by Chris Fox
Zakanna paused, considering the implications. “As terrible as that might be, it is still a better option than having them serve the Nameless Ones. At least it would deny Utfa a powerful weapon, and it could weaken his hold on this world. We must take this world back, no matter the cost.”
“Then our course is clear,” Khar rumbled, smiling grimly. “Whether we take the beacon or destroy it, we must plan our attack on the Royal Spire. The Void Wraith will accomplish what we were unable to.”
38
No
Fizgig stepped onto the transport disk, unsurprised that one had finally shown up. It zoomed into the air, carrying her away from the prison island where they’d stored her. It was both simple and effective, this isolated island. The only way off was jumping to the deck several hundred meters below.
Her passage kicked up a cooling wind, ruffling her fur as she neared Azatok’s command arena—the same arena where he’d executed Takkar just a few days earlier. Fizgig had known a brief moment of regret when Takkar died. He’d had potential.
Yet his death had not been in vain. She had learned much about Azatok during that battle.
The disk paused at the arena’s edge. Fizgig hopped off. She seated herself cross-legged, gritting her teeth as she tugged her bad leg into position. Its range of motion wasn’t what it once was, but it still performed admirably enough. Age had dulled her, but not as much as many assumed. Much of what made a warrior deadly was mental—the ability to force your body past what you believed it capable.
Azatok’s voice boomed from above. “Ahh, the little cat has arrived. ‘Cat’ is the correct word, is it not?” A wave of laughter passed through the crowd she had yet to look at. The shadows of their islands passed over the arena.
She briefly weighed the advantages of silence, but decided speaking would be best. Azatok might give something away. “It is a word used in the Coalition, yes. By the humans. They had a tiny mammal on their world that they kept for a pet, and it resembles my species.”
“Pet. This word is unfamiliar to me, but your translation virus gives me some idea. Yes, you are a pet.”
The shadow of his disk moved to cover Fizgig. Still she did not look up.
“Today, my pet, we will see if you can fight. You face a pack of my finest Saurians. They will crush you slowly, and I will enjoy your screams.”
“You are sending ka’tok to fight for you? An interesting choice, though I suppose you are wary of fighting after Takkar injured you.” Fizgig rose to her feet. She finally looked up, unsurprised that Azatok had positioned his disk in such a way that the light from above silhouetted him.
“You misunderstand the situation,” Azatok boomed. “You are beneath me. Unworthy of breathing the same air, much less sharing a battlefield. You are not even worthy of fighting Saurians, but I thought your screams might amuse me.”
Fizgig’s tail lashed behind her. She gauged the distance between herself and Azatok’s disk. Too far to jump, but maddeningly close.
A transport disk zoomed into view, and five Saurians hopped off. Each wielded a crude club—shaped stone with a simple, iron spike driven through the end. They wore nothing but loincloths, quite unlike the Saurians she’d dealt with previously. Some sort of ancestral garb maybe?
Fizgig made no move to defend herself as the Saurians spread out to surround her. She very slowly groomed the fur on her wrist, not looking at her opponents.
“Defend yourself, or be cut down,” Azatok roared.
Fizgig chanced a glance at the Ganog, pleased to find that his fur had gone black. He was furious that she refused to present the spectacle he was after.
“If you wish a fight, come fight me,” Fizgig said, calmly.
“Kill her!” Azatok roared.
The Saurians closed as one, moving as only lifelong battle brothers could. Two stayed in front of her, both launching strikes with their clubs. The weapons were heavy and slow, and no doubt devastating…if they connected with their target.
Fizgig merely stepped to the side, dodging both blows. Two of the Saurians behind her attempted to take advantage, both launching clumsy strikes. She easily evaded, rolling between the Saurians, then back to her feet. The crowd howled with laughter.
“If you wish to fight me, then come down here. Takkar was under the mistaken impression that you were honorable. I find it surprising that you employ others to battle for you.” Fizgig stepped out of the path of another club, this one wielded by a tall, heavily-muscled Saurian. This last one came the closest. Fizgig elbowed the Saurian in the gut, then took two steps to put him between her and the others. “I could kill your little lizards, if I wished. I don’t wish. I wish to kill you.”
She had no idea if it would insult his honor, but given everything she’d seen so far, she strongly suspected it would. Azatok was a young leader at the height of his power. Anything that might detract from that power, or make him lesser, would threaten the identity he’d so carefully crafted.
Fizgig dodged several more blows, quite easily. Had the lizards dropped their weapons and moved to grapple with her she might have been in trouble, but as it was, they’d never land a blow.
More laughter came down from above, growing in strength as minutes passed without the Saurians landing a single blow.
“Enough!” Azatok roared. He zoomed down into the arena, and for a moment Fizgig thought she might have her chance. “Have the cat brought back to her cage. I will kill the Saurians myself.”
Several of the guards above her fired large nets, pinning her to the arena floor. Azatok drew his daggers, and began carving up Saurians.
Fizgig smiled. A small victory, but victory nonetheless.
39
Into the Spire
Khar’s nervousness began long before they reached the spire itself. He had plenty of time for that seed to take root, as he and Zakanna walked to the spire instead of taking the cruiser. They’d joined a trickle of other travelers from a dozen different races. They resembled the ka’tok on Ganog 7, though if anything these were even more downtrodden.
“You are certain they cannot detect the explosives?” Khar whispered. He hunched under the makeshift cloak as they stepped under a broad arch. The Kthul guards paid little attention to the throng of travelers passing into the lowest level of the spire.
“This is the ka’tok entrance,” Zakanna explained, pulling her own cloak tighter. “It is beneath notice. The guards assigned here have all been convicted of one crime or another, and so have their superiors. I’m ashamed to admit it, but my caste is blind to this place.”
“I do not understand such an obvious gap in security.” Khar shook his head as they approached the domed doorway. It had the same golden sigils he’d seen on other levels, but the ones down here were faded and cracked. Some had winked out entirely and were now little more than flaking paint.
They passed safely through the doorway into the lowest level of the spire. They were on the ground, with the spire stretching miles above them. Hundreds of islands rotated slowly above them. They grew smaller as they went higher, then finally disappeared into the distance.
“How will we make it all the way up?” Khar asked, following Zakanna into a thriving market. There were dozens of species, many he was seeing for the first time. He found it interesting that those aliens weren’t allowed on the upper levels, at least not that he’d seen.
More Ganog arrogance.
“Slowly.” Zakanna picked a path through the market, making for a trio of thick, rusted chains that ascended up into the distance. “These chains are free for any to use, but they require both strength and endurance. Weaker ka’tok, or those who misjudge their strength, often fall to their death. It is a way to keep them in their place.”
Zakanna picked an empty chain and began climbing. Khar waited for her to gain a little distance, then followed. The chain’s links were excellent handholds, making progress very easy. They climbed for nearly a hundred meters before catching up to a yellow-scaled Saurian who’
d paused to rest. He was shaking, and clearly unable to continue.
Khar watched Zakanna, uncertain how they should proceed. His eyes widened and he reached out instinctively when she leapt from the chain. She caught the neighboring chain, spinning in a tight arc as she secured her footing.
“Jump,” she called, holding out a hand for Khar.
He leapt, catching her wrist and using the momentum to swing himself above her. He caught the chain, digging his claws in for purchase. “This is a most…unconventional means of travel.”
“It’s part of the reason there is no security below. Simply making it to the next level can be lethal,” she called back.
Khar began climbing again, leaving the resting saurian as they climbed another hundred and fifty meters, then switched chains again. Another hundred meters brought them to the base of the first ring, over three hundred meters above the now-distant spire floor.
“A better security precaution than I thought,” Khar said, “though obviously it doesn’t stop all.” His energy reserves were still hovering around ninety percent.
“This is merely the first ring. We have many more before we reach the upper spire, and there are many dangers between here and there. Most are easily bypassed with money or guile, but there are some we still need to find a way to defeat.”
Zakanna made for a restaurant built on a platform. A narrow bar ringed a bartender who stood at the center of the platform. He tended a grill next to him, and was serving some sort of meat to patrons. The disk was large enough for about three dozen passengers, though only a few stood around the bar.
“Come on, it’s about to depart.” Zakanna hopped onto the disk.
Khar hurried to follow. The disk zoomed into the air.
Zakanna moved to the bar. She nodded respectfully to the cook, a disinterested Saurian. “Give us two steaks and some tak nectar.”
The cook wordlessly provided a pair of skewers and plastic horns of nectar. Zakanna handed one of each to Khar, lowering her voice. “We can use transports such as these to continue up the levels, though it would make sense to seek lodging periodically. If we rise too fast in a day we run the risk of discovery.”
“How many days will it take to reach the top?” Khar asked, more than a little horrified. He’d assumed it would take no more than one.
“Three, or perhaps four.” She chewed daintily at the pink meat. “We may as well enjoy it. Our chances of discovery are remote until we pass into the Royal Span, and that won’t happen for two more days.”
“All right,” Khar said, sampling a bit of the meat. He couldn’t taste it, of course. But he could process the nutrients and pretend, for a little while, that he was still alive in the traditional sense.
40
Yeah, Still No
Again, Fizgig was summoned by a transport disk. She stepped atop it, enjoying the breeze as it carried her back to the arena. This time, Azatok had only waited two days to send for her. She imagined he must have other duties to attend to, though she had no idea what he did with his time. He never left the Royal Spire; if there was a war being fought in the Imperium, he wasn’t a part of it.
She glanced skyward, noting the ceiling high above. The hole Nolan had made was covered now, but the coloration was all wrong. The repairs were embarrassingly bad—just a large piece of metal clumsily bolted to the stone.
The disk glided to a halt, and Fizgig hopped into the arena. She put her hands behind her back, and casually walked to the center of the ring.
Azatok’s disk hovered near a cluster of female Ganog—either wives or concubines, she guessed. They all smiled at him with simpering, vacant expressions, the kind women reserved for men whose egos were easily stroked. Azatok smiled at them, basking in their adoration. Clearly, he valued them.
“Have you decided to finally face me yourself, Azatok?” Fizgig roared, drawing his irritated gaze.
Laughter came from a few disks, though it was quickly silenced when Azatok glared at the offenders. He zoomed down until his island was only three meters above her. That was within reach, if just barely.
She tensed, then forced herself to relax a moment later. No, not yet.
“You are an amusing pet, little cat,” Azatok taunted. He grinned cruelly down at her, his fur a deep scarlet. “Today, you are going to fight. I assure you. You will face a champion of my choosing, and you will battle until she kills you.”
“And why would I do that, Azatok?” Fizgig asked, mildly. “I told you: I will not fight. When you are ready to face me yourself, then I will fight. Only then.”
Another disk zoomed into view and a young, female Ganog hopped off. She wore an Adept’s robes, and moved with impressive skill. Fizgig watched her carefully, realizing this Adept could be a true threat—far more so than the Saurians.
That was good. It meant that Azatok was taking her more seriously. If Fizgig played her role well today, she’d leave him little choice but to face her himself.
“Is that so?” Azatok boomed. He chuckled, zooming his platform over the edge of the island. “Come, look at what I have prepared for you.”
Fizgig walked to the edge of the island, staring over the side. Below was another island, just large enough for about a hundred people. It was packed with Ganog, in a variety of different armor. It looked like every clan except the Kthul was represented—even a few black-armored Nyar.
“What am I looking at?” Fizgig asked, blinking up at Azatok. Her tail lashed behind her, and she longed to sink her claws into his furry throat.
“If you do not fight, everyone on that island dies. They are prisoners, your allies in this war. Do nothing and I will have them put to death.” He grinned down at her, clearly savoring the moment.
“Seriously? This is your ploy to get me to fight? I don’t care about those Ganog, or any other,” Fizgig said. She turned from the edge and walked back to the middle of the arena, sitting down comfortably.
Azatok zoomed his disk around to hover before her. “Perhaps you underestimate my resolve, little cat. Perhaps you think I am bluffing.”
“Oh no,” Fizgig said, raising her paws to her face in mock alarm. “Please don’t put your own people to death for no reason. How will I ever live with myself?” She calmly began grooming.
Laughter rippled through the crowd above, and Azatok’s fur shifted from scarlet to a deep red-black. “Kill them! Kill them all!” he roared, zooming to the edge of the island again. From there, he studied Fizgig, gauging her reaction.
Fizgig gave him nothing, and didn’t have to fake it. She really didn’t care about any Ganog, especially some random warriors who’d very likely had a hand in killing her people at Ganog 7.
Plasma fire sounded from below, and Ganog bellowed in pain. A few screamed their defiance, but the sounds quickly dwindled.
When they stopped, Fizgig could smell the stench of burnt fur. She continued grooming. “I do not bluff either, Azatok. I will not fight. You can kill as many of your own people as you like. It does not matter to me.”
She glanced at the Adept out of the corner of her eye. If that one came for her, she’d have no choice but to fight. She couldn’t defend forever. So she needed to play this a bit differently. She stayed seated, refusing to rise as the monk approached.
She intentionally pitched her voice loud enough to carry. “If you wish to kill me, do so. But I will die knowing that the great champion, Azatok, is a coward, unwilling to face me.”
The audience gasped, and there were shocked whispers.
Azatok’s fur slid to full black, and he glared hatefully down at Fizgig. For an instant she was convinced that he was going to order her death, or at least have the Adept attack her.
“Have the cat brought back to her cell.” He zoomed lower, within easy reach. “Make no mistake, little Tigris. I will break you. You will fight. I merely need to find the proper incentive.”
He smiled evilly, and Fizgig knew a moment of fear. It was clear that some new idea had just occurred to Azatok, and she
worried that sooner or later he’d find something she genuinely valued. This game couldn’t go on for much longer.
Odds were good she’d have no choice but to attack him the next time he summoned her.
41
Nameless One
Nuchik tore open the protein pack, sucking at the almond-flavored paste inside. It wasn’t half bad, as far as rations in the field went. She preferred the mess on the Demetrius, but the temperature there was frosty these days. The new members of Alpha Company didn’t know her, but they knew she was one of the last survivors of the original unit, and that she’d chosen not to help rebuild. It made her an outsider, in more ways than one.
Hannan plopped down on the foot of Nuchik’s mech and rested her rifle next to her. “You got another one of those?”
“Sure.” Nuchik fished another packet from her jacket and tossed it to Hannan. “You know, for being a repair op, it sure doesn’t seem like much repair is happening.” She nodded toward the Omega, which looked exactly like it had yesterday. And the day before. A flock of four-winged birds burst out of the elbow, winging out into the forest, and she shook her head. “They’re using it as a nest.”
“It’s a big machine. It will take time. The last thing they’ll do is clear the debris from the outside.” Hannan tore open the wrapper, and sucked on the edge. “It wouldn’t do to have the Kthul realize what we’re doing. If they find us before we finish, we’re basically handing them another Omega.”
“I’m still not sure giving a Void Wraith super-weapon to these Nyar is much better. They’ve been very clear that they don’t give a crap what we think. What’s to stop them from turning around and using it on us?” Nuchik finished her paste, then carefully folded the wrapper and tucked it into the pouch she used to collect her garbage. Leaving anything behind meant leaving a trail an enemy could follow. Besides, she hated littering.
