by Alex White
Boots yanked the sheets up over her torso and rolled onto her side, curling up in the tightest ball she could. Without her other arm, the bedclothes slipped from her, leaving her cold, exposed, and ashamed in a way she couldn’t understand. She’d seen wounds like hers in the Famine War, but nothing so ugly as that arm.
Hospital staffers’ shoes squeaked against the bare floor, but she didn’t turn to see them. Someone picked up the arm; she heard it click as they turned it over, inspecting it for damage. Her table rattled as the arm was laid upon it.
“I’m fine,” she whispered. “Get the hell out.”
And they did, for a while.
Then the door opened again, and a voice said, “They told me you didn’t even ask about me. That’s cold, Bootsie.”
She turned to see Cordell, her face swerving violently between anger at the disturbance, grief over the arm, and outright laughter. Cordell stood in her doorway, his abdomen wrapped in a glowing duraplex cast. The moron still wore his bloody captain’s rags, like he didn’t have more Clarkesfall crap in his closet on the ship. Armin helped him through, wearing the first genuine smile she’d seen on the first mate.
A thousand quips came to her mind, but instead, Boots said, “So if we’re here, Aisha took the shot. How is she?”
Armin helped Cordell take a seat by the bed, then pulled up a chair for himself. “She’s resting. Spinal grafts. Full recovery in a week or two. She sends her regards.”
Boots scratched her nose with her remaining hand. “Tougher than she looks.”
“One god down,” said Cordell.
“Three,” corrected Boots. “Prejean, Mother, and Mandell.”
Cordell smirked. “They were a little shocked when they found her body. Maybe we should’ve moved the old woman with the crushed throat to the morgue.”
“Maybe we should’ve jettisoned her corpse into the Taitutian atmosphere,” Boots spat. “Crone doesn’t deserve a grave.”
“That’s hard, Bootsie,” said Cordell.
She shrugged, and they chewed on the silence for a moment.
“And Orna and Nilah?” asked Boots.
“A few floors up. A lot nicer up there than down here.”
Boots found that hard to believe, but she let it slide.
“It was a strange feeling,” said Armin, “getting a rescue party after assassinating the PM.”
“That’s it? They just … came and got us?”
Armin scratched his nose. “Yeah. Simple as that. Kin negotiated the surrender of the ship, and they took it over, well, amicably. I mean, we were still under arrest, but, you know, within a couple of hours, the Taitutians had all our data and cleared our names. Though, I suspect the ensuing lawsuits will take a few decades to sort out.”
She sat upright. “What’s going to happen to Kin? Can I get him back? Can they help me unlock him?”
The men exchanged uncomfortable glances, and Cordell was the first to speak. “Look, he’s been connected to at least two of the most classified systems in the galaxy—the bunker on Carré and the Harrow itself. It’s simple data contamination—they have to lock him up now. In addition to that, you weren’t really licensed to have a military AI, were you?”
She glared at him. “Don’t you try to rationalize taking him away. The evidence is out in the open, and I deserve that computer.”
Cordell held up his hands. “That’s fair. I’m just telling you what they’re going to tell you. But there’s good news in the bad.”
Armin leaned forward, grinning. “Kin was able to modify the Harrow’s broadcast equipment to overpower all radio comms on the planet. The data packets hit the Link, and they’ve been snatched up by the Galactic Transparency Initiative. Every journalist out there is picking it over now.”
“We’ve got all of the conspirators dead to rights, and they’ve gone underground,” said Cordell. “The gods can probably hide for a while, but just like the prime minister, they can’t stay in power. Law enforcement everywhere is on high alert, and they’ve been purging anyone who’s tied to the conspiracy. Folks like Uziah Lesinski are going to jail forever … or they’ve been taken out by strike teams. There’s been a pretty serious shift in power here on Taitu, as well …”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Galactic news? Was she safe? Could they really stop running?
“What do you mean, ‘shift in power’?”
“Sweetheart, you slept through a coup.” Cordell pointed to her metal arm, which lay limp on the table. “So put your arm back on, because some important people owe you favors. The new PM wants to thank you personally for exposing the conspiracy. Not only that, but the Clarkesfall Veterans Restitution Fund wants to build a memorial in our honor.”
It was like the bed dropped out from under Boots; she could hardly tell if she was floating or falling with that news. “I’d rather not see anyone.”
Cordell shrugged. “Either you meet them on their terms and give them the interviews they want, or you get stalked. That’s the deal. Play nice, pose for pictures, and the PM’s security detail might run interference with the press at large.”
Armin picked up the robotic limb and offered to help her socket it to her shoulder. Boots recoiled as though the metal was red-hot.
Eventually, she succumbed to his sour gaze and let him snap the arm onto her. “Why’d they give me such a trash prosthesis, anyway? This thing looks like it’s freaking ancient.”
“That’s because it is,” said Armin. “Modern prostheses use magic to transmit data. They haven’t made models for people like you yet.”
“A lot of research went into that ‘trash prosthesis,’” said Cordell. “It may not look like it, but that arm took a team of geniuses the week to build, so you ought to be grateful you’ve got it. Probably cost a fortune.”
She shook her head. “That’s what someone tells me every time I get to be even remotely normal: ‘You ought to be grateful.’ Is it too much to ask that I get to do the same crap as you scribblers?”
Cordell leaned forward, close enough that she could smell the sweet cologne on his skin. “We survived because of you. You gave all the final orders. You killed Mother when everyone buckled. You came up with the plan that exposed and killed Mandell. You may have saved an entire galaxy …”
Armin beamed, a bad look for him.
Cordell cuffed her on the piston where her bicep should’ve been. “So cheer the hell up. You seem to manage to get things done … better than any scribbler I know, for sure.”
The first mate winked. “Besides, if you don’t like it, you can pay them to design a new one.”
She frowned. “Awfully cavalier with my cash, aren’t you? I can’t even afford this place without state assistance.”
He sniffed. “Now seems like a good time to tell you we got salvage rights to the Harrow. You’ve got one hundred sixty million argents in a Taitutian bank account right now. Each one of us does.”
His words drained the blood from her face as surely as if he’d opened a vein.
“Are you serious?”
The officers started with giggles, boiling over into laughter.
“You’re not serious, right?”
They slapped each other on the backs and shook her shoulders so much it hurt.
She grimaced. “You boys know that ship was worth four and a half billion, right? Our shares don’t even make up half of that. They’re worth … thirty-two plus seventy … just over one billion. Did you already sign as the executive, Captain?”
Cordell’s eyes rolled. “Oh, you call me Captain when we’re divvying up the shares?”
“If I think I’m getting cheated, I do.”
“You just got a hundred and sixty million, woman!”
She did some quick calculations. “And, by my count, it should’ve been six hundred forty million! What happened to the other three quarters of my cash?”
He scowled. “First off, galactic salvage lawyers got half.”
“I hope they earned it
,” she said, crossing her arms. The scratchy wiring harnesses of her metallic claw unnerved her.
“You got paid, didn’t you?”
“And where’s the other half?”
Armin bit his lip. “That part is dicey. The Taitutian state only allowed us to take half the salvage fee.”
“What? That was our ship!”
“Technically, some members of Mother’s battlegroup were still in the Taitutian military, so we committed piracy when we commandeered the Harrow,” said Armin.
“They were goddamned spies!”
“Then, we put a warship directly over their capital and broadcast state secrets to everyone with ears.”
“That was to make sure the conspiracy came to light!”
The first mate stood and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Oh, I’m with you. And I think, with your recent popularity, we could’ve eventually won the court case … sometime within the decade.”
She sat back. “So we caved for a quick coin.”
Armin pursed his lips. “As a datamancer, I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you that a hundred sixty million today is worth a lot more than a billion in a decade. Investments and—”
Cordell held up a finger. “You factor in the dozens of interview fees, speaking engagements, fictional rights, and on and on, you’ll have a tiny little empire with your name on it. On the social side alone, you could easily double or triple your money if you play those cards right. And you know, I think I’m starting to see the appeal of fame. You could probably go back on the Link, get your show back together. How about, In Search of the Harrow, or Harrowing Horizons?”
“Those names are terrible. Stick to captaining starships.”
“So figure out our next adventure. We could get to the top of the Link ratings together. Help me find a producer.”
His eyes gleamed in that all-too-familiar way: he wanted to gamble again.
“And all I have to do is talk to people?” she asked.
“Basically.”
Boots looked out the window and took a deep breath. That plot of land on Hopper’s Hope was going to have a distillery sooner, rather than later.
“I think I’ll just take my cash and skip the media deals, thanks,” she said. “One show was enough for me.”
A few days later when Boots left the hospital, she found Nilah waiting for her in the glassy lobby. The racer wore a sensible black suit, her sunglasses reflecting the orange light of a perfect dusk.
“Checked ourselves out, did we?” asked Nilah.
Boots gave her a pained smile, peering past her companion into the road beyond, where a few reporters gathered like vultures. “Probably for the best. The press thinks I’m here for another two days, so I may as well get while the getting is good.”
Nilah narrowed her eyes and repeated, “‘While the getting is good.’”
“Listen, kid, this ain’t my scene and you know it.” Boots’s cheeks reddened. “If you want someone to blow something up, I’m your gal. But, uh, the press and stuff …”
Nilah laughed. “So, what, you’re going to hide out in some hotel? Boots, you don’t know the journos like I do. They’ll find—”
“Not staying on Taitu,” Boots interrupted, and Nilah’s shocked expression nearly broke her heart. Boots stared down at her feet, unable to look Nilah in the eye. “Look, I … I don’t know how to say this. The mission is over, and I had to head out at some point. It was fun to be back with the old gang for a bit, but I’m not a soldier anymore. I did what I was supposed to—gave the government my firsthand account and all. Not that it was required, since Kin recorded everything.” The stab of losing her AI hit her all over again, and she mustered an awkward grin. “Besides, I’m rich now. I got what I wanted, you know.”
The press had gotten wise to their conversation. A gaggle of silhouettes gathered outside the hospital doors, imagers in their hands, and the Taitutian State Guards rushed to clear them off and secure the entryway.
“I see.” Nilah blinked, then recovered her composure. “Well, that’s all right, mate! We’d be happy to have you at my father’s estate, or you can lodge for a bit in my house up on Morrison Station. Please, you simply must.”
“Ah, hell. I don’t think you get it.” Boots scratched the back of her head. She’d never been one for talking about feelings. “I don’t particularly want to hang around Taitu with, well … with what those people did to my home. And I know it was only a few bad eggs, but those bad eggs were running the damned government.”
It wasn’t the kind of wound Boots could recover from in a lifetime, much less the course of a few days. The Taitutian authorities had treated her with kid gloves, like they’d all done something wrong. If Nilah hadn’t fought by her side, Boots’s view would’ve been even dimmer. It wasn’t logical, but logic would take some time to catch up to what she’d just lived.
“We were so naive when the war broke out, and then … we fought for nothing.” Boots’s eyes burned.
Nilah’s mask of cheer began to crack. “But you made a difference this time.”
“I don’t want to be a hero, Nilah. I want my country back.”
They stood together in silence for a minute, the journalistic cacophony growing outside.
“You’re the greatest, kid. When we met, I totally hated you—with your bragging and posturing. Thought you were full of it, but …” Boots jammed her hands in her pockets and forced herself to look Nilah in the eye. “You’re everything you said you were and more.”
“And you acted like a washed-up nobody, so …” Nilah wiped a tear from her scarred cheek, her tattoos flooding with blue light. “I guess you’re nothing like you said you were. One of a kind, that’s you.”
The press had worked themselves into a frenzy, trying every angle to capture this touching moment—so they could sell it as part of a package, turning the worst tragedy in galactic history into a couple of argents. Boots had been happy for them to disseminate the records from the Harrow, but now they were just a bunch of hyenas.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” said Boots, sniffing. “They’re about to start eating each other out there.”
“Yeah.” Nilah wasn’t even bothering to cover her tears. “Stay in touch.”
Boots smirked. “Keep your nose clean. Try not to murder the other drivers this time.”
Nilah sputtered a laugh and threw her arms around Boots in a tight hug. Boots’s chest felt as though it would split open, but she kept it together and patted Nilah a few times on the back.
She couldn’t stay—not right now.
There were rolling fields of barley waiting for her.
The next three weeks were total mayhem for Nilah. Though her public persona had never been great—her publicist had to sprint to keep up with her trash-talking—she became the darling of her homeworld. Teenagers approached her with fresh dermalux tattoos, modeled precisely upon hers. Every media outlet in the galaxy flocked to Aior to speak with her as soon as possible.
They treated her like a queen, like the leader of the gritty crew of the Capricious. Everyone wanted to make her a perfect hero because she came from the right planet and had the right name, but it made her uncomfortable. At every group interview, she corrected history to point out that Boots and Orna had saved them all.
Nilah spent her wild nights with Orna, who quickly became an obsession for the press. They followed the pair around incessantly, and unlike Boots, Orna seemed to relish the attention. The quartermaster’s icy eyes and bravado captivated the public, and soon, offers of representation came rolling in. They wanted her in dramas, clothes, and fighting competitions.
Nilah’s merchandise sold out of every store, and the outlets on the Link couldn’t keep up. That was excellent, except for the fact that Claire Asby was in hiding, the league commissioner had been taken out by a military strike, and the government had frozen all of Lang Autosport’s assets along with much of the PGRF. And so, there was no one to resupply the retail outlets, creating instant col
lectors’ classics. Nilah didn’t mind too terribly—her salvage share alone was worth three years of her contract with Lang—but it was a shame to let all that advertising go to waste.
For obvious reasons, the final race at Vorlanti had been canceled, and the points remained tied between her and Kristof. This fact rattled around in her head as she ascended to the rooftop garden of Ubaxa, an exclusive restaurant on the Emerald Road River. Kristof pulled out her chair for her, then sat down across the table. Luminous drink options tumbled through the air before them, and they selected some libations before the projections faded away.
She looked Kristof over in the glow of the restaurant, his blond hair tousled by a river breeze. Despite losing his job, he looked well enough—hale and happy to see her.
“You didn’t return my calls,” she said.
“I haven’t been allowed to call you since you got back,” he replied, wiping his hands with a steaming towel. “Since Claire disappeared, they had to make sure I was … well, wasn’t going to kill you.”
“Please. If you murder people as well as you drive, I’ve got nothing to fear.”
“Ah, there’s the Nilah I know. I worried the added fame would change you.”
Their drinks arrived, along with the chef, who made it patently clear that this meal was on the house for the great Nilah Brio. Kristof smirked and added a magnum of 2860 Drapeau Rouge to their tab in response, and the chef retreated.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been comped a meal here,” said Kristof, folding his hands in his lap.
“Oh, now. They would’ve comped me if I were the galactic racing champion too,” she said, her eyes taking in the ten thousand magically suspended lanterns over the garden. “With the PGRF half dismantled and all the tracks banned from use, I guess we’ll never know who would’ve been champion, will we, darling?”
“Not so. The rules are clear, I’m afraid,” said Kristof. “I’m the champion. I held the pole position nine times to your seven.”
“What?” It was the first time anyone had given her bad news in the past few weeks.
He held up a hand. “However, I believe you would’ve taken Vorlanti. This was your year. You were everything a great driver should be … and then some.”
