Beyond the Red

by Ava Jae

  “He’s strong!” The smallest boy jumps in. “And faster than the rest of us. He—we thought—”

  The soldier pulls out a phaser. The boys scream, but it’s too late. I push Aren into the sand with my shoulder as the screech of the pulse shatters the night.

  “Run!” I hiss, jumping to my feet. Aren scrambles up and races toward the port as three more pulses stop hearts just ten feet ahead of me. Nausea roils inside me. Their mothers will be devastated in the morning—I can already see the somber cremations and ashes floating through the quiet wind, releasing their souls to the stars. The kids were fucken morons, thinking they could make an equal trade with Sepharon soldiers—and with people from camp, no less—but they didn’t deserve to die.

  Then the soldiers face me.

  I could turn and run, but then they’d probably shoot me in the back. And even if they didn’t, they’d see I’m armed. And I’d lead them right to Aren.

  So I don’t move. I stand as tall and straight as I can manage and look them right in the eye as they step toward me. With any luck, their sense of honor will keep them from shooting me outright. They respect bravery and strength, and it’s all I have to bargain with.

  But it won’t be enough. Not when most of my kind are killed at birth.

  The soldiers are half a head taller than me, but they don’t tower over me like they did my human captors.

  “You don’t run,” the tallest says, a man with swirling, sharp markings, like the contour of sand dunes.

  There are many things I’d like to say, but I go with the answer most likely to keep my head on my shoulders: “I’m not a coward.”

  They smirk at me and I fight the twisting of my stomach. The switchblade slips in my sweaty fingers and I readjust my grip.

  “You should not be here,” the leader says—the darkest of the three, the one who nearly ripped my ear off. He doesn’t mean the desert—he means alive.

  I take a risk. “Kala has wished it so, or I wouldn’t be.”

  Their eyes widen. A fist slams into my cheek. I stagger sideways, but manage to stay on my feet. The leader grabs my throat and pulls me onto the tips of my toes. Stars speckle my vision and it’s all I can do not to drop the useless knife. I struggle against the cuffs, but the magnet is too strong. Spots of darkness blot out the night and my lungs are burning. My head is pounding. My eyes fail and pain shoots down my neck and I can’t do anything. I can’t even struggle.

  Then the magnet turns off and my wrists separate. I’m blind, but my hands are free.

  My hands. The knife.

  I squeeze the hilt, releasing the blade like I’ve done a thousand times, and slash it across the leader’s throat. Though I can’t see, my aim is true—hot, sticky liquid slaps my face and he drops me. I gasp in a mouthful of desert and spit blood, spit sand, swallow air, taste sickly sweet rust. My face is sticky, my lips are sticky, the sand is turning dark and cold next to my head.

  Someone screams and I’ve got seconds before they execute me like a rabid animal, but I’m so heavy. I still need air. I need to move, but all I can do is lie in the sand and shake like a terrified child.

  Like Aren. I can’t leave Aren. I have to get up and protect him before it’s too late, before—

  Two screeching phaser pulses rip through the air, and I should be dead. But my vision is clearing, and the burning in my chest is fading, and I can move, slowly, carefully, muscle by muscle. I push onto my knees. Squeeze the slippery knife.

  There are seven bloody bodies in the sand.

  Someone grabs my shoulder and I lash out with the knife. A hand catches my wrist and twists hard. My fingers release the weapon, and I pivot into a punch, but then I see him.

  Day catches my fist, then releases my hands and clasps my head. “Breathe,” my brother says, staring hard into me with familiar blue eyes. “It’s me. You’re safe.”

  His words crumble my defenses like a phaser cannon to a decrepit wall. There are so many things I want to say, so many thank yous and how am I alives and how are you heres, but instead I say, “Is Aren okay? Did he see what happened?”

  “He’s fine, thanks to you.” Day runs a hand through his short blonde hair as he glances around the blood-soaked sand. “A little shaken up, but fine. I told him to cover his eyes and wait behind the port.”

  I nod. Exhale. Wipe my sticky palms on my pants. “He can’t see me like this,” I say. “I’ll terrify him.”

  Day pulls a cloth out of his pocket and wets it with his flask. I wipe off my face until the rag turns dark purple from the soldier’s blood, but my skin still feels stiff and tacky. It’ll have to do though, because we don’t have water to waste. I stand and he passes me my knife.

  “Are you sure you’re all right? I was worried I didn’t unlock the cuffs in time.”

  “I’ll be fine. How’d you find us?”

  Day grimaces. “Mal woke me up to say Aren was missing, and when I saw your tent knocked over …”

  I nod and glance around. “You came out here alone?”

  “You think I’d waste time gathering backup when my son and kid brother were missing?” I force a stiff smile and he shoves my shoulder. “Besides, I wouldn’t deserve my position if I couldn’t handle a couple alien assholes on my own.”

  He helps me to my feet and I nod at the transport parked in the sand. “Any idea where they got the port?”

  “I was hoping you knew.”

  After relieving the dead of their weapons, we step around to the driver’s side and Aren leaps up and attaches himself to his father’s leg. Day pulls him into his arms as I press my palm against the sealed mirror-glass door. It doesn’t open.

  “We could break it,” Day suggests with a shrug.

  “With what? You know not even phasers can get through this stuff.”

  “Hmm.” Day looks over the sleek, reflective exterior, shifts Aren to his back, and peers inside, cupping his hands around his eyes. I don’t need to try to know he can’t see a blazing thing.

  He leans back, running his thumb over the small patch of hair below his lip. He nods at the bloody knife in my hand. “Hack off a soldier’s hand, then. I’ll cover Aren’s eyes.”

  I grimace. “Right, because sawing through reinforced Sepharon bone with a dagger is as easy as making sand mud.”

  “True.” He shifts Aren higher and squints at the port. “Well, the kids were driving it, weren’t they?”

  I glance at Day. Back to the bodies in the sand. My stomach churns. “You think the door’s coded to their palm prints?”

  “I’ll cover Aren’s eyes.”

  I sigh and step around the port, clutching the knife in my slippery fist. “Give me a few mos. Don’t let him peek, Day.”

  He says something, but I can’t focus on his words—my gaze is caught on the smallest boy with trim black hair and olive skin. The boy sprawled face-first in the sand with a singed hole the size of a curled-up lizardmouse in the center of his cloak.

  I shouldn’t turn him around. I shouldn’t look at his face. I shouldn’t try to recognize him when it doesn’t matter, not anymore.

  I do it anyway.

  He’s staring right at me and my breath freezes in my lungs. Wide hazel eyes and thick dark lashes, exactly like his sister. Aryana despises me already—what will she think when we return her little brother’s body to her family? Why do I care?

  I crouch beside him and close his eyes. Glance at his hand. The knife is shaking in my grip, but I can’t bear to do it, so I slip it into my pocket and grunt as I hoist the kid over my shoulder. He’s heavier than I expected, but it’s not too much.

  “Toma,” Day sighs as I step around the port. His name is a boulder in my stomach—the name I couldn’t remember. Toma, Aryana’s brother, now deadweight on my shoulder. “Did he and the others … abduct you?”

  I shift Toma’s body into my arms. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “How did a bunch of kids—”

  “It doesn’t matter!” I snap. Close my eyes.
Inhale. Open again.

  Day shakes his head. “You’re too soft, Eros.” He places a hand on my shoulder. “It’s going to get you killed if you’re not careful.”

  I ignore him and press Toma’s hand against the glass. The door hisses, then pops open.

  Resting the body in the sand, I peer around the long front bench. It was obviously built for Sepharon adults, who are way taller than most humans—the bench and backrest are much larger than anything a human would need. The kids were small enough that the four of them were probably able to easily cram in.

  I climb in and glance around the compartment. I’m not sure what I’m looking for; it just seems odd that they would’ve had easy access to a port. Nomads never use ports this large—they’re too conspicuous. Most of us have sand bikes and we share four beat-up half-dead junkers to put the heaviest equipment and animals—but a camo’d port? You only ever see those in the cities—the cities humans aren’t permitted to enter. Not without tracking nanites clouding their eyes and masters’ names tattooed to their arms.

  I run my fingers over the wide steering unit. The handgrips are cool to the touch and coated with some kinduv flexible, slightly sticky material. The unit is shaped like a sideways X with closed off ends. My fingers stop at the symbol in the center where the handgrips meet: eight stars forming a circle with the Eljan moniker scrawled in the center. The insignia of the Eljan Guard—the Sepharon military sect for this territory.

  “Day, I think I know where this came from.”

  He looks up at me and peers inside. “Find something?”

  I point to the moniker. “It’s got to be from one of the cities, maybe Vejla. But why would the Guard give a group of human boys a port?”

  Day shrugs. “Easier than transporting slaves on sand bikes.”

  “Maybe,” I say, but something’s not right. The Sepharon don’t make trades with humans—not even greedy human kids selling slaves. I trace the circle around the symbol, then slide off the bench. There’s something going on here, but I’m not sure what. “We should get back to camp. Have you commed someone to collect the bodies?”

  Day grimaces. “I forgot to grab one when I was running over to save your ass. And besides, we’re way out of the two-league radius.”

  I frown. “How far did they take us?”

  “More than twice that. But if we hurry, we can get back and send some guys to collect the corpses before sunrise.”

  “You mean before Nol and Esta see we’re missing.”

  He smiles grimly and sets Aren onto his bike, steadying him as its scratched red body hums to life and rises off the sand, shining bright white light below. Aren giggles and clings to Day’s arm. I start to comment on the scuffed up paintjob—Day is usually pretty obsessive about keeping the old thing as polished as a new phaser—but I close my mouth. Better not. Last thing I need is another lecture about how if we could just sneak into Vejla and steal a decent coat of paint, she’d be back to her “former aerodynamic glory.” Right.

  I turn back to the transport—and that’s when I see it: a blinking blue light just below the steering unit. I crouch, peering closer at the little light, and curse under my breath.

  Day ducks beside me. “What is it?”

  I point to the light. Bite my lip. “Isn’t their gear usually tracked?”

  He whirls to me, paler than Safara’s largest moon. “Did they bring—”

  “A tracked port to the camp,” I finish. “What if they—”

  Day swears and jumps onto the bike in front of Aren. “We have to go. Now.”

  I climb on back, reaching over Aren’s little body to grab Day’s waist. It’s awkward and I’m barely half-seated, but there isn’t a blazing chance I’m about to bring that tracked port back to camp.

  My brother doesn’t waste any time. He kicks the bike forward and we speed across the sand.

  We ride in silence, past patches of glowing blue tube-like prickleplants and zig-zagging between scattered lizardmice burrows until the skies shift from deep, blackish purple to a striking red, stained by the rising suns. The orange glare from the larger of the two is directly in our eyes, and it’s so bright I almost miss the smoke on the horizon.

  Almost.

  “Day,” I gasp. “Is that….?”

  It is. He leans forward, and we shoot faster across the red desert sea. My eyes are trained on the black line reaching into the sky, but it isn’t until we crest the highest peak of the sandy mountains that we see camp. Burning.

  Every tent is a ball of flame—well over a hundred bonfires spitting black into the stars. The livestock pen is a crimson blanket of severed pink and once-white hodge heads and bloody, curled up fetchers. Our people are screaming, on fire, fighting soldiers dressed in white and red.

  No, not fighting, not really—the sand is stained dark with slaughter.

  Day stops the bike and jumps into the sand. “Eros, stay here with Aren.”

  I scoff. “Right, because I’m just going to let you waltz in there alone.”

  “I need someone to protect him while I get everyone out. I’ll catch up with you, but stay here with the bike.”

  Wait. He’s not serious. He can’t really expect me to stand here while he dives into that bloodbath, can he? “Day—”

  He spins back and glares at me. “I swear to the suns, if you follow me and leave my son out here alone, I’ll paint the sand with your blood. Got it?”

  I scowl and glance at Aren. He’s staring at camp, oblivious to our conversation. “Go,” I grumble. “He’ll be safe with me.”

  Day nods once, turns on his heel, and races down the dune.

  I watch until he plummets into the smoke, and that’s when Aren starts crying. Pulling him off the humming bike, I turn him away from the massacre. He clings to my bruised neck and buries his face in my shoulder. The added pressure stings, but I don’t try to stop him.

  The fires spread across the sand, and my people are gunned down fleeing from the blaze. The blend of horrified screams, crackling flames, and the high-pitched whine of phaser pulse after pulse rips down my spine and sucks the warmth from my blood. Through the smoke, a soldier yanks a man away from his wife and teenage son. I recognize the husband’s short, dark ponytail—Bram is the only man in camp besides myself who doesn’t keep his hair cropped. Heat twists around my lungs. Bram is one of Day’s closest friends, and one of the few who doesn’t look at me like a dirty half-blood.

  And there’s no one around to help him.

  Bram rips out of the guard’s grip and spins around, curved knife in hand, screaming. The soldier shoots him in the face with a red blast and he crumples silently in the sand. His son, Zeyn, breaks away from his mother and races toward him, shouting as he lunges. He takes three steps before a phaser burst rams into his chest.

  I want to close my eyes, but I can’t. I won’t. The soldier nears Bram’s wife, Lia, who is sobbing on her knees. He grabs her hair and she slams a dagger into his arm.

  The blast of a phaser silences her, too.

  I don’t even realize I’m shaking until my grip on Aren slips and he squeezes tighter around me, digging into my bruise. I’m glad for the burst of pain blossoming over my shoulder—

  I need something to remind me I’m here. Something to tell me not to move because Aren isn’t safe here alone.

  But my family. My people. They’re screaming.

  Small groups break from the smoke and race for the hills, scattering in all directions. No one chases them—they’re too busy with the massacre in the center of camp. I search for Day’s muscular frame, for Nol’s slight limp, Esta’s tied-back hair, or Aren’s pregnant mother and young siblings. Two bloody teenagers crest the dune and collapse beside me, retching black from their lungs and shivering despite the furnace-like heat radiating from camp. Aren has quieted, and I keep my hand on the top of his head, more to make sure he doesn’t turn to look than to comfort him. I count thirty-two escapees, only a fraction of our two hundred thirty-six. I don’t see my brot
her.

  I’m about to tell Aren to wait with the teens—we’re far enough away that he won’t be seen if I leave for a couple minutes—when three faces I recognize break from the smoke—Day’s wife, Jessa, and her two older children, Nia and Mal. They stumble up the sand dune and wrap their arms around me. The kids are in tears and Jessa is crying, too. Day isn’t with them.

  I put Aren down and take Jessa’s shoulders. I don’t have to ask—she grabs my wrists and bores into me with piercing gray eyes. “Some soldiers attacked Nol. You have to help them—”

  My feet start moving before I’ve registered her words—I tear down the dune, grab a dead guard’s phaser, and race into the smoke. My eyes and lungs burn—I forgot to grab a scarf from Jessa in my rush—and I steal one from a body at my feet. It smells like blood and ash, but it filters the air well enough.

  The western edge of the camp grows eerily quiet—only the crackle of flames touches this side, while phaser blasts and shouts echo from the other end. Every breath tastes like soot and smoke. My heart slams in my ears and my eyes water as I crouch, jogging around the edge of camp, the sleek black and red phaser held up to my face. The Kit’s tents are on the far west edge—where Day and our parents should be. A five-minute jog—less if I push harder. I move quickly and silently, trying not to think about what’s happening—what may have already happened.

  I’m not too late. I can’t be too late.

  Nearly there. I race around the half-burnt orange tent bearing our neighbors’ white family crest—my foot catches on something heavy and I tumble into the sand. There’s movement just ahead—just around the row of tents—and I know what I’ve tripped over, but I don’t look back to see who it is. I grab the phaser and whirl around the tents and aim.

  I register three things at once:

  One: There are two bodies in the scarlet-stained sand. I recognize my father’s close-cropped gray hair and my mother’s soft tanned hands, her fingers interlaced with Nol’s.