by R J Theodore
Drawn curtains partitioned off the cabin behind Eneil. Beyond, Talis sensed that living area was empty. She wondered how Eneil had managed to talk Im Ufite Rantor’s captain out of her own quarters.
The simple answer was money. The expenses of this voyage were significant. All, apparently, to have a little chat with Talis about her wrecked ship.
A lantern hanging above the table cast only a small circle of light. Against the pale materials of Eneil’s furniture, it gave the effect of an interrogation spotlight, ringed in darkness, while somehow Eneil looked as carefully lit as an artist’s model.
They had changed their clothes since she saw them on the docks only hours earlier. Now, they wore a cream silk robe embroidered with staccato dashed lines of golden thread. The sleeves were longer, the sash at their waist wider. A collar stood high from their shoulders, almost enough to serve as a hood.
Talis slid off her boots at the edge of the pristine carpet and seated herself across from them. Together, they waited in silence as the Bone crew woman exited and latched the cabin door behind her.
Eneil poured Talis a cup of tea with a flourish of their wrist—they used their inner, delicate, primary hands, a gesture of respect that did not go unappreciated. As they sat, leaning toward her with the small cup extended, they flared their nostrils with a deep breath. “Pine and loam. A walk in the woods. Silent reflection.”
The words were measured and lilting. For a moment, Talis thought Eneil had decided to pair tea with poetry. However, after a pause to sip from their cup, they added, “I hope it has helped you to consider my proposition.”
Her cheeks and neck flushed with an embarrassed heat. Of course. They had smelled the woods on her, even through the jasmine-scented air and even though it had been hours and a cup of ginger tea since she’d had her chat with Onaya.
Could they smell the feathers too, or know what they meant? Talis would bank on it, if she had any money of her own.
She didn’t comment on their observation. Delicate banter was a mainstay of Vein negotiation, but she intended to get them to come to the point and give as little room as possible to be anything but plainspoken. “You wanted to talk to me about my ship.”
The practiced smile didn’t waver at her abruptness. “I do. Indeed, I do.”
Talis took a sip of the tea and waited. She was not a fan of tea, and after the bold flavor of Nisa’s ginger, the astringent taste of the jasmine made her wish for a full comb of honey just to compensate. It was steeped as well as could be expected, and at a drinkable temperature, but it was tea, and she’d have trouble complimenting anyone who served it. Instead she chose to say nothing. Between Onaya and Nisa, her thoughts were so full she didn’t have room for polite words about hot water.
Three sips of tea each, as if a prerequisite to conversation. Then, Eneil placed their teacup back beside the teapot and, with their outer arms, wrapped their robe around themself. They looked bundled up to take a nap on that settee and, at the same time, as though they were a meditating sage contemplating the background hum of Nexus.
“I represent a party who is aware of the events that transpired in the skies around Nexus two years ago.”
Phrased like that, it could mean anyone. Anyone who might have had a scope aimed at the battlefield. There was nothing subtle about the fight between gods and aliens. The ocean had whipped about under Lindent Vein’s command, while Nexus rotated and spun like a child’s top. And since that day, the news got around. At least, outside the Empire.
“Anonymous.” If Eneil’s client wanted her to know who they were, she’d already know. Didn’t mean she couldn’t make a point of how she felt about it.
Eneil inclined their head slightly to confirm. “You, yourself, emphasized the need for discretion.”
A sensation tickled Talis, as though a numb limb overwhelmed her nerves as it came back to life. How long since she last met with a client to talk business? Long enough. It may as well have been a different woman, from a different lifetime.
“Fair point.” Talis resolved to enjoy herself in this moment. If only they weren’t talking about something so personal. If only there wasn’t the heist to consider. And all the players that were starting to appear on the game board.
Eneil reached for their tea again. A slight scrape of ceramic against the tabletop. They continued, the handle-less cup paused just beneath their chin.
“My client—potentially your client—wishes to fund a salvage operation to retrieve from your ship that which was lost following the aforementioned battle.”
Talis worked the tea around her mouth. So. Someone heard about the money and wanted a share of the treasure frozen in Wind Sabre’s hold. Word gets around Peridot, the undercities, especially. It could be an old face or a new player making a push to seize power. No sense playing coy about it while Eneil was being forthright for once.
“What’s the split?” Numbers tumbled in her head. Even if she and her crew only got ten percent of what should, by rights, be fully theirs, it would change everything.
“I apologize, Captain. I have miscommunicated. The salvage on your ship is the payment. The job is another salvage my client would like to hire you to conduct.”
Talis failed to contain a laugh, though she managed to keep it pleasant. “Your client wants to pay me with my own money?”
“We are aware your current situation makes the salvage unaffordable. You would be supplied with the means—a ship, salvage equipment, fuel, and supplies—to access your own money. You are an intelligent woman, Captain. You must have figured out that if we know of the money in the hold of your derelict ship, others will also have learned of it by now. It has passed through Cutter territories twice since sinking. With each circumnavigation, it becomes increasingly likely another party will make the salvage run on what is rightfully yours. So while, admittedly, you would be paid with money you held once already, I believe my client is being most generous in allowing you to have the entire sum.”
“Assuming it’s still there—as you point out.”
“A risk, you understand, which comes with the bargain. However, our ship passed above Wind Sabre and observed its condition. We believe it remains undisturbed.”
Talis plucked at the edging of her own seat, then caught herself doing it, and cursed inwardly. She sipped her tea again to buy herself a moment. “If you have the means for a salvage run, why not get your Bone friends to make the descent? To my ship and whatever else your client wants tugged up. Why my crew?”
There remained another detail from Onaya to confirm. Talis put down her tea and leaned forward over the low table. “What’s the second salvage?”
Eneil produced a frosted glass clipboard from somewhere behind their coach and held it out to her. “We have a list of items we would be obliged for you to salvage from one or more of the Yu’Nyun ships also at rest in the flotsam. You are familiar with the layout and inventory of their vessels, are you not?”
Memories flashed in Talis’s mind, whisking her away from Eneil and the bright circle amid the dark wood of the Bone cabin. Of sneaking through the pale, glossy corridors of Scrimshaw’s ship with Tisker. Of activating the simula and watching it transform from a translucent Yu’Nyun shape into the dangerous and vengeful woman who, days later, unseated Onaya Bone. Who defeated and scattered the alien fleet, then chased Arthel Rak, Helsim Breaker, and Lindent Vein into Nexus. Who hadn’t been seen since.
Oh sure, Talis remembered the rough layout of the concentric corridors. How to activate the strange, smooth control panels. How to sabotage the aliens’ Nexus-fueled crystalline engines and leave their starships little more than burning piles of charred acrylic and blackened metal. But she hadn’t taken a proper inventory as she escaped before the thing exploded, and there was more than one hull style of Yu’Nyun vessel.
Then again, she and her crew easily knew more about the ships than anyone else this a
nonymous client might solicit for help. She could at least accept that as the reason for the interest in her people.
This anonymous client. Was Eneil, like Zeela before them, working directly with the aliens? Did they want their toys back?
She left Eneil holding the clipboard in an extended arm and nodded her chin at it. Knew they were reading her every breath and every rustle of her clothing. They’d played her well so far, hadn’t they? “What do they want with all that?”
Their arm showed no sign of tiring. The clipboard remained out, steady. “Technological advancement. It has been a long time since any significant discoveries or developments have been made using reclaimed pre-Cataclysmic ’tronics.”
She took a deep breath, feeling some of the anxiety release from her ribcage. The dissipating tension left her almost dizzy in its absence.
So the client was likely Vein, then. No one, with perhaps the exception of Sophie, loved to take things apart as much as the nimble-fingered academics of the marbled cities. Vein curiosity was something Talis’s conscience could bear. They possessed a fondness for pre-Cataclysm artifacts, tools, and devices dating from a time when technology was far more advanced. Before the Cataclysm sent the scraps of that civilization spinning moonward.
Vein technological research was responsible for all of the higher end ’tronics found on airships and in factories, making life a little easier all across Peridot. There would be plenty of university researchers looking to cover new ground as fast as possible via the alien tech. But weapons advancement? Not in their wheelhouse. They preferred poisoning each other in the race to file their patents, leaving the Bone and Cutter peoples to develop tools of formal warfare without their aid.
Talis took a last sip. She placed her empty cup on the table and accepted the clipboard. As Eneil poured for her again, she read it over and stanched the temptation to let out a low whistle.
“This will require substantial cargo space, and additional salvage equipment beyond the standard line and descent suit. Platforms, and such.”
“Our ship is outfitted with the equipment you will need. We ask only you apply your unique familiarity with the alien starships and their technology. Once the full list of Yu’Nyun items are gathered, we will allow you to descend over your own ship.”
Too gods-rotted good to be true, was what it was. Talis’s mind raced. This whole thing, her old ship, handed to her on a silver platter. Her skin itched as the odds of it played out in her mind.
Talis would feel better if the client had a name. If she’d found the money sitting in an abandoned tunnel in Lippen—just sitting there—she would still suspect it.
Still.
“I’ll need to discuss this with my team.” She placed the clipboard on the table beside the untouched tray of fruit.
Eneil nodded and displayed their trained smile again. “Of course, Captain. Our window of opportunity is small, you understand. I will require an answer in the morning.”
She understood all right. For two years, Talis had known exactly where Wind Sabre was as she made the year-long spin through flotsam. She knew how close the airship’s remains were to the Imperial border and exactly how long they had to pull this off, if they went for it.
Eneil rose from their seat, the lines of their robe settling with a graceful hush, and produced a parcel from within the silver folds. “Allow me to present you with a gift. Yours to keep, no matter what you and your crew decide.”
Talis didn’t want to touch it. Despite what Eneil said, she sensed strings attached all over it. But good faith tokens were far from unheard of, so she accepted the flat item as graciously as she could. It was surprisingly heavy and as long as her forearm. Feeling the weight of it and in spite of her misgivings, she was instantly curious. She tucked it under her arm. It would be bad form to open it right away.
Eneil escorted her to the cabin door, which opened as though the crew woman on the other side had been called with a bell.
“I will await your word in the morning, Captain. Have a good night.”
Good night? Not likely. Between the equipment, the ship, the timing, Onaya, and the vaults, the long day she’d had since she stepped out onto the docks that morning was far from over.
Chapter 11
The Representative of Culture and Integration stared daggers at Hankirk with xist dark, sparkling blue eyes. Hankirk had no idea if xe believed him. It would have helped if the alien’s facial expressions . . . well, existed on any level. But xe held xist posture straight and gave no indication of whether the lie would pass.
“That is unusual,” xe said at last.
Hankirk shrugged. “I thought so too. But the carapace is still partial in spots and softer than usual in others. How many layers can a body withstand losing in continuous succession?”
Maybe the more subtle body language cues were beyond him, but the way xist shoulders and neck lifted broadcast clear insult. “It is a carefully documented procedure, Mister Hankirk.”
Scrimshaw had been under the knife for almost two years, minus the time it took Hankirk to get from Heddard Bay back to Diadem. On some level, he felt it had to be plausible that ghi would have trouble healing in perpetuity.
The reality was that Scrimshaw was getting stronger every day. While he had been away on other business, Hankirk had his people see to it that ghi was fed, cleaned, and exercised. When fresh air and sunlight could not be managed, ghi was guided in hobbling circles around the cell.
Scrimshaw was almost ready. Ghi had been promised an escape from Diadem. When the alarm was raised, Hankirk would move on his plans while the Veritors and their guards pursued the alien. Every detail was considered and prepared for, including this excuse to delay the representative as long as possible. Scrimshaw’s carapace needed to grow as thick as it could to withstand the stresses of a daring escape.
But until then, Hankirk had to keep Hrrin’ru’taetin away from the interview chamber. “Do you have any medications which will aid in a faster regeneration of the exoskeleton? Perhaps foods higher in calcium? Dairy, or leafy greens?”
Xe made a noise of disgust. Hankirk knew there was no food a Yu’Nyun could stomach that was not alive and wriggling and consumed while still warm. “Ghi will recover on ghist own. The supplementation provided will be enough. I will call upon you in three days, and we will proceed, regardless of ghist condition.”
Three days to sort his affairs. Three final days for Hankirk to guide little Em to rule on her own. If he pulled this off, there was no coming back to the palace. Not after helping the alien traitor. Of course, he was not, in fact, planning to help Scrimshaw beyond the door of the palace. Whatever ghi faced beyond that, Hankirk cared not one bit.
Hankirk nodded, relieved. “As you say. I will meet you in the usual place in three days’ time, then.”
The representative waved a dismissive hand. Hankirk rankled at the gesture but retreated. He was accustomed to being disregarded of late. Not just by the pompous alien but also by the Veritors who suckled at the teat of the alien technology, selling their dignity and manifest superiority for the flashing, silver tools and weapons. Since Em had begun taking his counsel, he had been very careful not to outwardly betray them, but she was becoming more confident in her decisions, more able to defend herself against suggestions to the contrary of her wishes. The Veritors had to know part of that was his guidance.
Though she even stood up to him, sometimes, especially where non-Imperial issues were brought to her by non-Imperial peoples. These things were none of the concern of the Cutter emprices, but her heart drew no lines between Cutter matters requiring Cutter resources and the needs of the other races. Wasteful, but not the worst characteristic for a ruler. And that she stood up for her choices, Hankirk knew she would be okay once he was gone.
Dismissed by Hrrin’ru’taetin, Hankirk left the audience hall and stalked toward the dungeons as if to carry out
the Yu’Nyun’s directives. He would not be expected to make any other appearances until that evening, for another meaningless Veritor banquet where he, as Fens Yarrow’s “worthy” heir, was expected to shake hands and make small talk and effect absolutely no meaning or value upon the schemes and plans of the Veritors of the Lost Codex. Those breezeless old fools had lost sight of their greater, original goal.
The Veritors of the Lost Codex were meant to reunify the broken pieces of Peridot. That’s what the Lost Codex showed them. Before the Five Alchemists destroyed Peridot and reassembled it, there had been only one race. No wars. They lived in advanced cities and prospered. The Lost Codex showed how it was done, and from that inspiration, the original Veritors had sought a way to reverse the degradation of the world that followed.
But the later generations of Veritors, complacent in their wealth, had turned their backs on the grand vision and taken up a more immediate and self-serving goal: total control. Control was never the answer. Knowledge was the key; control was the means. There was seventy-five generations’ worth of division that needed to end. The planet needed to heal from the disaster the Five Alchemists had inflicted. And as long as the Veritors refused to look past their noses at the greater needs of the world, they’d keep clinging to the coattails of whichever power promised them a share of the spoils of greed and warfare. They didn’t have the sense to set off on their own, to chart their own course, and create the change they once prescribed.
Fools.
Hankirk reached the door to Scrimshaw’s chamber and nodded to the guards, barely acknowledging them. One guard was in his pocket, but the other was loyal to Patron Demir. He had to keep his behavior normal. Had to play his demeaning role until the moment was right.
