A Bad Deal for the Whole Galaxy

by Alex White

  “Right,” said Nilah. “Of course.”

  “There was another lucky break,” Cordell continued. “We checked out the Special Branch dossier on Maslin Durand and found out he recently got religion. Guess which denomination he chose?” He paused. “No one’s going to guess?”

  Nilah raised her hand half-heartedly. “The … Children of the Singularity?”

  “Exactly!”

  “Do we know what their deal is yet?” asked Boots.

  “You know how everyone was happy that we took down Witts’s plan to kill all humans?” said Cordell.

  “Oh hell, I see where this is going,” said Boots.

  “Yeah, there’s a group on the Link—a massive one—that believes the entire thing was a setup by the current Taitutian prime minister, Angela Bianchi, to execute her predecessor, Dwight Mandell,” replied the captain.

  “Oh hell, I see where this is going,” said Boots.

  Dwight’s last moments alive flashed through Nilah’s mind—his choking, blood-soaked face. “Well, that’s bloody stupid.”

  “We shot him on a live broadcast!” Boots said. “Mandell manifested a massive glyph right in front of everyone in the goddamned galaxy! We parked the Harrow in the Taitutian stratosphere! What else were we supposed to do?”

  Cordell held up his index finger. “No one is disputing that the Harrow returned, nor are they saying we didn’t shoot Mandell. But the conspiracy theorists say the Harrow’s location was fed to us by the Taitutian government to justify a coup, and we were hired to assassinate him.”

  “And his godlike glyph that spontaneously manifested in the middle of a live broadcast?” asked Boots.

  “They also believe that part,” said Cordell. “The Children of the Singularity have code-named him ‘Big Daddy’ and say he was the pinnacle of magical prowess. They worship him. That’s the cult part; got a bunch of weird allegorical myths, too. It’s like, half self-help, half religious nonsense.”

  “I’ve been aggregating their posts on the Link,” said Armin. “There’s a strong nationalist component to the Children’s rhetoric. They love Witts, love Mandell, hate anything that challenges Taitutian hegemony, like GATO.”

  “Gate-oh?” asked Boots. “I must not be hearing you right.”

  Armin smirked. “The Galactic Alliance Treaty Organization. Yes.”

  Boots smacked her lips. “Because it totally makes sense to hate a galaxy-stabilizing humanitarian organization.”

  “They’re just a bunch of doddering diplomats,” said Nilah. “My father always said they could barely negotiate getting out of bed.”

  Armin shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. The Children of the Singularity have created their own version of reality on the Link, complete with incriminating imagery, alternative timelines, and dossiers on each one of us. The fakery is actually quite compelling. In your case, Boots, they’re saying your treasure show was a front for you to conduct a wide-ranging espionage operation.”

  “Oh!” Nilah said, brightening at the prospect. “And what do they say about me, sir? Anything exciting? Am I a spy, too?”

  Armin sniffed. “The politest thing they say is that you cheated your way to the top of the PGRF to get close to Claire Asby, and that you framed her. There are less-savory items in their repertoire, which you can peruse later if you’re so inclined. I wouldn’t.”

  Nilah was ambivalent over the thought of a bunch of cultists fuming over her picture. On the one hand, it was disturbing that anyone could hate her for helping save every human alive. On the other, it warmed the cockles of her spiteful heart that a bunch of nationalist fascists lost sleep over her.

  “We know Durand is a bagman for Witts,” said Armin.

  “And if he’s giving to the Children of the Singularity,” said Boots, “we need to look into that angle, too.”

  “Bingo,” said Cordell, pointing at her with a finger-slinger. “Wouldn’t it be nice if these cultist assholes gave us a reason to have them all arrested?”

  Armin nodded. “We have it on good authority that Durand’s accounts are in overdrive again, but no one knows where he’s funneling the cash. It’s going into an unsigned IGF account, then disappearing from there.”

  “That cash could be anywhere,” said Nilah.

  “That’s where we come in,” said Jeannie, nudging Alister. “Can’t hide the money trail from a pair of readers. We can probe Durand’s mind and get the truth out of him, regardless of whether or not he uses unsigned accounts.”

  “Can you really get that specific?” asked Boots. “I’d always heard there were limitations.”

  “There are,” said Alister, crossing his arms. “But there’s no one who can keep me out of their head forever.”

  Boots crooked an eyebrow. “Aren’t you the eager one?”

  Alister shook his head. “You wouldn’t say that if you’d ever been inside someone’s mind. I just want a chance to do some damage.”

  “We’re at your service,” Jeannie added with a smile. “We want to help.”

  “So it’s a repeat of the previous mission,” said Nilah. “The one I screwed up.”

  “That was a team effort,” said Orna, crossing her arms.

  “This might be the last bone Taitutian intelligence throws us,” said Cordell. “They’re happy we cleaned out their ranks, but their goodwill only goes so far. They gave us Durand because they believe he murdered one of their operatives.”

  “So, if we accidentally kill him …” said Boots.

  “It’s a win-win,” replied Cordell. “With Durand dead, they take one wanted man off their list and get plausible deniability. If we’re captured or killed, they get to call us vigilantes and disavow all knowledge.”

  “Seems like Taitutians do a lot of disavowing,” grunted Boots, and Nilah gave her a sour look. “Present company excluded, of course.”

  Cordell jammed his hands in his pockets. “Our intel states that Durand is on safari in the forests of Corva, on Blix, for the next six days. A lot of endangered game in that biome, and there are more than a few lucrative contracts for some of the magical species there.”

  “Cutting it close, aren’t we?” said Boots. “I thought Blix was at least a five-day jump from Hopper’s Hope.”

  “We’ll make it.” Cordell quirked his lips. “Our boy Capricious has all sorts of new surprises. Miss Sokol overhauled our Flow systems to speed them up a touch. Mister Vandevere?”

  Armin gestured, and the face mercifully disappeared, replaced by a map of the region. “Not a lot of settlements here,” said the first mate. “The locals consider these woods to be a death trap. That’s in large part because of these creatures here.” He gestured again, and the rendering of a colorful bat appeared, its fur startling shades of crimson and blue. “They call them ‘sirathica,’ or ‘sirens’ in Standard. The creatures live in eidolon crystal caves and possess a crude form of the inveigler’s mark.”

  “The inveigler’s mark … They charm people?” asked Nilah, her stomach sinking. “Why?”

  Armin gave her a wan smile. “To lure them away from the group, so they can bite their heads off. The creatures have a particular taste for gray matter.”

  Nilah waited for the joke, even though she knew Armin was never one for humor.

  “And how big are they?” asked Nilah.

  The first mate frowned, considering the question. “A fully grown adult is roughly the size of the Midnight Runner in the hangar. In flight, they can reach speeds of up to a hundred and sixty kilometers per hour. They give off little noise profile but, mercifully, light up like bonfires on infrared.”

  Nilah grimaced and looked to Boots, Orna, and the twins, whose white skin went a few shades lighter. They’d be on the ground team, and she’d be right there with them.

  Armin gave her a thin smile and folded his hands behind his back. “Sirens will only attack if certain they can lure a member of the pack away. The favored tactic among poachers is to hunt alone to appear more attractive. They haul aro
und expensive portable disperser towers to stop the charms.”

  “Aren’t those heavy?” asked Boots.

  “Probably fifty kilos,” said Orna. “It’s no picnic.”

  “Then Durand is strong,” said Boots, “if he’s carrying that along with his hunting gear.”

  Armin waved his hand, and a topographical map appeared. He pointed to the peak of a mountain. “We believe Durand will pop up an encampment here. We’ll wait until he’s alone, then kidnap him before we’re attacked by sirens.”

  Cordell took a deep breath, surveying his crew with a smile. “Any questions?”

  Every hand slowly rose.

  Within two cycles, they were standing in the woods of Corva, drenched and miserable under the orange light of a single full moon.

  When Nilah thought of big game and hunting, hot climates always came to mind, with enormous fern fronds and colossal insects … though what did she know, since most Taitutians were vegetarians and rarely engaged in such savagery. The fog-glazed mountain forests of Corva were anything but temperate, full of evergreens and ivy, frigid and devoid of human settlements as far as the eye could see. The only group of humans that made enclaves in these woods were closed off and provincial, and the crew of the Capricious wasn’t welcomed into the village where they landed.

  In other parts of Blix, they had vineyards and olive orchards with beautiful country châteaus. Not Corva.

  After they departed the village, Orna had led them into the woods alongside Malik and the Ferrier twins. Boots remained in the skies on patrol, and Aisha, Armin, and the captain stayed in orbit, awaiting exfiltration requests.

  Alister traced his reader’s mark and closed his eyes, inhaling with arms outstretched. “I bet I can sense the sirathica’s minds. I bet I can read them.”

  “I bet you can shut up,” said Orna. “I’m the mission lead, and I say save your magic, greenhorn. Don’t you cast again without telling me.”

  Alister deflated and Jeannie scowled.

  “No call to be rude,” said the female Ferrier.

  Nilah patted Jeannie’s back as she passed, giving her a sympathetic look.

  They pushed through along game trails in the ruddy afternoon, quieter than a funeral procession. The speed at which Charger could move over the ivy truly impressed Nilah. She’d been a party to Orna’s battle armor testing, but Charger was next-level weapons design. Most times, Nilah couldn’t even see the bot. It darted about the undergrowth, silent as a cat. Occasionally, it’d come into view, only to leap away. The same onboard AI that gave it improved speed, agility, and target triage also gave it an attitude like a whiny child.

  In the temperate forests of Corva, Charger was at home, dashing among the boulders, leaping from tree to tree like a bloodred cat. Nilah imagined what it would be like to be hunted by it, the primal fear its claws could inspire, and shook the thought from her head. With Charger as their pathfinder, they made speedy headway through the woods in search of data sources—the satellite uplinks that could give Maslin Durand away. Within an hour, they found their first signal, and Orna guided them toward it.

  Six hours into their hike, the sun ran out. Charger dropped down in front of them and signaled for absolute quiet. Nilah, Malik, and the Ferriers waited, slingers in hand, while Charger scouted ahead. When Orna called the all-clear, they approached to find the ruins of a camp.

  Shelters lay empty, their flaps open and the woods creeping inside one leaf at a time. The satellite radio was still in operation, requesting periodic updates from geolocation, despite being buried by months of mossy growth. Its eidolon crystal likely still had another year in it. The remains of the campers were considerably less intact.

  Nilah swore aloud when Charger gestured to the bodies. Flesh had rotted to a mottled gray. Clothing had moldered to ribbons. Neither of the corpses possessed a head, but a tattered stump at the end of their necks. At the party’s approach, a single carrion bird rose into the night.

  Nilah had seen murder victims a few times before—the crew of the Harrow had been gassed and stuffed into a vacuum-sealed cargo bay, left ageless by Henrick Witts’s mutineers. The people entombed in the ice of Alpha, the conspirators’ planning base on Wartenberg, were distant and frozen—their presence impersonal. Nothing prepared Nilah for the stench of these camp corpses.

  The Ferriers hunkered down together, Jeannie’s hand upon Alister’s, looking anywhere except at the bodies. Alister always acted tough, but Nilah had seen Jeannie comfort him more times than she could count.

  “It doesn’t take a ship’s doctor to know what made these wounds,” said Malik, crouching over the deceased. “The torn flesh around the neck indicates that these heads were pulled off, likely in a single bite. I would’ve expected the sirens to carry their prey away and eat them in the comfort of a den or nest. Looks like they just bite the heads off and leave. I’m surprised the other animals haven’t cleaned this up.”

  “Why do you think that is?” asked Nilah.

  Malik stood, pulled out a handkerchief, and blew his nose. In spite of his cool demeanor, the smell had to be getting to him, too. “I’m guessing that any animal large enough to eat the lion’s share also gets hunted by the sirens.”

  Charger turned one of the corpses up by the arm, its bloated flesh making a gruesome slurp.

  “It’s not our guy,” said Orna, her voice a hoarse whisper through Charger’s speakers.

  “Oh?” asked Nilah.

  Charger nodded. “Durand is supposed to have a tattoo on his inner forearm. No such markings. Got another data source three klicks east of here. Let’s go.”

  After another hour, they had to take a break, making camp for the evening. Charger was a godsend, hammering the deep tent spikes and unloading the heavy packs as though they were feathers in its claws. They popped up a heater and tucked into their rations, Orna stretching her arms after being inside the bot for so long. Nilah had taken to the Fallen military bars with zeal, pleased to wolf down loads of carbs, fat, and sugar. She thought back to the night that she first smelled one of those heavenly, enchanted ration bars, sitting in a bunk next to Boots.

  She’d been running for her life, framed by Mother, kidnapped by the crew of the Capricious, but she’d had no idea how much stranger things would get.

  “This is Hunter One,” said Orna, yawning. “We’re done for the night. Going to catch a few hours of sleep.”

  “Boots, acknowledged,” said Boots over the comm. “Returning home.”

  “Boss, acknowledged,” said Cordell. “See you in the morning.”

  As they finished making camp, Orna set Charger to patrol a square kilometer. “Everyone,” she said, “get some rest. If you have to leave your tent, take a buddy.”

  Orna came over to Nilah and kissed her. She looked her in the eyes and said, “I love you. Going to be okay out here?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course, darling.”

  “Good,” said Orna, pulling back and gesturing to her tent. “I won’t be far if you need me.”

  “Oh, I need you,” Nilah shot back with a wink, and Orna hesitated. “Not really, babes. Pretty knackered. Get some sleep.”

  Nilah settled in to her survival tent, a duraplast-plated shelter rooted to the ground by mechanical pegs. Sloped as it was, the structure could weather gale-force winds or even avalanches. She felt certain that the sirens would have trouble getting to her in there, but she still couldn’t sleep.

  The captain didn’t object to Nilah’s relationship with Orna because it’d formed before Nilah was a part of the crew. When they were on a mission, however, they were required to sleep apart, as were Malik and Aisha; Cordell wouldn’t tolerate “distractions.”

  She supposed he was right, that it wouldn’t do to get into a firefight with her pants down. Still, it felt cruel to deny her the chance to push in close with Orna, to feel the skin of the quartermaster’s bicep and soft breath in her ear as they both drifted off to sleep. Over the past year, Orna had been more than a wild
fling: she’d been an anchor. With the quartermaster around, Nilah could get comfortable anywhere.

  Instead, Nilah fell back on her old sleep routine: she closed her eyes and mentally rehearsed the curves of Wilson Fields, her home racetrack on Taitu. She imagined the starting line from pole position, the mad dash for the inside of turn one, the right braking sequence for the Chicane Olivier complex. When she got to the long back straight, she considered the markers along the sides of the track. Did she downshift at 450 meters? That couldn’t be right. There was only a 300-meter marker.

  A footstep sounded outside, startling Nilah from her near sleep. She snatched her slinger from its holster in the ceiling and checked the clip as her dermaluxes went purple with anxiety. Another two footsteps came, and Nilah sat back in exasperation, tattoos fading to white. Orna was out there creeping around, probably too cool to take a partner to the bathroom. Nilah checked her watch; she must’ve drifted off, because three hours had passed. What was Orna doing, wandering around like that?

  Nilah climbed out of her tent wearing only skivvies, ready to chew her girlfriend out, but in the darkness, she could only see Orna’s silhouette receding into the woods. Nilah’s skin pebbled with gooseflesh, but the longer she took to get properly dressed, the longer her fool girlfriend was out in the woods alone. The terrain didn’t look too treacherous; if she went back inside for her shoes, she might lose sight of Orna. Nilah suppressed her dermaluxes, hoping not to draw any more attention to herself as she went after her girlfriend.

  Getting through the undergrowth without shoes was tough, and every stray rock and stick scratched the soles of Nilah’s feet. She hoped none of it was poisonous, but they could sort that out back on the ship. Each cut was something she could use to guilt Orna into taking on some of her watch duties later.

  She glanced back, the dim red glow of their survival tents receding into the darkened underbrush. What could Orna be doing, ranging this far from safety? Nilah hoped it wasn’t some amorous scheme—she wasn’t in the mood. Orna had to be just over the next little hill, in a clearing, and Nilah was about to give her a piece of her mind.