by Alex White
“I can’t breathe,” she said, though she knew it was only panic. “They really think I killed Cyril. Claire thinks I did it. Do my parents?”
Malik stroked her back, his gentle warmth a minor comfort. “We have to get off the street, Orna.”
“I could have Ranger just pick her up and run back to the ship,” said Orna, her eyes searching for any parties too curious about Nilah.
“Too conspicuous,” said Malik. “Nilah, I want you to hold tight to me. You’re going to be okay.”
“Yeah,” she said, the strong facade she’d given the teller now completely gone. “Just … let me take this off.”
“Don’t do that here,” said Malik. “Facial geometry will pick you up from the bank’s cameras. You can be brave. You can do this. Just hold it together for a few more minutes.”
Malik quietly led them along the misty paths until he found a restaurant he trusted. The tables were battered slabs of metal, and the building looked as though it might come down on them at any second, but the plates and cutlery arrayed before empty seats seemed clean enough. Soothing scents of frying dough and seared vegetables wafted through the filters of her rebreather. Malik asked, in perfect Carrétan, to have the trio seated in the back, where there was a small, private dining area.
As soon as the curtain closed, Malik cast a glyph and pressed his palm between Nilah’s shoulder blades. Her heart slowed and the room grew brighter as her irises slightly dilated. Hunger rumbled in the pit of her stomach—a healthy appetite she’d not expected. She could breathe again, though her mask’s stench still offended her nose.
Nilah yanked her rebreather off with a sucking gasp. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t expect … that. This place. Any of it.”
Orna smirked. “What happened to ‘This is my planet’?”
Nilah pulled up her shirt collar to wipe her face, but the stink of the Gray had soaked into the fabric. “It’s been a long day.” She picked up her menu, but found only an unfamiliar language and a few Standard numbers. “I can’t read these bloody menus. Are we really going to eat when we’re on high alert?”
“I can read them,” said Malik. “And yes. We need to stay off the streets for a bit after your small panic attack at the bank.”
“Would you …” Nilah began, but paused. She hated asking her former kidnappers for help. “Would you mind helping me order?”
“Of course not,” replied the doctor, his expression unsullied by the clear enjoyment Orna had taken with their situation. “What do you like?”
“Anything, doctor, provided it’s not an animal,” said Nilah, pushing her menu away. “Please select something at your discretion.”
“Milks and creams are okay?” asked Malik.
“Yes,” said Nilah, wiping her nose on a napkin. “And … and I apologize for being so curt with you back on the ship.”
The quartermaster leaned in close and narrowed her eyes. “Did that news break you?”
“I’m accused of murder. Of course I’m bloody upset,” she whispered.
“As she has every right to be, Orna. Leave her alone,” said Malik. “You’re safe for the moment, Nilah, and we can make a plan when we get back to the ship. Just focus on getting a meal into yourself.”
“So, be honest here: did you kill that guy?” asked Orna, and Malik snapped at her. “What? I’m just asking. It’s not like we’re going to turn her in.”
“No,” said Nilah. “I’ve already told you how he died. Mother killed him.”
Orna propped an elbow on her chair and leaned back. “You know, if that battlegroup hadn’t come after us, I wouldn’t believe a word of your story.”
Nilah grit her teeth together. “I take it you’re happy to see me accused.”
The quartermaster chuckled. “I am. You’re kind of an ass.”
“And you’re a stone-cold criminal, so I suppose we deserve each other.”
“Ladies, please,” said Malik. “Can’t we just eat?”
Once the order was placed, the four of them sat in silence, with only the bustle of the kitchen and clicks of Ranger’s servos to punctuate the span. The doctor seemed perfectly comfortable in his own skin, but Orna’s predatory stare never strayed from Nilah. The chef set plates down in front of the three of them, a panoply of delicious fried cakes, tubers, and cream-covered dishes. They were full of fat, sugar, and salt: three things Nilah almost never ate. But after the stresses of kidnapping and framing, she didn’t bother to stop herself. Who knew when she’d get back in a race car?
Orna took a bite from Ranger’s fork. The battle armor sliced apart her meals, queuing up bites in order of the quartermaster’s preferences. It was an off-putting effect, seeing the armor go from pet to caretaker. “I mean, I do believe you. Anyone who’d get broken up over something so small isn’t a murderer.”
Nilah’s heart thumped, and she pushed food around her plate in an effort not to look into Orna’s eyes. “Thanks.”
“You are so cute like that,” said the quartermaster. “A little bruised, a little flushed. This is a big meal, but I bet I could just eat you up after.”
Nilah choked on her drink as her dermaluxes flashed pink. She’d had her fair share of admirers, but no one like Orna—fit and fierce at the same time. As she coughed, Malik’s warm hand patted on her back.
“You’re okay,” he said.
Orna rolled her eyes. “Or Malik can ruin the moment by acting like everyone’s dad.”
“You’re out of line, Miss Sokol,” said Malik, his voice so sharp and final that the two women were stunned into silence. “A quartermaster is an officer, and your conduct around Miss Brio is shameful.”
Ranger put down his fork and Orna cocked an eyebrow. “I’ll do what I want, Doc.”
Malik nodded. “I know you’re unaccustomed to guests on the ship, but if you continue to dishonor the Capricious by hurting Miss Brio’s feelings, I’ll find some consequences for you. Are we clear?”
“We’re basically pirates. What are you going to do, tell the captain?” asked Orna.
He swallowed a bite, his slender neck bobbing with effort. “Would you like me to? I could recommend he discharge you from service.”
“I was playing, Doc.”
“I’m not.”
Rage seeped into Orna’s face, prompting Nilah to her feet.
“I’m full,” said Nilah, brushing a few stray crumbs off her pant legs. “How about we get on with things?”
“Yeah, let’s,” said Orna, pushing back from the table.
As they paid, Nilah remembered her rebreather and yanked it back over her head, its ancient seals slurping onto her moist skin. She peered out into the fog through the open front door, but didn’t see anyone lurking in the streets. Once the check had been settled, they stepped out into the thrumming air of the Forgiven Zone.
The whine of ships had grown louder, even as the streets and pathways emptied of people. One man, clad in formfitting leathers and a black rebreather, came wandering out of the mist. He raised a hand to them in greeting, and Ranger receded from their group. Nilah exchanged wary glances with Orna; she’d probably sent Ranger into the mists to get a flanking position on the newcomer.
When the man was mere feet way, Nilah saw silver accents glinting on his mask, red bars upon his epaulets, and a badge in one hand—the police.
“Pardon me,” he said, his accented voice a growl. “You’re Nilah Brio.”
It hadn’t been a question.
“I’m chief inspector Emile Le—” he began, but was cut off as Orna’s fist crashed against his nose, snapping his head back.
“Run!” shouted the quartermaster.
Nilah turned to go, but the air around her electrified with pulses of yellow and cyan … the colors of the Carré police lights. Everywhere she turned, she saw flashing lights descending from the skies, blocking her exits. She heard Orna cry out in the fog, but she didn’t dare look back. Hard-nosed attack fighters slammed into the ground, vomiting forth an army
of police goons, armed to the teeth. She heard the telltale whiz of knock rounds and Malik’s strangled scream.
And so, she did the only thing she could: she raised her hands and waited for them to take her.
Chapter Ten
Condemned
Boots grimaced at the buildings outside as they blew past her transport. The miner’s house wasn’t on the other side of the planet, but it certainly wasn’t in the same duchy.
Carré depressed her. It always had since she’d landed there for the Clarkesfall Armistice. She’d screamed for Cordell to let her off the ship after Arca fell to Kandamil, to let her turn herself in like a good soldier, and he’d complied, releasing her on this god-awful rock. And when she went through processing, through all of the hassle and toil of surrender, the enemy had saddled her with a dishonorable discharge and a lifetime of struggles. The Carrétan government had helped them screw her over.
Another tattered green Kandamili flag shot through the Gray underneath the transport, and Boots scoffed. Both countries had died on Clarkesfall, but Kandamil had a lot more survivors alive and well on Carré.
“You got a hair ball, man?” asked Didier.
She glanced at him across the ratty cabin, and even though she knew the answer, she asked, “Where are you from?”
He leaned back into a torn leather seat, folding his hands over his ample belly. It was the only part of his physique out of place, like a skinny man who’d eaten a balloon. She was more than willing to forgive it for his muscular, hairy arms. “All over. You?”
“Arca.”
“Oh. If I had to pick somewhere I was from, I guess I’d say Kandamil.”
Her nostrils flared.
“Sure. I mean, I wasn’t born there, but I kind of adopted it.”
She folded her arms and leaned against the window. “Then congratulations. You fooled me. I thought you were a decent fellow.”
“Thanks, but you’re the first.”
She scratched her nose. “To be fooled?”
“No. You’re the first to think I’m decent.”
Boots rolled her eyes.
“No, no, I get it. Kandamili guy in Carré is an easy sell. That’s where most of our refugees went. No one looks crossways at me. I’m pretty sure I’ve got a bunch of family here somewhere.”
Boots frowned. “My family is dead.”
He smirked. “Oh, come on. A person has got a lot of family out there, man. You can’t tell me some of them didn’t make it offworld.”
“If they fled, they’re no family of mine. Real Arcans fought to the last.”
“Then how are we talking? Shouldn’t you be some skeleton on the subcontinent? You seem pretty spry for a corpse.”
She chuckled, against her better nature. “Shut up. You’re the enemy.”
“If I’m your enemy, you don’t have any problems at all.”
The transport hit a patch of rough air before righting itself. The violent rocking shoved Didier against her, and she scooted back on reflex, if not on principle.
“I think you’re forgetting that the Kandamili bombed my capital into a thicket of glass and wild magic. Your people make pretty good enemies.”
“Not me, though,” he said, bringing his hands up like a dog’s paws. “I’ll roll over for anyone. Allegiance for any person who wants to give me belly rubs.”
She smiled. “Shut your fool mouth.”
“Undying loyalty for anyone who rubs something farther south,” he said.
Boots pinched the bridge of her nose, glad that there was no human pilot on the death trap of a taxi. “Oh lord.”
“You don’t strike me as the religious sort.”
“Just believe it enough to blaspheme.”
Didier smoothed out his bushy mustache, twirling the ends until they curled. “That’s too bad. The churchy ones are always good in the sack.”
No one had spoken to her that way in years. The more she thought about it, no one had spoken to her that way ever. Kin had always been too keen on chivalry, and before that, there had been an endless litany of schoolboys ready to do anything for the lithe, skinny girls. Not her; never her—especially since she could wrestle them to the ground or break their noses. It electrified her to think Didier looked at her the same way she’d looked at him.
“You’re out of line,” she said, more quietly than she wanted, her cheeks growing hot.
He nodded. “Then it stops. My apologies.”
“I mean, you’re cute,” said Boots, her words coming slow like syrup. She’d spent too long without the touch of another, not so much as a handshake, and the thought of blowing off some steam with Didier was overwhelming. “But I think we could focus more on the task at hand, you know?”
“Did you mean that?”
“Yeah. I don’t think you should hit on me for now.”
He shook his head, incredulous. “No. You think I’m cute?”
“What are we, children? Yes.”
He raised his eyebrows. “And what did you mean by that?”
She sighed. “It means I’d take you in a hotel room and break your hips if we had time, okay? But we don’t, so chill.”
“I don’t know how to follow that.”
“Then you shouldn’t. Just take the compliment and don’t press your luck.”
She regretted saying it, because two painful hours passed before they finally reached their destination—a tiny village on the outskirts of the Forgiven Zone, far beyond where the sane folks lived. Bitter wind blasted her as she clambered out of the taxi, her face blistering in the cold. For a woman who’d spent the last decade on Gantry Station in the perfectly calibrated room temperature of an orbital colony, Carré’s far north was like stepping out into the frigid vacuum of space—painful, inevitable, and terminal.
“Whoa! It’s cold, man!” shouted the king of the obvious. “This sucks!”
Boots agreed, stepping down into the dirty snow. This place wasn’t like most colonies: hospitable and engineered for comfort. No life existed out here—or very little. This hellhole was frozen solid. She may have been dull-fingered, but she recognized the look on Didier’s face. Magic came from the presence of life, and all magi got paranoid when they realized there wasn’t much life energy to draw from. On starships, they solved this problem with biobatteries, food stores, and other crew. Aside from a few microbes, this icy waste was dead.
“I’ve got to admit,” he said, crunching into the snow, “I’m freaked out being out of comms range with the ship.”
“Please. We left comms range four hours ago.”
“We should’ve taken the Midnight Runner up here.”
“I assure you, it’s better this way. You ever done an eight-hour mission in one of those?”
“No,” he admitted, rubbing his arms to stay warm.
“It ain’t a picnic, I can tell you that. Give me a nice automated transport any day.”
Didier authorized the transport to wait for them. It’d cost argents for every minute they remained, but it was better than getting stuck out in the snow with no way home. Boots looked over the small village: a couple of domes poking out of the snowstorm, their antennae thrust high in an attempt to capture any signal they could, no matter how thin.
Boots gestured to the series. “I’ve never been to the miner’s house in person. Conducted the last transaction over the Link, but I never met the family face-to-face.”
“I’ll be damned if I know which house is his. Want to just knock on some doors and see what happens?”
“Beats freezing my ass off,” she said, taking exaggerated steps through the accumulated frost. “These coordinates were the ones listed on the initial contact.”
“How did you know to buy this one picture, anyway?”
She grinned back at him. “Spammed a bunch of dead miners’ families who’d been at Goulding Station when the Harrow was imaged. Just my luck this one widow had an unopened rucksack and a couple of data cubes she thought had pics. I picked up a picture of the
Harrow for a few hundred argents.”
“Who took it?”
“The late husband, I’m guessing. Some guy named Jean Prejean.”
“Nice name,” huffed Didier.
“I’m guessing his parents weren’t all that creative. According to records, he’s survived by his wife, but they never had any children.”
“Can’t imagine you’d want to have any, not in a place like this.”
Boots scoured the snow-caked village for any signs of life. “This is a widow’s town. When a Carrétan man dies, his holdings become his brother’s by custom, and personal effects go to the wife. It’s the brother’s job to buy the widow a place to live.”
“Seems like he could’ve done a lot better than some shack in the middle of the tundra.”
“People only treat each other as well as they have to. That’s what makes the king and his planet such garbage.”
“That’s heresy,” said Didier with a wink.
“Wish I could tell his majesty what I thought of that. What a joke.”
“I may not know much about Carré, but I know insulting the royals is a capital crime.”
“At least if they killed me, I wouldn’t have to suffer through their crap planet anymore. Can you scan for signs of life? I want to know which one of these rust heaps is inhabited.”
“No amp, not much juice, but sure, I can try.” He traced out a glyph, ragged and smoky along the edges, like the green light was bleeding out of it. The magic flickered, weakened by the surroundings. Didier’s birth defect of a malformed mark didn’t help.
It was funny to her: even if she couldn’t cast a spell, she knew an unhealthy one when she saw it.
Didier finished his glyph, which wrapped around his fingers like glowing spiderwebs, and he stretched out his hands toward the houses. He lowered his hands and sighed.
“You’re not going to like this,” he said, his mustache twitching.
“What?”
“Just vermin living in those domes. There’s no one home.”
His words tangled around her like a trip wire. They’d been stuck in that transport for eight hours, and no one was home? She’d just purchased the image stack a few weeks prior. There was no way the village had been abandoned in that short time. With sickening certainty, she knew exactly what she’d find in those houses.
