Her tab still in hand, she springs onto the gangway. “Hey!” she says, forcing a confidence she doesn’t feel into her voice. “I’m on for this one. Anything I need to know?”
Mohawk guy glances over his shoulder, an expression of bored contempt on his face. He keeps walking, his thick black boots booming on the metal plating.
“Um. Hi?” Hannah catches up to him. “I think this one’s mine?”
She tries to slip past him, but he puts up a meaty hand, blocking her path. “Nice try, rook,” he says, that bored look still on his face. “You’re late. Shift’s mine.”
“What are you talking about?” She swipes a finger across her tab, hunting for the little clock.
“Don’t you have a lens?”
This time it takes Hannah a lot more effort to stay calm. “There,” she says, pointing at her schedule. “I’m not late. I’m supposed to be on at eleven, and it’s …” she finds the clock in the corner of her tab. “Eleven-o-two.”
“My lens says eleven-o-six. Anyway, you’re still late. I get the shift.”
“What? No. Are you serious?”
He ignores her, resuming his walk towards the airlock. As he does, Hannah remembers the words from the handbook the company sent her before she left Titan: Guides who are late for their shift will lose it. Please try not to be late!!!
He can’t do this. He can’t. But who are the crew chiefs going to believe? The new girl? She’ll lose a shift on her first day, which means she’s already in the red, which means that maybe they don’t keep her past her probation. A free shuttle ride back to Titan, and we wish you all the best in your future endeavours.
Anger replaces panic. This might not be her dream job, but it’s work, and at the very least it means she’s going somewhere with her life. She can already see the faces of her parents when she tells them she lost her job, and that is not going to happen. Not ever.
“Is that hair growing out of your ears, too?” she says, more furious than she’s been in a long time. “I said I’m here. It’s my shift.”
He turns to look at her, dumbfounded. “What did you just say?”
Hannah opens her mouth to return fire, but nothing comes out.
Her mom and dad would know. Callista definitely would. Her older sister would understand exactly how to smooth things over, make this asshole see things her way. Then again, there’s no way either her parents or Callie would ever have taken a job like this, so they wouldn’t be in this situation. They’re not here now, and they can’t help her.
“It’s all right, Donnie,” says a voice.
Hannah and Mohawk guy—Donnie—turn to see the supervisor walking up. She’s a young woman, barely older than Hannah, with a neat bob of black hair and a pristine red shirt. Hannah remembers meeting her last night, for about two seconds, but she’s totally blanking on her name. Her gaze automatically goes to the woman’s breast pocket, and she’s relieved to see a badge: Atsuke.
“Come on, boss,” Donnie says. “She was late.” He glances at Hannah, and the expression on his face clearly says that he’s just getting started.
“I seem to remember you being late on your first day.” Atsuke’s voice is pleasant and even, like a newsreader’s.
“And,” Donnie says, as if Atsuke hadn’t spoken. “She was talking bakwas about my hawk. Mad disrespectful. I’ve been here a lot longer than she has, and I don’t see why—”
“Well, to be fair, Donnie, your hair is pretty stupid. Not to mention against regs. I’ve told you that, like, ten times.”
Donnie stares at her, shoulders tight. In response, Atsuke raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow.
He lets out a disgusted sigh, then shoves past them. “You got lucky, rook,” he mutters, as he passes Hannah.
Her chest is tight, like she’s just run a marathon, and she exhales hard. “Thank you so much,” she says to Atsuke. “I’m really sorry I was late—I thought I had enough time to—”
“Hey.” Atsuke puts a hand on her shoulder. “Take a breath. It’s fine.”
Hannah manages a weak smile. Later, she is going to buy Atsuke a drink. Multiple drinks.
“It’s an easy one today,” Atsuke says. “Eight passengers. Barely a third of capacity. Little bit about the station, talk about the war, the treaty, what we got, what the Colonies got, the role Sigma played in everything, get them gawking at the Neb … twenty minutes, in and out. Square?”
She looks down at Hannah’s tab, then glances up with a raised eyebrow.
“My lens is glitching,” Hannah says.
“Right.” This time, Atsuke looks a little less sure. She reaches in her shirt pocket, and hands Hannah a tiny clip-on mic. “Here. Links to the ship automatically. You can pretty much just start talking. And listen: just be cool. Go do this one, and then there’ll be a coffee waiting for you when you get back.”
Forget the drink. She should take out another loan, buy Atsuke shares in the touring company. “I will. I mean, yeah. You got it.”
Atsuke gestures to the airlock at the far end of the gangway. “Get going. And if Volkova gives you any shit, just ignore her. Have fun.”
Hannah wants to ask who Volkova is, but Atsuke is already heading back, and Hannah doesn’t dare follow. She turns, and marches as fast she can towards the Red Panda’s airlock.
if you enjoyed
THE GAME OF LUCK
look out for
A BIG SHIP AT THE EDGE OF THE UNIVERSE
The Salvagers: Book One
by
Alex White
Boots Elsworth was a famous treasure hunter in another life, but now she’s washed up. She makes her meager living faking salvage legends and selling them to the highest bidder, but this time she got something real—the story of the Harrow, a famous warship capable of untold destruction.
Nilah Brio is the top driver in the Pan Galactic Racing Federation and the darling of the racing world—until she witnesses Mother murder a fellow racer. Framed for the murder and on the hunt to clear her name, Nilah has only one lead: the killer also hunts Boots.
On the wrong side of the law, the two women board a smuggler’s ship that will take them on a quest for fame, for riches, and for justice.
Chapter 1
D.N.F.
The straight opened before the two race cars: an oily river, speckled yellow by the evening sun. They shot down the tarmac in succession like sapphire fish, streamers of wild magic billowing from their exhausts. They roared toward the turn, precision movements bringing them within centimeters of one another.
The following car veered to the inside. The leader attempted the same.
Their tires only touched for a moment. They interlocked, and sheer torque threw the leader into the air. Jagged chunks of duraplast glittered in the dusk as the follower’s car passed underneath, unharmed but for a fractured front wing. The lead race car came down hard, twisting eruptions of elemental magic spewing from its wounded power unit. One of its tires exploded into a hail of spinning cords, whipping the road.
In the background, the other blue car slipped away down the chicane—Nilah’s car.
The replay lost focus and reset.
The crash played out again and again on the holoprojection in front of them, and Nilah Brio tried not to sigh. She had seen plenty of wrecks before and caused more than her share of them.
“Crashes happen,” she said.
“Not when the cars are on the same bloody team, Nilah!”
Claire Asby, the Lang Autosport team principal, stood at her mahogany desk, hands folded behind her back. The office looked less like the sort of ultramodern workspace Nilah had seen on other teams and more like one of the mansions of Origin, replete with antique furniture, incandescent lighting, stuffed big-game heads (which Nilah hated), and gargantuan landscapes from planets she had never seen. She supposed the decor favored a pale woman like Claire, but it did nothing for Nilah’s dark brown complexion. The office didn’t have any of the bright, human-centric design and ergonomic bea
uty of her home, but team bosses had to be forgiven their eccentricities—especially when that boss had led them to as many victories as Claire had.
Her teammate, Kristof Kater, chuckled and rocked back on his heels. Nilah rolled her eyes at the pretty boy’s pleasure. They should’ve been checking in with the pit crews, not wasting precious time at a last-minute dressing down.
The cars hovering over Claire’s desk reset and moved through their slow-motion calamity. Claire had already made them watch the footage a few dozen times after the incident: Nilah’s car dove for the inside and Kristof moved to block. The incident had cost her half her front wing, but Kristof’s track weekend had ended right there.
“I want you both to run a clean race today. I am begging you to bring those cars home intact at all costs.”
Nilah shrugged and smiled. “That’ll be fine, provided Kristof follows a decent racing line.”
“We were racing! I made a legal play and the stewards sided with me!”
Nilah loved riling him up; it was far too easy. “You were slow, and you got what you deserved: a broken axle and a bucket of tears. I got a five-second penalty”—she winked before continuing—“which cut into my thirty-three-second win considerably.”
Claire rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Please stop acting like children. Just get out there and do your jobs.”
Nilah held back another jab; it wouldn’t do to piss off the team boss right before a drive. Her job was to win races, not meetings. Silently she and Kristof made their way to the door, and he flung it open in a rare display of petulance. She hadn’t seen him so angry in months, and she reveled in it. After all, a frazzled teammate posed no threat to her championship standings.
They made their way through the halls from Claire’s exotic wood paneling to the bright white and anodized blues of Lang Autosport’s portable palace. Crew and support staff rushed to and fro, barely acknowledging the racers as they moved through the crowds. Kristof was stopped by his sports psychologist, and Nilah muscled past them both as she stepped out into the dry heat of Gantry Station’s Galica Speedway.
Nilah had fired her own psychologist when she’d taken the lead in this year’s Driver’s Crown.
She crossed onto the busy parking lot, surrounded by the bustle of scooter bots and crews from a dozen teams. The bracing rattle of air hammers and the roar of distant crowds in the grandstands were all the therapy she’d need to win. The Driver’s Crown was so close—she could clinch it in two races, especially if Kristof went flying off the track again.
“Do you think this is a game?” Claire’s voice startled her. She’d come jogging up from behind, a dozen infograms swimming around her head, blinking with reports on track conditions and pit strategy.
“Do I think racing is a game? I believe that’s the very definition of sport.”
Claire’s vinegar scowl was considerably less entertaining than Kristof’s anger. Nilah had been racing for Claire since the junior leagues. She’d probably spent more of her teenage years with her principal than her own parents. She didn’t want to disappoint Claire, but she wouldn’t be cowed, either. In truth, the incident galled her—the crash was nothing more than a callow attempt by Kristof to hold her off for another lap. If she’d lost the podium, she would’ve called for his head, but he got what he deserved.
They were a dysfunctional family. Nilah and Kristof had been racing together since childhood, and she could remember plenty of happy days trackside with him. She’d been ecstatic when they both joined Lang; it felt like a sign that they were destined to win.
But there could be only one Driver’s Crown, and they’d learned the hard way the word “team” meant nothing among the strongest drivers in the Pan-Galactic Racing Federation. Her friendship with Kristof was long dead. At least her fondness for Claire had survived the transition.
“If you play dirty with him today, I’ll have no choice but to create some consequences,” said Claire, struggling to keep up with Nilah in heels.
Oh, please. Nilah rounded the corner of the pit lane and marched straight through the center of the racing complex, past the offices of the race director and news teams. She glanced back at Claire who, for all her posturing, couldn’t hide her worry.
“I never play dirty. I win because I’m better,” said Nilah. “I’m not sure what your problem is.”
“That’s not the point. You watch for him today, and mind yourself. This isn’t any old track.”
Nilah got to the pit wall and pushed through the gate onto the starting grid. The familiar grip of race-graded asphalt on her shoes sent a spark of pleasure up her spine. “Oh, I know all about Galica.”
The track sprawled before Nilah: a classic, a legend, a warrior’s track that had tested the mettle of racers for a hundred years. It showed its age in the narrow roadways, rendering overtaking difficult and resulting in wrecks and safety cars—and increased race time. Because of its starside position on Gantry Station, ambient temperatures could turn sweltering. Those factors together meant she’d spend the next two hours slow-roasting in her cockpit at three hundred kilometers per hour, making thousands of split-second, high-stakes decisions.
This year brought a new third sector with more intricate corners and a tricky elevation change. It was an unopened present, a new toy to play with. Nilah longed to be on the grid already.
If she took the podium here, the rest of the season would be an easy downhill battle. There were a few more races, but the smart money knew this was the only one that mattered. The harmonic chimes of StarSport FN’s jingle filled the stadium, the unofficial sign that the race was about to get underway.
She headed for the cockpit of her pearlescent-blue car. Claire fell in behind her, rattling off some figures about Nilah’s chances that were supposed to scare her into behaving.
“Remember your contract,” said Claire as the pit crew boosted Nilah into her car. “Do what you must to take gold, but any scratch you put on Kristof is going to take a million off your check. I mean it this time.”
“Good thing I’m getting twenty mil more than him, then. More scratches for me!” Nilah pulled on her helmet. “You keep Kristof out of my way, and I’ll keep his precious car intact.”
She flipped down her visor and traced her mechanist’s mark across the confined space, whispering light flowing from her fingertips. Once her spell cemented in place, she wrapped her fingers around the wheel. The system read out the stats of her sigil: good V’s, not great on the Xi, but a healthy cast.
Her magic flowed into the car, sliding around the finely tuned ports, wending through channels to latch onto gears. Through the power of her mechanist’s mark, she felt the grip of the tires and spring of the rods as though they were her own legs and feet. She joined with the central computer of her car, gaining psychic access to radio, actuation, and telemetry. The Lang Hyper 8, a motorsport classic, had achieved phenomenal performance all season in Nilah’s hands.
Her psychic connection to the computer stabilized, and she searched the radio channels for her engineer, Ash. They ran through the checklist: power, fuel flow, sigil circuits, eidolon core. Nilah felt through each part with her magic, ensuring all functioned properly. Finally, she landed on the clunky Arclight Booster.
It was an awful little PGRF-required piece of tech, with high output but terrible efficiency. Nilah’s mechanist side absolutely despised the magic-belching beast. It was as ugly and inelegant as it was expensive. Some fans claimed to like the little light show when it boosted drivers up the straights, but it was less than perfect, and anything less than perfect had to go.
“Let’s start her up, Nilah.”
“Roger that.”
Every time that car thrummed to life, Nilah fell in love all over again. She adored the Hyper 8 in spite of the stonking flaw on his backside. Her grip tightened about the wheel and she took a deep breath.
The lights signaled a formation lap and the cars took off, weaving across the tarmac to keep the heat in their tires. They
slipped around the track in slow motion, and Nilah’s eyes traveled the third sector. She would crush this new track design. At the end of the formation lap, she pulled into her grid space, the scents of hot rubber and oil smoke sweet in her nose.
Game time.
The pole’s leftmost set of lights came on: five seconds until the last light.
Three cars ahead of her, eighteen behind: Kristof in first, then the two Makina drivers, Bonnie and Jin. Nilah stared down the Makina R-27s, their metallic livery a blazing crimson.
The next pair of lights ignited: four seconds.
The other drivers revved their engines, feeling the tuning of their cars. Nilah echoed their rumbling engines with a shout of her own and gave a heated sigh, savoring the fire in her belly.
Three seconds.
Don’t think. Just see.
The last light came on, signaling the director was ready to start the race.
Now, it was all about reflexes. All the engines fell to near silence.
One second.
The lights clicked off.
Banshee wails filled the air as the cars’ power units screamed to life. Nilah roared forward, her eyes darting over the competition. Who was it going to be? Bonnie lagged by just a hair, and Jin made a picture-perfect launch, surging up beside Kristof. Nilah wanted to make a dive for it but found herself forced in behind the two lead drivers.
They shot down the straight toward turn one, a double apex. Turn one was always the most dangerous, because the idiots fighting for the inside were most likely to brake too late. She swept out for a perfect parabola, hoping not to see some fool about to crash into her.
The back of the pack was brought up by slow, pathetic Cyril Clowe. He would be her barometer of race success. If she could lap him in a third of the race, it would be a perfect run.
“Tell race control I’m lapping Clowe in twenty-five,” Nilah grunted, straining against the g-force of her own acceleration. “I want those blue flags ready.”
The Game of Luck Page 39
