Erelah kicked him solidly in his exposed ribcage. He offered a wounded grunt, but did not stir. His breath came in uneven gulps.
“Bastard.”
When she flipped him over, his face was a bloody smear. His nose had obviously broken when he landed faced first.
Good.
Erelah snatched the identkey from around his neck. All of his access should be hard coded to it and high enough to enter any level on the Questic. But she only needed it to enter one place. The flight deck.
“Here’s my gift, love!” She grabbed the jector and plunged into the side of Maynard’s neck.
Her adrenaline surge was fading. The pain in her head was maddening. Dots swam before her eyes and the room tilted around her. Erelah wanted nothing more than to find her own dark den and sleep beneath the pain, wait it out. There was no time. Tristic was no doubt on her way there.
There was one place left to go. She had glimpsed its silvery lines and deadly frame in the wretched landscape of Maynard’s thoughts.
Jocosta.
---
The deck seemed to twist and lurch beneath Erelah’s feet. The pain welled and pulsed into the soft tissue of her brain. But the thing residing there had gone back to sleep.
She forced her strides to be purposeful and steady and fought the urge to run. So far no alarm had been raised. Miri knew how long it would take before they found the lieutenant.
The flight hangar was near, if she could trust the glimpse from Maynard’s mind. If not the Jocosta, then any stryker would do. She could pilot. The memories were rusty, but she knew the basics.
A wave of vertigo forced her against the wall and she reached out. Her hand encountered yielding fabric. With a surprised grunt, she looked up into the startled eyes of a Fleet tech. The young woman was the customary frail frame with pale skin. Her hair was shaven so closely it was impossible to tell what color it might be. Her eyes were such a dark brown, they appeared black.
“Ma’am?” The tech recovered. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. Fine.”
Erelah straightened, pulling away before the tech could touch her again. She took a quivering stride past the tech, forcing her body ignore the shifting, dizzy tide in her brain.
“May I be of assistance, ma’am?” she called after Erelah.
Was she suspicious? Erelah wore a plain flight suit with no insignia like any other consultant.
“As you were.” Erelah tried to sound irritated.
But the tech pursued. “I’ve seen you… with Lieutenant Maynard.”
Erelah moved faster, taking in the corridor designation. One more tier to the flight hangar. Or was it two?
“You’re mistaken.”
“No. I know you. You made the Jocosta.”
Erelah stopped and wheeled around. Surprised, the tech stepped back. “Where is it now?”
“Ma’am?”
“The Jocosta. Tell me where she is now.”
Suspicion darkened the tech’s expression.
“Tell me.”
Erelah lashed out, grasping the girl’s forearm. The same dark wave of heat built along her neck and extended to her fingertips. Too late, she realized: She had kicked the monster awake again.
The tech whimpered, sinking to her knees. Blood trickled from her nose.
“Here. Right here.” She made a flopping gesture with her free hand.
Erelah looked over and saw the hangar doors. She had hurt someone needlessly. Abruptly she released the tech’s arm. The girl became a sobbing heap on the deck.
“I’m sorry,” Erelah breathed. She held out a hand, hovering, afraid to touch the girl again.
Suddenly, the klaxon’s angry buzz split the air.
PART 3
14
For days, it seemed, Sela drifted in and out of sleep. Occasionally Veradin would wake her with an order to eat or drink. A Regime medic, armed with decent pharms and a proper medbay, would have had her back to baseline within a day. Even without such resources, her body would be far quicker to heal than a natural born Eugenes. But to Sela it still felt like the mending process was taking far too long. She did not relish the thought, that, in her injured state, she was more of a liability than an asset.
This had been her longest stretch of wakefulness. In a semi-daze, she wandered the antique Cassandra. Her initial tour with Valen had been hurried, and only to check the worthiness of the vessel for the captain’s escape. Now Sela took in the details, her mental catalog of concerns growing.
Each compartment held clues of scenes from overlapping ages. Sela likened it to engaging a holovid story near the end, after all the action had already occurred. The EVA suit racks stood empty. One lone helm with a cracked visor rolled on the floor of the chamber, like the unhatched egg of some mythical space-faring creature. The common passage was marred with burn marks from plasma and compression weapon exchanges. Crudely etched graffiti in Regimental was covered by layers of common and Zenti clan marks.
The smugglers that had owned the vessel before were not surprising in their tastes: the amount of non-reg pharms was rivaled only by the number of interspecies skin vids. Smuggling must was either an incredibly lonely occupation, or it attracted individuals with raging libidos.
Whatever the smuggler’s current whereabouts, Sela would have loved to ask him where the damned weapons were hidden. There must be some; it did not make sense to abandon a vessel if the worst of your cargo was a stash of cut-down Hypetox and a few skin vids.
She could find no additional consumables either, other than insta-cal and packets of stale protein wafers in the galley’s lockers. Their rations would be depleted in a few days. As a breeder, Sela’s metabolism was designed to run on minimal rations in emergency circumstances. She could manage. Veradin could not boast the same. Water was not a problem, if they were careful and not fussed about hygiene. The state of the filtration system would need to be addressed sooner or later, but it continued to hold.
An off-key twittering lured her from the galley, where she had spent considerable time staring at the remaining protein rations. Like an automaton, she made her way to the command loft, a semicircular space whose recessed grav bench shared by pilot and navigator. It was the Regime’s idea of efficiency in design, not comfort. Veradin was asleep on the grav couch with his legs stretched beneath the forward consoles. The navsys and con spread a dull green glow over his form.
The destination alert rose from the navsys in an unsteady song but failed to rouse him, so she prodded his shoulder with her knee. As he sat up, raking his hair, Sela moved to the display and frowned.
Had he mentioned plotting a destination? She recalled a foggy dream in which Veradin told her the name of a frozen blue world. Was that two… three days ago? She made a silent vow to never take another pharm and called up the nav-logs. The Cass had apparently used only one minor flex point. That had been a gamble. He had definitely not mentioned using a conduit. But she was too tired to feel annoyed.
“There is only a stellar nav beacon,” Sela said, scanning the readings. The steady harmonic signature of this world fell into a pattern in the background noise. There were no orbiting coms arrays. It meant this new destination was not developed. That was a relief.
“I would not expect much more,” Jon answered as he sat upright next to her on the bench “The current residents have no need.”
“What is this place, sir?”
“It’s called Newet.”
From the exterior view screens she caught glimpses through the strafing clouds as the Cass broke atmo. A few massive structures dotted the scoured plains of the planet’s surface. No vox traffic pinged back on the com-sys. This moon was a brilliant, icy-blue marble trapped in a slow ellipse around a dwindling star. Silent. Cold. Forgotten.
Then she realized why.
A young ‘scripter had once told her about the cresters’ body dumps, a gangly boy named Ecrid with a face left scarred by the hard fevers. At the time she had imagined just that: a grea
t stack of bodies reaching into the heavens on a nameless moon.
She fought the urge to fidget. “A body dump.”
“The Regime calls it that,” Jon reprimanded. “It suggests they’re discarded junk. But that’s not what they are. They’re my ancestors.”
“They’re dead. They lived in glory. And crest— Kindred hide them here like broken things.”
Inwardly she shuddered at the idea of her used-up corpse sealed away in the rotting stink of soil or stone vaults. Forgotten by the living. Sela had always known that upon her death, her remains would be returned to the sanctity of space, the birthplace of life.
“We do this to honor them. This is the world where the Veradin Kindred are taken.” The quiet reverence in his voice was very different from the man she knew. “Kindred once loyal to ours rest here as well. One day, I shall too.”
A day far from now, if Sela could help it.
“Why here, sir?”
“They won’t think to look for us here, Ty. You need time to heal.”
He tapped the screen, leaning into her view of the console. The terrain mapping outlined an immense structure of stone and metal.
“Put us in here. It’s not too far to walk.”
“You don’t mean we’re actually going inside one of those tombs.”
“This is probably the safest place to be right now, Ty. I doubt the dead care much about harboring two deserters.”
---
An icy breeze whipped around them the moment they stepped from the protective hatch of the Cass. This place was not the monstrous heat of Tasemar. The air was thin here. The simple act of walking had her stopping frequently to catch her breath. Sela had spent weeks in a similar environment for acclimation during primary infantry. Under those conditions, a third of her fellow booters had succumbed to fatigue.
She turned a worried look on her captain. Veradin had not received such training. Destined for officer’s ranks, he would not have needed to set foot on such an inhospitable world. He bent over with his hands propped on his knees as he panted.
“Perhaps we should return to the ship, sir.” Sela kept the eagerness from her voice.
It just felt wrong to be here.
“No,” he wheezed. “This is something I have to do.”
He took a hit from the canister. The distress on his face evaporated as the oxygen-rich air hit his lungs.
She kept her protest silent and righted the day kit over her good shoulder.
“Not far. Let’s move,” he said, staggering forward.
As they picked their way along the eroded footpath, Sela examined the horizon. At this distance, the necropolis could have been any settlement founded in the early days of Expansion. But there was a strange stillness to the scene. No ships darted on and off the landing field. No lights, save those meant for decoration, pulsed out of the stone walls into the milky dusk.
The path wound between two steel obelisks that thrust proudly into the thin air, marking the entrance. Script in High Eugenes adorned the structures’ sides. Sela paused, canting her head. The scribble was meaningless to her, a long parade of pictographs and hash marks. She knew only the graceless scrawl of Commonspeak and the more direct iconic missives of Regimental Standard. High Eugenes bordered on sacred language. No breeder would ever speak it, or presume to read it. It was meant only for the cresters.
“It bears the names of the Kindred dynasties who lay at rest here,” Veradin explained. “Veradin and others that were allies even as far back as the time of the Expanse.”
Sela’s reply was automatic, the product of her training. “It’s not for me to understand, sir.”
He tapped a long row of characters. “Corsair. Novian. Veradin.”
She backed away, appalled by his casual tone. Somewhere, Lineao is laughing at me.
“I can teach it to you, Sela. To speak Eugenes too.”
The thought was like chewing on metal. “It’s not for me to—”
Veradin seized her hand and held it against the cold surface. Sela recoiled as if stung.
“Fates be praised!” He said sourly between hits of the breather. “You weren’t turned into a pillar of ash.”
She cradled her hand, massaging the fingers as if the brief contact had hurt. Her voice was barely audible to herself above the lonesome howl of the wind. “You shouldn’t do such things, sir.”
Veradin chuckled. It turned into a wheezing cough until he took a long draw on the canister. Sela watched him. He should have acclimated somewhat by now.
“You’re not a child, Sela. First tries to keep you like one.”
Her mouth went dry at hearing the priest’s words in her captain’s voice.
“It’s just stone and metal,” he rasped.
“I know, sir. This is all just very… different.”
Sela hated the nervous tremor in her stomach. And hated her hesitation. I have been declared renegade and traitor. I have defied the Regime and Decca, made a personal enemy of Trinculo and this causes me to waver?
“I’m going in,” he said. “You can stay here. Enjoy the weather.”
She watched him disappear into the cool shadows of the mammoth tomb and was left to the baying of the wind.
This was the summation of her career under Captain Jonvenlish Veradin: watching him dive into strange unknowns without fear or hesitation, all with his signature casual arrogance that enraged and enthralled her in the same breath. In many ways he was like a boy, reckless and needing her protection even from his own nature.
Who is the child here, Captain?
Then finally, Sela followed him.
The pressure in the air changed as the door sealed behind her. Inside, Sela was embraced by the mellow amber light of the sanctuary. A faint rhythmic sound twisted on the dry air.
Music for the dead. Did it play constantly? Or was it for the benefit of the few bereaved who came to visit?
Veradin seemed to guess her thoughts. “It’s not always playing, Ty. It’s all for show.”
His color had returned. The air in this place, although slightly stale, was more suitable.
“I’m sorry about… out there.” He made a vague gesture. “I shouldn’t have done that. It’s just that I hate the things they tell you to believe. It’s not right.”
There was a fleeting anger in his expression, but she realized it was not directed at her. For what felt like the thousandth time in the past few days, she searched for a suitable reply to one of his rages against Decca and turned up nothing. She simply nodded.
“You can stay here, if you want.” He added, looking away. “I’m going ahead.”
Sela was not about to wait in this place alone. She did not fear the dead, only what reckless feats he might attempt if she left him unattended.
“I’ll come, sir.”
He smirked. More mind-reading. “I’m not going to do anything strategically unsound.”
Sela arched an eyebrow at him.
“Come on, Ty. I can’t get into too much trouble here. Promise.” He extended a hand to her.
The corners of her mouth curled up into an answering grin and she placed her hand in his.
Before them stretched a long corridor of red polished stone, presumably the main passage of the structure. Its walls curved and folded into dimness far above, as tall as a docking bay on the Storm King. Smaller passages branched off in regular increments, five to a side. Designs filled the walls in gilded flourishes inlaid with what looked like jewels. To Sela it seemed a waste. Truly, cresters might as well have been a species she had never encountered before this day. She felt her earlier trepidation begin to dissolve.
“All this for the dead,” she said.
She paused at a massive mural: the Fates engaged in some mystical communion. Natus. Metauri. Nyxa. She frowned. Although having clearly been done by a far more skilled hand, it was similar to one in Lineao’s temple. There was a new detail. A fourth woman, equally serene and beautiful, had been included with her three sisters.
&
nbsp; A fourth Fate?
“Miri. The fabled mother of the Palari,” Veradin said. “Oh. You’re not supposed to know about her, Ty. Shall I report you?”
She rolled her eyes at his mockery. “Yes, have them add it to the list of charges, sir.”
“A joke from Sela the Immortal. Good,” he chuckled. “That’s good.”
As they pressed on, she saw more paintings gracing the ornate walls. More carvings of warriors from the time of the Expanse grappled with mythical beasts. Firesilk tapestries draped from high above with depictions of elegant women reclined in couches. High Eugenes writing seemed to be on every available surface: the walls, the floors.
They turned into one of the connecting corridors.
“This one.” Veradin halted before the rendering of a crester nobleman frowning out into the hallway. Carved from dark red stone, the statue was a good three heads taller than either of them. Its hands were those of a giant, folded across his waist in contemplative repose. The robes were unfurled in a frozen wave to suggest the play of a breeze on the fabric. Emblazoned in the middle of his chest was the crest of his office.
Veradin gestured at the gold crest. Sela estimated it was the size of a shatter grenade. On it was cast the shapes of four sinewy women, probably the Fates.
“The thing of a bygone era, like its owner,” her captain said with a slim smile.
In the days of the Expanse, when Eugenes came to dominate the Known Worlds, the wars were fought by the ruling warrior clans. They were the early ancestors of the Kindred. The officers wore enormous jewel-encrusted crests. They started out as armor, but grew into these gaudy things that had no other purpose than to advertise a Kindred standard. The bigger the crest, the richer the Kindred. The wars by then were fought by breeders and ‘scripters.
As much as they distinguished Kindred from the breeders beneath them, the crests made them easy targets for killing and capturing. As a consequence, the enormous badges fell out of favor. Now they were tiny icons stitched in metallic thread on their cuffs and collars.
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