Marked

by Jenny Martin

  “But you got in,” I say.

  “Yeah, and I think we’ve got a couple of good leads for you. Funny,” she says, and I see Miyu’s not the only one with a killer smirk. “It’s always the money. Even the most oblique operations have to keep up their balance sheets. We found all the good stuff buried deep in his financials.”

  I’m not really sure what she means by “oblique,” but if she’s using it to describe Benroyal Corp, I’m assuming it means soul-suckingly dishonest. “Where is Cash?”

  “I think we’ve found him. This intel’s pretty fresh. Take a look,” she says, touching her screen.

  Instantly, a data-deck splays out over our table. Miyu and I reach down to swipe the cards apart. Among the text files are several headshots. I don’t recognize most of them, but then . . . the last two images. Blankly, Cash stares ahead, avoiding the camera like a criminal hauled in for a mug shot. It’s tough to pull my eyes away, but I scan the picture next to his. An old man, the deep laugh lines on his brown-skinned face no longer aglow. Toby Abasi, ashen and dull. Still alive, but barely.

  As a chamberman, he’d publicly opposed corporate abuses. He was the last honest politician in Capitoline. Back when I was racing for Benroyal, after I’d discovered his black sap empire, Abasi tried to help me expose him. And naturally, the old man paid for it. He was arrested right before my big win at Sand Ridge. The Sixers tried him for treason, then reported him exiled, although most of us figured he’d been secretly executed.

  But he’s alive. Add one more to the list of people to rescue.

  Finally, my eyes drift to the text files, but at first glance, they don’t look like much. Numbers. Credit symbols. Expense reports? I swipe them aside and turn back to Moira. “Where’d you find the pictures?” I ask. “And what’s in the docs?”

  “We pulled them from a black box, a triple-encrypted, self-destructive directory. It’s a ledger from one of Benroyal’s IP accounts. And there are some legitimately weird expenses logged in the past year.”

  “What’d he invest in?” Miyu asks.

  Moira cocks her head, and I read the delight in her face. “A high-rise in Mid-iron. Checked that out, no secret torture cells hidden there. A chain of restaurants in Belaram—which are probably just fronts for his sap dealers—but then something a lot more interesting.”

  Miyu and I both lean in, then Moira drops the bomb.

  “A space station,” she says.

  “What?” I say.

  “Benroyal acquired it right before you signed your circuit contract,” Moira says. “May be a coincidence. I mean, who knows how many far-flung storage facilities he’s bought over the years. We know he uses lots of places like this to handle all kinds of old stuff. He uses them like off-planet way stations. Smugglers find what he wants, and they hand it off to Benroyal’s men, who ship it back to him. The man’s completely obsessed with antiques.”

  “I know,” I say. “He keeps a ton of it in the Spire.”

  “Yeah, but get this: Not long after buying this station, he outlays a huge expense for renovating it—a ridiculous amount of armed personnel, updated security systems, even a few dozen pairs of detention-grade sync boots. And . . . it gets even better.” Moira’s bubbling over now. It’s a little like listening to elegant gunfire. “We snagged a file with station-bound manifests. First, all this new hardware gets space-freighted there, along with a suspiciously long list of IP personnel. Then two days after your big escape? A smaller vac arrives, with even more security, and last but not least, several unnamed passengers. Finally, we stumble onto those images, in a separate file, but tagged with the exact same code name.”

  “Code name?” I say.

  She nods. “The original name of the space station: U.S.S. Sweetwater.”

  I fight the sick churn that flares in the pit of my stomach. But Moira’s still not finished. “So I keep digging and come up with all kinds of data on the station. Used to be a scientific research complex. They studied combustion, alternative energy sources, desalination techniques, you name it. It’s big. It’s remote. It’s old-world. This clunker’s been off the books for so long, it’s perfect.”

  I nod. “Perfect for a secret prison.”

  “Exactly,” Moira replies. “But there’s a catch.”

  “What is it?” I ask. “Did they move him?”

  Moira shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so. I think he’s still out there. But trouble is, your prince is millions of light-years away, in a restricted, heavily patrolled, no- fly zone. That space station?” She pauses. “It’s orbiting Earth.”

  Orbiting Earth. The words spin in my head, like bright, faraway stars. The idea that Cash is out there, just beyond our reach, ignites me. My brain’s already firing off a wild hail of directives. We need a ship, and a mission team . . . pull things together, and leave tomorrow. No. Benroyal’s soldiers control every gateway into the galaxy. We’d need our own space bridge to get there. Can we build one? How long . . .

  Miyu touches my shoulder. It’s as if she can read my mind. I look up and see the soft plead of reason in her eyes. “Phee, even if we could get there . . . you get that close to Earth, and there’s nothing but outlaws and IP. They’d shoot you down the second you jumped into orbit, before you even got anywhere close to that station.”

  “No,” I say. I shake my head. “There has to be a way.”

  Miyu doesn’t let go. “There is none. It’d be a suicide mission.” Her tone is gentle, but unsparing. The truth in it drop-kicks the fight out of me.

  I look back at the screen, as if Moira might have a magic answer, something to bring back even a glimmer of hope. But there’s nothing.

  “At least now you know where he is,” Moira says, pity written all over her face.

  I take a moment, to pull myself together. I’m choking up, but I manage to blink away the burn in my lids. “Thank you for finding him. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

  “You already have.” Moira waves me off. “There was a lot more data in those files than docs from this little project, a rust-load of stuff we can use on our own. You ever heard of the Declaration of the Rights of Man? The Bill of Rights? The Cyrus Cylinder?”

  I’m frozen, but Miyu nods.

  “They’re ancient documents,” Miyu says.

  “Benroyal kept some in his gallery,” I say. “I saw something called the Magna Carta, but those others? I’m not sure.”

  “Yeah? I’d always thought they were legends,” Moira says. “Bedtime stories for easy marks. But that’s the thing. They’re not. Benroyal’s created his own personal archive, digitized copies of thousands of pre-Castran documents. My sources say they’re legit too. And inventory notes? Don’t even get me started. King Charlie’s up to his eyeballs in priceless artifacts.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “You should see the display cases in the Spire. It’s like he’s got a private museum.”

  “Emphasis on the word private,” Moira says. “Because half his hoard doesn’t align with the history we’ve been taught, and there is so much we can learn from it. It’s going to take a while to sift through all this, but what we’ve found . . . it’s looking a whole lot like long-lost treasure.”

  She’s awestruck at the find, but I can’t feel the same joy. What good is treasure, unless it saves Cash? Still, I try not to sink her high.

  “I’m glad,” I tell her. “Hope you can use it.”

  I look at Miyu. Chin up, her expression reads.

  “Someday, I’ll buy us all a round,” Moira says, touching the screen. “Next time, come here and we’ll toast: Girls, here’s to the freedom of information.”

  Then the call screen’s blank, and it doesn’t matter that I can’t manage a grin. Moira’s already signed off.

  After sharing the news at HQ, I meet Hal at flight control to work through Mary’s program. I don’t pass out this time, but I
do get sick afterward. After cleaning up, I head back into the tomb. By my cot, Bear is already waiting for me. I don’t let him hold me. We don’t even touch. But when he pulls a bed closer to mine, I lie down beside him.

  We’re both curled on our sides, eye to eye. Yet in the dim of the cavern, I can’t see his face. I have only his breath with the soft promise of his voice, and a part of me clings to the familiar sound. I am so used to hearing him unseen through my racing headset. If only there were static and roadway between us. If we could just talk over the noise, we’d be okay. From here, I can almost reach the old connection, muted words and crackle and hiss.

  But when Bear speaks, his voice isn’t soft. “Hank’s making me squadron leader,” he says. “It’s a good chance to step up. I can lead.” His words spiral out like an invitation. Accept who I’ve become, and I’ll let you in.

  But I hesitate. I open my mouth to tell Bear to be careful . . . to tell him I’m terrified he’ll die in the next battle, that I’m scared of losing him, that I’m already losing myself. That I can’t call him best friend or brother anymore, because we’ve started to become something else: two half strangers hurtling toward something so new and foreign and confusing that I don’t know whether to run into or away from it.

  I open my mouth to tell him I still dream of Cash, and that, even against the odds, I’m not ready to give him up.

  But I bite down and eat the sigh that’s struggling to slip away. In the dark, I swallow all these words but two. “I’m scared,” I say.

  “I know,” he whispers. He is so still, his whole body unblinking. The invitation still stands.

  But I close my eyes and pretend it’s not there. I pretend I don’t want him at all.

  In my dreams, Cash doesn’t die. Tonight, he doesn’t come at all. I don’t relive the ambush. Instead, I dream of the Spire.

  I’m alone, looking at pictures and parchment and books. But there are no walls, and all the glass cases are broken.

  The words are scattered. They are everywhere.

  They fly from the pages and old paper, rising up like a flock of birds, their soft-lettered bodies sweeping the air in a wave of ink-stained static. It’s a bat-winged sound, a building, winding, chaos-twisting cry. The flock spirals around me. They cover me. They blot out the Spire and expand, an all-consuming, black-limbed flutter.

  A million words hug the empty space and conquer me. I close my lids and listen. Arms wide, I lose myself in the cresting whir. I fall into the noise.

  Eyes open. Take a breath. Surrender.

  When I wake, for the first time in a long time, I am calm and clearheaded. It’s early, and Bear has already left; my eyes drift to his empty cot. But I know now. I know exactly how to fight.

  I flex James.

  PV: SENDING YOU AN UPDATED BRIEFING. READ IT. AND I NEED YOU TO DO SOMETHING FOR ME.

  JA: ???

  PV: I NEED SAFE INTERSTELLAR TRANSPORT FOR ME AND A MISSION TEAM.

  JA: BACK TO CASTRA? YOU’RE INSANE.

  PV: NOT TO CASTRA. I NEED TO GET INTO EARTH’S ORBIT. SPACE STATION U.S.S. SWEETWATER.

  JA: IMPOSSIBLE.

  PV: FIND A WAY.

  JA: I’LL TRY.

  PV: NO TRY. JUST DO IT.

  JA: YES, YOUR HIGHNESS.

  PV: RUST OFF. AND THANK YOU. TALK LATER.

  Then I ask Miyu to arrange a second meeting with Moira. Turns out, I just might need her help again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I HAVE TO GET TO THE WAR ROOM TO TALK TO NANDAN AND the others. And I’m almost there when the battle sirens begin to wail. The bleat’s full-on, droning out a red alert. Hank’s coming through the doorway. He catches me by the arm.

  “They’re coming,” he says. “I need to go. But you find Hal, and keep him under the hill. You both need to hole up and wait this out.”

  “If there’s a battle, I’m not just going to—”

  He gets me by the shoulders, gripping tight. “Bear’s already out there, and Hal’s lost enough. You stay away from the line.”

  He lets go, and he’s off before I have the chance to affirm the order.

  It’s just as well. I’d rather not lie to his face.

  I do find Hal, but neither of us stays under the hill. We run to tent city and fill our ears with field orders and secondhand news.

  A whole armada this time.

  A hundred fighters and a uni-carrier.

  We’re only seventy vacs, even with the latest reinforcements.

  We’ll never hold the line.

  I dash to the airstrip, looking for Bear, but it’s too late. He’s already up in the air. No good-byes, and I pray he’ll be all right. As for me, I’ve never wished harder to be more useful. All those wasted days in the valley; I could have trained as a soldier. I will train, I swear, if we live through this day, even if I’m only infantry.

  Larken won’t allow Fahra and Miyu to fly, and Nandan needs Hal on the ground to run the infirmary. So we three jump in to help out.

  Miyu and I stand at the infirmary pump, filling buckets for Hal. Hands in the water, I close my eyes and send a silent prayer into the spill. Don’t take Bear, I beg. Not this time. Not ever, and I swear, next time, the current can have me.

  Back and forth, we dash between the airfield and the infirmary, tending to the wounded. By late afternoon, the skies become one vast, gray, churning cauldron of heat. My ears are so raw, I can hardly hear the thunder anymore, or the scream of missiles. And the hammer fall blasts no longer knock us off our feet. We balance on the aftershocks, nudging our way through our tasks.

  Many fighters refuel. Some don’t come back at all. There’s talk of soldiers, shot down and trapped on the ground. Inside the infirmary, Hal and Fahra hash it out. They’re uncertain what to do.

  I hand Fahra a tray of instruments. He runs it under the sterilizer. “But we have one more medi-vac,” he says.

  “No,” Hal replies. “The last one’s no good. The accelerant’s shot.” He pauses, shaking his head. “All those pilots down. Still alive, but no way to get off the battlefield. No one can get through to the line.”

  “Then we’ll just have to get there on the ground,” I interrupt.

  “How?” Hal says. “We can’t just hike up and pick through the crypts. It’d take us hours to make that climb, and we’d probably get blasted to bits before we even made it into the valley.”

  “No,” Fahra says. “There is a road. Just north of here. Up and around, it follows the stream. If it is clear, we can take it.”

  “Hal, you gather whatever supplies you think we’ll need to take to the line,” I say. “We’re going to get those survivors. Captain Fahra, Miyu’s back at the pump. Let her know what the plan is. Meet me back here in ten minutes.”

  “And you?” the captain asks.

  “Me?” I say. “I’m gonna find us a rig.”

  I have to lie. I tell Belach, the quartermaster, that we need a vehicle for . . . ugh, we need it for moving stuff. Yes, yes, he agrees. He shoos me off with an ignition code.

  I pick the biggest set of wheels in the yard, an armored Nightcrawler, which, if I have anything to do with it, isn’t going be doing much crawling tonight. I climb up into the cab and settle into the driver’s seat. Just one problem.

  My feet don’t reach the pedals.

  I punch in the ignition code and look for the seat controls. Fully adjustable, my exhaust. They are, if you’re a seven-foot Cyanese man. I crank myself closer, as far as I can. When I get to the infirmary, I’ll have to find a sheet or ten to roll up and wedge behind me. But what this beast lacks in comfort, it repays in tech. The engine systems are whisper quiet; no chugging roar, which is what I’d expected. And in “ghost” mode, the windshield morphs into full-on, night vision flex glass. Without the least hint of light, I can see every bent blade of grass. Even better, the auto-cloa
king system renders this thing undetectable from the air. The additional heat signature detection grid? Just a nice bonus.

  Time to roll. One hand on the wheel and one on the console, I kick this monster into gear.

  Carefully, I skirt the airstrip and make my way back to our impromptu rally point. Hal, Miyu, Captain Fahra—they’re all waiting for me. When I mumble something about grabbing sheets to stuff behind me, Fahra takes one look at my seat and tells me to quit sitting on the edge. I slide back and he reaches over to examine the controls. Turns out I found the seat adjustment all right, but missed the pedal controls. One touch and the whole floor panel extends to meet me. With both ends maxed out, it’s not a bad fit.

  “This is better?” he asks.

  “Much better.”

  “I think . . .” He smiles, then hops back down. “. . . They hadn’t bargained so much on a little gan-gan like you.”

  I share his grin, and we help Hal and Miyu load the back end. Hal slides in the last two stretchers and then we’re a go. Slowly, we bump our way out of tent city, then pedal to the floor as I sprint for the road.

  I can hear it. We’re getting closer. The battle’s not so far away now. I glance up, where the fighters sweep the gloom. My place isn’t up there, in a vac. It’s always been here, racing on the ground.

  “Watch the tree line,” Fahra says. “The road’s just beyond them. Sharp curve ahead.”

  And he’s right. The narrow lane—which is barely more than a shepherd’s track—zigzags a lot to compensate for the tough grade around the hill. We make it halfway around, just shy of the valley, when Captain Nandan’s voice crackles through the Nightcrawler’s com.