Spyridon (The Spyridon Trilogy Book 1)

by Lillian James

  “Remove your boots,” he said after calling the door closed. When he spoke again, panels along one wall pulled away to reveal an array of weapons. Mikhél returned the khóchuk, an ancient Nhélanei assegai she’d seen before in the language program. When he saw her staring at the columns of handheld and arm-mounted guns, he called the panels closed. “You’re not ready for weapons.”

  “Do they work?”

  “They’re for training. The guns aren’t weaponized. The blades are dull. Few Nhélanei are allowed access to weapons, but some find a way to smuggle them. And the more resourceful create them out of materials you wouldn’t expect to be deadly. Treat every weapon you encounter as if it works. I would not see you hurt in a training accident.”

  He walked in a slow circle around her, and she forced herself to hold still under his examination. Compared to the average Nhélanei, she was small and weak. No matter how much she trained, that wouldn’t change. He had to be aware of that.

  “Do you understand what awaits you on Spyridon?”

  “Slavery.”

  He lifted a brow. “If slavery were all that existed for the Nhélanei, you wouldn’t be here now. The war between the Nhélanei and the Meijhé never ended. It just changed. There’s no battleground, no fighting between the races. Instead there is espionage. Every Nhélanei who is not loyal to the Meijhé lives in fear of those who are. Watchers are the biggest threat you face on Spyridon. Your best defense will never be your ability to fight. It will always be your awareness.

  “I’ll teach you to defend yourself, but a physical fight is your last resort. Your first priority should be avoidance. If you devote yourself to the study of the jagatai ways, then by the time we reach Spyridon, you’ll be able to elude an assailant so completely that they’ll never even know you’re there.

  “Now close your eyes, and tell me what you hear…”

  One hundred and forty-two days till arrival

  Mikhél forced himself to stand still at the viewscreen, but his fingers drummed against his thigh. When Eithné and Valaer arrived, he spoke as soon as the door closed behind them. “How long before a warrior can use the sedfai in combat?”

  “It depends on the person,” Eithné answered as she scanned the abandoned living quarters. Mikhél called up a chair for her. She ignored it and called up her own. “Most laymen take a few months to become adept at sense use. I never trained jagatai warriors, but I heard it can take years for soldiers to fully incorporate the extra senses into their battle skills.”

  “We don’t have years,” Valaer bit out. “How do we speed it up?”

  “I don’t know that we can. It is an incredibly complex skill that requires time to develop. First we have to learn to distinguish one sensation from another. Then we have to begin to identify what we’re sensing, and we start at the most basic level. Pressure, vibration.” She shrugged. “It can take weeks just to learn to recognize those sensations, let alone determine their source. We reach Spyridon in less than two months. Do you think she’ll be able to use any senses in her fighting by then?”

  “She already does,” Mikhél said. Valaer’s gaze shot up at his assessment. “She uses them in a way I’ve never seen. It’s perfectly natural, so much so that I doubt she could even articulate how she does it. We’ve already run through the more basic defensive moves, and she’s progressing faster than I expected. She can identify what she senses, and she uses the information in a way that’s practical and effective.”

  “Well,” Eithné said. “We thought her sedfai was strong. It seems we were right. Do you think she’ll be ready in time?”

  “I have no doubt she’ll exceed my initial expectations. She’s already reached an acceptable range. At the moment her duration is the only thing holding her back. She can only use her sedfai for a short amount of time before it shuts off.”

  “That might go hand in hand with the strength of her abilities. Her mind is attempting to process a great deal of novel information at once. It might be that it can handle only so much before it requires rest. Is there any pain?”

  Mikhél thought of the way Seirsha’s irises lightened when she tired. “She doesn’t complain, but I think so.”

  Eithné nodded. “It should fade with practice. And the defensive moves? How are her physical skills?”

  “She’ll never be as strong as the Meijhé—or even most Nhélanei. But she works hard, and she doesn’t give up. I’m considering incorporating a bit of tar-jak with the venget.”

  Eithné frowned. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Venget is a form of weaponless street fighting developed in the Other after the war,” Valaer said quietly. “Tar-jak is an ancient attack method using small batons. They can be concealed fairly easily, and if you lose them it’s not difficult to improvise with sticks or other objects. They’re two very different fighting styles, and neither of them is used by the Meijhé—or by the Nhélanei under their control.”

  “Is there really time to teach her both?”

  Mikhél raised a brow at Valaer. He knew his own thoughts on the subject, but he wanted to hear the older man’s opinion.

  Valaer held his gaze for perhaps longer than was perfectly respectful, and then he looked at Eithné. “It’s ingenious to teach her both. Venget is vicious and highly effective, but it can be severely limited by the fighter’s reach. Tar-jak is complicated and takes time to master, but if she can incorporate some of the basics into her fighting style, it could help to counterbalance her small stature. If it works she’ll be a formidable warrior. Eventually.”

  His words should have been a comfort, but Eithné shook her head. “Great warriors don’t always make great leaders.”

  “You’re thinking of my father,” Mikhél said.

  Her eyes blanched. “Endeté, my apologies—”

  “You’re right.” He ignored the shock that crossed her face. “If you weren’t we wouldn’t be here.”

  “Do you think she’s ready to know the truth?” Valaer asked.

  Mikhél pictured Seirsha, her eyes wide and watchful. The way they drank in every sight and betrayed her every emotion. “Not yet. It’s too easy to see what she feels. When we tell her, she’s going to be afraid. We can’t risk that until she’s better able to hide it.”

  “A leader shouldn’t be afraid,” Valaer said. “How long must we wait for her to grow up?”

  “Fear knows no age limit,” Mikhél said. “And fearlessness is not a requirement for the Baanrí any more than is the skill of combat.”

  “Seirsha’s a survivor,” Eithné added. “She adapted to Earth; she’ll adapt to this. She just needs time.”

  “How much time?” When they had no answer for him, Valaer ground his teeth. “How long does it take a survivor to become a leader? How long does it take a warrior to learn when to give orders and when to follow them? And how long will it take us,” he added, his fists tightening until the knuckles turned white, “to accept that perhaps she’ll never be more than she is right now? That she doesn’t have what she needs to be a true Baanrí?”

  “She has it,” Mikhél said. “She’ll show us soon. And when she does, I expect it will take us all by surprise.”

  CHAPTER 19

  One hundred and fifteen days till arrival

  Jumplight filtered through the transparent floor, sending shadows sliding eerily across the room. Silence reigned, and the dark, the quiet, the discarded pieces of a forgotten time made the entire level feel abandoned.

  Jane was alone. There’d been an explosion in the uppermost fuel processor hours before. No one had been hurt, but all hands were needed for repairs and to keep up production in the working processors.

  So for the first time in nearly three Earth months—just over one month by Spyridon’s calendar—she had a day off. She’d tried to sleep. God knew she worked hard enough to need the rest when she could get it. But lately she’d been plagued by a growing sense of restlessness.

  They were almost halfway to Spyridon.
>
  She couldn’t picture it. There was a vast chasm between the world depicted in the language program and that which the others described. Mikhél’s warning of spies, Eithné’s talk of brutal oppression. Valaer’s description of a reverence for Lhókesh that bordered on worship. She couldn’t reconcile those with the pride and freedom portrayed in her studies.

  She’d thought the entertainment level might offer some insight, but she was beginning to believe that the place she’d found had nothing to teach her about the Spyridon that existed now. This place was haunted and bleak, a stark reminder of a dead way of life. The Nhélanei of today’s Spyridon didn’t browse intergalactic wares or discuss art and politics over exotic meals.

  They slaved on fuel processors in the deep, dark vacuum of space.

  Her footsteps echoed, and she stepped lightly out of habit, trained to minimize her presence even when she was alone. She’d found a gallery, the walls scattered with alien artwork. A trio of pots in one corner housed the remains of a Targeshen geva tree, its delicate bones woven together like lace.

  The gallery was a maze of rooms jutting off rooms, filled with long-forgotten works of art. Rugs floated when she disturbed the air. Shimmering pulses of light emerged from thin air and dissipated just as inexplicably, a colorless replica of the jumplight beneath her feet.

  But it was the paintings that caught her eye, the familiarity of the medium making the subject matter all the more foreign. Portraits dazzled with impossible beings; abstracts mystified with impossible colors. And somehow, through it all, the universality of thinking life was displayed in the achingly recognizable depictions of love.

  The painting that made her stop and stare was a landscape. Mountains gleamed red against the thin blue of a morning sky, the ground at their base littered with spiky fronds the color of sand. In the corner, instead of an artist’s signature, there was a simple line drawing of three delicate flames.

  She’d seen this place before. She had no idea where or how, but her heart thudded with the sense of past reclaimed.

  She ran a hand over the textured paint, as if the contact could draw out the memory. Some knowledge teased her consciousness, and a bit of awareness washed over her in a wave of déjà vu. But the memory eluded her.

  Still, she felt renewed. She passed through the gallery with an eagerness to explore that she hadn’t felt in weeks. Walking atop the stars, she thought she might recover something of herself in this place.

  She wandered for hours before she found the museum. It was devoted to the exploration of thinking life, displaying species that were birdlike, reptilian, and aquatic. There were even two species of artificial intelligence, races of sentient machines who had evolved beyond their original purposes. And then there were beings of a nature she couldn’t even begin to conceptualize.

  In its heart she found the Meijhé. They were not the monstrous creatures of her nightmares. Instead they were humanoid. Taller than the Nhélanei, they had marble-white skin and lidless, obsidian eyes. She tried to imagine these creatures armored and armed, standing over the Nhélanei with cold indifference to the suffering they caused. She pictured them forcing the Nhélanei to turn on one another. To use their gifts against their own people.

  She imagined them firing their weapons as her mother stole her away to safety.

  Shuddering, she stepped back and bumped into a large urn resting on the floor. It tipped over and landed with a deep, resonating sound that made her jump. As she steadied the artifact, her sedfai pulsed instinctively through the space surrounding her.

  And filled the entire sector.

  She gasped and stood, her pulse pounding. Her sedfai had never stretched more than a pellek before, but now it spanned over ninety thousand square feet of air, glass, polymer, and metal. She felt it all as naturally as she felt the air move in and out of her lungs.

  And there, at the edge, walked a woman.

  A stranger, judging by her gait, and someone who had no business on the entertainment level after Mikhél had given explicit orders for the crew to be elsewhere. Jane checked her link and saw she’d been here for nearly four passes by the Nhélanei clock. It was enough time to clean up the explosion, but surely it hadn’t been enough to make up for the lost production. Mikhél’s notice to the crew had indicated that all crew members would be required to work for at least six extra passes to that end. No one should be down here but her.

  She held her breath and began to retrace her steps, but she’d gone only a few feet when she sensed someone in that direction too. Another stranger—a man this time.

  And Jane was caught between them.

  They walked along the halls on either side of her, drawing steadily closer to where she stood. She realized three things in quick succession. First, if she could sense them, then of course they could sense her too. She was still learning to use her sedfai, but most of the crew had reached the age of the jagat years ago. More than likely they’d sensed her before she’d even set foot in the museum.

  Second, two people disobeying a direct order at the same time could not be a coincidence. They were meeting down here for something they didn’t want overheard.

  And third, they might not be alone.

  Whispering, she called up the map on her link. If she moved toward the center of the ship, she would run into the man. If she went toward the hull, she’d see the woman instead. Her only choice was to stay ahead of them both and hope she crossed into the next sector before they did.

  She moved quickly, keeping her sedfai stretched as she traversed the winding corridors of the museum. The need for quiet made the task more difficult. The floor here didn’t absorb sound, as it did on other levels. She didn’t have Mikhél’s agility of movement, his seemingly effortless silence. But she did have speed, and she used it now.

  Just before she crossed into the next sector, she sensed two other men on the other side of the lifts to her left, the echo of their voices bouncing through the halls. If they rounded the elevators before she crossed the hall, she’d stand out in sharp silhouette against the glow of the lifts to her right. But if she waited here, the others would come up behind her. She had no choice.

  She took a bracing breath and ran across the expansive corridor. And then she just kept moving, her nerves hovering just under the edge of alarm. Her sedfai stretched farther, and she realized something that had her blood running cold.

  She was surrounded.

  There were two people in the hall ahead of her, one more in the hall to her right. And beyond them six more were gathered. If she moved in any direction, she might be spotted by people who didn’t want to be found. It made more sense to hide and wait for a path to clear.

  She closed her eyes and scanned the sector with her sedfai. There had to be somewhere for her to disappear or, at the very least, a maintenance shaft she could take to leave the level. But this sector was largely open, another museum or gallery of some sort, with wide, meandering halls and spacious rooms that offered little protection from a stranger’s sedfai. The only small space she could find was a room filled with tarps or blankets. There would barely be enough room for her to stand, and she’d still be detectable through its walls.

  Then it hit her: she could use the blankets. She raced toward the room while crew filed past the sector, and then she huddled on the floor and began to pull the tarps on top of herself. Thin and metallic, they trapped her body heat inside until the cold of the ship seemed to steam away. Still she kept covering herself until she couldn’t reach around the pile to grab any more. Then she huddled over the jumplight and told herself she must have done enough to mask her body heat and heartbeat.

  And she waited. Sweat trickled down her nose and dampened her uniform. Stars bloomed and faded beneath her in a collage of colors so beautiful they should have taken her breath, but she couldn’t concentrate on them. Beneath the tarps she was probably hidden. She was probably safe.

  And she was definitely defenseless.

  She couldn’t sense anythin
g beyond the storage room. She’d have no warning if someone approached until they were close enough to cut off any path of escape. Her fingers tapped against the polymer, but she told herself to wait a little longer. Just to give them time to go wherever they were going. And then she’d get the hell off this level.

  She started counting the jumplights under her breath. When she’d gone as high as she could, she lifted the edge of the tarps and opened her sedfai. There was no one nearby. She slid out into the cold and stretched her sedfai, and she let out a breath when she realized her sector was empty.

  But the level wasn’t. Fifteen people had gathered in the second ring. She called up her map and tried to align it with her sedfai. As far as she could tell, they were gathered in a theater near the center of the sector. Why crew would sneak down to the entertainment level to hang out in a theater was beyond her, but at the moment she didn’t care. They were far enough away that she might be able to reach the hull without detection. And that was all that mattered right now.

  She slipped out of the storage room and sped toward the sector lining the hull. The outer sectors were the largest, and the one she entered was a labyrinth of narrow halls and shadowy storefronts. The strain of probing such a vast, complicated space had her sedfai giving way in minutes. Feeling blind, she raced through the halls, searching every wall for a light that would indicate the presence of a maintenance shaft.

  She found one in a vestibule dominated by an enormous sculpture. Stretching from floor to ceiling, the monument looked as though it was made of blackness itself. Great reaching tentacles swept up from its bulbous base, swirling in a sinuous stretch toward the ceiling as if trying to grasp the sparse life in the floors above. It swallowed the light of the stars, so she could see only its silhouette.

  One of the arms had broken off and shattered, the interior of the rubble projecting all of the luster and color denied by the surface. In her haste to reach the maintenance shaft, she slipped on the dazzling shards and landed hard on the star-strewn floor.