by Chris Fox
“You seriously expect me to believe that?” Aran barked out a laugh. “I watched you sell out Yorrak, then a few minutes later you sold out Hepha—but somehow I’m the special one you weren’t going to screw over? How many times have you used that line?”
She stopped pacing, and her face softened. “Dozens. Maybe hundreds. I’ve only done what I needed to in order to stay alive. You have no idea what I went through, no idea what he made me do. Yorrak terrorized me, for years.”
Aran considered her words, but he just couldn’t bring himself to believe her. She was too good an actress, and he knew she’d screw him again the first chance she had, for even a momentary advantage.
“I’m sure it was terrible. It still doesn’t excuse what you did, or what you were going to do,” he countered. “You want me to trust you, even a little bit? How about giving me something to work with? Where did you really pick me up? Who was I? The truth this time.”
“What does it matter? They’re going to mind-wipe us both. They’re probably already coming for us.” Nara shot a desultory look toward the entrance to the brig, where Sergeant Crewes still stood at attention. He watched them quietly, seeming to ignore the conversation.
“Then you have no reason not to tell me,” Aran pointed out. “I want to know, even if I’ll just forget it again.”
“Fine,” Nara said, shrugging. “Why not? Yorrak had some sort of contract to ambush your vessel. I don’t know why, but I think he was paid to kill someone you were transporting. He often took jobs like that. Yorrak always needed money, and he’d make extra by enslaving the crews of the vessels we took.”
Aran shook his head. “That’s not a lot to go on. Do you know what my name was?”
“No,” Nara admitted. Her regret seemed genuine. “I imprinted you with Aran. I thought it was an amusing little joke.”
“Your name backwards?” Aran realized.
“Yeah.” She smiled wistfully. “My name is an imprint too.”
“Do you think there’s any chance of getting out of this?” Aran asked. Not that he thought there was, but Nara was a true mage after all. “A spell maybe?”.
“The bars will nullify anything I could cast, and that woman is far, far stronger than I am. You saw how beautiful she was, right?” Nara shook her head enviously. “She’s Shayan. They’re stiff-necked, and look down on every other race because they don’t age the same way. They consider humans, us, beneath them. There’s no way we’re talking our way out of this, and I don’t see a way to escape.”
Footsteps sounded outside, and Aran turned to see Major Voria striding back into the room. In her right hand she held a spellstave with three glowing golden teardrops orbiting slowly around the tip. Power radiated from the weapon like heat from a bonfire, but it wasn’t what drew his attention.
The woman herself had that. Like Nara, the major was beautiful. But unlike Nara there was something ethereal about Voria, something that separated her from regular humans. Almost superhumanly so. Her face was a perfect oval, her skin a perfectly smooth cream. Her chestnut hair had been wound into a loose bun and even that was artfully done.
“It’s time,” Voria said. “Sergeant Crewes, please step out of the room, or the spell will affect you too.” She waited for Crewes to exit the room, then turned back to Aran. “I truly am sorry for this. I promise if the opportunity to repay you arrives, I’ll find a way to do it.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Aran said, as jovially as he could.
Like it or not, the major had all the power here, and antagonizing her wasn’t going to make his new life any easier. It would only call more attention to him, which was the last thing he wanted. Easier to go along with her, then escape when the opportunity arose.
“I’m sure you would if you remembered it.” The major raised a delicate finger and began sketching sigils in the air, lines of pale grey and dark brown forming a complex cluster of symbols. The light built as she added a sixth, and finally a seventh, sigil. Light exploded from the staff, washing over the room.
Aran raised his hand to shield his eyes from the brilliance, flinching as the unfamiliar energy washed out of the major. He relaxed when he realized he wasn’t the target of the spell. A beam of multicolored brilliance shot into Nara, and she collapsed to her knees.
He opened his mouth to ask Voria what was going on, but his jaw clicked almost immediately shut. Telling Crewes to leave the room wasn’t meant to spare him from the spell. It was meant to prevent him from seeing that Voria wasn’t wiping his memory.
Voria’s gaze flicked in his direction, but she didn’t look directly at him. “I’m sorry. This is all I can do for you.”
“Thank you.” Aran whispered. Losing a few hours time might mean nothing to most people, but when it was all you had…it was everything.
“I—where am I?” Nara asked, a note of panic creeping into her voice.
“It’s all right,” Voria reassured her. “I know you’re confused. You’ve been pressed into the Confederate Marine Corps. The two of you will be escorted to your new unit, where you will begin training.”
“Are we…criminals?” Nara whispered, eyes widening. She clutched her hands to her chest, clearly horrified as she stared at the rip in her uniform. “Did someone attack me?”
“You were criminals, yes.” Voria waved a hand, and the bars to the cells disappeared. “Your crimes are forgiven, in exchange for your service. They’ve been expunged, and so far as I am concerned they never existed at all. This is your chance for a new life. I suggest you take it. Sergeant Crewes.”
Aran stepped from the cell as the sergeant re-entered the room. Crewes eyed Aran and Nara balefully, but didn’t say anything.
“Sergeant, escort these two to Captain Thalas and have him put them to work,” Voria said. She moved to the security desk, and picked up Aran’s spellblade, then eyed him searchingly for a long moment. “Before you were mind-wiped, your name was Aran, and this belonged to you.”
Voria handed Aran the blade, and he accepted it gratefully. There wasn’t much to hold onto right now, and the blade was solid. He could feel the intelligence within, and knew it was somehow happy to be near him again.
“Thank you,” Aran said. “But don’t think this makes us even.”
“Sergeant, get your new privates moving.” Voria turned coldly away, striding from the brig.
“Come on, wipes. Move!” Crewes barked, thrusting an armored finger at the doorway.
11
Nebiat
Nebiat plucked a glass of sparkling wine from the platter, winking mischievously at the servant as she passed her. The woman blinked back with large eyes as Nebiat glided up the crowded path snaking through the mezzanine.
The shops, their fronts decorated in garish reds and yellows, had all been closed for the night to celebrate some local festival. She didn’t care. These people would all be dead soon anyway, their corpses used as fodder against the inevitable Confederate response.
That would be the real threat. Ternus itself possessed almost no magic, and while their technological toys were numerous, they weren’t terribly effective against her people.
She smiled at a man in his forties, and the man perked up instantly, straightening his jacket and sucking in his ample gut. Nebiat winked at the man’s wife, a vinegar-faced simpleton. The woman glared, but did nothing as Nebiat slid past her husband.
The view above drew Nebiat’s eye, and she smiled. A transparent glasteel dome vaulted over the mezzanine, showing a bright blue-green world nestled in the void. Somewhere on that world lay the prize she’d sought for centuries, ever since Drakkon had hidden it away so long ago.
Yet even with the prize so close, Nebiat did not let herself become flustered. This must be handled with patient deliberation, or she risked a mistake—which could not be allowed to happen. The coming days must be handled adroitly, or even she would have reason to fear. Her father would see to that.
Nebiat sauntered up to a pair of lift doors at the ba
se of the largest building in the mezzanine. A pair of guards, one male and one female, flanked those doors. They watched her with relaxed wariness—aware, but convinced she was no threat.
“I’m going up to meet with the governor,” Nebiat said, smiling. She touched the male guard’s chest. “Then I’m going to bind his will and force him to betray his people. You, your friend there, and everyone else aboard this station will die horribly.”
The man’s eyes widened, and he reached for a heavy slug throwing pistol. Nebiat’s finger twitched, dancing in quick curves. She sketched a simple binding and tossed it at the woman, who gasped as the black sigil sank into her forehead and disappeared. The woman’s eyes pulsed black for a moment, then she seized the male guard.
Nebiat took advantage of their struggle to repeat the spell, seizing the male guard’s will as well. “Guard these doors. Let no one through.”
Nebiat pressed the button to summon the lift, humming to herself as she waited for it to arrive. The doors slid open, and she stepped inside, turning to give a little wave to the guards. They waved back, smiling. The doors closed, and the lift carried her to the top floor.
The doors slid open to reveal a spacious chamber. Every part of it had clearly been built to impress, from the dark wooden bookshelves lining each wall to the view of the dome above the man sitting at the desk.
He had watery green eyes, and hair that had begun the final transition to white. The weathered lines across his face marred what had likely once been quite striking. In its wake, time had left dignity, at least.
“How did you get up here?” the man asked, eyes narrowing as he rose from the desk. He reached for an intercom. “Security, report.”
“Yes, sir?” said the male guard from below.
“I ordered you to allow no visitors. Why am I staring at a visitor?”
“It’s important you speak with her, sir,” the man replied, quite firmly.
The governor’s eyebrows knit together in confusion, but the confusion evaporated when he looked up at Nebiat. “You’re a mage.”
“I’m pleased to see the rumors of your competence aren’t exaggerated,” Nebiat said, stepping from the lift and moving to the bookshelves. She ran a finger along the spines, taking in the titles. “Quite an eclectic collection, Governor. Books on philosophy. Psychology. Law. Even ancient Terran history. You’re a very curious man, it seems. You like to know how things work.”
“What do you want?” the governor asked, reaching under his desk. He removed a sidearm, a smaller version of the slug-throwing pistol the guard had used.
“Ultimately?” Nebiat asked, cocking her head. “That’s a very difficult question to answer. I want to see the universe reshaped into my grandfather’s image, certainly. But after that? Well I don’t really know.”
She expected a stern warning, or a rebuke, or some other dithering. There was none of that. The governor added a second hand to the pistol, cupping the grip. Then he shot her. Repeatedly. The pistol bucked over and over, filling the office with the acrid smell of gunpowder.
Nebiat could have shielded herself. She could have simply teleported out of the path of the bullets. Either might have intimidated this man, but neither would be as effective as letting the rounds hit. So she stood there, letting bullets ricochet off her into the bookshelf. She waited calmly for the man to finish, then smoothed her dress. There were several holes in the bodice—a tight cluster, right over her heart.
“You’re an excellent shot, Governor. It seems you live up to every part of your reputation, so I will treat you with the respect you deserve. No more games.” Nebiat raised a hand, and began to delicately sketch a dizzying array of multicolored sigils. They formed a complex binding, the kind of binding most mortal mages would labor a lifetime to master and still fail.
She flung the spell at the governor, much as she’d done to the guards below. He flinched, trying to move as the spell shot directly into his heart. The energy pulsed outward to every chakra. To dominate a person as fully as she needed to dominate this man, the mind alone wasn’t enough. She needed his heart. His spirit.
“There, that’s much better.” Nebiat smiled. “I’ve left much of your will intact, for now at least. You’ll be free to act as you see fit, which could enable you to save the lives of many of your people. Hold on to that, Governor. It’s the only way you can fight right now.”
“What do you want?” the governor whispered, his expression melting to horror. His whole body trembled.
She turned her gaze back to the bookshelf. A few of the books had been damaged by the bullets, but most were intact. She touched a very old one, simply titled Terra. Nebiat sketched a fire sigil and the book burst into flame.
“I want you to address your people on the planet below,” Nebiat instructed. “Tell them you have reason to believe the Krox are coming to this world.”
“But if I do that, there will be a panic,” the governor protested, a bead of sweat trickling down his cheek. “People will flee in droves. There will be chaos.”
“That’s the point.” Nebiat raised an eyebrow. “Oh, and do make sure you send word to Ternus, requesting immediate aid.”
Nebiat smiled at the governor’s obvious confusion, and she admired the restraint he showed in not asking why she was alerting her enemies to her assault before it even began.
12
Kez and Bord
Crewes led Aran and Nara into the largest room Aran had ever seen aboard a starship. It had to be at least a hundred meters across, and half again as wide. The deck was divided into squares, each allocated to a different unit.
Most of those units were conventional Marines in forest-green fatigues. They drilled in platoons of twenty-five men, some running drills while others sparred in a boxing ring. A firing range ran the length of the far wall, but although Aran could see muzzle flares, there was no sound. Magical silence?
“Looks like we got us some fresh meat,” came a yell as a platoon trotted by. “Two new techies.”
Crewes turned his baleful eye toward the platoon, and they quickened their pace.
“What did he mean by techies?” Nara asked, looking around her in wide-eyed horror.
“Tech mages,” Crewes grunted.
“What’s that?” Nara prodded, hurrying to walk next to the sergeant.
“Man, you wipes don’t know anything—like, literally anything. You’re a gods-damned mage. But you ain’t had any training.” He patted his rifle. “See this? You can use one of these, and the armor I’m wearing. Those zeros? They got zero magical ability. They have to stick to conventional weapons, and conventional weapons suck.”
“What’s the difference between a tech mage and a true mage?” Aran asked, trotting just behind the sergeant’s armored form.
“Training, wipe. That’s the difference. True mages cast real spells. We can kinda do the same shit, but we need a spellrifle or spellarmor. Now keep up, rookie,” Crewes barked, glaring over his shoulder at Aran. “Not sure why the major let you keep that blade, but don’t think it makes you special. You’re already on my bad side, and you do not want to be on my bad side.”
“Do you even have a good side?” Aran muttered. His shoulders slumped when he caught Crewes glaring at him. “You’ve got really impressive hearing.”
“You’ve got really impressive hearing, sir!” Crewes barked, his scowl growing two shades darker. He started clanking forward again, moving with purpose.
Crewes kept a brisk pace, and Aran struggled to keep pace. Crewes wore his armor like a second skin, easily stepping over a low barricade into another section that led toward a largely empty corner of the hangar. No platoons drilled here, though a small squad lounged around a portable table playing cards.
A tiny platinum-blond woman sat on the far side of the table, grinning up at a short olive-skinned man with a rat’s nest of dark hair. She was a little too short and a bit too slender to be human, but Aran wasn’t sure what race she was. She was pretty, but not like the Major
had been. “Face it, you’re joost outclassed. Enjoy my maintenance shifts for the next week.”
Aran recognized the lilting accent from when they’d been captured. This must be the woman who’d been carrying the hammer.
The olive-skinned man had a mop of curly hair and, though short for a human, was still taller than the blonde. “It’s all part of my plan. I’m lulling you into a false sense of security,” he shot back, “so when the stakes are higher I can clean you out.” His eyes twinkled. “Want to play again? This time, if I win, you make me dinner—and breakfast the next morning.”
The words had obviously been practiced, and just as obviously used before. The blonde merely rolled her eyes, then rose to greet the newcomers. “Hey there, Sergeant. Looks like you came back with some strays.”
She approached Nara first, offering a hand. Nara took it timidly. The blonde only came up to Nara’s chest, and Nara wasn’t tall.
“Ah, that’s the state o’ things,” she said, giving Nara a friendly smile. “They’ve joost been wiped, Sarge?”
“Yeah,” Crewes confirmed. “And now they’re your responsibility, Kez. Take care of our special flower here.” He nodded disapprovingly at Aran. “See if you can teach him to use that sword. And find out what they can both do with a spellrifle. Hopefully one of them can actually hit a target. Oh, and see if you can keep Bord from harassing the woman.”
“I’ll keep him in line.” Kez turned to Aran and patted the chair next to her. “Have a seat.”
Aran moved to join her, and Nara sat across from the man Crewes had identified as Bord. Nara still looked scared, but some of the fear had been replaced with curiosity.
“Okay, let’s make this official. I’m Corporal Kezia, but mostly I get called Kez. Since it’s clear you ain’t seen any of my kind before, I’ll give you the state o’ things. I’m a drifter. We’re a race o’ short fookers with a terrible reputation. We’re cousins to the Shayans, but they don’t like admitting it because we’re more primal than they are.” Kez cocked her head and gave another dimpled smile. “So do either of you have a name, or are we giving you new ones?
