Broken Moon Series Digital Box Set

by F. T. Lukens

  “You got the cuffs to fall off, didn’t you?”

  Ren furrowed his brow. He crossed his legs and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “How did you know?”

  “It’s Abiathar’s favorite trick.”

  “Trick? What does that mean?”

  The captive cocked his head, eyebrows raised. “You don’t know.”

  Ren shook his head.

  “Let me guess, small village, not much tech. Right?”

  “Yeah,” Ren said, slowly, unsure he appreciated the insinuation. “Tech is more trouble than it’s worth most of the time. Why use a hover engine to pull a plow when a horse could do the work and has less chance of breaking?”

  “Spoken like a true duster,” the prisoner muttered.

  Ren scoffed. “And what are you? A spacer?”

  “No, I’m a drifter.”

  Ren sat up from where he had propped his head on his hand. “Are you serious?”

  “Serious as a life support malfunction.”

  A drifter. An actual person who’d been born on a drift. Ren had never met one. If they did come planet-side, which Ren had learned was rare, they stuck to the spaceports. Even the traveling tech salesmen who occasionally came to the village were dusters.

  Ren couldn’t stop the questions. “Then what are you doing here? How’d you get here? How long have you been here?”

  The man smiled lazily. It looked out of place on his smudged face. “My name is Asher. Everyone calls me Ash.”

  Ren blinked. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  “Not really, but it’s my name. You did ask a few minutes ago.”

  Ren exhaled roughly and looked away. Of course, the one person he was stuck with was a condescending drifter. It was just his luck. He focused his gaze on the force field, the blue sheen glimmering in the low light. He could hear the hum of the energy.

  His throat ached. His stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since morning. His thoughts whirring, he absently rubbed his abdomen.

  “Don’t be like that. We’re neighbors now. It doesn’t matter where we’re from. I’m just as trapped as you.” Asher ducked his head, his expression imploring. “Come on, what’s your name?”

  Ren sighed, shoulders drooping. “Ren.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ren. Welcome to your new home.”

  Ren pulled his knees to his chest and propped his chin on them. “Well, I don’t plan to be here long.”

  Asher made a noise of disbelief and pushed away from the slats. “That’s what they all say,” he said, settling down on his own mattress. He leaned against the wall, long legs out in front of him. “Trust me, Ren. Don’t do anything stupid. It’s not worth it.”

  Ren didn’t reply. He stared at the locked door behind a force field and imagined the maze of corridors and the guards on the walls and his throat went tight. He’d find a way out. He had to.

  * * *

  An indeterminate time later the guards returned, and Ren scrambled to his feet from his half-doze on the mattress. They opened his cell and ushered him out, not sparing Asher a glance.

  “Hold out your arms.”

  Tired and depleted of emotional energy, Ren did as he was told without complaint. The guards snapped iron shackles on Ren’s wrists. Heavier than the electronic restraints, they afforded more room to move since several links of chain joined the cuffs.

  “What’s this for?” Ren asked as the cold metal pinched the skin of his wrists.

  “The General doesn’t want a prize like you getting away.”

  Casting a glimpse over his shoulder, Ren saw Asher sitting in the shadows, watching disinterestedly. Ren didn’t know what he expected, but Asher’s lack of reaction made his dislike for him double. However, it did nothing to squelch his curiosity.

  A yank to Ren’s shackles made him stumble forward, and he turned around lest he run into a wall. The soldiers guided him back down the maze of hallways and staircases, and yet again, Ren’s head spun with trying to keep track of all the turns. After one sharp right, Ren saw the twilight sky through an arch. The blue of day inched toward darkening night, and Ren saw the emergence of twinkling stars.

  Stepping out into the expansive courtyard, Ren smelled the thick scent of food, and his stomach rumbled. He quickly looked around for Sorcha and Jakob, but didn’t see either of them in the groups of people milling about, though he didn’t get much chance to look. The guards ushered him toward the far end, where a line of boys were taking turns at a few troughs of water. Several other soldiers stood around, prods out, and Ren winced at the thought of the combination of electricity and water.

  “Get cleaned up,” one barked at the waiting line. “And hurry if you want your supper.”

  By the time it was Ren’s turn, the water was cold. The shackles made it difficult, but Ren managed. Using a cake of soap, Ren washed off the days of grime, blood and dust and, despite the situation, he felt infinitely better once clean.

  The guards pointed him toward another line where the food was dished out. While waiting his turn, Ren glanced around the courtyard again. He was the only one in shackles. Everyone else was unbound, apparently not considered flight risks.

  Nearing the front of the line, Ren picked up a tin bowl and cup from the table and shuffled forward. He held out his plate, and the girl in front of him ladled a portion of the stew from the pot and poured it into his tin.

  “Ren,” the girl whispered.

  Ren looked up and met her gaze.

  “Sorcha?”

  She nodded. Her long white-blonde hair was pulled back and tucked under a kerchief. Without it framing her face, Ren hardly recognized her; her blue eyes were too large, her cheekbones too sharp.

  “Are you all right?” Ren asked.

  She bit her lip and nodded. “Where did they take you?”

  Ren opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted.

  “Hey,” a guard yelled. “Quit holding up the line.”

  Ren gave Sorcha a weak smile and moved, grabbing a crust of bread from the stack. He dipped his cup in the bucket of drinking water, then left the line and sat in the courtyard with the others. Like the washing water, the stew was cold, but it was thick and better than the dried tack he’d eaten the last few days.

  Someone dropped beside him and Ren looked up from slurping to find Jakob at his elbow.

  “Hey,” Jakob said, low, “where are they keeping you?”

  “In a cell in a dungeon,” Ren said, scooping up stew with his bread. His shackles clinked as he moved. “What about you?”

  “In a barracks with a bunch of other new recruits. I have a space on the floor next to five others. It’s a tight fit. I’m glad we were all forced to bathe.”

  Ren smiled. Leave it to Jakob to complain about accommodations while being a slave. “At least the food isn’t bad,” he offered.

  Jakob snorted. They ate in silence until Jakob elbowed Ren in the side.

  “How come you never told anyone you could do that?”

  Ren used the rest of his bread to sop up his stew. “Do what?”

  “You know,” Jakob gestured with his free hand, “the thing with the cuffs.”

  “I didn’t do anything. It was Abiathar. It’s a trick,” Ren said, ducking his head, keeping his gaze fixed on his now-empty plate. His stomach growled.

  “Huh. Well, from where I was standing it looked like it was you. Your eyes glowed and—”

  “My eyes glowed?” Ren said, snapping his head up and staring at Jakob. “What do you mean?”

  Jakob shrugged. “They went blue, like, uh, the kind of electric blue when the stunners fire.”

  “My eyes are brown.”

  Jakob scrunched his nose. “I know. I’m looking at them right now. But I’m telling you, they went blue. And then your cuffs fell off and the cuffs
of the people behind you did too.”

  “But I didn’t… it wasn’t me. It was Abiathar. He can do this trick with his voice and it—”

  “You know, you don’t have to lie, Ren. We’re not at home anymore. It’s not like you’ll be branded any stranger than you already are.”

  “Jakob,” Ren said, at a loss.

  Jakob stood, empty plate dangling from his fingers. His voice went hard. “Just keep looking for a way out,” he said, “and don’t forget me and Sorcha if you find one.”

  He stalked off, dropped his dirty plate in the pile where a few girls were washing them in a tub, and disappeared under an arch, presumably the way to the barracks.

  Ren watched him go. A hollow feeling took up residence in his gut and it wasn’t hunger. He stood and dropped off his own plate, before walking to the archway that led back to the cell.

  “I’m ready to go back,” he said softly.

  The guard muttered under his breath, but he turned and led Ren into the labyrinth of hallways. Along the way, a girl scurried past them clutching dishes, her head down, hair pulled back like Sorcha’s. Ren furrowed his brow as she brushed past them and looked at the guard, who didn’t act as if her appearance was unusual at all.

  When they arrived at the door, the guard unlocked it, entered his passcode and then unlocked Ren’s cell. Ren stood patiently during it all, even when the guard took two tries to unlock the shackles before pushing Ren into his cell.

  “Say what you want about the hospitality,” Asher said, once the guard had left, “but you can’t beat the stew. Cold or not.”

  Ren ignored him. He dropped to the hay mattress and lay down facing the wall. Sleep was a long time coming, and when it finally did, it was filled with dreams of electricity and stars.

  4

  When the guards came in the morning, they ignored Asher. They gave Ren an apple, which he ate as they walked toward the courtyard. His shackles pinched the skin of his wrists, and the chain clinked as he bit into the sweet flesh of the fruit. As they emerged from the bowels of the castle, Ren blinked in the low-slung sunlight and sleepily observed the goings-on.

  The dozens of children who were to be soldiers stood at attention in rows as a high-ranking official yelled at them. Ren spotted Jakob, his back straight, chin raised in defiance, toward the end of one line. It wouldn’t be long before Jakob did something rash to earn a prod.

  A few of the younger kids, too small to be soldiers but old enough to be captured, ran around performing errands—carrying buckets of water to the kitchens, handing notes to various soldiers, carrying baskets of linens. The castle was like a village unto itself, bustling with people, though not self-sustaining, as the raids on Ren’s village demonstrated. A nagging thought entered Ren’s mind. What happened to the people who had been here before? Where were the young people who had been captured the previous year, and the ones before then? What happened to them? Why did the Baron need to replenish his supply?

  And what was Ren here to do? It obviously wasn’t to be a soldier.

  “What am I supposed to be doing?” Ren asked, following his guard.

  “Shut up and keep walking.”

  Ren sighed. The guard, a heavily muscled man with dark skin, took him to the corner of the yard and stopped in a shady spot where a low table was set up, a plank of wood on two blocks of stone. It overflowed with tech. A box of tools sat open on the ground. Ren raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

  “And what am I supposed to do?”

  “Fix them.”

  “Fix them? I don’t even know what some of these things are.”

  The guard shrugged. He stood next to the table, tucked his prod into his belt and gestured for Ren to start. Ren stared down at the pile of useless tech. Well, it wasn’t much different than when he fixed tech at home.

  He upended a nearby crate and pulled it over. He sat, his knees bumping into the lip of the table, and set to work.

  Ren picked up a prod. He was somewhat familiar with it, having seen it in action, even if he’d never held one.

  “I can’t believe you’re letting me work with weapons,” Ren said, as he inspected the prod. He tried to get it to spark. It sputtered, but didn’t light.

  The guard crossed his thick arms. “You won’t do anything,” he said, confidently. “You won’t risk it.”

  “Who says I won’t? Don’t think I’m brave enough?”

  “No. I don’t think you’re stupid enough.”

  Ren smiled in spite of himself. He flipped open the compartment in the handle of the weapon and stared at the burnt wires. No wonder it wouldn’t work. He grabbed a wire cutter out of the toolbox and began to strip them.

  “My name is Ren,” he said as he worked.

  The guard grunted and took a breath, and Ren looked up to see him observing the courtyard with his strong jaw clenched and his curly hair pinned back from his face. He looked young, despite the worry lines etched into his forehead.

  “I’m Oz,” he replied in a low voice. “Now, shut up and get to work.”

  Ren’s smile grew. And he did as he was told.

  A few minutes later, after Ren bastardized a few wires from a dead comm to use in the prod, it hummed to life.

  * * *

  Ren worked the entire day. At lunchtime, a girl from the kitchens, the one Ren had seen in the hallway, dropped off a plate of cheese and bread and a cup of water. Ren thanked her, and she scurried away. The soldiers formed a line shortly thereafter, and Ren watched as Sorcha emerged from the door to the kitchens with a pot. She dished out stew under the watchful eye of the head cook.

  “Is she from your village?” Oz asked, nodding toward Sorcha, noticing Ren’s gaze. “Was she your girl?”

  Ren ducked his head. “No.” It was true he had thought about it, but he’d thought about other girls and boys too. Now, he was certain that part of his life was over or, more accurately, would never begin. “She’s just a girl I knew.”

  “Ah,” Oz said. “I understand.”

  “Were you like us?” Ren asked, his fingers poking at the innards of a stunner. “Taken from your home? Forced to serve?”

  “I’m not like you.”

  “Not now, you’re not, but before. Are you from one of the nearby villages?”

  Oz uncrossed his arms and flexed his hands. “I serve Baron Vos. That’s all you need to know.”

  “Yes, but did you always serve him? And where are the others?”

  “It’s not your concern.”

  Ren squinted at a troublesome circuit. “That’s what I thought.”

  Jaw clenched, Oz’s green eyes glittered as he stared at Ren. “Shut up and work. I’m your guard, not your friend.”

  Ren hunched over the table and went back to fiddling with the components. Oz may not have given Ren an answer, but his defensiveness did tell Ren there was a reason none of the previous captives were here, and it had to do with what Abiathar said the previous day, about the Baron’s destiny. Whatever it was, Ren would figure it out. He had to, because the more he observed, the more he knew escape would be impossible without all the pieces of the puzzle.

  Hours passed in silence as Ren attempted to fix tech he had no experience with while Oz stood at his shoulder. Sometimes, Ren would take a moment to see what the recruits were doing. He watched as Jakob was made to do pushups. Those who lagged were prodded, and as electricity coursed through their bodies, Ren smelled ozone wafting on the light breeze. The trainers pitted the recruits against each other in wrestling matches, and by the end of them, Jakob sported a bloody nose and a torn shirt, but at least he’d won a few bouts. He wasn’t on the bottom rung of the group.

  By the end of the day, Ren had seen more of the training techniques than he wanted, and winced as soldiers dragged several of the boys away to the barracks, exhausted and injured. For his own work, Ren had fixed several prods and
a stunner. His stomach churned at the thought of the weapons being used against more villages and their inhabitants. But there was nothing he could do. If he didn’t work, then he’d be punished, or his friends would be. And he couldn’t escape if he was hurt, and neither could they.

  A different guard relieved Oz a few hours before twilight, and after another dinner of stew and water that Ren ate alone, the guard led Ren back to his cell.

  Asher was there, hands behind his head, sprawled on the stone floor of his cell.

  “Escape yet?” he asked lazily.

  Ren bristled. “Screw you.”

  “Relax,” Asher said, propping up on his elbows. “The sooner you realize there’s nothing you can do, the sooner you can accept your fate.”

  Ren sat down on his mattress. He pulled off his boots, wincing at the smell. What he wouldn’t do for an actual bath. “I’m not accepting anything,” he answered.

  Asher nodded, his expression bored. “Right. You look like you’re fighting the power at every turn.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “No bruises. No smell of burnt hair, so you weren’t prodded today. No blood. Looks like you did exactly what the general wanted you to do. And it sure as hell wasn’t training for his army.”

  Ren frowned. He rubbed his wrists, where the joints ached from the pull of the shackles. “Just because I’m not rebelling doesn’t mean I’m not planning.”

  “Sure you are.”

  “I don’t want to draw attention. I can’t escape if I’m being watched at every turn.”

  Asher raised an eyebrow. “So you are smart. I didn’t think dusters could be cunning.”

  “And I didn’t think drifters would be so annoying. But here we are.”

  Asher laughed, the sound echoing in the stone space, his green eyes crinkling at the corners. “Wow, personality beneath your solemn exterior. Who knew?”

  The corner of Ren’s lip curled in a half-smile. Teasing reminded him of Liam. “Who says I’m solemn?”

  “Your face.” Asher stood and leaned against the grid that separated them. In the soft light, his features looked less severe, younger, beautiful, unlike the harsh exterior that existed in the half-shadows. “You always look like you’re sucking a lemon. I thought it was a weird duster deformity at first.”