Shadow Sun Seven

by Spencer Ellsworth

Of course.

  Z and X now stand in the center of the rocks and sand of the pit. The Slinkers’ song increases and their tails sway toward the Zarra. One Slinker is still chasing the poor drunk. Z runs up behind it, grabs the Slinker around the tail, right below the poisonous barb. He actually swings the thing around, its tail spluttering and bubbling with poison, and tosses it toward a nearby rock. An audible crack rings out.

  The crowd roars.

  X, also bare-handed, faces off with a Slinker more interested in her than the drunk now. It lashes out with its tail, and she dodges, strikes again, and she dodges, and she actually smiles.

  I didn’t know Zarra could smile.

  X dances backward, and picks up a rock, and when the Slinker dances closer, singing all the while, she lobs the rock with perfect accuracy and hits it in the head. It strikes, but now it strikes blindly. She must have gotten its eyes.

  Z picks up the poor drunk Zu-Path and slings him overhead, up through the broken window. Then Z turns, and just avoids another Slinker’s tail.

  All the Slinkers are circling them now, hungry shrieks filling the air.

  The heavily armored fellow staggers through the rocks near Z and X. Falling from the poison, he holds up his spear to X.

  She shakes her head no, turning down the spear.

  And smiles again.

  Damn it, at this rate I’ll pull them out of there in pieces—

  No. Another Slinker lunges, and strikes at Z, and not only does he dodge it, he seizes its tail and this time, lifting the entire monster overhead, he snaps the tail clean off.

  And he roars, a high, ululating cry that drowns out all the Slinkers’ screeching song, and lashes out with the severed tail, Slinker viscera flying everywhere.

  X hurtles more rocks, knocking the creatures off the rocks. One sneaks up behind her, and she sees it, and actually moves too close for it to strike with the tail, right in its face. It rears up and tries to sink the hooked claws into her, but she grabs them, pulls it off-balance, and digs the heel of her boot into its eyes

  The blob guards finally drop into the fighting pit just as the Slinkers are moving away from the Zarra. The blobs fire stun-bolts from the micro-shards in the shock sticks to drive the monsters back.

  Z and X are covered in blood and guts.

  And smiles.

  Well, now I know what it takes to get a Zarra to smile.

  The blobs lead them, and the dying, heavily armored sentient out of the pit. People shout all over the floor, roaring and toasting the two Zarra with drinks aloft, and I hear, “When are they fighting again?” and more importantly, “Who’s the manager?”

  I shove my way through the crowd over to Z and X, who are being carried to the bar, and have ordered a couple of very light ciders to celebrate this impromptu victory. I hear Z over the crowd. “It was not an honorable contest,” he keeps saying, and X adds, “You will see us in an honorable contest, soon enough.”

  “Not bad,” I say to Z, once I’ve managed to shove aside a few hangers-on. “I hate to say it, but that will probably get us in to see the Boss better than my plan.”

  “That was no plan,” Z says. “We saw a contest without honor, and it was honorable to intervene, if only for that fool’s sake.”

  “It wasn’t planned.”

  “Of course not.”

  Of course burning hellfire in my balls not.

  The blob I was speaking to reappears, grumbling constantly as he shoves through the crowd. The translator buzzes—it seems to be having trouble with what he’s saying.

  “You the Zarra’s manager? The cross with the scars?”

  “That’s me.” I give my best ridiculous smile.

  “The boss will see you now.”

  -7-

  Jaqi

  YOU KNOW HOW I ran to the cockpit to get away from folk?

  Swez is in the cockpit.

  I really am not loving this job.

  I try to ignore him as I open my flaps of tools and crawl under the control panel. He rattles his wings and chews some noodles with his little puckered mouth, using his face-tentacles to spoon the noodles in, and watches me from under that damn hat.

  That’s why the damn shuttle is so touchy. They rigged up a skim-box, kind of thing that you stick on a thruster switch to make it burn extra hot, and are running all the switches for piloting this thing through it. Idiots. “You flying through a hollowed-out asteroid?” I mutter. “You racing in a planet-slug’s guts? No one needs the controls this touchy. Nest queen en’t impressed by stupid.”

  “This Reckoning business,” Swez says. “What’s this about?”

  This is the first time this scab done talked to me directly. I stop fiddling with the controls I been trying to fix—“fix” being my preferred word for removing all nonsense.

  “Female.”

  “Drone.”

  “The boys say this is all part of a big plan. You figure on taking down John Starfire.” Swez pulls the edge of his hat down, to cover his tentacles.

  “That’s right.” I pick up my wrench and go back to wrenching their nonsense apart.

  Swez chuckles. “What’ve you got against the savior of the whole galaxy? The fella who freed your own kind?”

  “He tried to kill the children.”

  Don’t surprise me that Swez chuckles again. “You humanoids get so invested in your offspring. You can always make more. I’ve blown whole lairs of larvae and pupae up if it was for the good of the nest. You ought to just save the ones that might matter, let the rest die.”

  I reckon I must have done something real awful to have to work with these Matakas. Would be nice if all them gods and goshes would tell me why I need to get punished.

  Might be worth learning to read the Bible, if that’s in there.

  “Why does Starfire want them kids, anyway?”

  “Got his reasons,” I say.

  “You think you’ve got something better to replace him, girl?”

  I slide out from under the control panel, just so’s I can glare. “Anyone could replace him! Drone, he’s selling the whole galaxy out to the devils!”

  “Eh. That’s what every politician says about someone they dislike.”

  “John Starfire made a deal with the devil. Peace with the devils means giving them more to eat. You’re a damned fool but you en’t stupid.”

  “Everyone knows he made peace. Peace with the Shir don’t matter much to your average citizen, selling jewelry to pay bills on some shit ecosphere. They’re thinking about the bluebloods’ tariffs, the bluebloods’ pride. Thinking about how the humans finally got what’s coming, no longer able to control the cash flow of the galaxy. I seen you with that blueblood girl. You think things will be the same for you once you’re back in your place, she back in hers?”

  “Shut up, scab.”

  “That girl thinks of you as a bodyguard. A servant. Just like all servants, just need a little breaking in.”

  I ignore him and pull the components of the skim-box hard as I can.

  “Here’s what sentients care about, girl: their wallets. Everything else comes after a warm oxygenated room to sleep in. They don’t care if a despot or a moron rules them. They care about trade. You’re a smuggler—I shouldn’t have to give you this talk I give to new drones. Hell, can’t believe I’m giving such talk to a female, anyway. You’re all hopeless. Can’t understand ethics.”

  “Why don’t you go flap them noisemaking wings out the airlock, then?”

  “Aiya, don’t curse me. I’m no fan of the Resistance. They might as well have vented all their cash into space, for what they did to the markets. So maybe I’m taking a little interest in you, enough to give you precious advice.” He leans over, smelling like cheap synthesized thurkuk. “Ditch the bluebloods, or buy a nice little maid suit.”

  I spit right in his little black eye. “Never.”

  I expect him to grab the wrench and whack me. Instead he actually laughs, and them damn wings rattle away. “That’s no way for
a servant to talk! You’ll get broken in soon enough, I reckon.”

  * * *

  Araskar

  “Do you want to clean up first?” I ask Z. I don’t know why. I know what the answer is going to be.

  “Of course not. This viscera is the honor of battle. If you cannot even smell the honor in the viscera that coats us, then I truly despair of your senses. Soldier.”

  One of the blobs buzzes us into the Faceless Butcher’s central pillar. “The Boss,” gurgles the blob’s translator. “He’s got ways to keep misbehavior down. Just so you know.”

  We are left standing in one antechamber, waiting for a second set of doors to open.

  Z and X exchange glances and X says, “We will not kill him at this moment. We await the proper time.”

  “Stay focused on the mission.”

  The door buzzes open and reveal the NecroSentry. It must reach ten feet to the ceiling. It holds a tall spear, topped with a sharpened bone head. It leers down at us, and with foul breath like rotten meat, it groans, “Death.”

  “Ignore him. Terrible company.” Boss Cross appears from behind the NecroSentry, and extends a pallid little hand. I take his hand. It’s soft and puffy and warm as a dead animal. “His personality’s absolutely dead, heh.”

  “Oh.”

  “Come in, come in. The Zarra of Swiney Niney and their manager, heh. Love the Zarra.” The Faceless Butcher wrinkles his nose. “The zany, ah, let us say zestful Zarra.”

  “I changed my mind,” I whisper to Z. “You can kill him now.”

  “Now is not the proper time,” Z replies.

  “I know, I know, it was a . . . never mind.”

  He pours some clear water from a pitcher and drinks it. I’ve never noticed that someone can drink in an especially boring way, but there really is nothing special about the way he drinks. He smacks his lips. “Doesn’t taste great,” he says. “Distilled from the moisture in the oxygen cells, so it tastes like the moisture of three-hundred-years-gone sentients. Don’t be scared by an old teetotaler, heh. I take one drink and go right off. Can I get you any cider? From Routalais orchards in never-terraformed soil.”

  “Something strong,” I say. Everything hurts, from my testicle to my head, my dry mouth wants the pinks, and if I’m going to be in withdrawals from hard drugs, I will damn well drink.

  “Would the zealous Zarra care for some?” He holds up the water.

  “No,” Z snarls, like this is an insult.

  “They’re not thirsty. They drank, ah, some blood.” I’m not at my best with this headache.

  “That was a brave, possibly foolish thing you did out there,” Boss Cross says. “You fought on Swiney? One of Cade’s boys?”

  “I did.” Z looks over at X. “She did not.”

  “What he means to say,” I add, “is that Swiney was a heap of trouble. For everyone.” Boss Cross leans in. “Cade got himself killed, and no one was quite sure how, and there was a heap of pit fighters left without a manager.”

  “And the Resistance was involved. Is that how you connected with these . . .” He stops, holds up a hand monitor, and scrolls through a list of words. “Zoophagous Zarra?”

  “Zoophagous?”

  “It means carnivorous.” A nondescript grin. “I love words. Don’t you? Such a myriad of meaning.”

  I try to sound like Jaqi. Like I belong among space scabs. “Aiya. I decided a while back I’d had enough of the Resistance. Enough of ‘consolidation’ and fighting when the fighting was supposed to be over.”

  I sound too bitter. And the drink is too strong. Better rein it in.

  “Mmm, yes,” Boss Cross says. “The disgruntled soldier. I see.”

  I give a deliberate look around the room. “I would love to see how this place works when you’re ready. Never seen an old-style oxygen works, breaking apart the hyperdense cells.”

  “And I’d love to give you a tour,” Boss Cross says. “Pride and joy, the oxygen works. Come along.”

  “Now?” I say. “Before they clean up?”

  “They are fine,” Boss Cross says. “Just fine. They wouldn’t be the first pit fighters to come see me in, heh, their natural state.”

  The NecroSentry grunts “Death” as if this is relevant.

  They lead us toward a central pillar, running through their round room. The doors slide open, revealing a lift with a complicated, thumbprint-coded set of controls.

  This will be the first step. I get the pathogen into the air supply. After that, I’ll have to figure out how to get up one more level, to the controls for the incinerator.

  The lift begins to descend.

  “This was prison yard when I first came here as the warden,” Boss Cross says. We pass through the various fighting pits. They have been set up to resemble different ecospheres—one is the sand and rocks of a desert, while another is dotted with plasticene reconstructions of trees, and the running water of a creek, and another still is the spindly catwalks of an orbital space station. Holos play in the background, adding to the sense of realism, holos that create a feeling of distance and space.

  Z, no doubt despite himself, gasps. “A magnificent place to fight.”

  “We used the holos to try and create a serene feeling for the inmates, when that mattered. Since the Empire fell, I had to find a creative way to make the prison self-sustaining. It is a tricky, heh, thing. I’ve been working on a replication of Zarra-kr-Zar itself. Lovely world. Spent some time there years ago. Cannot forget it.”

  “Yes,” Z says. “Zarra does not easily forget—that is, it is not easily forgotten.”

  The elevator continues down, and the doors open to a swampy atmosphere, instantly humid and moist and choking. Green mist fills the air. We step out into the roar of the oxygen works. It’s a dark room, lit mostly by running lights along giant pillars that march away into the distance, the lights obscured by the green mist.

  The place stinks like every sentient in the galaxy got together and farted.

  “Watch your step.” The floor is rubbery plasticene that is supposed to help us keep our grip, but it’s so saturated with thick beads of moisture that we nearly slip. Over the roar of the oxygen works, the Boss stammers, “Hyperdense cells are great for ships that don’t have a good system in place, but using them on this scale was tricky. This is the only part of Shadow Sun Seven that’s not part of the bug’s body—it’s a kind of ‘collar,’ and if we have any problems, this is where the mines will separate from the, ah, head. A protection measure against prison revolts, you know. Any instability here—any explosion—and tourists are safe, don’t even need to look up, backups will kick in until we can reconnect.”

  “If there is a problem, and the oxygen works stop, what happens to the miners? The prisoners?”

  He just shrugs, and points around him, changing the subject. “Ignore the green stuff—can’t help bleeding off some of the original bodily gases trapped with the air in the first place.” He leads us across the floor, all of us, even Z and X, testing the ground carefully, trying to maintain our balance as we get closer to whatever final destination he’s got in mind.

  I eyeball the nearest pillar, while holding my hand over my nose. The pillars contain the centrifuges that process the cells. Every few moments a loud bang echoes through the chamber, and the beads of moisture rush across the floor, sucked to the small grates at the bottom of the pillars.

  Boss Cross points to the nearest pillar. “The hyperdense cells are sucked up into the centrifuge and get spun until they lose integrity. Lets off the residual gases.”

  Luck already. I must have done something right today. “Where do the cells come from?” I say, trying to maintain conversation while I slip the Matakas’ tiny vial out of my pocket. It’s dark and hazy enough in here that I don’t think either the Boss or the big NecroSentry lug notices what I’m doing.

  “There are hoppers under the floors, running on conveyer belts. Workers fill them up and other than that, the whole system runs on automation.”


  We start to walk, and I pretend to slip, falling over. Z reaches down to catch me, but not before I crush the vial against the floor, right next to one of the grates.

  A moment later, the grate sucks the contents of the vial right up, into the centrifuge, and from there into the air-processing unit.

  There. That’s done.

  I stand up, and say, “Sorry! Slippery floor!”

  As soon as I stand up, there’s someone else with us. Standing right next to me. “Hi,” Rashiya says.

  “Uh, hi?” I look at Z, who is looking at me oddly. “Hello?” he answers.

  “I’m just here for you,” she says. “Just call for me. It’s not bad over here, you know. Not bad at all, being dead. Much better than the alternative.”

  Oh, shit. I remember now what the Matakas said about this pathogen. Some hallucinations for humanoid sentients.

  Rashiya smiles at me. “You’ll like being dead.”

  Couldn’t it have been rainbow-colored space slugs?

  “You just missed me too much,” she says.

  I hate how my mouth moves against my will, mutters, “I did.”

  Memory’s blade gets another stab.

  -8-

  Araskar

  BOSS CROSS PRESSES HIS hand against the door, and we step into what must be one of the loading chambers, although no one’s in here at the moment. It’s cold, not cold like vacuum, but cold like refrigeration. The wall is piled with hyperdense oxygen cells. They shimmer, piles and piles of varied orbs and egg shapes, shining with the thick skin membranes that help keep the oxygen contained. They stretch up the wall, in a pile. The cold probably helps the cells retain integrity.

  Z and X both look up.

  “You should look up too, Araskar,” Rashiya’s ghost says.

  I look up, and there’s a dead body hanging from the ceiling.

  A Zarra, even bigger than Z, immense and broad with tattoos standing out against his ice-white body, where it’s not bloody and beaten. Massive meat hooks jut from his thighs. Black blood has dried everywhere, in a scabby stalactite hanging off his head.

  He’s dead.

  “It’s cold in here,” the Boss says, his voice now flat, without any trace of mirth. “Good for preserving dead meat.”