by Amie Kaufman
It’s a still from footage they must have taken aboard the TDF destroyer. I’m wearing the same uniform I have on now. It’s a clear shot of me—black-and-white hair frames my face in a more-tousled-than-usual pixie cut, my mismatched eyes are wide.
Text flashes on every screen, right below my face.
WANTED FUGITIVE.
REWARD OFFERED.
CONTACT TDF FOR
MORE INFORMATION.
Time stands still. My heart pounds as I stare at the screen. But finally, desperately not wanting to, I drag my eyes down and look around the room.
Every single person in the bar is staring straight at me.
Son of a biscuit.
BETRASKAN SOCIETY
▶ CLAN STRUCTURE
▼ OBLIGATIONS
BETRASKAN SOCIETY IS SO MIND-BOGGLINGLY INTRICATE THAT EVEN BETRASKANS HAVE TROUBLE UNDERSTANDING WHAT’S GOING ON HALF THE TIME. THE MOST IMPORTANT THING TO KNOW IS THAT BETRASKAN CLAN STRUCTURE IS MORE COMPLICATED THAN A SIX-WAY FIRALOR WEDDING CEREMONY, AND THEY OWE LOYALTY ON TWO LEVELS, AS DICTATED BY THEIR NAME.
FOR EXAMPLE, SARA DE MOSTO DE TREN IS A MEMBER FIRST OF THE DE MOSTO CLAN—THIS WILL COMPRISE HER SIBLINGS, NO MORE THAN A DOZEN PARENTS (SEE BETRASKAN FAMILIAL STRUCTURE), AND ONE TO TWO HUNDRED BLOOD RELATIVES.
SHE IS THEN SECONDARILY A MEMBER OF THE DE TREN CLAN, WHICH WILL COMPRISE SEVERAL THOUSAND INDIVIDUALS. BETRASKAN SOCIETY PLACES ALMOST IMMEASURABLE VALUE ON FAMILY OBLIGATIONS, KNOWN AS FAVORS, AND ANY CLAN MEMBER MAY BE CALLED UPON TO PERFORM A FAVOR OWED BY THE CLAN AS A WHOLE.
JUST HOW BETRASKANS KEEP TRACK OF THEM IS ANYONE’S GUESS.
My sort-of cousin Dariel is blocking his doorway, and this isn’t going as well as I’d hoped. I’m trying to convince him to let us inside, give us some crash space that’s off the grid, a place to lay low until we figure out what we’re supposed to be doing here. And so, for the last twenty minutes or so, with Cat lurking behind me like a very cranky bodyguard, we’ve been exchanging familial details, figuring out where we both fit in our extended family tree—and therefore who owes what, and what a fair price would be for his help. Because nothing comes free in a place like Sempiternity.
I’ve never met Dariel before, but I can see the de Seel nose on him. He’s dyed his shoulder-length hair pitch-black, matching his contacts, and he comes off looking like some kind of human corpse. The white skin that looks perfectly normal alongside proper white hair just looks weird and pallid now.
And he doesn’t just look like a corpse. He looks like a wannabe-tough-guy lover-boy corpse, dressed in black pants and a black shirt that’s open at least two buttons too many.
Not gonna lie, it’s a little embarrassing that Cat’s seeing this.
“So my third mother’s brother is Ferilien de Vinner de Seel,” I say patiently.
“But you’re a de Karran de Seel,” he says, for the third time.
Make that a stupid wannabe-tough-guy lover-boy corpse.
Ugh.
“My third mother became a de Karran,” I sigh. “But originally she was a de Vinner, and the de Vinners are your—”
“Aw, bugger me sideways,” Cat curses behind me.
I turn my head, but she hasn’t finally lost interest in our connect-the-dots game. She’s staring up at a big holoscreen mounted in a corner of the dirty corridor where Dariel’s quarters are located. I follow her gaze, and…there’s our stowaway’s face in close-up, with a WANTED banner streaming underneath it. Somewhere out there, Goldenboy is now having an even worse day than he was before.
And this puts me at a distinct negotiating disadvantage.
Dariel braces both hands against his doorframe and leans out into the hall to take a look at the screen. “Friend of yours?”
It nearly kills me to say it, but I force my expression as close to neutral as I can possibly manage. “If you let us in, I’ll owe you a Favor.”
His smile widens, and he presses his palm to mine, sealing the deal, while I try not to look like I’m freaking out. Putting myself in his debt like this without nailing down any of the details…well, now he knows how bad things are. Without another word, he steps back and leaves the doorway open for us.
“Welcome, cousin, welcome.”
Cat’s already on her uniglass, checking her fauxhawk in the mirror as she walks inside. “Ty, I’m sending you our location,” she says, her voice echoing in my earpiece.
“Roger that,” comes the reply.
“Everything okay?” Cat asks. “You sound out of breath.”
“Running,” Tyler gasps.
“…From what?”
“Bar brawl.”
“Aw, bloody hells, you started one without me?”
I raise an eyebrow at Cat, speaking into my uni. “Do you need backup, Goldenboy?”
“Negative,” our noble leader grunts. “Hold position.”
I shrug and follow Cat inside, and as I step across the threshold into Dariel’s place, a whole-body shock goes through me. It’s like I’ve stepped straight through a FoldGate and into a room back on Trask. The walls are lined with white stone, bright green flic vines tumbling down from the niches along the ceiling where they’ve been planted, gently glowing leaves helping light up the room. Water trickles down the walls, and the ceiling is a jagged landscape of stalactites.
It’s like being back in a place I’ve barely visited since I was six years old, and I’m completely unprepared for the wave of…I’m not even sure what this feeling is.
“Grew most of them out of salt.” Dariel’s voice in my ear startles me, and I turn to see him pointing to the stalactites above. “And commissioned a few carved out of rock—a guy back home does them.”
“It’s, uh…authentic,” I manage.
Cat’s looking around the cramped living room like she’s scared the surfaces are radioactive, and I don’t blame her—there are crates stacked up to the ceiling, computer gear everywhere, notes and pictures and screens pinned to every available surface, and it’s none too clean. Looks like my cousin’s running quite the business empire in here. I’m surprised his brain can keep up with it.
About forty minutes go by before the rest of our squad shows up, and Dariel and I spend most of it on family talk. Whenever you get two Betraskans together, we figure out where folks in our extended family have ended up lately. Cat’s pacing by the time the others arrive, walking a circuit of the room that weaves between boxes and crates and stacks of junk.
Our squadmates clearly found somewhere to hole up and change, and the results are impressive. Both the Jones twins look completely edible, him in a stretchy show-my-muscles kind of shirt, her in an equally stretchy bodysuit made of…some kind of black…something.
Hey, it’s hard to focus on fabric finishings with this level of hello there coming at me in stereo, okay?
Pixieboy’s in a coat with a hood that casts a shadow over his forehead, and therefore his Warbreed sigil—smart work, Scarlett—and Zila’s in a neat blue jumpsuit covered in pockets, her tight black curls tied back in a braid.
Kal and Tyler muscle their way through the door with a big plastene crate between them. Both are breathless and look like they’ve been in trouble—Goldenboy’s lip is split, and Kal is limping. Their hair is damp, too.
“Everyone okay?” Cat asks, peering anxiously out into the corridor.
“Five by five,” Tyler says, shutting the door behind him. In the dim light, he casts a quick glance around the room, taking in the rock walls, the softly glowing plants, the trickling water. It’s a trip, coming from the metal hallways outside into this little slice of Trask.
“I never thought I’d say this,” Scar says, dragging damp red hair from her eyes. “But thank the stars for all those laps they made us run in PT.”
Tyler shakes his head. “How you move
that fast in heels, I’ll never know.”
“It’s a gift, Bee-bro.” Scarlett does a little twirl, showing off her new boots. “And aren’t they gorgeous?”
“What did you do with the trouble magnet?” Cat asks.
In reply, Tyler raps on the crate with his knuckles, and Kal kneels down to open it up, revealing a blinking, mussed Aurora inside. Her black-and-white hair is askew, light brown cheeks turned pink, hiding her freckles. She’s wearing a hooded black tunic dress and a pair of black leggings, looking a little worse for wear.
“Can you smuggle me in something softer next time?” she groans as Goldenboy helps her up. “With room service?”
Dariel’s watching all this with undisguised interest, leaning against a dry section of the wall, arms folded over his open shirt. With an inward sigh, I make with the formalities.
“Everyone, this is my cousin Dariel. Dariel, this is everyone.”
Tyler looks our brand-new host over, gives him a polite nod. “We’re grateful for your help,” he says.
“I’m certainly anticipating that.” Dariel smiles, which I guess answers the question of how he’s going to handle my debt.
“Any friend of Finian’s…,” says Scarlett, turning her attention to my cousin and unleashing one of her deadlier smiles on him.
Dariel’s clearly as impressed as I am by the team’s Face, because without a word, he produces a green box, the sight of which sets my mouth watering. When he takes the lid off, Scarlett leans forward and makes a suitably impressed noise.
“Are those luka cakes?”
“The very same,” he nods, holding the box out for her to take one.
She does, and dials her smile up to Pure Heart Attack. “The guild seal means they’re all the way from Trask, if I’m remembering right? I love what you’ve done with the place, by the way. The flic vines really bring it together.”
Don’t get me wrong—given the chance, I’d cheerfully jump aboard either of the Jones twins, but moments like this, it’s hard to take my eyes off her. Flaming red lipstick to match her flaming bob, the same fiery color shaded around those big blue eyes of hers. What Dariel’s serving up is clearly an attempt to impress—delicacies from our homeworld are hard to come by—and recognizing the gesture is the best thing she could possibly do right now.
I grab one too, just in case Dariel forgets to offer the box in my direction. The flaky pastry dissolves on my tongue, the slightly sweet, slightly sour ground luka nuts inside flooding my mouth with flavor. These things taste like home. But if I’m not careful, they’re going to taste like homesickness instead. Like safety, and the longing to get the hells out of this situation. I swallow quickly.
Scarlett’s nibbling slower, more appreciative. “I like a man who knows how to get what he wants. You must know this place inside and out.”
Dariel puffs up, predictably. “I’ve been around.”
“I’ll bet,” she winks. “Anything you can teach me?”
He drifts closer, like oily smoke. “There’s a lot I can teach you, Earth girl.”
Scarlett only smiles wider. “I mean about this station. For now, at least. Nothing like a local to show you the ropes.”
“What do you want to know?”
She shrugs, her eyes sparkling. “Anything you want to tell us.”
Dariel glances at me, then leans in closer to Ms. Jones.
“Well, first off, you can’t just think of this place as a big city,” he says, with what he clearly believes is an air of suave authority. “You gotta think of it more like a hundred different cities that just happen to border each other, right? There are probably a million souls aboard. We got governing councils and lawless zones, warlords and high society and rumors about black sectors in the depths. You can find anything for the right price. We got fancy art, we got weaponry, we got delights that’ll take you away from your troubles. If you were, say, looking for a place to go dancing in those fine new clothes…”
I can’t even tell if he’s being sleazy or just doesn’t have any social skills—and when I’m noticing your lack of grace, you really oughta take a good, hard look at yourself. But Scarlett just shrugs in an elegant maybe kind of way.
“It was a long ride here, handsome.” She stretches, and lifts one hand to muffle a yawn. “What I’m really looking for is a place where we can sleep?”
Dariel blinks. “You mean…you and me, or…”
“I mean me and them,” Scarlett smiles, gesturing at the rest of us.
“…Wait, all of you are—”
“Don’t hurt yourself thinking about it too much,” I growl.
My cousin takes a few moments to try and wrap his brain cell around it, but eventually he just gives up and leads us through to a back room. It’s not decorated—the walls are standard issue, the ceiling bare. There’s one flic vine up the far end, but the leaves are barely glowing. The space is tiny, set with three bunks, the lower two mostly full of cans of luminescent white paint and freeze-dried sarbo oil pods. I don’t ask. I can only assume he got a good deal.
“This is perfect,” Scarlett says. “Thanks, handsome.”
“No problem,” Dariel smiles. “If you want any more compa—”
The rest of his offer fades out as Scarlett winks and slides the door closed, finally giving us a little privacy. I dunno what it is about this girl, but she pulls it off without offending him—she could probably slap you in the face and make you feel good about it afterward. The others set to work clearing a spot to sleep. Tyler’s making room on the bunks, and Kal is piling the junk around the place into perfect stacks. But Scarlett hangs back by the door with me, out of the way.
“Do you need a hand?” she asks softly.
She’s talking quiet so the others won’t hear. Gesturing at my suit. I thought I kept my movements pretty smooth since we came aboard, but truth told, my muscles are aching—they don’t love being flooded with adrenaline over and over. And though I’m usually the first to bite when people point the thing out, somehow she makes it so I don’t mind. There’s no sympathy, no gentle grimace. Just a casual offer.
Fact is, I’d kill for even a few hours in low gravity—I could get my suit off, curl up to sleep properly—but making that happen would mean leaving the squad. And adding another favor to the list I’m racking up with Dariel.
I was meant to have low-gee accommodations aboard the Longbow once my squad was assigned. I had my own room at the academy so I could reduce gravity every night and operate without the suit. I’m gonna pay a price for sleeping like this later. But I’ll worry about that tomorrow. For now, I’m really not about to ask anyone to help me undress.
“Thanks, I’m fine,” I say. “It’s designed to stay on for several days if needs be.”
Scarlett nods, content that I’m content.
“You think we can trust your cousin?” she whispers. “My gut was yes.”
I nod. “Your family seals your den, that’s what my clan says.”
“I haven’t heard that one before,” she admits, keeping her voice low. “What’s it mean?”
“It means we can trust him.”
That was meant to be the whole of my answer, but she just looks at me, expectant. Trust a Face to want to learn something new about etiquette when they should be focusing on naptime.
With a sigh, I try my best to explain. “You know we live underground on Trask because of the wind, right? It carries microscopic shards of stone. Get enough in your lungs, it’ll kill you.”
“So the seals on your den help keep it out?” she supposes.
“Right. When you build a new home, your family comes around to make the seals that go around the edges of your door out of peta mud. It’s a whole ceremony, and it’s a gesture of trust. Everybody gets their hands on it.”
“I get it,” she murmurs. “You’re showing your fam
ily that you trust them by letting them make the seals. If they didn’t do a good job…”
“Right, you’d die. So, you build strong seals, then you close the door and fight behind it, if you have to. Dariel won’t cross us because he’s family.” I smirk. “That, and my grandmas are pretty scary ladies.”
She’s quiet a moment, and her whisper is gentle. “It must be hard, being away from family.”
I snort. “For me? Not really. I got sent away from most of them early.”
She looks like she doesn’t quite buy it, but she lets it go.
“Get some rest,” she offers. “I’ll stay up and watch for a while.”
The squad is busy claiming their spots—everyone is pretty wrecked after the fight on Sagan, then Bellerophon, then the Fold here. Kal’s big frame is in the top bunk, Auri and Zila are curled up together in the middle. Ty’s on the floor—looks like our noble leader is planning to sleep sitting up against the wall, which I’m sure he won’t regret at all later on. Cat’s opposite, still looking sore she missed out on the brawl.
Scarlett and I both know I’m going to need the bottom bunk, so I wordlessly hand her the pillow and blanket, and she settles on the floor near her brother. I bed down on the mattress, staring at Aurora’s boots where they hang over the edge of the bunk above me. From the glow on the ceiling, I can tell she’s plugged into her secondhand uniglass again, eating up info as fast as she can read.
She’s such a little thing. No bigger than Zila. Nothing about her hints at the trouble she spells for all of us. Except, you know, when her eye starts glowing…
I know we’re in deep because of her. I know the smart play would just be to sell her to the GIA and pray our court-martials don’t land us in prison. But my whole life, I’ve been on the outside looking in. A problem. A burden. An aberration. Just like her. And it’s taught me to be sure of one thing.
Us outsiders gotta stick together.
I lie in the dark. Watch Scarlett watching over the rest of us. She reaches over, pulls the blanket up under Cat’s chin, tucks another around her brother. There’s something about her—under the bitchy and the sexy. Something almost maternal. Goldenboy looks after us because we’re his squad. His responsibility.