Crooked V.2: Crooked Anthologies, #2

CROOKED V.2

A SCIENCE FICTION CRIME ANTHOLOGY

EDITED BY

JESSIE KWAK

©2022 Jessie Kwak Creative LLC and the respective contributors.

EDITOR

Jessie Kwak

COVER IMAGE

Photograph by NeoStock

Cover design by Jessie Kwak and Robert Kittilson

ORNAMENTAL BREAK

Elements by Freepik and Good Ware from www.flaticon.com.

PUBLISHER

Bad Intentions Press

Portland, OR, USA

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

For more information, please visit: jessiekwak.com/crooked

CONTENTS

Introduction

Narrow EscApe

by Maddi Davidson

Renegade Havoc

by C.E. Clayton

Sparrow

by G.J. Ogden

A Cruel Cyber Summer Night

by Austin Dragon

Risk Management

by Caitlin Demaris McKenna

SolarMute

by Jim Keen

Ion Hunter

by E.L. Strife

Ace in the Hole

by Kate Sheeran Swed

The Silent Passage

by Patrick Swenson

Case City Cowboy

by Greg Dragon

The Crimson Vial

by William Burton McCormick

Terminal Sunset

by Erik Grove

Do-Ye0n Performs a Cost-Benefit Analysis on a Career Based on Questionable Activities

by Mark Niemann-Ross

The Western Oblique Job

by Mark Teppo

Last Chance

by Jessie Kwak

Martian Scuttle

by Andrew Sweet

Good as Gold

by Frasier Armitage

Love & Pickpockets

by R J Theodore

Contributor Bios

More Sci-Fi Crime

INTRODUCTION

Welcome to CROOKED V.2, the second installment in the Crooked anthology series. We had so much fun with volume one that I couldn’t help but do it again.

In this volume you’ll find eighteen more stories of mayhem, tangled loyalties, and space crime.

Easy jobs go wrong. Hunted bounties get wily. Mysteries are solved, only to lead to more horrifying mysteries.

Sometimes the bad guys win, sometimes the good guys do. And, hey. It’s a crime anthology. Most of the time it’ll be pretty damn hard to tell the two apart.

The folks in these stories are just trying to do their best—or not—in a morally gray world.

The goal of the Crooked anthology series is to introduce you, the reader, to authors who are currently writing sci-fi crime stories. Many of the stories in this collection are set in larger universes, which means that if you read something you like, you’ll find plenty more in that author’s catalogue to keep you busy.

To help you discover work you’ll love, I’m trying something a little different than most anthologies. While you can certainly read the stories in order from beginning to end, I’ve also included Pick Your Poison prompts at the end of each story. Whether you finish a story and think, Hell yeah, I want more of this! or Let’s try a different flavor of sci-fi crime, use the prompts to find your next story.

Or, just turn the page.

(You can also head to jessiekwak.com/bad-intentions to take a story recommendation quiz based on your favorite sci fi and crime shows.)

Whether you’re picking up this anthology because you like the premise or to read a story by an author you already love, you’re sure to discover a new author or two you’ll dig. Don’t forget to follow the links at the end of each story for goodies, giveaways, and even more stories from the seedy underbelly of the Science Fiction shelf.

And if you want even more sci-fi crime in your life, head to jessiekwak.com/bad-intentions to pick up your copy of CROOKED V.1.

Have fun out there,

Jessie Kwak

September 27, 2022

NARROW ESCAPE

A TASTEE BRIOCHE TWISTLETOE STORY

BY MADDI DAVIDSON

Mining orsothium on Galina 552 meant crawling along dark tunnels, breathing foul air, and using antiquated laser drills to extract the ore from surrounding rocks, all of which played hell on my manicure. When the whistle sounded, I took the tram to the mine’s entrance and trudged the quarter-mile to the main building, my excitement growing with each step.

After stumbling into the women’s locker room, I sat on a bench next to a large metal laundry bin and heaved a deep sigh as if I were exhausted. Verna Smootz, the gods bless her little heart, sat next to me.

You okay, Smelda?

I’m fine, Verna. Need to rest a moment. Please don’t let me keep you from getting cleaned up.

I’m okay. I’ll keep you company.

Damn.

Verna prattled on about her dinner plans for her boyfriend as coworkers ripped off their overalls, shoved them in laundry bins, and sauntered into the shower area. About half the shift had departed when I reached into my pocket and pressed a button on a remote control.

And of course I’ll serve organic slugs for an appetizer, Verna said.

The sound of a distant rumble from an explosion deep in the mine penetrated the walls of the locker room.

What’s tha–– Verna started to say when blasts two and three near the mine’s entrance rocked the building.

Amidst the cacophony of screams, shrieks, and wails, I added my voice. Run for your lives! I yelled.

Verna took off toward the showers as the smoke bomb I’d placed earlier under a locker room bench detonated. I dove into the laundry bin, whacking my left knee, but thrilled at the near perfection of the blasts––music to my ears. Or it would be once they stopped ringing.

Tossing out the dirty overalls, I made quick work of the false bottom, which hid the stash of orsothium nuggets I’d pinched over the past month. Moments later, I extricated myself from the bin and hobbled toward the showers, babying my sore, bruised knee.

Security protocol required miners to remove their boots and strip off the company-provided clothing before using the communal showers. Since orsothium was one of the rarest and priciest metals in the galaxy at 500č per gram, fine filters were used to capture the ortho-dust from the clothing and shower waste water. Exiting the shower room, miners encountered security guards and a top-of-the-line body scanning machine, lest anyone try to smuggle nuggets out in their orifices or hair. During my first week on the job, a woman stuffed a miniscule nugget into a tooth which had a hole but no filling. The body scan picked up the metal. A diligent guard pried her jaw open and extracted both tooth and nugget, not for the first time. As a consequence, Gummy Glenda lost her last molar.

The female guards had fled so I bypassed the scanner and entered the dressing room. I expected the area to be empty, but a dozen women who were unwilling to run naked through the building were putting on clothes. A handful, placing beauty before imminent death, were applying makeup.

I grabbed my small, hardside suitcase out of a locker, dumped the nuggets inside, and pressed the fire alarm button, just to add to the confusion.

Stepping into the building’s lobby, I encountered a scene of pure bedlam. Dozens of guards, responding from across the compound, were pouring into the building. Suspecting the blasts had been a diversionary tactic to cover up a theft––even a trained ape could figure that out––security personnel were tackling anyone who moved. I limped toward an emergency exit but one of those apes intercepted me. Literally. A 300-lb trained gorilla held me in a bear hug––I know, I’m mixing metaphors.

I slipped a hand into my pocket and pressed the second button on the remote.

I submit to you that a mix of decomposing body, rotten eggs, the spray from a skunk’s anal gland, and odeur de men’s locker room can be considered no more than an unpleasant odor as compared to the gag-inducing stench of cirax feces. And why, you might ask, am I mentioning the cirax, the elephant-sized carrion eater from the Epsilon Eridani system? Because I’d arranged for cirax poop extract in sealed canisters to be hidden in the air ducts of the building. Pressing the remote control opened the containers.

Knowing a gods-awful smell would fill the building and lacking a severe head cold to block my sinuses, I closed my eyes and held my breath. I heard rather than saw the convulsing and retching around me. Note to self: carry a small spray can of odeur de cirax in case of unpleasant dating encounters.

When the gorilla’s grasp loosened, I wiggled away, reached into my case, and pulled out a full-face gas mask. Everyone in the lobby was incapacitated, most still heaving. They’d be out of action for days. I tossed few smoke bombs to cloud the picture for anyone looking in from outside, made my way to a fire exit, and edged out.

I love when my scathingly brilliant plans work.

My birth name is Tastee Brioche Twistletoe and no, I don’t know what my parents were thinking, though it may have been a reflection on their extreme dedication to carbohydrates of the French persuasion. In the Dark Space metaverse I’m known by many monikers, but I would have changed my name even if I weren’t a thief.

I was six years old when my father left my mother for another woman: one who would not be as wedded––so to speak––to a lavish lifestyle. Mother says we were left destitute, her opinion of possessing merely two homes, a half-dozen large diamonds, 40,000 shares of Interspace Ships Ltd., and three bank accounts. Mother believed she had little choice but to turn to crime to augment our meager assets.

She specialized in fleecing older men. In possession of elfin features, a helpless mien, artificial lashes she batted often and coquettishly, and no mercy, she siphoned off millions of caloos from a series of rich men. Even when they realized she’d left them with depleted bank accounts, few of her victims were angry with her, believing the poor, sweet little thing too innocent to rob them blind by design. As one might expect, Mother’s success required her socially backward and awkward child––me––be stowed out of the way, say, in a boarding school on an isolated planet near the edge of the galaxy with no regular spaceship service.

When cosmetic surgery and the application of makeup with a trowel became insufficient to mask her advancing age, my mother retired from her lucrative career. She brought me home and began teaching me the principles of the con. Mother expected that I, her sole offspring, would devote my life to keeping her in the lifestyle she deserved. To her great disappointment my gawkiness and clumsiness had increased rather than abated as I grew: regularly spilling food and drink, tripping on level ground, and careening into priceless and breakable antiques. Nevertheless she persevered, instructing me on how to assume a persona and use appropriate makeup, mannerisms, and clothing to support the mirage. She guided me in the ways of a femme fatale; how to make men drool at my beck and call. I tried, but despite my best efforts, only dogs drooled––Bassett Hounds loved me. After a while, Mother gave up, acknowledging that her flat-chested daughter with fly-away hair, a pot belly, and the legs of an anorectic stork would never be irresistible to men.

I made my way to the Hauler Maintenance Building and slipped inside to change. I shed my boots and the foul-smelling mining suit, and—bare for all the world to see—stooped to retrieve my clothes from the bag.

From behind me came an appreciative sigh. A little skinny, but I don’t mind.

I pulled my clenched hands out of the bag, stood, and turned to find a grease monkey leering at me. No, not a simian. This one was human and wearing oil-stained overalls labeled Mechanic.

He licked his lips and took a step toward me.

I smiled, licked my lips, took a step toward him.

A flicker of uncertainty passed over his face a moment before I raised my right arm and electroshocked his jewels. His family jewels.

Five hours later I sat in a booth in a shadowy corner of a hoity-toity bar. To be clear, hoity-toity on this planet meant the operators guaranteed no vermin of the non-human kind would be found on the premises, alive. I’d assumed the disguise of a young male: bulky jacket and black pants, five o’clock shadow (paste on), bushy mustache (also paste on), and wet, foul-smelling boots. (I’d been leaning against a tree across the street waiting for my contact to enter the bar when a stray ghink––think porcupine-wolf hybrid––relieved itself against the aforementioned tree, and me.) I sipped eighteen-year-old fermented floraldehyde. My companion, who called himself Red Eye––don’t ask me why, his eyes were dark brown like mine––discretely assayed the nuggets I’d stashed in a rubber-lined satchel. (I’d had to ditch the suitcase because of the lingering cirax odor. Fortunately, the nuggets and my clothes smelled no worse than sweat. My boots, though, were another matter.)

With a small dropper, Red Eye extracted hydrochloric acid from a bottle and dispensed the solution onto the nuggets to ascertain their purity. Satisfied with the results, he closed the satchel and passed a small navy string bag to me under the table.

Red Eye drank his expensive bourbon, imported from Earth, and I examined the contents of the money bag.

You’re short, I said after rummaging inside to ensure the bag contained nothing but currency. This can’t be more than 50,000 caloos. The deal was for 75,000č.

You promised the goods would be delivered last month, he retorted.

You promised me an accurate report on the security systems, but the scanners I found were several generations newer than what you’d stated.

We warned you the information was six months old and we were not responsible for any subsequent changes to the situation. However, since the scanner upgrade caused you additional trouble, you may have another 8,000č­­­­, which I’ll send to you after I’m off this planet.

Like I’d ever see the money. 10,000č, I countered. You’ll pay me now and I’ll show you the fake nugget in which I’ve hidden a tracking device. The police would just love to know the frequency.

Red Eye sneered as he reached in to his jacket and pulled out five bank-issued packets, which he placed on the table. 10,000č.

I flipped through a packet before gathering the remainder and shoving them inside my jacket.

There is no tracker; I lied about the nugget, I said.

Red Eye rose. His face flushed crimson and bright red flecks appeared in his irises. Fearing he would kill me then and there, I reached for a girl’s best friend, my electroshocker.

Our business is done, he said, although his tone suggested otherwise. He stalked out.

Hoisting my glass with a cheerful, Here’s to another successful theft seemed inappropriate, so I finished off the fermented floraldehyde. I planned to skedaddle out by the back door to avoid Red Eye, expecting he or a compatriot would be lying in wait to hasten my demise and recover the money.

As I stood, the left side of my mustache came loose. Damn. I hadn’t used enough spirit gum. Raising my hand to press the mustache back in place, I knocked my drink off the table. The shattering glass caused twenty heads to swivel in my direction. So much for a discreet departure.

I limped my way out the door, caught the first public skimmer I could, disembarked two stops later, and boarded another one traveling in a different direction. One hundred meters down the road, the vehicle broke down. I hopped on yet another skimmer, sat in the back, and kept an eye on the traffic behind the vehicle for signs I was being followed.

Red Eye worked for a criminal organization known as Nemo Loquitur or No One Speaks. Its operations never left witnesses. No doubt Red Eye had plans to eliminate Armani Q. O’Really––my current alias. Since no one appeared to be on my tail, I had to consider Red Eye had inserted a tracker in the bag or packets. I examined each credit chip and soon found the small device. The slimeball had counted on me demanding more money and had slipped the tracker into one of the bank packets, to which I’d given only a cursory inspection.

I pulled out a black shopping tote into which I transferred most of the money. I left the tracer stuffed under a seat, gave 500č to a young woman for her coat, and another 500č to an older woman for her hat. Leaving the astonished passengers behind, I disembarked.

Lacking any curves, the femme fatale role was not the best use of my skills. However, because of my figure, or lack thereof, I had the advantage of being able to pass as a man—up to a point. Mother focused her lessons on how I could alter my appearance, mannerisms, and speech to appear male. She called in favors and hired experts from whom I learned how to hack security systems, create and handle explosives, and master other basics of thievery. However, Mother’s greatest contribution to my professional career was her insistence on meticulous planning for every contingency.

What happens if your explosives don’t work, or someone recognizes you, or you are caught in the act? Any moment you might have to flee. How are you going to ditch whomever you might be with, leave the area, and make your way off the planet? How will you cover your tracks? Where will you go and for how long? What new persona will you assume? You must not enter any room, travel on any conveyance, or walk down any street unless you know how you will escape.

My first job, overseen by Mother, took me to Zebedsneezer, a planet in the backwaters of the Gliese 357 system. Like many rural planets, Zeb did not trade in credit: all transactions were done in caloo chips. With Mother’s help in planning, I knocked over the spaceport, earning 220,000č for Mother’s upkeep—with one minor complication. Engaging in a bit of misdirection, I sent my suitcase on a ship I had no plans on taking. However, I forgot to remove my Interstellar Passport. In order to leave the planet, I had to stow away on an industrial transport, enduring a seventy-five day journey, which takes three days on a passenger ship. On the bright side, I did lose a pesky ten pounds.

On the next operation, I snared 25,000č from a casino on Pantpansynog before entering the wrong hotel room: 635 instead of 536. It’s a mistake anyone could make. The occupants, a half-dozen male soldiers on shore leave, weren’t too drunk or drugged to recognize an opportunity when she stepped across the threshold. I tossed money into the air to buy time to retreat, returning home with a mere 8,000 caloo.

My next job in Hendrerwydd netted me 12,000č and a month in the hospital for an intestinal worm my physician said was a record-breaking length––eww.

Mother declared me free to rob the galaxy without her help and asked I spare her the details of my jobs . . . and constant muck-ups. Since then I’ve worked alone, including my current caper. I was not in league with Red Eye.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

A tenet of my profession is don’t operate in your backyard and don’t let others, either. However, a number of major thefts on planets where Mother owned property drew the attention of the Stellar Police. When the police started turning over rocks, one never knew what they might find and I feared their efforts might uncover sensitive information about Mother’s past, or mine.

 Reports and rumors floating in Dark Space pointed to Nemo Loquitur being the force behind the thefts. Working through back channels under the name Armani Q. O’Really, I secured a contract with Nemo Loquitur to steal two kilos of orsothium. I intended to bring Nemo Loquitur to the attention of the police, and perhaps earn a bit of money while doing so.

Escaping a planet after a major heist is often the trickiest part of a job. Searching for the reputed orsothium thief, spaceport security would be eyeing every passenger on public or private spaceship. I suspected Red Eye had his own ship and had bribed several officials to ensure smooth passage through security. I planned to disrupt his arrangements.

One of the first orders of business when arriving on a new planet is to hire help: those who have been on the wrong side of the law and don’t fear it. My teenage associates––two boys and a girl––had placed the eau de cirax in the airducts of the Locker Room Building. Now, as I used a high powered scope from afar to keep watch on the private spacecraft terminal, they were parked by the edge of the terminal, pretending to work on a vehicle that had stalled.

When Red Eye stepped out of large skimmer with his entourage, I sent a signal to my team. The boys tossed cirax extract cannisters at Red Eye’s feet and dove into the getaway skimmer, which, under the direction of the girl, had miraculously started. I triggered the opening of the containers. The effect was instantaneous. People collapsed like axed trees. Panic ensued in those who witnessed the effect, but were far enough away to not be affected, yet. Airport personnel ran toward the victims and joined the fallen.

I hoped the incident would draw the scrutiny of security personal who hadn’t been bribed by Red Eye. Perhaps his capture would lead them to his employers.

I didn’t wait to observe the outcome, but headed for my own ride out of town. I’d plopped down money to ensure passage in a cargo ship ferrying, among other items, a half dozen trained gorillas. It was the perfect cover; I’d arranged for a private cage and procured a gorilla costume. We were ready to go when, at the last minute, calamity struck.

I should have known the caper had gone too smoothly.

Three extra gorillas boarded and the loadmaster placed another female in my cage. Worse: she was in estrus, the males knew it, and the cages were flimsy.

Thank the gods I’d packed my gas mask and the last canister of cirax poop.

Narrow EscApe is the first story in a planned series of Tastee Brioche Twistletoe adventures.

Read more free short stories at maddidavidson.com/bitch-and-chips

Pick Your Poison

1. I love me a good heist—but can you somehow dial up the weird? Head to Terminal Sunset by Erik Grove

2. I’m ready to join the crew. Head to The Western Oblique Job by Mark Teppo

3. Jobs gone wrong is so my jam. Turn the page to read Renegade Havoc by C.E. Clayton

RENEGADE HAVOC

A EERDEN STORY

BY C.E. CLAYTON

Just think about it, yeah?

For the past few weeks, that was exactly what Pema Tran tried not to do. Ellinor’s voice was like a fucking earworm that no cigarette or case of beer could drown.

She refused to believe Ellinor’s words of caution about her boss. Pema had worked for Cosmin von Brandt most of her adult life after he paid her bail following another fight at a synth-club—one she hadn’t even started. Cosmin never explained why he paid her bail. Only that he recognized talent when he saw it and wanted to offer her a job in his organization: smuggling illegal, weaponized magitech throughout the city-state of Euria.

Pema didn’t have anyone else at that point; her family was either dead or had cut her off. She was far too broke to say no to a job, even one that could get her more jail time than any of her brawls ever could. Cosmin had found Pema when she was two steps away from making a living on the toxic ground level of Euria without an air filtration unit. He had saved her, and had given her more than a job. He’d given her a purpose again, and, through working with him, Pema met the love of her life: Talin Roxas.

Pema owed Cosmin more than just her life.

She made a discontented growl deep in her throat and glanced around her cubicle apartment. It was the same small space she and Talin had shared when they first moved in together, back when they were still part of Ellinor’s crew, before she’d left Cosmin’s organization.

They had no windows in their two-room unit. This low in the sky-tower apartments, they wouldn’t have had a view of anything anyway. Instead, there were two holo-windows on opposite walls in the main room that served as everything except their bedroom. Each holo-window showed a soundless scene of the city from higher up, above the pollution where the grimy air didn’t hide the glitter of neon. Pema could have set it to anything: forests, beaches . . . But those vistas weren’t as real or comforting to her as a bustling city. The mauve walls hadn’t changed since they moved in, either. Pema never did get around to patching the dent that Ellinor had made when she tripped over the second-hand sofa, drunk and laughing.

Pema sighed, and dropped her gaze to the concrete flooring.

Ellinor popping back up had complicated things, leaving their crew fractured all over again in ways that could never be repaired. And Pema hated complicated.

Now Talin was starting to question things she never had before. Like if Cosmin saving Pema had really been as fortuitous, as coincidental as she had originally thought. Pema didn’t agree with that. Cosmin got nothing from pulling Pema out of jail when he did. He had given her a chance to be more, be better than just some angry drunk prowling the synth-clubs for the rest of her life. But Talin kept wondering if Ellinor had been right to get out of Cosmin’s organization.

That didn’t go so hot for her, remember?

Pema lit a cigarette and put it to her lips, inhaling deeply. She shut her eyes, trying to escape the images that burned behind her eyelids of what happened when you quit on Cosmin, or, worse, betrayed him.

Pema was still furious at Ellinor. If she had never left Cosmin in the first place, Talin never would have gotten nearly killed on a botched delivery run. Her crew, her friends, would all still be working with Cosmin and things would still be good. But no. Ellinor had to go and complicate things . . .

Pema had leaned more into her vices—smoking and drinking—to help dull the edge of her anger, much to Talin’s chagrin. Who, instead, lost herself in her work in order to avoid reality. But Pema didn’t have her girlfriend’s acumen for explosive work.

Talin could lose days in her workshop, forgetting to eat or drink entirely if Pema didn’t go in and check on her. Talin had a real talent for taking pieces of junk, malfunctioning pieces of smart tech, and making them go BOOM in ways Pema would never have thought possible. Give Talin an hour, a seatbelt, a handful of broken cybernetic enhancers, and an empty beer can, and she could bring down a hypersonic plane like it was easy. Talin was one of Cosmin’s most valued explosives experts, but despite that, Cosmin did not excuse Talin from witnessing the punishment that awaited traitors. Talin preferred to work long hours in her workshop after rather than risk the image of such torture plaguing her in her sleep.

Pema slapped the side of her head with the palm of her hand a few times to put an end to her spiraling thoughts. She took another long drag on her cigarette and held the smoke in her lungs until they started to burn, before slowly exhaling and getting to her feet.

Stretching, she moved to the cloudy mirror on the far wall of the bedroom and gave herself a long, hard stare in the mirror.

Traitors deserve what they get, you follow me, Pema? Cosmin takes care of those who take care of him. And you, Pema, you take care of the boss. Got it? Her voice was deep and gravelly, a bit more hoarse than normal with the recent nights of shitty sleep, but she liked to believe the pep talks were working.

Those purple bags under her narrow, rich brown eyes were definitely not because of the image of Talin nearly getting killed haunting her dreams. Those extra streaks of grey in her long black hair definitely did not have anything to do with the torment she witnessed Cosmin doling out. That ashen twinge to her bronze-hued olive skin was definitely not because she had replaced most meals with bottles of beer. And those extra lines around her thin lips and brows were definitely not from scowling all the time.

No, the pep talks were definitely working.

You, she said, jabbing a finger into her reflection on each word as if that would help solidify the words. "Do not. Fuck. With. Cosmin. You owe him."

Then, as if her words manifested the man himself, her communicator chimed: I have a job for you and your charming girlfriend, my dear.

Despite her churning stomach, a spark of hope and relief clawed up from her gut to warm her chest. She was quick to respond in the affirmative, then stubbed out her cigarette on the way out of her apartment. Pema practically ran down the hallway, its moldy stains blurring into one greenish yellow streak, toward the rusty service elevator that would take her to Talin’s workshop.

The elevator doors opened, and she darted down a new hall identical to the one on her floor. Pema stopped outside a narrow door and checked the hallway to make sure no one was snooping before slipping inside. Forced to walk sideways down the musty, steel hallway, she had to squeeze behind the building's air purifier before getting to Talin’s office.

It would have been safer for Talin to have a workshop in Cosmin’s mansion, but he didn’t want to have Talin’s activities so obviously linked to him and his work. Which, sure, made sense. But it still seemed dangerous for Talin to do her work next to such a vital piece of technology for the whole of their complex. Cosmin wouldn’t even let Talin operate from one of the money laundering businesses he had spread throughout Euria.

Plausible deniability. You know better than to question that shit, she scolded herself as she stepped up to the reinforced, metal door.

Pema punched in her private code to enter Talin’s workshop without thinking about it, realizing too late that she should have absolutely let her girlfriend know ahead of time that she was on her way. The automatic door hissed up, and the smell of burning rubber slammed its acrid fist into Pema’s nose, squeezing the air from her lungs.

Sputtering, she flung an arm over her face and gasped, Babe, air filters! before a fit of coughing overtook her completely.

Talin poked her head up, but all Pema could see through her blurring vision was the black, helmeted mask Talin wore. There was a muffled curse, the clanky, industrial fans and purifiers kicked in, and the smell of burning rubber was replaced with a cool ozone scent so full of static energy that the hair on Pema’s arms stood on end. She stumbled inside, coughing a few more times for good measure, then the automatic doors closed behind her. Ripping off her breathing apparatus, Talin caught Pema before she could knock anything explosive off the cluttered tables.

Love, we talked about this, Talin chastised, but it was more out of habit, and there was no real heat in her smoky voice.

Pema blinked the tears from her eyes and looked up at her athletically tall girlfriend. Talin’s jade green eyes were as bright as neon, shining as always with delight whenever Pema was around even if she pretended to be annoyed. Her smooth, deep ebony skin was dewy with sweat that glistened most noticeably on her skull, shining through the barely-there black fuzz. But her dark lips were turned up in a soft smile, her round cheeks making her eyes crinkle with the grin.

Pema couldn’t help herself; she stood on her toes and gave Talin a gentle kiss on those incredibly soft, full lips.

Talin’s eyes fluttered, half closing as she pulled back slightly. What’re you doing here? Not that I’m not happy to see you, but, you know, Talin said, waving vaguely to the random pieces of tech strewn about the steel tables.

Pema took a deep breath, committing Talin’s soft smile to memory before she took it away with her news. Cosmin’s got a job for us.

They waited until the service bot had left them in the vehicle depot. Only when they were alone, piling into the sleek, black transport, did either relax enough to fully exhale. The first step to the operation completed without being picked up on a government spy drone. So far, so good.

Something feels off to me, Talin whispered.

Pema shrugged, waving her fob over the ignition and initiating the virtual intelligence auto-driver. Seems standard to me. A simple drop and exchange. How’s this any different than the stuff Cosmin’s had us do a million times before?

Talin rolled her big green eyes, picking at her lower lip. "Right, sure, that was the stuff we did when we were grunts, new little babies. We haven’t done runs like this for decades, love. Haven’t needed to since you ranked up, since Cosmin regulated me to arms and explosions. You’re a sergeant, Pema. You don’t send people like us do these drops. But hey, for argument's sake, let’s pretend this still fits our job description."

Talin’s voice rose an octave as she spoke, her words coming out in a rush to where Pema couldn’t get a word in even if she did know what to say. "Cosmin’s sending one o’ his generals on this run with us. To man the op from the ground. Why? It’s dumb as shit. Too risky for someone who’s spent centuries as the undisputed king of magitech smuggling. Something about all this is different, and Cosmin doesn’t do different when it comes to his shit. Not without reason."

Silence as thick as oil slithered between them, only broken when Talin added, Is he cutting us loose? Because of Ell?

Pema kept her eyes on the road, even though she didn’t need to. The auto-driver was handling everything, programmed ahead of time by Cosmin himself to take them where they needed to be so no one could leak the location. But there was a feeling in Pema’s gut of perpetually falling, and she worried that if she looked at her girlfriend, even for a second, Talin would see her concern.

So she forced a chuckle and hoped it didn’t sound like a cough. "You know the boss wouldn’t do that, babe, and you know why? Because Ellinor lost her damn mind, accusing Cosmin of setting her and her man up. Her grief, I don’t know, it fucked with her head or something. Sure, it was shitty how Cosmin made her come back, but if he was really worried about us, Cosmin wouldn’t have had his medical team patch us up good as new after she ran off. Again. He’d have—well. You know what he’d have done instead. You feel me? Pema took a deep breath, unclenching her fingers from around the steering console, and made an effort to relax. We’re loyal as fuck. This run? It’s because he trusts us to kick ass. Maybe it’s a test, you follow? she added quickly, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively, trying to get Talin to smile. Like he wants to see how we do before promoting us?"

I don’t know about all that, but . . . Talin crossed her arms over her chest and snorted. Shit, I don’t know. I just think Ell may o’ been on to something.

Just think about it, yeah?

Pema fished a cigarette out of the command console, masking her sigh of frustration by placing the cig to her lips and lighting it. "Come off it, Talin. We owe Cosmin. I owe him. Without Cosmin getting me when he did . . . She shook her head, expression hardening. No. Cosmin knows we’re not like Ellinor. Fuck her."

Pema exhaled a cloud of smoke, and her shoulders sagged under her girlfriend’s disapproving glare. "Look, babe, no way Cosmin would cut us loose. Not us. Not now. If he thought, even for a minute that we were anything like Ellinor, he’d have gladly let us both die when we got back to the city. But he healed me, he had his docs heal you and then immediately put us back to work! Nah, no way is he demoting us or whatever, not when he’s given us so much. She bit off her words before she could add: Not when working for him brought me to you."

She squeezed Talin’s knee. No way would he partner us with the top echelon in the organization, and send us to the same distribution team he’s used for decades, if he had any doubts about what side we play for. You know that.

"You know that’s not what I meant," Talin grumbled in response. She rubbed a hand back and forth over her closely shorn hair, then sighed, shrugging her thin shoulders noncommittally, and said no more. Pema couldn’t spend more time trying to convince her girlfriend that everything was fine, that Cosmin had only survived this long because he planned eight steps ahead and all their trepidation could be explained simply by them not seeing the bigger picture. It was a conversation she would need to have with