Steal the Sky by Megan E. O'Keefe

The question of consent was moot, and the theater of Ripka even bothering to ask insulting. Pelkaia was damned sure that if she’d refused she’d find herself in the clink while the Watch tore her home apart.
    The man, Banch, strode forward and began opening cupboards, rooting around her plain stone mugs and lifting up pictures to see if there were any hidden cubbies lurking behind. Pelkaia watched the watch captain’s face as she observed her partner’s proceedings.
    Captain Leshe was thin of lip and kept them pressed tight, her small pupils following each of Banch’s intrusions. There was distaste in her posture, a certain rigid formality that was an attempt to separate what she knew was wrong from the job she had to do. Ripka seemed to be a good woman. It was too bad Pelkaia’s plans might eventually require her disposal.
    â€œHow long have you been living here?” Ripka asked, as if her little piece of paper didn’t say.
    â€œOh, ten years now. I was able to buy the place outright when my boy Kel died at the mines. The bereavement stipend, you understand.”
    The captain’s gaze flicked back to Pelkaia, leaving Banch unwatched as he poked around her bookshelf. Apparently, that little piece of paper didn’t have all the facts after all.
    â€œYou had a son, Miss Teria?”
    â€œOh yes, fine boy he was.” Pelkaia licked her lips and looked away. To make herself vulnerable to this woman, this authority figure, was asking too much. And yet, she had a duty to Kel, didn’t she? He’d died a working man, the victim of unsafe conditions allowed to fester in the mines. It might rustle the captain’s suspicions, but Pelkaia reasoned that if she let her voice waver and her eyes mist Ripka would view her as sunk deep in grief, too tired and worn to do any kind of damage. Pelkaia found it too easy by far to dredge up the required quaver to her voice, the moisture to her eye.
    â€œHe had a real talent for sel-sensing. Might have become a shaper, with practice, maybe even an airship captain. But he died in that rockslide on the Smokestack’s third pipeline. His whole line went with him.”
    â€œI am sorry for your loss, ma’am, and I thank both you and your son for your service.” Her words were automatic, rote. Pelkaia wondered just how many times she’d spoken them.
    Service? More like servitude. “Thank you kindly, captain.”
    â€œWhat’s through here?” Banch had given up his search of the bookshelf and stood pointing to the thin curtain that separated her sleeping room from the common. Pelkaia’s skin went cold, her palms clammy. She had to resist an urge to clear a knot of fear from her throat.
    â€œJust my bedroom.”
    Banch exchanged a look with Ripka, who gave him a curt nod.
    â€œI am sorry,” she said when Banch pushed the curtain aside and went within. “But the protocols are very precise.”
    â€œDon’t worry, dear. I understand the shackle of protocol. I worked a line myself, you know, before I became too infirm for it.”
    Ripka frowned at her chart. “Forgive my prying, ma’am, but it says here you’re only forty-eight.”
    â€œYes, but I took some damage to my knees and haven’t been right since. The bonewither caught up fast with me, you understand. I hope you’ll forgive me sitting down through this interview of ours. Please do help yourself to a seat if you’d like.”
    The watch captain waved away her offer, shifting her position so that she could better keep an eye on her sergeant. Pelkaia turned to watch as well, and had to suppress a flinch as he dipped his head under her bed. The sel sack was well hidden, but if he were to touch the underside of the mattress he would surely feel the seams. She forced herself to breathe easy.
    â€œCaptain, you best look at this,” Banch said.
    Pelkaia’s heart raced, sticky sweat beading on her brow.