by Maura Milan
“If you’re going to fight, you need rad meds,” she said. She handed the device back to him and then pointed at the display on the center of the belt. The indicator was almost near the empty mark.
“And keep an eye on the power gauge. If you get caught in between spaces when this thing goes off, then you’re cut in two. You could be beheaded if you aren’t careful enough. Okay?”
“Thanks,” he said. “For the advice.”
She gazed up at his face.
No smiles. Not anymore.
CHAPTER 33
KNIVES
AFTER A WEEK of repairs, the Kaiken was ready for flight. Knives estimated that it would take another week to get back, not because the Harix Corridor was far, but because he wasn’t excited to report back his defeat. He decided to stop by a nearby system to grab some ramen from a noodle joint he had always wanted to try. The place was called Nowhere Ramen, which wasn’t exactly the most appealing title for a ramen restaurant, but it did fit in with the planet on which it was located. Classified as a gray planet, with very little water or vegetation, the place was pure desert. The planet had no registered name, but the residents called it Armpit. No one knew about it except the people who lived there and extreme foodies. The noodle house matched its surroundings, a shack built of dried clay and decaying wood.
Inside, it was dark and cramped, but packed with customers. The hand-rolled noodles were supposedly formed in unique grav conditions, which made them chewier. No one knew exactly how the ramen chef made them, but Knives did know that for a brief moment, eating those noodles made him forget about his humiliating defeat. Probably because he had paired the ramen with a couple bottles of barrel-brewed archnol. But then, after a satisfying burp, the shame returned.
As he sipped at the dregs of his drink, pondering whether or not to gorge on another set of noodles, he looked around the ramen joint. He hadn’t noticed until now that white hearts were pinned or patched onto almost everyone’s flight suits, jackets, and wrist bracers. Most of the patrons were Einn’s supporters. There were a few, like him, who wore no emblems. Thank Deus, he had long changed out of his Star Force gear. He wore whatever he found in the discard pile at Myth, which was a stained white undershirt, and a dinged-up flight suit with scuffs on the knees and elbows, but enough thread to maintain a barrier when he needed to make use of its enviro controls. Oh, and his brown leather jacket with the Pete name tag stitched onto it. It didn’t hurt to have an alias when he was wandering about.
But that was the only thing that marked him. No red-and-white quartered shield, no flight patches or fancy gold pins, not even an insignia of his favorite Poddi league team.
Here, he was Pete. Neutral Pete. Being neutral wasn’t supposed to draw any attention, but here it did. It made him stand out among the crowd. The absence of white hearts on his person was a telltale sign that he was not one of them.
“I know what you’re thinking. Don’t worry. It’s not a cult. They won’t force you to join,” the owner of the ramen joint said to him as she wiped down some nearby counter space. She was a tall woman, with long gray hair pulled back into a tight braid. At full height, she would hit her head on the beams of the building’s low ceiling, so she stood in a slouch, her hunched body draped in long, loose indigo layers of clothing.
“I’m telling you, Kami,” one of the patrons said. He was an older man with a round belly. “You should reconsider.”
Kami turned back to Knives. “I take it back. Maybe they are a cult.”
“This”—that same patron tapped on the pair of white hearts stitched to his sleeve—“can offer you protection.”
Kami spooned a fresh batch of noodles into a bowl and served it to a new customer who had taken a seat at the counter. “Protection from what?” Kami asked. “This joint is in the middle of a dust zone. There’s no blue planet around for stars and stars.”
The patron shrugged, but then a different voice jumped in to answer. A woman this time. “You know the Bugs. They won’t stop until they control everything.”
Knives cringed. There were so many times in his youth when he’d dreamed of leading colonization campaigns, the same large-scale missions that took all these people’s resources, their planets, their homes. Now, after hearing the other side of the story, he understood why they called Star Force troops Bugs. Because they infested every star system they came across. Like bleach-locusts, flying from field to field, eating everything until the land grew infertile.
“I’ve had most of these patrons for years,” Kami explained. “It was only recently that they started wearing those white hearts, ever since that attack on Rigel K.”
“You heard what they’re doing, right?” one customer said.
“Oh, do tell,” Kami said with obvious disinterest.
But everyone else perked up, eager for any bit of space gossip.
“White Hearts ships have been attacking convoys. Olympus vehicles as well as big corp liners.”
That was odd, Knives thought. They were going after corporate vessels, too?
“And it’s the way they’re doing it that’s freaking the other side out. They call them ghosts. They appear, do their damage, and then vanish.”
“But how?”
The customer slurped up some noodles. “No one knows.”
Knives would be lying if he didn’t admit he was interested in how they were doing it. There was something familiar about this story. It reminded him of his short time on Fugue, seeing Einn vanish from one place and reappear in the next.
Kami leaned in, interrupting Knives’s train of thought. “You know, I’ve lived long enough to know that people like the White Hearts don’t last. There’s always war. There’s always death. But when there’s night, the sun will always rise.” Kami’s eyes caught the light. “Can’t wipe out hope, my friend.”
Knives snorted and pushed his empty bowl forward. “You could say the same about rats.”
Kami took Knives’s bowl and placed it in the sink. “True,” she said, “but you’re too young to be this cynical.”
Knives reached into his pocket to grab a pay cube that Eve had given him for food and fuel charges. He scanned over his credits on the pay sensor and then got up from his stool. “Thanks for the meal.”
Before he could turn, Kami called out. “I know you don’t buy in to that hope nonsense, but you know what I always say? And my customers can attest. Hope comes in the form of steaming hot ramen, and you just had some, son. Make sure you come back for more.”
She handed him a handwritten receipt. Knives straight up blinked at the sight of paper, curled at the edge where it was ripped. It was something he thought he’d never see again, not since Bastian passed away. He stuffed it in his jacket pocket.
“Thanks,” Knives said, stepping away from the counter. He passed through the white cloth covers that hung down from the entryway, the light from inside following his dusty footsteps into the wasteland.
After that pit stop, Knives decided it was time to return to Myth. He had to swallow his pride and check in on Ia. Sure, he’d have to admit to Eve that he had lost the race, but there was no reason to bring it up with Ia Cōcha, the girl who had flown that corridor in fifteen seconds.
A small grimace flittered onto his lips at the thought of her teasing him. On second thought, perhaps it’d be a good thing. Insults meant conversation. Something they haven’t had together in a while, not since her accident. And the type where she was screaming at him didn’t count.
Finally arriving on Myth, he lowered his Kaiken and parked. As Knives stepped down the last rung of the ladder, he glanced at Eve walking toward him in the docking bay.
“I see you were successful,” she said with a smile.
Knives stared at her for a second. He hadn’t commed back his news. So he had no idea how she had heard that tidbit of fake news. “What do you mean? I lost.”
She pressed her lips together. “I know. I saw the results on the race space feeds. Perseus, right? Nice touch.�
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“Actually, it was Theseus,” he said.
Eve shrugged. “Whatever.”
Great, he thought. So everyone in the universe knew that he lost that day. Well, not him—Theseus.
“Then why are you celebrating?” he asked, unable to mask the bitterness laced into his voice.
She jutted a thumb over at another jet, already parked at the far side of the bay. The model was unmistakable. A Yari. The same Yari he’d raced side by side with to the end of the track. The same Yari he’d lost to.
Minotaur was on Myth, and so was its driver.
“He’s been unloading for thirty minutes already,” Eve said.
“Unloading what?” Knives asked.
“He traveled with cargo,” she said.
Knives crossed the docking bay and walked around the Yari’s port side until he found his opponent unlatching another jet from the tail end of his vessel. The jet wasn’t a model he recognized, definitely not a superjet like the Yari or a known racer like his own. It wasn’t a remod either, which was a mishmash of recognizable parts. Nope, this one was a custom build. And a dirty one at that.
He dragged a finger on the metal siding, the black burnoff so thick all over that it didn’t even move from his touch.
It was a piece of junk.
His old opponent stopped what he was doing. His mask covered the bottom half of his face, the loops on each side stretched behind his ears, but his eyes made an impact, focused as if they were about to shoot lasers right at him.
“Hey, chien,” he said. “Hands off.”
“Did you just call me chien?”
“Yeah, it’s French for dog.”
But Knives already knew that. What was strange was that French was an old language, and something only the wealthiest members of the Commonwealth knew. They spoke in Français during their dinner parties, traded secrets and gossip using this ancient language. There was something familiar about this guy, and Knives couldn’t shake the feeling that they had met before.
Impossible. Could he be a Citizen?
“It might not look like much, but this thing is a beast,” the champion said.
“So why didn’t you ride it during the race?”
“Because it doesn’t belong to me.” The champion swiveled toward Knives, the dark-brown curls knotted on top of his head bouncing as he moved. From this distance, Knives got a better look at him, his eyes searching for anything recognizable, which was hard since he could only see the top half of his face. His eyebrows were thick, and his eyes were a jade green. A splash of freckles dotted the bridge of his nose. Nothing too out of the ordinary.
Eve planted a hand on the wings of the custom-built jet, but somehow the victor didn’t blow up in her face about it.
He reached into a side pocket and pulled out the red bottle cap. He tossed it back to her. “Why’d you drag me all the way out here, Eve?”
She ran a finger against the flattened edge of the bottle cap and started walking back to the bar of the space station. “Because I thought you’d want to see her, Vetty.”
So this guy had a name, Knives observed. Vetty. Somehow he’d heard it before. It was a name from his childhood, a popular pick back then. Many of the older boys in his social class bore that very same name.
Vetty ran after her. “See who?” he asked, his voice low.
Eve took a drag from her vapor stick and raised her eyebrows as if Vetty should already know. That alone made Knives question everything about him.
Vetty stormed past them, navigating the space as though this wasn’t the first time he’d been there. Seeing that no one was inside, he stared at the entryway to the space station’s small residential wing.
“Is she in there?” Vetty asked.
Eve nodded. “In my room.”
Vetty lowered his face mask, revealing a sharp jaw and a distinct dimple in the middle of his chin. It only made Knives stare.
Without even asking permission, Vetty opened the door to Eve’s room and closed it right behind him.
Knives’s jaw tightened, his molars grinding down hard. “You can’t just let him go in there.”
He barged past, but Eve stopped him. “They need to talk.”
“Talk? She barely even talks to me. What makes you think she’ll even say a word to that guy? And was I seeing things?” Knives motioned to his own very dimple-less chin. There was only one family who bore that distinctive mark. “Is he—”
“Yes,” Eve said, angling her head at the room the victor disappeared into, “that guy in there is the true heir to the Sinoblancas Corporation.”
That was why the name was familiar. The young men in the elite were all named after him. Vetty Sinoblancas. He was a golden child of the Commonwealth, until the news dropped one day that he was gone. It wasn’t a kidnapping. It was a choice.
“The runaway heir,” Knives said. “So why does he need to talk to Ia?”
“Because,” Eve said, “he’s her ex.”
CHAPTER 34
IA
IA’S EYES WERE WIDE as she stared at the boy lurking in the doorway. Vetty looked almost the same as ever. But stronger. His shoulders broad with the added thickness of muscle.
“Great,” she muttered. This was the last place she thought she’d see him again.
He took a step into the room, his face catching the lone light cast from the ceiling.
“It’s been years, and that’s all you have to say? Great?” Vetty asked.
She sat up in her bed, using her arms to help pull her legs close to her chest. “I knew Eve would tell you guys. Is Trace here, too, and the rest of the crew?” She wouldn’t be able to bear the looks on their faces when they saw her in this state. A traitor to their kind. And no longer a warrior because of it.
“No,” he said. “It’s just me.” She held her breath at the sound of his voice, so familiar that it stirred up buried memories. Some good, some bad.
But surely that wasn’t why he was there, to take a nostalgic trip down memory lane. Hell, maybe there was another bounty on her head, but this time from Dead Space instead of Olympus.
Wanted: Ia Cōcha, for betraying her people. Kill on sight.
“Well, if you’re here to shoot me, do it now. I’m the weakest I’ve ever been in my life.” She glanced down at her thin, stubby knees poking up from underneath the shred of blanket. When she looked back up, she saw that he hadn’t moved. “Don’t have a pistol? I’m sure Eve keeps one around here somewhere.”
He leaned a muscular shoulder up against the far wall. “This isn’t like you at all. I mean, the first thing you’d find out is where all the weapons are,” he joked.
She studied the mirth in his expression, his relaxed pose. “So you’re not here to kill me…”
“Why would I do that?” He moved to the center of the room, brought over one of the stray chairs, and sat down. “A comrade who I never thought I’d see again is sitting right in front of me.”
“Comrades, huh?”
The left corner of his mouth quirked upward into a classic Vetty half smile, and again those ancient yet familiar strings tugged at her heart.
He leaned forward in his chair, voice lowering. “What happened to you?”
“Einn.” The answer was short and simple, but steeped with so much of everything. Anger, most of all. But there was also pain, loss, regret. Humiliation.
“Your brother?” Vetty’s eyebrows raised. “But he’d never lift a hand against you.”
“There’s a lot we need to catch up on.” Ia snorted.
Vetty stood up, so tall that his head almost hit the low middle beam across the ceiling. He offered her a hand. “Let’s get some food then, and you can tell me everything.”
Just like old times, she slipped her hand into his.
She hadn’t put on her suit, so it took a lot longer than usual to walk the length of the hallway. She had to stop for a moment to catch her breath and hold on to the energy she had left.
Beside her, Vetty rested a
hand on her shoulder. She looked back at him, his eyes still so kind even after their years apart. He held up a sturdy arm. Gladly, she slipped a hand into the crook of his elbow. He had always been such a gentleman, unlike the other Sinoblancas that she knew.
“Your cousin was at Aphelion,” she said. “Nero.”
“That little scant,” Vetty muttered. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”
“Almost did.”
“Well, thank Deus you didn’t. If that kid was dead and out of the picture, I’m sure my father would invest more of his money into trying to find the rightful heir, and I really don’t want to deal with that right now.”
“You’ve never considered going back?” she asked.
“Go back to what? A future of never-ending business meetings?” He rolled his eyes at the thought of it. Vetty’s father was once again president and CEO of Sino Corp, a company that had been controlled by their family since the days of Ancient Earth. It was to be passed down to the eldest son of the next generation, and that was Vetty. But Ia hadn’t met him as Vetty Sinoblancas. She’d met him as a drift runaway off the rings of Nurelia. He was charming and smart, an amazing navigator with a wealth of knowledge, knowledge that she later realized he got from years of elite-class tutelage.
To this day, she had never known what exactly drove him to leave that life of privilege. She never asked.
“But what if going back could help stop the war?” she asked.
“Hardly a war,” Vetty said. “It’s just your brother being chaotic as always.”
She stopped, placing her other hand on his forearm so that he would know she was serious. “It’s a war, Vetty. People just don’t know it yet.”
The hallway opened up to the bar, chairs still strewn about from the night before. It wasn’t opening hours yet, so the place was empty save for two pairs of curious eyes staring back at them. Well, one pair of icy-blue eyes was a little bit more annoyed than curious.