A sound brought Tesla back to the present, and she ducked beneath a burdened clothesline and climbed the stairs to her shipping container apartment. The furnaces thrummed loudly, shaking the railing beneath her dirty hands until she felt the slum homes might come crashing down from the force. Dust rained down from overhead, filling the Gulch air with tiny particles that twinkled like a starry void.
Tesla’s feet felt as if they were cast in iron, her muscles sore from the stress of it all. If, by some miracle, she survived the next fight, she’d never live to see the end of her servitude to the Red Ashes. The cost of burying her father would lead to her own funeral, either at the hands of Radek or the claws of Minko.
Deep in her marrow, Tesla knew the truth—she would have to find a way to escape the debt, even if it meant sending her body to the flames.
TWO
TESLA JAMMED HER FIST AGAINST the door keypad as she entered the apartment, her mind still reeling from Minko’s threats. A pneumatic hiss sounded from inside the wall, and the riveted steel panel closed with a metallic groan. Lights flickered overhead, struggling to run at full power, but the unreliable flow of electricity humming throughout the slums, mixed with her apartment’s shoddy energy splicer, dimmed the bulbs to a dull glow. Yet another thing she’d have to repair in the dusty, broken space.
A soft chime of a direct message sounded from her wristcomm, but she swiped the notice away without looking. It was probably a vid-feed from Minko making demands for the new bot. Everything was show business to the crime lord, so there was no doubt in her mind that he would want the next bot to be bigger, flashier, and more lethal than the last. The last thing she wanted right now, or ever, was to see his bloated face again.
She leaned back against her front door, savoring the feel of the cool metal pressing against her thin shirt. Life in space was cold, but familiar—much like her apartment. Few things had changed in the tiny flat since her father’s execution. The ship’s guard had confiscated nearly all of Nevik Petrov’s personal belongings, but on the surface, her home appeared the same. The only mementos of her father’s previous life were a threadbare sweater Tesla had rescued from the ship’s laundry center, his weld-torch, his utility knife, and a creased photograph of her induction to the flight training program.
In the picture, Tesla stood in a bright new uniform covered with the traditional military patches of the First World Union, a smile on her face as she pointed to the flight wings now pinned to her chest. Her hair had been dark back then, before the stress of the past year turned it a glacial shade of white. Her father, with wild hair even more curly than her own, stood beside the space station's namesake—a giant metal statue of the god, Atlas, kneeling from the weight of the world.
The look on his face had been one of immense joy. He’d been so proud that a member of the Petrov family would finally escape life in the station slums to live above the deimark.
Except she hadn’t.
Not a year later, Commander Grey had arrived at the doorstep to her small room in the pilots’ barracks to rip those same patches from her shoulders. They’d seized all assets, including her father’s pension and Tesla’s savings.
The narrow confines of the shipping container always made her think of the trash compactors equipped on each station level, its walls quietly waiting to crush her on command. To her right was a small kitchenette complete with an older model oven, sink, and storage cabinets alongside a refrigerator she’d managed to haul back from the junkyards below Level Eight. A small bedroom with two sleeping bunks built into the wall led into the apartment’s only bathroom.
She turned the knob on her kitchen sink, and the lever creaked loudly before finally giving way, spouting foul-smelling water in hiccupped bursts. Though nothing in the apartment was new, everything was neatly in its place, a remnant of the organization drilled into her during the months she’d spent in the flight program.
She popped a nutrition tablet from its wrapper and threw it into a small micro-warmer, punching buttons to activate the machine. Seconds later, she retrieved her synthetic meal: sprouts, noodles, onions, and a meat that claimed it was chicken, but tasted more like rodent.
Just as her stomach began to relax from hunger, the comm speaker near her door sputtered to life. “Did someone call for the Atlas’ most handsome electrician?”
Tesla rolled her eyes, popping another bite into her mouth with a pair of chopsticks. “Nice try, Kiyo. Why don’t you hack Old Lady Burbage's door down the hall? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind crossing wires with you.”
“Gross. She’s like a hundred years old. Besides, Burbage keeps station rats as pets. A Gulch rat hoarding actual rats. It’s almost too much for my brain to process.”
“There’s a lot your brain can’t process.”
“Ouch. You’ve officially destroyed the last of my ego.”
Tesla made a cooing sound and said, “I’m sure your manhood will survive.” She raised her chopsticks toward the comm speaker. “Why are you hacking my apartment, anyway? You know the code.”
“But this is more fun,” Kiyo whined. “I found an exposed wire panel down the corridor from your apartment and thought I’d test out my skills. Though, I did accidentally comm Dex Zeffirelli before I found the right circuit to your door. Let’s just say that guy was not amused. I had to pretend I was the recreation office on Level Four. He thinks he’s won a free moon jump.”
“And what are you going to do,” Tesla laughed, “when Zeffirelli goes to claim it?”
Her door hissed open and Kiyo entered, his muscular shoulders already lifting in indifference. “That guy deserves to be messed with. Do you remember when he turned me in for scalping rations when we found that extra box of nutrition tablets in the junk yard? Anyway, I disabled the hall cameras, so there’s no record of any of it. No body, no crime, right?”
Tesla glowered at hearing the motto of the Red Ashes. Just thinking about how many murders went unsolved because Minko had sent the evidence to the incinerators made her ill. People even whispered that the crime lord would sometimes haul his massive frame down to the fires, seeking warmth while he watched the bodies burn.
A strange smell wafted through the apartment. It was seconds before Tesla realized it was cologne. “Are those new gravity boots?” she asked through bites of noodle, pointing her chopsticks at Kiyo’s shoes. His shirt was freshly starched, the tails tucked into form-fitting pants. It was a far cry from his usual grey electrician’s uniform. Not to mention expensive, she noted. “Who are you trying to impress?”
A flash of hurt crossed his features, quickly replaced by his easy, lopsided grin. “Why? Are you jealous?” His dark eyelashes fluttered like one of Minko’s pleasure draadharts as he blew her a kiss, and Tesla tossed a sprout at him. He dodged it with ease, moving to her refrigerator to pop open a bottle of poifruit juice. “Your cupboards are empty," he said with frown. "Want me to bring some groceries by after my shift tomorrow?”
Tesla shook her head. “I’m fine. It’s just been a long few days.”
“Tell me about it,” he agreed, sprawling his lean frame on the couch next to her. “Chief Raunte has us pulling double patch shifts while the Imperator is aboard.” His eyes flashed with excitement. “Did you know there’s a ball happening for the Centennial of the Crown? Commander Grey is making a big show about honoring the royal family. I took a look at tomorrow’s passenger manifests and it’s full of celebrities coming to the Atlas. They’re saying it’s going to be the party of the century.”
Tesla eyed his clothes. “Are you telling me you’re going?”
“Alas,” Kiyo said with a heavy sigh, “no one below the deimark is allowed. Strict orders from the commander. I think he’s afraid Gulch rats will stink up the place.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Seamus from the sewage crew says that there’s a shortage of dresses on the station. I guess richie girls don’t want to chance an evening gown from Earth not arriving in time, so they’ve been sen
ding their attendants below the deimark to scour through Level Five’s shops. Can you imagine some upper station girl curtsying to Prince Tomasz wearing Gulch rags? I’d pay money to see the look on his face.”
“I thought the prince’s name was Liam?”
Kiyo blinked. “You’re kidding, right? Looks like someone needs to catch up on their Earth History.”
Tesla shrugged. She didn’t follow the trendmags like other girls her age, and she wouldn’t have been able to pick out the royal family in a crowd of richies. She barely had enough time to sleep between shifts, let alone catch up on the latest happenings of a family so far removed from life in the Gulch. Minko ruled his own kingdom of crime, and her experience with the Red Ashes' tyrant was enough to dissuade her from any interest in the ship’s sovereign visitors.
“Imagine if Prince Tomasz saw the inside of Minko’s casino,” said Kiyo. “I bet his eyes would pop right out of their royal sockets. But enough about that—what was the final score when you beat Radek tonight? Did you finally kick him in the glitching—”
“I lost.”
Kiyo stilled. “If this is your idea of a sick joke, it's not funny."
“Not a joke, ” she insisted, shaking her head.
“What about the bot? Can we salvage it?”
“Radek tore the arms clean off. I was lucky to get out alive.” Tesla leaned back against the couch, curling her arm over her eyes to shut out the light. “It happened in less than a single round. One minute I had the advantage, and the next... he blocked all my attacks before I even made a move. It was as though he hacked my brain.”
Kiyo jerked Tesla upright, sweeping her frizzy cloud of white hair to the side. “And your bioNexus? Is it damaged? Tesla, you can’t mess around with this. Improperly disconnecting from your bot’s tactical systems can overload your nervous system and short-circuit your brain. You’d be dead before you hit the ground.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Tesla let him examine the mechanical modification attached to the length of her spine.
There was a reason First Union pilots were so nimble, and the key to that ability lay in the standard-issue data port they received after the first semester of flight training. The bioNexus allowed pilots to connect their cerebral cortex to a spacecraft, eliminating any delay between a pilot’s thoughts and the resulting actions. It was the biggest advantage First World Union pilots had when it came to out-maneuvering rebel aircraft on Earth. It was also how Tesla had never lost a fight—until now.
“Hand me that screwdriver,” Kiyo mumbled, worry evident in his voice. He didn’t wait for her to move before snatching it up himself and prodding it against the bioNexus’ metal rim.
Tesla flinched as a shock coursed through her body. “Radek had some new modification on his fightBot that completely took control once my arms were gone. It's a miracle I was able to eject in time. There was this huge shower of sparks, and then the fight was over, but Radek would have killed me if I hadn't bolted from the ring. I had to sneak past the crowds to avoid getting my gut sliced open. Apparently, people get mad when they lose their life savings on a Gulch rat.”
“Tesla, you should have commed me,” Kiyo said, tightening a data connection output in her bioNexus. “If anyone hurt you—"
“I’m fine, I promise,” she insisted. “I just need to watch my back until I win the next fight. You should keep your distance from me, too. It's not like I'm going to win any popularity contests in the slums for a while, and there's no reason for you to be in danger just because we're friends.” Her fingers traced gentle circles against her temples. “I keep trying to figure out how Radek could afford a mod like that. Whatever it was had to be expensive. He’s an independent fighter—no crime lord sponsor—and it’s not like his maintenance shifts are leaving him swimming in corpCredits.”
Kiyo set the tool down before taking her hand, his fair skin so different from her own. “Forget about the loss. We’ll just patch your fightBot with new arms and it’ll be ready to take down anyone, same as always.”
Tesla moved her head back and forth, stretching against the pull of the bioNexus. “I scrapped it already. Almost every piece was torched, bent, or smashed. Only thing I could save was the main assault chip. I’ll have to go to the junkyard after my crew shift and start from scratch.”
“A new wiring system will be expensive. How much did Minko give you to rebuild it?”
She took a deep breath and sighed. “He didn’t give me anything. Says I have to pay for it on my own or compete in the next fight without a suit.”
Kiyo’s eyes widened, his expression a cross between despair and anger. “Tesla, why didn’t you come to me? I can help. I have a little money saved—”
“I can’t ask that of you, Kiyo,” Tesla said softly. “This isn’t your contract to pay.”
He drew away from her, his fists clenching in frustration. “You and your torching pride! Minko is no better than a slaver. You’ll never be free from him unless you wind up dead or arrested, in which case the station guard will put a bullet in your skull. Look what they did to your dad. Didn’t his death teach you anything?”
The words sliced the air, leaving Tesla raw and exposed. She blinked away tears, swallowing hard against a sudden tightness in her throat.
Kiyo wasn’t a part of any gang; he’d been lucky enough to stay on the right path. Luckier than most people in the Gulch. He didn’t know what it was like to have blades always ready to slash his throat. Who is he to judge?
“Don’t you have some upper-level girl to spoil?” she snapped. “Isn't that why you're all dressed up? So some stupid richie can slum it with a Gulch rat?”
Kiyo recoiled, pain and embarrassment spreading across his face, and Tesla felt a wave of guilt. Kiyo’s only remaining family was his father, Takumi Ra, whose favorite pastimes included consuming pints of lunarshine and betting against Tesla in the bot fights. More often than not, he came home angry at having lost money, and more often than not, Kiyo had shown up at her door with swollen eyes and bruised cheeks. He had stayed on her couch so many times that he’d offered to pay rent, but Tesla had always refused.
He was lonely and, like anyone else in the Gulch, he longed for fresh, clean air away from the reality of the slums; it was the reason he plied daughters of the elite for access invitations to travel above the deimark. Not the wholesome daughters who valued their reputations, but the rebellious ones—the ones with something to prove, who didn’t mind spending a night kissing a boy from below deck. Though the deimark didn’t outlaw those living on the upper levels from coming downstation, the elite of the Atlas never cared to set foot in the hot Gulch levels.
No richie, no matter how rebellious, ever would.
Kiyo rose slowly, running a hand through the hair he’d slicked back with spare cog grease. “I came in here to take you upstation,” he said softly. “There’s a girl I know above the deimark who’s hosting a party to welcome the other kids visiting from Earth. I sent the invite to your wristcomm already.” He motioned to Tesla’s arm, and she remembered the notification chime when she’d entered her dorm. “I know the upper levels have separate database networks, and that you haven’t been able to check them yet. I thought the invitation would be a way for you to search those systems for any evidence that might help clear your dad’s name. Maybe even get your spot back in the pilot program.”
Tesla's guilt grew stronger. Once again, Kiyo was trying to help, and once again, she’d spat in his face. It was times like these she wondered what exactly he got out of their friendship, other than the occasional sanctuary.
“Kiyo...” she said, reaching out for his hand.
“Forget it. I’m out.” He shrugged her off, and Tesla retracted her fingers as though he’d scorched them with a weld-torch. She could tell by the fierceness in his eyes that he didn’t just mean he was leaving her apartment. He was pulling away. Something imperceptible had changed between them just now, and she hated herself for it.
The doo
r closed behind him, leaving Tesla alone in the silence of the cramped apartment. He was the closest thing to family she had left, and now even that seemed to be disappearing.
In the flight training program, she’d been the Atlas’ rising star, always instinctively knowing when to pull back on the simulator controls or gamble that the training transports could withstand more force, often out-performing pilots twice her age. It was why she was so good at the robot fights, and why Minko had agreed to the funeral loan in exchange for her talent. But navigating people felt different. More complicated. Knowing a person’s breaking point—the exact moment she would push them past their limits and make them pull away—was a gamble.
One she always seemed to lose.
THREE
DAXTON CRAWLED INTO THE food service cart, trying desperately to contort his tall frame enough to remain hidden. He’d tried twice to crash the party already, but had been spotted by the bouncer the first attempt and security forces the second. The front door was no longer an option, which left the kitchen staff and food carts as his only cover.
His hand darted out between the folds of fabric concealing his location as he stole a handful of licorice twists from a nearby plate. If he was going to humiliate himself to get into a party, he might as well enjoy a snack while he waited.
A member of the kitchen staff rustled trays from just beyond his hiding place, and the cart suddenly shuddered as it began rolling toward the penthouse door. Daxton stilled every muscle. If he got caught, no explanation—not even the truth—would keep security forces from hauling him away.
The wheels creaked as they passed through the doors and into the party. A thunderous electronic beat sent vibrations through the cart and up his spine, shaking the trays with a clattering racket.
Atlas Fallen Page 2