33. Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Three
As dramatic as all of that was, what followed was rather tame. Ursa went back to prepping the cargo bay; I went back to rehearsing with an even more respectful-of-boundaries Croydon; Tobago and Val watched and gave us notes until we were, apparently, convincing enough.
The whole time, I waited for Tobago to pull me aside, to berate me, call me out, put me in my place for allowing Ursa to undermine him yet again.
The fact that he didn’t should have been a relief, but it wasn’t.
It was dreadfully ominous. On many of the galaxy-net reality shows I used to watch, they claimed the end of a relationship didn’t come about because you were fighting too much; it came about because you’d stopped caring enough to do so.
That was what I’d feared had happened with Tobago. He’d realized it wasn’t worth the fight, because he was going to try to convince the crew to get rid of us as soon as possible, regardless of whether or not he and Ursa could get along.
This job would change that, I determined that night, thrumming with energy as I lay awake in bed, unable to sleep. Both Ursa and I would remind Tobago of what valuable assets we could be.
In the morning, though, Tobago’s mood was not the only one with which I had to contend.
Any peace that Ursa had made about the situation had evaporated overnight.
His body radiated with tension next to mine at the dining table as we quietly ate our breakfast. At first, I worried he was working himself up for another confrontation with Tobago, but then I realized what it was.
He was terrified. Not for himself—never for yourself, you foolish, lovely man. For me. We were going to a strange new place, putting ourselves into active danger, and he wouldn’t be there to protect me.
I placed my hand on his leg, trying not to draw too much attention. We weren’t the only two people at the table, after all. The usual boisterous morning chatter was going on around us, everyone energized by the upcoming mission.
Amidst all of this, Ursa looked over at me. We gazed at one another, an entire silent conversation happening between us. He reached out, touched the tip of my plait, and held on to it for a beat, two, before finally, reluctantly letting go.
To my own surprise, that evening I did feel much more confident going into my job with Croydon by my side.
As crude as he could sometimes be, I trusted him to stick to the plan.
Also, unlike the last heist I’d participated in, this time I got to wear my own clothing—a simple jumpsuit, rather than the ridiculous scraps of fabric that had passed for a dress I’d been forced to wear before.
We were meant to look like two factory workers in the industrial district who’d gone to find a dark corner to have our tryst, so the jumpsuit was more than appropriate. And much more comfortable!
A few blocks away from the factory, Croydon and I slipped into our roles, snuggling up against one another. Croydon pretended to murmur sweet nothings into my ear, while I giggled in a very come hither manner.
Thankfully, Croydon had not disappeared so fully into his character that he actually murmured sweet nothings to me; that would have been, to put it mildly, disturbing.
He did, however, list off some of his favorite antigravity football players and their best stats, which I think we can all agree is about the least sexually stimulating thing a person could whisper.
But I was committed to selling my part, so I batted my eyelashes and pushed him away, then clung to him tighter, and dropped in a few Oh, yous.
As we neared the alleyway opposite the factory, I tensed.
It was just as Tobago had described. From the position of the guard station, Croydon and I would be sometimes visible, sometimes not, and that would all be part of the allure.
The guards would need to crane their necks to try to get a better view, perhaps even to watch eagerly for the moments when we would pop back into sight—and thus be distracted from any goings-on in the factory.
Croydon took hold of my hand, looped around his waist, and gave it a quick squeeze. “You ready?”
“Ready,” I confirmed—or started to confirm, before I was interrupted by a voice calling my name.
“Minerva?”
Much of what followed was my own fault. If I’d done my character work properly, given myself a new profession and background and motivations and a name for the role I was playing, I might not have responded so instinctively. But it is very difficult not to turn when someone calls out your name.
I expected to see someone I recognized, but I didn’t know any of the three men watching me with interest. Nevertheless, the strangers gaped at me. “It’s her—see, she turned!” one said, elbowing the man next to him in the ribs.
Too late, I realized these men weren’t former colleagues or estranged friends, but men who would have only one other way of knowing me.
The wanted bulletin in circulation around the galaxy.
“That’s you, isn’t it?” one of the men pressed. “Minerva Smithe-Canfield, the sex-crazed scientist?”
Oh, Havens. I was fully prepared to deny being the woman from the bulletin, but I couldn’t quite check the flicker of annoyance at that last bit. The sex-crazed scientist? Was that what my epithet was?
“. . . No,” I returned finally, but even I could hear how unconvincing it was. So I did what any normal, rational person would do in my position: I doubled down. “What? No! That’s absurd. I’m not . . . whoever that hussy is.”
Unsurprisingly, the three men remained undeterred by my rather lackluster performance.
Lest that be a poor reflection on my acting abilities as a whole, let me remind you that I hadn’t been preparing for this part.
If they’d seen my work in “woman getting railed against a wall,” I’m positive they would have bought it wholeheartedly.
But that’s neither here nor there, ultimately. “You are her! The sex fiend!”
Unsurprisingly, having someone shout “sex-crazed” and “sex fiend” on a public street—even one as underpopulated as this one—was starting to draw some attention.
Some factory workers who were leaving for the day slowed their pace, so they could listen to the conversation.
And, yes, even the guards in the station were peering out at us, trying to catch a glimpse of the kerfuffle.
Well, Tobago had wanted us to provide a distraction for the guards. Perhaps he wouldn’t be too angry if we achieved it in a different fashion.
Of course, that was being needlessly facetious.
It was all well and good to pretend to be someone else while distracting the guards for a few minutes.
Being recognized as myself—or rather, a version of myself who was wanted for attempted murder, and whose capture would lead to a significant reward—was a much, much more treacherous prospect.
Fortunately, Croydon was able to think more quickly on his feet. He looked at me in confusion, then back at the men. “Minerva? Who’s Minerva?”
In hindsight, I realized it was quite possible that Croydon genuinely didn’t know my full name was Minerva, as he had only ever known me as Mina. Either way, whether he was pretending or genuinely bewildered, it gave the other men pause for the first time.
They exchanged glances, then the de facto leader, the man standing closest to us, puffed out his chest. “The attempted murderess?” At Croydon’s blank face, he persisted. “The seductive scientist?”
I’m afraid to say, I didn’t mind that last nickname quite as much. It had a nicer ring than “the sex-crazed scientist,” I’ll tell you that. But this time I was more prepared and able to keep my face expressionless, as if I were just as confused as Croydon as to what these men were going on about.
“Her?” Croydon asked incredulously, gesturing at me with one of his thumbs. Then he began to laugh—boisterous and unchecked, a bending-over-at-the-waist-and-slapping-his-thigh kind of laugh.
As much as I appreciated it as a (possible) tactic to convince the men I wasn’t a wanted criminal, it was hard not to bristle, just a little, at that kind of response at the mere idea of me being a temptress.
Especially when the other three men reluctantly joined in on the laughter. “Doesn’t look the type, I know,” the leader agreed. “But you should hear the stories going round about her . . .”
To my dismay, he then proceeded to tell Croydon an even more mangled version of what was meant to have happened on Earth than the utter bullocks Rawley had been spreading around in his bulletin.
Apparently, in addition to mercilessly attempting to beat Rawley to death and shamelessly throwing myself at St. John and Mr. Coulson and the other man whose name I can’t remember, I also held an entire room of scientists hostage and forced them each to let me kiss them.
How I was meant to have smooched them while simultaneously holding them at gunpoint is both absurd and, I suppose, a testament to my apparent skill at multitasking.
Wherever Rawley was at the moment, I’m sure he was laughing gleefully at the havoc he’d caused to my reputation. Even Croydon was eying me askance, as if weighing the possibility of the story being true.
“What an utter load of rubbish,” I said, with feeling. “I don’t know who this Minerva Smithe-Canfield lady is, but this sounds to me like the work of a jealous and spiteful man, trying to slander the name of a good, respectable mycologist.”
The leader glanced back at one of his buddies, then the other, before finally looking back at me. “Ain’t none of us mentioned she was a mycologist.”
Before my dumb brain could quite catch up, Croydon was already taking me by the shoulders and propelling me down the street. “Run, Mina!”
Without knowing what else to do, I ran—even as I heard the scuffle behind me, shouts, fist hitting flesh, the blow of a guard’s whistle.