by Ben Hale
“Bensin Zeltil’Dor,” one said with a gruff nod. “Weren’t you here yesterday?”
“I had a few extra stock to sell,” Bensin said.
The dakorian spotted the brand on Siena’s throat and rumbled a laugh. “You’ll be hard-pressed to sell that one.”
“I don’t care what I get.” Bensin stepped around the dakorian. “I only care that she’s gone.”
“The Bone Crucible is always looking for more blood,” the dakorian called.
Quis trembled at the prospect, and Siena steeled herself for being sold to House Thorn’Vall, current owners of the Bone Crucible. As they entered the space station, a vid screen showed a current contest in the Crucible, with dozens of dakorians battling in a forest arena.
The Bone Crucible occupied the entire planet of Dedliss and was filled with a never-ending array of duels, wars, and bloody battles. Disgraced dakorians, irritating slaves, even fallen krey fought for the pleasure and enjoyment of the Empire.
But Bensin shook his head. “Laurik wants these to live a long life.”
“She wants them to suffer,” a dakorian said with a nod. “What did she do to earn the brand?”
“Enough,” Bensin said.
The dakorian eyed Siena with new eyes, and she tried not to enjoy the touch of respect in the soldier’s eyes. Dakorians frequently killed rebellious slaves, but they valued courage and valor over anything.
“Good luck selling a branded slave.” The dakorian pointed down one path. “You’ll find Master Seven that way.”
The interior of the capital ship had been hollowed out. Now, cages were stacked so high Siena could not make out the features of the slaves in the top cells. Men, women, and children, of all ages and colors, languished in the small compartments, their eyes hollow as they waited for their new owners to arrive. Many had earrings with a color, marking them as owned, while other earrings were clear, indicating they had no owner but the slavemasters.
Bensin walked them up the center of the aisle. A line of slaves approached with a dakorian on either side, ushering them toward a different airlock. Siena had never seen so many slaves together, and it left her haunted. She knew it was futile, but she searched the cages for Kensen.
The cages of Thendigor reeked of unwashed bodies, the slavers obviously not wanting to spend glint on cleaning stock that would only spend a night or two on the station. Siena and Quis had both used a cleanser recently, and their clothing was still bright.
Many of the slaves noticed her and whispered about her brand. Some looked on in anger and muttered curses as she passed. Others looked at her with pity, and still others with a vain hope. Unable to shoulder their looks, Siena stared straight ahead and tucked Quis deeper under her arm.
Bensin led them to a platform at a crossroads between corridors, where a krey dressed in a black cloak sorted new arrivals. He had no colors, marking him as a mercenary, a Houseless krey, and his cloak had the number seven emblazoned on the shoulder.
“Line ’em up,” Seven called to the dakorian nearby.
The dakorian prodded the slaves to stand in a line. “Get together,” he barked. “Hands at your sides, look straight ahead. Females to one end. Males to the other.”
The group shuffled into place, the dakorian shouting at those moving too slow. He tapped his inflicting rod, and one man fell to his knees with a shout of pain. The dakorian grabbed his shoulder and pushed him into place.
“Master Seven,” Bensin called as they approached, and the krey turned.
“Bensin,” Seven said. “You only come once a week. Why the extra visit?”
“I had some extra stock to unload.” Bensin motioned to Siena and Quis.
Seven pointed to the line. “Put ’em with the others, and I’ll see what they’re worth.” Then he noticed Siena’s neck, and his eyes widened. “You brought a ferox? She’ll infect the others.”
His tone drew the attention of the other slaves, but Bensin scoffed. “You can have her for a thousand glint, as long as you take the boy for the standard fare.”
His eyes narrowed. “For that cheap you might as well kill her.”
“Laurik wants her to suffer,” Bensin said.
“Oh?” the krey asked, curiosity marking his gray eyes. “What did she do?”
Bensin seemed annoyed. “Will you take them or not?”
“She’ll be hard to move,” the krey hedged, “and Four won’t like it.”
“You’re going to bargain on a thousand glint?” Bensin snorted in disbelief. “She’d be worth thirty times that without the brand.”
As they haggled, a krey with an entourage approached from a different airlock. The windows on the outside of the station allowed for a view of her sleek, silver ship. Long and tapered, the ship resembled the longsword capital ships, but was the size of a Meltia class. It made Bensin’s craft look like slag.
Siena noticed her bright golden eyes and beautiful features. The three dakorians and quartet of slaves seemed to walk taller than those in the cages, and they lacked the despondence Siena had seen in the slaves back on Verdigris.
Seven turned with a word of irritation, and then his demeanor brightened. “Lady Relia,” he exclaimed. “I did not expect one of your standing to come here. How is House Ruath’Is?”
Siena stiffened at the word, and she looked to the golden-eyed woman with hope. She surveyed the slaves with surprisingly kind eyes, and others straightened, as if they too deserved to be purchased. Quis also stood taller, and Siena remembered it was his former House.
“You know her?” Siena whispered.
“She’s the head of the House,” he replied. “I never met her, though.”
“I need three females,” Lady Relia said. The men slumped.
“You buy from me, you’ll get the best,” Seven said. “These just came in today, all from the upper twenty Houses.”
Lady Relia’s eyes flicked to Siena. “This one’s very attractive.”
Siena’s hope soared, and a tinge of heat rose in her cheeks. No krey had ever called her pretty, and the compliment was like water in a desert. She soaked in the words.
“But I won’t take one with a brand,” Lady Relia said.
Siena’s hope shattered, the shards slicing through her heart and into her lungs. She struggled to breathe as the woman turned away and surveyed the remainder. Seven completely ignored Bensin, who looked on in irritation.
Tears came to Siena’s eyes, and she fought to hold them in check. They would probably burn her for crying, and she knew it would leave her broken. She trembled in place, hoping none saw, and reminded herself that she’d promised herself not to shed another tear. One of the woman slaves reached out and touched her elbow, a kind gesture that only seemed to make the pain worse.
“It’ll be okay,” the older woman said softly.
“You don’t have a brand,” Siena said.
“Perhaps I wish I did,” the woman murmured.
“Not another word,” Seven growled, darting closer and leveling an accusing finger at Bensin. “You bring a ferox in here, she’s going to infect the others. Drop her at the breeding grounds of Rykor or the mines of Solvent. Just get her out of here.”
Bensin cursed under his breath as the slavemaster turned away. “I knew it would be hard to sell one with a brand.”
“A brand, you say?” a voice asked from behind Siena.
They both turned to see another krey approaching. He was alone, without an entourage of slaves or a dakorian guard. He looked Siena up and down, noting the tattoo for a bad genome and her brand before meeting her gaze.
After the crushing rejection from Lady Relia, she wanted to retreat and hide, but there was nowhere to go. She raised her chin and met his gaze, surprised to find them a clear, icy blue.
“A hundred glint for the girl,” the krey said.
“You can’t be serious,” Bensin said. “She’s close to breeding age and obviously attractive. Even with a brand, she’s worth more than that.”
“I
t’s more than Rykor or Solvent will give you.”
“That’s a lie.” Bensin stepped in and stabbed a finger at him. “You’re from Bright’Lor, the fallen House. I bet you don’t have a million glint to your name.”
Siena had heard the name and seen the story on the vids. Any hope she’d had turned to dust. Bright’Lor had once been fourth, a mighty House with a dozen worlds. Then Kelindor. Bright’Lor had been blamed, and the House had tumbled from grace. Stripped of nearly everything, their Head of House was now reportedly under Condemnation and could even be executed.
Siena cringed at the idea of being purchased by a fallen House. Becoming a slave to a House on the brink of destruction would be dangerous, and it was possible all the slaves would be executed if the Head of House were found guilty. They would also have plenty of enemies. Even if Siena survived, she would be forced to perform three times the labor, since the House would have lost most of its resources.
Despite her fears, there was something in the krey’s eyes that inspired hope. He lacked the hatred of Laurik, his smile more genuine and amused. Not kind, but not cruel either.
The krey considered Seven’s offer and then abruptly turned away. “Have it your way. Good luck unloading her now that she’s infected the boy and the other woman.”
“She’s not infected,” the slavemaster said in a strained voice, turning back from Lady Relia with a forced smile.
“Yes, I am.” The enslaved woman that had comforted Siena folded her arms. “I might even tell others what she did.”
“What are you doing?” Siena hissed.
Seven’s dakorian guard dragged his hammer behind the line of slaves, the scraping a chilling reminder of the various types of punishments he could inflict. He came to a halt behind the gray-haired woman.
“Getting out of here,” the woman said to Siena.
“You want to die with me?” Siena shot back.
The dakorian looked down at her, and the woman fell silent, but Seven leveled an accusing finger at Bensin. “Is this your ploy? Get the girl to make others worth less? I’ll just jettison the woman through an airlock.”
“That’ll just cost you more.” The blue-eyed krey rubbed his chin. “Five thousand for the old woman, the boy, and the ferox with a bad genome. Or you can risk her infecting others with her defiance.”
“Ten thousand for the woman,” the slavemaster said, pointing to the gray-haired woman, “if you take her now.”
“Done.”
The blue-eyed krey then looked to Bensin. “Two thousand for both the girl and the boy. Final offer.”
Bensin hedged and then withdrew his inflictor. “Done.”
The krey with the bright-blue eyes tapped his embedded holoview, and the purple on Siena’s earring changed to blue, marking the new possession. Quis’s and the woman’s changed as well. Siena’s new owner motioned them to follow, and Siena fell into step behind him.
She grappled with the sudden change but dared to ask, “What’s your name?”
The krey seemed amused by her boldness. “You can call me the supreme ruler of the universe.”
Siena couldn’t stop the grin. “You can’t be serious.”
“Of course not,” he said. “You can call me Ero, of House Bright’Lor.” He leaned in, his voice turning conspiratorial. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it, because it’s the best one.” Chuckling to himself, he walked away.
Siena glanced to the older woman he’d purchased, and she shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I’m just happy to leave this place.”
Siena wasn’t at all certain of her new owner, but as he went about the cages looking for cheap slaves, she tried to gauge his temperament. Easily amused, he did not act like he was on the brink of destruction, but he never once burned a slave. For the first time, perhaps in her life, she allowed herself to feel a touch of real hope.
Chapter Fourteen
Reklin watched the stars slow to normal, the ship’s gravity drive keeping them from slamming into the bulkheads from the rapid deceleration. A bright-blue world took shape, and Rasina banked their ship toward the surface.
Mylttium was mostly water, a jewel in the dark expanse of space. Of all the Imperial worlds, Mylttium was Reklin’s favorite, and he had fond memories of trips with his father.
“The Empire maintains the rule of law,” Reklin’s father had once said. “And we are the soldiers that enforce that law against the Empire’s enemies.”
Reklin smiled as the thought reminded him of his first visit to Mylttium with his father . . .
Sheklin smiled down at him. He’d lost a chunk of his bone armor on his shoulder in his youth, and the ugly scar stretched around his chest, the flesh mottled and white.
“Who is the enemy?” Reklin asked, in awe of the bright lights and gilded populace of Mylttium.
“The Empire has many enemies.” Sheklin waved to the populace. “Krey that grow dissatisfied with their place, humans that dislike the shackles of slavery, or dakorians that believe our kind is enslaved to the krey.”
“Dakorians?” Reklin eyed a pair of darker-skinned dakorians walking behind an Imperial Voice. “I thought we were above corruption.”
Sheklin laughed. “No one is above corruption. As the weapons of the Empire, we must understand our place. We keep the peace by destroying the enemies that think to harm the Empire and by making sure humans are always slaves.”
“Are there really underwater cities on Mylttium?”
“Do you want to see them?”
Reklin’s excitement continued as his father showed him the domed cities beneath the seas of the blue planet. He marveled at the mighty shields that endured the weight of the ocean.
Worg flicked him with a finger. “Captain?”
Realizing he’d let his attention lapse, Reklin shifted in the copilot’s seat so he could face the door to the bridge. Worg was leaning into the space, a confused expression on his bony features.
“Is there something you need?” Reklin asked.
“We just got a coded message from Voice Malikin,” Worg said.
Reklin leaned forward and motioned to Rasina, who activated the holo. Text appeared above the control panel, brief but clear. Reklin had been ordered to go to a new destination with their captive.
Rasina pointed away from Mylttium. “Voice Malikin wants us to come to Mylttium-3.”
Reklin frowned and peered above the world, to the darkened moon hovering in orbit. The third moon of Mylttium was the most inhospitable. The black rock lacked an atmosphere, its surface pockmarked with craters. The Empire had turned the moon into a military installation, with four giant grogan lances built on its surface. Ship killers. The giant rods pointed up and outward, a forbidding sight to any ship’s captain. Other space stations orbited Mylttium, each with a single grogan lance, but Mylttium-3 represented the center of the world’s defenses. All three moons had plasma cannons as well, the large tubes capable of launching balls of plasma halfway across the system.
Mylttium-3 also housed Mylttium’s fleet of ships, ranging from Ro fighters to Heltorgreathian capital ships. But why did Voice Malikin want to meet on the moon? Imperial Voices were in the civil hierarchy and had no authority over the military.
“Did you authenticate the message?” Reklin asked Worg.
“Of course.”
Reklin considered how the new orders related to Belgin’s claims and didn’t care for how they connected. Rising, he stepped out of the cockpit and joined Worg in the hall. He shut the door behind him and called Alina and Teridon through his holoview. They gathered in the corridor.
“What’s going on?” Alina asked.
“Malikin is requesting we meet on Mylttium-3,” Reklin said.
“Why?” Worg asked. “We’re transporting a civil witness.”
“I agree,” Teridon said. “There’s no reason for an Emperor’s Voice to even be on Mylttium-3.”
“Maybe Malikin wants to interrogate Belgin in secret?” Worg shrugged.
“Reckon
ings are public,” Reklin said.
“I don’t like this,” Alina said. “Something feels off about his entire assignment.”
“Does it matter the location?” Teridon asked. “Orders are orders. We drop Belgin and get a new assignment.”
Reklin considered telling them more of Belgin’s claims but didn’t want to sew baseless doubt. “We’re on loan to Reckoning, yet we haven’t met with a single Reckoning officer. I find that odd.”
“Most of the Voices are corrupt,” Alina said. “But this is an overreach beyond the norm. I agree with the captain. Something isn’t right.”
“It probably has to do with the blue-eyed worm we have in the back,” Worg said.
“Probably,” Reklin said. “But keep your eyes open and your horns up. I don’t want to get caught off guard.”
“You think we’re in danger?” Teridon shook his head. “Mylttium-3 is a fleet base, filled with krey officers and a contingent of dakorians. It’s not a rebel moon.”
Alina struck Teridon in the shoulder, drawing an annoyed look. “If the captain is concerned, then there’s a threat.” She nodded to Reklin. “We’ll be ready.”
Reklin was grateful for Alina’s support. She was smart and loyal, and trusted her with his life. Teridon didn’t care, but he usually didn’t care about anything. Worg shrugged.
“I’ll get my weapon.”
“Get the prisoner ready,” Reklin said, nodding his gratitude. He then opened the door to the cockpit and spoke to Rasina. “Change course to Mylttium-3.”
“As you order,” she said.
Mylttium rotated in their view as Rasina curved their flight toward the dark moon. The giant grogan lances gleamed in the sunlight, the rods thicker than Reklin’s entire ship.
“Receiving permission to enter the shields and landing coordinates,” Rasina said.
Rasina’s long fingers flew across the controls, and she caressed the engines, guiding the ship closer to the grogan lances. The Fell Shadow resembled a bird souring beside a mountain.
