Marked (21 page)

He shrugs. “Look, maybe I owe you one. For handing
you over to King Charlie. This'll square things up. And if it knee-caps the bastard, I say all the better. So I'm here. We're here. To get you to the station.”

“Liar,” I say. “You're here for the money. How much are you getting for this? Tell the truth, Benny. We know James pays well.”

“I get ten percent for picking you up, and your uncle's agreed to keep paying out until you're all nice and safe, back in Cyanese airspace. But we don't get nothing if something goes wrong. Your uncle's a sharp guy, just so you know.” Benny pauses. “Some banker's holding the money. We double-cross you, we get nothing. And since you insist on being crass about it, yeah, I'm getting a nice piece of the whole deal.”

“And these guys?” I say.

“You're looking at the best independent contractors around.” Benny grins. He jerks his chin at the crew. “They run a lot of King Charlie's antiquities and such. Find it on Earth and deliver it here.” Benny pauses, as if reading the skepticism in our eyes. “Look. You don't gotta worry. Like I said, this outfit's independent, they got no love for King Charlie, either. I'm telling you, these guys are solid.”

There's a flicker of unrest in my team, a collective crossing of arms and a whole lot of sidelong looks. Even Miyu looks rattled. I know what they're all thinking.
Yeah, sure. They'
re solid. Whenever it suits them.

Hank shifts. “And you expect us to take your word on that, Mr. Eno? That you're only here to help?”

Benny's smile twists into something sharper—a wolf's grimace. “Hey, I don't give a rusting piece of dried-up drip what you believe. I don't welch on deals.”

“Is that so?” Hank snaps.

“Look, wisecracker . . .” Benny moves in. He raises a fist, and if Hank knew better, he'd duck. Most fights with Benny don't last too long. I run interference, slipping between them. “Benny . . .”

Fahra pulls at Hank. Wisely, he steps back.

“Yeah, that's right. That's better. Just remember: I owe her one,” Benny says. “But I don't owe
you
nothing.”

Amused, the dreadlocked smuggler sidesteps toward the bay's inner door. With a mocking flick of the wrist and a hand-waving flourish, he bows. “Welcome aboard. Right this way, if you please . . .”

DOUBLE-CROSSED OR STRAIGHT DEALT, WE DON'T HAVE MUCH
of a choice. Either we trust a bunch of criminals or we scuttle the mission. For just about everyone else on the team, it seems Benny's our biggest concern. But for me, he's the only known variable.

Yes, he's a crook. But he's a crook I can read, and there's a part of me that's glad my old boss is here. If there's one thing I've learned about Benny, it's that he knows how to land on his feet. If things go south at the station, he'll figure out how to get himself back alive. Maybe even all of us.

At last, Benny ushers us into the cargo hold, which is a tethered maze of tightly packed crates and black-market goods. Old books and statues and rugs and furniture—treasures from Earth, to be smuggled into Benroyal's hands.
We stash ourselves wherever we can, crouching amongst King Charlie's plunder. When we're all settled in, they seal us in the hold. We power down our weapons. Alone, we wait in the dark.

I'm crushed between Miyu and Fahra.

“This place reeks,” Miyu says. “It seriously smells like dirty feet.”

“Why did we let them lock us in here again?” I ask.

Fahra doesn't answer but hums quietly. Minutes crawl by, and soon Miyu's breathing sounds begin to match the slow tempo of his tune. I'm pretty sure Captain Fahra just lulled her to sleep, which is amazing, considering we're squeezed between two crates. In the dark, in the quiet, I risk a question. One that's been rattling in my brain since the night we left Manjor.

“At first, when we met, you said your name was Fahrat,” I say. “Why? What happened? Why do you let them call you that?”

He replies with a sharp inhale, and I wish I'd never interrupted his song. “I'm sorry,” I say. “I shouldn't have asked. It's rude, and you don't have to—”

“Because I am dishonored,” he says. “Because I failed in my duty, and that failure cost my king his life.”

There's a wince in his words. The pain's still there, so I
don't press. Fahra begins to hum again. At the refrain, he stops. “I do not expect to survive this mission. We all may die here—as likely as not—so I will tell you what I have done.”

“We're not going to die here,” I say.

“Perhaps. But listen to my story, and judge for yourself. After, I will accept any name you would give me.”

He pauses, then takes a breath. “It was the twenty-fifth year of His Majesty's reign, and the king and the queen and Prince Cashoman spent their summer in Manjor. There was to be a great celebration at season's end, but Prince Dakesh would not come. Dakesh was twenty-one, just barely a man, and determined to stay behind in Belaram. I should've known. It should've sounded the warning in my head.

“On the eve of the feast, Prince Dakesh sent his regrets, wrapped in an elaborate gift. An entire company of monks. Red-robed performers who dazzled the court with music and story and song. A play, it was. An original production based on the king's life, with all of his bravery and good works set up on a stage. And all of it sent with greatest regard, from the first son to his father. But, in truth, the monks the prince had hired never made it to the palace. On the way to Manjor, they were waylaid, and their costumes stolen. The attackers were curiously prepared. How
is it that they were so well-versed in the monks' work, the very play they were to perform? How could they have lain in wait, at the right place, at just the right moment? But we did not know. Not then. No, we let the impostors through the gates. And that night, so late that even the merriest guests were passed out and dreaming, the performers traded their red robes for black.” He growls. “Assassins, sent by the prince, but paid by—”

“Benroyal,” I finish.

“Yes. This was their gambit, most carefully planned. And when the murderers slipped from the throne room into the royal quarters, one of our men raised the alarm.”

“You were there.”

I hear the nod in his voice. “I was not yet captain then. I was a King's Guard, and though I'd spent many years assigned to Prince Cashoman, I was bound to His Majesty. And that night, I patrolled the walls and watched the gates, looking for an enemy we'd already welcomed inside. When the alarm sounded, I knew my charge.
Fly to His Majesty's chambers. Go and protect the king, at all costs.
This was my oath and duty. I was halfway there when I heard Her Majesty scream. I abandoned my orders and ran back to the nursery. There, I found her with Prince Cashoman. I rushed in. They were cornered by assassins.

“Prince Cashoman was only a boy. He held a dagger in
one hand, and a footstool in the other. If you had seen him, you might have laughed; so full of blind courage, he was. ‘Back, back,' he snarled at them. ‘Leave my mother alone, or I'll cut off your ears.' There were three black robes closing in . . . I didn't hesitate. I opened their throats with my knife.”

“You saved them,” I say. “You saved the queen and if you hadn't run into that room, they'd have been murdered too.”

“I saved the boy I'd known from the day his mother bore him, the boy I'd taught to fight and shoot and swim. I saved the son, instead of his father, the king.” He pauses. One last, heavy sigh. “And for that, by many, I'm called
dishonor
.”

I don't get the chance to tell Fahra I'm grateful for his choice. Groaning, the ship seems to lurch. Miyu startles, and Hank orders everyone to be quiet. We brace ourselves against another jolt of movement. Then, one last rumble of noise as the freighter skids to a stop. Doors are opening. The ramp is descending.

It's time. We've landed at the station.

Our destination's an enormous satellite wheel, gleaming sterile and white against the cold darkness of space. The station rotates swiftly, and for good reason. Miyu says this thing's like a giant centrifuge; the movement generates a
crude sense of gravity. A primitive feat of engineering, but hey, it beats filling up another air sickness bag.

For the longest time we hold tight, still crouched in the dark of the freighter's hold, but nothing happens. The smugglers are supposed to lure a squad of Benroyal's personnel inside, to unload the usual shipment of plundered treasure. The IP stumble in, and we'll catch them by surprise. Then the crew holds the landing bay while we rescue Cash. A few pods of dozing gas dropped into our enemy's path, we pull down our masks, and King Charlie's guards take a nap. Get in, get out.
Fast
.

Our intel says there are between sixty and eighty guards here. For us, the odds are worse than terrible, but they're the only ones we've got.

The hold door begins to creak, and I reach for Auguste's patch. I hold it close and breathe in a little bit of spitfire.
Give me one last shred of fearlessness. Help me get back up and see him one more time. If I live or die, just let everyone else make it back home.

We're all poised and ready to spring when Benny walks into the hold. I stare at him for the longest time, waiting for footsteps, voices . . . anything. Some sign that Benroyal's men are trailing.

Cautious, Hank inches toward the door and peers
through it. “What happened?” Hank asks. “Where are the guards?”

Benny shakes his head. “There's no one.”

“What do you mean there's no one?” I ask. “They won't come aboard?”

“I mean there's nobody to bring aboard,” Benny replies. “It's a ghost station. They're gone.”

Unbelieving, I rush past him and dash down the landing ramp. I shrink against the bright lights. The station's landing bay is dazzling white, but completely empty. My brain hums in alarm; I was prepared to white-knuckle it against the chaos of combat. I wasn't prepared for silence.

No.
I run toward the inner doors and slam my fist against the command glass. The doors open, but there's nothing to see on the other side. A long hallway. Windows looking in on other rooms of the station. All deserted.

By now the rest of the team have caught up. Hal, Fahra, Miyu, Bear, Hank, and I stick together and nose through the rooms. Nothing. No one. There's a blast door at the end of the hallway. When I put my hands on it, it's as if I can almost feel a presence on the other side, like a buried heartbeat.

Hal touches my shoulder.

“He has to be here,” I say, more to myself than anyone else.
“He has to be
.”

I reach for the door, but Hal won't let go. “No. We're not going any further. We're not rushing through that door without a new plan.”

“And if you're thinking about taking off alone, forget it,” Bear warns. “Not on my watch.”

Fahra is silent, but the look on his face tells me he'll do anything I ask.

Miyu steps beside us. “We will figure this out. We won't leave without searching every inch of this station,” she says. “If you think I'm going back and telling my mother we failed,” she adds, “then think again. This mission isn't over.”

We make our way back to the freighter, where Benny and the crew are waiting. They're lounging around the nose of their ship like they've got nothing better to do.

“Let's go,” Benny says.

I don't move.

He tries again. “Come on, Phee. We'll get you back home. It'll be all right.”

“We need to check out the rest of the station,” Bear says. “This place is huge. Maybe they left something behind.”

Benny shakes his head. “Kid, you're just asking for trouble. Quit while you're ahead.”

I snap at Benny. “You said you came to help. They could be hiding on the other side of that door. Or maybe they're just waiting to attack. This could be . . . a trap.” The second
the word passes my lips, a bead of cold sweat curls down the nape of my neck. Every breath of the air in the bay grows thicker in my lungs.

“I knew you were smart, kid.” Benny nods. “You see now?”

Glassy-eyed, I stare at him. “Benny, I can't leave without searching . . . I have to find him. I have to know.”

“Look, you don't wanna know.” At first he huffs and rolls his eyes, like he's ready to wash his hands of me. Then something in him shifts, and when he looks back, the flare of impatience is gone. “Listen to me. I've been cracking skulls for over twenty-five years, and you know how I've survived so long?” he says. “I'll tell you how. By not asking questions like
What's behind that door?
Many a scrape, Phee. I've gotten through a lot of tight spots just by avoiding the answer. I never walked into no place blind, and I'm not about to start. Not even for you.”

“But what if Cash is—”

“Your boy is dead, and I smell a trap. Nothing but rotten luck left here.”

I look to the crew, but find no help there either.

“We will take you back,” Benny adds. “Or if you insist on searching the place, we'll wait for you. But don't think I won't light out of here and torch this whole station on the way out if things get violent.”