Nico glances at Carter, then shoots me a warning look as he pulls a set of headphones over his ears. It’s likely that he’s heard the preamble to the lecture that’s coming. Quiet and focused, he’s already engaged in the business of getting us home to 2533.
Elna and Umbari, a pair of petty thief sisters, settle into side-by-side jump seats toward the front of the main cabin. They haven’t bothered to change out of their mission clothes—Seventeenth Century ball gowns—preferring, instead, to treat my dressing-down as if it’s an evening’s entertainment at the cinema.
If bookmakers at casinos took gossip-mongering bets, I’d win a fortune betting on the sisters to spread my business all over the base within minutes of the ship docking.
Carter doesn’t look at me. Laser-focused on his task, I’m left staring at the back of his curly blond head as he operates the ship’s three-dimensional augmented reality control screens. The navigator, seated behind Nico, casts a furtive glance at me before shaking his head and returning to work.
“Eh-hem,” I clear my throat. Carter keeps working. I try counting to ten to keep my impatience in check, but only make it to three. “Carter?”
“Commander,” he replies, still not turning around. “Use the title. It’s there for a reason.”
The hairs on the back of my neck prick at the thought of showing him any deference. “It’s been a long day. Say your piece so I can change my clothes.”
Carter moves from the pilot seat to perch on the edge of the instrument console. He studies me for a moment before speaking. “How many missions have you completed, Arseneau?”
Finding myself at a loss for words doesn’t happen often, but this opening salvo isn’t the firefight I expected. He notes my surprise and cocks his head to the side.
“How many?” he asks again.
“Enough that I lost count long ago.”
“I don’t think that’s true. You’re the kind who remembers every conquest in great detail. Mind like a steal trap, yours.” He leans forward to tap my forehead, and I take a step back. “Recruited by Fagin Delacroix at ten years old. At eighteen, you became the youngest person to get a mercenary contract. Even if you followed the one-week recovery and debrief time between jumps, which I’m sure you’ve ignored the way you dismiss every other rule, you’ve completed a minimum of fifty-one missions in the two years since you got your contract.”
How does he know so much? Fagin had my records sealed.
My age allows me to play four or five years younger than I am, and being mistaken as an adolescent has opened more than a few doors on difficult missions. People underestimate kids all the time and I use it to my advantage. I can also look older through makeup and clothing. Like our Timeships, I’m a chameleon.
Whatever Carter thinks he knows about me—where I come from, what I’ve done—he can kiss my ass if he thinks I’m going to confirm anything so he can feel vindicated.
“Doesn’t matter how old I am. What matters is that I get the job done for my clients.”
“An answer for everything.” He leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’ll bet you have a mark on your bedpost for every commander you’ve served and driven half-mad with your bullshit side jobs.”
“I don’t serve anyone unless they pay me.” My blood pressure rises, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of watching me crack under pressure. “I’m sure you already know the answer to your trivial question, commander, so why don’t you tell me?”
“Ten commanders in two years.”
“Your point?”
“Do you know my mission count?”
“I don’t care about your mission count.”
“Over six hundred profitable missions in twenty-four-and-a-half years. More than any other living person. I’m in the records book. Got a special commendation and everything.”
“Congratulations. I’m sure your clients don’t mind that you accept their accolades with one hand while skimming a little off the top.”
“My point is that I’ve commanded hot-shot asshole thieves like you longer than you’ve been alive. If you think you’re something special, someone the Benefactors can’t live without, you’re dead wrong. There’s always someone better ready to step into your shoes if you lose a step.”
“No one is better than me.” I tap a button on a wall panel console. The floor behind me slides open, providing access to the ladder leading to wardrobe storage on the lower deck. I need to get out of this damn costume. “If anyone is expendable, I’d say it’s the old man ready for the rocking chair.”
Carter’s gloating tone changes. His voice is colder than steel. “Don’t get snotty with me, kid. Screw with my retirement and I’ll have your guts for garters.”
“I don’t think my guts come in your size, commander.” I give him a tart smile and a dismissive head-to-toe glance. “I don’t give a single fuck about your opinion or your retirement.”
“Maybe not. But your bullshit jeopardizes our livelihood. Mercenaries are only able to work for Benefactors under the cover of legitimate missions. Teams who cut return windows too close, too often, are begging for the government to poke its nose into the mission records, and that’s bad for business. Not to mention your recklessness could cost someone their life. You don’t want that on your conscience.”
“No one has ever gotten hurt because of how I do my job. You can save the concern for my conscience.”
Carter takes a breath. Exhales. His expression softens a little. “Did you know the Benefactors asked me to train you? They wanted me to guide you, help develop the discipline your current handler has failed to instill in you.” There’s a slight edge to his voice that helps me read his expression better. It’s not softer. It’s not kinder. It’s patronizing.
“You didn’t want that plumb job? Your loss, because I’m amazing.”
“Fuck, no, I didn’t want that job. I told the Benefactors that you and Fagin Delacroix, the
