Sevro activates the pulseGenerator and a faint iridescent bubble blooms around us, creating a seal, so that the vacuum of space doesn’t invade the building with us. Would be a quick way to be discovered. I put a small suction cup on the center of the glass then open the acid container and apply the foam to the window in a two-meter-by-two-meter box around the suction cup. The acid bubbles as it eats through the glass, creating an opening. With a small rush of air from the building into our pulseField, the glass pane pops up where Victra grabs it to keep it from flying into space.
“Rags first,” Sevro says. It’s a hundred meters to the museum floor below.
Ragnar clamps a rappelling winch to the edge of the glass and clips his harness to the magnetic wire. Pulling his razor out, he reactivates his ghostCloak and pushes through the hole. It’s disturbing to the senses seeing his near-invisible form accelerate down to the floor, gripped by the skyhook’s artificial gravity while I’m still floating. He looks a demon made of the heat that shimmers above the desert on a summer day.
“Clear.”
Sevro follows. “Break an arm,” Victra says, pushing me into the hole after him. I float forward, then feel myself gripped by gravity as I cross the boundary into the room. I slide down the wire, picking up speed. My stomach lurches at the sudden influx of weight, food sloshing around. I land hard on the ground, almost twisting my ankle as I pull up my silenced scorcher and search for contacts. The rest of the Howlers land behind me. We crouch back to back in the grand hall. The floor is gray marble. The length of the hall is impossible to gauge, because it curves according to the crescent, bowing upward and out of sight, playing with gravity and giving me a sense of vertigo. Metal relics tower around us. Old rockets from man’s Pioneer Age. The coat of arms of the Luna Company marks the hull of a gray probe near Ragnar. It looks decidedly like Octavia au Lune’s house crest.
“So this is what it’s like to feel fat,” Sevro says with a grunt as he takes a small jump in the heavy gravity. “Disgusting.”
“Quicksilver’s from Earth,” Victra says. “Jacks it up even higher when he’s negotiating with anyone from low-grav birthplaces.”
It’s three times what I’m used to on Mars, eight times what they prefer on Io or Europa, but in rebuilding my body, Mickey jacked the simulators up to twice Earth’s gravity. It’s an unpleasant sensation weighing nearly eight hundred pounds, but it works the muscles something horrible.
We strip our oxygen tanks and stow them in the engine rim of an old space shuttle painted with the flag of pre-empire America. So we’re left with our small packs, scarabSkin, demonHelms, and weapons. Sevro pulls up Victra’s crude maps of the tower’s interior and asks Pebble if she’s found Quicksilver yet.
“I can’t. It’s odd. The cameras are off in the top two levels. Same with biometric readers. Can’t pinpoint him like we planned.”
“Off?” I ask.
“Maybe he’s having an orgy or wankin’ off and doesn’t want his Security to see.” Sevro grunts with a shrug. “Either way, he’s hiding something, so that’s where we’re headed.”
I cue Sevro’s personal line so the others can’t hear us. “We can’t wander around looking for him. If we’re caught in the halls without leverage—”
“We won’t wander.” He cuts me off before addressing the Howlers. “Cloaks on, ladies. Razors and silenced scorchers. PulseFists only if shit gets dirty.” He ripples transparent. “Howlers, on me.”
We slink from the museum into a maze of otherworldly hallways, following Sevro’s lead. Floors of black marble. Walls of glass. Ten-meter-high ceilings made from pulseFields, which look into aquariums where vibrant reefs of coral stretch like fungal tentacles. Reptilian mermaids one foot long with humanoid faces, gray skin, and skulls shaped like crowns swim through a kingdom of scalding blue and violent orange. Hateful little crow eyes glare down at us as they pass.
The walls are moodGlass and pulse with subtle alternating colors. Now heartbeats of magenta, soon rippling curtains of cobalt-silver. It’s dreamlike. Amidst the maze are little alcoves. Miniature art galleries showcasing works of contemporary dot holographs and twenty-first century AD ostentaciousism instead of the reserved neoclassical Romanism so in vogue with Peerless Scarred. Recharging our battery packs to our ghostCloaks, we duck into a gallery where lurks a gaudy purple metallic dog shaped like a balloon animal.
Victra sighs. “Goryhell. Man’s got the taste of a tabloid socialite.”
Ragnar cocks his head at the dog. “What is it?”
“Art,” Victra says. “Supposedly.”
The tone of condescension Victra strikes intrigues me, as does the building. It pulses with artifice. The art, the walls, the mermaids, all so on the nose of what the Peerless Scarred would expect of a newly moneyed Silver. Quicksilver must know Gold psychology intimately in order to have been allowed to grow so wealthy. So I wonder, is this extravagance all something far more clever? A mask so obvious and easy to accept that no one would ever think to look beneath it? Quicksilver, for all his reputation, has never been called stupid. So perhaps this tawdry dreamscape isn’t for him. It’s for his guests.
Which makes me think something here is amiss as we reach an unlit atrium with unpolished sandstone floors perforated by pink jasmine trees and slink across the floor in a V formation toward the set of double doors that leads to Quicksilver’s bedroom suite. Cloaks deactivated so we can better see. Razors rigid and held out, metal drifting centimeters above the sandstone.
This isn’t a home. It’s a stage. Made to manipulate. Sinister in the cold calculation with which it was constructed. I don’t like it. I key Sevro’s frequency again. “Something’s wrong here. Where are the servants? The guards?”
“Maybe he likes his privacy…”
“I think it’s a trap.”
“A trap? Your head or your gut talkin’?”
“My gut.”
He’s quiet for a breath, and I wonder if he’s speaking to someone else on the other line. Maybe he’s speaking to all of them. “What’s your rec?”
“Pull back. Assess the situation to see….”
“Pull back?” He snaps the question out. “For all we know, they just dropped nukes on our people. We need this.” I try to interrupt, but he steamrolls me. “Shit, I’ve run thirteen ops just to get intel on this Silvery asshole. We leave now, that’s all slagged. They’ll know we were here. We won’t have this chance again. He’s the key to getting the Jackal. You gotta trust me, Reap. Do you?”
I bite back a curse and cut the signal short, not sure if I’m angry with him or with myself, or because I know the Jackal removed the spark that made me feel different. Every opinion I have feeble, and malleable to others. Because I know, deep down, beneath the intimidating scarabSkin, beneath the demon mask, is a callow little boy who cried because he was scared of being alone in the dark.
Purple light suddenly floods the room as a luxury vessel cruises past the wall of windows at our backs. We hastily line up to either side of the door to Quicksilver’s suite, preparing to breach. I watch the vessel drift along through my black optics. Lights pulse on one of its decks as several hundred Pixies writhe to some Etrurian club beat that’s all the rage on far-off Luna, as if a war didn’t wage on the planet beneath this moon. As if we didn’t move to rupture their way of life. They’ll drink champagne from Earth in clothes made on Venus in ships fueled by Mars. And they’ll laugh and consume and screw and face no consequences. So many little locusts. I feel Sevro’s righteous wrath burn in me.