Cade nodded, solemnly. “Don’t feel bad, really. I think I knew this, I just didn’t want to—I couldn’t, you know? Not yet.”
“Trust me,” Kira said. “I know all about life giving you a whole lot of unfairness all at once.”
Truth and honesty, as virtuous as they were, weren’t always good things. There was a reason why people, Cade included, clung to denial like it was the last escape pod on a burning starship: It did a fine job keeping things going exactly as they were, allowing you to whistle a tune to the beat of “everything’s A-okay” as the days, months, even years rolled on by. But every so often uncomfortable impasses presented themselves, and Cade knew he was at such an impasse. He had to be honest, and about everything. His role at the Well. Tristan’s death. The Masters’ secrecy and what it meant. For the first time in his adult life, he was responsible for figuring out what to do next and knowing that, whatever decision he made, he was responsible for the outcome.
“Look,” Kira said, interrupting Cade’s reverie, “if you think unloading the Rokura is what you need to do, I’m not going to stand in your way. It’s bad enough you’ve had to deal with that thing this long. If you just want to get rid of it, for real, I get it.”
Cade stopped his pacing—realized, in fact, that he had been pacing—and he shoved aside all the anguish and garbage that was weighing him down, and, with all of it cleared from his view, he knew exactly what he was going to do. His eyes shot open wide as the idea popped into his mind.
“I know how to make your bomb,” he said.
Kira shook her head; Cade could tell she had the impression he was just trying to be nice. “Look, Cade, it’s fine. I know it’s crazy, and, you know, I can figure it out. It won’t be the first time I’ve had to go it on my own.”
“I’m serious. I know how we can do this.”
“Don’t mess with me, Cade,” Kira said, her brows knitted together.
“I’m not, I swear. Look, remember back at the pit, how you thought I’d recognized someone?” Cade asked.
“Yeah, of course I do. But, Cade, before you get ahead of yourself, we need to make a pact, right here, right now.
“First of all, we need to stop acting the way the Well expects us to. We’re a light-year away from Ticus, so you’re not the screw-up and I’m not the loose cannon. Okay? Second, whatever we’re doing here, it’s not going to work without trust. That’s how Omega works. Each and every one of us knows that we have each other’s back, no matter what. Didn’t you learn that with the Rai?”
“Not so much,” Cade said, an uncomfortable grimace on his face, “I wasn’t really part of that whole thing. They … they kind of left me out. Of everything.”
Kira nodded, understanding. Cade got the impression she was used to taking in strays. “We can do this, Cade. You and I. But I need to know if you’re in or if you’re out. There’s no in-between.”
“I’m in,” Cade said without hesitation. “I want to be part of this.”
Kira ran her tongue along the inside of her mouth as she eyeballed Cade, sizing him up.
“What?” Cade asked. “There’s not some weird Omega initiation that I have to do, right?”
“That depends. Tell me about this person from the pit. What’s the deal?”
“I know him. His name’s Mig, and he’s a liar, a thief, and a professional instigator.”
Kira scoffed. “Great. Sounds like he’s made for this place.”
“I wouldn’t tell him that, but, yeah, pretty much. He’s my best friend. Or he was, at least.”
“And?” Kira asked, leading Cade to his point.
“Mig, no joke, is the best engineer in the galaxy. He’s a genius. You want to know who can somehow enlist a Qel for the greatest con on a planet built on cons? Mig, that’s who. If there’s one person who knows where to get that bomb of yours shielded and figure out how to finish making it, he’s the one. I have no doubt in my mind.”
Kira eyed Cade skeptically. “But there’s a catch.”
Cade laughed uncomfortably. “I said Mig and I used to be friends, but that doesn’t quite capture our relationship.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he hates my guts, and he made it very clear that if he saw me again, he’d be, let’s say, unhappy about it.”
“How unhappy?” Kira asked, her face preemptively tightening in a wince as she prepared for the worst.
“So unhappy,” Cade said, “that he promised to kill me.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dotax’s snow-covered islands clung to one another in an endless ocean that was frozen to its very depths. Despite the solid ice surface that connected each landmass, the Dotaxians sculpted bridges carved of frozen rock that tethered each island to one other. The Dotaxian faith forbade anyone from walking on the ice for fear of upsetting the underworld spirits that were trapped below. Violators of this law were sentenced to the “black walk,” a ritual that had been with the Dotaxians since their beginnings. A nomadic people, the Dotaxians’ mobility was conditionally forced upon them; they moved to stay off the dark side of the planet, which was frigid enough to kill even the heartiest Dotaxian. The black walk sent offenders in the opposite direction of his or her tribe, and they were never heard from again.
This sacred custom was overlooked for one group and for one reason—the Dotaxian Royal Guard, when engaging in combat with an invading force. An invading force such as the Fatebreakers from Praxis. The encounter, though, was less combat and more slaughter.
The Praxis light cruiser dropped out of the overcast sky directly above the Dotaxian camp. It hovered just above the surface, near enough so six Fatebreakers could leap from its open hatch and immediately challenge the oncoming Royal Guardsmen.
Ortzo led the charge, meeting the head Guardsman himself while his men grappled with the others. The Guardsman spewed words in an unintelligible language at Ortzo, but they didn’t matter. In battle, it was all the same—the enemy threatened, cursed, then eventually begged. And Ortzo had no mind for words that didn’t bring him closer to his goal of recovering the Rokura and delivering it to Ga Halle. He knew what was at stake, for Praxis, for the galaxy, and for himself, and that blinded him to any other considerations. There’d be no sympathy, no patience, no mercy until the Rokura was in the hands of his master.
The Guardsman swung his broadsword down on Ortzo, an unconventional opening parry, but Ortzo predicted that the Guardsman was trying to knock him off his feet, figuring he hadn’t established proper traction on the snow-covered ground. Ortzo and his Fatebreakers knew exactly what they were getting into on Dotax and prepared accordingly; the metal spikes on the bottom of their boots dug deep into the ground, giving them mobility equal to, if not better than, the Guardsmen.
Ortzo blocked the Guardsman’s strike with his shido, then, bringing his arms downward in a half circle, dug the broadsword into the ground. Before the Guardsman could recover, Ortzo swiped his shido across the Guardsman’s face, knocking away his pristine white helmet and opening a gash from his cheek diagonally to his forehead. Blood trickled into his eyes, and as they reflexively squinted, Ortzo slammed his shido into the Guardsman’s gut, doubling him over. The Guardsman gasped for air and tried to raise his sword in defense, but Ortzo kicked it out of his hands, sending it skittering across the ice.
With the Guardsman at his mercy, Ortzo grabbed him by his head, turned him around, and thrust his shido to his throat. The blade pierced the very top of his skin, drawing a trickle of blood, but went no farther.
“People of Dotax!” Ortzo yelled. As he did, he could sense the hush coming over the area as all eyes darted to the captured head Guardsman. Ortzo, surveying the scene, saw five bloody guardsmen on the ground around him. His fellow Fatebreakers were unharmed.
“You are hereby called upon to serve the Praxis kingdom, the galaxy’s ruling power, and, therefore, your ruling power. There are fugitives on the loose in this system or one very, very close by. They are traitors to Praxis, and anyone
who harbors or aids these individuals will also be branded as traitors and delivered a fate worse than death.
“Now,” Ortzo continued, scanning the crowd to make sure he had their full attention, “I’m going to ask you this question once and only once: Have these traitors been to Dotax?”
The Guardsman laughed in Ortzo’s grasp. “You are not our ruler, Praxis scum. We’ll never bow to you.”
Ortzo shook his head ruefully. “I thought you’d say that.” With minimal effort, Ortzo jabbed the shido into the Guardsman’s throat; blood erupted from the wound, and Ortzo dropped him to the ground. Any head Guardsman who failed to repel an enemy’s attack was sentenced to the black walk, this Ortzo knew. As he looked down on the Guardsmen, the once immaculate white ground beneath him turning crimson, Ortzo figured he was doing his fellow warrior a favor.
“Who else needs to be made an example of?” Ortzo bellowed. “Who else—”
“Enough!” a voice yelled out from the crowd. Ortzo looked over and spotted an older man, a Dotaxian Elder, pushing his way through the crowd. “No more bloodshed. No more death. I will answer your query.”
Ortzo walked toward the Elder, dragging his shido in the snow as he went, cleaning off the blood.
“Answer then, Elder.”
The Elder stood with his chest puffed out and spoke to Ortzo in a commanding, confident voice. “There have been no visitors to our world. We’ve harbored no one, traitor or otherwise. This is the truth.”
Ortzo examined the Elder, waiting for his mien to crack, even a little. If he was lying, he was remarkably good at it.
“I know your people are primitive,” Ortzo said, “but you have short-range vessels. You have means of communication. Should these traitors arrive, you are to notify the nearest Praxis fleet immediately.”
“Very well,” the Elder replied. “Now go, all of you. Let us attend to our dead and continue on with our journey.”
Ortzo scoffed. “Old man, journeys require destinations. You’re just running from death.”
The Elder leaned his body and looked Ortzo dead in his eyes. “So are you.”
Ortzo knew the Dotaxian death ritual: Bodies were wrapped in lubricated linen and pushed out onto the ice, an offering to the underworld gods. Keeping his gaze locked with the Elder’s, Ortzo ordered the bodies of the fallen Guardsmen to be burned.
“Remember this as a warning,” Ortzo said. Then, pointing his shido to the Elder, he added, “And a lesson.”
Ortzo and the other Fatebreakers boarded their light cruiser and it shot off into the sky, leaving the Dotaxian people to watch them go, through the rising embers and smoke from the burning bodies of their Guardsmen.
In the cockpit of the cruiser, Ortzo asked Shira, the pilot, what the next system along the Rubicon’s potential trajectory was.
“Karif-Four or Kyysring, either are possible,” Shira said.
Ortzo considered. Karif-Four was a barren desert, sparsely populated by a subhuman species. But Kyysring, that miserable pit of disorder, seemed appropriate.
“Get us to Kyysring,” Ortzo commanded. “Waste no time in doing it.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
At twelve stories tall, the Koga Club dwarfed Kyysring’s skyline, protruding from the ground in all its phallic glory—there was no way the likeness was unintentional, Cade was convinced—and easily visible from anywhere in the city. From its top floor, as advertised, gamblers could drink in the entirety of Kyysring’s cityscape and beyond, for whatever that was worth. Even from its best view, Kyysring would never be guilty of leaving a favorable impression on anyone with working eyesight. Beyond the city center and its patchwork architecture that looked ready to tilt over with a strong enough breeze, there was the spaceport to the south and nothing but miles and miles of wasteland in every other direction. That was it. Perched above it all, on six reinforced stilts, the disk-shaped casino looked like a giant arachnid plotting its attack. Funny, Cade thought, that Kyysring’s biggest building appeared to be ready to destroy the city or defecate on it. As he double-checked the charges in his rusty old sidewinder, he understood the difficulty in deciding which option was even worth the effort.
“What’s with that sidewinder of yours?” Kira asked as she concealed her own sidewinder in the back of her pants. They were positioned across the street from the Koga, huddled behind a watering hole’s six-foot-tall garish neon sign. “Does it actually fire, or do you just threaten people with tetanus?”
“Why don’t you stand over there,” Cade said, gesturing to a spot just a few paces ahead, “and I’ll test it.”
Kira nodded and grinned, pleasantly. “Nice one. Sometimes I think there might be hope for you yet.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Provided you don’t totally screw this thing up. So this buddy of your, this Mig?” Kira asked, sharpening her focus. “You sure that’s him inside?”
“Mig lived with my family when we were kids; there was a time when he was just as much my brother as Tristan. Believe me, I’d spot that runt anywhere.”
Kira clicked her tongue and eyed the sidewinder. “That thing works, for real? Something tells me you might be needing it pretty soon.”
Cade rolled his eyes. He studied the Koga from where they stood, allowing himself a moment of hesitation before charging inside. The Koga was exactly like the drone fighting pit—forbidden to minors, mysterious—but without the luster. It was the apex of Kyysring’s desperation and exploitation—people riding their last bit of coin pushed through the casino’s double doors thinking they had nothing left to lose, but the Koga had the power to strip anyone of their notion of what rock bottom truly was. Theft, gunrunning, and all manner of garden-variety crime—these were nothing compared to the horrors committed by the kings of Koga as they forced their debtors to do their dark biddings. The way they changed people, the way they pushed them into doing things they never could, or would, until they were broken shells of something resembling human beings. Cade was hard on Kyysring, but the Koga was something different; one false move in that casino could spell very, very bad things for him and Kira. But, Cade thought with a grin, it’s not like Cade or Kira were known for making false moves.
No, they’d be totally fine.
“Come on,” he said, a hint of bitter resignation in his voice as he stepped into the street and toward the Koga. “Let’s dive into this terrible place and meet another person who wants to kill me.”
* * *
Entering the Koga’s lobby was more or less like walking into the galaxy’s biggest zep party. People huffed that stuff down like prohibition was about to hit Kyysring at sunup. They smoked it out of pipes, they smoked it out of joints, some people even smoked it out of elaborate vases that had to be wheeled alongside of them in carts. The fumes mingled at the ceiling like a ghostly presence, manufacturing an odor Cade couldn’t quite find a word to describe. Acrid? Rotten? Blegh? Whatever the word, the point was that the combination of the many zep varieties circulating through the room didn’t smell all that tasty, but it did make for one happy atmosphere.
The lobby’s gaming area was where the casual gamblers were corralled, and for their own good; the stakes rose with each floor, all the way to the top—which is exactly where Cade and Kira were headed. They nudged their way through the overcrowded room, trying to catch the attention of many glassy eyes so they could excuse their way through with as little friction as possible. The elevator bank was set in the back wall, and any conversation Cade or Kira tried to initiate along the way was smothered by the dinging and whirring of seizure-inducing slot machines. People kept their eyes on the screens in front of them, smoking their smokes, drinking their drinks, and pouring coin after coin into the slots. Sometimes they blinked. As Cade shimmied and shuffled through the room, he tried to determine what the decor was trying to capture. A tawdry kingdom, he guessed? The lobby was stuffed with faux opulence, from the walls that were trimmed in shimmering gold to the massive overhead chandelier encrusted by rare gems�
�so hilariously fake—the size of Cade’s fist. It couldn’t be any gaudier, but Cade understood that it was all part of the show. You have to be motivated to gamble away your money, and dropping coin into a trash can doesn’t have quite the same effect as dropping it into a palace, however ridiculous the palace may be.
When they finally boarded an elevator car and the sliding door cut them off from the lobby’s dizzying cacophony, Cade figured Kira would have at least one biting remark about what they’d just passed through. But she was silent. Standing a step behind her in the elevator as it crawled upward, Cade could see the tension in her body. Her shoulders were elevated and narrowed inward; her back was awkwardly arched; and she kept one hand on her sidewinder, tapping on its butt. Kira was nervous, and Cade understood why. While she’d been in plenty of fights before, those battles all had clearly drawn lines: There were good guys and bad guys, and it was nearly impossible to confuse who was who. But what they were about to get into felt much more amorphous, as anything could happen. There was no telling who Mig’s allies were or how the crowd might respond to a couple of outsiders causing a problem with one of their own. How would the pit bosses react to their customers being bothered and, more important, distracted from shelling out more coin? What if they were recognized for who they really were? This was the exact kind of situation the Masters preached to stay out of: Never engage in a conflict where you could be outnumbered, pinned down, and without an exit. Potentially, the Koga’s top floor offered all three.
“It was my dad’s,” Cade said as the wall panel lit, indicating they’d finally reached the second floor.
“What?” Kira replied, a little surprised, like she’d forgotten Cade was in the elevator with her.
“You asked about the old sidewinder I carry. It belonged to my dad. Which is weird, because he hated violence. Total pacifist. But he carried this one just for the statement, I think. If you wanted to protect your family on Kyysring, you had to let people know you were prepared to back up that promise.”
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