Salvage

by R J Theodore

  In the darkness beyond, he heard movement.

  “It’s only me,” he said. ‘Only,’ as others might dismiss him. ‘Only Hankirk.’ Perhaps the only one in the entire world who remained true to the Veritor purpose.

  The Veritors had strayed so far from their path, Hankirk would have to start again. There needed to be a sacrifice to galvanize the Cutter people. To galvanize all five governments into acting toward his vision of reunifying the five races of Peridot and undoing the chaos caused by the selfish act of Cataclysm by the Five Alchemists. The battle at Nexus should have been enough. The death of Silus Cutter. But the Imperials and Veritors alike had judged fit to actively withhold that news from the Cutter population. It was spreading as rumor instead; Hankirk saw to that, but the agents of the government were effectively removing or intimidating any true authorities people would believe.

  “Hankirk.” Scrimshaw’s voice was heavy with accent and strained from disuse.

  He lit the wicks of the candles and stood back to give Scrimshaw a chance to lift ghist-self up from the table. Ghi stood, supporting ghist legless side against the surface. Hankirk’s people had brought ghin a prosthetic leg during their visits—nothing as nice as Hankirk’s arm, but enough to let the alien walk unaided—but such a thing could not be left around for the wrong people to find. Or for Scrimshaw to use to escape ahead of schedule.

  “Looks more stable now,” Hankirk observed. “Good. We must act. In three days, your friend will be back to undo all that progress and will know both our parts in the deception.”

  Scrimshaw stood a moment before responding, only nodding at first. “Urgency would dictate I have little choice but to be ready. When would you have me make the attempt?”

  The alien was no fool. Ghi knew Hankirk was not helping ghin out of any kindness of character. He needed a distraction. It was a sad indicator of the current situation that Scrimshaw was his only ally in the palace. If only he’d stayed with Talis and her crew, they might have had a chance to make a real difference. Talis understood what was at stake. She knew better than to trust the Yu’Nyun. She didn’t appreciate the beauty in his longer goal, but compared to the fools running the government . . .

  At least, Hankirk consoled himself, he had helped little Em avoid being caught up in the Veritors’ deceptions. And soon, he would have the ring.

  He considered the alien’s movements. Though wobbly on one leg, ghi seemed to have all the strength necessary for the plan. “Tonight. There is a dinner banquet in the gallery. I will be positioned perfectly when you raise the alarm, so as not to waste time. Someone will bring you the prosthesis and a key.”

  Scrimshaw breathed deeply, ghist movements wavering in the candlelight. “Agreed. That would be an ideal opportunity. I will wait for you at the docks.”

  Hankirk nodded. He would be long gone by the time Scrimshaw hobbled to the docks of Diadem.

  “Tell me, Hankirk. When you recreate the world in your own image . . .” Scrimshaw took a moment to breathe before continuing, “how will you ensure that the Cutters rule more effectively than they do now?”

  Hankirk stepped forward and grabbed Scrimshaw by the wrist, yanking ghin off balance until Hankirk was the only force holding ghin upright. “You listen to me. This isn’t my ego. This is the way it was meant to be. Whatever you may think of me, I am playing my role, trying to set things right.” He breathed through his nose, expanding his chest, and let the air out slowly, then eased his grip and helped Scrimshaw regain ghist balance. He stepped back, tugging his jacket down with both hands—natural and mechanical—to smooth it. He shook his head. “Whatever happens after Reunification, it is not for me to say. I will have done my part to ensure it.”

  Scrimshaw looked at Hankirk with those eyes gleaming like black pools in the twilight of the chamber. “I should rest now, so I am ready when your people come for me.”

  Hankirk drew a pistol from beneath his coat and placed it on the slab. “The entire planet is depending on you. Do not let us down.”

  Scrimshaw nodded, but rather than pick up the pistol, ghi continued to watch him, saying nothing, until Hankirk turned his back, blew out all candles save one, and returned to his apartments to dress for dinner.

  Hankirk barely heard the conversation happening around him that evening. The gallery’s already gleaming varnished surfaces had been polished to glasslike finish, its dozen or so tables dressed in linens, and plush chairs relocated from the other parlors to accommodate the soft rumps of the Veritors’ favorite high-class members. Opposite the grand double doors, a cream banner hung, proudly displaying the once clandestine wine-red crest of the Veritors of the Lost Codex.

  In the center of the room, Silus Cutter’s ring sat in its glass display case, twinkling in the lowered light from the gas candelabras. Hardly anyone spared it a second glance. To everyone else it was merely a symbol of their supposed power. Only Hankirk seemed to understand the potential that could be unlocked by wielding it. He could practically taste the thrum of power coming off the ring, which he had been careful to ignore all evening, lest someone catch sight of his plans by following the direction of his gaze.

  Veritor founders and initiates alike ran their mouths, spewing rhetoric without an infant’s comprehension of the grand design, the large picture, or the mess they’d made of it. It was a damned shame, but tonight Hankirk was past all that. He waited, listening more to background conversations than to whomever stood before him, puffed up and preening to be seen with Fens Yarrow’s heir apparent. Whatever the title was intended to represent, it no longer mattered. Hankirk would live up to the legacy, not the contemporary expectation.

  It was between the third and fourth courses of the casual service that Hankirk’s thoughts finally returned to the present. A commotion began near the door, and an indignant silence rippled outward until half the room was pretending not to notice the palace guard whispering hurriedly at an attending captain’s shoulder. The other half of the room watched without pretense. A chase silver tray was spilled by a distracted servant, and delicate pastries filled with savory meat pastes tumbled to the floor and sprayed thin layers of flakey crust.

  Someone left with the guard. The news traveled up the chain of command via whispers until finally it reached Patron Demir. His whiskers momentarily undulated in a wave above his stern frown, and then he recovered and looked up with a smile. “Honored guests, we appear to have a security situation. Please, if you would be so kind—and for your own safety—follow our staff to the dining room. We will get this straightened out in time to serve the meal.”

  There was a disquieted murmur from every direction. Some guests, suddenly glancing askance at their food, emptied their hands of it onto the nearest service or table, and joined the stream of people now exiting the room.

  Demir waved Hankirk over. His face was lined deeply with wrinkles at the corner of his narrowed eyes. “Your charge seems to have escaped. Stay here. Go nowhere.”

  Hankirk swallowed. Did they suspect him already? “I can help with the search.”

  “Not necessary. How far could a one-legged, half-starved alien go? But you will remain here, behind guarded doors, should the prisoner have designs on your life.”

  They suspected nothing. Hankirk tried not to appear too relieved. “If you think that is wise.”

  The high doors closed with a solid thud, and Hankirk was alone in the room.

  The ring’s display case was secured with a steel lock. Hankirk had skills to best such a thing, but fortunately—for time was short—he also possessed a copy of the case’s key. He slipped it from its hiding place beneath his cravat, snapping the silk cord with a solid tug. The steel resisted slightly as he pushed it into place. The copy had been made by a less than perfect locksmith, but one who would be nowhere near the palace to answer questions if an investigation were conducted.

  Hankirk had been busy during these months when no one t
hought he had anything to contribute. From the right pocket of his jacket, he drew out another copy he’d had made: a large azurite-topped ring, a replica of Silus Cutter’s artifact. The details weren’t perfect—the jeweler hadn’t seen more than sketches of the original, of course—but the way the Veritors paid next-to-zero attention to the real thing, Hankirk knew it would be days before the switch was discovered.

  He placed the tip of his metal left index finger against the base of the glass lid and lifted it a barest measure. When there was enough space, he slid it beneath the rim, holding pressure on the hidden spring-loaded catch that would have sounded alarm bells in guard stations across the estate if it had been released. He bent his metal fingers backward against their double-jointed knuckles, propping open the case without leaving so much as a fingerprint on the glass to show it had been touched. With his natural hand, he made the swap, careful to place the fake ring in the exact same position as the original. He’d looked at it long enough to know when it was done right. Then he carefully replaced the lid and locked the case again.

  The true ring was heavier in his pocket than the fake had been. He resisted the urge to slide his hand in and slip it over his finger. Mere mortals were not meant to handle this power. He knew that, now. But the ring still had value he could leverage.

  He sent one guard off to find Patron Demir for him and caught the other by surprise as the edge of his metal hand struck the guard’s windpipe. Hankirk was gone from the corridor before the man recovered enough to shout for help.

  A high-born, blood-traced Lord met no resistance as he left the palace and strolled across the courtyard through the palace gates. Then, where he might have stood out against the common population of the city, he left his epauletted Imperial jacket behind the sculpted topiary in the courtyard outside the palace, took up the plain wool coat and brimmed hat he’d left there earlier, and tucked the shiny telltale left hand into his pocket.

  He made his way to the hired ship waiting for him, whose captain eagerly accepted his Imperial presscoins. As the crew began its preparations to depart, Hankirk settled against a deckhouse to keep an eye on the docks until they were gone.

  A familiar silhouette appeared at the far end of the open yard. Hankirk cursed under his breath. He had underestimated Scrimshaw’s resilience, expecting ghin to be recaptured, not to truly escape. The alien’s gaze found him, and Scrimshaw took a step toward the ship.

  Hankirk shook away the guilt that tugged at his mind, stepped forward, pointed in the alien’s direction and shouted to the guard station near the harbormaster’s office, “The Imperial Guard is looking for that one!”

  Scrimshaw spared Hankirk an indecipherable stare then, as the guard emerged and looked about the yard for the cause of the commotion, retreated, limping, into the shadows at the edges of the city.

  The ship pulled under Hankirk’s feet as it cast off. He relaxed and watched Diadem shrink as the trade winds filled their sails.

  Chapter 12

  Three pairs of worried eyes turned to her as she entered their room. Sophie froze, mid-pacing, let out an exhaled cry of relief, and rushed to wrap her arms around Talis. It threw off her balance, and she almost stumbled back into the corridor again.

  Sophie clasped her wrists and pulled her forward into the room.

  “What happened? You should have been home an hour ago!”

  Talis let Sophie steer her to sit at the table. Dug sat in the second chair, a storm playing across his features. He said nothing, but he watched her like a hawk. Like a raven.

  Talis could feel Eneil’s gift, still unwrapped, where she’d tucked it into the back of her waistband. She tried to ignore its silent judgment.

  Tisker put a plate of sautéed vegetables in front of her. A few small bits of meat were deliberately placed in the center of the vegetables, as though the plating were a creative expression of culinary art instead of the evidence of scant living that it truly was.

  “Afraid the dish is probably warmer than the food.”

  It had waited on the hot plate for her. She had no appetite, what with the anxiety and doubt—and now guilt—taking up all the space in her stomach. She unfolded her napkin anyway. Picked up her fork, though she only spun it between her fingers.

  Dug crossed his arms. “Eat, Talis. Then we need to talk.”

  She stabbed her food and took a bite. Talk, indeed. How could she explain away her unplanned absence without spreading her own anxiety to them? She didn’t lie to her crew. Omit things, yes. Hold information until she could process it herself? Gloss over details? Of course. Keep her worries to herself—much as she could. But she never lied to them.

  “There’s a job.”

  Silence. She looked around at the others. When was the last time she’d been able to say those three glorious words to them? Little muscles twitched in their shoulders. There was an intensity to their attention that went beyond the irritation and concern she’d caused.

  “Right.” Tisker sounded out the words as though he were just learning to speak them. “The heist. We know that.”

  She rolled her eyes at him, but his intentional obtuseness broke her tension. “There’s another job. If we took it, we wouldn’t have to go through with the heist.”

  Sophie was frowning at her. “Why wouldn’t we go through with the heist? I didn’t build all that stuff for my own health. Well, maybe—never mind. Why wouldn’t we go through with the heist?”

  Talis inhaled, not sure which piece of news from the day should be given right of way.

  “What’s wrong with the job?” Dug read her like the bold headline on a news sheet.

  She exhaled in a short puff of wane humor. What wasn’t wrong with it?

  She put her fork down and pushed the plate away. “Too easy. Too neat. And I don’t like the color of the bow on it. But it gets us what we all want without the risk of getting caught and spending the rest of our lives in a volcano-heated, stone-bound prison.”

  The others didn’t dare speak, not even to confirm what she meant. They were of a single mind: get off the island. She didn’t add that Eneil’s job offer got them more than that.

  Sophie gripped the back of Dug’s chair, standing behind him. Her nervous fingers worked as though she were massaging muscles, though they pressed against the wooden ridge of the seat instead of Dug’s shoulders, which probably could have used it. Sophie had given up smoking when they arrived, so long ago that her withdrawal-fueled restlessness had calmed, except when she was most anxious. Like now. “How?” she asked.

  “It’s a salvage job. A fully outfitted ship—a loaner—comes as part of the deal. The payment . . .” She paused. This was the best and the worst part. “We can detour to Wind Sabre.”

  To call the silence that followed ‘stunned’ woefully understated the impact her news had on them. Sophie gripped the chair until her knuckles were white, as though she might fall if she let go. Tisker sat on the bed, landing with a thud. Dug’s mouth clamped shut, and there was a ripple in his temples as his jaw muscles flexed.

  “So, what’s wrong with the job?” Tisker repeated Dug’s question.

  No fools, her crew. Surprised, yes, but still sharp, even with the bait so obviously hooked on the line dangling in front of them.

  She took Eneil’s wrapped parcel from the back of her waistband and placed it on the table next to her abandoned dinner. While carrying it back from his ship, she realized what it must be and didn’t need—or want—to open it. Sophie exchanged looks with the others before taking it up. She hefted it a couple of times in her hands and squinted one eye, frowning. Talis had expected Sophie to recognize it at once.

  The engineer tore the paper wrapping away in strips to reveal the polished glass surface of a Yu’Nyun communication tablet, its deactivated display dark and almost opaque.

  Tisker whistled low. Sophie’s large eyes grew larger still as she ran he
r hands along the tablet’s edge, and it came alive. Light reflected in their eyes and off Dug’s wet hair. The top surface glowed with alien writing in blue and white. A multi-layered ring spun around a central point in the center of the display and then stilled, flashing red. Sophie tapped a few Yu’keem words on the screen and menus and new displays reacted to her whims. On the reverse side, a subset of symbols appeared each time the front display changed. After a moment, Sophie blinked away the novelty of it and looked back to Talis. The device was an impressive distraction on the original question. But they still wanted their answer.

  Talis leaned back. “The actual job is to salvage the Yu’Nyun ships down there. Anonymous client.”

  Sophie let out a strained, derisive snort and looked down at the device with suspicion. “A trap?”

  Talis rolled her neck to try to relieve the tension that was building. Rolled her shoulders back, but the muscles wouldn’t give an inch. She settled for crossing her arms in front of her.

  “I don’t think it’s a trap. Not for us, anyway. But we had plans to cause trouble for certain people when we got back out there, and without knowing the client, we could be helping the same parties we wanted to hound.”

  As soon as she said it aloud, she knew it was true. Should have laughed Eneil off the docks— or pushed them off, herself. But it was out now, no taking it back. Up to committee. She watched Dug, whose focus had gone off somewhere beyond the confines of their room. His gaze moved as though he were scanning for something. Was he picturing the consequences or the prize?

  “But that would be that.” Talis let all the thoughts in her head run. She had to present it from both sides, or she’d never stop thinking about it. “We’d be out of Lippen and back to our lives. And we’d leave, judging by the placement of things in flotsam, the very minute we agree to it.”