by Anthea Sharp
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
USA Today bestseller Christine Pope is the author of the Witches of Cleopatra Hill, Djinn Wars, Gaian Consortium, and Latter Kingdoms series, along with many other books (sixty and counting!). Researching UFOs brought her to magical Sedona, Arizona, where she now makes her home with her husband and the world’s fluffiest dog. Find out more about her books at christinepope.com.
To learn more about the Gaian Consortium, go here: http://christinepope.com/the-gaian-consortium-series/
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Once You Wish - Evelyn Snow
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
No matter how she twisted, Isla couldn’t reach that itchy spot on her back. Not without turning herself into a pretzel. Someone had called her crazy at least twice today so far. No need to act to give her accuser a reason to think he had a point.
Last night, she’d been too nervous and distracted, worrying about Pug, her baby brother, to remember to swipe something new from a store on her way home. The only thing she had left to wear today was an ancient wool sweater. Actual wool. From sheep. Real Earth sheep, no less, not that nasty stuff grown in a tank. Ugh.
“You’re squirming like an addict fresh off a bender. Be a love and stop.” The voice came from over her right shoulder—way too close for comfort. It belonged to Mic, her partner in crime. Make that a literal description in the crime department; wishful thinking on his part when it came to anything remotely partner-ish. Mic? The thought made her squirm—again—and it wasn’t like there was enough room in their hidey hole to start with. At least Mic was lean and smelled better than the average guy on a space station crammed with too many bodies and ruled by strict water rationing.
He jabbed her in the kidneys. “Knock it off.”
“Scratch for me.” She wiggled one shoulder. “Right there.” When he obliged, she breathed a sigh of relief.
Mic chuckled. “The things I do for the lot of you. Tell you what, I deserve a bigger cut.”
She risked a peek outside. With everyone and Aunt Sally on their way to the hub for an announcement by the Hand of the Crown, the governor, the passageways were mostly empty. “A quarter share of nothing is what you’ll get if P. Frederick Daire doesn’t turn up soon.”
“Don’t worry, he’ll show. It won’t be much longer. Everything will go down slick as spit, you’ll see.”
“What’s the “P” stand for, anyway? Your informant ever say?”
“Heck if I know.” Mic sighed. “Not to mention, we were never chatty, if you get my drift.”
“His worship uses an initial, so it’s probably some old heritage name. Percival, maybe, or Penrod. What about Percy? No. We could try more conventional choices and go with Paul or Philip. Maybe the P stands for Prince.”
“Actually, it’s Peregrine.”
“Really? You just said you guys didn’t chat.”
“Never said it was a guy, either.”
She ignored his smug attitude. “Spill. I need every detail. Our lives might depend on it.”
“Dramatic, much?”
“I’m not kidding,” Isla insisted. “I need to know everything you know.” Because kidnapping at knifepoint wasn’t exactly something, they did every day. Scam? Daily. Steal? Weekly. Minor crimes of every variety were well within the micro-gang’s wheelhouse. Committing major crimes with deadly weapons was another thing altogether. Getting caught would be followed by a quick shuttle to the nearest gulag. Pointing out that simple fact, however, gave certain people the idea she was nuts. Go figure.
“Okay, we’ll go over it one last time,” Mic said, “if it’ll make you stop wiggling. Pug fakes the accident—”
“Without getting hurt.”
“Obviously. Then I take out the driver. You, my love, distract Freddie Daire while Blue hacks his security chips. Like I said—simple. Done in under sixty seconds.”
“And then off to a fabulous vacation on Europa.”
“Not,” Mic said, adding a little growl at the end which wasn’t easy to do with a one-syllable word ending in a consonant. But Mic was like that—able to squeeze something out of nothing.
Still, he’d been getting on her last nerve recently. It didn’t help that this was what he always did before a job to make sure her energy was up. He liked her on edge, ready to launch mayhem into the lives of the rich and careless. Bonus—she was good at it. Today, she’d left her blades behind. Mic had insisted that no one else be armed.
“Things only go sideways if Blue can’t hack his chips,” Mic said. “Then we’ll have to nab Freddie. Let it go down old school and demand a ransom and such. It won’t come to that, though.”
Mic was usually right—their plan could work—if she didn’t kill him first, which was probably why he’d wanted her disarmed.
“Blue agrees with me,” Isla said, because why should he relax while she was wound up tight enough to crawl out of her skin? “Even if we pry the tickets out of Freddie, she doesn’t want to go to Otis for a stupid competition. What kind of name is that for a planet, anyway?”
“She would. How much did you have to fork over to get Blue on your side?”
“Nothing. She’s smart. Who wouldn’t want a fat stack of gold credits instead of a chance to die on an unsettled planet? Death on Otis versus a few weeks lounging by the pools on Europa.” She lifted a hand and wiggled it sideways. “Easy choice.”
In a low voice, Mic said, “Pug’s only seven, so he’ll vote the way you want, right?”
True enough. She let the silence float between them.
“This isn’t a democracy,” he added.
Isla felt him move behind her, shifting his weight and rocking forward until she could feel his breath on the back of her neck.
“You want me to trade Prince Freddie for gold? Straight up swap for his life? Forget about priceless tickets to a new life on a new planet—is that what you want?”
What she wanted was to scooch forward to put some distance between them, but there wasn’t enough room. Another inch and her knees would stick out. Without cover of the normal foot traffic on this level, security cameras would pick up the image. The algorithms running the surveillance wouldn’t hesitate or ask why a civilian had been spotted where no civilian should be found. They would dispatch peacekeepers and the whole day would be over before it started.
Heritage One was the oldest space station still in routine operation in the sector. What it lacked in amenities and technological advancements, it made up for in its reputation because it orbited humanity’s original home, Earth. The lofty pedigree came at a price, however. The governor of the station hung on to an outdated operating system that forced interior transports to run antique software. As a result, the transport’s perimeter sensors weren’t sensitive enough to react to any person or object weighing less than twenty-five kilos. That was why Isla’s kid brother could single-handedly halt a convoy carrying the governor’s son.
If everything went according to plan…
“Pug could get hurt,” she said stubbornly. “Stuff happens; you know I’m right.”
“Okay,” Mic said with a sigh. “Worst case—something happens. The kid’s tough. He’ll bounce back. He always does. It’s like that time at the Galleria when—”
“Don’t remind me,” Isla snarled. The haul from the Galleria job had kept them fed and housed for months, and Mic never let her forget it.
“Pug was fine.”
“He lost his front teeth. Two broken ribs and a twisted ankle is not fine.”
“The teeth had to come out anyway. He was six.”
If Mic wanted mayhem, let Pug get a scratch or God forbid, break a bone. Mic would find out just how much trouble she could rain into his miserable, thieving life. “Anything happens, I’ll—”
“Give it a rest, love,” Mic said wearily. “I’ve got this.”
Isla stretched her neck, lifting a few inc
hes to peek over the barricade blocking the narrow space between two buildings where they were hiding. She sucked a whiff of air, surprised to discover it wasn’t stale and heavy with odd scents layered from too many passes through the platform’s aging scrubbers. Clean air meant the governor had opened his pocketbook to pump fresh O2. If he was willing to spend, the upcoming announcement must be major.
With a hand to the cool, textured flooring, she held her breath for a second, listening for the tiniest vibration that meant the convoy might be nearing them. Nothing. She waited another few seconds. Still nothing.
She settled back once more while a sick feeling swirled in her stomach. It was probably the clean air; she wasn’t used to it.
When the feeling wouldn’t fade, she said, “If you’re wrong—”
“I’m not.”
“If your source is—”
A hand clamped down on her shoulder, silencing her. “Freddie Daire is on his way. Trust me. Everything will go the way we planned. I’ll make sure.”
Trust. Not exactly her strong suit.
Yet, even Isla had to admit Mic had a solid track record. Against all odds, his schemes usually worked. Their survival was proof. He’d taken her in, along with her brother, when the siblings were dumped at Heritage One three years ago after their parents died. She shuddered, thinking what might have happened to them without Mic.
“Where’s Pug?” Mic’s voice shook her out of her deepening gloom.
She scanned the roadway more closely this time. Pug was small for his age and excellent at concealment.
“He’s right over…” Her voice trailed off as she shifted onto her knees to peer between the slats for a better view. Pug should have been squatting behind a recycling bin across the way.
There was no sign of him.
Mic rose, wedging his shoulders into the narrow space beside her. “You said he was in place.”
“He was. I left him there not fifteen minutes ago. He promised not to budge. You know Pug. He’s a professional.”
“Well, he’s not there now,” Mic shot back. “Without him, the transport won’t stop. We’ll be screwed.”
She opened her mouth to protest before thinking better of it. Mic was right.
“I’ll go find him.” She started to rise. Mic shoved her back down.
“We can’t lose you, too.” He eyed the torn shoulder of her sweater where a patch of skin showed through. “You could stop the convoy…” He tugged at the knit fabric, widening the hole.
Isla shrugged out of his grasp. “Stop it! I’ll find Pug.”
“Blue can go,” Mic insisted. “She’s fast.”
“Pug won’t listen to her. I can find him faster.”
Mic chewed on his lower lip, studying her for what felt like a long time. “You better be back in time.”
“I will. I promise.”
Isla escaped their hiding place and ghosted.
“So, let me get this straight, you think I should send you to Otis and let your brother—who doesn’t know the first thing about business, let alone government—take over NuylCorp? Allow my son who named a planet after his cat run not only Heritage One, but a multi-trillion-dollar organization as well?”
Charles Edwin McAllister Frances Daire was an imposing sight. At seventy-five Earth years, he could pass for a fit thirty-five. Who said money couldn’t buy everything? With the spectacular blue-green beauty of Earth rising behind him in the floor-to-ceiling viewscape, he looked every inch the Hand of the Crown, governor of Heritage One, and a throwback aristocrat. No doubt he knew the planetary backdrop couldn’t be beat, which was probably why he’d chosen the top floor salon for the meeting instead of a more intimate location in the mansion. The governor left nothing to chance, especially for a private discussion with his heir and eldest son.
Daire could feel the weight of his father’s disapproval like an asteroid around his neck. At least the feeling was familiar.
“Freddie will die on …” Daire began only words failed him. His father was right. Who named a planet after a cat?
“Otis,” Charles supplied. “But don’t worry, it’s temporary. The name hasn’t officially been recorded yet. Whoever wins the competition, and the planet in the process, will also win naming rights. We can only hope the victors will select something more suitable.”
“It’s not the name that bothers me,” Daire ground out. “It’s Freddie. He does not understand what’s in store for him. Forcing him to take part in the game is insanity. He won’t visit Earth because the gravity gives him headaches. He can’t run a kilometer without getting winded. The heaviest thing he’s lifted recently is Otis—”
“The beast is heavier than one might suspect. I have it on good authority he isn’t all fluff and hairballs. Even Quimby says so.”
Daire glanced over at the small desk by the wide doors to the salon where his father’s secretary, Quimby, was sitting, poring over a screen filled with numbers. His normally neat and smooth silver hair stood out from his head in a spiky mess.
“Otis is a cat,” Daire said, turning back to his father.
“And your point is?”
“I love my brother, but he’s not prepared. I don’t want him to die on an empty world on the edge of settled space. For what?”
Swishing the amber liquid in his glass, Charles cast his gaze to the floor and sighed. “The League gave us five tickets the same as every other station, planet, and registered habitation. In a spirit of equity I personally found amazing, they even included the settled asteroids in the distribution. What’s not to like? Everyone, from grubby Roid diggers to high-toned Lyrans, will get a chance at a new start on the first world to be opened for settlement in more than a solar century. What do you want me to do—give the tickets away?”
“Great idea. Most of the worlds in the system are holding lotteries.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” his father scoffed. “Each ticket is worth a fortune.”
“If Freddy’s definitely going, who’s getting the other four?”
“Oh, I have no idea,” Charles said, waving a hand. “I left the choice up to your brother.”
“No.” Daire forced a stiff smile to hide his growing dismay.
“What? After all the times you’ve prattled about fairness, I’d think you’d appreciate the gesture. It’s only fair to allow your brother to have a say in the composition of his team.”
If anything, Freddie’s friends had less of a chance at survival than Freddie himself. The only competition they were likely to win was one that involved creating sarcastic memes about recent arrivals thawed from cryo-sleep.
“Freddie is free to choose the recipients of the other four tickets. I’m not heartless.” Charles paced toward the view and collapsed into a plush chair, gesturing for Daire to join him. “I won’t let him go alone or with strangers. On top of it all, I’m offering your brother a chance to make something of himself. It was his idea, by the way, when he heard about the games. So, you can drop your false concern. I couldn’t stop him if I tried, so don’t ask.”
What Daire wanted to ask: Do you want my brother to die? Is that the plan? But he couldn’t force himself to speak. Mostly because he feared the answer would be less savage and, in a way, more horrible. Freddie was the younger twin—by seventeen minutes—and therefore, expendable; he was the spare while Daire was the heir.
As the scion of the family, Isenbrant Arthur Daire didn’t have the simple pleasure of going by either of his names. To friends and family alike, he was simply Daire. He was their future leader, and along with that responsibility, carried all the family baggage.
Or so he’d thought.
Last summer as his father neared his seventy-fifth birthday, Charles had made noises about turning over a new leaf and stepping down as governor to allow Daire to take the reins a full year before he turned twenty-one.
That was then. Now, this.
And that story about giving Freddie a chance to prove himself? Did his father honestly expect
him to buy it? If his father believed Freddie’s life didn’t count for much, he was in need of a wake-up call. At least that was something Daire could do.
He spun on his heel and headed for the lift to the family’s quarters. Quimby jumped to his feet in a nervous show of blocking Daire’s path.
“Seriously?”
“Your Grace, you don’t understand and there’s no time to…”
“Where are you going?” his father called. “We’re not done here.”
“I am,” Daire spat as he turned back to face his father. “I’m going to talk to Freddie. Make him understand he doesn’t have to put his life at risk to prove anything to you.”
“You’re too late.”
“What?”
“He left twenty minutes ago.”
Daire frowned. “But you said—”
“Not to Otis. He’s on his way to the hub. He’s making the announcement of the ball in my place.”
Daire pinched the bridge of his nose and took a long breath.
“The ball was his idea,” Charles continued, “and it’s a good one.”
“A ball.”
“Yes, and don’t get your precious sense of injustice in any more of a wad than it already is. We’re inviting the entire station. Everyone’s welcome. We’re not opening the jails, mind you, but everyone else can come. Even you.”
The room tilted. For a moment, Daire wondered if Heritage One’s aging stabilizers might have experienced a glitch. Then he realized it wasn’t the station. His father had surprised him.
Daire’s astonishment must have been plain, because Quimby said, “Yes, Your Grace, you heard correctly.”
“When is the ball?”
“Tonight. Accomplishing the preparations in the timeline Mr. Frederick specified has been a challenge, but—” Quimby preened under Daire’s flat gaze “—I’m proud to say the staff has stepped up. We shall be ready.”
