Steal the Stars

by Mac Rogers

  “Dakota Prentiss,” the man said.

  Lisa made the introductions. “Dak, meet Zhang Liu.”

  “Zhang’s fine,” he said. “Hi.”

  “You don’t have an accent.” It was out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying.

  He looked at Lisa, his lips curling into a devilishly tiny smile, then said, “What kind of accent did you have in mind?”

  I felt my face redden. Of course he didn’t have an accent—or, to be more precise, he sounded like he could have been from Long Beach. A big part of his job was putting Americans at ease. The current placement of my own foot inside my mouth was proof positive alone of how we tended to act if we thought someone was from Somewhere.

  “Why don’t we just forget I said anything?” I tried to chuckle.

  With introductions out of the way, Lisa gave me one last inscrutable look—sadness? fear? resignation? all of the above?—and left the room. A few moments later, I heard her leave the apartment. A good idea, that. When your friends are engaging in illicit conspiracies, it’s usually a good idea to remember errands to run. Zhang and I had one last moment to size each other up, then we both sat down: me on the plush, white sofa, Zhang on a plush, white armchair.

  “So, obviously I’ve read everything we have on you,” he said. I nodded. “It’s not much—you’re not in espionage, but you’ve intersected with that world a bit.”

  “Everybody needs a door kicked in sometimes,” I shrugged.

  He gave me another devilishly tiny smile. “We have similar collaborations on our end.” Damn, I was starting to like him immensely already.

  “So what was in my file?” I asked.

  “Enough for me to conclude two things. One, it’s awfully late in your career to suddenly groom you as a double agent. If you’re reaching out, it’s likely in earnest.” I could have kissed him. “And two, you probably don’t begin your meetings with a cocktail and ten minutes of small talk.”

  “You got me on both counts,” I said. “I’m ready to work.”

  “Then work,” he sat back in his chair, ready to hear my pitch. Except:

  “Your guy at the door took my bag. There’s a laptop in it that contains footage I need to show you.”

  He gave me the sassiest head tilt I could ever imagine witnessing in a clandestine meeting about life-and-death matters. “You can’t just tell me in words?”

  My turn to be devilish. “Okay, let’s try that first.” I sat back too, crossing my legs and clasping my hands primly in my lap. “If I give you the body of an alien from outer space, will you give me and my boyfriend fifty million dollars and asylum in your country for life?”

  He blinked. Then cleared his throat and nodded. “You’re right, let’s get your computer.”

  * * *

  WHEN HE was done watching the footage, he looked at me, squarely and for a good amount of time.

  “I can’t think of a single reason why you’d come to me with falsified footage of an extraterrestrial,” he said. His voice was soft, musing.

  I played along. “If I’m a spy I’d come to you with a credible story. If I’m a nutcase my footage wouldn’t look this good. If I’m not a nutcase, I’d know you’d insist on verification before payment. And if that verification were to fail—”

  He put a finger-gun to his temple and said, “Oops.”

  “Oops,” I nodded.

  “A lot of countries don’t extradite. Why us?”

  “It’s not about extradition. I’m not stealing this from the US government.”

  He chuckled at that. I knew why: the difference between the US government and Sierra was nominal at best these days.

  “From your particular vantage point, Ms. Prentiss,” Zhang smirked, “just how aware are you of what’s happening in your country?”

  I didn’t want to argue the point. “It’s none of my business. I’m done.”

  “I find it hard to believe a former soldier has no feelings whatsoever regarding her—”

  “I’ve done my part, all right? More than my part. I’ve kicked in, no one can say I haven’t.” I was getting agitated. “No one can say I haven’t given my—”

  Zhang put his hands up, apologetically. “You’re right, you’re right.”

  I was on a roll, though, and I had to get this out, for myself as much as for him. “I’ve earned not thinking about it anymore. I’ve earned a life. God knows I’ve earned a fucking life. And the only way I can have one is to go somewhere they can’t follow.”

  “Which, given Sierra’s numerous Russian ventures…” He began.

  “Pretty much leaves you,” I completed.

  He gave me a nod. Fair enough.

  “Here’s a question. The body’s not dissected.” He settled back into his chair, getting comfortable. “You’ve had him, what, ten years? Why isn’t he…?” He made gestures, lopping off various parts of his body.

  “Mostly it’s that Sierra wants to keep an option to cash out.”

  “Cash out?”

  “Put Moss on display for money.”

  “Ah. But that’s only mostly? He’s not alive, is he?” I think he was kidding, there, but when he saw my face any humor in his fell. “Is he—?”

  “There are … theories,” I said. His eyes widened.

  “Does he breathe, does he have a heartbeat?”

  I almost wished Lloyd were here to stammer through something more unnecessarily descriptive. I felt like he and Zhang would get along.

  “No. Nothing like that. Well, except that he’s warm.”

  “He’s … warm? You mean, he’s—”

  “His skin is warm. To the touch. But look, he’s a fucking alien, we don’t know anything. And once he’s yours, you can handle him however you want.”

  “Once he’s ours.”

  “Right.”

  “Which would transpire how, exactly?”

  I stiffened. “None of your fucking business.”

  He chuckled. “Apologies, you’re right, that was amateur.” Yeah, it was. Also, I still wasn’t completely sure. “You’ve likely anticipated that I’ll ask to keep the laptop, correct?”

  “It’s yours.”

  He closed it, put it in his lap like a sleeping pet.

  “Obviously I’m going to make inquiries on my end. I’ll be candid … I’m not optimistic, but I will certainly—”

  “Wait. What does that mean, you’re not optimistic?”

  “But I will try.”

  Whoa, whoa, whoa.

  “How can you not be optimistic? What is everybody’s deal—it’s a fucking alien!” I no longer wished Lloyd were here; instead, I felt in danger of becoming him, storming and raging during the meeting where Quill Marine received its new mandate. I needed you here to calm me down, take me for a glass of water. “It’s the discovery of all time! You’re telling me your scientists wouldn’t be—”

  “Oh, they’d be overjoyed,” Zhang smiled, holding the laptop to his chest. “I have no doubt. But when I leave this apartment and start making calls, I won’t be talking to scientists. I’ll be talking to, for lack of a better term, risk assessors. And they’re going to tell me that the risk of meeting you in a North American location; verifying the item; and then transporting it, you, and one other American safely back to home soil is more than is justifiable given that the item—remarkable as it is—is entirely without strategic value.”

  “Jesus Goddamn Christ!” Flashes of Monica, of the humiliating rendezvous in the car wash the week before, whizzed at me like strobe lights.

  “Speaking for myself? As a patriot? I want it,” Zhang conceded. “And your price is reasonable. I mean, I have very little faith that you can actually acquire the item—I honestly don’t expect to ever see you alive again—but if you somehow managed to do it? I want it. But it’s not up to me.”

  I was well aware that any second now, he was going to stand up. As soon as he did, everything was over. As soon as he stood, he would be asking me politely to leave and if I fough
t that, there went my credibility. I became the frazzled crazy woman digging her heels in and needing to be removed no matter how well the meeting had gone initially.

  I wasn’t thinking. Or I was thinking too hard. I don’t know. I leaned forward, speaking slowly. Deliberately. So he knew I was serious.

  “What if … I could sweeten it?” I could hear his voice in my head: strategic value, strategic value …

  “Sweeten how?” He looked at me, that devilishly tiny smile beginning one more time.

  And here’s where I made everything a thousand times worse.

  “What if,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “there was also a weapon?”

  He considered. Then crossed one leg over the other, settling farther into his chair, ready to hear what I had to say.

  * * *

  OKAY, SO now I had to move an alien and an unpredictable death machine. Aces.

  Why didn’t you plan for that? Why didn’t you prep better? You didn’t even have a clear idea of how everything was going to go down without throwing the Harp into the mix and now—

  I miss Matt.

  It was true. I felt frazzled, overwhelmed, nervous, angry … but underscoring every emotion was the aching need for you. It wasn’t even a distraction or an inhibitor. I didn’t blame it for my shoddiness. It was just there, a constant underscore. Which meant maybe I could use it to refocus my efforts.

  So that’s what I did. I set to work unknotting the situation in my head, using the knowledge that the sooner it was all over, the sooner you and I could live our lives in peace. I had lived far too long without you; I’d be damned if I was going to let any more time go by.

  In fact I was concentrating so damn hard I almost didn’t see Nikki approaching. I was standing in a clump of commuters, back on the Orange line, a few hours later. Before I knew it she was standing next to me. I almost yelped—thank God I noticed her right before she started speaking or I would have killed myself in embarrassment.

  She pressed a small baggie containing what felt like a small vial into the hand hanging by my side.

  “It’s a powder,” she murmured. “Don’t open it until you need to use it. Regular latex gloves will protect you. Put them on, then dust the outside. Let the visible powder fall away. It’ll look like it’s all gone, but it’s not. Then: any exposed skin you touch will be affected. Be very careful taking the gloves off.”

  “How long?” I murmured back.

  “Still in test trials. We’re seeing between ten and twenty minutes.”

  “What do I owe you? No friends-and-family bullshit; you’re sticking your neck out.”

  I wasn’t looking at her, but I could practically hear her nodding stoically. “If it’s for the real stuff? Nothing.”

  I could have wept with gratitude. I was suddenly overcome with an absurd and fierce jealousy for her faith, her unerring belief that, even though this country went back and forth, it was always hers, and nothing she would do would not be in service of it. I didn’t have that. I was selling something potentially devastating to a foreign power for a little selfish chicken scratch and all I felt was anxious to get it over with. Hell, I was even making her a party to something she might have literally killed me for if she’d have known. The gratitude I felt burned with white-hot irony—the kind you feel when sending someone off to die on a battlefield as a sacrifice to some larger tactical maneuver.

  I’m sorry, Nikki, I wanted to want to say.

  We reached the next stop and she was gone.

  Which meant my vacation was almost over. Just one last thing left to do.

  * * *

  IN COMBAT training, it was a longstanding joke that, no matter how out of options you felt, no matter how pinned down and ready for surrender you might be, there was always one last card to play. You could run the Charge.

  It’s exactly what you think it is. It’s messy. It’s unwise. It’s a glorified suicide mission. You run straight into the fray and, if you do it exactly right and are astronomically lucky, you’re suddenly inside the enemy’s defenses before they understand what’s happening. For a moment, they become vulnerable and maybe you can turn the tides. It almost never, ever, ever works. It’s a horrible idea.

  But it’s always an option. There’s always a chance. That’s why they call it gambling.

  So I was about to run the Charge.

  * * *

  WHY IS it that the people with the clout to work a four-hour day never seem to do it? That night Haydon decided to put an epic shift in. I hunkered in my car for hours, peering out through night-vision specs, and it was close to 10 p.m. when he finally came out of Sierra Headquarters and got into his shiny black car. If he didn’t see his little sidepiece tonight, I’d be screwed. I’d have to tail him through the city or, worse, I might even have to follow him home, which was forty different bad ideas rolled into one.

  But I was lucky. I kept a discreet distance in my car and when I saw him turn into the parking lot of the Redwood Hotel, I let out a verifiable sigh of relief.

  I let him have a few more minutes of head start. I wanted to be sure I caught him at the bar.

  The room stank of overpriced drinks and soft piano. It was all browns and golds, low lights and gleaming, reflective surfaces.

  When I walked in, I immediately clocked that his guards were giving him a wide perimeter. Trip Haydon must have wanted a little privacy with College Girl—they were just far enough away to not feel invasive, but of course still close enough to jump into an incident should one arise.

  An incident like me.

  Haydon was currently at the bar alone. Waiting. Now was my chance. All I had to do was do it. That’s the whole point of the Charge, right? Blast right past the defensive line like you belonged inside?

  So I strode past the goons with purpose and was slapping my Sierra ID badge on the bar next to Haydon before I could even sit down.

  He looked at it, then at me, with the look of weary smugness that’s the exclusive domain of the mega-rich.

  “Well, this is weird,” he said.

  His guards were already on their way. I had about three seconds before they were over here and, best case scenario, hauling me back out onto the street. So I wasted no time.

  “You’re being lied to, Mr. Haydon. Moss is dying fast and I have proof in my bag.”

  Charge.

  19

  HE BLINKED. “All right: wow.”

  He waved at his bodyguards. They stopped in their tracks and he signaled for them to beat a retreat. So far so good.

  “Say that again: I’m—?”

  “Being lied to. Specifically by Harrison. If you want to cash Moss in, it’s gotta be now. Would you like to see?”

  I gestured to my bag. He made a movement that seemed enough like a nod that I went ahead and pulled my tablet out.

  “Call me a micro-manager,” he said while I did so, “but aren’t you on the wrong side of the continent right now?”

  “Officially I’m in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. On vacation.”

  “Officially?” He snorted in that smug way of his again. He looked over at the bartender and gave a little wave. The bartender set to working on a specific, though unmentioned, order. Haydon looked back at me. “Drink?”

  “No, thank you, sir.”

  He tsked. “Right. I forgot. Lot of you Friends-of-Bill types wash up with us.”

  “I’m not in AA, sir. It’s just, I’m talking to you. That means I’m on the clock.”

  He continued to eye me suspiciously. His drink arrived, clear and potent-looking in a tall martini glass. He took a sip. “Someone’s not very good at vacationing.”

  He was fucking with me. He’d use up all my time with him just fucking with me. I had to drive the conversation. “I can do this fast, sir. No reason to hold up your evening.” I pulled up Lloyd’s raw footage of Moss—the real footage, filmed recently and showing the true recession of the moss on his gray, thin body. “The images you were shown on your visit were presented as
if they showed a year’s worth of moss recession. They actually only showed a few months. This is what the past year’s recession really looked like.”

  He studied the images for a few moments, then turned off the tablet, handing it back to me. He reached for his drink and brought it slowly, carefully to his lips. “I’m feeling a lot of things right now,” he said. “Mostly, like, blinding rage that you’re flashing these images out in public like this. But also—” He did sound angry but also curious. Here was where I could find out if his contempt for Harrison was as deep as it had looked last week.

  “I’m here to undermine my boss, sir. And to kiss up to you. I didn’t want to be subtle.”

  He took another ginger sip and mused. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone actually say all that with words before.” Sip. “You’re telling me you want Harrison’s job?”

  I nodded. “At the current rate of recession, the moss on Moss’s skin has months—maybe even weeks—left. We need to shit or get off the pot.”

  He grunted. “Huh. So if ‘shit’ equals ‘dissect him’…”

  “‘Get off the pot’ equals ‘cash-in,’” I finished for him. “Go Bearded Lady with him or lose the chance forever.”

  “And you came all the way to Arlington, Virginia, to—”

  “If I’d emailed or called, sir, when would that have actually gotten to you?”

  Peripherally, I saw College Girl trot in, fashionable and mysterious under all that youth. She stopped and noticed her date speaking with short, stocky, serious-looking me and appeared puzzled. Haydon signaled to one of his guys to keep her on deck. “Also,” he bellowed. “Walker, put in an order of mozzarella sticks.” Another one of his guys peeled off to make the order.

  Either you’re surprised a bajillionaire scion eats mozzarella sticks at a posh hotel or you’ve met a bajillionaire scion before.

  “I’d ask you if you like mozzarella sticks, Prentiss, but you’re going to be gone before they arrive.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Meantime, while we’re ‘undermining your boss,’ who all was in on this?”