Exile Sky: Parse Galaxy, #4

By Kate Sheeran Swed

Sloane might not relish the situation that's got her tangled in a web of Galactic Fleet and Trade Federation politics – but she's knee-deep in it now. And she's finished with dead ends. 

 

When she finally cracks the clue her uncle left behind, it points directly to the worst spot in the galaxy: a barren wasteland of a moon (if it counts as a moon when the planet it was orbiting has been blown into bits) where her toes are guaranteed to freeze solid in about thirty seconds. 

 

Between the bandits, the blizzards, and the cybernetic wolves, her hands are full. Not that she's complaining… much. 

Sloane only hopes she can escape the trek with all her toes intact – and the evidence she needs to save the galaxy from imperial rule. 

 

No pressure. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kate Sheeran Swed
• Release date: Feb 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215122686

Kate Sheeran Swed

Kate Sheeran Swed loves hot chocolate, plastic dinosaurs, and airplane tickets. She has trekked along the Inca Trail to Macchu Picchu, hiked on the Mýrdalsjökull glacier in Iceland, and climbed the ruins of Masada to watch the sunrise over the Dead Sea. After growing up in New Hampshire, she completed degrees in music at the University of Maine and Ithaca College, then moved to New York City. She currently lives in New York’s capital region with her husband and son, and two cats who were named after movie dogs (Benji and Beethoven). Her stories have appeared or are forthcoming in the Young Explorer’s Adventure Guide Volume 5, Electric Spec, Daily Science Fiction, and Andromeda Spaceways. She holds an MFA in Fiction from Pacific University. You can find her on Instagram @katesheeranswed.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Elter’s trio of moons reminded Sloane of an old children’s story her parents had read to her. In the story, an aspiring pilot wandered into a stranger’s spaceship and proceeded to try out all the bridge seats, herbal-tea bulbs, and crew bunks until she found just the right height, temperature, and softness.

And was promptly eaten by the aliens who owned the ship and found her dirtying their sheets with her humanity.

Sloane had never quite understood what the moral was supposed to be. Maybe aliens enjoyed digesting comfortable kleptomaniac pilots. Or maybe it was simply an old-fashioned dig at ambition. Unclear.

In any case, her home planet’s moons reminded her of the story, and rather starkly. Not because they had a lot of unlocked spaceships lying around, but because each had embraced very different levels of socially acceptable debauchery.

Darrow, the first moon, was known as an academic planet. The most serious students went there to study at various universities and work at the Parse Galaxy’s best research institutes. No debauchery allowed whatsoever.

Darrow, in other words, was too serious.

In the balanced center of the spectrum—the spot whose discovery apparently got you eaten by aliens—there was Yurtec. A perfectly safe spot to test boundaries and enjoy a dash of debauchery while the authorities pretended not to notice. It was a mini version of Elter, in a way. Clean, but not too clean. Populous without being crowded.

Yurtec was just right.

And then there was Falta. With the lowest legal drinking age and highest number of brothels per block in the Center Systems, plus warm weather that was consistent enough to make the Torrent System resorts weep with envy. Falta was too much fun, and here, debauchery reigned supreme. So when college students took a break from their studies? Yeah, they took those breaks on Falta.

Do you know where we’re going? Brighton asked, as they skirted around a group of laughing students. The whole moon smelled like candied smoke, a scent Sloane associated with the permanent teal haze that trailed through the streets, though that might’ve been a peculiarity of the atmosphere rather than a side effect of all the drugs.

I think so. Sloane stepped off the pedestrian-packed sidewalk as a hov-train whooshed by overhead, sending a breath of warm air through her hair. Must have been an express. The bar on the corner had a blue sign the last time I was here, but I think we’re in the right place.

Brighton looked around, wary. How many times have you been here?

Three. No, four.

"You’ve been to Falta four times?"

That she could remember. Sloane stepped around a dubiously colored puddle. The last one was a whirlwind. My friend Ainsley decided to host a party at the last second, and she invited this guy she barely knew. He brought everyone he knew from his uh, place of work, and it almost turned into an—

Sloane cut off abruptly as Gareth Fortune slipped through the crowd to fall into step on her other side. The Commander of the Galactic Fleet did not need to hear about this particular misadventure.

She’d been studiously ignoring his existence, inasmuch as that was possible, in the days since he’d betrayed her trust, called her father for help, and in doing so thrown her family into harm’s way.

But ignoring his presence did nothing to keep him out of her way. If only she could have lost him in the crowd without dooming the galaxy to live under the thumb of empirical tyranny for the next century or twelve.

She didn’t have a point of reference for the longevity of galactic empires.

Like Brighton, Gareth was surveying the street with a level of concern he ought to have reserved for hardened criminals instead of college students in bathing suits. Falta had good weather but no beaches to speak of, so every bar kept its own swimming pool.

You don’t have to do this, he said.

Sloane snorted, drawing startled looks, and one giggle, from a few of the revelers. As if she’d had a choice in whether or not she had to ‘do this.’ Gareth had asked her father for a favor, and her father had returned the request. She’d assumed that request would have been related to Dad’s agreement to host rogue Fleet ships in Ilya System, and that he’d immediately clashed with the Cosmic Trade Federation over the move.

But the CTF hadn’t invaded Ilya—yet—and Dad’s request had been more mundane, at least for a Center System diplomat: he’d asked them to chase down a suspected spy.

He’d asked, in other words, for a bounty. Which meant that yes, Sloane did have to do this. And it was all Gareth Fortune’s fault.

You shouldn’t be here at all, she told him, not bothering to keep the snap out of her tone. You should be tucked safely away on the ship, hiding your famous face and waiting for us to solve this mess.

I made the promise, so it’s my responsibility.

She wished he’d brood or sulk, or do something manly and annoying. That would make it much easier to hate him. She did hate him—he hadn’t even bothered to tell her he’d called her father for help, which meant she’d had to learn it from the bad guy—but she had to keep reminding herself of it.

The most important person in the galaxy should stay home from dangerous missions, she said.

He didn’t brood, and he didn’t sulk. A small crease appeared between his eyebrows, the only sign of confusion. I’m not the most important person in the galaxy.

The most important and the most annoying. The guy just couldn’t leave a crown for someone else to claim, could he? The way he was walking next to her, all tall and broad and purposeful, she could think of a few other plaques he might qualify for. Not that she’d ever admit to those ones.

Who’s the spy again? Brighton asked. Judging by his tone, which was dry with an edge of annoyance, he was intentionally steering the conversation away from an argument.

Danny Lane, Sloane said, grateful for the subject change. The name rang a bell somewhere in the back of her mind, but she couldn’t quite match it to a face. It was a pretty generic name, like something out of one of Damian Riddle’s comic books. He’s in his mid-twenties. Dark hair, medium height and build.

Brighton scanned the street, like he wasn’t quite used to going after a target while surrounded by bikinis and board shorts. That could describe half the people here.

True. Luckily, Sloane’s father had spies of his own, and a pretty good idea of where Danny Lane would be partying.

Why he couldn’t have sent those spies to collect the guy, Sloane didn’t know. It was almost as if he’d involved her in this intentionally, asking for a favor he knew she’d take on herself instead of leaving to the Commander.

A crazy thought, surely.

They reached the intersection and Sloane veered left, cutting around a spontaneous dance party that’d formed beneath the hov-train station so that every passing car whipped the dancers’ hair and clothes into a frenzy.

Dad’s people had traced Danny to a place called the Breach Shack. And as they rounded the corner, Sloane understood the joke.

The door was shaped like a towering portal, a circular gate like the entertainment vids always showed when they wanted fantastical characters to journey quickly between worlds. This gate loomed over the entire street, but most of it was blocked by a violet waterfall that ended in midair—funneled away, somehow, by a mechanism she couldn’t see—so guests could enter without getting drenched.

Into the breach, Sloane said. Come on.

She couldn’t deny that the gateway was pretty, even from below. The dormant art history student in her could appreciate that. The nod to pop culture, too.

Inside, the space was fifty-percent pool and fifty-percent deck, loud with laughter and quick-paced string music she didn’t recognize. Not so different from the other places she’d seen on Falta. The too-sweet candy smell was magnified here, and she wrinkled her nose. Maybe she was getting old.

When she took in the decorations in the pool, she certainly felt like she was getting old, at least based on the indignation that spiked through her gut when she understood the theme.

Each pocket of the pool contained a sculpture, adhered almost carelessly onto a base of white plaster. And each sculpture was a priceless one, instantly recognizable to someone who’d obsessed over art for a good portion of her life.

There was the Gorgon, a one-eyed monster that terrorized sailors at sea, his expression contorted in the pain of the misunderstood. Or so she’d always argued. His eyes were black, dotted with reflections of galaxies.

To the right stood the curvy figure of a woman known as the First. She was a representation of early space settlement, a combination of beauty and iron strength. The unknown artist had carved her out of milkstone, making her fragile—but no other material would have allowed them to coax out the flutter of tassels around her waist, or the intricate chains around her neck.

Someone had tossed glow rings around her wrists like bangles. Sloane wanted to dive into the pool and rip them off.

In the center of the space, the legendary Colossal towered over the party. It had human legs tall enough to dwarf her family home, which was far from insubstantial, and a skirt of tentacles that reached down from the waist. She couldn’t see to the top—it was meant to be viewed first from below, and then from along a spiraling walkway that would reveal it slowly—but she knew from photographs that its torso was formed by a collage of technology. Space-faring ships, weapons, drones, hov-trains. All contained within a spiral that looked eerily like the Currents, and all combining to form a new, mishmashed kind of a creature.

It was enough to make her want to catch a real hov-train just so she could see it from above.

Down here? Down here, someone had built a bar around its ankles. The partygoers were crowded around it, accepting glowing drinks that pulsed in time with the bracelets they’d used to accessorize the First.

Brighton leaned in over her shoulder. Why are we stopped?

Sloane shook herself, chasing the rage out of her ears and allowing the beat of the music to wash back over her. This wasn’t the time to get caught up in art. Never was the time to get caught up in art; she’d left that world behind for medicine, which she’d left behind for bounty hunting.

Life could be strange.

Those had better be copies, she muttered, unable to tear her eyes from the Colossal. She settled for wrenching her gaze down its legs to focus on the bar.

Where she immediately caught sight of Danny Lane. He was blandly handsome, his skin like shining plastic, and he was grinning and dancing while he shook a cocktail mixer to the beat of the music.

Right, she said. "That Danny Lane."

You know him? Gareth asked, but Sloane was already moving across the bridge that separated the First’s pool from the Gorgon’s. Brighton scrambled to catch up, but the walkway was too narrow for him to take the lead without pushing her into the water first.

It didn’t matter. She knew Danny. And she finally had an easy mark.

Danny’s eyes landed on her, and his grin actually widened. Sloane! Want a drink?

Of course I do, she said, and she could practically feel Gareth startling at the statement. Never mind that he was standing behind her. She could feel his uptightness beaming at her back. But I’ll have to pass, unfortunately. I’m here to arrest you.

Danny laughed. His teeth were too white. Arrest me? Why?

Apparently, you’ve been spying on Elter.

Danny’s laugh was brittle now, the smile dropping out of his eyes. Spying? For who?

Sloane shrugged. Don’t know, don’t care. Though I really don’t know how you could spy on anyone. What could you possibly learn as an intern? How Dad likes his tea?

Brighton cleared his throat. Is it necessary to antagonize him?

Probably not. But now that she was face to face with this guy, she felt betrayed on behalf of her planet. And maybe, just a little, her father as well.

Danny’s smile dropped away, replaced by a flash of anger. A quick change, like a storm blowing in. He clutched the shaker, his hands trembling. I haven’t been an intern for six months now.

Brighton eased up beside her, and she could practically feel Gareth back there trying to do the same, but there still wasn’t room for him at the mouth of the bridge. Good. So your internship was what, three years? she asked. That’s a slow climb, Danny.

Maybe that’s why I became a spy. The smile was a sneer now. The music still pumped away, forcing them to shout, but the people closest to them were starting to pause in their dancing, to back away. A few had pulled out fliptabs to record the confrontation, but not as many as she’d have expected; perhaps they knew Danny better than she did.

Maybe, he continued, the Halorin governors saw something in me your father never could.

He’d been spying for Halorin, had he? That was interesting. Confess it to the judge, Sloane said. I’m just here for the bounty.

An unpaid bounty, in this case. A bounty-less bounty, unless she counted the chance to snap the strings Gareth had so carelessly attached back to her family as payment.

But Danny didn’t need to know that.

Gripping her cuffs, Sloane lunged for the bar, Brighton mirroring her move to cut Danny off from the other side.

As it so often did, everything happened at once.

Danny leapt up onto the bar as Gareth took the opportunity to rush into the space that’d opened between Brighton and Sloane. She’d forgotten his tendency to pull shit like that.

Danny’s eyes were wild as he thrust the cocktail shaker up over his head. Hello, Commander, he said.

At this point, Sloane was comfortable assuming that the shaker did not contain a fruity cocktail, but rather an explosive one. Somehow, Danny must’ve seen them coming. Maybe he wasn’t a half-bad spy, after all.

Brighton, Sloane shouted, but Brighton was already diving toward the wayward intern, arms outstretched, as other partygoers ran for the exit, screams reverberating across the open space.

Too late. Danny threw the shaker, clearly intending it for Gareth. But he was as mediocre at pitching as he was at office work, because the shaker flew straight up and lodged in the bent knee of the Colossal statue. Danny’s eyes went wide, and