“What did you say?” Rocha asks suddenly from beside me, and I nearly jump. So captivated by her dancing I had completely forgotten he was even here.
“It’s a quote by Friedrich Nietzsche.” He looks at me blankly. “Nineteenth-century human philosopher?” Still nothing. “Never mind,” I sigh, rolling my eyes.
Rocha grabs the sleeve of my SylkSteel duster coat, jerking my attention back toward him. “I don’t care what Quantum policy is, I won’t have you insulting Miss Kirikiri in that language,” he spits out angrily.
I arch my eyebrows at him, debating whether I should point out that Miss Kirikiri is a daemon and thus—like me—speaks Daemotic. “Stay easy, I wasn’t insulting your girlfriend.”
Rocha’s cheeks redden as he releases his hold on my coat sleeve. “She’s…she’s not my girlfriend.”
“Oh stars, Kealan wonders why?” I mumble sarcastically under my breath in Daemotic.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” I sigh.
“No, you said Kealan, I heard you,” Rocha snaps accusingly, his eyes narrowing. “Who are you really?”
I arch an eyebrow at him in question. “Exactly who I said I was.”
Rocha’s eyes narrow even more. “Why would you refer to yourself in the third person?”
“Wait, is that a serious question?”
“Deadly,” he growls.
“Wow, you’re dense,” I comment, rolling my eyes at the ridiculousness of the whole situation. “To clarify, since you apparently don’t know, Daemotic—the second most spoken language in the GCP—doesn’t use first person personal pronouns.”
“Personal what-nows?”
“Oh for fekk’s sake! I, Daemotic doesn’t have the word ‘I’ in its lexicon. You use your first name in place of ‘I.’” As Rocha stares at me in puzzlement, the continued movement on the stage draws my attention back to the dancer.
In a sudden—but effortless looking surge of motion—she leaps into the air. Her legs spreading out in a perfect split as her body curves backward. Her back leg swinging so far behind her that it hinges in, slipping between her horns. My breath catches as her body unfolds itself just as quickly, allowing her to land on the stage as dainty as a bird.
She’s good, I mean seriously good. The type of seemingly effortless controlled strength and precision I’ve only ever seen from the professional dancers churned out each year by the Sashaivarian Regional Academy of Dance. Stars, she’s even better than Amber.
Memories of my blond-haired ex sours my mood in an instant, and I turn back to Rocha. “Look, whereas I don’t mind watching a beautiful woman executing her art, is there a point to us being here, or were you just taking in a free show?”
If I thought his face was red before, it’s nothing compared to now. “I’m trying to find you a job you ungrateful, horn-headed bastard,” Rocha growls.
“And that somehow involves ogling a dancer who is apparently not your girlfriend?”
“I was not ogling her. I was politely waiting for her to finish,” he counters defensively.
“Sure you were.”
Rocha gives me his nastiest scowl yet, and stomps indignantly toward the stage. I push off from the bar, following along behind him as I shove my hands into the pockets of my floor-length duster.
“Miss Kirikiri?” Ensign Rocha calls out shyly when he reaches the base of the stage, but she doesn’t respond. I don’t even try to suppress my snort.
Rocha scowls at me before calling out in a more forceful voice. “Miss Kirikiri, I know you’re rehearsing, but could I interrupt you for a moment?”
The dancer pauses, her head jerking toward us. Her mass of black and teal curls blocking a clear view of her face.
“Oh ‘ello, Joaquim,” Miss Kirikiri greets Ensign Rocha, her voice sounding strangely familiar.
She sits on the edge of the stage, pushing her mass of dark curls out of her face. And my heart stops. It’s her, the girl from Club 2020. The reason I’m in this whole diabolical mess in the first place. “You.”
Three
NALANI
“You,” the dark-haired guy in the lapis-colored, floor-length duster coat says accusingly. The coat’s SylkSteel by the unusual sheen of the fabric, and he’s dressed in charcoal-grey Neo-Shogunate style hakama pants like every other rich boy I’ve met so far on Quantum. But he’s daemon, so that does narrow it down a bit.
I squint at him, trying to place his face. Warm honey-colored skin, wavy black chin-length hair framing a wide, square-jawed face. Cobalt-blue almond-shaped eyes that at the moment are staring furiously back at me, and temptingly kissable lips.
With a start I realize who it is. Kealan Mishra, Sashai Var’s most notorious daemon playboy. I was caught up by his charm when I ran into him in Club 2020, and almost made the most colossal mistake of my life. But I didn’t, so why is he here?
Mishra’s Henley tee is ripped across his abs, and not is a fashionable way either. And there’s an ugly bruise across his jaw like he took one bloody good punch to it. The tell-tale signs of an altercation.
Dread churns in my stomach. Please, let this not be because of Tris.
Joaquim’s eyes volley between the two of us for a moment before settling on me. “This illegal stowaway is looking for a job on ship. You wouldn’t have need of him, would you?” he asks with as little enthusiasm as humanly possible. Like he has to ask, but would literally rather do anything else.
“Illegal stowaway?” I repeat, my eyebrows raising slightly. “And here I thought you were just another entitled trust fund kid.”
“Wait you know him?” Joaquim asks in disbelief.
I lean back on my hands. “Well I wouldn’t say know per se. But I did invite him back to the ship, so I guess his being here is my fault.”
“I’ll say,” Mishra snorts, folding his arms across his broad chest.
I arch an eyebrow at him nervously before turning my attention back to Joaquim. “So what’s this about him being an illegal stowaway?”
“We found him without an IdentiBand in the cargo hold after leaving Port Luna,” Joaquim answers as his eyes shift questioningly to Mishra again.
“You don’t say.” On second thought maybe this isn’t a Tris-related incident after all. My curiosity stirs. “Well as it happens, the PA I hired failed to show up, so his job’s currently vacant—”
“Absolutely not,” Mishra states firmly.
Me and Joaquim turn toward him. “Pardon?”
“There is no fekkin’ way I’m working for you.”
“Look asshat,” Joaquim snaps as he shoves his finger into Mishra’s chest. “This is our last stop. So it’s between working for her, and me dumping you in a PolicePod and jettisoning you out into space to become a Galactic Authority problem.”
Mishra’s mouth drops open. “You must be joking?”
“Not a bit. It’s normal procedure for illegal stowaways. You just got lucky because for some reason I can’t fathom, the commander felt like taking pity on you.”
Mishra swallows hard, and looks toward me. And I can literally see him calculating which would be worse, the PolicePod or working for me. But something in his expression tells me exactly what he’ll inevitably pick.
A mischievous smile spreads across my lips. “So what’s it going to be, Moon Boy, me or the pod?”
KEALAN
“You have to sign for him,” Ensign Joaquim Rocha states gruffly as he grabs my arm, dragging it up toward Miss Kirikiri.
“What, am I a package?” I ask in irritation.
Her eyes travel down the length of my body, and then back up as she presses her index finger to my IdentiBand. “No, but Mishra certainly has one,” she comments in Daemotic as if she knows Rocha won’t understand her words.
An impish smile tugs at my lips. Oh is that how it’s going to be. “And Mishra can deliver it personally any time Kirikiri likes.”
Her lips mimic mine briefly before she turns to Rocha. “Always a pleasure, Joaquim. You
should come see the show when it opens in a few Terra-weeks.”
“I couldn’t—I mean I’d really want to but…” he stammers, his cheeks reddening.
“I know, Cosmic Cabaret shows are probably outrageously pricey,” she says apologetically. “Why don’t you stop by during dress rehearsal the day before we open, I’ll make sure they comp your entry.”
“I…I wouldn’t miss it for the universe.”
Rocha eventually leaves the cabaret, but not before I’m practically drowning in the emotions coming off of him. The waves of them so strong they’ve even started to influence my own.
I turn toward Kirikiri, trying to shake my head clear before I say something really stupid. “What’s a PA?”
“A production assistant,” she replies, grinning at me wickedly. And something about it makes my heart race like it did when I first saw her back in Club 2020. The light spilling across her warm, tanned skin.
Well I guess it could be worse.
“When do I report for duty?” I ask as I pull myself up onto the edge of the stage beside her.
“In about five Terra-minutes.”
I look down at the digital clock on my ship-issued IdentiBand. “But it’s like four in the morning?”
“We’re the newest performance troupe, so we’re stuck with the worst schedule. Which means our on-stage rehearsal is usually from four to six in the morning every other day. But the Terra-annual Quantum Burlesque Talent Search starts tomorrow, so instead, we get one eight hour block today.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Eight hours?”
“Nine counting breaks.”
“Wonderful.” I run my hands down my face, trying to remember the last time I was even awake between four and six in the morning. “So…do I get bitz for this position?”
She shoots me a sideways glance. “I was under the impression you needed this position to keep from getting jetted?”
“Well yeah, but eating sometime in the next few weeks would be nice.”
Kirikiri snorts, smirking at me like I’m daft. “Of course you’ll get paid—I’m not running a slavery ring. UniBitz will be added to your IdentiBand as you earn them, and your living expenses will be deducted as well.”
“Living expenses?” I question, arching an eyebrow.
“Lodging, laundry, and sanitation.”
“Sanitation?”
“Showers. You do take those, right?” she asks as she eyes my disheveled appearance. “And by the fact that you currently smell like a distillery, I’d say you need one.”
“I don’t smell like a—” I stop when I catch the distinct scent of alcohol.
Kirikiri shakes her head at me as she slips down to the main floor, and stalks off toward a nearby booth. I debate for a moment, and then follow after her. When I reach the booth she pulls an ancient-looking photonic glass tablet out of a battered messenger bag. She holds it out toward me, then pulls it back a bit. “You break it, you bought it.”
“Do they even make these anymore?” I snort. Kirikiri glares at me. “Fine, fine, I get it.” I shift the tablet to my right hand, and start to familiarize myself with whatever it is I’ll be expected to know.
“You’re left-handed?” she asks with an arched brow.
“My whole life.”
“Huh.”
“And I assure you it’s all true,” I add with a small crooked smile, my eyes still on the tablet.
“What is?”
“That we’re fantastic in bed.”
“Oh really?” she comments dubiously.
“Admit it, you want this,” I state, gesturing to my body.
“About as much as space madness,” she huffs before stalking off toward the stage. And I’m fairly certain the slight blush to her cheeks isn’t my imagination.
“I’ll admit it,” a slight, androgynous daemon says a moment later, eying me appreciatively. Ze’s pale, but clearly of Asian ancestry and fashion model pretty. But I’m also fairly certain ze’s anatomically male. Still, I can’t help but smile at hir.
“Sorry, I don’t play for the home team.”
“Well, if you ever feel like switching sides, come and find me, blue eyes,” ze offers as ze presses hir index finger to the circle on the screen next to Tarou Kobayashi. Hir shoulder-length black wavy hair sweeping into hir face as ze leans forward.
As I look up from the tablet a tall, dark-skinned daemon in every way the exact opposite of Tarou, gestures at me. His shoulder-length dreads swaying with the movement. I’m so caught off-guard I don’t realize he’s speaking VSL—Versal Sign Language until he stops. “What?”
“He asked if you were the new PA?” Tarou answers as the guy reaches forward and presses the circle on screen beside Ryder Beckman.
“Yeah…wait, new? What happened to the last one?”
“He mistook the emergency escape pod for the water closet and jetted himself,” Tarou answers.
My heart stops dead. “What?”
Tarou busts up laughing. “Gods, I was kidding, sahavi. Fekk, you should see the look on your face.” Tarou rests a hand against me as ze catches hir breath. “Nothing happened to our last PA, you’re our first.” Ze gives me a curious look. “But you should know that, you’re Nalani’s old friend after all, right?”
My brow furrows. “Who’s Nalani?”
“Miss Kirikiri.”
I let my eyes drift in her direction. “So her first name’s Nalani.”
“Wait, so you’re not her friend from Club 2020?”
I let my attention drift back to Tarou. “Naw, I tied him up and sent him on a one-way trip to the outer reaches of the GCP to be a terraformer.”
“What?” Tarou asks, the color draining from hir face.
“Hey, good paying work’s hard to come by for one of the Galactic Authority’s most wanted. But you won’t fink on me when we hit the next GCP starport will you?” I ask with a straight face, as Tarou pales even more.
A quirk of a smile tugs at my lips, and Ryder nudges Tarou before signing to him. As he does hir eyes volley between us.
“You’re joking?” Tarou finally asks, letting out a heavy sigh.
“Completely,” I confirm with a grin as I extend my hand toward hir. “Kealan Mishra.”
“Well, Kealan, what brings you to our little bit of the galaxy?” Tarou asks as ze shakes my hand.
“I hit on the wrong girl at a club and ended up as an illegal stowaway on Quantum. It was between this and getting jetted in a PolicePod.”
A large smile spreads across hir lips. “Oh you’re going to be grand,” Tarou says with a laugh as ze pats me on the arm and continues on toward the stage.
Ryder gives me an appraising look before following after Tarou.
I log in sixteen other dancers until there’s only one name left on the roster. There’s no last name for the dancer, they’re just listed simply as Ollie.
Well that’s—
Someone collides with me, knocking the tablet out of my hands. I barely manage to catch it before it hits the floor.
“Damn you’re fast—wait, who are you?” a wiry, freckle-spattered human asks in confusion when he realizes I’m not the person he was clearly expecting.
“Kealan, the new production assistant. Or at least until we reach the next GCP starport anyways.”
“What happened to Tristan?” he asks, pushing his coppery-blond hair out of his black-brown eyes.
“Not a clue, never met him. But you are?”
“Oliver Van—Ollie, just Ollie,” he amends quickly.
“Well, Just Ollie, I need you to log in,” I state as I flip the tablet toward him.
He presses his finger to the circle next to his name. “So she hired another daemon. You a dancer too?”
“Not professionally, no,” I answer absently before focusing my attention back to Ollie. “Wait, are Centrina Lenses standard for everyone here too?”
“Nope, I’m naturally gifted that way luckily, or I’d never be able to dance with Miss Kirikiri.”
>
“How so?” I ask in confusion.
“Because with the stunts we do in this show, not seeing someone’s horns would be super dangerous.”
“Right…wait, what exactly are you doing in this show?”
He opens his mouth to answer, but he’s interrupted by Nalani. “Ollie, get your ass on stage! Warm ups started fifteen Terra-minutes ago!”
Four
KEALAN
I didn’t think nine hours could possibly feel that long. And I can only imagine how knackered the dancers feel after the grueling rehearsal. And worse, I have to get up when I’m normally heading to bed and do it all again tomorrow. Groaning, I pull my shirt off over my head. It’s ripped across the front, and I’ve no fekkin’ clue how it got that way, either. Though, I suspect it happened around the time I acquired this bruised jaw.
I drop the Henley tee on the bench beside my coat as I sit, untying the sashed belt of my hakama pants. It’s been one fekk of a long day, and I’m no closer to figuring out how I ended up in a shipping container in the cargo hold. And why the time before that is a complete blank.
I look around the locker room that Tarou—the model-pretty androgynous daemon—pointed out after I discovered we’d be sharing one of the performer dormitory rooms together. It’s tiny compared to the one at the Protectorate Academy that Dad showed us that one time right before…
I shove the feelings down deep as I bend forward, pressing the buttons next to the five straps on each of my boots. As the straps retract into the sides of my shoes, I hear someone approaching. But it isn’t until I realize the legs passing me are those of a female dancer, that my head jerks up.
“What are you doing?” I ask Nalani in surprise as she holds her IdentiBand up to the locker one over from the one I’m using.
“Taking a shower, same as you,” she answers as she slips her shoes off and drops them into a bin that reads footwear in Versal.
Cosmic Cabaret Page 29
