by Megan Crewe
“I appreciate you taking the time to listen,” Thlo says.
Her gaze skims the room, and stops for a moment on the monitor, as if she’s looking straight at us. My heart stutters. Then her eyes flick away.
Everyone gets up to leave. I peer at the three figures who emerge from the back of the room as they head out the door, but I only catch brief glimpses of their profiles. I think one is the man Britta identified as the head of Security. Thlo lingers, fiddling with something on her display. Silmeru pauses, touches her shoulder, and says something too low for us to hear. She heads out. As the door closes behind her, Thlo raises her head.
I stiffen as she walks straight to the monitor. She stares at it—at us. Then she reaches toward it and the feed cuts out.
Win swears under his breath and shuts down the tablet. Before he can return it to its shelf, the closet door opens. Thlo crosses her arms in front of her, her eyes narrowing further when her gaze slides from Win to me.
“Well,” she says, in a tone that demands an explanation.
“We didn’t know you’d be here,” Win says hastily, stepping forward to meet her. “We saw that Silmeru had a meeting scheduled at an unusual time, with no one else listed—we thought she was meeting her source, and we might find out who’s betraying us.”
“We?” Thlo repeats. I can’t tell how angry she is . . . or if she’s angry at all. “You, I’m not completely surprised. Why was it necessary to involve her?”
“It was my idea,” I put in. I’m not letting Win take the blame. “I thought maybe I’d observe something that would lead us to the traitor.”
“I told you to stand down,” she says, turning her attention to me.
“You said I shouldn’t try doing the functions anymore . . .” I trail off when her mouth tightens. Okay, she’s definitely angry.
“Consider it a blanket order now,” she says.
I’ve got nothing to lose, then. “What were you proposing to them?” I ask. “What was this meeting about?”
“Can we see . . .” Win glances past her toward the table, where the displays have flickered out.
Thlo waves off the questions with a twitch of her hand.
“That’s my end of the mission,” she says. “I’ll solve our remaining problems after the generator is disabled—that’s all you need to know.” She pauses. “But it seems we haven’t been keeping you busy enough, Skylar. I believe I have a new job for you.”
20.
A digitized voice barks out an instruction, and I slide my hand over the steering control, easing the simulated jet-pod view screen to the right. The image shudders. Apparently I pushed it too far, into a bit of orbiting debris I didn’t notice in time. Oops.
I flop back on my bunk as the computer terminal returns to the start of the simulation. It’s the third in a series Thlo had Isis bring over. A series meant to prepare me for the job she has in mind: copiloting an actual jet-pod when we make our second expedition down to the planet next week.
The thought of it, of venturing out of the station in that tiny ship surrounded by the cold emptiness of space, sends a chill through me. With the navigation program, I was just looking, reporting, not doing the physical maneuvers myself. This job is a lot more dangerous.
I suspect that’s exactly why Thlo assigned it to me. So that if the traitor betrays us again, if we’re caught or something else goes wrong, the group will lose me instead of someone more important. She dressed it up with talk about how quickly I’ve picked up the other tech skills, but the words she used when we were gathered around Britta’s slack body are still with me. I’m expendable. Maybe even more so in her mind, now that she knows I was willing to go behind her back with my investigations.
Well, if I can handle this and come out alive, it might prove that I’m not so expendable after all. To her and to me.
I’m about halfway through my sixth run at level three when Jule knocks on my door. I startle, and the pod goes sailing off into a satellite. I hadn’t realized he’d gotten home. My stomach grumbles, confirming it’s well into dinnertime.
I wave at the door and it opens to reveal Jule posed casually outside. “Hey,” he says. “How’re you doing?”
“Ready to take a break from this and eat,” I say, standing up and stretching. Jule’s gaze follows the curves of my body with an appreciation that tingles over my skin. But the smile he gives me is oddly shy.
“You remember you were talking the other day about missing home?” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Well . . . I thought I could help with that.”
A couple of steps into the main room, my legs stall. The large table is up, and covered with food: food that isn’t in packets or made of some unidentifiable substance. There’s . . . there’s an apple. And an orange, and a pear. Two hunks of cheese, one yellow, one white with blue veins. A container holding three eggs. A bunch of carrots. A box of granola cereal. A small carton of milk. A package of macaroni noodles and a jar of marinara sauce. Peanut butter and crackers. A bar of dark chocolate.
I think my eyes are going to fall out of my head. It’s real. I can smell it, the cheese, the fruit. My mouth has filled with saliva. I waver on my feet.
“I waited until the next Earth cargo haul came in, so it’s all as fresh as possible,” Jule says. “And I wasn’t sure what you like, so I got things I won’t mind eating. Anything you don’t want, I’ll take.”
He’s using that glib tone of his, the one he always falls back into no matter what we’ve been talking about, like it’s no big deal. But I know it is. If Earth food were easy to come by, he’d be drinking five cups of coffee a day. This spread—it must have cost a fortune.
To bring a little piece of my home to me.
Sudden tears prick my eyes. My hand gropes out, twining my fingers around his. Right then, I don’t ever want to let go. I wasn’t sure he understood, but he must have, better than I knew.
The shyness I thought I saw earlier has vanished. Jule directs me to the table, a mischievous light in his eyes. “So what shall we start with? I can even cook! One of my many skills.”
“Which you practice so often,” I say dryly, past the thickness in my throat. I haven’t seen him handle anything but coffee and packets in the weeks I’ve lived here. “Um, I think I’ll start with the basics.” I grab the yellow cheese and the box of crackers, and plunk myself down on the bench.
“Then I claim one of the eggs,” he says, snatching up the foam container. “You’ll regret doubting me.”
The first couple bites, all I can focus on is the soft cheese crumbling against my fingertips, the crunch of the cracker between my teeth, my mouth flooding with the grainy, salty, creamy taste Kemyate foods can’t emulate. I’d almost forgotten how good food could be when it’s not just a bunch of nutrients synthesized together with artificial flavoring.
Jule flips down a panel from the wall beneath the cupboards, fiddles with a control on the side, and then cracks the egg. It starts to sizzle the instant it hits the panel. I watch as he pokes at it with a tool like a narrow spatula, and a strange little ache forms in my chest.
Maybe this wasn’t such a big deal to him, really. From everything I’ve heard, he has plenty of credits to throw around. It could be just one more way to charm the girl who’s around right now. Requiring as little thought as breathing.
I have to remember that. Because the sensation passing through me as he shoots me that challenge of a smile isn’t just one of fun and games, a quick fling to pass the time. It’s the distinctive feeling of falling.
Several hours later, I wake up to the muffled tone of the doorbell and the impression that it’s penetrated my dreams more than once already. I yawn, my head bleary. The lights are too dim for it to be morning.
The Enforcers, I think, and my body goes rigid. I lie still, listening. Jule must have roused in the other bedroom, because a few seconds later, the tone cuts out.
“There you are!” hollers a vaguely familiar voice. “I tol
d you Jule would be good for it.”
Laughter filters through my bedroom door. I sit up, debating whether I’d rather stay hidden in here not knowing what’s happening or go out and put myself in the middle of it. The uncertainty starts to gnaw at me. I smooth out my rumpled clothes and step into the main room.
Hain, the girl I’m guessing is dating Hain, the creepy hazel-eyed guy, and another guy who was here the other evening have tramped into Jule’s apartment. “Hey, it’s the Earthling!” Hain says, raising the can he’s holding. “She can join in too.”
They’re grinning, in a spacey way that makes me wonder what they were doing before they showed up here. From their clothes, it appears a costume party? They’re all wearing knockoffs from Earth cultures—not the Kemyate-adapted versions Tabzi’s friends were into, but garish facsimiles like my “prom dress,” which look like they’re meant solely for amusement. Hain has on a suede beaded Native American ensemble, Hazel Eyes Elizabethan tights and a tunic, the girl a gauzy wrap, and the guy a brightly colored poncho. Hazel Eyes is holding a plastic string with several more cans dangling from it, and Hain has a cloth pouch in his hand.
Jule is squinting at the bunch of them as if he hasn’t quite woken up. “What are you talking about?” he mutters.
“We ran into Misoni at Tekala,” the girl says, and giggles.
“She had the good stuff,” Hain says, stretching out the word for “good.” “And she was . . . I won.”
The word he said that I don’t know sounds like chamari. It tugs at my memory. I’ve heard that before . . .
“There’s got to be at least ten doses,” Hain goes on. “We just need somewhere to . . . You provide the space, and that’ll pay for your share.”
Jule takes the pouch from him and pokes it open, looking skeptical. I can’t see the contents from where I’m standing, but whatever it is, he shakes his head.
“No way,” he says, and switches to Kemyate as if he’s not sure they’ll understand him otherwise. “You’re already too . . . You shouldn’t use this stuff unless you have a clear enough head to make sure you do it right.”
“You’re fine,” Hazel Eyes whines. “You can measure the doses.”
“Useless as they are, I’m not taking your lives into my hands,” Jule says. “And you know how much trouble I’d be in if this is found in my apartment?”
Hain makes a dismissive swipe with his hand. “Like you couldn’t buy off the Enforcers ten times over. Give it back, then. We’ll find a real friend to share it with.”
Jule jerks the pouch out of his reach. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Get some sleep, sort yourselves out. You can come back for it tomorrow.”
Hain swears at him and steps closer, his eyes flashing. I edge toward them, momentarily sidetracked from trying to place that word. I don’t know how much help I’d be in a fight, but I’m not about to stand by and watch if they go at Jule.
Jule scowls and straightens up, emphasizing his three or four inches over Hain, and Hain retreats. “All right, all right,” he grumbles. “But I’m going to check to make sure you haven’t skimmed any!”
With my attention on Hain, I hadn’t noticed the girl studying me. “Your pet seems . . . tonight,” she says.
My pulse hiccups. I’ve forgotten to keep up my act. I make my shoulders go slack as she saunters up to me, letting my gaze drift over the others and back to her. Her own eyes are glazed. But I was obviously behaving oddly enough for her to notice even in her intoxicated state.
“Are you upset, Earthling?” she asks in singsongy English.
I blink at her, willing my voice to stay flat. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Your owner is just being a . . .” She says a Kemyate word I think translates roughly to spoilsport. But she keeps staring at me, as if she’s waiting for my facade to break. I grope for something to distract her.
“Your dress is very nice,” I say.
She glances down at it, and laughs. “Yes, you would think so.” Her curiosity dims, and she looks to Hain. “Jule’s no fun. Let’s get out of here.”
“Happy to,” Hain says sourly. The four of them shuffle out into the hall. Jule enters a command into the panel by the door, and presses his hand against his forehead with a sigh.
“No one’s getting ahold of us for the rest of the night unless it’s an emergency,” he says.
I let out my breath, the tension I was fighting so hard to hide washing out of me.
“What was that all about?” I ask. “Those clothes . . .” I’d laugh if it didn’t make my skin crawl seeing them play dress-up with my planet’s cultures.
“It’s a thing,” Jule says. “A stupid thing. They think they’re being ironic, but they’re just being morons.”
“Is that what this Tekala place is for?”
“Not really,” Jule says. “They were probably goofing off somewhere else, drank too much of the wrong drinks, and then wandered over there not thinking about how idiotic they look. Tekala’s more . . . It’s somewhere between what you’d call a bar and a nightclub on Earth.”
My mind trips back to the word that was familiar and yet not. “Hain said something about . . . someone doing chamari there?”
“Language Learner hasn’t caught you up on illicit activities yet?” Jule says with a half smile. “That’s gambling. One of the many not-entirely-approved pastimes that go on in those clubs. If you know the right people to talk to, you can get hooked up with black market trades, this stuff . . .” He bounces the pouch in his hand.
Gambling. Who would have been talking about gambling? I prod my memory, but my sudden waking has left my mind hazy.
“That’s some kind of drug?” I nod to the pouch. “I didn’t think Kemyates would be into getting high.” Even that weird tipsy beverage doesn’t seem to make them anywhere near drunk.
“Not in theory,” Jule says. “And like I said, no one exactly approves. But in practice . . . People can get stir-crazy when all you’ve got is one enclosed city and a bunch of empty space to jet around in. Sometimes they don’t find their recreation in the most respectable ways. But this stuff is the worst.”
“It’d hurt them?”
“It’s essentially a neurotoxin,” he says with a grimace. “Very carefully refined, of course, but still . . . You get an intense, extended trip up here.” He taps his head. “And in the meantime it paralyzes your body from there down. Take too large a dose, or more than one too close together, you get permanent nerve damage. I’ve never tried it. Not worth the risk.”
He goes over to the opening I’ve come to think of as the garbage chute, bends down, and pauses. Then he swears at Hain. He straightens up, and instead nudges aside some of the packets in one of his cabinets to reveal a data panel I’ve noticed before.
“This is worth a month’s spare credits to him,” he says. “Probably won’t even remember giving it to me, the state he was in, but he’ll be pissed off if he does and he finds out I tossed it.”
“And it’d be such a shame to see him disappointed.”
Jule chuckles. “You don’t have to spend the rest of your life putting up with the guy.”
He says that, but some part of him obviously cares. Jule mentioned he could get into trouble for even having the drug here, but it was more important to him to make sure his friends, whatever else he thinks of them, didn’t take it with their judgment impaired. I have the urge to ask him about Hain, about growing up stuck with him as a constant familial presence, but if Jule wanted to talk about the subject more seriously, he wouldn’t be so flip about it, would he?
I watch as he taps in the code, noting the numbers automatically. 8-3-4-1-5. I wonder if they have some significance to him. Another question that might sound too prying.
The panel pops open, revealing a space behind it—a sort of safe, I suppose. Jule pokes the pouch inside, shuts the panel, and slides the packets back into place. Then he gives me a weary smile. “Sorry they woke you up.”
I shrug, a
nd then roll my shoulders, testing the tension in them. I’m sleepy, but I’m also too wired to go right back to sleep. “I think I’ll practice my piloting skills a little more before I go back to bed.”
Jule’s eyebrows arch and he ambles over.
“If you’re going to be up anyway, I can think of something else we could practice.”
“Oh, yeah?” I say. A pleasant shiver races through me when he brushes his fingers down my face. “I thought we’d gotten in quite a bit of that already.”
“Apparently not enough,” he says. “You insinuated that my skills weren’t up to snuff.”
“I said that about your cooking,” I say, swatting him. “I don’t remember making any complaints later.”
He just leans closer. His lips graze my cheek.
“Tell me to stop, then.”
“I will,” I assure him. My fingers, without consulting the rest of me, have curled into the fabric of his shirt. He doesn’t move, only waits for the rest of my response. “Just . . . not quite yet.”
I feel his smile against my skin a moment before his mouth finds mine.
21.
As Jule guessed, Hain must have forgotten where he stashed his recreational substance, because he doesn’t turn up the next morning to claim it. The incident keeps niggling at me until after lunch, when I look up the place his friends said they bought the drugs. Tekala. The station map shows me a location in Ward 86. The description I’m able to find mentions food and drink, but, I suppose not surprisingly, nothing about the other activities Jule mentioned. Black market. Drugs. Gambling. Chamari.
The word tickles at me the way it did last night. I pause, letting my thoughts drift. I know I heard someone say that . . .
A hazy room with a starlit ceiling pops into my head. The function. Silmeru. Her conversation with the other woman comes back to me in a rush. She said it, I think when she was talking about the guy who’s passing on information from our traitor—her source. Suggesting it made him unreliable? I guess being a gambler would fit.
