by C. Gockel
“What is this place, sir?”
“It’s called Newet.”
From the exterior view screens, she caught glimpses through the strafing clouds as the Cass broke atmo. A few massive structures dotted the scoured plains of the planet’s surface. No vox traffic pinged back on the com-sys. This moon was a brilliant, icy-blue marble trapped in a slow ellipse around a dwindling star. Silent. Cold. Forgotten.
Then she realized why.
A young ‘scripter had once told her about the cresters’ body dumps, a gangly boy named Ecrid with a face left scarred by the hard fevers. At the time she had imagined just that: a great stack of bodies reaching into the heavens on a nameless moon.
She fought the urge to fidget. “A body dump.”
“The Regime calls it that,” Jon reprimanded. “It suggests they’re discarded junk. But that’s not what they are. They’re my ancestors.”
“They’re dead. They lived in glory. And crest—Kindred hide them here like broken things.”
Inwardly she shuddered at the idea of her used-up corpse sealed away in the rotting stink of soil or stone vaults. Forgotten by the living. Sela had always known that upon her death, her remains would be returned to the sanctity of space, the birthplace of life.
“We do this to honor them. This is the world where the Veradin Kindred are taken.” The quiet reverence in his voice was very different from the man she knew. “Kindred once loyal to ours rest here as well. One day, I shall too.”
A day far from now, if Sela could help it.
“Why here, sir?”
“They won’t look for us here, Ty. You need time to heal.”
He tapped the screen, leaning into her view of the console. The terrain mapping outlined an immense structure of stone and metal.
“Put us in here. It’s not too far to walk.”
“You don’t mean we’re actually going inside one of those tombs.”
“This is probably the safest place to be right now, Ty. I doubt the dead care much about harboring two deserters.”
An icy breeze whipped around them the moment they stepped from the protective hatch of the Cass. This place was not the monstrous heat of Tasemar. The air was thin here. The simple act of walking had her frequently stopping to catch her breath. Sela had spent weeks in a similar environment for acclimation during primary infantry. Under those conditions, a third of her fellow booters had succumbed to fatigue.
She worried about Veradin. He had not received such training. Destined for officer’s ranks, he would not have needed to set foot on such an inhospitable world. He bent over with his hands propped on his knees as he panted.
“Perhaps we should return to the ship, sir.” Sela kept the eagerness from her voice.
It just felt wrong to be here.
“No,” he wheezed. “This is something I have to do.”
He took a hit from the canister. The distress on his face evaporated as the oxygen-rich air hit his lungs.
She kept her protest silent and righted the day kit over her good shoulder.
“Not far. Let’s move,” he said, staggering forward.
As they picked their way along the eroded footpath, Sela examined the horizon. At this distance, the necropolis could have been any settlement founded in the early days of Expansion. But there was a strange stillness to the scene. No ships darted on and off the landing field. No lights, save those meant for decoration, pulsed out of the stone walls into the milky dusk.
The path wound between two steel obelisks that thrust proudly into the thin air, marking the entrance. Script in High Eugenes adorned the structures’ sides. Sela paused, canting her head. The scribble was meaningless to her, a long parade of pictographs and hash marks. She knew only the graceless scrawl of Commonspeak and the more direct iconic missives of Regimental Standard. High Eugenes bordered on sacred language. No breeder would ever speak it or presume to read it. It was meant only for the cresters.
“It bears the names of the Kindred dynasties who lay at rest here,” Veradin explained. “Veradin and others that were allies even as far back as the time of the Expanse.”
Sela’s reply was automatic, the product of her training. “It’s not for me to understand, sir.”
He tapped a long row of characters. “Corsair. Novian. Veradin .”
She backed away, appalled by his casual tone. Somewhere, Lineao is laughing at me.
“I can teach it to you, Sela. To speak Eugenes too.”
The thought was like chewing on metal. “It’s not for me to—”
Veradin seized her hand and held it against the cold surface. Sela recoiled as if stung.
“Fates be praised!” he said sourly between hits of the breather. “You weren’t turned into a pillar of ash.”
She cradled her hand, massaging the fingers as if the brief contact had hurt. Her voice was barely audible to herself above the lonesome howl of the wind. “You shouldn’t do such things, sir.”
Veradin chuckled. It turned into a wheezing cough until he took a long draw on the canister. Sela watched him. He should have acclimated somewhat by now.
“You’re not a child, Sela. First tries to keep you like one.”
Her mouth went dry at hearing the priest’s words in her captain’s voice.
“It’s just stone and metal,” he rasped.
“I know, sir. This is all just very…different.”
Sela hated the nervous tremor in her stomach, hated her hesitation. I have been declared renegade and traitor. I have defied the Regime and Decca, made a personal enemy of Trinculo, and this causes me to waver?
“I’m going in,” he said. “You can stay here. Enjoy the weather.”
She watched him disappear into the cool shadows of the mammoth tomb and was left to the baying of the wind.
This was the summation of her career under Captain Jonvenlish Veradin: watching him dive into strange unknowns without fear or hesitation, all with his signature casual arrogance that enraged and enthralled her in the same breath. In many ways, he was like a boy, reckless and needing her protection even from his own nature.
Who is the child here, Captain?
Then finally, Sela followed him.
The pressure in the air changed as the door sealed behind her. Inside, Sela was embraced by the mellow amber light of the sanctuary. A faint rhythmic sound twisted on the dry air.
Music for the dead. Did it play continuously? Or was it for the benefit of the few bereaved who came to visit?
Veradin seemed to guess her thoughts. “It’s not always playing, Ty. It’s all for show.”
His color had returned. The air in this place, although slightly stale, was more suitable.
“I’m sorry about…out there.” He made a vague gesture. “I shouldn’t have done that. It’s just that I hate the things they tell you to believe. It’s not right.”
There was a fleeting anger in his expression, but she realized it was not directed at her. For what felt like the thousandth time in the past few days, she searched for a suitable reply to one of his rages against Decca and turned up nothing. She simply nodded.
“You can stay here if you want.” He jerked his chin to the entrance. “I’m going ahead.”
Sela was not about to wait in this place alone. She did not fear the dead, only what reckless feats he might attempt if she left him unattended.
“I’ll come, sir.”
He smirked. More mind-reading. “I’m not going to do anything strategically unsound .”
Sela arched an eyebrow at him.
“I can’t get into too much trouble here. Promise.” He extended a hand to her.
The corners of her mouth curled up into an answering grin, and she placed her hand in his.
Before them stretched a long corridor of red polished stone, presumably the central passage of the structure. The walls curved and folded into dimness far above, as tall as a docking bay on the Storm King . Smaller passages branched off in regular increments, five to a side. Designs filled th
e walls in gilded flourishes inlaid with what looked like jewels. To Sela, it seemed a waste. Truly, cresters might as well have been a species she had never encountered before this day. She felt her earlier trepidation dissolve.
“All this for the dead,” she said.
She paused at a massive mural: the Fates engaged in some mystical communion. Natus. Metauri. Nyxa. She frowned. Although having clearly been done by a far more skilled hand, it was similar to the one in Lineao’s temple. There was a new detail. A fourth woman, equally serene and beautiful, had been included with her three sisters.
A fourth Fate?
“Miri. The fabled mother of the Palari ,” Veradin said. “Oh. You’re not supposed to know about her, Ty. Shall I report you?”
She rolled her eyes at his mockery. “Yes, have them add it to the list of charges, sir.”
“A joke from Sela the Immortal. Good,” he chuckled. “That’s good.”
As they pressed on, she saw more paintings gracing the ornate walls. More carvings of warriors from the time of the Expanse grappled with mythical beasts. Fire-silk tapestries draped from high above with depictions of elegant women reclined in couches. High Eugenes writing seemed to be on every available surface: the walls, the floors.
They turned into one of the connecting corridors.
“This one.” Veradin halted before the rendering of a crester nobleman frowning out into the hallway. Carved from dark red stone, the statue was a good three heads taller than either of them. Its hands were those of a giant, folded across his waist in thoughtful repose. The robes were unfurled in a frozen wave to suggest the play of a breeze on the fabric. Emblazoned in the middle of his chest was the crest of his office.
Veradin gestured at the gold crest. Sela estimated it was the size of a shatter grenade. On it was cast the shapes of four sinewy women, probably the Fates.
“The thing of a bygone era, like its owner,” her captain said with a thin smile.
In the days of the Expanse, when Eugenes came to dominate the Known Worlds, the wars were fought by the ruling warrior clans. They were the early ancestors of the Kindred. The officers wore enormous jewel-encrusted crests. They started out as armor but grew into these gaudy things that had no other purpose than to advertise a Kindred standard. The bigger the crest, the richer the Kindred. The wars by then were fought by breeders and ‘scripters.
As much as they distinguished Kindred from the breeders beneath them, the crests made them easy targets for killing and capturing. As a consequence, the enormous badges fell out of favor. Now they were tiny icons stitched in metallic thread on their cuffs and collars.
“Who is this?” Sela asked. It did not seem right to talk above a reverent whisper in front of the frowning giant.
“Sela Tyron, meet Helio Veradin.” Veradin’s voice hitched in guilt or sadness, perhaps both. “The man who raised me. My uncle.”
“Helio.” She rolled the name over her tongue, like a forbidden taste.
“You would have liked him, Ty. He enjoyed bossing me around, too.”
Sela nudged him with an elbow but turned away slightly to hide her grin.
Veradin stepped closer. “My parents died. I don’t remember them. Erelah was an infant. We lived with Uncle after that.”
Here was another rare glimpse of her captain. Sela panned the torch over the remainder of the enormous alcove that was the Veradin Kindred tomb. There were six other statues, smaller in size. Half were male. Half were female. All carved in similar states of repose and all wore dour expressions. A gentle ambient light slowly filled the vault, making it easier to see the rich detail of the room. She realized that they must have tripped a sensor on their approach. The corridor seemed to be warming as well.
“They look really…” Sela could not think of a word that would not insult.
“Solemn?”
“Upset.” They looked pissed that anyone would want to stuff their corpse into a stone box and then put it on display.
“I guess anyone would be, considering how the Council of First treated them for believing the Humans could have been the Palari.” He turned to her. “Imagine your whole life worshiping something, only to find out you were wrong.”
“Are your parents here too, sir?” Sela asked. The one called Uncle looked nothing like her captain.
“They were just servants, Ty.” The light of his torch picked out script near the shoulder of Uncle. “But their names are there.”
Sela swallowed. “Read it to me.”
He took her hand. This time she did not pull away. With her fingers, he traced the shapes in the stone as he read the words.
“In memory of those lost: Jonah and Meredith. Miri guide you home.”
A sadness filled his voice as if he had forgotten something vital. It made her chest tighten. She realized she had been staring at him. Sela cleared her throat and regarded the visage of Uncle.
“Is his body really here?”
“No. He was cremated and rests in a tidy little urn in the gallery of First. I imagine as some sort of example against renegade Kindred. I’m sure his eternal spark is tormented by that fact.”
Sela frowned. They had burned him.
“It’s not like he was alive when they did it,” he said with a dry chuckle once he saw her expression.
Embarrassed, she looked away, panning the light across the room’s other eternal occupants.
Veradin placed his hand on the crest decorating his uncle’s chest.
“My boy, what have you done?”
They both started at the disembodied voice. Sela’s rifle was in hand instantly. She bodily moved Veradin behind her, backing him against the wall of the crypt.
“Identify yourself!” she challenged, searching the dim corners.
“Stand down, Ty.” Veradin guided her arm down to train the weapon on the floor.
The hum of a hologrid crackled to life on the floor before Helio Veradin’s statue. A male form, identical to the likeness of Veradin’s uncle but more realistic in stature, flickered once and then solidified.
Sela felt suddenly foolish for overreacting—after all, it was only a program. Still an urgent sense of danger jangled her nerves. This was wrong, different beyond any forbidden glimpse into the world of her superiors.
“An avatar?” Sela spared a glance at her captain.
At the sound of her voice, the avatar’s simulated gaze trained on her.
Its tone was flat: “Identity of second presence is unknown. This message is secured. This message is intended for Jonvenlish Onid Veradin, Son of House Veradin.”
On a basic level, Sela was not surprised. After all, she was just a breeder. Somehow, this thing had recognized her as that.
“Bloody Uncle,” Veradin muttered. He stepped forward. “I’m Jonvenlish Veradin, Son of the Veradin Kindred.”
“Confirmed.”
Her captain held out a beckoning hand to Sela. She stepped to his side with the plasma rifle still ready.
“Identify second occupant as non-hostile,” Veradin said.
She snorted. Now that was funny.
Veradin shot her a warning look before turning back to the avatar: “Identify second occupant as Commander Sela Tyron, soldier of the Regime.”
“Jonvelish Veradin identified. Second occupant identified.”
The posture of the avatar relaxed, returning to a more lifelike stance. Head tilted, it regarded Sela before looking to the captain.
“The soldier cannot be here, Jon. What I have to say is only for you and Erelah to hear.”
It looked back at Sela. “Commander Tyron, you cannot remain. This message is not for your ears.”
Sela instantly turned to leave. She’d had enough of strange crester customs and insults for one day. Veradin sighed and grabbed her good arm.
“Command override,” the captain groused. “Authorization seven…velda—“
“Command override does not exist.”
“Commander Tyron is an ally of the Veradin Kindred,”
her captain snapped, before adding a comment in High Eugenes.
The avatar replied in the same language. More nonsense words to Sela. Then her captain’s posture changed, sagging. It was plain he would not get his way.
“You can’t be here, Ty.” His shoulders sagged.
“Yes, Captain,” Sela said quietly. “I’ll go back to the ship.”
“I’m sorry.” It was a hoarse whisper.
Sela granted him a terse nod before moving into the corridor. She felt her throat tighten under alien tears.
Chapter Fifteen
I should not have left him there. That was wrong.
As she cycled the hatch closed to the Cassandra, the words came to Sela over and over, like one of Lineao’s useless prayers.
Something was very wrong here. There was secrecy and shadows. Sela was not a being of nuance and subterfuge. She fed on actions and their ensuing results. In this new realm, she would surely starve. Her hands folded into fists. There was nothing to fight here. No target.
My boy, what have you done?
The first words from Helio’s avatar.
The greeting was not exactly a pronouncement of welcome or loving joy left for a long lost relative. The words were filled with admonishment.
Have you done something, Captain?
Muttering a string of directionless curses, she climbed the ladder to the command loft. There were things to do: sys checks, fuel calibration for atmo.
Later. She would think about all this later, she lied to herself. It was one of her favorite bad habits. So, she forced herself to focus on the battered screens of the command loft.
Time crawled past.
Just as Sela’s worry was starting to solidify and she was ready to grab her gear and return to the vaults, she heard the cycle of the outer hatch of the ship’s midsection. Quickly she launched herself down to the common passage.
Veradin entered on a gust of frigid wind. He bent over, taking in the warmer recycled air of the Cass with giant gulps. Eyes shut, he slid down the wall of the pressure lock to rest his forearms on his knees.
“Sir?”
He opened his eyes, but he did not look at her. Instead, he stared at the wall ahead.