point designed for cutting through clouds, the curve topped with a generous crust of fusion engines. Jutting out from the heart of the teardrop was the passenger sphere, framed within the thin wing like the pit of a perfect fruit. Out in space, the flight wing would swivel around, swinging the engines in whatever direction they were needed without moving the sphere. But in the spaceport, the wing hung vertically, tip to floor, its polished hull gleaming in the light of the overhead lamps. Asala was sure Tibor had angled them before her arrival, for effect. The ship looked like an earring, a pendant, something you might hang in your window to catch the sun. “New?” Asala said.
“It is,” Tibor said, smiling proudly at his craft. “The Sky Shard Model 6, fresh out of the shipyards. I got three in last week, and I am giving the best of them to you. It’s called the Altair.”
Asala looked at him sideways. “What makes this one the best?”
His eyes twinkled. “It’s the one I’m giving to you.” He gestured forward as Asala laughed. “Come, I believe you’ll be very happy with the interior.”
Down the gangway they went, then through the airlock and into the sphere. Asala felt a bit of the knot in her neck let go as she surveyed the main deck. The style was unmistakably Khayyami, tan and gold and swimming blue, but the decor had been dialed down from its usual level of ostentatiousness. Simplicity was in the spotlight here, simplicity and openness. Modern furniture with graceful curves, their heavy floor bolts cleverly hidden behind twists of leg. Geometric art that inspired solace. Lights too bright to allow for any secret corners, but not so glaring as to be industrial. There was no clutter to be found, be it in object or color, no item that didn’t have a purpose. It was a tasteful space, a just-so space. Exactly the way Asala liked it.
Tibor beamed with the justified smugness of a man who knew his customer. “Four decks. Bedrooms up top, living space and work center in here, kitchen and two rec rooms below—one for exercise, one for entertainment—and then the tech deck, which you won’t need to worry about.”
“And the comm output frequencies?” Asala asked. Anything above thirty-seven made her hearing implants hiss. “Are they—”
“Thirty-six-point-two, precisely,” Tibor said.
Asala gave him a satisfied nod. She looked over her surroundings, and for one fanciful moment, she allowed herself to pretend that this was like any other trip, that this space was solely hers, that everything would stay as she liked it, that she’d have three whole weeks to sit and think in this spacefaring suite. She pretended—
There was a thud from the direction of the airlock. A muffled curse followed, and then: a second thud.
Asala closed her eyes and took a breath. It had been a nice thought while it lasted.
Niko stumbled onto the ship, dragging an absurd amount of luggage with them. Their cheeks had a faint glow of sweat, and their expression was exhaustingly eager. “Am I late? Wow, nice,” they said, looking around. They considered. “A little empty, but nice.”
Asala turned with the politest look she could muster. “Tibor, this is Niko av Ekrem.”
Tibor bowed respectfully, but not before Asala caught him giving the sweaty kid the subtlest of up-and-downs. “It’s an honor to have a member of the president’s family aboard one of my ships,” he said. “If it’s not too impertinent, may I inquire after your mother’s health? I saw in the news—”
Niko rolled their eyes with a smile. “She’s fine,” they said. “Just a cold, honestly. Gossip channels always make things out worse than they are.”
“Ah, that’s a relief,” Tibor said. “It may be gauche to say this, but of your father’s partners, I’ve always very much admired—”
Asala tuned out the obvious buttering-up, and remained fixated on the luggage. “What is all of that?”
Niko shrugged, surveying their varied duffels and sacks. “Clothes, gear—”
“What gear?”
“Computer stuff. I won’t be of much help without the right tools. Don’t worry, I already logged the mass with the nav desk. I promise I haven’t screwed up our trajectory.”
Asala glanced at Tibor, and he checked his handheld. “Yes, all your passengers’ belongings have been logged and adjusted for,” he said. “You’re well within our recommended parameters.”
“See?” Niko said. “I’m—” They paused. “Wait, what other passengers? Who else—”
Asala had registered the approach of footsteps several moments before, but that detail apparently hadn’t landed with Niko. A woman entered the room, clad in the sort of loose-fitting clothes and sun-blocking hood that any Khayyami might wear when stepping offworld at midday. Her luggage was as practical as Asala’s own.
“This is my colleague Chessa,” Asala said. “Our trajectory will be taking her to a rendezvous point on the way to . . . our destination.” Hypatia, her subconscious supplied, kicking and shouting at the idea. She shoved it back down. She’d deal with it later.
Niko looked confused but friendly. “Nice to meet you,” they said.
The third passenger nodded, but said nothing.
“Well then,” Tibor said. “If you’re all assembled, and if you don’t need anything further, the ship is yours. Kima Asala, if you would . . . ?”
Asala pressed her thumb to Tibor’s handheld. Anything that happened to the ship now meant her ass. Well, Ekrem’s ass. He was the one footing the bill.
Tibor said his goodbyes, and the airlock slid shut with a definitive thunk. Assured of their privacy, the third passenger removed her hood. Niko jumped. Actually jumped. For all their overstuffed luggage, this was one eventuality they clearly hadn’t anticipated.
General Cynwrig looked odd out of uniform, like a tiger without her stripes. She was imposing all the same: broad shoulders, scarred jaw, white hair cut practically short. “Agent Asala,” she said. Her voice communicated nothing, but her eyes said everything. She hated this arrangement every bit as much as her protector did.
“General,” Asala said with a nod.
Niko looked as if they’d swallowed a mouthful of nails. Their easy eagerness vanished, and after a second or two of gaping, they blurted out: “But you’re on the Marauder.”
“Am I?” the general said as she removed her gloves. “What a relief.”
Asala waited for the general to provide her own context for joining them, but Cynwrig merely folded her gloves and placed them in her pocket. Fine. “We’re taking her to Gandesian space on our way to Hypatia. A transport will pick her up at their border, and you and I will go from there.”
“But why?” Niko said.
“I have intelligence that the attempts on my life have not ended,” Cynwrig said. She said the words with a matter-of-factness appropriate for talking about the weather, or what she’d had for breakfast. “Considering the egregious breach of security discovered aboard my own vessel, both my advisers and your father”—she said this last like a peeved partner—“thought
