by Amie Kaufman
Inside, the gloom is as thick as in the alley outside. Steel-framed bunk beds line the room, topped by bare mattresses. A few heads lift when I come in, but if anyone notices I’m not the girl who left, they say nothing. That’s why I chose this place. Half of these people are felons checking in for parole, and the other half are headed that way in a few years. They don’t care who they sleep next to. The occupancy scans that sweep by every half hour or so don’t check IDs, as long as the number of people in the rooms matches the number of people who went through check-in.
I find a bottom bunk in the corner, vacant but for a few candy bar wrappers. I avoid the large stain toward the foot of the mattress, unidentifiable in the meager light, and crawl in against the wall until I’m hidden in the shadows.
I will my body to stop shaking. Tell myself I’m safe now. That he can’t find me. That out of sight of the security eye in the center of the ceiling, not even a thorough facial recognition scan through every security camera in the district could find me. But now that I’ve stopped, it’s not fear that’s making me shiver.
Eyes burning, I try to block out the smells, the noise, the scratchy mattress and the odor of mildew wafting up from the fabric.
Here at the bottom of the city, no one cares when you start to cry. Half the people in this room are suffering from some kind of withdrawal or another, and the rest know to leave well enough alone. You don’t come here seeking comfort. You come here to disappear.
The squalor should make me long for the penthouse. I should be imagining the cocktails the SmartWaiter can produce, remembering the feel of Kristina’s soft sheets, closing my eyes and seeing the false stars emerging on the windows in my mind’s eye.
But instead the only thing I can think of, the only thing I hear as I muffle the sounds of my weeping against my arms, is the Butterfly Waltz playing over and over in my mind.
When morning comes, my eyes are dry again. Sleep, if only in drips of a few minutes at a time, has brought me back to myself. I recognize last night’s storm for what it was: a panic attack. I haven’t had one for months, but they used to leave me shattered and empty all the time in the weeks following my father’s death. But even shattered and empty, I can keep moving.
I have to get onboard the Daedalus tonight. Nothing’s changed because of Gideon’s betrayal except that now I have nothing to lose, nothing sparking even a scrap of guilt. Even if he decides to go to the Daedalus on his own, to disable the rift without me, it doesn’t matter. It’s not the rift I’ll be aiming for. Gideon will be watching, certainly, waiting to see if I show up, but I don’t care that he’ll know where I’ll be. He’s proven that it doesn’t matter where I go, who I become—he’ll always find me. Whether he’s working for LaRoux Industries or has his own sick reasons for hunting me across the galaxy, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t even matter if he finds me on the Daedalus, because by then I’ll have my shot, the moment I’ve been working toward since I fled the orphanage shuttle that took me from my home.
Tonight I’ll be in the same room as the man who murdered my father. And if the Knave finds me there on the Daedalus, so be it. Nothing he can do to me could be worse than watching my father die. Let him take me. Let him kill me if that’s his ultimate goal. I’ll be dead by the end of the night anyway, one way or another. If I’m caught, LaRoux Industries will have my existence quietly erased from the world. And if I succeed, if I get my moment, the security guards will kill me anyway.
Because tonight I’m going to put a bullet in Roderick LaRoux.
On the gray world, it is so easy to find despair and anger. Their pain burns so hotly sometimes it blinds us to anything else. But there are moments, rare flashes of light in the darkness, joy so bright we cannot help but see it.
There is a little girl on the gray world whose father is teaching her to dance. Her steps are all wrong but she is laughing anyway, and so is he, and we feel, just for an instant, his heart filling at the sight of her dimpled smile.
Then the music stops, and the lights too, and darkness sweeps across the gray world as it often does when their machinery fails. Everywhere we feel fear and anger rising like hot spikes, but in the little girl’s heart she feels only contentment, as her father carries her to bed. We cling to that tiny light as the darkness closes in all around.
I’M AN IDIOT.
That doesn’t do it justice. I’m dumber than every mark I ever laughingly hacked, I’m below basement IQ, and I have no idea what to do about it. I’m stuck helplessly watching everything I planned and everything I wanted spiral beyond my reach.
She told me over and over not to trust anybody. I can still hear her voice.
If you never give someone a weapon, they can never use it against you.
But I did all that and more. She knows my face, she knows my real name. She knows I’m the Knave. Stupid move after stupid move.
But none of them were the dumbest thing I did. That honor doesn’t even go to the moment I forgot to dim my screen, so she could see her own file there when she woke. It doesn’t go to every moment I ignored the signs that should have told me that my quarry wasn’t Towers.
The gold medal goes to the moment I knelt there like an idiot, speechless, while this girl I’m falling for walked out of my life. I should have said something, anything, rather than just watching it happen.
There’s no way I can justify what I did, no way I can excuse what my obsession turned me into—but I should have tried. I should have apologized. I should have begged.
I tracked her palm pad after she left, watching her icon move up the levels on my screen, heading to her old apartment. I watched until it suddenly started to move too fast, and then the surveillance cameras showed me she’d dumped it on a courier. A little after that, she was simply gone.
If I can’t find her tonight, then I don’t know if I’ll ever find her again. Not without tracking her—and after what I’ve put her through, I couldn’t bring myself to betray her that way, not even for the chance she’d listen to my apology. I just have to pray she’s where I think she’ll be, and I’m willing to risk the police—I’m willing to risk LaRoux himself—for a chance to see her one more time.
Because I know what I owe her. And even if I lose her forever, I want to deliver on that debt.
I’m waiting at the shuttle dock in one of the tuxedos all the guys are wearing. I could have fed ten families for a month on what it cost, but this isn’t the time to skimp on expenses and give someone a reason to look at me twice. With what the Knave earns for elite hacking jobs, my credit balance can take it. If I pull this off, I’ll be helping out a lot more than ten families by bringing down LaRoux Industries.
And I’ll be helping Sofia.
I know I’m focusing on the way the jacket constricts my movement and the shoes don’t have proper grip, because I don’t want to think about the fact that she hasn’t shown up yet. She has to come. Not just because this is her best and only chance at finding dirt on LaRoux, not just because I don’t think I can bluff my way in without her, but because…she has to come.
The words take up residence in my head, echoing around my skull in a quick, relentless drumming rhythm. Please, Sofia. Please, Sofia. Please, Sofia.
My breath catches every time a car door opens, tiny shots of adrenaline firing through my system, sending shivers down my spine every time I catch a glimpse of a new dress, a hint of whoever’s inside. Then comes the crash, every time a new face emerges and it’s not her.
Please, Sofia. Please, Sofia.
When she steps out of a sleek black autocar, one of the last to arrive, my heart dances a staccato beat—then nearly stops completely when I register what she’s wearing. Holy hell, Dimples. She’s in a long, slinky lavender dress lined on the inside of the skirt with electric lights, which flash and twinkle through a slit that runs all the way up her thigh every time she moves. It’s cut low and fitted, with layers of fringe that hearken back to the old-fashioned flapper dresses on ancient Earth. Her dress shin
es amethyst on the pavement below her when she walks, and she’s in a pair of heels that would make a runway model blanch. She must be nearly as tall as me in those things.
The fiber optics are woven through her hair as well, which is still white-blond—she’s not trying to hide. Either she didn’t think I’d come—or she knew I’d come and doesn’t care. I’m not sure which option is better. The lights peek out through her curls and cast shadows across her flawless skin. She’s holding a small purse, pulling her invitation from it as she makes for the entry line. My mouth’s completely dry, and I can’t even pretend to myself that it’s all nerves. She looks incredible.
Almost as good as she looked lounging in our nest in the arcade, hair mussed, protein gel pack in hand, shooting me the one-dimpled smile I love so much—the one that’s real.
I can’t trust her not to give me the slip if she spots me, and there’s no way I’m letting her go up there alone, not when I can help her. Even if she’s got some plan to locate the rift and disable it without me, she’ll be safer if I’m there to help. And whatever’s passed between us, LaRoux’s attempt to take over the government is bigger than us—we can’t afford to fail tonight.
My nerves never bug me when I’m on a job, but this one is different, and my heart’s slamming in my chest as I make my way toward her. She could call me out, she could name me in front of everyone. She could accuse me of stalking or harassment and sic the security guards on me. She could turn her back on me and walk into danger on her own.
I keep behind her, out of her line of sight, until the last possible moment. When security starts scanning the invite of the couple just in front of her, I ease forward and slip an arm around her waist so we’re unmistakably a couple. She goes perfectly still, then carefully turns her head to check who’s just taken that kind of liberty. Her features barely flicker, but I see the fear flash in her eyes. The next minute she’s controlled it, and her hand’s coming to rest on mine where it sits at her waist. “I thought you weren’t coming,” she says, as light and friendly as if her fingernails weren’t digging into the tendon at my wrist, sending a bolt of pain up my arm, robbing me of words.
The attendant by the airlock bows politely and holds out his hand for Sofia’s invitation. “Jack Rosso and Bianca Reine,” she says sweetly, and he ushers us in. Her source was good, and the invitation holds up to his inspection. I’m weak with relief.
The shuttle itself is something else. I haven’t seen riches like this in years. It’s all soft lighting, plush red carpets, and overstuffed armchairs, rather than standard shuttle seats. Even the safety restraints are fancy, upholstered with velvet and embroidered to match the curtains at the viewports. It’s a slice of Victorian decadence, care of LaRoux Industries—the fashion outside might have moved on with a new season, but tonight we’ve been teleported back in time into the world of the Icarus. Sofia picks a pair of armchairs toward the back, still refusing to meet my eyes, and as we buckle in, a young man in sleek butler’s attire makes his way down the aisle with a silver tray full of gently bubbling champagne glasses. I relieve him of two—to hell with not drinking, I’m not sure I’ll make it through this without help—then down one in a couple of gulps. Sofia declines the one I try to hand her with a shake of her head.
“Listen,” I murmur, trying not to grip the remaining glass too tightly. Willing her to really hear me. I’ve rehearsed the words in my head—I know there’s no point in appealing to whatever she might have felt for me. I need to appeal to the steely determination that lives inside her, the part of her that’s kept her going over the past year. “You still need something. So do I. Get me up there and I’ll keep my promise. And after that, if you tell me to, I’ll never come near you again.”
She gazes out the viewport in silence, watching the distant crowd swirling back as the last of the gala guests board and there’s nothing left to gawk at. It’s not until the doors close and the light hum of the engines rises to a muted roar that she replies. “I said I’d kill you if you came looking for me again.”
I swallow, watching her profile. “I know.”
“But here you are.”
“We have to stop LaRoux.” And even if I can only admit it to myself, maybe keeping her safe is more important than all of it. I owe her that. And I want it for her, too.
The shuttle gives a gentle shudder and lifts off, gathering speed quickly. It’s almost completely smooth, but Sofia drops her purse into her lap to grab at the armrests, leaning her head back against the headrest so she can squeeze her eyes closed. When she speaks again, her words are short and sharp. “When we get back to Corinth, you’ll walk away from me and never look back. You won’t look for me. You won’t so much as enter my name into one of your search programs.”
It’s like having my insides squeezed, but I force myself to nod. Then, remembering she can’t see it with her eyes closed: “I understand. And until we’re back on Corinth?”
“Let’s just do what we came to do. If I let you wander around up there without me, you’ll blow your cover, and then they’ll find out who you came with.”
I don’t care if it’s grudging. It’s enough. I want to help her. I want to keep her safe. I want to make up for everything I’ve put her through over the past year—and I want LaRoux to answer for what he’s done. I hope I don’t have to choose between these things.
She’s still gripping the armchair like the shuttle might fall out of the sky if she doesn’t personally focus on keeping it up in the air, and I realize in a flash that she’s a nervous flier. I suppose on Avon she didn’t spend a lot of time on shuttlecraft. I reach for a question to distract her, keeping my voice low. “Tell me about the schedule for tonight. Do we know where our window is?” We were meant to spend today on this final briefing. We were meant to be together, today.
She breathes out slowly, steadying herself, staring straight ahead as she murmurs her reply. If she knows I’m asking to keep her mind off the flight, she doesn’t let on. “Security’s heavy. LaRoux will be there himself, along with his daughter and that soldier she’s marrying.”
My poor, abused heart starts thumping again. It’s fine. Lilac and Merendsen might know the Knave, but they never saw what he looked like. And while Lilac might recognize me, it’s been so long that I doubt she’d even remember me. “The whole family?” I try to keep my voice light. “All in one place, that’s a big deal. I didn’t think the soldier came out in public.”
Sofia rolls her eyes. “He’s not the hero all the newsvids made him out to be,” she murmurs. “Some of those medals on his chest are for so-called victories against Avon, against my people. He came back there, right before the Broadcast, after…my father. And he ran for it as soon as things got bad.”
There’s a bitter taste in my mouth. After all, he left right after he relayed the information I found for them to Jubilee Chase and Flynn Cormac. Of course Sofia would see that as abandonment. “I guess the media get all kinds of things wrong,” I say, to fill the silence. “What about security? There’ll be a big crew there, I’m guessing.”
“It’ll be a different team to the ones we—” Sofia pauses only a beat. I guess having her home invaded by kidnappers is no longer the worst thing that’s happened to her in the past two weeks. “Met. We should be safe, unless someone walks in on you running a hack on their computers.”
I pat my pocket, where I’ve stashed the most slimmed-down version of my equipment I could manage. “With any luck it won’t be more than a few minutes, once we find the rift.” Maybe I should pretend it’s taking longer—give me some excuse to talk and plead my case.
The shuttle clears atmo and the ride smooths out, the roar of the engines dropping, Sofia’s death grip on the armchair easing. Through the viewport beside her, the stars emerge from the sooty pollution shrouding Corinth. “There’ll be hors d’oeuvres to start the night,” she says softly, all business. “Mingling, dancing. Then later on, the museum section opens. The problem is that they’re offering private
tours of the exhibit during the first half of the party, and our route to Engineering takes us right through the exhibit, so our window is small. We have to get in after the tours end, but before the museum opens—during the speeches. We’ll have a window of half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes.”
“It’s enough,” I promise. I hope I’m telling the truth.
We’re both quiet as the Daedalus comes into view, so massive I can only make out a slice of it through the viewport, the stars vanishing behind its bulk. She’s the exact twin of the Icarus, built side by side with her sister ship, scheduled to launch only weeks afterward. But when the Icarus went down, plans for the Daedalus were put on hold until LaRoux realized he could capitalize on that tragedy by turning the Daedalus into a sick sort of museum attraction for all those drawn to gawk at destruction.
An announcement pings softly over the intercom and then we’re easing into the dock, and, with a series of soft clinks, safety harnesses are coming undone around us, the staff rising to their feet to usher us out. Sofia yanks my hand out of my pocket when I look too casual, forcibly bending my arm at the elbow so she can slip hers through it, so we’ll match the other couples. It’s been years since I had to go through this kind of parade, and the small tricks of it are gone. “Pretend you’re in a period drama on the HV,” she whispers. “That’s what they’re all doing.”
We head through the doors and find ourselves in another world. The vaulted ceiling soars above us, glittering chandeliers refracting crystal light across every surface, the finishes all velvet and gold, priceless polished wood. Hovertrays glide through the crowd, taking orders and offering up food and drink, and the guests swirl in a kaleidoscope of color, the men in sober black and the women in every shade I’ve ever seen. Musicians play on a dais at one end of the hall, and for an instant I’m a child again, looking for my mother somewhere in this crowd.
Then Sofia’s nudging me and nodding to a red rope cordoning off one exit. A group of partygoers appear through it, led by a tour guide dressed as a soldier—as one of the dead passengers from the Icarus.