by JMD Reid
“That’s the best you got?” Velegrin laughed. “My old nana could do better.”
“Let’s see you do it then, big man,” Zori snorted as Chaylene tried to bite the splinter with her teeth and remove it.
Velegrin winked as he planted himself before the pole. He grabbed the wood and pulled himself up with his arms. Then he locked his legs around the pole and slid up his arms to pull himself higher. “See? Easy.”
Then his hand slipped, and he fell on his backside beside Chaylene.
Zori chortled.
“Let’s see you do it,” grimaced Velegrin. “You’re so scrawny. You don’t have a bit of muscle on you.”
Zori grinned at him and grabbed the wood. Chaylene forgot all about the splinter in her hand as the small woman shimmied up the pole with ease, digging her booted feet into the pole and pushing herself up with her legs instead of pulling with her hands. She reached the top and laughed as the wind whipped her short, blonde hair around her face.
“Seems easy to me!”
“Well, how are you getting down?” Velegrin asked.
“Um . . .” Zori frowned. “Carefully.”
“Use Pressure,” their Commanding officer shouted. “You all have Moderate Pressure. You can thicken the air around you, making a cushion to protect yourself.”
“I’ve got Major Pressure,” laughed Zori.
Chaylene blinked. The girl had never mentioned that on the voyage.
“Then this will be as easy as catching flounders,” Breston answered. “You can make the cushion from up there and fall into it instead of cocooning yourself. It’s much more dignified that way.”
Abruptly, the air around Chaylene grew thick, wanting to crush her beneath its weight. But her Blessing resisted the change. Pressure of any strength immunized a person to drastic changes in air density. Since she had Moderate Pressure, Chaylene could control the surrounding pressure, but not more than an arm’s length away. Zori, with Major Pressure, could both reach farther and effect more volume.
“Here goes.” Zori laughed then fell backwards off the flagpole. She slowed as she hit the thickening air, falling through molasses, and touched down. The pressure returned to normal around Chaylene.
“You do need to be careful with that,” Breston said. “Be very sure that only those with Pressure are around when you do that.”
Chaylene shivered in realization—anyone without Pressure would have died just now. Zori could kill from a distance with her power alone.
“Unless I’m fighting?”
A vicious grin split Breston’s lips. “Oh, feel free to crush or suffocate the enemies of the Autonomy all you want.” He glanced at Chaylene and Velegrin. “Well, let’s see if you can do it.”
Chaylene couldn’t. She only climbed about a quarter of the way up before her strength gave out and she fell backwards. She quickly formed the thick bubble of air about her. The world spun as her cushion hit the ground, compressing, then she sprung up, spinning and bouncing. Her stomach churned when she came to a rest a good fifteen ropes away.
“Wow, that was something to behold,” Velegrin chortled. “You made that look as graceful as a drunk sow.”
“Let’s see if you can get any higher,” Zori shot back. “And we’ll see how you look when you’re bouncing across the ground.”
“I’ll be as graceful as a feather,” Velegrin winked then climbed fast. He made it halfway up before he got stuck.
“Time to bounce,” said Zori. “I bet you’ll go even farther than Chaylene.”
“Day’s pay says I don’t!”
“That’s an ostrich bet,” Breston warned Zori. “I wouldn’t make it.”
“He’s got higher to fall. That’s gotta make him bounce farther. Deal!”
Velegrin pushed off with his legs, did a backflip, then his feet pointed down at the ground. His fall slowed. Velegrin drifted down like an autumn leaf. He didn’t use Pressure to make a cushion of air to soften his fall. He landed right before Zori and held out his hand. “I’ll take that day’s pay.”
The small woman scowled. “You tricked me. You’ve got Minor Wind.”
Velegrin shrugged. “Did I not look graceful and land closer to the pole than Chaylene?”
Breston laughed. “I warned you. An ostrich bet.”
With a sour face, Zori pulled out three sapphires and shoved the porcelain coins into his hand. Then she grinned. “You ever dice, Velegrin?”
“Not with a woman that grins like that.” Velegrin tucked the coins into his pocket.
Chaylene’s hands throbbed and her limbs ached as she walked into the mess hall for breakfast an hour later. The cooks, a group of sailors, slopped bowls of porridge sprinkled with bits of oranges. Ary already sat at a table, waving to her. She joined him and gave her husband a brief kiss on the lips.
“You shark,” laughed a marine with a crooked nose. “Already netted you a pretty minnow.”
She preened.
“You swooped in fast and snatched her up before the rest of us even had a chance.”
“She’s my wife, Grech,” Ary answered, leveling a look at the crooked-nose man.
Zori strode up, bowl in hand. “Mind if I sit here?” she asked the big marine.
Interest showed in his eyes. “Course not. I’m Guts.”
Zori raised her eyebrow. “Well, I’m Zori, and I gotta say, you’re the biggest man I’ve ever seen.”
Guts thumped his chest and laughed.
“Sow’s dung. All the good ones are getting snatched up,” moaned Grech.
“Relax, Grech,” laughed a female, half-Agerzak marine with pale-tan skin and golden hair. “I saw a few good-looking chicks.”
“Where, Zeirie?”
“The ostrich pens!”
Chaylene joined the laughter as Grech made a sour face. A moment of stunned delight struck her as she laughed with a group. No one threw dung with their eyes. No sneers of “Vaarckthian hussy” reached her ears. They didn’t care about her dark skin. To them, she was another recruit, a scout serving on the Dauntless.
“Some real good kissers, too,” a tan-faced marine with light-brown hair said. She sat next to Zeirie. “I bet you’ll have a lot of success.”
Grech scowled at both female marines. “I bet the sailors are more amenable than you bony hens.”
“So why were you running?” Chaylene asked her husband as he devoured his food.
“The Sergeant-Major didn’t like that I was late,” he growled, face darkening. “Man could use a punch in the face.”
Zeirie nodded in agreement. “It wasn’t much better for us. And those names he calls us.”
“I thought Sowface was pretty accurate,” Grech said off-hand then grunted. “You didn’t have to kick my shin, Zeirie!”
“Yes, I did.”
“I agree. His nicknames are quite unfortunate.”
Most of the marines shot Estan a look.
“Yours is ‘My Lord of Elemy,’” laughed Guts. “He calls me Runt.”
“And what’s yours?” Chaylene asked her husband.
Ary gave a sour grunt.
“Princess.” Zeirie said. “Better than Sowface.”
“Man’s full of sour oranges,” muttered Ary. “He’s Agerzak and hates us.”
“I’m half-Agerzak, and you heard what he calls me. The man’s just bitter and takes it out on us.”
“Yeah, I wish I could knock his teeth out,” muttered Grech. “Call me Dung, will he?”
“Cause that’s all that’s between your ears,” Zeirie said. “How hard is it to step with your right foot first?”
“Well, I forget which one’s my right. I never had to know that on the docks.”
Ary pushed back his empty bowl. “If he calls me Princess one more time, I’ll pop him right on his Storm-cursed mouth.”
A cold wind blew through Chaylene’s imagination. Ary’s face contorted in murder, pummeling his superior into a bloody pulp. Snap of bone. Crack of flames. She grasped his sleeve, hissing in hi
s ear, “You are strong, Ary. So don’t you go and do something stupid.”
He looked at her as she begged with her eyes.
He nodded.
Her fingers relaxed.
Chapter Nineteen
Yruoujoa 18th, 399 VF (1960 SR)
Ary’s anger swallowed his promise to his wife the next day.
It started when he reported to training after morning calisthenics and breakfast. The Sergeant-Major waited, a sneer curling his lips half-hidden by his bushy, black beard. His angular eyes squinted as they fell on Ary.
“Your Highness,” he gave a mocking bow. “We are all honored that you could grace us with your august presence.”
Ary’s fist clenched, gathering the static charge crackling across his skin. The Sergeant-Major’s eyes twitched, his grin spreading, almost daring Ary to try. The youth’s body tensed. He stood on the cusp of violence.
Chaylene’s eyes pleaded with his memory, driving back his anger. This time.
Ary relaxed his charge, letting it flow back into the reserve his Blessing granted.
“That’s what I thought, Princess. You wouldn’t want to bloody your pretty face.”
“He’s gonna get it one day,” muttered Guts, his jovial face twisted into disgust.
A tenth marine crossed the field, her blue britches splattered with mud. She stood taller than any woman Ary knew. She was an Agerzak with ivory skin and black hair braided and coiled about her head like a circlet. Though tall and wide-shouldered, delicate cheekbones adorned her face, with amber, angular eyes. Her deep red lips only enhanced her exotic beauty. Ary swallowed, his cheeks heating as he appreciated the way her bosom filled out her red jacket.
“Private Ahneil Rfats, reporting, sir.”
“Sir?” growled the Sergeant-Major. “Do I look like a sun-kissed officer to you, Private?”
“Um, no, uh . . .?”
“Sergeant-Major Gahneich! And what happened to your uniform?”
“I slipped, Sergeant-Major.”
“I can see that, Mudguppy! Are you an Autonomy Marine?”
“Mudguppy . . . Sergeant-Major?”
“Did I stutter? Do you have trouble understanding me, Mudguppy?”
Ahneil blanched, her eyes darting for safety, but she stood her ground. She stood a finger’s width taller than the Sergeant-Major. “I am a marine, Sergeant-Major.”
“Then why are you wearing a filthy uniform?”
“Because I slipped, Sergeant-Major.”
“I don’t care what your excuses are. Since you’re already filthy, instead of breaking for your noon meal, you will begin digging the new latrine.”
“Yes, Sergeant-Major.”
“Then fall in!”
She fell in on the other side of Estan, her face reddening. Ary ground his teeth, convinced the Sergeant-Major was a rabid boar in need of putting down before he hurt anyone. The poor woman slipped and fell. It could happen to anyone.
“Do you all know why you were selected to be marines?”
“The draft?” Guts asked.
“The draft?” sneered the Sergeant-Major. “That might be why you’re serving in the Navy, but that’s not why you are a Storm-cursed marine!”
“Our Blessing of Lightning, Sergeant-Major,” Estan replied. “Because of it, our bodies generate a greater than average static charge. Every creature is capable of building a static charge, but those of us with the Blessing of Lightning can both store and further manipulate the electrical field to either discharge through physical touch or in conjunction with various magical engines, including the thunderbuss. Empirical studies have shown that—”
“Why thank you for that long-winded answer, My Lord of Elemy. The next time I want a history lesson, I’ll ask your august lordship for the answer. But when I ask a question, I don’t need you to blow more wind than a Cyclone.”
Estan flinched.
“Instead of taking your midday meal, you’ll join Mudguppy in digging the latrine.”
Ary’s anger gusted out of him. “That’s not fair, Sergeant-Major! You asked a question, and Estan explained it perfectly. And you just can’t punish Ahneil for an accident. Have you never slipped crossing a muddy field? Or do you have perfect balance, Sergeant-Major?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Ary caught Ahneil’s plump lips spread into a smile.
The Sergeant-Major stepped right into Ary’s face. The youth stood his ground. He’d faced angry boars before, knowing running only encouraged their aggression. “Just because you’re a dainty princess doesn’t mean I won’t knock your head in for insubordination. Do you understand me, Private?”
Blood pounded in Ary’s ears. The storm swallowed his wife’s pleading eyes. His fist flew at the Sergeant-Major’s mocking face. The other marines gasped.
The Agerzak man pivoted and curved away from Ary, avoiding his blow like water rippling over a submerged rock. The man’s pale hand seized Ary’s wrist. Sparks crackled, exploding uselessly into the Sergeant-Major. With a twist, Ary’s shoulder flared in pain. The world tumbled around him. He crashed onto his back. Air burst from his lungs.
He coughed and spluttered, struggling to move. Heat burned in his shoulder socket. His fingers were numb. A boot planted onto his chest, polished to a gleam, and pinned him hard to the ground. Ribs cracked.
“Look at that,” the Sergeant-Major said, staring down at him. “Princess got some gumption in her. Got her dress all dirtied, but she’s got fire.” The boot pressed down harder.
Ary grunted.
“You throw a punch at me again, your Highness, you best make sure it sends me to the medical officer.” The Sergeant-Major’s grin grew. “Or I’ll send you.”
Ary groaned. He’d never lost a fight. “How’d you . . . do that . . .?”
“I’ll teach you.” The Sergeant-Major removed his foot. “Now get your dainty figure back in line, Princess. You’ll join his Lordship in latrine digging along with the rest of Detachment One for that pathetic punch you threw.”
“Sergeant-Major,” Ary groaned, fire burning across his chest. He sucked in air as he heaved himself to his feet. Then he paused, groaning, “Detachment One, Sergeant-Major?”
“Did I knock the understanding of Vionese out of your down-stuffed head, Princess? It’s a division of marines.”
“I know that.” Ary coughed, rubbing at his chest. When serving on ships, marines were broken into smaller units of five led by a corporal. “We haven’t been divided into detachments, Sergeant-Major.”
The Agerzak grinned. “You’re right. Detachment One is you, Princess, his Lordship, Runt, Mudguppy, and Dung. The rest of you minnows are in Detachment Two. Understand?”
“Yes, Sergeant-Major!” the ten recruits all bellowed together.
Ary’s teeth ground together, aching to throw another punch and prove he could fight. But the fire in his chest and the throb in his shoulder held him back. He was lucky to receive digging a latrine as his punishment. Naval regulations dictated flogging for striking a superior.
I have to be better than this man. He’s taking pleasure in his vitriol. He wants to abuse us. Just like Ma wanted me to cry, to hurt, he wants to humiliate. Ary lifted his chin, standing with discipline.
“Good!” nodded the Sergeant-Major. “Now you Storm-bedraggled gulls are gonna practice discharging Lightning.”
“Thanks,” Ahneil whispered as they marched to the practice field.
They reached the gate in the perimeter fence, unlocked by a porcelain key produced from the Sergeant-Major’s coat pocket. He paused, looking down the tall fence to a lone building to the west, separated from the other warehouse by a hundred ropes or more of cleared ground.
“You see that, guppies?” the Sergeant-Major growled, wrenching open the gate, the bone hinges rasping. “You know what that is?”
“The pottery,” Ary guessed. What else could be built so far from anything else?
The Sergeant-Major gave Ary a look. “That’s right. And it ain’t delicate vases ma
de in there. So you minnows stay clear. A marine, or anyone with Lightning, can’t get within twenty ropes of the place or it’s ten lashes, you understand?”
“Ten lashes?” gulped Grech. “What for?”
“To mitigate the risk of any static surges we might produce that could start a minute fire,” Estan said. “And that is one place where a fire would be deadly. I’d surmise an explosion that would reduce the building and anything within a hundred ropes to kindling.”
The other marines blinked at that, Guts giving Ary a questioning raise of his thick eyebrows.
“The pottery’s where the ballista shots are manufactured,” the Sergeant-Major said. “Can’t take the chance of you flat-footed sows clomping around in there and setting off the black powder because you sneezed too hard.” His hard, angular eyes swept over them. “I mean it. I catch one of you poking around in there, I’ll whip your backs raw myself.”
“Yes, Sergeant-Major!” the marines bellowed, Grech’s eyes wide while Ary pictured the conflagration engulfing the building and the wide space between it, reducing everything, perimeter fence included, to rubble.
“Good,” the Sergeant Major said and spat. “Let’s go.”
He marched them out into the plains outside the camp to their practice field. Amid knee-high green grass spotted with spiny weeds lay ten stakes driven into the ground, each with the look of fresh, green wood. The Sergeant-Major glowered until they all stood before one.
“A marine can hold ten discharges at a time.” The Sergeant-Major’s voice boomed as he walked among them. “Remember that. Ten discharges. The more you move around, the faster your charge will build, and wearing your wool uniforms makes it build faster. Questions?”
Nearby, Estan’s lips curled, itching to give a long-winded explanation on why wool built the charge faster, but he wisely held his tongue.
Then he turned, pointing towards a towards a what?
“Now discharge into your poles!”