Thief of Stars (Final Dawn, Book 2)

by T W M Ashford

  Klik’s head jerked up. She nodded with naive enthusiasm.

  “I thought so. That’s the Mansa home world. It’s a little under a day’s flight from here.” Rogan turned back to Jack and sighed. “You’re the captain – it’s your choice. I’ll go set us a course, if you’re sure I can’t make you see sense.”

  “Thank you.”

  Rogan paused in the doorway, then headed down the corridor towards the cockpit without another word.

  “Don’t worry about her,” said Tuner, shrugging. “She’s just trying to look out for you, that’s all.”

  “I know. It’s just…” Jack sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. All the excitement had given him a headache. “Ah, forget it. It doesn’t matter.”

  Tuner tilted his head. “What is it?”

  “What if Rogan’s right, though? I mean, she usually is. There’s not much point in figuring out how to get back home if I’m too dead to make the trip.”

  They turned to face their alien stowaway. She was picking at the loose threads of her hood. Tuner shrugged.

  “The way I see it, you don’t have much choice. We’ve been searching the galaxy for months, following leads that go nowhere. This might be the best chance you ever get.”

  Jack sighed. Tuner was right. Giving up wasn’t an option, no matter the cost. Besides, it wasn’t just about him. The fate of the whole human race was at stake.

  He marched over to Klik and held out his hand. She looked at it in timid bewilderment before taking it gingerly in her own.

  “Welcome aboard the Adeona, Klik. Let’s go find you a room.”

  3

  Ankhir, Paryx

  Deep blue waves pulsed past the windows as the Adeona tunnelled towards a pinprick of brilliant white light. Then, with an almost undetectable lurch, the ship left subspace. Every star in the galaxy snapped back into place.

  “We’re here,” said Rogan. She didn’t sound altogether too happy about it.

  A colossal planet burst into view before them. Much of her surface was a sandy yellow colour, save for odd splashes of ocean blue. Great white hurricane swirls swept from one side of the world to the other.

  “Is this Paryx?” Jack sat up straight. “I thought it would be more… industrialised.”

  Rogan laughed to herself. “The Mansa Empire is extremely traditional. They have a deep respect for their home world. Besides, a truly technologically advanced civilisation doesn’t need to wreck its own planet for room and resources. Not when there are whole other star systems they can ruin.”

  Tuner escorted Klik into the cockpit. She’d spent most of the eight-hour journey alone in her quarters, which suited everybody else on the ship just fine. She hadn’t even left her room to eat.

  “Is that what the world looks like?” She inched towards the panoramic windows as if scared she might fall through them. “It looks so small.”

  Jack couldn’t help smiling. Klik reminded him of himself the first time he’d seen space from aboard the Adeona. The confusion, the wonder, the spine-chilling realisation that one was but a minnow in a great ocean.

  “Didn’t you see it before?” He turned his chair to face her. “When you left for Kapamentis?”

  Klik shook her head, but her eyes never left the view ahead.

  “My father had me smuggled into the cargo hold of a trade ship. Spent two days in a crate while the crew made their stops. Tight fit. Never got to look out a window.”

  She spun around to look at Rogan.

  “Is that Krett?” she asked, pointing at Paryx’s only moon. It was small, a dusty green colour, and half buried in Paryx’s shadow.

  Rogan nodded brusquely.

  “Woah,” said Klik, staring at it again.

  “Krett.” Jack mulled the name over. “Is that where you’re from?”

  Klik shook her head again.

  “Not me. I was born on Paryx. Krett is where every Krettelian descends from, but no Krettelian alive today has ever been there. It is forbidden. We belong to the Mansa now. Even the name Krett comes from them.”

  “They changed the name of your home?” Tuner jumped up into a seat in the middle tier of the cockpit. “But your species is Krettelian. Does that mean…?”

  “Yep.” Klik hung her head. “They gave us that name, too.”

  “That’s terrible. What was it before?” asked Jack.

  Klik shrugged.

  “It was millennia ago. Nobody remembers.”

  An awkward silence fell. Rogan was the first to break it.

  “We need a destination,” she said, addressing Klik. “Where is this resistance of yours hiding out?”

  “Ankhir.” She lowered her voice, as if she thought somebody else might be listening. “In a stretch of ancient sewer tunnels. They haven’t been used in centuries,” she quickly added.

  “A city. Great.” Rogan tapped some coordinates into the keypad on the hologram table. “Well, at least it isn’t the capital.”

  As they descended towards the planet, Klik started fidgeting with the hem of her cloak again. The sight of the Mansa home world growing steadily bigger in the windows was clearly setting her on edge. Jack kindly suggested she take a seat.

  Or perhaps it wasn’t the planet itself, but rather the legions of sleek, titanic battleships orbiting it that triggered her anxiety. Unlike the Confession – the chunky, grey cruiser Gaskan had commanded – these were gold in colour and as sharp as knives.

  Jack suspected they wouldn’t need to even shoot the Adeona down, if they wanted to. With bows that sharp, they could simply drive through her.

  Not that the Mansa battleships paid them even the slightest attention. The Adeona and her crew passed them by and entered Paryx’s atmosphere without incident.

  As they broke through a layer of thick, turbulent cloud cover, the surface of Paryx emerged beneath them. The view from off-world hadn’t lied – not an inch of space appeared occupied by anything other than sweeping oceans of sand. Golden dunes rose in valleys and canyons, some as tall or as deep as mountains. Even as they watched, entire swathes of the landscape were sculpted by savage winds.

  Jack couldn’t imagine anything thriving there, let alone one of the most advanced species in the known universe.

  And then, as if disassociated from the shifting, shapeless environment surrounding it, a city rose from the desert. Within its towering, circular perimeter wall stood a hundred towers of gold, all half a kilometre in height or more, each glistening in the harsh sun. Some even appeared to float above the ground, suspended without obvious means, drifting from one lot in the city to another, swapped out like pieces of a puzzle too complicated for the human mind to comprehend.

  It was ancient and yet abstract. Sharp and yet beautiful.

  “We’ve been pinged by the Ankhir ground control,” said Brackitt, studying the scrolling lines of code on the computer screen in front of him. “They want to know what business we have in the city.”

  “Tell them we’re tourists.” Jack tore his slack-jawed gaze from the city and shot a sarcastic look in Rogan’s direction. “We’re only here to socialise, after all. And if anyone asks—”

  “We came to see if anybody here has ever heard of Earth,” said Tuner, shooting Jack a thumbs up. “Same as we’ve been doing everywhere else.”

  “Exactly. Technically, it’s not even a lie.”

  Brackitt nodded and looked up. “We’ve been approved to land. The Mansa have allocated us a bay in a visitor’s port towards the west of the city.”

  “I suggest we use it,” said the Adeona. “When they sent me the NavMap route, it came across as more of a demand than a recommendation.”

  “Sure.” Jack turned to Klik. “Will that be too far?”

  Klik was sitting like a child again, with her knees tucked under her chin. She shook her head.

  “Just a short walk. The rest we can do underground.”

  “Good.” Jack sat back in his captain’s chair and tried not to let his nerves show. “Adeona, ta
ke us down.”

  There was a reason why they’d been directed to a specific docking bay. Upon landing on the roof of a small, squat building at ground level, their landing pad descended into a massive, hollow cylinder beneath the earth and assigned the Adeona a slot alongside hundreds of other ships, each parked on a pad identical to their own. Jack felt like a snack in a giant vending machine.

  Transparent elevators ran in columns behind each ship, ferrying passengers from each floor up to the surface at lightning speeds. Jack shook his head. Watching them made him dizzy.

  “All right.” He got up from his chair and headed for the stairs that led down to the cargo bay. “Let’s not hang about any longer than we have to. Brackitt, you okay to mind the ship?”

  “Better in here than out there, I’m sure,” said Brackitt, waving them off.

  Jack, Klik, Rogan and Tuner entered the cargo bay. Crates were fastened to the deck or suspended from nets hanging on the walls. The loading ramp was still up – Jack retrieved his helmet from a cabinet beside it and pulled it down over his head. It slotted into the rest of his suit and the breathing apparatus kicked in.

  Paryx had breathable oxygen, but it promised to be far too hot and dusty for Jack’s taste.

  “Are you sure you two want to come?” he asked, addressing Rogan and Tuner. “Klik and I can do this on our own, you know.”

  Rogan squeezed his shoulder.

  “I think you’re an idiot and this is a really bad idea.” She smiled. “But you know I’d never let you be an idiot alone.”

  “Thanks, guys. I won’t lie – I’ll feel a lot better with you two by my side.” He turned to Klik. “Anything we ought to know before we leave? We don’t want to accidentally offend anyone if we can help it.”

  “Not really. The Mansa won’t like humour so don’t try to be clever.” She lowered her eyes. “They’re a lot smarter than you. They’ll take it as a personal insult.”

  “Charming. What about you? You’re not going to get picked up by guards the second we step out of this parking garage, are you?”

  Klik pulled the hood of her cloak over her head so only the tips of her mandibles stuck out.

  “Everyone in the resistance tries to stay underground as much as possible, but I’ve been in the streets before. One of the only good things about being considered a nobody is that nobody really considers you at all.”

  “What do we say if somebody stops us?” asked Tuner. “Two automata, a human and a Krettelian. You might blend in, but a group like this is sure to turn a few heads.”

  “Easy. Thought of that. You can say I’m escorting you to see a client. The Mansa don’t usually send their own kind to meet with foreign guests. They think that’s beneath them.”

  “This empire of theirs sounds better every minute.” Jack scoffed. “Okay then, Klik. Take us to your leader.”

  As the Adeona lowered her ramp, Jack gave Tuner a nudge.

  “Been waiting to say that this whole trip,” he whispered.

  The view from the elevator doors was blinding.

  As if the scorching sun wasn’t bright enough, its light felt the need to ricochet and reflect off near enough every surface in the city. The golden skyscrapers drifting in the sky; the sandy grit in the busy streets; even the chrome on Rogan and Tuner’s bodies. All of it dazzled like a pharaoh’s palace.

  The visor of Jack’s helmet dimmed accordingly.

  “Which way?” he asked, squinting past the scores of visitors streaming past them from the other elevators. Klik raised a shaking finger towards the south-east.

  “About half an hour in that direction.”

  They set off through the city, barely saying a word to one another for most of the walk. It wasn’t only because they were cautious about attracting attention. Jack was also left speechless by the city itself.

  Ankhir was a perfect blend of the ancient and the futuristic. Even ignoring the enormous buildings that floated across the city skyline – each of which was an abstract work of art in and of itself – those that remained rooted to the ground resembled golden monoliths, the sections and floors of which were impossible to discern from their sheer, flawless exteriors. Much older structures – grand arches, ornate palaces, ceremonial pillars – had been erected from the sand and dirt, yet were as pristine (and occupied) as they must have been when first built thousands of years before. And Jack had no trouble working out which of the many aliens around him were the Mansa – from statues the size of Apollo rockets to stoic faces sculpted onto the sides of skyscrapers, their likeness was everywhere he looked.

  “Modest,” Jack mumbled to himself.

  Klik turned around. “Hmm?”

  “They seem very humble.” Jack pointed at a massive gold statue standing in the pavilion ahead. He wore a long royal robe and, like the rest of the Mansa, had a wide skull like that of a hammerhead shark at the top of his long, thin neck. “Who’s that guy?”

  “Nobody. Actually, no. Everybody, I guess. It’s not a specific person. It’s meant to symbolise the glory of the whole Mansa race.”

  “Of course it is,” sighed Jack. Fair play to them, though. He couldn’t imagine humanity pulling off anything as collectively self-aggrandising as that.

  “Quickly! Everyone off the road!”

  Klik yanked Jack out of the way. She bowed her head and practically cowered inside a bush alongside the pavilion’s path. Rogan and Tuner followed with a little less drama, as did many of the other pedestrians – local and tourist alike.

  “What is it?” asked Tuner.

  “Quiet,” said Klik. “Slave cart.”

  A transparent oblong floated peacefully down the street towards them. Like the buildings above it displayed no thrusters or source of magnetic lift – it simply appeared to defy gravity. The walls and floor of the box were so thin, Jack had reason to doubt they were made of anything but hardened light.

  Outside, keeping pace alongside each of the box’s corners, was a Mansa guard. Over their bodies they wore what looked like ceremonial robes – flowing red fabric that showed little of their skinny bodies beneath. Their “helmets” – if he could call them that – looked no less flimsy… though Jack suspected that the fabric was far sturdier than any battle armour could ever be, if the rest of Mansa tech was anything to go by. In their hands they wielded eight-foot pikes, the blades of which glowed a dark and angry crimson.

  Inside the box was a much sadder sight.

  Perhaps two dozen Krettelians stood pushed up against one another, their heads down and their eyes glazed. It was Jack’s first opportunity to see a Krettelian in the flesh, given the baggy, shapeless nature of Klik’s cloak. They were horribly emaciated, even taking into account their naturally thin insectoid frames. The segments of carapace shell that lined their arms, legs and torsos were scratched, their lime colour dulled, Jack presumed, from ill-health. The slivers of skin between were white and hollow. They wore no clothes. Many had bloody bandages wrapped around their forearms.

  Few pedestrians gave the slave cart more than a cursory glance as it passed. Klik, on the other hand, remained in her bowed position until long after it had disappeared around the corner.

  “What happened to them?” Jack asked.

  Klik half shrugged, half flinched.

  “Most Krettelians are sold into slavery from birth. Those were much older. They were being punished for something. Perhaps they tried to be free.”

  “It’s terrible, Klik. I’m sorry.”

  Klik didn’t respond – she simply gestured for them to keep following her. Rogan leant across and whispered into Jack’s ear.

  “See what you’ve gotten us into?”

  The further they walked – from that point on always to the side of the roads, always in the shadows – the older their surroundings became. Not poorer, only older… and eventually more deserted. It was the old Ankhir from which the modern city had grown – left behind as technology advanced, but never left to ruin. The streets were more narrow, the walls bui
lt from sand and stone. They passed a couple of Mansa guards, neither of whom paid them much attention. They weren’t the only group being guided around the historical site by Krettelian slaves.

  “Not far now,” said Klik, her excitement growing.

  So was Jack’s. For months he’d dreamt of a way back to Earth. Now he was little more than a short conversation away from discovering it.

  He felt a sharp vibration in the pocket of his spacesuit. Everybody stopped as he pulled out his data pad. Jack wondered why Brackitt was calling him. Had the Adeona been impounded? Did the Mansa know they had Klik in their company? But it was only an automatic welcome message sent out to all new visitors of Paryx. The rising tide of panic in his chest subsided.

  Jack enlarged the photograph at the top of the message. He showed it to Klik.

  “What’s this guy’s deal? Please don’t tell me this portrait is just another anonymous tribute towards the magnificence of the Mansa Empire. I mean, look at those eyebrows. They’ve got to be unique.”

  Klik took a quick look. “That’s Scara Li Ka.”

  “Seems like a Supreme Leader sort of fellow.”

  “Eh. Nobody really knows who runs the Mansa Empire anymore. They get privately elected into power, away from the preoccupied minds of citizens. Everyone gets what they want in the end anyway.”

  “Sounds like a dictator state to me,” said Rogan. “Well, you know what they say. Idiots are happy.”

  “I think you mean ‘ignorance is bliss’,” said Jack.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Some think the Empire is ruled by an artificial intelligence, but not me.” Klik hurried down another stone alley. “I believe the Mansa have too much pride to let anyone or anything else decide things for them. No, Scara Li Ka is a… what would you call it? A general. He commands the armed forces here on Paryx.”

  “Remind me never to get on the wrong side of his armada,” said Jack, pocketing the data pad again. He didn’t bother reading the rest of the message. From what he’d already read, it seemed Scara Li Ka held some “interesting” views on alien racial hierarchy. “Strong” was another way to describe them. Primate humanoids ranked pretty close to the bottom, which meant there were whole subsets of Mansa culture to which he couldn’t be privy.