I’m reminded that Alex is missing the one person he actually wants to sit with. He smiles politely but looks tired, like sleep has been more fight than rest these days. It’s not hard to see how worried he is about Anton. We have no idea what’s happening up in space, which only makes things worse. As we take our seats, I make a silent promise to pull him aside at some point and talk to him. He’s my blood brother too, a kinship Babel forced on us.
Morning sees that the spots beside me are taken and snags the seat directly across from me. One wink from her has me grinning like a fool. The table’s unlike any I’ve ever seen. Tiered and sleek. There’s a thin outer layer of stone right against our stomachs. It can’t be for anything but elbows. The second cut of stone rises a few centimeters and is about the length of my forearm. A third stretches to the center, running off the circular cliff cut out of the middle of the stones. We’re glancing around when a man steps out of thin air, head and shoulders the only thing visible within the pit.
“Welcome to Scarving’s,” he says. “I, of course, am Scarving.”
Unlike most Imago, he’s completely bald. His head is shaved and wide, accented by a series of tattoos under his neck. A slash of heat rises, and we watch a flickering red fill the circle around him. “I’ve been informed,” Scarving continues, “that you are accustomed to ordering food at the restaurants you visit on Earth. Government secrets, I know, but I am a man who knows things. So I’ve taken the liberty of printing menus. Please, take a look.”
A trio of servants whips around the table, dropping off miniature menus. But the slightest touch shatters them. Thousands of little crystals dance across the tables in front of us, glittering under the bright. Azima trails a finger through and gives it a taste.
“It’s like sugar,” she says, delighted.
“Apologies!” Scarving exclaims. “I suppose you’ll just have to eat whatever I make you. I am not like your cooks back home, I’m afraid. They ask what you want, take your order, and make it. Not here, not at Scarving’s. That is not art. Art is making what you feel and giving it to the audience as it is. So tonight, I will make art. Be my witnesses.”
With a smile, he begins. I can hear pots banging and knives sharpening. Light leaps and slashes over his face. He spins and turns, dancing around stovetops we can’t see.
“I like to think of this first dish as an invitation.”
Smoke has started to drift up. He leans to the left and presses something, and we hear a suction sound. The smoke vanishes, and he continues to work. Turning and talking.
“I’m a stranger to you, but a meal is an invitation, isn’t it?” He looks up briefly and smiles. “Are you willing to let me lead you into the tastes of our world?”
He snatches a towel, wipes away sweat, and shoulders it. We watch as he plunks down little saucers and spoons for each of us. He flips another switch inside the walls of his pit, and the stone tables grind to life. The third tier rotates forward as the second rotates beneath it and away. We all lean in to get a look, and end up laughing. Inside the fist-sized saucers, there’s nothing but smoke. It hovers there, hiding what’s beneath.
“Our first test.” Scarving claps his hands excitedly. “Do you trust me?”
Alex pokes at his. Longwei spoons down into the saucer and lifts up, hoping to remove whatever is inside from the smoke. That doesn’t work. The mist follows, gathering around the spoon, keeping its secrets. We all smile, and Longwei shrugs, then takes a bite.
His eyes close like the world’s just ended. He hammers a fist against the table.
“Wow,” he finally says. “Wow.”
Laughing, we follow his lead. Scarving salutes Longwei’s service, and we all decide to trust him for the rest of our lives. It tastes like a strawberry, filled with some kind of cream and dipped into some sort of hardened caramel.
“Very good,” Scarving says. “Two points to my friend over here. He’s in the lead.”
Longwei nods his approval at being in first place. We watch the chef move like a storm within the pit. The work of his hands isn’t in our line of sight, but he twists and turns and dances, describing the next dish while he prepares it.
“I love to make choices,” he says. “I like to think that every choice depends on the choice before it. And even the choices of others. Our next dish will force you to make difficult choices.”
He spins to face me. It’s startling, the gray of his eyes and the directness of his stare.
“I was in the square today,” he says quietly. “I saw what you did.”
Heat creeps up my neck. A few eyes flicker over to the table of Imago guests. They’re starting courses, laughing like we are. Scarving angles his body to lift a massive block of wood up and out. He sets it down and rotates the stone tiers so the whole thing sits in front of me. There are countless little dishes sitting on the wooden block. Smoked meats, fine cheeses, and seasoned slices of fruits and vegetables I’ve never seen. The smells race upward.
“As a gesture of my gratitude,” he says, “I give you my highest honor. You may begin the game.” He points down the rows. “Spicy, salted, sweet, and bitter. Enjoy!”
I eye the offering and end up picking the thing that most looks like bacon. Grinning, I hold it up so the others can see what they’re missing out on. Then I dig in. The meat’s crunchier than bacon, with hints of something sweet in the aftertaste.
Before I finish chewing, Scarving hits a switch, and the second stone tier begins rotating to the left. Alex startles as the tray of food heads his direction.
“The rest of you have to think on your feet,” Scarving explains. “Pick one and only one! If someone chooses the food you had your eye on, you absolutely must say, ‘I wanted that!’ ”
Alex plucks up a thin-stringed vegetable and takes a bite.
Jazzy makes a face. “Well, I definitely didn’t want that.”
The table goes round and round, and the wooden block slowly empties with each revolution. Azima’s the first one to try the spicy food. A waiter knowingly rushes forward, setting a cup beside her and pouring some kind of milky water. Azima gulps it down and grins.
“Tastes like home,” she says.
I notice that Morning always goes for bitter and Holly only eats meat. Parvin becomes the token sufferer in the game, struggling to make her choice when Jaime picks the food she wanted three times in a row. We each get four bites before the game comes to a close.
By then, Scarving’s got the next dish ready. Waiters set a pile of black flame-lashed rocks in front of each of us. We’re told not to touch them until the end of the meal. The next dish is seared, with strange crablike claws thrusting up out of the meat. Longwei’s actually snaps at him when he gets too close with his spoon.
Then there are vegetable trays paired with little translucent balloons. Scarving instructs us to set them over our plates and pop them. Something like helium has us laughing and singing songs in absurd voices. When the balloons run out of air, they pop and splash down over the vegetables. My vanquished balloon tastes like barbeque sauce. Scarving laughs and cooks the whole time, answering questions and making conversation as he creates ten, then twenty, then forty different dishes. Somehow I never feel too full.
Every new dish is no more than a taste, no less than perfect. At the end of the meal, we’re each given a pair of tongs and a wooden straw. The flame-lashed rocks have sat to the side all evening, burning and flickering. Scarving has us lift the top rock.
“Now you’ll take the straw and suck in the smoke,” he says. “But slowly.”
Using tongs, we set the charred hunk to one side. Smoke pools in the empty space, and we all feel a little foolish as we set the ends of our straws in the ring and breathe. Something like mint floods and burns through our mouths. I cough a little, then turn to pat Longwei on the back as he nearly chokes. It feels like I’ve been chewing thirty pieces of gum.
“Refreshing, yes?” Scarving asks. “It makes the canvas blank again.”
He’s
right. I can’t taste a thing. We all sip at the minty smoke, and Parvin raises a few eyebrows with a joke about getting high. Scarving inquires what she means and looks horrified at the suggestion. “I’m a purist,” he claims. “I want you tasting more, not less.”
After, Scarving turns to each person and asks their name. He’s kind and serious. He repeats each name like he’s engraving it into a tree inside his head. He asks favorite dishes, notes what worked and what didn’t, nods his thanks. I’m the last one he speaks with.
“And you?” he asks.
“My name’s Emmett.”
Scarving smiles. “And what was your favorite dish?”
“I liked the balloons,” I say. “Never seen anything like that.”
“Good,” Scarving replies. “And let me thank you again. It has long been the practice of my restaurant to ignore the rings. I do not care where one comes from, so long as they have a stomach for my food. Everyone deserves to eat, to taste the best thing this world can offer.”
At the other tables, meals are still being served. I catch sight of Axis, and he raises his cup in salute. I raise mine in return. On our other side, Thesis has a piece of skewered meat held up for Bally’s inspection. The two of them laugh together. I look back at Scarving.
“You see? It gives me hope,” Scarving says. “Food can give a man back his dignity. So can treating him with honor and respect. In the days to come, this will be our measure. Do we treat others with the dignity they deserve, regardless of where they come from? It will surprise our people to learn lessons from one as young as you, but keep teaching them, so long as you are here.”
I walk back to our rooms beside Axis and Morning. I keep looking down as we go, because it feels like I’m floating, like my feet are lifting off the ground. I’ve shrugged off some burden I can’t name. Morning hooks her arm into mine, and I forget where we are and why we’re here, if only for a night.
Chapter 33
The Cosmonaut and the Alien
Anton Stepanov
My dark is broken by the fine golden edges of a distant square. The color gold always briefly summons Alex’s face to mind. The long curls, the easy smile. I have not prayed for him up here in space, but I have threatened whichever gods are listening.
Keep him safe, or I will come for you too.
My vision settles. I glance down at the watch on my wrist. Vandemeer is late. Hands scratch and scrape. There’s a soft curse, then a click. The panel swivels, and light floods into the dark. A narrow face waits there, backlit.
“Anton?” Vandemeer whispers. “Are you there?”
I made contact three days ago. I’m glad Emmett spoke up about him; otherwise the mission would have been far more difficult. Our entire plan depended on my main contact, Melissa Aguilar. We hadn’t touched base with her since she handed Morning the sound clip of Requin, right before we launched.
She managed to get herself promoted, though. I searched the ship logs to get a read on her maintenance routes before realizing she’d been pulled up to the executive communication team. Right next to Requin. That kind of proximity made her an impossible contact. Enter Vandemeer.
I tap my knife twice on the nearest tube. The sound echoes. I wait in the dark for him to tap back. Five seconds, ten seconds. Three taps sound. It’s clear, then. I let myself drift over to the light. “Vandemeer. Good to see you again.”
His face is a shadow. “Hello, Anton.”
Careful to avoid the exposed wires, he shoves two sacks through the gap in the detached panels. I tuck them into the straps of my suit. Vandemeer looks nervous, as always.
“Is it in here?” I ask.
“The identification card came from one of the lead pilots. Sorry it took so long. I needed to figure out which one of them was the most careless with their things. They’re all pretty savvy, though, Anton. He’ll notice it’s gone before long. Why do you need it?”
I grin out at him. “I’m expanding the territory of our game.”
“Just be careful.” Vandemeer glances down the hallway. “I need to go.”
“No news?”
“Very little,” Vandemeer says in a rush. “The Genesis crews entered Sevenset. I overheard some of the techies discussing it. They have a hard time surveilling anything in the city. Two decades and they’ve only had a few, temporary windows. But they’ve apparently had better luck now that Emmett and the others are inside the city. Something about dual signals? They seem excited by the new access.”
I consider that. It makes sense. Babel might have used the invitation to smuggle their tech into the city. Get the right programs and devices behind the city’s barrier and it could be just the thing they need to poke holes big enough for a good long look.
“Bilal and Roathy?”
“I don’t have access to them. I—I’m trying.”
It would have been easy to fight my way to Bilal after I saw him on the video monitor. Easy and stupid. Walk into a detention block, trip a few alarms, and I’d just join him inside the cell. I want to get to him before Babel changes their mind, but it requires more firepower.
“What about the ships?” I ask. “What’s going on with the personnel?”
“A lot of preparation,” he answers. “It’s very busy in the Tower. They’re keeping the skeleton crews of each ship in the dark, but it’s not hard to see that something is in the works. It will happen within the next few days, I’d guess. Maybe sooner than that.”
“Good,” I say. “Time to find a queen for our game.”
Vandemeer hesitates. “There are food rations for the rest of the week in there. Be careful. The crew’s taken note of you. They think there’s a ghost on board.”
“There is a ghost on board.”
“I’d like the ghost to stay alive,” he replies softly. “Stay safe.”
He slides the panel back in place. It takes a good ear, but I listen closely as he moves down the hallway and toward the nearest air lock. I listen for any other twitches, rustles. There’s nothing. Only the empty drone of Babel’s equipment. He’s alone, unfollowed.
Eventually they’ll peg him. Defoe and Requin must know that something is afoot in the dark underbelly of their space station. They might not know that it’s me, but they’ll flush the vents before long or send someone after me who’s not a gadget techie. I need to make my first move before they march out the heavies.
I weave past wires and through the ghostly ways. I tap the flashlight on and let its light spill over the stolen manual. It takes some looking, but I find what I need at the back. The red wire must be plugged in for sensors to detect movement within the room. Two turns, up through the tight pipes, down into another strangled room. I find my wires, and snip-snip goes the red one.
Shoving the flashlight between my teeth, I run a finger down the page. No cameras in this room. Every other location has pages of instruction, but this one has only three sentences. They read like afterthoughts. It’s a purposeful obscurity. What’s inside? Toys for Anton? I smile.
The room requires black security access.
Up through the access chamber. I give myself a shove and catch the door’s handle. Turn and click. It’s a bright corridor. Just like the others, so why no cameras, Babel?
Gravity establishes itself and I sag to a knee. Deep breaths. Start walking. Twenty meters and a turn. Twenty meters and a turn. I press my back to a wall and proceed with a little more caution. It won’t do to get caught now. There’s still so much fun to be had.
I dig into the second sack and remove Vandemeer’s prize. An identification card hangs from a black lanyard. “That’s quite a smile, Commander Allen Crocker.”
The card scans. The door releases.
Blinding brightness. Spend too long in the dark and every bulb’s the sun. I stand there blinking until shapes form in the white. Sharp things, bright screens, and a man.
He hangs from the wall, held down by straps. His face is half hooded, and he’s breathing quick and ragged. Tubes run in and out of
body parts. Babel has taken from him like they’ve taken from us. Stolen his future, his freedom, his everything.
I cross the distance carefully. There are burns and scars and more missing things. I drag over the nearest med table, ignoring the awful grinding noise. It takes a second, but I climb up and snatch the hood from his head. A dark face snaps to life, and he struggles against his ropes. Bloodshot eyes blink, then stare.
I ask, “What’s your name?”
He starts to pull again. I can feel invisible fingers itching for my nyxia.
“Hey, none of that.” I hold the knife to his throat.
He stops, face twisting. “Erone. My name is Erone.”
“Erone. Look at what they’ve done to you. It’s the worst kind of pride. They can’t imagine a world in which you’re not in their control. It’s what they did to us too. I’m not with Babel. Understand? I’m here to help you.”
Five slips of the knife and his bindings fall. He sags down to his knees, chest heaving. He’s been hanging for a while. He’s weak, but at least they’ve been feeding him, giving him fluids. I can tell he’s made of iron. It won’t take long to get him up and running.
I watch as he gets used to his freedom, his movement. I drop the rations on the floor beside him. “You should eat. You’ll need your strength.”
He does. We sit quietly for a while. I can see the gears turning in his head, but I’ve got a few questions of my own. “How did they capture you? A trick?”
He throws a broken smile at me.
“A trick, but not theirs.”
“One of the other Imago helped them?”
Erone shakes his head. “They captured me because I let them capture me.”
I expect him to laugh. He doesn’t. “But they tortured you.”
“As we knew they would,” Erone says. “But the possibilities were worth the risk. I have lost a great deal. I will admit their security surprised me. I pretended to be weak and expected them to treat me that way. I thought my escape would be easy. It has been … a long journey.”
Nyxia Unleashed_The Nyxia Triad Page 22