Atlas Fallen

by Jessica Pierce

  His face lit up with excitement. “Really? G-35 Starfliers or Nighthawks?”

  Stupid. Of course a member of the RAF would want to know more. What in stars had made her think it would be an easy lie? Tesla swallowed, mentally cursing as she recalled her academy training. “F-Fixed-wing Bloodhounds,” she stuttered, trying to recall the ship’s specs from Colonel Roger’s seminars on aerospace history, “but only in the simulations. The rotary-wing version is so outdated, and they don’t let new pilots train in the Starfliers until they’ve had at least four semesters of study.”

  A crooked grin dashed across his face. He was handsome, in an immaculate and structured way. Even his posture looked stiff, though Tesla wasn’t sure if it was from years of military training or the fact that he kept glancing over his shoulder as if they would be caught any minute. Lind Fuhr, Tesla’s welding crewmate, would swoon for this boy the same way she did for models in the trendmags she smuggled to work in her equipment bags. Something told Tesla he wouldn’t care about the attention, though.

  “Er—what do you fly?” she asked, drawing the attention from herself.

  His smile faded. “I don’t anymore. Now I serve the Defense Minister directly.”

  Tesla recognized that look. It was the same distant expression she’d worn for months after Commander Grey had taken her wings. She knew what it was like to miss the controls of a cockpit. Strange, how she and someone from a life so different than her own could share that.

  “But I do have a LiteHover 9X,” he said, grinning. “So that has to count for something, right?”

  Tesla’s mouth fell open. “How did you manage to score a recreation drone like that? They’re not set to be released for months!” She’d spent endless nights studying schematics for the LiteHover 9X’s circuitry system in an effort to add flight capabilities to her original fightBot. Unfortunately, her first attempt had sent the heavy suit soaring right into Captain Bhuru, head of security on Level Eight, and its sharp plating had shaved off one of the man’s eyebrows. Bhuru made her scrub slimy cooking fat out of Level Six’s kitchen vents for a week after that infraction.

  The boy shrugged casually. “Eh—The RAF has its perks, and I have a few connections.”

  “Must be nice to have friends in high places.”

  Her comment made him laugh. “Something like that.”

  “What made you leave flying?” Tesla asked.

  His eyes darkened, and Tesla regretted prying into his past. “I’m being groomed for a promotion,” he said finally. “But if I had a choice, being a pilot is what I’d do until I’m old and grey.” He exhaled, running a hand through his blonde hair. “I’m an aviator. I should be back with my squadron, not behind a desk. But sometimes we must put our wants aside and be what the First World Union needs.”

  The words sounded rehearsed, as if they weren’t his own. She remembered how excited she’d been at the thought of becoming an officer in charge of one of the station’s cargo ships. Sure, it wasn’t a fighter jet like the high-tech RAF starcraft, but it was something. That was before her father’s execution had changed everything; Tesla could empathize deeply with giving up on the dream. “Just don’t lose yourself under the command of someone else,” she said, thinking of Minko’s debt.

  “It's funny, ” he said. "When I first joined, everyone told me the Academy would be the hardest part of the job. But sometimes... sometimes the hardest thing is finding your place among the stars."

  His eyes lingered over her features, as though relieved to find someone who understood. She smiled. Something about him made her head feel lighter, as though the air at the party was imbued with lunarshine.

  A chime pinged on her wristcomm, and Tesla nearly jumped. It was Kiyo, letting her know he’d gotten to bed safely, though he didn’t specify whose bed. She angrily swiped away the notification and turned back to continue the conversation, but the moment between them had passed.

  “I should go,” he said as he climbed to his feet.

  Tesla didn’t want him to leave just yet, but the boy was already halfway to the stairs.

  A loud boom from below echoed as the doors to the penthouse swung open. The party guests began shouting as security forces poured into the room, led by an officer with the pointed face of a feral dog.

  The boy stiffened, the muscles in his arm tensing. “This isn’t good.”

  “The Jackal,” Tesla hissed, remembering what the guard in the Gulch had said. It had to be. No other security force officer looked half as menacing. The brute jumped onto the stage, roughly pulling the announcer from behind the microphone. Somehow they’d discovered a Gulch rat had escaped above the deimark to crash the party, and they didn’t seem pleased about it. She had to leave—now.

  She started to run, but the boy grabbed her forearm, his eyes intently staring into hers. “He’s coming for me. Do you know a way back to the diplomatic suites?”

  “He’s coming for you?” she asked in disbelief.

  The boy nodded. “I’m... not where I’m supposed to be.”

  Tesla’s watched as the guests scrambled toward the doors, pushing confused draadharts out of the way. “It seems like a lot of guards coming for one pilot—”

  “Do you know a way or not?”

  Desperation creased his features. Tesla hadn’t noticed how tired he appeared until now. The stress of whatever he’d been looking for was taking its toll. Her eyes flickered back toward the Jackal, watching as he began lining party guests up against the walls. If he planned to interrogate the richies, her chances of slipping out of the party through the front door were gone. Once the guards realized Nevik Petrov’s daughter was above the deimark after curfew, they would throw her in the brig for sure—invitation or no. She didn’t have money for bail, and after the events of the evening, she wasn’t entirely certain Kiyo would come to her rescue.

  “This way,” she said, grasping the pilot’s hand and dragging him forward. “The speakers are wired in the ceiling, which means there has to be a solar conversion unit somewhere over here. If we can get into its service hatch, we should be able to follow the maintenance corridors all the way to the suites.”

  They crouched behind the balcony railing as they ran, staying out of the Jackal’s line of sight. Sweat made her palm slick, but she didn’t let go until they’d found the three-foot panel near the end of the raised platform. She took out her utility knife, wedged it between the panel’s cover and the bulkhead, and wriggled the blade as she pried the steel from the wall. Deep within the hatch, her fingers found a lever which opened the door to the service corridor. “Through here. Just don’t touch any of the exposed wires,” she whispered.

  He didn’t hesitate. Tesla pulled the heaviest circuitry out of the way and followed in his wake, replacing the panel behind her as best she could. She eased through the service door, dropping down a few feet onto the floor of the maintenance corridor. Bluish reserve lights bathed the walls in a soft glow. Along the wall, electrician tools hung in cabinets faced with glass; markings above the door told her they were headed toward Sector Twelve, home to Commander Grey’s apartment and the diplomatic suites.

  The soles of their boots clanged loudly through the shadows as they walked. Occasionally, Tesla turned a corner without uttering a word, but the pilot managed to keep pace just behind her. They passed markers for Sectors Ten and Eleven, the numbers painted in sharp angles upon the wall.

  “Blazes, why is it so hot in here?” he asked, breaking the silence.

  It was hot. Tesla could feel the red blouse sticking to her skin. “We must be over the hydroponic gardens now,” she said, turning back to see a sheen of sweat coating his brow. “Our farming areas. The station’s crops are genetically altered to grow three times faster than Earth crops, which means the farm crews have to blast concentrated UV lamps after second shift to stimulate food production.”

  “I feel like I’m walking on the sun,” he grumbled.

  Try living in a shipping container over a thousand s
olar panels, she wanted to mutter. If he thought this was hot, life in the Gulch would be hell for him. Then again, life in the Gulch was hell for anyone.

  They rounded a final corner and Tesla stopped so quickly that the pilot bumped into her. “It’s just through there,” she said, pointing to a hatch like the one they’d used previously.

  “How are you able to navigate these service corridors so well? It’s like you know them better than the workers.”

  Tesla’s mind raced for an answer. “A good pilot is always prepared,” she said, shrugging with enough arrogance to give the statement credit.

  She helped him open the panel and he slid forward. Just as she raised the sheet of metal to replace it onto the access panel, his hand suddenly reached back through the opening to grab her own. Seconds later, his blonde hair reappeared. “Are you going to the ball, Tesla?” he whispered in a rush.

  “What?” Why was he worrying about the ball at a time like this? Did he want the Jackal to find them?

  “The royal ball three nights from now. Were you planning to attend?”

  “I... have to work.” It wasn’t a lie, but it certainly wasn’t the whole truth, either. She didn’t owe this Earthen boy an explanation—that her work involved building a fightBot for a crime lord.

  “I’m allowed to invite someone,” he pressed. “Anyone I choose. Would you go with me?”

  “Do you think they’ll even let you attend if they find out you’ve left your post?” she said, gesturing for him to make his exit.

  He laughed, a deep, honeyed chuckle. “I don’t think I’ll have a choice.” The sounds of hurried footsteps grew louder over his shoulder. They were running out of time. “Say you’ll go,” he pleaded softly, his face only inches from her own.

  Her heart was racing, both from the threat of being caught and from the way he looked at her. Still, she gave no answer. He drew back slightly at her silence, her rejection dawning on him. He seemed unused to the feeling. The footsteps sounded again, louder this time.

  “Whatever,” hissed Tesla, her hands shoving him toward the diplomatic suites. “I’ll go. But you have to get back before they find you.” Or find the daughter of a traitor lurking between the walls.

  He grinned and held his arm parallel to hers, linking their wristcomms. “I’ll send you the invitation tomorrow.”

  “Wait! I don’t even know your name,” she called after the boy as he moved to exit the hatch into the hallway beyond.

  He stood in the corridor, knees bent only enough to meet her gaze. A panicked look shadowed his features, but left so quickly she wondered if she’d seen it at all since it was now replaced by an easy grin.

  “Daxton, at your service,” he said. Then he sank into an immaculate bow, winked, and was gone.

  SEVEN

  MUSCLES SCREAMING, TESLA FORCED her eyelids open at the shrill beeping of the wristcomm alarm she’d set to wake her in time for crew work. She looked at the device, hoping fervently that the heat from the hydroponic gardens had somehow melted its wirings, causing the machine to malfunction. That can’t be the time. A quick glance at the readout on her apartment door panel proved the wristcomm correct. Tesla gave a loud groan, her joints protesting as she pulled the covers back over her head.

  Using the lifts had felt too risky after she’d left Daxton at the suites; instead, she’d traveled downstation using only the service corridors, passing through the deimark via a freight elevator on the far side of the station. Getting back to the Gulch had taken most of the night, and it seemed sleep had finally come just moments before the alarm.

  She snoozed for a few more moments before hastily donning her thick welding coveralls. Grabbing the tool satchel from a pile of last night’s discarded clothes, she ran out the door and through the Gulch’s common area, then down to the loading area where crews boarded a creaky monorail, cramming herself into the overcrowded crew shuttle just before the doors slammed shut.

  “Cutting it close, Tessie,” sneered a female voice as the monorail car lurched forward.

  Tesla turned to find Naamah, a mechanic from Level Five, glowering at her. The woman’s dark hair pulled from her face tightly into a bun, accentuating her serpentine features.

  “Afraid you were going to miss me, Naamah?” Tesla snapped in response. She stretched the muscles in her shoulders and wiped the sleep from both eyes. A night of little rest left her in no mood to deal with the woman’s taunts.

  Despite having been warned, Naamah had once bet serious corpCredits against Tesla’s bot, only to lose months’ worth of wages. Since then, she had exacted revenge by making Tesla’s crew work a waking nightmare, usually in the form of sabotaging her tools.

  “Ooh, the cat has some bite this morning. What’s wrong, Tessie? Tired from your little adventures?”

  Tesla willed her face not to show any signs of surprise. How could Naamah know? Kiyo wouldn’t have told anyone about the party, no matter how angry he might be with her. It would put him at risk, not to mention make him the punchline of every richie-lover joke with the crew.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Bok’s daughter saw you leave your apartment all dressed up after curfew. Guess you’re doing more for Minko than just bot fights now, eh, companion? Tell me something,” she said, her venomous eyes drawing closer to Tesla, “what kind of discounts do those richies get for bedding a traitor’s daughter?”

  Tesla crossed to Naamah in a single step. With a quick thrust of her hands, she pinned the woman against the monorail bulkhead, causing the car to sway on the tracks. “Say another word about my father and I’ll throw you in a furnace myself.”

  “Tesla, enough.” Her crewmate, Lind Fuhr, nodded toward the corner of the monorail car. Tesla heard it before she saw it: a security video-bot hovering just above the far window, its lens slowly circling over the crowd of workers. One wrong move and security forces would gladly throw their entire crew into the brig. Jaw clenching, Tesla backed away.

  “Smart move,” one of Naamah’s minions said with a smug laugh.

  Lind took Tesla’s hand and pulled her toward the monorail doors. Once out of earshot, she whirled around, a look of disbelief painted across her features. “Holy moon, Tesla! Did you frack your brain on a bulkhead? Naamah works for Yosef now. The Skinners would love to ship your head to Minko, and you just handed them an excuse.”

  Tesla let the news sink into her exhausted brain. If Naamah was indeed a Skinner, there was even more reason to watch her back around the woman. Lind was right. Yosef’s foot soldiers sewed razors into their work gloves, scalping anyone who dared to give them a sideways glance. Naamah’s hatred for Tesla was already strong enough, but an opportunity to please Yosef meant his newest recruit would be even more dangerous.

  “Sorry,” Tesla muttered, rearranging the tools in her satchel, “long night.”

  “Well, get it together. Masterwelder Cherenkov sent evaluators today.” She nodded toward a pair of older men wearing the same crew overalls. “We’re not supposed to know, but I saw inspector badges in their kitbags. Think they’re going to test us today for a spot with the Hull Walkers?”

  Lind didn’t wait for an answer before bustling her way through the monorail car in the direction of the inspectors. She stood next to the two men, batting her eyes and laughing at something the shorter man said. The girl wasn’t stupid. Being favored by the inspectors early in the shift could very well lead to a higher mark on the evaluation.

  Tesla had been working for a spot with the Hull Walkers, the Atlas station’s exterior welding team, ever since she’d been reassigned below the deimark. They were the only workers allowed access to the outer hull by way of bulky robotic suits. The heads of each Hull Walker crew got to drive the slow, ponderous, single-person equipment freighters through the vacuum of space, hauling tools for the other exterior station workers. It wouldn’t be the same as piloting a sleek starcraft, but it was better than nothing.

  The monorail dipped through a
cramped tunnel, and the lights in the shuttle brightened as they neared the solar converters. An ancient holovision, one she’d actually thought broken until now, suddenly powered itself, displaying a female news anchor from Earth. The woman’s hair was closely cropped in the Beijing style, with elaborate designs shaved along her temples. Beside the woman shimmered a hologram depicting the crumbling facade of a destroyed factory. Tesla closed her eyes, moving with the jostle of the shuttle, wishing she could somehow absorb some of the station’s solar power into herself to stay awake as the woman droned on.

  “—claims the factory’s destruction is yet another attack against the Grand Imperator by the Restoration, the left-wing radical faction attempting to officially secede from the First World Union. The fires began shortly before the factory’s first shifts were to report for work, although the exact motive remains unclear. Officials say if the fire had been started only hours later, the death toll could have been catastrophic. With Grand Imperator Nikolais and Defense Minister Kyrartine both currently aboard the Atlas space station, members of the Imperial Inquisition are investigating...”

  Tesla’s thoughts drifted to last night, to Daxton and the feel of his hand in hers as they’d run through the corridors. She could remember the warmth of his skin against her fingertips. Don’t kid yourself, said a voice inside her head. He was only kind because he needed something from you. He probably has some richie waiting for him back on Earth. She should send a comm to the RAF officer’s lounge, telling him she couldn’t go to the ball, though she doubted he even remembered the invitation after the excitement of last night. After all, Daxton had noticed right away that she didn’t fit in at lux parties. The thought of wearing a fancy evening gown and dancing the night away in the arms of one of the royal family’s guards was laughable. And there was no denying he would get in trouble if it got out that his date had a revoked security clearance.