by Chris Fox
“Really?” Aran asked, grinning. He folded his arms, enjoying the moment. “From where I’m standing you’re about to be boarded by the local navy. Me? I’ve been kidnapped. You? You’re a slaver. I like my chances.”
“Do you?” Nara barked out a short laugh. “You don’t know the Confederates, not like I do. They won’t pat you on the head and put you back where we found you. They’ll trump up a charge, a reason to arrest you. Then they’ll mind-wipe the lot of us and drop us into the Confederate Marines.”
Aran studied her, trying to determine if she was lying. He knew she was capable of deception, but her fear didn’t seem feigned. Either she were even better at this than he’d assumed, or these Confederates were as bad as she was.
“Let’s say I believe you. What is it you think I could do to help?” Aran asked. “I’m unarmed, remember?”
“Point taken. Give him his weapon back.” She nodded to Scowly, who grudgingly offered Aran his spellblade.
Aran hefted the weapon, which thrummed with eagerness. “I still don’t know what you expect me to do. That ship is large enough to have a full company of Marines, assuming they don’t just disintegrate us. If they want to take us down, they will.”
“I realize our odds aren’t good,” Nara said, “but we still have a chance. I expect you to stand with us. I expect you to—”
A deep boom came from the cargo bay. There was a quick whoosh of escaping atmosphere, then relative silence.
“They’ve sealed their docking tube.” The words came from Aran’s mouth, but had come of their own accord. He’d never seen a docking tube, and certainly couldn’t recognize one from sound. It alarmed him that parts of his mind were functional still, but that he couldn’t access them in a meaningful way.
Aran gave his spellblade an experimental twirl, pleased with the weight. The weapon was lighter now, and speed often mattered more than force when delivering a spell. “If they’re following standard procedure, they’ll send a company of tech mages. They’ll be wearing spellarmor, so conventional arms will be useless.”
“How do you know that?” Scowly demanded, shaking her head. She turned to Nara. “I don’t like this, not one bit. No one resists a mind-wipe, not to that degree. How does he still know stuff?”
“I don’t know,” Aran snapped. “What I do know is these Confederates are approaching, right now. There’s only one choke point between them and us. We hold that point, or we lose. It’s that simple.”
“He’s right,” Nara said, a quaver of weariness in her voice. “Hepha, take up a position behind the console.”
Nara hurried to the matrix, stepping behind the rotating rings. Smart play. The invading Marines weren’t likely to risk firing a spell at the matrix, and a conventional round would be deflected by the rings.
Aran surveyed the room, finally deciding on a position right inside the doorway. He stood to the right, ready to assault the first person through. Then he hesitated. What if Nara was playing him again? What if the Marines were the good guys, and would simply free him while imprisoning her?
Scowly—Hepha—seemed to share Nara’s fear, but then she was also a slaver. Even if they were the good guys, would that save him? How could he prove his story? Would they believe he was merely a slave, or assume he was just another slaver protesting his innocence?
Heavy footsteps pounded on the catwalk outside, approaching quickly. Aran tensed and reached for the well of energy inside him. As he’d done with Yorrak, Aran summoned crackling purple lightning; the spell flowed from his hand and up the blade.
A bulky, armored figure flashed into view, and Aran struck. He rammed the blade toward his opponent’s chest; the figure met the sword with a shimmering blue-white spellshield. The purple lightning flowed harmlessly around it, dissipating into wisps.
The armor brushed a memory somewhere deep in Aran’s subconscious. He recognized the sleek grey curves and the shoulder mounted grav thrusters; the rifle’s short, thick stock was familiar. Spell amplification sigils orbited the end of the barrel, feeding magical energy into the weapon.
His opponent raised the rifle, and Aran reacted instinctively, shooting out a hand and tapping the well of energy again. That well had diminished, and it receded further as he summoned the spell. The power fueling it was different than Xal—less destructive, and more elemental.
A blue-white glow built within the barrel as the weapon prepared to discharge a spell—a lightning bolt, Aran guessed. His heart thudded as the enemy’s rifle came level with his face.
Tendrils of wind shot from Aran’s palm. They wrapped around the rifle, jerking the barrel up. A bolt of jagged blue lightning crackled harmlessly over Aran’s shoulder and flowed into the pitted steel bulkhead above.
Aran yanked his arm back, and the tendrils ripped the rifle from the armored hand and into his own. He snapped the rifle to his shoulder and stroked the trigger. The weapon reached forcibly into Aran’s well, tearing out a chunk of raw power. It didn’t seem to distinguish, drinking equally from Xal and from the part Aran that had summoned the lightning against the demons.
A dark purple bolt shot from the barrel, slamming into the armored figure. The enemy lurched back and crashed into the wall behind him. Aran tried to follow up, but another armored figure plunged into the room. This one was taller and broader, its armored shoulders sending up sprays of sparks as they scraped the ceiling.
“Drop it, zero,” a voice boomed from the armor. A spellcannon with a barrel wider than Aran’s face swung into position.
“Okay.” Aran dropped the rifle, then became very still.
Two more suits of spellarmor sprinted into the room, the first distinguished by an enormous metal hammer that looked like it could splatter him all over the deck. The other armor was smaller, and carried a pair of spellgauntlets, similar to what Yorrak had used.
“I think he’s goin’ to wet himself,” a female voice piped up from the armor carrying the hammer. Aran didn’t recognize the lilting accent. “In fact, I think he might’ve already done it.”
“Oh, thank Shaya, it’s the Confederate Marines,” Nara called, stepping out from behind the matrix. She’d somehow found time to remove her spellarmor, stripping down to a plain black jumpsuit. There was no sign of her spellpistol, and her hair was rumpled. She’d even added a tear down the middle of her suit, exposing a hint of cleavage. “Please, don’t let them hurt me any more. I just want to go home.” A single tear slid down her cheek. It was masterfully done.
“Wow, you are even better than I thought,” Aran muttered, both impressed and irked at having been played. “Well played.”
“You traitorous bitch,” Hepha roared, rising from cover and aiming her spellpistol at Nara.
She made it two steps before the spellcannon covering Aran moved to track her. A subsonic whine made him wince, then the cannon fired a large glob of magma. Hepha’s brief scream was cut off as her smoking corpse tumbled to the rusting deck.
The stench of burnt meat billowed out, and Aran looked away—right into the face of the armored foe he’d stripped the rifle from. He couldn’t see the man’s—or woman’s—face under the mirrored helmet, but imagined they were pretty pissed about losing their weapon. That person also seemed to be the one in charge, based on the body language of the others.
“Sergeant Crewes,” in charge guy said, his voice crisply accented. Different from the lilting accent, “escort these two pirates to the brig, then inform the major we have prisoners. Have Corporal Kezia and Specialist Bord keep searching the vessel. It’s possible they’ve got a bolthole somewhere. If Kazon is here, I want him found.”
“Sir, if the target were here, they’d have kept him on the bridge,” boomed the man who’d roasted Scowly—Sergeant Crewes, Aran assumed. His armor was larger than the rest, and he was the only one carrying a spellcannon.
“I may not agree with the major’s use of Confederate resources,” the crisply accented man groused, “but that does not mean we disobey orders. We search this vessel, top to b
ottom. Find Kazon. If you can’t, I want you to be able to say with certainty that he isn’t aboard.”
Aran had the feeling he’d picked the wrong guy to disarm.
“Move. Now.” In charge guy shoved Aran hard, and Aran staggered to the doorway then recovered, walking quickly back toward the cargo hold. Nara trailed after, still pleading her innocence.
And here he’d thought things couldn’t get any worse.
9
Complications
Voria swept into the brig, resting her spellstave against the wall near the entrance. There were six cells, each ringed with glowing black bars whose void energy was silent and somehow menacing. Only two adjacent cells were occupied, one containing a disheveled woman and the other a calm, hard-eyed man.
Unfortunately, the man wasn’t Kazon. She’d been so certain it would be. The Tender herself had promised she’d find him here. It was possible to fake magics, even an augury, but why go to the enormous trouble, or expense? It seemed far more likely she simply hadn’t found him yet—or so she hoped.
“There were only two survivors?” she demanded, stopping next to Sergeant Crewes. He still wore his spellarmor, but had removed the helmet, exposing his dark face.
“Only two confirmed, sir,” Crewes rumbled. He looked uncomfortable. “I killed a third, as she was threatening another prisoner.”
“I’m sure the response was warranted,” Voria allowed. “Where is Thalas?”
“The captain is scouring the ship for additional survivors. He’s already encountered three others. They fought back, and were neutralized. None matched Kazon’s description.” Crewes nodded at the disheveled woman. “She claims she was a prisoner of the pirates, and seems cooperative.”
“What about the man?” Voria asked, turning her attention back to him.
The hard-eyed man studied her, his gaze calculating. He was tall, just shy of two meters. His broad shoulders spoke of physical training, and she noted callouses on both hands. He was arguably handsome—a strong chin, dark hair framing a pair of clear grey eyes—but not in the delicate way of her own people.
She knew his face intimately. After all, she’d seen it often enough while watching the augury. Voria still had no idea who he was, only that he was critical in the confrontation with the Krox.
“He hasn’t said anything yet,” Crewes said, then shrugged his armored shoulders. “To be fair, I didn’t ask him anything. He was carrying a spellblade, and conventional armor. We added both to the lockup.”
“I’m standing right here,” the man said, rising and moving to stand near the bars. “If you have a question, I’m happy to answer it.” He folded impressively muscled arms, staring at her with complete confidence, as if he were in charge of the situation.
Voria didn’t focus on him, choosing instead to study the woman out of the corner of her eye. She appeared innocent enough, and might be what she claimed. In Voria’s experience, though, that was unlikely—and even if it were accurate, it didn’t change what Voria needed to do.
“I’m looking for a tall man with a thick, black beard,” Voria said, approaching the first cell. She stopped right outside the bars, looked evenly at the man inside. “Do you know what happened to him?”
“Yes.”
Voria stifled her hope. Perhaps the Tender had been right after all. “And? Is he alive?”
The man nodded at Crewes. “He called you Major,” he said. “I’m guessing that means you’re in charge here, right? My name’s Aran. I’m happy to cooperate, as soon as you free me.”
“I’m afraid that’s not how things are going to work,” Voria explained. “You’ll be tried, and if found guilty you’ll be sentenced.” She cocked her head, watching Aran closely. “If you cooperate, it may improve your situation.”
“All right,” Aran said. “I have nothing to hide.” He shot a glance at the disheveled woman, and his eyes narrowed. “She, on the other hand, is hiding a great deal. I woke up a few hours ago to find I’d been mind-wiped. This Kazon you’re after? He called himself Kaz, but he was the same man. He and I were forced to make a run at the Catalyst out there—the Skull of Xal. That woman, Nara, and some others used us as a distraction to sneak their way to the Catalyst, while demons slaughtered us. When we emerged, she mutinied against the slaver who owned the ship, a true mage named Yorrak. I don’t know who I am, much less where I was when she found me. What I do know is I’ve done nothing wrong, and you have no reason to imprison me.”
“Did Kazon survive the Catalyst?” Voria demanded, then moderated her tone. If she showed no empathy, this man would have no reason to work with her. “We’ll deal with your situation in a moment. For now, I need to know what happened to Kazon.”
“He survived,” Aran said, “in a manner of speaking.” He reached for a pouch on his belt and Voria tensed, preparing to sketch a sigil if he removed anything threatening. Crewes should have taken that pouch. She’d have to chastise him privately.
Aran withdrew a wriggling black form from inside the pouch. The creature snapped at his finger, growling.
“Is that…a hedgehog?” Voria asked, raising an eyebrow.
“The slaver I mentioned? He ’morphed your friend right before I finished him,” Aran explained. “If you’ve got some way to restore him, then Kazon can corroborate my story. He saw all the same things I did.”
“Interesting,” Voria said. She sketched a sigil in the air, then added a second. The hedgehog glowed, a soft, velvety green. “It appears you may be telling the truth. You’re absolutely certain the man matches Kazon’s description? He had a beard, and was very tall?”
“Positive.” Aran nodded. “It’s him.”
She extended a hand through the bars, and Aran set the hedgehog on her palm. She sketched a quick sigil, and the hedgehog yawned, then curled up, snoring softly.
“If this is indeed Kazon, then I owe you a debt, one I’m unfortunately unable to repay right now.” Voria heaved a regretful sigh.
“Unable to repay? What in the depths does that mean?” the man snarled, his gaze growing dangerous. He stalked the length of the bars like a caged cat, glaring at Voria.
For a moment, she almost took a step back. “As commanding officer of this vessel,” Voria intoned, using her judge’s voice, “I hereby convene your trial. Aran, tech mage of Xal, you have come illegally to a dangerous Catalyst, and exposed yourself to its energies. I find you guilty of the crime of theft of magic. Normally the sentence is death, but I will commute that sentence in exchange for a term of enlistment in the Confederate Marine Corp.”
“What?” Aran roared. Voria could feel the power stirring in him, singing its strength. The man had been to several Catalysts, perhaps more. “I just told you I was innocent. I had no choice. It was either brave the Catalyst or die.”
“All true,” Voria allowed, nodding. “But the fact remains that you committed a crime. The correct thing, from a legal perspective, would have been to die fighting your captors. I realize it isn’t fair, Aran. I apologize. I didn’t write the law, but I’m sworn to uphold it.”
“A law which exists to give you more soldiers,” the disheveled woman snarled, finally joining the conversation. She rose suddenly and approached the bars of her cell. Her beauty remained, but she dropped the innocence in favor of dignified grace. “You’ll take any excuse to erase our identities, and toss us into the meat grinder you call a military.”
“You’re not wrong.” Voria’s lips firmed into a tight line. “This isn’t fair to either of you, and I understand that. But it is legal. You’re both mages now. That makes you powerful weapons, and the Confederacy needs every bit of your power.”
“Why?” Aran asked suspiciously. “What’s so terrifying that you justify enslaving people and sending them to die?”
“The Krox,” Voria answered soberly. “They devour worlds. Last year, we lost Vakera. Two years before that, we lost Starn. Over a half dozen smaller colonies have been overrun in the last month. If their advance is not stopped,
then Ternus will be the next to fall. And after that, finally, Shaya itself. The Krox are coming, and if they are not stopped none of us will survive.”
“And he’s going to stop them somehow?” Aran asked, nodding at the sleeping hedgehog in her palm.
“No,” Voria explained, eyeing him frostily. “The Confederacy can’t afford the men and material needed to fight this war. We’re understaffed, and underfunded. This hedgehog is going to purchase the weapons we’ll use to fight.”
She turned away from the cell and strode out of the brig. Crewes executed a crisp salute, and she returned it as she passed.
She needed to find a way to dispel the ’morph. This far out, a true mage of sufficient strength would be difficult to locate. There was an option, if she were willing to take it—though Thalas would never let her hear the end of it.
It was time to pay a visit to the Drifters. They charge her dearly, but if anyone could solve her dilemma it would be them.
10
Told You So
Aran slowly sat on the metal bench. The bench was the only thing in the cell, other than a rusted toilet that looked like a wonderful way to acquire tetanus. The other cells, including Nara’s, were identical.
“I told you,” Nara growled through the bars, glaring at him. “I told you they’re just going to mind-wipe us, and press us into service.”
“So, what, I lose the last twenty-four hours and start over?” Aran asked dryly. “I don’t see how my situation is any worse, and I’m still not sure why I should care about yours. You used me, remember? Twice. And you were going to sell me into slavery to fund your crappy little starship. Let’s not forget that part.”
“No I wasn’t,” she snapped, pacing back and forth while she furiously combed the fingers of one hand through her hair. “I needed those fools to believe it, but you were the most competent in that entire lot. You and I could have run the ship, and lived like kings. Those others? A means to an end.”