by Sara King
“That’s not possible.”
“Yeah.” Joe continued to watch Maggie, who never looked away. “Pretty charred up.”
Her eyes sharpened behind their dancing flames. “That’s interesting, coming from the mouth of a traitor.”
“Goddamn it!” Joe slammed his fist on the table and stood, making every soldier in the room stop their conversation. Joe had to squeeze his fist several times to keep from reaching for her throat. Quietly, levelly, he said, “I did nothing to you, Mag.”
“No, but you will.” She said it utterly flatly, without a hint of emotion or regret.
“Because you keep on pushing me!” Then, catching himself, Joe took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Softly, he said, “I don’t know what the Trith said to you, Maggie. All this time, you never told me.”
A little sneer curled her lips. “And I’m never going to.”
Anger flashed inside Joe, at that. “Grow up, will you? Trith lie. Everyone knows they never tell the whole prophecy. Not when it suits them better to leave parts out.” When she just gave him a flat stare, he tightened a fist and slammed it into the table. “They’re just making you dance to their goddamn tune, Mag, can’t you see that?”
Maggie got to her feet, anger flashing in her own eyes. “They told the truth on Kophat, Joe. That’s all I need to know.”
Maggie, Joe wanted to shout, what did he say to you? He wanted to grasp her by the shoulders, to demand what had fueled her hatred for fifty turns. Instead, he could only stare at her, unable to speak.
Maggie leaned closer, until she was almost touching him. In a whisper, she said, “You’re gonna die in those tunnels, Joe. We’ll keep sending you back until you’re dead. I’ll make sure of it.” Maggie turned and walked off, not waiting for Wolfgang.
Once she was gone, Wolfgang whispered, “You met a Trith?”
Joe stalked out of the bar, ignoring him.
“Zero, wait!” a female voice called behind him.
Joe slowed in the street outside the bar. The brown-eyed woman Maggie and Wolfgang had brought with them was jogging to catch up with him. When she reached him, she hesitated, looking suddenly unsure.
“What?” Joe demanded.
She held out a hand. “Prime Commander Leila Wright.”
Joe shook her hand reluctantly. He was surprised at her firm grip. “Joe Dobbs.”
“I wanted to thank you for what you did on Kophat, sir. Most of us wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for you leading the assault on Na’leen’s control tower.”
Joe peered at her. “You’re from the first Draft.” Memories of his recruit days came flashing back in a painful wave.
“Yes sir,” she said, like he was a Jreet god.
“It’s Joe,” Joe said.
“Sir,” she said, looking for all the world like a panicky recruit and not some battle-hardened veteran that had survived since Congress discovered Earth and initiated the first Draft, “I feel more comfortable calling you ‘sir.’”
“We’re the same rank, for Mothers’ sakes,” Joe said. “Call me Joe.”
She gave the eight-pointed star on his chest a nervous glance. “True, but everyone knows you should be a Corps Director.”
Joe laughed in despair. “That don’t mean squat to Congress. Your lovely friend back there made sure of that.”
“She isn’t my friend,” Leila said. “She’s using me, just like she’s using you.” She gestured back at the bar, where their other companion had stayed at the booth, ordering food. “Wolfgang’s the only one who doesn’t see it. Then again, he never had to go up against you and Libby in the tunnel crawls.”
Joe cocked his head at her, slowly making the connection. “You’re Rat.”
She broke out into a big grin. “Some call me that. I prefer Leila.”
Joe grinned back, despite himself. “I never thought I’d see you again. Maggie made a good decision in you, at least. I’ve never heard of that ‘White Wolf’ fellah.”
Leila rolled her eyes. “He only started calling himself that when he got his groundteam.”
Joe frowned. “So how many teams did Maggie put together?”
“Just three.” At his soaring eyebrows, she sighed. “I know. She’s being hailed as a genius. They’re talking about giving her Director whether we get the Vahlin for her or not.”
“Funny, how we do the work and she gets all the glory.”
“Not really.” Leila looked him over. “So what kind of groundteam did she give you?”
Joe groaned. “Don’t ask.”
“Really. I’m interested. She gave Wolfgang a pack of Hebbut and a Dreit.”
Joe snorted. “A few days ago, I would’ve traded places with him in an instant.”
“Why? What’d you get?”
“Ooreiki, Grekkon, Baga, Huouyt, and a pain in the ass Jreet.” He lost his smile when he realized Leila was giving him an odd look. “What?”
“That Ooreiki wouldn’t happen to have tunnel instinct, would he?”
Joe frowned. “Yeah. He does.”
“And the Huouyt is Va’ga?”
“Yeah.”
Her face was pale. “Then the Jreet is a Welu heir?”
“No. Voran.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re the groundteam with the Voran?! Mothers’ ghosts, we’ve gotta get back!”
“Why?” Joe asked.
She was already running, motioning at him to follow. He caught up with her easily. “Why?” he asked again.
“Because my Jreet is Welu, and about a thousand lobes bigger than yours. Big brother of one of the little guys your Voran fucked up. And he’s in town with me.”
Joe cursed and he ran faster.
CHAPTER 19: More Important Than a Planet
Daviin was finishing another melaa when the stranger sat down in his booth. At first, he thought it was Jer’ait returning, but the visitor’s color was different. Daviin lowered the melaa and peered down to get a good look at it.
The creature was a shade of gray, its head impossibly big for its body. It had skinny arms, tiny hands, and a mouth that was a small slit in its chin. Set inside the teardrop-shaped skull, eyes like the Void stared back at him, catching him in their thrall. Daviin felt himself shrink against the enormity of the universe, becoming an insignificant smudge on the plane of existence. The feeling was more humbling than his first day in the Sentinels. He shuddered.
The blackness of the Void seemed to suddenly form words that surrounded him, giving him no escape.
Daviin ga Vora, know these fourfold things: First. You will survive this war of Neskfaat long enough to seek vengeance on the one responsible.
The darkness was encompassing him, now. Swallowing him. Compressing him into a tiny pinprick of light within an endless expanse of nothingness.
Second. Within the sphere of the Regency, you will be forced to choose between protecting your Human ward or serving justice.
Daviin fought a disgraceful amount of panic as his world narrowed to a tiny speck of existence faced with the enormity of an entire universe. For the first time, he felt how truly small and meaningless he really was, and that thought overwhelmed him.
Third. Before you die, the Humans will need your help. This will be your chance to rescue Congress from its own demise…or learn what it means to be forgotten.
The Void crushed him, suffocated him, giving him no relief from its constant pressure.
Fourth. You will succeed in your quest to find the traitor who destroyed Aez. When you do, you will kill him and let his death be an example to all, then you will take your rightful place in the history of the Jreet.
Daviin jerked, severing the contact. “Who are you? Why do you tell me things I already know?”
He could have sworn the tiny creature smiled at him. I forewarn you, in case you waver in your resolve.
“I’m a Jreet. My resolve doesn’t waver.” Daviin did not like this creature at all. Instinct told him to drive his tek through the thing’s chest an
d dump the corpse in the waste recycler.
Remember that when you realize it is your Human friend who will rob you of your proper vengeance.
The irritating creature stood up to go.
Daviin grabbed the alien’s small shoulder, holding him firmly in place. “Explain that.” He leaned down with a scowl. “Or I introduce you to my tek.”
The tiny creature looked up at him, his thin gray lips forming a smile. In the same moment, the room filled with a Welu war-cry. Daviin ducked as a tek slammed into the wall beside him, burying itself in the upholstery. Behind him, nine rods of muscle thrashed the room, throwing tables and chairs aside as the Welu attacked.
Daviin screamed a reply and raised his energy level, the tiny visitor and its strange message forgotten.
#
Syuri took another deep breath, then opened the door.
“Who the hell are you?” An Ooreiki guard rose from the security booth emanating startlement, hand on his weapon
Eleven tics, Syuri thought. He raised his penlike stunner and shot him. “Apologies, friend.” He gently levered the Ooreiki aside, then entered the first set of codes Forgotten had given him into the console behind the desk.
The second door dripped open, leaving Syuri facing an eerie black hallway. The line of red lights lining the ceiling did nothing to take away the feeling he was peering into a crypt.
Syuri scratched his arms, the overpowering feeling that he was facing a tomb suddenly too powerful to ignore. Why does the Army insist on building such dreary places?
No time.
Syuri stepped into the hall, then paused, realizing a row of doors lined the hall on either side. Each was marked with an alien word, one he did not recognize. He went to the first door and entered the override code.
Ten tics, Syuri thought as he waited for the door to slide open and the multiple seals to break. He heard several more clicks, and the whirring of machinery and a great hum of a fan. Immediately, a suction formed on the door and air from outside was forced inside. Syuri whistled. Sweet Hagra, whatever’s in here must be precious. Then he frowned. Why would they want air to move into the place? In every vault he’d ever seen, they’d tried to keep air out. The last barrier fell away, leaving Syuri standing in a powerful whoosh of air that almost propelled him into the room on its own. Syuri held his place and peered into the darkness.
Inside, he saw nothing but pitch blackness, heard nothing but the roar of the fan.
He saw nothing, but the blast of misery that sank into Syuri’s soul was enough to make him gag. He stumbled backwards, fumbling for a light. He flipped it on and aimed it at whatever lay beyond the open door.
What he saw made him drop his flashlight.
The walls, floor, and ceiling were covered with a familiar black mold.
“You’re a…Geuji.” His throat felt like it was closing up.
The room did not answer him.
Tentatively, Syuri moved forward. Despair clung to him that was not his own, making the light tremble in his hand. He bent to touch the Geuji. The Geuji’s body was very much alive—it glistened and rippled with health, responding to his touch. “Hello?”
Silence.
Then he understood. Whomever kept the Geuji down here did not allow him the artificial voice to speak. Nor did they allow light, nor sound, nor any companionship save the roar of a fan.
Horrified, Syuri stumbled from the room. He felt sick, like his soul had been submerged in filth.
“Sweet Hagra,” Syuri whispered. He glanced down the hall. It had hundreds, if not thousands of doors.
Suddenly, Syuri understood. This was why the Geuji weren’t running planetary economies and creating art and researching wonder-drugs. Because they were here.
“Forgotten’s going to help you,” he whispered.
The fan answered him in silence.
Syuri glanced down the hallway. Forgotten had told him to visit at least three vaults. He picked another door at random, entered the codes, and waited through the successive thumps and whirs before the layers of door began peeling away. He flashed his light inside.
Another Geuji.
And, in that moment, Syuri knew what was more important to Forgotten than a planet.
Family.
#
Daviin wound behind the echo-obscuring jumble of toppled tables, staying out of earshot. Behind him, he heard the Welu’s pings as it tried to locate him. The Welu moved and the floor groaned. Merciful Ayhi, his opponent was big.
“Come out, coward!” the Welu screamed. “Face your death like a warrior!”
Outside, Daviin heard Ooreiki Peacemakers shouting, ordering them both to stand down. Daviin ignored them. With the positioning of the tables, he could work his way around the Welu, then have a chance of ambushing him from behind, just as the coward had done to him.
“This is your last warning!” the Ooreiki outside shouted. “End the violence or we’ll be forced to take action!”
Daviin smelled smoke from where their struggles had torn away half the building’s inner wall, exposing the kitchen. The appliances and utilities inside had been crushed, and food was charring where the chefs had left it in their haste to escape.
“Voran!” the Welu screamed. “Come out!” He picked up a two-rod table and lobbed it into the jumble Daviin now worked his way under, screaming in his frustration.
Daviin reached the edge of the debris and peered around it. He focused on the Welu, who continued to ping the mass, oblivious to Daviin’s location. Daviin began pulling his body up behind him, coiling it for a lunge.
“Voran!” the Welu shouted again. “Did you flee, coward?!”
Judging he had enough length to cover the distance, Daviin tensed his muscles, focusing on the closest loop of the Welu’s body.
A metallic tinkling caught his attention. He turned.
A sound concussion—like a ripping in the boundaries between the hells—suddenly shook the restaurant, blinding him, raking pain through his insides, tearing at his skull. Daviin lost control over his scales, screaming.
Dozens of Ooreiki in biosuits burst into the room, rifles immediately finding their targets. Daviin never heard them. He and the Welu were both flailing, clawing at their heads like someone had dropped coals into their skulls. Daviin felt slick blood wetting his hands where he clutched his head and knew with a horrible certainty that they’d deafened him.
A Huouyt stepped into the room, one that Daviin recognized due to his odd-colored eye. With swift, professional precision, Jer’ait went to the Welu, avoided his thrashing length, and slipped a tentacle under a cream-colored belly scale. Almost instantly, the Welu went limp. Jer’ait stood and went to Daviin.
If you killed the Welu, I’ll destroy you, Daviin tried to say. If anything came out of his mouth, he did not hear it. He could not hear anything.
The Huouyt’s mouth moved, and its eye flashed with amusement before he found a smooth patch of bluish skin and pressed his tentacle into Daviin’s side. Daviin was in too much pain to try and stop him. He felt a sting, then his world faded to blessed nothingness.
Daviin woke strapped to the floor for the second time that day.
“Welcome back, Jreet.”
Daviin craned his neck against the restraints. “Jer’ait?”
“You definitely know how to put a damper in a Va’gan’s plans, don’t you? I was going to use this afternoon to deal with a few personal issues, but I had to watch over you, instead. Make sure the sniveling little Ueshi didn’t get any ideas.”
“Thanks,” Daviin muttered.
The Huouyt made an elegant, dismissive gesture. “It seemed only fair, since the Ooreiki were going to use gas and I decided to save their fool lives by using sound instead. I felt a little bad afterwards. It seems restoring a Jreet’s hearing is a tricky process. If I’d known how many chambers you had in there, I wouldn’t have authorized the grenade. As it was, it burst every one of them. Very messy.”
Daviin twisted his head in its res
traint. The Huouyt sat nearby, watching him.
“Just how good is your hearing, Jreet?” Jer’ait sat in his natural form, three legs hanging limply under his chair.
“You authorized a sound grenade?” Daviin was stunned, angry.
“How else do you separate two huge, Sentinel-trained Jreet?”
“You don’t.”
“Ah.” The Huouyt shifted slightly, his cilia rustling against the black Congie fabric he wore. “I was to let you fight to the death.”
“Yes.” Daviin strained against the bands that held him, wishing he were back in the fight.
“Unfortunately,” the Huouyt said, “I had my own selfish interests in mind. I plan on surviving the next tunnel crawl.”
Daviin stopped straining and twisted to stare at Jer’ait in shock. “You think I would have lost?!”
“He outweighed you by a thousand lobes,” Jer’ait replied dryly. “It had crossed my mind.”
“He was Welu scum!” Daviin roared.
“You remember the Humans who came to get the Prime?” Jer’ait said. “Your Welu fights under the quiet one’s banner. Go fight him after we’ve killed the Vahlin.”
“And let the Dhasha get him first?”
Jer’ait shrugged and squatted beside Daviin. He pulled a keycard from his pocket and began freeing Daviin of his restraints. “If it truly bothers you, go kill him now. However, the damage to his chambers was more extensive… You would be fighting a cripple.”
Daviin stiffened. “The damage was permanent?” Fighting a cripple was akin to fighting a Takki. The honor would go to the Takki.
“Permanent, yes,” the Huouyt said. “He will probably never be able to raise his energy level again.”
“Damn you to the ninety hells, Huouyt,” Daviin snapped. “He’s my sworn enemy. Now I can’t destroy him honorably.”
“A shame, I know.” The Huouyt went on working, appearing not to see the glare Daviin was giving him. As he lay there, helpless, a Va’gan assassin calmly freeing him of the bonds that held him, Daviin wondered if this was what one of the more frustrating hells was like. Jer’ait, for his part, continued to unlock Daviin’s restraints in silence.
