by A. R. Knight
“The flow of time is driven less by the passing of days and more by experiences,” Malo replies. “At least, that’s what our warriors would tell novices when we trained. Their point, I think, is that we would forget the hours in their monotonous lessons and remember the results.”
“Did you?”
“I’m still alive, so I suppose so.”
I nod towards the metal stick. “And you’ve remembered to always keep a weapon handy.”
“I don’t need to remember that, Empress,” Malo looks at the staff as if it’s the most valuable thing he owns. “These adventures have taught me that every moment I’m without one, I’m vulnerable.”
“You’re a good soldier, Malo,” I say, and throw him a smile to take the edge off what I say next. “But you could be a better friend.”
“A better friend?”
“You’re so serious. Always about the mission, keeping me alive, or watching for the next threat. Not every danger comes from the outside, you know.”
“Are you okay, Kaishi?”
“Look, Malo, let’s not ask about me for a change. What about you? Are you okay?”
This question seems to have Malo confused. “I’m fine, Empress.”
“No, that’s not what I’m asking. How do you feel about everything we’ve been through? About what Sapphrite’s asking us to do?”
Now he gets it. Takes his eyes from mine and sweeps them along parts of the settlement we can see.
“There’s nothing I’ve lived that could have prepared me for this,” Malo starts. “It’s one surprise after another, which I’m able to handle. What’s harder, though, is seeing all of the constructs I’ve lived with torn away. I once thought the Charre were the best people alive, and now I know we’re nothing next to all of these others. If they wanted to, the Sevora could destroy us. So could the Vincere. I have no doubt that Clarity’s Dawn, bedraggled and lost as they are, would make a mockery of all our warriors and their years of wielding spears and shooting arrows. In short, Kaishi, I feel pointless.”
In Malo’s words I hear my own thoughts crystallized - we, humanity, are being reduced to bargaining chips by races far stronger than our own. We’d gone from masters of our own destinies to pawns in a game I can barely conceive, much less play.
But then, here we are, immersed in a band full of rebels, refugees, and refuse who won’t accept that their role is one of servitude, that their destiny is decided by others.
“We have to take it back,” I whisper the words at first. “Our agency, our choice.”
“How?”
“We start here. With Sapphrite’s plan. We start by speaking up. You’ve led a hundred raids. I’ve been sneaking around jungles and since I could walk. And Viera...”
“Viera’s unpredictable, but always in our favor,” Malo finishes for me.
“Exactly. This might be the home of Clarity’s Dawn, and this might be their idea, but if we’re going to carry it out, then humans are going to have a stake in it.”
Just saying the words helps. My blood pumps harder, my smile feels more confident than it has been at any point since we’ve left Damantum.
Malo grabs my left hand hard. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt his grip, warm and rough. There’s a lot packed into his touch, and I meet his look not as Empress, not as a Solare chief’s daughter, but as a friend finding strength in another.
16 Interrupted Negotiations
Once again, Sax finds himself wishing for the simple clarity of a Vincere mission. A commander, an objective, and a horde of evil Sevora to destroy. Instead, he and Bas set off down the lift, back to the station proper, in search of Agra-Red. Though what he’ll do when Sax finds the Whelk is a question he can’t answer.
Back in the Nexus, Sax takes a step out of the lift, looking for the way to the docking spoke, when Bas taps his shoulder with her right foreclaw.
“Sax, before we go on, I need to take care of... myself,” Bas looks down at the cuts and gashes, her bent scales.
As if the act of recognizing they’re living, breathing creatures breaks a spell, Sax feels his own crushing exhaustion weighing in. They need a place to sleep, they need medical supplies. And neither can be had for free. Still, they first go to the only infirmary on the station, a place labeled only by a glowing bright green circle - that universal sign of health.
Inside, a pair of cheery Teven tell Sax and Bas that the cost of treatment by the medical robots, and staying in one of the recovery rooms, will run far more than either Oratus has to give.
Sax is ready to return to the tried-and-true flashing of his claws, but Bas stops him with a tap of her tail.
“We don’t have payment,” Bas says. “But we do have influence.”
“What kind of influence?” the lead Teven, one with an unusual striping black and purple carapace, replies. “We don’t need more space, and the Sisters would never replace us.”
“With your customers,” Bas hisses, and she looks at her claws. “We’ll bring you more, plenty more, if you fix us now.”
The Teven, their eyes peeking through the holes in their long shells, stare at the claws, then so a short dance with their limbs beating on each other’s shells.
Sax always hates secret languages.
“How many fights are you planning to start?” the lead Teven says.
“Many,” Sax replies.
“Hopefully not enough to take apart the station?”
“No.” Sax has no idea what it would take to destroy Scrapper Station, but he’s reasonably confident things won’t come to that.
Though Sax and Bas have left their fair share of wreckage behind, Cobalt included.
“Then, if you can guarantee at least five other customers, I’ll waive your repair and rest fees.”
It’s a deal. The Teven don’t have Oratus-specific care rooms - there are so few of the species outside of the Vincere that it wouldn’t make sense - so Sax and Bas separate. Each of them take one of the largest rooms available, normally meant for heavy Whelk.
The rooms themselves are clear, cream. Tiled across the floors and walls. Sax isn’t sure why until hoses blast him with water from all sides. Only it’s not just water - the stuff clings to him, seems to squirm across his scales.
Nanobots.
The little things nip and bite, knit and sew Sax’s body back together. Sax doesn’t think he has many new injuries, but then he feels his legs tickle, tear, and grow.
They’re repairing the burns, grafting and splicing new skin and scales right there.
Well before the nanobots are done, Sax is ushered out to a recovery room, a tranquil, silent box looking out into space and the stars. Again, no Oratus chairs here, but Sax makes do with a large couch. A serving robot hovers over with nutrient drink, and Sax takes a long sip, feels the nanobots whir away, and drifts into a long-sought sleep.
The Mobius waits for them in Docking Spoke One. Sax feels better than he has in a long time - though the Teven remind them when they leave of their promised “referrals”.
Not that Sax cares - if they don’t have to carve up a half-dozen people, then he’s fine keeping his claws put away. The Teven can’t exactly do much to enforce their end of the deal.
Docked, the Mobius looks like it belongs here. Every part of the ship seems to be meant for something else. The outside is a dozen different colors, all of them pitted and scarred from space debris. Engines, weapons, and living modules spring off the large cargo core at various angles, such that Sax thinks Plake must give her crew freedom to do what they like to her ship.
“It’ll never win a fight in heavy atmosphere,” Coorvin says, stepping down from the ship’s ramp towards them. “Plake, though, says she belongs in deep space. Doesn’t ever want to take this thing to another Amigga planet.”
The little old Flaum steps over, looks at each of them.
“Did D’Arscale send you here?” Coorvin finally asks.
Sax decides the Flaum doesn’t deserve to be sent to the Teven.
“D’Arscale is enjoying a scenic tour of local space,” Bas grins wide. Her rose-gold scales glitter in the bright docking bay light, shined enough by their recent repair that Coorvin even winces a little.
“Ah,” the Flaum replies. “So this is... a social call?”
“Have you heard of the Sisters?” Sax asks, and when Coorvin shakes his head, Sax fills the Flaum in.
“Plake’s not going to be happy if you kill Agra-Red,” Coorvin glances behind him, back up the ramp. “The Whelk’s been her muscle for a long time.”
“Which is why we’re standing here, in the open,” Bas says. “We want a lift off of the station. Plake has a chance, now, to give us that, either with Agra-Red or without him.”
“Why don’t you try one of the other ships?” Coorvin nods behind them. “There’s at least a dozen more docked.”
If Sax has to explain all the twisting events that led to them being here, one more time, he’s going to start murdering everything in sight.
“We have no money,” Sax leaves his summary short. “We need leverage with anyone who will take us. The Sisters give us that leverage.”
“I think you’ll find the Sisters won’t give you as much as you need,” Coorvin says. “But I’ll get Plake and you can make your case to her.”
The Flaum vanishes back up the ramp.
“If they attack us,” Sax says. “I’ll take the Whelk.”
“Trying to protect me?” Bas replies.
Sax hisses a laugh, “I think Whelk are tasty.”
They’re not waiting long till Coorvin reappears, with Plake in tow. The Vyphen’s not looking thrilled to see them, though her expression changes, as does all of them, when the space station’s alarms begin to go off.
“Vincere vessel approaching!” announces a voice that Sax recognizes as Eneks. “Anyone that wants to run, your time is now. Scrapper Station accepts no liability for any consequences of your attempted escape!”
“Guess that means you should run,” Sax says to Plake, who laughs.
“Why? You going to try and get revenge? I was just selling my cargo for a good price.”
“You sold us into slavery.”
“Hardly,” Plake’s rubbery mouth slides into a frown. “D’Arscale said you’d eventually be released to the Vincere, that he’d take any blame for keeping you.”
“D’Arscale is an icicle now,” Bas replies. “Which means—“
Plake waves her feathered arm. “Stop. I don’t take threats from Oratus. Your way out is here. Take it. You can try to implicate me if you want, but I saved your damn lives. Feel like that’s worth an even trade for mine and my crew. You Oratus are all about honor, right?”
Sax feels the Oratus are more about highly efficient slaughter, but honor works.
“We’ll let you go,” Sax acknowledges, and together the two Oratus turn to leave the twisting mess of demands from the Sisters, from Plake and Twillo behind.
Guess the Teven definitely won’t be getting their payback now.
The docking spoke clears rapidly after the Vincere arrival is announced. Ships scatter off the station, leaping away to anywhere other than here, anywhere they won’t be trapped and inspected and, without doubt or mercy, eviscerated.
What fascinates Sax, though, is that the Vincere vessel, a light frigate with plenty of fighter support, doesn’t make any moves against the smugglers. Doesn’t make any attempts to enforce the police action that is the reason for its existence. All it does is stay near the station and launch a single shuttle, an oval-shaped, unarmed transport craft that floats over to Scrapper Station.
Sax and Bas watch the entire thing play out on one of the several giant displays within the Docking Spoke that show everything happening around the station. Ships are representing as little diamonds, the points showing their headings, while the frigate is designated as a big red circle. The red, according to a wide legend on the right, a glaring reminder of its likely hostility.
The shuttle shows as a bright blue diamond - a harmless designation - and, as it nears the station, a number six appears inside its shape.
“Betting that’s our ride,” Bas says and Sax agrees, so they head to bay six and wait.
The shuttle lands shortly after, tall struts untangling themselves from the base of the craft and, with magnetic jets burning silent, the shuttle settles onto the bay floor. Rather than a ramp, a platform descends from the craft’s center, plenty wide for four Oratus, though this one only holds two.
Ones Bas and Sax recognize: Gar and Lan.
And they’re ready for war; loaded with miners, wearing masks, and casting their heads about for trouble. When they center on Sax and Bas, Gar looks disappointed.
“Guess we scared away all the prey?” Gar says as the two Oratus bound over.
“There’s plenty back in the station, if you’re hungry,” Sax shrugs.
“That’s the not mission,” Lan says.
“It never is.” Gar looks mournfully at his claws.
“What is the mission?” Bas asks.
“You.”
17 A Plan Begins
I resist reaching for my scalp, scratching at it. Drawing attention to what’s there. The ride, though, is boring - a slow crawl up the tubes towards the surface in a mostly-fixed Beast.
T’Oli is back at the controls, its hard-white form navigating the Beast around bumps and ridges as we scale the walls. The machine’s treads bite into the tube’s sides and allow it to climb. To bring us closer to death.
Malo and Viera sit next to me, strapped into a trio of hard slats that explore new dimensions of discomfort by pressing into seemingly every nook of my back at once.
“Made for Ooblots,” T’Oli said when we climbed in. “We fit everything, so everything fits us.”
So to keep myself from going insane at the pinching, I think about how, in other tubes all throughout here, Clarity’s Dawn is sending all they’ve got into this fight.
Or rather, they will. We’re going in first. Start with a surprise, one that the Sevora won’t see coming, and that ought to give us a real shot at getting out.
“Anyone think this has a chance?” Viera says as we ride.
“It has a better one than sitting down there,” I reply. “And at least, this time, we get what we want.”
“Right. Because instead of being kept out of the fighting, we’re bait instead. Just what I was hoping for.”
Sapphrite’s plan had called for us to act as a draw, a distracting target for Sevora while the real work went on elsewhere. Clarity’s Dawn would keep us safe, Sapphrite said, and then deliver us to the spaceport after.
Problem is, I’m not a fan anymore of ‘after’, of ‘trust’. There isn’t any guarantee that Clarity’s Dawn won’t use us as pawns after the mission. So instead, Malo and I made some recommendations. Swapped some places.
“This gives us the best chance of escape,” Malo says. “We’re in control of our own destiny now, rather than someone else.”
“I believe I’m controlling your destiny right this moment, Malo,” T’Oli notes cheerfully from the controls. “Could turn this thing right around, or stop it and let us all plummet to a messy end.”
“But you wouldn’t do that, T’Oli,” I acknowledge the joke. “Because that would hurt your Beast.”
“True enough,” T’Oli replies. “Did I tell you how long it took me to clean her out?”
“Yes,” All of us reply in unison.
“It was a monster job, is all I’m getting at.”
I reach for my scalp again, catch Malo’s eyes and pull my hand away. I haven’t seen him make a single twitch towards his own black hair. Suppose that warrior discipline comes in handy sometimes.
“Did we decide who gets to fly our ship when we steal it? Assuming we get that far?” Viera asks after another few minutes of trundling.
“I’ve got the Cache. I’ll use it.”
“So you’re going to fall into one of your trances right when we’re run
ning from a bunch of angry enemies?”
“Do you have a better plan?” Malo asks, leaning around me. “Are you equipped to fly one of these things?”
“I grew up with gadgets under the mountains,” Viera replies. “I can figure it out.”
“Then we’ll call it when we get there,” I say. “There’s only so far a plan can go, anyway.”
“You just don’t want me to have any fun,” Viera pouts. “Get stabbed by Malo, captured by Oratus, imprisoned by Sevora, the list goes on and on.”
“But look at what you’re wearing? Doesn’t that count?”
Viera’s sporting a new set of synthetic armor over her mask, though its mismatched colors give away the fact that it’s a blend of other sets. After all, Vimelia doesn’t exactly have human-sized gear, seeing as they didn’t know we existed. What I’m really focused on are the pair of shiny miners, scrubbed clean and bolted onto latches around Viera’s waist. There’s a chance the Sevora might take them away, but if we’re lucky, she’ll keep them.
“Guess you’re right,” Viera glances down at herself. “I did get the best outfit.” She looks over at us, does a theatrical head shake. “Kaishi, what are you even wearing? A robe?”
It’s a simple, brown-green sheet. With the mask on underneath, I just need something to keep the Sevora from recognizing I’m coated in the mask’s invisible shell. If there’s one thing I’m not concerned about right now, it’s fashion.
“And Malo? Did you fall into a fire?”
He’s sporting the thickest set of all of us, mostly because Malo’s got the frame to support some of the same gear given to heavier Flaum. Like Viera says, though, most of it’s blasted-black, a relic of prior battles and hasty repairs.
Rackt told Malo not to bet on it holding up in a fight, but they didn’t have anything better to offer, so Malo took it.
T’Oli drops us near the surface, though there’s still plenty of muck for us to slog through before getting to one of the wide ladders up.
“At least I felt clean for a day,” Viera says as the brown stuff once again clutters up our clothes and the stench overtakes any pleasant memories my nose ever had.