Marked

by Jenny Martin

  I glance at my reflection in the gleam-gray surface. I’m fuzzy and faceless. Above, the red eye of a security camera blinks at us.

  Too quickly, the reflection slides away. I flinch as it disappears. The door’s opening.

  And someone is waiting for us.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  AT THE THRESHOLD, WE FACE A YOUNG MAN IN A VERY SHARP, very dark, very expensive-looking suit. Without a word, Fahrat nudges us forward, then takes a step back. Just as quickly as it opened, the door closes behind us. Between us. Our guide is gone.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Van Zant.” The man in the suit bows politely. “Ms. Yamada.”

  Miyu returns the gesture, but I don’t answer. I’m still in shock, staring at the world behind him. This isn’t some shabby underground blast shelter or a clandestine little vault. My eyes sweep over the flex walls, the grand statues, the crystal chandeliers. I breathe in the scent of fresh-cut limonfleur and fine leather shoes and freshly polished floors. It reeks like the Spire, and that doesn’t exactly put me at ease. Only difference is, there are no security guards. Beyond our host, we are very much alone.

  He must read my alarm. Smiling, he leans forward slightly as his hand sweeps out in invitation.

  “My apologies,” he says. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sindal, and I’m here to assist you. Welcome to the First Interstellar Bank of Manjor.”

  “Well, rust me . . .” I mutter under my breath.

  Miyu raises an eyebrow, but Sindal doesn’t even blink. “Yes, Ms. Van Zant. We are the largest financial institution on the planet, thanks to the prudent investment of—”

  “Mother,” Miyu interrupts. The word slips out like something foreign at best. “This place is one of her holdings.”

  “Oh, a secret underground bank?” I half whisper to her. “Yeah, that’s not something you might have mentioned before.”

  Miyu dodges the sarcasm. “Well, I’ve never been here. Grace told me we’d be escorted to James’s vault, but I’ve never been allowed down here before.”

  Grace. Not “Mother.” No, that was a one-time slip.

  I look back at Sindal. “There’s no one else here.”

  “Of course. We operate by appointment only,” he answers. “This is a special branch. Here, we serve the more sensitive needs of our interstellar clients. The highest level of security and discretion are guaranteed.”

  And that’s when things click into place. Bet Miyu would never admit it, but Sindal probably knows more than she does. It must sting to work for your own mother strictly on a need-to-know basis. I glance at Miyu’s face. For the first time, I see beyond the half smile. I read a trace of embarrassment.

  “Well, I guess you’re allowed now.” I shrug out of my robes and chuck them at Sindal. “Not too shabby. But what’s a girl gotta do to slip into her own super-secret vault already?”

  The sass pins the confidence back on Miyu’s face. She tosses her own disguise at him, and it’s a small victory. Mr. Preening Branch Manager—I’m sure he’s less than thrilled to carry our dirty clothes.

  “Yes, Ms. Van Zant,” he answers, a shade more meekly. “Right this way.”

  We finish crossing the lobby, then turn into a long corridor. At the end, there’s an elevator. A stone-faced guard waits inside. I’m not prepared for the light show that starts the moment we step into the elevator. The lasers sweep over us, just as they did in the armory, at my hearing.

  “Authenticating,” a female AI voice purrs. The security guard stands with his hands clasped behind his back. Stock-still, he hardly looks at us.

  The lights sweep over me once more. “Identification complete,” the voice finally declares; then the doors close and the elevator begins to descend.

  “Rest assured,” Sindal explains during the drop, “at First Bank, you’ll enjoy an unparalleled level of security. Every inch of our premises is monitored, and our authentication protocol is failsafe. In a matter of seconds, we’re able to rule out anomalies.”

  “Anomalies?” I ask.

  “They’re making sure you’re not an impostor,” Miyu answers. “The system’s equipped to verify your identity. The scanners detect heat signatures, check retinal patterns, read fingerprints, etc. Although, these are probably due for an upgrade . . .”

  I really, really want to roll my eyes. Instead, I just let her keep going. And she obliges. Because apparently Miyu is a fully functional, completely fascinating wind-up genius. “Honestly,” she says. “Do you have any idea what a headache bio-index interfacing is with these old things? There’s a point-six-second lag with this hardware, but none with the latest models. But then again, system updates are such a pain in the exhaust.”

  “Oh yeah?” I’m not exactly sure what’s she talking about, but I appreciate her breaking it down for me. Sindal’s not as impressed. He inspects his fingernails. The security guard barely blinks. “So,” I say to Miyu. “You’re a crack pilot and a tech expert?”

  “Not at all. My girlfriend’s an intern at AltaGen. Research and development,” she says. “That’s her day job, at least.”

  “What else does she do?”

  Miyu smiles. “Let’s just say she takes on a lot of freelance work.”

  I don’t have the chance to pry any deeper. The elevator stops and the doors open.

  “Here we are,” Sindal says. He steps out, and we follow.

  There it is. What we’ve come for. Right in front of me: a massive armored entrance.

  Immediately, we’re scanned again, baptized in another grid of red laser light. A second later, there’s a pressurized gasp, the metallic snap of bolt after bolt after bolt, and the motorized buzz of a yawning hinge. It hums through me like a signal, a hundred-decibel warning that my future’s about to be irrevocably altered. I take a deep breath.

  The vault opens.

  Sindal and the security guard lead us inside the vault. Each part of the room seems to tell a different story. According to a large panel of gray-faced, closed safety-deposit drawers, this is just another part of the bank. But the luxe rugs on the floor, the table and chairs—they whisper comfort and living space. Through an open doorway, I see a bedroom, and I’m pretty sure we’ve stumbled into the planet’s swankiest subterranean apartment.

  But it’s the desk that draws my eye. I have seen this flex-topped monster of a table before, or at least one like it, in another place, on another planet, not more than four months ago. The high-backed chair behind it swivels our way.

  For a second, I’m not sure if my legs are going to give out. But the panic attack doesn’t come. Instead, a different shot of jarring anxiety hits. Relief. Rage. Joy. Grief. It’s as if all my emotions have been dumped into one combustible fuel cell, then locked, loaded, and fired.

  My uncle James stands up.

  “It’s good to see you too, Phee.” He doesn’t smile. No, he doesn’t dare. But he’d like to, I can rusting well tell. Which makes me want to crack his skull. I thought he was dead. They said he was . . .

  “Son of a . . .” I say, my voice already tightening into a croak. “You mother-rusting son of a bitch.”

  I lunge toward the table, but Sindal drops our bundle of robes and reaches out to stop me. Lucky for him, the security guard catches me first. The guy gets an arm around my waist, and I can’t quite slip out of his hold. I’m about two seconds from elbowing him exactly where it hurts when James starts in.

  “Phee, calm down,” he says, inching closer. He approaches like a wild-animal handler.

  “They said you were dead.” I’m losing it, squeaking out the words.

  “Before you climb over the desk and punch me in the face . . . you need to understand that everything I’ve done has been for your own good.”

  “I didn’t know where you were, or if you were alive . . . and I thought . . . You should’ve . . .” I say, half breathless. Then I tw
ist and growl at the guard. “Get off of me!”

  “Let her go,” James orders. “For sun’s sake, just let her go and be done with it.”

  When the bodyguard complies, I nearly tumble to the floor. Miyu reaches out just in time, and I cling to her arm, catching my balance. “For the record, I think you’re allowed to punch him in the face,” she murmurs as I recover.

  I let go. I rush James until we’re nose to nose. Or nose to sternum, as it were. I look up and pretend I’m taller.

  “Phee, do we have to do this? I’d rather skip this bit.” He takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose.

  I stare at him, but the fury’s already dead and gone. He closes in for an embrace, and I find myself reaching back. When the corners of my lips start turning up, I don’t even try to resist the pull.

  “I was so worried about you,” James says, still squeezing the life out of me.

  For a moment, I freeze. Care and concern? This is a first for us. A few months ago, I didn’t even know my uncle existed. Then he became the architect of my escape. But a part of me always kept him at arm’s length. I still haven’t gotten used to the idea that we’re actually family.

  “I am so worried about you,” he says again.

  I pull back. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

  He appraises me. “I don’t think you are, Phee.”

  I shake him off. I turn away and slump into the seat at the far end of the table.

  “We need to talk,” he says.

  He looks at our audience. I’d almost forgotten that Sindal and Miyu and the guard were still here. “Would you three mind excusing us for a bit?” James asks. “My niece and I have some catching up to do.”

  They all turn to leave, but I look at Miyu. After all the trouble she’s gone through to get me here, I won’t let James dismiss her. “She stays,” I tell him. “Whatever you’ve got to say, you can say it in front of her.”

  “Very well,” he says. He gestures at a seat between us. “Please join us, Ms. Yamada.”

  Miyu nods, and she makes her way to the desk. After she sits, Sindal and the guard slip away without another word, leaving us alone in the vault.

  “First things first,” James says. “We need to talk about your—”

  I cut him off. “No. First, you’ve got some explaining to do. Where have you been, why did you keep this from me, and what happened to Cash?”

  All the light in James’s eyes dies when I ask him about Cash. And then I know: There won’t be a surprise ending or happy reunion. He’s not summoning his bodyguard to fetch a lost prince from another room.

  “What happened?” I press.

  “I went into hiding as soon as the rally started.”

  I remember that day. Every second of it. Including the last time I saw James. Before my last race, he told me not to worry, and swore he had a hundred places to hide, should our escape plans fall apart. I guess I should’ve taken him at his word.

  “Benroyal searched your vac,” I say. “It was waiting, but you weren’t there.”

  “I’m not stupid. I left it there to throw Benroyal off. He never had me, and he never will.”

  “But Hank said—”

  “Hank knew nothing. This was my emergency contingency, and I couldn’t risk him or you or anyone else getting interrogated. Outside these walls, Grace Yamada is the only other person who knows I’m here. She can be trusted.”

  Miyu shrugs, as if she knows just as little as I do.

  “You should’ve prepared me,” I say to him.

  “I did what I had to.”

  And there it is, the default answer for everything. I had to. I was protecting you. Just follow along and do as I say. It’s for your own good. But I don’t say any of this out loud, because I’m tired of our little dance. He keeps secrets and I keep fighting to pry them loose. “You haven’t answered me. What happened to Cash?”

  “Honestly?” He sighs, then splays his fingers over the tabletop. “I don’t know.”

  I don’t have any sarcasm left. I have to swallow hard, just to get anything out. “Someone has to know, James.”

  “I’ve used every resource I have, but none of my contacts have been able to dig up any leads. After the ambush . . .”

  He stops, and I wonder if it’s because he knows. Just the word waylays me. It’s the trapdoor that swings beneath my feet. I put my elbows on the table and rest my head in my hands. When my hair falls in my face, I rake my fingers through it to mask the shakes.

  “After the ambush,” he says again. “Hank sent two squads to find Cash. There was no trace of him left at the old rebel base, and no one’s seen him since the day of the attack. Even my eyes in Interstellar Patrol have uncovered nothing.”

  “We have allies in the IP?” Miyu asks.

  “Of course we do.” He glances at her, then me. “Not many, but enough to know Cash isn’t being held in any of the usual prisons or interrogation holes. He’s not here or on Castra. If he were, I would’ve heard about it. I know you don’t want to hear this, Phee, but maybe it’s time to accept the reality of the situation.”

  I raise my head. “I can’t accept it. You don’t know. Even the newsfeeds admit there was no body. And the clip they keep showing isn’t real. Maybe he’s still alive.”

  “The newsfeeds say what Benroyal wants them to say. You know that. All signs point to execution. Benroyal would’ve done it quickly and quietly. He wouldn’t leave things to chance. Cash was a liability, and he wouldn’t have been allowed to survive.”

  I pull my hands under the table, where they can tremble out of sight. I don’t beg James to let me have this hope. I don’t tell him that my days are just something to survive, and that cold sweat is my new default, and that since I’ve been blown apart, dreams of Cash are the only things still holding me together. Instead, I let something else stitch its way through. I let the anger fuel me.

  “Don’t talk that way,” I snap. “Don’t use words like liability to describe Cash. I hate it when you talk like this. You sound like a Sixer.”

  “I’m a realist,” he protests.

  “Well, good for you.” I inhale sharply as the memory floats up. Cash and I, bickering outside racing HQ. I have to believe in impossible things, he’d said. I was the cynic then. Now I strain so hard to cling to that open-hearted faith. “I’d rather fight.”

  “You misunderstand me,” he says. “No one’s giving up. I just think it’s time to move forward.”

  “I am moving forward.”

  He starts to argue, but Miyu interrupts. “At this juncture, does it matter if he’s alive or dead?”

  We both answer at the same time. “It matters.”

  “In the long run, yes,” she says. “But for now, perhaps you should both consider him missing in action. Keep your eyes open, in case he’s alive. Fight in his stead, as if he’ll never return.”

  My uncle stares at her.

  I nod. “All right, I follow. Missing in action.”

  “Good. Then why speak as if you’re at cross-purposes? You aren’t. You both support Prince Dradha’s rebellion. You both have a common enemy. Phee, you’re a fugitive of great import, and Mr. Anderssen, you’re an invisible player with incredible resources at your disposal. You can work together. It’s not so complicated.”

  “Miyu Yamada.” My uncle laughs, bitterly amused. “So pragmatic. You sound like your mother.”

  He’d meant it as a compliment, but I swear, she almost winces. This time, I rescue her.

  “She’s right. We’re not here to argue. Maybe you’d like to talk about what I am here for,” I say. The gut-sick wave begins to pass. I pull my hands from my lap and rest them on the table. “Let’s get down to business.”

  With a swipe of his hand and a few taps on the flex glass, James pulls up a dozen screens. He reaches out and brings one docume
nt to the forefront. He enlarges it, until the tabletop’s a sea of white space and dense, black text.

  “What is this?” I look at him, but he doesn’t answer.

  Miyu swipes through the document. Her eyes scan so quickly; I watch her take it all in. “Grace’s handiwork?” she asks him.

  “I made certain every clause is in order and she made sure every credit’s clean.” James nods, and rust if they aren’t trading the same self-satisfied looks. “We deposited them into a hundred different numbered accounts. Untraceable.”

  “Would anyone like to tell me what’s going on?” I ask. “Is this about Locus?”

  Miyu’s gaze flicks between James and me.

  “Locus is dead now,” he says. “I stole every bit of its liquid capital. More than seventy billion credits.”

  The sum takes my breath, but Miyu’s unfazed.

  “Technically, you can’t steal from yourself,” she corrects.

  “Drained it, then. Repurposed it.” He stares at me. “Take a look, Phee.”

  He pulls up the last page of the document and taps at the signature lines. His name is listed, and so is mine—it’s the only blank left; he’s already signed.

  My eyes sweep the screen.

  I hereby relinquish all my . . .

  The realization dawns on me, and for a moment, my brain stutters. Sure, maybe I’d seen this coming. Maybe I’d entertained illusions about safety-deposit boxes stuffed with gold and Pallurium and stocks, and I’d fantasized about handing it all over to the rebellion. Here, take this. Fix everything. Build a resistance. But now that we’re here, I see how childish those delusions truly are. I look down at the table again. This is real. My future’s staring me in the face, and I’m not prepared.

  Stunned, I blink at James. I brace for a familiar reaction—one of his irritated sighs or patronizing looks. But his expression’s quiet and unguarded. “The Anderssen fortune. Everything I have left . . .” he says. “I’m giving it to you.”

  “But you’re still alive.” I pause. When I breathe out the next words, I’m not even sure if it’s a question or not. “You’re serious . . .”