"I'll be good!"
Coral kept meditating.
Bay yawned again. He looked at the drawing of Rowan on the wall. He had covered his walls with his artwork: scenes of starships battling dragons, wizards and elves on adventure, and curvy space princesses. But his favorite drawing was his portrait of Rowan. Her sparkling eyes. Her impish smile. Her messy brown hair.
I miss you, Row, he thought. If you were here, we'd watch one of your movies. Or you'd read me the script you wrote for Dinosaur Island II. We both have to survive this, Row. You still need to write Dinosaur Island III and act it out for me.
He took his sketchpad and began to draw Rowan again, only this time he drew her on an island, facing a dinosaur among the trees. While various small animals fled, Rowan held a video camera, filming the beast.
"Someday you'll film your movies, Row," he said softly. "Dinosaur Island and all the other ones."
He was putting the final touches on the drawing when Brooklyn screamed.
"Striker!" The starship rattled and her red alert lights flashed. "Bay, Bay—striker incoming!"
He whipped his head toward a porthole.
He saw it in the distance—a triangular warship, black as the space between stars, its afterburner blazing.
His heart sank.
The scorpions were here.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"Bay!" Brooklyn cried.
"I see him!" he shouted, then looked at Coral. The woman was still meditating, eyes closed. "Coral, you better wake up now!"
"Bay!" Brooklyn shouted. "Take over my controls! You're better at battle than me."
"Coral, wake up!" Bay shook the weaver, but she wouldn't emerge from her trance.
With a groan, Bay abandoned Coral, raced into the cockpit, and scrambled into his seat. He grabbed the joystick and spun Brooklyn around toward the charging striker.
Ra, the size of the thing. It flew alone here, perhaps a scout, but it loomed as large as a frigate. Brooklyn was like a minnow facing a barracuda.
The striker charged toward them, plasma blazing.
Bay shoved the throttle with his bad hand. He had recently installed a harness there, allowing him to slip his bad hand into a leather grip, then operate the lever. With his good hand, he tugged the joystick, soaring above the inferno. The fire grazed Brooklyn's underbelly, and she yowled.
"I've been savaged!" Brooklyn said. "We have to flee!"
"You're too slow." Bay gritted his teeth, whipping around another blaze of plasma. "Look at the engines on that ship. We'll never outrun it."
More plasma bolts flew toward them.
Bay plunged down so quickly his heart leaped into his mouth. He dived under the plasma, then rose high, flying toward the enemy ship.
"What are you doing?" Brooklyn screamed.
"Improvising!" Bay said.
He soared toward the sun, then spun, the light at his back, and swooped toward the striker.
"Bay!" Brooklyn screamed. "I changed my mind. I'll fly!"
Bay ignored her. He narrowed his eyes, diving toward the enemy, and fired his cannons.
Shells flew out, rattling Brooklyn, and slammed into the warship below.
The shells exploded against the striker's hull.
Fire blazed and gushed upward like geysers. Bay tugged the joystick, swerved, and dodged the inferno. He flew away, orbiting the green planet below, racing a hundred kilometers over the force field.
Behind them, the striker was dented but fully operational. The lumbering warship spun toward them, extended new cannons, and released an inferno of blazing metal bullets the size of swords.
Bay had no time to rise above or dive below the rapid projectiles.
Instead, he plunged headlong toward the striker—into the hailstorm of bullets.
Brooklyn and Bay both screamed.
He yanked the joystick all the way to the side, barrel-rolling.
Bullets flew all around him. They scratched the roof, grazed the starboard hull, and perforated the wings.
"What are you doing?" Brooklyn cried.
"Dodging bullets!" he shouted. "Coral did this back at the front line, remember?"
"She's a weaver!" Brooklyn said. "You're an idiot! You're gonna gets us killed!"
He kept flying, spinning madly, and fired his own cannons.
The artillery tore through bullets, exploding in space. A few shells made it to the warship and blasted against its prow.
Bay soared.
Brooklyn was clattering now. Bullets had dented her all over. Some had nearly broken through her hull. Smoke rose from their stern.
"Brook, you all right?" he said.
"No!" she said. "I've got holes in me! Left engine is leaking, Bay. I'm hurt. We gotta run."
Bay glanced behind him. Coral still sat in the hold, cross-legged, meditating. Her eyes were closed, her face serene.
"Coral, you really need to wake up and use some magic!" Bay shouted, but she remained in a trance.
The striker turned back toward him. Brooklyn wouldn't withstand another hit. The plasma blazed through space, searing white and blue, and Bay flew madly, zigzagging around the assault. He tried to flee, but the striker pursued doggedly, and Bay was too close to the planet's gravity to activate his warp drive. A blast slammed into their stern, and Brooklyn wailed.
Smoke filled the cabin.
"Coral!" Bay shouted.
The weaver still sat, silent, eyes closed, even as the smoke wafted around her.
More plasma flew. The striker charged, about to ram into them. Bay rose high, firing bullets at the enemy, but they shattered against the shields. He had to reach the striker's exhaust pipes. To fire into the enemy's engines. But he couldn't make it across the striker's stern. Whenever he approached, the striker spun its prow toward him, and more plasma fired.
"Brook, hang tight, I'm gonna try something."
"Does it involve not dying?" she asked.
"Hope so!"
Brooklyn shuddered. "I love your optimism."
He took a deep breath. He shoved both joystick and throttle forward.
He swooped toward the planet.
The striker followed, cannons firing.
Bay jerked left, right, dodging the incoming plasma, diving closer, closer, closer . . .
"Bay, the radiation! It's—"
Brooklyn began shutting down.
That was his signal.
With the last drop of power, Bay jerked the joystick back, leveling off.
Brooklyn's belly grazed the invisible shield around the planet, showering sparks. They skipped forward like a rock on ice before careening off the force field. They tumbled back into space.
Behind them, the massive striker slammed into the shield with full force, afterburners blazing.
For an instant, Bay thought the warship would break through, would rip the shield like a knife through a soap bubble.
But the shield was stronger.
It was almost a thing of beauty. The striker's prow crumpled first, flattening against the shield, casting out a cloud of debris. Then the body cracked open, ripping like an overripe fruit, and the thrusters kept shoving, kept plowing what remained forward, into the shield, until the body of the striker shattered into millions of pieces. The engines tore free, spinning through space, pounding against the shield, then flying off into the distance, still spewing fire. A cloud of metal blasted outward, interspersed with bits of scorpion exoskeletons. Below the shield, the sky rippled with the impact.
Bay flew away from the explosion, roaring out from the cloud of debris and fire. Shards of metal slammed into Brooklyn, and she awoke, wailing. A shock wave of debris slammed into them, and they careened through space, tumbling, alarms blaring, before finally Bay managed to steady their flight.
They came to a stop, barely alive, and looked down at a blackened patch on the transparent shield.
The rest of the striker floated away in countless pieces.
Coral stumbled into the cockpit, rubbing h
er eyes.
"What the hell happened?" She blinked. "I go for one short meditation, and it looks like a nuclear war went down."
"Oh, Princess Pillows is awake!" Bay raised his hands. "Hallelujah! We're saved. Did you enjoy your nap, Your Highness?"
She took her seat, frowning. "What are you talking about? What did I miss?"
Bay groaned. He spent a moment describing the ordeal. His stomach was still lurching, his knees still weak. He had to pause and swallow several times, and his heart wouldn't slow down. The encounter had rattled him—badly. Perhaps his father and sister blew up spaceships every day, but to Bay this was still new, and cold sweat trickled down his back.
"So that's my story," Bay said. "What about you, Coral? You dream up a solution?" He glanced down at her body, then back up to her eyes. "Any new tattoos, ones that can open the shield gate?"
"Runes, not tattoos," Coral said. "And not yet. Remember what I told you? The ancients demand that weavers earn each rune, prove themselves worthy. The mightiest runes require great tasks. A battle rune might demand victories in war. A rune to unlock knowledge might require the weaver to read certain books, even write a book of her own. In my meditation, I reached out to the ancients. I spoke to one who called himself Sandalphon, an ancient who has been guiding my path. I asked him for the skylock rune, which can open the gate in the shield. And Sandalphon explained how I can prove myself worthy."
Bay steeled himself, preparing for the worst. "It involves something on the other side of the galaxy, doesn't it?"
"Well, hopefully not," Coral said. She blushed and looked at her lap.
Bay frowned. "What is it? It can't be that bad."
She looked up, then down again. She twisted her fingers in her lap. "It's . . . not that bad."
"Great." Bay exhaled in relief and wiped his forehead. "I was worried for a sec. Can you do it here? From aboard Brooklyn? Before more strikers arrive, preferably? If you need to study something, Brook can patch you into Wikipedia Galactica."
"It's not something . . . I can learn . . . from a monitor." Coral bit her lip. She met his eyes, then quickly looked away.
"Coral." Bay frowned. "Look at me, buddy. What did the ancients tell you? What must you do to earn the skylock rune?"
She sighed. "Don't hate me, all right?"
"Coral, out with it!"
"Fine!" Coral said. "The ancients speak in riddles. Here is what he told me."
She cleared her throat and recited what sounded to Bay like a poem.
The heart is like a house
With many chambers, locked
Some are dark and secret
Others filled with light
Ghosts haunt and cry and moan in some
While sweet visions laugh in others
Dancing like light through rain
The heart is like a house
Its doors are often locked
And many hearts have burned
And risen from ashes to blaze
And burn again
Their locks grow heavy
Forged with many fires
They are tempered and hardened
Trapping ghosts and angels
The heart is like a house
With a door that can still open
To light and life and love
And chambers filled again
When she who has closed her heart
Opens her secret garden gates
No locks will hold her back
For she can cross through stone and air
Into houses of light
Coral finished her poem and lowered her eyes.
Bay frowned. "I'm not sure I understand. Actually, I'm sure I don't understand."
Coral sighed. "Bay, the ancients want weavers to grow as people. To walk along a path of fulfillment, experience, and wisdom. In the past, I've had to cross deserts under the searing sun, learning about solitude and spirituality. For other runes, I've had to face battle, to know fear and courage. Weavers don't just learn knowledge. We grow as people. We gain life experiences. As we grow, as we become wiser, we gain runes."
"Okay," Bay said.
She winced. "Now the ancients want me to open my . . . secret gate."
Bay frowned. "What do you mean?"
"They want me to know love," she said. "To open my heart and body to you." She placed her hands on his shoulders. "To make love to you. The poem, Bay. It's about me. How my heart has been closed, locked up, filled with secret pain. How it burned." Tears filled her eyes. "I've known much pain in my life, Bay. Pain I haven't told you about. Memories that still hurt me so much. And now I must learn joy. Learn love. Make love to me, Bay. Teach me the pleasure of lovemaking. This is what I must learn."
"But . . . why?" Bay learned back. "What does that have to do with locks?"
"It's about me unlocking myself," she said. "My heart. My soul. My body. It's about finally opening up."
Bay's mouth hung open. He forced it closed. With a sigh, he took Coral's hand in his.
"Coral, you shouldn't feel compelled to sleep with me." He looked into her eyes. "It shouldn't be forced. That's not how love works."
She trembled. "Bay, I'm a virgin. I've never had time for men. I've dedicated my life to the Weavers Guild. I'm a human—I grew up hunted, oppressed, beaten and enslaved. In the Weavers Guild, I found strength and purpose. But never love." Tears filled her eyes. She touched his cheek. "When I met you, that changed. Spending time with you has changed me. The ancients wouldn't force me to do anything I didn't want to. They know my heart. They know its secrets and whispers. They know what it yearns for, and how it can grow. They know that my heart beats for you. Make love to me, Bay."
She pulled him into the hold and undressed. Her body was slender, her skin smooth and dark, adorned with silver runes. Her platinum hair cascaded around her breasts and down to her rounded hips. Bay had never seen a sight more beautiful. He had made love to women before, but none had seemed so ethereal, so intoxicating.
Coral stepped closer to Bay. Her breasts pressed against his chest. She stroked his hair and whispered into his ear.
"Make love to me, Bay." Her soft breath caressed his ear. "My secret gates are yours, those of my heart and my body."
She began to undress him, her fingers deft, until he stood naked before her. Suddenly he felt self-conscious. Bay normally wore draping sleeves and deep pockets, clothes he could hide his left hand in, but there was no hiding his flaws like this.
He turned away, abashed. He found himself looking at the drawing of Rowan on the wall.
"Do you love her?" Coral said, following his gaze.
"Yes. I mean, not like . . . that poem the ancients recited. She's very young."
Coral pulled his face back toward her. "But I'm older, and I'm here, and I want you, Bay." She kissed his lips. "Make love to me. Teach me."
She lay down on the bed, pulling him down with her.
"Will you teach me?" she whispered into his ear.
He nodded. It had been so long since he had loved a woman of flesh and blood, not just a hologram.
"I will teach you," he whispered.
He had always known Coral to be confident, bordering on arrogant, but in his bed she was meek, trembling at first, shy when she kissed him. But soon the ice broke, and she kissed him deeply, hungrily, and Bay knew that she had spoken truth. She was not only doing this for her rune. She wanted him, and she gasped when he kissed her neck, when his lips trailed down to her breasts, and she buried her hands in his hair.
As Bay made love to her, she moaned, and he felt her heart beat, and her breath was soft against him. Bay realized that the androids and holograms never had beating hearts, warm breath, and tremble in their lips. It had been years since he had loved a real woman. A woman of flesh and blood. A human. And this was good. This was humanity. And in her kisses there was love.
Afterward, she lay by his side, nestling against him, and ran her fingers across his chest.
"Thank you," she whisper
ed. "You're an excellent teacher. What grade do I get?"
He smiled. "You should ask the ancients. They're the ones who need to grade your project."
Her hand strayed lower, moved under the blanket, and wrapped around him.
"Teach me again."
His eyes widened. "So soon?"
She nodded, grinned, and bit her lip. "Yes. I demand it."
They made love again, slower this time, gazing into each other's eyes, laughing, smiling, kissing.
Finally they lay side by side again, covered in sweat.
"That was good," Coral said. "Maybe the ancients wanted me to learn what it's like to be human. This is what humans did back on Earth, isn't it?"
"I think they might have done it a few times since, too," Bay said.
"I don't just mean sex. I mean happiness." She kissed his cheek. "I am happy. For the first time in years, I'm happy."
He rolled onto his side to face her.
"Coral." He stroked back a lock of her hair. "You told me earlier that you suffered pain in your life. Would you like to tell me what happened?"
She lowered her head. "Okay."
Bay cursed himself. "I'm sorry. You just said you were happy, and I had to ruin the moment."
She looked back up into his eyes. "No, really, it's all right. This is about opening up, right? So I'll open up." She took a deep breath. "My story is not unusual. Not these days. I was born on Til Shiran, a desert world on the fringe of the galaxy. My first few years were happy enough. My parents owned a vegetable cart. We were poor but happy. But when I was three years old, a native child went missing. The natives are called Tarmarins, scaly creatures, similar to pangolins or armadillos from Earth."
"I've met a few Tarmarins before," Bay said. "Never drink with them. They're mean drunks. Nasty things."
"Some are," Coral said. "The young Tarmarin was soon found, dead. His body lay on a roadside, holding half a fruit. The natives accused my parents of poisoning him. Never mind that the child had been sick for years, dying of inner rot. Never mind that we sold vegetables, not fruit. My parents were human. That's what Tarmarins do—blame humans for their troubles. They took my parents into the city square, nailed them to wagon wheels, broke their bones with a hammer, then left them to die." Her voice was soft, her face expressionless. "They forced me to watch. They would have killed me too, broken my limbs and slung them through the spokes of a wheel."
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