The Sons of Sora

by Paul Tassi

  “Greetings, Lucas. I will be assisting you on your flight today,” said a soothing female voice from thin air.

  Lucas jumped and looked around for the source of a voice. It took him a moment to realize it was an onboard AI. One that recognized him.

  “Mission orders are absent,” said the AI. “Please relay destination coordinates.”

  “The Grand Palace,” Lucas said. “But for now, anywhere but here.”

  The soldiers on the pavement outside began to stir, their minds once again their own. They turned around and shouted, no one realizing where Lucas had gone.

  Until the engines fired.

  “Have a pleasant flight,” the fighter’s AI said with a smile in its disembodied voice.

  The craft detached from its suspension, violently snapping the cables, and floated out onto the airfield ahead. A hundred rifles and a very long tank barrel turned toward them. But then Lucas clenched his hologram-wrapped fist, and they were gone, a distant dot in a sea of blue sky.

  21

  The ship stank. Noah hadn’t just been sheltered from war up until recently; he’d also grown unintentionally attached to a life of relative luxury as one of the famed Earthborn. He traveled in top-of-the-line military transports and, hell, even his trip to Earth was in Finn Stoller’s luxury liner.

  No such luck for the voyage to Solarion. A military ship would likely be shot down on sight without prior clearance. An expensive cruiser would be hijacked and stripped for parts. So they were in a confiscated pirate vessel Tannon had ordered from a nearby SDI impound.

  And it stank.

  Though, to be fair, so did most of them.

  While much of Sora was full of the rich and the beauty those rich could afford, Solarion had no such airs. It was a dark, ugly place, and so were the people in it for the most part, far from the wonders of age-slowing genes and thoroughbred family lines. The group of them had to look the part as well as act it, and seventy-four hours in a sweltering tin can without so much as a vapor shower was a good start. The two-day flight had been mercifully short given the ship’s conditions.

  They’d already docked at the station thanks to a forged ID slip and were ready to head out onto the streets in search of Malorious Auran and his presumed captors. All their communicators were deactivated, lest Solarion Security pick up any unwanted chatter coming from Sora that might give them away.

  Tannon’s team shifted uneasily in the exit bay as they rehashed their plan one last time. It had actually been Erik’s idea, though it was anyone’s guess how it would play out in practice. They’d find out soon enough.

  Their combat instructor, Celton, was one of the three other soldiers Tannon had brought with them. Any larger of a group and they’d attract too much attention. Celton and Tannon could practically be brothers, with hard jaws and silver hair, but Celton’s eyes were amber while Tannon’s were mismatched green and blue.

  The other colony soldier in the group was Worsaw, a sturdy rectangle of a man with a constant scowl on his face whom Noah recognized as a guard who had always been outside Kyra’s tent. His eyes were narrow and angled like Sakai’s, but his pupils were midnight blue and he had a long thin scar running down his left cheek.

  The third soldier was a specialist they simply called “Key.” She was an ex-Guardian from Tannon’s days as an admiral, now some sort of intelligence officer who fed information from the current High Chancellor to the former one. She was pale as a ghost and her auburn hair was streaked with black and drawn into a tight braid that tumbled all the way down to the small of her back. Her cheekbones were razors, her nose a sharp point. When she walked, even on rusted metal floors, her steps made no sound.

  Tannon’s team was a collection of anonymous faces, and they could step off the ship in ragged cowls and patchwork armor plating and look right at home on the streets of Solarion. The rest of them, however, had a higher profile.

  Of course Tannon had been the High Chancellor of all of Sora, and was therefore forced to wear a pair of dark goggles that wrapped up and over his head, concealing nearly everything but his nose and chin. An effective disguise, and the various built-in lens filters could do everything from detecting heat signatures to seeing through walls.

  Sakai wore her hair down in a way that shielded half her face, and a grimy scarf covered up most of the rest of her features. Erik had opted to brand himself with a demonic facial tattoo that would be all anyone saw when they looked at him, instead of the son of the most famous pair of warriors on the planet. It would fade from his skin in a week, but the effect was unsettling and made him look right at home with the other psychopaths wandering the dark alleys of Solarion.

  Kyra had opted for a simple hood, and because she was so small, most passersby wouldn’t see her face at all. The coat it was attached to had its sleeves ripped off, and she wore a long mud-brown dress underneath with a bottom edge like a wind-tattered flag.

  Noah was clad in a bulky jacket that went from his calves all the way up to the middle of his face. When clasped shut, the high-collared coat covered his nose and mouth completely, which was why the style was high fashion for thieves in the area. The coat had some weight to it with sewn-in anti-blade plating. It amplified Noah’s already formidable size to menacing proportions. Though the darksteel warhammer strapped to his back would tell most to stay away by itself. If they didn’t try to slit his throat and steal it, that is.

  They all had weapons; not carrying one openly on the streets of Solarion was an invitation to robbery, murder, or worse. Kyra had her scattergun slung over her shoulder. Sakai was given a handgun and a thin, jagged short sword. Erik had his laser pistol and an unknown amount of other hidden weapons under his clothes. Noah remembered the pistol had once been part of a set. The pistol’s twin hadn’t been seen since Earth and eventually Noah realized Erik probably lost his fingers when the second gun overheated in the fight against the Xalans and it exploded in his hand. Naturally, his brother would never admit that.

  Tannon and his troops carried larger rifles that looked like they’d been assembled from scrap metal, but were in working order. The four of them alone looked like the makings of a formidable gang, which was the effect they were going for. It was rather odd seeing the usually freshly pressed Tannon Vale dressed like a cross between a bounty hunter and a smuggler.

  They were ready. Or as ready as they could be.

  A dozen odors hit Noah as he exited the shuttle, ranging from sewage to shellfish and everything in between. Despite their bared weapons and tough facade, they were immediately swarmed by brave merchants, who shoved mutated fruit in their faces or tried to sell them rusted stunguns. Worsaw and Celton pushed them aside, and the group marched down the busy street, avoiding eye contact with everyone and anyone.

  Solarion was more or less a giant cube made up of over two hundred or so levels that stretched in all directions for miles. The station slowly spun around Apollica underneath a triple-layered plexishield that filtered the sun to a manageable brightness and kept the replicated oxygen inside. It was odd to see the star looming so large here, a dark bronze because of the shield. Apollica itself was a dusky pink on the horizon, its true color warped by the excessive amount of pollution in the artificial atmosphere. They were at the top of the station. The lower you descended, the worse the floating city was said to become. Rumor had it the last few levels were completely uninhabitable, and the creatures that did live there had transformed from Soran into something else entirely. Thankfully, they didn’t need to go down nearly that far.

  “Do you know where we’re going?” Erik asked Tannon.

  “It’s been a while, but yes,” the Watchman replied, scanning the crowd through his visor.

  The sheer hideousness of the people was jarring. Even dressed in rags, hard, smooth, tank-bred faces like Key’s and Celton’s stood out here, and if anyone ever caught a glimpse of Sakai or Kyra all would be lost. Disfigured prostitutes writhed up against walls as they passed. One was missing an ear; another
had an entirely robotic arm and a chemical burn scarring half her face. Gang members flirted with the women, spikes implanted in their bald heads, tattoos covering ashy skin. Enormous blades dangled from their hips while century-old military rifles were slung across their backs. Noah caught a glare from one who sneered at him, revealing a mess of brown metalwork where his teeth should have been.

  It was a relief when they reached what was called a “chasm lift,” a massive elevator that held hundreds at a time and traveled to every level of Solarion but the last few. On the floor there were jagged metal outcroppings where benches likely used to be, until they were ripped out by vandals. They filed inside and stood around like livestock being transported to slaughter.

  Twenty levels down a cry rang out. The chasm lift crowd parted to reveal a man bleeding on the ground, a knife under his ribs. Three thugs with long, oiled black hair circled him, picking off his weapons and credit chips. The assailants were pale and looked half-starved. All wore ragged green garb adorned with the symbol of a white skull split in half. They hurled insults at the downed man as the crowd inched further away from them.

  Noah reached for his hammer and started toward them. Tannon gripped his shoulder with his hand and slowly shook his head back and forth.

  He was right. Noah knew they couldn’t draw attention to themselves, but it took everything in him to stand and do nothing. Looking down, he could see fear and pain in Sakai’s eyes. This is what you signed up for, he wanted to say, but didn’t.

  By the time they left the lift at the forty-seventh level, the thugs were laughing and joking with each other, and the man was dead.

  They were in the prison wing now, the portion of the station that had been the maximum security facility before it was closed down and a city was stacked on top of it. Here, Tannon promised they’d find who they were looking for.

  The entry to the former prison was still protected, just not by traditional guards. The sentries that stood there now were a half dozen men, rippling with muscle and holding a variety of terrifying-looking weapons ranging from rust-bitten axes to modern scatterguns. The central gate they stood before had two giant black leathery wings painted on it. Lucas could see the same symbol tattooed on a few of the scowling men who eyed the lot of them like a particularly delicious breakfast. The wings behind them reminded Noah of an altered version of the Guardian’s famed silver feathered wings, pinned to the chests of all its tank-bred soldiers and, on occasion, Noah’s mother.

  Tannon approached the sentries, chest inflated with the natural confidence he always wore. The tallest guard spoke with thunder.

  “Go home, offworlder.”

  So much for their disguises.

  “We’re here to see Zaela,” Tannon said with authority.

  The men moved to encircle them. Noah watched Kyra inch closer to Erik, who had his hand on his pistol.

  “I don’t think you heard me,” the man said, looming over Tannon. His skin was almost pitch black, but his eyes were green in a sea of yellow. He had a jagged double scar across the side of his neck, and shoulders like a mech exosuit.

  “You need to—” he began, but a heavily accented voice rang out of the communicator hanging from his collar. A woman’s.

  “Gods damn it, Razor, let him in. Oi’d know that goat’s voice anywhere.”

  Tannon’s mirrored lenses stared the man down, and the accented voice continued.

  “Now, ya brute!”

  Noah’s stomach unclenched as the eight of them were ushered inside the compound. The wings parted and slammed shut behind them once they were inside.

  After walking down corridors full of broken lightscreens and more angry-looking men stamped with dark wings either on their skin or clothing, they entered what appeared to be the central dining wing of the former prison. Even more gang members were here, again all men, and the space appeared to be some sort of combination of war room and drinking hall, tall metal glasses of dark liquid set sloppily down on holotables projecting maps and data clusters.

  In the middle of the chaos was a lone figure, a woman. She had dark brown skin with long tendrils of jet-black hair clustered together and hanging down her back like tree vines. Her eyes were pools of violet, her face flecked with white scars. She wore light armor plating that covered her chest and legs, and her bare arms were solid muscle. The leather wings from the gate were stamped on her right shoulder, and Noah was surprised to see the feathered ones of the Guardians tattooed on her left. So that’s how she knows Tannon.

  She walked toward them cautiously, like a beast circling prey it doesn’t quite understand.

  “Off wit’ it then,” she said, and Tannon peeled the metal goggles from his face.

  “Satisfied?” he asked, and the woman suddenly darted toward him, stopping just shy of his face. She only came up to his chin, at most. Her age was hard to determine. She smelled like alcohol and plasma afterburn.

  “It’s you, ya,” she said, stepping back and picking up a cylinder of murky liquid, which she sipped from. “Come to visit at last, Watchman? Or come to take me back?”

  “Neither,” Tannon said. Noah thought he saw him hiding a small smile.

  “Key, Celton, good to see yas,” she said. “How’s th’ retirement?”

  “Babysitting,” Celton said, nudging his head toward the four younger party members. Tannon shot him a sharp glare, and the woman eyed them curiously.

  “Name’s Zaela,” she said with a quick nod. “Oi knew ya friend here from way, way back.”

  Noah returned her nod, but didn’t speak. Kyra and Sakai each forced a quick smile while Erik remained stonefaced.

  “Not much for chattin’ ya?” she said to Tannon, jerking her head toward the group. “Well let’s talk then, grab a drink from one of th’ fellas an’ come wit’ me.”

  On the way to Zaela’s “office,” which turned out to be the former quarters of the corrupt prison warden, Noah’s suspicions were confirmed that she was indeed ex-Guardian, as she chatted to Tannon and the others about the unit. What wasn’t mentioned was whatever event turned her from SDI soldier to Solarion warlord.

  “It’s a simple proposal,” Tannon said. “It’ll make you rich and give you more power in your little kingdom of rust here.”

  “Oi have power, an’ marks,” Zaela said. “Oi got everything oi need right here,” she said, arms extended toward her shabby office piled high with weapons and large vats of spirits. Noah still couldn’t place her accent. Was she from the Sorvo Republic? Kashiit? The Sand Plains? It was hard to say.

  “Black Wings on top of things these days, ya?” she said. “Don’t need no nothin’ from ya.”

  “Not on top of Solarion Security,” Tannon said. Zaela frowned and started peeling a fruit with a long, surprisingly clean knife.

  “Don’t count. SolSec’s a fixture. Ain’t no one on top of them. They take a piece of all th’ gangs in return for not sendin’ us into th’ sun. That’s life on th’ Station.”

  “What I’m offering is billions of marks, and a shot at crippling SolSec,” Tannon pressed.

  “A shot at death,” she said, continuing to skin her fruit. “An’ a shot at the boys bootin’ my ass outta here for sayin’ such nonsense.”

  Kyra suddenly chimed in, expectedly.

  “Why do you recruit only men?” she asked. Everyone looked stunned that she’d spoken, Zaela included. But after a pause she answered all the same.

  “All fellas from th’ homeland. Can’t trust th’ girls. Fellas simple. Girls scheme, talk, claw ya eyes out first chance. But not you, starfish, ya? You too nice an’ pretty for that,” she flashed a glowing yellow smile at Kyra and laughed. “Who this one, then?” she said to Tannon.

  “We’re trying to find her grandfather,” he said. “SolSec has him.”

  Zaela’s eyes narrowed.

  “Must be pretty important to drag th’ lordly High Chancellor off his throne,” she said sarcastically.

  “Ex-Chancellor,” Tannon corrected, annoyed.<
br />
  “Whateva, how much ya pay then?” she said, taking a bite from the green skinless sphere in her hand and chasing it with a swig from a nearby bottle.

  “I don’t pay you anything,” Tannon said, “Solarion Security will.”

  Now that made Zaela curious.

  22

  The ionosphere was quiet. Despite the early hour, Lucas and Theta could see the dark blue of the night sky, a billion stars winking in the wake of the fighter’s engines. Lucas’s head had finally stopped throbbing, and Theta was talking to someone on her communicator behind him. Sora rotated beneath them in silence as they hovered on the edge of the planet’s atmosphere. The golden tint of the ship’s domed viewscreen made everything appear more crisp and constantly highlighted cities below or satellites and space stations ahead. The blue-cored fighter Alpha had designed was blindingly fast, and, even spending barely any time with the ship, Lucas knew all of its ins and outs thanks to his lightning-quick Shadow cognition. The friendly AI kept chattering at him whenever there was more than a few minutes of silence.

  “Systems normal, destination twenty-two minutes away,” it chimed.

  “The Viceroy is not at the Grand Palace,” Theta said, finally closing down her communicator.

  “What?” Lucas said. Jahane couldn’t have lied to him. Not in that state.

  “I should clarify, the Viceroy is no longer at the Grand Palace,” Theta said.

  “Where, then?”

  “His aide would not tell me, only that he has departed on a pressing off-world assignment for the High Chancellor.”

  Goddamnit, Lucas thought. He could be anywhere.

  “Though he requested not to be disturbed,” Theta continued, unperturbed, “his aide helpfully gave me his communication frequency in order that I might leave him a message, which he would return at his earliest convenience.”