by Alex White
“No need to spare me,” said Orna. “I love that stuff. What have you got, like, sieve grids? Springflies?”
John looked from Boots to Orna, and Boots could see the wheels turning in his brain, trying to plan his sales strategy. Should he play up the gory details or demure?
“You could say we’re in the defense industry,” said Boots with a wink. “We like hearing that you take the appropriate measures to protect our work.”
“Of course,” he said. “We’re quite sympathetic to customers like you. Tell me, are you familiar with our unsigned financial products?”
“Boy are we ever,” Boots replied.
“To answer your question,” said John, “we start with a full-spectrum stun charge: electrical and psychic. If the, uh, individual continues moving, we flood the chamber with indolence gas, and have a number of autoturrets with knock rounds.”
“Weak,” said Orna.
“Well,” said John, “yes and no. We prefer to respond first with items that won’t cause any cleanup, and leave us a chance of apprehension. After that, we employ a sieve grid with a five-millimeter aperture. That’s a last resort, of course, because if they’ve gotten into one of our boxes, we don’t want to dice the contents in the process. All items under our care are insured at a minimum of five million argents, with options and plans ranging into the billions.”
Vivid images of her own demise came with his description as Boots reminded herself that she was there to steal. “Great,” she said, stifling a gulp.
“Before we continue inside,” he said, sliding open a hidden panel and removing a velvet-covered teakwood tray, “are either of you carrying any magical equipment on your person?”
“Yeah,” said Orna. “Why?”
“Our sensors are incredibly sensitive,” said John. “Any attempt to cast magic inside the vault will obviously be caught by our dispersers, but we also detect all arcane devices and medical grafts as an extra precaution. Anything more active than your cardioid will cause the defense systems to respond. Now you understand why our magical artifact storage is a separate facility.”
Crap.
No matter what plan they assembled, it would almost certainly hinge on magic. Boots looked to Orna, who nodded and took off her circlet, gently placing it in the tray. Boots took out her paragon crystal and followed suit, then reached into her shirt collar and disconnected the eidolon power pack to her arm.
Even though this clown was just a random sales guy, it still embarrassed Boots to have her arm go slack as the power drained out of it. John flushed as he realized what was happening.
“I deeply apologize for the inconvenience, Elsie,” he said, taking the tray and sliding it back into the wall, where he locked it with a fingerprint.
“Don’t sweat it,” she said.
They made their way into the vault proper, which was a high, cylindrical shaft of gleaming silver panels, each one with a number etched on its surface. A set of white sun panels above cast a natural light, removing all shadows across the floor. Two crawler bots stood guard, mounted on floor-to-ceiling rails, ready to retrieve any of the boxes at a moment’s notice. A carrel took up one side of the room, with wood-paneled walls and a pair of stained-glass lamps atop a thick desk.
“Will it take long to get our stuff out of one of your vaults?” asked Orna.
“Not at all, Bertha!” said John, practically skipping over to the input console, which rose up out of the floor. “I’ll call the sample vault we use for demonstration purposes. We occasionally get tours through here.”
Orna rolled her eyes behind his back.
“It’s a simple matter of putting in my access code,” said John, “and …”
He tapped a few numbers into the glass pad, and the nearest crawler robot raced to life. Boots jumped at the sudden movement as it rocketed up.
“Not to worry, Elsie,” said John, stepping over to the wall to stand directly in front of the rail. “They’re perfectly safe.”
A box ejected from the wall, and the crawler caught it before plummeting straight at John. It stopped centimeters from his scalp, buzzed a complaint, and waited patiently for him to step aside. It came level with him, and he took the box from its waiting forks.
“There’s an inspection area over there, if you need privacy,” he said, gesturing to the alcove. They followed him to the table, where he opened the box and retrieved a tray of truffles. “And our crawlers are capable of generating their own gravitational field, so none of the contents will be upset. Truffle?”
They both indulged. It was the best chocolate Boots had ever tasted.
John popped one into his mouth with a mock mischievous grin. “We get these from a chocolatier by the spaceport. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love these demos.”
Boots turned to Orna. “Well, I think we’ve seen enough, Bertha. I’m impressed.”
“Very impressed,” said Orna.
John clasped his hands together. “So are we in business?”
“Absolutely,” said Boots. “We’ll take one.”
John’s grin widened, even though that shouldn’t have been possible.
“Not even a question on price. I like that.”
After shaving their heads, the guards took everyone’s gear, issuing them identical gray uniforms. Nilah’s had an ominous bloodstain just under the armpit. Her bed had no sheets, and she’d awoken shivering for the past three nights. They hadn’t found her oral transmitter, but that’d been a stroke of luck.
The interior of the base camp was nothing more than sixty cots, a few crates of rations, and a guard station where five armed individuals would watch over them. If this cult was somehow an important part of Henrick Witts’s empire, Nilah failed to see it. People weren’t eager to talk to them, and most avoided eye contact altogether. At her approach, conversations would shut down and disperse. If she was going to make this intel operation work, she’d have to crack their trust—which meant she couldn’t appear overeager for answers. That meant three days of near silence.
Nilah had never realized how talkative she was before this mission.
Then the lead guard, whom Nilah had nicknamed “Shaver” for her enthusiastic clipping technique, gathered everyone around. She ordered Nilah, Jeannie, and Alister to the center of the crowd. Nilah’s stomach lurched. What if they’d been discovered and this was to be an unmasking?
“Everyone, this is Hope and her two friends …” Shaver paused, looking to Jeannie.
“Moira and David,” said Jeannie.
“Hope, Moira, and David,” Shaver repeated. “They seek to join the Children during the next ascendancy. Their fates are strong to have carried them across the stars to us. After a full examination, our colleagues at the Pinnacle have determined that they’re cleared to be supplicants like you. Show them respect.”
Then Shaver turned to Nilah and added, “But the Laws of the Mountain still apply.”
Nilah had been studying their mythology on the Link and recognized the reference instantly. It was a passage they constantly bandied about whenever someone complained.
Rise on your own strength,
For there is nothing upon which to rest.
There are no friends on your climb.
There is only weight.
“I’m not sure I understand,” said Nilah.
“Resources can be a bit scarce,” said Shaver, sporting a broad grin. “These people are your family, but in the end, we’re all alone. If someone truly wants something—anything—from you, they may try to take it. Don’t start any fights you can’t win. This place can be a way station on your journey to greatness … or it can be your grave. It’s up to your new family to decide whether or not they accept you.”
A chill shot through Nilah, and she glanced around the room to see if anyone was sizing her up. If someone wanted to start a fight, she’d be ready for them. To her surprise, the other cultists just mumbled among themselves in small cliques. Either they had little interest in a challenge or w
ere too taxed by their difficult environs to rise to the occasion.
Shaver clapped her hands. “Now to dedications! You’ve had days to recover. A powerful body is a gift to your future. Only the strong are chosen ones. Will you be joining us at the Pinnacle, or are you a mere side character in someone else’s story?”
The others fell into neat lines, stretching weary frames and limbering up.
Nilah elbowed the nearest cultist, a fellow who looked like he probably ran marathons for charity. At the man’s surprised reaction, Nilah whispered, “Help me out. What’s a dedication?”
The cultist smirked. “It’s a workout. Easy stuff if you’re not a pushover.”
“Let’s go!” screamed the guard. “Fate waits for no one!”
Nilah found in the Children a measure of athleticism she hadn’t expected. However, the two sleepless nights and poor nourishment caught up with her, and fatigue soon set into Nilah’s limbs.
“You’re not done!” Shaver bellowed into Nilah’s ear. “Show me your real strength, Hope!”
She considered telling the guard where she could stick a slinger, but then the other supplicants joined in the encouragement.
“Let’s go!”
“Come on!”
“It’s our time!”
“Singularity!” This last was echoed by a chorus until it became a booming chant, filling the room with each repetition.
Nilah looked to Jeannie and Alister to find them sweating but otherwise keeping up. They screamed in time with the others, and Nilah joined in. Some of her strength returned, spurred on by the cultists. As the workout intensified with no breaks in between, Nilah realized it might seriously injure an average person. Novices need not apply to the Children of the Singularity, apparently.
She fell into a rhythm, pursuing each movement with a tunnel vision typically reserved for the track. Reaching her zone, every chant became a battle cry, every exertion a fight.
Then Shaver broke her flow by screaming, “Good! Dinner!”
They handed out the meals, and for the third day in a row, Nilah stared at her tiny protein ration, a fifth of a full bar. Her hunger had long been replaced by nausea during the “dedication.”
“Down the hatch, then,” she mumbled and placed it on her tongue. It had the taste and texture of a soggy cloth, but given the way they’d been starving her, she still swallowed it with relish. Then she clicked the transmitter on the roof of her mouth to send a heartbeat code to Malik.
In her misery, the utilitarian quarters of the Capricious seemed like a distant, luxurious dream. She closed her eyes and thought of Orna’s warm skin, the scent of her breath in moments of passion.
Her fractional protein ration devoured, Nilah laid back on her squeaky cot. She’d never eaten something that simultaneously disgusted her and made her savor every swallow. As the milky flavor of the protein diluted into her saliva, she yearned for just one more bite.
“Give it over,” came a woman’s acidic voice, snapping Nilah out of her reverie.
Nilah looked up to find one of the other supplicants staring down the twins, who sat side by side on the cot nearest her. Jeannie had her cube of protein halfway to her mouth.
“You want my ration?” Jeannie soberly asked of the supplicant.
“You want a black eye, is what you want,” spat Alister.
The woman standing over her shrugged. She had to be almost two hundred centimeters in height, with broad shoulders and rippling forearms. Nilah couldn’t see her legs though the drab pants, but she got the sense they were thickly muscled. “Yeah, unless you’ve got something else.”
Jeannie crooked an eyebrow. “Aren’t we supposed to be your brothers and sisters?”
“Leave this one to me,” said Alister, rising to his feet.
“You’re weak, so you’re weight,” said the supplicant. “Give me your food or—”
“Oi,” snapped Nilah. “Walk away, tosser.”
The woman turned to face her, and Nilah recognized the aggressor instantly—Heather Ashburn, one of the up-and-comers in the rackets leagues. She’d done all right for herself until she got busted for amping her overhead smash with magical augmentation. Nilah rarely watched those sorts of sports—the thought of two people smacking a ball around was orders of magnitude less interesting than racing—but athletes often crossed paths. Nilah was altogether pleased not to be recognized.
Heather smirked and opened her mouth to talk.
“Nah, mate,” said Nilah, coming to her feet. She barely rose to Heather’s collarbone—racers were among the smallest athletes. “I know the script here. You’re going to make a ham-fisted attempt at a threat, and then I’m going to remind you that you’re already a has-been in your early twenties, Heather. So. Walk. Away.”
“Better than a never-was,” she shot back. “I doubt I’d know your name.”
Solid confirmation the disguises were working.
Nilah sneered. “You’re not going to know much else after I break your head open.”
Heather shoved her hard enough to send her over her cot, and she went tumbling. It turned out the woman’s smash wasn’t all amp, after all. The haze of sleep deprivation and starvation evaporated with the rush of adrenaline, and Nilah rolled backward, getting her sore legs under her.
“I don’t know why you thought you were worthy to be here,” Heather growled, kicking the rickety cot aside, “but I’ve got a destiny.”
“A destiny with my friend’s protein ration?” Nilah balked. “The bards will sing of you one day.”
A crowd seemed to materialize out of nowhere, drawn by the siren call of a forming fight. Nilah cut her eyes at the guard station, but they weren’t interested in helping. Rather, they watched intently, smiles on their faces. They weren’t there to protect the supplicants, only to stop them from leaving.
“You all know the rules!” Heather shouted to the gathering crowd. “To be elite is to take from others.” Then she looked at Nilah. “And I’m going to take everything from you.”
Nilah pulled a sour face. “Miss me with all of the monologue and come get your teeth rearranged.”
Heather’s fingers curled into a fist, and she took a long step into a swing, pivoting on her hips like a professional boxer. Nilah ducked away, feeling the wind and mass of her arm; getting hit by someone like Heather Ashburn would be like being clubbed.
Heather was quick on the courts, and she brought that speed to bear on Nilah with a wide right hook. Nilah raised her guard, and she plowed into it, pushing Nilah’s arms aside and grazing her chin. Nilah returned fire, blasting Heather’s kidney with all of her might, but her tense muscles absorbed the impact.
She was losing ground without her precious Flicker. Instinct screamed for her to burn off the fake flesh and take Heather apart, but sense stayed her magic. Heather pressed the attack, pushing Nilah toward the gathered, shouting crowd.
Nilah had to make up some headway, or she’d be dead. Heather raised her leg to launch a heavy kick, and Nilah’s racer reflexes shot into high gear. She sidestepped and drove the point of her elbow into Heather’s chest like a sledgehammer, stealing her breath. Then Nilah gouged Heather’s widened eyes with needling fingers and slammed her palm into her throat.
“Never should’ve touched me, Heather,” she growled as the woman stumbled back, choking, eyes watering. “Sit down.”
She was giving Heather a chance, even though every fiber of her being screamed for blood. Nilah had beaten the springflies. This mere mortal never should’ve tried it.
“… kill you,” Heather coughed, and lunged for her.
Again, Nilah skipped clear, bringing her heel down into the side of Heather’s knee with a sickening crunch. She screamed, veins bulging on her reddened neck, and Nilah guided her head down into the metal corner of one of the cots.
“I said, sit down,” she huffed, staggering upright and shaking out her fingers.
The guards muscled in between the cheering supplicants, stunsticks drawn and r
eady to do battle. Nilah’s heart leapt into her throat, until she realized they weren’t there for her. They dragged Heather away, her head thunking against the concrete floor.
Then, they opened the door and threw her outside in the ice, to the cheers of the crowd.
“Thank you,” whispered Jeannie. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Nilah narrowed her eyes. “So you had it under control?”
A flash from Alister’s hand caught her eye: he’d somehow fashioned a shiv.
“These cots come apart pretty easy, you know,” he said with a smile before tucking the shiv into the back of his pants. “When you read the minds of murderers, you learn a few tricks.”
“That was a thing of beauty,” said a fellow behind her, and Nilah turned to find a pasty teenager, barely fifty-five kilos, looking like he’d put on his dad’s cult costume.
Nilah shot him a look that would’ve vaporized most people. “Sod off.” She made to walk away, but there really wasn’t anywhere to go, so she awkwardly moseyed toward one of the corners.
“Okay, but no, like—you see, like … we should be friends,” he said, completely undeterred. “My name is Courtney.”
“Why would we be friends, Courtney?” Nilah asked, waving off Alister and Jeannie. If this punk was trouble, she had it managed. If he had information, maybe she could pump it out of him.
“Because I’ve got the murderer’s mark.”
The murderer’s mark was a legend, and not a particularly reasonable one—supposedly, to see it was to die. It was the stuff of horror shows and children’s tales, spawning characters from Black Beatrice to the Dead King. However, dealing with the Gods of the Harrow conspiracy somewhat altered Nilah’s expectations of epic magic.
“Bollocks.”
“No, it’s true!” Courtney protested, almost begging. “It’s real, I promise. It just, you know, doesn’t work like everyone thinks it does.”
“And why would I need the murderer’s mark?”
Courtney leaned in close. “Because I heard the guards talking, and there’s an ascendancy coming soon.”