Renegades

by Thomas Locke

  10

  The prison where Sean and Dillon were kept wasn’t so bad, as far as prisons went.

  The Human Assembly’s central government occupied a peninsula that extended like a giant thumb from Serena’s largest continent. Every student and cadet knew about the prison. The place held a horrid fascination. Cliffs at the peninsula’s eastern tip were carved into thirty-three levels. The upper floors held the Justice Tribunal records and the offices of Messenger guards on prison detail. Below that stretched the disciplinary compound.

  Each floor of the prison was built around a large central commons area. So long as inmates behaved, they were permitted the run of their level. But all the doors were steel, and all the locks were on the other side.

  Sean and Dillon both spent the first two days in their bunks. They met for meals, and Dillon apologized repeatedly for getting Sean involved. After the first few times, Sean stopped responding. He hated where he was, but the isolation granted him the first chance he’d had in months to freely examine his life. And the truth was, he loathed most aspects of it.

  Before, he’d blamed his misery on Elenya. But he now came to accept that his problems ran much deeper. Sean genuinely detested the school where he’d been assigned. Kaviti was only the worst of a bad lot. The teachers were pompous, old, and set in their ways. They never said it, but Sean knew they thought being transiters granted them superiority over lesser mortals. He hated how the students adopted the professors’ attitude.

  By the end of his second day in the prison, Sean had pretty much decided that even if he and Dillon somehow managed to leave with clean records, he was not going back to the Academy.

  All the inmates on their level wore ankle clamps, making transiting impossible. He and Dillon were left entirely alone. At first Sean assumed the inmates were simply taking stock of the newcomers. But two days passed and no one spoke to them or even looked their way in the commons areas. Sean knew something bigger was at work. But Dillon seemed to remain intentionally blind to the exclusion, so Sean followed suit.

  On the third day Sean emerged from his cell to discover Dillon working out in the central hold. His practiced moves were like karate but different. Sean watched for a while, marveling at his brother’s new talent. Then he walked over and asked, “Can you teach me?”

  Dillon took his time inspecting Sean. “Are you sure you want to?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Okay, for starters, stand up straight.”

  “I am.”

  “Look at me. Head up, shoulders back, stomach in. Better. Now balance forward. No, no, you’re not going to dive out the window. Just a touch of pressure on the balls of your feet. Like a cat. Okay. Now follow my lead.”

  The practice was a bit of karate, a bit of jujitsu, and some totally off-the-wall, transit-based concepts thrown in for good measure. Dillon said the Academy simply referred to it as core combat.

  Sean kept himself in fairly good shape, running or cycling or swimming almost every day. But after an hour and a half of following Dillon’s lead, he was as exhausted as he had ever been in his entire life.

  That night, Sean woke up every time he shifted position. The ache in his muscles and his joints was awful.

  The next day was pure agony. But Dillon ignored his groans and kept him moving.

  They worked out for three hours in the morning, broke for lunch, then were at it for four more hours in the afternoon. Long sessions of stretching, breathing routines, balance, endurance. Then Dillon moved on to tactics for strike and defense.

  Hard as the routines were, Sean loved the hours spent bonding with his brother again. He relished the showers at the end of the day. He enjoyed seeing how Dillon was becoming a leader in his own right, teaching in a quiet, calm way, challenging Sean politely. Dillon’s rough edges were becoming smoothed over, honed into a warrior’s ability to show bravery even when caged for doing the right thing.

  What Dillon taught by example was the most important lesson of all. Clamping down on fear and rage and frustration. Channeling the emotions, holding them firmly in place, never allowing them to dominate. Sean was learning the unspoken warrior’s creed, and it drew him close to Dillon for the first time in over a year.

  The person who finally came to see them was a petite brunette who might have been beautiful had her expression not been so severe. She wore the grey-blue uniform of the high courts with a small gold starburst on her collar. Her short, dark hair spun like raven flax with every motion.

  “I am Advocate Cylian. You may refer to me as Advocate or ma’am. I am here to represent you.”

  Sean had witnessed a few other conversations between Advocates and prisoners. Most of the time, inmates were ushered into a glass-walled cage where they spoke to officials through screens embedded in the wall. Today, however, a pair of Messenger guards positioned themselves well back, far enough away not to overhear but close enough to rush forward in the event of trouble. Sean had not seen any other Advocate arrive with protection.

  He pointed to Cylian’s escort and asked, “Why are they here?”

  She ignored the question and led them to a table removed from all other prisoners. When Sean and Dillon were seated across from her, Cylian said, “The charges against you are extremely serious. I strongly advise you to throw yourself on the mercy of the court.”

  Sean glanced at his brother. Dillon gave a tight jerk of his chin, the signal they had used since childhood, acknowledging that Sean was on point.

  Sean turned back to the Advocate and said, “Answer my question.”

  “The guards are not important. You need to focus on the issue at hand.” Her face showed no emotion whatsoever. She might have been located a million miles away. “The crimes leveled against you carry a potential penalty of fifteen years’ internment. Our strategy should be to avoid this if possible. However, I cannot—”

  “The crimes,” Sean repeated.

  “Correct. If you—”

  “I want to ask some questions. Clarify a couple of points. Since we’re the ones accused here, I need to understand before we move forward.”

  The Advocate showed no reaction. Her face was bland as a Kabuki mask. “Ask your question, if you must.”

  “Questions,” Sean corrected. “For instance, we’ve been held here for six days without anyone telling us what we’re being accused of. I seem to recall reading for one of my classes that an Assembly prisoner must be charged at the time of imprisonment.”

  “There are extenuating circumstances in your case.”

  “Like what?”

  “They are very complicated. For the moment, you need to focus on your response to the charges. You face the tribune tomorrow.”

  Sean’s gut said that the woman was intentionally avoiding addressing his issues. As though she had come here with the aim of shepherding them.

  Dillon remained silent, watchful. Trusting his twin totally. Ready to guard his back and strike where Sean pointed. Sean liked how they were fitting back into the mold that had seen them through any number of early battles.

  As though in confirmation of his suspicions, the woman said, “Back to the charges.” She started ticking them off on her fingers. “Unlawful use of the Messenger alert. Possession of a planetary Watcher signal by an outpost civilian. Unlawful use of said device. Application of transit forces on outpost world without prior permission. Fraudulent claim of official Assembly business by an Academy cadet. And the most serious of all, unlawful use of military force on an outpost world, witnessed by civilians of said planet.”

  Sean was only partly aware of her words. His initial sense that they were being railroaded escalated to certainty.

  Cylian dropped her hands to the table. “Most of these are crimes punishable by imprisonment. Again, I strongly advise you to throw yourself on the mercy of the tribunal.”

  Sean said, “You want us to plead guilty.”

  “Precisely. You’ll spend a couple of years clamped and assigned clerk duty. Your records wil
l carry a down-check. But this would be balanced by your actions in the Lothian crisis.”

  “Back to my questions.”

  She shook her head. “Asked and answered. There is no time for nonessentials.”

  “But see, this is essential to us.”

  Her only response was to tap one finger on the table. Her nail was clipped short and polished with clear enamel.

  Sean said, “You’ve come in here assuming we’re guilty.”

  “Because you are guilty. The evidence is irrefutable.”

  Sean decided not to argue the point. “Did you volunteer for this case, or were you assigned?”

  The finger tapped once, twice. “I hardly see—”

  Dillon spoke for the first time since they had sat down. “Answer his question.”

  Cylian kept her gaze on Sean. “I was requested to take this assignment. I accepted.”

  “Who did the asking?”

  “The senior Justice assigned to your tribunal.”

  “Who is that?”

  “Really, this is hardly—” She stopped speaking because Dillon shifted forward until he looked ready to launch himself across the table. The two guards stepped toward them, then halted when she lifted her hand. “If you must know, it was Ambassador Kaviti.”

  Sean felt all the pieces swoop into place. He actually smiled.

  Dillon asked, “He’s your prof, right?”

  “Yes.” Sean asked Cylian, “You’re on his staff, aren’t you?”

  She cocked her head, as though needing to examine him from a different perspective. “I am.”

  Dillon settled back into his seat. “This just keeps getting better.”

  “Actually,” Sean said, “it does.”

  Cylian asked, “Can we return to the matter at hand?”

  “We never left it,” he replied. “It’s nice of you to visit, but we won’t be needing your services.”

  The Advocate’s response surprised Sean. He had expected her to show outrage. Be offended. Instead, a tiny flicker of something else sparked in her dark gaze. There and gone in an instant. “Are you certain?”

  Dillon said, “Thanks for stopping by.”

  She rose from the table, her gaze tightly focused on Sean. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Dillon waited until she and the guards had departed to ask, “Do you?”

  11

  Logan’s teams maintained a watch-on-watch schedule throughout the voyage, though there was nothing to guard and no enemy within reach. But the duties were important, and that night Vance and Nicolette volunteered to stand a double watch together. Logan had no interest in returning to his steel chamber or in worrying through his last hours on this vessel. So he hunkered down in the main hold, back where no one would notice, and pretended to study the Aldwyn maps. All their charts were vague when it came to the Outer Rim. Logan filled the empty reaches with his worries.

  He heard soft voices, and the tone surprised him. His two officers had snapped and quarreled for the entire journey. Until this moment, when he heard Nicolette say, “I should not have condemned you for what is your nature.”

  Logan heard their footsteps come closer, then halt just beyond his alcove. He held his breath, intent on not allowing his presence to disturb their conversation.

  “You are a stronger person than I will ever be,” Vance replied.

  Nicolette asked, “What brought that on?”

  “I have wanted to apologize since the day we met in the commandant’s office. I was wrong to treat you as I did. You are far too good to be anyone’s plaything.”

  “Most women are,” she said.

  “You will forgive me if I speak only of you. To include all womankind would . . .”

  “Leave you bereft and your life empty of purpose?”

  “Something like that,” Vance said. “I think in part I went after you like I did . . .”

  “And then cast me aside like an empty plate,” Nicolette added, but the bitterness for once was absent. “Like a meal enjoyed and then forgotten.”

  “All that,” Vance said. “I knew you were better than me. I knew . . .”

  Logan’s left leg itched so fiercely it trembled. He felt an overpowering urge to sneeze. He stifled both as best he could and did not move.

  “My family comes from the mountain fastness east of the capitol,” Nicolette said. “My forebears were clan leaders whose lands were swallowed by the Aldeans.”

  “Like Logan’s clan, the Hawk Fief,” Vance said, the surprise clear in his voice.

  “Only our defeat was done in gentlemanly fashion. The Aldean warriors surrounded our lands. They invited my great-grandfather to join them in an alliance, which was a polite way of saying that either he agreed or they would not leave even the bones.”

  “I did not know this,” Vance said.

  “No reason you should. When I was a child, my grandmother sang to me the songs Logan spoke of tonight. I had not thought of them in years. Of men who defeated dragons, and humans who ruled a world where before they had been hunted for sport. Of ghost-walkers and their tragic end. Of Assassins and kings with bloodlust and a vicious desire to crush their neighbors. I heard my grandmother’s voice as Logan addressed the troops. It seemed as though she spoke to me.”

  “Will you tell me what she said?”

  “She whispered that we might emerge victorious. But only if each of us does the impossible.”

  It seemed to Logan as though Vance had become as frozen as he.

  Nicolette went on, “My first challenge, she said, was to forget the past and focus upon the future. Which is why I offer you the hand of friendship.”

  “I am honored,” Vance said.

  “And I, for one, am glad to have you at my back,” Nicolette replied.

  Logan waited until they continued on their rounds. Then he slipped unseen from his corner, padded quietly to his chamber, and slept, and did not dream.

  Logan had never known a full-scale battle. The border skirmishes he had survived had been fierce enough to cost the lives of men, and that was close enough to understand the flavor of combat. He tasted it the next morning and saw it in the eyes of his team. The soldiers were stiff and sullen, the civilians fearing a storm they could not name. He ordered a final training and directed Vance and Nicolette to go hard on any slackers. But they performed well, his crews, and he knew they were as ready as he could make them.

  They gathered in the dining hall afterward, the air tense with the knowledge that their waiting was almost over. The hold had no windows. Since liftoff they had lived according to the Outer Rim cycle, as well as it was known. Their dining hall was a comfortable enough place, with space for three times their number. They had turned one section by the kitchen into a sort of ready room. Equipment and unused bedding formed cushions. There was no rank here, and little discipline.

  Vance was sprawled on his back in the corner. He lifted his head far enough to eye Logan and ask, “Why can’t you shift?”

  Sidra, the former rat-faced child, had grown into a sharp-edged woman with spiked hair and a great love of body art. “We don’t like that word.”

  “I meant no offense,” Vance said.

  “Just the same, you should know better than to use it. The term is offensive.”

  According to the legends, ghost-walkers who had become turncoats to their own kind and allied themselves to the Assassins had been known as Shifters. Logan had related the old tales to his crew. Added to this were Sidra’s nerves. Logan knew tension took her back to the bad old days.

  Nicolette saved him from needing to speak. “Our survival depends on trust. The best trust is between friends. Friends give allowances. Even when it costs.”

  Logan saw Vance nod to his fellow officer. This new harmony between them filled Logan with an uncommon sense of hope. He replied, “To answer your question, I’ve tried to ghost-walk. Sidra worked with me for months. I never could.”

  Sidra eased back against the wall. “The legends speak of
his kind. The ones who find us. Or did.”

  “My kind were the first to become Shifters,” Logan said. “They were rewarded with palaces and titles. My kind hunted, the Assassins killed.”

  Nicolette shifted her gaze, and Logan saw the question there in her eyes. He waited for her to ask if his own clan had possessed the talent and become traitors. The answer was, he suspected this but had found no record. But Nicolette returned her gaze to Vance and left the words unspoken. Logan breathed easier.

  Vance asked Sidra, “That first time, how did you know what to do?”

  She pointed her chin at Logan. “He told me. I was nine and starving. I thought he was a nightwalker come to steal my breath. But he had fed me for months, and he had found me shelter. So I listened. Though he frightened me terribly.”

  “I had just turned ten,” Logan recalled. “Most nights I slept in the scullery where my mother could protect me, for there were predators in the merchant clan. In my heart I knew I was just one step away from where Sidra was.”

  “Logan did not know what to tell me,” Sidra went on. “Only that I should try to move without walking.”

  “I sensed this ability she didn’t even know she had,” Logan said. “And then for weeks after, I had a recurring dream. It was exactly what happened.”

  “I trusted him enough to try, though I thought he was insane.” Sidra smiled. “It was the finest day of my life.”

  Logan saw grins from his team, even the most frightened. They all remembered their first outing.

  Vance admitted, “I would like to try that more than anything.”

  “We have offered,” Logan said. “Many times.”

  “I haven’t accepted because the prospect terrifies me.” There were nods from many of the soldiers, and Vance asked, “Does it hurt?”

  “Not for me,” Nicolette replied. “Not yet.”

  Logan replied, “I’ve done it a hundred times and more. And I’m still scared. But never is there any discomfort. I take their hand, I step forward with them, and I am there.”