Untrained Luck

By Elise Stephens

(Originally published April 2019 in Writers of the Future Vol. 35 by Galaxy Press.)

 

Mag forced herself to think about anything except the crescents glued inside her boot heel while the immigration officer addressed her in Hinshee, the official dialect.

“What brings you to Palab?” His black eyes studied her face from beneath his green wool cap. She smelled desert dust on his jacket. Overhead, an icy stream of conditioned air warned of crackling heat outside. Even here, she tasted the bitter tang of Palab’s soil. Mag had thought her previous visit to this country had been her last. Life and survival had other ideas.

“Business,” she said. “Your line of work?”

“I’m a mediator. I’ve come to resolve a dispute.”

“Really?” His eyebrows twitched. “And who are your clients?”

“I can’t . . . say.” She grasped fleetingly for the Hinshee word for disclose. That would have sounded politer. Then again, disclosing the identities of her clients, with their reputations for violence and disregard for the law, would endanger Mag’s own safety more than a mild discourtesy.

The officer nodded. “Did you take classes for this? A university degree?”

Mag shrugged and turned her palms skyward, as per local custom. “Some skills I taught myself, for others I took lessons.” She’d built the bulk of her mediation skills from a childhood spent pulling her parents off each other. The day she’d come home to find her mother’s neck broken, body limp on the kitchen table, her father showering in the bathroom, she’d pulled her eleven-year-old sister Nika onto the Firebrand and gunned the bike out of town.

The officer tapped an unlit cig against Mag’s pack. “Anything to declare?”

She opened her jacket and laid out her handgun, permit for the gun, echo tin, snoop, and wallet. The moonblade tucked into the small of her back remained hidden and undeclared, as did the crescent coins in her boot. She’d learned from her first time inside Palab’s borders that extra weapons and secret finances were always wise. As she began to unclip her therma-pin from her lapel, the officer flicked two fingers to dismiss the effort. He nodded at the items on the counter and she put them away while he lit his cig.

“Do you think your clients will find an agreement?” he asked casually.

She shrugged again. “If the Eye shows mercy.”

“If the Eye shows mercy,” he echoed, grinning, and reached for his stamp, then paused midway and shook his head.

Mag’s relief froze in her chest.

“My apologies,” the officer said. “You must go here first.” He motioned her to a curtained room labeled Secondary Questioning. As Mag entered, the room wafted scents of dust and disinfectant. A woman wearing a starched blue scarf sat behind a table. She pointed to Mag’s arms. “Roll up your sleeves.”

So the Palabi government was searching for simpaths now. Mag had seen the same witch-hunt play out in Palab’s neighbor, Kesh, which had required simpaths to publicly register last year. All that had done was spur a wave of mob killings: death by bloodletting and eye-gouging. Mag held no high hopes of enlightenment for the days ahead.

She doffed her riding jacket, baring her forearms. The female inspector met Mag’s eyes with disinterest, then set to swabbing her arms to check for concealed simpath heat-scars.

Mag’s mind pinged back to her first run-in with a simpath. She’d been young in her career and hadn’t yet earned enough to purchase a therma-pin’s protection. The simpath had emotionally pushed Mag into negotiating an imbalanced divorce settlement in which the already traumatized children were placed in the neglectful parent’s custody. Her throat tightened at the memory and her mind’s eye still burned with the sight of the simpath’s whorled heat-scars peeking out beneath his shirtsleeve as he’d sauntered from the room. Mag had known then what he’d done to her, but it had been too late. She’d sold her mother’s necklace the next day in order to buy a therma-pin. Never again. Palab’s government appeared to have taken a similar stance.

When the inspector felt satisfied with her scrutiny, she waved Mag to the room’s egress with a flat “Welcome to Palab.” Mag shrugged back into her jacket.

She’d wished for a gifting as a child, but now felt grateful to bear nothing. As her boots hit the pavement outside the customs station, a wave of heat engulfed her. She retrieved the Firebrand, swung onto the seat, and drove for the border town of Ajrah. The sky above her was not yet stained with purple-and-black stripes. Then again, by the time the storm stripes appeared…“May the Eye show mercy,” she muttered under her breath.

*

Minutes later, Mag snapped her kickstand onto the oily asphalt of a fuel station. The air was a filmy haze of petrol, honey-roasting pistachios from somewhere nearby, and burned rubber. As she topped off, she ran down her mental list: she’d already changed the bike’s oil, filter, coolants, and checked her tread depth. One and a half days’ ride to Ellawi City, do the job, get paid, then buy space in a bunker to hole up for the storm.

After refueling, Mag headed for the dingy lavatory and moved the crescents from her boot to a concealed money belt. Her reflection in the bathroom’s cracked mirror halted her. A dull orange light burned at the tip of her therma-pin. She tapped the sensor twice to reset it, but the pin flashed three more blinks and then went dead. She hissed. The ultrasensitive temp sensor and proprietary pattern-recognition software made therma-pins expensive and costly to repair. Of course, today was when the device would finally stop working.

While a simmer could heat or cool a non-bio liquid, and an empath fed emotions into the subject’s mind—always with a discernible “push”—a simpath bore a blend of both gifts and regulated sweat, blood and other bio-fluid temps, causing an imperceptible emotional sway that was limited only by the simpath’s line of sight. Simpaths bled excess energy from their hands at wavelengths with unique hot and cold signatures, the effect of which eventually scarred their forearms. Therma-pins detected these simpath heat signatures. Mag’s work could not be done without one. At least not ethically.

Her clients would doubtless bring their own pins for security at the upcoming negotiation, but now Mag would have to add repairs to the list of necessities piling up behind the expense of a two-week bunker stay. And asking to borrow a therma-pin for her own mediation might erode her clients’ respect. Mag was cursing to herself as she exited the lavatory when she saw the kid.

As a child, Mag and Nika had spent hours at fuel stations like this one, begging for spare change. This seven- or eight- year-old kid wasn’t a street urchin; those always traveled in twos or threes. He was alone. His clothes were grimy and tight shirtsleeves hugged his narrow arms instead of the region’s customary loose tunics. Hair straggled, lips chapped, eyes round with wariness.

In a border town like Ajrah, child trafficking stats gave mere hours before a vulch snatched him. Sure enough, lounging against one of the fuel towers was a man in a long tunic with sunglasses trained on the kid.

Mag chewed her tongue, then shouted her best Hinshee curse at the boy.

“Where have you been?”

The eyes of the other customers swung to her like magnets.

The boy gaped.

Mag stabbed her finger downward. “Come here. And don’t even think of leaving my sight again.”

The kid stumbled forward, his arms held warily at his sides.

He had the sense to be cautious. Good.

“Go wash your face. Your father’s missing work as it is!”

Mag pulled the kid into the lavatory and slammed the door. He sprang against the far wall, arms barring his face. From the shape of his eyes and his delicate nose, she guessed he was Keshian.

Mag knelt. “Listen,” she spoke slowly, trying out her Keshrindi. “I won’t hurt you.”

His eyes sharpened with understanding, but his arms stayed raised.

She said, “There are people outside who want to…” Mag searched her vocabulary, “who want to do bad things to you.”

He frowned and turned out his empty pockets.

Had she just said someone wanted to rob him? She shrugged. “It’s your lucky day,” she told him. “I’ll take you somewhere safe. But you must act like we know each other, like we’re friends.”

“Friends,” the boy said, using Mag’s native tongue, Darik. She slanted him a sharp look. Had he recognized her accent?

She shrugged. It didn’t matter. She’d made her decision and she’d ride it out. She’d find the kid a youth hostel on the way out of town. He’d chosen to trust her. For his sake, she was grateful.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Lio.”

She shook his hand. It was slick with sweat. “I’m Mag.”

She re-pinned her hair, smoothed and tucked her headscarf, then marched back into the sunlight with Lio’s hand inside her own. The man in sunglasses had already backed away, as if sensing defeat. He made no move to follow as Mag buckled on her helmet and motored away.

Lio locked his arms around her waist and the Firebrand growled with hunger for the open road. Mag bit her lip. The youth hostels in this border town would be just as sketchy as the fuel station.

She twisted the throttle and let the town’s neon lights and stone spires blur into a dappled stream behind them. “You’ll stay with me tonight,” she told Lio.

The Firebrand roared, and the kid dropped his head between her shoulder blades to brace himself for speed. Mag felt a crisp charge in the air: the promise of imminent, destructive change.

*

The Firebrand overheated three times that morning, which was unusual, but she’d never liked the Palabi climate.

At about noon, Mag gunned her throttle at a railroad crossing to clear the tracks just ahead of a train wearing rattling acid shields. Once across, Mag’s shaking arms forced her to pull over. Despite the close shave with the train, the jitters surprised Mag. A few long drags on a cig restored her calm, but Lio clung to her even with the Firebrand idling, his thumbs biting into her stomach. It was then that she realized he wore no helmet. She’d actually thought she was protecting him while she rode recklessly. Her cheeks flamed as she banked down the off-ramp to the next town.

The mint tea she purchased from a street vendor was lukewarm, despite its “iced” claims, but even with its chalky residue from a cheap acid filter it was better than her canteen slosh.

She walked Lio and the Firebrand past stalls of quick-harvest grains and outrageously priced cuts of meat. They passed two vendors in a shouting match. Mag’s ears told her that if the first paused long enough to listen to the second’s complaint, the matter could be quickly solved. She halted at a shop purveying breeches, chaps, gloves, and helmets.

Lio pointed out a gray helmet emblazoned with a dagger on an aspen leaf. “Like you,” he whispered reverently.

Mag snorted. It was cute that he wanted to match her, but LeafBlade brand didn’t come in child size. She parked the Firebrand and chose instead a scratched green helmet that had been discounted, then handed Lio her tea while she haggled. She was so absorbed with blocking the vendor’s clumsy empathic pressure toward a higher price, she didn’t notice Lio’s sulk until the purchase was tucked into her pack beside a bonus tube of silver decal paint. She’d still probably overpaid.

She took her tea back and drained it. It had cooled nicely inside the air-conditioned shop.

Lio’s mournful stare followed the LeafBlade helmet halfway down the street. The vendors were already rolling up carpets and boxing wares, though the afternoon was still young. Lightning forked in the distance. She sniffed and smelled ozone on the wind. Days or hours now.

A man in a black jacket with gold thread cuffs monitored the traffic from a street corner. That would be a peacekeeper, employed by Nalib Rinwahl, one of her clients in the upcoming negotiation. Power and strength were Rinwahl’s trademarks.

Mag buckled the helmet onto Lio and fought the urge to twist hard on her throttle. If the rains broke in the next hour, recklessness wouldn’t get them to Ellawi in time. Nothing would save them if the storm hit them on the open road.

The highway grew more pocked and oilier with each mile, worming like a ravaging parasite into the humid gut of Palab. The smell of animal carcasses rose with the heat, and the still-living beasts prowled the roadside, lean bodies sharp against a blue sky that was starting to turn a disturbing shade of purple. Mag pulled over once to tear off a sprig of wild sage and tuck   it inside her visor where its scent repelled the stench of death.

She’d charged twice her usual fee to account for the travel and low-visibility clientele of this job but, more than that, she’d charged extra for having to travel near the storm’s onset. Then again, she might have charged four times her standard, had her references not been fouled by two failed negotiations in a row. She’d lost her latter-half payment for both of those gigs, and had barely managed the bills to repair her hip, a casualty of one job’s violent implosion.

She knew her problem’s source, but like a loose bolt without a wrench, she couldn’t reach in and fix it. Mag had lost her grip six months earlier when she’d received news that Nika had died of infection after a cut-rate abortion. Just like that. Words on a screen. Little sister gone.

She should have taken a break, but she’d needed the money. So she’d entered those last two jobs with deadened reflexes and paid for it dearly.

When the job from Rinwahl and Nasheed had hit Mag’s inbox, she’d groaned at the Palabi address, but reminded herself she was still far from being able to afford a storm bunker. She’d accepted.

After another three-hour ride, she and Lio stopped briefly for jerky strips, bread, and water, then pushed on. When the sun had sunk almost to the horizon and Mag felt sand between her teeth, she checked her mileage and pulled off at the next campground. When she twisted to look at the kid, she saw bloodshot eyes, skin like a dried apricot, and trail of crusted blood at the corner of his mouth. Not one complaint.

At the campsite’s check-in box, she inserted her coins and a red cube tumbled out of the lockbox’s base with her campsite number. A small cabin would have been nice, or even one of the sturdy canvas tents, but after-hours entry removed such options.

“We’ll be roughing it,” she told Lio. She switched to Keshrindi when she saw his blank stare. “We’ll sleep outside tonight. No one will trouble us here. The eyes and ears of a crowd—”

“They guard us,” he broke in, finishing her sentence in Darik. “For now,” he continued, still in Darik, “we speak your words. I understand enough.” Pride quirked his mouth.

“Fine by me.”

They washed at the campground restrooms and Mag moved her holster to a conspicuous position on her good hip. She walked with the Firebrand and Lio past amber-orange flames and the sweet mesquite smoke of late lingering fires, nodding to fellow travelers. Mag had noticed more pink rivulet-scars on faces and hands than when she’d traveled to Palab a year before; one in three now bore some mark of storm rain.

At the campsite, she pushed the cube into its metal socket and a solar orb cast a thin glow onto the gravel lot, sweeping the base of a red cliff at the far end, the edge of a woven tent on the right, and a battered aluminum trailer with hand-painted Hinshee proverbs on the left.

Lio chucked gravel at the cliffside and watched the dust puff. Light twinkled on his throwing hand, a bracelet. Not diamonds. No one put diamonds on a kid this young. Unless it wasn’t his.

After wiping down the Firebrand, Mag spread out her kerchief with flatbread, dates, dried apples, jerky, and water.

Lio eagerly folded his legs under him. As he chewed, Mag let the humming generator from their neighbor’s trailer drown her words.

“I have some questions, Lio. But first, I’ll be upfront.”

He frowned, then asked with a full mouth. “In front of me?”

“Up front. Honest,” Mag said.

He nodded.

“I want to help you, but helping costs money and I don’t have extra. Do you have anything you could sell? Like this?” She pointed to his bracelet.

Lio swallowed his food, then clamped his hand over the bracelet. “This is my luck,” he said determinedly. “My stars of—of when I was born.” His voice shook. “My mother gave it.”

“Okay. It’s lucky. I get it.”

“Luck is everything,” he said.

“How did you come to Palab?”

“I ran.”

“On foot?”

“Yes, on my feet. I am fast.”

“Was someone chasing you?”

His eyes didn’t leave her face, but a part of Lio slid into shadow. He said, “They come for my mother, in our home. She was sick. Could not go, but she told me run. She told me promise not stop until I see gold dome.”

The old site of Ajrah’s Gilded Palace. So this woman had made her son flee.

“Was your mother in trouble?”

He looked away. With flushed cheeks, he said, “She is good person.”

Mag was silent.

“She was good person,” Lio said. “They drained her.”

“Spirit’s blood,” Mag cursed softly. “I’m sorry, Lio. I’ll stop prying now.”

He looked up at the darkening sky. The clouds were beginning to pile in the distance, but the wind was low. Not tonight.

“Here,” Mag offered, digging in her pack. She slid her echo tin out of its wooden box and placed it in the center of the emptied kerchief. “Courtyard in Milyan,” she whispered into the box.

The shiny sides flipped down and a small globe, bright as a blue day, burned in the open.

Lio’s head whipped side to side as the walls around them sprang to soft, colored life. The box projected a bubbling stone fountain and the slap of water on flat stones. The cliffside, trailer, and tent flaps were eclipsed by bright awnings and spotless storefronts selling richly dyed clothing, fruit in bright neat rows, and a bakery window piled high with sugar-dusted puffs. The sky above them glowed luminous.

Lio opened his arms wide and laughed.

Mag smiled. She’d captured the scene herself when her purse had been fat enough to keep two young women in Milyan for a full dry season. Though hard times had often pressed her to sell the echo tin, she’d always found means to keep it. It stored up to fifty scenes. This courtyard was one of her favorites.

While Lio amused himself by poking at items in the three-dimensional projection and watching his hand pass through, she laid out her statements from Nasheed and Rinwahl to study.

From what she’d gleaned during preparatory interviews, the two duja tycoons had made a deal a few years ago, with Rinwahl controlling sales of the addictive duja north of the Hebra River while Nasheed sold to the south, but something had soured.

Citizens had been killed in crossfire, and her clients now faced a government ultimatum they couldn’t afford to ignore. Mag smirked as she read Nasheed’s handwritten comment: “I was happy to hire you after hearing your former client Jave Nillim say you pinned his collar with a blade-tip pen when he repeatedly broke your ground rules. You have a knack for making people listen.” The story was true, and though it hadn’t been her most levelheaded choice, calculated risks were often necessary.

Duja sales were illegal in Palab, but due to low levels of violence and generous contributions to the government, Rinwahl and Nasheed had kept free of official intervention until this recent rash of killings.

She looked up. Lio was poking his head out of the echo tin’s projection the way a cornered rabbit might peer out at a fox. Whether he was a refugee, or fugitive, or something else,   he wasn’t about to tell her. She only knew he’d lost his mother. Gentle pity filled Mag’s chest. She heard Nika’s voice mocking her, “Bandage up that bleeding heart.” Though she felt sorry for Lio, if the kid had been Mag’s client, her instincts said to fact-check every single thing he said. She returned to her notes.

When Lio seemed sleepy, Mag leaned over the tin and said, “Night mode.” The Milyan scene faded, replaced by a faint golden glow. “Two guests. Set perimeter alarm.”

The tin chirped softly.

Mag rigged sky-cover from her travel tarp and gave her riding jacket to Lio. She wriggled into the smelly woolen jumper she’d stolen from her father on her last day home and promised herself that when she reached Hotel Alikesh, she’d use the in-house laundry to transform herself into the mediator her clients expected.

The night was quite warm for early spring, another sign of the storm front.

Mag rinsed her mouth, brushed her teeth, then checked on Lio. He’d already curled up beneath the tarp and was zipping himself into her jacket with his knees tucked. He looked like a leather egg.

Lio fell asleep quickly and spent the next half hour filling the makeshift tent with noisy, unapologetic flatulence as if to say, “Don’t get attached to me. I promise constant irritation.”

An hour later, Mag rolled away, desperate for clear air. The desert night was thick with the scent of night-blooming cereus and the taste of coming rain.

She hurled a pebble, listened to it dust-skip, then lit a cig and brought out the tube of silver decal paint. She loosened the tiny paint brush taped to its side and held Lio’s child-size helmet at arm’s length. After a moment’s study, she began.

*

The instant Mag woke, she felt the void. She reached for her pack. Canteen and food gone, wallet empty, and both the riding jacket and boy had vanished.

She crouched, blinking, then mechanically closed the echo tin and packed it away. No one had snatched him. The tin’s alert hadn’t marked his exit. Lio had wanted to go. She looked at the small helmet she’d painted with an imitation of the LeafBlade logo. She’d meant to surprise Lio with it in the morning. She cursed herself for being a sap.

Mag washed at the restrooms, finger-combed her hair, replaced her scarf and allowed herself to mourn her riding jacket for one caustic minute. Then she smoked a cig and, when she was sure she’d calmed, returned to the campsite.

At least she’d tucked the ignition key into her bra. He hadn’t had the nerve to grope there. And the crescents were still hidden in her money belt.

Mag took her time packing up, then as she picked burrs off her boots, a motion caught her eye. A face watched her from behind the Firebrand. She bolted to her feet, neck hot.

Lio’s face was crumpled. He pointed to her campstove and she saw coffee boiling in a pot. The pickings of her wallet sat beside Lio’s shoes. He mutely offered a bunch of wild yellow primroses.

She waited for a blubbering excuse, but instead Lio met her eyes and said, “Before the sun, I walk away for one hour carrying your things. They much heavy in my hands, so I come back.” He squared his shoulders. “Decide I am not thief.”

He held out the riding jacket to her. She drew the leather to her nose, then pushed her arms into the sleeves and crossed to the coffee. She poured a cup and took three slow swallows, letting him stew in his guilt.

“My world runs on second chances, but not third ones.” She cleared her throat. “If you weren’t so cute, I’d have already shot off your thief’s hand. Also, primroses are my favorite, you little shit.”

He grinned. Sheet lighting flashed behind him in the morning haze.

She raised a finger. “One more chance.”

Lio nodded, then unclasped his bracelet and held it out.

Mag pushed it back. “You need all your luck out here.” Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she showed him what she’d painted on the helmet.

“Beautiful!” Lio shouted, cramming the helmet onto his head. He caught her in a wild hug, then seemed to remember himself. “Thank you,” he said, bowing ceremoniously.

“You’re welcome.”

As she made a final sweep of the site, Mag’s fingers brushed her matchbook, tucked inside her jumper pocket. What kind of eight-year-old thief knew how to start fires without tools? Exactly how worried should she be?

As she was securing her pack on the Firebrand, Lio touched her arm.

“Maglin Grayhawk,” he began, sobriety plain in his green eyes, “I want to ask. If you . . . if you help me to learn who I do and am better.”

Mag flinched at his use of her full name. Then she remembered he’d ransacked her wallet. So the kid could read Darik as well as speak it.

She said, “By ‘learn’ do you mean ‘school’? You want a teacher?” His face brightened with relief. “Yes! A teacher.” He swallowed, then said with deliberation, “For me.”

Mag noted his strange intensity, then squatted to bring their eyes on level.

“If this job goes well, I’ll have enough for room and board in an Ellawi bunker to wait out the storm. I’d wanted a spot with a private kitchen. But if I don’t really need that kitchen, I could find space for two.”

I must be losing my mind, she thought. I’m making a generous offer to a kid who just tried to steal me blind.

But the words continued pouring. “Maybe, once the storm has passed, I could find you a school with late enrollment.” Mag activated the Firebrand’s choke. “How does that sound?”

“Find a school,” he repeated.

“Did you understand anything else I just said?”

He wagged his head unconvincingly. “Most?”

Mag folded the kickstand. “Get on.”

*

The multi-spired outline of Hotel Alikesh was the grandest sight for miles, including Ellawi’s three-hundred-year-old cathedral. Gleaming ramparts and polished roof tiles glowed the color of sunset and resembled a flaming crown.

Mag and Lio agreed that they’d pretend, if asked, that he was her personal attendant. At the city gate, Mag balked at the gatekeeper’s exorbitant entrance fee. As she reached for her wallet, palms sweating slightly, Lio leaned around to stare at the gatekeeper. The man smiled at him and offered a discount on behalf of her hungry-looking kid. Mag was happy to take whatever kindness she could get.

The hall clock read five minutes after one in the afternoon as Mag turned her room key in its lock. Lio sprang across plush carpet toward the array of complimentary fruit and nuts. Mag stashed valuables in the room’s safe, sent a bag of clothes to the laundry, then locked herself in the bathroom for a thorough washing. Half an hour later, the laundry returned, pressed and steamed. The Alikesh almost certainly employed a simmer.

Mag dressed, then noted the emptied food bowls. Lio lay curled on the bed, eyes closed. Perhaps his flatulence of the previous night had been his stomach’s distrust of a full meal after prolonged starvation. She tapped his shoulder and suggested that he bathe, then called Petrin Nasheed’s room and acquired permission to borrow his therma-pin for the negotiation. She took a slow stroll through the hotel’s courtyard, noting the sky’s deepening shade of purple while she relished a cig, then returned to the room.

Lio was asleep atop the bedspread. His wet hair smelled of orange-blossom soap, but he’d put on the same filthy long- sleeved shirt again. She reached to touch his forehead, then stopped herself. She seated herself at the room’s desk, back to the sleeping boy, and fixed her eyes on her notes.

*

“Big. Important. I see in your face. What you do today?” Lio asked.

Mag sat at breakfast with him in the courtyard. He’d been slipping dried dates into his pocket.

She said, “I’m going to help some angry people find a way to agree.”

He leaned in. “Angry people are dangerous, yes? You bring gun for shield?”

She smiled. “No guns. Just mouths for talking and ears for listening. And brains for thinking. Hopefully.”

“No one have guns?”

She shrugged. “Well, someone usually smuggles something in. But I keep tempers in check so that no one uses them.” Her hip throbbed in bitter protest.

“Then you take this.” Lio held up his lucky bracelet.

*

The conference room’s twin chandeliers reflected on Mag’s polished boots. Her buckles, buttons, even her gold  nose-ring, were freshly shined. Lio’s bracelet weighed heavy in her pocket. She’d purchased an expensive black scarf from the hotel boutique in order to wear Palab’s traditional color of power.

Mag had left Lio in the hotel room with plenty of vids and snacks, and stern orders to stay put. She entered the conference room an intentional five minutes late.

All were in attendance. The ice-blue marble floor was streaked with white branches and black flecks, resembling a dark snowfall. A double row of brown earth-stone pillars lined the hall like an orderly forest. Two tables faced each other, seating three delegates apiece.

Before introductions, Mag silently scrubbed for bugs with her snoop, calibrated the borrowed therma-pin, then strode to stand at the room’s far end.

She mentally summoned her clients’ profiles as she surveyed them.

Nalib Rinwahl had held a national monopoly on duja sales for fifteen years. Five years ago ceded sales south of the Hebra River to Petrin Nasheed. Lost wife to stomach cancer within the last year, but still wore a silver wedding cuff. Known for his severe temperament, Nalib Rinwahl was also a traditionalist obsessed with reputation and honor.

He sat to her right, flanked by his two adult sons, Ush and Isma. He wore a well-trimmed beard, black suit, and digital signature band on his right pinkie. Ush, Rinwahl’s eldest, dressed like his father, but the younger Isma wore an azure collar beneath his jacket. Isma stared at Mag for a long moment, then absently rubbed his little finger as she turned aside.

Petrin Nasheed had been raised by his uncle after losing both parents in a maglev wreck. Opened a business consulting firm at age nineteen. His acute intuition for social scenarios had routinely roused suspicions that led to repeated tests for empathic abilities, always with negative results. His unofficial slogan: “I’m just good with people.” Seven years ago, left the consulting world to enter the duja trade. Business had thrived steadily until a recent outbreak of violent run-ins with Rinwahl had burned bridges and dragged the government into the fray.

Petrin Nasheed sat between his advisers Murelle Dijab and Liata Greensword. Nasheed flashed Mag a grin while his fingers spun a ballpoint pen in a complex weave. Both advisers’ headscarves were flame orange. Dijab wore half-moon reading lenses and wrote on a tablet while Greensword watched the room with sharp, bright blue eyes.

Mag drew a breath. “As all of us know, we’re here to resolve the rift between your two enterprises. As mediator, I’ll work to facilitate terms that are well balanced and acceptable to all. I offer the following: One, confidentiality on all matters discussed here. Two, voluntary participation—I will not force you to concede any point. Three, neutrality—I promise an unbiased stance. I will channel and facilitate discussion. I will not advise. “The rules: Listen. Don’t interrupt. When you do speak, strive for courtesy.”

She cleared her throat and paused. Nasheed seemed attentive, though his eyes were slightly reddened from lack of sleep or possibly substance indulgence. Rinwahl wore stoic skepticism. Mag’s gut said Rinwahl would be her stubborn client.

She continued. “During my separate meetings with each of you, I established your objectives. Mr. Nasheed, you seek a stop to the recent wave of violence. Mr. Rinwahl, you seek renewed adherence to your original contract terms, specifically that sales of Mr. Nasheed’s duja remain strictly south of the Hebra.”

Both sides nodded curtly. Good. No time wasted there.

Mag said, “Four days ago the Palabi government instated a 5,000-crescent fine for each day that this dispute remains unresolved. This adds incentive to proceed with efficiency.” She paused.

Of course, the fact that no one had yet been jailed for the murders meant that the government was still being generously paid off, to some extent.

Rinwahl was clenching his jaw in agitation.

Nasheed raised his hand. “I’d like to make an opening statement.”

Mag nodded.

“We’re here about the killings,” Nasheed said. “The trend began two months ago when Rinwahl provided his so-called peacekeepers with assault-mode scatterblitzes. This ridiculous stance of martial authority puts my vendors at a constant disadvantage.” Nasheed looked sidelong at his advisers, then added, “I’m well aware we could meet the challenge with bigger, better guns, but I’ve read too much history to think an arms race will solve matters.”

Rinwahl grimaced, motioning for attention.

“Is there anything you wish to correct in Mr. Nasheed’s statement?” Mag asked him.

“No. But I’ll supply details that he blithely glossed over.” Rinwahl leaned forward, elbows brushing the tabletop. “I issued those scatterblitzes after multiple safety complaints. My employees are like family, and I take their safety seriously.”

The younger Rinwahl son rolled his eyes. Familial discord.

Rinwahl said, “Five years ago, I ceded the southern half of the country to Nasheed’s sales. But he hasn’t been satisfied with that. He’s flagrantly stolen my customers. Then, when he resented my means of protecting my people and territory, he tainted a batch of duja during its bottling, which made my customers have violent nausea.”

Counselor Dijab read from her tablet. “The precise contract terms should be noted here. The agreement appeared fair, but a close inspection of Palab’s population density reveals the division of customers was steeply tilted in Mr. Rinwahl’s favor.” Rinwahl seemed ready to rebuff the claim, but Mag said, “Yes, the population disparity between the North and South surfaced in both our pre-meetings. The gist of the contract was that Mr. Nasheed would buy raw duja product from Mr. Rinwahl’s greenhouses at a minimal markup that was only to rise with the country’s standard inflation rates. Mr. Nasheed’s sales would be restricted to the South, which was less populated than the North.”

“Significantly less,” Nasheed muttered. “And the clientele is poorer and less civilized, if I may be blunt.” He locked eyes with Rinwahl. “But I surprised you. Instead of withering, my business thrived. But to address the accusation of tainting your duja, I suggest improving your quality control, since another bad batch could impair your credibility.”

Reading between those lines was simple: Nasheed had a man inside Rinwahl’s manufacturing plant. When Rinwahl used his new guns, Nasheed had signaled his man to tweak a batch of duja that then sickened Rinwahl’s clients. If Rinwahl’s product could be made to seem unreliable, his customers would flock to Nasheed.

Counselor Dijab handed Nasheed a simple, unadorned echo tin. He murmured into it. A projection of a scuffed brown-glass bottle spun into view.

“Most of us know Rinwahl’s duja,” Nasheed said. “It comes in one flavor and one strength—highly intoxicating. All well and good, if that’s what you like. But this is my duja.”

In the projection, a velvet curtain enclosed the room and a polished table appeared at the room’s center bearing gold-etched glass vials.

“The projections can’t carry smell, but I have vanilla, mint, and sandalwood scents, among others,” Nasheed said, “with intensities to match any passion. I proposed this product to Rinwahl seven years ago. He turned me down. Then, after I’d grown a business that was successful enough to worry him, we signed that stilted contract. He wanted to cut me off from his best cities and customers. He thought I’d dry up. But I didn’t.”

Mag said, “Is it fair to say, Mr. Rinwahl, that you underestimated the potential of Mr. Nasheed’s business model?”

Rinwahl hesitated, then nodded. “It’s dishonorable to begrudge a man his success, but I believe I can criticize Nasheed’s disregard for terms. I’ve spent my life growing things, you see.” He took out his own echo tin. It was twice the size of Mag’s own, filigreed with spiraling swallows. He murmured into it and the conference room was domed by glass and steel girders. Lush, raised beds lined the ground in rows, bearing lime-green stalks and tan blossoms.

“Furthermore,” said Rinwahl, “my customers include the most influential families of Palab. I may not have a flashy product, but I have a time-tested tradition. I cannot abide the brazen attitudes of your vendors, Nasheed, slipping across the Hebra, enticing customer migration, having no scruples about whether your goods are resold up north.”

“I’m not shooting people at every chance I get. Let’s be clear on that,” Nasheed snarled.

Rinwahl reddened. “If you call self-defense a—”

“Self-defense?” Nasheed laughed coldly. “And this, after you raised the cost of my raw duja to triple the rate of inflation, leaving me with no recourse but to swallow it?”

“Okay,” Mag raised both arms, “we’re at the heart of it.”

“No.” Nasheed stood. “The heart is that my good friend Brussin Seff was murdered yesterday because, despite this upcoming meeting, you still didn’t call off your dogs.”

Mag absorbed this new information and watched Nasheed’s face flush as he shoved a chip into his echo tin. She crossed to him and placed her hand firmly atop the box.

“Wait a moment,” she said.

Nasheed’s eyes were flaming, but he eyed her unyielding stance and relented.

Counselor Greensword whispered something in Nasheed’s ear. He shrugged and replaced the chip in the echo tin with a different one.

Mag turned to Rinwahl. “A man’s broken word is quite an insult. Mr. Nasheed’s contract violations have destroyed your respect for him, correct?”

“Absolutely.” Rinwahl spoke coolly, eyes on Nasheed’s face. “And Mr. Nasheed, you seek an end to bloodshed. A peaceful way forward.”

Nasheed cleared his throat, struggling to speak.

So the murdered man had truly been a friend. Even in Palab, where hyperbole was everywhere, he hadn’t exaggerated this.

Nasheed said at last, “Yes. Of course.”

“Can we agree that peace and mutual respect are worthy goals?”

Mag let the awkward silence hang until both men gave verbal agreement.

Then Nasheed said, “Now let me explain, Rinwahl, I’m trying to do good business. It’s no secret that my duja is more popular. But your ‘family’ are harassing and shooting my vendors at the mildest provocation. And they’re not just killing my guys. Children were hit by crossfire more than once. My wish is that duja sales throughout Palab would flourish, but that’s too lofty a goal for today. I’d settle for keeping my people safe on the street and a fair cost for raw duja.” His eyes glittered for a moment, then Nasheed added, “I’d thought to share a view of the alley where Brussin’s body was found. Instead,” he glanced at Counselor Dijab, “in better taste, I give you the medical examiner’s report.” He whispered into his echo tin and the report spun as a single page in three dimensions. “Read it for yourself, but I’ll highlight the thirty-seven bullet wounds, all delivered from the back. His tongue was cut out.”

The room hung still until Rinwahl said, “Though this man’s death was a mistake, I must say that threats to those under my protection will always be treated seriously.”

Mag knew Nasheed’s next move before he took it.

“No apology,” Nasheed muttered.

Mag held her breath.

A nasty grin contorted Nasheed’s face. “Shall we talk about what’s really threatening your family?”

Both the Rinwahl sons flinched. Isma straightened.

“You’ve been trying to cover your son Isma’s gambling debts for years now,” Nasheed said as Greensword nodded beside him. Dijab handed Nasheed a tablet. He read it quickly, then said, “Today we see he’s not even wearing your family dig-sig anymore, which means you’ve cut off his independent spending.”

Mag flicked a glance at the finger that Isma now held studiously still. How recent was this development?

Nasheed continued, volume mounting, “You supplied false reasons for raising my raw duja cost because you needed funds to placate the casinos. You’ve even started selling your wife’s jewels. I don’t know what kind of deal you made to get those scatterblitzes, but it’s obvious you aren’t thinking with a level head.”

Rinwahl had flushed from red to purple, which was notable given his bronze complexion.  “How dare you bring in my personal matters?” he growled. “You’re not trying to make peace! You’re trying to tear me down!”

Mag said loudly, “We’re going to take a recess.”

But a clatter of chairs drowned her voice as Rinwahl, Nasheed and their supporters took to their feet.

A rapid assessment of both sides’ confident postures told Mag that concealed weapons were in the room. The weapons’ presence wasn’t usual, but if anything went off, even assuming no one was injured, the negotiation failed and Mag lost her payment. Of course, if she was dying of a bullet wound in her gut before the storm hit, affording shelter would be pointless.

Mag gritted her teeth as she strode to stand, arms wide, between the two tables, hoping for a nonfatal shot if she was going to be hit.

The elder Rinwahl son had one arm extended, bent at the wrist, probably readying some hidden dart gun. Nasheed brandished a pistol in plain view. Mag thought briefly of her concealed moonblade, but a knife was little help here.

“Eyes on me!” Mag shouted. “I said eyes on me!”

Nasheed responded first, but not as she’d expected. He tensed and bent, as if to run. She looked at Rinwahl, whose eyes were wide with a similar terror. Ush caught his father by the arm, face full of concern. A sudden mood change in both leaders.

Mag’s skin chilled.

Not now. Please not now.

The therma-pin beeped three sharp notes. She turned its glowing light toward her face. “The device has registered a simpathic heat-signature,” she announced. “The pulse was erratic. No further activity detected.”

“You hired a simpath, Nasheed?” Ush Rinwahl spat with disgust.

Counselor Greensword glared at him. “Do you really think he’d have hired a simpath to attack himself, too?”

“It could be a clever ploy,” Isma Rinwahl suggested.

“This meeting is canceled,” Rinwahl growled. “Simpathic sway compromises everything.”

Mag rapidly scanned the room, silencing her panic with pragmatism, noting where a simpath might hide. Making rapid decisions, she said, “Here’s what we’ll do: Put those weapons away—out of the room. Take an hour lunch break. You can channel your anger into creative problem-solving. Regroup among yourselves and I’ll arrange private meetings. I’ll also re-secure the premises. Send your own security teams, too, if you like.”

“I agree with Rinwahl,” Nasheed said. “Simpathic disturbance should nullify this now.”

Mag crossed her arms. “Is that really what you want? To schedule another negotiation date, rehire a mediator, all with those daily fines?” She turned her palms up. “It’s your money, not mine.”

She refolded her arms to hide the shaking. She wouldn’t consider a reality in which this negotiation was canceled. Not yet.

“All right. One more chance,” Nasheed said. “The simpath pulse was erratic. Perhaps it was circumstantial. Perhaps room security will solve it. I’m not comfortable, but I hate delays even more. I’ll risk a little for the chance to be done with this.” After a pause, Rinwahl grunted agreement.

Mag set up private conference times as the delegates prepared to leave. As they exited, storm dust swirled into the conference room. Mag stood in the empty room while her heart pounded manically.

Boiling coffee on a stove without matches, an overheated engine with an excited young rider, her own uncharacteristic fear after the close-call railroad crossing.

The instances hit in a stinging stream.

Tea that went from lukewarm to chilled, the strange discount at the Ellawi gate, and—of course!—the religiously worn sleeves that concealed the forearms. She really should have known.

Mag pressed her palms to her cheeks.

Secure the room first. Obscure all line-of-sight options. There were no windows. The walls had no doors or alcoves.

This left the ceiling air vents as the only place a simpath could feasibly maintain visual contact and stay hidden.

Mag enlisted two boys from grounds keeping to fasten dark sheets over all air vents, then headed straight for her hotel room, heart in her throat.

*

“Do you have any idea what you almost did in there?”

Lio sat cross-legged on the bed, eyes innocent and wide. He hadn’t even bothered to replace the air vent screws; they lay loose on the bedside table.

“Lio,” she grabbed his shoulders. “I know it was you. I know you’re a simpath.”

He twisted away. “You needed me,” he said. “I saved you. Weapons were too dangerous. My lucky bracelet not enough.”

He’d interfered while she stood in harm’s way, revealed himself as a simpath in order to protect her, and at great personal risk. Warmth bloomed in Mag’s chest, but she resisted it, holding tightly to her rage.

The kid must be ignorant of the horrors that greedy bastards inflicted on child simpaths. Or was he? Had Lio’s mother been killed for birthing a child with simpathic abilities? Keshian law now forbade the union of a simmer and an empath.

Her words trembled. “If you meddle again, it’ll be worse for me than if I were shot.”

Lio twisted his mouth in disbelief and Mag seized his collar.

He whimpered.

“Stay out of this,” she hissed. “That’s an order, not a request.”

He seemed to shrink as he nodded, face pale, shoulders drooping.

Mag found a maid and paid her generously from her dwindling purse to watch and stay with Lio. Of course, if Lio wanted to use his gift to dismiss the maid, he could. But Mag judged by the stark fear in his face that he’d respect her wishes. She crammed a handful of nuts into her mouth on the way out the door. From there, she had five minutes before her first client conference.

*

“I’ll speak frankly,” Nasheed said as Mag joined him and his advisers at their courtyard table. Machinery groaned above them as the Alikesh unrolled its roofcap to prepare for the storm. Dust thickened the air and purple streaks were darkening overhead.

Mag coughed to clear her lungs and accepted Nasheed’s offered bread and dipping spices.

Nasheed said, “Rinwahl is a bully with no creativity who can’t even control his own sons.”

She smiled crisply. “Mudslinging only hampers resolution. Contrary to logic as this may seem, now’s your time to make Mr. Rinwahl a unilateral offer.”

Nasheed snorted. “And why would I want to do that?”

“It’s your best chance of getting an offer from him.”

He stared at her for a moment, then straightened. Counselor Dijab readied her writing pad.

“Your vendors and product sales are his main point of contention,” Mag said. “You might focus there.”

As she stood to leave, Nasheed said. “That’s all you have to say?”

“I strive to guide and facilitate, Mr. Nasheed. You have some very intelligent aides to advise you.”

As she turned to go, Counselor Greensword flashed her an approving smile.

Mag had purposefully given Rinwahl the later time slot. Despite Nasheed’s turbulent emotions during the negotiation, she judged Rinwahl as the man who needed more time to cool off.

He was on the rooftop veranda, smoking a cigar over the remains of his lunch while his sons sat in tense silence. The roofcap above bore an artful projection of a clear blue sky over far mountains.

When Mag suggested Rinwahl make Nasheed an offer, he balked in similar fashion.

“He’s not getting any more land.”

“Territory isn’t his objective,” she reminded. “He takes issue with your new weapons and the increased violence.”

“Removing my people’s protection would only invite more problems.”

Both Isma and Ush seemed ready with comments, but Rinwahl only glanced at Ush and shook his head. He ignored Isma completely.

“If I may have a word,” Mag said suddenly.

It was an impulse, but she felt confident as she led Rinwahl to the balcony railing. He dangled his cigar over the open air and watched the hazy trail. The wind had dropped to dead calm. The storm was poised and ready.

She shivered, pushed the thought away, and lit her own cig in the silence. She said, “This is the truth: you’ll poison your future more quickly by choosing favorites between your sons than you’ll ever lose to granting Nasheed a few concessions.”

Rinwahl pulled his cigar from his mouth, wordless. She left him still frowning.

*

Unbiased empathy was the mediator’s best and most delicate tool. Mag took a minute to refresh herself in one of the Alikesh’s powder rooms, prayed for the eighth time that Lio would stay put, then strode into the conference room with a show of confident optimism.

Nasheed seemed relaxed. He was smiling his trademark grin again. Rinwahl sat with a son on each side, all three men had their heads held high. He nodded to Mag and she knew he’d spoken to Ush and Isma.

This was the moment in the endgame when Mag compelled herself to truly love her clients, to feel Rinwahl’s anger at Nasheed’s affront, to grieve with Nasheed for lives needlessly lost. She became a genuine advocate for both men, esteeming them as people with histories and souls. Mag summoned her own grief for Nika’s death as she met Nasheed’s eye. “You lost a good friend to an early death, and yet you’re here for peace. This takes courage.”

He nodded and looked down quickly.

Next, Mag summoned the gnawing betrayal of the day Nika announced she didn’t need Mag in her life anymore. She met Rinwahl’s gaze and said, “You’ve endured a broken contract and the shame of family disloyalty, yet you’ve chosen to hear out your opponent. This reveals honor.”

Rinwahl frowned and rubbed his knuckles, but Mag knew she’d hit her mark.

The therma-pin remained blessedly silent as she continued. “A successful negotiation is a dance of give and take. You’ll likely compromise more than you planned. Now is the time to make a request and, perhaps, an offer.”

The chandeliers flickered.

“Consider that a warning to work quickly,” she added dryly.

Nasheed began immediately. “My northern sales are a point of contention. Some instances of resale will remain beyond my full control; however, I’m offering today to relocate my three main duja distribution centers an additional ten miles south of the Hebra, which will decrease the proximity issue. In addition, I’ll impose a fine of five hundred crescents for vendors I catch selling product across the river. I ask that you replace the scatterblitzes with something less destructive which will still give your people the protection they deserve.” After a pause, Nasheed added, “I can’t stop the migration of customers coming south, but I can offer you my consultation services for improving your product’s marketability.”

That last bit was a cheeky move, but Rinwahl didn’t seem to mind.

Rinwahl said, “I can’t confiscate the scatterblitzes. It would make my people feel vulnerable. I can, however, mandate training and make a selective protocol for who is permitted    to carry such arms with severe consequences for breaking the protocol. I will set strict terms of engagement for weapons. In addition, I request a cessation of all marketing campaigns aimed at customers in the North.” He leveled a glare at Nasheed. “You know the ones I mean.”

Nasheed grinned.

Rinwahl added, “I’m pleased to hear you’ve already considered stricter guidelines for your vendors’ sales. I wouldn’t want more accidents to befall those who venture beyond our defined trade zones.”

Without skipping a beat, Nasheed returned, “And I’d hate for another bad batch of duja to destroy your customers’ trust in you. I doubt you could afford that right now.”

There. Both men had made their thinly veiled threats as means of insurance. Not the brightest outlook, but they had an understanding.

“All right,” Mag said. “I’ve written the offers and demands on the board. We’ll finesse the wording until we reach something acceptable to everyone.”

As she lifted her pen, distant thunder rumbled. The negotiation’s worst might have passed, but not the storm’s. Her mind returned to its rattling question.

What am I going to do with you, Lio?

Less than an hour later, the agreement was being sent to print. Mag watched Nasheed cross to Rinwahl’s table to shake hands with him and his sons.

It wasn’t warmth that passed between the two factions; it was a fragile bridge. But it was enough.

Rinwahl had offered to personally make restitution to Brussin Seff’s family and this small gesture had sped the negotiation’s completion.

Once the document was officially signed on both  paper and dig-sig pads, Mag set the therma-pin on the tabletop and addressed the room.

“Congratulations. You have managed to stop tearing down and to start building up. This is how great nations are built. You should feel very proud.”

A murmur of assent swept the tables. Then the moment broke and Rinwahl approached Mag. “You’ve addressed not just the problems at hand but given me a new mirror to examine myself as both leader and father.” He smiled, and Mag sensed the rarity of it. “Wisdom has bloomed today. May the Eye show mercy and success on your future work.”

She bowed.

Nasheed caught her in a firm handshake as she turned. “You’re at the top of my list now, though let’s hope I don’t have to hire you again anytime soon!” He laughed loudly.

After one more round of gracious farewells, she ducked out and headed for the elevator, forcing herself not to run.

Mag needed no warning against forming an emotional attachment to a simpath; the foreboding pulsed like poison in her blood. The kid might well have used his sway on her during the entire trip to Ellawi, but in this hallway he couldn’t see and therefore couldn’t sway her, yet Mag’s determination to shelter him remained.

To her surprise, she found Lio sitting on the hotel room floor playing a game of tallit with the maid. She rushed to hug him wordlessly, then paid the maid and locked the door.

“Pack your things,” she whispered. “The storm’s almost here.” Lio’s stare indicated his need for explanation.

His words echoed in her mind. Help me to learn who I do . . .

She said, “Thank you for trying to protect me. I realize now that when you asked to ‘learn’ you meant simpath training. I don’t know where to start, but I’ll try to help you. For now,        I have to get us someplace safe.”

He nodded.

Thunder clapped overhead, and the clouds burst. Too late for safe.

Mag hastily double-checked the new numbers in her account, then pulled up the address of the bunker she’d researched the day before. Though she might have squatted for a time in the Alikesh foyer, she knew the hotel would have found a way to charge her beyond her means, and Lio wasn’t safe in a crowd. They needed a bunker’s isolation.

As they left the lobby, Mag grabbed a gilded mirror off a wall and hoisted it above her head, muttering to Lio, “The things I do for you already.”

The bunker was two blocks away. The acid rain wasn’t pounding yet, but slanting lines in the purple haze were racing toward them.

Lio pushed the Firebrand and Mag shielded them with the mirror. Lio froze the first time she screamed. The acid was eating her hands.

She cursed at him. “Don’t stop till you reach that blue door!” She wasn’t sure she had more than bones left on her fingers, and her shoulder blades flamed where her jacket had melted away, but they made it.

The place smelled of bleach and scrubbed steel. She wrapped her bleeding hands in bandages given to her by the bunker’s proprietor, parked the Firebrand along the back wall of their private room, wiped the bike down, checked the fluids, then arranged echo tin, snoop, gun, some ration food packs, and Lio’s bracelet on a wall-ledge. She eyed the window. She’d paid extra for the slit of green glass, but now she wished she hadn’t.

Lio strained on tiptoe, trying to improve his view of the outside. He must have never seen the stormwall, but surely he’d heard the stories? Mag had spoken to a few storm survivors. Sometimes the rain melted flesh, sometimes it melted the mind. The Alikesh had its retractable roofcap, but most Ellawi citizens couldn’t afford such things.

Well, there was no hiding it from Lio. They’d be stuck watching this for two weeks.

Bruise-purple clouds were throbbing above them. Mag put a bandaged hand on Lio’s shoulder and was surprised by the dullness of her pain. She’d savor the effects of shock and adrenaline while they lasted.

First came the hissing acid pellets, sizzling semisolids at the storm’s head. Then the small fires as a few pellets found wood. A minute later, glass cracked somewhere beyond. With the glass broken, the storm whipped into homes. Then the screams.

After an awful minute, Lio touched Mag’s arm.

She said, “Want me to set up something on the echo tin?”

He nodded.

They retreated together into the Milyan courtyard. Lio curled around his helmet and shut his eyes while Mag thought of the storm she’d escaped only to hole up with a different kind of peril.

Lio needed training. The kid created his own kind of luck, but untrained luck like his was a hazard to anyone near him and a magnet for power players. She couldn’t just turn him loose when the storm was over, could she?

Mag forced herself into the present. At least this room kept Lio safe for now. Folk hatred for simpaths and the black-market value of young ones were bleak realities. Two weeks without a cig. Best not to think about that, either.

She slipped out of the projection and stood again at the window. The bunker’s proprietor had warned her that the grid shut off for the first few hours of storm, and that after the stormwall passed, the first electric light outside became a sign of hope.

Wails and roars thudded dully against the bunker walls.

Even in this short string of days, Lio could betray her. He could twist her mind against itself and bolt, leaving her with nothing. Simpaths were famous for that. All her charity, all the risks she’d taken for him, could still end in curses and suffering. Yet the kid had tried to save her life when he’d thought it endangered.

Mag leaned her forehead on the glass. She always took more chances than was wise. It was her nature. Some risks were worth it.

Sometime later, Lio leaned against her side. He was cradling his helmet on his chest.

“Look,” Mag whispered, pointing.

High above, strung between two crumbling apartment towers, a single line of white lights glowed bravely, like stars.

 

END