by E L Strife
Together, their bare feet silent on the metal floor, they passed paintings in blood and drawings in coal. A girl on fire. Fighting stick-thin Suanoa. Floating above and casting fire down. Blowing up the top of a ship.
Paramor paused at the junction they would take to reach Miush’s land and pointed silently at a distant alcove wall where images dripped from the metal like a wound in skin. It was fresh. In a large circle were two triangles, six symbols—three inside for Origins, three outside for Elites. The picture glowed, vibrant sinister blue. Someone had sacrificed a flume to paint it.
Darkening his guiding light, Paramor nudged Rimsan onward, and they continued to Miush’s land without a word. The curiosity on the Prime’s face dismayed him. Rimsan didn’t recognize the seal. Primes, Orionates like himself, and Mirramor were designed to balance the powers of the Origins. While instinct was present, history was lost.
Vibrant green and violet eyes greeted them when they stepped inside Miush’s hut. He couldn’t help the slight uptick of his heart every time he saw her. Her smile was always genuine, her skin a deeper shade of bronze than her sister, Chamarel. Thick robes swayed to the sound of dry grass in a breeze as she escorted Rimsan to her only empty cot while inspecting a gash on his forearm.
“You have been getting injured a lot lately,” she remarked with a condescending glare. “You haven’t given up because Amianna is gone, have you?”
Rimsan hung his head and glanced at Paramor. “Please care for him first. His pain grows.”
Taking a seat on a small bale of straw beside Rimsan, Paramor wished the Prime wasn’t so observational or honest. Miush tended to worry.
She whipped around, reaching a timid hand toward Paramor’s cloak. “What does he mean: grows?”
Paramor spared her the verbal explanation, hoping she could read the concern in his eyes. Through the fabric, he reminded her.
Miush’s plump lips parted but formed no retort, for which he was thankful. Few knew his secrets, and that’s how it had to stay.
A sinewy male entered Miush’s hut from the back, his burlap pants and sleeveless top typical of a field worker. The blue and gray stole hanging from his neck was the only indicator for others that he was a Healer.
“Cutashk. How are your people?” Paramor asked.
“Well. They have moved on to help the perimeter guards and remaining maintenance and doku workers in propulsion and plasma engineering. We are still preparing to be boarded by Suanoa and Linoans, yes?”
“I think it is reasonable to expect they will try,” Paramor replied.
Rimsan’s flumes twitched in irritation. “I will die before I give up this freedom.”
“We all agree.” Cutashk took a watchful position by the door. He was unusually tall for a Mirramor, with dark eyes and dull slate-brown skin. But his hands healed the same. He worked the fields alongside those he cared for, earning him additional respect from Paramor.
The heat of Miush’s palms on the scarred ends of Paramor’s broken wings made him slump with relief. He swallowed the urge to groan.
Cutashk slid a step closer to Paramor, intrigue brightening his eyes. “Will the Prospector be in this fight?”
Lifting a hand, Paramor stopped him. “As one of Earth’s protectors.”
“Are we talking about Sergeant Bennett?” Rimsan asked.
“Hush, young one,” Miush hissed. “Only Elites can know his name.”
“I only ask because I felt these things from him,” Rimsan defended with a grimace. “And because he survived that fireball. Many workers saw it.”
Paramor sighed. “You cannot let them give him the title, or they will stop fighting for themselves and expect him to save them. He cannot win this battle alone.” Over his shoulder, he threw Miush a glance. “Because of UP, he has been trained to remain calculated and logical. His heart and mind are closed.”
“Then he is rejecting the visions,” Cutashk concluded, folding his tattooed arms across his chest. “And we are on our own.”
The scent of warm dirt, pitch, and herbs filled the space sound had left. Paramor watched Ether every sleep cycle for a sign of the Prospector. But this one still had not shown. Miush, Cutashk, and every other Saema and Healer were likely doing the same. “I’m afraid so.”
A girl with maroon skin squeezed past Cutashk, apologizing. She bowed to Paramor then knelt to the floor before Rimsan, drawing a knife out of her black cargo pants.
Miush reached down Paramor’s back, wrapping her fingers around the handle of his hidden sword. Paramor stopped her with a hand. I think she means to help. Releasing Miush, he felt her return to work on his injured wings.
Flumes unfurled from the girl’s back.
Rimsan’s hands lifted in apprehension. Mouth parted in confusion, he looked to Paramor.
Paramor had seen the ceremonious offering a few times and watched without a word, gesturing for Rimsan to pay attention. It was high-time the guard had a proper healing session.
In one quick swipe, the girl severed three strands at their base near her back. Dropping the knife, she collected the bundle in both hands and lifted them to Rimsan while lowering her head. “Kimaha uqui ihmeiah.” Accept my sacrifice.
“What is your name?” Rimsan spluttered.
“Piper.”
Rimsan placed his hands under hers, still looking confused. “Edipiko, Piper.” Thank you.
She nodded and released them. Resting her hands on her thighs, she closed her eyes, and the cut ends on her back sealed shut.
Paramor studied the dark brown hair which fell around a tactical vest and a darkened wristband. “You are a shepherd.”
She gestured to her mouth then waved encouragingly to Rimsan. “Yes.”
Tilting back, Rimsan set the cut ends between his lips and drained the fluid into his mouth. He curled forward. His face contorted with pain. The room spilled over with indigo light. Like a match in reverse time, his damaged flumes healed and relit. His sturdier, black, prolific flumes smoked as they regenerated. Stretching the transparent membrane wings between, Rimsan arced his three healed layers back into their resting position.
Miush’s laugh was rich and salubrious. “Feeling better?”
Rimsan managed only a hum.
“Why didn’t you go back with your people?” Paramor asked Piper, eyeing the violet fluctuations in Rimsan’s color the way humans did when they blushed.
Piper either didn’t notice or disregarded what it signified. “The Primvera Guild of 269-01 assigned me to infiltrate Command so I could watch the Linétens.
“I evacuated the container with our teams inside: four of our shepherds, four of your Perimeter Guards. Verros members. They’ve been communicating since your arrival. I knew who they were, heard they got tasked to the collector coming up for the mutiny, and my guard and I squeezed ourselves on board.”
Rimsan’s flumes spiked in anger.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Paramor asked.
“Couldn’t blow our cover. They planned to take out the Linoan bunkers. We followed them through a maintenance sector and found Linoans and perimeter guards.” Her eyes watered, narrowing on a rip in her sleeve. “Do not trust a Linéten to tell you the truth. There are always anomalies, but I have never met one.”
Fingering the hole, she sighed and picked at the stitched UP patch on her vest. “They killed Orusan. He’d been my royal guard for fifteen years because I am a biological descendant of Sage, not a flume-propagated one. The sensitivity of my diete permits me to track Linétens like dogs on a scent.” She wiped her running nose on a sleeve.
“Can you, Rimsan?” Paramor asked.
“No, sir. I am a propagated Prime,” he replied.
Piper’s flumes curled toward his. “It doesn’t matter. I couldn’t teach the shepherds because Mirramor concealed them. I can teach you and any other Prime so long as we can touch diete. It is how I train the feeling into you.”
Rimsan’s strands flickered from blue to violet. She blushed and
giggled under her breath. Rimsan rolled his strands up under his cloak. “Ah, sorry. Maybe you can teach me later.”
Cutashk shifted in the door, crossing one leg over the other. “You Primes are so much more empathetically connected to the La’kian line. You see emotions and motivations with a clarity us Mirramor do not.”
Piper pushed herself to her feet. “You can blame our Eternal Covenant of Harmony.”
Paramor lifted his head at look up at her. He hadn’t heard those words in many long-cycles. Maybe history wasn’t lost after all.
“I must continue my hunt.” She stood proud-shouldered, hexagonal chromatophores darkening to shades of gray on her face. Piper’s stare dug deep inside his. You do not deserve the pain you are in.
Paramor’s mouth sagged with disagreement, but he didn’t retort. No one knew the guilt he carried, not even Azure.
In a flash of maroon and black, Piper was out the door.
Miush’s hand graced the underside of Paramor’s chin, gently lifting his eyes to hers. She traced his features with adoration, making him wish she didn’t know his truth. Sacrifice is not without pain. You gave us this freedom when you gave up your wings for Sahara.
He braced her hand with one of his and pressed his mouth to her palm, lingering in the cushion of calluses and the electric-fresh tang of her recent healing.
It wasn’t enough. The future now rests on Kios.
—Deadlock—
Chapter 6
ON HYRAS’S PRIVATE SCREEN, Bennett watched a nebula of aqua flames burst from Atana’s body. Hair tied up in a loose, wavy bun, a scorched spot beneath her feet, she steadied herself over the rhizoras panel she’d removed from a Linoan collector. The island in the background flickered with her light.
Atana had pulled him aside in the hangars that morning. She’d examined his face with worry on hers. After he’d touched her chin with the back of a finger and said nothing, her expression had eased into understanding. She’d roused his wristband screen, opened the map, and placed a pin on an invisible island out in the Pacific. Her fingers had grazed his as she’d turned and left for her transport without a word.
Bennett watched her now from his slumped, half-awake position in a mesh office chair. Their relationship didn’t always need words.
Hyras had requested Bennett stay and watch instead of going with Atana as an assigned guard should. Bennett conceded without a fight, though he figured it was more for Azure’s benefit than anyone else’s.
It was best to dissuade any temptation. His father’s visit had put a lot of bad ideas in his head, and Bennett’s self-control was as worn out as he was.
Sitting beside Hyras, in the Command member’s private office, Bennett couldn’t think about what was on his mind without the man overhearing. Telepaths were as frustrating as they were helpful, and Bennett hadn’t learned how to barricade himself mentally.
Hyras linked coms with Atana’s pod. It sat at a safe distance from her raging orb. The man explained how the island was for Rescue survivors—a place of peace to meditate. Atana was the last. Yet, there was deeper anguish lingering in his blue eyes.
“Status report, Sergeant Atana,” Hyras called out.
Her yell over the roar of flames came seconds later, echoing from inside her protective shield. “Rhizoras panels from Linoan Collector hulls withstand heat up to 20,000 Kelvin for a maximum of fifty-eight minutes.” She studied the thermo-analyzer as she pelted fire from a hand.
Ribbons of Atana’s body shield whirled around her skin, meaning she’d stripped before performing the test. Bennett tried to shake the image of her walking naked from the pod to the testing location from his mind. He focused on tracking the veins of light as they condensed near her chest, the heart that was supposed to be his, a heart with an original La’kian spark.
The world around Bennett slowed. Hyras froze, leaning over the interactive desk, a finger hovering above the letter F on the digital keyboard. Webs of cragged light wove through Atana’s core, her limbs, and her face like lightning over an autumn sunset. The dimensional shift was getting easier for him.
Atana’s loose hair danced in the scorching windstorm. Bennett memorized every graceful nook of her neck and curve of her lips. Her mocha skin looked velvet soft in the light of the sun—a blanket he’d love to curl up under by a fire on a cold night.
Bennett wasn’t going to blink or look away. These were the few glimpses at happiness he could have now. The bliss of watching her faded at the start of a note from her voice.
He let the world speed back to a natural pace.
“However, once we reach the hour mark, the degradation of the plates is significant, reducing the thermal retention capabilities. We’ll have eight continuous minutes max before the conditions inside the ships are no longer survivable,” she said.
Azure called in over Bennett’s wristband.
Tapping Connect, Bennett looked back up at Atana. “What’s up?”
“What did you did to her last night?” Azure growled.
Bennett tugged his attention from Atana to his wristband video feed. Azure’s eyes were narrowed and bright. The background displayed a concrete corner in the main hangar above. And now Hyras was staring at him.
“I didn’t do anything,” Bennett defended.
“You did something bad enough to upset her. She does not get upset. Fix it.” Azure glared at him, and the screen flickered to black.
Hyras looked to be awaiting an explanation.
Bennett wouldn’t give him the one he wanted. “She is my co-shepherd. My job is to protect her. She needs to sleep, not dwell in Ether at night.”
“Xahu’ré heal in Ether.”
Bennett gritted his teeth for a long breath watching Atana’s flaming hand hover over the panel. Xahu’ré’s Ether was cool, dusky, and filled with cottony clouds hugging those within. Rubbing his jaw to loosen it, Bennett curtly replied, “Everything burns in my Ether.”
“After studying the Linoan ArcBow a shepherd brought back,” Atana continued, “I think there’s a relation to the Linéten metal. I want to catalog their stats if these end up being components of the Kyra weapons systems.”
“Roger. Thank you, Sergeant. I look forward to your report. See you back here for the discussion.” Hyras continued typing away on the smooth surface of his desk.
“Affirmative, Tango Sierra One One out,” Atana replied. The screen blinked, and Hyras’s blue home screen returned.
Bennett stood. “I think the shield maneuver will work. I will continue formation design with Tanner.”
Hyras studied him then led the way out of his office and down the hall to Command’s Conference Room. The man was, unofficially, Azure’s Instructor. And Instructors guarded their trainees with their lives. It had taken Bennett several interactions with Command to catch on to the subtleties of their emotions. They weren’t heartless stoics like the shepherds were trained to think.
Miskaht waited at the door. She glanced at Hyras. “I’ll meet you in there.”
Hyras nodded and side-stepped her, entering the room.
Taking Bennett’s hands in hers, Miskaht looked him in the eyes. Her skin glittered as if she perspired opalescent metals.
He suppressed the desire to jerk back. “Ma’am, this isn’t to Code.”
“No.” Miskaht gave him a twitch of a smile and squeezed his hands. “Prospectors only have their code.” Her expression fell. “Pull yourself together, Sergeant Bennett. We need you, and she needs her guard.”
He freed his hands from hers. “Yes, ma’am.”
Chapter 7
BY THE TIME Bennett had collected himself enough to step inside Command’s main office, the conference call with Agutra was active on the main screen behind the Coordinator’s seat. The steps they took in the upcoming days and the tasks with which they spent their energy on would determine whether freedom lived or died. Bennett was the only one pulled from the working shepherds. It was unspoken, but this meeting was mostly for him.
Hyras sat in his typical spot to the right of the Coordinator, Miskaht between them, scrolling through the information on the screen built into the table. To the Coordinator’s left sat Krett, forest green eyes always backlit with suspicion. Bennett had dubbed the four of them the silent leaders of UP. They appeared everywhere and knew more than they admitted. That much he’d seen.
Quietly, Bennett sat at the end of the long, interactive table opposite of the Coordinator. Paramor stood onscreen in his dusty, burlap robes. Beneath the grit and grime of an Agutran’s life, the Healer’s skin, hair, and eyes were moonstone white. He looked like an angel of a bygone religious era that died with civilization during the Three Hundred Year War. Now Heaven and Hell were but history taught to children.
“Agutra must continue orbit around Earth as it is auto-programmed to avoid alerting the Suanoa before we are ready,” Paramor said.
Renae turned to Bennett from her seat to his right. “How are you planning to hide our ships up there?” For a human Field Guard, she was impatient and easily unnerved. Sergio always had a hand over the back of her chair. Bennett found the man a bit brooding and defensive for a serum-regulated shepherd.
“Debris field has grown since Agutra’s top blew.” Bennett ached to shift in his seat as all eyes fell on him. “It’s a navigational nightmare, but our pilots are familiarizing themselves with it. Any time the Suanoa spend confused is helpful to us.”
Bennett drummed his fingers on the desk. “Sergeant Cutter suggested they might anticipate a trap. They would expect their assailants to hide and attack when they are most vulnerable, like when inspecting this ship. You know they will want to board and find the mutineer but may hesitate and scan the area first. Despite their arrogance, they have trust issues, which make for hostile and paranoid behavior.”
“So we entice them into our playing field while moving Agutra towards the Slashgate of choice and make it disappear.” Mavene rubbed a hole in the upper ridge of an ear as if it ached. She was the smallest of Command: short as the hot-head Dequan and thinner than gangly Vimno. But she moved fluid as water, her fair skin glass smooth. “We save them, maybe any others they’re willing to take on? With the innocents out of the way, and considering the shit status of our planet, we wouldn’t have to be so worried about tactics. We could fulfill Iylaera.” She rammed a fist into a palm then gestured a grand explosion, smiling the entire time.
