by Anthea Sharp
“A ball is a perfect idea,” his father added, getting to his feet. “We invite the entire population, ply them with music, free food, and drink. Freddie announces his teammates. We’ll have him draw names from a hat or something fun—maybe a helmet from a deep space suit—to make it look good. Then, when the games are aired a few months from now, the entire platform will cheer him on. All for one.” His father lifted his glass, the recently refurbished skin on his face crinkling as he grinned. “Yay.”
When Daire remained silent, his father said, “Now you’re acting like your mother. I thought she was the only person who could suck the fun out of my day.” He paused long enough to set his drink on a side table and fold his arms. “What an achievement.”
“Stories about the tickets and the lotteries on various worlds have been all over the news feeds,” Daire said quietly. “You’re inviting everyone on the station, so they’ll think they actually have a shot at a ticket.”
“Look at my smart boy.” The governor made a show of clapping in slow motion. “It’s nice to see all my efforts with you haven’t been in vain.”
This was no new leaf. This was Charles Daire 101. Appearances were all that mattered. That and the morale of the workers who made Heritage One function.
In the end, the ball wasn’t about Freddie making something of himself or anything remotely associated with fairness. As always, it was about how the Hand of the Crown kept his grip on power.
Quimby cleared his throat.
“What is it?” Charles snapped.
Moving between father and son, Quimby said, “It’s Mr. Frederick’s transport, Your Grace. It has gone offline.”
Charles sighed. “Another glitch. Have the techs go over the system again but wait until tomorrow. After the ball will be soon enough.”
“They already went over the system. As soon as the alert came through, I took the liberty of having them investigate. I’m afraid it’s not an error. There’s no sign of the transport on any of the grids.”
“Which route did he take?” Daire asked, already striding for the door.
“He went—” Quimby began.
“Isenbrant,” Charles ordered in a rare use of his son’s given name, “you’re not going anywhere.”
It took everything in him to halt. “Let me go … please. Freddie could have been attacked.”
“It’s nothing.”
“You don’t know,” Daire insisted.
“True. If I’m wrong, whoever’s behind it will be watching how we respond. I don’t want them to assume their plan—whatever it is—is working. Quimby will go after Freddie. You go to the hub. I want you to stand in for him and make the announcement about the ball and the tickets.”
Because that was what was important—never showing weakness.
Isla headed for the hub, hugging the pavement close to the storefronts with her head down and forcing herself to maintain a sedate pace. All she wanted to do was run. Pug might be an old soul who insisted he could take care of himself, but he was still a kid and all she had left.
She had an idea of where he’d gone.
Last night, she’d found him with his tablet under the covers long after he should have been asleep. He’d been reading about the League’s New Frontiers program. “They’re opening a brand-new planet for settlers,” he’d said in an awed voice when she’d ripped the covers away to reveal his huddled form. “All we have to do is win the games. We could win the whole world.”
“You and what army?”
“We could do it,” Pug insisted. “You and me and Mic and Blue.”
“Even Blue?”
Pug scrunched his face. “I dunno. She’s a dumb girl.”
“I’m a girl.” Isla let her expression fall into a glower. “Did you just call me dumb?”
“No.” Pug giggled. “Maybe, but that’s not what I meant.”
“Tell me the truth. Or I might have to tickle it out of you.”
“You and Blue are girls and you’re both awesome. That’s the truth. Mic’s awesome, too. We could win!”
Isla sighed, taking his tablet away from him while he lay back on his pillow. “It’s a great idea, sweet boy, but we can’t get around the rules.”
He popped up in bed again and shouted, “Rules are dumb!”
Children under the age of fifteen weren’t allowed in the New Frontiers competition even if they received a ticket. It was a giant roadblock in Mic’s plan and one they hadn’t resolved so far.
“You’re right. Rules are dumb.” She helped him lay back again. “But there’s nothing we can do about it. That’s why Mic is taking gold along with the tickets tomorrow. With gold, we can go anywhere we want. We wouldn’t have to go to Otis. Where would you go?”
Pug folded his arms, stuck out his lower lip, and said nothing. His silence said enough. He’d been too young when their father died to remember him, but Pug was just like him—stubborn to his core and idealistic to a fault.
Sadness sliced through Isla, swift and cutting deep. Some wounds never healed, it seemed.
“Get some sleep, Pug. You’ve got an important job to do tomorrow. We need you sharp.” She tucked the covers around him.
“If I have a ticket, they’ll have to take me, no matter what. Mic will make them. He promised.”
“Mic makes a lot of promises.” She meant one thing; Pug understood another because in Pug’s eyes, Mic could do no wrong.
“I know,” Pug whispered, “but I wished. I wished the best I could. Isn’t that enough?”
She wanted to tell him wishes came true, but she would have been lying. Isla left it at that and soon enough, her brother’s eyes closed.
This morning, Pug had been uncharacteristically quiet. He’d even settled at his post across the way without argument, which must have been a first. Pug had an opinion about everything and was never afraid to share it.
What Isla suspected was that as far as Pug was concerned, accosting the governor’s son and taking what they wanted was no guarantee they’d get the tickets or that he’d be able to go to Otis.
Promises or no promises, Pug was going to steal the tickets first—before they stopped Freddie Daire’s transport. That meant Pug would have to hack into the station’s operating system to access the code for the original ticket files instead of Mic’s approach of stealing copies from Freddie. She’d suggested the same thing to Mic when they’d planned the heist and, as always, Pug must have been listening.
It wouldn’t work even if he succeeded but try explaining that to Pug.
Tickets for a chance at a new life on a pristine world were priceless to the masses stuck in deadend lives on Heritage One. Once the tickets went missing, the entire station would go on lockdown. Their only hope would be to hide, wait out the lockdown, and then find a way off the station.
And then what?
It all felt … off.
If only they survived this day—on the right side of a jail cell—maybe she could talk Mic into finding another way. Or better yet, make him forget about the whole thing.
Dreams could be dangerous. Three years ago, it had been a dream that had propelled their family from Earth with hopes of a new life pioneering a homestead on the frontier. They hadn’t even made it out of the solar system.
The size of the crowds grew as she neared the hub where the announcement would be made. People drifted along in small groups, talking softly and laughing as if it were a holiday. Isla ignored the happiness in their voices and pushed on. They were fools to believe anything the governor or his son said.
Ever since their parent’s death, she and Pug had struggled to survive. With Mic’s help, they’d built a life for themselves. They might be street rats, but they weren’t starving. They might be thieves, but they weren’t on the radar of the security forces. Not once had any of the crew been arrested. They were safe, and that was huge. Mic’s scheme with Freddie Daire could put everything they’d built in the last three years at risk.
The passageway narrowed
where it joined the hub. She crossed the threshold, stepping into one of the few wide-open spaces on the station. A raised platform dominated the center of the space. High above, clear panels revealed the dark sweep of the Milky Way. A tall black column filled the center of the platform that was an access point to the station’s operating system. In theory. Neither she nor Mic had ever done any recon to find out if this was the case or a story put out to trick would-be saboteurs. Pug wouldn’t know the difference, so he’d head directly for the nearest door.
Moving smoothly and quietly, Isla wove through the crowd until she reached the stage. Guards stationed along the perimeter kept the throng at bay. Workers in dark jumpsuits moved around the stage in preparation. A few notables, including a councilman she recognized loitered near chairs placed behind a podium.
Pug had worn his lucky blue T-shirt today. He’d been wearing it the day he’d survived the fall from a high balcony at the Galleria and lived to tell the story. It would help him blend in against the lighter blues of the uniforms of the day shift workers as well as the dark blues of the night shift. She turned in a circle, scanning the crowd.
When she came around to face the stage once more, her gaze landed on the hottest, most intense guy she’d ever seen. Power and a quiet sense of authority radiated off him in waves. He had medium length dark hair that swept back from his forehead and a dark, brooding gaze that locked onto her like a targeting system.
Somewhere inside her head, a red alarm blinked a silent warning.
Isla retreated a step, bumping into a man behind her who protested and shoved her sideways. She stumbled, and before she knew it, the prince—because who was she kidding, what else did this guy look like—jumped down from the stage. With one hand respectfully on her arm, he steadied her.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Where were his bodyguards? Why weren’t they zapping her with a taser?
“Fine. I’m fine, really. You don’t have to—” She dared to cast a pointed look at his hand, which was still clamped on her upper arm.
He jerked it away abruptly. “Apologies, my lady.” His voice was deep with an accent she couldn’t place and just a hint of gravel. It did things to her stomach, his voice, things she couldn’t afford to think about right now. Not while Pug was still missing.
But wait…
Towering over her, there was no mistaking his identity. Between his sleek good looks and the scent of wealth that practically rolled off him, this could be none other than the governor’s son. But Freddie Daire was in a transport on his way to the hub. Mic had been certain.
While Isla questioned Mic without mercy, it wasn’t because she thought he was incompetent or because she needed to keep tabs on him to make sure he didn’t screw up. Mic was a professional; he didn’t leave details to chance.
If Freddie Daire was in the transport, there was only one other person this guy could be. Governor Daire had two sons, one of whom rarely visited Heritage One. He had one of those long, odd names, she recalled. It was almost as awkward as Peregrine …
“Isenbrant.” Her hand leaped to cover her mouth. Had she said it out loud?
A slow smile warmed his expression. “Guilty as charged, my lady, and you are?”
“Not … not here.”
Before he could blink, she whirled and fled into the safety of the crowd.
Instinct urged Daire to go after her. On another day, he might have acted on it. Making a mental note to inquire about her later, he climbed back on the stage.
Quimby found him. “Your Grace, I was worried—”
“You’re always worried, Quims. It’s what you do and why we love you.”
The older man’s cheeks reddened. “Your Grace—”
“And stop with the “Your Grace” nonsense.” Serving for four years in the League’s expeditionary force had cured him of notions about rank and privilege.
“But your father—”
Daire lifted a finger.
“But he—”
Daire lifted a brow.
“But—”
He cast a glance over his shoulder before leaning toward the servant. “Please?” He dragged a finger across his lips.
Reluctantly, Quimby nodded.
“Good. Did you find my brother?”
“I did, Your … He is fine and—”
“Later. Let’s get this show over with—if that’s possible.”
“As you wish.”
Taking his seat at the back of the stage, Daire stretched out his long legs to wait while various officials paraded up to the podium to make their remarks in honor of whatever this impromptu ceremony was supposed to be. Most were hastily composed, awkward efforts that made Daire’s teeth hurt from the endless smiles expected of him. There was a time when he’d believed all the pomp and nonsense in his future would be a grand and glorious thing. He must have been all of nine then.
Now, all he could think about was his brother and how long it would take him to find a lever sufficient to force his father from power. A man who relegated his son to collateral damage in his quest for power didn’t deserve to rule … anything or anyone.
Daire sat there, struggling to remain calm and breathing evenly as he realized what he was plotting.
Mutiny. Or was that only applicable on ships? Rebellion against his own family. If he succeeded, the other eleven houses that formed the League of the Crown would have to make a choice—support the son over the father—or not.
Not would be bad. Death, in fact, would be preferable if the other houses moved against him.
But what was he expected to do? Stand by while his father sent Freddie to what would be certain death on a wild, unsettled planet? It would only be a matter of time before the conditions or the native animals or the other competitors killed his brother. In death, Freddie would be hailed a hero. The governor would gain sympathy. The heads of the other houses would receive the intended message: Charles Daire has zero weak links. Cross him at your peril.
With an heir safely in place and challenges from other houses neutralized, there was no mistake—his father could easily rule another fifty years.
Pain surged through his hand. Daire looked down to see his fingers clamped around the metal arm of the chair. He flexed them, forcing blood to flow again.
There was another possibility, one where he didn’t have to stand by and do nothing.
His father had deactivated the tickets Freddie had taken with him and passed new copies on to Daire. Five tickets to do with as he pleased and no one to stop him.
As if from far away, he heard the crowd shouting. “Five by five. Alive to thrive. Five by five. Alive to thrive.” It was a chant heard on hundreds of overcrowded planets.
And then Daire was standing before them, smiling. He lifted his hand high. Overhead lights captured the iridescent shine marking the chip embedded in his skin. As he did so, the crowd roared. When he lifted his other hand, the roar rose to deafening levels before finally subsiding.
“Five tickets!” More shouts and a few catcalls.
“You’ve got one thing wrong,” he said. “It’s not five tickets we’ll be giving away but four.” Rumbles of protest broke out. Daire waited before continuing. “That’s because I’m using one of them. Who’s with me? Who’s ready to take Otis? Come on! Let’s go!”
The crowd went crazy. They surged toward the stage, overwhelming the guards, tumbling the barricades. Guards lifted their batons to no avail. They were too few against the onslaught.
Daire danced backward like a Pied Piper, urging them on, and they followed.
In the chaos, Isla glimpsed Pug. It was little more than a flash of blue, close to the ground and moving fast, but she was sure it was her brother. There were too few children on the station for it to be anyone else. He cut across the flow of the crowd, dodging between legs and bodies. Judging by his direction, he was headed for a door in the massive column that formed the hub. The stage wrapped around it, so Isla could reach it from any side as lon
g as she made it onto the stage.
Isla ran, shoving her way through the crowd. A few made way immediately. That allowed her a straight path up the steps. The door in the column stood open, abandoned by guards and administrators alike, who were scrambling to escape the flood of humans. Isla ignored them and slipped through the door, taking a moment to close it behind her.
She found herself inside a circular room. The walls were lined with monitors and screens. An old man occupied one workstation. The thatch of untidy silver hair sprouting from his head gleamed an eerie blue in the dim light. He was intent, tapping on a keyboard, and hadn’t noticed her so far.
Movement in the corner of her eye.
She turned to see a small figure in blue scramble into a chair and type at a furious pace. It was an older keyboard that clicked and popped. At the noise, the old man’s head bobbed up.
Isla froze. In the same moment, Pug saw her, and his eyes went wide. She gave her head a nearly imperceptible shake, hoping he’d stay still and let her handle this. Stillness and seven-year-olds didn’t go together, but Pug wasn’t just any kid. He’d spent half his short life learning to adapt and improvise on a moment’s notice.
She’d chosen which scenario to play and was about to launch into it, when the old man jumped to his feet, surprisingly spry. An intense white beam cut the shadows from above and formed a brilliant circle with Isla at the center. Previously invisible circular doors in the blackness high above opened. Uniformed peacekeepers descended on ropes. It happened so fast, all Isla could do was take one step before they immobilized her.
A burly peacekeeper locked his big hands on Pug. “Leave him alone!” she shouted, for all the good it did.
“What have we here?” The old man folded his arms. “Only security personnel are authorized for this area.”
“We … we got … lost.” Isla shifted mental gears again and willed the fight to leave her body. “It’s … crazy out there. My brother’s so little,”—and here she prayed Pug was paying attention—“I was afraid we’d be trampled.”
“You mean the boy who had no trouble running in here a moment ago?” He pointed. “That boy?”