HAMMAJANG | adjective. Definition: In a disorderly or chaotic state; messed up. Chiefly in predicative use, esp. in all hammajang. Etymology: A borrowing from Hawaiian Pidgin. Source: Oxford English Dictionary.

Edie is done with crime. Eight years behind bars changes a person – costs them too much time with too many of the people who need them most.

And it’s all Angel’s fault. She sold Edie out in what should have been the greatest moment of their lives. Instead, Edie was shipped off to the icy prison planet spinning far below the soaring skybridges and neon catacombs of Kepler space station – of home – to spend the best part of a decade alone.

But then a chance for early parole appears out of nowhere and Edie steps into the pallid sunlight to find none other than Angel waiting – and she has an offer.

One last job. One last deal. One last target. The trillionaire tech god they failed to bring down last time. There’s just one thing Edie needs to do – trust Angel again – which also happens to be the last thing Edie wants to do. What could possibly go all hammajang about this plan?

Hammajang Luck is out today from Gollancz! You can order your copy on Bookshop.org

1

‘I’m not eligible for parole for six months.’

That didn’t seem to matter to the surly-looking guard peering into my cell. I couldn’t see his face between the light pouring in from the hallway and the flashlight beam in my eyes, but I assumed he looked surly. Every guard here had that perpetual look – a cross between ‘some jackass spat in my soy-synth’ and ‘mother just grounded me for war crimes.’ It was better than the other one they wore – a cross between ‘it’s both Christmas and my birthday’ and ‘mother just ungrounded me for war crimes.’ That look didn’t precede anything good.

The guard grunted. ‘Must be your lucky day.’ Nobody was lucky in this prison, least of all me.

But I bit back the words. There was no way in hell I was really up for parole, nor did I ever have the chance. The warden said as much the last time I was dragged to his office. Though I figured it was still worth investigating, if only to break up the monotony of prison life. What else did I have to do at 0100 hours other than stare at the moldering HVAC unit?

I swung my legs off the top bunk and hopped down, still light on my feet. I didn’t have a cellmate, but I liked being off the ground. I’ve always enjoyed heights. Maybe I was meant to live in the Upper Wards. It was always her dream. But – again – nobody here was lucky, least of all me.

The guard kept his flashlight trained on me as I pulled on my boots. I offered my wrists to him at the door and he cuffed them to my ankles. The long chains rattled as I walked. I was apparently on parole, but within the prison walls, I was meant to be shackled.

It wasn’t a long march along the crisscrossing catwalks to the receiving area, but it seemed to stretch on forever. The other prisoners were either asleep in their bunks or uninterested in where I was going. Not that there were many people who would miss my presence in the prison yard – after hustling more than a few of them out of their weekly commissary funds, I didn’t have the best reputation.

Another even surlier guard met me at the receiving area. ‘Warden’s not here to meet me?’ I asked.

Guard the Surlier spoke in a thick colony drawl. ‘It’s the middle of the night, why would he?’

‘Thought he’d like to see me off, we’ve become such good pals.’

Guard the Former scowled at me.

I still had no idea how or why I’d been granted parole. It felt like an unlocked cell door – a trap. Like the warden was just waiting for me to leave and break some law I’d never even heard of.

I recoiled at the thought. After she fucked me over, Joyce Atlas threw the book at me during my sentencing. It made sense he’d try to make me even more miserable now.

I glanced between the two of them, then directed my next question at Guard the Surlier. ‘You don’t happen to know who released me, do you?’

He scowled at me too. ‘Not lookin’ a gift horse in the mouth, are you, Morikawa?’

Other people may have jumped at the chance, but I knew too well that there were no gifts or grace on Kepler. Everything had a price. I just didn’t know how much this would cost me – yet. But even so, as Guard the Surlier undid my shackles, the freedom of movement eased the constant anxiety I’d been living in for the past eight years.

I didn’t have much in the way of personal effects. My junk phone, a binder that no longer fit me, clothes that were no longer in fashion, and a deck of novelty cards I’d bought her as a joke. I had half a mind to throw the deck back in the attendant’s face. But I didn’t. I just muttered my thanks and took the bag offered to me.

I dressed in what I had – minus the binder, despite my temptation. The jeans didn’t reach my shoes and the shirt stretched across my chest, the sleeves tight around my arms. I grimaced in the mirror. With my too-short jeans and my too-small shirt, I looked like a tattooed sausage splitting out of its casing.

After I dressed, I returned to the receiving area. Guard the Former had what appeared to be a staple gun in hand.

Didn’t like the look of that.

He gestured for my hand. Warily, I proffered my right one. He yanked it forward, then, with a snick, the gun pierced into the flesh between my thumb and forefinger.

I winced.

He let go. ‘Behave. Someone’s always watching you now.’ I hated the sound of that.

Guard the Surlier led me to the prison entrance. ‘Best of luck, Morikawa,’ he sneered.

I looked back at him. ‘How the hell am I supposed to get home?’

‘Not my problem,’ he said, then gave me an unceremonious shove on my back.

And suddenly, I was on the outside.

It was always cold on the trashy rock that Kepler orbited. Good for nothing but a few strip mines and a prison. There were haphazard banks of dirty snow strewn across the pock- marked landing pad, frozen solid from a dozen freezes, thaws, and refreezes over the course of the Rock’s near-constant winter. Remarkably, a few leaves still clung to the branches of the native trees. The night sky was overcast with fast-moving clouds and a frigid breeze nipped at my bare arms.

It didn’t feel real until that moment.

I’d been bracing myself for impact, waiting for the warden to leap out like a jump scare and laugh in my face as the guards threw me back in my cell. But despite my initial wariness, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders. Maybe it was my need for more, my need to fill the negative spaces in my life, blinding me to the consequences. But for now, I savoured my freedom.

I breathed in deeply. The guards used to make me crawl through the airducts, repairing the ancient HVAC units. I used to choke on the chemical smell of harsh detergents as I scrubbed the prison walls and floors. Here, on the Rock, the chilly air was unrecycled, and I could faintly smell the scent of oily smoke and gasoline.

After eight long fucking years, I was on the outside. And I knew exactly who I wanted to call first.

I pulled my phone from my pocket. My last call with my sister was in my allotted comm time two weeks ago, and I knew the landlord was breathing down her neck. If anyone needed good news, it was her. That lightness in my body only grew as I thought about it: I could lend a hand around the house. I could take the kids to school. I could get a job – a real, legitimate job – and help pay our mounting bills. I never considered the prospect of parole. Now that I had it, the possibilities for me and my family were endless.

But when I tried to power up my phone, it stayed dead. And all those light feelings sank to the pit of my stomach.

Now what?

I was still staring at my phone, willing it to come back to life, when I heard a sharp whistle from across the landing pad.

I lifted my head. And I saw her.

She was taller. Or maybe it was her high heels, tucked beneath a pair of slim black chinos. She wore a white blouse under her open wool coat, and her jewellery was all classy sterling silver. Her hair was now a brilliant shade of platinum blond, cut into a chic bob with razor-sharp edges. Her eyes were shadowed in the dark, but I remembered the colour of them: the deepest, darkest brown I had ever seen, just verging on absolute black.

‘Edie,’ she said. ‘It’s been a long time.’

It took everything in me to not walk backwards back into the prison.

She must have known, because before I could make a grace- less escape she said, ‘They won’t take you back. I made sure of that.’ She stepped forward, and in the florescent lights of the landing pad I could see the depths of her brown eyes. ‘If you’re interested in ruining your life again, you’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way.’

‘Not gonna do it yourself?’ I said through gritted teeth.

‘I think you’ve proven yourself capable of doing it all on your own,’ she said coolly.

I tried to shake loose the anger locking up my mind. ‘What do you want, Angel?’

‘I want to give you a ride.’ She nodded at the dead phone clenched in my fist. ‘I think you’ll find your options are a bit limited without me.’

I swept my eyes across the landing pad. There was one sleek, black flyer parked a few paces behind Angel, and a decrepit old shuttle that transported the guards to and from the Rock and its prison. The staff rotated on a weekly basis, the flight to Kepler Space Station too much of an undertaking for a commute. It would be another week before I could maybe bum a ride, depending on the lenience and goodwill of the guards. Both of which were in short supply, especially with this lot.

I was considering the possibility of carving out a shelter from one of the snowbanks and stowing away on the shuttle when Angel interrupted my thoughts.

‘Whatever you’re planning, I can guarantee it’s stupid.’ ‘All of my plans are at least a little stupid.’

‘You say that as if I’ve forgotten.’

I looked at my phone again. Still dead.

Angel sighed. ‘It’s one hour in the flyer. If after that hour you never want to see me again’ –

‘Bold of you to assume I want to see you now.’ – ‘I’ll leave you alone. I swear.’

‘Your oaths leave a lot to be desired.’

Angel’s gaze was sharp. ‘I swear on my father’s grave.’

That startled me out of my anger. Last I heard, Angel’s father was still alive. Miserable, but alive. I wasn’t sure when in those eight years he would have died, at the rate his mind had been deteriorating.

I shifted from foot to foot. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. Despite every- thing that happened between me and Angel, it felt like the right thing to say.

‘Don’t be,’ Angel replied, her voice cold.

A frigid wind blew through the landing pad, rattling the leaves on the trees and stirring Angel’s hair. It fell back into its perfect angle. I shivered.

Angel gestured at the flyer behind her. ‘Just one ride, Edie.’

I gave my phone one last look, willing with all my might for it to spark to life. It didn’t.

There was a time in my life when I would have accepted Angel’s offer without hesitation. I thought of all the times we’d ridden somewhere together: in the crush of the monorail on our way to school, crowded in the back of a friend’s flyer for a job, or drunkenly swaying in a speeding cab from a party. Back then, we were inseparable. Back then, we went everywhere together.

But that was long before Kepler System Penitentiary. That was long before we fell apart.

I didn’t know what all this meant now.

I looked up at Angel, who was watching me expectantly.

Impatiently.

‘One ride,’ I agreed.

Angel gave me a brilliant smile, one that lit up her entire face. It was a smile that made my heart race in my chest, my palms sweat in my tight fists. It was a smile that could persuade someone to do anything for her. Move mountains for her. Slay dragons for her. Fall on their sword for her.

‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘Because I have something to ask you.’

‘You’re out of your fucking mind,’ I said.

Angel didn’t react to that, placidly sipping from her teacup. ‘Joyce Atlas is the richest man in this quadrant, in the running for richest in the galaxy.’ Despite the empty pilot’s seat, I lowered my voice to a hiss. ‘And you mean to steal from him?’ ‘I’m glad you were able to grasp the basic concept.’ ‘You’re out of your fucking mind.’

‘So you’ve said.’

‘That man has more security than any senator. Guards, cameras, codes, keys. Even his lunch box is biometrically sealed.’ ‘You would secure yours too, if you spent so much on real fruit.’

‘And what makes you think you can crack his lunch box, let alone his proprietary vault?’

Angel met my gaze evenly. ‘Because I’m his chief of security.’

I gaped at her. She sipped from her tea again. Her lips left a smudge of vermilion on the edge of the teacup.

I shook myself out of my daze. ‘How’d you manage that?’ ‘Eight years is a long time, Edie. Enough time to straighten out, get credentialed, build a reputation.’ Angel smiled, her lip- stick still perfectly smooth. ‘I’m respectable now.’

‘You won’t be, after this job.’

‘Who needs respectability when you’re rich?’

I gestured to the cabin of the flyer, with its panelled interior and leather seats. ‘This isn’t rich?’

‘Joyce Atlas is a multi-trillionaire.’ Angel put aside the teacup. She folded her hands in her lap and crossed her legs. ‘This is nothing compared to what that kind of money can buy.’ She smiled again. ‘Ever wanted to own a moon, Edie?’

‘What the hell am I supposed to do with a moon, Angel?’ ‘I hear it’s a nice place to raise a family.’

I scoffed. ‘When have you known me to be domestic?’ ‘Doesn’t have to be for you.’

The Morikawas had lived in the same apartment in the Lower Wards for generations now. A sprawling family tree of aunts, uncles, cousins, and their children were ever-present in my life. And even as the neighbourhood changed around us, my family never left. It was the closest thing we had to roots, long after we were driven from the rising waters of our homeworld. If nothing else, the Morikawas had each other, had the memories of our culture.

‘We’re not looking to move,’ I said flatly.

Angel reached into her bag and removed a bright green apple. From her sleeve she drew a butterfly knife – she’d gotten faster with it since I’d last seen her. She flicked it open and began to peel.

‘The plan is already in motion,’ Angel said, the apple’s skin curling in an unbroken ribbon around her fingers. ‘It’s just a matter of whether you want to be involved.’

I leaned forward in my seat. ‘Need I remind you what happened the last time we tried to rob Atlas?’

The knife slipped and the ribbon of apple fell to the floor. For a moment I saw naked anger on Angel’s face, anger that I didn’t quite understand.

She wasn’t the one who spent eight years of her life behind bars.

But before I could say anything, Angel’s expression smoothed back into icy calm. ‘If anyone needs reminding, it’s you, Edie. Now you know a little of what I’m capable of. Betray me, and I’ll ruin your life.’

‘You’ve done it once, already,’ I said through my teeth. ‘And I won’t hesitate to do it again.’

Angel could have carved her initials out of the tension in the air. I didn’t know what she was thinking, offering me a moon in one hand and threatening to stab me in the back with the other. I didn’t know why she would come to me, of all people. Not after everything had gone so wrong between us.

‘Why me?’ I asked.

‘Why you?’ Angel repeated. ‘Because you know the cata- combs better than anyone else. Because you’re the best runner I’ve ever known. Because you and I –’ She paused. Rethinking. Recalculating. After a moment, she met my eyes again. Her gaze was hard with cold resolve. ‘Because I know you, Edie. Better than anyone else.’

‘Eight years is a long time,’ I said. ‘You don’t know me any- more, Angel.’

Another tense silence filled the cabin as Angel held my gaze. I noticed then that there was a ring of cold, glowing blue that cut through her irises. A mod. Smart implants like those were just becoming fashionable among Kepler’s rich and powerful when I was imprisoned. They still gave me the creeps – they felt inhuman, unnatural, machine-like. The mods were an outward representation of the world of difference between me and people like me, and them.

After a few moments of silence, Angel settled back into her seat, carving the apple into slices in her hand. ‘I’ll give you three days,’ she said finally. ‘If I don’t hear from you by the fourth day, the deal is off.’

‘And then what?’

‘Then you enjoy your freedom. Think of it as a gift, for old times’ sake.’ I scoffed. ‘Just be sure to stay on the straight and narrow, or you may end up back where you started.’

‘Is that a threat?’ I growled.

‘You don’t need any interference from me to send you back to the Rock.’ The knife cut smoothly through the flesh of the apple. ‘Understand this, Edie. I can have any runner I want. I can succeed with any runner worth their salt. But I want the best. I want you.’

That was one thing eight years hadn’t changed in her. Always seeking perfection.

She lifted her gaze and I met it defiantly. ‘Three days from now, you’ll want me too.’

‘You really think I’ll change my mind?’

‘I do, actually.’

I scowled. ‘Why is that?’

I went rigid as Angel ran her tongue along her forefinger, licking the apple’s juices off her skin. Then she smiled a wicked smile, her lips still perfectly lined. ‘You’ve changed, Edie. But not that much.’

Angel dumped me at Kepler’s rail station. Her goodwill only seemed to extend to the docks, and not much farther. But it suited me just fine. The tense silence in the flyer was suffocating, and I was eager to be out of this new Angel’s presence.

‘Think about it, Edie,’ she said from the flyer. ‘I’ll be waiting for your call.’

I grunted in response, turning away from her and moving toward the rail station. Another sharp whistle made me stop mid-step. I turned back slowly. Angel had my phone in her hand. ‘Dropped this.’

I approached her warily, then reached out to take the phone. Angel pulled it close to her chest and met my eyes. ‘Remember, Edie,’ she said, her dark eyes searching mine. ‘Remember that I can do this without you. Can you survive on the outside without me?’

Angel proffered the phone and I had to resist the urge to snatch it out of her manicured hand.

I shoved it in my pocket, then turned on my heel and started toward the station again. I half-expected her to call out to me, but she said nothing. As I slipped into the crowds – the rail station was always crowded, even in the dead of night – falling in step and changing my posture, I hazarded a glance over my shoulder.

Angel was gone.

I sighed. Lost in the crowds, out from under her scrutinising gaze, I felt more at ease. That feeling of weightlessness continued, Kepler’s gravity lighter than the constant downward pull of the Rock. The faces may have been unfamiliar, but the feeling of being in a crowd wasn’t. The low light of Kepler’s simulated night was familiar. The brushed steel walls – once polished to a shine, now grimy with generations of handprints – were familiar. I approached the turnstiles leading to the tracks and smiled. The roar of the monorail was familiar, and so was the ride to Ward 2.

But when I slipped my rail card from my wallet clip and touched it to the sensor, a grating beep stopped me in my tracks. I tried again, and the beep was more insistent. I glanced at the screen. Insufficient funds.

I braced myself on the turnstile, preparing to vault it, and froze. I glanced down at the chip in my hand. The flesh was raw and red.

I thought of what the guard said. Someone was always watching you on Kepler, and I wasn’t willing to risk my freedom on petty crime. Who knew what obscene punishment there was for fare evasion under Joyce Atlas’ watch.

I turned away from the turnstiles with a frustrated sigh. It was nearly an hour’s walk from the docks and through the Lower Wards. If Kepler was such an impressive feat of human engineering, why were the elevators never in service, and why did it have so many goddamn stairs?

I exited the rail station onto the quiet streets. It was always dark in the Lower Wards, where the towers loomed and the skybridges blotted out Kepler’s simulated night sky. Screens on the towers’ faces cast flashing neon light across the streets, advertising vids and products and mods I’d never heard of. A waifish model appeared on a screen beside me as I passed, dancing and striking poses that showed off the sleek mod on her belly as it changed colours from electric blue to neon green to hot pink. The friendly rounded lettering of the Atlas Industries logo appeared above her head with a tagline for the mod: Performance. Precision. Perfection. Metabolife. The model smiled at me, tracking my movement. I scowled back at her and picked up my pace.

I turned back toward the street, where a lonely figure far off in the distance was drunkenly staggering down the sidewalk. Their footsteps faded as they turned the corner. A lone flyer passed overhead in a pounding of bass and whining of engines before it shot off toward its destination. In the silence that followed, it was quiet enough to hear the low, constant thrum of Kepler’s monolithic engines, the hushed breath of its life support systems. At this hour, when all its people were asleep, it felt like it was just me and it.

‘Miss me?’ I asked softly.

Angel was right: I knew Kepler better than anyone else. I spent my childhood racing through its narrow streets, exploring its labyrinthine catacombs, and climbing its soaring towers. In combination with an apprenticeship learning the ins and outs of the station and all its systems, I was more knowledgeable than any mechanic, any lab coat. Any cop, too. Whenever a lift went sideways or a job went south, I could disappear into Kepler. I knew it would keep me.

Maybe it owed me and Dad that.

I picked up my pace as I moved down the street, from a leisurely walk to a jog to a run. Before long, I was sprinting across open streets, vaulting over walls, and sliding down railings. My mind coursed a path on instinct, and though my body had changed and its movements were unfamiliar at first, after a few blocks, it began to respond just the way I wanted it to. An exhilarated grin rose on my face, and I let out a whoop that echoed through the silent night.

Maybe in eight years I had changed, but Kepler hadn’t. Beneath the fresh coats of paint, the trendy advertisements, and the new pavement, Kepler was the same as it always was. I always had Kepler to keep me. And if I returned the favour, it would keep my family too.

That was all I needed. I didn’t need money. I didn’t need notoriety.

I didn’t need Angel.

All I needed was myself, my family, and my home. That was enough.

Hammajang Luck is out today from Gollancz! You can order your copy on Bookshop.org