by David Estes
Terry said, “You switched sides just like that?” There was skepticism in his voice.
“Of course not,” Miranda snapped. “I’m only saying I became more aware of the world around me. Before then I had tunnel vision. Only the mission mattered, paving the way for the Demonstrous to arrive and eat its way through each of your godstar systems. Little by little, I began to love the various planets I was sent to. Once I saw a little girl, a Chameleot in fact, in the middle of what was left of a battlefield.”
“Teravainen, on Chameleos,” Terry said. “You were there for the Battle for Tera?”
Miranda nodded slowly, her eyes shadowed by ghosts. “I helped the Alliance defeat the Mechs. We left none alive.”
“We lost two million Chameleots that day,” Terry said. “I heard the news from Archimedes. I wept for them. I wished I was one of them, and not the coward who’d fled.”
Vee’s eyes bore into the side of Terry’s head, but he didn’t turn to meet her stare. She didn’t know this about him. She only knew him as the flamboyant tavern owner who liked to put on a show for his customers.
Miranda said, “This little girl was wading through the dead with a single-minded focus I hadn’t witnessed in a long time. I watched her, wondering whether she was in shock, wandering aimlessly like a sleepwalker. I was about to go to her, to ask her if she needed help, when she stopped. She bent over and picked something up, pulling it from the ground. A flower. It would’ve been pure white, but it was speckled with blood. She held it up to her chest, and I watched as the same blood-dotted flower appeared on her shirt, like an imprint. Later I learned that both her parents had been killed during the battle and that she had no other family.”
The story wrenched Vee’s heart, but there was something she didn’t understand. “What was the point of the girl picking the flower? What happened to her?”
“I don’t know,” Miranda said. “But for me it was a revelation. There is beauty in all places. You just have to find it. And by that time I’d recognized the beauty in the Godstar Galaxy. Where the rest of the Centaurians saw a collection of star systems brimming with aura resources, I was finally seeing the billions who occupied it, the lives that would be snuffed out if I didn’t act.”
“So…what?” Vee said. “Why didn’t you warn someone? Why are you on the run from the Alliance?”
“I tried,” Miranda said, shaking her head. “No one believed me. I had no proof. I couldn’t shift back into a Centaurian because the transformation is permanent. Without proof, the Alliance would’ve continued with their two-pronged wars, the Jackals on one side and the Mechs on the other.”
“And then Dacre stole the prime artifact,” Vee said, finally beginning to understand.
“Yes,” Miranda confirmed. “That’s when I knew my trick had been too effective. I’d driven him back from the brink and all the way to where he’d started. He was going to do something drastic to help the Centaurians’ plans. I requested to be part of the investigation and manhunt but was denied. I’d lost all credibility. I grew desperate, so I did something drastic.”
“You stole a transporter and filled it with”—Vee glanced at the soldiers behind Miranda, each standing as still as a statue—“Centaurians, right? These are the other forward scouts?”
Miranda nodded. “Do not be alarmed. They want to help too. I’ve convinced them. They don’t want our people to destroy worlds anymore. They want to stop running and start living. But if we don’t catch Dacre before he destroys the Mage Academy, the Alliance will have no hope of defending itself. The mages are the Godstar Galaxy’s only hope.”
“Why should we believe you?” Minnow said, taking a protective step in front of Vee.
Vee expected the Centaurian to defend her words vehemently, to plead her case with fervor and righteous indignation at having been challenged. Instead she said only, “I don’t know. All I know is I’m out of options. And I suspect you’ve located Dacre, given the repairs to your ship. He did this, didn’t he?”
Vee nodded. “We traded blows. His star-rig escaped into the asteroid field.”
“He’ll have repaired his rig by now. He might’ve even made the jump into hyperspace.”
“No,” Vee said. “He’s still in this system.” Nothing else made sense. He’d stolen aura and a prime artifact. He was preparing for something. Something big. There was only one missing piece.
“Why would he still be here?” Miranda asked, her brow furrowing.
“Because to process all of that aura he’ll need a weapon. A powerful one.”
Vee saw understanding dawn in Miranda’s eyes. “He thinks the Grems have such a weapon. Which means…”
“He’s on Urkusk by now.”
Miranda took a deep breath. “I know our history is…rocky. But I need you to trust me now. If we don’t stop Dacre from acquiring that weapon, everything and everyone you know will be destroyed. A storm is coming. We call it the Greystorm. And it knows no mercy.”
Chapter 25
Time to be digested
The injured had been sedated and placed in the healing bays. The dead were put on ice until a time when they could be given a proper send off into the void.
The monsters were left where they lay, scattered around the star-rig.
Clay Coffee stood basking in the hot crimson light of the godstar, his hands on his hips. General Kukk’uk was still inside the rig, checking its various systems to be certain nothing had been damaged during the rough landing. Locating and stealing a powerful Grem weapon would be meaningless if they had no way of transporting it out of the star system.
Dacre sat in the shade provided by the star-rig, waiting. He was frustrated by his own performance under pressure. Coffee and Kukk’uk had both fought valiantly, while he would’ve been killed if not for them. Yes, eventually he’d gotten himself under control, but it had taken too long.
Coffee turned toward him and said, “This was your first time killing, no?”
Dacre stared at him, wondering how the man could perceive such a thing. Probably because he’d killed hundreds of times. He knew the difference. Finally, Dacre nodded.
Coffee returned his nod, striding out of the heat to sit beside him, one arm balanced casually on a knee. His face was textured, lined with scars and years. His eyes, however, were still young. “The first time is supposed to be the hardest,” Coffee said, staring out at the rocky, red cliffs that flanked them. The glint of untold stories flashed in his eyes.
“It’s not?”
Coffee offered a mirthless smile. “Not for me. I don’t enjoy violence like some do. I only do what is necessary.”
“Necessary for what?”
He shrugged. “Survival. Meeting the objective.”
“Getting rich?” Dacre guessed.
Coffee laughed, and this time his amusement was real. “Yes. I can’t deny the allure of Vectors. I could be swimming in them and I’d still want more.”
“But that’s not all you want,” Dacre said, hearing what the man had left unsaid as loudly as what he had.
“Don’t expect more of me, son,” the man said. “Or you’ll likely be disappointed.”
Did Dacre expect more of the man? He was a known scoundrel and black-market dealer. If the Alliance ever managed to get their hands on him, he’d never see the light of day again. Hole, they’d lock him up and shoot the key into the closest black hole. Dacre knew he had a foolish tendency to see the good in people, but was there good in this man, this stranger?
“I expect nothing,” he said, standing and striding back inside the rig to see whether Kukk’uk was almost ready to go.
~~~
A three-dimensional map of Urkusk had been loaded onto the display in Dacre’s helmet. Overlaid on the map were the positions of each of Kukk’uk’s soldiers, as well as Coffee’s remaining crew members, minus those that were injured and left behind in the rig. The med-bots would tend to them while they were gone. The star-rig had been sealed up tight and set to Auto-defen
se mode, just in case any more of the many-mouthed monsters showed up looking for food.
They set out on a northerly route, toward where one of the numerous known entrances to the Gremolin cities was located. The map showed a tunnel that descended underground, gradually at first and then on a steeper angle. A portion of a city was included on the map, but the details grew vaguer farther underground. The maps available were outdated and likely somewhat inaccurate, but it was all they had.
The city was named Gurook. In Gremish, the City Without Day. Dacre thought all the Grem cities could bear that name considering they were underground, hidden away from the flaming godstar in the sky. Suspected to be the largest city on Urkusk, Gurook was one of the places the Alliance had been permitted to visit during their mandated inspections, but the visit had been cut short when the Premier Gremolin had made the sudden decision to secede from the Alliance. The Alliance inspectors had been fortunate to escape with their lives. That was a decade ago, and the Grems had become the enigma of the galaxy, rumors swirling around them at every mention. At the core of every conversation, however, was the belief that they harbored a mag-weapon more powerful than any ever built before.
The concern over whether the Grems would ever use it had long been the subject of heated Alliance discussions. In one camp were those who wanted to declare war on the Grems and force their hand. At the other end of the spectrum were those who believed the Gremolins were only a threat if provoked. Leave them alone and all would be well. Dacre didn’t know which side was right, but he was determined to discover whether the weapon existed.
A little over three days left, he thought. Where has the time gone?
It was a stupid thought, he knew. Time didn’t have wings. It didn’t go faster or slower just because you wanted it to. It simply was, a silent observer, the days and years and epochs and eons nothing but invented terms for a concept that was infinite and undefinable.
And yet, for Dacre and all the others inhabiting the Godstar Galaxy, time was literally running out, grains of sand rushing through their fingers until there were none left.
The star-rig was well behind them, hidden behind a wall of red stone that had grown black with long shadows cast by the falling godstar. The canyon they’d landed in had many tributaries, some so narrow one would need to turn sideways to squeeze through, and others wide enough to pilot a star-rig between.
Each member of the crew was on high-alert, their helmet radar pulsing. If more of the vicious monsters were coming, they needed to be ready. The Cir’u’non refused to walk for fear of being grabbed through the earth, their wings churning slowly, beating the dirt beneath them into thick clouds that stung Dacre’s eyes when it billowed underneath his visor.
“Damn wingnuts,” Coffee muttered, leading his crew well away from the main body of Cur’u’non. Dacre followed and his vision cleared. He wiped the tears away from his eyes and scraped a thin layer of dust from his visor. The canyon curved to the right and then banked sharply to the opposite side, leaving the way forward invisible until you’d turned the corner.
Weapons came up as they crept and flew forward, the tension growing. The godstar dipped completely out of view, and the automatic lights on Coffee’s and his crew’s weapons flashed on, probing the shadows. Dacre’s mag-blade glowed dully, the spellhilt warm in his hand.
The rough canyon bed turned rougher, the crunch of rocks underfoot unavoidable, even for the most cautious footstep. Only the Cir’u’non were silent, the whisper of their wings barely audible over the whistle of the wind, which had picked up, chasing its own tail between the rock walls.
“Gravel,” Dacre said.
“What?” Coffee said.
Crunch, crunch, crunch. Unavoidable.
“Like a welcome mat, or a red carpet. To the Grems. Their world is made of stone. The rocks we’re walking on were put here on purpose. We’re getting close.”
Coffee said nothing, and for a while they listened to the crunching footsteps. The gun lights dueled ahead of them, while Dacre’s mag-blade brightened slightly, the aura humming through his bloodstream.
“That’s a fancy sword you’ve got there,” Coffee said. His tone was neutral, but Dacre could sense the suggestion in it, if not the accusation. Coming from a crook, it was somewhat annoying.
“If you want to ask me something…”
“I don’t. Just a comment. Mag-blades are highly regulated. Not something you see every day. In my entire life, I’ve only had two come across my desk. Sold them for enough Vectors to power my rock for a century.”
“Where did they come from?” Dacre asked. “Or should I say ‘whom’?”
“Ha!” the man laughed. The light shooting from his gun wobbled as he shook. “Not many folks would ask me that. Most would get uncomfortable knowing I had stolen goods in my possession. Swords belonging to the Alliance.”
“Been there, done that,” Dacre said with a thin smile. “Stealing from the Alliance is one thing we have in common.”
“’Cept I didn’t steal from them. Not directly, anyway.”
“But you don’t give anything back either.”
“True. Anyway, these two mag-blades were from the Mech War, or so the seller claimed. Said he watched the mage knights get cut down by heavy fire from the Steel Mech armored unit. They had fought valiantly, as the story goes, but eventually ran out of aura and couldn’t defend themselves.”
Dacre grimaced. There were many things in the galaxy he had the power to change, but not everything. There would always be war.
Something about the man’s story rang false, however. “You still have the blades, don’t you?”
Coffee fired a surprised glance in his direction, which was answer enough. “You continue to surprise me, son. The mag-blades will only increase in value. A good investment, you could say, especially as tensions with the Machinists rise. And the Grems aren’t exactly producing many blades these days.”
“The Grems? Our instructors implied the supply was controlled by the Alliance.”
“They would,” Coffee said. “How much do you know about the history of mag-weapons?”
For a moment, Dacre felt like he was back in the Academy, being called on by an instructor. He blinked and gravel crunched underfoot, the canyon walls surrounding him. He should be so lucky. “The technology was developed more than three centuries ago, by a woman named Padmara Ishi‘i. She managed to mimic the manner in which mages’ bodies process aura, and then concentrated it through a tube, like the barrel of a gun.”
“Very good. But that was only the beginning.”
“She presented her invention at the annual Godstar Science and Ingenuity Conference, where it was promptly stolen. They found her unconscious in her room with a nasty bruise and no recollection as to what had happened to her.”
“And then?”
“Then years went by. Six, seven…something like that.”
“Eight. Eight long years.”
“Right. Others tried to recreate what she’d accomplished but could never get the same results. Padmara received dozens of lucrative offers from tech companies, but she turned them all down. She had no interest in pursuing her invention, not after what had happened.”
“Is that what they taught you at the Academy?”
Dacre shrugged. The canyon had begun to narrow once more, like the beam of a wide laser tightening as it locked on its target. The gun lights didn’t reach far enough, however, leaving the target hidden in darkness. “Something like that.”
“There were rumors that she was paid a significant sum not to continue her research.”
“Why would someone do that?” Dacre asked. “Wait. Are you saying the thief paid her off? Why wouldn’t they just buy the tech from her in the first place?”
“Maybe they thought she wouldn’t sell. Or maybe they were as wily as a Chameleot pickpocket. What did your instructors tell you happened next?”
“The Alliance captured the thieves. They were half-Grem, half-human. Wanted
for a dozen other crimes, from the theft of fine holoart to petty stuff, like running scams on the galactosphere network. The Alliance offered to return the tech to its creator, but Padmara relinquished the rights to the Alliance.”
“Of course she did,” Coffee said. Again, there was a note of incredulity in his voice.
Godstars, Dacre thought, feeling like a fool. He’d known for a while that the Alliance harbored plenty of secrets, but it had never crossed his mind that anything about this part of history was false. “The Alliance,” he said.
Coffee nodded. “History doesn’t happen,” he said. “It’s written by the victors. Win a war and you get to write the history.”
“We’re not talking about a war.”
“Everything is a war,” Coffee said. “Every day, every system, every planet. And we are all soldiers.”
“You’re a real optimist, you know that? You should write motivational speeches. Is the rest of the history I learned at the Academy lies as well?”
“Not necessarily. All good lies have broad strokes of truth in them. It takes a good liar to recognize the accents of falsehood.”
Dacre knew he sucked at lying. Which was why, in a way, he was glad Vee never let him back into her world. Because he would’ve had to lie. Not about everything, but about most things. He laughed inwardly. A spy who can’t lie to save his life. It felt like the tagline for a bad holonovel. Dacre said, “The Alliance further developed the tech, creating various mag-weapons, many of which mages still use today, in one form or another.”
Coffee nodded. “All that is probably true. The Alliance took what Padmara had invented and improved upon it. Different weapons for different situations and different mages. For lower classes of mages or to use in a pinch, mag-pistols. Only capable of processing low-Class spells.”