down.”
“I signed an employment contract
with you,” he snapped. “You did not obtain a writ of sale. I’ll be in the
dining car.” He rolled open the door. It banged behind him.
Nyx rubbed at her face. The worst of
her troubles always started with what came out of her mouth.
She heard a knock at the cabin door.
She stood and slid it open, trying to come up with something that sounded nice
but not like an apology.
But it was not Rhys at the door. A
young woman wearing a blue Transit Authority uniform offered her a
complimentary newsroll.
The scrolling text that slid across
the translucent projection of the newsrolls was even tougher to read than
static text, but Nyx figured Rhys would want to read it when he got back. An
offering. She could look at the pictures. Her teachers at the state schools had
called her dead dumb because she got all her letters backward. Some of the
better newsreel companies had an audio option, but this wasn’t one of them.
“Thanks,” she said, taking the roll.
She sat back down, but before she
twisted the news back into its thumbnail-size roll, she looked over the
projection. Bundled between two articles about border skirmishes near Aludra
was a picture of the gates of Faleen. The nose of a star carrier reared up
behind them.
Nyx stared at the carrier a long
time. She’d seen that carrier before. She tried to find an article with it, but
all she noted was a short blurb before the picture scrolled over to the next
image of three beaming young boys heading for the front.
Star carriers didn’t get lost in
Faleen twice, and even if it was a different carrier than the one she’d seen
the last time she was there, it was the same make as the last one. Aliens
interested in boxers were back in Nasheen. What the hell was up with that?
Nyx spent a long while staring at
the scrolling pictures, but the image of Faleen didn’t pop up again.
What did an off-world carrier want
in Faleen? What did the queen want with her in Mushtallah? Being a bel dame had
taught her that there were no coincidences, only cause and effect.
She was going to need another drink.
8
Rhys could recite the Kitab by
heart, but he never quoted it at Nyx.
He sat in the dining car reading for
hours, yet no one came to wait on him. He even stayed long enough for the wait
staff changeover. Three women gave him openly hostile stares as they passed his
table. A Transit Authority agent asked to see his papers. The few times he’d
dared to go off on his own outside the Chenjan district since joining Nyx’s
team, he’d been beaten up, cut, and much worse. He didn’t travel alone anymore.
Much as he hated it, knowing Nyx was just two cars away was somewhat
comforting, though her sharp tongue was not.
What finally drove him back to the
cabin was the conductor’s announcement that they were nearing Mushtallah and
were about to go through customs. Customs agents were as violent with Chenjan
men as security agents and order keepers.
Rhys put his things away and passed
between cars. The stricken Nasheenian landscape rolled by. The world outside
did not look so different from Chenja here: There were fewer minarets, and some
of the older, mostly untouched villages were tiled in ceramic and still bore
huge gold-gilt inscriptions from the Kitab above the lintels to all of their
village gates, groceries, and the wealthier houses. He saw old contagion
sensors sticking up from the desert, half buried, some of them with the red
lights at their bulbous tips still blinking. There were fewer old cities in the
Chenjan interior. The oldest relics, Rhys supposed, would be farther north, in
the Khairian wasteland, where the first world had been created and abandoned.
Out here, though, was the most he had seen of old-world Nasheen. He had never
been to Mushtallah.
Rhys knocked at the compartment
door. As Nyx pulled it open, a passing member of the Transit Authority paused
in the hall at the sight of him and asked Nyx if Rhys was
“I signed an employment contract
with you,” he snapped. “You did not obtain a writ of sale. I’ll be in the
dining car.” He rolled open the door. It banged behind him.
Nyx rubbed at her face. The worst of
her troubles always started with what came out of her mouth.
She heard a knock at the cabin door.
She stood and slid it open, trying to come up with something that sounded nice
but not like an apology.
But it was not Rhys at the door. A
young woman wearing a blue Transit Authority uniform offered her a
complimentary newsroll.
The scrolling text that slid across
the translucent projection of the newsrolls was even tougher to read than
static text, but Nyx figured Rhys would want to read it when he got back. An
offering. She could look at the pictures. Her teachers at the state schools had
called her dead dumb because she got all her letters backward. Some of the
better newsreel companies had an audio option, but this wasn’t one of them.
“Thanks,” she said, taking the roll.
She sat back down, but before she
twisted the news back into its thumbnail-size roll, she looked over the
projection. Bundled between two articles about border skirmishes near Aludra
was a picture of the gates of Faleen. The nose of a star carrier reared up
behind them.
Nyx stared at the carrier a long
time. She’d seen that carrier before. She tried to find an article with it, but
all she noted was a short blurb before the picture scrolled over to the next
image of three beaming young boys heading for the front.
Star carriers didn’t get lost in
Faleen twice, and even if it was a different carrier than the one she’d seen
the last time she was there, it was the same make as the last one. Aliens
interested in boxers were back in Nasheen. What the hell was up with that?
Nyx spent a long while staring at
the scrolling pictures, but the image of Faleen didn’t pop up again.
What did an off-world carrier want
in Faleen? What did the queen want with her in Mushtallah? Being a bel dame had
taught her that there were no coincidences, only cause and effect.
She was going to need another drink.
8
Rhys could recite the Kitab by
heart, but he never quoted it at Nyx.
He sat in the dining car reading for
hours, yet no one came to wait on him. He even stayed long enough for the wait
staff changeover. Three women gave him openly hostile stares as they passed his
table. A Transit Authority agent asked to see his papers. The few times he’d
dared to go off on his own outside the Chenjan district since joining Nyx’s
team, he’d been beaten up, cut, and much worse. He didn’t travel alone anymore.
Much as he hated it, knowing Nyx was just two cars away was somewhat
comforting, though her sharp tongue was not.
What finally drove him back to the
cabin was the conductor’s announcement that they were nearing Mushtallah and
were about to go through customs. Customs agents were as violent with Chenjan
men as security agents and order keepers.
Rhys put his things away and passed
between cars. The stricken Nasheenian landscape rolled by. The world outside
did not look so different from Chenja here: There were fewer minarets, and some
of the older, mostly untouched villages were tiled in ceramic and still bore
huge gold-gilt inscriptions from the Kitab above the lintels to all of their
village gates, groceries, and the wealthier houses. He saw old contagion
sensors sticking up from the desert, half buried, some of them with the red
lights at their bulbous tips still blinking. There were fewer old cities in the
Chenjan interior. The oldest relics, Rhys supposed, would be farther north, in
the Khairian wasteland, where the first world had been created and abandoned.
Out here, though, was the most he had seen of old-world Nasheen. He had never
been to Mushtallah.
Rhys knocked at the compartment
door. As Nyx pulled it open, a passing member of the Transit Authority paused
in the hall at the sight of him and asked Nyx if Rhys was
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