The Imaginators (Of Stardust and Aether Book 1)

by M. K. Valley

  “We don’t need proof. Just the rumor that he’s the only one to leave alive. The Zeusians will be all over it.”

  My head snaps up fast enough to strain a muscle. Yes, that could work. The imagiConsul is either the Champion of that Contract or is in bed with them. “Leak it to the Athenians. Let them weave a conspiracy.”

  That would motivate the Zeusians, fuel their investigation, and give us some breathing room. Hopefully, it would buy us enough time to figure out why us. Are we comfortable, crazy, and greedy enough to pull that stunt off? We could be just collateral in a bigger plot, but what if we’re the mark?

  Despite the beginnings of a plan, Twig deflates a little, swirling the wine at the bottom of the bottle. “We’re in some deep shit, aren’t we? We’re not getting unscathed out of this.”

  “No, we’re not.” Thunder rumbles in my voice as lightning cracks outside the windows. This time, I take his hand. “But neither are they, mark my words.”

  He nods, taking in the glance of ice and steel. Someone thought us fools, thought they could get away with this. But they made one mistake. They allowed us back on Ares. As hard as it might be, I’ll turn the cogs of the giant apparatus of the Assassins’ planet and make it work for us. I’ll pummel them into action if need be. Nothing is impossible for an Imaginator, especially someone like me.

  I get to my feet, trembling with nervous energy, the drink forgotten on the windowsill. “Are you safe at home?”

  “I’ve been using one of our safe houses. Down by the cosmodrome,” Twig admits with half a voice, and I level a warning gaze at him. “Don’t worry, nothing’s happened, just a precaution. They won’t come after me as violently as you,” he swipes a thumb over my bruised knuckles and sighs.

  “Be careful. It’s not just brutes who’ll try to smoke us off the planet. They might figure out that if they get to you, they get to me. Here.” I splay my fist open, and a new raincoat weaves itself into reality. It’s not as pleasant or reliable as his, but it’s better than making him imagine it.

  “No need for that,” Twig tries to protest, but I drape it over his scrawny shoulders.

  “Yes, need. It’s the least I can do for dragging you down with me.”

  “You think you’re the reason for this mess?” He cracks a mocking smile, pinching my self-centered ear, and I swath his hand away.

  “I don’t exactly have friends.”

  “You have me.” He towers over me like a young oak, and I fear he might hug me.

  “Go, Twig, get some rest.”

  I slam the door in his dark, somber face and slump against the smooth surface, my chest constricting. He hesitates at the threshold before his steps recede, and I curse. I fucked up. He’s the only friend I have, and I allowed him to get tangled up. Right now, he’s both my greatest ally and weakness. I know he’ll take care of himself and come to me if he can’t handle it, but I need two steadying breaths before my pulse levels out. As I slump by the window again, I’m already making a mental list of the people I’ll be terrorizing tomorrow.

  PHASE THREE

  THE ECONOMICS OF AN

  ASSASSINATION

  The bank’s cavernous foyer echoes with the tap of my fingertips. The clerk in front of me is not feeling very well. A crown of sweat beads weighs heavy on his brow. That’s both surprising and offensive since I’m wearing my best behavior today. I’m even smiling. He has no idea what it’s like to be on my bad side, but I guess rumors are worse than wildfires. Good.

  “Miss del Scorpio…”

  “Don’t waste my time.”

  “Yes, of course, I would never!” He wrings his fingers, his left eye a victim to a twitch from an old wound. I suppose that towering over him at a little over six feet isn’t helpful. I know he won’t give me anything, but I force myself to smile. “You must understand, that isn’t information I can disclose. We have a reputation to maintain. Ours is one of the best banks in Sicarius Prima, on Ares!” I don’t even blink, and he shrinks a notch. We both know that’s a stock expression used by every bank clerk everywhere in the Infinite Universe. There’s nothing to be boasting about. He clears his throat and tries again. “If we start handing out such sensitive details, no one will process their payments through us! And seventy percent of our business relies on fees from Contract payments. The Champions choose us because of our discretion. You must understand!”

  As if repeating it would make me sympathetic to their delicate situation. That clerk’s not the one with a 1-mil Contract on his head. He’d even be glad to process the payment given the fee he can bag. Unfortunately, this poor soul isn’t the only one. I’m at the fifteenth bank, facing the fifteenth Hermesian clerk who’s trying to stop me from getting what I need. I thought by now news of me bullying bankers would’ve spread, and they’d send me straight to the manager’s office. But here I am, jumping through all the hoops again, my patience thinning. In times when people like us could imagine anything, we still have bureaucracy.

  “Let me make that easy on you…” I cast a sweeping glance over the red livery and smile at the nametag, drawing a shudder from the clerk. “Dough. It would be best for both of us if you forward my request to your manager and arrange a meeting.”

  Dough makes the valiant effort to stare me down, thin-lipped, hair plastered with sweat to his brow, and turns green with sick. I don’t even have to smile again before a form materializes beneath my fingers. Another one I must conquer today. I wait around for another fifteen minutes when a charming brunette in rectangle spectacles and a clean-cut suit accommodating her tail approaches me. Her heels ring loud and clear in the cavernous hall.

  “Manager Saravati is ready for you, Miss del Scorpio. If you’d follow me?”

  It’s cold and sterile in the elevator, but the pretty Hermesian is a pleasant distraction. Little is left to the imagination, with that tail curled around her waist. She cracks a smile when she catches my inquisitive gaze, and I’m grateful my skin doesn’t blush. I wonder if she’d slip me her contact details, but two floors from our destination, I’m convinced even the naughtiest of Hermesians don’t mix profession with pleasure. What a waste.

  The fifty-first floor of the building is an absurd conical construct of metal and reinforced glass. I bet Saravati regrets the decision to make reconstructions a year prior, what with its morbid withered-dandelion color, thanks to the acid rain still pouring over our precious capital. But even I have to admit the view is breathtaking. Maybe because of that exact dirt filter. The soup of flesh and filth is almost beautiful in its lewd-neon garb from so high above.

  I’m quick to remind myself it’s not the view I’m here for when the elevator spits me out. The foul downpour mixes with the echo of my drenched boots on the glass floor. It seems fragile at first, but it doesn’t peek into the belly of the building. There’s a metal plate lining it, mercifully holding the hand of my anxiety.

  I glance over my shoulder and wink at the Hermesian minx as the elevator doors hide her from sight before I sweep the insides of the cone with what I like to believe is a neutral gaze.

  There’s a lot of echoing space, with the desk and seats splattered at the center. I have to work for it and drag fifteen steps of dirty boots across the emptiness of glass and steel. The manager’s expecting me, of course. But they’re distracted, reclining in a cushioned chair, a coal-black hand elegantly draped over an armrest, the concavity of a glass crescent reaching to embrace them at the waist. The excuse-for-a-desk’s convex side presses into that of its carbon copy. I love bankers’ tricks. The setup aims to ensnare the visitor, make them feel like equals, friends. It’s beyond me who buys into entrepreneurial bullshit like that anymore.

  Especially when the manager ignores me, enthralled by the transgalactic newsfeed they’re scrolling through. I study the relaxed shoulders under the gray suit, awaiting the theatrical greeting. As if on cue, the drama unfolds as I reach t
he corner of their crescent desk.

  “Ah, Miss del Scorpio, what a pleasure!” They spring to their feet in one fluid motion, with a careless toss of their communicator, and reach for a handshake. I expect a sweaty palm. Instead, I get a firm grip with a distinct rough texture. “How can I be of service?”

  They don’t offer me a seat, a clear sign I’m not a friend of the bankers. Not just because I’ve been terrorizing their colleagues for the better part of the day, but when my prize money leaves their institutions, it never comes back. I have very little faith in banks.

  A slow smile stretches my lips, and I take a seat, slouching a bit, legs resting forward, locked at the ankles. My hands rest on my belly, and I give Saravati a once-over. They’re middle-aged by human standards, with a fine bone structure, a broad forehead, and a glistening scalp. Their skin is the black of coals and Cosmos, with the same abrasive texture I felt on their palm – something sturdy that Hephestian builders might use. The gray of their eyes is the color of blades they used to wield on the Old Earth, and staring into them feels like staring into the past. I’ve forgotten my father has the same eyes, sharp and jagged.

  With carefully contained irritation, the manager dusts off their impeccable steely suit and sits at the edge of the cushioned seat, inky-black fingers interlaced on the glass top. I don’t want this conversation to drag out more than they do, so I roll the dice.

  “Alissar Saravati, right?” I say in a sweet voice as if I’m not aware their father is the bank owner. “If I’m not mistaken, the Saravati are the most famous bankers out of Hermes. It must be exasperating to do business under the vile skies of Ares.”

  Their smile is as thin as a needle, and their shoulders stiffen. Count on me to make it personal.

  “When your family decrees something, you don’t deny them. Not unless you’re ready to pay the price.” Despite the servile tone, I see the oncoming blow from a mile. “You must know that better than anyone, princess.”

  Frost seeps through the impenetrable glass, but I manage another smile. The moment I walked in and saw their face, I knew Saravati isn’t one of those who came to Ares for a lack of choice. The rich, monochromatic complexion is a testament to their abilities. You see, the more talented an Imaginator is, the fewer hues they possess. We pay with our life force to imagine. Our whole being is involved in the creation. The hues belong to it, we’re just a foundation on the canvas. And the life force we invest doesn’t return to make our cheeks rosy or our palms warm when we wish our creations away. That’s why a vivid imagination is a risk. You can burn brighter than a star for a while, but a rampant mind will dull the hues and blow the lights out, swift and brutal like a knife slicing through artery.

  “Knowing and liking it are two different things, Manager Saravati.” I keep the annoying smile on my bone-pale face. “Forgive me for imposing like that on your personal matters, it’s none of my business. Sometimes I forget, not everyone wants their story dragged through the acid sludge.”

  They nod, and their shoulders relax a bit. It’s a weird sort of connection to form over unfortunate family ties. And yet, my hope to get anything out of them all but vaporizes. The sudden weary resignation on their features says it all. No matter how hard I push for sensitive information, they can’t provide it. There’s nothing to provide.

  “Andria, behaving in my institution is a reason enough to get on my good side,” they say as a preamble, a deep sigh lurking beneath the surface. “I reviewed your appeal, and I understand it. That Contract is both controversial and destructive. A Contract that, rumor has it, disappeared the moment it was carried out.” I give an appreciative nod to their effort not to call us murderers. They’re one of the three people refraining from it, and that’s counting Twig and me. “It’s to be expected you’ll seek out the bank records hoping to find who’s funding the reward. May I presume the imagiConsul refused to share?”

  The sandpaper that’s my tongue scrapes inside my mouth, and my smile withers. Saravati’s the only straightforward banker I met today, and this makes me sit upright.

  “After visiting the fifth bank on your agenda, the whole industry bristled.” There’s shame in their low voice as if admitting to a crime. “Managers across Sicarius Prima and beyond panicked. How far would the Princess of Scorpio go to get what she wants, they asked. Are we safe?”

  “Cut the crap,” I snarl. I’m well aware of the overblown reputation I have, not only on Ares but on the rest of the Olympians as well. I made it so. “Behaving and leaving a good impression achieves similar results to snapping, so stop wasting my time.”

  “We convened shortly after, taking the unanimous decision to feed you the same story every time. All of us.”

  A screech breaks through my lips, and I snarl, tasting the blood on my gums again. “You decided what? To lie to me?”

  “Of course not! We’re bankers, but we’d never stoop so low!”

  “Because you know I’ll have your heads, not because it didn’t cross your mind.” A muscle on their jaw twitches, just so, when I lean forward. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

  “We hoped you’d give up. Quit after the tenth failed attempt, yield after the twelfth futile trip up and down a bank.” Saravati holds my gaze, though sweat glistens on their temples. “We should’ve known better, I guess.”

  “You should’ve.”

  I can’t deny my reputation is trouble. Anger’s always smoldering beneath my skin, yes. But most of my foul notoriety is based on hearsay, rumors I spread myself, and the simple fact of my… lack of hues. I’m not your friendly neighborhood aunty, but it serves my purpose. All I want is to be left alone to do as I please, without someone trying to put me on a leash or meddle. I’ve achieved that, apparently, ending up friendless.

  The air thickens when silence drops like a veil, the steady patter of the rain the only sound. It’s curious, would I react the same if another banker delivered that confession? Probably. Should I push further? Probably not. Saravati pinches a lip between their teeth. They must be just as surprised at their concession as I am. Their greedy conclave took a massive risk, trying to lead me by the nose indefinitely.

  The manager’s sigh is a sudden ripple through the air. “We put up that little charade for one reason only.”

  I level my gaze at him, shoulders drawn away from my ears, fingers splayed beneath the desk, poised for a fight. Their shifty eyes well up with questions. What can I imagine to make their life hell right now? Knowing you’re not the strongest Imaginator in the room must suck. I bet that’s a first for them on Ares. They drag in a breath. I get that feeling. Losing control of a situation or a conversation is something we both hate in equal measure. With the slight difference that I can bully them back into submission, and they’re a banker. But when they speak again, it’s me who chokes.

  “We’ve nothing to tell you. Nothing to give.”

  I feel the flutter of my eyelids against my cheekbones. I must’ve misheard that. The clang of the raindrops is deafening in the empty cone, something must’ve slipped through the echo. But then the words start making sense, and Saravati’s downcast gaze is a testament to surrendering the truth.

  “A reward for such a Contract doesn’t exist at our bank,” they push forward, confident by the lack of a physical reaction. “Not here, not at any bank in Sicarius Prima, or on Ares for that matter.”

  My face burns with a phantom slap. My stomach knots up, bile singeing the back of my throat. There’s a war drum booming in my ears. I cling to the glass edge of the crescent, a gasp lodged in my throat. That’s impossible. And when I say impossible, I don’t mean unimaginable. It’s literally not possible to submit a Contract to the public without registering a reward for it. Ours clearly stated the one million intergalactic credits.

  “We investigated the matter ourselves,” Saravati drones on, their words melting in the roar of blood in my ears, “once you began your search
this morning. Not a single banker on Ares found a trace of a reward being registered. Anywhere. I can, and I will allow you access to our records. I’ll show you the results from our investigation if that would convince you and get you off our backs. Princess, you’re wasting your time with us. The Hermesian bankers cannot help you with the conspiracies of Ares. I’m sorry.”

  It’s all a blur when I lift my head. The conviction in their voice leaves me no room to doubt. Saravati’s smart, they know how dangerous it might be to play with me. They know what’s best for them. Tell the truth, save your head. And don’t waste the princess’ time. She’s running out of it, and you don’t want to be there when the countdown reaches zero.

  Fingerprints mar the spotless glass when I release my grip and spring to my feet, shaking my head. I must consider my options, clear my head before I do something irreversible. The hold on my swirling thoughts keeps slipping. This only confirms my worst suspicion.

  “Miss…” The rest is lost to the hissing that dominates the open space now. The room spins, and I find myself facing the view, only to see evidence of my subconsciousness being hard at work.

  “I’m sorry, I have to get out of here…”

  A large diamond scrapes against the hardened glass, the sound carving trenches in my mind, paranoia gushing out. I’m not even breathing when I stride toward the circle and put my boot on the pane. I push, and it gives, the diamond clatters to the floor, my hair scatters to the rush of the air. And I step out.

  Acid stings wherever my skin’s bare as I take flight, fingers hooked over a handle. An umbrella I read about once takes form above my head. Equipped with gravitational stabilizers and thrusters, so I don’t splatter on the ground. As it rushes to meet me, I’m grateful for the bits and pieces of weird things I’ve read over the years.