by Alex White
“Did he get close?”
Cordell nodded. “Oh yeah. He hit that five years ago, playing eidolon futures and mineral subsidies. I’ve never met a poor datamancer … Then when he got the Harrow salvage, he doubled his fortune.”
“So why didn’t he …”
Cordell set the rooms to privacy mode, and they walked to the panoramic window so they could gaze out into the stars. The pristine underbelly of the Yamada filled the top of their view, and endless space stretched below.
“Always said he wanted a bigger ship,” said Cordell. “It was like his go-to line every time I asked. The dude didn’t have any family, so the cash just kept snowballing in his bank account.”
“So he was lying?”
“He was scared, maybe … or lonely. Didn’t want to strike out on his own.”
Nilah thought back to the moment they first hit the bridge of the ADF Scuzzbucket, and the look on Armin’s face as he settled into the captain’s chair. It was nothing like the Capricious; the yacht was only large enough for someone to command a tiny ship full of rich weirdos, but Armin’s expression had been one of pure amazement.
For the first time, the galaxy had rested at his fingertips, and that hadn’t been lost on him.
“Before the end,” said Nilah, “he liked being captain, I think—getting his own commission for a few days.”
Cordell chewed on his lip and ashed his cigarette into the apartment carpet. “That’s the gateway. Don’t ever command a ship, because once it gets in your blood, there’s no stopping it.” He sucked in a breath and wiped a tear from one eye with his thumb. “God, you know? He’d felt that call … gotten to taste it. I know he would’ve left us after taking his seat on that yacht. And—”
He couldn’t keep going. He pressed the heel of his palm into his brow and sobbed quietly. Nilah placed a hand on his back and left it there; petting her captain was like stroking a lion’s mane. There had only ever been mutual respect between the pair, and a loving, supportive friendship fit them poorly.
“He would’ve been so great,” Cordell said, voice breaking. “Not like me. Never taking my stupid risks.”
To embrace him would’ve been too much, so she took the cigarette from his hand and said, “I’ll share one with you, sir. You could lead me into the dark heart of a black hole, and you know I’d follow.”
“As it happens, Miss Brio, that doesn’t work out for everyone.”
She took a drag, then promptly sputtered out hacking puffs of smoke. The bitter blend tore at her lungs and throat, and a vague nausea descended upon her as her tattoos went bright green. He slapped her on the back, chuckling.
“Boots was right,” Nilah gasped as he took it from her. “That’s a bad habit.”
“We all do stupid crap on this crew, basically a hundred percent of the time,” he muttered around the stick.
She straightened and caught her breath, eyes locked on the stars as the Yamada initiated its jump. Four of the gods were dead, and they’d personally killed three. Henrick Witts’s financial engine would unravel underneath him. They’d destroyed the filthy center of pan-galactic politics in the process.
“That’s what makes us legends, sir.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rendezvous
The Ardor touched down in the staging area of Boots’s farm on Hopper’s Hope, and she winced as it blew another set of barrels down the hill. It released the docking clamps and blasted away, leaving Stetson Giles’s apartment in the middle of her farm. At this rate, she’d have to build a little spaceport if she wanted people to stop wrecking her barrels.
Her transport had, thankfully, taken Stetson’s body off her hands to dispose of it. Her apartment’s insurance policy apparently included “inconveniences,” such as incriminating corpses. Unless she leaked it, no one would ever know what became of the traitor.
Better to consign his fate to obscurity than allow him to be a part of her story.
Boots fetched up the Chalice of Hana and stepped out the door into the dusky evening, taking in the earthy scent of barley. As much as she loved ship life, there was no substitute for the smell of a healthy field.
She took a few shaky steps to her warehouse, adjusting to her planetary weight after being cooped up in a small house with weak gravity for three days. Reaching the door, she set down the cup and dug in her pocket with her good hand for her paragon crystal. The door unlocked just fine.
If she didn’t do this now, she’d lose her nerve.
The scent of steamy sour mash and live yeast wafted from the open portal, and she crept inside. It was after hours, and her employees should’ve been at home resting. Hell, since she wasn’t here to watch them, they’d probably been at home the entire time she was gone—the lazy bastards.
Mash tuns burbled in the hazy light, and Boots wound between them, bound for the press. They used the press to smash leftover barley and corn waste into bricks, which could then be sold offworld for a variety of garbage artisanal breads, soaps, and anything else rich jackasses liked. With her windfall from the Harrow, she’d bought a far more powerful press than she needed. It’d be more than enough to turn the Chalice of Hana into a golden disc.
Boots placed the cup into the press cradle with the sickening feeling that she’d be buying new equipment after crushing something so powerful. She shuttered the gate, yanked down the safety shield, and stepped back to grab the dangling control console. She flipped the arming switch and the piston thrummed to life, priming the pressure chamber.
It’d only take a half kilo of force to press the go button—only a moment of clarity or insanity to remove one of the greatest treasures from the galaxy.
“No one needs this, right, Gemma?” Boots asked the empty mash house.
Even if she kept it, even if she could’ve used it only for good, she couldn’t hold on to it forever. One day, she’d die. Hell, she’d already lived a lot longer than the average person with arcana dystocia. Someone would take it. Someone would gain enough leverage to enslave those around them.
Given the clashes they’d had, that someone would most likely be Henrick Witts.
She pressed the button, and the piston let out a loud buzz as it lowered into place above the cup. When it met the rim of the finely sculpted bowl, its buzz grew deafening. The machine began to shake, and Boots took a few more paces away as golden fissures formed in the surface of the cup like magma under hardened rock. She detected a rising whine, and she decided that maybe staying indoors with the press wasn’t the smartest decision, so she rushed outside.
The sound that cracked through the picturesque valley was like the cannons of old. Boots winced as the windows of her warehouse popped with a lightning flash. Barley-fattened grackles took to the skies in their gibbering flocks.
She crept back inside, and the steady sound of running fluid greeted her ear. To her dismay, she found one of her thousand-liter mash tuns pissing away its product though a small gash in the side. When she reached up to see how bad it was, she pried loose a single golden dove, which had been wedged into the surface. She’d been right to worry about her hydraulic press—the piston had been launched out of the roof like a rocket.
But in the press cradle, she found a half-collapsed chalice bleeding fiery magic, the spray of power sputtering and dying. As the seconds ticked by, it dimmed before finally growing inert.
She pocketed the dove and fetched the patch kit, fixing the leak before she lost more than a few gallons. She half wondered what being struck by a blazing artifact shard would do to a batch of mash. There were plenty of products out there “infused with magic,” but not so many outright attacked by it.
Though she had sworn she wouldn’t partake of her own supply again after Cordell and the others got so wasted, she dipped into her white dog with a tin cup.
Then, she walked over to the crushed Chalice of Hana, the ruined embodiment of her dreams, and proceeded to get too hammered to walk back to her house.
“Hello, Boots!” ca
me Ai’s voice the second she finally stumbled through the door.
“Painkillers,” said Boots.
Her kitchen dispensary lit up with a cherry-scented mixture in a silica cup, and she downed it in one. Pleasure radiated throughout her body as it slid down her throat, a sign of the dispensary’s superior quality. At least one of the mansion upgrades had been worth it.
“You have thirty-two thousand, eight hundred seventy-four new alerts,” said Ai.
“You’re about as useful as marpo perfume,” grunted Boots. “Did you do anything while I was gone?”
“I answered your distillery messages every day.”
“So these … aren’t about Kinnard’s Way? How old are they?”
“The oldest alert is from the day before yesterday,” said Ai. “They’re news items.”
Boots inhaled sharply. The cops would probably be kicking in her door any minute to charge her with some trumped-up crime or another.
Or maybe they’d just go with murder. The Masquerade existed outside of jurisdiction, but surely she’d just made some powerful enemies.
She could add them to her rapidly growing collection.
“Play the newest item, Ai.”
A newscaster spun into being before her, hands folded at his waist in the classic corporate stance.
“Pan-galactic markets soared today with the revelation that Captain Cordell Lamarr and the crew of the Capricious dismantled an illegal contract servicing Henrick Witts. Witts rose to prominence last year with the revelation of the Harrow conspiracy, and authorities have been tracking his movements ever since. Members of the Capricious executed a daring raid on an illegal—”
She swiped him away, and a woman’s torso replaced him.
“Forensic datamancers have taken the so-called Giles Accord and traced market ripples for effect, though experts believe they will only be able to isolate one percent of the companies who participated in the contract. At this point, Taitutian authorities report that they’ve already made two hundred and twenty-eight arrests, with more pending. The Special Branch was able to link the contract to the cult group Children of the Singularity, a Link-based organization that denies the Harrow conspiracy. In the wake of these cases, GATO planets have declared the Children a terror group.”
She swiped again, this time landing on a fresh-faced young man in casual clothes. His hands rested in his pockets, and she could tell from his spiked hair that she’d probably hate the guy.
“So much for freedom of expression! You know, when these people can just roll around the galaxy as they please, blowing up whoever gets in their way, they’re the real tyrants. I, for one, am glad to hear that Vandevere died in the assault. He doesn’t deserve a state funeral. He deserves—”
The glass left her hand before she had a chance to stop it, shattering into silica powder on the far wall. Ai, sensing her agitation, shut down the recording.
“Admiral Benjamin Woods of the Landers,” Ai began, “once said that courting controversy is the surest sign of righteousness.”
Tiny robots skittered out of the wall, brushing away the powder and mopping away droplets of sticky medicine.
“Ai, deactivate whatever subroutine caused you to tell me worthless platitudes,” said Boots. “I don’t need your help.”
A chime. “Acknowledged.”
She shook her head in disgust and made her way to the bedroom, peeling out of her smoky clothes. A nice bath would sort her out. It might at least help her feel like a human being again. She winced as she touched her shoulder stump, which had grown swollen and feverish.
“And call my prosthetic therapist,” she said.
Once the bath was filled with inviting suds and scented water, Boots dipped into her tub, letting the accumulated grime of several days soak from her weary bones. She folded a towel and rested her head at one end, closing her eyes to take in the steam. In the past, she’d always brought a glass of whiskey with her, but with her recent escapade, the thought was less than appealing.
“I have a call for you,” Ai said, projecting the phone interface for her.
“Take a message.”
“It’s Taitutian Special Branch Agent Cedric Weathers. He says it’s important.”
“Watch me not care,” said Boots, hitting the ignore button.
She slid deeper into the tub, looking across the white bubbles like a field of snow. She stared into them, seeing the frosty peaks of Hammerhead, and she could almost feel the chill on her exposed cheeks.
“I have a call for you,” Ai repeated, projecting the phone interface. “It’s Taitutian Special Branch—”
Boots slapped the answer button, sending bits of foam across her floor. “What the hell do you want?”
Cedric Weathers’s face appeared before her, somewhat softened since the last time she saw him. “Good day, Miss Elsworth.”
“I think we have different definitions of ‘good,’ Agent Weathers,” she said, wiping the bubbles from the side of her face. “As you can see, I’m busy saving the galaxy from body odor.”
He smiled. She’d have to mark her calendar.
“I wanted to convey thanks on behalf of the Taitutian government for your actions at the Masquerade.”
You mean the part where I gunned down Stetson, or the part where I lost my first mate?
“And who told you about my ‘actions,’ Agent?”
“Captain Lamarr has given us a full debrief,” Cedric replied. “He’s the one who passed us a copy of the Giles Accord.”
“Cool,” she spat, reaching for the termination button.
“Please wait,” he interrupted. “I’d like to extend an invitation to Taitu for you to receive the Medal of Valor.”
“Box it up and send it over.”
“The ceremony will immediately follow the state funeral of Captain Vandevere.”
“Armin wasn’t a captain,” she said, but her fingers kept their distance from the termination button.
Cedric gave her a pained smile. “It appears there is a lot you don’t know. We’d like to get your side of things.”
“That’s a first.”
“Please, Miss Elsworth. Captain Lamarr has told us he’d value your presence. We can send our fastest ship to fetch you.”
Once again, she found herself with her hand hovering over a button. She could tell them to go away and never bother her again, but she’d probably just be waiting to die at the hands of one of the gods.
Or she could face the fact that the job wasn’t done.
“Send it,” she sighed. “I’ll pack my bags.”
When Nilah arrived on Taitu in the Capricious, her father greeted her at the spaceport. They’d had to cordon it off from journalists and gawkers as a matter of galactic security, though she spotted them at the perimeter fences, hungry for a glimpse of her crew.
Darnell Brio threw his arms around her and picked her up as though she were still a little girl, kissing her forehead and laughing.
When he finally let her feet touch the ground, she said, “I’ve got some news for you.”
He gave her a worried smile and asked, “What news isn’t about you these days?”
“It’s good, Papa, I promise,” she replied as Orna came up beside her.
“We’re getting hitched,” said the quartermaster, chucking him on the shoulder. With a mischievous grin, she added, “Say you don’t mind. I’m not asking.”
Darnell looked from Nilah to Orna, elation swelling up in his breast, then pulled them both in for a bear hug. For the second time, Nilah introduced him to Cordell, Malik, and Aisha, then brought Jeannie and Alister over to see him.
“These are our recent acquisitions,” said Nilah.
“It’s an honor,” said Darnell. “Shall we get back to the estate? I’ve had dinner prepared, and your stepmother would like to meet your friends.”
Nilah grimaced but relented. She wasn’t overly fond of the recently minted Theodora Brio, but her father seemed happy, and that was what mattered. They tr
aveled in a protected escort to the Brio estate, where government security held the perimeter against any and all intrusions.
Upon arrival, they found a courier waiting in the foyer, a sealed case in his hand. Nilah’s father turned to them and said, “I think it’s best if I wait for you in the dining hall.”
The courier strode to Cordell and held out a pad. “Captain Cordell Lamarr? I need you to sign for this.”
Cordell traced his glyph across the pad, which lit green with acceptance. The courier then passed over the case and excused himself.
“What is it?” asked Nilah.
“Damned if I know,” he said, checking for latches.
The others gathered around as he placed it on a table and clicked it open. Inside, they found eight chits, each inscribed with one of their names, as well as a letter. Cordell took the piece of paper and read it aloud to the others.
I, Armin Vandevere, being of sound body and mind, hereby order the law firm of Harris & Lincoln to execute my last will and testament. Over the years, many crew members of the Capricious have come and gone, but Cordell Lamarr and I remained. In troubling days, we learned that we were the last stalwarts against oncoming terror, and we fused like a family. It is my final wish that my cash assets be evenly divided among the crew, the closest thing I have to living relatives.
I’ve never been good at spending money. Enclosed, you’ll find my share of the Harrow salvage, along with much of the rest of my fortune. A portion of my estate has gone to found the Clarkesfall Heritage Museum on Taitu, which should be completed within two years of my demise.
If you’re reading this, I want to apologize. I know how I must’ve seemed to some of you—rude and cruel—and I want to assure everyone that I bore them no ill will.
At least, not after I got to know you better.
I hope that you have all survived me, and this letter isn’t falling upon your families’ heads, further complicating their times of grief.
You’re the most wonderful assortment of people I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting, and I love you all very much.
