by Chris Fox
Tales from the Void
A Space Fantasy Anthology
Chris Fox Writes, LLC
Contents
Chris Fox
The Heart of Nefarious
Izzy Shows
Eradicated
Alec Hutson
Streamsurfers
Justin Sloan
Magic in the Stars
Sam Witt
Freedom
Craig Martelle
Mystically Engineered
Trevor Gregg
The Navigator
Saul Roberts
Void Defenders
J.S. Morin
Tech, Lies, and Wizardry
J.J. Green
Star Mage Exile
The Heart of Nefarious
Chris Fox
1
Enzo Station
“Land outside the starport, and await further instructions,” Cobb’s gravelly voice echoed over the comm.
Aran jumped in spite of himself, forcing himself to relax before replying. He didn’t like the strange new Ternus tech, and vastly preferred magical communication. Spells went where they were directed. None of this imprecise broadcast a signal in all directions crap.
“Whatever you say, old woman,” Aran muttered back.
He guided his spellfighter into a gentle descent, the landing struts deploying with a whir as the vessel came to rest inside the station’s starport. He unbuckled his harness, then rose from the command matrix and stretched.
His fingers brushed the slowly rotating bronze ring, tapping the fire sigil once and the air sigil twice. He repeated the gesture on the silver and gold rings, killing every active system in the vessel. Powering the ship drew on his own magical reserves, and the less the ship used, the more he had for spells. The rings slowed to a halt, and Aran ducked through them.
“Let’s hope I don’t need you.” Aran buckled his spellblade around his waist, adjusting the scabbard so that the hilt was within easy reach. He considered taking his spellrifle as well, but it was unwieldy and there was a real chance the station security would confiscate it.
Aran climbed the three-step ladder next to the matrix, rolling his neck to work out the kinks from the long flight. He sketched a pink sigil on the canopy above, sending a trickle of magic into the vessel.
The canopy opened outward and a row of translucent blue steps shimmered into existence, sloping from the cockpit down to the deck below. Cobb was already waiting there, and the old woman’s scowl could have curdled drake milk.
“Straighten your collar. We’re Outriders, not mercs,” the old woman growled. And she was old, even if she didn’t look it. To an outsider, Cobb’s grey streaked hair, and leathery face would probably put her at about fifty. Her true age was at least twice that. Maybe more.
Aran hopped from the last step, landing lightly next to Cobb. He stubbornly ignored his creased collar. “I’m not an apprentice anymore, Cobb. You don’t get to give me orders.”
“It’s like that then, is it?” Cobb raised a bushy eyebrow, leaning in close. Aran didn’t miss the fact that her hand had settled over her spellblade. “If I’d had my way, you’d still be back on Virkon shoveling dragon dung. You’re good with a blade, but you run your mouth too much, kid. You need a decade or two of cooling off before any fool trusts you with a command.”
A familiar rush of wind came from above, lacking the usual whine of a thruster or a spelldrive. Aran glanced up, wincing as the starship-sized dragon glided by overhead. His reptilian eye was fixed on the two of them, and while dragons were hard to read even Aran could see the displeasure.
Rolf’s dark grey scales shone under the running lights, and his leathered wings flapped a final time as he landed on the deck with a tremendous boom. His spiked tail swept back and forth in agitation, narrowly missing Aran’s fighter.
A few of the other arriving passengers paled at the sight of a Wyrm, quickly hurrying toward the customs line at the far end of the docking bay. Aran badly wished he could join them.
“We’ve no time for your squabbles,” Rolf rumbled, the mighty Wyrm’s words crisply delivered despite passing through an ocean of teeth large enough to slice Aran neatly in two. “If the missive we received is accurate, then this Kazon has discovered a new Catalyst. I find such a notion unlikely, but we will investigate it. Cobb, take the boy and scout the way ahead.”
Aran resented the use of boy, but it wasn’t new. He’d probably still be ‘boy’ long after he had grandchildren. Assuming he lived that long.
Rolf’s titanic form began to ripple, and Aran felt more than heard the siren song of magic as the dragon’s form began to change. The wings folded into his back, and his neck shrank. Within moments a dark-skinned human stood before them, taller even than Cobb. He was completely hairless, the only visible clue to his true nature. Dragons struggled to mimic hair, so most didn’t bother.
Rolf wore a simple grey flight suit, the exact shade of his scales. Nor was there any visible weapon. Not that Rolf needed it. An elder Wyrm could tear this entire station apart, and Aran doubted anyone here would be able to stop it. These people relied on technology rather than magic, and dragons weren’t very impressed by most technology.
“Come on, kid,” Cobb muttered. She trotted toward the customs line, and Aran fell into line after her.
Running felt good after three days in the cockpit. Aran fell into a steady ground-eating pace, aware of the other passengers shooting them covert glances. They no doubt recognized the spellblades, and knew enough to keep clear of war mages. Especially ones with a Virkon Outrider patch.
They’d almost reached the back of the line when the crowd parted. Two figures walked side by side, each encased in jet-black spellarmor. Red unit patches dotted their right shoulders, a stylized scorpion with two tails.
Cobb shrank back into the crowd, so Aran followed her lead. “Are they a threat?”
“Probably not.” All emotion had left Cobb’s voice, an indication that her words might not be entirely truthful. “Most stations don’t allow spellarmor, even for guards.”
“Maybe they’re working with station security,” Aran offered, glancing at the armored figures as they began a circuit around the perimeter of the hangar bay.
“Maybe. Either way they’re tech mages, and that makes them dangerous. Even to us.” Cobb moved to the back of the line, so Aran joined her.
“I think I can handle a couple tech mages,” Aran scoffed, waving dismissively after the pair of black clad guards.
“You underestimating them is exactly what makes them dangerous. All it takes is a single spell you don’t see, and half your face is melted off. I’ve cleaned up a lot of dead apprentices, kid. I know you’ve earned your rank. You’re an Outrider. But that doesn’t make you invincible.” Cobb fixed him with a brown eye, and after a moment Aran broke eye contact with an embarrassed nod.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t get cocky. Sorry, Cobb.”
That seemed to mollify the old woman, who turned her attention to the ragged line of passengers ahead of them.
A trio of bored-looking officials in scarlet and blue uniforms stood to either side of a pair of bronze pillars covered in sigils. Each official held a scry-pad, and a mirror. The mirror was offered to every person who stepped up to the pillars. They’d hold it up to their face, then the official would scan the pad and wave them through.
Aran accepted the mirror and held it up to his face. His stubble threate
ned to become a beard, but at least it aged him up a little. He was two years shy of his quarter century, which marked full adulthood on Virkon. Most societies considered humans to be an adult at sixteen or eighteen. Of course, most societies weren’t founded around stealing magic from dead gods to extend their life.
His skin tingled as Aran stepped through the pillars, and a low subsonic hum quickened for a moment. Whatever magic it employed passed almost instantly, and he stepped through with no trouble.
Cobb stood on the far side, already scanning the crowd. Aran tracked her gaze, which had landed on a tall man with a mop of dark hair, and eyebrows so thick they knit together in the middle.
The hairy man licked his lips, then cautiously approached Cobb. “Uh, you wouldn’t happen to be Rolf, would you?” Aran had expected a deep tone, but his voice was surprisingly high pitched. A eunuch maybe? Some cultures still practiced that kind of barbarism, even in Confederate space.
“We’re his Outriders,” Cobb admitted. Her hand had dropped to her spellblade, and her posture shifted subtly toward Drakon stance.
Aran resisted the urge to adopt a defensive form, confident that he could draw his spellblade if this guy proved a threat. Not that they wanted that kind of attention, especially in the wake of what might be station security.
Cobb looked the hairy man up and down with distaste. “You’re a bit too furry to be a joy girl. And we’re not interested in a guide. So what do you want?”
“I’ve been sent to escort you to meet my employer. He’s the reason you came to the station,” the man explained. He frowned at Cobb, but showed no further reaction to the insult.
“You have one eyebrow. Tweezers. Or a fire cantrip. It will do wonders with the ladies. Listen, I’m sorry no one’s told you up till now.” Cobb patted the man sympathetically on the arm. “Now take us to your boss, Unibrow.”
“Cut him some slack, Cobb. He’s just doing his job.” Aran extended a hand, tugging at the magical power blazing within his chest. He drew from fire, just a tiny tendril. It flicked between Unibrow’s eyes, neatly burning away a swathe of hair. Unibrow reached up curiously to touch the now smooth skin.
“Have you scouted the area, Cobb?” rumbled Rolf’s deep voice from directly behind Aran. He tensed, turning to face the Wyrm. Even Rolf’s human form was intimidating, doubly so when Aran realized he hadn’t even heard the dragon approach.
“Near enough, Wing Father.” Cobb gave Rolf a deferential nod. “This messenger was sent to lead us to Kazon, though he hasn’t said where that is.”
Rolf took a step closer to Unibrow, who began to quiver under the Wyrm’s gaze. “Take us to your master. Now.”
Unibrow whirled, plunging back toward the direction he’d come. Aran looked askance at Cobb, and the old woman nodded. They moved as one, trotting after the messenger.
2
True Mage
The frightened messenger led them deeper into the station, through the rows of hastily erected stalls crowded around the entryway. Hawkers pitched their wares, everything from clearly fake jewelry to dragon scales.
Aran scanned the crowd ceaselessly, but made sure to keep pace with Cobb. Most of the stall owners were careful to keep their distance. The Outriders were known here, even this far from Virkon.
“There,” Unibrow called, stopping in front of a blue neon sign affixed above the doors of an upscale Shayan restaurant.
“Wing Father?” Cobb asked, turning back to Rolf.
The dark-skinned ‘man’ nodded his approval, and Cobb waved at Aran.
“Why do I feel like the expendable one?” Aran whispered under his breath.
“Because you are,” Cobb shot back. “Now stay alert, and you won’t get expended.”
Aran ignored the old woman, moving to the doorway. He pressed it open and stepped inside. The room was dimly lit by magical flames, the smokeless illusions providing light but no heat. That kind of permanent magic wasn’t cheap, and the rest of the interior reflected that.
Thick shayasilk drapes lined the walls, delicate silver sigils drawing in the ambient noise of the conversations taking place. It wasn’t quite as effective as a silence spell, but it gave the patrons a degree of privacy only the most high-class restaurants could offer.
Powerful wards pulsed behind the drapes, invisible to anyone but a diviner. Aran couldn’t see them, though he could sense the strength of the magic contained within.
The center of the room was entirely empty, save for a redwood tree that brushed the high ceiling. That too pulsed with magic, though Aran suspected it was merely powering the illusion that made the tree appear alive.
“We’re clear.” He stepped into the room, moving to the right side of the door. Cobb entered a moment later, and Aran dropped his voice. “Most of the patrons are carrying spellpistols, but unless they’re using void pockets I don’t see any real threats.”
“Doesn’t mean they aren’t there,” the old woman countered. She stepped further into the room, stopping at a counter. A pleasant looking woman began conversing with her in low tones, so Aran turned his attention back to the room.
He’d been trained to understand all eight aspects of magic, even the ones he couldn’t use. The concept of illusion wasn’t new, but only a true mage with both dream and air magic could harness it. He’d never met someone who could turn invisible, and frankly the thought terrified him. How did you deal with an opponent you couldn’t see?
Rolf finally stepped into the room, his unreadable face turned toward a table toward the back of the room. Aran followed his gaze, trying to figure out what had drawn his attention.
Rolf stared at a table where a single man was dining alone, broad-shouldered with a mane of dark hair and a thick beard. He wore a shayasilk shirt, and Aran could feel the enchantment even at this distance. That single garment was probably worth as much as his fighter.
“Cobb, I think I’ve found our target.” Aran stepped up next to Cobb, who’d just finished speaking.
“Good job, kid. We’d never have located him otherwise.” Cobb shook her head, and followed the hostess toward the man’s table. Her hand never left the hilt of her spellblade.
The bearded man looked up, and Aran was surprised to realize they were probably the same age, or close to it. Aran envied the man’s beard, which served to cloak his youth.
Aran followed Cobb toward the table, but didn’t sit. Instead, he snapped to attention as Rolf passed. If the Wing Father noticed, he didn’t show it. He sat across from the bearded man, steepling his fingers as he studied the man.
“Sending a missive to my Outriders with false news is a very dangerous decision,” Rolf rumbled. He appeared human enough, but that voice was unmistakable and anyone who’d dealt with dragons would recognize the deep, terrifying cadence. “You clearly possess wealth, but you are young…and foolish.”
“Guilty, on both counts,” the man replied with a wide smile. He sliced a piece of meat from the steak he’d been enjoying, then popped it into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully for several moments. “But I am not quite foolish enough to report a Catalyst that does not exist. I understand your kind can be quite, ahh, touchy.”
“Who are you, youngling?” Rolf’s demand was made simply, but even that carried the menace of a full Wyrm.
“I am Kazon of the Inuran Consortium. I believe you’re acquainted with my mother, Jolene.” Kazon smiled, setting down his fork and picking up his goblet. He drank deeply. “I’m told that your kind seeks new Catalysts. Well, I know the location of one. One hidden in the unlikeliest of places.”
“And where might that be?” Rolf demanded dryly. He rested both palms on the table, and leaned halfway across the table, looming over the bearded man.
“In the Urakoy system.” Kazon nonchalantly popped another piece of meat into his mouth. He sighed with pleasure as he chewed.
“Do you take me for a fool?” Rolf’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and Aran actually took a step backward. He didn’t want to be anywhere near t
he dragon’s wrath should this rich fool continue antagonizing him.
Aran was familiar with the Consortium. The Inurans produced many of the spellrifles and spellships within the Confederacy, and even beyond. They were rich beyond measure, making Kazon one of the wealthiest men alive. But that wouldn’t save him.
Aran leaned closer to Cobb and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Why doesn’t this guy have more guards? He could have a whole fleet, from the sound of it.” The words were further muffled by the room’s enchantment, but Kazon’s eyes still snapped up and locked on Aran. He’d heard every word.
“No, mighty Wyrm, I don’t think you a fool. And I do have more guards.” Kazon waved absently at the wall to the right of the table. The air shimmered, and four suits of Mark X spellarmor appeared. The sleek suits made their wearers far more dangerous, maybe even the equal of a war mage. “I realize you could probably overcome them, Rolf of Virkon, but you’d have to destroy this building to do it and somehow I doubt your people would very much like the inevitable Confederate response.” He leaned closer, meeting Rolf’s gaze in a way that Aran had never seen anyone brave enough to do. “And I am not entirely defenseless myself. So how about we end this posturing, and focus on the reason I brought you here?”
“Speak quickly, Inuran.” Rolf’s eyes blazed blue-white, electricity crackling from his eye sockets. “Or I will risk my people’s displeasure.”
“As you’re well aware, the Urakoy system possesses a Catalyst, the Fist of Trakalon.” Kazon enjoyed another mouthful of wine, then held his goblet aloft. A pitcher floated down from near the ceiling, refilling his glass. “What few suspect, and none living have been able to prove, is that there is a second, much more powerful, Catalyst in the system.”