Vicious Circle

by Elle E. Ire

  “Now!” He commanded, curling His fingertips.

  The entity was helpless to resist that pull of power. Sucked in by an invisible force, it was drawn across the room in a thin line of vapor-like smoke, curling around His head and entering through His open mouth.

  He drained his creation of power and expelled the ephem on an oath of disgust, leaving it hovering before him in a cloud of mist.

  “Jaren T’ral lives. You have failed.”

  Mumbling words in the founders’ tongue, He stood on skeletal limbs much more obvious without his flowing white robes. He pointed one bony finger first at the entity, then at the red dot between his legs on the floor. An inhuman undead shriek sounded from the ephem as it split into four equal parts, each in turn pulled into that red dot, that spot of His blood, and shooting off along the painted lines in four separate directions ending in the searing flames of the oil lamps.

  I spent the next half day poring through the religious text, reading it from cover to cover. Egotistical to think I’d spot something Kila hadn’t. She’d had a lifetime to study its meanings. But I felt too weak to get out of bed, and Jaren had sunk into a deep depression, avoiding me except to deliver meals, so I had little else to occupy my time.

  In one short burst of conversation, he informed me he’d charted a somewhat convoluted route to Paradise, keeping out of the primary shipping lanes to make us less traceable. It added hours to our passage but was probably safer. He’d also shut down all systems except the engines to minimize our heat signature. If pursuers did try to track us from a flying craft like an atmospheric shuttle, they’d have a hard time honing in on our location in the enormous oceans of Lissex.

  This worked fine until the wind picked up, whipping the sails against the masts and rocking the small vessel from side to side. No support systems meant no stabilizers. With some effort, I put on my torn shirt and jacket. I tried to ignore the pounding headache developing and went topside, clinging to every handhold and rail to prevent myself from being thrown to the deck.

  Dark clouds rolled in from the east, and a curtain of rain fell in the distance, not yet at our location, but heading our way. Stinging spray lashed my face. The waves tripled in size, some crashing across the deck and making footholds tenuous. I took the grip soles from my jacket pocket and slapped them on the bottoms of my boots, then made my way to the main mast where Jaren stood.

  Wind had torn the sails loose from their furled position. Two had ripped, strips of them hanging along their white lengths. The young lord struggled with several ropes and a winch, and I could see him trying to reel in the sails and secure them before further damage occurred.

  When I moved to help, he waved me off to one of the other masts, showing me with hand gestures and arm motions what he wanted me to do. Though I nearly whacked myself in the head with the boom, I got the general idea. The rain hit, drenching my hair and pants and running off my jacket and down my collar. The sky turned black as night, and lightning flashed, arcing across the sky in a spectacular display.

  I hauled in the sail and secured the lines as well as my desert-raised brain knew how. Jaren fastened his own in place, and we met at the third and final mast to work on it together. I made the mistake of looking over the rail at the rolling waves, noting the rise and fall of the yacht as it bounced and rocked. Holding the mast for support, I closed my eyes and fought the vertigo in complete misery. My side ached, and my head spun.

  Jaren wrapped one arm around my midsection, palm flat on my churning stomach. He pressed the other to my forehead, and his chilled touch eased the pounding. “You’re not seasick.” He spoke directly into my ear to be heard over the storm. Thunder rumbled, and a lightning bolt hit the water off the starboard side, sending up a spray of foam.

  The buzzing made everything much worse, and I doubled over. The healer-induced nausea caused me to dry heave, coughing my throat raw.

  “You’re not seasick,” Jaren said with authority.

  I wanted to yell at him to shut up, but I choked instead. Rain plastered my hair to my face. The boat rocked. The thunder boomed.

  The nausea ceased.

  “I’m not seasick,” I echoed him.

  He smiled. “Let’s secure these sails.”

  When we finished, we headed across the deck to go below. A wave and a gust of wind caught us simultaneously, tossing me to the deck and throwing Jaren against the railing, sending him halfway over it. I watched him hover there, suspended above the furious sea. The indecision etched itself in his features. It would have taken so little to release the rail, to jump.

  I held my breath. No way could I rise and reach him in time. Suicide violated the rules of his religion, but if he changed his mind, there was no preventing it.

  I found myself wondering what Kila’s punishment would have been if I’d succeeded in killing him and the Believers discovered she hired me. Then again, with her pious innocence, who would believe her capable of such an act?

  Centimeter by centimeter, Jaren eased himself off the barrier and backed away from it like a sinful temptation. No fear haunted his eyes when he turned to face me, only determination. He reached out a hand to help me up, and I grasped it.

  “Where’s the body?” I shouted over the gale. I’d paused at the head of the stairs. The corpse of the Regiment 1’s first mate was missing.

  It took him a moment to register my question. “That one, I gave to the sea.”

  KILA PROGRAMMED the Tempest to take the most direct route to Paradise, pushing its engines to their highest possible speed and beyond. The auto-captain warned her, in its patient but firm computerized voice, she might burn out the mechanisms, but she had no alternative. She had to head off Jaren and Cor before they left Lissex. Otherwise she might never find them.

  Her parents told her of Cor’s apparent intent to protect her brother, but she had no idea where the assassin might hide him, and if there was one thing assassins were good at, besides killing people, it was hiding.

  When she docked at Wayfarer’s Wharf, the first thing Kila did after securing the vessel was scan for the Triumph. Not there, and it should have been. A wave of fear swept over her. Weather analysis detected a violent storm to the east. The auto-captain avoided it, skirting its edge so she experienced nothing more than a little drizzle. But if the Triumph had gone down in that squall….

  Tears formed at the corners of her eyes while a fist closed around her heart and squeezed. She couldn’t bear to consider losing Cor without ever having the chance to apologize for lying to her.

  No. Jaren was an adept sailor, and Cor had proven herself resourceful time and time again. She brought up a meteorological graph of the inclement weather system. The storm registered as a class two, not a hurricane. She was being silly.

  Kila tried to get a grip on her frayed emotions, to think things through. Cor wouldn’t plot a direct course to Paradise. Too obvious with so many searching for Jaren. Kila had seen the hunters, flying low in their atmospheric craft, buzzing back and forth over the ocean, returning to Paradise to land and refuel, only to head out again.

  And the boats, some of the fastest she’d ever encountered, hulking metal military vessels in dull grays, their steel hulls uniform and featureless except for the weapons extending through small portholes on their sides. One brazenly halted her, commanding Kila over radio channels to appear on deck so they could see her. Once they made eye contact, they let her go. They’d detected one life-form aboard, and she wasn’t Jaren.

  What if one of them captured the Triumph?

  Kila shook herself. She’d make herself crazy thinking along those lines. No. She had to trust Cor and Jaren would arrive on Paradise, maybe by a more indirect route, maybe without docking at Wayfarer’s Wharf at all, but they’d get there. The problem was, how could she possibly intercept them?

  Inside, the ephem swelled with a sudden surge of power and knew He had sacrificed the other, channeling its energy into the one remaining entity. With this much strength, it could
more easily control the girl.

  To test itself, it nudged Kila’s consciousness, guiding her off the deck and onto the pier. There, it took a long, slow look through her eyes, searching for the Triumph….

  But it spotted something else. Or rather, someone.

  Evil knows evil. Darkness gravitates to darkness. And the woman dangling her legs over the edge of the dock, black boot bottoms centimeters above the water’s surface, gave off the vibes that could make even an unemotional ephem vibrate with suppressed excitement.

  Kila’s human eyes had insufficient strength to identify the indelible ink markings on the woman’s bare forearm. The redhead wore the tattoo openly, leather vest leaving her arms naked from shoulder to fingertips. But through Kila, the entity recognized the Guild brand.

  Another assassin meant renewed opportunity.

  Kila turned her steps in the woman’s direction. Tears welled in her eyes and fell, rolling down her cheeks before she knew she’d shed them. She hovered over the Guild member until several drops landed on the dark leather pants clinging to muscular thighs. Cosmetically altered lavender eyes turned to glare up at Kila.

  “What the fuck you cryin’ about?”

  Her throat threatened to close, but Kila forced the familiar words out. “I want to hire you to kill my brother.”

  “And who the hell is your brother?” The woman was amused now, a smile quirking firm lips between sharp cheekbones. The hint of a chuckle bubbled beneath her words.

  “Jaren T’ral. He raped me.” No time to mince words, to build up, to earn trust. Not if she wanted to catch Cor.

  All trace of the assassin’s humor evaporated in the Lissex humidity.

  “WHAT DID you think of? What made you decide not to just let go and fall overboard?” I asked, grasping a mug of hot tea while I sat across from him in the galley. I didn’t need to clarify further. Jaren took a long swallow from his own steaming cup and set it down with a clink muffled by a coaster. The ship continued to rock, though I hardly noticed, and he retained his hold on the cup to keep it from sliding across the table. “Kila, my parents, friends I went to school with.”

  “Not your religion.”

  He flushed a deep shade of red. “No.”

  I didn’t press the issue. I wasn’t trying to disillusion him further than he already was. The foundations of the Givers of Life seemed sound. They’d simply become misguided somewhere along the way. I just wanted him to see he had many reasons to live beyond, “My gods told me I have to.”

  Lightning flashed outside the galley’s porthole, and thunder rolled in a long bass rumble. I stood, using the back of the chair for balance, and reached for another self-heating pouch of tea from the cabinet. Breaking the seal, I let the chemicals mix in its lining. In a minute, steam rose from the inner compartment. I refilled both our cups. “Tell me about the origins of your religion. It sounds like you once had military defenses, an army of protectors.”

  Jaren smiled in a condescending manner, then erased it at my dangerous look. “Sorry. It’s that everyone I know was raised on the history of the Givers of Life. I’m not used to outsiders.” He folded his hands on the table. “Our beliefs are thousands of years old. The Generational Kila carried wasn’t an original text. None of those were preserved. That one’s only a few hundred years old.”

  “Still seems like a valuable artifact to carry around on her travels,” I interrupted.

  “She always believed the older the text, the less lost in translation to modern-day speech.”

  I nodded, and he went on. “Our precise origins are unknown. The religion didn’t evolve on Lissex. We traveled from some other world described as a harsh environment with little moisture.” He laughed and indicated his soaked shirt and shorts. “I could have used a little less moisture today.”

  I chuckled with him, wringing out my shirt and leaving a wet spot on the floor. His smile reminded me of Kila’s, and an ache unrelated to my injury wrenched my insides. I wondered if her home survived the onslaught, if she was safe and unharmed.

  “According to scripture, an earlier Chosen left the sacred temple for reasons unknown and was killed by nonbelievers. The gods punished the Givers of Life for not protecting him, making the temple disappear beneath the planet’s surface. With their place of worship gone and their leader dead, our ancestors had nothing to hold them there, so they left.”

  I froze with my cup halfway to my lips and stared at nothing. The liquid within sloshed around as the boat rocked, but I ignored it. A prickling sensation unrelated to Jaren’s powers began at the base of my neck, crawling into my head and down my spine until I shivered.

  It couldn’t be. It was too much of a coincidence.

  Then again, if there could be audible healers and Chosens, why not send an assassin to lead one home? Until now, I never really believed in Fate. I might need to reconsider that position.

  And I thought my life couldn’t get more complicated.

  Jaren left the room, catching himself on the doorframe on the way out. He returned with a towel and wrapped it around my shoulders. I drew the edges closed over my chest. To him, I must have seemed dazed, but a plan began to form.

  “In this temple, you’ll be safe?”

  He watched me, studying my eyes, gauging my sanity. His words came slow and measured. “According to legend, yes. Dark forces pursue me.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Your typical evil entities, not our mercenary friends. We call our demons ephems.” Jaren’s half grin showed his skepticism about the accuracy of the legends. “Outside the temple, they could conceivably defeat me, but an undefeatable army awaits my return. I’d be untouchable there. Unfortunately, we lost those records. We have no idea where the temple was or the world of our origins, for that matter. It might lie beyond the settled worlds, in some distant galaxy reached through a wormhole for all I know. Cor, you’re pulling on threads instead of weaving the blanket. Historians have tried to find the temple of the Givers of Life for centuries.”

  “Yes,” I told him. “But they never asked a bringer of death where it was.”

  A flash of lightning lit the darkened afternoon sky, and thunder growled its response.

  THIS REST house where the assassin rented a room lay in a part of Wayfarer’s Wharf Kila avoided when she came here. The same collage of pastel colors decorated each building, but here the storm-weathered, paint-chipped, hurricane-damaged shutters hung unrepaired; half-dressed innkeepers doubling as prostitutes lounged in doorways or on ratty rattan recliners.

  Despite the warning signs, Kila followed her guide, hurrying to keep up with the assassin’s brisk pace and muscular limbs. Yesenia, she’d called herself, told her they’d talk business somewhere more private than the sunlit docks.

  Beyond the threshold, dim lighting hid the shabby furnishings from prospective renters. A rickety stair led to the second floor, and they entered the third door on the left.

  When Kila turned to plead the particulars of her case, she found herself flattened on the room’s narrow cot, the weight of one of Yesenia’s elbows digging painfully into her spine. She squeaked in fear and surprise, but the pillow muffled the sound.

  The elbow switched to a knee. Callused hands gripped her own, wrenching her arms at painful angles behind her until her wrists met. Something cold, tight, and metal bound them together. Yesenia jerked her upright so she knelt on the mattress, a ripper pointed at her head.

  “You know her,” the assassin accused. Her voice grated in the silence.

  “Who?”

  Yesenia struck her across the face with the barrel of the gun. The blow snapped her neck to the side, and the tender flesh bruised and swelled around the point of impact.

  “The Core of Sardonen. She’s here on Lissex. I’ve tracked her this far. That’s how you recognized the Guild brand, isn’t it?”

  When Kila failed to answer, the woman’s eyes flashed with a maniacal glint that had Kila reeling as far from her as she could manage in the small space.

&nbs
p; “Isn’t it!”

  “Yes. Yes, I know her. She didn’t finish the job. She ran off with him.”

  Yesenia paced the length of the room, five steps across and five back, muttering to herself. “She didn’t run off. And Jaren T’ral is no rapist.” Stopping midstride, she faced her young captive. “You T’rals are leaders in your religious community. And I’ve heard a few things from the mercs in town. Whatever you and the Chosen are up to, it doesn’t involve violent sex acts, and I couldn’t care less why you really want him dead. You know where Cor Sandros is. And you’re going to lead me to her.”

  Chapter 18

  THE STORM ended in the middle of our second night at sea. Without the seasickness, I slept like the dead and awoke stronger and more refreshed with my ripper wound almost unnoticeable.

  We agreed to land the boat on the beach along the east side of Paradise. This put us away from the village of Wayfarer’s Wharf and equally distant from the spaceport and landing field on the island’s north end. Though the larger island also tried to maintain its quaintness, it had roads and aircars. We’d be avoiding those. It meant a long hike of more than a day to reach a ship to get us off-world, but it would make locating us more difficult for our pursuers. And I had no doubt we were being pursued. Near-immunity from physical harm wasn’t something humans relinquished easily.

  We ran the Triumph aground in the midst of a glorious sunrise that turned the sky a pastel montage of pinks and oranges and yellows. Standing on the beach, I caught Jaren’s sad expression as he gazed at the vessel.

  “If we leave Lissex, I’ll never see her again. I’ll never see any of this beautiful world again.”

  I sighed and moved to stand beside him, resting a tentative hand on his shoulder. Comforting wasn’t my strong suit. “I wish I could tell you Sardonen was just as lovely, but it’s as harsh and uninviting as your Generational describes.” I thought about that, recalling stolen moments with Micah when we did survival training in pairs. “At night, though, in the empty desert, with no cities for kilometers, the stars are more brilliant than I’ve seen them from any other world. I guess there’s beauty everywhere, if you know where to look.”