by P. K. Lentz
The nowhere became a dim yellow gloom.
He ceased moaning. Whatever world this was, he probably didn’t want to attract the attention of anything in it.
Too late. He had.
With some shuffling and clinking, a monster appeared and loomed above him, a gray face with wide mouth, hairless ridged skull, and over-large, glinting black eyes.
Instinctively Ivar struggled, but his limbs refused to budge, not even to strain against whatever restraint held them in place.
He knew this monster. A Jir.
The next thing he saw was also something he knew.
The monster raised Ivar’s own Sviar-made ax. The engravings in its head were forever collecting dried blood that had to be scraped out.
“Greetings, Gorosian.”
The Jir spoke in their brand of Nexus, which was understandable to Ivar in spite of incorporating rumbling alien sounds which human anatomy could never reproduce.
“Remember me? You left your toy embedded in my back.”
This Jir had one eye. Leimya had shot out the other.
The Commodore.
He flicked a thumb, or some digit, on the ax’s blade.
Ivar said nothing. Fear kept his voice from working, although he would never admit that later, assuming he lived. So he growled.
“You will feel pain, Gorosian,” the Jir promised. “We have the ability to simulate the peeling of skin from your body, the removal of limbs, anything we wish. However, considering your origins, I think it appropriate that we dispense with sophistication and use more primitive methods.”
The Commodore made a screeching sound, presumably a laugh.
“This iron tool of yours will do nicely, I think. For a start!”
Fourteen
The interior of the Red Branch III was mostly blue—a bright aquamarine, in fact, which practically induced eye pain. But Arixa didn’t complain. A Shift-capable ship was a ship, and once the Branch was in the subverse, its floors and walls and ceilings would all take on the particular blue of the Blue, as well as ceasing to be floors and walls and ceilings in any meaningful way.
It wasn’t long after departing the concealed Sagaris that the Branch III Shifted. Arixa was used to living in the subverse by now, even if it had been nearly a moon now since she’d experienced it. Ships could only spend ninety hours or so in the subverse before the hull would begin to suffer decay, necessitating an hour’s exit into normal space for the buildup of corrosive molecules to dissipate. Their current trip would require only one such respite, a fraction of the length of the Sagaris’s initial journey from Earth
Arixa’s new pilot imprinting gave her a better understanding of such matters, even if it still wasn’t a particular interest. Machines and their functions were of less import to her than living things.
For the next hundred-plus hours, she was to occupy the machine called Red Branch III with seven living things. The most familiar of them, Vaspa, she shared a berth with. There were enough small living quarters on the Branch III for each to have their own, but Arixa didn’t particularly wish to be alone.
Simply because it gave her a moment’s amusement, she had paired Memnon with Shadow-man, the one who had killed two mutineers practically in front of the Hellene.
The two Eraínn Dearg and Morgana shared quarters, as they had on the Sagaris, for obvious reasons. Only Cinnea and Bowyn kept single berths.
Soon after Shifting, Arixa glided to the former’s small room. “Thank you for helping my people,” she said. “I know you didn’t have to.”
“True.”
“So why did you?”
Cinnea, whose fiery hair was currently as blue as the drinking flask in her hand, pondered before answering. “I have a past. Surely it’s not as interesting and... stabby as yours is, but I’ve done things. Some of them I regret. People have met bad ends because of me. When I have a chance, I try not to let bad things happen to people who don’t necessarily deserve it. Even if they aren’t exactly... friends.”
Arixa smiled. “Ivar?”
“All of them. If I just left them there, I’d regret it. What about you? What do you regret?”
“Not much. Bad things don’t only happen because we were wrong or could have done better.”
She frowned. “Yes. That fits what I’ve heard of you.”
“From Bowyn?”
“From Bowyn. Whatever my reasons for helping Ivar and the rest, you can be sure I’m not doing it for you. You’re a murderer. I liked Eoghan. He made me laugh.” Cinnea stared intensely through the Blue. “Your apology to Bowyn was self-serving. Might not matter to him, but it does to me.”
Hanging silently in the hatch, Arixa met Cinnea’s bitter stare. There were things she could say, arguments she could make. The true answer was that she had no reason to regret, no cause to apologize for the execution of an opponent who happened to be this woman’s friend. If Cinnea needed someone to blame, it was Bowyn.
But Cinnea wasn’t interested in her friend’s killer’s version of the truth—no more than Arixa would be interested in hearing out this Senek Baron if it turned out Ivar or Leimya were dead because of him.
Instead of arguing, Arixa just said, “I only wished to thank you, and I have.”
When she left and the hatch shut behind her, she learned that Bowyn had been attached to a grabrail well within earshot.
“Don’t mind her,” he said as Arixa sailed past him and into the Branch III’s common area. Vaspa was harnessed on a couch there with a device strapped over his face. The thing supposedly provided some sort of entertainment.
Ignoring Bowyn, she asked, “Vaspa, what’s in there?”
Vaspa didn’t answer.
Bowyn followed her and stopped with practiced skill. “He’ll be exploring a ruin or something. It’s a primitive device. Most of the better ones don’t function in the Blue. I say don’t mind Cinn, but she has a point about Eoghan.”
Arixa whirled—or rather twisted awkwardly—to face him. “I’m so very sorry that you lost a member of your crew. Do you know how many I’ve lost since home? At least two hundred and forty. I’ll soon find out if it’s more. Pardon me if I don’t weep for Eoghan the Headless.”
The outburst took Bowyn aback. Then he smirked, because of course he would.
“Two,” he said without trace of mirth. “We lost two of our crew. Another, Llyr, was killed while getting Ivar and your sister, among others, safely off Nemoora. And we lost plenty before you started taking heads, Airgetlam. We left our home with a few dozen. We nine—now seven—are all that’s left. If you’re not busy, I could tell you our story.”
Arixa bit off a caustic reply and sighed. “You’ve lost friends. I sympathize. Since you overheard, know that my gratitude is not only toward Cinnea. It extends to you, as well.”
“I would hope so,” Bowyn said. “I’ve done quite a lot for you at this point.”
“Not entirely by choice, if you were to be honest.”
Bowyn chuckled. “The appropriate reply is, ‘Yes, you have, Captain Bowyn.’ You have some rough edges about you, Arixa.”
“Is that what bhitseach means?”
“I didn’t exactly say—”
“It’s fine. I think the Jir word is chigit. I enjoy learning new things. I was slightly less rough once.”
“Were you? That’s hard to imagine. If you don’t wish to hear my story, I’d be open to hearing yours. You could start as early as you’d like, so long as it ends with how you captured a Pentarchy cruiser.”
“I’ve seen nothing to convince me you could keep your mouth shut long enough to hear that.”
Bowyn glided nearer. “I’ll take that wager. If I win, then it will be my turn.”
“Don’t be childish. Even if I made pointless bets, I don’t trade in stories.”
“Shame. It’s not the worst way for strangers to pass the time together. This is a small ship, but big enough that solitude is yours for the taking,” he observed. “Yet you’re still here listeni
ng to me chatter. I gather you don’t want solitude. You don’t want to talk. Then what? Ax throwing?”
“Maybe I’ll explore a ruin. Vaspa!” she shouted.
The Dawner yanked the device from his face, blinking rapidly. “What?”
“Is that any good?”
“I like it well enough. Want it?”
“Maybe later.”
Vaspa replaced the visor. Arixa pulled a packet of Nectar from her belt pouch and held it between two fingers.
“I have this. It didn’t agree with me the first time. Do you use it?”
“Zaxx? Never. Distellents, however, I’d be happy to share with you, if that’s what youre suggesting. Drinking is something strangers can do together.”
“No. We might end up talking. I’ve decided.” She pushed off and moved past Bowyn in the direction of her berth. “I’m going to my quarters,” she said. “You may join me one condition. Actually, two: you don’t tell me any stories, and I take your hand and put it wherever I want to. In return, you get to leave when I decide I’m done.”
“Are you—” Bowyn began.
“That sounds like a story, fortune-seeker. You don’t need words. Just seek.”
She rounded the bend and entered her berth. Unsurprisingly, Bowyn followed close behind.
He was fine with the proposed bargain and upheld his end of it.
* * *
In the following hours, Arixa did wind up telling Bowyn something of her life in Scythia, even if when it came to Devastation Day, she passed much of the telling on to Vaspa and Shadow-man while they all sipped distellents from spill-proof flasks in the common area.
Bowyn followed by telling how he and a hundred or so young Eraínn had fled the doomed mining colony of their birth only to encounter much danger. He was recounting the second or third of his people’s perils when Arixa interrupted him.
“We’ll need to wear voidsuits on the moon’s surface,” she said. “None of us are accustomed to that. We should train.”
Accepting with a frown that his time was up, Bowyn said, “That’s sensible.”
Not long after, the three Scythians and Baako donned four of the voidsuits which had been among the goods sent over to the Sagaris as part of Bowyn and Ivar’s trade. Bowyn, of course, had meant to steal the goods back, along with the Sagaris itself, but that hadn’t gone well for him. Now he was short one decapitated crewmate and helping the Dawn suit up instead.
The suit’s final element was an opaque-looking helmet which Arixa was relieved to discover didn’t cut off her vision. Somehow she could see through the solid faceplate.
Still, her breath was loud in her ears and faster than it should have been. If she hadn’t grown somewhat used to the enclosed spaces of starships, having her head sealed in a shell would have been intolerable. As it was, she had to resist the urge to tear it off.
“If your father the king could see you now!” Bowyn reflected.
“He’d try to have me killed. Again.”
Looking around her through the helmet’s display, Arixa saw Bowyn and the three suited, helmeted figures occupying the Blue-tinged interior of the Branch III. None was oriented exactly as she, floating instead a various angles in relation to one another. That was something else she’d gotten used to.
With all their faces obscured, Arixa couldn’t distinguish one suited figure from other, apart from Baako, who was tallest.
“How do I tell who’s who?” she asked.
“The suits have unique signatures. You assign the suits’ identities, and it will label them for you.”
There were a few glowing, overlaid symbols at the periphery of Arixa’s vision, moving along with her head.
“What if we can’t read?”
“The script should be Nexus.”
Arixa repeated, “What if we can’t read?”
“I thought you had a Gaboon imprinting you all.”
“I don’t always show up for appointments. I have reasons.”
One reason was that Arixa didn’t love the idea of having her mind written on like dried sheepskin. Another was that she wished to continue to think in Scythian, something she had learned might not be the case after too much imprinting. If she could never see her homeland again, she would not sacrifice that remnant of it which lived inside her.
She would still learn alien scripts, eventually—the hard way, while reserving imprints for essential skills that were impractical to gain otherwise.
“You can assign symbols,” Bowyn suggested, wisely declining to press the issue of her willing illiteracy.
“How is everyone?” Arixa asked.
“Living a dream, Captain,” Baako answered. The two other Dawners echoed the sentiment, if less colorfully.
“Our lives may soon depend on these. We must feel at ease wearing them. Don’t remove it until that’s the case.”
After Bowyn aided them in setting their displays to identify one another, Arixa spent a further hour growing accustomed to her voidsuit. One of its inconveniences was that she would be unable to use her ironglove without damaging the suit. Perhaps in future a suit could be modified for her.
She only permitted herself to pull off the helmet when she no longer felt the powerful need to. Even still, it came as a relief.
The others had declared themselves ready sooner than she. A second such session later in the voyage was probably warranted, she decided.
In the meantime, Arixa passed her time in the Blue in various ways. She played camp games with the Dawn and Eraínn, foolish tests of speed, strength, accuracy, or endurance that were necessarily reinvented for zero gravity and augmented bodies. She slept. She and Memnon experimented with the Branch III’s food synth, resulting in the creation of various meals which could be alternately enjoyed or presented to others to taste on a dare.
She spent time alone with Bowyn, banishing berthmate Vaspa over his protests that it was fair for him to stay because Arixa had spied on him and Tomiris on the Sagaris.
While they were alone once, Bowyn suggested that he teach her to read Nexus.
“No,” Arixa practically cut him off.
“You could consider it a survival skill,” he argued. “But all right. If you change your mind—”
“Fine. I changed my mind. If it could keep me alive some day...”
Perhaps wary of another mind-change, Bowyn wasted no time conjuring a holo display in front of them. The lesson which followed was elementary and tedious, but necessary. She would have to endure it or else submit more readily to Fizzbik’s devices invading her mind and possibly changing things she didn’t want changed.
Arixa endured Bowyn’s teaching as she had endured the voidsuit. They were another pair of inconvenient necessities in an endless chain of them, pulling her wherever the gods saw fit.
After a more than sufficient first lesson, Bowyn dismissed the holo display upon finding his pupil staring unresponsively.
“Do the Eraínn worship gods?” Arixa asked him idly.
“Some do. They have one god, Lugh. A savior they think one day will lead them to a new world. Or back to Goros-3. I was never clear on that.”
“You don’t believe.”
“No. To most of us, Lugh is just some story from the old world. Like Airgetlam. You could ask Dearg. Now that I think of it, he went to a Lughian school. What about you? Your lot talks a fair bit about gods. Dare I ask?”
“I believe in something I’m comfortable calling Tabiti,” Arixa said. “Less comfortable trying to find words for it just now.”
“Seems that’s probably how it should be.”
“By the time I return to Tabit,”Arixa confessed, “I might have been made into a prophet. Then I suppose I’ll have to decide what I believe.”
Bowyn asked what she meant, but Arixa just dressed and sailed out of the berth.
As the voyage carried on through a jaunt in normal space to prevent hull decay, granting the passengers brief respite from the Blue, Arixa took more Nexus lessons and passed time i
n other ways with Bowyn.
It was not an unpleasant time, but shortly before the Branch III was due to reach its destination, alone with him in her berth, she issued Bowyn a warning. More than one, in fact.
“In case you’re unclear, when this voyage is ended, so is what we’ve been doing.”
“No more reading lessons?” Bowyn asked.
“Only reading lessons.”
“I see. No, I wasn’t clear on that, but thanks for making it so. May I ask the reason?”
“What reason is there to continue?”
“There might be one or two, but... acknowledged. That suits me.”
To the extent it mattered, Arixa was uncertain whether or not Bowyn’s casual acceptance was genuine. He was a practiced deceiver.
That trait was what necessitated her second warning.
“If you make me regret having trusted you, Bowyn,” she said quite gently, “I will make you pray to Lugh.”
Uncharacteristically, Bowyn had nothing to say to that.
Fifteen
At the end of its hundred-hour voyage, the Red Branch III Shifted into the Br’niss system.
“Looks clear,” Cinnea reported. Arixa had just unbuckled and stood behind her and Bowyn on the cramped bridge.
“Like I told you, the destroyer left Br’niss before we did,” Bowyn said. “Apparently.”
“They must have left something behind,” Arixa said.
“Likely,” Bowyn agreed. “But just as likely, it won’t be something we can detect. We’ll be cautious and do a few more sweeps.”
Leimya awaited her on that foul moon. Tomiris, too. It required restraint of Arixa not to shove Cinnea from her station, take the controls, as she was freshly capable of doing, and charge forward.
But her sisters had been on that moon for... well, a moon now. Caution was best.
“We will ready ourselves,” Arixa said, turning to leave the bridge and suit up with the Dawn.
Bowyn also unclipped and rose. “Me, too.”
“You’ll go to the surface with us?”
“I was waiting for you to ask, but you didn’t. Am I not welcome?”
“On the contrary.”
