“Waren, there’s a checkpoint,” I hiss under my breath. “No way I’ll get through without a biometric scan. I told you this was a bad idea.”
“And I told you we’d deal with it,” he says lightly. “Give me a moment.”
I push left through the crowd, fighting against the riptide of people shoving forward, eager for the party to begin. A chaotic rave thrashes beyond the scanner fences. A thousand bodies writhe on beat, their drink- and drug-fueled systems communing with the holographic sea creatures that float above the plaza: fish, whales, dolphins, sharks, and squid, in all their engineered genetic variations.
“Here,” Waren says, and a marker appears on my HUD.
I reach the edge of the throng and elbow my way out. I keep walking against the flood of people heading for the entrance, cursing every well-dressed drunk who knocks into me. This should be my scene—a crowd to get lost in, booze, drugs, and bad decisions of the filthy, sweaty variety—but something’s missing. These aren’t my people; they have jobs and families and permanent residences. I can see it in the clothes they wear, the tastefully low-key augmentations, their clear eyes. They aren’t drinking to forget, they aren’t drug-fucked because it’s the only way to cope. This is recreation, nothing more. There’s no desperation here, and its absence is like drowning.
The crowds thin the farther I go, music distant, reverberating off the faces of all those skyscrapers. I start looking for a way in, a quiet place where I can break through the temporary fencing blocking every alleyway.
“Where are you leading me? Sewers? Air vents?”
“Not quite.”
I round the corner on Waren’s marker. A knot of people mills on the road outside a busy loading bay. They’re all dressed in black and white, waiting for work—gaunt, dark-eyed, slight reek of misery. A truck idles in the bay, gap between it and the convention hall bustling with wait staff wearing mirrored visors over their faces, ferrying boxes of wine inside.
A man watches over the workers—clean-shaven, sharp-jawed, with broad shoulders slotted neatly into a well-tailored suit. His is the kind of trunk you want to climb. Until he opens his mouth.
“Alright, you worthless fucks, I need six more staff. Line up and let me have a look.”
“Waren,” I say quiet; “I hate you.”
“Better do what the man says.” Waren might not have a face, but I can hear the smile in his voice.
I join the hopefuls lining up on the footpath before the boss. Most are disheveled and obviously desperate for the work. The man takes us all in with a glance, and something like guilt stabs my chest when he picks out me and five other clean-looking folk with a slow, deliberate point.
“Grab a mask, get inside, and get to work.”
The five others rush ahead, jostling for position. I follow them into the loading bay, feeling the hateful glares of all the others left behind.
The reflective visors sit in a carton stacked beside the truck. I stand back while the others fight over the masks and don them quickly, afraid the job will be snatched back as easily as it was given. When they’re done I take the last mirror mask, lightly scratched on the left side. In one smooth motion I remove my rebreather and replace it with the visor, glancing around to make sure no one got a look at my face.
I grab a box from the back of the truck, fall into step behind another waiter, and trail him through a warren of tight corridors, movements mechanical as we drop the boxes off inside a walk-in fridge. The others head back to collect more wine, but I push deeper into the building.
I find an automated kitchen gleaming with chrome and more tech than most cockpits. One of these machines decants bottles of sparkling wine into champagne flutes resting on clear glass trays. A server pushes through thick black curtains at the far end of the hall, gentle din of the fund-raising event slipping through behind her. She takes a tray and turns back, effortlessly carrying it balanced on the tips of her fingers.
“This is such a bad idea,” I say under my breath. I slide a tray off the counter and follow the other waiter, holding it awkwardly in both hands.
Beyond the heavy curtain, florid strings curl through the air of a stately ballroom. Refined chatter and fake laughter emanate from clustered groups—each one likely wealthier than entire planetary populations—while waiters mill around the room with trays of wine and canapes.
This is more of what I expected from a fund-raiser—not the chaotic street party outside, but a gathering of the ultra-rich donating to a cause as though it might verify their humanity, their morality. As though one act of charity could offset all the unethical shit they did to “earn” their wealth.
“Excuse me, I need your help desperately, dear.” I stop and turn at the voice—a low drawl, flat enough that I can’t tell if the man is being sarcastic. He’s short, with rust-colored skin peeking from the cuffs of his navy suit. “Down here,” he says, and I bend until we’re face to face.
He leans in close and I expect him to whisper something, but instead he opens his mouth and pulls his lips back. He runs his tongue over his teeth checking for scraps of food. The smell of copper and rot seeps in behind my mask as his hot breath fogs my mirrored visor. I almost retch. He steps back to check his reflection, adjusts his tie, and turns away without another word.
I continue stalking the space, pausing when a guest needs wine or narcissistic satisfaction. The strings go quiet and conversation slowly dies as people turn to face the stage at the far end of the ballroom.
A man with onyx skin and tousled red hair crosses to the podium while the gathered guests applaud. Rafael Hurtt, in the flesh. He beams beneath the spotlight, turning slowly so the whole room can bask in his smile. His skin is genehacked pure black for maximum UV resistance. Probably got it done when he first started mining but keeps it that way for PR: to show he’s still a worker, a man of the people. An unfashionably thick moustache sits like a bulkhead between his mouth and the rest of his face. He wears no jacket, his shirtsleeves rolled up to show the onyx pigmentation spilling down his forearms, wrists, and hands.
“I’d like to thank you all for being here tonight. Whilst I appreciate everyone outside who’s helping raise money for the Montero refugees, we all know that the real work will happen here in this room.”
More polite laughter. An oxymoron. Laughter should be raucous, but in my travels I’ve found that the richer a person is, the less they know how to live. Too much to lose, I guess. They can’t afford to let go, even for a second, even just to laugh.
“We have a truly unique collection of items up for auction tonight. These pieces of art, sculpture, jewelry, and furniture were rescued from Montero, created by artists and artisans now dead or displaced. This could be your chance to secure a priceless artifact from a culture that, at best, will survive in small pockets throughout the galaxy, and at worst will be forever extinguished.
“But that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? The cities, towns, and yes, perhaps even the culture of Montero are gone, but the survivors? The survivors need our help.”
The crowd applauds, some nodding solemnly. A curtain rises behind Hurtt, revealing shelves lined with paintings, vases, statues, plates, and countless other items. Neatly stacked shards hold media, files, and documentation, and holo-cubes flicker with photos and video from Montero, taken before the planet’s magnetosphere was stripped away. The last remnants of a lost planet’s history—an entire culture on sale to the highest bidder.
Hurtt begins crying the first lot, but I tune him out. On the right side of the ballroom a small group of people mill by a table, backs turned to the stage, hands pressed to their mouths. Concerned murmurs ripple out through the crowd in the way discord always does.
A woman approaches me, reaching for a glass of wine. I thrust the tray into her hands and push past her, eyes tracking a private guard advancing on the table with a hand raised. The onlookers step aside to give her room, and the security officer bends to lift the overhanging tablecloth. She’s thrown back, sharp c
ry as she soars through the air, cut short when she hits the floor. The rest of the room falls silent, a quiet squeal of feedback coming from the stage where Hurtt stands stunned.
Fuck.
People back away from the table but I move forward. I grab the tablecloth and hold it up, squashing the telekinetic blast tossed at my chest. Pale sits under the table surrounded by discarded bones and half-eaten hors d’oeuvres. Ocho sits in his lap, chewing a piece of red meat stripped from a metal skewer, purring loud.
“Pale,” I hiss. “I told you to wait in the ship.”
He frowns and lowers his head, looking at me with huge eyes, pupils dilated in the dark.
“How did you even get here?”
“Waren,” is all Pale says.
“I’ll deal with that digital bastard later. I expected better from you, Ocho.” She looks at me, but doesn’t stop eating, doesn’t know she’s in trouble. Wouldn’t care if she did.
“Step away from there!”
I exhale sharp through my nose. “Stay here and don’t move until I say so.”
I drop the tablecloth and raise my hands slowly as I straighten up. I turn to find the head of security back on her feet with another dozen guards around her in a tight semicircle, bulging with genefreak muscle mass, laser sidearms aimed at my torso.
The woman in charge wears a charcoal suit that probably cost as much as the rest of the guards’ outfits combined. She glowers at me down the barrel of her laspistol.
“Remove the mask,” she says slow, long gaps between her words.
A million ways it could go wrong, I said. Keep an eye on them, I said. Remind me again why I let Waren go untethered?
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Remove the mask. I won’t ask a third time.”
“Technically you haven’t asked once,” I say with a shrug, words muffled by the sheet of one-way glass over my face.
“Cute,” the head of security says, mouth curled in disdain.
She’s close to seven foot tall, but without the bulk of the other guards. Her hair is in long braids, woven around the stackhead augs built into her skull and held together by loops of matte metal. Her skin is dark as mahogany, eyes glittering with amphetamine vigilance but circled by heavy black.
“Would you please remove your mask?” she says, faux-sweetly. “Before I’m forced to broil you in front of Mr. Hurtt’s guests.”
A smirk spreads across my face of its own volition. I like her.
“Give me a private audience with Hurtt, then I’ll remove the mask.”
“This isn’t a negotiation.”
The whole room gawks, food and drink held forgotten in manicured hands, people pushing close for a better look.
“If I take the mask off here, there’s going to be trouble.”
There’s motion past the woman’s broad frame—the crowd parts and Rafael Hurtt appears behind her, reaching up to rest a hand on her shoulder. “Mallory, it’s okay.”
“Sir, please step back. She could be dangerous.”
“Oh, she’s extremely dangerous,” he says, gently. “But, please, stand down.”
The other guards holster their weapons immediately, but Mallory lowers her sidearm slowly, eyes still staring hard into mine.
There’s a maow at my feet and Ocho emerges from beneath the table, draped in white linen. I pick her up and hold her to my chest. I scratch her neck casually, like Mallory isn’t even there, because she might as well not be. I could kill them all in a second, but I don’t want to justify their fear unless it’s necessary.
“It’s Mars, isn’t it?” Hurtt asks.
“How could you tell?” I ask.
“The tattoo.” He motions to my hand, half-buried in Ocho’s long fur. “I’ve done my research. You don’t need the mask; you’re safe here.”
I shake my head because he can’t see what’s about to happen, not like I can after a lifetime as a dangerous freak. I pull the mask away, letting it drop to the floor. The name “Mars” didn’t elicit a response, but when people see my face everything changes. Hurtt stares, caught in the moment and oblivious to the screams of wordless terror coming from the gathered audience. Mallory lifts her weapon again, one arm shielding Hurtt as she steps between us.
Panic blooms; people flee in random trajectories, crying out like they need echolocation to find their escape. There’s that distinctive clatter of guns being drawn as the rest of the guards realize what’s happening. Too slow. I snatch the weapons from their hands, crush the slabs of machined steel, and toss them over my shoulder. Mallory reaches forward like she’s going to choke me, then stops dead as Hurtt blocks her path.
“Stand down,” he yells, all gentleness gone from his voice. “You know I hate to repeat myself.”
Mallory glares over Hurtt’s shoulder. He waits for her to lower her gaze; only then does he speak.
“I’m afraid the party is over,” he says. “Please assist my guests in leaving, and ready my ship. We need to get Mars away from here quickly.”
Mallory leaves unhappily, barking orders to her guards. They spread out among the frenzied crowd, herding them toward the exits with calm instruction.
I push the commotion from my mind and focus on Hurtt. “What the fuck have you done with my father?” I ask.
Confusion briefly flashes across Hurtt’s face. “Done? I’ve been looking after him.”
“Then he’s here, on Azken?”
“Of course.”
I sigh, relief quickly turning to fear as I realize what this means: I’m actually going to see him.
“I’ll tell you everything, but we should really get moving.”
The ballroom is empty now but for the two of us and the tables of untouched food. The crowd’s cries of terror are dimly audible, piercing the reinforced glass of the front doors. Hurtt is right—it won’t be long before someone reports my presence here.
“Okay; just one second.” I lift the tablecloth and Pale looks up, embarrassed. “I don’t know if I should blame you or Waren.” Pale doesn’t say anything. I offer my hand and pull him out from under the table.
Hurtt examines Pale and nods. He turns and walks for the exit, shoulders rolling with each step, as though they were propelling him forward rather than his legs. Pale and I follow, leaving behind the last remnants of a lost culture, forgotten already, abandoned in a moment of fear.
Hurtt leads us through the back corridors, past the kitchen and outside to the loading bay. His security team has cleared the workers out onto the street—some peer between the slab-like shoulders of the guards, while others cluster around the kitchen boss, demanding pay for a job interrupted. Distant music echoes off skyscrapers as the street party continues unabated, bass track like the thumping heart of the city.
The sharp whine of landing thrusters draws my eyes up. A construction ship, old but heavily modified, drops gently out of the sky to land in the loading bay, brightly painted in stripes of yellow and black, with four mechanical arms folded against its hull. The air lock door lifts open to reveal Mallory standing in the opening, motioning Hurtt forward.
“That’s your ship?”
“Beautiful, isn’t he?”
I glance at Hurtt’s face and the contented look tells me he’s not even joking.
I’m about to tell Hurtt I’ll follow in my ship, but I stop. My head swims, ears blocked like I’m underwater, hearing dulled and balance ruined. “What the fuck?” I mumble, and swallow the hot saliva flooding my mouth.
Then I see them.
Nine corvettes of the Emperor’s Guard appear overhead between tall towers—dense points of roiling matter that unfold against the backdrop of dull sky glow. Glass and steel ripples as local gravity shifts, diluted by the distant void seeping through the wormholes.
Ocho yaows in my ear, her tiny head raised high, ready to face the whole fucking universe. I reach my hands out, but Hurtt grabs me by the wrist.
“Not here,” he says, yelling loud over the deep whistle of atmosphere being sucked
away and dumped into vacuum.
I nod and lower my arms, lungs starved by the sudden change in air pressure, oxygen-low, the forgotten full-body fatigue returning fast.
Hurtt rushes for his ship; I hesitate for a split second, then yank Pale along behind me, footsteps awkward in low-g. Mallory steps aside as we board the ship, air lock swinging closed behind us. There’s a sharp hiss of oxygen release; air to soothe burning lungs.
Hurtt takes the pilot seat, hands moving smooth over the controls. The bulk of the ship is engine or construction equipment, only leaving room for a tiny interior; just the cockpit and a hold large enough for two crash seats. I strap Pale into one and drop Ocho into his lap. I lean on the back of Hurtt’s chair and watch out the viewport, ignoring Mallory’s eyes boring into my skull.
Spotlights from the corvettes shine into the cockpit and track us as we lift off the ground.
I hold up a hand to block my eyes. “You didn’t want me to deal with them,” I say, “so I hope you’ve got a plan.”
Hurtt laughs and slams the throttle. The construction ship leaps forward, its arms unfolding, snaking out and latching on to the nearest military vessel with a thud that reverberates through the ship. The arms retract and hold the corvette across the bow, shielding us from attack. Ship steel creaks at the strain, and viewscreens across the cockpit show alternate angles from hull-mounted cameras. The other ships converge around us, dropping lower as gravity settles.
“Mallory?” Hurtt calls out over his shoulder.
“Already on it.”
A voice barks through the comms system on imperial override: “Identify yourself or we will open fire.”
“She’s bluffing; they wouldn’t shoot one of their own,” Hurtt says lightly, but I hear the doubt in his voice. The makeshift shield might protect us, but nothing could stop them taking the shot. What’s another dead soldier compared to my body count? “This is Rafael Hurtt, managing director of Hurtt Corporation and the owner of this planet.” Any shred of casual humor is gone from his voice. “Under the Sovereign Planet Act, imperial forces are not to enter Azken’s atmosphere without express permission—permission which you have not been granted. Beyond that, you have broken numerous laws by exiting a wormhole not only within minimum safe distance, but within the atmosphere. As such, I must order you to leave Azken immediately. If you fail to comply, I am within my rights to retaliate with lethal force.”
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