by M. K. Valley
“I want to open a Contract,” I say in her sweet voice, used to enticing poor customers into buying another drink.
“And may I inquire about the target and Champion?”
“I’m here representing Andria del Scorpio as the Champion. The Contract’s on the imagiConsul’s head.”
The Hermesian, who’s dutifully gliding their fingers over the holo of a keyboard, halts, squeezing their fists. Every facet of the compound eyes focuses on me, though their bulge doesn’t give away if the administrator’s gawking at me. I give them a sweet smile, owning the island of stunned silence surrounding us. I’m loud enough to make a few heads turn.
“Uh…”
“If we could arrange it quickly, it would be great,” I smile a honeyed smile and tap the black nails. “Miss del Scorpio wants the matter opened and closed within the day.”
“Yes, of course, I just have to…”
“Miss Malva,” my guide here interrupts the administrator, who’s still frozen in the amber of bewilderment, and puts a dry hand on my shoulder. “If you would join me, the Consul wants a word in private.”
“Oh, perfect!” I exclaim, pressing my palms together, and give a coquettish curtsy to the administrator. “Thank you for all the hard work you’re doing!”
That’s how I get the VIP treatment. After being thoroughly searched by the security and frowned upon because of my shock-absorbing catsuit, I find myself in a private elevator, in the company of a sec-drone, riding to the executive’s office. Unlike Saravati’s, this one’s not in the clouds. The Consuls share the twentieth floor in one of the twin spires, separated by the elevator, opening the door to the one who’s getting a visit. It chimes, and I step out with a final wink at the drone. Outside is a long hall lined with guards paired up at every ten feet, all in heavy combat gear. They’ve been warned to expect miss Malva. I can walk straight past them and into the imagiConsul’s office. Clean and swift. But if he manages a single yelp, those heavy-duty goons will be on top of me within seconds.
That’s not the only reason I hesitate in front of the elevator, taking stock of the dozen guards. I’m still bitter for the beating their colleagues enjoyed not so long ago. Call me petty.
“Is there a problem?” The guard closest to my right asks, fingering the stun gun at his hip.
Helmets, heavy boots, armored vests, stun guns, and batons. And I came in here clad in Aether and a catsuit. This should be fun. I tilt my head with a smile. “Depends on who you’re asking, soldier.”
My imitation of Malva’s sweet voice cracks and crumbles at the end of the sentence. I let the Aether unravel and reach.
Normies often think us Imaginators lazy. Why hone our combat skills when some of us can conjure fire and bullets out of thin air? But I don’t need imagination to crack a skull. Over the years, I made sure I can handle myself when I get up close and personal with a bigger threat.
My fingers claw into the slit of the guard’s helmet, and I pull, landing a crackling kick into his kneecap. I yank the helmet free and twist, smacking it into the hands of the guard on the left. The half-lifted gun clatters to the floor, followed by its owner when I bring back the helmet in an arch toward their head.
The hall bursts with shouts and singing guns, and I dash to the next couple. I take a current to the chest with a smile and throw myself at a guard. Their punch connects with my forearms as I kick blindly behind. Someone’s air evacuates with a whistle, and I duck, twisting again, fingering a stun gun that fits perfectly into the crack of the first’s vizor. Click.
The shock throws me a step back. My palm stings, but their helmet’s smoking, so it’s good. I take a broad step forward and a punch to the chin. Someone tackles me. The hall turns on its head, indecipherable curses mixing in with the commotion. I slam my elbow with a crack into my attacker’s helmet, and they go soft. But before I can crawl from under them, a fist closes around my hair, yanking, and smashes my face into the floor. Blood splatters and drenches my throat in iron, and a red curtain drops before my eyes.
The seconds unfurl in a messy, raw sequence of bursting eyes and crunching bones. I walk through the imagiConsul’s door, followed by a bloody mist. He halts his frantic pacing and turns to look at me, bruised and battered but alive. He made one crucial mistake – thought I could be overwhelmed. Thought I don’t have aces up my sleeve. Thought there’s no need to imagine.
“How?!” He croaks, and I feel the shift in the Aether.
He raises a shield and conjures a weapon, but I don’t have to go through his crude defenses anymore. Being in the same room is enough. We’re all Aether. All I have to do is reach, and even a monochromatic Imaginator like the imagiConsul would kneel.
I curl my fingers, not because I need to, but because I want to. A startled gasp escapes the Consul’s lips, and his fingers fly to his throat. A pull here, a tug there, and you cut off the flow of oxygen. His airways constrict, he crumples to the floor. I step closer, trailing blood on the spotless white marble floor. My feet drag grime all the way up to his desk, making a mess out of the thick gray carpet. The Consul claws at its strands and his throat. Huge pale eyes stare at me from the floor, blood vessels bursting, pink and purple flowers blossom on his stoic face. When he starts turning blue, I let him wheeze in a breath and cut him off again. He curls and crawls, and begs, and bellows until bloody foam sprays from his drawn lips. Even his anger can’t help him now. Only the creator of a thing…
But I’m not imagining. I’m molding. We’re Aether, and we can be tapped. Still, the rules apply. Only I can fix the way his throat and lungs have caved in. Only I can let air flow through this arrogant sack of shit. And I don’t. I count the seconds, starving his brain, crippling his skills.
We are the clay vessels of the Infinite Universe. She sows life into us, but we shape ourselves. We bloom or wither because of us. We doom ourselves. And we’re oh-so fragile when you can tap into the quintessence of the Universe.
The foul stench of sweat and piss makes the air thick with fetor, and I relax my grip on the Aether, snapping back to the matters at hand. A spider’s thread of blood trickles down my lips and chin, but not from the broken nose. I could be the monster some fear I already am. If only I’m willing to die for it.
“I’ll kill you before more of your goons arrive,” I snap at the Consul and wipe away the blood. “Ready to tell me who made you think I’m safe to fuck with?”
The imagiConsul writhes in a pool of his own piss and bile, raking in breaths. I let the stench rip through my nose and nudge him with a boot to step on his chest. His bloodshot eyes are huge and wild.
“Th… the list… of nominees…” He stammers when I press my heel in and tugs on his blue jacket.
I flinch, and the last piece clicks into place. Of course. If the normieConsul was the target, someone’s gunning for his seat. That list is public knowledge. If I’d spent a second outside my paranoia bubble, dragging Twig down with me, I wouldn’t have found myself breaking every Aresian law. Well, it happens to the best of us.
Scrunching my nose, I pat through his drenched clothes until I brush his personal communicator. The candidates’ list is significant, but nothing stands out until I scroll through to the very end. The one name I hoped to never see again pops up. The world tilts by a fraction, and hysteria bubbles up to my lips.
“Is this a joke?” My scream pierces through the high-pitched ringing in my ears, and I kick the Consul in the ribs.
“I swear, I swear, it’s not!”
My wide eyes flit back to the name. Andrus del Scorpio. My own twin brother. It’s a punch to the gut, and it’s all I can do not to double over. After all these years, he’s finally come for me. My no-good brother decided to play God.
This time, I’m going to kill him.
Breathless and numb, while my mind’s still scrambling for purchase, I reach into my pocket and take out the vial. The casing
goes first, and the feather-like weight settles on my open palm. But it’s not a feather. It’s a clay vessel I remolded. He startles from the cold of my skin, and I let him freefall, unfurling the Aether back into its former self.
The scrawny human normieConsul lands with a thud and a groan. Despite the pain and the humiliation, the imagiConsul scrambles to his knees, gawking back and forth between the two of us as if he’s seen a ghost. The hawk-of-a-man at my feet is anything but. I leer at the Imaginator,
“You think I’m an idiot? Kill a Consul, really?” I hack out a laugh and toss a brand-new communicator at the normie. “The records of everything that happened after the asteroid. Clean up that mess while I’m gone.”
I’m in no position to threaten or give orders, but the unspoken ‘or else’ lingers after I turn and walk out of there clad in the normie’s free pass. His rapid-fire orders echo throughout the building, and no one tries to stop me. Maybe it’s the blood, maybe it’s the vicious determination twisting my features as I leave the Consulate, or maybe it’s everyone else’s ability to follow orders. I don’t care. I’m no longer part of the intrigues on Ares. But I have to deal with the conspirators of Scorpio. And I intend to be thorough.
PHASE EIGHT
THE MASTERS OF
SCORPIO
Sicarius Prima flows dull and muffled around me, my head swimming. Panicked energy drives me forward. I should feel excited. I should be glad I finally found us a solid lead. Instead, my ears are ringing, blood thunders through my veins, and my every instinct screeches to run. Far and away, to some lifeless, forgotten corner of the Infinite Universe. And just hide there.
I pour anger over the crusting fear and bring it to a boil. My fucking, rotten brother. I should’ve seen that coming. We’re twins, just minutes apart, yet, he came into this world roaring, without a shred of talent. Growing up, he became a people pleaser, craving everyone’s approval. But how do you compete with someone who can conjure matter out of thin air?
The Scorpians’ plans revolved around me and my abilities. All they ever cared about was how I could be of use to the planet. Andrus took solace in the fact that one day he’s going to be my emperor. The sole wielder of the tool I was. He didn’t hate me for leaving. He already despised me for having ‘stolen’ abilities that were ‘rightfully’ his. He made sure I knew I’d never be forgiven for the betrayal of leaving. For him, I was no longer a del Scorpio.
I didn’t care. Every fiber of my body wanted out of there. To think Andrus would risk breaking a royal decree...
The Infinite Universe is relatively democratic and open-minded. But it was despots who conquered and bent it to their will. Tyranny carved its mark across the darkness of the Cosmos. It still reigns through the few monarchies’ seats of power spread thin across the Universe. Those dynasties refuse to join the major alliances. They’ve been in power for millennia, and their bloodlines span through eternity. Scorpio is such a seat of power. My dynasty. The planet’s part of a small system revolving around an artificial star. An imagined sun. My father reigns supreme, like his father before, and his before that. And yes, I’m the princess with the worst luck in the Infinite Universe. I was born an Imaginator.
Monarchies wouldn’t have become what they are today if they didn’t cling, with a sick kind of sentimentality, to serfdom. They chain their Imaginators with psychic rings, if not from birth, from the moment their abilities manifest. The monarch owns them, their skills, their creations. They wield them as tools at their own discretion. Imaginators born into monarchies have no concept of freedom and rarely choose to taste it.
But monarchs like to pat themselves on the back and acknowledge Imaginators as sentient beings once in a while. Specifically once. When an Imaginator from their court comes of age. On Scorpio, that was after I had lived through sixteen rotations around our artificial sun. And I got a choice.
I could’ve stayed. I could’ve resigned myself to a life on a leash. My father’s... my monarch’s property. In return, I would’ve received basic financial remuneration, a roof over my head, and a lifetime of protection. Those who’d harm an Imaginator there are put down.
Or I could’ve renounced my lineage, my heritage, and the psychic ring all in one fell swoop. A serf who does that is obliged to relocate to the Olympians, where they won’t go unchecked. But they’d be free of their masters. The monarch’s word and a royal decree guarantee you won’t be chased and slaughtered for rebelling.
How benevolent! I suck on my teeth and spit out bloody phlegm on the smooth surface of a landing pad. I vaguely remember getting to the cosmodrome and up the erected platform supporting our cutter. Twig sprints out of the ship the moment he sees me on the scopes.
“What’s happened to you?!” He exclaims and tries to cup my bruised face, and I stop in my tracks.
“Huh. I guess good news does travel slower than bad.” His face crumples in a scowl, and I tug him back to the cutter. “I got us a lead.”
My eyes sweep the area. There are several erected platforms, a variety of Aether-capable ships waiting at the ready. I can picture the hungry crews doing pre-flight checks. After all, the meatiest of treats just arrived. My hackles rise. There’s the ghost of an electromagnetic storm sliding over the dome of the city. We have to make this quick. I keep dragging Twig toward our ship, outlining the events at the Consulate.
“You did what?” He stutters, stumbling after me over the ramp when I confess to never killing the normie.
“Forget that. We have to leave.”
“And go where, exactly?!”
I push him inside the cutter and order the onboard computer to seal us in. “To Scorpio, of course.” I level my eyes on Twig, and he flinches. “I’m going to kill my brother.”
Twig blinks mutely, and I turn on my heel again. The echo of my boots clanging on the floor bounces around us as I go deeper. I rip a med-kit off a wall and scatter its contents, searching for some relief for my broken nose.
“You what?” My partner hovers over my shoulder. The gravity of his voice almost throws me off balance, and a bandage slips from my grip. “He’s the future emperor of Scorpio. I know you’re still royalty in some ways, but that’s fratricide, and there isn’t an intergalactic law to get you out of this. And that’s assuming you leave Scorpio in one piece, Andria.” He kneels next to me and immediately identifies the shots I need. When I reach to get them, Twig swaths my hands and, this time, manages to cup my face. “Tell me why.”
“Didn’t you hear anything of what I just said?” I wince when he presses a wet pad to clean and disinfect my wounds. “Andrus being on that list of nominees is no coincidence. He doesn’t rely on chance, he’s inserted himself in the situation. My brother’s bound to be the normieConsul of Ares. Which means that he’ll judge and chain us for crimes he instigated. Andrus never forgave me that I refused to compensate for his incompetence once he’s emperor. I was supposed to be his greatest weapon. And I just up and left!”
“No,” he says in a low, measured voice, squeezing my nose tight to shift it in place. I yelp and sag against him, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. “Tell me why you hate him so much. Why do you... fear him?”
I stiffen and shrink against his chest, and his steady arm wraps me, pressing me closer. My anger and determination dissolve like a creation unmade, leaving behind the fear he speaks of. With anyone else, in any other situation, I would deny I’m even capable of being afraid.
I consider doing that, and as if he’s read my mind, Twig hugs me tighter. “I can’t help you if I’m kept on the sidelines, Andria.”
My heart thuds on the grated floor, and I shudder. Twig’s right, of course. For him, I’m a spoon-fed cosmic shit who chose to leave her home to become a murderer and rub elbows with the greatest scumbags of the Infinite Universe. And Twig… Twig was a boy who had no choice but to take what he can get and make the most out of it if he were to survive.
I’ve always held back things to protect him in my own way, always put on a brave face to give him the confidence there’s someone he can rely on. I’m terrified that if Twig sees the true features of the princess of Scorpio, he’ll find me weak and incapable and will decide to throw his lot with someone else. Not unlike Illiran.
Yet, he’s right, and I tell him as much.
“I’ll show you my Scorpian legacy, for the first and the last time. And you’ll never speak of it again. You have to swear,” I whisper against the black void of Twig’s shirt, and he gives me a final squeeze.
“I swear.”
“As I’ve told you,” I peel away and suck in a steadying breath that whistles through my nose, “They chained me with a psychic ring the moment my abilities manifested. I was a child, barely capable of running straight. I was fascinated! I wanted to explore and revel in them, but they put them on a leash. His Majesty,” the word comes out clad in bile, and my voice cracks around the hurt, “made sure the ring’s fine-tuned so that it doesn’t kill me.”
I reach through the Aether, fumbling, at first, for the fraying thread of my past. It’s heavy and raw in my mind. I can’t bring myself to look Twig in the eyes when I pull at it but manage to find my voice again. “My twisted, useless brother found an amusing way to pass the time and punish me for his lack of abilities.”
Then it all unravels. Slowly, drifting away into a billion fractals of pain and fear, and shame. The imagiSkin is slow to tear at first. But as I pull harder and my grim determination rams everything else to the side, it goes in a heartbeat. Underneath it all, scars blossom. I’m too old for them now, my features wider, fuller. The flesh stretches thin over the bones, I catch a glimpse of the spots and hues of white and pink in a polished surface. Scarfskin that never fully healed. Bald spots, raw like wounds, bloom again when my hair fades from existence.
“You all think I was given a choice, but the truth is, Andrus took it away a long time ago. I was either going to leave Scorpio or die.”