Coda

Space, as everyone knows by now, is big. People have tried to make it smaller. But even with subspace communications, even with faster-than-light travel, even with hyperdrives and wormholes and tesseract folds, space is still incredibly, mindboggingly big. It still takes some time for news to spread from one point in the wide universe to another. It takes even longer for the truth to arrive and clear up the rumors that may have raced ahead of it. It was nine days before��Bianca Carmine knew about her father.

She was in her customary cafe, drinking her usual Swirling Supernova. She found out in the worst way. She should have been told by a trusted associate of the Family, but most of her father’s associates were either dead themselves or had gone into hiding. Bianca had only half an ear turned towards the holoreporter, when all at once she heard her father’s name. Authorities, the reporter ��noted in emotionless static, had confirmed that Sal “Skipper” Carmine had died in the Charlotte’s Moon Affair. Next of kin were being sought. The passive voice neatly evaded the question of who was looking for them, and whether they wanted to be found. Bianca didn’t.

The otter waved at the robot bartender, who whirred over and flashed a number at her on its screen. Instead of swiping her card, Bianca tossed a few generic coins into a tray the robot helpfully extended. The nice thing about robot bartenders is that you don’t have to tip. The other nice thing is that they still take cash, which is useful when using a card would light up the grid and signal to all and sundry where you are. Bianca had already stayed in the cafe too long. It was time to move.

She had a skimmer parked outside. A shuttlecraft waited two miles off, concealed in a patch of trees. Bianca didn’t know the names of the trees, and didn’t care. She only knew they were blue, very fluffy, and ideal for shielding a shuttlecraft from view. She stepped outside into the golden light of the planet’s twin suns. Then she froze. Someone was standing by her skimmer.

“So. You’re��alive,” Stamper said.

“Yeah.”

“So you lied.”

“When?”

“In your last message. The one from Luca Three.”

“Not all of it.”

“Oh? Which parts were true? Your name was a lie. You getting blown up was a lie. Your family-”

“The part at the beginning. Where I said I loved you. That was true.”

“How do I know?”

Bianca stepped past him, and kicked her skimmer into life. “You don’t.” ��She didn’t look back as she lifted away into the setting suns.

Stamper watched her go. “Yeah. I don’t.”

 

This is really the last, for now, in the Angel and the Space Otter series. For now.��