Table of Contents
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Afterword
Glossary
Girl of Blood
The Expulsion Project Book Three
Norma Hinkens
Dunecadia Publishing
Contents
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Afterword
Glossary
Preface
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1
The mission to liberate Cwelt was a ruse.
Syndicate fleet Captain Monrovix’s words detonate inside my head like a sonic boom deep beneath a murky ocean.
Velkan, Phin, Ayma and I stare blankly at one another. The euphoria of everything we had just accomplished on Mhakerta evaporates as we approach Aristozonex and the staggering news sinks in. Parthelon, my father’s trusted advisor, struck a deal with the Maulers, gave them dargonite mining rights on Cwelt, and then helped them ambush the Syndicate fleet.
Parthelon is now the chieftain of my beloved Cwelt. How is this possible? And what has happened to my father and my people? My chest feels hollow inside, gouged of all feeling.
Velkan leans over and brushes his lips to my forehead. “We’ll figure this out, just like we did on Mhakerta. Everything’s going to be okay, Trattora.”
I don’t respond because the illusion is a whole lot less frightening than the truth. It takes all my control to keep my tears at bay. I’m drowning in guilt. I wasn’t there for my father—my chieftain—when he needed me most. And, true to his twisted form, Parthelon wasted no time seizing the opportunity to take the reins from both of us.
Ayma lines up the stealth fighter to dock on Aristozonex and taps a switch on the digital control panel to activate the landing gear.
“What’s going to happen to us?” I ask, frowning at the teeming port looming in front of us. For now, at least, I need to set aside my fears about what’s happening on Cwelt. The more immediate problem facing us is how to explain to the Syndicate why we stole their stealth fighter.
“They’ll interrogate us, at a minimum,” Phin says, scanning the soldiers lined up along the edge of the landing pad, holding the crowds at bay. “As a member of the military, I’ll likely face charges for assisting you in absconding with a ship.”
“If they separate us, use your MicroComms to stay in touch,” Ayma says.
I touch my ear distractedly to make sure my implanted communicator is in place, wondering how we are going to contact Buir and Ghil. They might have gone into hiding after the Fleet Commander was assassinated. I don’t know for sure if they stayed on Aristozonex, or even if Ghil’s still alive.
A bevy of heavily armed, black-leather-clad soldiers swarm silently over the stealth fighter like worker ants when we set down in the militarized zone. Flags fly at half-mast from every building, and an enormous portrait of the Fleet Commander rests against an easel in a roped-off area of the station. My stomach twists as the reality hits home that Parthelon, one of my own people, is responsible for the Fleet Commander’s untimely death.
“They’ve sent the elite squad to ferry us to wherever we’re going,” Phin mutters. “The Syndicate has designated this a high-priority situation.”
I’d like to think the Syndicate is here to escort Ayma, the Fleet Commander’s daughter, to her home, but Phin’s tone does nothing to reassure me that their intentions are genial.
The icy bite in the evening air when we disembark is a fitting accompaniment to our chilly reception and the silence that falls over the crowd as they set eyes on us for the first time. No one here is celebrating our victory over Preeminence. The scent of death is in the air. Fear fingers its way down my spine.
Along with Ayma, Phin and Velkan, I allow myself to be stripped of my weapons and escorted across the crowded dock to a military LevAuto waiting to whisk us to the Syndicate headquarters for the inevitable showdown. I hold my head high, even though I’m sick inside at what Parthelon did. I had no part in it, but I must do everything in my power to assure the Syndicate that he will be held accountable. Armed guards observe us as we march by. Their expressions are unreadable behind their masks, but I sense their hostility reaching out to me like poisonous tentacles. My chest tightens. Aristozonex has lost its Fleet Commander—assassinated on my planet—which makes me an easy target for their festering resentment.
My head swims with confusion and uncertainty, not to mention fear of the backlash that awaits us for absconding with the stealth fighter. The only small point in our favor is that it was the Fleet Commander’s daughter who stole the ship. The Syndicate will hardly dare do more than reprimand her under the tragic circumstances of her father’s demise.
I steel myself for interrogation as we are led up the steps of the heavily fortified Syndicate headquarters and into an imposing hall, bedecked with more flags at half-mast. Judgement will come down on us within these walls, but for what crimes, I’m not sure. Somehow, I must convince an incensed Syndicate to come to Cwelt’s aid again and avenge their Fleet Commander’s death by helping me depose Parthelon. And that means convincing them that I was innocent of any plot to lure their fleet into a trap.
When Captain Monrovix first relayed the shocking news that Parthelon is operating in an official capacity as Cwelt’s chieftain, my gut instinct was to abandon this landing on Aristozonex and chart a course straight to Cwelt with every intention of ripping Parthelon’s head from his shoulders. But Velkan talked me out of any rash attempt to counteract the coup. If Parthelon really ousted my father and made a deal with the Maulers, we will need a carefully thought-out strategy to infiltrate Cwelt and reinstate my father to his rightful position. And we will need the Syndicate’s support.
I try not to dwell on another possibility that keeps rearing its ugly
head—that my father was killed when the Maulers attacked Cwelt and that Parthelon was voted in by the elders to succeed him in my absence. My stomach heaves at the thought of my nemesis taking my rightful seat on the Cweltan throne. If Parthelon took control legitimately, my people may not be so willing to transfer power to me when I reappear. And then there’s the question of the Maulers. What exactly did Parthelon promise them? Are we indentured servants on our own planet now?
“Ayma!” A tall woman with impossibly high cheekbones, luminescent skin, and raven hair, strides toward us with a well-oiled air of authority, her gleaming, black boots clipping the sterile, tile floor in her wake. She grasps Ayma by the arms and stares into her face for a long moment, a distraught expression in her wide, green eyes. “Your father—”
“I know,” Ayma replies, her shoulders slumping.
I exchange a scant sidelong look with Velkan, a sickening feeling creeping through my limbs. This must be the Fleet Commander’s widow.
The woman’s caustic gaze settles on me like a sudden frost, her pale forehead rippling into an accusatory frown. She releases her grip on Ayma.
“You! You’re the traitor who talked my husband into that fated raid on your wretched planet.” She takes a step closer, the sound of her heel echoing through the hush that has fallen in the hall. “You knew your people had sworn fealty to the Maulers before you sent my husband to his grave on Cwelt! Make no mistake, you will be held accountable for his death and the death of every soldier lost to Aristozonex that day.”
“No! I—”
“Silence!” Her eyes bore hatred into every pore of my body, and the soldiers on either side of me tighten their painful grip on my arms.
“Do not address me again unless spoken to,” she snaps. “You will have ample opportunity to explain your actions and despicable cowardice to the Chancery.”
I gulp back the bile creeping up my throat as I realize what is happening. They’re going to prosecute me for the Fleet Commander’s death. Ayma’s mother is a judge on the Supreme Chancery—the ruling body of the Syndicate. If anyone is in a position to incriminate me, it’s the Fleet Commander’s widow, and no one has more reason to want to. My knees rattle beneath me and, but for the soldiers’ grip, I fear I might collapse. Surely, she doesn’t believe I knew about Parthelon’s deal with the Maulers. But the Syndicate needs a scapegoat. Maybe she doesn’t care what I knew. I throw a desperate glance at Ayma, my only ally on Aristozonex, but her mother signals to the guards to usher her from the room.
Phin bows and addresses Ayma’s mother. “Justice Kuberev, I implore you,” he begins, but the guard to his left strikes him across the mouth, silencing him before he can finish what he wanted to say. I grimace at the thin trickle of blood that dribbles down from the corner of his lip. If they won’t even listen to Phin, they’re certainly not going to give me a chance to explain my actions.
Justice Kuberev fastens her gaze on Phin, her green eyes slits of loathing. Her whole body trembles with fury, undoubtedly heightened by raw grief. “As for you, you treasonous coward, my husband pulled you from the gutter and primed you like his own son to lead the military in his wake one day. And this is how you betray him—absconding with the stealth fighter and his daughter.”
“I sought only to protect Ayma,” Phin protests.
“You abandoned your post and your Fleet Commander when he needed you most!” Justice Kuberev spits at him, a nerve twitching in her alabaster cheek. “Now, he’s dead, and the fleet wasn’t even able to recover his body. Believe me, I will make it my personal mission to ensure that you are prosecuted to the fullest extent of Syndicate military law for your extensive list of crimes: insubordination, dereliction of duty, desertion, fraud, theft, abduction—don’t think for one moment you will convince the Chancery that you were protecting my daughter.”
Phin meets her gaze, unflinching, but something in his eyes tells me she just pronounced his death sentence.
Justice Kuberev takes a ragged breath and flexes her fingers, as if to restrain herself from lunging at Phin and gouging out his eyes, before turning her attention to Velkan. She balls her fists on her hips, arches an appraising brow, and slowly runs a disdainful eye over him like she’s gutting a kill. “We all know the punishment for fugitive serfs. You do not even merit the Chancery’s time.” She folds her arms across her chest and drums her gloved fingers impatiently. “However, unlike rudimentary settlements such as Cwelt, Aristozonex is a civilized planet, a leader of galactic nations in the process of law, among other things. For that reason, you will be given the opportunity to stand trial in front of the requisite witnesses to ensure your execution is sanctioned.”
No! The air leaves my lungs as comprehension dawns. Velkan’s fate has already been determined. I struggle in vain with the masked guards pinning my arms to my sides. Everything inside me screams at Justice Kuberev, but only a strangled gurgle escapes my lips. She turns and sweeps from the room, followed by a train of guards and android attendees, before I have a chance to throw myself to my knees and beg for Velkan’s life. I would willingly abandon my dignity in half a heartbeat if I thought it would save him. I turn to look at him, reading the grim resignation in his expression. Tears that I tried to pretend weren’t building trickle freely down my face as two guards secure Velkan between them and march him toward the door.
“Stay strong, Trattora!” he calls to me before he is dragged from the room.
Panic courses through me as I crumble inside, no longer a fortress of stone, no more now than ruins that offer shelter to none. I claw at my mind for some way to end this nightmare. “Phin!” I scream, angling my head to peer past the guard blocking him from my view. “Can’t you do something?”
The look he returns me is one of deep regret. Nonetheless, he appeals to a squat guard with a blond thatch of hair standing next to him. “Branthorx! If our friendship meant anything to you, at least tell us where they are taking him.”
Branthorx shuffles his feet and shoots a glance in the direction of the door Justice Kuberev departed through, as though deliberating where his allegiance lies. When he answers, his husky voice is so low I strain to hear him. “They’re taking him to a holding unit for now. Our orders are to postpone all trials and executions until after the Fleet Commander’s funeral.”
“When is the funeral scheduled to take place?” Phin asks, his tone urgent but commanding as ever.
“This afternoon,” Branthorx mutters, tugging on Phin’s arm to move him toward the door.
“Wait!” I call out. “There were two guests staying at the Fleet Commander’s house—Buir and Ghil. I need to talk to them. Do you know where they are?”
Branthorx narrows his eyes at me. “You may have fooled Phin into helping you, but you are no friend of mine. You are a terrorist in the eyes of Aristozonex, and I will do nothing to aid your agenda.” He motions to the guards holding my arms. “Take her to a holding unit.”
I kick and squirm, and protest until my throat is raw, but all my efforts to break free are fruitless. Forced at last into submission by an ElektroProd, I dangle listlessly from the guards’ arms, staring down at the Syndicate insignia mosaics on the tile floor as they drag me from the room and down a long, gleaming hallway. They confiscate my CipherSync and toss me into a tiny, white, egg-shaped unit devoid of any furnishings, where my screams become mocking echoes only I can hear.
When I recover sufficiently from the effects of the ElektroProd, I slap at the viewing glass, but my efforts do nothing to attract the attention of the lone guard stationed in the corridor. The intercom system can only be activated from outside the unit, so I can’t make my voice heard unless they decide to turn it on.
Exhausted, I slide to the floor of the unit and drop my head in my hands. Can this really be happening after everything we’ve been through? I knew there would be ramifications for stealing the stealth fighter, but I never imagined I would be held accountable for the Fleet Commander’s death, or that Phin would be accused of abduct
ing Ayma, or that Velkan … I gulp back a sob. How did they find out he was a serf?
Someone betrayed us.
My mind churns through the few possibilities. Minder Brivardo? Stefanov? Perhaps both of them. I should have known better than to trust any dark market players. And we should never have returned to Aristozonex. I punch the glass in frustration. My people need me now more than ever, but I can do nothing for them as long as I’m trapped here.
I rake my fingertips through my hair. My thoughts gravitate again to Ghil and Buir. This doesn’t bode well for them either. I doubt Justice Kuberev let them stay on in her house after her husband was murdered on Cwelt. My throat tightens as a terrible notion occurs to me. What if they have been executed? That would explain why Branthorx didn’t want to get involved when I asked about them. From what I’ve seen of Justice Kuberev so far, I wouldn’t put it past her to avenge the Fleet Commander’s death in a fit of rage. No Cweltan is safe from her fury in the wake of this disastrous turn of events. I take a rasping breath, the thought tormenting my frayed nerves. I only hope that Buir and Ghil fled Aristozonex before she got to them. I’m desperate for answers but it’s unlikely the guards will part with any information to a terrorist. I try to activate my MicroComm, but no one responds.
I sink back down to the floor and close my eyes, flinching when the guard’s voice comes over the intercom. “You have a visitor.”
Scrambling to my feet, I hurry over to the viewing glass. Shock mingled with relief hits me at the sight of Ayma approaching, accompanied by one of her household guards. Despite her fresh attire—tight-fitting black pants and an embroidered military cape over a simple, white shirt—her face is hauntingly pale, contrasting with the dark half-moons beneath her eyes. She reaches out a shaky hand to the intercom and flicks it on. When she speaks, her voice is surprisingly steady.
Girl of Blood: A Science Fiction Dystopian Novel (The Expulsion Project Book 3) Page 1