The Imaginators (Of Stardust and Aether Book 1)

by M. K. Valley

  I come to my senses fifty floors later, shattered glass crunching underfoot. I break into a sprint, discarding the idea of throwing up. It’s clear as day now. Someone’s targeting us. This wasn’t just about us being crazy enough to take up a job like that. Someone made it personal, risking an illegitimate Contract to be put out there. We walked straight into that one. The moment we leave Ares, they’ll get us.

  My muscles burn with tension as I sprint through Sicarius Prima. We have one shot to right this. One chance against all the talent necessary to blow it.

  PHASE FOUR

  THE ALLIES

  YOU CAN HAVE

  I let the shadows snapping at my heels catch up as I rush through Sicarius Prima, blood pumping hard through veins, my very essence wailing to split free. By the time I reach the dingy bar, I’m spent, the cracked rib ablaze once again. But my blood’s no longer rushing, hissing with paranoia.

  The foul smell of the stuffy establishment sinks into my every pore. I stare blindly at a tumbler of cheap drink, the glass warm against my fingers. A wet circle amidst the dents mark where the previous visitor sat.

  There’s something leisurely about this dump of a bar. Vapors waft around, spinning heads, someone’s burning hash in one of the dark corners. My temples are pounding, but I can’t decide if it’s from the stench of the drug or my meeting with Saravati. That’s not a spot I frequent whenever I leave the apartment, but no one would bother a monochromatic Imaginator here.

  A good question, why I’m even here when I can sip on overpriced wine in my glass tower. I tried to temper down with a head-clearing sprint through Sicarius Prima, only to swing through too many shadows, eventually ending up in one of the poorest sections of the city. Where the unfortunate and less talented stack into tumors, hanging on for dear life, and the rich wrinkle their noses at the display. But the trashy locale somehow feels safe.

  I contacted Twig the moment I got here. Since then, I’ve been catatonic beside the table, the tumbler still full. More shadows glance at me, half dread, half curiosity, and I can only pray for a few more silent moments. The very thought of going back to my apartment makes me sweat.

  The other chair at the table scrapes back, and my tongue slips. “We’re fucked harder than we thought.”

  “Come now, Your Highness, given the chance, I can fuck you harder.”

  I wince and roll my shoulders, realizing who’s making himself comfortable. Illiran Samraha’s leery smile shines brightly from across the table.

  “I see you still refuse to Contract someone on Aphrodite to imagine you a cure for those scars, Illiran.” Wrinkling my nose, I tip the chair on its hind legs to put as much distance as possible between the two of us. “No more credits left for fucking, so you’ve come to beg?”

  “Andria!” His soft voice rings with the clarity of a bell, and he puffs his broad chest. “Is that how you talk to an old friend?” His pout stretches the blood-red papercuts marring his beautiful face. “Won’t you buy me a drink at least?”

  “You’re a loathsome, ungrateful leech, Assassin,” I snap my teeth and bend forward, coiling on the dirty tabletop. “Find someone more naïve to pour you drinks.”

  “Ungrateful? Me?! I’ve been nothing but loyal after you dug me out of Ares’ gutters, princess. Ye of little faith, that’s hurtful!”

  “You’ve been nothing but an opportunistic pig, Illiran.”

  “Better than a lone wolf.” His voice hits a note I haven’t heard before, and my skin prickles. “Those get killed off, Andria.”

  My eye twitches. “Do you think us idiots?” I have to bite my tongue to suppress the scream bubbling in my chest. “Your cruiser popped on our sensors. You were the first to arrive when they put up our Contract. How was the race through imagiSpace? Did you find a shortcut?” I cut him with a sharp gesture and lean back again. “Do us all a favor and crawl back to the gutter I dug you out of.”

  Illiran Samraha’s never going back to the bottom of the food chain. Much like Twig, I took him under my wing a few years back. The worm happened to possess a smidge of talent, just enough to make it matter. A couple of months after I helped him detox from all the hash in his system, he decided to work alone. To my dismay, he made it. He isn’t monochromatic, but the coral-skinned pig is charismatic. The two bone-white horn stumps in his forehead somehow enhance it. But it’s not just the looks. Illiran always knew how to attract people, to convert them. He slithered up the influence ladder, finding great opportunities, making the best out of every situation. Even drugged out of his mind, Illiran found his way under my skin and engineered his salvation. Rumor has it he hasn’t lifted a finger this past year, just taking the biggest piece of the pie while someone else does the heavy lifting. Like some mobster. Detecting his private cruiser felt personal and wrong, but also a compliment. But I’ll be damned if I ever admit to that.

  His frown is gone faster than I can register it. “Of course, I would be there!” The dust-pink tip of a finger wiggles in my face, and I suppress the urge to bite it off. “It’s the life of my favorite benefactor that’s at stake! I’m glad you were as quick as vipers. Otherwise, I would’ve thrown my ship in the Assassins’ way, and that boat’s new.”

  I watch him run those long fingers through his peach curls, and my stomach turns. When I think about it, he looks like a pastry right out of the kitchens of Demeter. “Who are you trying to fool? What do you want, Illiran?”

  “Oh,” he drops his head, shoulders taut, without breaking eye contact, and a shiver runs down my spine, its source buried deep into those midnight eyes. “Only to offer my services, Your Highness.”

  Mud splashes on the table when I show him the soles of my boots. His crooked grin fades. “Acid rain’s bad for the boots. A job fit for the best pig this side of the Infinite Universe. I’ll even drop you a copper. What do you say?”

  A line between the horns tells me I struck a nerve. “Fuck around all you want, choke on your pride if you wish. Your chances are pretty good, but you can’t get out unscathed on your own. All I wish is to help.”

  “You mean, to take over whatever space I free up when I kill off the competition?”

  “And to prevent untimely death from ruining a perfect streak.”

  I ponder on the men and resources he can provide us with when Twig’s stabby fingers sink into his shoulder. “Thank you for the kind offer, we’re managing.”

  Illiran stills and refuses to acknowledge my partner. “You think about it.” His midnight gaze pins me over the tips of my dirty boots, and he shakes Twig off. “Out there, you’re the competition. Here on Ares, we can be of use to each other.”

  I don’t remember the last time I saw this scarred face so grim. Illiran rises with his head held high, and Twig steps aside to avoid the collision. My partner takes his place as my eyes follow him through the bar to a dark corner. If nothing else, Samraha took my mind off things for a moment. Maybe he does deserve a drink. To the face. To wash that smug phiz off.

  “What a waste of time,” Twig grunts without preamble, as if Illiran doesn’t even exist. I wonder where that hostility comes from. Is it because Samraha made it on his own, while Twig never stood a chance, or because Illiran never managed to gain my trust like my partner did? Before I ask, Twig swipes aside a speck of dried mud, and I’m quick to put my feet down. “Seventeen offices before I got your call, and not a shred of useful information. Something happened to you again?”

  He nods at my freshly bruised knuckles, but I wave him away. No point worrying about those trying to force us off Ares. I can handle those for a while.

  “Actually, I learned something, but it’s not good.” All our days seem to be defined by bits and pieces of information that only boost our frustration. Behind every corner, there’s a dead-end street. Twig focuses on me and dismisses the pretty Aphroditian waitress with impatience. “No one’s submitted a reward for the Contrac
t. Anywhere,” I add, trailing her with pity. We’re in one of the worse bars in the district, and we’re still the worst customers, barely ordering since we walked in. “Saravati decided they want us for a friend and let the cat out of the bag.” My partner’s face does a series of complicated maneuvers during my retelling until it finally settles for blank. “That’s an illegitimate Contract, Twig. Forget the normieConsul, someone targeted us. Do you think it could be someone from Dionysus?”

  He shakes his head, careful not to let out the hurt thinking of his home causes. “You know they almost threw me out in space because of… my condition. They’re glad I left. Why? You think it’s someone from our past? Why not the associates of one of our victims? We’ve closed plenty of Contracts.”

  “No…” I worry my lip, going through a mental list of our targets. “Some of them were high-value, indeed, but none have the connections to put an illegitimate Contract out there.”

  I squeeze the tumbler again, and Twig rests his hand on my wrist. “Have you considered your family?”

  My eyes snap to him, and I make quick work of discarding the suggestion. “Not possible. I was released with a royal decree. That would breach a million galactic laws. And for what…?”

  “You’re probably right.” He rests back, though the reluctance in his voice gets to me. “Still, a Contract like that means someone went directly to one of the Consuls, who, in turn, submitted it straight to the Chronicler to recreate it.”

  The Chronicler sounds like a person, but they’re an institution. They re-imagine the physical copies and store the Contracts in an off-limits archive going back centuries. When the Contracts enter public records, they are nothing more than ones and zeros. Their source lies with the Chronicler. They’re the only living Imaginator who willingly submits to the effects of a psychic ring to guarantee the purity of their records. They can’t be changed, they can’t be meddled with. And they remain forever. When a Chronicler dies, their successor is granted full access to the records to keep but not modify or destroy them. Remember? The creator of a thing, and so on.

  It’s a working system with some glaring flaws, but no one’s dared to exploit them. Until now. Which means…

  “The normieConsul wouldn’t open a Contract on himself.”

  “The imagiConsul has us in his sights. Sweet Aether, Andria, this is bad.” Twig raps his knuckles, the sound matching my heartbeat. “I thought you were on… some terms with this one at least!”

  Upon my relocation on Ares, an ancient, vile being occupied the seat of the imagiConsul. He’d inspired a lot of terror and enemies in his sixty years in office. He tried to force a psychic ring on me out of fear I might go rogue and turn on the planet as I had on my own home. Luckily, he didn’t live long enough, and I got my Assassin license without further obstacles.

  “How about I go and ask the Consul and see what these terms are, huh?”

  Twig tenses. “Let’s not.”

  “Do you have other bright ideas then?”

  Twig rolls his eyes and waves the waitress over. The Aphroditian skips, light-footed, already stockpiling oxygen.

  “Sir, we have some of the best Dionysian wine that’s captivated in its taste and aroma the…”

  “Bourbon, neat, thank you.”

  She clamps her jaw and stomps away, and my eyebrows draw together. To think such a shaggy place would have Dionysian wine. “If your brilliant idea is to spend what remains of our days on Ares drunk, give me a warning, please.”

  “No, that’s how I muster up the courage to share my idea.”

  I raise an eyebrow, but he’s avoiding my gaze. If I open my mouth now, Aether knows what will come out of it. I keep it shut, my nerves fraying, while we wait for that drink. Twig’s never needed the courage to say or offer anything. I might spit fire at every opportunity, but not to him. Never him. But he seems nervous, and the bourbon disappears in a heartbeat.

  “Go meet the Chronicler. Demand that Contract.”

  This time, both of my eyebrows shoot up. It’s hard but not unheard of. Chroniclers have the right to intervene in disputes, providing the sole undeniable proof of the legitimacy and existence of any Contract. You can’t imagine how many people scream “Murder!” whenever they aren’t happy with someone’s head tumbling to the ground. I turn it in my head, the prospect of convincing a Zeusian lawyer to assist us not looking swell. Besides, I prefer to do this as discreetly as possible.

  “That’s your courage-requiring idea? It’s not outrageous, I just don’t have friends in such high places.”

  “Please, Andria,” he huffs out, fingers tapping on the table. “You don’t have any friends. But we both know someone who does.”

  My insides grow cold when he nods toward the dark corner that swallowed Illiran. Something choked that should be laughter leaves my throat. “You’re kidding?” His eyes avoid mine again, and Twig waves for seconds. “We just told him we’re managing.” Among other, more offensive things. “You can’t make me go beg him for help. There must be another way!”

  “There probably is.” He nods at the waitress, who’s smiling again. Or at least not grimacing anymore. “I’m yet to figure it out, though. By the looks of your knuckles, they’re already putting efforts into driving us off Ares. We can up and leave and get killed out there.” A long slim finger points to the Infinite Universe beyond this hovel. “Or worse – wait around for a new normieConsul to arrive and put us under review. You know how that goes. A trial leads to a psychic ring.”

  A jolt of fear shoots through me. And I’m not fearful. But the idea of begging a favor or two of Illiran isn’t the one tangling up my intestines into a flaming ball of dread. It’s the thought of a psychic ring squeezing my temples. Besides! Samraha offered. Insisted even! My pride flares up, but he’s right. If I stick with it, better pack up and leave right now and let a smug bastard kill me around an asteroid two galaxies over. Because I’m not waiting around for a normieConsul to do what I’ve been running from ever since I left Scorpio. I cock my chin up and harden my humiliation into resolve. Twig gives me a sympathetic look, and I grit my teeth as I get to my feet.

  “Two of your best,” I whisper at the waitress, trudging toward Illiran’s corner. “And keep up.”

  There, his lovely Aphroditian companion shoots daggers at me, but I’m focused on the catty grin pretending not to be a triumphant smile on Samraha’s face. I’ll never hear the end of it. On the flip side, I might not live long enough.

  “About that drink, Illiran,” I swallow the chunk of ice in my throat, “I hear they have some great Dionysian.”

  The waitress places two carefully polished glasses on the table and disappears. I stand beside the couple, fear and anger whispering he’ll laugh in my face and humiliate me further. But then his brilliant teeth shine through the lace of scars. With the same move, Illiran sends his company on her way and invites me to take her place, too close for comfort or dignity.

  “Your Highness, it’ll be a pleasure to have it… with you.”

  PHASE FIVE

  THE CHRONICLER

  The dry pavement whispers under my boots. Someone’s done their job, and cosmic pigwash no longer pours down on Sicarius Prima.

  Three days of negotiations, secret messages and meetings throughout the dirty dens of our capital, credits switching owners too often to count, and we’re finally doing something as well. The excitement of meeting with the Chronicler, though, is non-existent. Illiran never mentioned a price. The bastard’s left me to simmer. It’s not the money, and he has enough power and influence. I’ve made it clear that any demands regarding my home planet will result in his swift death. I’d rather die than take him up on a marriage offer. Not knowing his intentions and endgame puts me on edge.

  “Stop staring between my shoulder blades, it’s starting to itch.”

  I snap back to the now, trailing him across the dar
k alleys of a neighborhood built out of necessity. “I can imagine me a blade to scratch it,” I say, glancing around, and he snorts.

  I didn’t expect one of the pillars of our society to be stashed out here. Maybe the Aresian apparatus prefers Chroniclers out of the way. I won’t complain. This limb of the city lacks the neon frenzy of a society built on rivers of blood and with the hands of murderers. It’s a bit run-down, the short brick, imagine that, buildings are the polar opposite of the spires blotting out the sky. The twin spires of the Consulate, that festering wound at the heart of Sicarius Prima, reach out almost to the dome above our heads as a triumphant phallus in the face of the Infinite Universe. No subtlety there. And after you spend half your lifetime rolling around in the dirt with the other Assassins, you realize sticking it to the Cosmos beyond is nothing to be proud of. We do their dirty work. We’re still trapped under our dome.

  The low buildings surrounding us seem fitting. Like barracks that we leave only to do someone’s bidding.

  “I was expecting at least a dozen of your goons to accompany us,” I say, still studying the sway of his broad shoulders.

  “And to have someone else pique your interest?” The pearly smile peeks over his shoulder. “I thought we knew each other well, Andria.”

  “You’re right. We do.”

  Though it’s been a long time since we last had something in common. Illiran’s incessant flirting is starting to get on my nerves. And they’re already stretched thin from not knowing the motives behind his smile. Maybe he’s trying to distract me, get close enough to take my head the moment the opportunity presents itself? Maybe his services are not free but outrageously expensive. So expensive, only the reward on our heads can cover them? Maybe I should stop following him blindly and put an end to his schemes in one of those dark alleys. Seems fitting.