by M. K. Valley
My heart trips when he snatches my hand, where an imagiSword is forming without my realization. Before I let a sound, he drags me into a dark alley and pushes me hard against the wall, the cold stone biting into my shoulder blades. All protests die on my parted lips. The weapon’s stuck between us, his hard abdomen pressed against my wrist, immobilizing it, slim fingers bruising my shoulders. He drops his gaze and goes shush, and shock rushes his features when he registers the frostbite of the blade taking shape between his legs.
“Uh, do you mind? They might pass us by.”
Then I hear it. There’s always someone milling about on the streets of Sicarius Prima. But here, we came across very few people, most of them minding their own business. Paranoia muffles my senses, and I’ve missed the whispering footsteps on our tail. How long have they been after us? The sound is carefully concealed, but not when you’re listening for it, aware. And they’re getting closer.
“How many you think?”
“At least two,” he whispers over my lips, peach curls hanging into his eyes. I can feel him at every point of contact, painfully familiar and infuriating. He turns his head, exposing the pulse beating fast in the elegant column of his neck, searching for better cover than the pure chance of them missing us. “Maybe we can climb or imagine something crude, an extension to the wall…”
But that would take time and energy, and the footsteps are almost upon us, briefly hesitating because to onlookers, it probably seems like we vanished into thin air.
“You know what?”
“What?” He breathes out, his attention snapping back to me, eyes wide and dark.
“We’re on the clock.”
I shove him off me, the shared warmth abandoning me immediately, and I round the corner, the imagiSword replaced by a throwing knife, the black blade absorbing what little light there is. The knife whistles through the air, bridging the ten feet in a heartbeat, sinking deep into a thigh. A man topples with a yelp.
“Don’t pull that out!” I shout, and his partner jumps, muscle memory lagging a few seconds behind.
It’s all I need. I rush the Assassin, leap into the air, one knee connecting with his chest, one leg circling his neck. The sting of a knife sets fire to my thigh, and I swing violently, throwing him off balance and landing on his back. I scramble for an arm, grip it, twist it, and tug as the man trashes under my weight, a guttural sound escaping from my throat.
“I’m fucking busy!” I shriek as the bones break with the same sound of brass knuckles splintering my cheekbone.
The blow throws me onto my back, blood choking me, darkness arresting my vision. I scuttle back, half blind, another deafening crack shredding the night. Another body thuds, and by the time my vision clears, the one with the knife in his leg has also stopped writhing.
“My bad,” Illiran says, extending me a hand, “there’s been three of them.”
“You took your sweet time,” I hiss, spitting a bone-like shard. The remainder of the tooth rattles in my mouth.
“Do you know how hard it is to calculate non-lethal force?” He exclaims, twirling a baton that disappears into thin air.
I wrench my arm free and shove him back, hard. “Soft tissues and breakable bones, do I have to teach you everything!”
He blinks, and I realize I’m shouting, spitting blood, my breath shallow and off-pitch. “You’re bleeding,” he says in a small voice, and all my muscles lock in place, suppressing the urge to vault and break his neck. He must’ve sensed it because Illiran takes a step back and gestures to my thigh. “Not only from your face.”
The sting in my leg is superficial, nothing compared to the blaze in my face, and even that pales in comparison to the blinding rage in my voice when I grab a fistful of his shirt. “Is this a joke to you?” I shove him against the nearest wall and snarl in his face. “Do you know what happens if they put us on trial?”
“You get the ring.”
His answer’s swift and grim, a cold shower for my fire, the anger sizzling out.
“We get the ring.” I dust him off and smooth out his shirt, taking a step back. “Stop wasting time.”
I break eye contact first, the flames of shame licking the back of my throat, and Illiran walks away, silent. There’s no more flirting, no more quips. Just the silence and the whistle of my breaths, weighing down on us. It wasn’t fair. I’ve never been fair to him, and I know that’s half the reason he left, but I can’t push the words of apology lodged in my throat. He’s always been able to draw the worst in me as some sort of a challenge, and I hate him for that.
“Here,” he says, and I rake in a deep breath, taking in our surroundings to get some semblance of control.
The building is a monument of the mundane. Thinking it has a dozen floors is just a guess. In fact, nothing marks them on the outside. The façade is a big chunk of old black stones, crumbling in spots, polished in others. Windows are nowhere to be seen.
“Reflective glass, one-way view, nothing extraordinary,” Illiran supplies in a hushed voice, fingering the black matte slate we’ve been staring at in the last few seconds. “This, though… this is.”
I trace the featherlike touch of his fingers. The metal ripples softly, answering to the contact, and I hold back a gasp. I’ve only heard of the material, never seen it. An alien remnant that can’t be forced open. That explains the lack of security, but makes the answer to how we are getting in even harder. Then the ripples cease, and a small slot sinks in, a warm orange glow blooming like a miniature sun in the night. Illiran pulls out an encrypted communicator from his endless supply of pockets, a thumb drive attached to it. Pop goes the drive into the opening.
“Is it that easy to get to the Chronicler? A few codes?” I spit out blood, watching the fervent dance of his fingers on the communicator’s screen.
“No, princess, I’m just that good.”
I can’t fathom the connections he must have to pull this off. He has intimate knowledge of the premise, the impenetrable barrier standing between the Chronicler and us, and holds a key to the fortress. I should be terrified, if not for curiosity.
A mechanism clicks, the orange glow turning green and then black again. The material ripples again and retracts to the sides, letting us through. The passage beyond is dark, except for the blinkers throbbing like a headache in the making. Illiran imagines himself a pocket-sized energy weapon. My sword isn’t too far behind.
“That’s the main entrance. Wasn’t someone supposed to meet us here?” I ask under my breath but still follow him inside, the door solidifying in place behind our backs.
“They were.” His voice falters, and my feet scrape against the tiled floor.
“If this is a trap, confess your sins, Samraha, and I’ll let you walk away.”
His mirthless laugh is the whisper of sand on the wind. Instead of wiggling out of the situation, Illiran turns to face me, shoulders straightened with pride. I take note of the gun, still pointing to the floor, his finger nowhere near the trigger.
“I guess we don’t know each other that well.” His step takes him close enough for our noses to touch, our clothes whisper against each other. I can cut him before he hooks a finger through the trigger. But I don’t. I let him bend down, his hot breath trickling down my neck. “I would never lock myself in a tomb with the deadliest Assassin on Ares.”
There’s no smug smile, no devilish glint in his eyes when he steps away. That’s not another attempt to flatter or flirt. It’s a simple fact. Illiran knows things about me I haven’t told Twig. Things I’ve been hiding from Scorpio and Ares all my life. He knows what I can do to him. That’s my guarantee this isn’t his trap.
“Would you rather we call this off?” He speaks after a moment, and I shake my head.
“We’re here. Let’s see what they have for us, at least.”
Beyond the passage, there’s a labyrinth of twisted
creations. Emerald dusk lingers across hanging staircases with no destination, upside-down rooms, bits and pieces of imagination in disarray. And not a living soul. The deeper and higher we go, the worse the anxious feeling in my chest becomes. I shadow Illiran’s every step. He takes them with care. As if he’s been studying floor plans, but the floors suddenly got blown up. I have no doubt he has no idea where we’re going, but keep my mouth shut.
“How long has this been going on?” He asks in a hushed voice as we drift on pins and needles through tangled computer systems, information screens with meaningless digital rain, whole rooms made of circuit boards. An aberration born out of a subjugated mind in the thralls of a psychic ring. Almost what it’s supposed to be, yet obviously flawed. Like those staircases leading to nowhere. An unsolvable puzzle, the Chronicler’s last line of defense against intruders.
“Since we came back,” I answer, surprising us both, and clear my throat. “Nothing unexpected. No one’s gone and done something stupid to Twig yet, so I would say I’m handling it. No one dares to enrage me yet, they’re just poking.”
“If you need me to, I can spare the men…”
“I said I’m handling it, Illiran.”
He drops it, and our crusade through this fever dream continues. Maybe we would’ve never found our way through the maze, but a thud echoes loud and clear, not far from us. And thus, the trap springs.
I push Illiran out of my way, deaf to his protests and warnings, rushing before the memory of the sound fades. Not a moment too late, a pattern emerges in the labyrinth, and it unravels before us. I dash through halls and take two steps at a time, don’t bother with doors leading to solid walls. If I’m fast enough, I might catch our hunter. But I’m not. I halt at the gaping entrance of a dark room, the only light coming from the blinkers on the outside. Inside awaits my sentence, signed and sealed. The imagiSword in my hand is trembling. Or is it the hand holding the imagiSword trembling?
Illiran almost bumps into me when he catches up. Protests die on his lips when he takes in the scene that’s seared onto my eyes. The Chronicler’s body lies lifeless on the floor, a black puddle spreading beneath him. I’ve never seen him in my life, but the psychic ring clasped around his shaved head is a dead giveaway. A fist of steel wraps around my insides, shooting jolts of fear up and down my spine.
“We have to get out of here. Now.” Samraha’s voice scrapes at my nape like chalk on the pavement. I can’t move, breath dead in my throat. Shock roots me in place, and I don’t budge when he pulls me by the elbow. “Andria, the Consulate must know of his death by now.” Of course, the moment his brain activity ceased, the psychic ring has alerted them of the fact. “It will be swarming with police within minutes.”
Police. I croak instead of laughing. Isn’t that ironic? Imagine that, a law enforcement agency on a planet of murderers! They’ll have a field day with an actual criminal offense on their plates! They’ll surround us, put us to our knees, and chain us with those damned rings. And we could do nothing but follow protocol.
But if they take us both, it will be bureaucratic hell. Hermesian pricks and Zeusian investigators will bury us in a dungeon under a ton of legal crap. Chained. Until a new normie comes to put us on trial. Judging by the murder weapon carefully discarded next to the Chronicler’s body, they won’t bother investigating. The same exact blade’s still humming in my shaking hand.
I make the decision in a split second, wishing my short sword into oblivion.
“Run!” I throw every ounce of hysteria into my hiss and myself at Illiran. He staggers back, taking my weight, a strong arm cradling my waist, as my fingers trace the pockets galore on him. “Please, you have to warn Twig!”
Bewilderment melts into jealousy, a deep frown adds another scar to the latticework that is Illiran’s face. He clearly sees me imagining a mirror on the opposite wall. But he doesn’t ask questions, I’ve taught him well. He’s already made the calculation. This trap’s made for one. If we both run, his chances of escaping evaporate. I might be a damsel in distress, a sight to behold he’s never been allowed to see before, but Illiran has his priorities straight.
He releases me with a grunt and bolts, and I tap into the Aether again. I circle the body and feel the mirror frame, turning on a switch I learned to put there far too young. The blinkers carve deathly hollows into my features before I face away to focus on the murder weapon. A perfect replica of my favorite blade. A clear sign that’s a trap. Someone must be watching, biding their time for the right opportunity to wish it away, making it look like I did it.
I can’t undo the work of another Imaginator. But I can damn well prevent them from wishing it away. I’ve picked up a trick or two along the way.
As I pull on the Aether, boots clatter closer. Too soon. They must’ve been lying in wait. I can only hope that Illiran’s made it out, or at least managed to hide. If he can’t get to Twig, I’m lost. But I push the thought to the side and focus on the thin layer of quintessence solidifying over the blade. An imagined casing no one but me can remove. An imagined casing of pure Aether that can’t be bent or broken. It exists to create matter, but it also is. A material, the clay birthing our creations. I pull on the Aether and weave it and leave it there as it is, my imprint and life force interlaced with the quintessence of the Infinite Universe. No one’s getting to the blade beneath without my say-so.
“Make sure I’m alone and isolated when they make me undo it,” I say to no one in particular, a foul smile blossoming on my lips as boots clatter inside the room.
“What’s so funny, aberrant bitch!”
I tilt from my crouch when the stock of a gun cracks against my temple. A rough hand yanks me back to my knees, and a hysterical laugh drips from my mouth. It mingles with the blood when they split my lip, turns into a wheeze when they crack a rib. And I laugh, and I laugh until I cease to exist, and all that remains is the haze and the pulse of the ring against my temples.
PHASE SIX
THE LINGERING HAZE
OF THE RING
The world is a monochromatic blur. The last time I was chained with a psychic ring, I was just a child on Scorpio. Right up to the day that I decided to leave my cage.
Someone of my caliber can break under the influence. It blocks the innate ability to imagine. No matter how prepared you are, how good your comprehension of a thing is, the concept comes out crooked, dented. Just like the Chronicler’s hideout, everything is a bit off. The harder you try, the worse the consequences. We’re yet to find a way to counter the effect of the rings.
That’s why I don’t resist when they drag me across Sicarius Prima, when they throw me around endless rooms, when they take my belongings and rub my wounds with salt. The urge to imagine is a taut rope around my throat, but if I give in, I might not be able to stop. A rampant but clear mind is better than a twisted one. I can’t risk hurting myself, not with the hours to come. I need every ounce of self-control to come out on top of the pain and the craving about to surge through me.
I try to forget most of it. You can’t fit it into words for someone who hasn’t experienced it. The haze tilts the world on its axis. Sweat drips in huge drops from every pore. You wiggle, desperate to scratch a psychosomatic rash, unable to scratch the itch to imagine. You bloat up, every bone aches, swollen, and you wish you could rip them out of their joints and grind them into flinders, hoping to dull one pain with another.
You can’t sleep, you can’t eat, the flames of every breath set the lungs on fire during the adjustment period. After the first twelve hours, you’re ready to believe the worst is over, maybe even dare to imagine. But the pain shuts you down.
I’m half numb, half ablaze during the following hours. I remember being put in a cell. The sandpaper of a plank-bеd carves craters into my back. When the fever finally breaks, I sob in triumph that I lived through this again.
But the haze remains. I remember
nothing of what was happening around me, only my efforts to balance on the razor’s edge between my craving to imagine and the pain that every attempt brings. It’s just me and the Aether in that tiny cell. I might not be able to break the compulsion of the ring, but I can control it.
There’s one reason why I’m among the most prominent Imaginators of our time. I’ve spent every waking hour nurturing the imagination. Ours is a world of information flows, data streams, and knowledge streamlined into our brains. All we have to do is plug into the web, and the Infinite Universe shrinks, it’s within reach. That has crippled the minds of humanoid races. Progress robbed us of the need to conceptualize an idea, to assimilate something, anything, through our own perception and understanding. But the brain is like a muscle. Fail to use it, and it wilts. We live in an Infinite Universe that doesn’t think for itself, that doesn’t read. Books have turned to dust lifetimes ago. We receive a homogenous mash of knowledge riding electrical impulses. In a way, we destroyed imagination for the sake of efficiency. It won’t be reaching to say the only living creatures in the Infinite Universe, who’re still reading instead of settling for the funnel, are the Imaginators. And not many of them.
Twig was just a sprout the first time he saw me reading. I remember his wrinkled confusion with these ‘archaic things’. It was a long lesson he learned well.
I think of the walls of books lining his home. More than mine, for sure. But that’s not about the implications of reading. It’s the act that saves my life in those darkest of hours.
You turn into a dog on a leash when they put a psychic ring on. You crave one thing only – to imagine. But every attempt comes with pain. It trains you well, to be submissive, to believe you can satisfy that craving only when allowed, following a strict set of instructions. I’ll never allow that to happen to me again.
