A Bad Deal for the Whole Galaxy

by Alex White

  “You could use the stones like a key,” said Cordell, nodding. “Anyone without a stone is unauthorized, so zap go the autoturrets.”

  She nodded. “Exactly. This is why you need masks, and why they’re so hard to get.”

  Malik picked up the bear, looking it over before donning it. The effect produced a clumsy-looking beast with an unreasonably upright posture. “If the crystals are the key, why make an animal-themed light show? They could’ve been bracelets.”

  “That’s the marketplace,” said Boots. “Anonymity is what attracts people to the Masquerade. All kinds of illegal trades go on inside that station. These masks are critical to doing business, because no one is going to show up if they think they’ll get fingered.”

  “Our mission is to extradite Stetson Giles, get the index, shut down the Money Mill … and understand what the hell Henrick Witts is building out there in the darkness. If we can follow the cash, we ought to be able to do something about this Bastion we keep hearing about,” said Cordell. “But here’s the problem: who do we send in on reconnaissance?”

  “I’ll go,” said Boots. “I know Stetson better than anyone.”

  Cordell shrugged. “That’s kind of a given, but what about the other three?”

  “I can subdue the man,” said Malik, “get him sleep-drunk, and walk him back to the ship.”

  “I disagree,” said Aisha. “You’ve gotten holes in you on the past two sorties.”

  “Which were over a year apart,” countered Malik.

  “You’re presuming the dispersers don’t pop your spell first,” said Orna. “I think we can assume there’ll be turrets, too.”

  “If you try to put the snooze on Stetson,” said Boots, “you’re definitely getting another hole.”

  “We could go,” said Jeannie. “Alister and I might be able to read some minds—”

  “Same risk, same fate,” said Orna. “Besides, you two would probably stick out, masks or no. Remember how they ID’ed you on Pinnacle?”

  “I should go,” said Nilah. “I understand high society, and I’m quick on my feet.”

  “Then me, too,” said Orna, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

  Nilah almost missed it, but Armin smirked at her.

  “I’m inclined to agree. Miss Sokol is formidable even without a spell. So is Miss Brio,” said Cordell, his eagle beak contorting to mimic his words. “That’s three masks down. Who gets the last one?”

  “You should take it,” said Nilah. “If things go south, you’ve got a defensive spell.”

  “Which could get dispersed,” he said.

  “At least you can try to protect us with your shields,” she replied. “You were brilliant on board the Harrow, or so Boots tells me. I was bleeding to death at the time.”

  “It’s a solid bet,” Boots added. “And if we run into any military types, you know what to say to them … better than we do, anyway.”

  “Is this what we want to do?” asked Cordell. “I know I’m the captain here, but this is a big decision. My stakeholders need to weigh in.”

  A chorus of ayes and yeahs went up.

  The eagle adjusted its unlit cigarette, which hung unevenly from its beak. “All right, then. Miss Sokol, Miss Brio, I want these masks rigged for telemetry. I want to know exactly who sees what, and where they see it. You feel me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Nilah and Orna said in unison.

  “Good. We make the Masquerade in twenty hours. The rest of you, get some rest. I want you ready for anything.”

  Gentle weeping issued from the darkness, and Boots’s eyes creaked open. Dim shapes resolved in her view: a bedside table, a glass of water, a lamp. She had to shake away the feeling of being in two places at once. Was this her mansion on Hopper’s Hope or …

  The sob came again, a man’s voice. She remembered now—she was sharing a room with the Ferriers, and he wouldn’t stop waking up like that. Jeannie had warned her that they were terrible bunkmates, but Boots had insisted that it’d be fine. There’d been plenty of late-night weeping during her soldiering days.

  Rustling sheets interrupted the stillness, and Jeannie stood up from her pallet on the floor (thank god they’d let Boots have the bed) then padded around to Alister’s place at the other side of the room. She laid down next to him, and he gave out a little sigh in his sleep. He whimpered, and she hummed a soft tune Boots had never heard before, which somehow reminded her of the mountains. Jeannie’s voice soothed her, too, and her blinks lengthened until her eyes remained closed.

  Bloodred light filled the cabin, and Alister sat up with a shriek.

  “All crew ready stations,” said Aisha. “We’re on approach to the Masquerade in twenty.”

  Hell of an alarm clock.

  Groaning, Boots leaned forward and massaged her neck. Had she slept five more minutes or five more hours? Smacking her lips, she called for water and chucked the cup into the cycler at the bedside.

  The intercom chimed once again, this time Cordell. “Boots, can you report to the bridge?”

  “I heard twenty minutes, sir,” said Boots. “Permission to take a piss first?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Hurry up, though.”

  “And brush my teeth?” she added.

  “Boots, what do the ADF regs state about stank breath?”

  It was too early for memory games. “I don’t know, Captain.”

  “Nothing, so hurry your ass up here.”

  Jeannie helped a shaking Alister up. His stare remained fixed on some horizon known only to him.

  Jeannie glanced at Boots and smiled. “He’ll be right as rain soon enough. Go on.”

  The facilities were centrally located, and Boots found Nilah waiting outside. Orna opened the door, and Boots muscled past Nilah with a smirk.

  “Hey!”

  “Old lady. I get priority.”

  “Try not to break a hip, grandma,” Orna said as the door closed.

  Morning business under control, Boots rushed to the bridge, such as it could be called. Inside, she found Armin, Aisha, and Cordell—not a tight fit until she entered.

  “Hi, Captain,” Boots said, trying to stun Cordell with her bad breath.

  He turned to face her, and she almost screamed when she came face-to-face with his eagle mask. Feathers fluttered and golden eyes bored into her skull. Good thing she’d gotten to the restroom.

  “Why are you still wearing that, sir?”

  “It’s more comfortable than it looks,” came his distorted reply. He handed her the bear. “Now put yours on. We need to call in an approach request, and I don’t want our voices ID’ed.”

  Slipping it on, she grumbled, “Million-argent crystal in this thing, and he’s using it for a cheap voice changer.” Once the illusions had flowed down her arms like a fur cape, she said in a distorted voice, “Okay. Now I’m a bear.”

  “Good. Mister Vandevere, Missus Jan,” said Cordell, “you’re dismissed. I expect they’ll want to see us wearing the masks, and I’d prefer you not to get spotted. Miss Elsworth, take the controls.”

  “Yes, sir,” Boots acknowledged, scooting behind the pilot’s console.

  “Later, Pips,” Aisha whispered as she moved aside.

  Once they were out of the bridge, Cordell said, “Call it in.”

  Boots searched through the frequencies, shocked that the Scuzzbucket’s comm was inferior to the military-grade tech on her old fighter … the one in the shop back on Harvest, she remembered with a pang of longing. Approaching Masquerade without an escort wing left Boots frazzled, like there was something wrong with the ship. Not that it would matter, since the fighter complement on the station would be able to wipe them out in a matter of seconds if things went badly.

  She pressed the transmit. “Approach, this is … uh …”

  They had forgotten to agree on a name.

  “Approach copies, unidentified Sunspray,” came the tower response—a young voice, from the sound of it. “You’re enter
ing restricted space. Transmit docking codes or leave within thirty seconds.”

  Boots glanced back to Cordell, and the eagle gave an exaggerated shrug and mouthed some words. She couldn’t make them out through his beak, but she guessed it was, “Make something up.”

  “Uh … yeah …” she said, but her mind went blank. “This is the recently recommissioned Scuzzbucket, ready to transmit docking codes.”

  “Copy, Scuzzbucket,” said the tower with no hesitation whatsoever.

  Consummately professional. The civvy spaceports could learn a thing or two from this guy.

  “Receiving now,” said the tower. “Codes check out. Give us a visual on the masks, please.”

  Boots tapped a button and the projectors spun a traffic controller’s torso and head into being in the center of the room. She craned her neck to get a better look at the guy, but he turned to face Cordell. A neural spike glittered at the base of the controller’s skull, and she felt a stab of guilt for admiring his professional demeanor. He turned to her, hollow eyes roving her mask, then disappeared.

  “Scuzzbucket, you are cleared to dock. Bay five. The concierge will meet you there.”

  Boots pointed the ship toward the station and throttled up. The winking lights of a thousand windows spanned the sleek exterior of the Masquerade, and a large bay door opened along one side. Projectors spun out BAY FIVE in bright orange letters in front of the opening. She engaged the auto landing and the computer put the nose right through the holographic letters.

  The bay had the standard atmos bubble shield, but everything else inside was beyond anything Boots had seen. Cushioned articulators reached out and grasped the archrome hull, gently lowering it into a suspension field. Attendants scurried to and fro, and Boots swallowed the sinking realization that they were all thralls. The ship bobbed once, then settled without the typical clank of a docking clamp. Boots had to check the readouts to be certain they were stable.

  “Showtime,” said Cordell. “Since your call sign is a bit famous, we’ll have to call you something else.”

  “If it’s Pips, sir, I will turn this ship around, so help me.”

  The eagle looked her over, appraisingly. “Let’s just go with the animal names. You’re Bear. Suits you.”

  “Thanks, Bird.”

  “I’m Eagle.”

  “My mistake.”

  Down by the docking airlock, they met up with Orna, now “Wolf,” with a resplendent onyx fur cloak, and Nilah, now “Rabbit,” sleek yet wild, with red eyes. A crimson ribbon flowed from her ears like a battlefield flag, dancing in a breeze that didn’t exist.

  “Okay, everyone,” said Cordell. “First mission is just a recon. We go in, say as little as possible, and get a lay of the land. Even Boots—”

  “Bear, sir,” she corrected.

  “—Bear,” said Cordell, his golden eyes narrowing, “hasn’t been inside the station before. For this mission, we remain together at all times. Fly casual, you hear me? Do not start anything.”

  They all turned to Orna, and the wolf snarled, “Why is everyone looking at me?”

  Cordell punched the lock cycle, and the docking portal opened before them. A long, polyresin bridge grew from the nearest bay platform, its surface like polished alderwood under clear water. At the end of the bridge stood a tall attendant in a goldfish mask, dark black eyes set into a burnished, scaly face. Its long mouth curled at the ends, as though this fish knew a secret. Its ornate regalia, the color of firelight on solid gold, dazzled Boots.

  “Never been impressed by a fish before,” she whispered to Cordell.

  The fish raised its hand in greeting and beckoned them over. Stepping out onto the bridge, Boots got a closer look at the docking bay crew scurrying about the underbelly of the ship—all in tailored suits of sumptuous, textured fabrics. She peered closer and found the neural spikes she feared.

  They reached the fish, who smiled a disturbingly broad smile set with large, pearly teeth. Whoever designed that mask took anthropomorphism a step too far.

  “Welcome to the Masquerade, revelers!” announced the fish in musical tones. The jovial voice indicated that—whoever was under that mask—they didn’t have a spike in their head. “I’m the concierge, and I’m at your service for the duration of your visit. Years or days, I’ll be here always. This ship has visited us before, but under a different name.”

  “It’s a recent acquisition.” Cordell extended his hand, which the fish shook. “Pleasure to meet you, mister … uh … miss …”

  “Just concierge,” said the fish. “Zie, zir, if you please. As your cultural attaché, I’d like to start you with a piece of advice: you’ll find that identities are closely guarded secrets at our little party. Assume neutral pronouns here. In addition to taking offense at being misgendered, some of our celebrants may come to believe you’ve guessed their true identities and take action against you.”

  “Those are the rules?” asked Boots.

  “No,” zie replied with a good-natured chuckle. “Those are manners. We only have three real rules here in the Masquerade. One: if you’re outside of the docking bay or your quarters, you must wear your mask. Without it, our automated defenses will deal with you.”

  Boots grimaced, easily guessing what that meant.

  “Two,” continued the concierge, “there is no fighting in the common areas of the Masquerade. Prize matches will be arranged from time to time, but those are strictly for entertainment, organized through station administration.”

  “Any fights coming up?” asked Orna.

  “I’m afraid not,” zie said, “though I feel certain we can arrange whatever amusements you desire. Three: a person’s apartment is a sovereign territory. Security will not enter apartments unless there is a threat to the station. Those who follow others into their quarters may find themselves in dire situations. No government has jurisdiction over the Masquerade, and whatever fates befall you are yours alone.”

  They all exchanged glances, and the fish spread zir hands.

  “Our revelers come for a variety of reasons and must be able to conduct their business without interruption. If you are good neighbors and mind your manners within the common areas, I’m sure we’ll get along swimmingly.”

  “A little fish humor?” asked Nilah, and the concierge brightened.

  The concierge rocked on zir heels. “I do find it shortens the days. Would you like to see your quarters?”

  Cordell nodded. “Lead on, my friend.”

  They passed from the docking bay into a spectacular walkway of winding gardens and twisting streams of water that snaked through the air like blue dragons, all under a blanket of amplified starlight from the windows above. Chandeliers the size of starfighters hung from the roof struts, their crystal plates intermittently spinning out flashes of light. Jaunty live music filled their ears, the product of a ten-piece orchestra playing in a nearby amphitheater. Dozens of people filled the pedestrian streets, all clad in the ornate regalia of various animals.

  The concierge spoke quietly as they walked. “I suggest that you don’t gawk. The fact that you’re new will only serve to help others unravel the puzzle of your identity.”

  “How many, er, revelers do you have?” asked Boots.

  “Five thousand it has always been, never more, never less,” said the concierge. “We do not make new masks, and those that exist are carefully guarded, which you likely learned when you acquired your own. This is the Central Promenade, where you may indulge in any of our fine dining and lavish performances.”

  “Probably not in the budget,” said Cordell.

  The fish laughed, zir mouth gaping to show those teeth again. “Oh heavens, no. We never do anything so vulgar as trade money in the common areas. Everything is already paid for by a trust, established by the purchasers of the original five thousand masks.”

  “No sweeter taste than free food,” said Boots, eyeing a nearby open-air restaurant where a suited waiter carved bloody slices of meat from a muscular anim
al leg. But she wore no mask, and upon seeing the woman’s vacant expression, Boots lost her appetite.

  “Indeed!” said the concierge, stepping into a section of flooring marked with caution lights. Zie raised zir hand, and a spindly control deck sprouted from the hardwood. “Please join me inside the circle.”

  They did, and the concierge tapped a few numbers into the holographic keypad. Waist-high shields enclosed them, and the platform rose into the air, pulling away at an impressive clip. Sturdy oaks rushed underneath them as the stars streaked overhead, and Boots rested her hands on the translucent rails, savoring the breeze.

  “How old is this station?” she asked. “This tech looks pretty new.”

  “One hundred and eighty-two years,” said the concierge. “We keep it up to date with the proceeds of the trust, as well as charitable donations from some of our more dedicated patrons. This is a place where you can come for absolute privacy and serenity. Those who spend their days here come to understand its power and invest in our enterprise.”

  Wonder how serene it is when you’ve got a spike in your head.

  The platform settled among gently swaying reeds beside a mirrored lake. The plants bowed out of the way, folding into a woven walkway so they could pass. Boots had seen a lot of interesting effects in her time, but the Masquerade was packed full of delightful surprises.

  “This way, please,” said the concierge, beckoning them down a slightly less gargantuan corridor.

  A vertigo zigzag of silver lines painted the walls like a maze, with the occasional green stripe accent. Embedded in the green stripes were a series of brass plates, and at their approach, four plaques spun out stylized pictures of their animal heads. The silver lines twisted and turned, untangling into the shape of a door.

  The concierge stopped. “This is branch twenty-eight. There are one hundred branches in total—fifty on each side of the station. Your masks entitle you to four flats with us, which have been configured into a single unit. Would you like to keep this configuration, or shall I divide them?”

  “Keep it,” said Cordell.