by Alex White
“Listen, Cedric,” she said, adding mocking emphasis on his first name. “You folks made a deal with the devil. You sent an extrajudicial, paramilitary group—us—to take care of a threat you should’ve handled. Since we’re the ones doing your jobs, I don’t think you have a right to complain.”
He finally opted to settle into his chair across from her. He’d been looming over her for the past fifteen minutes, doing his version of what passed for intimidation. “Taitutian citizens should abide by the laws of—”
“We’re not citizens of any world.”
“Miss Brio is a Taitutian, subject to our laws, Miss Elsworth. I would hate to have her arrested,” he said with the sort of relish that indicated otherwise.
“Cedric—”
“Agent Weathers.”
“Cedric,” Boots continued. “We cured the galaxy of your prime minister Dwight Mandell, who was a planetary embarrassment … in addition to being a war criminal. The people of Taitu erected a huge statue of Nilah on Capitol Square.”
“I don’t see how that makes her anything but a citizen,” he said, leaning forward and folding his arms at a ninety-degree angle to his torso.
Boots rocked back in the office chair. “I’m saying she’s more than a Taitutian. Go ahead and charge her. Have her arrested for the death of your cop-killing arms dealer. I would love to see Prime Minister Bianchi’s reaction to that.”
Cedric cocked his head to one side, falling out of sync with the vertical angles of the room for the first time. He regarded her and pursed his lips, clearly weighing his options.
Boots picked up one of his styluses and fiddled with it before putting it back at an off angle. “You’re right, little guy. Durand died in our custody, under suspicious circumstances. We need to be punished or whatever, so do your thing and arrest her,” said Boots, maintaining unwavering eye contact. “But I’m going to leak every word of this conversation to the press. I’ll give the first exclusive interview I’ve ever given. They’ve been asking for my side of the Harrow story for a while, and I’ll tie it in to the Special Branch blowhard who had my friend arrested.”
“I’m a police officer, not a politician, Miss Elsworth.”
“But you’re wrong, Cedric, and you serve at the pleasure of fickle masters,” she replied, rising. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to walk out that door. If you want to commit career suicide, now is the time.”
She took a step, grinning. “Eh? We going to have a problem?”
“Just get out.”
“Aw, Cedric. Don’t get all warm and inviting on me! Should I stay? Maybe I should stay.”
“Miss Elsworth, I would like nothing less,” he replied through gritted teeth.
She arched an eyebrow. “Too much of a good thing. I hear you.”
When Boots emerged into the lobby, she found Nilah standing amid a gaggle of cops, signing autographs with her tattoos flowing gold. Nilah glanced up at her and smiled brightly before placing a rare Lang Autosport hat back into the hands of its owner.
“Can we please get out of here?” asked Boots.
Instead of hopping up and heading out, Nilah gestured to Boots, and three of the cops descended with pictures of the Capricious crew, their styluses at the ready. She recognized the picture immediately, the whole of them in hero poses before the open cargo hold—everyone except Didier and Ranger, who hadn’t survived to be part of any press tour.
Boots’s heart throbbed at the absence of the Capricious’s former cook. She and Didier had spent a wild night on Carré before he was cut down by Mother. Boots tried to imagine what he would’ve looked like in the picture—no doubt striking a goofy pose, no matter what he’d been directed to do. He’d have been popular—deserved to be.
It was only sex, but he was a good man. Maybe they could’ve been something.
She was about to demure from the autographs when she saw another cop holding a replica of the Chalice of Hana. Boots’s network had made cheap imitations when Finding Hana was popular—for the children to enjoy. Despite the poor detail of the toy, the sight of it still sucked her breath away.
During the Famine War, Arca had loaded the Chalice of Hana onto their culture arc, the Saint of Flowers. But the ship never reached its destination, and the artifact was considered lost to history. After the war, Boots had teamed up with a fellow veteran, Stetson Giles, and a producer from Gantry Station, Gemma Katz, to find it. According to legends, the chalice was supposed to grant its owner an ultra-powerful barrister’s mark, and Boots thought she’d finally be able to cast magic with it. Their show, Finding Hana, took the Link by storm before its tragic end.
The only time Boots had seen the chalice in person was when Stetson Giles used it to curse her and kill her producer.
The police officer held out the toy and a paint pen for Boots. Stunned, she took it and signed her name across the inside of its golden rim, then handed it back to its beaming owner. In a fugue, she signed the other pictures thrust in her direction. She frowned when the cops returned to their desks to register her autographs with the various digital authenticators.
“Remember to smile, darling,” whispered Nilah.
They’d reached the lifts when Boots finally asked, “How can you stand all that?”
“The love and adoration?” chortled Nilah as the doors swooshed open. “Yes, it’s all so very terrible.”
They stepped inside, the building’s AI directing them to the first floor.
“That’s not love,” said Boots. “Those people don’t know you at all.”
“Do you think the people who want us dead hate us?” asked Nilah.
“Some of them, yeah.”
Nilah smoothed back her hair. “And they don’t know us, either. Honestly, sweetie, you must get better at having fans.”
Boots filled her in on the conversation with Special Agent Weathers as they walked. When they reached the lower floor and emerged into the Capitol Gardens, Aisha was waiting for them. On the ship, Aisha always wore her pilot’s jumper. On Taitu, she was far more fashionable, sporting a silvery top and clip-on sun lenses.
“How did it go?” asked Aisha.
“The cops hate us,” said Boots.
“Just the one cop,” said Nilah. “And he’d probably like me.”
Boots shrugged. “Anyway, thanks for agreeing to help out today. I can use all the hands I can get with the archives.”
As they walked toward the tall, windowless building that housed the thousands of Taitutian Special Branch Archives, Boots took in the mild coastal air. She loved her farm on Hopper’s Hope, but it lacked the bay breeze. The next dozen blocks would be filled with a pleasant, salty breeze, sunshine, and the glorious architecture of Taitu’s capital, Aior.
“What are we looking for in the archives?” asked Aisha.
Boots glanced around to make sure no one was too close—being an old veteran had taught her to be cautious about classified conversations.
“First: anything about Izak Vraba. Second: active case files. If we’ve got an insider, we need to know who it is before the Children do. Third: bank routing records,” said Boots, keeping her voice low. “Those are the most reliable sources of tracking. That’s how I found the Chalice of Hana.”
“I know,” said Aisha. “I watched the show back when it was coming out.”
Boots stopped and grimaced. “You serious? Why haven’t you ever said anything?”
Aisha tapped her sun lenses, lightening them a shade. “It seemed like a bad memory. I was … well …” She shuffled slightly, embarrassed.
Boots glanced at Nilah, who was similarly thunderstruck by Aisha’s sudden shyness.
“I was one of the crew who voted in favor of buying that salvage map from you,” said Aisha. “Because of your reputation, you understand.”
Boots hadn’t thought about the crock of crap she’d sold Cordell for a long time. She’d screwed them over, and in return, they’d saved her life.
Hell, they’d saved everyone’s lives
.
Boots bit her lip. “I don’t think I’ve ever formally apologized for that.”
“There she is!” came a distant voice, and Boots looked up to see a group of ten people walking purposefully toward them.
Boots shook her head. “Oh, great. More ‘fans.’”
But the newcomers seemed anything but pleased to see them. There was something off about them: the way they walked, the certainty in their faces, the uniformity of their outfits. They weren’t actual uniforms, but this group must’ve all shopped at the same place.
Boots crossed her arms as nonchalantly as possible—considering that she’d taken hold of the slinger in her Rook Velocity jacket. She glanced back at Aisha and Nilah to find them similarly on guard.
“Keep walking,” muttered Nilah, pulling back her sleeves. “I’ve dealt with my share of dangerous obsessives. Let’s cross around here.”
“These losers better not scuff my jacket,” mumbled Boots.
The trio made their way over a bridge to put a reflecting pool between them and the rapidly approaching gang. The strange folk didn’t speed up to catch them. The leader, a scruffy fellow in his early twenties, shouted: “You stopped it once, but you can’t stop transcendence forever!”
“Oh god. I think those might be Children of the Singularity,” said Nilah.
A crackle of fury went up Boots’s spine, and her thumb came to rest against the knurled surface of her safety. “So when do we start shooting?”
“Not yet,” said Aisha. “We don’t know anything about them, and they’re not breaking any laws.”
Nilah’s pace quickened. “Aside from those fashion crimes. At the very worst, this is harassment. Aisha is right. Even if they’re Children, we can’t know if they’re working for Witts.”
“Your day will come! Aisha Jan! Elizabeth Elsworth!” cried another cultist. “We’re watching you!”
“I ought to sock you just for showing your fascist faces,” Boots called back to the cultists. “You want to go? Get over here, you callow—”
“Don’t look at them,” said Nilah. “We’re almost to the rail station, and we can lose them in there.”
“We were going to be beautiful!” screeched the leader, agony in his voice, hatred twisting his features. “You stole our choice!”
Elba Pool Station, Aior’s busiest terminal, loomed large before them. Aisha quietly traced her marksman’s spell, clutching the glyph in her hand. Boots tightened her grip around her slinger, ready for the first spell to come her way. She’d been practicing her aim in the year on Hopper’s Hope, and even at this distance, she’d be able to sink a slinger bolt into the leader’s chest.
She desperately wished he’d give her a reason. Clumped up like they were, she’d probably nail a few of the bastards.
But the trio descended the stairs into Elba Pool Station, leaving the cultists behind on the surface. Just like Nilah said, they were low-level nobodies, either too scared to approach—or with some other plan in mind. Inside the rail station, a throng of people stretched wall to wall, and tension squeezed Boots’s muscles. It would be impossible to see any threats.
A slew of neon projections swam overhead, hawking the wares of local shops, filling the tunnel with uneven light. Thousands of reflective tiles gave the station an infinite feel, and Boots had trouble discerning details closer to the platform. A train silently swept into the docking cradle, its arrival covered over by the cacophonous voices of Aior commuters. At rush hour, crowds transformed the architectural marvel into a field of noise.
“You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” came a voice behind them.
They spun to find a younger woman in a crisp suit, shouting into her comm. Boots’s pulse hammered in her neck, and she glanced over to see Nilah take off her jacket and sling it over one arm. Aisha’s hand rested upon the concealed butt of her pistol. All three of them backed away, trying to play it off as nonchalant.
“We need a security detail,” mumbled Nilah as they made their way toward the platform. “This is ridiculous.”
“These cultists are bold,” said Aisha, watching their backs as she wound through the crowd. “It’s shocking that someone thinks we shouldn’t have stopped the Harrow conspiracy. That’s just …”
“People are fools,” said Boots. “Who knows? Let’s get the hell out of this crowd.”
“Nilah Brio!” came a woman’s voice, and Nilah’s tattoos strobed in surprise. When Boots gathered her wits, she found an older woman frantically searching her bag. Boots reached out and snatched the woman’s arm with her metal hand, squeezing a little too tightly before Nilah stopped her.
“It’s okay,” Nilah whispered.
The woman, visibly shaken, withdrew an imager lens and meekly asked to take a picture.
Boots released the woman’s hand and stepped back. She felt a hundred eyes on her, and the din of conversation quieted as bystanders became curious. She glanced at the nearest fellow, who’d stopped to gawk. “What are you looking at?”
“Are you really Nilah Brio?” he asked past Boots. Several other bystanders stopped and smiled, closing in to ask questions of the ex-racer.
Boots had never been one for attention, and with the cult members on the surface, it bothered her even more. She didn’t know any of these people. Maybe one of them was an obsessive freak, a yahoo with a theory, an attention-seeker—or an agent of Henrick Witts.
“We shouldn’t be down here,” mumbled Boots, backing up to Nilah and Aisha as the flashes of imagers filled the tunnel.
“Steady on, old girl,” said Nilah, smiling and waving. “This is what happens when people love you. Just follow my lead.”
But Boots found herself ready to panic. Everywhere she looked, she found a smiling, excited face. They filled her every view, encircling her like vultures. She’d been fired upon in so many military engagements, whether in space or on the ground, but the level of dread this crowd conjured went way beyond battle jitters.
No clear threats. No clear allies.
“Don’t call me ‘old girl.’” Her throat was dry. “I’m not a horse.”
Aisha posed for pictures with Nilah, signing them after with a finger. It suited the pilot, this worship. She was beautiful, after all, not like squat, boring Boots.
“Boots,” said Nilah, placing a hand on her shoulder, “these are our adoring fans. You must find a way to smile, dearest.”
Boots tried on a grin but knew she probably looked constipated. Nilah pulled her in, wrapping an arm around her hips, and sandwiched her with Aisha. Their warmth bled into her, and for the first time, Boots’s desire to run away abated slightly. These were her sisters on either side, and they’d keep her safe.
“Nilah!” shouted a young woman in the front, leaping up and down with adulation. “Hey, Nilah!”
Boots tried to ignore her, but she was so much more insistent than the others. The woman’s fingers curled into a fist, and Boots’s gut churned with anxiety.
“The Children are watching you! You, too, dull-finger!”
The woman opened her hand, and a projection slithered out of a pocket-sized cube. Light twisted and bent around it, until the image became a warped, steel mask, deforming the air. The stone-cold face had no pity, no joy, no mirth or sadness—only a thin line where the mouth should be and two vertical slits for eyes. Carved into its forehead were the glowing lines of the usurer’s mark.
“For we are myriad—” the woman began.
Boots bowled into her, slapping the projector box out of her hand. The cultist screamed in surprise as Boots’s metal fingers wrapped around her throat. Boots was no hand-to-hand master, but she was deft enough to trip a surprised kid and throw her to the ground.
The woman couldn’t have been more than twenty years old, her face uncreased by the worries of age. A bit of extra flesh lined her neck; her soft muscles spoke of a sedentary lifestyle. Boots had seen her kind before on the Link: the haters and doubters who’d hounded her during the days of the show.
>
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” the cultist yelped in surprise.
“The Children are watching us, huh? Guess what, witch?” Boots snarled, smashing her metal knuckles against the tiles, cracking the stone. “We’re watching right back!”
Boots drew back, and a flick of her fingers brought out her stiletto knife. It wasn’t a fancy spell, but it was magic in its own way.
“I have a right to be here!” she cried out, but Boots scarcely heard her over the thundering blood in her ears.
Boots tightened up on the woman’s collar as she straddled her. “I heard about you Children of the Singularity.” Boots spat the name out like a ball of phlegm. “You’re a bunch of cowards who worship Henrick Witts, aren’t you? What do you know about Witts?”
“Boots!” came a voice, but she ignored it.
“I don’t know him!” pleaded the woman. “Let me go!”
“Boots!” shouted Nilah once more, pulling her away from her target.
She knew not to resist Nilah, that the woman was fast enough to punch out springflies, and still Boots wished she’d taken a swipe at the cultist on the ground—given her something to think about.
“Let me go!” Boots snapped. She mustered the presence of mind to retract her knife, so she didn’t accidentally show someone the wrong end of the blade. “They’ve got to arrest that lady!”
“For what?” shouted the woman, staggering to her feet. She leveled her finger at Boots, rage painting her face purple. “You’re the one who took away our future!”
“You’re only breathing because of me!” Boots roared, and the crowd took a step back, giving her the first space she’d had in what felt like hours.
She’d expected the good people of Taitu to tear this creep limb from limb, or at the very least spit on her. But instead, they donned stunned looks, their pleasant days disrupted with Boots’s unexpected fury. Several of the bystanders exchanged glances, as though the path of righteousness wasn’t obvious here.
“Boots,” whispered Nilah. “You’ve got to stop talking. That’s not how this works.”
“Isn’t this witch, like, a damned enemy of the state?” Boots’s lips contorted into a scowl. “People like her are the reason our universe almost ended.”
