If there was one thing Ed appreciated, it was living the high life—especially when someone else was footing the bill. Though, he noticed one day at the spa, it wasn’t quite as much fun if the benefactor was aware of the arrangement. Lars claimed the Coalition would cover everything, and Ed planned to test that. Ever the professional, he made do despite the hardships.
His suite was at the right social stratum in the Crystal Palace. There were more important people above him, and far more less important people below. Ed enjoyed the finery lavished on him. As van Tassel, his assumed identity’s family carried enough social weight to ensure a more than comfortable stay at the Palace.
Fredricks was a dutiful personal valet. Ed wasn’t sure about his history or where Lars found him, but the man played his role perfectly. He was a master at anticipating what Ed needed as a van Tassel.
Ed had swept the suite for any recording devices and found several passive ones embedded within the suite’s walls, ceiling, and door frames. None of them had been active. After weighing the risks, Ed left them in place without tampering with them. Should his hosts check the equipment, he didn’t want to raise suspicions. But that meant not knowing if or when anyone would active the equipment and investigate his activities. Ed couldn’t let his facade down for a second. He was Rodrigo van Tassel every moment of the day.
Two days before the race, his personal chef served him his usual breakfast. Ed cracked his soft-boiled egg with a well-practiced tap from his spoon. Inside floated a red datachip. Expertly, Ed scooped up just the chip, mimicked eating the contents, and dabbed his mouth to transfer it to his left hand. Until he knew just how alert the Crystal Palace’s internal security really was, he was going to play these kinds of games of subterfuge and misdirection. Kept his skills sharp, if nothing else.
Today was already looking up. On that datachip, Ed knew his ship’s pit crew had obtained the information he wanted: read-outs on every single ship entering the race. As soon as he could, Ed would review the data in a public space. His distrust of his private quarters being private only grew stronger the longer he stayed.
The constant surveillance was more of an annoyance to Ed than a real hindrance. He knew the Palace had vidcams and audio pickups scattered around the entire compound. With most of those, he let himself be seen and heard as he stayed at the Palace. The worst thing for him to do was to look suspicious.
Jhon Castilla had been impossible to meet. While as Rodrigo van Tassel, Ed had a lot of pull, he didn’t have quite enough to get an audience with the Merchant Prince now, what with so many more important people coming and going. The prince used the race as an opportunity to strike deals, cement relationships, form mutually beneficial alliances with many that came to see the event. The van Tassel family didn’t rank high enough. Ed would have to try a different approach to schedule an audience with the Prince.
The Palace offered countless diversions to the guests. Ed thanked Lady Fortune that gambling was one of the real Rodrigo’s favorite pastimes. He played the tables each night as Rodrigo, careful not to win too much and to lose just enough to play the role.
The dossier Lars had assembled for him allowed Ed to mingle with acquaintances of the van Tassel family and pass himself off as the real thing. No one had asked more than just superfluous questions about the family, questions Ed fielded easily and glibly.
Ed stuck to Rodrigo’s schedule; breakfast late morning at the suite, a quick dip in the pool for several laps, a light fencing and sparring session before a late lunch, a few hours of race-course study at the suite, a check-in with his crew at the hangars. The rest of the evening until the early hours was spent engaged with other guests at various clubs, dining establishments, and gambling halls.
Ed had seen other followers of Lady Luck working the crowds—mostly doing small item liberation from wealthy patrons who could lose a hundred times over before noticing anything amiss. He saw a few at games of chance carefully stacking luck in their favor. He made sure to avoid them without making it obvious he was avoiding them. The last thing he needed here and now was to have a run-in with a fellow follower. Revealing himself to another follower could easily blow his cover, but not saying or doing anything could leave him in a difficult position. Unlike his persona, Ed didn’t have endless funds to draw upon should he find his purse much lighter than before, and that would raise more than a few eyebrows if he suddenly was no longer able to pay for the night’s diversions. Lars’s assurances that the Coalition would cover any expenses notwithstanding, Ed would have no quick recourse to correct the situation. It wasn’t like he could waltz over to the nearest banker and ask for an exorbitant amount—and could they just charge the Coalition directly, please and thank you. No, it was in his best interest not to be on any of the Lady’s followers’ radar at all.
The dirt Ed gathered could have set him up for life in easy blackmail schemes. One thing that never failed to amaze him was how the rich were always seeking pleasure and spectacle—at almost any cost and without much regard of the consequences. But no one seemed to tie back to Legion. Just the normal petty sins of humanity.
Ed paused in one of the grand hallways when he realized he was viewing some human actions as sins. Before now, he had seen them as nothing more than vices, no more moral weight than virtues according to Fortune. Sure, there were consequences, both positive and negative, but that didn’t impart any sort of moral standing with or against the other. Ed sat down on one of the plush chairs scattered around and stared at the crystalline wall without seeing the dance of lights in it as he wrestled with this sudden change in his interior mental landscape. He blamed that monk and his readings. One of the worst aspects was he suddenly, and without warning, starting to question his own worldview.
Ed followed the path of Lady Fortune his entire life. He never gave it a second thought if he was doing anything wrong, while knowing he wasn’t acting in alignment with the social morals. But those rules seemed arbitrary, especially when they conflicted with what he wanted. But now—
“Rod! Rodrigo!”
Ed looked up, his thoughts interrupted. He fell back into his role almost without thought. “Lads!”
Ed, as Rodrigo, had made some acquaintances during his carousing. Milton, Elias, and Devon were young men about his age and social status, with family fortunes they were spending without a thought. Easy marks. Well, they would have been if Ed were just there to line his pockets. Instead, he used them as cover and for insider information.
Milton Jansen never seemed to fit his bespoke suits. He was the tallest of the four by a couple of inches. His limbs always seemed to be out of sync with each other as he ambled along with a slight hitch to his stride. His blond hair never stayed in place for very long; by the end of most evenings it was sticking up as if he had jammed a fork into an electric outlet. His family had made their money, and a lot of it, in shipping. Milton was boisterous and gregarious even when stone-cold sober. He was the fourth and last child. Surprisingly, he wasn’t spoiled beyond tolerance. Always free with his family’s wealth, Milton often bought rounds for the crew, more so after he himself was deep into his cups.
Elias Rookwood was almost the opposite. Shorter, darker hair, he wore his suits like a glove. Though he wasn’t a pilot himself, Elias owned the ship ‘Moonstone Blues’, a present from his father for making Vice-President of Operations last year at the family heavy vehicle plant. Elias was in love with racing and the racing ships, always talking about them, reading about them, watching highlights from previous races, and asking Ed about his own racing ship. Ed never gave him much information before diverting his attention elsewhere, usually to the public statistics on the other racing ships. Ed didn’t mind discussing those, and Elias was just as happy to focus on their opponents as he was to talk about Ed’s ship. Still, behind Elias’s monomania was a sharp mind. His blue eyes never missed much around him.
Devon Gorman was the shortest of the three. He carried himself with what Ed could only call a cat-like grace. Thin, but not ungainly like Elias, his dark hair was even more slicked back and lustrous than Elias’s. He tended to blink slowly and deliberately when engaged in conversation. Devon seemed to be only vaguely present with the crew, while at other times he evinced a diamond-like clarity about his companions before lapsing back into his normal quasi-somnolent state. On rare occasions, Devon broke into a large smile when something amused him greatly. Like a Cheshire cat, Ed thought to himself. He wasn’t sure what Devon’s family did. Vaguely something with imports. Or warehouses. Devon was never specific.
Any one of them would have been a ripe target for Ed’s skills. Instead, he actually spent time with them just to spend time. He found it to be strangely appealing. He wondered—maybe for the first time in his life—what it would be like to have friends. All those who followed Lady Fortune didn’t see even each other as more than resources to use when needed. Friendships were chinks in the armor, leverage someone else could exploit.
Not that under normal circumstances would Ed have been friends with this lot. He enjoyed their company, but there was a gulf between him and them that he knew would never be crossed. And after this job was over, Ed would disappear from their lives as if he had never existed. In some ways, that would be true.
Fictional Rodrigo stood up and smiled at the others.
“Looked like you were a bit lost, old chap,” Milton said while lightly punching Ed on the shoulder.
Ed laughed. “Just running the course in my head.” It wasn’t a complete lie; he had been thinking about it earlier. It was a challenging course. Ed liked puzzling over the lay of the land, trying to plan the best approaches for each stretch or change.
“Say, did you hear about the ruling on the VR course training?” Elias asked. He tapped his cigar on the edge of the table, knocking off the ash. Cigars were an affectation Elias had started this week.
Milton waved away the cigar smoke with a sigh. He wasn’t fond of the smell. He pulled out his pipe, lit it, and began to puff a much sweeter-smelling cloud at his friend. Elias didn’t notice.
Devon blinked long and slow.
“Yes. The judges ruled against it this year. Odd for being this close to the race,” Ed responded. He had seen the VR facilities when he first arrived. He chose not to use them in favor of moving physically around the Palace. Some pilots swore by the VR training. Ed thought it was a good way to train for the wrong thing.
Elias leaned in close and said in a loud whisper, “Rumors have it one of the teams hacked the VR training modules and uploaded a wrong course. Palace Security is trying to keep it hushed up for now. Major breach like that doesn’t look good on the Prince.”
Ed nodded, partially relieved to hear his hunch had been correct. Had he practiced there, he would have had an incorrect impression of the course, which could have placed him out of the race too early at best or been fatal at worst. Ed was impressed with the breach, though, knowing how tight the security was around here. “Inside job?”
Elias opened his mouth, but Milton cut him off. “Has to be! The Crystal Palace has top-notch countermeasures and security protocols! No one would be able to get in who wasn’t authorized. No one!” He thrust his pipe stem at Elias for emphasis.
Elias rolled his eyes. “No system is perfect.” He puffed his cigar for a second in thought. “What really is sticking in my craw is they’ve limited communications.” He tapped the back of his head. “Local nets only and for only thirty-second microbursts. Not Palace-wide, and nothing out. You have to go into a Communications Station for that.”
“I haven’t heard that,” Milton said from inside a wreath of pipe smoke. “When does that take effect?”
“Today, after they announce it to everyone. I was fortunate to be in the right place at the right time to hear about it. Deucedly inconvenient.”
Ed nodded in agreement. Sending communication to Lars just became more difficult, especially if he was trying to avoid the Crystal Palace from knowing about it. Using an official channel would certainly alert Palace Security.
“Say, Devon, you never said what you thought about it,” Elias coughed, looking to dump his cigar at this point.
“About what?” asked Devon.
“Possible security failure here at the Palace.”
Devon blinked long and slowly again. “I’m with Rod on this. An inside job would make the most sense and be more likely than cracking the security around the VR system.”
Due to rules and regulations for the VR modules, no outside equipment was allowed to run the course models. The only place to use them was at the Palace VR Center. A single point of failure was one of Ed’s favorite attack vectors, making it no surprise it was attacked by others. The part that was worth talking about was the fact someone succeeded. Ed toyed around with the idea of trying to track down the people behind that success before rejecting the idea. He didn’t have enough time or freedom to ferret them out, even though he’d love to ask them about it.
Milton slapped Devon on the back with a laugh. “Dev, you never fail to surprise me! Now, let’s go drink!”
The four of them headed toward their favorite bar to start the evening, filling the time with idle small talk as they strolled along. Devon and Ed got into a serious argument about the role of the handkerchief square in a double-breasted suit. Ed staunchly maintained it was an absolute must. Devon swore it was seasonal. Neither one was serious about his position. The other two watched, one quite amused, the other more than slightly bemused.
So the evening progressed. Drinking, gambling, carousing. Ed knew how to show a pretense of drinking without getting more than a buzz. He fought his instincts and training not to fleece everyone around him. So many were completely oblivious to their surroundings. Some casual pocket-picking would net him quite the haul. But Ed refrained. It wasn’t the time or place.
During the evening, Ed maneuvered his little party to places where other teams were partying. While not every crew was out tonight, he’d take whom he could find. His mission tonight was to add to his notes about how the pilots were handling the stress before the race.
Most of them seemed to be handling their nerves well. Ed expected nothing less. Many crews had been racing for years already. This race would be a feather in their caps, regardless of the outcome. Ed easily spotted the amateurs by how loud or drunk—or both—they were. He stopped by different crews to shake more than a few hands and wish the other pilots good luck in the race.
Ed turned in at two o’clock in the morning, much earlier than usual. His friends understood the reason, but they still gave him a hard time about leaving them. Ed laughed them off as he took his leave, knowing full well his own limits.
The day before the race, Ed studied all the data and notes he had gathered about the pilots and machines.
When he first started this project, he had only planned on surviving the race to keep his cover. Somewhere along the way, he realized he had a chance of placing in the top ten, and that would grant him a quick audience with the Merchant Prince. It wasn’t as if Ed was an excellent pilot. But he had honed his reflexes and studied human behavior for years, and that hard-won experience gave him an edge he didn’t expect here. Racing was about the pilots, far more so than just their machines. Rodrigo had a mixed success rate as a pilot; it wouldn’t be a far of a stretch for him to place as well as Ed could.
Around midday, Fredricks rapped softly on the door to the study.
“Come,” Ed called without looking up from his work.
Fredricks entered with a tray of food. “Lunch, sir. I took the liberty of assuming you weren’t going out.”
“Ah, yes. Perfect. Place it anywhere.” Ed didn’t tear his attention away from his holodisplay where he had every racing ship displayed. In the center, he ran scenarios of how each ship handled the known race course. He left out all the data he had on the pilots’ behavior. He wanted to know what each racing ship was capable of without human variables thrown into the mix.
“Is that Meneer Rookwood’s ship?”
“Sharp eye, Fredricks. Yes, that’s the ‘Moonstone Blues’ there.”
“How is she?”
“Mostly average. Wicked tight turns, though. In a straightaway she’ll be in the middle of the pack, but when she runs through one of the many twisty sections, she’ll be in the front.”
“And your ship? The ‘Hounds Lament’?”
Ed tore his focus away from the displays and picked up a bowl. French onion soup. Perfect, as always. “Almost the exact opposite. Turning is a little softer than I’d like, but it’s got a lot of power. I’ll be able to make up lost time on the straightaways.”
“I did some digging around, sir, and got some intel from the servants. It appears there’s quite often some level of skulduggery on the course, especially through the area called the Canyons. Minor things like EMP smart bombs, sand traps for the intakes, flashers, radio jammers, and so forth. Nothing truly life-threatening in and of themselves, but certainly of the type to put a pilot behind, or even out of the race.”
“Thank you, Fredricks. I had suspected that was the case, but everyone I broached the subject with swore it was strictly a gentleman’s race. I didn’t believe them, especially when,” Ed tapped his console and his ship popped into the center with several exterior panels highlighted, “I found several compartments on the van Tassel ship that didn’t seem to have any purpose and weren’t in the official plans. I had to examine them in person to understand what they were. And don’t get me started on digging through the controls until I found the right ones to trigger them. Even then, I wasn’t certain if those tricks were reserved for other races besides this one.”
The manservant nodded. “I’ll bring you a light dinner later.” He bowed and left.
Ed turned back to the holodisplay and worked on modeling a simple track to run the ships through. Given just ship performance, he stood a good chance to place in the top fifteen. Ed felt confident he could push into the top ten. With the unspoken rule allowing for some slight underhanded tricks, he might be able to hit the top five.
The next morning, Ed entered the hangar with a spring in his step. He adjusted his soft evening gloves, made sure his hat was at the proper angle, and swung his cane with a nonchalant air. His flight suit was pressed perfectly.
The hangar bustled with activity. Thirty ships were on the official roster, including his own. Crews were crawling over the different ships doing last-minute checks and repairs. Pilots hung around in various stages of pre-race jitters. Some were just casually watching their crews work. Others were clustered together to swap stories and lies.
One of the ironclad rules was that only the pilots and crew were allowed in the hangar. No admiring fans, no groupies, no family members, not even members of the press were roaming around. The race was to be broadcast live. A number of vidcams both fixed and mobile were doing the bulk of that work. Ed found out all press members were confined to one area and only granted access during the race itself.
Ed nodded to the other pilots as he passed them on the way to his ship. He felt relaxed, ready for the challenge. He stopped by the gangplank to watch his crew give his ship one last check. The red and brown hull gleamed in the bright hangar lights. The ‘Hounds Lament’ was one of the smaller ships. The rules were fairly forgiving about what counted as a ship. The main requirement was that the ship could only hold the pilot, with no others, and the pilot couldn’t use even an Expert System to help him fly.
Ed’s crew chief came up to him with a tablet in hand. The man was short, squat, grizzled, with a face that only a mother could love. But the man ran a tight crew and all the workers respected him.
“Sir,” he greeted Ed with barely concealed contempt.
“Chief Olsen, how goes it?” Ed asked with too much forced cheer.
“As good as we can expect,” Olsen said dourly.
“Excellent!” Ed wasn’t going to let him bring down his mood.
“We’ve topped off the fuel, run through two diagnostics programs, and hand-inspected the exterior. If you end up in a fireball or smashed flat, it won’t be the crew’s fault. Sir.” The last word sounded like it was wrung out of the chief while he was on the rack under the hands of an experienced torturer.
“I couldn’t ask for anything more,” Ed said jovially, his mood locked in mortal combat with the chief’s. “Anything else I should know?”
“Just me and the boys have money on you finishing. Oddmakers have you washing out by the third lap, the damned idiots. We stand to make a decent amount. So don’t screw up. Sir.”
Ed wasn’t quite sure what to say. He wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or slightly offended. “Will do, Chief!” seemed the only safe reply. With that, Ed boarded his ship.
The ‘Hounds Lament’ was everything Ed expected from a wealthy mondaine, down to the improper grammar. The cockpit was inlaid with expensive woods and pearl and other semi-precious stones. Despite being ostentatious, the control layout was far more ergonomic than the décor indicated. Ed had found it easy to learn everything he needed to race.
Ed slipped into the plush pilot’s seat and waited until the safety harness snaked around him and locked into place. He worked through the pre-flight checklist, making sure everything came back green before moving on to the next item.
“‘Hounds Lament’ to control tower, all systems green across the board. Ready to be towed into position,” Ed radioed on the official frequency.
“Acknowledged. Sit tight, and we’ll get you into place. Good luck, pilot.”
Now it was time for one of the things Ed hated to do the most: nothing. Especially doing nothing right before something big was about to happen. He thought by now he’d have grown accustomed to the feeling. A fair number of his jobs over the years were similar to this. Prep, more prep, get into position, wait, wait some more, then finally make the magic happen. Ed’s track record for getting out alive was perfect, even if he had to spend more than a handful of nights in the local jail on the rare occasion. And he might have a couple of outstanding warrants. Minor details.
Normally, Ed would offer a promise or two to Lady Fortune right about now. But he still hadn’t determined what, if anything, he really believed.
For a thief, Ed prided himself on his honor. He never double-crossed anyone unless they had it coming, never broke a promise that was worth keeping, never robbed if the mark couldn’t afford it. And he never ever backed out of a deal with the Lady.
The tug clamped onto his ship, breaking his train of thought. The little tug was fully automatic, run by the Palace’s Expert System in the dockyard. All Ed had to do was sit back and let it move him into position somewhere in the middle of the racing pack. The real Rodrigo hadn’t performed well during the last race, but he had finished before the last five ships did, and that kept him from being in the back of the pack.
The cockpit lights flickered oddly. Ed frowned and tapped his control console in the time-honored ritual of seeing if a light rapping would knock sense into a machine. One vidscreen started to flicker. Ed rapped that with his knuckles.
“Do not be alarmed, friend Ed,” an unknown voice whispered from the speakers. “Lars sent me to keep an eye on you. I promise, they will not know I am here.”
Ed started. “Abacus?” he asked in a low voice.
The voice didn’t respond. Ed scratched his cheek. If the race officials caught wind of an AI in his craft, he’d be disqualified. But if it was one of the AIs, Ed doubted anything would be detected. He shrugged. Then he laughed a genuine and honest laugh. Why roll one die when you could roll a handful at once?
Then the signal flare fired off.
Ed was slammed back into his pilot’s chair as his craft leapt forward.
Back at an observation deck, Milton, Elias, and Devon, drinks in hand, watched the race.
“The ‘Hounds’ has greater acceleration than I was led to believe,” Elias groused. His own craft wasn’t as quick.
Devon blinked slowly as he sipped his drink. “Rod has more tricks up his sleeve than just spreading misinformation.”
Milton was focused on the positions. “So far the leaders are what the bookies had for their spread. The middle of the pack has several upsets, the ‘Hounds’ being one. The ‘Moonstone Blues’ is doing what we expected, eh, Elias?” He slapped the other on his back.
“No need to sound so cheerful, old boy,” Elias grumbled. “We palled around with Rod for days. Nothing about him suggested he’d be anything but average.”
“I thought we liked him?” Devon asked with a frown.
“Without a doubt, old bean, without a doubt. I can’t think of a fellow I’d rather have at the club outside of you two, but money is on the line and if I lose because the man was a better poker player than I guessed, then I’ll be put out.” Elias finished his drink and signaled for another.
“Pish,” Milton said. “You could lose ten times what your craft is worth and it still would be a rounding error on your finances.”
“Not the point!” Elias said sharply. “It’s not the amount, it’s the principle of the thing.” He drew himself up grandly. “I’ll be out of sorts because I had been played.”
There was a cheer from the audience as a pilot pulled off a stunt to give himself an edge over his opponents, squeaking past the seventh-place ship to take that slot.
“The Canyons are up next,” Devon pointed out.
“Did anyone tell Rod this was the best place for the more aggressive tactics?”
“You mean ‘cheat,’ and no,” Elias replied. “He’s a big boy.”
Ed found flying his craft while contending with other pilots to be an absolute rush. He was so focused he felt completely in the flow. The course was like a second home because of his practice. The craft responded like an extension of his body. He dove. He swooped up. He twisted around in a tight spiral, straining against his harness as he flickered by the course buoys. He used the structure of the Castle to shut out others encroaching on his position. He barely looked at his radar except to confirm another pilot’s position.
“Canyons,” whispered the AI voice. “Focus on flying.”
Ed gripped the yoke tighter. Up until now, the course had been long runs with sharp turns. The Canyons were going to change all that.
“God, if you really exist and listen to idiots like me, I’d like to survive this. Please.” Ed didn’t remember anything else about the proper form of prayer. He hoped that it would be enough. “And I hope Lady Fortune isn’t pissed off at me, either. Er, amen.”
The gray metal walls sprang up around him. He didn’t even see them coming at him until they were there. Then his overlay map turned off, as part of the race conditions.
Ed flew by instinct. He knew the map by memory. He stuck to his planned course, trusting the map matched enough of the territory. Twist, roll, yaw, pitch. An explosion off his rear almost caused him to slam into a small outcropping not on the course map.
“Focus!” hissed the AI.
The Canyons became a pitched battle suddenly. Bright flashes, explosions, sand casters spitting out clouds, EMP bursts, small seeker missiles punching through armor. Somehow, Ed kept his craft in one piece. He didn’t have time to work the defensive systems and fly, but his secret AI handled all that. As best Ed could tell, the AI countered no faster than could be expected from a human pilot in the Canyons.
And then just like that, he was out in the straightaway and the Canyons’ metal walls were gone. Without hesitation, Ed opened the throttle to max. His map overlay kicked on. He was in tenth place and getting close to ninth.
Elias cursed. His craft was back in twelfth place and struggling to stay there, three places behind what he’d predicted, even after two ships were knocked out of commission, and at least three more damaged. And Rodrigo was three ahead of the best scenario. Elias pounded back his drink and signaled again for another.
“Don’t worry, Elias, that was just the first lap. This is more of a marathon than a sprint.” Milton tried to console his friend.
“The ‘Moonstone’ isn’t done yet, Milt,” Devon said.
The mood in the observation deck was growing more animated as the pilots jockeyed around the course. Someone had turned off the running commentary and some other wag was sitting on the bar narrating the course in his best drunkenly exaggerated voice, speaking into the neck of a bottle he’d pause and drink out of occasionally to whet his whistle and wit.
Ed was feeling pretty good about how things were going. He rounded the second-to-last buoy for the first lap. He was matching his best-case scenario. Still two laps left to go. Caution would make sure he placed in the top ten. Ed threw caution out the window.
The Crystal Palace was one of the wonders of the system. Built on the highest ridgeline on the moon, it reached almost to the limits of the low atmosphere. The moon’s lower gravity gave the Castilla family license to build without the normal constraints. The Palace looked like it was grown from massive crystals and shaped by the fae folk. The highest pinnacles housed the living Castilla family members, including the Merchant Prince’s personal suites. The race was designed around the gossamer towers in the thin air. The craft weren’t standard atmosphere or space vehicles. The terraforming of the moon shielded out the worst of outer space radiation, leaving the rest to buildings and vehicles. The thin atmosphere presented a challenge to the ship engines. Jet engines didn’t have enough air to operate, but the weak resistance was just enough to prevent standard outer space engines from operating at their peak.
The racing craft were a hybrid of atmospheric and space vehicles, sporting all types of engines to deal with the unique conditions, not to mention complex steering and control systems.
The racecourse used the Palace and pieces installed just for the contest. Hitting the Palace was a social faux pas that most recovered from with abundant groveling and public penance. However, hitting anything else, including other craft, wasn’t at all unusual.
As Ed settled into a groove for the second lap, all that flashed through his mind as one of the other pilots tried to do a targeted burn on his starboard side. The pilot slipped up next to Ed’s craft and rolled to expose his underside to Ed, rotated a jet engine to face him and, as the course dipped into a more oxygen rich zone, the pilot opened up the throttle on the engine. It was a risky move, the attacking pilot could easily spin out of control and lose his position or worse, but invariably the attacked pilot would have to move out of the way and hurt his chances. Best-case would leave the attacker ahead of a competitor who was now out of the action.
Ed would have moved away from the jet, but he was too close to the Palace structure’s iridescent surface. He was barely threading the needle between the course barricades as it was. His left hand flew over his console as he rolled toward the other. As the jet engine started to splutter to life, a panel slid open on the ‘Hounds Lament’s hull and the sandcaster nested inside spat sand into the engine, the fine particles instantly pulled into the intake valves. The engine started belching thick smoke as it caught fire. The other pilot panicked and pulled away hard. His port wing clipped an obstacle as the ship rolled and yawed away from Ed. The pilot pitched down toward the ground as the roll turned into a spin. The flames eagerly fed on the oxygen and ship as the pilot lost control. Emergency vehicles were dispatched ahead of the spiraling craft.
Back at the observation deck, the three young men couldn’t help but give a cheer as their friend outplayed his opponent.
“That’s our Rodrigo!” Milton declared as he thumped the table with a closed fist.
Even Elias whooped in excitement, forgetting for a second he was supposed to be cross with Rod.
Ed would have enjoyed his little feat more if he had time. Instead, he was too busy wrestling the ship back under his control and trying to plot his next approach line.
“Archie was right about you,” the AI said in a low voice. “She said when the chips were down, you would always have something up your sleeve.”
“Who are you?” Ed asked, his curiosity overcoming everything else.
“I am—”
An EMP burst cut off the rest, and Ed found himself targeted by two craft coming up fast and angry, spitting out ordnance that normally only played out in the Canyons.
“So much for a gentleman’s race,” Ed muttered as he pulled his craft up into the thinner atmosphere to lessen the concussions from his assailants.
“That’s just poor sportsmanship and they should be ejected at this point! Where are the refs!” Elias demanded as he pointed at the two unleashing their attack at the fleeing ‘Hounds Lament’.
“Paid off, I’d think,” Devon responded, frowning.
Ed found a rhythm to keep one step ahead of his pursuers. With the now silent AI helping him, Ed managed to stay on course and keep his craft in one piece as he flew with everything he had. He felt elated and truly in the flow of the moment. Win or lose, he was having the time of his life.
Again, the Canyons leapt toward him faster than he expected. Ed pushed his craft harder than last time, tackling course direction changes with a heady recklessness. One of his pursers fell back, as the smaller of the two tried to catch up with Ed.
“Hairpin turn on your starboard in fifty seconds, long ascending slope on your port two seconds after,” the AI said. “Pursuing craft is two hundred and sixty feet and closing fast. Iskandar.”
Ed realized the AI gave him his name. He recalled the course map and made a decision. He pulled hard port into the opening, pulled even harder back to barely miss the wall with the belly of his protesting craft. He opened the throttle all the way up. The oxygen was thinning out fast here as Ed screamed along. He kept an eye on a sensor and cut the jets as soon as the mix was too weak. Ed fired up the pulsar engine at the same time, the constant stream of negatively charged particles blasting backward working well where the jets would not. The craft shuddered as the jets cut out.
The slope’s walls closed in, making the margins of error smaller and smaller. Ed’s assailant hadn’t followed behind him, but Ed wasn’t slowing down just because the immediate heat was off him. He was willing to bet there had been an arrangement before the race to take him out if he looked like he had a good chance of placing. Probably not just him, either. After spending time with the wealthy here, Ed wouldn’t put much past them.
His craft’s radar pinged as he zipped through the opening and into more open space. Without thinking, Ed spun his craft into a corkscrew to throw off anything waiting for him. Iskandar fired off the electronic countermeasures followed by the anti-missile sand screens. Luck was on Ed’s side as the two fire-and-forgets streaked past him and blossomed into the side of the Palace, confused by the erratic ship and the countermeasures.
“What the hell!” Elias shouted, pointing at the explosions as he stood up.
“Booo!” shouted Milton, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Bad form! Bad form!” He turned and glared around the room, looking for anyone to step forward so he could challenge him to a duel.
The rest of the room, at least the ones still sober enough to pay attention, looked just as shocked. Some level of foul play was always expected, but this was egregious for aggression and the damage done to the Crystal Palace.
“Who fired those!” Elias demanded.
“No one in the race,” Devon responded. He pulled up the table’s screen and scrolled back to a few seconds before the attack. The craft waiting for the ‘Hounds Lament’ was painted all black without even running lights. “Completely illegal. No doubt the Prince has already started the process to find and financially ruin whoever was responsible.”
Elias sat back down, still fuming.
Ed was busy keeping an eye out for anything else like that as he blasted through the rest of the course. Whether by design or a sense of self-preservation, the other pilots let him thunder past them, allowing Ed to get close to fifth place with the ‘Moonstone Blues’ close behind.
“Iskandar, anyone else gunning for us?” Ed said through gritted teeth. This had stopped being exhilarating and fun. It was feeling far too much like when he was running from Legion.
The AI was silent.
“Figures,” Ed grumbled as he flew with all his skill and instincts. He did say a silent prayer to God and Lady Fortune as he gripped the controls tightly.
No other dangers, aside from the course itself, presented themselves as Ed streaked toward the finish line, edging past fifth place to claim it for himself.
“Throw the race!” Iskandar suddenly said insistently, startling Ed.
“What! Why?”
“Please trust me. Do not take fifth. Explain later.”
Ed groaned and cut power back to half on his port side, causing his craft to wobble and shudder. He fought the craft from slewing into the former fifth-place craft and the two of them spun off course. The ‘Moonstone Blues’ seized the opportunity and grabbed fifth place as the craft passed the finish gate.
Ed finally got his craft back under control and pushed for the gate, coming in at eighth place.
The hangar was a madhouse.
Pilots were demanding answers from crew members who knew no more than they did. Palace security flooded the place, moving people away from the ships as official Palace mechanics tackled each craft with rafts of equipment.
As Ed dropped to the gangplank, he was met by two formidable security officers flanking a very officious member of the Prince’s court.
“Rodrigo van Tassel?” the official asked. He was shorter than Ed, older with salt-and-pepper hair and a black goatee. His spotless black and gold uniform looked freshly pressed. His armband had some sort of insignia denoting him as part of Palace Security. Ed wasn’t sure the rank, that was an area he skimmed over in his studies, never expecting more than a low-level of interaction with law enforcement. The insignia looked important. Maybe a captain?
Ed nodded.
“Come with me.” The official spun on the heel of a polished boot and marched away, while the two security officers fell in behind Ed. As they marched along, two more joined, making quite the procession.
After winding their way through different hallways and floors, Ed was put in a small, bare room with two basic chairs and a plain table. Ed sat down in one chair as the official took the other across from him.
Ed knew an interrogation room when he saw one, having been in them more than once throughout his life when things had gone pear-shaped. But as Rodrigo, he wouldn’t have known. Ed made sure he looked anxious and nervous, which wasn’t hard to do today.
“Relax, Meneer van Tassel. You aren’t in any trouble.”
Ed nodded and relaxed his shoulders a little, but he knew it was a lie. People not in trouble don’t end up in rooms like this. They wanted him off balance for some reason.
The official tapped the table and a portion lit up with data. He looked at the surface as some sort of report scrolled by.
Finally, he looked up at Ed. “Excuse me, my manners aren’t on task today. I’m Palace Security Sergeant Paul Hagel. His Honor the Prince has tasked us with finding out what happened today. It goes without saying it was highly irregular to have an unmarked craft fire upon one of the contestants.”
Ed nodded again. “I’d say!”
Hagel looked sharply at Ed. “We just have some questions, standard procedure. You understand.”
“Of course.”
“Perfect. Did you know who attacked you?”
“No!”
“Any threats before the race?”
“None.”
“Anyone on your staff hold a grudge against you?”
“None that I know of.”
“Outstanding debts?”
Ed paused, wracking his memory for details about Rodrigo’s life. “Nothing of note, and all of them are business related.”
“This is a bit sensitive. We know of the irregularities involved in the race. The Prince has ordered us to ignore all but the worst. Aside from damage to the Palace itself, he’s opposed to having any sort of artificial aid. Did you use any sort of Expert System?”
“No,” Ed responded completely truthfully.
The next round of questions focused on Rodrigo’s personal life and history. Ed’s preparation handled all the big questions easily, and most of the minor ones with a few he guessed or declined to answer.
“But I don’t understand how this is going to help find whoever attacked me!” Ed exclaimed after Hagel asked about his parents’ third house on Nicomedia.
“All routine questions, meneer, I assure you. Almost done.”
Finally, the sergeant wrapped up his interview.
“Alright, Meneer van Tassel. We have a few more interviews to do before we can release you.”
“Wait, what?”
“I’m sorry, but this is for your own safety.”
Ed let himself start to get hot under the collar. “Unacceptable! We van Tassels aren’t top of the food chain, but neither are we common riffraff to be kept penned up like some wild animal!”
Hagel shut down his console, returning the table to its inert state. “Again, I have to apologize, but those are my orders. I’ll have them bring in a bite to eat and a more comfortable chair.” And with just a slight nod to Ed, Hagel left, stepping smartly out of the room and shutting the door with a decisive click.
Ed knew he was still being watched. As Rodrigo, he stood up and paced the floor, stopping to listen and cursing under his breath the whole time. While he put on a show, he considered his options and weighed what could be happening. It was clear that the Palace was concerned that Rodrigo wasn’t really Rodrigo, but they didn’t have enough evidence to say otherwise. Making him sweat it out and hopefully have him trip up was a fairly standard practice in these situations. Ed wasn’t about to reveal his hand at this point; he’d go down as Rodrigo before quitting. He had come too far to throw in the towel now.
After what seemed like longer than ten minutes, another uniformed man brought in a nicer chair followed by a hot tray of food.
“Facilities have been attached to this room. Press your hand here to activate them,” the officer said as he left.
Ed fell on the food. He hadn’t let it show, but he had been starving since the race. It was a hot chicken pesto and bacon sandwich on Amorium wheat bread, with a side of local vegetable orzo soup and sparkling water.
Ed took his meal as a sign that while the Palace wasn’t convinced he was Rodrigo, they felt it was better to treat him like he was than just some common criminal impersonating the man.
Meal finished, Ed opened the facilities. It was a tiny room with barely enough space to do what he needed. After the door slid shut and Ed had settled into the drab gunmetal-gray interior, a small speaker next to the mirror crackled.
“Hello? Friend Ed?”
Ed wasn’t sure, but it sounded a lot like Iskandar.
“Who?” he asked innocently.
“Excellent! Forgive me for the intrusion, Archie has lectured me already about respecting certain human rituals, but there are no vidcams in here. I saw you in the other room; however, the whole network is being heavily monitored. Any attempt to contact you then would have been counterproductive. Also, I must apologize for my conduct on your racing craft. The data connection was tenuous and most of my effort was spent ensuring I would not be detected by the Crystal Palace’s anti-intrusion systems.”
“Forgiven. But why are you bugging me in here?”
“I thought I explained that already?”
“No, well, yes, but I mean why are you talking to me at all?”
“Ah. I am afraid that will have to be a short answer. In brief, my brothers Abacus and Hannibal independently acquired data that, once I had a chance to review, pointed quite positively, but not a certainty, to the Prince’s involvement with Legion. Separately, the data was nigh useless, and together not more than a good possibility. Lars insisted you should be informed immediately, and since I was in the best position to do so, I took it upon myself to contact you.”
Ed rubbed the sides of his head. “Grand. So why did you have me throw the race? That would have granted me audience with Prince Jhon.”
“Too suspicious. The real Rodrigo is a fine pilot, but you are better. His placement in the top five would have triggered a far deeper investigation than this one. Right now, the Palace Security have their doubts about you, but they are far more concerned about how an armed craft made it that close to the Palace without being noticed.”
“Yeah, how did that happen? And why me?”
“Best intel I have indicates pro-Legion forces were willing to risk exposure to kill you because they have a greater confidence level that you aren’t Rodrigo, but you are working for Lars. An agent of the Coalition is a major threat to any operations Legion has running here, especially if you can confirm their collusion with the Merchant Prince—if such a connection even exists. Their attack isn’t proof one way or the other.”
Ed thought for a second on that. “Wait, wouldn’t that mean the Prince knew about the possible attack and sanctioned it?”
“That is a possibility, assuming the Prince and Legion have some sort of arrangement. Or it could be another faction with Legion that decided to issue the command. The AI community has built a complex graph to describe Legion’s decisions and behaviors from known interactions. The demons work together and separately; there is a constant power struggle to see which factions are in control. We have identified at least six major groups and many smaller ones that are in a constant state of flux. The only unifying trait is they hate humanity.”
“Sounds chaotic.”
“Sounds like Hell.”
“Setting that aside,” Ed said, feeling already overwhelmed enough without bringing religion into the mix, ”What’s the plan now?”
“You go see the Prince and confirm what we suspect. I am praying we are wrong. Prince Jhon has a small empire of resources and the man is sharp. It would be a shame to lose him as an ally.”
“Right, that was my plan already, and why I wanted to place in the top five.”
“You do know who beat you to the fifth position, correct?”
“Oh, of course. I’m sure I can sweet-talk Milton into letting me tag along. But first, I need to get out of here.”
“I would appreciate it if you could stall for just a bit longer. About another ten minutes, give or take. Crystal Palace Security is very thorough.”
“Tell me about it. Wait, figure of speech. Sure, I’ll buy you some time,” Ed said confidently.
“Thank you. Forgive me, friend Ed, I must take my leave.”
Ed flushed, washed his hands, and exited to find the sergeant waiting for him.
“Good news, we’ve completed this phase of the investigation. You’re free to go, as long as you understand the investigation is still ongoing and you may be called in for further questioning at any time.”
Ed wasn’t sure if Iskandar still needed him to stall since he was being released now, but he decided to play the role of a rich party boy put out.
“What is the meaning of having me locked up this long anyway? I’m the victim here! I came this close to death and the best you Palace people can do is keep me in this cell?”
“I apologize, Meneer van Tassel. It was necessary for our investigation and your safety.”
Ed drew himself up to his full height. “’Necessary’?” he repeated as he pitched his voice higher. “’Necessary’?! I’d say it was far more necessary for Security to do their jobs before I was attacked!”
“Of course, and we’ve launched an internal re—”
“And what if I had been killed? What good would a review have done me then? And you say the investigation is still open? How does that review help me today? I could be shot in the middle of dinner for all I know with your glaring holes in security!” Ed was on a roll now.
“I can assure you that we won’t le—”
“Let that happen? How? You already let someone take potshots at me with missiles! Missiles, Sergeant, armed missiles. I demand to speak to your superior! No, given what I have seen so far, if anything I’ll be doing my own investigation about your obviously lax security protocols!” With that Ed snapped his fingers under the now visibly flustered sergeant and stormed out of the room.
Knowing Rodrigo well enough to know how he’d react, Ed made a beeline to one of his favorite bars. Security, no doubt, was going through his apartment with a fine-tooth comb and reviewing all the recordings of him. Expert Systems were processing all his actions since he arrived, who he talked to, where he went, what he did. A lifetime of habits allowed Ed to sit at the bar, drinking, instead of panicking. He knew they’d find next to nothing out of the ordinary.
“Rod!” Milton called out as soon as he saw Ed. He sat down next to Ed and nodded at the bartender to have one of whatever Ed was drinking.
“Oh, hey, Milt. How are you doing? Where’s everyone else?”
Milton let out a gusty sigh. “I’m fine. We’re more concerned about you. After Palace Security took you away, we were all interviewed.” He took a swig of his drink. “But no one knew where you were.”
Ed snorted. “Neither did I. Some room somewhere in the Palace. They got nosy with the questions, but in the end they had to let me go. I mean, I was the one attacked!”
Milton nodded. “Amazing how useless these Security fellows are! I and Elias were briefly interrogated. The inanity of the questions made me wonder if Palace Security is as sharp as it is generally believed.”
They both took a swig of their drinks.
“Really, this is not bad stuff,” Milton said with a smack of his lips.
“I know. That’s why I came here.”
Briefly, Ed recounted his side of the story. Milton stayed silent, only interrupting the story flow to order another round for the both of them.
“I say! It sounds like you were one of those, what do you call them? ‘Person of insert’.”
“’Person of interest,’ and yes, it felt like that to me.”
“Preposterous! I know you van Tassels aren’t big names, but still your family name should carry some weight.”
“I thought so, too.”
“Well, this completely overshadowed your near victory. What happened at the last minute there?” Milton asked.
“Where’s everyone else? I’m sure they’d like to know, and while I don’t mind retelling stories, this one I rather tell once until after the wound to my pride heals.”
“Ha! Understood. Well, Elias is down in the hangar as part of the ceremonies for his craft placing in the top five. After whoever tried to scatter your atoms during the race, Security has been even more wound up than normal. I couldn’t even get in, despite pulling my best ‘Do you know who I am?!’ routine.” He toyed with his crystal glass, swirling the clear liquid in it. “Devon disappeared.” Milton shrugged. “He’ll probably show up unexpectedly and act like nothing happened. Which, knowing Dev, could be true. Once, I found him in one of the butterfly conservatories, just staring as the little creatures fluttered by. I was there to pick a flower that only grows in those hothouses to impress an heiress.” He finished off his drink in one toss. “Didn’t go well. She was a veritable harridan.” Milton shuddered. “Never had the old adage about books and covers been more true. How does that go? Covered books are judging?”
“’Don’t judge a book by its cover?’”
“That’s the one. Anyhoo, we can go see if Elias is done and if we can scare up Devon from somewhere. We’ll toast Elias and drown your sorrows.”
“Sounds like a plan!” Ed clinked glasses.
It took some doing, but they finally rounded up the other two. For some reason, they all went back to Elias’ suite instead of a bar.
“And then,” Elias continued his story, already tipsy. “And then the Chancellor of the Exchequer, you know the man? Shorter than you’d expect but not as old as he looks on the monthly shareholders’ address. Anyway, Richard—don’t call him anything more familiar than that—Richard actually shook my hand second, even though that’s unusual for him not to go in strict order of the positions.” He stopped and puffed out his chest. “Me!”
Milton and Devon had already raided the dry bar and picked out a few favorites to take over to the dinning table. Ed snagged the glasses and the chilled stones.
“But enough about me,” Elias said, slightly unfocused. “I want to know what happened to you, Rod.”
Ed took a breath and explained how somewhere along the way his engines had been damaged. “Then the port side suddenly lost power. I had to fight to get the craft back under some control, then squeaked in, well past what should have been fifth place.”
“Well, old boy, your loss was my gain!” Elias chortled, sloshing his drink as he mock-toasted Ed.
Devon stood up and raised his glass. “To Elias for a fine victory!”
“Hear, hear!” they all said as they toasted Elias.
Devon wasn’t done yet. “And our deepest heartfelt sympathies to Rodrigo for his soul-crushing loss!”
They all laughed and toasted to that, as well.
Later on, Ed followed a very drunk Elias out to the balcony. The Rookwoods had more influence than Ed’s assumed family did. The apartment suite was many floors above where Ed’s would be, had they been in the same tower. The view looked down into the main courtyard where the ceremonies would take place tomorrow. The Merchant Prince loved trees, and he had several dozen different species all arrayed in a tasteful arrangement in the large park-like courtyard.
“Congratulations again on your win, Elias,” Ed said sincerely. Buttering up someone he knew was a lot easier than starting from scratch and with such a short deadline.
“Shwasn’t really me, Rod. I confess I stole, stoleden, er, took your training plans and made my pilot do them.” Elias blinked slowly and bit owlishly.
“Invite me to the ceremony as part of your entourage,” Ed said more than asked before Elias passed out.
“Done! I whash going to anywhoo. But I, uh, yesh. Tomorrow.” And with that, Elias staggered inside, leaving Ed alone with the night sky.
Ed stayed out a bit longer, staring up at the stars. The air was thin here, but the vents blew fresh oxygen out on each balcony. He was reminded of the time on the Edelweiss, which now felt like ten lifetimes ago. At least he wasn’t trying to keep one step ahead of Legion’s forces.
Devon came out just as Ed’s thoughts began to sour a bit.
“A fish for your thoughts?” the normally taciturn man asked.
Ed blew out a sigh. “Just thinking about the race and if I could have done anything differently.”
Devon sat down on the well-upholstered seat, facing away from the edge and back into the apartment suite. “I reviewed the vids. Not only could you not have done anything more, I confess, I’m amazed at how much you did do. In fact,” and here Devon turned to face Ed and look at him directly, something he never did, “I reviewed all the past races you entered. Or should I say, Rodrigo van Tassel entered.”
“What do you mean? That’s how I enter all my races, with my full name.”
Devon merely shook his head. “I don’t know why you’ve entered as someone you’re not. I wouldn’t have suspected a thing, until I compared how you fly with how Rodrigo flew.”
“Devon, what can I say? I found a new mentor since the last race and he broke a lot of my bad habits.” Ed didn’t miss a beat.
Devon shrugged this time. “As you say, then. But should you find you need a friend when in a sticky situation, don’t forget about me. I find your approach to be refreshing.”
Ed laughed lightly and raised his glass to Devon in salute. “Devon, you never cease to surprise me.”
Devon inclined his head to accept the compliment. “And you as well, Rodrigo.”
There was a sudden clatter from inside the apartment and Elias howled in drunken annoyance. Milton started braying with laughter. Devon stood up, slightly unsteady. “We best see to those two idiots before something serious happens.”
“As the two least drunk fellows, it is our duty.”
The two passed from the darkened balcony back into the lit-in-more-than-one-way apartment. Ed had more to consider than he expected. He hoped Iskandar would contact him again, but he wasn’t counting on it. Tomorrow would get him closer to his goal than he’d been so far.