The Vela: The Complete Season 1

by Yoon Ha Lee, Becky Chambers, SL Huang

  Cold of Hafiz to say this to the face of Ekrem’s child. But it was Niko who surprised her when they said, their face drawn, “I don’t disagree with you.”

  Asala turned to Niko, eyes widening. “You couldn’t leave the blueprints behind for—” She realized the problem with doing so as she spoke, and stopped, cursing herself. Normally she was better at thinking through the implications. But this conversation had shaken her in more ways than one.

  Niko’s face had gone haggard. “Right,” they said, their voice hollow. “If there’s any way to track wormhole jumps, the refugees wouldn’t be safe from pursuit. Hell, even a brute-force search with scout ships might do the trick. It depends on how well the stardrive works. If you wanted to start over somewhere new, with a fresh sun that isn’t being eaten hollow, and without looking over your shoulder for people from the inner worlds who don’t think you deserve that fresh start—especially anyone from Gan-De . . .” They squared their shoulders. “You’re right,” they said to Hafiz. “It’s the only way.”

  Asala had weapons-grade reservations about Niko’s ready agreement. She hoped it was just for show. Even assuming all this was true, this decision was too momentous to rest in the hands of one person. She had to get out of here and confirm some of it, any of it, before figuring out her next step.

  The question was, would Niko follow her lead? Or throw in with Hafiz? It sounded like they were halfway on their side already. Only one way to find out for sure.

  Asala didn’t want to kill anyone on the way out if she didn’t have to, but she didn’t see any alternatives that would allow her to recapture the prototype. At the same time, she didn’t think taking Hafiz hostage would help their situation. While it might get them off this specific ship, there was no way that she and Niko could survive if the whole of Camp Ghala rose up against them. She didn’t want to run odds that long.

  Leverage was the key. What could she use that wouldn’t also get them killed? Especially given that they were outnumbered?

  Then she had it. The answer had been staring her in the face ever since they’d been escorted to Hafiz’s lair. (It was hard to think of it any other way, as though Hafiz were a hermit-beast out of legend.) The luxuries, lovingly displayed for Hafiz’s followers and carefully preserved for future generations. The evidence that artifacts from the dead outer worlds were as cherished, if not more, than human lives.

  Asala didn’t signal Niko. Instead, she whirled and slammed the control to open the door before anyone could react. She hoped Niko would follow her lead. She hated that flicker-moment of uncertainty when she didn’t know how the people around her would react.

  Hafiz’s attendant yelped a curse in a cant Asala didn’t recognize. “Stop her!” Hafiz snapped half a beat after that.

  By then Asala had already lunged through the narrow opening provided by the door starting to whisk open and pivoted on one heel, her momentum carrying her past the astounded guards. They’d gotten soft; she couldn’t imagine that they dealt with determined professionals very often. Drill was one thing—and certainly she couldn’t fault the polish of the escort who’d brought her and Niko here—but it seemed that the elites who had the privilege of guarding Hafiz simply couldn’t fathom anyone defying their employer.

  The guards rushed her. Asala had already wrenched the ink painting by the door from its place. She sidestepped them with ease and, as momentum carried them past her, she called out, “You can fight me. But I’d rather come to an understanding. I have the feeling that art restoration is tough in Camp Ghala.”

  “Stop,” Hafiz’s voice came from within the room.

  Both guards stumbled to a halt. Asala’s spirits lifted. They would obey Hafiz; that was all she needed.

  Asala spotted Hafiz slantwise through the door, which the attendant had allowed to open fully: part of Hafiz’s face, the blazing glare of a single eye. Hafiz continued speaking, their voice glassy cold. “Asala. That painting is the last surviving masterpiece of the Samosi warrior-artist Dmitar, from nine centuries ago. People gave up their lives so that it could accompany our people to safety.”

  “Don’t you think I know?” Asala said. She held the painting up. Light shone through the silk; she could see the brushstrokes in ghostly silhouette through the back. “My clan had to leave everything behind, on Hypatia. We called it ‘feeding the wolf.’” Lightly, she caressed the edge of the painting. “I know what this is worth, even if the inner-worlders will never understand.”

  Hafiz’s silence was chilly.

  “Give me the cube,” Asala said, “and your guarantee of safe passage for Niko and myself in Camp Ghala. I’ll return the painting to your care.” Time for a little flattery. “If my clan had had a leader like you, perhaps we would have been able to salvage some of our heritage. We don’t have to be enemies. But I can’t make a decision this important without checking things out for myself, and for that, I need the cube.”

  Take the opening, Asala thought at Niko. For a long moment she wasn’t sure they would. But after a moment Niko slipped through the doorway, their eyes hooded, and nodded to her.

  Hafiz’s brief silence was considering. “The prototype—”

  “If you have blueprints,” Asala said, “you can build yourself more. You said it yourself: it’s going to take a whole fleet with these things to save us. You can spare me one.” It was a risk, pushing Hafiz like this. But she didn’t have a copy of the blueprints, and was unlikely at this juncture to convince Hafiz to hand them over. If Hafiz had lied about the cube’s purpose, she’d have to unlock its secrets another way, and for that she’d need possession of it. If Hafiz refused her, in fact, that would suggest that the whole story was a scam.

  Abruptly, Hafiz laughed. “Very well,” they said. “You will learn the truth of my words soon enough. I will forgive your insolence this once, Asala, but don’t test me a second time.”

  Hafiz inclined their head to their attendant and said, “Give her the proof she seeks.” The attendant retrieved the cube and brought it forward. Asala reverently handed the painting back to the guards, who scowled at her. Then she replaced the cube in her belt pouch.

  Niko shook their head but did not speak. Together, the two of them walked swiftly out of the Jaguar merchanter. Asala could feel the portraits staring after her in approbation. They would haunt her dreams, later, wrecked paintings with ghosts rising out of their frames to curse her.

  “We could have gotten it back from her,” the attendant noted after the two had left.

  Hafiz shook their head. “Best to see where she goes with it,” they said. “That will tell us whether she’s one of them—or one of us.”

  Hafiz kept their side of the bargain. No one troubled Asala and Niko on their way back to Soraya’s office, even if people gave them speculative looks because they were going around suited. Both she and Niko had their helmets clipped to their belts so they could see more easily; she’d always hated having her field of view restricted. Asala didn’t want to take the time to unsuit further, though. Even imperfect armor was better than nothing, and she worried that they’d be jumped again.

  Niko’s silence had a moody air, as if they were still working out what to tell her, and Asala didn’t press them. By the time the two of them arrived, it was late. While the camp never slept, it did recognize a cursory day-night cycle, and even someone as busy as Soraya needed to recharge.

  PLEASE COME BACK LATER, said the sign on her door, in uneven block letters. It was further embellished with painted . . . butterflies? Bowties? Having seen Soraya’s neat handwriting, Asala guessed someone else had made it for her. She pounded on the door anyway.

  No response.

  More pounding. “It’s an emergency!” Asala shouted. “It’s about Hafiz.” Besides, Soraya had sent Hafiz’s goons after them. Maybe guilt would make her more cooperative.

  That fetched Soraya. After a few seconds, the door slid open. Soraya was wrapped in a crocheted shawl, a mug of broth in her hand. She looked startled to see t
hem. “What’s so important that it can’t wait?" she snapped.

  In answer, Asala shouldered past her and into the office. She didn’t bother sitting. Niko murmured something apologetic to Soraya as they entered.

  The office remained as neatly organized as ever, although Asala spotted one notable, if amusing, difference: Soraya’s slate rested on the table with a video paused of . . . a gladiatorial drama? She wouldn’t have guessed that Soraya’s taste ran to improbable choreographed combat between brawny individuals, complete with spangled costumes, but there was a lot Asala didn’t know about the woman. Everyone needed some way to relax, she supposed, even if with junk vids.

  “I can explain,” Soraya said, her voice exhausted.

  “We survived Hafiz,” Niko said. “No thanks to you.”

  Soraya winced.

  “But you’re the one who keeps Camp Ghala running, and there’s something you need to hear,” Niko went on. They nodded at Asala.

  Tersely, Asala described their confrontation with Hafiz, carefully edited. She didn’t mention her doubts about President Ekrem; that would be something for Asala to work out on her own time. And she certainly didn’t mention that she had possession of the Vela’s prototype stardrive.

  “You keep a finger on the pulse of Camp Ghala,” Asala said, not adding, And I trust you to be honest about the Vela. More honest than Hafiz, anyway. “Tell me this is true, or that it isn’t. Whatever it is, we need to know.”

  Soraya huffed. “It’s true,” she said, her tone clipped. “The Vela’s importance is its wormhole device. Hafiz and I have been keeping a lid on the secret. You can’t let General Cynwrig find out about it.”

  So easy, an answer for the plucking, like a ripe fruit. But Asala needed more to go on. “Is there anyone who can corroborate the truth about this—this prototype?”

  Soraya sipped her broth and didn’t answer.

  Niko had caught some nuance of body language that had escaped Asala. “What has Hafiz done?”

  Soraya shook her head, but she didn’t deny her ambivalence toward Hafiz. “We have different priorities, that’s all,” she said.

  “I think you owe us answers,” Niko said. “All things considered. Did you expect us to come back from that expedition?”

  Soraya looked away. “Fine,” she said. “Ask your questions.”

  “Is it true that Hafiz is planning to leave the inner worlds without the tech to escape?”

  Soraya blanched. “They what? That can’t be—”

  “That’s what they told us.”

  “No,” Soraya whispered. “We were going to leave the blueprints for the inner-worlders, not leave them to die too. That wasn’t the agreement.”

  Asala and Niko exchanged worried glances. Grudging respect welled up in Asala’s heart for this woman, working to the edges of her sanity to save the outer worlds’ unwanted, ready to stretch her hand out even to people who had treated her people poorly. Respect, and weariness. She wouldn’t have wanted Soraya’s job for an entire world of water.

  “There isn’t much alternative,” Niko said, their voice unnaturally calm. “Hafiz is right. If General Cynwrig gets her hands on this tech, it’ll endanger all the refugees. The rest of the inner-worlders won’t be much better. Not if it comes to a fight for survival.”

  “Yes,” Soraya said in a hollow voice. “Of course you’re right.” She didn’t sound convinced at all.

  Niko frowned slightly and finally asked the question that Asala really cared about. “Soraya, I know there’s a lot to take in, but is there anyone who can corroborate Hafiz’s account of what the prototype does? Especially since we don’t know if it’s actually been tested? I personally wouldn’t want to entrust the refugees’ safety to a prototype . . .”

  Good thinking, and a tack that Asala wouldn’t have thought to take. Of course appealing to Soraya’s concern for the refugees’ safety would get better results.

  “Oh, it works,” Soraya said, grimly certain. “Uzochi assured me of it.”

  That was news. “I’d rather hear it from Uzochi herself,” Asala said.

  Soraya barked a laugh. “You’re welcome to talk to her if you can find her,” she said.

  “Why?” Niko said. “If she’s not in the camp—”

  “She’s on Gan-De.”

  Asala sucked in a breath.

  “On Gan-De where?” Niko asked, focused on extracting information, like a true agent.

  Soraya’s expression went wry. “It was only going to be a matter of time before you found out. She’s at a clandestine base, building more ships and wormhole generators. Refining exotic matter, constructing containment devices to keep the stuff from evaporating or whatever it does. We didn’t have the resources in Camp Ghala for her to set up shop here. Gan-De, on the other hand—well, it’s a manufacturing center for a reason, robots and all. It was the only way.”

  I’ll just bet, Asala thought. “We need to meet with her,” she said. That way she and Niko could find out more about the existing cube and how it worked. Too bad they couldn’t just call Uzochi, but she didn’t have any confidence that Gan-De’s spooks wouldn’t intercept anything they sent over ansible. Besides, in Asala’s experience, it was easier to pressure people to speak in person.

  Soraya scoffed. “Now that’s clearly impossible.”

  “You’ve been very generous to us,” Niko said, which was their way of insisting that the two of them were going whether Soraya liked it or not. “Listen, getting past the fortress world’s defenses is our problem. But anything you have on the orbital platforms, anything at all—this could be an opportunity for you as well, you know. Because we might be able to get word down to the refugee community on Gan-De, and bring more aid packages from sympathizers on the way back.”

  “Not a horrible idea,” Soraya said slowly. Her gaze cut sideways, toward Asala and her tattoos. “I don’t imagine you have any sympathy for Cynwrig and her goons.”

  Asala didn’t like General Cynwrig, true. On the other hand, she was tired of people making assumptions about her politics based on the fact that she was a clanner. This wasn’t the time to raise a stink about it, though.

  Niko honed in on Soraya’s weakness and kept talking. “Besides, when’s the last time Uzochi sent you an update on her operations?”

  The guess found its target. Soraya didn’t suppress her wince quite fast enough.

  “Fine,” Soraya said. “But if you get into trouble down there—”

  “We won’t,” Niko said.

  She shook her head. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. In an emergency, you’ll need a way to contact me—”

  Niko rolled their hand palm up. “I’ll get word to you. There are ways.”

  “You and your friends,” Soraya said, but she seemed satisfied. “Fine. Meanwhile, you two are going to get the fuck out of my office so I can watch this season finale—do you know how hard it is to stay unspoiled in this community?—and get some sleep.”

  Hafiz might have promised Asala and Niko safety, but neither of them trusted the truce—if you wanted to call it that—to last. Hafiz’s soldiers weren’t marked by any conventional uniform, but Asala was willing to bet that the squad of four tough-looking women and men waiting down the hall once they exited Soraya’s office were among them. Asala cursed herself for not wearing some kind of disguise, although it would have been a lost cause—her height and bulk made her unmistakable here anyway. Even Niko, despite their slenderness, had such clear skin and good teeth that they didn’t fit in here.

  Asala grabbed Niko’s arm and dove. Starships were not, by and large, places where one ordinarily found much cover, with the possible exception of badly organized cargo holds, but this had not been a functional ship in years, and Camp Ghala was full of clutter. For example, Soraya stored stacks of empty crates outside her office door for reuse by anyone who needed them. Asala dropped into a crouch behind the nearest stack, ignoring Niko’s startled yip, just as the soldiers shouted for civilians to clear the ar
ea.

  She and Niko couldn’t linger here, of course. The crates wouldn’t protect them forever. Asala grunted as she shoved the stack over to block the hallway. They made an unholy clattering as they tumbled over like a child’s blocks. She scrambled to her feet, bent over to present less of a target, and sprinted, trusting Niko to follow.

  There’d been that one ship in Block K, the one with possible stress leaks. Concerning, but the ship was ideal as a getaway vehicle because it had been cleared out in preparation for permanent welding onto Camp Ghala . . . someday. Even better, it was temporarily attached to the pressurized sections of Ghala.

  Asala heard shouts behind them, and then Soraya’s raised voice upbraiding the soldiers. She could only hope that Soraya’s high standing in the refugee community would keep her from coming to further harm. At this point it was out of Asala’s hands.

  She didn’t like going back to Section Zeta, where the Vela was hidden. Among other things, she didn’t know if Hafiz had stepped up security. She had to trust that Hafiz’s desire to keep the Vela’s secrets would keep them from drastic measures.

  The corridors were eerily quiet. The people she and Niko passed shied away from them. Asala was sure that her own murderous expression was part of it, but given that she didn’t want interruptions, it suited her fine.

  Asala and Niko didn’t stop until they reached the ship that was their destination. With luck, it remained functional as, well, a ship. Asala panted for breath, both winded and exhilarated. Niko just sounded winded, period. Niko hacked the makeshift lock, which was fortunately not difficult, and they scrambled into the airlock.

  The airlock didn’t close fast enough for her, and the lights’ flickering didn’t reassure her. Asala kept imagining she heard pursuing footsteps, but it was only the rapid thudding of her heartbeat. “You make sure it seals properly,” Asala croaked to Niko. “I’m going to start the preflight checks.”

  Once in the pilot’s seat, with the familiar routine to calm her, her heartbeat began to slow down. Halfway through, Niko slid into the copilot’s seat. “It’s done,” they said, still breathless.