Val squirmed.

  Waist-deep behind the breastplate of an RG-300 in midsummer circ, she’d be just fine. But asking her to sit still and watch her friend swim with card sharks? That was like asking her to breathe underwater.

  Roman either noticed the room’s attention and hid it well, or he was completely oblivious. Luckily the bearded men at her table left her alone after her third accent fell flat. She guessed that was only part of the reason they kept staring though. Her eyes didn’t help—they kept darting from Roman to a blank patch of wall and back again.

  “Damn these rags,” she muttered, tugging at her meckanist overalls, convinced they were the final piece of her conspicuousness.

  She eyed the bearded trio at her table and briefly considered asking if one of them would swap clothes. She even raised a finger at the one who might have been closest in size, but their raised eyebrows stopped her, and she dropped the arm.

  “Just a drink,” she whispered at the ceiling. “It was just supposed to be a drink.”

  Over her shoulder, she saw Roman rake in the lion’s share of the pot. At a glance, he almost fit in. Almost.

  Even she couldn’t miss Etha watching Roman’s hands slide to and from the winnings, and Ripsahxquxewawefad—Rips, what was her real name again?—kept sharing glances with Bluke sitting right behind Roman. Then there was Mac, who smiled far too easily for how quickly Roman’s pile was rivaling his own.

  The whole scene was like watching a Dash meck compete while leaking fuel. One spark, and it’d be all over.

  Val looked the other way—at nothing—just as Rips turned toward her.

  “And they know I’m here. Maybe know I’m not his sister…”

  The muttering was too much for the three men at her table. They scraped their chairs back and made to leave the third floor entirely.

  Val took a deep breath and fought the urge to join them. Every passing moment only confirmed she didn’t know a soul in this place, save Roman. She drummed her fingers on the table, then too loudly called after the men, “Nice talking to ya.”

  Suspecting Rips was still watching, Val casually slid into the seat beside her own. When she looked back, a new table of strangers filled her line of sight, but she could still make out Roman and Mac.

  “Smooth,” she muttered. “Smooth, smooth, smooth.”

  Except she was still at a table by herself, gazes prickling her from every corner.

  “And that’s that,” Mac said, his grin flashing under the brim of his black hat.

  “So it’s just you and me?” Roman asked. “Or is it over now?”

  Kroy, the lanky one, rubbed a finger under his nose like it smelled good. “You gotta go one on one now.”

  “Okay,” Roman reached for the deck, but Rips snatched it up.

  “It’s a different deal—I’ll run it.”

  Mac rapped his knuckles on the table, halting the shuffle before it began.

  “You need another, Ace? Bluke over there ain’t missing much. Want me to send him for a drink?”

  “I’ve still got half—”

  “Course you do,” Mac didn’t wait, “Bluke, another for Ace. Make it a double. All that luck deserves a reward.” Then, lower but still in that honeyed voice: “Ever try that luck on other things?”

  Roman’s eyes tracked Bluke heading to the bar, uncertain of what would come back, “like what?”

  “Like what, he says,” Etha echoed, already drunk.

  Mac smirked. Val felt like she was watching a puppet master tug strings. On cue, Rips began to shuffle.

  “All kinds,” Mac said smoothly, “engines, gunneries—hell, what about charity?” He rubbed his finger on one of the cards in front of him as though he were trying to see what was on the other side by burrowing a hole through it. “Ever try smuggling?”

  “Smuggling? No. My sister and I are—”

  “Farmers. Yeah, you said that,” Mac cut him off, smile fixed. “Sharp, though for a man in that line of work. Granted, plenty of sharp men in my gang who can’t tell a bluff from a prayer. But you ask a lof of questions that nobody in that trade would really think about. Not really anyway. I’d guess you have some big plans, just like me. You know the boys and I will be moving on soon as we find a score worth more than the scraps on this table. Would tear this shanty down brick by brick if there was gold underneath.” He leaned in, eyes narrowing, appearing to catch Roman off guard by his random monologue.

  Val could hear her own breath in the silence that followed.

  “Wind me up,” Mac laughed suddenly, “I talk too much when I’m excited. Anyhow—your turn, Ace. We’ll each play two cards in the stash instead of one, keep ’em handy to use when we like. Quick, simple.”

  Roman nodded slowly. “Rest stays the same?"

  “Good question to ask,” Mac flashed him a smile, “when there's just two players left, now you gotta get rid of your cards fast instead of the other way around.”

  Roman nodded again, and the two cut the deck, and shifted their chairs to face one another. Roman lifted the bits in front of him and placed a portion into the pot.

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  “Whole thing,” Rips said, “last round is one hand take all.”

  Roman looked confused but Mac broke his pensive whistling to affirm that rule.

  “Rips is right. Them's the rules,” Mac leaned in as Roman seemed about to argue, “you and me could go at it for another hour but what would they do while they wait, hm?” He leaned back and started whistling again.

  Both men began organizing their hands before each placing two cards face down in front of them.

  “Good picks, I hope,” Mac said, lounging.

  “You’ll see,” Roman replied, Mac simply flicked his cards contemplatively.

  “You sure? You could swap your stash, now. I’d let ya,” Mac prodded.

  Roman shook his head. “Nah. I’m sure.”

  Mac lingered, flipping his cards idly between his fingers until Val checked the time.

  “You sure it’s me that’s uncertain?” Roman asked.

  “Indeed,” Mac said smoothly, “could be you’re nervous about the cards… could be it’s something else. The truth comes through in the end, doesn’t it?”

  He pressed a finger to the top of his card, savoring the moment before laying it down.

  “Whatever you say,” Roman hovered his own card an inch above Mac’s, waiting until Mac pulled his finger back. The game began.

  Val glanced around the bar. The place had filled without her noticing. People stood against the walls, conversations forgotten, eyes drawn to the table. She remembered kids crowding the jungle gym at school, sprinting to see a fight. She’d thought them stupid but she followed them then—as she did now, drawn to the could-be violence.

  Card after card hit the table—Roman, then Mac, then Roman again. Val couldn’t see the plays, but she could tell a good play from another by the crowd’s reaction.

  “So, smuggling,” Roman said at last, flicking his cards, “is that your business?”

  “Sometimes,” Mac didn’t look up, “we’re in the business of power. And opportunity.”

  “Power and opportunity… that the name of your LLC?”

  Kroy chuckled, but Mac’s laughter drowned him out—loud, theatrical, practiced.

  “Oh, it should be. That’s another good idea, Ace. Nawh. Not the LLC. Just the only currency that matters.”

  Roman rolled a metal bit across the table, “speaking of currency—why so many of these?”

  “Untraceable,” Etha said, clinking her cup on the table to make an obvious point.

  “Right,” Mac purred, picking up the thought, “you can’t track gold any more than you can track the wind. Asparian financiers can trace a transaction from an ID scan anywhere in the core within hours. Even a dishwater rock like this is in range of a recon amp… That’s a skeptical look you’ve got, Ace.”

  For all the years Val had known Roman, she’d never felt further from him. The way he spoke, the way Mac pressed she hardly recognized him.

  “So,” Mac said, eyes glinting, “are you a sheep, or are you a man of power?”

  Roman arched a brow at the random question, “are those the only options?”

  Mac leaned in, smile sharpened.

  “I suppose you could be a liar instead.”

  Without glancing at his cards, Mac began playing them one by one. Judging from the murmurs, they were strong plays.

  “You know who inspired me?” he asked.

  Roman shook his head, sliding a card across the table.

  “Our Asparian overlords,” Mac’s voice carried like a sermon. “Kings and queens turned Imperio and Imperias, demonstrating and wielding the law of nature. And do you know what that law is, Ace?”

  Roman shook his head again.

  “Might,” Mac enunciated each sound, “is right.”

  He flipped another card, pulling the other from his stash to boost the play. Roman hesitated before answering with his own. Mac pressed on.

  “That’s evolution. The strong decide, the strong persist. Apes find fire. Asparians invent the meck. Without them, the world would’ve crawled, nations would’ve rotted. Then one day they say they’re going to call the shots for all mankind—” Mac slapped his hands together. Val wasn’t the only one to flinch away, “and so they did. That’s all history ever is—the strong deciding.”

  Roman shifted a few cards in his hand, then swapped one at the last second. Val thought he was stalling.

  “How often does your inspiration take you to Mars?” Roman asked.

  Mac smiled thinly, looking at his hand.

  “You can act like a sheep, Ace, but I know you’re not. I. Know. It.”

  “Funny,” Roman said, steady, “who’s avoiding the questions now?”

  Chairs scraped and Roman noticed this time. A moment later his eyes narrowed as he studied what remained in his hand.

  “I’m getting close, aren’t I?” Mac said, voice low but carrying. “You think you have power here. That’s why you came, why you’re still sitting. Because you believe it. But power isn’t belief. Power is teeth. And I’ve already sunk mine in.”

  Mac remained motionless, save for his fingers which laid down the last cards in his hand to a chorus of impressed grunts from around the room.

  Roman’s neck tensed, but he slid his cards face-down toward the pot. “Getting a little deep for a card game. Looks like you got me.”

  He pushed his chair back, but it caught on Bluke’s boot.

  “You won. I lost—” Roman tapped the cards to make the point, and that’s when the knife appeared between Roman’s fingers, ten inches of steel too fast for Val to see.

  Mac leaned in close, hand still on the hilt. The room went silent.

  “You ain’t stupid, Ace. Wanna know how I know? Because you’re not dead.”

  Roman didn’t flinch, though the blade’s point all but kissed his skin.

  “Well—I should say, not dead yet.”

  “Look,” Roman said evenly, “you won the game. It’s over.”

  “The game,” Mac liked the word, tasted it. He drew the knife free, sliding it back into his belt in one smooth motion. Roman’s hand darted off the table.

  Mac plucked up Roman’s discarded cards, each bearing a neat slice from the blade. “Pairs—hiding the winning play?” He smirked. “Now what're the odds you make the same mistake twice?”

  His hand drifted back to the hilt. The table tensed with him.

  “You’ve been lying,” Mac said, his tone easy, almost conversational, “you know this game. Thought we were easy marks? Or…is it something else?” He raised a finger, cutting off Roman’s reply. “Which brings me back to you, Ace. Why don’t you open that mouth of yours? Show us the black.”

  Roman shoved his chair back hard, rising with the others—everyone but Mac, who stayed seated, calm as ever.

  “Nomad,” Mac laughed, savoring the word, “that’s what you called it, right? Haven’t heard this game called that in ages, everyone alive calls it by its true name: Prisoner.”

  Val’s stomach flipped. Roman stood stiff and unflinching, but she could feel the trap closing.

  “You still think there’s wind in your sail?” Mac asked, voice dropping, hand tightening on his knife. “Let’s see if you can tell the truth, hm? Cus’ I’m like to ask a question fifty times before I believe a man, so you’d better keep your story straight, Ace.”

  Val’s instincts screamed at her to run for the stairs, the windows—anything—but she couldn’t move. She was transfixed upon the violence to come.

  “Why are you doing this?” Roman asked.

  Mac’s smile widened, teeth white as the knife hilt.

  “Haven’t you been listening?” he said softly. “Because I can.”

  The tension, like a mounting thunderclap, snapped and all hell broke loose.

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