by Alex White
Claire blinked, then a warm smile came over her. “I’m glad to hear you say that. It means a lot to hear it straight from you.”
“And I want you to be clear with the press that you stand with me.”
“Of course I do. Cyril was a crap driver. I’m sure his accident was a misund—”
“No, it wasn’t a misunderstanding,” said Nilah, raising her eyebrows. “Cyril was murdered. Just not by me. I know this sounds daft, but there’s an assassin out there. What’s the official story from the police?”
“They told us you built some kind of tiny jump drive. That you killed Cyril and then botched your getaway.”
“What kind of idiocy is that? If I could build a tiny jump drive, I’d be bloody rich!”
Claire closed her eyes and sighed. “Nilah, you know the drivers are exempt from scans by the dispersers. No one from the outside would’ve stood a chance of casting a spell onto the track.”
Nilah laughed bitterly. “But they think I could miniaturize a jump drive?”
“They’re casting you as some kind of mad genius. They keep playing that clip of your radio over and over.”
“Which clip?”
Claire cleared her throat. “‘If he gets in my way, I’ll leave him pasted to the tarmac.’”
“I was speaking metaphorically!” Nilah nearly lost control of her volume, but reined it in. “I was just trying to rile him!”
“So you’ve seen the assassin?” asked Claire.
“Yes,” said Nilah. “It’s an old hag in a black cloak. She has a helmet that enables her to see in all directions. Why didn’t the dispersers fire? I couldn’t have shut them down!”
“The police think you did—before the race. They’re framing this as premeditated.”
“Why? What could I possibly have to gain from killing Cyril?”
Claire held herself, unable to meet Nilah’s gaze. “Did you have a relationship with Cyril? Outside of the track?”
Nilah recoiled. “Are you bleeding serious? Cyril? These days, I’ve lost patience with boys entirely.”
“They … have you on access logs to his hotel rooms for the past six races.”
“That’s ridiculous! If I was going to kill my boyfriend, I could do better than Cyril. And of course they have me on the logs; I’m being framed.”
But she could see the doubt in Claire’s eyes. Nilah’s team boss wouldn’t question her honesty, but her sanity would be fair game. Nilah had a reputation for childish tantrums, unreasonable demands, and bullying. It was a reputation she’d enjoyed, until Mother murdered Cyril and framed her for it. She could see how it would be easy to pin the guilt on her with a few well-placed pieces of evidence.
“I’ll … I’ll look into it, okay?” said Claire. “But you need to turn yourself in if it’s this crazy. Just let the professionals handle this. We’re out of our depth.”
“No.”
“You’re the most politically protected woman in all of space! I urge you to reconsider.”
“I’m sorry, Claire, I—” It gutted her to turn down the invitation. “I have to take care of myself.”
“Are you okay? Can we send you any help? Supplies?”
Nilah thought about it, but decided against sharing her location. Claire was trustworthy, but if she knew where Nilah was, she’d be at risk, too.
“I’ll be fine,” said Nilah. “I just need you to make sure they don’t disqualify me.”
“Nilah, you have bigger problems!”
“I’m taking care of them. I want you to keep the PGRF in line.”
“That’s beyond my control,” Claire said, mustering her sympathetic schoolteacher face. She always did that when she had to say no to Nilah.
“No, it’s not!” said the racer, taking a step closer. “Lang is a shoo-in for the Constructor’s Crown and the most powerful player in all of racing. You’ve got the seat at the head of the Strategy Group, for god’s sake! If anyone can keep me in the championship, it’s you.”
Claire massaged the bridge of her nose. “Look, I’ll talk to them. That’s all I can promise you.”
“I can come back from this, Claire. I will be back on the track.”
Silence fell across them as the two women regarded each other for a long moment.
“Okay,” said Claire. “I’ll make the case. In the meantime, you’re to stay safe.”
“That was the plan.”
“Good. Don’t do anything stupid.” Claire stepped up like she wanted to hug the driver, but she was only a projection. “The PM has been asking me about you.”
Of course the prime minister had been bothering her. Nilah’s father had likely sicced him on the poor team boss.
“I know. I’m sorry. Can you just tell my father that I miss him? That I’m okay?”
Claire nodded. “Absolutely, love. This isn’t over, all right?”
“No, it’s not,” agreed Nilah before severing the connection.
It had been easy to forget just what real wealth was. Nilah had a home on Morrison Station: nearly two thousand square meters of nonstop luxury and security hovering high above Taitu, the richest planet in the universe. Her front door was nothing more than a magic portal, teleporting those who wished to enter into whatever room she chose. Her kitchen contained a thousand enchantments to craft any food she could possibly want. She had a spell for everything and worlds of possibilities to indulge her creativity.
That was not real wealth.
Duke Vayle Thiollier was attended by hundreds, if not thousands of staff. They catered to his every whim, from sensory preferences to corporate interests. There were no spells in Vayle’s kitchens—there were humans, tirelessly laboring to provide delectable new experiences in far-reaching cuisine. The breadth of knowledge at his culinary staff’s command stretched light-years with a depth of eons. Nilah’s spells could bring her any food she wanted, but the ideas still had to flow from her. Duke Thiollier was so wealthy that he could add the greatness of the best culinary minds to his own.
Nilah didn’t have even a single person under her employ at home. Her house, replete with the latest magics, cleaned itself when she found the time to inhabit it. Here at the palace, staffers scurried to and fro, organizing and dusting, maintaining no illusions about their visibility. They were there to serve and be seen, but never heard.
“This may be in poor taste to ask, but is it expensive to maintain a human labor force like this?” Nilah inquired.
“I suppose the food and lodging is a bit much,” he replied, “but the service they provide is invaluable.”
“I would think that salary—” she began, but he cut her off with a sharp laugh.
“You misunderstand their positions. These people owe me money—lots of it—and they can’t pay. So, I give them a home and a place to work off their debts.”
Nilah watched the flurry of ongoing work with some consternation. “You’ve made this many loans to people who can’t pay? That sounds foolish.”
“Not at all. It’s an investment in both my future and theirs. They take care of a few obligations, then they come to work for me. And some of them didn’t borrow money; they’re heretics who besmirched my family name.”
“I thought that was a capital crime.”
“Yes, but everything is for sale in the Forgiven Zone. If I am owed a life, can’t I use it to barter?” He gave her a guileless, good-hearted look, as though he had this sort of conversation every day, and perhaps he did.
“Can someone ever repay that type of debt?”
“My word, no. Oh, don’t look so horrified, Nilah,” he said, waving away her confusion. “My staff are well cared for, receive ample food and medical care, and when they grow old, we give them palliative care at a hospice facility. Many of them live much better lives than their counterparts in the Gray, and I enjoy the company of commoners. I’m the best thing to ever happen to many of these people. I know that my palace may not be extravagant to a racer like you—”
“Oh, it’
s plenty impressive.”
“But it’s our home, and my privilege to share it with these fine people.”
“You do seem a bit … overstaffed.”
“A debt isn’t a debt unless it’s collected.”
Nilah knew Vayle had other interests, including Carrétan mines, but refrained from asking him who staffed those.
Vayle thrust his hands into his pockets, an oddly relaxed stance for a noble. “I’m surprised to hear these kinds of questions from a highly respected driver. You sound like one of those offworld journalists.”
“Yes, well …” she stammered. “This is my first experience with, um …”
“Indentured servitude built the Circuit Perrin Espy, so racing owes it a greater debt than you think.”
She tried not to think about her drive on Carré the year before or the backbreaking work that must have gone into creating the state-of-the-art track. They approached a cadre of tan-suited soldiers whose violent, snapping steps came to rest before the duke. Their hands all shot to dutiful salute, frozen in place above stern brows.
Nilah was surprised to find that their uniforms were the only consistent thing about the squadron. They had all colors of skin, various body modifications, and were diverse in age. Even their weapons varied from soldier to soldier: slingers and swords of all shapes and classes.
“How are things, Captain?” asked Vayle, inspecting the troops.
“Excellent, sir. We’ve doubled the perimeter guard, as you asked, and the automated systems are in perfect order,” said the most decorated woman in their ranks.
“Very good,” said Vayle, and the elite squadron marched on, disappearing around the corner at the end of a long corridor.
Nilah watched them go with some interest.
“Those are my Flamekeepers,” said Vayle, noting her gaze. “Each and every one of them is a fire scribe, in the ancient traditions of Origin. They’re cross-trained in arcane combat tactics, intelligence gathering, psychological operations, and counterinsurgency.”
She grimaced. “I’ve yet to meet a fire scribe who could impress me. Most scribblers barely surpass a cheap lighter in terms of power.”
“Then I should introduce you. These men and women are athletes, magi of the highest order, and hold unparalleled destruction in their palms. Hooked up to the right amp, these people could easily level a city block. I recruit them from all over the galaxy and pay them a small fortune to stay here with me.”
“Why arsonists, though? Wouldn’t you rather diversify your, uh, portfolio? There are so many other destructive marks: conductors, zephyrs, corruptors …”
Vayle traced out a glyph and flicked a match flame from his index finger. He waved it around for a moment, then snuffed it with a breath. “My dear, the mark I carry inspired me to start a new dynasty. Instead of simple family ties, I share something deeper with my Flamekeepers—a common spell.”
Nilah chortled. “And you could destroy a city block with an amp?”
He averted his sparkling eyes in mock embarrassment. “Oh, no. I’m one of the match-flame scribes you were talking about before, I’m afraid. I’ve almost no skill in the arts.” He straightened up, summoning his noble stature into his shoulders. “I’m glad you got to see them, though. I want you to know just how safe you are while you’re here with me.”
“I should be safe on Taitu, prepping for the race.”
“Yes, you should. It’s a damnable shame that you’re forced to sit this one out.”
Palace halls gave way to rock walls as they descended through cavernous passages. Gone was the Origin colonialist-era architecture of the palaces above, replaced by a more modern set of lighting and design patterns. Huge perimah birds, their clawed wings outstretched in battle, had been carved into the rough-hewn walls. Nilah recognized them as the same ones from the Thiollier family crest.
When they reached the baths, they found Malik luxuriating in the water. Glowing, aquamarine pools glimmered in the granite cavern underneath a twisting field of magically projected stars. Strains of a distant crystalphone warbled in through the cave, lending a ghostly air to the scene. Warm steam seeped into Nilah’s lungs, a welcome balm after breathing in bits of the Gray.
Malik lay against one of the rocks with his hands clasped over his chest, his eyes shut and slow breath disturbing the steam around him. He’d fallen asleep, which seemed to Nilah to be his default state.
“He seems comfortable,” said Vayle, attendants approaching him from seemingly nowhere.
“He’s a hibernator. He says sleeping so much makes you healthy.”
Malik popped open an eye. “Not quite.” His gentle voice echoed through the cavern. “I said this much peace makes you healthy.”
The duke stripped out of his clothes, handing them off to his attendant before slipping into the water. Nilah enjoyed the sight of his sculpted body, even though she hadn’t appreciated his conversation much. The Vayle she’d met last season had been less eager to talk about trapping people in lifelong, exploitative contracts. She considered some of the comments she’d made about her own contract with Oxcom in previous seasons and felt a little stupid.
Another attendant approached her from behind and cleared his throat. Nodding, Nilah peeled out of her clothes, ripe with the scent of the Gray, the prison, and a tense day, and handed them over. Malik’s eyes returned to a closed position, but Vayle made no secret of watching her as she’d watched him. Too bad he’d spoken too much earlier, or she might’ve had some fun with him. She stepped to the water’s edge and allowed the moist, temperate air to soothe her skin, then sunk a foot into the pool.
She nearly tripped as her tensed, knotted muscles fell slack in the hot water. Vayle laughed as she sat down, gasping and cheeks flushed.
“Do you like it?” jibed the duke. “It’s water from the Prokarthic Ruins. The whole spring is essentially enchanted, so take your time climbing in.”
“Are you serious?” she shouted, then wrestled her voice under control. “All of it?”
Vayle winked. “My grandfather’s grandfather shipped in every last drop, save for the few liters he sold to the academics. My family was one of the two claimants on the Prokarthic site.”
“The other claimant’s family was exterminated to the last scion,” added the doctor, not budging.
“Malik!” Nilah wasn’t sure about the customs of Carré, but she knew it was rude to imply the murder of a noble family.
“It’s fine,” said Vayle. “Serenity brings honesty. And I can handle it, because he’s right.”
And because you’re stewing in several million argents’ worth of magic water. “I see,” she said.
“My family has made some difficult decisions, decisions I had no part in. And they’ve done some harsh things, but their choices bought me this life,” said Vayle, spreading his arms wide as if to embrace the entire cavern. “And I love the way I live. I’m grateful for it. Now come inside. Surely you’re cold out there.”
“I’m not sure I need this much honesty in my day.”
“Honesty is good for you,” slurred Malik, barely conscious through the pure bliss. “Live longer.”
Nilah took a deep breath and slid into the hot pool, her dermaluxes flaring gold with the sudden sense of all-encompassing well-being. “Oh god,” slipped from her lips before she could stop it, and every stress melted from her frame. She’d never felt anything comparable—like she’d been frozen solid before being dropped into a warm bath. She uncoiled—her mind, her muscles.
Hard truths burbled to the surface of her psyche. Even after her call to Claire, she was still smarting about the things her boss had said during the presser. In spite of all the horrible things Vayle had said and done, his nude form was perfection, and still worth bedding. She was obsessed with Orna, and desperately hoped the quartermaster would show up before it was time to get out of the baths.
And she wanted Boots to be her friend.
The last truth struck Nilah as strange, since she couldn�
��t imagine the reason for feeling that way. The short, odd woman wasn’t like the svelte racers and the hangers-on inside the PGRF. No one at any of the glamorous parties even remotely resembled Boots, and they would be summarily dismissed if they did.
Nilah admired the woman’s survivalist nature, her relentlessness and occasional ferocity. She saw in Boots a toughness she wanted for herself.
Vayle’s honey-smooth laugh interrupted her thoughts. “Are you all right?”
Nilah blinked. “Of course I am.”
“We were just wondering, because you’ve been staring straight ahead for the last ten minutes.”
She glanced at Malik, who mustered enough togetherness to smirk at her. The water wasn’t like any drug she’d tried—if she relaxed, it would envelop her mind, freeing her to think without restrictions or ego. When she snapped out of it, the water only left behind vague pleasantness, its intoxicating power gone in a flash.
She blushed, trying to keep her focus.
“Would you care to watch the race, Nilah?” Vayle suggested.
“You have a stream?”
Vayle winked. “I’ve got better than that.”
Motes of light swirled across the ceiling of the cavern, speeding over the rocks to swallow them in multicolored flashes. The sparks twisted and contorted into the shapes of grandstands, purple fields of lavender, the red and white stripes of rumble strips along the side of fresh black tarmac. The roar of a hundred thousand people filled the cavern like a waterfall, and only open road stretched before her. A ruddy sunset filled her eyes, and she recognized the skies of her beloved homeworld.
She was in the cockpit of the Lang Hyper 8, or rather, the entire bath had become a larger-than-life representation of the bleeding-edge race car. The steering wheel didn’t quite look like hers, and the gloves were the wrong color; this was Kristof’s car, and he was sitting in pole position. She felt a stab of nostalgia—even through the numbing effects of the baths. If she hadn’t been inside the calming influence of the ancient waters, she’d have thrown things. The angrier she got, the more the felt her surroundings leeching her emotion away.
It should’ve been Nilah in that cockpit, but there could be no changing it now.
