“Commander? Are you out here?”
Sela rolled her eyes. Why did the smartest people seem to lack common sense?
Not the best way to keep your presence secret when essentially a whole planet had declared the Regime an enemy. She doubted the Tasemarin would discern between some renegade cresters and the enemy they represented.
“Keep your voice down,” Sela said in a normal tone. “Not everyone here is your ally.”
Erelah startled, turning to face Sela’s black corner of the yard.
She disengaged from her spot and strode forward, ignoring the itch between her shoulder blades that open spaces like this seemed to provoke. It was as if there were a marksman hovering nearby, real or imagined, with his sights on that very spot, ready to pull the trigger. More evidence of battle burn. Even when there was no threat, you still imagined it.
As Erelah moved toward her, Sela was struck by the dramatic change in the girl.
The once-tangled dark hair was arranged into a tight plait at the base of her neck. Distress no longer pinched the younger woman’s face. Her posture seemed formal, almost regal.
This was a different person entirely. Except for the borrowed Tasmarin garb, she could have been any high-ranking Regime officer, cool and polished. Had she not known Erelah’s true nature, she would have obeyed her orders without pause, and perhaps even regarded her with envy.
At that moment, Sela understood why First thought Humans to be such a threat. They were the narrow end of the wedge. They looked and sounded like any Eugenes. But a weakness dwelled within them to be exploited by the Sceeloid. Just one sight-jacked Human infiltrator in command would mean the end to a campaign. An entire battlegroup could be compromised.
“I was afraid you left had left, Commander.”
“Shouldn’t you be resting?” Sela asked, studying her. Erelah seemed to radiate control. But beneath it was an edginess. The girl would never seek her out for a social visit. She wanted something.
“There’s no time for that. I think you would agree,” Erelah responded in Commonspeak under her arched High Eugenes accent. This was someone used to giving orders to servants and attendants. It brought an acrid roil to Sela’s gut. Her captain had been raised in the same house, but he had never used Erelah’s imperious tone. He spoke with ease in Common, not Erelah’s strained pretense: a high-born deigning to speak in a gutter tongue.
“Would I?” Sela replied. “You reading my mind now?”
“No.” Erelah faltered. “That’s not what I meant…”
“You want something. What.” Sela moved closer in an unconscious move to intimidate. Oddly, the girl seemed taller than she recalled.
“Only for you to hear me out.” To her surprise, Erelah stepped closer, challenging. The frenetic, unbalanced energy was gone. Where had that wild-looking wraith gone? Was she wedged somewhere beneath this refined glossy surface, scratching and pawing for freedom? Sela fought the urge to take a wary step back. Instead she turned her body at an angle, rested her forearm on the grip of the A6.
“You have every right to feel betrayed and angry considering everything that has happened. We have all lost so much.”
“Lost?” Sela spat. “Do you know what I have lost?”
Erelah recoiled. The move was slight, but still satisfying. In response, Sela drew closer.
“Valen, Pollus. Sergeant. Medals for valor, marksmanship. Six campaigns with him. My only friend. And dead because of you.”
“I did not take your sergeant’s life,” Erelah replied evenly.
“All the same. He died for you.” Sela jabbed a finger into the girl’s shoulder. She allowed herself to be jostled, but held firm.
“Not for me,” Erelah answered. “To the Defensor, he was another tool, a piece at play in her game. A means to manipulate.”
“I don’t think this is a game.”
“To the Defensor, it is. You, Jon, and your sergeant. All parts of a game.” Her tone was matter of fact.
“Oh? Then what does that make you?” Sela countered, willing her to look away. But to her credit Erelah did not.
“I am the prize, the end game. Through me, she can live on, cheat death to recreate herself again and again.”
“How?”
“Why stop with just me when I am capable of bringing more life?” Her gaze drifted to the gravel at her feet. She folded her arms over her stomach. And Sela felt a glimmer of pity for her as she imagined some bizarre gestation Tristic had planned for the girl. No one deserved that. Perhaps the girl had suffered the presence of a truer monster than ever Stelvick had been.
“I don’t expect your forgiveness or pity. Nor do I deserve it,” Erelah said with a steely evenness. “But Jon…he needs you. He—”
“You said you wanted something. What.” Jon. His name was a rusty hook in Sela’s heart. Pulling away would drag out the damage and pain, just as much as allowing it to stay in place. She stood at a precipice, unable to pick which pain to serve.
Erelah moved closer, the way one approaches an unfamiliar animal, uncertain if it will bite or sting. “I come to you as an ally. And to ask your help.”
“Tristic.”
The girl flinched at the name, as if speaking it aloud would conjure a poisonous god. “Even without her bond to me, she can still find me. She has eyes and ears everywhere. She controls her own army, her own fleet. She won’t stop until one of us is destroyed. But, Tyron, we can fix this. We can defeat her.”
Sela swelled with rage at the very suggestion in the girl’s condescending Eugenes accent that they were somehow co-conspirators in this whole bloody adventure.
Byproduct. That’s what Phex had called me.
She had not thought of the term until this moment. But it was true. Everything that had happened so far was all because of Erelah. She and Jon were trapped in her disastrous wake.
This was all her doing. Her fault.
The answer was simple: End Erelah. Everything can end with her, here and now.
Sela’s moves were automatic. The A6 was in her hand before she realized her actions. She gripped the sleek bundle of Erelah’s hair, pressing the weapon’s muzzle against the hatefully flawless skin of her white throat.
“What if I end this all right now?” Sela asked. “You begged me to do it before.”
Erelah uttered an edgeless gasp, but did not move or struggle. There was no satisfying fear response from her. It was as if she knew Sela was acting in hollow rage with no real intent.
“You won’t. As much as you may hate me. It won’t bring Valen back.”
She was right, of course. With a dissatisfied grunt, Sela released her. She had slipped into letting her anger control her and felt a wave of regret, grateful Jon had not witnessed this.
Erelah staggered back. The glossy composure faltered. She righted her clothes. Her hands were trembling. “What if I could offer you a chance at revenge against Tristic?”
Sela dropped the A6 back into its holster. “The only reason you’re coming to me is because Jon would never go along with whatever it is you’re selling.”
“It’s true.” Erelah gave a slight nod. “He refused to hear me out. He wants us to flee to the Reaches and hide.”
“There’s no dishonor in that,” Sela said. “Not when you are outnumbered, outmatched.”
“It won’t work,” Erelah insisted. Desperation trickled to her voice. “Tristic was willing to destroy an entire station for one person. Hundreds dead. She won’t stop there.”
The girl was right. Something told Sela that Tristic would no longer care about keeping her operation quiet. She had moved beyond that. Somewhere in the deep black of the skies she was searching, ready to bring the full brunt of Ravstar down upon anything that stood in her way.
“And?”
Erelah shifted, a brief flash of surprise on her face. “The stryker I arrived in is special. It houses a modified singularity that can dramatically destabilize the energy field displacement caused by large velo engines.”
“Like on a carrier.”
“Or vessel the size of Tristic’s ship, the Questic. Yes.”
“Dramatically destabilize? You mean…”
“With great violence and force,” Erelah said. “Tristic trusts no one. She keeps all research and materials on the Questic. We destroy it, we can destroy her… in more ways than one.”
“Great violence and force. I just love the sound of that.” Sela arched an eyebrow. “But I just can’t help but think there’s a catch. Where are we in relation to this ‘great violence and force’?”
The girl bit her lip. “There is some risk involved, yes. But—”
“And Jon… does he know of this risk?”
“He doesn’t even want to try.”
“You think nothing of asking me to betray my captain,” Sela snapped. “Do you think I would just… go along?
“If you knew it were a means to keep him safe, yes. And as a soldier, you understand sacrifice and duty. Perhaps in time Jon would—”
“You don’t know a thing about me.” Sela stalked away, leaving Erelah to the growing shadows of the courtyard.
33
Sela stretched her neck, trying to work the stiffness out of it as she watched the slow progression of priests weave into the main altar room of the temple. She had spent the night curled in the grav bench on the command loft of the Cassandra, her frame too long to stretch out comfortably. Her neck now felt like a fist full of knots. Of course she could have used the empty bunk room. But the pleasant memory it held for her had turned bitter at their edges. She needed none of that softness. And would confess, if confronted, that she felt somehow she did not deserve it.
She had never really had a space of her own before. She had always been housed with others in a squadbay. Her sleep cycles were filled with the sounds of them snoring, or talking in the restful dark. Being in the unnerving quiet of planetside, without the background mutter of engines rumbling underfoot, put her on edge. At least the interior of the Cass was familiar terrain. However, her sleep was shallow, restless. And in it, something quite odd had happened.
Sela had dreamed.
Not an unusual occurrence in itself. But her dreams were always a rehashing of memory, a recall of the day’s events. This one had been very different.
In it, she sat beside Atilio on the battered grav couch. He was healthy and whole, radiating such peace, as if he were painted with light. He knew her as his mother.
“There are places I was never meant to see,” he explained with the perfect logic of dreams. He picked through the screens of the navsys, finally settling on one. But the destination was odd. It was not an ordinary FP, but a dead node. “You can be free. You never failed me, Sela.”
So strange.
She found herself returning to that memory, savoring it and fearing that it would eventually be drained of its potency.
In the early light of dawn she made her way up that steep hill before the raucous crowds would form. It was Lineao she needed to see. She wanted to avoid another confrontation with Jon or Erelah.
She watched the priests file past, their shaven heads bowed in prayer. They had begun a low muttering chant. The sound was eerie; the deeper tones made the hairs at the back of her neck stand on end. The words were meaningless to her. The last of the priests disappeared inside the incense-laden interior of the altar chamber. Lineao was not among them.
Sela uttered a quiet curse. It was as if man were purposefully avoiding her. Yet he was her only trustworthy contact on Tasemar. She needed him. The man that claimed to be a simple priest was more than he seemed. He would know someone, perhaps even a ship’s captain, who could grant her passage off this ball of dust.
A latecomer arrived, but her hope flattened. It was Erelah. The young woman regarded Sela with a measured coolness before gliding through the heavy doors. It was odd watching her like this: composed and almost haughty. Sela still expected an erratic explosion of tears or chaotic nonsense.
She turned to leave, intent on searching the rest of the compound for Lineao, and nearly collided with Jon.
He made as if to touch her, then stopped.
Sela strode past him.
He caught her elbow with his hand. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
She looked down at his hand and then up at him. Whatever her expression, it made him drop his hand.
“Sela,” Veradin said. “Ty, we’re leaving Tasemar.”
“It’s for the best, sir. The sooner the better,” she replied flatly. The ache in her chest appeared when she looked into his eyes, the way skin pinched there when she called him ‘sir’. So she looked instead at the packed earth under her boots.
“You’re not coming with us, are you?” he asked. The muscles along his jaw tensed.
“It’s for the best,” she repeated. A tightness invaded her throat.
The only sounds were voices and ragged fragments of music from the hillside below the temple.
“Ty, don’t do this. Don’t let it be like this.”
“I am thinking about this. This is the correct thing to do. You’ll be safe in the Reaches.”
Just walk away. Before you change your mind. It’s for the best, he’ll realize that eventually.
Sela turned, stepping quickly. Soon she was in the growing dawn in the small temple courtyard. A warm wind kicked into life, promising the arrival of more torturous heat as the day drew on.
But she heard him behind her.
“Stop, Ty. Please.”
In the narrow alley between the slouched mud buildings she finally stopped.
“Please, just listen.” he said. “Will you at least look at me?”
Arms folded, she turned.
He moved to touch her. She stepped back.
“You can’t just—”
“There’s a port half a day from here. Sarmen,” she said, hoping her voice did not betray the lie. “I’m going there. Some non-reg traders have established off-world routes.”
He did not try to hide the hurt in his voice. “And then what?”
“Passage off this rock. I have skills people can use.” Sela brushed an impatient palm against her eyes, swiping away the precursor to tears.
“So what? You’re going to be a merc now?” A damning tone entered his voice.
“I’ll do what I have to.”
Then, after a long silence he said, “Then do me one last thing. Please?”
She studied him, canting her head. He held his hands up as if to say, this is not a trick to keep you here.
“I need to prep the Cass. I want Erelah to stay here where it’s safe, meanwhile.”
She arched an eyebrow at him. “And?”
“Just keep an eye on her until I get back. A few hours,” he begged. “She has some… messed up notion of going after Tristic.”
Sela stiffened, recalling Erelah’s overture in the courtyard. “You don’t think she’ll actually try something?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know what to think. But I’m getting her out of here before I find out.”
She hated herself even as her shoulders sagged. “Fine. I’ll watch her.”
---
Sela ate quickly, like a booter at chow, under the great open canopy where the priests took their meals. Across the way, she watched Erelah push her food around on her plate, eating with no real enthusiasm. She wondered if the girl was still determined to make her risky play to strike back at Tristic. It spoke of a level of bravery that Sela had assumed was missing until now.
One of the priests had approached Erelah and seemed to be attempting to engage her in conversation. Sela hoped it would not last. She was eager to leave the crowd before the curious glances of the others turned to questions. Some of the men she recognized from the temple compound. The rest were unknowns and therefore variables that made her uncomfortable. She thought of eyes and ears everywhere, what Erelah had described as Tristic’s own private intelligence army. The surviving members of the Veradin Kindred
were right to flee, regardless whether Tristic could infiltrate their sanctuary or not.
She felt someone approach on her left. In the corner of her vision, she glimpsed a small body wrapped in frayed brown. The boy, Sarrid.
“What,” she said between mouthfuls, not bothering to turn.
“You’re different,” he said devoid his customary timidity. The earlier comparison she had conjured with a Fleet tech was gone. There was a backbone to the boy.
“And you’re rather short,” Sela replied, still watching Erelah.
“I’m only ten,” Sarrid replied defensively. He reached across her plate. Sela grabbed his wrist. The boy froze. Her action had been a reflex. She realized that in his other hand he bore a large earthenware jug filled with water. Obviously his duty was to serve water. Sela released her grip.
He stepped back.
“Why do you have that?” He pointed at the A6 nestled in its holster against her hip.
Sela turned, shooing his hand away. “Want to see eleven? Don’t be so bloody curious about me.”
The boy hurried away, sloshing water in his wake.
---
When Erelah finally left the mess tent, Sela watched her go directly to a smaller sanctuary with only one visible point of access. The area looked cramped and she had no desire to interact with the young woman any more than necessary. If she wanted to starve and throw herself into prayer and lamentation, Sela was not about to intervene. Satisfied that she could watch the doorway of the smaller temple from a vantage in the courtyard, she took up a post there, suffering the occasional awkward glance of the Order’s members. Very few pilgrims were armed like she, it seemed. Sela found that acceptable.
The low rock wall on which she was perched was bleached bone white under the punishing suns. Surprisingly, green vines were being trained to climb its height. The shock of color was vivid against the murky browns of the desert beyond the garden. She realized that this was the spot where she had held vigil for Atilio, and quickly climbed down.
Allies and Enemies: Fallen Page 26