Tempted by Celestial Bodies

Chapter 1

chapter one

If you can drink it, you can drown in it.

That was the first thought to cross Vela’s mind when she blinked onto the surface of Regnum Maris and was immediately assaulted by a humidity so dense it weighed on her limbs and made her pressure suit squelch.

Actually, humidity was the wrong word. Vela’s home planet, Phaunos, was plenty humid—the air thick and sticky from an overabundance of plants and bogs subjected to relentless, sweltering heat. This was more of a miasmic haze, chilled by unwavering night. The locals could breathe it just fine, thanks to a million-odd years of evolution and strict adherence to a calendar that tracked the ebb and flow of density, like a tide chart. Vela had downloaded the data, but she didn’t trust the underpaid planetographers at Central’s intergalactic hub to account for shifts in current, and she definitely didn’t trust her lungs to adapt swiftly enough to combat the condensation.

Suffice it to say, she’d be wearing her respirator a while longer.

The nearest city, Waldorf’s Cradle, waited two kilometers off. Vela had plotted her coordinates for a wilderness arrival, worried her sudden appearance mid-metropolis would draw all the wrong attention. The rare opportunity for a scenic hike had barely factored into the equation, though it certainly didn’t detract from it.

With a few practiced taps on her wrist-console, her visor’s optics attuned to her surroundings, and what had appeared to be solid darkness transformed into a jungle of living color. Like most sun-starved forests, this was more animal than floral. Tube worms sprouted from the silt, peeking from segmented calcium stalks to taste the air with glittering pink tendrils. Brine pools dotted gravel trails, clouds of bioluminescent krill tinging them milky teal. The fractal branches of coral trees tangled overhead, casting the faintest, ghost-pale gleam. When Vela ventured close to a trunk, hundreds of tiny polyps withdrew into coarse aragonite.

After several labored steps, she consulted her console a second time, adjusting her suit’s propulsion and heat metrics to compensate for the atmosphere before continuing on. It still felt like wading through bog-water. Enough so that Vela’s instincts pestered her to watch out for trilodiles.

Precisely fifteen minutes and forty-three seconds later, she came to a cliffside overlooking Waldorf’s Cradle. Neon strips of every conceivable hue limned sleek commercial skyscrapers, reflected in triplicate on walls of gleaming chrome. Guide beacons encircled the external walkways of residential towers, while shuttle-lights and traffic signals turned the streets to artificial constellations. Banners advertising everything from cereal to strip clubs webbed between buildings, one pixelated image melting into the next with nauseating speed.

For all the light that blared below, a far more pleasant glow lured Vela’s gaze skyward. Neither moons nor stars were visible from Regnum Maris, but sky eels writhed against the black, pockets of phosphorescence pulsing in tapered rows beneath their scales. She could practically see their loose-hinged jaws expanding to filter nutrients from algal clouds, their adipose lids flickering to clear three sets of sensitive eyes.

Ghosts of encyclopedias past and yellowing dreams swarmed around her skull. She swatted them away like fen flies. The local fauna made for an intriguing backdrop, but she’d blinked to this planet in pursuit of an entirely different class of sub-civilized creature.

Best not to keep the beasts waiting.

* * *

Detective programs and mystery novels would have one believe criminals clung like mold to the dark corners of dive bars, their faces shrouded by tinted visors or oversized hoods. Even if that were true—and Vela knew from a decade of hunting it most certainly was not —the Silver Spire had no dark corners to speak of.

Located at the heart of a bustling tourist district, the drinkhouse was a climate-controlled menagerie of light, sound, and color. Tubes of blue and yellow neon wove across the ceiling, reflecting on a chrome floor so sleek it threatened the privacy of any who dared sport a skirt. A keening warble that vaguely passed for music rattled through the overhead speakers, not quite loud enough to cover the drone of the industrial humidifiers that made the place bearable to extraplanetary visitors.

Vela had stored most of her equipment in the locker lounge by the entrance, but she kept a bundle of tranq tags, a stun gun, and some gravitational cuffs in her belt-purse, as always. Her nylon jumper passed for understated fashion, wrinkle resistant and just fitted enough to flatter. The emerald hue complemented both her sage complexion and the hundreds of teal braids that swayed against her hips, and she’d undone nearly half of the buttons that stretched from collar to waist.

Several pairs (and trios, and octets) of eyes followed her with interest as she approached the bar. Vela could not return their admiration, but she carefully compared their faces to those she’d most recently committed to memory.

The crowd was among the most diverse she’d scoured in months. A cluster of leafy Floreans swarmed the nearest booth, chugging a foamy chartreuse beverage that reeked of mulch and phosphorus. A couple from Ceta sat to her right, tentacles twined beneath the table as they worked through a formidable heap of kelp chips. A Pherenese woman lounged alone in the far corner, shifting her fiber-optic hair through the spectrum in an attempt to lure company. Judging from the sheer number and variety of her limbs, she’d absorbed her fair share of hapless suitors already.

Not one of the so-called Seriville Six appeared to be present. But then, Vela had been in the game too long to trust appearances.

She claimed the last open barstool and rested an arm on the counter, tapping her fingers in feigned impatience as she eavesdropped on the closest conversations. Some of the chatter was a touch lewd for public, but none was damning in a legal sense.

The server was a native Marisian, tall and hearty of frame. Keeled scales glittered across her skin, and gills blossomed behind her ears with each breath. She assessed Vela with shrewd lilac eyes before pulling a dark bottle from the top shelf.

“Camdian Violet,” she said, popping the cork free. “Strong stuff with a soft bite. Perfect for sleeping off blink-lag.”

So, the server was familiar with Phaunids, the only people in the galaxies who could travel between planets sans spacecraft. Vela’s kin adapted swiftly to extreme environs—not swiftly enough to blink long-distance without proper gear, but enough that their organs wouldn’t burst en route. A convenient quality in a business where speed correlated directly to success.

“Well-drinks better suit my budget.” Vela presented her wrist-console for the server to scan. She’d linked it to her civilian account to keep her cover, but Central would reimburse the expenses later. “On second thought, make it second-shelf. I’m in the mood to splurge.”

The server scanned the device but ignored the request, filling a frosted tumbler to the brim. “How about we open a conditional tab?” she asked with the light, playful smile of someone always on the verge of laughing. “You only pay up if you collect your bounty.”

Vela went rigid. Phaunids often stumbled into the hunting business, but it was rare for someone to suss her out so swiftly.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked.” The server nudged the tumbler toward her. “You’re a decent actress—crossing your ankles in a show of class, contradicting it with an arm on the counter. You don’t look like you’re trying to look like anything.” Her eyes sparked with approval. “I wouldn’t have guessed your profession if it weren’t for all those others, sniffing about. Most hounds aren’t half so subtle.”

Vela cursed under her breath. She’d been the last to view the file—the chief allocator had been bitter since she’d broken his capture record three orbits back—but only one crew was capable of beating her to a scene, even with a head start.

And they were the absolute worst.

“How long ago did those hounds pass through?” Vela wrestled her tone into something cordial, unwilling to let her frustration to spill over onto her first potential lead. “And who were they after, exactly?”

The server’s smile tilted. That self-assured expression struck a familiar chord in Vela, though she couldn’t recall where she’d seen it before.

“Tell you what…” She untied her tarpaulin apron, tossing it to a younger Marisian as he slipped behind the counter. “My shift just ended, and it’s been a long one. Drink with me, and I’ll answer whatever questions you’d like. Provided you answer a few of mine.”

So, she was flirting. No wonder her smile set Vela on edge. This server must not have known much about Phaunids after all, or she wouldn’t have bothered wasting her time.

Then again, Vela wasn’t one to spurn an opportunity. Especially if it gave her an edge over Kalis and his pack.

She leaned forward, attempting a coy smirk of her own.

“Sounds like a plan.”