by Alex White
She blinked. “You did what, sir?”
“It’s what leaders do.” The captain stiffened. “Doctor Jan is right. We’re lucky to be alive. None of us are capable of running marathons.”
“I am,” said Nilah.
“Me too,” said Orna.
“Alister and I regularly ran fifty kilometers at the chalet,” added Jeannie.
“I’ve been running one a week since I got on the ship,” said Aisha, “So I think only you and Boots are—”
Cordell’s nostrils flared in annoyance. “Okay, but we should all be capable of high-end physical performance. A strong body yields a strong mind, too. We have to be faster, better, stronger, and smarter to succeed at taking down Witts’s operation. Now you are all going to get right with that, do I make myself clear?”
“Aye, Captain!” came the crew response.
“Now, Kin,” said Cordell. “Can you pull up the baron’s estate for us?”
A chime followed, then the projectors spun to life rendering a mountainside estate jutting out from the face of a sheer cliff.
“This,” said Kin, “is Rampant Gardens, a Carrétan stronghold for Baron Valentino Gaultier’s great-grandfather, Baron Davide Gaultier. It was constructed in 2832 by esteemed architect and occult enthusiast Zhang Wei Liu. The property is designated a Carrétan Historical Trust Site for its uniquely angular features, created in collaboration with Yearlinger designer and founder of the Anti-Ergonomists, Åsa Ecklund. The interior features similarly—”
“Skip it,” said Cordell. “Get to the tactical stuff.”
“There are two known entrances to the site, and both are secured teleportation portals.” The projection shifted to the Gray, a few thousand meters down. “The first is in the city of Fleury’s port district, Old Town. This entrance is typically powered off and only accessible to architecture students attending the Université de la Riviere twice yearly for tours.”
“And the second?” asked Boots.
The projection climbed into the sky, circling the mountain to another peak, several klicks away. It slowed to a halt over a large landing pad nestled into the snow. Blacktop stood out in stark contrast to the white cap. A single, wide rectangle of white light illuminated one side.
“This is the owner’s entrance,” said Kin. “It is secured against magical intrusion by wards and has no exposed control surfaces.”
Boots whistled. “Expensive.”
“This blue blood has to go for a walk sometime,” said Orna. “What about windows, balconies… all that stuff?”
“The Anti-Ergonomists believed that human modifications were a corruption to the landscape,” said Kin. “They sought penitence through discomforting architecture. The unadorned square of tarmac you see by the portal is the ‘garden’ from which the structure takes its name. If the baron wishes to take in the air, he must brave subfreezing temperatures and winds gusting up to eighty kilometers per hour.”
“Hard-core,” said Orna, though Boots couldn’t be sure if it was admiration or admonishment.
“So how do we steal the Mostafa Journal?” asked Aisha, and everyone looked at her. “What? We always steal things. Don’t act like we don’t.”
Alister laughed. “That’s what I said.”
Nilah raised her hand halfway. “As Agent Weathers said, I know the baron.”
“Teammates, right?” asked Boots.
“He was big into racing back in the day,” said Nilah. “Did superkart with Kristof and me at the Circuit Perrin Espy, but never got picked up by the bigger teams.”
Cordell quirked his lips. “Is everyone on Carré into racing?”
Nilah spread her hands, exasperated. “I told you this, like two years ago! Was no one listening?”
“Cut us some slack, girl,” said Cordell. “We were being hunted at the time. I don’t remember every trivial conversation about racing, and—”
“There are no trivial conversations about racing,” Nilah said, cutting him off. “Those people love me… Well, Valentino doesn’t. He actually kind of hates me.”
“Yes. Can you elaborate on that?” asked Malik.
The projection shifted to two karts spinning out together, then smashing into a wall.
“Because while driving for Oxcom,” said Kin, “Nilah deliberately ran Valentino into a wall. Without a rival on track, Nilah was the de facto winner of the season. Had Valentino Gaultier finished the race in his current position, the championship would’ve been his.”
“Wait,” said Orna. “You ran someone off the track when you couldn’t beat them?”
Nilah’s dermaluxes went cyan, and Boots was pretty sure that was embarrassment.
“I was a different person, okay?” Nilah pleaded. “I know it was wrong now.”
“There’s more,” said Kin. “Valentino Gaultier’s survival capsule was damaged during the collision, and the baron suffered significant injuries, including a broken femur and fracture to his spinal column. While Baron Gaultier made a full recovery, he was psychologically unable to return to racing.”
Boots gaped at Nilah, who balked.
“You lot don’t know what it’s like on the track. It’s not my fault the crash was so bad!”
Malik winced. “I had suggested to the captain that we offer to buy the journal using Compass funds, but…”
“The baron is going to hold on to it, just to screw you over,” said Cordell. “This is bad. What’s our secondary move?”
“We steal it,” said Aisha.
Orna laughed. “I like your style, Zipper.”
“Just…” Nilah blurted, but restrained herself. “Let me call him, all right? Maybe I can work something out. I know how he thinks, and I have the most practice with Carrétan nobility.”
“You don’t think I could broker a deal?” Cordell said.
“I didn’t say that,” said Nilah, “but if you misspeak, they might kill you for heresy. I’ve been in these circles for a long time. You need real etiquette, no offense.”
Cordell idly scratched the dark skin of his cheek. “You’ve got me there.”
Boots stared at the ex-racer, always surprised at the stories of Nilah’s old life. The young woman may have been a genius behind the wheel, but she certainly knew how to make enemies.
“Hey, kid, I know what it’s like to take that kind of injury.” Boots tapped her metal arm on the table to punctuate the point. “And if you were the one who took my arm, well… I’d have stepped on your throat. I’m not sure how far you’ll get.”
“I promise I can work something out,” said Nilah. “Just let me try. Valentino is a collector of oddities.”
“We’re about as odd as it gets,” said Boots. “I bet we could find something he wanted.”
“All right, Miss Brio,” said Cordell. “Set it up.”
Nilah waited in her quarters for the call to go through. After a moment, the head butler’s torso materialized atop her desk. The lines of her suit were laser straight, and her hair was so coiffed as to be a helmet.
“Good afternoon,” said the woman.
Smoothing down her shirt, Nilah said, “Yes, hi. I’d like to be connected with the baron. I’m an old friend.”
The woman cocked her head. “I’m sorry. He’s in meditation and isn’t granting any audiences today.”
“Please tell him Nilah Brio is calling. He’ll want to take this.”
The woman peered a little closer at her, the projection’s large eyes looming over Nilah. “Miss Brio, I’d be happy to take a message for you, and—”
“Who did she say she was?” came an agitated voice in the background.
“Please excuse me.” The woman stood up and walked out of the projection. Hushed whispers followed, before Valentino Gaultier settled down into her place.
He was exactly as Nilah remembered, with a little more meat on his bones. He hadn’t kept up the rigorous physical routine during the years away from the track. Snow-white hair spilled over his shoulders into precise lines along his
collarbone, creating an elfin appearance. His swishy robe’s collar was at least as high as his scalp, and he’d blush-spotted his porcelain cheeks, giving the appearance of an oddly sexy magistrate.
Out of nowhere, a small dog jumped into the projection. At least, Nilah mistook it for a dog at first glance. Its snout was shorter, akin to a rabbit’s, and it had swept-back ears and narrow eyes like a delighted fox. Its fur bristled with a glow like moonbeams on a choppy lake, and Nilah realized it was some sort of magical beast. “Look who it is, Doudou!” cooed the baron in a thick Carrétan accent. He scratched under the beast’s jaw, causing it to thump its leg in happiness. “Why… I do believe it might be the worst person we’ve ever seen! Look at her.” At this, Valentino gestured to Nilah’s face. “Underneath this beauty lies a withered heart, overgrown with treachery. Yes, it does! Yes, it does, Doudou!”
For its part, Doudou yapped uncontrollably, sending yellow sparks down its fur, then nuzzled into Valentino’s armpit. With the beast’s eyes properly averted, the baron’s face changed to pure malice.
“What do you want?”
Nilah cleared her throat. “Hello, Tino. I apologize for missing your ascension ceremony after the death of your father.” That seemed like a safe lead line. “I’m so pleased to see that you’ve become the baron of—”
“You weren’t invited. You think I wanted to see your face on that day of all days? Get to the point, Brio.”
Nilah opened and closed her mouth several times, trying to decide on a tack. On the bed behind her, Orna restrained a laugh. “I was thinking we should meet up. Perhaps we could reminisce about the old times.”
Again, came the baby talk. “Yes, we would like that.”
“R-really? That’s wonderful.”
Doudou scampered away, and the baron’s lips curled like he’d bitten into a juicy bite of meat—almost lustful, definitely carnivorous. “Yes. Come see me, and maybe I can have you executed for heresy.”
Nilah sighed. Royalty were completely unchallenged on Carré—on penalty of death. Any insult to their lineage was a capital offense.
Giving him a thin smile, Nilah said, “I would really like to bury the hatchet.”
“Like you buried my car into the wall of turn thirteen?”
“It is the Wall of Champions, love. A lot of great racers have hit that barricade, and—”
“I’m busy.” The baron reached for the terminate button.
“Wait!”
Valentino froze, but the look on his face gave Nilah exactly two seconds to state her case.
“You have something I want, Tino, and I believe your life is in grave danger.”
“Yes, well you have something I wanted, too—a career in motorsport—so I suppose we all have wishes.” Despite the harsh words, the baron stayed his hand. “What is it?”
“The Mostafa data cube.”
Valentino laughed, a full-throated, musical sound that must’ve charmed many lovers. “You can’t afford it.”
“Whatever Grimsby was going to pay you, I can do better.”
“Who? You see, I don’t know the buyer, because they were using an escrow service,” said the baron, sweeping aside his silvery hair. “But for you, it’s not for sale.”
“You’re right. You don’t know the buyer. I do. They’re trying to destroy the universe, in case you forgot.”
“How long are we going to rest on those laurels, Miss Brio?”
She wanted to throw it in his face that she was still making progress in the hunt for Witts, but that would’ve been leaking classified intel.
“Money is money. I’m assuming you still like it.”
“And I have lots of it. You deprived me of a future, which is infinitely more valuable. Besides, my buyer will send someone else to do business.” Valentino’s stormy eyes narrowed, and his malice evaporated as he caught some idea. “Are you still traveling with Boots Elsworth?”
“Um, yes?”
“And if we did business, would you bring her with you?”
“Do you two, er, know each other?” Then it clicked for Nilah: the first time she’d heard Boots’s name was from Valentino’s lips. He’d been a huge fan when the show first debuted, fascinated by Origin, mysticism, and treasures—
—which was probably why Nilah never gave the show a chance. She’d hated him enough to run him into a wall. She certainly wasn’t going to indulge his hobbies.
“Of course I know her, but she doesn’t know me,” said Valentino, tapping his lip. “If she’s going to join you, I’ll consider entertaining your Capricious at ma maison.”
“You want me to introduce you?”
He scoffed. “Oh, please. Just bring Boots, and try not to speak too much when you arrive. I do so despise the sound of your voice.”
“Okay, so the plan is—” Nilah began.
“Ugh! Despise it. Shut up.”
He rang off.
Chapter Three
Reflection
Throughout her career, Nilah had always ridden on jump drive–equipped yachts. Joining the Capricious had been like climbing onto the back of a turtle and slogging from gate to gate. The Compass-issued jump drive was a godsend, and it’d taken them from the Ballantine Complex on Agarwal to Carré in two days.
A light rattle shuddered through the hull as the Capricious broke the atmosphere of Carré. Servos whined through the ship as his aerodynamic plates reconfigured, obscuring his true shape. The camouflage armor was another major Compass perk—it helped keep them out of the news.
Nilah waited patiently in her crash couch in the cargo bay, Valentino’s bitter expression staining her thoughts. She looked up to the keel of the Midnight Runner, hanging peacefully from the mag clamps. Boots was up there, waiting to scramble if things turned weird.
Nilah couldn’t think about the planet without smelling Duke Vayle Thiollier’s burning hair. They’d almost lost Malik here. They had lost Didier, though to her guilt, she’d never been close to him. It’d certainly changed her perception of Carré from “party planet” to “deeply problematic danger planet.”
“We’ve entered Rampant Gardens airspace,” said Cordell. “So far, no anti-air and no planetary defense. All crew, are we ready to meet the baron?”
“That’s the way I like it,” said Boots. “Nice and easy.”
“This line isn’t for idle chitchat,” interrupted Malik, a surprising authority in his voice.
Nilah felt a little bad for Boots, the first to be reprimanded by Malik. It’d take some time to grow accustomed to the friendly doctor in command.
“Uh, yes. Yep. All green,” replied the fighter jock, obviously taken aback. “Standing by.”
“Hunter One here,” said Orna, adjusting her circlet. “Standing by.”
In the nearby corner, Charger inspected Teacup. Orna’s battle armor was fascinated by the new creation, but to Nilah’s annoyance, Teacup was too basic to be fascinated by anything. She looked back to the cargo door and adjusted her own circlet. “Hunter Two, standing by.”
“All right,” said Cordell. “How long to planetfall?”
“Ten minutes,” said Aisha. “Clear skies, easy flying.”
Nilah and Orna unbuckled from the crash couch and began slipping into their cold-weather gear. The suits provided by Compass were marvels of artificial temperature regulation and fire protection but had little in the way of style. In another life, she’d rather have shown up naked than wearing such garish, tactical clothing. Closet space on a warship was scarce, so Nilah had been forced to adopt a more utilitarian style of dress.
The moment the cargo ramp opened up to the howling winds of Carré’s mountain peaks, a gleeful laughter filled Nilah’s ears. The baron stood among a trio of guards in his plush fur coat, a smug grin across his face.
“This is how you greet me?” Valentino called across the desolate landing pad. “Pathetic.”
Nilah frowned and surveyed her surroundings as she stepped down off the ramp. A plain square of heated tarmac stretc
hed across the snowcapped peak, glistening wet with melted frost. Behind the baron was a simple, glowing portal, completely unadorned.
“What is that you’re wearing?” Valentino drew closer to inspect the tactical webbing and dozens of snap pockets. “Hideous. You must not see much fashion out there in your tiny… grenou…” He mumbled something in Carrétan, gesturing to the Capricious’s bulbous cargo bay. “Frog. Your ship looks like a frog, and you look like a shitfly it just vomited up.”
“Hello, Tino,” Nilah grumbled, annoyed with the icy ball of guilt forming in her gut. It’d been against the rules to run Valentino off the track, but the benefits had outweighed the penalties. If she hadn’t taken the baron out, Valentino might’ve been the one driving for Lang Autosport—and the galaxy would’ve been destroyed, right?
Valentino’s creature came sprinting out from behind him, ears pricked and fur scintillating with red flashes. It circled the crew, darting between their legs with its strange monkey paws. It stopped in front of Nilah, blinking at her and wagging its puffy tail.
Orna leaned over to get a closer look at the beast, and it hissed like a broken steam pipe full of rattlesnakes. Nestled into its pink gums were dozens of sharp, dripping fangs.
Valentino crowed with laughter as they recoiled. “Don’t be scared of Doudou! She won’t hurt you.”
Nilah eyed the creature, which paced and rumbled with a rattling growl whenever it got close to someone. “Are we sure about that, love? It seems a bit… upset.”
Valentino flipped his dazzling red scarf and smoothed a stray lock of hair from his face. “Oh, my little sweet bun will kill you instantly, but it won’t hurt. Vasoque la, Doudou.”
She didn’t speak Carrétan, but she understood well enough when Doudou went scampering back to its master, climbing up his coat into his arms.
“You going to introduce me?” asked Orna.
“Tino,” Nilah began, “this is Orna Sokol, my fiancée.”