by Anthology
“What suspicions?” Narr asked in a wary monotone.
Malachi freshened his tea. “That Tharis plays host to a pirate crew guilty of crimes beyond count,” he said, “which crimes you have aided and abetted since your arrival.”
Narr’s face puckered as though he’d bitten a lemon. “What evidence do you have?”
“I’d long surmised that the outlaws laired here,” Malachi said following a sip from his piping cup. “Culvert was the final proof. Some years ago his father was slain by Teg Cross, then only fifteen; now swordarm to Jaren Peregrine, the brigands’ captain. As for your collusion with them, Shan’s murder leaves little doubt.”
A long sigh escaped Narr’s chest. “What will you do now?” he asked.
“Since reporting you without implicating myself in Shan’s death could prove difficult, I’m inclined to let the matter rest—on one condition.”
“And that condition is?”
“You will help me break the pirate ring.”
At length, Narr summoned the gall to ask, “Why have these pirates earned your ire more than others?”
“Because,” Malachi said as though stating the plainest of facts, “their captain is a Gen. Perhaps the last. He attracts uncouth relicts like a magnet draws iron. I suspect that he’s gathering them deliberately, and to no good purpose. We will bring him to justice before his designs take root, and so close a chapter of history rife with chaos and superstition.”
Narr managed a tepid grin. “You’ve left me little choice,” he said.
The outcome was decided before I set foot on this world, Malachi thought as he drained his cup, which Peregrine will soon learn.
4
Nakvin’s flight from the scene of Shan’s death awakened memories of her escape from Mithgar more than a century before. Fleeing Guild justice had become much harder since then. For one thing, she hadn’t been forced to bribe a series of freighter captains the first time, though her powers of persuasion ensured that she never appeared on a ship’s manifest.
Nakvin recalled that first life-changing voyage with more than a touch of nostalgia. She’d hardly been out of adolescence when she’d stolen the swift ether-runner whose chief Steersman she remained, and whose captain had been little more than a child, his grief and anger still raw.
Jaren’s changed, too, Nakvin thought. Now he’s just angry.
Nakvin understood Jaren’s anger. For the first two decades of her life, she’d known nothing of herself and nothing of the world beyond the Guild. She might still be a virtual prisoner in Ostrith—or worse, have become an actual prisoner of the Mill—if not for Master Kelgrun’s pity. But if Mithgar Customs hadn’t arrested Falko Peregrine and impounded his ship; if Nakvin hadn’t extended her Master’s pity to Falko’s son, she never would have liberated the Shibboleth, Jaren, or herself. Her sympathy for the orphaned Gen had become sisterly affection, which had grown into something more as she’d guided him into manhood. She’d learned to temper her feelings when his race’s notorious single-mindedness had rendered Jaren apathetic toward anything but punishing the Guild.
Memories of her first escape sustained Nakvin all the way to Tharis. Convincing a shuttle pilot to deposit her in the foothills of a remote mountain range proved exhausting, but her desire to see Jaren overcame her fatigue.
An hour’s hike over coarse rock scoured by water and dust brought Nakvin to the stygian tunnels beneath Melanoros, the black plateau that had sheltered two generations of Jaren’s family and served as Nakvin’s ersatz home. Unlike everywhere else on Tharis, the air felt dank and cold. Each breath brought the sooty taste of a quenched furnace, and the silence could’ve smothered the roar of a dreadnaught’s launch. Veteran mountaineers warned thrill seekers against exploring the Black Step. Nakvin wished that Jaren's father and his human steersman had heeded their advice. Even a century of familiarity hadn’t enamored her of the barren river channels that wound maze-like through the black volcanic rock.
At last Nakvin reached the pirates’ den: an oasis in an underground desert where the lightning scent of ether replaced that of cold ashes. She swept into the central gallery; robes fluttering like gold-trimmed ravens' wings.
Mikelburg, the solid lump of man-shaped clay who served as chief engineer, set down the ether torch he’d been using to mend a Kirth bracket and greeted Nakvin with a nod of his bald head. “Lady Steersman,” he said, the honorific rumbling from his broad chest.
“Where’s Jaren?” Nakvin asked without slowing her approach.
“The captain’s in his quarters,” Mikelburg said. “You want I should send up to him?”
Nakvin breezed by the engineer without answering and headed up the passage leading to Jaren’s rooms. Propriety be damned. She was back, and he would see her.
Finding Jaren’s door unlocked, Nakvin entered unannounced. The captain sat on his bed, showing her the cascade of scarlet hair that spilled waist-long down his back as he untied his boots. Jaren was arrayed in what he called his “business attire”. A pocket-riddled tan coat hung from his slender frame with its train fanning out behind him, and heavy twill trousers sheathed his crossed legs.
He just got back himself, Nakvin thought. She knew he’d been about serious business when she saw the gun and sword at his sides. Commonly called a splintersword, the blade was Worked to vibrate at incredibly high speeds. Nakvin judged that it could have sliced through Magus Shan’s safe and silk curtains with equal ease.
But no splintersword could match the raw destructive power of the gun. In truth, Nakvin only called it a gun by way of analogy. The weapon's holster lay heavy at Jaren's left hip; its bulk rivaling that of two fifty caliber zephyrs. Unlike those more common weapons, she knew that the rodcaster had no intrinsic Working. Rather, the rounds that fed it were themselves Worked objects. The Gen resistance had carried rodcasters during the last war: one that Nakvin knew had ended in heartbreak, though the long defeat had concluded before her birth.
"Planning to storm an Enforcer garrison?" she asked, hiding her concern with sarcasm.
Jaren turned to acknowledge his senior Steersman. Eyes like emeralds studied her shrewdly. “That depends. Did you get the location of Shan’s cache?”
Nakvin nodded, startled by Jaren’s sudden intensity. Sometimes she had difficulty believing that her captain was half human. The striking figure bearing statuesque features and antiquated arms seemed to have stepped out of a folk tale. “I have coordinates,” she said, “but not an inventory. There’s no guarantee that Shan didn’t clean out the arsenal himself.”
Having removed both boots, Jaren stood and paced toward Nakvin. “Then we go and see for ourselves,” he said. “Building an army is pointless if we can’t arm it.”
“Will it really matter if we can?” Nakvin asked. “I doubt a fleet of tramps with expired licenses will cow the Guild into giving up Tharis.”
“The Guild doesn’t own Tharis,” Jaren said. “My people were here before the Guild existed—just like every sphere they massacred us on. It’s about time we remind them.”
Nakvin shook her head. “If anyone can make the Guild take ‘no’ for an answer, it’s you.”
“You need to see Teg,” Jaren said.
Despite their long association, the Gen's blind pragmatism still managed to raise Nakvin's hackles. “You know I just got here, right? We need to talk about this job.”
Jaren's glare conveyed his urgency. “We'll talk later. The surgeon's mates you trained removed the bullet, but you're the only one qualified to handle the rest.”
Nakvin’s planned rebuke dwindled to a single word. “Bullet?”
“We got a sending from Teg early this morning,” Jaren told Nakvin as their hurried steps echoed through worklight-strewn passages. “He was shot in town, but we found him twenty miles out in the dust.”
Nakvin had appeared in Jaren’s doorway looking weary and more than a little irritated. Now her jaw was set; her eyes focused ahead. He ascribed her change in demeanor to the mental s
hift from senior Steersman to chief medic. Jaren knew that holding both posts tried Nakvin’s endurance, and he knew the risks of forcing so valuable an asset to labor under such a burden. He’d long sought a new ship’s surgeon, but qualified medics willing to embrace lives of piracy proved hard to come by.
“Who were the first responders?” Nakvin asked.
“You were gone, so Deim flew me. He's still spent from his turn at the Wheel.”
“You took the Shibboleth?”
“I had to,” Jaren said more defensively than he liked. “Teg left the drifter in the Cut.”
“If this job pans out,” Nakvin said, “we're getting a second car.”
When Jaren reached the infirmary, which was really just a cave stocked with medical supplies, he found Teg sitting up in his cot. The mercenary was stripped to the waist. His scarred torso resembled a topographical map. “Hi,” he said. “Did you bring me anything?”
The astringent smell stopped Jaren just inside the door. Nakvin strode in, washed her hands, and sat down beside her patient. “The only thing you’ll get from me is a course of antibiotics,” she said.
“I was hoping for some Temilian crab cakes,” said Teg. “No onion.” He winced when Nakvin probed the lower left side of his back. Her face remained grave as she inspected the wound. At length she turned to Jaren and sighed. “There's a large wound—partly from removing the bullet—and two broken ribs, but no internal bleeding or ruptured organs.”
“Glad I left my aura on,” Teg said as he tapped the compact emitter on his belt.
Jaren scrutinized his hired gun further before asking, “What happened?”
“I was minding my own business—your business, actually—when somebody shot me.”
“Who shot you?”
Teg shrugged. “Didn't see the shooter. He plugged me in the back, and I passed out.”
“Did anyone else see anything?”
Teg shook his head. “Can’t say. I came to in the desert.”
Jaren furrowed his brow. “If not who, do you have any idea why?”
“Wasn't after the swag,” said Teg.
“Nobody touched the drifter,” Jaren agreed, “but what if the bastard was trying to roll you?”
“No clip good enough to ambush me would’ve picked a sunlit public street.”
“Maybe he had your schedule,” Jaren said, “knew he had to make his move before dark.”
“In that case, he would've jumped me behind Dan's.”
“You think it was someone with a grudge?”
“Fits the facts.”
“He does have plenty of enemies,” Nakvin said as she returned from rinsing her bloodied hands. “Since we've solved the mystery, it's time to discuss what I did bring back.”
Jaren nodded despite his misgivings. As recently as two years ago he wouldn’t have started a job with his swordarm laid up and a vengeful gunman at large. More and more, circumstances forced his hand. Within a generation the freelance trade would only live on in romantic tales.
Unless someone takes a stand, Jaren thought. For all his pragmatic talk, he saw piracy as more than just a way to cheat customs. Reconquering Tharis would send a message that might convince others to fight back. The Guild had butchered his people, including the father who’d been Jaren’s only contact with his heritage. Though Jaren himself was only half Gen, he carried the last of their blood and meant to fight till that blood was avenged or the final ounce bled from him. If you’ve got a better plan, he thought to his father’s shade, I’m all ears.
Jaren started for the door and motioned for Nakvin to follow, but Teg called after them. “I did see someone,” he confessed.
Jaren faced Teg with his arms crossed. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“For her sake,” said Teg, glancing at Nakvin.
The Steersman went rigid. Her full lips bent in a frown. “Me?”
“Yeah. It seems worth mentioning, now that we’re on the job.”
“Who did you see?” Jaren asked.
“Looked like a male model out of the Cards, except he scared the hell out of me.”
Nakvin’s posture relaxed. “You were shot by a milk-fed waif?”
Teg shook his head. “I doubt he had a part in that.”
“A customs inspector from Shabreth staking out the town?” Jaren speculated.
“Not in town,” said Teg. “And not Guild. You know the Brotherhood's dislike for all things non-human.”
Jaren exchanged a glance with Nakvin. For that moment she looked as uneasy as he felt. “He wasn’t human?” she asked.
“No way in the Nine Circles,” Teg told Nakvin. “I spotted him halfway to the horizon with a storm blowing in. The ash under his feet might as well have been solid rock. He just stood there, looking at me, till the dust took him. Gave me the jitters like I get from you sometimes—no offense.”
Silence fell and remained till Teg spoke again. “Might've been a Factor,” he said. “Freelance steersman or something.”
“Is it possible?” Jaren asked Nakvin.
“Not for a lesser Working like an aura,” she said. “Technically there’s no limit to how much prana a greater Working can use, but you’d burn your silver cord out before drawing enough to survive a dust storm.”
“Then don’t worry,” said Teg. “Nothing could walk away from that.”
“That's right,” Jaren said. He turned to leave, and Nakvin followed.
5
He was drawing closer.
Knowing neither what he sought nor where it was, he had tracked his prey in the yawning emptiness between stars. A secret eternal decree moved him toward the object whose proximity alone gave meaning to time and distance. The flow of Teth had carried him to myriad worlds left diminished by his presence. Now his search had compelled him to take ship with scofflaws. And he was drawing closer.
***
The Sunspot was unlovely even by tramp standards; her captain less circumspect toward Guild regulations than most. Yet Freigh always rose to defend his ship against accusations of piracy. “I never haul contraband,” he rebuffed his accusers. “Check the hold for yourself.” Others he invited to browse the ledger that proved his meticulous payment of customs duties.
These claims of innocence weren’t outright lies. Nor were they the whole truth, but a grey market operator who wanted to stay in business took the proper precautions. Freigh’s wrinkled face and hoary beard testified to his career’s longevity. He did his double-dealing on the fringes where an almost current Guild license and feigned forgetfulness appeased the authorities more often than not.
Freigh knew he belonged to a dying breed. He had no idea how close to death he was.
Early in the Sunspot’s current voyage, her master had started to wonder if the troubles besetting his ship were worth the scant profits. He never expected much loyalty from crew or passengers, but both groups were suffering record attrition.
Freigh had inklings about the cause of the desertions, but he kept his own counsel. He mistook inhibition for prudence when in truth fear kept him from acting. His reluctance defied years of experience which told him that not all ether lore is superstition.
Only when the cost of training a new engineer’s mate put the ship in the red did Freigh face the truth. Like it or not there was a jinx on board, and he knew who it was.
The cargo master had alerted Freigh to the steady decrease in warm bodies aboard since they'd picked up Vaun Mordechai. The reporting officer had gone missing that night. They hadn't even been in port.
The captain was still tempted to dismiss the correlation as coincidence, but something about Mordechai was just plain wrong. He’d almost turned the passenger away at their first meeting, only to falter before the blank expression frozen upon that horrid porcelain mask.
Freigh took some consolation from Mordechai’s solitary tendencies. The man mostly kept to his cabin, unless one believed the reports that had him wandering the halls like a ghost.
Left with no alterna
tive, Freigh decided to act. He marched up to Mordechai's door and stood there gathering his courage. At last, indignation trumped his dread. He was master on the Sunspot, and he wouldn't hesitate to inspect a cabin aboard his ship for fear of an eccentric recluse! His eventual knock was soft and brief.
The challenge went unanswered. Freigh turned to leave, but faint whispers filtering through the door gave him pause. Mordechai was the cabin’s only listed occupant. He should’ve been alone.
The steel hatch swung inward, pulled by a black arm that faded into the darkened room. Sterility replaced the corridor’s usual sour funk. Such cold spilled out that Freigh thought he stood before an open airlock. But no stars burned beyond that door.
The captain fancied that he peered into a mausoleum, disturbing a crouching corpse wrapped in a hooded grey cloak. Freigh saw with mounting fear that the passenger was without his death mask. Mordechai’s empty grey eyes were open, seeming like the lifeless facsimiles of a doll rather than the lights of a soul.
“The voyage has been cancelled due to lack of hands,” Freigh blurted. “I’m sure you can find alternate transport to Tharis.”
Mordechai said nothing. Dread brooded about him like a winter mist.
Freigh pulled the door shut so hastily that it slammed against the frame with a resounding crash. Again overcompensating for a misstep, the captain slunk away to the main corridor. Then he ran.
***
The master of the Sunspot awoke from a dream in which the wails of his crew filled the omnipresent blackness. Coming to himself in his darkened quarters, he breathed deeply to slow his racing pulse. The air tasted fowler than usual and chilled his sweaty skin.
Life support’s on the blink.
Something else struck Freigh as odd. It took him a moment to notice the silence. The only sounds he heard were those he made: his rapid breathing; the drumming of his heart; the whispering of sheets as he sat up in bed. There should have been other noises—the low humming of the engines, at least. It suddenly dawned on him that the Sunspot was no longer moving.