Tempted by Celestial Bodies

Chapter 3

chapter three

Twenty-five million zenna.

It was more than the entire population of Phaunos made in a year, and it was sitting comfortably in Vela’s bank account. The link that revealed as much vanished with a single click. She could find no receipt of transfer, no record of deposit, no evidence of a breach, but she knew exactly where the money had come from. If Central saw the numbers—and they would , next time they paid out a bounty—it would raise a lot of uncomfortable questions.

The last thing Vela needed was to be labeled an accomplice to the very crime she’d set out to avenge.

She logged out of the library database with a frustrated growl, having learned next to nothing in three days of research. The Wanderlings were…enigmatic, to say the least. No one knew which planet they hailed from, though they were sprinkled liberally throughout several galaxies. Their mutative qualities made them difficult to identify, let alone research. Most scholars posited they were an advanced variant of Vela’s people, and that their shifting abilities had evolved from the Phaunids’ own, less flamboyant adaptive traits.

“Advanced,” as it happened, was a subjective term. No, Vela could not morph into other creatures. She could not grow gills to breathe miasma or sprout whiskers to sense electrical currents. But Wanderlings could not bend spacetime to leap between worlds on a whim. If one ever managed to blink, even after taking on a Phaunid’s form, their final transformation would be into a puddle of putrid goo.

Disillusioned by the lack of hard data, Vela sulked toward the library entrance. It had been ages since someone had taken up so much space in her mind, and with so few factors to focus on. She’d nearly reached the locker lounge when she allowed the commotion beyond the picture windows to distract her. Marisians in hooded smocks scrambled in the glow of the streetlamps, holding mesh sacks open to catch falling flecks of green. Whenever a bag filled, they tossed it into a wheeled bin and ripped another from a tear-away roll.

Vela had read about the algal rains which accounted for much of the local diet. They only occurred when the tides were at their “lowest”—a term which had nothing to do with the depth of the miasma and everything to do with its density—leaving the air too thin to hold the clouds aloft.

Feeling inquisitive in the boldest way, Vela left her gear in the locker and marched through three sets of sliding doors to brave the dark of day.

The first breath was agony. It always was.

Miasma evaporated within her, coating her throat with condensation. Each droplet was a tiny, searing ember. She could feel them rolling down her bronchial tubes, pooling like magma in her lungs. For a frantic moment, her limbs leeched cold, and the world went white.

With a few desperate coughs, both the burn and chill subsided. Color returned to the city one garish billboard at a time. Pinpricks swarmed in her fingertips, trailed by comfortable warmth. She wiped miasmic dribble from her satisfied smile. Had she pulled the same stunt at high tide, she might have drowned before adjusting.

Giddy and thrill-drunk, she tipped her head back, hoping to catch the pastel pulse of a zephyr fish or the prismatic twinkle of a cloud jelly drifting through the sky. Unfortunately, the city’s glow drowned the darkness, turning it to a charcoal haze sprinkled with drifting detritus.

Another time, perhaps.

Emboldened by how adaptive she could be, Vela pulled up the city’s business index on her console. If it was a game the Wanderling wanted, she would play by her own rules.

* * *

Even after transferring half the Seriville spoils to Vela’s account, the Wanderling could have afforded an entire fleet of spacecrafts. Why, then, had they allowed a simple shuttle crash to strand them?

Vela could imagine only two possible answers: her target was unable to use the funds without alerting authorities, or they were saving them for a particular purpose. She needed to determine the details if she hoped to thwart her suspect’s scheme.

Tag wasn’t about following a trail, after all, but predicting where it would end.

She blinked to the entrance of Rager’s Rocket Emporium, the only reputable spacecraft dealer in Waldorf’s Cradle. There were plenty of disreputable options, granted, but she suspected the Wanderling was clever enough to avoid them. Honor was a rare commodity among thieves, and the common crooks who ran such enterprises would gain more from betraying their white-collar counterparts than working with them.

Vela steeled herself before stepping through the sliding doors and drinking in the dehumidified air. The sting, though intense, lasted mere seconds before her lungs remembered the atmosphere and adjusted accordingly. With more practice, she would hardly feel the change occurring, though she hoped to see her mission through long before that could happen.

She shook her braids, sprinkling the welcome mat with algae flakes before stepping onto the checked linoleum. Several customers wandered the salesfloor, eying sporty crafts they’d be paying off long after the engines died, but it took a while to find a staff member. The Marisian’s smarmy grin was nearly a welcome sight. Though equally self-important, the Wanderling’s smile had been bright and playful—genuine, even. This one was so slimy it threatened to drip right off the man’s face. His nametag identified him as Rager, the owner.

“I’m interested in one of your window displays.” Vela gestured in the craft’s general direction. “Does the Magellanic Model 6 come in red, by chance?”

It absolutely did…for half-again the list price. Rager eagerly recited every customization the emporium offered as they marched toward the model in question. It was easy enough to steer the conversation toward payment plans, assessing each for how easy it would be to pay with stolen funds.

“The credit-lease option sounds fair, but I’ve been burned before.” Vela tapped her cheekbone in mock contemplation. “I’d be more comfortable knowing it was a common choice. I don’t suppose you’ve made any similar arrangements recently…”

Vela could practically hear a sales register chime inside Rager’s skull. Unfortunately, when he opened his mouth to answer, it was another voice that found her ears.

“Still going with the ‘hapless customer’ routine, are we?”

Vela’s jaw clenched tighter than her fists, but she managed a measured, “It’s been a while, Kalis.”

“Not long enough for you to come up with a new bit, apparently.” Kalis stepped into her periphery, followed by his three loyal lackeys—Pryn, Zyl, and Tarah. “I swear, it’s ploys like these that give bounty hounds a bad reputation.”

“Pretty sure that’s owed to the bribes and intimidation.” Vela glared his way, nose wrinkling. He probably qualified as classically handsome, with sleek black hair, a razor-sharp jawline, and a marble-smooth maroon complexion, but the sight of him brought bile to her throat. “Granted, cheap tricks likely play their part. Or did you somehow find this place without scanning for gravitational waves?”

“If you didn’t create them, I’d have nothing to track,” Kalis replied with a haughty chuckle. “You lean into your advantages, and I’ll make the most of mine. It’s hardly my fault the two are linked.” He turned liquid-amber eyes to the salesman. “I regret to say this ‘customer’ is only fishing for information, and you’ll gain absolutely nothing from biting. Let me peek at your sales logs, however, and you’ll find yourself fifty zenna richer. I sincerely hope that bait is enticing,” he tipped his head toward Pryn, who rolled his sleeves up in a less-than-subtle threat, “because there’s more than one way to skin a trout.”

How Rager crammed so much greed and fear onto his face at once, Vela could only guess. She watched, fuming, as the Marisian ushered Kalis off to continue the conversation. The crew followed like the sycophants they were, though Tarah paused to stick a forked tongue out at Vela. A paragon of maturity, that one.

“Well, he’s a massive prick, isn’t he?”

The quip tugged Vela’s attention to a Marisian mechanic peeking out from behind the hatch of a pre-owned shuttle. His plum eyes and spotted gills were unfamiliar, but there was no mistaking that syrupy voice and playful, lopsided smile.

Vela raced forward as the Wanderling ducked behind the spacecraft. By the time she rounded the shuttle, her target was gone.