The Concurrence Day Heist

The first time I saw the news coverage of my heist, I wasn’t on Ginvaris. I was sitting in a railcar on Astrent, my legs tucked beneath me and something strong and fizzy dampening the fur of my palms. It was mid-morning, or second moonrise as they call it, and two of their moons were dancing across a purple sky perfectly visible through the gold and glass ceiling above me. Everything was exactly as I’d dreamed it would be.

Until some human flicked on the intergalactic news.

I assume their tablet was set to a perfectly reasonable volume for most species. Certainly, no one else reacted, but it is difficult to escape the hearing of a Meseag, even a dozen feet away, and I heard every word. I’m sure you’ve seen it by now, too. The reporters called me all sorts of things—opportunist, criminal, thief. Most of them assumed I was working for someone else, someone who laid out the whole plan. Ha! I’ve got half a mind to let them look for their supposed mastermind while I sit back and imagine them chasing their tails. But I want that credit. It was my plan that succeeded.

And not one of them has figured out how.

Of course, I do have to admit one failing: the heist wasn’t my idea. Everything that followed was—the crew, the plan, the escape— but I was hired for this thing the same way I usually am. Someone with too much money and too little sense gets their heart set on something that doesn’t belong to them and then looks for someone with the skillset to procure it. Let’s just say that on a planet with a near-perfect binary for Meseag career choices, I took the better-paying option.

Anyway, I was at the bar down on the lower side of Byrisi City— you know the one. Zarani’s place. Just a few blocks from where we grew up. It’s still just as dark as ever, though I swear Zarani’s replaced the fixtures a dozen times. Too many shady deals have occurred between those old-school fungus-grown walls for light to penetrate to the floor. It’s got a dozen bolt holes and even more places to lay low, but the booths are the best part. Leather worn soft, tables worn smooth, and shadows so thick you could hide a Becadenite throwing a tantrum. Makes me homesick just thinking about it. I was curled up there, flicking through my tablet, sipping Zarani’s homemade redfruit wine, when she nips over well before time for a top-up.

“Scira,” she says. “A guy up near the front says he’s looking for S, the pilfer. Says he has work.”

That gets my attention. I sit up, flick my ears forward, and lift my eyes from the screen to the thick-furred gray creature before me. Zarani’s dressed comfortably, as usual, a black apron wrapped around her ample waist, a few loops hanging from her ears. I catch myself scanning her face for clues, but there’s a good reason you’ll never catch me gambling against her.

“He look like money?”

She nods slowly, her eyes widening for emphasis. “More money than you and I’d see put together.”

Which is saying something. Zarani’s doing well enough.

“Send him over, then.”

Only when I see the guy, the only thing I can think is how bad a lashing I’m gonna give that damn barkeep. He’s money, alright. The sort you find in the portions of this city that have been built, not grown. The sort of money that comes attached to four limbs, delicate fingers, and a furless carapace. He’s Sudaorn. So tall that he has to fold himself in two to squeeze into my booth, his long, four-eyed face decorated with a double set of crystal lenses, his four arms cloaked in sa’en silk sleeves that cost more than I’ve made this year. When he speaks, he sounds like money, like you can hear all the cash that’s been dished out for his education in long vowels and well-articulated consonants.

“Ms. S,” he starts, and I cut him off right there.

“S will do.”

“Apologies, S. I meant no offense. Do you know who I am?”

Of course, I do, but I won’t give him the pleasure. He’s the jungle-rotting celebrity of the hour, the artificer’s wonder boy. Ckyska Znyvis. Or something equally unpronounceable. “No idea. What’s the job?”

He seems put off by this, but he gathers his wits soon enough. “I need someone to steal the fragment kept in the Vault of Pathways before the Concurrence Day speech.”

And if that’s not the boldest statement you’ve ever heard from anyone— on either side of the law—I’ll eat my ear hairs.

“That’s a week from now, pal. I might be competent, but I’m not a miracle worker. Jobs this size require a planning period.”

“I have access to all the information you might need and the money to get anything I don’t have.” He gives what I think I’m supposed to take as a self-deprecating smile. “If there’s anything I’ve learned since joining the elite is that money can buy miracles.”

I roll my eyes. He’s supposed to be this self-made success, but there’s no such thing. Not for a Sudaorn. The system’s so rigged with opportunities for them that even those born common only need to reach out and take what they want. I’d like to see him have to fight for it.

He doesn’t blink at my price, which gives me the feeling that I should have asked for more, but it's still a greater sum than I’ve ever held. Enough to finally get myself out of this trashheap. And a few of my pals besides.

“One more thing.”

I’m standing up, my tablet tucked into my vest, my bolt hole picked out and in my mind’s eye. I’m sure as rot not going out the front door after this meeting. I look back at Ckyska, annoyed, my tail flicking almost of its own accord. I can’t stand it when clients draw these things out. I know the job. I’ve got the download. But of course, the guy has to throw a few threats around before he can let me go.

“If you fail, even the police won’t find your body.” He says it like some people name their favorite restaurant or what they plan to do with their evening, and suddenly, I’m thinking about how this guy came here personally. Showed me his face. He’s given himself something to lose if I fail, and I decide right then I don’t want to be one of his loose ends. Maybe this Sudaorn’s got more fight in him than I’ve been giving him credit for.

I don’t give anything away, though. Just nod, easy-like, and slip out of sight.

You know, you were the first person that came to mind for this. It’s just the sort of caper we dreamed of pulling off when we were kits, the kind that your uncle told us stories about when he caught us skiving off chores. I never forgot those dreams. And, if I’m being honest—and I am because I don’t know when else I’ll ever get the chance— I’ve never forgiven you for letting them slip away. But I still would have gone to you first if I thought there was any chance you wouldn’t immediately stuff me in the nearest jail cell just for suggesting it.

My second choice, of course, was Cal.

I go looking for him in his usual haunts, my toe-claws scratching up dust around the arena’s new spot, then down at the gaming dens where he gets work as a bouncer, when, lo and behold, I find him with you instead. Imagine my surprise, gamboling up one of those side streets nearer to the center of the city, where the whore houses have put up little constructed fronts over their fungus-grown facades, when I see a full-on police shakedown with my best pal in its center.

You’re standing next to that new idiot partner of yours. The tall one, whats-hisname. Whatever, he didn’t last long. And poor Cal is hand-in-pockets, shoulders hunched, meek as anything. Of course, he’s a big, bulky human, so he’s twice your height and three times your width on a hungry day. Not that it ever stopped you. Your partner’s standing back, looking a little uneasy, but you are right up in his face in all your slender three-foot-tall glory.

Your baton is out but uncharged, the blunt end planted in your opposite palm, the soft gray stripes on your tail blurring in its annoyed flick. “The truth, now, Cal Hewes,” you say, “were you involved in the burglary of the mayor’s residence two nights ago?” He mumbles something incoherent, and that’s when I decide to give my pal a hand. Cal is great in a tight spot and loyal to a fault, but that big oaf hates to lie. I take every opportunity to do it for him, so we make a great team.

I saunter over, slipping between you and your partner, letting my shoulder rub against yours a little friendly-like, and then prop my elbow on Cal. I’m easy-sleazy, but I’ve got both ears trained on you, love, because I know you well enough that I don’t take any situation with you for granted.

“Officer Na’alna,” I say, drawing out the syllables of your name like I want to make them mine. “You wouldn’t bully an innocent citizen, would you? What’s all this about?”

Quick question: Do any of these antics ever work for you? Or is that my wishful thinking? No, never mind. Don’t tell me. I wouldn’t want to ruin our game.

“Innocent is a stretch, Scira.” You use my actual name because you think it’ll get under my fur, but I’m warmed through. My grin widens until I can feel the points of my felines poking my lower lip.

“Innocent until you prove otherwise, isn’t that the rule? And you don’t want to go bending those. It’s a quick fall to corrupt cop.”

Whats-his-name bares his teeth. He’s Meseag, too, like everyone in your unit, but I don’t know him. Aside from being on the lanky side, he looks like every orange tom I’ve ever met. “You’re lucky we don’t arrest you both.”

Your ears twitch in automatic annoyance, and my day gets even better. I’m still looking at you, taking in the delicate gray stripes around your nose, the green of your eyes. I love how obvious it is that you can’t stand the lumps they stick you with. “On what charges? Last time I checked, looking this sleek isn’t a crime.”

“They wanna know about some thieving that took place,” Cal says. He knows how to play into my show, and he’s cleverer than anyone here gives him credit for.

“Thieving?” I put my hand on my chest. “Not you, Cal!”

“Yes, thieving,” you grind out in that new way of talking. Clear and educated. Like you didn’t grow up next door to me. Would you have done as well as I have if you weren’t picked up by one of the Sudaorn civil justice programs and dressed up like a detective? Or would you have ended up like all our parents did, broke-backed and losing fur from work out in the brush? No way to tell now, but I can’t say I’m not glad you’re alright. Even if I wish we could have ended up on the same side. “Well, when was it? Maybe I can tell you where Cal was at the time.”

“As if we can believe—“

You cut your partner off, grinding your pretty teeth together. “Two nights ago. The mayor’s residence. After midnight.”

For once, we aren’t guilty. It’s not even a lie when I tell you we were both at Zarani’s bar and after we wait for you to call and confirm Cal’s alibi, I slip away with only a parting wink. It’s not as much ribbing as I’d like to give you after Zarani’s just promised to show you the footage of us entering and leaving by the front door two nights ago, but I’m worried. Cal didn’t have to lie to get you off his tail. So why was he standing there, sweating under your baton?

I don’t pause to ask him until we’ve put a quarter of the city between us and you. It’s night, and the jungle’s stopped perspiring long enough for the humidity in the air to settle some. For once, I’m not shaking droplets out of my fur when we stop between a couple of fungus-shaped tenant buildings in the lee of a scrawny bo’ash tree, its vibrant red plumage gone blood-dark away from the infrequent streetlights.

I flick Cal on the arm cause I can’t reach his nose. “What was that, Hewes? Why’d you let her get you so tense?”

He shuffles, and suddenly, I realize he’s still tense. Like, what? This is me he’s talking to. His best mate, the watcher of his back and the filler of his money bags. We go way back, me and Cal. I’ve gotten him out of more scrapes than I can remember, and he’s done the same for me. So I cross my arms in front of my rept-leather vest and glare at him.

“I know who pilfered the mayor’s place.” His furless, dark head might look like a rotting egg, but his eyes are nearly Meseag gold, and he’s got more muscles in his forearm than I’ve got over my entire body. He rubs the back of his neck with one legsized mitt and groans. His mumble is gone, his posture straighter, but he still won’t look me in the eye. “I said I wouldn’t tell anyone. Not even folks I trust.”

“We don’t have time for this! I got us a job—a good job. Enough money to split. And now you want to add complications?”

“It ain’t a complication exactly.”

“Can you swear whoever it is won’t get in the way of a major operation?”

He shakes his head, looking miserable. Damn bleeding heart man. He’s probably got the pilfer in his rotting attic. I know better than to push him to spill, though. Once Cal has promised something, he’s uncrackable. Most of the time, I respect him for it, but occasionally it's rotting annoying.

“You can’t tell me about it. Okay. Can you bring me to the problem?”

His brows narrow, his lips pinching. Human for worried. He shakes his head.

“Alright. Can we go to your place to talk about this job?”

A pause. Another head shake.

“Really, Hewes? We’ve talked about this. Trouble won’t follow you home if you won’t invite it in.”

He manages a thin smile, though I can tell he doesn’t like that I’ve gotten my answer. “It’s never stopped you.”

The bloody nerve. “Me? I’m not trouble. I’m your best pal! Now, come on. Let’s see if we can’t fix this mess. We’ve only got a rotting week ‘til showtime.”

By the time we get to Cal’s house, I can tell he’s feeling anxious. He doesn’t want to let me in, and I don’t want to fight with him, so I drop to all fours, take a running leap to the second-floor window, and have it open before he’s unlocked the front door, my tail only swishing slightly as it slips through the gap behind me.

Cal’s place is nice—not just by my standards, but by anyone in this part of the city. And it’s because it’s not all his. He rents the upstairs bedroom from an old brothel madam secure enough in her fortune to live comfortably enough. She can’t hardly manage the stairs to get up to the higher floors, and she says having him around keeps thieves away. She certainly pays him enough to handle rough customers at her brothel that he never has to worry about rent. Lucky creature. Must be nice to be that big. There’s nothing suspicious on the second floor, so I scramble up the hatch and ladder to the third. It’s a cramped space, the ceiling curving in, its ribbed underside glowing slightly from the luciferins present in the fungal material. It’s not nearly enough to light up the piles of octaves-old furniture, but as you know, I can see decently in the dark, and it doesn’t take me long to find what I’m looking for.

A little pallet rests in the corner, its occupant unmoving as though desperately hoping I won’t see them, but they shouldn’t be worried. Even I won’t hurt a kit. They can’t be more than two or three years old, not yet in the lanky adolescent faze we usually hit around four, but plenty old enough to be chatting my ears off. I let my body posture relax, keeping my ears and tail up all friendly-like, letting my whiskers push forward in a smile. I even drop to all fours again, despite the dust, to make myself look smaller.

Everything I’m doing screams, ‘Hiya, I’m not a threat,’ but the kit reacts all wrong, not squishing down and pinning their ears like someone afraid, not arching up like someone angry. They don’t even slink forward to cautiously return my hello. I stop, bending in on myself until I’m crouched on my back feet, my tail curling around me. I’ve known Meseag who don’t get social cues, of course, nothing wrong with that. So I’m sitting there, trying to figure out what I’m gonna say, when all of a sudden, their smell hits me.

And it is wrong, not kit at all, not even Meseag. They don’t smell like soft fur and beating hearts. They smell cold and wet. Like the jungle in the worst of the rainy season, when the frogs my ancestors used to tame thrive and anything warm-blooded huddles undercover to pray for a swift end to the deluge. They smell like wet skin, sluggish green blood, and so much water.

The fur on my back stands up, and I push myself slowly to two legs. “What are you?”

The not-kit stands up, too, and flings themself at me, changing as they move until their appearance matches their smell. I dodge out of the way, throwing up a hand to deflect their strike and catch a glimpse of spotted purple skin and a long, thick tail. They’ve got a lavender dorsal fin, thin and membranous, down the center of their head and neck that disappears into a simple gray jumpsuit. Their feet are wrapped similarly to mine, most of their foot protected while their toe-claws are still free to grip. The whole change into this new form happens in that first second, and it’s all I can do to keep their next slash—when did they get a knife?—from taking off my nose.

That’s about when Cal comes thundering into the room, knocking down an old coat stand and sending dust billowing around us. The stranger and I recoil, coughing, which gives him enough time to get between us. “Stop! If you’re gonna stay in my house, you’re not gonna fight my friends.”

“You promised not to tell anyone!” the stranger hisses, their eyes narrowing and fin flattening to their head. Now that’s body language I understand.

“He didn’t,” I say, crossing my arms. “I just figured it out. Next time, pick a softy that doesn’t have observant pals.”

“It’s not like I had much choice.”

I’m breathing hard. Nothing’s got the jump on me like that in ages, and both my hearts are blistering like a six-legged gallop. But part of my mind is also putting things together, you know? I can see how this stranger pulled off the Mayor’s estate caper. If they could fool me into thinking they were one of my kind, even for a minute, imagine what they could do in a Sudaorn disguise.

“I’m not going to turn you in,” I say, but the stranger just flicks their tail and turns away, reaching for a simple rucksack.

“No need to make me any promises. I’m leaving.”

Rot. Everything is happening too fast. I can feel the thread of something like an opportunity slipping away. I’ve got an impossible job, and here Cal is, sheltering someone with an impossible ability. I shouldn’t tell just anyone about this. If news reached the wrong ears before it was in the bag, I’d hang. But this stranger? They’ve got something I could use. “I’m not offering you charity,” I say finally, snorting for show. “I’ve got a job. If you take up my offer, we’ll both have a secret on the other. A certain kind of trust can arise from a deal like that.”

They hiss. It sounds dismissive. “The trust of thieves…”

“Fair enough. Do you like the sound of money better?” I name my price—a fourth of what the Sudaorn Wonder Boy offered.

Cal whistles. The stranger turns around. “My name is Akoshas Laaran,” they say with a strange little bow. “What’s the job?”

I know what you’re thinking—this is where the rumors of a Sudaorn mastermind come from. I get an Otori psionic on my side with the ability to look like one of the sixlegged buggers, and all of a sudden, they’re the brains behind the operation. Ha! Feel free to use anything in this letter to prove them wrong if you like.

I put Akoshas to work first thing the following day, practicing Sudaorn disguises with Cal while I started studying the blueprints, and let me tell you; it’s a wonder I got anything done. We’d taken over the attic of Cal’s place, shoving the old furniture out of the way and using a clothesline to hang up print-outs of the Vault of Pathways. I curled up on the top of an old dresser, tablet in hand, while the two jungle-brained geniuses took up the now-open bit of floor near the stairs.

“You know they’ve got six legs, of course. And six long fingers. Sometimes, they walk upright, sometimes not. No, no, make the head square. And their outer shell is hard.”

“Like this?” Akoshas asks, and I glance up to see their first awkward attempt at one of our spindly overlords. The fingers are far, far too long, the face too blocky. More like a caricature of a Sudaorn than a passable likeness, but it has Cal laughing hard enough to shake his belly.

“Perfect! You just need the sleeves a little longer.”

The results of that suggestion have me chuckling, too, and for a moment, Akoshas struts around on all six legs, their neck bobbing out and back in comic exaggeration, patterned sleeves dragging behind them on the floor. When I can’t hold back a giggle either, they sit back and sniff, though I can tell they’re trying not to laugh, too. “My work is limited by the accuracy of the description I receive.”

“Pull up a newsfeed, for the jungle’s sake,” I say when I can breathe again, and after that, they’re finally quiet for a while.

The information coming in from our employer is all hard news. I was at the last Concurrence Day, six years ago, and I remember the crowds piling into the Vault of Pathways, spilling through twelve-foot double doors opening to the museum on one side and the great acre-wide balcony on the other. They were all there for the same reason: to see the three ancient pathways at the end of their three-headed dock all light up at once. It was a sight to be sure—holding your hand while a dozen other people pressed us to the railings, and light suffused the cavernous expanse around the gates, sending color reflecting against polished walls and upturned faces.

What I don’t remember, though, is how many alarms there are, how many stations for guards. I can see, on the schematics, where the fragment is being kept in the museum, the layers of security around it. I can even see the start of a plan for how to get around those, but I don’t know how we’d ever get out again without being caught a dozen different ways over. I’m going to be glad for that psionic, for sure. If only I can figure out the best way to use them.

Once their disguise is so good that I can’t tell them from any other long-fingered artificer, I send Akoshas out to start scoping out the Vault of Pathways, changing their appearance slightly each day to keep anyone from noticing them. Happily, no one seems to mind an upstanding Sudaorn moving with purpose, so they can peruse the museum and walk up and down the docks without trouble. They come back with hours of notes: how far underground the cavern is; how starships move in through gates, into waiting bays and out again, disgorging passengers and goods; how much infinitely smaller the museum feels in comparison. The Vault of Pathways isn’t Ginvaris’s biggest hub for intergalactic trade, inconvenient as it is so far underground, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t still busy as anything.

I spend the time pouring over information and occasionally sending Ckyska requests for more. He sends me diagrams of the museum, the locks on the doors (conveniently the same model as those on the government buildings throughout the city), the program for the Concurrence Day events, and a request to call when I have a plan. I don’t answer the last, instead turning my head to the problem of the lasers guarding the fragment, running calculations for timing and lock-breaking in my head or on paper to keep it off the net. That’s the easy part. By the end of the fourth day, I’ve got the outline of a tidy little plan, except that I still don’t know how we’re gonna get out of that Vault alive before Concurrence Day.

Akoshas gets home when I’m ready to scrape my rotting head clean. At least they’ve got something to eat. I pull Cal off his latest task—unlocking a bit of stolen police tech that ought to let us nab the right code to open the fragment’s case—and the three of us gather for a meal on the attic floor. It’s Zarani’s cooking. White pea fritters in a sweet and spicy sauce, roast chiket legs, bo-ash nut sauteed with greens, and sah bread. Real home cooking. We share it between us, shoving it between our teeth in silence.

Then, Cal gets that wistful, close-to-payday look in his eyes and leans back. “So, what are you lot gonna do with your cut?”

Akoshas takes a moment to finish their bite of fritter and dust off their slick purple fingers before answering. “Pay off my gambling debts, get back my ship, and return home to my lover.”

I laugh, delighted. “I didn’t take you for a gambler! What do you play?”

“Oh, a little of this and that.” They shrug. “It isn’t the game that matters, but the chance! The thrill of wishing the universe was just a little more on your side. But never again, I promise. Not after being moored here.”

“Is that why you pilfered the mayor? Trying to get money to buy back your ship?” Cal asks.

“No, to get my keys.” Akoshas presses their palm to their temple in a gesture I don’t recognize. “He’s the one who won it from me.”

“You gotta keep yourself from high-end tables,” Cal says. “That’s just asking to lose.”

“I know, I know. But the thrill! And you two? What will you do?”

While Cal starts up about opening an exotic plant shop on Srassen, I sit back and daydream of getting off Ginvaris. I’m heading out into the galaxy until I find someplace where it doesn’t matter that I’m Meseag, somewhere being clever can mean all sorts of interesting lifestyles. Not just that of a criminal. Somewhere I could maybe, just for a little while, be safe. It’s a dull dream, isn’t it? I’m sure you were expecting something like a life of luxury. Grand capers and dangerous chases. But it turns out that when life is this hard, I really want the basic things. A decent job. Full citizen status. Somewhere cozy to rest my head on the good side of some town far from here.

“Well?” Akoshas says, and I sit up because he’s looking at me. I shrug and point at Cal.

“I’ll probably just go with him.”

After dinner, I can’t sit and think any longer, so I head out into the streets with my capering kit for more… practical practice. There aren’t any official government buildings in the part of town where Cal lives, but I know every shortcut and side street in this city, so it doesn’t take too long to reach my destination. The City Clerk’s office is on the edge of the nicer parts of Byrisi, which means it's on the edge of my part, too. It's not important enough for a night guard, but it still got the same brand of locks as the rest of the official buildings, which means it’s perfect for a bit of lock-picking practice. It’s an old building, but not a grown one. Its stiff sides are made of plaster rather than a natural material, and someone’s gone through the trouble of planting a bunch of towering pinid flowers around it to make it more inviting. The thick, floral scent of building-high blooms spills over the grounds as I slip up to the side door and start my work.

It takes me longer than I’d like to open the first door, so I shut it and try again a few times until I get the feel of the tumblers under my claws. The next two doors go faster, and I end up leaving the last one open for a long minute, debating whether or not to go snooping inside. In the end, I decide against it. I could get a look at my record if I wanted, but no bottom-level bureaucrat on the edge of the city’s ass-end is going to have the clearance to change it. I shut the door, and just in time, too, because I hear hurried feet coming up the walk.

There’s no time to split, so instead, I sit under one of the pinid flowers on a bench outside. Imagine my surprise when you show up with your hand on your baton and a tense look on your pretty face. I go easy-sleazy, but I can’t help it when my ears perk up at the sight of you.

It doesn’t take your partner long to spot me, though he’s a huffin behind you like he’s losing a foot race. “There!” he shouts. “Caught in the act.”

I make a show of yawning and raising my hands over my head, but I can’t hold back a smile. Your scowl comes hot and dark in the aftermath of his words, and I know that it's that orange tom you’re annoyed with. Not me.

Well, maybe me a little, too.

“You caught me stopping to smell the flowers,” I say, grinning. “I’m afraid they’ve still got a place in my hearts, even after all these years.”

“Search the building.” You look away, trying to hide how your fur’s all up in embarrassment. Don’t want your new pals to know you used to run with such a ruffian, I guess.

He stalks off to check the doors, but he won’t find anything. I’m not some green filcher, leaving scratches after my picks.
“Evening, Officer Na’alna.”

“Scira.” You’re angry with me, but I still like the sound of my name in your mouth.

“A silent alarm went off in this location eight minutes ago. If you’ve been filching…”

“Can’t say that I have.” It's true again. I’m gonna have tofind something to lie about quick, or else I might get out of practice. Eight minutes, though… That’s information I can use. Are there silent alarms on the Vault Museum? Would I have eight minutes to escape before the cops show up there, too? I’ll have to find a safe way for Akoshas to check.

You mumble something and turn away, crossing your arms while you wait for that silly partner of yours to return. And maybe because I’m feelin sentimental or worried about this job, I stand up and slide around you until I can see your face again.

“Actually, Nalna, I’ve been thinking—“

“That can’t be good.”

I ignore the quip, taking your lack of protest at the pet name as a good sign. “I’m going to be heading off-world for a bit. You know, for a change of scenery. Something that isn’t all fungus and rain, sneering Sudaorn, and hard days. You could… come with me, if you wanted. For old time’s sake.”

You show teeth, and honestly, my stomach falls. Hanging around Cal is turning me soft. “Did you set off an alarm just to ask me that? You know there are legal ways to send a message.”
“No, honest. Didn’t expect to come across you at all.”

Your eyes narrow, then gentle before you turn away. “I have a job, Scira. Something worthwhile.”

“There’s gotta be something better than locking up your friends and protecting the artificers.”

“I’m trying to build a fairer system! You could help me instead of insisting on playing this— this—“

“Maybe we shouldn’t have to fix the system they broke, Nalna. Maybe it would be enough just to be happy.”

“I can’t leave our families— our people behind.”

“We could come back for them! Find them work off world!”

“And leave them to the artificers in the meantime?” You shake your head. “No. But, if you wanted, maybe I could get you a job in my unit instead. We’ve hired people with records before.”

“And spend my days hunting Meseag? No. This isn’t some noble cause. You’re working for them!”

Your jaw tightens, and then your partner is back, looking like a kit who lost a toy. “The building is secure,” he says, and I nod to you both, friendy-like, before slipping away. There’s no point continuing our conversation now. You won’t be real with an audience.

“Wait!” You call out as I’m leaving, and I flick an ear back to listen. “Goodluck offworld. Stay safe.”

“Yeah, officer. You too.” But even as I make scarce, something about that clicks in my head. Stay safe… what if we don’t take the fragment out of the Vault at all?

The time before Concurrence Day passes faster than an araz’achi lizard. We’ve tackled everything from alarm systems to timing, but I still feel the need to walk through the plan on the way to the Vault. I make Akoshas and Cal lean close to me on the crowded railcar and pull out my tablet, sketching out our steps so that no eager ears can hear us.

Our plan is this: We arrive at the Vault of Pathways early, with the first wave of tourists, and get into the museum before it opens to the public. From there, we slip into the crowd again, work our way over to the balcony overlooking the vault, and drop the fragment off with Ckyska in time to enjoy the festivities. Once it's over, we leave with the crowd, just a few more tourists with nothing in our pockets that shouldn’t be there. Easysleazy and all the cash.

It starts just that well, too. We empty out of the railcar with a tide of other people into a vaulted atrium deep below the city. It’s swank, in a word. Gold laces the nativestone columns carved into the walls and inlays the enormous, geometric design above four sets of doors leading inside. It seems to take us an age to reach them, packed in among so many hundreds of other loud, sweating bodies. It's as humid down here as when I slipped out of Cal’s attic that morning, and that’s saying something. I’m starting to wonder if we should have left even earlier after all when we finally make it through the doors, and the sheer size of the Vault of Pathways swallows up the crowd like it's nothing.

The docks stretch out before us for miles, lined with the bulbous forms of spaceships, the rock ceiling so far above that it fades into a dark gray sky. Light comes from lanterns set high on columns dotting the walks or shining up from markers meant for ships to follow. To my right, a wide ledge cut into the rock and lit with twinkling lanterns forms the balcony. The hall leading to my left contains the food court, gift shops, and employee entrances to the Vault Museum.

We turn that way with about a third of the crowd that came in with us, stop to buy a fragment replica for an outrageous price, and then ‘get lost’ looking for a restroom through one of the museum’s side entrances. It’s locked, of course, but I’ve got my picks, and I did all that practice on these exact models at the city clerks’ office. I’m through them faster than you can teach a kit to curse.

From the second that door clicks open, we got six minutes. I set my watch to five and motion the other two to take their places. Akoshas puts on one of their disguises—a Sudaorn police officer in a crisp uniform— to stand watch or confuse anyone who comes looking. Cal goes before me to nab the museum guard before they can raise the alarm. I only have to hang back a second while he does his work, nipping in and getting behind the Srassen in the museum uniform before they even realize he’s there. A choke hold and a few zip ties later, they’re tucked in a side display beneath a house-sized rendition of Astrent’s two planets and four moons.

The museum’s main hall is more of the dark native stone with rich hyruti wood floor, pathways and star charts hanging in twenty-foot banners down the walls. There’s a dias in the center where the fragment’s glass case rests in a nest of lasers I can’t see until I spray the area with a fog canister. From there, it’s a dance of limbs and fingers to get Cal’s code gadget through to the screen below, but once I do, it does its work licksplit, unlocking the whole thing and opening it up for me to reach in and replace one glittering oil-slick sphere with a fake one.

And that is where things start to go wrong.

There’s something tucked beside the display case that shouldn’t be there—a tiny red and black eye watching me from a shadowy corner. I reach for it, stare at the lenses and wires, and then crush it in my hand. It's no good, of course. Whatever footage the camera grabbed has already been sent to the person who put it there.

“Cal, ‘Shas, time to get,” I hiss into my earpiece and shove the real fragment into the flimsy bag I had the fake one in. Only, I can’t hold it by the handles. The real one is that much heavier than the souvenir. Instead, I grip it through the plastic and fling myself back into the crowd outside just as a bunch of uniforms come barreling up the hall. Cal is out, his bald head visible farther back, but I don’t see Akoshas anywhere. There’s no time to wait for either of them. I need this package out of my hands and payment in my pocket before I get caught, and that means transporting it across the bloody vault while the alarm’s already raised. I wish rot on the camera’s owner even as I join the back end of a large Meseag family leaving the food court with sticky, sugared bo’ash nut clusters. They get me nearly to the main doors before turning towards the docks and a place to watch the show, and then I’m just head-down, package-to-my-chest, praying-to-the-jungle until I find my way over to the balcony.

By now, it’s full-on packed. Rich Sudaorn have rented whole swaths of the place and filled them with tents and reclining chairs. Hawkers strut between them, selling looking glasses and roasted chiket legs to anyone that’ll give them a second glance, and others huddle in the spaces between, trying to take advantage of the view without getting in the high-and-mighties’ way. It takes me an age to find Ckyska, and when I do, the sight makes every warm-blooded ounce of me freeze. He’s standing beside his tent, tablet raised as he talks to you, a sleek black Meseag officer I’ve never seen you with, and two Sudaorn uniforms.

I make myself get closer because I’ve got to know what’s going on, and maybe I’ve got the wrong of it, and he’s not turning us in. Of course, I’m right, though. As I get close enough to hear him over the crowd and glance the grainy image of me with the fragment in hand, I start to get hot with anger over my dread.

“An embarrassment,” Ckyska is saying. “And you’ll certainly hear me mentioning it in my speech. If the fragment isn’t safe here, maybe it should be given over to more competent guardians.”

At that, I turn on my heel and start trying to get out. It's clear at once that this was his plan all along. Get someone to steal the fragment, sabotage their efforts at the last moment, and get the government to put it in his care instead, all legal-like, so he can play with it all he wants without fear of discovery. It's rotting clever, and that’s what stings still. I let a Sudaorn get the jump on me.

Of course, I don’t just get away clean after that. Your voice cuts over the crowded balcony like toe claws through tree bark, and then I’m running, shoving people out of my way as I go flinging myself down the balcony stairs. Cal and Akoshas are together near the doors, but some clever security system has them all locked tight, the atrium and the trains beyond as inaccessible to me as your hearts. So instead, I shove into them, grabbing Akoshas’s hand and directing them both deeper in, down to the docks.

“Scira! Stop!” you shout behind me, but I don’t look back. I can hardly hear you anyway over music blasting from a thousand speakers. The festivities have officially begun; the pathways will open any minute now.

All I can think about is how badly I need a hiding place. Somewhere to lay low long enough to sneak back out of this death trap. I think I’ve found something, too, when Akoshas pulls me hard in the opposite direction of the Meseag crowd I was heading to. We stumble down a rickety set of stairs to a level below the main dock, where ships are being held. Akoshas seems to know where they’re going, but we’re so much more exposed here. You and your Sudaorn pals spot us easily, and you’re down the stairs first, your pistol drawn and sending energy blasts at us as we dodge between metal fins and anchoring mechanisms.

At last, Akoshas stops before a small craft and fishes a key card out of their vest.

“Rotting shit, this is your ship?” I demand, but there’s no time for explanations. We pile into the sound of waking engines even as you appear behind us. I have a clear view of you through a port, your lovely sharp teeth bared, your ears pressed to your head. Behind me, Cal’s trying to figure out why Akoshas bothered to stay on Ginvaris when they had their bloody keys the whole time, but I can only stare down the barrel of your pistol.

Seconds seem to last hours while I wait for the shot that will cripple the ship, but it never comes. Your hand wavers, and then we are rolling through the air above the crowd to disappear through the nearest pathway. After that, it’s easy-sleazy again. Astrent’s Star Sages are always willing to pay for fragments. Cal gets enough for a Srassen flower shop, and Akoshas returns to their lover with enough cash to make up for their last gambling-related quarrel.

There you have it, Na’alna. The truth of the matter. I’m sending my tablet back with this letter for evidence. Get Ckyska for me, will you? And for your “fairer system.” Maybe I’ll stop by again in a few years when the noise around this job has died down. I’ll need some of Zarani’s cooking by then, and you’ll need someone to talk you into a break. It’s no one Meseag’s job to change the world, after all.

Yours always.

—S