Into the Black

by Ava Jae

  Gray’s gaze falls to his feet. I clench my fists. “I’ve been telling you I’m one of you all along, but you didn’t want to hear it until you could get something from me. I’m not going to forget who I am, and I’ll never forget my home, but whatever decision I make will be because I choose it. Not because you had a change of heart and decided to treat me like a person eighteen years too late.”

  Gray’s sharp eyes are soft when he finally looks up at me. “For what is worse, I’m sorry.”

  I don’t humor him with a response. The suns have risen, and if the trip is going to take all set, then it’s time to go.

  I don’t know what will happen when we get to Asheron. But this time, I won’t be coming back.

  After riding hard for hours, we stop to stretch, piss, drink, and gnaw on dried meat strips. Mal hasn’t said a word—and still barely looks at me—but I don’t want to push him. He just watched his family die; I can’t expect him to be his cheery, chatty self. Maybe I should be trying to talk to him, but … I don’t know what to say.

  I’m sorry I wasn’t fast enough.

  I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough.

  “I’m sorry,” I say softly.

  Mal stares off across the sand.

  We sit in silence for a while before I stand and stretch my arms over my head. “We should—”

  “I’m scared.” He squints at me and picks at his fingernails. “I know I’m not supposed to say that—I mean, I’m thirteen—but the aliens … they don’t like humans. What if they don’t help? Or make me a slave?”

  Despite the heat of the twin suns on my back, something inside me turns to ice. Of course Mal is scared—after everything he’s suffered at the hands of the Sepharon, why wouldn’t he be? I’m scared, and I’ve lived with them. Mal’s lost everything, and now I’m dragging him across the desert to a city full of his enemies. A city full of people who will never see him—or me—as an equal.

  Am I making a mistake? The people of Asheron aren’t going to accept me. How do I know they won’t try to arrest us both as soon as we arrive? But I can’t second-guess myself, not now. Not when Mal needs medical attention before his eyesight gets worse. Not when the only way to fix him is to take him to the very people who tried to kill him.

  It’s a risk. But I’ll die before I let them hurt Mal. And Kora—she may have turned her back on me, but I have to believe she’ll be willing to help Mal. Even if only because she fucken owes me after I saved her life twice.

  “I’ll keep you safe,” I say. “I promise I won’t let anything bad happen to you. I swear it on the stars.”

  Mal’s eyes widen for an instant—an oath you make on the stars isn’t one you break on penalty of condemning yourself to the Void, if you believe that stuff. Mal does, and it’s enough. He nods.

  I ruffle his hair and help him up. “Let’s go. The sooner we reach Asheron, the sooner we can get you better.”

  We climb back onto Day’s bike and kick off. Mal’s tight grip on my waist keeps me focused as the hot, dry air races past my face. Mal will be okay. Mal has to be okay. This isn’t a big deal, right? It’s not like his vision has gone totally black—things are just a little blurry. He’s fine. He’s fine.

  I’ll make sure someone looks at him, and I’ll make sure they do it right. I don’t care if he’s human—I’ll make them listen.

  Mal is my responsibility and he’s dealt with too much.

  A deafening rumble like a thunderclap rolls under us and then—

  A blast of sand as tall as Asheron’s Spire jets into the air in front of us, exploding into a massive red cloud filled with smoke and flame—

  I throw the bike down, slamming Mal and me into the sand as Day’s bike skids ahead. Mal shouts something—I cover his body with mine—and sand hammers down on us. It weighs on my back, fills my ears, becomes the air in my lungs.

  A beat, and a building is sitting on my back.

  A mo, and my lungs ache.

  I spit sand and more takes its place. I clamp my mouth shut. Mal and I will suffocate if I don’t move. I need to get us out.

  My muscles strain against the sheer weight of sand on my back as I force my body to uncurl. I drag one arm above my head, but the sand is resisting, pushing back against me until—air. I lean toward the surface, stretching my head up—

  A hand grabs mine and yanks up. I clench my arm around Mal’s waist as something—someone—drags us up and into the hot, free air. On my hands and knees, I sputter sludge and blink sand mud from my eyes. My whole body shakes as I spit up sand and catch my breath, taking in huge gulps of scorching air.

  Mal. Is Mal okay?

  Someone pulled us up. Someone—

  I stagger to my feet. Mal is on his hands and knees, coughing violently, but he’s okay. My vision is blurry and red. I wipe my eyes again, clearing the sand mud.

  A man is standing across from me. Human, dark skin, shaved head, dressed in some kinduv sand-colored uniform. We’re surrounded. Two dozen people, all armed. A couple of them have beards. Where did they come from? The desert was empty—I know it was empty—and we’re too far from camp …

  “Eros, right?” The man takes half a step toward me—I stumble a step back. He raises his hands in front of him and offers a small smile. “We’re not going to hurt you. I’m Shaw, of the Remnant. We want to talk before you go to Asheron.”

  The Remnant? Am I supposed to know what that means? I’d never heard Day mention them—does Gray know who they are?

  “What makes you think we’re going to Asheron?” I help Mal to his feet and keep him behind me—not that it matters, with people standing behind us, too, but … “How do you know my name?”

  “Everyone knows your name and where you’re headed,” Shaw says. “The former Sira broadcasted it to the entire planet.”

  I grimace. “Fine. Talk. Starting with why you tried to blow up me and my nephew.”

  “Ah.” Shaw runs his hand over his skull and laughs lightly, glancing at the others. A soft chuckle rolls around us. “Sorry—we did’n’ mean to—well. You were never in any danger—we targeted it precisely. We needed to stop you and it seemed a better option than shooting at you.”

  “Or,” I say, “you could’ve not hidden in the sand to start with and—”

  “Tactics aside, this isn’t the best place to talk—we’re too exposed. We need the two of you to come with us.”

  A cold tingle nips at the base of my skull and slips down my back like a trickle of water. “Come with you?”

  “That’s what I said, yes.”

  “To where, exactly?”

  He smiles. “Somewhere safe.”

  Uh-huh. “And if we refuse?”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it.” Shaw lowers his hand to his holster at his hip, where a gleaming black phaser is ready, all while keeping that easy smile. “There’s no need to make this unpleasant. We don’t want to harm either of you—we’ll just have a quick discussion, after which you’re free to go.”

  “Then let’s discuss here.”

  His smile tightens. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because the one who wants to speak with you isn’t here. Look, I’m asking out of courtesy. It’ll be easier—and less traumatic”—he nods at Mal—“for everyone if you cooperate.”

  I don’t like any part of this—the way they nearly killed us, then saved us, just to corner us. We haven’t been gone from camp a set and Mal’s life is already in danger—is this what every moment will look like for him at my side?

  But I guess none of that matters, because right here, right now, we don’t have a choice. Not if I want to keep Mal safe—not if I don’t want to risk him getting hurt.

  So with their phasers surrounding us, with Shaw’s hollow smile and his fingers drumming his holster, I say, “Fine.”

  Shaw’s face bursts into a bright smile. “Perfect. I knew you’d be cooperative.”

  “One discussion, then we’re leaving.�
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  His grin doesn’t falter. “Of course.” He places his hand over his heart and bows his head slightly, with that infuriating smile glinting in the suns. “You have my word—you’ll be on your way in no time.”

  I don’t bother pretending to believe him.

  Six guards stand outside my bedroom chamber “for my own safety.”

  They don’t technically suspect me of anything, not since the Spire’s built-in recording played back the footage of Serek’s murder—but this is the consequence of attacking eight guards to break into the Spire and shut down the nanites ex-Sira Roma had programmed to kill the redbloods. Without the footage, I would’ve been imprisoned—most likely executed. With, they still don’t trust me … but I can stay as Eros’s representative. And when he arrives, I’ll help him secure his place and prepare for the throne. I can do some good yet.

  At least, that’s what I’ll argue if anyone questions me.

  Of course, I’m not the only one being monitored by warriors; Asheron’s streets are full of them keeping order and smothering the panic before demands for answers turn into an outright riot—the consequence of a necessary military takeover. It’s eerily familiar to my final terms as Avra back in Elja, failure of a territory ruler that I was.

  I dab sweat off my forehead with a towel then do my best to comb my fingers through my damp hair. My dominant arm is tucked against my chest in a makeshift sling—and using my left so much is somewhat unfamiliar because I’m out of practice, but like most Sepharon, I’m ambidextrous. Adjusting to using my left while my wrist heals shouldn’t take long.

  Except, of course, wrapping my scarred left arm in its black covering is much more difficult when every movement with my right flashes with pain. If I were in Elja, I’d slip into one of my many single-sleeved tops, but I’m not, and I don’t have help, so I grit my teeth and bear it. One agonizing breath at a time, I cover my mottled, pink skin with black.

  With the destruction of the nanites came the loss of so many luxuries, like cooled air and sand screens on the windows. Thankfully, however, not everything was built on nanites—power planet-wide comes from the light of the suns, our communications systems are completely separate, and while there was once a movement to integrate nanites into the plumbing system to make it more effective, it was never incorporated, thank Kala. We’ve likely lost some high-tech transportation—newer port units were created with Serek’s coded nanite technology—but the majority weren’t nanite-built.

  That said, the luxuries lost are nothing compared to the more serious loss of vital technology, like disease prevention and most of our medical care—the reason my wrist hasn’t mended—and crop assistance, and Kala knows what else.

  I can deal with the heat and my aching arm. What’s much harder to swallow is the Sepharons’ worldwide suffering. How will we heal the gravely injured without nanites? Or feed the southern nations when the crops growing in the desert, no longer protected by nanites, cannot be flash-grown and wither and die? We’re on the brink of global panic, and without a Sira to guide the nations, the tentative peace won’t last.

  We need the nanites. If leadership in Asheron doesn’t get sorted out quickly so we can figure out a way to restore them soon, I don’t know how Safara will ever recover.

  I push the double doors open and step between my narrow-eyed guards. “It’s sunrise,” I say, answering the question in their eyes. “The Emergency Council should be arriving, sha? Has the rising meal been served?”

  I walk right past them without waiting for an answer. Steady footsteps follow me, but no one tries to stop me. My bare feet pad over the smooth, cool stone of the polished hallways. Black and gold banners hang on the walls with Serek’s name sewn into every other banner—preparation for his funeral and the first sign of the commencement of the official mourning period, which will go on for eight sunsets. Or it would, anyway, if the nanites were functioning and able to preserve his body, but as they aren’t, and we live in the desert, the mourning period has been accelerated to three sets, with the final five sets left for contemplation after his funeral. The acceleration adds insult to injury, but the alternative is even worse.

  In contrast, no one speaks of Roma—the brother who killed him. Roma isn’t dead, but he might as well be; Serek programmed the last of the functioning nanites to put him in a deep sleep, permanently. They’re keeping him alive in the medical ward, always under supervision of armed guards, until the next Sira decides what to do with him.

  I hope the next Sira sentences him to death. He deserves nothing less after attempting genocide and murdering Serek.

  I hold Serek’s name in my thoughts long enough to pay my respects, and then force his smiling face out of my mind. Thinking of him much longer is too painful right now. If I start remembering his contagious smile, or the glint in his eyes as he looked at me, or his kindness, even after I admitted my feeling for Eros—

  Stop. I clench my fists and take a slow, painful breath. I can’t do this right now, not again. I need to focus on the task at hand. I need to make certain someone isn’t appointed in Eros’s place before he arrives.

  But what if he never returns? After the way we treated him—like he wasn’t worth the breath in his lungs even before his near-execution… After the way I treated him—earning his trust enough to make it hurt when I turned away from him …

  My quiet footsteps echo in the vast hall; the warm, polished rock unyielding beneath my feet. The truth is, I don’t know why he’d return. I can’t say I’d return, in his place. But Safara needs a ruler now more than ever, and Eros—compassionate, daring Eros—is everything I imagine his father wanted when he and Eros’s mother decided to have him.

  Asha and Eros’s redblood mother created a half-blood kaï intending to change the world. And as much as I fear Eros has no motivation to return, I can only pray he does.

  Because Safara doesn’t need another ruler who will sow more generations of hate; Safara needs Sira Eros, who would break the cycles of injustice. And I need him, too.

  The dining hall is empty save for black-clad Sepharon servants setting out the food—Asheron never used redblood servants—and armed guards lining the walls. The banquet set out—platters of fruit, large carafes of colorful juices, flat kata wraps beside bowls of spreads and spiced meats, fruits, and vegetables—are far more than any one person could ever hope to eat, but the banquet isn’t just set out for me.

  The Emergency Council will be arriving soon. The former Sirae, world rulers, and Avrae will arrive from Shura Kan, the sacred city where all former rulers live after passing down their thrones to their children. This Council hasn’t been called in centuries; we never imagined their presence would be necessary. And I alone will face them.

  A disgraced Avra.

  A failure.

  A woman.

  But there’s no one else to do this. No one else who’d want to. And without Eros here, I’m the only one fighting for him. So I’ll stand and face them for him. For all of us.

  Please return quickly, Eros.

  My chest tightens as I awkwardly prepare kata wraps with ushri—my favorite orange savory spread—and a selection of meats and vegetables. Truthfully, the last thing I want to do is eat, but I’ll regret it later if I don’t. I’ll need my strength when I face the Council.

  It’s so quiet here. You’d think the palace was deserted.

  Satiated and humming with anxiety, I suck the spicy juices off my fingers and inhale deeply. I flex my fingers on my good arm and try to still my shivering center. I’ll have to show the Council the footage first—Roma murdering his brother, and Serek’s desperate message to Eros and the world—which they’ve already seen, but the repetition should help my position. I’ll show them the genetic testing Serek conducted before Eros’s failed execution. One cannot argue Eros’s claim to the throne, not with Asha’s blood running through his veins. Surely Asha’s father, the former Sira, will see that. Asha was rumored to be the favorite son, after all …

&n
bsp; Or, more likely, the evidence and Serek’s final message won’t matter, because Eros is a half-blood. Because the suggestion of putting a half-blood on the high throne won’t be acceptable to a council full of former leaders. I’d said so myself to Serek not so long ago: the people would never accept him—not in his court and not in the public eye.

  Of course, what Serek said was true, too. Denying him his inheritance would dishonor Asha’s memory.

  Though Asha’s reign was short-lived, he was a truly good Sira. Firm, but not blood-thirsty; ambitious, but not power-hungry; and, like Eros, compassionate. The people loved him—he was young, but spoke with wisdom and passion that hushed Jol’s Arena without raising his voice. I listened to recordings of his speeches as I studied with Mamae. He’d said he wanted to do things differently; he wanted to make Safara a place of balance and love.

  Looking back, his vision is probably what got him killed—just not before he started his plan to change Safara, not with a directive, but with Eros. A boy who isn’t fully Sepharon or fully redblood, but both. A boy, who on the throne, could change everything.

  But will honoring Asha’s memory matter when the alternative will be unthinkable to the Council?

  Footsteps echo behind me, each step like a phaser burst ripping through the absolute quiet. A man with dark hair pulled back, dressed in the typical black and gold high-collared uniform of Asheron officials enters the room. He doesn’t even glance at me as he approaches the table and serves himself. I eye him and wait a breath as he piles fruit into his bowl, but he still pays me no mind.

  I clear my throat, settling my gaze on him as he glances dully at me at last. “Do you need something?”

  Rude. “I’m Kora Mika—”

  “Sha, I know who you are.” He returns his attention to his bowl and adds a dollop of thick, dripping cream to his fruit. “But unless you need something, I haven’t time for trivial matters.”