by Amie Kaufman
And I see it then. Like a puzzle laid out in front of me. Like a game of chess, a dozen moves ahead. I see what’s happening here, and where it will lead. And I know, with awful certainty, that there’s only two ways this can play out. Either Saedii capitulates and hands over Auri, which is never going to happen. Or Terrans and Syldrathi go to war again.
But the Ra’haam wins either way.
Because if Terra goes to war with the Unbroken, so do our allies, the Betraskans. That means the Aurora Legion is suddenly involved. The resulting conflict could end up sucking in every sentient race in the galaxy. And in that chaos, that carnage, that distraction, the Ra’haam will be left alone to gestate. Until it’s ready to hatch, erupting from its seed worlds through the nearby FoldGates.
Bloom and burst.
And then it has the galaxy.
“Saedii,” I gasp, my crotch still aching. “Don’t do this.”
“Be silent,” she says, not even sparing me a glance.
Her eyes are on a tactical display, now pulsing on the screen where the image of Princeps used to be. I can see the approaching Terran ships, two carriers laden with fighters, four destroyers armed to the teeth.
“They want you to shoot first,” I say, desperate now. “They want you to be the one who starts it. If you open fire on that fleet, it’ll shatter the neutrality between Syldrathi and Terrans, don’t you get it? It’ll mean we’re at war.”
She looks at me with those cold eyes.
“We are Warbreed, little Terran,” she says simply. “We were born for war.”
She presses the transmitter at her breast, and my heart sinks in my chest.
“Erien, notify the Neridaa that we are engaging hostile Terran forces.”
“At once, Templar.”
“Are weapons ready?”
“Awaiting your order, Templar.”
“Saedii, don’t!”
Her eyes narrow.
Her lips thin.
“Annihilate them,” she says.
14
KAL
The Andarael is a capital ship, crewed by over one thousand adepts, Paladins, dragoons, and support staff. So it is easy enough to avoid attention as we march toward the detention block. Zila shuffles before me through the ebb and flow, mag-restraints clasped but unlocked around her wrists. We receive the occasional glance, nothing more. But a part of me knows this subterfuge cannot last.
My chest is one dark bruise from the disruptor shot aboard the Totentanz. My ribs aching like white fire. The cigarillo case Adams gave me stopped the worst of the shot, but the Unbroken took the gift from me while I slumbered, and I have no idea where it is now. I suppose I may never know what was locked inside it. But regardless, I know it saved my life. I know we are part of a grand mystery here, decades or even centuries in the making.
What I cannot begin to fathom is how it will end.
Zila informed me that Tyler was taken to Saedii’s chambers for interrogation—retrieving him means confronting my sister directly. And wounded as I am, it will be hard enough getting my other squadmates out of detention without infiltrating the command and control center to rescue my Alpha.
My sister was always cruel, even when we were children. Our mother abhorred it, but our father encouraged it. I imagine the tortures she might be subjecting Tyler to. But then I push the concerns about Tyler from my mind.
First, last, and always, I must see to Aurora.
We arrive at the detention block, and immediately I note something amiss—the cells are overfull. It is uncommon for the Unbroken to take prisoners at all. Even on their largest ships, the detention facilities are small and often disused. But through the transparent walls, the crackling punishment fields, I see hundreds of figures. Syldrathi, all of them. They are thin and miserable, and my belly sinks as I note that each and every one bears an identical glyf on their brow. An eye crying five tears. The same glyf my mother bore.
Why in the name of the Void is Saedii capturing Waywalkers?
There is no time for questions. The adept manning the intake looks at Zila with faint puzzlement, turns his cool eyes to me. His desk is circular like the detention block around us. He is only a year or two older than me, but the trophies on his armor tell me that he is no novice.
“What is your business, adept?” he asks me.
I glance around the room, heart sinking. I had planned to bluff my way in here, overpower the few guards by surprise. But there are a dozen sentinels. Heavily armored. Fully armed. Warriors and killers, all. I see four of them gathered in front of the same cell, and my heart surges when I see Aurora lying on a slab all alone. She is unconscious. Bound, gagged, and blindfolded. A dermal patch on her wrist delivering a steady stream of sedatives into her nervous system.
It seems my sister is taking my be’shmai’s transport very seriously.
But why does Saedii want her at all?
And why are these Waywalkers here?
In the cell next to Aurora, I see Scarlett and Finian, forlorn and silent on their benches. They have been separated from the imprisoned Syldrathi and sit with each other in isolation. Scarlett catches sight of me, tensing slightly. Faint anger surges in me, to see my friends treated so.
I am doing desperate calculations in my head. There are thirteen adepts in here. I can feel the Enemy Within prowling back and forth behind my eyes. I have struggled against him since I left all this behind: the part of me that delights in bloodshed and pain. Trying to become something more than I was raised to be.
I’na Sai’nuit.
But he can feel the building tension in my muscles now, rattling the bars of his cage, twisting my hands ever closer to fists.
Break them, Kaliis, he whispers.
Kill them.
But beneath my armor, I am already wounded. And even at my best, I could never defeat this many. I push the Enemy back.
“Adept,” the warden repeats. “What is your business here?”
“Prisoner delivery,” I explain, nodding to Zila. “We captured this one crawling about in the air ducts.”
The warden blinks at Zila. “I was not notified.”
I give a cool shrug. My ribs sigh in protest.
“If you wish, I can release her back into the ventilation system?”
The adept meets my eyes, radiating challenge. I match his gaze. Unafraid. Unimpressed. This is the way among Warbreed. Testing always. The strong survive. The weak die. Fear has no place among those born for war.
Finally, he points. “Put her with the other Terran vermin.”
I nod assent. Zila and I march across the detention area floor, my boots ringing on the metal. One of the sentinels outside Scarlett and Finian’s cell deactivates the glowing punishment field, unlocks the door. Zila steps inside, head bowed. Scarlett gives her a quick hug, and she tenses but does not pull away.
“Pig,” Scarlett spits at me, helping with my subterfuge. “I hope you rot.”
“Silence your tongue, Terran scum,” I reply in Syldrathi.
“What is your name, adept?” comes a voice behind me.
I turn slowly, look at the warden. He is peering at the ident number stenciled on my stolen armor, consulting the computer terminal behind his station. In a crew this large, on a ship this big, it is possible for people to be mere acquaintances. But a complete stranger is unlikely. And as I said, these Unbroken are not fools.
“My name?” I repeat, hand sliding toward the disruptor rifle on my shoulder.
“According to the duty logs, you should be stationed in the inf—”
“RED ALERT,” comes the sudden call. “RED ALERT. TERRAN DEFENSE FORCE VESSELS ON INTERCEPT COURSE. ALL HANDS, BATTLE STATIONS.”
I blink as the announcement spills over the PA system, as the lighting drops to a deeper shade of gray, as the Syldrathi in the room share a baffled glance.
Terrans?
Attacking the Andarael?
The alarm continues to blare. The sound of the engines shifts deeper. But I can re
ad the look on the faces of the Unbroken around me, mirroring my own heart. This is impossible. No TDF fleet would dare attack an Unbroken ship. It would m—
“RED ALERT. TERRANS HAVE ACQUIRED WEAPONS LOCK. FIGHTERS INBOUND. ALL HANDS TO BATTLE STATIONS IMMEDIATELY. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.”
Despite their confusion, Saedii’s crew is well trained. The sentinels break into action, some talking into comms units, others drawing weapons. Two march off immediately toward the launch bays. Several others gather around the warden’s desk, looking in cold disbelief at his displays. I can see six Terran vessels inbound on our position. Four destroyers. Two heavy carriers, bristling with fighter wings.
A force like that could tackle even a ship as imposing as Andarael.
If they dared attack her …
They might actually defeat her.
From the corner of my eye, I see Zila slip a uniglass from inside her sleeve and pass it to Finian. Our Gearhead turns away from the door, unnoticed amid the sudden clamor, and works feverishly on the small, glowing screen.
I see Zila’s hand sliding beneath her tunic to her hidden disruptor pistol.
I steal up to the closest sentinel.
“RED ALERT,” the PA calls. “RED ALERT. MISSILES INBOUND. DECOYS ENGAGED. ALL HANDS, BRACE. FIGHTER WINGS, LAUNCH.”
Finian meets my eyes and nods. The Andarael shifts beneath us as the helm engages in evasive maneuvers. I hear the thunder of her engines, the dull thudthudthud as her pulse weapons open up. The Enemy Within surges against the prison of my ribs, longing for bloodshed. He wants to be out there with his brothers and sisters, wading through the black and the red, reveling in the taste of salt and smoke, dancing the dance of blood.
But we can dance in here well enough.
I unsling my disruptor rifle and unload four shots into the heads of the sentinels closest to me.
Finian’s fingers blur on his uniglass, and the punishment field around their cell finally drops.
Zila surges out the door, firing rapidly and taking another sentinel down with a shot to the spine.
I toss my rifle to Scarlett, draw the blades from my back. She catches the weapon and the air is filled with disruptor fire: Scarlett’s haphazard blasting, Zila’s more refined bursts.
The adepts are caught flat-footed, some scattering for cover, others turning toward me, and then I am weaving, slicing, swaying, as the deck rolls beneath me, as the alarms continue to sing, as the thing I do not wish to be roars to my surface. I can feel my father’s hand on my arm, guiding my strikes as he trains Saedii and me in the days before our family collapsed, before our world perished.
Another warrior falls beneath my blades. I taste blood on my tongue. A disruptor shot strikes me in the shoulder and one of my blades sails free from my open hand. A shot from Zila stops the follow-through and I strike back despite my pain, slicing into my foe’s throat, fountains of dark gore painting the ceiling, the walls, my hands, and my face.
Show them who you are, Kaliis.
Show them what you are.
I am nothing then. No thought. Just motion. Lost in the moment, the hymn, the hypnotic, dizzying dance of blood. And when the music is brought to a sudden halt, when a bone-jarring impact to the Andarael’s hull drags me out of the trance, I look around and see what I have wrought.
Nine bodies. Nine men and women, once alive and breathing and now nothing but cooling meat. I feel elation. Revulsion. Feel the pounding of my pulse in my ears and smell the stink of the blood on my hands.
This is who you are, Kaliis, the Enemy Within whispers.
You were born for war.
I’na Sai’nuit.
The Enemy retreats as the Andarael shudders, heavy impacts ringing on her hull as the alarms continue to scream. I look at Scarlett picking herself up off the deck, at Finian struggling to rise from where he fell. I can see the horror in their eyes at the carnage I have created. Zila is more pragmatic, but still, I can sense a shadow over her as she surveys the blood-slick floor, the bodies. I can feel the fear in them. Of what I am and what I do. But none of it truly matters.
Because it is all for her.
Aurora.
I take a passkey from a fallen sentinel, deactivate the punishment field on her cell. She looks beautiful as ever, eyes closed in slumber, curls of black and white framing her fluttering eyelids.
As I unlock her restraints, Zila slips into the cell beside me. She takes a quick reading with her uniglass, peels off the dermal patch at my be’shmai’s wrist. Producing the medical supplies she stole from the infirmary, she presses an air-hypodermic to Aurora’s throat.
“She is heavily sedated,” Zila reports. “It will take her some ti—”
“I will carry her,” I say, sweeping her up into my arms. “We must move.”
“Your shoulder,” Zila objects. “You are w—”
“I am well,” I say, striding out of the cell. “We must go. Now.”
“What’s the plan?” Scarlett asks.
Another impact rocks the Andarael, then another. I glance to the warden’s terminal, see images of the Fold outside. The colorscape is black and white, but the waters are still red. Three of the Terran destroyers have been incinerated, and one of their carriers is incapacitated. The Unbroken are fighting fearlessly. Brilliantly. But still, the battle is going badly for Andarael. The void is swarming with fighters—the snub-nosed, bulldog shapes of Terran mustangs and the bladelike silhouettes of Syldrathi corvettes—weaving in and out of the swelling firestorm. Andarael’s defense grid has been smashed; Terran missiles are now pummeling her hull. Another impact rocks us, sparks bursting from the instrumentation, alarms screaming.
“BREACHING PODS EN ROUTE FROM TERRAN CARRIER,” the PA calls. “ALL HANDS, PREPARE TO REPEL BOARDERS.”
“They are coming for Aurora … ,” I murmur.
“Who are you?” a voice demands.
I turn, see a tall Waywalker staring at me from within one of the holding cells, surrounded by thin and wasted compatriots. The silver of his hair is faded with age, thin lines etched in the skin around his mouth. He is an elder, perhaps two hundred years behind his eyes. He would have lived the glory before our fall. Before the rise of the Starslayer. Before we abandoned honor and began tearing at each other like starving talaeni over scraps.
He glances at the Warbreed glyf on my brow, at the carnage I have wrought among the Unbroken, clearly confused. I can feel his mind skimming the surface of mine, trying to ponder my riddle.
“I am no one of consequence,” I reply.
Turning to Finian, I nod to the dead bodies.
“Get yourself a weapon, Finian de Seel. We must go.”
Scarlett frowns, glances at the imprisoned Waywalkers. “You can’t just leave these people here?”
“We cannot bring them with us,” I say, marching across the block. “There is no room aboard the Zero. And there is no time to argue. Come.”
Zila nods, already hovering by the exit, a disruptor rifle in her arms. “It would be an unacceptable delay. And a mass escape will draw attention to our own.”
“They might cause confusion,” Scarlett counters, glancing at the nearest cell. “They might help. We can’t just abandon them. Can’t you feel their pain?”
A slight frown mars Zila’s brow, and she turns to look at our Face. “Scarlett, our single and most important objective is to support Aurora in preventing the hatching of the Ra’haam planets throughout the Milky Way. Any price we or others pay for the success of that mission is acceptable.”
“Every second we argue is another wasted,” I say, growing desperate.
“We have a little time?” Finian asks. “Zila already got the Hephaestus data and our uniglasses back.”
“I have them all with me,” Zila says, patting her pocket.
“YES, I’M HERE, I’M HERE, NOBODY PANIC!” comes a small, muffled voice.
“Silent mode,” Zila says.
“We must rescue your brother and get off this ship, Scarlett,
” I say.
“My brother would be the first person to break these people out,” Scarlett says. “Don’t you dare use him as an excuse for abandoning them.”
She marches across the room and begins rummaging around in the uniform of the dead warden. Another blast rocks the Andarael. In my arms, Aurora frowns in her slumber. The wound at my shoulder is a slow and bloody agony. The lights are flashing white to gray, the alarms almost deafening.
“BREACH ON DECKS 17 AND 12,” the PA calls. “SECURITY AND ALL AVAILABLE HANDS TO 17 AND 12.”
“Scarlett, we have no time for this,” Zila says.
The ship shudders again as Scarlett finally recovers a passkey. I can smell smoke now, fuel and char. My heart is thrashing, stomach turning as Scarlett moves from one cell to another, shuffling around the entire room and freeing a flood of confused, desperate Waywalkers into the block. Andarael bucks like a wild thing beneath our feet.
Aurora opens her eyes in my arms.
“Kal?” she whispers.
“All is well, be’shmai,” I say, and in that moment, despite everything, it is true.
“Mothercustard,” she groans. “I feel like someone chewed me up and spat me out. That sister of yours …” She blinks hard, looking around us at the smoke, the bodies, the fleeing Waywalkers. “What’s h-happening?”
“We are leaving this place. Can you walk?”
“Scar, come on,” Finian pleads.
Helping Aurora down onto the deck, I shout, “Scarlett, we must go!”
Scarlett kills the punishment field and opens the final cage. The elder and his companions stumble out into screaming, chaotic freedom.
“Gratitude, young Terran,” he says.
“Get yourselves to the shuttle bays,” she says. “Get the hells out of here.”
He studies her for a long moment and then nods deeply, eyes closed, lacing together the fingers on both hands. Treating our Face to the mark of respect he would usually reserve for another Waywalker.