A Big Ship at the Edge of the Universe

by Alex White

  “About what?”

  He shook a cigarette out of his case and lit it. “About you belonging on this ship. You snapped in here like a puzzle piece, and you know it. You’re a spacer, and you always will be.”

  “Speaking of which,” she began, snatching the cigarette from his mouth and crushing it underfoot. “No smoking in the mess, Captain. ADF regs.”

  Surprise, then a hint of anger, cooling to a grin. “This ain’t an Arcan ship anymore.”

  She leaned in close enough to smell his sweet cologne and old smoke. “Then maybe you ought to take down their banners in your quarters, sir. Those had me confused, you see.”

  She spun on her heel and made all speed for the door, not waiting to see if she’d gotten a rise out of him.

  “God, I am bloody ecstatic to be getting off this bucket,” said Nilah, her feet clanging across the cargo bay.

  Orna followed with Ranger in tow, the mechanical beast’s footfalls banging along. The three of them marched a quick waltz beat as they crossed to where Malik stood waiting. The ship’s doctor reminded Nilah of her personal trainer back at Lang—always smiling with his perfectly bright eyes. There was little more obnoxious than a chipper face in the morning.

  “I would urge caution,” said Malik. “There’s the matter of the bounty on your head, and Carré isn’t the safest of worlds.”

  “Nonsense,” said Nilah. Cordell’s words echoed in her mind, but she brushed them off. “I’ve been here loads of times. It’s no Taitu, but it’s a beautiful place. These are my second people.”

  “Orna, I think it would be safer if you let her ride inside of Ranger,” said Malik. “No one would be any wiser for—”

  “No,” said Orna, and her armor stomped behind her. Orna reached back, stroking the sides of his cameras, and the armor rumbled in response, purring as his exhaust ports warmed with orange light. “She can wear a rebreather. That’ll stop the curious and the bank cameras. No one touches Ranger.”

  Nilah swallowed. She hadn’t considered what it’d be like inside that armor. It probably smelled like Orna—a scent that carried both the acute memory of being knocked unconscious and inexplicable exhilaration. She couldn’t help but feel a tinge of disappointment that she wouldn’t have the experience of being surrounded by Ranger’s powerful bulk.

  “Won’t I look a bit odd being the only one in the rebreather?” she asked.

  “Not at all,” said Orna, taking a rubbery full-face mask out of her pack and passing it to Nilah. “There are plenty of people who can’t live on sea level without hacking up bits of lung from the allergens. We can just pretend you’re a local.”

  Nilah turned the rebreather over in her hands, inspecting the seals. They were worn, and in sore need of replacement, but they’d probably hold. The system was an older model, with a utilitarian, robotic face. “The locals don’t wear these … I’ve been here before, Orna.”

  “Don’t wear it then. Open him up, Ranger,” said Orna. She snapped on a thin particulate filter as the cargo bay doors swung open.

  Tendrils of rotten mist crept into the ship’s open cavity, instantly offending Nilah’s sensitive nose. She couldn’t quite place the stench—like a cross between flowers and rotting meat. She snapped the rebreather onto her face without another word. It carried its own signature scent—old sweat—but it was far better than the mystery mist swirling into the bay.

  “The Gray, a byproduct of eidolon processing on this world,” Malik said, placing a calming hand on her shoulder. “Mostly harmless, but point one percent of the population develops an allergy over time. Many, but not all, locals wear masks.”

  Nilah’s eyes darted to the outside, where she saw the bloom of city lights haloed in the murk. “You parked in the Gray? Why?”

  “Because we can trust the shipyards here,” said Malik.

  Orna took a deep breath, exhaling with telegraphed satisfaction. “More accurately, we know they’ll stick a knife in our front … not our backs, like the places upworld.”

  “But no one lives down here. How are we going to find my bank?”

  “Not so,” said Malik, gesturing to the opening. “Almost everyone lives down here. Shall we proceed?”

  As they set out into the mist, past the spaceport gates, Nilah found a bustling metropolis. As above, numerous dwellings were carved into the bedrock of mountains, but the buildings were far shabbier, and the air thundered with the movement of vehicles on the skylanes above. Colorful holograms danced through the emptiness above shops, but when she peered into the cracked, barred windows, she found only junk. In each instance, Nilah wondered how these people could make a living. She recognized a few of the symbols of the Galactic Common Semiotic Set: food, fuel, hotel, drugs. The pictograms were accompanied by the Carrétan alphabet, which Nilah couldn’t read.

  “I’m surprised you’ve never heard of this place,” said Malik. “It’s Carré’s legendary Forgiven Zone.”

  Nilah jumped as another pedestrian muscled past her: an old man with anemic flesh and a patchy beard.

  “Why would I have heard of it?”

  “Been in the news a lot, lately,” said Orna. “Remember the Blixen Bomber? Killed on Taitu by the Police Special Branch. After they gunned him down, they traced him back to here.”

  “I don’t watch the news if it’s not racing,” she said. “Why is it called the Forgiven Zone?”

  “Everything here is governed under civil law,” said Malik, cutting in. “Everything except heresy, which remains a capital offense, punishable by death.”

  “So it’s all contracts and lawsuits down here?” asked Nilah. “What about murder?”

  “Everything,” replied Malik.

  Nilah shuddered. “The civil stuff mostly sounds good, but I don’t believe in the death penalty. We shouldn’t kill sentient creatures.”

  Malik nodded, but when she looked to Orna, the quartermaster merely laughed.

  “How many people do you think I’ve killed?” she said.

  Nilah chose not to answer, and they continued on the labyrinthine streets for the better part of an hour. Malik was chatty and pleasant, and enjoyed waxing poetic about the plight of the average Carrétan, while Orna’s eyes darted nervously from corner to corner each time they reached a crossroads. She would only join the conversation to scoff at Nilah’s ignorance or say something generally demoralizing about their surroundings. Ranger brought up the rear, constantly sampling the air and sneezing out minor particulate and carcinogen warnings.

  The longer they were down there, the more foolish Nilah felt. She’d never seen this side of Carré, and had long considered the planet a second home. It had been hidden from her, an embarrassment to the regals high above. Easy to do, as the schedule of a racer at a grand prix was carefully controlled. From the moment she landed to the moment she left, there were simulations to run, princes to meet, press to charm. Her handlers had done a lot to steer her to the best parts of every planet, and anywhere she went, the cameras followed.

  This Carré, the Forgiven Zone, seemed dirty and difficult, impossibly complicated for a foreigner. She didn’t know much about how the galactic press selected their news items, but half of a planet’s population living under a cancerous haze seemed at least a little important.

  “Straighten up,” said Orna. “You look like your dog died.”

  “This place is depressing.”

  “Yeah, well. You weren’t on Clarkesfall in the last days.”

  Nilah looked her over. Sure, she was scarred up, but she didn’t look a day over twenty-five. “I wasn’t born yet when Clarkesfall dried up. You would’ve only been a child when the last people were evacuated.”

  Orna shot her a cutting glance. “I was a child. Everyone lost their damned minds back then.”

  Nilah swallowed and shoved her hands into her pockets, getting a few paces’ distance between her and the quartermaster. In a desperate attempt to change the subject, she nudged Malik. “What makes you think we’re going to find a
bank down here?”

  He smiled and gestured to a marble edifice emerging from the fog. “Because when the law is for sale, everyone is in debt. We’re here.”

  They passed under a gargantuan archway and through a series of blowers that cleared away the Gray.

  A grand gallery appeared before her, one that would rival the main hall of a palace. Warm light painted chandeliers in glittering flecks of gold, and kiosk after inviting kiosk offered smiling, fresh-faced attendants. Though the bank employees dressed in sharp suits, their faces shimmered with the telltale signs of advanced force field rebreathers, unlike Nilah’s leather and rubber mask. Whoever these people were, they didn’t live down in the Forgiven Zone with everyone else.

  Nilah knew her clothes were inadequate, but a quick survey of the room revealed that the other customers weren’t doing much better. Only a few patrons possessed clothing equal to the bankers’, but there was something off about their fashion choices; they were more likely criminals than commoners, with their aggressively flashy suits and overabundant jewelry.

  “Which bank is this?” she whispered to Malik.

  “Banc Royale, so named for the family that runs it,” he replied.

  Her thoughts of the royals had grown less than charitable in recent minutes. “Maybe they ought to spend as much on the streets outside as they do on this building.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “That could be construed as heresy, Nilah. Be a little more careful.”

  The image of the Lang Hyper 8 race car caught her attention from the corner of her eye. The Carrétan News Service flickered above the automated kiosks, showing her car entering the tunnel at the Awala GP alongside Cyril Clowe. It then cut to Gantry Station’s chief inspector, a grizzled woman with skin like dark leather. The broadcast was subtitled in Carrétan, but the interview audio was conducted in her native Standard.

  “At this point,” the inspector began, “the people of Gantry Station hereby charge Nilah Brio with the murder of Cyril Clowe.”

  Nilah’s rebreather couldn’t keep up with her gasp, and she nearly ripped it off her face. A cold sweat beaded up on her cheeks, pooling around the seals as her eyes burned.

  Murder. Why would she ever kill Cyril? She barely deigned to speak to the loser before that fateful day. Her breaths came faster and faster, and she dug her fingernails into her palms. She had to calm herself, or the other patrons were going to start asking questions.

  A news anchor appeared onscreen. “Taitutian Prime Minister Mandell issued a statement that Brio is still a Taitutian citizen, and that the Gantry racetrack module belongs to his planet’s government.”

  “While we respect the sovereignty of Gantry Station,” the prime minister began, his dark, chubby face filling the screen, “we require the extradition of Miss Brio to her homeworld, where she can face justice from her peers. She is a respected citizen and will be accorded those rights.” The sight of him triggered a pang of longing. She knew him well, and they would’ve been dining together that night, celebrating her future podium on her homeworld grand prix.

  The feed cut to the racetrack on Taitu, inside the Lang paddock. Nilah should’ve been there, answering questions about her upcoming drive, not wanted for … the thought of it nauseated her. She glanced around to see if anyone was looking at her, and thankfully, she only had Orna and Malik’s attention. The other customers found Ranger far more interesting than the three people accompanying the suit.

  Claire appeared in the projections, her golden hair frizzed. Nilah had never seen her boss so disheveled, not even after the crash with Kristof.

  “Obviously,” said Claire, “I want her to turn herself in so we can move forward. If she could—”

  A man’s voice joined Claire’s, talking over the team boss. Nilah recognized him: Harmon Kelley, a small-time journalist who’d made the mistake of hitting on her a few times at the track. “Do you believe she’s guilty? The police claim they have compelling evidence.”

  “I’ve seen the videos, but I’m not a forensic arcanist. I … I don’t want to believe she’s capable of doing something like that … but I don’t know how to disagree with what I’ve seen.”

  Nilah recognized the look on Claire’s face. The team boss was as transparent as glass, always wearing her emotions on her sleeve, and Nilah knew: her boss believed she had killed Cyril.

  The interview kept going, but Nilah could scarcely hear it over the pounding in her ears. Her vision grew watery, and she blinked out a hot tear. How could Claire believe something like that?

  Another cut brought Kristof onto the screen, and Nilah braced herself for an even worse savaging.

  “With the charges levied against Brio, your chances of winning the Driver’s Championship have gone up considerably. A lot of people are saying you’ve got it locked,” the reporter said.

  Kristof looked down his nose, squinting at the interviewer. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “This is a major story. I’m reporting it.”

  “No. You’re being vulgar. One man is dead, and the points leader is missing. This has nothing to do with my championship hopes.”

  “Obviously, if she doesn’t race tomorrow, it does.”

  Kristof sneered. “I’m going to make two things clear. First, I was always going to beat Nilah Brio, but I can’t do it if she’s not on the track. I want her back here where she belongs.”

  “I, uh, see …” Harmon stammered. “And the other thing?”

  Kristof leaned closer. “I’ve been with Nilah since the karting days. There is no chance Nilah murdered another racer, period. I know her, and I stand by her. Now get that lens out of my face before I break it.”

  First she was accused of murder, now Kristof was defending her. If her world turned upside down twice, was something righted? Claire’s interview had been enough to send her to pieces, but Kristof’s kept her on her feet, if only just. Everyone in the entire galaxy hated her, except her bitter rival, and there was a tiny spark of comfort in that.

  Nilah jumped as a hand fell on her shoulder, and she turned away from the broadcast to meet Malik’s concerned eyes.

  “Maybe we should step outside so you can have a moment,” he said.

  “No,” she said, her voice quivering without her permission. “A promise is a promise. I said I’d fix the ship, and I will.”

  Orna crossed her arms. “I don’t think anyone was offering to let you out of that, but it might be better if you don’t blow our cover by weeping all over the teller.”

  Nilah took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “I’m fine. I’ll make sure your money goes through. Wait here, though. Ranger is going to make people nervous.”

  “Yeah, we’ll be outside,” said Orna. “Come on, Doc.”

  Nilah approached the teller, who greeted her in Carrétan before switching to heavily accented Standard. Her heart pounded as she gave the man her IGF unsigned account number. When she got her first drive in the big leagues with Oxcom, Nilah’s father had insisted that she set aside 10 percent of her contract value in an unsigned emergency fund, if only because she’d become a ransom risk.

  And now, here she was, actually kidnapped and about to hand over her ransom money to her kidnappers. Her father would be furious when he found out, and her chest ached a little when she thought of seeing his livid face again. She imagined him heartbroken in a hotel on Gantry Station, patiently awaiting the police capture of his little girl. She wanted to call him, to make contact somehow, but then remembered the dead Fixer and thought better of it. Contacting her father would only put him at risk.

  Once the teller validated the account number, he handed Nilah a pad to punch in her secret code. The IGF Banking network didn’t require unsigned accounts to have names or information of any kind, but anyone with the code could get the money—as long as they could enter it in person at an IGF participating branch. Nilah couldn’t begin to guess at how much laundering that system facilitated.

  If she was wanted for murder, Nil
ah’s plan to stay with the duke was doomed. Carré was a fringe world, but it still had an extradition treaty. Staying with a noble would almost certainly result in her being turned over to the authorities, and she couldn’t have that. That meant she would be stuck on the Capricious for an indeterminate amount of time: until she could clear her name. She transferred a million argents—more than triple the requested amount—into the Capricious’s corporate holdings and punched her code again to confirm the request.

  She’d have to ask Cordell if she could stay a bit longer, and a million argents seemed like the right number to sweeten the deal. After all, she was relying on him to provide her protection.

  She returned the code pad to the teller, who smiled as though he saw cash numbers like that every day. Given the criminals doing business in the sector, perhaps he did. Summoning every ounce of calm she could, Nilah casually strode to the front entryway and back out into the fog, where she found Malik, Orna, and Ranger waiting for her.

  “Did you transfer the funds?” asked Orna, and Nilah nodded.

  “Fantastic,” said Ranger in Cordell’s voice. Its lenses flashed a bright green in time with the captain’s words. “It’s there, and then some.”

  “I might need to stay with you longer. Is there a problem?” asked Nilah.

  “No, but let’s have a sit-down when you get back,” said Cordell. “Orna, the shipwright is here, and we’ve got a lot to discuss. Did you need anything else?”

  “No, Captain. See you in an hour or two. Sokol out,” said Orna, and the green light faded from Ranger’s lenses.

  Wanted for murder. Nilah’s chest tightened. She’d been fine inside the bank, but as the stress of the money transfer faded, the weight of the news report toppled onto her like a rockslide. The rebreather filled with hot air, and her lungs heaved. She needed to get it off right that second, or she’d surely suffocate. She struggled to push it off her face, gasping.

  Malik wrapped an arm around her and reseated the mask where she’d gotten it free, gently lowering her hands. “You have to stop. Remember where you are.”