Empire of Ashes: An Epic Space Opera Series (The Augmented Book 1)

by Ben Hale

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “I guess.” Quis’s hands trembled.

  “Flush him out from here, and I’ll get him on the other side.”

  The boy nodded and took a tiny step toward the back of the bed. She rounded the bed and raised her blade. The scrabbling increased, and she guessed it to be a big one. She smiled in anticipation and motioned the boy forward.

  The roak bolted—right at Quis. He squealed and swung the striker blade with wild strokes, but tripped and fell on his back. The roak leapt over his leg and landed on his chest, its circular teeth extending from its underbelly toward the boy’s heart.

  Siena leapt onto the bed, landing on her back and rolling to the opposite side. Her blade swung low and sliced the insect with a satisfying crunch through its exoskeleton. The two severed pieces fell to the side, spilling orange goo onto Quis’s face. Shocked, the boy lay there, staring up at Siena.

  She grinned and pointed to the bag. “There’s a rag in there. Clean yourself up and put the roak pieces into the bag. Then clean the floor. Laurik doesn’t like her house stained with roak intestines.”

  He fumbled for the cloth and wiped his face. “How did you do that?”

  “My friend and I have been doing this for years,” she said.

  She didn’t say that she and Kensen practiced when no one was looking and imagined the strikers as real blades. In the deep storage rooms, the sound of their clashing blades could not be heard, and they battled like Bloodwalls, laughing as they turned the tools into weapons. Her smile faded as she thought of Kensen, and a pang of worry stabbed her side.

  “We should keep moving,” she said. “We have to search the entire house by nightfall.”

  Quis cleaned up the mess while she checked the rest of the room, pausing to look out the window that overlooked a section of the forest. Giant, leafy plants caught the near-constant rainfall, their bright-blue leaves shimmering in the gloom. She loved the rain.

  They worked their way from room to room. Several times they encountered the krey that lived in the mansion. Laurik had birthed sixteen children over the last nine thousand years, but only two lived in the house. The others were placed in positions of prominence, running the mines or piloting the various ships. Bensin, her obvious favorite, piloted the largest of the ships, a Meltia-class warship retrofitted to transport goods from Verdigris for sale in the Empire.

  Krey that spotted Siena and Quis with their tools were quick to depart. Roaks were abhorred by all, and none wanted to witness the insects cut, carved, squished, and killed.

  Halfway through their search of the house, Siena had killed six, while Quis had managed to step on a young roak that was half the size of his shoe. She smiled at his exuberance, even as she thought of Kensen. He’d been excited, too, at his first kill.

  They reached the large dining chamber where Laurik and her Primus brother had spoken with Olana the previous night. Siena entered the room and came to an abrupt halt when she spotted Laurik and Bensin standing at the window. She dropped her gaze.

  “We shall return at a later hour,” Siena said.

  “No.” Laurik waved toward the fine wooden case. “I heard scratching by the drey cabinet. Make sure you kill it.” She shuddered and turned to Bensin.

  Warning Quis to silence, Siena crept into the room and approached the cabinet. The scratching came from below it, and she glanced to Laurik, who seemed to have completely forgotten their presence.

  “Our new alliance might be profitable,” Laurik said.

  “Their House is fallen,” Bensin said. “Are you certain Dragorn will be able to complete his plan?”

  Laurik waved airily. “He has a talent for success. Now tell me of the sale yesterday.”

  “We turned a tidy profit,” Bensin said. “Soon you will have enough to contend for Primus.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Your handling of slaves is unparalleled.” Bensin swept his hand to the house. “But I wish you’d consider my proposal more carefully.”

  “It’s admirable,” she said. “But your brother was right. They would figure it out, and my attempt to usurp my brother would fail before it began. Patience, my son, and we will have enough glint to remove Poshikelli from his place, especially with an ally in Olana.”

  Bensin’s tone became admiring. “Tertious Olana is a formidable ally. With her support, your father will have to place you as Primus.”

  Bensin smirked and pointed to the opposite end of the valley, where another hanging house sparkled in the rain. Built of crystal and blue stone, it shimmered like a beacon and was obviously twice the size of Laurik’s home. The home of Primus Poshikelli.

  Siena turned away so Laurik would not see her smile. Everyone in the house knew Laurik coveted a higher rank, and Siena knew the woman had plotted for years against her older brother. She’d failed repeatedly in her attempts to become Primus, and Siena was glad she failed. Laurik was not one to possess more power.

  “You’ll be there within a decade,” Bensin promised, and Siena rolled her eyes.

  Laurik preened like a quent looking for a mate. “And if we have more sales like the boy, it will be less than a decade.”

  “Kensen?” Siena blurted his name and immediately regretted opening her mouth.

  Laurik gradually rotated, her purple eyes so cold that Quis retreated and stared at his feet. Laurik reached for the inflictor, the rod coming free, the crystal brightening at her touch.

  “You dare to speak so brazenly?” Her voice was soft, dangerous.

  Siena had come this far, so she stood her ground and refused to bow her head. “Was his name Kensen?”

  “I do not know the names of slaves,” she snarled and raised the inflictor.

  The pain was instant. Siena dropped to the ground, gasping for breath, her nerves igniting like hot needles had been stabbed into her flesh. Laurik advanced until she stood over her. The pain subsided.

  “I saw you with him last night,” Laurik said, her voice curious.

  The pain lingered, but Siena dared to look into the eyes of her owner. “He’s my friend.”

  Laurik gave a poisonous laugh. “Animals do not have friends.”

  “What did you do with him?”

  She pointed the rod, and again Siena slumped, the pain snapping her mouth shut, preventing a scream. But the sound bubbled in her throat like vomit that could not escape, and her skin burned. She writhed on the floor, desperate for the pain to end. Tears leaked from her eyes and wet her cheeks.

  Abruptly the pain extinguished, and Laurik’s face appeared in her blurry vision. Siena wiped at the tears and found blood on her fingers. But Laurik’s purple eyes held her own.

  “You would endure so much for the sake of another slave?” Laurik asked.

  “He’s my friend.”

  Siena forced the word through clenched teeth, daring Laurik to activate the inflictor again. Quis sucked in his breath at her defiance.

  Laurik regarded Siena through cold eyes. “Bensin sold him last night.”

  Kensen, her only friend, her only family, was gone. The shock settled into her bones, more painful than the inflictor. They’d been talking the night before, laughing, smiling. He was the sole point of light in her bleak existence, and Laurik had sold him.

  “How could you sell him?” Siena didn’t mean to shout, but the pain of the inflictor, and the loss of her friend, seized her body. Lurching to her feet, she glared at Laurik, who glared back, the inflictor momentarily forgotten.

  “I sell the animals I own,” Laurik snapped.

  Hatred swelled in Siena’s chest, sharp and powerful. She wanted to punish the woman, force her to feel the pain she inflicted. She reached for her striker, but she’d given it to Quis so they could shift the cabinet away from the wall. Instead, her hand fell on the bag of dead roaks. A wild thought entered her mind, and without thought of the consequences, she lifted the bag high.

  “We are not animals!” she shrieked, dumping the bag on Laurik’s head.
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  A collective gasp came from Bensin, Quis, and Laurik as the orange innards and bits of insect coated Laurik’s beautiful black hair. The slime cascaded down her white dress, staining it orange. Pieces of leg and antennae caught in her hair and at the nape of her neck, poking her skin.

  Laurik twitched and gagged, and for a single, glorious second, sheer panic and revulsion washed across her face. Then the emotions hardened in rage, and she reached for Siena’s shoulders.

  “You’re going to regret that.”

  Siena tried to escape, but the krey woman knocked her to the floor and activated the inflictor. Unable to move, to scream, to think, Siena shook on the floor. But the woman pointed the inflictor at her neck and pressed the end against the center of Siena’s throat.

  Pain lanced from the contact, hot and cutting, like her throat was being sliced open. Through the agony, she wondered if this was the end, and she managed to reach out and scratch Laurik’s arm with her fingernails, digging in until she drew blood, deep enough to leave a scar, even with a cell regenerator. One last mark before she died. For Kensen. Siena was rewarded with Laurik’s scream.

  Kensen would never know what happened to Siena—that she’d died, her scream of agony reverberating against her teeth, her body writhing on the floor, her neck sliced open, her blood being absorbed by Laurik’s floor. But instead of fear and loss, it was relief and triumph in her thoughts.

  “You’re killing her!” Quis shouted at Laurik, the sound like a distant cry.

  Siena felt bad for his outburst. He hadn’t yet learned what Laurik was like. She hoped he wouldn’t be punished too severely for what he’d said.

  Suddenly the pain abated, and she sucked in her breath, realizing for the first time she had not been breathing. Her body felt numb and raw, like she’d been dragged across jagged rocks until there was nothing left to feel. She focused her eyes, and Laurik’s features swam into focus.

  “You think I’d kill you for that?” Laurik’s sneer twisted her features. “No. I will make certain you live, with a ferox brand on your throat. You’ll sell at a loss, but there are always those that like to break slaves with spirit, and one day, when you are dying in more pain than you can imagine, you’ll look back on this day, and finally learn the truth. You are, and will always be, an animal.”

  Siena met her gaze and said in a ragged voice, “Says the woman with animal guts on her face.”

  Laurik’s eyes blazed anew, and she activated the inflictor, pressing her thumb on the rune so hard her fingers turned white. Siena locked eyes with her until darkness rimmed her vision, and finally she lapsed into welcome unconsciousness. All the while, her grimace was more of a smile.

  For Kensen.

  Chapter Eight

  Reklin eyed his opponent, a dakorian his size and weight with matching gray horns. He, too, carried a sunderblade, the weapon flashing in the sunlight as he circled. Mindful of the burns on his side, Reklin rotated in place, waiting for his father to strike.

  Sheklin lunged, and Reklin parried with ease. The next strike came high, and again Reklin parried, the weapons sparking from the contact. Sheklin smiled as he unleashed a blistering assault.

  The two dueled, but Sheklin never landed a blow. Reklin parried to perfection, deflecting the older dakorian’s blows with ease. Reklin even closed his eyes in order to better imagine his father in the holo.

  The image shimmered several times, flaws in the coding on the cortex, probably from overuse. Reklin didn’t care. He still fought the same duel, the last before he’d entered the service.

  After several minutes, his father paused. Breathing hard, he stood apart and smiled. He wiped sweat from his brow and spun his blade, and Reklin heard his younger voice.

  “Do you think I’m ready?”

  “You’re getting better,” his father said. “Next week, when you start your service to the Empire, they’re going to see just how good you are.”

  “I want to become a Bloodwall.”

  “And you will.” Sheklin’s smile turned soft. “Because you are better than I ever was.”

  Reklin sighed and tapped the holoview, pausing the memory vid. His father came to a halt, a smile on his face, his blade out and ready. It had been forty years since Sheklin had died, and the loss still stung.

  The memory had been a difficult one to recreate. The mech required to withdraw memories was relatively new, making it expensive. It had taken four years of Reklin’s wages to rebuild a trio of memories into a vid, but it was worth every shard of glint.

  High trees surrounded the natural arena, which had been built in the woodland clearing. The trunks were thick, but the leaves only grew near the top canopy, allowing for a view of the valley below. Higher up on the slope of the reddish mountain, the trees thickened.

  “I’m almost out of time,” Reklin said softly to himself. “A few more years and I’ll be too old to become a Bloodwall.”

  He looked to the image of his frozen father, wondering what he would have said. Would he have been disappointed? Or would he have been proud? Reklin might not have become a Bloodwall, but he had become a Shard captain, still a coveted rank.

  Reklin sheathed his blade and turned away from his father to survey the valley. It stretched into the distance, dotted by huts carved from large boulders. Young dakorians used hammers to build a new house, chipping away at the hard stone, unknowingly building calluses and muscle. Other houses were nestled in the branches of giant trees, the village situated in the bend of a river. A starship flew above, a sharp contrast to the humble setting.

  “I haven’t been home in ten years,” Reklin said to the holo of his father. “But the family is strong. Mother keeps wanting me to visit, and I will soon.”

  Even to the holo, he couldn’t bring himself to admit his fears. Was it already too late? Would he be dismissed? He would then have to return to his village, in shame.

  Reklin shifted to look to the nearby hills, where a line of statues had been carved into the stone, each a dakorian chosen to be Bloodwall. All had come from the village, but none had been selected for years. The shame had endured until Sheklin’s death, and Reklin could still recall the scorn from the village. If Reklin achieved the rank, he could restore his family to honor within the clan.

  “I haven’t given up hope,” Reklin said, turning back to his father.

  He reactivated the memory vid and continued to fight. With the blistering on his side, Reklin was slower than normal, and several times his father landed a blow. The holo could not inflict harm, and Reklin smiled, recalling how his father had always left him bruised and cut after sparring.

  They were interrupted when a pair of holographic young dakorians bounded into the arena. Both were barely as tall as Reklin’s waist, their horns stubby and rounded, just coming in. They tackled Sheklin to the ground, laughing and giggling as they sought to keep him pinned.

  Reklin stepped to the side of the holo to watch, and a younger version of himself appeared where he’d been standing. The holo was when he’d been thirty years old, and Reklin marveled at how young he looked. Reklin’s mother, Lavana, approached up the trail and stepped from the shade, a smile on her face.

  “Girls, your father’s getting too old to wrestle,” she said.

  “Nonsense,” Sheklin shouted, tossing one girl to the dirt and spinning the other free. “I’m never too old for my family!”

  The first rebounded and latched onto his leg. “Get the other leg!” she squealed to her sister.

  With agility that went beyond her years, the second youth rolled and caught his other ankle. Sheklin trudged to the new arrival and leaned in to kiss her, drawing shrieks from the girls.

  “Gross!” one said.

  “Let’s get Reklin!” the other cried.

  Reklin smiled as the two girls tackled the vid of his younger self, who shouted and cried out like he was wounded. His two sisters, so young and innocent at the time of the vid, unaware of the hardships that lay ahead. An ache formed in Reklin’s
chest as he watched the heated wrestling match.

  “I see you have been enjoying the weather,” the woman said.

  “Lavana,” Sheklin said, a touch of tenderness in his tone. “Dakorians are supposed to battle in every condition.”

  “Doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy a nice day,” Lavana said.

  A few fingers shorter than Sheklin, Lavana possessed two horns split down the middle, making them look like four. In her prime they had been tinged with green, but age had dulled the color to gray. Her black hair had also grayed, as had her exterior bones. Despite the coloring, Reklin knew her to be quick with a weapon. He’d lost many duels because he underestimated his mother.

  “Dinner is ready,” Lavana said.

  “You could have sent a slave,” Sheklin said.

  In the background, Reklin and the two girls rolled about, kicking up dust. Reklin chuckled at his former self. Had he ever been that playful? It seemed like ages since he’d felt so light.

  Lavana smiled sweetly. “That wouldn’t give me the chance to do this.”

  She leaned in for a kiss—and yanked the hammer from Sheklin’s grip. With a savage swing, she knocked Sheklin in the jaw. Sheklin spun to the ground, and Lavana burst into a laugh.

  “You shouldn’t drop your guard, my love,” she said.

  Sheklin sat up and rubbed his jaw. “A good reminder.”

  He kicked her legs out from under her and then pounced, pinning the struggling woman to the dirty ground. Her laughter killed the furious match between Reklin and the girls, and all three spoke in unison.

  “Now that’s gross.”

  Reklin, both former and present, laughed. Reklin paused the vid and surveyed his mother and father, and the clear devotion in their expression. He had never seen such a look between other dakorians, yet it defined Reklin’s entire character. Into the darkest recesses of his mind came a dangerous question: Was his family wrong? Or was the clan?

  A light blinked on a nearby tree, and Reklin frowned. Reklin reached to the holoview in his wrist and deactivated the chamber. The image of his parents disintegrated, as did his former self and his younger sisters. Trees and mountains faded and returned to bare white walls.