A Bad Deal for the Whole Galaxy

by Alex White

  Cordell tapped his intercom. “All crew, we have successfully docked with our hosts, so please be on your best behavior.”

  And after a moment’s thought, he added, “That said, I expect everyone to be strapped at all times.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Revenant

  The crew of the Prism were anything but welcoming as Boots and the others entered his halls. Staffers scurried like cockroaches away from Cordell’s entourage, as though they, themselves, were the fugitives.

  Though given what Boots knew of long-haul freighters, that couldn’t have been too far from the truth.

  The jump freight trade was full of people who’d skipped out on the bill life charged them—from parents who didn’t feel like raising their kids, to outright murderers who found themselves more comfortable traveling through a half-dozen galactic jurisdictions. They weren’t a particularly savory lot, only slightly better than the average eidolon miner. She’d rather not have dealt with them at all, but without a jump drive on board the Capricious, they needed a pickup.

  Aisha made the mistake of staring too long at one of the cargo shipments, and a pair of Prism personnel showed up to glower and throw a tarp over it.

  After a time, Cordell and the other crew members of the Capricious found their way to the vessel’s central gathering area, which stank of dreamsmoke and old potions. There’d been more than a few debauched parties on board, and Boots wondered how they maintained a clearance to dock the damned thing.

  Checo waited for them in the captain’s seat, their eyes impassively counting the crew. “So, where would you like us to drop you?”

  “The Masquerade, uh, Station,” said Cordell, and for the first time, Boots saw a look of surprise on Checo’s face. “Is it Masquerade Station, or just …”

  “I’m sorry?” was Checo’s response.

  “Take us to the Masquerade,” Cordell repeated.

  Checo spread their arms. “I can get you anywhere you want to go, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t warn my customers when they were making a big mistake. The Masquerade is the single biggest hub of underworld activity in the galaxy, disguised as a provider of … esoteric entertainments. It’s the playground of the ultra-elite: the banking families, Gate Cartel officials, and most likely, some of the Gods of the Harrow.”

  “So you’ve heard of it,” said Cordell.

  “I have,” said Checo, “but I’m not sure you fully comprehend your request.”

  “We’re serious,” said Boots.

  “To get onto the Masquerade, you need two things: a ship with a docking key … and a mask for those going aboard,” said Checo. “Neither of which can be bought. There are only five thousand of each, and their owners guard them fiercely. And before you suggest kicking in the door, their defense grid is perfect. You’d have an easier time flying into a black hole.”

  “I know,” said Boots.

  Checo cocked an eyebrow. “Do you?”

  “When we were searching for the Chalice of Hana,” Boots began, “a team of angel investors reached out to Stetson—offered to set up an office for us where major treaties and contracts could be negotiated without interference. We were offered two masks and a docking key if we found the chalice.”

  “So who were these guys?” asked Cordell. “If they’ve got two masks, they might have more.”

  “Never met them,” said Boots. “Whenever I asked, Stetson would always say the details would come after we got the chalice.”

  “Maybe we could pretend to be Masquerade staff,” said Aisha, “then sneak aboard and do what we need to do.”

  “That’ll be remarkably easy,” said Checo with a sarcastic groan. “All I need to do is plant neural spikes in your heads and sell you at auction. They do brain scans on all the help, you see. Either you’re wearing a mask or you’re brain-dead.”

  Cordell gave them a stunned look. “Oh, come on. You can’t expect me to believe that everyone on that station—”

  “Oh, yes,” Checo said, pouring themself a drink before offering the bottle to the others.

  “So you won’t sell us entry into the station,” Boots began.

  “‘Won’t’ is such a crude word. I would if you could afford it. But unless you’ve got another Harrow to salvage in your back pocket, I don’t think you’ll have the scratch to spare for the rest of your little god hunt. I’d have to get you a key and masks, and as you might’ve guessed, I have neither.”

  Boots smiled. “But I bet you would sell us the name of a ripe target who visits the Masquerade on a regular basis. Someone really scummy, someone who absolutely deserves to be shaken down, or worse.”

  Checo craned their neck, appraising Boots’s suggestion. “Rather bold of you, considering your target would almost certainly be a former client of mine.”

  “We didn’t get this far being timid,” said Boots.

  “That’s right,” said Cordell. “I’m sure everyone would be willing to kick in a few argents to get a target dossier from you. Am I right?”

  “You’re a unique lot,” said Checo, narrowing their eyes.

  “No,” said Nilah with a wry grin. “We’re just bloody rich and angry as hell.”

  “Hear, hear,” added Boots, taking the bottle from the table and pouring herself a glass. “I’m in for a deal.”

  “As are we,” said Aisha, whose husband nodded his assent.

  “And me,” said Armin.

  “There’s always more money in the galaxy,” said Orna.

  Then all eyes fell upon the Ferriers, and Jeannie said, “Don’t look at us. We didn’t get rich off the first salvage.”

  “Yeah, I think I’ve got some pocket lint you can have, sir,” said Alister.

  Checo inclined their head. “I think we can work something out.”

  Cordell poured his own glass and clinked it to Boots’s before taking a sip. “So that’ll be one target, please. And how much extra for you to make me look like the poor sap you’re selling us?”

  “Oh, I doubt you’ll be wanting that,” said Checo with a poisonous smile. “You see, this fellow made his fortune in the Clarkesfall fighting pits.”

  Without thinking, Boots looked back at Orna. She cursed herself, knowing that every other member of the crew would do the same.

  “Who is it?” asked Orna, her beastly voice straining against her marginally more civilized exterior.

  “Only the leader of the whole racket,” said Checo. “William Scarett.”

  Charger lowered its head. At long last, the quartermaster spoke.

  “‘Bill Scar.’”

  “Captain, can we talk?” asked Boots, jogging up to Cordell in the spacious docking bay of the Prism.

  Cordell had busied himself about the underbelly of the ship, making sure everything was perfect with the refueling lines. He was fretting, and it put Boots on edge.

  “You know how much I love to talk,” he said curtly, as he circled one of the landing pylons and checked the actuators.

  She crossed her arms. “Was that supposed to be a joke?”

  “Just say what’s on your mind, Boots. We’ve got a lot of work to do before we come out of the Flow.”

  “I’m a little bit concerned for our dear friend Orna,” said Boots. “You might’ve noticed she isn’t herself.”

  He reached up and tested one of the cable couplings, making certain it would hold up to stress. “Why? Because we’re about to hunt one of the many men who made her murder for sport and profit? Goodness me, I don’t know how that could possibly be bothering her.”

  “Yeah, that’s about the size of it.”

  “Okay, well … noted.”

  Boots rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I can’t believe I’m asking this, but … I want to strongly recommend that you bench her.”

  Cordell stopped, his hand dropping to his side, and stared at Boots. “Excuse me?”

  “Captain, come on,” she pleaded. She’d been dreading this conversation, but as far as she could tell, no one else would h
ave the guts to bring it up. “We all paid for that intel, and that means … you know … when she rips out Bill’s spinal column before he gives us the authorization codes, we wasted all of our money.”

  He shook his head, jamming his hands into his pockets. “Well, now. That’s some real insight. Have you ever considered becoming an officer, Bootsie?”

  “Hell no, sir. I work for a living,” she shot back, rehashing the old joke.

  He sauntered closer to her, his eyes wrinkled with a lack of sleep. He hadn’t been seeking Malik’s help, and it showed. “Well, I’m going to let you in on a little secret: when you have a crew like mine, you’re only marginally the captain. See, it’s probably a bit like driving a race car, from what I’ve heard Miss Brio say.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “‘Controlled explosions,’ she once called it, like trying to guide a comet. You get to do some steering, but mostly, you’re along for the ride. You make the right decisions in the blink of an eye, but there’s no stopping it.”

  “Captain, if you bring Orna in there with us, you may be jeopardizing the lives of the entire crew. You know what happens when someone is a loose cannon.”

  He drew in a sharp breath. “If I don’t, she will lose her goddamned mind, and who could blame her? And furthermore, who are you to talk about obeying orders? I seem to recall your insubordination when we rumbled with some of Mother’s battlegroup. Or Nilah’s when she refused to go on without Orna on the surface of the Harrow. Malik has made snap decisions against mine. So has Aisha, and god only knows what goes through the heads of those twins. As far as I can tell, the only person on this crew who listens to a word I say is my first mate. And you know why I tolerate it?”

  He’d rekindled the old fires in his eyes, and Boots recoiled. During the Famine War, she’d once seen him shield smash an ensign across the cargo bay for refusing to shoot at the enemy. The poor kid took a pair of broken ribs and a fractured tibia, but the rest of his squad opened fire just fine, and they achieved their objective.

  Starship captains weren’t dashing heroes, they were calculating creatures of extraordinary violence and coercion—and sometimes Boots forgot that.

  “Because every time y’all disobeyed my orders, you’ve been right.” He jabbed a finger into her sternum. “But if you ever cross me and you’re wrong …”

  Boots’s breath caught.

  “You better hope your stupidity kills you.” He fetched a cigarette out of his case and lit up before exhaling across her face. “Same goes for everyone, including Orna.”

  And just like that, his malice melted away. Sometimes, she lamented that Cordell’s military had been disbanded, because he would’ve made a fine admiral one day. He certainly had the spine to win wars by any means necessary. His rigid stance went casual, and he stepped back a few paces to give her some space.

  “Now you’d better stop this bullshit where you insult Orna behind her back, and treat her like the family she is, you feel me? We gave you more chances than you deserved.”

  Boots looked down at the scored deck plates of the Prism and sighed.

  “Aye, Captain.”

  She made her way up the ramp and into the belly of the Capricious, her chest tight from the reprimand she’d been given. She hadn’t meant to piss the captain off, but he’d needed to hear what she had to say.

  Even if he wouldn’t listen to her.

  Even if he wouldn’t act on it.

  Once she was inside, Boots made straight for the mess hall. In light of their largess, the liquor cabinet was always fully stocked—something that had been sorely lacking during the closing days of the Famine War. They hadn’t carried much booze during the Harrow conspiracy, either. It just hadn’t been in the budget.

  Boots dug through the cabinet until she found her Flemmlian Ten, then pushed it aside. She wasn’t feeling particularly classy, just catty, and she wanted the kind of drink someone could make a mistake with. She found a decanter of heavy rum and unscrewed the top. It carried the bitter stink of yeast with the chemical chaser of a high proof—at least one fifty. She straightened up with the bottle halfway to her lips and noticed Jeannie sitting at one of the corner tables.

  Boots froze.

  “Mister Vandevere will kill you for drinking out of the bottle without a glass,” said Jeannie.

  “He ain’t here,” said Boots with a conspiratorial wink. “You going to stop me?”

  The twin blinked her bleary eyes and shook her head.

  “It looks like you could use a glass of your own,” said Boots, fetching up two tumblers and taking her haul to the table. “Didn’t know you went anywhere without that brother of yours.”

  “Yes, well …” She trailed off, as though that was supposed to satisfy Boots’s curiosity. When Boots didn’t let her off the hook or change the subject, Jeannie clarified, “He’s asleep.”

  Pouring them both glasses, Boots said, “I see. And you’re not asleep because …”

  “This is the time when I get to do whatever I want.” Jeannie raised the clear liquid to her nose and gave it a sniff, then a grimace.

  Boots wrinkled her nose. “Such as drink things that totally disgust you?”

  “I’ve been through worse,” said Jeannie, and she tipped the tumbler’s contents into her mouth, swallowing the fluid with unbroken eye contact to Boots.

  “Seems exhausting.”

  “What?”

  Boots refilled the other woman’s glass. “Always guarding your brother. Can’t be easy.”

  Jeannie’s gaze drifted downward to the sloshing rum. “Maybe. But I owe it to him.”

  “To walk around at his heel all the time? I’ve seen you jump in to fix things every time he shoots his mouth off.”

  Her fingers wrapped around the cup, and she downed another two ounces of booze in a single swallow. “I know he … seems normal.”

  Boots chuckled as she took her own first sip, then nearly choked on the gasoline taste of the drink. This Ferrier girl had a steel stomach.

  “You all right?” asked Jeannie, reaching over to slap Boots’s back.

  “‘Normal,’” Boots repeated, laughing, but stopped when she saw Jeannie’s serious expression. “That’s not the word I would’ve used.”

  “You’ve seen him get violent. Seen him cry. There’s more. He gets confused easily. Forgets where he is. Sometimes he’ll get so scared, and he needs a familiar face. You …” Jeannie froze midsentence. “You remember how you said I could come to you if I ever wanted to talk?”

  Boots scooted around the table to sit by Jeannie’s side. “Hey, of course, kid.”

  “What am I supposed to do if he’ll never be happy?”

  “You have to live your own life at some point.”

  “I’m just tired,” she said, casting her eyes toward the ceiling. “I’m tired of finding him up wandering around in the middle of the night. Tired of the way he huddles in close every time he hears a footstep in the hallway, because he thinks someone is coming to beat him. I don’t want to hear him cry anymore or see that look of confusion every time he forgets something he’s supposed to know. He can tell there’s something wrong with him.”

  Boots took another swig and rubbed Jeannie’s back. “I’ve never seen him do that stuff.”

  Jeannie’s eyes met hers, glazed and red. “That’s because I’m always here to help him. It’s a full-time job, and I’m … I’m not very good at it. And it’s—it’s so thankless because he doesn’t understand how much I do for him. And … sometimes I hate him for it.”

  “Maybe you should ease off. Let him stumble a bit so he knows how much he needs you.”

  “I can’t do that.” Jeannie swallowed hard and refilled her glass again. Judging from her small frame, she’d be well on her way to intoxication. She opened her mouth to speak, but words failed her. She downed her rum and exhaled, then said, “It’s my fault he’s like this.”

  It was like the temperature around Boots dropped ten degrees. “What do you
mean?”

  Jeannie shoved her glass away, where it skidded precariously close to the far edge of the table. “Sometimes, I think fate asks us for too much. A moment comes when you need to shine, when you need to be better than you’ve ever been—but you’re not shiny, you’re dull. I just wanted to help him—help him forget. He asked me to help, showed me how, but … he’s so much more powerful than me.”

  Boots pulled her close and squeezed her shoulder. “It’s okay to tell me. What happened to Alister?”

  “This is my fault,” she whispered. “He’s never going to be okay.”

  “Listen, kid—”

  Jeannie shot upright, dabbing her eyes onto her sleeves, voice breaking. “Thanks for the talk.”

  Then she marched off in the direction of her quarters, leaving Boots alone with the half-empty bottle. Boots considered chasing after, trying to stick her nose in where it probably didn’t belong. But maybe that’s why Jeannie talked to her at all: because she didn’t force the issue.

  Thoughts roiling like storm clouds, Boots reached over and took Jeannie’s tumbler. She filled both glasses, then proceeded to nurse them for the next hour.

  She understood what it was like to have a duty to something with a grim future.

  After a sizable transfer of argents to Checo DosSantos, the Prism was rerouted to the backwater world of Prothero, ostensibly to deliver a shipment of air purifiers to the wealthy inhabitants there. The Prism came out of the Flow, reported engine trouble, settled down in a forested canyon below the scanners, and dropped off the marauder hidden in its cavernous interior.

  Nilah stood on the bridge of the Capricious and watched the jump freighter rise away, bound for wherever the next smuggling job might take them. When the coast was clear, the comparatively tiny marauder rose into the air and took off. Twilight sun turned the forest below into orange spikes on a blanket of green. Here and there, idyllic cottages along a sunset river peeked out through the trees, their windows warm and inviting.