“Oh stars.” She swept forward and grabbed the drawer with both hands, pulling it off the bed. She tore out the blanket and pillow and tossed them onto the mattress, before dragging the heavy drawer over to the desk she’d taken it from.
00:14, 00:13, 00:12, sang Little Cress as she wrestled the drawer back into place. It wouldn’t shut.
Cress squatted beside it, eyeing the rails to either side of the drawer. It took seven more seconds of harried finagling before she managed to slam the drawer shut. Sweat, or water from her still-wet hair, dripped down the back of her neck.
Tugging out a lock of hair that had gotten caught in the drawer, she hastily straightened the bed as well as she could.
“Mistress has arrived. She is requesting an extension of the docking clamp.”
“I’m getting there,” Cress responded, darting toward the boarding ramp screen and entering the code. She turned back to the room as the clamp extended outside her walls, as Sybil’s ship attached, as oxygen filled the space.
The opera singer was still there, and Mistress would be annoyed at Cress’s waste of time, but at least it wasn’t—
She gasped, her eyes landing on the one screen that stood out from the rest, and the single bright green message on a field of black.
FROM USER: MECHANIC. ETA 68 MINUTES.
She heard Sybil’s steps approaching as she launched herself across the room. She shut down the screen just as the satellite door whistled open.
Heart in her throat, Cress spun around and smiled.
Sybil met her gaze from the doorway. She was already glaring, but Cress thought her eyes narrowed even more in that moment between seeing Cress and noting her brilliant grin.
“Mistress! What a surprise. I just got out of the shower. Was just … listening to some … opera.” She gulped, her mouth suddenly dry.
Sybil’s eyes darkened and she cast them around the room, at the screens still quietly transmitting the opera singer engrossed in her song. Sybil sneered. “Earthen music.”
Cress chewed on her lower lip. She knew there were musicians and plays and all sorts of entertainments for the Lunar court, but they were rarely recorded, and Cress didn’t have access to them. Lunars generally disliked having their true appearances transmitted for all the galaxy to see. They much preferred live performances where they could alter the audience’s perception of their skills.
“All screens, mute,” she murmured, trying to stop shaking.
In the wake of silence, Sybil stepped inside, allowing the door to shut behind her.
Cress gestured to the familiar metal box Sybil carried. “I don’t believe I’m in need of any supplies, Mistress. Is it time for another blood sample already?” she asked, knowing it wasn’t.
Sybil set the box on the bed, sparing a distasteful glance for the rumpled blankets. “I have a new assignment for you, Crescent. I trust you noticed that one of our primary feeds from New Beijing Palace was disabled last week.”
Cress willed herself to look natural. Collected and unworried. “Yes—the recorder from the emperor’s office.”
“Her Majesty found it to be one of the more lucrative feeds we’ve placed on Earth. She wants another programmed and installed immediately.” She opened the box, revealing a collection of chips and recording devices. “As before, the signal should be untraceable. We don’t want it drawing any attention to itself.”
Cress nodded, perhaps too enthusiastically. “Of course, Mistress. It won’t take long. I can have it finished tomorrow, I’m sure. Will it be disguised in a light fixture, like the last one?”
“No, we risked too much by brainwashing the maintenance attendant before. Make it so that it can be more easily hidden. Able to embed on a wall hanging, perhaps. One of the other thaumaturges will likely handle the installation themselves during our upcoming visit.”
Cress’s head was still bobbing. “Yes, yes, of course. No problem.”
Sybil scowled. Perhaps Cress was being too agreeable. She stopped nodding, but it was difficult to focus as a clock ticked in her head. If Cinder and the others spotted the Lunar podship attached to her satellite, they would think Cress had led them into a trap.
But Mistress Sybil never stayed long. Surely she would be well gone before the hour was up. Surely.
“Is there anything else, Mistress?”
“Have you anything to report on the other Earthen feeds?”
Cress strained to think about any news she may have heard in the past few days. Her skills in cyber espionage went beyond research and hacking into Earthen feeds and databases, or programming spy equipment to be strategically installed in various homes and offices of high-ranking officials. It was also one of her responsibilities to monitor those feeds and report anything interesting back to Sybil and Her Majesty.
It was the most voyeuristic part of her job, which she hated. But at least if Sybil was asking her about it now, it meant that she and the queen hadn’t had time lately to monitor the feeds themselves.
“Everyone’s focused on the wedding,” Cress said. “Lots of talk of travel arrangements and scheduling diplomatic meetings while so many representatives are together in New Beijing.” She hesitated before continuing, “A lot of the Earthens are questioning Emperor Kaito’s decision to enter into the alliance and whether or not it will really signal an end to the attacks. The European Federation recently placed a large order from a weapons manufacturer. It seems they’re preparing for war. I … I could find the specifics of that order if you want.”
“Don’t waste your time. We know what they’re capable of. Anything else?”
Cress searched her memory. She considered telling Mistress Sybil that one UK representative, a Mr. Bristol something, was trying to make a political statement by rejecting his invitation to the royal wedding, but she determined that his decision might still change. Knowing Her Majesty, she would want to set the man up as an example, and Cress didn’t want to think what she would do to him. Or his family.
“No, Mistress. That’s all.”
“And what about the cyborg? Any progress there?”
She had told the lie so many times, it was effortless on her tongue. “I’m sorry, Mistress. I haven’t found anything new.”
“Do you suppose, Crescent, that her ability to go without detection is due to a similar technique we use to disguise our ships?”
Cress pulled her damp hair away from her neck. “Perhaps. I understand she’s a talented mechanic. Her skills may include software jamming.”
“And if that’s the case, would you be able to detect it?”
Cress opened her mouth, but hesitated. She most likely could, but telling Sybil that would be a mistake. She would only wonder why Cress hadn’t thought of doing it sooner. “I-I don’t think so, Mistress, but I’ll try. I’ll see what I can find.”
“See that you do. I’m sick of making excuses for you.”
Cress tried to look regretful, but her fingers were tingling with relief. Sybil always said some variation of this line when she was preparing to leave. “Of course, Mistress. Thank you for bringing me this new work, Mistress.”
A chime sang through the room.
Cress recoiled, but instantly attempted to morph her expression into nonchalance. Just another chime. Just another non-suspicious alert for one of Cress’s non-suspicious hobbies. Sybil had no reason to question it.
But Sybil’s attention had swerved to the single black screen that had awoken with the alert.
A new message had appeared.
MESSAGE RECEIVED FROM MECHANIC: ETA 41 MINUTES. NEED FINAL COORDINATES.
The satellite tilted beneath Cress—but, no, it was her own balance leaving her.