by Chris Fox
“That’s the temporal ring,” he pulsed. “It will link directly to your godsight, and allow you to inspect, and journey to, possibilities you can perceive. I’d be careful. There is a literal planet of poo out there.”
“Noted.” Voria looked down on Shaya. This wasn’t going to be easy, but it had to be done. She was about to break her people. “Ikadra, I’m going to need something flashy. I want to project an illusion in the sky over Shaya. It needs to possess both light and sound. I want every citizen on that tree to see and hear this message.”
“Oh, that’s easy. You can simply cast a standard illusion through the matrix, and the Spellship will amplify it.”
Well, that was handy. Voria licked her lips and considered what she was going to say. She raised her hand, but rather than touch the wall, she willed each sigil to activate. Dream, dream, air, dream, air, fire.
The ship vibrated and a wave of magic rolled outward. It drew on her reserves, but less than she’d have expected. The ship was providing most of the magic, which might be its most impressive capability to date. Magical battles were determined by who ran out of magic first. The Spellship’s reserves meant that it would almost always be her opponent.
A towering ethereal version of herself appeared over the planet, like some benevolent goddess, with bad hair and a tiny mustard stain on her sleeve.
“People of Shaya, I apologize for the unconventional manner of my request, but I must ask a great sacrifice.” She paused then, staring down at the world where she’d been born. What would these people think of her now? Did this prove she was as arrogant as they claimed? Perhaps. “Our ally, Ternus, is under assault by the Krox. We failed them at Vakera. We failed them at Starn. But at Marid we held the line. We pushed the Krox back. Now, our allies are being tested as never before. Our leaders demand we do nothing, that we huddle here under our mother and hope that the nasty Krox go away. Ask yourself what Shaya would do. What Shaya did. She sacrificed her life for a cause she believed in.”
She paused then, considering her next words. She didn’t want to cause any more division than she had to.
“I understand the Tender’s reasoning, but we cannot let our fear prevent us from living up to our obligations,” she continued, her resolve building with each word. “We must push the Krox back. We must save our allies. To that end, I officially resign my commission in the Confederate military. I am taking my ship—this ship—and departing to aid Ternus. I call upon all brave Shayans, all brave Drifters, and anyone else willing to stop the Krox. We leave in two hours. All who wish to join us will be given a berth on my vessel.”
She waved a hand and the illusionary version of her disappeared. Now all she could do was wait.
“Do you think anyone will come?” Ikadra asked.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “A few will, certainly. But enough? I doubt it. The only thing we can count on is the Hunter, and Aran’s company. Beyond that? We wait and see.”
Ikadra lapsed into uncharacteristic silence.
Within a few minutes a small cloud of ships rose from the lower branches, and from the dims. More vessels joined it, a few from the higher branches. That cloud began moving in their direction, and as the glittering ships rose so too did her spirits. More and more followed, a steady stream all flowing toward her.
“They’re coming.” She didn’t realize she was crying until the first tear slid down her cheek. “They’re going to fight.”
The largest speck rocketed past the others, and she instantly recognized the Hunter’s silhouette. It flew far more quickly than she’d ever be able to manage, which told her exactly who was at the helm. The Hunter broke off from the rest of the fleet and began making for the planet’s umbral shadow.
Voria sketched a missive, and the scry-screen flashed red as it waited for Aran to accept it. A moment later the Hunter’s familiar bridge leapt into a strange clarity she’d never seen from a scry-screen. It possessed depth in a way a normal scry-screen failed to capture.
Aran wore a mischievous smile, mirrored by Crewes and Davidson. She couldn’t help but return it.
“You certainly know how to make an impression, Major,” Aran said. “You know Eros isn’t going to take this lying down.”
“Of course not. I’ll deal with his tantrum. You need to get out of here, and get to New Texas. Relieve them, Lieutenant.” She caught herself. “I suppose that title isn’t applicable any longer. Good luck, Aran. Major Davidson. Do us proud.”
Davidson’s relaxed expression darkened. “Do us proud? What the depths does that mean? What will you be doing?” Davidson demanded. “You’re going to be following us, right?”
“No.” Voria met his stare with equal weight. “Nebiat is far craftier than you give her credit for. New Texas is an important battle, but I believe it to be a mere distraction. She hopes to misdirect us from her true target.”
Davidson stared incredulously at her. “What could possibly be a more important target than the shipyards at New Texas?”
“I can’t say with certainty, and it terrifies me. My best guess right now is Ternus itself.” Voria shifted her attention to Aran. “We are beset from all sides. If we move in strength to relieve New Texas, and Nebiat also attacks Ternus or Colony 3, then those worlds will be unable to defend themselves. If I’m right, I need to be there when the hammer falls. That means you’re on your own with New Texas.”
Davidson eyed her darkly, but gave a grudging nod. She wished she could persuade him that she was right, but time would vindicate her actions. She was certain of it.
“We’ll do you proud, sir.” Aran snapped a tight salute, perhaps the last she would ever receive now that she was no longer enlisted.
The screen went dark, then shifted back to a view of the world below. Eros would be coming.
18
Get Off My Ship
Voria hurried down to one of the Spellship’s larger hangars, and arrived just in time to receive the first batch of ships. The first trio were rickety cruisers held together with glue and duct tape as much as anything else. The nearest transport wobbled to a halt, and the hatch opened with a creak.
A dense cloud of greenish smoke burst out, and a drifter tumbled out. He landed heavily on the deck, and lay there stunned for several moments before wobbling to his feet. His eyes were bloodshot, and he wore a beatific smile.
“Yer speech wuz wonaful. Come ta sign oop.” He promptly passed out in a heap.
Other drifters began emerging, each carrying a backpack and one or more kegs of beer. An older man with a beard, shorter than the rest, came to stand near her feet. “Herd good tings aboutcha. Come to join up, ‘n all. Where should we set up?”
Voria pointed at a wide hallway leading deeper into the ship. “There are empty rooms all along that side of the ship. You’re welcome to set up where you’d like, but I ask that you stay close together and don’t venture too far from this hangar until we see how much space everyone will need.”
“Done.” The drifter spat in his palm and offered it to her. She spat in her hand and accepted it.
Her attention was drawn by movement, and she saw that the next ship to land was a golden shuttle. The kind of shuttle no drifter, and no lesser noble, could afford. The kind of shuttle a Tender might use.
A trail of shimmering, blue steps led from the ship’s airlock down to the deck, and the door opened to disgorge a quartet of war mages encased in Mark XI armor. They moved to flank the steps, and a moment later Eros strode imperiously down them.
Voria was mildly surprised he’d come in person rather than send a missive, which attested to the gravity of the situation. If Eros was willing to leave his bolt hole, then he must see this as being of the utmost importance. She needed to be wary in dealing with him. It was possible he might even try to overpower her.
Ordinarily that would be easy for him, but here she was connected to the ship. Combined with Ikadra she might be able to force him back, though she doubted she could best him.
; “Welcome to the First Spellship, Tender. My ship. What do you want?” Voria tightened her grip around Ikadra, and prepared to cast if needed.
Eros frowned, but said nothing. He walked closer, and didn’t stop until he stood uncomfortably close. He leaned in, and dropped his voice to a near whisper. “Voria, please. Stop this. You are destroying our people. Fully a quarter of our ships are joining your mad quest.”
“None of them warships,” she countered. “You’re losing shuttles, transports, and old frigates. Nothing of any significant worth. You hate the drifters anyway, don’t you?”
“Ree’s taken a third of our spellfighters,” Eros snarled, his eyes flashing. “Over a dozen of our finest war mages followed her, with Erika’s blessing. We have no more than twenty fighters left to defend our world, and none of them will be piloted by our best.”
The chaos around them drowned out their words, shielding their conversation as effectively as any ward. Voria was aware of countless possibilities, from which room each drifter would choose, to countless variations of Eros’s next words.
“I’m sorry.” Voria took Eros’s hand in hers. Not in any sort of romantic way, but as a comrade in arms. She gave it a squeeze. “You’ve been asked to shepherd our people through the worst crisis since the death of Shaya. I understand your fears, and that you must do what you think is right.”
“I don’t understand,” Eros choked out. He eyed her searchingly. “How can you walk away from our goddess? We’re all she has, Voria. And you know how close she is to rising.”
“Close is relative, old friend.” She shook her head and released his hand. “It could be decades. If we’re lucky we’re still talking years. She won’t be here tomorrow, barring a miracle. She won’t be here in time to stop Krox, and you know it. We have to do this ourselves, and we can’t do it by hiding on this moon while we wait for them to come to us. We have to play the game on our own terms, while there are still pieces in play.”
“This is no game,” he snarled. “This is the survival of our species, of our goddess. Our Mother, Voria.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Do not mistake my analogy for a lack of gravity, Tender. I’m playing for bigger stakes. I’m playing for the entire sector, not just our world. We cannot stand alone, Eros. If we try, we will fall, and so will everyone else. Krox wins, and Shaya dies a final death.”
“No!” He raised a hand as if to strike her.
Voria wasn’t certain how she’d have reacted. She liked to think she’d have blocked the blow, but not struck back. She had too much empathy for the pressures Eros was under.
“Oh, hell, no, god-boy.” Ikadra’s sapphire flared and bands of matching energy snapped into place around Eros, pinning his arms and legs. “Please, please, please let me launch him into the sun. Shaya will just pick another Tender. We won’t lose much, and think about how satisfying—”
“Release him, Ikadra,” Voria demanded coldly. She sighed, and moderated her tone. “I’m sorry, Eros. For everything. I am sorry you cannot see things as I can, but trust me when I say that if I do not follow my instincts in all this, nothing of our people were survive.”
“If you do this,” Eros whispered menacingly, rubbing at his sleeve where the band had restrained him, “you will never be allowed home again. I swear it.”
Voria shook her head. “And that’s what you don’t understand, Eros. I am home. Now get off my ship.”
19
No Help From Any Quarter
Kazon was still preoccupied by the thought of Skare’s gaunt, angular face. He didn’t mind admitting to a healthy dose of fear, and he wondered if that fear wasn’t part of the reason for the man’s appearance. Skare knew it unsettled people, and in a culture where everyone was beautiful Kazon had finally realized why his enemy valued that. Being ugly became its own form of beauty, because it made you significant.
It was one more way Skare had demonstrated his fiendish intelligence, and Kazon found it deeply unsettling. The man was always so many steps ahead.
“Are you even listening?” Jolene snapped. Kazon’s eyes rose to find his mother eyeing him hawkishly across the broad expanse of her desk. The entire wall behind her was a scry-screen, and currently displayed hundreds of ships in neat, clean lanes as they maneuvered through the fleet. “I asked what you were hoping to accomplish by being so blunt. Did you expect he’d simply tell you where the metal came from?”
Kazon squirmed on the hovercouch, struggling to find a comfortable position. “Respectfully, Mother, have all your stratagems produced any better intelligence? What was lost in me asking?”
Jolene tapped her lip absently with one finger as she studied him. “You may have a point. At worst he thinks you an imbecile. And he might waste time looking for some sort of hidden motive or plan, I suppose.” She leaned across the table, her eyes flashing. “It doesn’t excuse your actions. Nor am I convinced you understand the threat Skare poses.”
Kazon inhaled slowly through his nostrils, a memory of the Skull of Xal rising involuntarily when she’d said the word threat. His teeth chattered as, just for an instant, he was back on that rotting Catalyst.
“I can see he is not the only one who believes me an imbecile,” Kazon snapped. He immediately regretted the lapse, and pushed the image of the Skull from his mind. It wasn’t easy. Xal was part of him now. “I understand the threat, I assure you. You are concerned that Skare’s market share is up, his influence is up, and most of the board will quite literally sell their own soul to discover his secret.”
Jolene folded her arms and eyed him primly. She said nothing, so he continued.
“I don’t think you understand my concern.” Now it was Kazon’s turn to lean across the desk. He removed the bracelet Aran had sent him from his pocket, and pushed it across the table at Jolene. “Look at it, Mother. Look at the complexity of the runes. Skare might not believe that it was created by a goddess, but you know better. None of our mages, not even our best ones, can produce a spell of this magnitude. We’ve identified it as a binding, but can’t even tease out the spell’s real purpose or limitations.”
Jolene picked up the bracelet. She peered down at the oily metal, fixed on it. “Yes, yes, you’ve told me. Bound by a goddess.” She finally set the bracelet down and frowned at him. She exhaled through her nostrils, and closed her eyes for a moment before speaking. “I don’t think you an imbecile, though you are certainly more impulsive since your…accident. Nor do you seem to grasp the complexities of Inuran politics you were once so adept at navigating. There is a very real chance that Skare has already won. If he were to assassinate me tomorrow—”
“The board—”
“Would do nothing,” she snarled, seizing the conversation once more. “Not while Skare controls the secret to this metal. We are not safe until we have it, and Skare knows it. He’s flaunting it. That’s why he was involved in your sister’s trial. That particular bit of theater was an insult. A calculated one.”
Kazon wondered if that were really true, but he wondered privately. He’d seen his mother explode several times when Voria’s Trial had come up, and he’d come to realize that Jolene’s anger was attached to Dirk’s death. He didn’t know the nature of their relationship, beyond that they’d fathered Voria together several decades ago. But, whatever her feelings had been, she was still grieving.
“How do you suggest we proceed then, Mother?” Kazon kept his tone respectful, playing the dutiful son. The role did not fit very well, but he’d wear it if he had to.
“I don’t know.” She heaved a heavy sigh and rose from her desk to move to the scry-screen. She folded her arms as she stared out at the Inuran fleet. “Right now we’re playing his game, on his terms. And that terrifies me.”
It terrified Kazon, for different reasons. She didn’t see the threat. She didn’t understand that this metal was something terrible. Even if she somehow overcame Skare she’d merely assume his place, and do everything she could to expedite production. That left him with a very d
ifficult choice.
Kazon picked up the bracelet from Jolene’s desk, and quietly left the room. She’d already forgotten his presence. As he exited, the pair of guards outside subtly shifted their stances to angle their spellrifles in his direction. Each wore a set of midnight spellarmor, and they studied him through those unreadable faceplates.
He hadn’t really understood what he was giving up when he passed his voting rights to his mother. These men were loyal to her, assuming they were loyal to anyone. He might be rich, but he had no power here.
Kazon squared his shoulders and walked slowly past them, forcing himself not to pay them any mind. Instead, he turned his mind back to the riddle he’d apparently been trying to solve before his mindwipe.
Whoever had founded the Inuran Consortium had gone to painstaking lengths to remove all traces of their involvement. The few scraps Kazon had found hinted that this creator had divine origins, which certainly made sense if they’d somehow removed themselves from history.
If ever there were a time for that founder to make themselves known, it was now. Kazon’s only hope lay in finding them and convincing them to help him stop Skare.
20
The Best-Laid Trap
Skare had baited his trap with the utmost care, as he always did. It was simply a matter of giving your prey exactly what they most wanted. They knew the trap was there, but they came anyway, hoping to somehow evade it because they were aware of it.
“Please, come in, Jolene.” Skare rose from his hovercouch and moved to embrace his greatest rival.
“Don’t touch me,” the taller woman snapped, pushing him back with a single finger against his chest. “I came, Skare, but my trust is vanishingly rare. Let’s hear whatever scheme you’ve cooked up, because I know you’re not really giving me the secret to your new alloy.”