by Chris Fox
“I’m Aran,” he offered. It disturbed him how quickly the name came, especially now knowing that Nara had just randomly made it up.
“And what about you, gorgeous?” Bord asked, leering at Nara. “You got a name? I want to make sure I scream the right—”
Kez’s tiny fist rocketed out, catching Bord in the gut.
He doubled over, coughing. “Lords, Kez. You’re so violent.”
“Don’t pay Bord any mind,” Kez said, winking at Nara. “He’d rut with an asteroid, if it smiled back. He’s got a point, though. You got a name there, lovely?”
“I—” Nara looked helplessly around, like Aran had when he’d woken up in the cargo hold. He still didn’t trust her, but it was difficult not empathizing with someone so clearly in pain. And he remembered what Nara had said about slaves without imprinted names having psychotic breaks. No one deserved that.
“Her name is Nara,” Aran supplied, feeling a small swell of pity.
“You knew me before?” Nara asked, cocking her head in confusion. “That’s why I was in the cell next to you.”
“Briefly, yes.”
“You still remember her?” Kez asked, pursing her lips. “Not sure how the major is going to feel about that. Sounds like the wipe didn’t take.”
“The major already knows about it.” Aran glared defiantly down at the little blond, who blinked up at him in confusion.
“Well you seem a might pissed.” She picked up a tin cup and offered it to him. “Here, have a mouthful of this. It’ll take the edge off.”
“And you said my name is Nara?” Nara interrupted impatiently.
“That’s right.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And your name is Aran?”
“Yes.”
“How stupid do you think I am? Your name spelled backward? Is this a prank?”
Nara glared at Aran. He found himself unsure how to respond. Kez’s expression had darkened, and Bord openly frowned at him.
“Answer her question,” Bord demanded. His bushy eyebrows knit together in what Aran guessed was meant to be an intimidating way. “You messing with my future wife?”
“Her name really is Nara,” he protested. Aran rubbed his temples, wishing he were anywhere else. “We were aboard the ship you just commandeered. I’d been wiped, she hadn’t. She’s the one who told me my name was Aran.” He could see they weren’t listening.
“It’s okay,” Nara said, though she still sounded a bit hurt. “Nara is a fine name.”
“Nara it is.” Bord grinned, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I’m Bord. As in boring. Well I’m not boring, but that’s how my name is pronounced.”
“He is boring,” Kez said, clapping Nara on the back.
Neither offered a hand to Aran; somehow he’d come out the bad guy in all this. Not an amazing start to his time as a Marine. “Well, maybe things can’t get any w—. What am I thinking? Yes, yes they can.”
13
Going Dark
“Do not do this, Major. Please.” Captain Thalas refused to look at her directly, as usual. It was subtle—and constant—disrespect. “Dealing with drifters is highly irregular, possibly even illegal, depending on what crimes these little pikeys are guilty of.”
“One of your own officers is a drifter, Captain,” Voria said, matter-of-factly. “So if I hear that word pass your lips again, I will remove your ability to make words.”
There was no malice to it, but neither was it a bluff. She’d long since grown tired of the antics of bored Shayan noblemen. Their mission in life seemed to be finding a constant state of equilibrium, one where they were always dissatisfied.
Thalas embodied the very worst of that flaw, but added a layer of disdain for every other race.
“Major,” he argued, “respectfully, you cannot speak to me this way. My father—”
“Any time you need to reinforce your authority by invoking a parent, you accomplish the opposite.” Voria met Thalas’s gaze, forcing him to look at her. “I don’t care about your father. Having you here hasn’t meant him providing additional funding—or any aid whatsoever. He knows we’re undermanned. He knows how close to the edge we’re running. He even knows I stick to the fringes of Confederate space, hunting Krox—a pastime he knows will almost certainly be fatal. Yet your father has never once intervened or sought to protect you. So what is it, exactly, you feel his name will get you?”
Thalas paled and his eyes narrowed dangerously. “You are right, of course, Major. I apologize for resorting to such base tactics. Please, let me state my argument more cogently. I realize you think me a simpleton, but I assure you I am not. I know you received a missive, and I strongly suspect it ordered you to report to Marid. I, too, received a missive, Major. The Krox have begun their invasion, and even now the battle rages. And you are meeting with drifters to…to buy beer. Tell me, do you really believe that’s the best use of our time? We are needed elsewhere. Sir.”
“It shouldn’t surprise me that you’re aware of the attack,” Voria said. “Since you’re so well informed, you must be aware of our lack of medical supplies. And munitions.”
She touched a void sigil, then reinforced it with another. Power thrummed deep in the ship, and a feedback loop formed between Voria and the primary matrix. She fed energy into the spelldrive, fighting a wave of vertigo as it rumbled to life.
“We’re here to rectify that,” she said, “because going into battle without those supplies all but guarantees massive casualties. Even with the supplies, we’re likely to lose most of the battalion. Now, I am aware of your prejudice against the drifters, but like it or not they are every bit as Shayan as you are. And they possess her magic—even you have to admit that.”
Thalas said nothing.
Voria touched a final sigil, triggering the Fissure. A tremendous crack split the black, opening in the exact spot where they’d exited the Umbral Depths. She hated returning to the Depths so soon, bracing herself as she guided the vessel into the Fissure.
Even Thalas grew quiet, paling as he stared up at the scry-screen.
“Send runners through the ship,” Voria ordered. “Tell them we’re going dark.”
She guided the ship through the Fissure and into utter blackness. Only the edges of the Fissure glowed, lighting their path briefly, then it closed and extinguished the only light anywhere.
“Yes, Major,” Thalas snapped, the words clipped. He wore his anger like armor, but she could see the fear underneath. He brushed a lock of blond hair from his shoulder, eyeing her haughtily as he departed the battle bridge.
Voria turned her attention back to the scry-screen. Before them lay total darkness, a sea of infinite silence. That sea was not empty, and she had no wish to meet whatever dwelled here. Voria tapped air, then fire. Finally she added void, setting their course. The Hunter responded, accelerating into the black.
She tapped a flurry of sigils, touching systems throughout the ship. All around her, lights dimmed as the ship powered down all non-essential systems. Only life support was exempted, and that required the barest amount of life magic. Their void shielding would, in theory, prevent the creatures of the depths from detecting them.
Assuming she’d set the correct course—and she was positive she had—they’d arrive at their destination in two days time. Two days in the black, drifting silently through the Umbral Depths, praying to avoid the notice of whatever dwelt here.
14
Mark V
Nara had been running in darkness for a long time, panting as she stared over her shoulder. Something chased her, but she had yet to catch a glimpse of it. Occasionally, laughter echoed through the darkness, high and cruel. A scornful, mocking laugh.
Her laugh.
“Get your worthless Krox-fodder asses out of those bunks, and onto your feet!” The voice boomed from somewhere outside the dream, shattering it.
Nara blinked awake, stumbling to her feet as quickly as she could. She battled exhaustion, positive it couldn’t have been more than t
wo hours since she’d collapsed into her bunk. Bord had tried to go easy on her, but spellrifles were not her strong suit.
She wasn’t the only one scrambling. Aran had settled into the bunk next to hers, and made it to his feet only a hairsbreadth after her. Sergeant Crewes loomed over them, still wearing that implacable silver armor.
He aimed his spellcannon in their direction. “Yesterday was play time; today we find out what you’re made of. Beginning today, you two are, so far as I’m concerned, best friends. You eat together. You sleep together. You pick each other up when the other falls down.” A wild look crept into his eyes and he stalked closer, his armored feet booming against the deck. He leaned over them, frowning in disapproval. “Now, I know you’re wipes. I know you ain’t got shit for skills. But you ain’t zeros. You’re tech mages; we just gotta teach you how to act like it. That starts with firing a spellrifle, which I’m told both of you did yesterday. Flower boy here ranked pretty good. But you?” Crewes’s shadow fell over Nara. “You did abysmally.”
Inexplicable fury surged through her, so powerful her mouth moved before she could stop it. “Perhaps if you gave me a real teacher, who actually instructed instead of staring down my shirt, I’d have—”
“Private,” Crewed boomed, overwhelming her pitiful words. “Are you telling me the fault lies with the instructor?”
Nara considered that for half a second, glancing at Bord a few bunks over. Bord had done his best, and it hadn’t really been his fault she wasn’t good with a rifle. The olive-faced little man shot her a timid smile, still wiping sleep from his eyes. He’d instinctively picked up a rifle when he leapt from the bunk. She was shocked to find her spellpistol in her hand as well.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It isn’t Bord’s fault. I’m just not good at it. I don’t know why.”
“I do,” Aran muttered, under his breath. There was an edge to the comment, and Nara knew it pointed at their mutual history.
“Then speak up,” she snapped, glaring up at him. “I’m already tired of the snide comments, and the eye rolls. I don’t know what went down between us. I know you see her, whoever she was, when you look at me. I’m not her. I don’t remember anything. If you know something, then tell me instead of lording it—”
Crewes shot out both armored hands, faster than Nara would have believed possible. The gauntlet seized her throat, yanking her into the air. Aran struggled beside her, beating at Crewes’s other arm in an attempt to free himself. Crewes dragged them both up to his face, his crazy eyes shifting back and forth between them.
“Were you under the impression anyone cares what either of you think? I’m sorry, genuinely sorry. That’s my fault. Let me make this clear, like I should have originally: you’re going to be dead soon, and you’ll probably die bad. Real bad.”
Crewes relaxed the pressure on her throat, but didn’t set her down.
“Your lives, all our lives, are bought and paid for. It’s my job to make sure the Confederacy gets their money’s worth.” He set them down. “Whatever squabble you have, it’s dead now. Debris in the void. Like I said, you’re best friends. Is. That. Clear?” The last word was deafening.
“Yes,” Aran muttered—rather sullenly, in Nara’s estimation.
“Yes,” she muttered, with much more dignity.
“Good. Yesterday you did a test firing. Easy shit. Today, you’re going to do something much more difficult.” A maniacal grin joined Crewes’s wild eyes. “Today, you’re going to get checked out in spellarmor. You’re void mages, and that means gravity magic. You’re going to learn to fly.”
“To what, now?” Nara asked, blinking. “I can barely make the rifle work. What makes you think I’m qualified to make armor fly through space? You’re going to lose me, and an expensive suit of—”
“Move,” Crewes roared, pointing at the barracks door. He dropped them both.
“No. You want me to treat her like a best friend? Okay,” Aran interrupted, rubbing his throat. He moved to stand protectively in front of Nara, and while she didn’t need the protection it did raise her opinion of the man. Slightly. “I know you’re desperate for mages, but you people aren’t stupid. Put her somewhere she’ll excel, and live. Nara is a true mage. I’ve seen her cast spells. She isn’t just some tech mage. She’s had training. A lot of it.”
“I don’t care if she’s Shaya’s bloody Guardian,” Crewes growled, eyes narrowing. His ire was all focused on Aran now. “Listen, I get it, wipe. You’re angry. You’re thinking life’s unfair, and oh, boy, are you not wrong about that. You’re in the Confederate Marines, and it don’t get any less fair than that. Get used to it. If you protest again, I’ll throw your ass in the brig—after I beat you so bloody you won’t be able to make it there under your own power. Am. I. Clear?”
“Aran, let’s go,” Nara offered, touching his arm.
He gave a start, fear flitting across his features before being quickly swallowed by his ever-present mask. She withdrew her hand as if burned. What had she done to him to provoke that kind of reaction?
“Move!” Crewes boomed.
Nara ran. Aran fell into step next to her, and they sprinted out of the barracks. Crewes led them toward the suits of spellarmor on the far side of the hangar, where they’d first met Kez and Bord. The rest of the squad followed, shooting amused glances as she and Aran ran.
“Help them get suited up,” Crewes ordered, waving his cannon at Bord.
Bord moved to a slender silver suit, beckoning to Nara. “Come take a look. I’ll explain the basic features. It isn’t as complicated as it looks. This is the Mark V. It’s old, but reliable.”
Nara slowed, feeling slightly winded by the time she reached the armor. She paused next to it and walked in a single revolution around the armor. It stood two meters tall, an androgynous suit of silver armor with no obvious weaponry.
The armor rotated about half a meter above the ground, bobbing slowly in some sort of unseen field. She could sense the power within, and the power that generated the field keeping it aloft. The armor called out to the part of her that was Xal, its latent magic resonating with the void magic within her.
She touched the metal, surprised to find it warm to the touch. “What is it made of?”
“Mostly feathersteel,” Bord explained, moving to the rear of the armor. “They’re produced by the Inurans, but we usually refer to them as the Consortium. The Mark V armor is designed for speed and stealth. In a perfect world, you’d be scouts.”
“And in an imperfect world?” she asked, positive she didn’t want to know the answer. She peered curiously at a trio of clear canisters mounted to the small of the back. “What are these?”
“One question at a time.” Bord laughed. It came easily, and relaxed Nara…a hair at least. He reminded her of someone, though of course Nara could no longer remember who. A brother, perhaps. “In an imperfect world, you’ll be fighting on the line, alongside heavies like Kez and the sergeant.”
“I don’t know, I kind of like the sound of having Crewes near us. I bet his face is enough to make whoever these Krox are run.” Nara avoided looking at the wall of a man currently staring balefully at Aran. As she watched, Aran raised a hand and delicately sketched a sigil on the chest of the armor. The suit rippled, going translucent. “What did he do?”
Aran stepped into the armor, and his body disappeared. The armor solidified.
Bord gave a low whistle. “Looks like your buddy there is already a pilot. He’s just your buddy, right—or a brother, maybe?”
“I don’t know what we were,” Nara said, absently. Thinking about Aran only raised more irritating questions. She straightened, then turned back to Bord. “You were going to tell me what those canisters are.”
“Ah, yeah…those are potion loaders,” Bord explained. “They administer potions directly to the pilot. Your suit comes with three, though the sarge has a custom job with a full five slots.” His nervousness faded as he talked, and he lit up as he examined the ar
mor. “If we had any supplies, you’d be loaded with at least one healing potion. The other two would be situational. If we were invading a lava world, you might have a potion of flame skin to protect you from the heat.”
“We don’t have any supplies?” Nara asked tentatively.
“Well, we don’t have much of anything,” Bord explained. “Potions are rare, and most times we have to fight without them.” He shrugged. “It means I have to work a little harder.”
“Why you?” Nara asked, moving to stand before the armor. There was no obvious place to trace the sigil, but Aran had done it over the suit’s chest.
“I’ve got life magic. Picked it up from Shaya herself, when I was a fresh-faced Marine. Like six months ago.” Bord moved to stand next to Nara, and gently rested his very sweaty palm on her arm. His hand became luminescent, glowing a soft golden white. “I can heal most minor wounds, and treat severe ones. So, it’s…uh, kind of my job to put my hands on you.” Bord gave her a lopsided grin that aimed for roguish but landed right on top of dork.
Nara shook her head sadly. “You’re really bad at this whole picking up women thing.”
“But I’m frighteningly persistent,” Bord said. The glow was fading, and he grinned at her. “We’d better get you suited up before the sarge gives us grief. What you need to do is—”
Nara sketched the sigil for void before the chest. She didn’t know how she knew the sigil, but it came easily, and power flowed into the air with an audible hum. The armor vibrated, then went translucent as Aran’s had.
“I just step inside?” She asked, looking over her shoulder as she backed toward the armor.
“Wow, you are a fast learner,” Bord said, giving another low whistle.
