Cassiel Winters 1: Sky's End

by Lesley Young

  I’m not myself. Maybe I’ll never be myself again.

  I keep fighting bursts of panic to flee. There is nowhere to go! Funny when the rational part of your brain argues for the most dangerous alternative. Stand your ground. Face your enemy. Is that what courage is?

  The room itself is quite stunning, wavy round, lots of metallic framework, only some softer materials on the chairs and walls I can’t quite identify. The fabrics seem lush and iridescent, like sparkly velvet, but different. This room’s definitely designed for living rather than a specific function or purpose. In the middle, there’s an inset circle with various seats that all have a subtle wave shape, at least I think they are seats, and behind that a raised area with a gorgeous table, just that like the one in Dark Eyes’ home, or at least the one he claimed to take me to in symbiosis. Beyond the table is true art, a row of tall windows that lead up to the ceiling, but these windows show space, real space, not an artificial scene.

  My heart sinks. By the streaks of light, I bet we are traveling at 40,000 light years per minute. So far from home! I tear my eyes away from it and stare at my bare, cold feet, squishing a smidge in the floor with each step. Yup, organic material in their ship for sure. Shoes would have been nice.

  The room’s unbearably quiet as Green Eyes leads me to the inset area. I focus on walking. I’m no longer dizzy but the attack has left me weak. Vulnerable. Exposed. I may as well be naked in this dress! The four Thell’eon have shifted positions and are standing at various staggered distances below me. I like this because they appear smaller, even though it’s because I’m standing two steps up.

  I look down at them finally, trying to maintain a stony expression.

  Yup, very intimidating.

  Funny, two of them are no more attractive than an average human male, though they certainly have Thell’eon stature and interesting faces. I dwell on them for only a moment. They take in my assets and my face unabashed. It’s hard to read their expressions.

  Oh, wait. Disappointment?

  Yup, they are definitely disappointed. I stare back down at my feet.

  Okay. This is disconcerting in a wholly unexpected way.

  I look up to my right and bam! Dark Eyes. He’s donned in weapons from head to toe, staring at my dress. When our eyes meet, my face floods with heat and I look away quickly. His scent, his tongue probing my mouth, his roaming hands, all comes rushing back. How could it feel so real? How could you do that, Cassiel?

  Green Eyes drops my arm. I watch him move to a pile of metal, weapons?, near one of the chairs. Yup. Definitely weapons. He begins to put them on. Why?

  I glance nervously at the remaining Counsel Kir, crossing my arms loosely around me. He’s standing back a bit and to the side with a drink in his hand. Wow. He’s LV star good-looking; flashy, glamorous, except for the shaved head, markings, and fighting scars. A girl’s normal reaction to someone this striking is for her heart to skip a beat, but that’s not why mine does. He’s checking me out with utter disbelief, outrage, and violent rage.

  I don’t understand what’s going on here.

  All at once, LV Star shouts something that doesn’t translate, but sounds exactly like how a human would say Fuck this! and throws his glass so fast across the room that I don’t register it whip by me before it shatters against the vestibule wall I just came from. The delay in my attempt to duck, never mind my heart skipping a beat, is embarrassing. Some dark orange liquid’s splattered all down the dented wall and along the floor.

  Green Eyes shouts, “Hold yourself, Onegin!” which I’m sure isn’t quite translated right. The angry monster has already turned away. His mammoth back and shoulders are straining with hostility, and his hands are in tight fists, which he bangs against his forehead once, hard, striding angrily over to the table, near the windows.

  Holy stars, what’s his problem?!

  I don’t dare try to see what wordless exchange is going on among the four of them. Then I would have to take my eyes off the fifth one, this Onegin, the beautiful bezerker.

  But the silence is foreboding. So I take a chance and glance around. They’re staring at me, at each other, mean-looking. I try really hard to remain expressionless. But the truth is, I’ve never been more scared in my life. My body’s rigid with tension. If I have to hold it up much longer, I might collapse.

  “This is why we are Katantz!,” shouts the gorgeous brute, causing me jump in my own skin.

  Shit. I knew I shouldn’t have taken my eyes off him. He has turned back around and is yelling at the others. “Katantz! A female child. A human female child!”

  Something tells me that the word ‘Katantz’ is tantamount to ‘fucked.’ I really don’t understand. Why does my gender matter? And this is the second time they have referred to me as a child. What gives?

  “Cassiel Winters,” says the plainest-looking Kir, in a deep, gregarious voice. “Do not mind Kir Onegin.” He steps forward. How does he know my full name?

  “Prime Or’ic.” He glances at Dark Eyes. He’s the Prime then. “We are not being courteous to our guest. I am Kir Pers’eus The Third.” The animated Counsel Kir approaches me, arm out.

  I’m relieved but stunned by the sudden civility. Of course I’m receptive, anything rather than stand here trying not to collapse.

  This Pers’eus is taller than all of them, which requires me to lean right back to make eye contact when he reaches me. Light brown eyes but still not a human light brown. They are bottled cognac. He is, of course, very muscular, but in a gangly sort of way, and while he seems intimating, there’s something swashbuckler about him.

  I decide to take his arm, and if he’s surprised by how much I lean on it, he doesn’t let on. He leads me down to a chair. Before the others join us, they grab more clinking weapons and put them on. I want to ask why but opt to keep my mouth shut. Besides, I’m fairly certain I would only squeak at this moment.

  Dark Eyes, or rather, Prime Or’ic, joins us, sitting directly across from me. I refuse to make eye contact. And yet I sense how he maintains total command of the room. The way the others act around him, subtle signs of deference through body language and glances, makes this clear.

  I try to focus on the niceness of this Pers’eus, who sits beside me and introduces everyone.

  Well, this is not what I expected. Definitely better than water torture or laser slashings.

  “As you may have gathered, the brooding drink tosser is Kir Onegin The Fourth,” offers Pers’eus.

  Onegin stays where he is, and I don’t look back at him. Green Eyes is introduced, a name that sounds like Kell’an. I pick up on a slight pause on syllables in Thell’eon language. As I guessed all along, this Kell’an is Prime Or’ic’s right hand man, or Kir The One.

  Pers’eus introduces the last Counsel Kir, as “Kir Shadon’inton The Fifth,” or something like that (I just note Shadon for now). “He does not talk much,” adds Pers’eus.

  I steal a glance. This Shadon is indeed quiet, not even acknowledging me before sitting in one of the four remaining chairs. Deposited up high in a pair of incredibly prominent cheekbones, are bright, periwinkle blue eyes. He wears his hair long, which I didn’t register as unusual for a Thell’eon, until this moment, because I’m so tense. It’s a light brown, sleek and shiny. From what skin I can see outside of his cloak, he has many markings. So why doesn’t he show those on his skull? He seems very young.

  Finally, Pers’eus says, “And you’ve met our Prime, Prime Or’ic.”

  Dark Eyes. The Prime. Prime Or’ic. Knowing his true name makes him real. Too real.

  I glance at him briefly, willing myself not to blush. He’s amused. He’s not in my mind, is he? I hunt around in the big empty space, imagining those obsidian weapons sparkling knowingly?, but find nothing.

  Silence. Again.

  When I sense movemen
t, I look over, surprised to discover an unusual species placing drinks on the tables. I didn’t notice him in the room or hear him come in! He’s tall and thin, and his skin is unusual somehow. We haven’t learned about any species like this; I wonder if Prof Xeno knows of his kind? I want to take him in properly, but he remains so far bent over I never get the chance. When the hunched servant’s finished stocking the tables, he uses long fingers, each with at least a dozen joints!, to move each cup within reach of a Kir. I’m the last to be served. A table sits before an empty chair beside me. Onegin’s. Super.

  Isn’t this pleasant? What the fuck? I don’t want to drink with the enemy!

  The four lean forward, say something that doesn’t translate, and toss back the shot. Out of nowhere, Onegin arrives, startling me. My hand falls on my heart; the other grips the seat. He grabs his drink, mumbles the same words, and tosses back the contents. They all look to me.

  To be honest, I really could use something to take the edge off. Oh, whatever. I snatch the cup, hastily, whisper, “Bottoms up!” and swallow the whole thing.

  A tiny wisp of euphoria. Instantly I remember it from symbiosis, and before I can stop myself, I look at Or’ic. He’s watching me and heat blossoms in my cheeks. Again. Kell’an witnesses this expressionless. The worst part is that the buzz I was hoping for is already gone. I could use a real shot, something that lasts for more than a lousy 30 seconds.

  “You are disappointed?” asks Or’ic.

  “No!” I say sharply, not wanting to offend, then remind myself to fuck the civility. How can he read me so well?

  “Are you in my mind again?” I demand, suddenly suspicious.

  The group bristles. Pers’eus makes a sound like a chuckle.

  Oh, so, they have a sense of humor after all.

  “No. I would not do so without your permission.”

  Oh. Well, then. That seems decent.

  What gives?

  I stare at him. Why does he have to be so attractive? I mean it’s criminal. He motions to the slave who returns quickly with a jug. The slave pours everyone a drink, and we go through the motions again.

  Human whiskey! I can’t help but feel delight as the familiar rye elixir warms my belly. Something from home! They’re all watching me with curious expression. I wipe the delight off my face.

  They’re trying to butter me up for something. Oh no! They plan to get me drunk and take advantage of me. Idiot! My gaze darts around, taking in their muscles. They are giant! I must be wearing my fear because Or’ic interrupts my train of thought.

  “We have no intentions of harming you.”

  Oh.

  “What . . . do you want?”

  There’s got to be a way out of this! I try hard not to cry.

  He says, “You have something, a gift, we need. In return for your . . . assistance, we would give you something.”

  My body releases all kinds of pent-up tension, kind of like letting go after holding yourself in a chin-up for a really long time, like one whole minute. This is kind of what I expected, deep down, actually. When he said gift, the word sift came to mind. And, I just got some hand here, didn’t I? Lt. Lazarus told me to get hand stat for Winters’ Storm. Different situation, but same rules probably apply.

  “A trade?” I ask quietly.

  “Yes. A trade,” he says, smiling, crinkling those eyes.

  No wonder the men and woman live apart. They’d never get anything done. Oh, wait, the women have no sexual desire. Uh, back up: Why am I thinking about this? Why does this man, this Prime Or’ic, have this affect on me? I mean, I should be in serious crisis mode and here I’m enticed by the sound of his voice. Must be a hangover effect from the symbiosis. Yes, remember you decided that they use their attractiveness as some kind of weapon, and he’s using it now to control me.

  Ah, maybe you’re insane. I touch my head and try to focus.

  “You are not sick again are you?” asks Green Eyes.

  “What? No!” I pop back up, alert, and glare at him. What is his name again? Oh yeah, Kell’an.

  Or’ic takes me in, concerned.

  Kell’an spills the beans to all of them about my little attack outside the room. They won’t make eye contact. Disgusted?

  Who cares! And don’t go asking them about the details of the trade. You don’t want to give away your hand now that you have some. I still have hand, don’t I? Or did my anxiety attack cancel that out?

  Or’ic inhales deeply before he speaks.

  I will my eyes to meet his, and to act emotionless in turn.

  “We will help return your brother, Lt. David Alexander Zach Winters, to ESE.”

  I almost choke on my sudden inhalation.

  “You have Daz?” I shout, leaning forward, not caring one bit that I just showed both my hands and my tonsils.

  I knew he knew Daz when we were in symbiosis!

  If my eyes were laser beams, he’d be incinerated.

  Thoughts race through my mind. How in the cosmos is that even possible? Adm. O’Reilly’s words, ‘misplaced operative’ ring in my head. Shit. Maybe Daz really was on a secret ESE mission and they took him!

  “We do not have your brother,” says Or’ic, cutting short the line of accusations I’m compiling. Disappointment kicks me right in the gut. “But we know the Horde who does.” Elation cancels the angst instantly. “We have negotiated a trade on your behalf.”

  He smiles again. No amount of respectful behavior on his part, and he appears to be really trying, could bottle up his sex appeal. Well, guard against his unreal . . . pull on you! Focus on the salient issues here.

  “What’s a Horde? And what did you negotiate?” I ask, forgetting all about hand. He wouldn’t have offered to trade me, would he? I mean, I would gladly go in Daz’s place. But . . .

  “According to the Guardianship, our government,” he clarifies, “Prime Aardon captured your brother from the planet Taxata. You know of it. It was the planet your bumbling command claimed to be searching for your missing operative when you infiltrated our ship.”

  He doesn’t let me defend myself against this accusation, probably pointless anyway.

  “Of course, your people are looking for the sift, as is every Thell’eon Prime who has been given permission to do so. You would help me to find the sift on the planet and, in return, we would promise an exchange with Prime Aardon, who would return your brother unharmed.”

  I need a moment to absorb this. He takes another shot of whiskey. The other Kirs take his lead and help themselves. He gestures that I should help myself but I decline. This is incredible. Of all the things I could have imagined, of all of the possibilities that could have been laid before me, I could never have hoped for a path that would not only lead me to Daz, but clearly help him out of the mess he’s in and take me to the sift. Could all of this somehow be a good thing? First things first.

  “And how am I supposed to help you find the sift?”

  He doesn’t answer right away. His unwavering eyes pierce right through me, pin me up against a wall, hold me fast. An air of absolute authority emanates from him. It’s those flaring nostrils. And something else. Smugness. Or, is that just his at-ease expression.

  Oh. Did I just agree to something?

  “That’s simple,” he says smoothly. “You have an ability that allows you to . . . sense sifting. Like Kir Kell’an’s, only much stronger. We believe it is a natural evolution of perception across humanoid species in our galaxy.”

  “Hold on,” I cut him off, shifting forward in my seat. “What do you mean ‘sense sifting?’ I thought the sift was a weapon, but you used the term like a verb.” Despite all my initial fear, I’m unable to shut out the heady excitement of learning something I have searched 21 years for, about who or what I might be.

  “Sifting is
the ability to see across dimensions,” offers Kell’an.

  Whoa.

  He continues. “I sense merely the energy when another brane collides into our universe. This way, I identify when a . . . rift, if you will, opens. That is how I knew you had sifted on our ship. You are able to . . . see into parallel universes through the rifts causes by colliding branes.”

  Parallel universes? Rifts? Branes?

  “Wait,” I say. They pause, as my gray matter catches up. “So you’ve proven there are multiple universes, or the M-Theory?” We learned this in astrophysics back in levels. According to the math, there are endless multiple universes lined up like sheets hanging out to dry in all directions and angles. When they expand, they collide into each other and create a cosmic explosion the likes of which is believed to end then restart a universe, or cause The Big Bang.

  “Yes. Our universe is constantly colliding, on a small scale, with other branes, as they expand and shift,” says Or’ic. “What you see into, with your evolved perceptive ability, are alternate realities. While the variations are infinite, the reality you perceive is typically the one closest to our own, at least always in terms of space, not necessarily time. To some degree, all species sense it. Your people term it déjà vu. But it is no mysterious phenomena. Your perceptions are simply more enhanced.”

  HOLY STARS! Is that it? Is that what my visions are? An enhanced perception? “So, there are windows into other universes,” I mumble, as everything comes clear. All those déjà-vu-turned-visions were real events. “I thought I was crazy.”

  “You are not crazy,” says Or’ic. “You have a gift.”

  I can’t believe this. Should I believe them? Yes, because it all clicks. And their science is more advanced than humans. So all this time, is that what I’ve been seeing? Alternate universes. Holy shit. I help myself to a shot of whiskey. So that means Lt. Lazarus maybe wasn’t coming out of Daria Preston’s room, at least not in my universe! That means the note was for me. I was supposed to hide—probably meant for me in this universe!