SL Huang - Up and Coming - Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

“He is a ten,” the noblewoman agreed. She sounded almost surprised.

“Of course he is.” Rigel was white.

Ean was pretty white himself. A disruptor would have killed anyone less than a ten, could even have killed him if he’d been a fraction slower.

“I’ve dealt with you before, Rigel,” the noblewoman said. “Last time you sold me a five as a six.”

Rigel did that occasionally, when he thought he could get away with it, and most people knew a Lancastrian wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

“I…Surely not.” Rigel was back to his oily, obsequious best. He thought he was back in control.

Ean knew better. Lancastrian nobles may not know their line ratings, but they definitely knew revenge. He pulled on his pants and a pair of boots. He was in Kaelea’s room. He didn’t remember what had happened after they’d arrived. “So did you really want a ten, or just to teach Rigel a lesson?”

He was glad the gutter slum was gone from his accent. He spoke Standard now, could have come from anywhere in the Conglomerate. His voice, still hoarse, was better than it had been when he’d gone to sleep.

The noblewoman glanced at him and Ean saw for the first time the distinctive blue eyes of the Lyan clan. He forced himself to not wipe his suddenly damp palms down the side of his trousers. This wasn’t just any clan. This was royalty.

The woman was smiling, actually smiling, at a slum creature like him. She wouldn’t do that if she knew what stood in front of her.

“I did want a ten, but I wasn’t planning on getting one from here,” she admitted.

Rigel didn’t get it, not at first. He opened his mouth and closed it again. “But he’s a ten,” he whispered, finally.

“If I’d died, I wouldn’t have been, would I,” Ean said. He understood Lancastrian revenge.

“But I would have offered her at least a nine.” Not that Rigel had any nines.

Both Lancastrians shrugged.

“When I ask for a six, I expect a six,” the Lancastrian noble said.

“But—” Rigel couldn’t seem to stop the fish imitation.

Ean gathered up the rest of his clothes. “You obviously don’t need me.” He could see Kaelea hovering in the passage. “I’ll leave you to it then,” and made for the door.

“Hold,” said the Lancastrian noblewoman. “I’ll take him,” she said to Rigel.

Rigel smiled his oily smile.

“Less the cost of the six I purchased.”

The smile stopped, fixed. Then Rigel bobbed his head suddenly. “Of course, my Lady Lyan.”

Lady Lyan. Only three women could call themselves Lady Lyan, and Ean bet this woman wasn’t one of them. Any true daughter of the Lancastrian emperor would be tied up so tightly in protocol and security guards, she wouldn’t be able to move. So who was this imposter? She must be one of the illegitimate children. There were rumors they were plentiful. Not that Ean cared, he supposed, but he hoped they would never come across true Lancastrian royalty or soldiers while he was working for the imposter. They were likely to all be killed.

“And I want the contract,” Lady Lyan said.

The color faded again from Rigel’s face. “But—” Ean could almost read his thoughts. No matter what Rigel said, Ean brought in 90 percent of the money right now. “Well, obviously that will cost more,” Rigel said eventually.

“I don’t like being cheated,” Lady Lyan said. “I don’t like my staff’s dying because I give them tasks they can’t do. Take the money and be glad I didn’t destroy your whole cartel as I planned to.”

Rigel made one more token protest, but Ean knew he’d already lost. The Lancastrian had done her homework. She knew how much it would hurt Rigel to lose his only ten, whether by death or by contract conversion. That was what she had come in today to do, and they all knew it. Ean was just grateful to be alive.

Even so, he was surprised Rigel didn’t protest more.

Lady Lyan beckoned to Kaelea, still hovering in the hall. “Witness.”

Kaelea looked as if she would turn and run, but Rigel beckoned frantically, too.

The exchange of contract took less than a minute. They all witnessed, then it was over.

If Ean was lucky, the Lancastrian noble would on-sell his contract today. Then, finally, maybe, he could get out into the confluence with all the other nines and tens. He didn’t want to think about the alternative—stuck working for a Lancastrian. He’d sworn he would never have anything to do with Lancia again.

They left immediately, without giving Ean time to pack.

“Send his things on,” Lady Lyan ordered Rigel. She looked at the shirt Ean now had time to pull on. “Except the uniforms.”

The thought of Rigel’s pawing through his possessions gave Ean the creeps. He was unlikely to get anything sent through. He considered demanding time to get his things, but he hadn’t collected much in the ten years he’d been with the cartel, and anything of value was already programmed into his comms, which was in his pocket. Better to save his fights for important things, he decided.

His new owner had a private cart waiting. Not owner, Ean reminded himself. Employer. This woman might own the contract, but she was still obligated to pay him. And if she didn’t—for who could trust a rich Lancastrian to abide by their contract if they could get out of it—then he could go to the cartel Grand Master for breach of contract. His contract stipulated minimum amounts, plus bonuses, and how frequently he was to be paid. He thought about the contract as they waited for the cart. It wasn’t good pay.

His new owner—employer—must have been thinking similar thoughts. “Does Rigel pay everyone so badly?”

Only those desperate enough to indenture themselves into a twenty-year contract. Ean shrugged. A Lancastrian like her wouldn’t understand how badly he’d wanted to become a linesman.

“You’ve been with him a long time.”

Ten years two tendays ago. Ean had spent it repairing a military ship, the GU Burnley . He’d only realized the date because the captain of the Burnley had told him the ship was ten years old, too. Ean shrugged again. “You know what it’s like when you’re a kid and desperate to learn the craft.” Not that he’d been as young as most. “Sometimes you’ll do anything.”

“With age comes wisdom, eh.” His companion laughed. “I can relate to that. I’m Michelle by the way.”

Which didn’t help identify which Lyan she was, illegitimate or not, because every member of the Lyan household took a form of Michel as one of their given names. Still, it was clever. She had every right to use it although most of them would not have dared. This woman had guts, identifying herself the way she did.

“Ean Lambert,” Ean said.

Surprisingly, they made for the docks rather than the hotels, where the private cart avoided the landing hall altogether and went straight to a shuttle out on the edge of the field.

The name stenciled on the side of the shuttle was LANCASTRIAN PRINCESS—SHUTTLE 1. Ean shook his head at the bare-faced effrontery.

They took off without having to go through customs.

In the confined enclosures of the cabin, Michelle leaned back with a sigh and closed her eyes. Ean used the time to study his new employer.

She was classically beautiful, with the heart-shaped face and high cheekbones typical of the women of the Lancastrian royal family. Rumor said they had paid a fortune to geneticists over the last two hundred years to develop those looks. Her lashes were long and black, curled over clear, unblemished, cream skin. The geneticists had definitely earned their money in this case. Except for the hair, perhaps, which was the royal family black, but Ean could see a slight wave instead of the expected regulation straight. Nor the deeper-than-expected dimples in her cheeks, particularly the right one. The emperor definitely wouldn’t have liked that. Still, if Michelle was illegitimate, the geneticists wouldn’t have been involved this generation, would they. Maybe some imperfections had crept in.