by Alex White
Nilah’s jaw dropped. “I snog you all the time when you’ve been bathing in engine grease!”
The quartermaster waved her away. “That’s perfume, babe. You smell like ticks and desperation. Go get a bath. Besides, Cap forbids making out on a mission.”
Nilah raised her hands, flexing her fingers and grinning madly. Her dermaluxes went a solid pink, and her nostrils flared. “The mission is over. If you don’t kiss me, there’ll be consequences.”
Orna popped her neck and flexed her back, limbering up with a grin. “I can handle anything you’ve got, Brio.” She cracked her knuckles and spread her stance ever so slightly. “Tell you what: I’ll fight you for it. If I win, you have to do anything I say for twenty-four hours.”
Nilah tongued the inside of her cheek and began bouncing on the balls of her feet, dermaluxes pulsing in time. “I already would’ve done anything you asked me to. You know that, darling.”
Orna took a few steps back. “I’m going to make you clean the brig after Durand does something awful to it. Prisoners always mess up the place.”
“Wicked,” said Nilah, keeping her beat steady. She recalled one of Indira Panjala’s songs and began keeping time. “But I’m so much stronger than I once was. You know I’m the fastest.”
Orna rolled her eyes. “You should trademark that, babe. You say it enough.”
Nilah put down her hands and shut off the dermaluxes. “Are you really going to deny me?”
The quartermaster sighed, exasperated. “Look, if you’re not going to play the game—”
Nilah ducked in and slung her girlfriend to the deck with a hip check, shielding Orna’s head so she didn’t hit too hard. Orna lay beneath her, flushed and panting, her scars white against her apple-red cheeks. A drop of sweat descended the quartermaster’s forehead, racing down her temple to hide behind her neck. Orna stunk; Nilah didn’t care.
“Looks like you’ve won,” said Orna. “Should’ve made your own wager.”
“I just wanted the kiss,” said Nilah, leaning in with lips parted.
A freezing-cold spray splashed the side of Nilah’s face, and she gurgled in surprise. She sat upright, blinded by the constant rush of water over her. Nilah raised her hand to shield herself, and Orna caught her forearm, rolling and twisting it behind Nilah’s back. Within a half second, Orna had pinned her facedown to the deck with no hope of escape.
Nilah craned her neck to find Charger holding the cargo bay hose, which still dripped from the end. She started to feel indignant when Orna’s warm breath brushed her ear.
“I told you to take a bath,” whispered the quartermaster.
“So you did,” grunted Nilah. “And now I’m yours for the next twenty-four hours.”
Orna’s rough hand seized Nilah by the scalp, sending a tingle down her spine. “Don’t kid yourself. You’re mine forever.”
Nilah bit her lip. “So am I supposed to go peel out of these clothes, or …”
Orna stood up, leaving a shock of cold air on Nilah’s back. “No, we attend the questioning of the prisoner, and then you clean up his jail cell when we’re done.”
Nilah rolled over, shielding her eyes from the deck lights. “Must we? Couldn’t we simply slip away and find some time to … reconnect?”
Orna grinned. Charger turned the hose back on.
Boots had never seen a reader at work before. She’d expected some kind of torture, perhaps a villainous monologue about “extracting secrets from an unwilling mind.”
Instead, the Ferrier twins escorted Maslin Durand from the brig to the mess, where they began to cook a nice meal for him of fried liver and onions. The scent saturated the galley, driving Nilah from the room, dermaluxes green with disgust. The pair of gingers worked as a single machine, one raiding the larders while the other pillaged the spice racks. Their cuisine carried a uniquely Tormish flair, heavy on the cumin and thyme. Boots remembered reading Maslin’s dossier; Torm was his homeworld.
Maslin’s stomach growled, and he placed an arm across his gut to silence it.
Boots sat down across from him, sizing him up. For a legendary arms dealer, the man had little presence. She’d expected to feel him like a high-pressure storm front, but his diminished stature and looks did little to accent that.
Malik remained behind Durand, just a few paces away. Boots guessed the doctor was there for medical support, just in case Maslin tried anything too dangerous.
The entire prep time, Maslin stared daggers at Boots, his dark eyes glinting underneath mottled brows. If he was trying to intimidate her, it wasn’t working.
“Dinner service is slow around here,” Maslin grumbled, straining at the calcifoam shackles on his arms.
Boots arched an eyebrow and glanced at Cordell in the corner, who shrugged.
The arms dealer scratched his cheek with a grimy hand. “What happened to your arm?”
Boots was only there as a guard, not supposed to engage, but she said, “Those people you ran the money-laundering operation for, they had this witch working for them who called herself Mother. She ripped up my shoulder pretty good. Returned the favor by crushing her throat.”
Realization dawned on Maslin’s face. “I know you lot! You’re the ones that killed Mandell. That bird that took off, that was Nilah Brio. You’re … You’re, uh …”
Boots smirked, not answering him.
“You’re Shoes,” he said.
“‘Boots,’” she corrected.
“Don’t look so tough to me,” said Maslin, raking his eyes over the mess as though looking for escape routes. “A couple of my boys could work this place over lickety-split.”
Boots leaned onto her elbows, grinning from ear to ear. “Your ‘boys’ ain’t here. So what are you going to do in their place?”
“Why don’t you take off these handcuffs, baby doll, and we can find out?”
“Baby doll” had to be a first for Boots, but she let him enjoy goading her. She secretly hoped that when Cordell had extracted all of the secrets from his mind, the captain would hand Maslin to the crew to do with as they wished. After all, he’d helped Mother get around, which meant he’d helped kill Didier.
She glanced up at Cordell to find him gesturing for her to stop, then pointing to the Ferriers in the kitchen. Malik echoed the captain’s concern with an urgent expression. Boots frowned but did as she was told, ignoring the prisoner’s further attempts at repartee.
Maslin wasn’t looking when Jeannie and Alister each cast the reader’s mark from the confines of the kitchen. The spells were dark magenta glyphs, innards radiating with anti-light that sucked from the world around them. Boots was happy that Maslin remained focused on her, because the effect was wholly unsettling.
Hands charged with their spells, the twins set the food before Maslin, and he took a deep breath of steaming fried livers.
“What was the cruelest memory of your childhood on Torm?” asked Alister, his voice cold and clinical. He laid his hand upon Maslin’s shoulder, even as the prisoner flinched and protested.
“Get off me, you little wanker!” Maslin cried, writhing away from Alister, who held fast.
“You were tortured,” said Alister, “by your classmates in primary school. It’s how you got the burns on your head.”
Maslin’s face dropped, and Alister craned his neck, a frisson of excitement sparkling in his eyes. The ginger inched closer to get a better look at the scars, peering at them as though they were some venomous snake.
“They held you down outside of your house,” said Alister. “They used a wilting spell. You’d never felt uglier in your life.”
Maslin leered. “Cute trick, but don’t try to shame me. I can buy all the birds I want with a couple of argents, and I got plenty.”
Alister straightened. “Women? They don’t help you forget what your father did.” He turned to all present. “Patrice Durand, upon seeing his son’s injuries, refused to pay for a usurer’s mark to heal him. Patrice said you were weak for being so easily beat
en.”
Alister got right in Maslin’s face. “But you didn’t take revenge on those who wronged you, did you, Maslin? You slit your father’s throat in his sleep and set the house on fire. The boys who scarred you were later the bankers who gave you your first loan.” He squinted. “You’ve had a lot of work done, too. This hideous face is so much better than it once was. You’ve never found a sculptor who could fix it to your satisfaction. The last one told you it was like trying to paint a broken wall.”
Boots sat up straighter. Alister Ferrier didn’t say much of merit, but when he did, it disturbed her. Guilt needled her heart at the fact that he had attacked Durand over his disfigurement, but he had it coming. She hazarded a glance back at Cordell, but the captain simply stood cross-armed and steely-eyed in the back corner of the room.
Alister continued. “You wanted to prove that you were better than everyone else, and you thought money was the way to do it, right? That’s why, when you came upon a wounded military unit on Torm, your gangsters ambushed them and took their materiel, selling the guns offworld. You killed those men and women who were defending your homeworld, all so you could prove that you were better than the children who tortured you.”
Maslin rolled his eyes. “If you think I’m going to apologize for taking candy from babies, you’ve got another—”
“But you went and did business with those bankers again and again, bowing and scraping all the while,” interrupted Alister. “Every time you improved your station, so did they, and many times, they did so with your help. It caused you horrendous pain every time you came to them for money, but you did it anyway. You came to believe they liked you. You came to love them.”
Maslin squirmed. “Shut up.”
“But you never beat them. If we blew you out of the airlock, those children would never notice you were gone. You’d be the ghost of minor troubles faded into obscurity. You’d be regrets unfelt: less than nothing.”
Maslin choked on his replies, red-faced and furious.
Jeannie caught Maslin by the jowls and twisted his face toward hers, their eye contact intense. “What are you most afraid to tell us about your mission?”
Boots thought she’d see more resistance from Maslin, or wicked cackling or something. She readied her arm to sink its hidden knife into his shoulder. Instead, Maslin’s stunned eyes flickered over Jeannie’s features, helpless and fearful. After a moment, she stepped back.
“I have the information he possesses, Captain,” she said. “You’re free to space him whenever you like.”
Maslin shook the stunned look from his face and he began to understand how hard he’d been played. They’d forced him to drop his guard, so they could get the information that really mattered. He shouted aimlessly in fear, filling the small mess hall with cries for his safety. He begged and pleaded, snot running down his ruined features.
“Okay,” said Cordell, stepping out of the shadows. “Okay, Mister Durand! That’s enough! You know good and well we’re not going to blow you out of the airlock.”
“Thank you,” grunted Maslin, panting after the show of fear. “Thank you. I knew you could be reasonable.”
“Maslin Durand,” said Cordell, grinning, “you’re wanted on Taitu for three counts of murder, as well as obstruction of justice. We’re turning you in for the bounty.”
Boots and Orna escorted Maslin to the brig, where he willingly took his place, rocked from the interrogation. He gave little resistance, his face ashen and hands shaking. Seeing the raw panic in his eyes, Boots couldn’t help but feel a tiny shred of sympathy.
“They’re going to kill me for this,” he whispered, as he sat down on the bed. “They’re going to kill everyone I love.”
Orna laughed bitterly. “So just you, then?”
“I have a family,” said Maslin.
“You said you were going to kill my family when we were loading you in,” said Orna. “Why should I care?”
“Because I would’ve been kinder about it than the Children of the Singularity.”
Boots jammed her hands into her pockets. “Then I’d suggest you cooperate with the Taitutian authorities as much as possible, if you want to get your loved ones to a safe house.”
“You wouldn’t be so cavalier if you knew what was about to happen to me!” He bucked in his restraints, almost getting free.
Orna fell upon him like a hawk, seizing him by his collar and slamming him against the bulkhead. “They going to starve you? Going to leave you on a desperate planet, huh? You know, I had to fight for my food every day!”
Boots grabbed her, pulling her back before she could do something damaging and permanent. Orna brushed her off with little effort, sending Boots stumbling back onto the far bunk.
“You move money for Witts, you get what you deserve,” said Orna.
“Witts? That guy from the Link?” He shook his head. “I don’t know him … please. I’m a nobody. I just sell the stuff, push a bit of money around. I don’t ask questions! It’s not my problem where it ends up!”
Boots tensed. She didn’t know what Orna was planning, but she’d have to stop the quartermaster if she assaulted the prisoner. It could get messy, and Maslin might try to make an escape or hurt someone in the chaos.
Orna let him go, and he deflated. “You’re right. You’re a nobody.” She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “But today, you’re collateral damage. Don’t ask us to care if they kill you.”
She walked to the edge of the shield barrier and gestured for Boots to follow.
Maslin looked to Boots, who recoiled at the fear in his gaze.
“You’re going to die horribly going after the Children, and for nothing,” he said. “There’s nowhere safe for me now. Nowhere safe for you, either.”
She stepped out of the barrier threshold, and Orna switched it on, filling the cell with the spell’s orange light.
“You read about us on the Link, right?” asked Boots. “You know most of us are from Clarkesfall.”
“I didn’t do that. I didn’t kill all those people,” he said.
“No,” said Boots. “But you’re a collaborator.”
Maslin regarded his hands for a long time, as if timing the shake of his fingers. Finally, he looked up and asked, “Can I have a knife? I don’t want to see what’s coming.”
“You’re worth money alive,” said Orna, baring her teeth in a dark smile. “Not that we need it. I can’t wait to see what happens to you.”
He ignored Orna’s sneering and pleaded with Boots. “I’m asking you as a human being.”
Boots stood over him, the thin shield spell separating them. “You’ll be accorded all the rights of a prisoner of war, but … no aid, no comfort.”
They left him to weep in his cell. Boots knew that brig better than anyone, since she’d lived in it during the Harrow conspiracy. There were no sheets to turn to rope, no purchases upon which to hang. The spells powering the barrier were well encapsulated. There were no sharp edges. They’d never lost a prisoner, save for one escape that ended in a firefight, but Maslin wasn’t equipped for that. According to the Taitutian Special Branch, he possessed the lamplighter’s mark, and making random things glow wasn’t going to kill him.
Unable to shake what they’d done from her mind, Boots found herself wandering toward Alister’s quarters—a screened-off bunk on the lower deck. She hadn’t visited him since rejoining the crew; in fact, she’d barely spoken two words to the boy. She’d believed him arrogant, but seeing the terrible gleam in his eye as he stood over Maslin, she’d ejected everything she thought about him from her mind.
Boots had done awful things to survive, too: lied, cheated her old friends, lost her way countless times. What the Ferriers did to Maslin, emotionally, wasn’t much different from torture. She wasn’t excited about being a party to it.
What if, in his desperation to destroy Witts, Cordell had jumped into bed with a pair of monsters?
She arrived at the converted storage bay and knocked. Th
e twins hadn’t installed any of the niceties of Boots’s quarters, like a doorbell or camera. Whether this was because Orna had lacked the time or the Ferriers weren’t familiar with social nuance, Boots couldn’t say. When no answer came, she knocked again.
“Come in,” said Alister, his voice muffled by the thick metal.
Boots slid it open to find a makeshift corridor made from medical screens, evenly dividing the space into two rooms: one for Alister and one for Jeannie. “It’s me,” she said, moving toward the entrance to his room.
She’d been prepared for the sparse furnishings: a cot, a washbasin, a personal cycler, a military-issue crew trunk for the four outfits she’d seen him wear. Those sorts of accoutrements made it clear to her that he didn’t understand or care for modern design.
She hadn’t, however, expected to find him cross-legged on his bed, eyes red and puffy from crying.
Boots glanced back into Jeannie’s partition, but the other twin was nowhere to be found. She considered leaving, concocting some excuse to escape, but this was out of the way for normal foot traffic. He’d know she came on purpose, even without reading her mind.
He looked up at her, eyes twinkling. “I’m not really in the mood to talk, ma’am—”
“Boots.”
“What?”
She quirked her lips. “Please, just call me Boots. Ain’t ready to be called ‘ma’am’ for at least another fifteen years.”
He smiled weakly. “Sorry. That’s just what my tutor always told me to call people.”
“You were tutored? Private school?”
“You could call it that.”
She tongued the inside of her mouth, unsure of where to take the conversation. Whatever was happening with Alister, she still wanted to understand his treatment of the prisoner—the things he’d done under Cordell’s watchful eye.
“Why …” she began. “What were you, uh—Why bring up Durand’s childhood torture like that?”
“I’m not sure you’d understand. Most people never do.”
“Try me,” she said.
He looked away, his freckles fading into his reddening face. “I don’t want to uncover scars, but I have to. I didn’t want to feel what he felt. He kept thinking about the pain of that withering spell. You could hear those kids laughing. Maslin was so wrapped up in his wealth and status, in his criminal empire, so I had to make him feel small, had to strip away his power so Jeannie could break him.”