almost better than getting some entry-level job in the Centrum.

Asta is nothing if not determined once she’s certain she’s right. "Seriously, Dini. Even with this merit, your Compendium’s a disaster. You’ll probably be sent to some awful job in the colonies. You wouldn’t