by Alex White
“My god. This is, uh—”
“I know,” Valentino interrupted, ushering her inside. “Miss Elsworth, I have acquired so many treasures. Do you have time to see them all?”
“You know,” she said, regarding the menagerie of artifacts, “we’ve got an ongoing, uh… thing… but I think I can make it back after.”
In the center of the gallery were two ancient automobiles, one red and one blue, their sleek chassis ready to rocket down the road.
“Got some incredible replicas,” said Boots.
“These are the only two Bergamaschi Toro Grandes known to exist.” The baron ran a finger over one as he passed. “Naturally aspirated, six-valve engines that run on petroleum.”
“Internal combustion… I didn’t know anyone had one.”
“C’et veris,” said Valentino. “I have driven both of them for fifteen minutes apiece. Had to pay two academics a small fortune to refine a gallon of crude oil. There’s nowhere to buy the fuel, you see, when the last refineries closed at the end of the Expansion Era.” He ran his finger along one of the streamlines. “Feel free to touch. They had to be repainted. Everything from the doomed planet arrived in pretty bad condition.”
“I’ve always wanted to study Origin, you know,” said Boots, “or the Five Colonies… or even the Quintet War.”
“If you ever wish to go treasure hunting together,” said Valentino, “consider me game.”
Boots stopped before a painting of a nude green woman, tall as a skyscraper, conjuring seeds with one hand and water with the other. Vines drooped from her hair, and she smiled upon a baked planetary surface with kind eyes.
“The Gardeners,” said Boots. “See, this is why no one takes legends from Origin seriously.”
“I believe in them,” Valentino replied.
Boots shook her head. “No way. The original colonies were terraformed with grit and tech, not giant sexy green ladies. Ten to one, an old man painted this.”
Valentino stared. “I commissioned that painting, based upon years of researching Originata.”
“Oh, uh, sorry.”
He quirked his lip. “Perhaps your skepticism is amusing. You found the Harrow, and yet you don’t believe in legends.”
Boots held up a hand. “Hold on, hold on. I believe in legends, just not something wholly unconfirmed.”
“The Gardeners appear in two different texts, written in two different eras. You can’t explain that.”
Boots didn’t want to seem ungrateful, so she kept her mouth shut. If she had opened it, it would’ve been to say that she, too, knew of those texts, and they were three hundred years apart—so that only proved one author read the other.
“What’s your Origin theory?” asked Valentino.
“Gravity drag,” Boots said, quoting the theory all kids learned in school: a supermassive object had shot through the system, narrowly missing Origin but pulling it out of orbit—and killing everyone and everything on it.
“A whole planet?” asked Valentino. “Destroyed without anyone caring?”
“Sure,” said Boots. “Happened to mine.”
“It would’ve been tracked at the time. The colonies would’ve sent envoys to see what happened.”
“So you think…”
Valentino sniffed and adjusted his hair. “I think someone is stopping us.”
“Aw, not the Conservators,” Boots groaned, but of course Valentino was a conspiracy nut. She should’ve seen it coming.
“So you don’t believe in this, or the Gardeners?”
“Yes, there is an organization called the Conservators,” said Boots, “but they’re a bunch of yahoos on a government watch list. They technically exist, but they’re not the same people from the legends.”
“And yet their name appears throughout history during times of strife.”
“Yes,” said Boots with a twinge of annoyance. “And those people were probably lying, adopting the name of the boogeyman to scare the rivals of their days. If the Conservators were as thoroughly secret as the stories go, why would you have heard of them?”
“We are a very smart species, full of magical diversity,” said Valentino, affecting the noble air of a documentary narrator. “Someone should’ve come up with a method to find Origin, or have been born with a spell that would solve the problem.”
“You’re just proving my point; if it was destroyed, spells wouldn’t find it, either.”
“Or, the Conservators are using the advanced technologies of Origin to shield it.”
Boots had to hand it to him—he went in for all the fun conspiracies. “I understand the temptation to believe, I do… but there’s no evidence. Space is big, and we haven’t explored most of it. There doesn’t have to be a grand conspiracy to stop us from finding Origin.”
Valentino squinted at her. “How do you find your treasures with your heart so rooted in bland reality?”
“I hate to disappoint you, but I found the Chalice of Hana with fuel receipts, and someone basically forced the Harrow on us,” she replied with a shrug. “Most rumors are just that: rumors. Did you find all of this stuff yourself?”
“I bought most of it.”
“Well,” said Boots, stopping to look over the bronze statue of a nude cherub pouring out a water pitcher, “I’d imagine most of the price you paid was for research, which meant years of sifting through boring bureaucratic records until your seller got a hit. Treasure hunting is ninety-nine percent failure and one percent dumb luck.”
Valentino tapped his lip with a finger. “I don’t know whether to be disappointed or impressed.”
“I get that way too often.”
They came to a wall of data cube storage, the glassy crystals arranged in neat rows beneath the soft blue light, and the baron keyed in a code, sliding the glass aside. One of the rows ejected, and the requested crystal pulsed gently. Given the other artifacts surrounding them, Boots imagined each crystal probably contained a treasure trove of rare information.
Valentino pulled the cube free of its enclosure and held it out for Boots. “Voilà.”
Boots took the crystal and held it up. “Thanks. This means a lot that you’re willing to—”
“You may copy it for eight million argents.”
Her mouth went dry, and Boots resisted the urge to put the crystal back down immediately.
“Uh, copy?”
“Oui.”
“I thought… you know… that given Nilah’s father’s situation, you were having a bit of mercy on us.”
The baron laughed politely, resting his fingertips across his collarbone. “I am still a businessman, and I still have you surcasque… um… how is it said? ‘Over a barrel’?”
“What happened to being my awestruck fan?”
“Be assured, I like you!” said Valentino. “But nothing is free in this life. I was promised five million from the escrow service, and my summer home on Prothero needs renovation. You salvaged the Harrow, so you have the money. ‘Pay up,’ as they say.”
Boots huffed. “If I give you eight mil, I want the original. Baron, you do understand that the other people bidding want to destroy the universe?”
“Then, I must turn the question on you, ma soeur. Is it not worth some of your fortune to make sure that doesn’t happen? Why should I lose money so you can save it?”
“Because we deserve—” Boots felt her cheeks redden. “Because we’re fighting on your behalf.”
Valentino shook his head. “So do soldiers, but I don’t give them millions of my own money. Understand that there are some prices that must preempt common decency. I am a great admirer of yours, Boots Elsworth. Thus, the two-million argent discount. Is that not more than fair?”
“I’ll have to discuss it with the crew, and it’s going to take time to put together a cash package like that. Most of our assets aren’t liquid,” said Boots, but she was already looking at the vault defenses, mentally cataloging how they were going to crack it wide open. It’d been a good time, rub
bing elbows with a noble, but she was done getting pushed around by some clown with a couple of rent-a-cops.
The baron searched her face, and she reined in her thoughts. It wouldn’t do to look like she was casing the joint.
“I’d like to show you the pride and joy of my collection,” said Valentino, smiling like a cat.
“Better than the cars over there?”
Valentino swept his hand, waving off her statement. “I confess I had to commission replica parts to make them run, so they’re not fully original. It ruins the mystique.” He gestured for Boots to follow him. “No, I have something so rare I doubt you’ve ever seen one in person.”
They traveled through the gallery to a large armory, its walls covered over in pitted blades and pristine replicas. Valentino pulled out a brushed metal case, its surface inlaid with slices of cherry wood and walnut to form a double-eagle crest.
“You know the logo?” asked Valentino.
Embarrassingly, she did not, and she wasn’t keen to come up short in front of her knowledgeable host. “It’s not the Gaultier crest, is it?” she guessed.
The baron laughed softly. “No, Boots. This is the Halmann Automatic Firearms Corporation’s brand mark.”
He opened the case, revealing a stunning silver automatic rifle resting atop a bed of crushed black velvet. “Here, we have the ultimate specimen of Origin engineering—not their raw magical power, but their mechanical prowess. This weapon holds a hundred rounds of lead and propellant.” Valentino picked up a large drum magazine and clipped it into the frame, then threw back the bolt. “It’s the same design we stole for slingers, but they didn’t need spells. They just put these little metal balls through your body at hundreds of meters per second. Can’t be reflected or dispersed.”
Boots nodded, noting to herself that the weapon was now completely unsafe and in the hands of a civilian—no matter how well-trained. He ran a hand down the slender shaft, admiring the lines milled into its surface, smiling at his own distorted reflection. “I love its lack of fancies—all business. No knock rounds or discuses or flames or whatever. Just sleek and simple murderous intent. Simplicity. Guess how much I paid for this rifle.”
Boots began to consider that she was alone, in a soundproof room, roused from their meeting without a heart tracker, and crewmates who were occupied with a mourning Nilah. The baron’s frame seemed much larger than it had in his living room—his blustery, almost effeminate manners, Boots realized in dawning horror, were animated by surprisingly lithe muscles.
“Guess, Boots.” He flipped his silver hair and its crackling sparkles felt… spicy on Boots’s eyeballs. Was it some kind of defensive spell, or were Boots’s eyes playing tricks on her? She hadn’t seen a glyph. Arcane trap? “This machine gun was so expensive. Each bullet was ten thousand argents. Do you think they still work?”
Nilah had once considered him a rival. She’d taken a hit to her reputation as a driver to deal with the threat. He would be faster and smarter than any security goon. Boots hadn’t absorbed a lot about the sport from Nilah, but her reflexes had Boots convinced that all racers were freaks. She blinked a tear out of her eye, praying she’d simply gotten some dust in it.
“Hunting Originata is such an expensive hobby.” The flashes grew brighter as he leveled the gun at Boots’s heart. Doudou hopped down onto the grip and hissed at Boots with poison-slathered fangs, daring her to reach for the rifle. “But do you know how much they’ll give me for your heads? Yours alone is worth more than the eight million sale price of the cube.”
Boots raised her hands, fingers itching for the trigger of her confiscated slinger. Her eyes raked the scene for anything that might save her. “I had really hoped you were cooler than this.”
The blades nearest her head simply hung upon velvet hooks. Boots could grab one if she wanted and—what? Throw it? Take the sword from the wall, turn, aim, and hurl it with one—speaking honestly—out-of-shape arm, into the baron’s… head? If she pinged him in the gut, he’d still be able to mow her down with that artifact. She’d never thrown a sword before, but Nilah had always told her she was stronger than she looked.
She was a fighter pilot. She had reflexes and stuff, too.
“Are you really planning to throw a sword at me?”
Boots blinked. “I wasn’t going to throw a sword.”
“You are definitely looking between the sword and my head.”
“Okay, so maybe I was!”
She lunged for the blade, her fingers coming to grasp it just above the pommel. The edge, Boots was sad to discover, was not for show, slicing her fingers. She yelped, dropping the sword and knocking several others to the ground.
The baron’s aim did not waver, nor did he execute her on the spot. She looked over the vault walls in despair. He wouldn’t even have to repair his house if he mowed her down in there. If she was going to die, she wanted it to at least be inconvenient.
“You insulted me in the land of my ancestors. I can and should kill you where you stand. My father would’ve had you flayed.”
The crackles seared her retinas, and Boots couldn’t keep looking at him. She held up a hand to block out the stinging lights. “Let’s… just calm down. I didn’t—”
“Didn’t what, Boots?” Tears blotted out the details of his face, leaving only a wicked grin and a wreath of silver fire around his head.
“Baron, I’d suggest you put the gun down,” came Aisha’s voice as she rounded the corner.
She held the smoky remains of the marksman’s mark in one hand and a slinger in the other. Upon Doudou seeing her, its coat went jet black and its eyes contracted to yellow slits. Its mouth dripped with venom as it scampered up onto the baron’s shoulder to screech at the newcomer.
“How did you get a slinger down here?” Valentino’s face flushed with anger, and he turned to face her, finger coming to rest on the trigger of his automatic rifle. “Now this… this is real heresy. You’ll never get off this planet alive, you—”
Aisha’s aim went high, and she shot Doudou off him with a flash and a puff of fur. The beast yelped once before bouncing into a darkened corner, the victim of a paralysis bolt. Valentino shrieked in horror, giving Aisha time to trace another glyph and shoot him in the hand. His grip on the gun went slack, and it clattered to the floor. She traced again, stepping closer.
“Guards!” cried Valentino, backing toward Boots and holding his deadened arm. “Someone help!”
“They’re all out cold,” said Aisha, taking a measured step into the room. “You need to be more careful inviting people into your home, Your Grace. It’s hard to hack those portals from the outside, but Miss Sokol was good enough to hold the door for me.”
Boots shoved past Valentino with the cube in hand, putting Aisha between her and the baron. “Not that I’m ungrateful, but what’s happening?”
“Executive order from the captain,” she answered, gaze never wavering. “This is taking too long, so we’re stealing the cube. No caper. Just gas the guards and get it done. He wants us off Carré in ten minutes. Sleepy is upstairs waiting. Nilah wasn’t in fighting shape, but she can keep the ship hot.”
“You think you can just rob a noble of—” Valentino snarled, and Aisha took the opportunity to snatch a knife off a nearby display pedestal and hurl it, smashing the pommel across the baron’s perfect nose. He staggered backward, hands shaking and nostrils streaming blood all over his lovely pajamas.
She grabbed him by his silver hair and wrenched his head backward, seizing another blade from the wall and placing it to his neck. “I shot the prime minister of Taitu in the throat. I’m an ace killer with a cargo hauler. I have wasted so many people in service of our mission, and if you think I’ll even remember your terrified, fading eyes in a day, you’re sorely mistaken. I always sleep like a baby—thanks to my husband. Do you know what I’m going to be doing in the morning?”
“N-no.” Tears rolled down his eyes.
“Eating an omelet, with bell peppers and mu
shrooms, and this wonderful aged cheese that I bought on shore leave.” She listed each ingredient to the frightened noble, and Boots genuinely believed she was thinking about those eggs from the look on her face. “Do you know what I won’t be doing?”
He shook his head.
“Thinking about your dead ass,” she said.
“I was only joking,” the baron pleaded.
Aisha shook her head at Boots. “They’re only ‘joking’ when they get caught. I’m going to open him up.”
“No! No, no, no, no,” came Valentino’s protests. “I’m sorry. I really was joking. I have nothing but the greatest admiration for you all.”
“Then you’ll remain here, my lord,” said Aisha, but her inflection dismissed his rank out of hand. “And if I see you following us, you’re a corpse. Your bank account won’t save you from me.”
“I’m sorry,” Valentino said, nose running. “I won’t follow. I swear.”
“And if you ever truck with Henrick Witts or the Children of the Singularity again, you won’t see me coming.” She pulled back the blade long enough to slap him with the flat. “It might take me some time to get back around to you, but you’ll be going for a nice little stroll, and you’ll recognize me in the crowd, and I’ll put a spell bolt through your head.”
“I didn’t know it was the Children,” he said. “It was an escrow…”
“No one believes you,” said Aisha. “Ready to go, Boots?”
Boots knelt beside Valentino, his bluster broken, and pointed to the rest of the gallery. “I just want to point out that I could’ve stolen anything else I wanted from here, and I didn’t. So… maybe I’m not that bad.”
His terrified visage never softened.
She patted him on the shoulder as she rose. “Okay, don’t talk, then. I hope your day goes better.”
On the way out of the gallery, Boots said, “You doing fieldwork now?”
“I had to get off the damned ship sometimes.”
They slipped into the Flow, reasonably certain that they wouldn’t be going back to Carré anytime soon.
