A Blue Star Rising

by Cecilia Randell

  Her lips parted, and she sucked in a breath as she tried to bring her pounding heart under control. “You love her.”

  He dropped her hand, flung it away as though she were a burrowing worm, covered in filth.

  She let out a harsh laugh. “I’ll do this for you, Jason. But then we are done. I am done with you. Do yourself and Blue a favor. To borrow an Earth phrase, get your shit together. As much as I dislike her and that big-eyed ‘hold-me, rescue-me’ air she puts on, nobody deserves to be strung along, whatever the circumstances.”

  A throat cleared, and Sarah jerked her head toward the sound. The girl who’d been in with Petyr stood there, shifting from foot to foot. “Sorry. Um, I’m done with him. The guard said you could come in.” She ducked her head and hurried away.

  Sarah turned back to Jason, back straight and chin up. “You can go now. I’ll tell the guard anything I find out.”

  “Wait. No. Send me a comm, okay?”

  “Are you freelancing this? Really Jason?” Sarah’s mind raced. She wasn’t stupid, never had been. It took her moments to make the connection—a girl who paid her own tuition to the Academy and was living with at least one newly-minted Order guard. Her eyes narrowed. “How about this? I’ll send it directly to your precious Blue. And won’t the other students be interested to know they’ve got a spy in their midst?”

  “Sarah.” The pleading tone was gone, replaced by steel.

  She waved a hand at him is dismissal. “I’m not an idiot Jason, whatever you may think of me. Nor am I cruel. But it sure is nice to have something to hold over her.” She folded her arms over her chest. “I mean it Jason. You can go away now.”

  “I leave in the morning,” he reminded her.

  “So you said.”

  “So please send anything tonight.”

  She stayed where she was, staring him down.

  He nodded, once, then spun on his heel and strode down the hall.

  How had she ever thought Jason was what she wanted? He was a damned coward, and it had only taken this one encounter to strip away her illusions.

  Maybe he and Rachel had deserved each other. They were both weaklings, after all. And for all she cared, they still deserved each other. Jason could mourn her to his cowardly heart’s content, using her as an excuse to keep everyone away, and Rachel could rest easy in her grave knowing the illusion she’d created would always hold at least one person in its web.

  And Sarah would find out what Petyr knew, somehow. Not for Jason, though. She would do it for Annaliese, her friend. The only other person who knew the truth of Rachel, and the only one who really deserved to mourn her. She’d get the information from Petyr, and then she’d track down these fela-sucking skideras.

  Because, though Jason was an emotional wuss, he was right. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she let anyone else end up like Petyr had.

  She cracked open the door to the room and gave the guard a little wave. He nodded, and she pushed the rest of the way in, slowly approaching Petyr where he lay.

  “Hey.”

  He didn’t move, but his eyes shifted in her direction. They were unfocused, his gaze going somewhere past her shoulder, if he even saw her at all. But he knew she was there.

  She took his hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. “I came to see how you’re doing. Everyone misses you.”

  A corner of his mouth ticked up, and Sarah gave him an answering smile. If it was more wry than sincere, well…

  “Especially Annaliese. She wishes she still had her study partner.”

  His eyes widened, and he trembled. “University,” he said.

  “Oh, I know she could always get a tutor. But you know how picky she is.” Sarah brought up her other hand and stroked along Petyr’s arm, putting on a show for the guard. “So you need to get better, you hear me?”

  His mouth opened and closed. “Art,” he finally said. It had taken him a couple tries.

  He’s in worse shape than any of us thought. There is no way I’m letting Annaliese take any more of this shit. “Really? But maybe that’s a good way to go. Artists do have a different way of looking at the world. Any recommendations?”

  His gaze darted to the door again and back to Sarah, then to the door. She twisted, but no one stood there. “Petyr?”

  “Art.” Then he looked once more at the door.

  “I wouldn’t try to make sense of his ramblings. He seems to fix on his immediate surrounds. The visitor before you was a friend from the university. I think she mentioned having done a new drawing for him or some such.” The guard didn’t bother moving from his corner.

  “Oh.” Well, she hadn’t actually been all that hopeful of getting anything from him. And in a way she was relieved. Now she could honestly say to Annaliese that she hadn’t been able to get it out of Petyr, and she could tell her just how bad off he—

  Petyr’s hand clamped down on hers, and his back bowed. He groaned, low and wet.

  “Move.” The guard pushed her away, and she backed into the far wall beside the door.

  Petyr was shaking now, his eyes rolled back and spittle flying from his lips. Machines beeped, screeched, and wailed. Healers rushed in and pushed the guard back. One turned Petyr on his side and inserted a thick bar between his teeth as another checked the monitors.

  “Seizure. Heart rate is up to 200.”

  The second healer ran to a cupboard and pulled out a syringe and a vial of clear liquid. In seconds she had it filled and injected into Petyr’s neck. His muscles relaxed, but the monitors continued to sound the alarm.

  “Get him strapped in and into the scanner. We must have missed a spot of damage.”

  “Miss.” A hand grabbed her arm and pulled her from the room. “Miss, come away now. Let the healers do their jobs.”

  Sarah nodded but couldn’t pull her gaze from Petyr. She stood in the same place as she had when she’d talked to Jason. The wall muffled the sounds from the room, but she could see well enough. Healers and nurses continued to swarm around the boy. After what felt like hours, but was probably only a minute, they stepped back. Petyr was fully enclosed in the rejuvenator, and the healers’ expressions were grim.

  One stepped out and turned away.

  “Is he—” Sarah asked.

  The healer paused and twisted back. “He’s alive. Go home.”

  Sarah nodded. As she made her way through the corridors of the healers’, the trembles started. For a moment she wished Jason was there, then she reminded herself she was done with him.

  But it would have been nice to have someone there to tell her everything would be okay.

  Chapter 20

  JASON

  A wave of dizziness hit Jason, and he dropped to his knees as the heat and humidity of Falass combined with the effects of the portal.

  He ran his tongue over his teeth. Every time. Every damned time.

  The buzzing in his ears and vibration in his teeth were usually negligible. But already sweat beaded on his forehead and gathered at the base of his spine, and he’d been on this damned world for five seconds. Pulling in a breath, he took in the rich scents of the jungle terrain.

  After a moment he gathered himself, stood, and adjusted the straps of his pack and machete. The leather of his pack dug into his bare skin. Per the briefing, the agent’s tree-hut should be about a mile north on the edge of the largest village in the region, Oramaya. The agents had set themselves up as foreign explorers. It explained away any absences or treks into the jungle surrounds.

  Agents Garret and Sullin had been here for two years, and it had taken a year of that for any of the locals to begin talking to them. It had helped that they bore a close resemblance to the natives—slight, pale, and dark haired. They had also had the time to grow their hair and beards and don the traditional braids so their general appearance would not offend.

  Jason still sported a rough scruff, and his hair was much too short. He was also too large. He knew he’d been given this assignment because his superiors
trusted him to get it done and because there really was no one else at the moment, but it still rankled.

  Pushing his thoughts aside, he assessed his surroundings. He was on the edge of a faint path. Undergrowth of broad leaves and delicate fronds covered the area between trees. He took a moment, just a moment, to marvel at those trees. He’d seen pictures, yes, but standing under them was another matter.

  Trunks of smooth gray thrust from the ground like the skyscrapers of earth, some nearly as thick. The canopy blocked out most light, enough that it felt like late afternoon, though the angle of the few slips of light that made it through the leaves showed it to be near midday. Bright spots of color dotted the lower branches—pinks and reds mostly, with smatterings of blues and yellows and neon greens. One of the blues shifted, then spread its wings. The bird took flight, and Jason realized just how high that first tier of branches sat.

  Gradually sound returned, the buzz and click of insects blending into a low hum broken by the occasional screeching calls of birds.

  Jason set out, his senses on high alert. After hiking for five minutes, he came upon an exposed tangle of roots, the largest as thick around as he was. He examined the hollows carefully for any of the insectoid or serpent hazards that littered this jungle. He’d received a booster, of course, and carried a variety of anti-venoms in his pack, but the soft sandals of the native garb and short, thin fabric of his pants didn’t provide much protection from a bite incurred through stupidity.

  When it appeared clear, he made quick work of getting over the obstacle and continuing down the path.

  They’d better have dropped me in the right place. Lush greenery, thick enough to hide anything that might be here on the ground with him, closed in on either side. Water dripped throughout the trees, drops hitting his exposed skin and combining with his sweat, and soon he was drenched. The line of bare ground that stretched before him nearly disappeared in places, but never quite went away. He knew the jungle growth could claim cleared areas in mere days, and it gave him hope that the missing agents were simply late, and not truly gone.

  Or someone else has taken over the maintenance.

  Something roared to his right, silencing the calls of the birds overhead, and Jason picked up his pace, ignoring the brush of the broad leaves on either side of him. He needed to get off the jungle floor, but until he hit the village, there was no way to do so. He drew the machete.

  Finally, the undergrowth began to thin. And though there had been the occasional rustle beside him, nothing had attacked. The ground grew rocky, with slick outcroppings of stone breaking up the dense foliage. The faint roar of rushing water came from ahead and to the left. The path widened, and he slowed. The village was close, which meant the possibility of encountering someone grew with each step. And he wanted to avoid any new encounters until he’d reached the agents’ hut.

  He pulled up a mental map of the area. The water and rocks gave him a good idea of where he stood, and the hut should be around here somewhere. Hugging the border of the rocks and undergrowth, he went left, scanning the nearby trees for the agents’ sign. Each Falassian residence had such a sign. They were registered with the village council when someone applied for residence. And once it was accepted, that tree was yours. No one else would claim it, even if the person moved or died without family to leave it to.

  Ten minutes later, he found it. The tree was not as large as some and at the very edge of the rocks, very nearly in the jungle proper. A small circle bisected by two triangles was burned into the side.

  This was the sign the Ministry agents had sent back as theirs.

  He waited another ten minutes, idly slapping at the insects that landed on him now that he wasn’t moving, and wishing he had a fan. When there was no movement and no indication that anyone was around, he circled the tree trunk. He found it. Concealed in a hollow beside the mark was a lever. He pressed it down, and above, wood clacked. A ladder made up of wood slats and braided fibers rolled down, almost hitting him in the head. He wasted no time climbing. It ended about two-thirds of the way to the first branches, and carved handholds took over after that. He hit the first tier of limbs and paused. He was nearly thirty feet from the jungle floor. He looked up. The floor of the tree-hut blended well with the tree, but it looked as though he had at least another fifty feet to go.

  Did they really do this climb every day?

  He was nearly to the second tier of branches when he spotted it, a small platform with a pulley system. Heaving a relieved breath, he climbed the last few feet and stepped to the platform. It only took a moment of study, and he set the system in motion.

  It stuck half way.

  Crap.

  Not just that he would have to finish the climb the hard way, but if the platform was malfunctioning, that meant no one was here to perform maintenance. After pausing to drink the last of his water, he gritted his teeth and began the climb. There were a few older handholds, partially obscured by debris and moss, that he could use between limbs. Finally, he reached the bottom of the tree hut where it rested on the eighth tier of branches. Above that was one more tier into which the roof of the hut was incorporated and the canopy.

  He grasped the edge of the access door in the floor and pulled himself up, rolling into a defensive position and scanning the interior.

  There was nothing.

  Blank wood slats met his gaze. Clear resin filled the cracks and covered the porthole windows. A small table with two chairs sat beside a pair of bunks built into the far wall and bare of any mattresses. There were none of the decorative wall hangings, clay dishes, or baskets of food he’d been prepped to expect.

  And more alarmingly, there were no agents and no signs of their existence.

  Perhaps he’d gotten the wrong tree? Could this be one abandoned due to a lack of successor? But no, the symbol had been correct, and though it was bare, it did not appear neglected. He scanned the room again, looking for any indication of what had happened or confirmation that this was indeed where the agents had stayed.

  Then he saw it carved into an indentation where one of the roof branches met the trunk of the tree: 24-9. It was written in Common. The Falassians wouldn’t have known what it meant, and it may have appeared to be a random design.

  “24-9,” it was Ministry code, a shorthand that was little used these days. “24” indicated illegal activity, and “9” meant smuggling.

  Jason sighed. That was nothing he didn’t already know. Why leave such an uninformative message? If they had needed to abandon their current cover, why not leave an indication of where they’d gone or…

  Unless they couldn’t. Unless this was all they’d had time to leave behind.

  The jungle noises changed. The birds went silent, and the insects screamed. Rope creaked below him, and a muffled voice shouted.

  Crap. If he was going to find anything else, he needed to find it now. He examined the seam where branch met trunk. Nothing. As fast and as silently as he could, he went over the others. Also nothing.

  Think, Jason. Think. Where would you hide something that you wanted found, but only by the right person? They all went through the same training. They thought the same. Where would a Ministry agent hide something? His gaze snagged on one of the porthole-style windows. There was a faint discoloration in the resin.

  Porthole.

  Portal.

  He dove for it even as the voices grew louder and leather creaked against wood. There. A dark slash, easily overlooked as a simple gap in the wood, something that should have been filled in with resin but was missed.

  He pulled his smallest blade, one hidden against the small of his back. Slipping the point in, he pushed. Carefully, carefully. The edge of dark, plastic pouch appeared, and he grasped it between his fingers, tugging on it gently as he drew the blade away.

  A data card.

  Something knocked against the underside of the tree-hut, and he straightened, slipping the knife back into its sheath and tucking the data card into a hidden pa
nel of his pack. He spun around just as a man pulled himself into the tree-hut.

  He was middle-aged, the intricacy of his beard and hair braids indicating a mid-level hunter’s position in the village. “Who are you?” he asked, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  Jason’s mind scrambled, trying to remember the damned greeting for a friend. “I have been traveling to visit my friends, here in your village.” He held out his left hand, palm up, ring finger and thumb pressed together.

  The man hesitated for a moment, then returned the greeting, and Jason relaxed minutely. “They are no longer here. They have been banished.”

  “It is true I have not heard from them in many days, but I assumed their messages had been lost. Can you tell me what happened?”

  The man shrugged. “The Corrabi may decide to tell you, but it is not my place.”

  “May I speak with him?”

  The man shrugged again. “You have the same accent.”

  “As I said, we were old friends. We originally met in the far southern lands.”

  “The cold lands.”

  “Yes.”

  The Falassian shrugged once more. “I will ask the Corrabi.” And with that he was gone, dropping through the door and to the branch below.

  Jason tracked his progress through the faint rustle of branches. When it seemed like the man had reached the ground, Jason crouched. It was hard to hear through the noise of the forest and over such a distance, but luck must have finally been on his side. Words rose to him. He couldn’t make out the entire conversation, but he got enough.

  Miyari. Serpent. Sacred. Flower. Ally.

  Enemy.

  He needed to get out of here, and now. Somehow he’d stumbled onto the exact thing Blue’s team was looking for.

  And he had no way to tell them—or the Ministry—until his appointed check in time, thirty days from now.

  Chapter 21