I shudder at the mention of prison planets. As overpopulation increased on Earth, businesses with vast resources moved off-world to pad their profit margins by maximizing cheap alien labor on other planets. One of the first to move were privatized prisons owned by the Benefactors; they didn’t want prison scum on the same planet they had rehabilitated into their private paradise.
Rumors of extreme guard cruelty pushing half of inmates into insanity earned the facilities reputations as Pits of Despair. One of my first clients—a twitchy hulk of an old man bent on changing an ancestor’s will to gain control of the family business—was a retired Mars prison guard. Curious, one day, I asked him about the rumors. He shoved me against the nearest wall, his eyes haunted and wild, and almost crushed my windpipe with his forearm. “Never ask again,” he had snarled.
The lightbulb that exploded over my head as I struggled to breathe was this: The rumors didn’t come close to the harrowing truth about the prisons.
I press my fist against my chest, trying to quell the simmering rage; it feels like a hot branding iron lodged inside me. My dreams of never again owing anyone my fealty now feel as fragile as spun sugar. “They can’t do this to us.”
“They can,” Fagin says. “It’s late. Go say goodnight to Anna. We’ll talk more tomorrow. I’ll send you a note telling where to meet me. We have a lot of work to do.”
“My fee will be in the bank by morning?” A plan to take the money and run is already forming. I could send word to Nico to join me. Fagin, too, if I can convince her we could disappear and never be found.
“Not quite.”
“Meaning?”
“The Benefactors will pay out on the de’ Medici job after we complete this assignment.”
“Shit.” Whether it’s too much liquor with too little food or the time lag catching up with me, I’m suddenly tired down to my bones. All I want is my bed.
“Yeah. Shit,” Fagin nods. “They’ve frozen my assets, too. From now on we play the Benefactors’ game.”
Chapter 4
The Simulation Center is sparsely populated; it’s just me and a janitor in the foyer styled in a late twentieth-century industrial complex motif. The ceiling is open and cavernous, supported by exposed steel beams and corrugated steel duct work, which makes the janitor’s mop bucket sound like thunder as he rolls it across the concrete floor. There’s nothing warm or welcoming about this space—even the chairs lining the hallways outside the individual simulation studios are uninviting with their black plastic seats and stainless-steel frames.
Yawning, I pull a crumpled piece of paper from my jacket pocket and read the instructions again. Sim Studio number eight. Five am. Don’t be late.
When Fagin draws a line for me to toe, she schedules meetings at ungodly hours. It’s Saturday, so there are no trainee classes scheduled and the weekend receptionist won’t be on duty for at least another hour. I haven’t had breakfast because eating too early in the morning makes me nauseous.
A mission I don’t want. Pre-dawn training on a weekend. No breakfast.
Merde.
Following the room number placards posted on the heather gray walls outside each room leads me down a long corridor to a sharp right turn, up a stairwell and finally through a set of double doors. Sim Studio Eight is tucked into an alcove.
I press my thumb on the Comm Panel’s bio-metric pad and the door slides open. Inside, the walls are a seamless surface that gleams like iridescence opals. The ceiling and floor are made of the same material. The room feels like an enormous blank canvas waiting for an artist to fill it with color and texture.
Fagin is nowhere in sight.
“Computer,” I say, activating the voice controls. “What time is it?
“Four fifty-nine and forty-eight seconds,” the computer answers in a tranquil feminine tone.
“Where is Fagin Delacroix?”
Strangely, the computer doesn’t answer this question about my mentor. Instead, the lights flicker and there’s a low hum like a beehive buzzing inside the walls. The artificial intelligence hologram program springs to life.
I find myself standing on a dirt path on an overcast day. A stone building facade faces me. Light, steady raindrops saturate my hair.
“Must you make everything so realistic?” It’s a rhetorical question, but the computer answers anyway.
“The simulation experience is designed to prepare time travelers for their missions through true-to-life interactions. The Simulation Center’s holographic programs create artificial environments that are as realistic to human senses as their tangible counterparts, this includes humanoid figures, and—”
“Yes, I know. Shut up,” I cut in. The computer’s droning voice instantly stops.
As annoyed as I am with Fagin’s absence, it still astonishes me that everything in our simulations—from the dirt beneath my feet to the scent of the trees mixed with the rain— feels authentic. Even the food produced in the sim rooms is tastier than the meal replacement bars on the Timeships.
Both exterior doors to the building are locked, so I’m left standing exposed to the elements. This part of the realism is not astonishing or delightful. It’s wet and cold and I’m still hungry.
Turning in a slow circle, I study my surroundings: The building stands along the banks of a river. There’s a grand multi-story stone building with a series of tall, narrow windows on both the first and second floors. A large entrance stands to my left and a short pier leads to the waterway.
The door opens and a man with a pug-dog face peers out at me.
“You are welcome to His Grace’s house, young mistress,” he says. He’s dressed in a white ruffled shirt, oatmeal-colored doublet, and knee-length breeches in the same linen as the doublet. “The Mother of the Maids is in residence, and will escort you to your chamber in the Maiden’s Tower anon. Until she arrives, the cooks will see to your comfort with bread and ale in one
