by Alex White
“Is it possible to hate someone you’ve only just met?”
They wouldn’t even be here if the stupid kid hadn’t pulled a gun in some ham-fisted kidnapping attempt, so the response came naturally. “Absolutely.”
“Good. Now let’s focus on getting out of here.”
Boots shook her head. “You’re wasting your time. Those shield generators are military, as is everything else here.”
The racer walked to the orange force field and gently prodded it, enough to get a sizzle, but not enough for a shock. She moved to where the shield abutted the wall and began inspecting the seam. “I’m a mechanist. I can get us out of this.”
“Yeah, because no one has ever imprisoned a mechanist before.”
“All PGRF mechanists are top-flight, and I’m the galactic points leader by a good stretch. I think you understand what that means.”
Boots scoffed. “Can you run a race car on all that hot air?”
“Shut up and help me. What’s your glyph anyway? Is it stone? A squat thing like you has got to be a mason. You know, your folk can move metal, too, if you try hard enough.”
Boots laid back, propping her hands behind her head. Her shoulders ached like someone had jerked her arms out of socket, but stretching helped. “I’m not helping you.”
“I intend to escape, and I demand to know what resources we have at our disposal.”
“I don’t have a glyph.”
“Of course you do,” said Nilah. “Don’t be stubborn.”
“No. I don’t have one. I’m numb, dry, whatever. Arcana dystocia.”
Nilah’s ocean waves became a sunset orange. “Oh, that’s right … Now I remember. That was the bloody sob story on your show! I’m screwed! I’m stuck on a ship to god knows where and the only person who can help me is a ruddy d—” She stopped short.
Boots licked her lips, tonguing a split. “Go on and say it.”
“Say what?”
“You were going to say ‘dull-fingered.’ Go on and do it so I can kick your teeth in.”
Her tattoos flushed a sea-foam cyan. Was that embarrassment? “It’s just a statement of fact. Hardly offensive.”
“What I do and don’t find offensive isn’t your call, kid. Now, I want a few answers out of you. Why were you looking for me?”
Nilah spun out the story of what’d brought her to Boots’s street, starting at the Awala GP. It was full of boring sports details and a near-constant flow of statistics, but she eventually came to the part where Mother appeared.
Boots leaned forward. “What’d she look like? Would you call her a crone?”
“I wouldn’t say it to her face, but yes. She had a certain crone-like air to her. She was stooped and deadly, like some sort of animal. Had a tattered black cloak and a frightful mask, covered in eyes. It was like she … stopped time.”
“People gamble on those races, right? Don’t you have, uh, safeguards? Dispersers or something?”
Nilah shook her head. “We do. They’re supposed to be ironclad. And our intruder detection is perfect—but the dispersers didn’t fire and no one showed up to stop her.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know,” said Nilah. “I just … That wasn’t supposed to be possible. And Cyril kept talking to her like there was this, well, grand conspiracy. Like she had track access.”
Boots stroked her chin. “Spry for an old lady?”
“More so than you.”
“Hey, I’m on the young side of forty. I don’t have to take that.”
“She murdered Cyril Clowe by crushing his head through his race helmet. I’m fairly certain she’s more lively than the both of us.” Nilah leaned back against the wall, folding her arms over herself. “I still can’t believe it happened like that.”
“That a witch squished his head like a grape?”
“It’s the first death we’ve had on the track in decades, and it’s a murder.”
“Wow. A guy gets iced and you’re crying about a safety record?”
“These things are important to us drivers. We live and breathe track life. Of course, someone like you wouldn’t understand.”
“You’re right. I don’t care about your safety crap. So you escaped Mother, then what?”
“I called a Fixer, but she’d been bought off. Another Fixer got into a fight with her, and they … well, they killed each other. I eventually found a public terminal, and luckily for me, I had your name. When you’re wealthy, you have access to certain, uh, data services that regular people don’t. Strictly precautionary measures against stalkers and the like. I found out where you lived, and I already knew what you looked like from the Link. Then I found you skulking around outside your apartment like a common criminal.”
Boots gestured to the whole ship. “I was avoiding these guys.”
“What’d you do to them?”
“It’s a long story. One that has nothing to do with you.”
“Well, here I am, so I expect you to tell me eventually.” Nilah approached the force field again and peered into its energies, almost close enough to singe her hair. “This is a basic Atheron Capstone circuit. It’s remedial-level mechanism at best.”
“Don’t go playing with fire, kiddo.”
Nilah turned to her and smirked. “I think I know what I’m doing.”
The racer traced a large glyph, placed her palm against the wall panel nearest the shield generator, and attempted a psychic connection with the ship. The arcane burst that filled the room sent her sliding across the vomit-slicked grating and into the opposite wall, unconscious again.
Boots gingerly got to her feet and checked Nilah’s breathing. Two massive magic shocks in one day couldn’t have been good for her little mechanist brain. Satisfied that the racer would live, Boots climbed back into her bunk and lay down. She was going to have a long day ahead of her, and Cordell was a notoriously tough customer.
She didn’t have to wait long. The captain’s tall shadow darkened her cell within minutes.
“Aw, damn, Boots! What the hell did you two get up to in here?”
“Kid had more than she could handle. She’s sleeping it off.”
He shut off the force field, the room suddenly darker without its orange light.
“Well come on, girl. Let’s chat.”
Cordell cut an imposing figure in any clothes, civvy or service. His wardrobe that day was a mash-up of businessman and military surplus garb, but he pulled it off with gusto. Boots, in comparison, still wore her sweaty T-shirt and canvas pants from Gantry, and carried a regrettable stink. She normally wouldn’t bother with appearances, but she didn’t like her past witnessing how far she’d fallen.
They wound through the corridors of the Capricious, and she was struck by how little it had changed, though it was smaller than she remembered.
Cordell had aged well. Up close, his stern features hadn’t changed much, but the salty hairs in his natural style lent him a bit of dignity. He’d be attractive, if Boots had cared to pay attention to that sort of thing.
They passed the med bay, and Boots did a double take. In the nest of familiar rooms, it showed the most change. Instead of the traditional single bed and chem station, there were three sleep capsules with nutrition systems and monitors. A well-muscled man in lab gear busied himself near a desk in the back. He looked up and smiled serenely at them, and Boots was struck by the clarity of his golden-brown eyes. Whoever he was, he was cut from better cloth than an average man.
“She’s awake,” noted the technician, his rich voice filling the bay. “Mostly uninjured, too.”
Boots nodded to him. May as well get acquainted with the rest of Cordell’s cronies. “I haven’t met this one yet, Cordell.”
Cordell stopped and gestured to the man in the med bay. “Oh, my mistake. Boots, this is Malik Jan, our ship’s doctor.”
Malik came to them in the hall and took Boots’s hand. His palms were soft and warm, if a little dry. “It’s a pleasure. I hope you slept well.”<
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“Great. Now you’ve met,” said Cordell, placing a hand on Boots’s shoulder. “Doctor Jan, Boots is a prisoner, and if she tries to escape, you’re to shoot her.”
Malik looked her in the eyes. “I don’t think you’ll be a problem, will you?”
She shook her head, and he patted her hand once before returning to work. The whole interaction was unnervingly pleasant, especially from Cordell. He was playing the good guy, which meant he’d squeeze her extra hard when the time came.
“You always recruit your crew from clothing advertisements?” she asked as they headed toward the bow of the ship.
“Yeah. The ugly ones like you get under my skin.”
They passed Orna in the hall, wearing her classic brutal expression.
“Guess you’re going to have to fire your quartermaster, then.”
He paused at the base of the stairs and scowled at her. “You know what’s amazing about you, Boots?”
“My endless well of talent?”
“Here you are, trapped in an enemy ship with no hope of escape, and you’re finding time to mouth off. Why don’t you think about what you’re going to tell me when we get to my office, instead of making me want to toss your ass out of the airlock?”
They reached the top of the stairs where Cordell’s quarters were nestled. Boots had been up there only twice before: once when she was commissioned, and again when she was kicked off the ship.
“Carry me up here and throw me out? That’d be a waste of a perfectly good kidnapping.”
Cordell fixed her with his patented stare. Some captains inspired their cadets to valor. Cordell just made them fear the consequences of failure. He’d flown a lot of so-called suicide missions in the Capricious and knew how to make someone snap to. He hammered the door panel, and his quarters opened before them.
Unlike the rest of the ship, the captain’s quarters were richly appointed with earthy tones of leather and wood, sun-bright yellows and deep umber. Solid gold accents reflected a haze of sparklamps, which hovered across the ceiling like foam atop a wave. Gently flowing in one corner was the purple planetary sigil of Clarkesfall, with the iconic orange half-moon of Arca blazing over it.
A long panoramic window framed his desk. The writing surface was at least two hundred kilos of sculpted rare wood, perfectly planed with two swept edges. Hundreds of brass struts, straight as lasers, held it in place atop sumptuous carpets. Cordell had modified parts of the Capricious in the years after the war, and that desk certainly wasn’t military-issue.
In cases across one wall, there were numerous awards and trophies, mementos of actions long forgotten by the rest of the galaxy. They sparkled in the white light of gravity plates. She spotted the slicing curve of his award for valorous action in the Battle of Laconte, and quit gawking. He’d done some amazing things in his time, but he was a fool, too.
He walked around his desk and gestured to the seat opposite.
“I’m going to smoke now,” he said.
“I know,” she sighed.
He took a cigarette from a long brass case on his desk. Sensing its loss, the case whirred and clicked, rolling another. “How long have we been friends?”
“Would a friend be sitting here as a captive?”
He smiled. “Humor me.”
“According to you, since Armistice Day.”
He lit the stick, taking a deep drag and exhaling. The haze glittered with tiny vermilion sparkles, the sign of smoke laced with eidolon dust. “That’s right. So why did you sell me a fake?”
“Because we’re not friends at all. You like jamming yourself into my life, and I saw an opportunity to get some cash.”
“You sell maps all the time, Boots. They all fake?”
She shrugged. “Some of them work out, some of them don’t. I never asked for this. Old fans of the show keep coming to me to buy, and that means I’ve got to sell.”
He leaned back. “That right? And here I thought we were brothers in arms. I had no idea you were so stone cold.”
“I never took your calls. Not once. We’ve never had a personal visit since the war. You think that makes us friends?”
“Yet you decided to do business with me.”
She ruffled her hair. “You show up on the Link looking to buy a map, we’re going to do business. I take all comers. Not my fault you’re a sucker.”
“So none of what you sell is real?”
She sucked her teeth. “Can’t be wrong all the time, but that’s luck for you. I’ve had one or two salvagers come back.”
“You know what hurt? It wasn’t you taking ten grand of my hard-earned money.”
“Really? I thought that would sting like a—”
“Hush.” He pointed out the window to the stars. “It was you sending my crew somewhere that might get them killed. We almost died.”
“Yeah, because you’ve never done that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Laconte.” She said the word without thinking, and it choked her like the clouds of tobacco smoke. Of the original eight crew on the Capricious, only Boots and Cordell had survived that day. She knew it was a low blow.
“I didn’t get a say in where we went,” he said. “I just chose how we did it.”
“You chose wrong.”
He straightened up, his shoulders squaring to an officer’s stature. “You should consider your words.”
She steeled herself against his gaze. “You’re not my captain. You’re just a kidnapper.”
“And you’re a swindler.”
Boots rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, work is scarce when you’ve got a dishonorable discharge on your record.”
“There was work. You could’ve stayed on this ship.”
She stomped her way upright. “And you could’ve surrendered him to the authorities like you were ordered to!”
“I had my reasons for keeping him. Wasn’t about to hand him off to a bunch of invaders and offworld bankers.”
She lowered her voice to imitate his. “‘Oh, my side lost the war. I guess I get a free starship!’”
He cocked his head like he was considering something horrid, but then smiled. “I guess I did, didn’t I?”
“You Fallen are a bunch of idiots. And in your case, a wanted idiot.”
“No one is hunting down Famine War people anymore, Bootsie. Not the Arcan side. Not the Kandamili side. I won.”
She rolled her eyes, but he was right. He’d gotten away with a pretty grand theft, all things considered.
“You kept your military AI, Boots. That was government property.”
“I bought him from a corrupt official, fair and square. Not my fault you can’t play the game.”
His smile remained, but it drained from his eyes. Boots saw the man who dropped them into countless combat zones, ferried them across raging spells, and tore apart anything that stood in his way. “You’re in hot water, Boots. You’re going to find a way to pay us back, or I’m going to take this personally.”
And there, out of nowhere, was the squeeze. Her wise comments shriveled in her throat, and she stammered, “We could … I could with my bank account, maybe on … I’ve got money on Gantry.”
“Silas told me you’ve got land on Hopper’s Hope. That ought to about cover it.”
His statement knocked the wind from her lungs. That land was the last bit of her wealth from her show, Finding Hana, and she couldn’t stomach the thought of handing it over. That show had come at too high a price, and that land was precious to her. “No.”
“We’re going to fly there, head to the notary, and you can sign me the deed.” He patted his desk with his free hand, as though it was a purring cat. “I always thought the Capricious needed a home base.”
“Cordell, you’re sitting on more money than you ever saw in your life,” said Boots, carefully considering her words. She had to get him off the topic of Hopper’s Hope. “That girl down there in the brig with me is—”
“Nilah Brio.
Yeah, I don’t do bounties, Bootsie. Not tossing her to the wolves like that.”
“Oh, so you think she’s innocent?”
He took another sparkling drag and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Orna captured her, not you. That means, whatever we do with her, it doesn’t count against your debt.” He chortled. “Look at you, acting like you brought her here.”
“I did knock her out. We could ransom her. She’s PGRF, so you know she has stupid amounts of cash.”
“Not happening, Boots. I’m not selling some random girl out to pay your debts. We’re going to drop her on Taitu, then we’re hitting Hopper’s Hope for your land.”
Boots clenched her teeth. “You can’t have my land, Cordell.”
“You got something better?”
Boots thought back to the many games of chance that’d been played on board the ship, of the thousands of argents won and lost at sixteen clouds, at triplets, at knights, and she knew she’d been offered a golden opportunity—Cordell loved to gamble.
“I do, but it’s too dangerous,” she said.
“Okay, if you’re going to sell me some bull, I can send you back to your cell.”
Rule number one: magic must always be the point. “You’ve heard of the Harrow?”
“Sure. Every captain knows that one. Shadow tech. Hundred-meter glyphs. Discus warheads that could slice a ship in half. Except, it doesn’t exist. If the Taitutians had a cruiser capable of frying a whole city, they’d have used it. For one, they had a treaty with Arca, and you never saw the Harrow grace our skies. Kandamil bombed our half of the planet, then their half withered away, and the Taitutians didn’t raise a damned finger.”
Boots sat back down. “I know where it is.”
“Shut up. I’ve heard more than enough of this.”
“Have you? It took me twenty-five tries to find the Chalice of Hana. You know that’s true because you watched the show like everyone else. I’m not always wrong, and you know it.”
He glared but stood silent.
Rule number two: every legend is a fluffy story wrapped around a piece of hard evidence. “Okay, send me to my cell, but I’ve got real proof and you’ve got a ship that can make the journey.”
