by Chris Fox
“So why are we fighting, then?” Nara’s eyes went wide, and she looked ready to bolt. “Is there any chance we can sneak away? I don’t want to die, especially not pointlessly.”
“Sorry, you’re stuck with us. There’s no way out.” Bord laughed as if she’d made a joke. Nara’s expression said she hadn’t. “I don’t know where the major is taking us, but she probably won’t let any of us off the ship. She’ll do whatever she needs to do, then she’ll take us back into the depths. When we emerge again, it will probably be in whatever system the Krox are invading. Then the fighting starts.”
Aran wasn’t sure how to reply. There didn’t seem to be a way to escape, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t keep looking. He caught Nara’s gaze, and found understanding there. If the opportunity came, he was fairly certain she’d work with him to get away.
He didn’t even know what a Krox was. They damned well were not going to die in someone else’s war—not if they could find a way out.
17
Side Quest
“Get out of bed, wipe!” Crewes roared, his voice yanking Aran to his feet. Aran did—faster this time, snapping to attention at the foot of his bunk. Crewes clasped armored hands behind his back, staring at Aran with distaste. “I’ve got a little chore for you, wipe. Rumor is we’re going to see action soon, and I need to make sure we’re ready. I need you to go to the commissary and retrieve any potions they have—especially healing potions. Can you handle that, wipe?”
Aran blinked rapidly, shaking off sleep. The rest of the company were still in their bunks. “Sir, yes sir!”
He hated the way the words came out, hated that he sounded like the other soldiers. It was so easy to go along with what they wanted, and he knew part of the training was keeping him exhausted enough to do things until they became habit.
“Good. The commissary is on the aft side of the ship. Get moving. No breakfast until you come back with potions.” Crewes leaned in closer. “No potions, no breakfast for the entire unit. Move, wipe. Nobody eats until you get back.” The sergeant shoved a piece of pink paper into Aran’s hand.
Aran tugged on his boots, lacing them as quickly as he could. Crewes loomed, watching as Aran hastily readied himself.
Finally, Aran stood and left the barracks. Crewes hadn’t told him exactly where to go, but he knew the commissary was on the opposite side from the firing range. He started in that direction, noting the several platoons of troops drilling between him and the small white building.
He circled wide around the closest group, watching warily as they trotted by. He avoided eye contact, letting the Marines pass before swiftly crossing the area they’d vacated. Aran hurried around a hovertank…right into a squad working on repairing it.
They fanned out to block his path, one of them thumping a wrench into his fist. A couple others held tall brown cans of something he guessed was alcoholic. Aran identified the leader immediately, a tall, blond man with thick shoulders and arms. The others were unconsciously mirroring this man’s body language, watching him for cues on how they should react to Aran’s arrival.
The blond man folded those arms, staring hard at Aran. “You’re out of bounds, techie. You’re not supposed to be here. I’m afraid we’re going to have to file a report.”
“I’m just heading to the commissary,” Aran protested, nodding at the building. “It’s right over there. Why don’t I get out of your hair, and you can go back to…drinking beer around a tank. I mean, I’d hate for you to have to do paperwork on my account.”
“Are you making fun of us, techie? Because it sounds like you are.” The blond didn’t seem amused, and neither did his friends.
“You know what? We got off on the wrong foot. How about you let me…you aren’t going to let me by are you?” Aran’s few hours sleep had done little to deal with the fatigue, and his stomach rumbled noisily—a reminder that he wasn’t the only hungry one. His shoulders slumped. “Fine, if you’re going to kick my ass just get it over with.”
“Fair enough.” The blond guy threw a punch at Aran, but he instinctively deflected the larger man’s fist, countering with a punch of his own. The blow caught the blond in the nose, shattering it in a spray of blood.
Aran stared down at his fist in horror, inwardly cursing his lingering instincts. If he’d just taken the beating it might not have been bad. But now that he’d embarrassed their leader? This was going to be ugly.
Sure enough the Marines leapt forward with a collective roar, and Aran went down under a storm of blows. Pain exploded through his vision as a punch caught his temple. A steel-toed boot slammed into his ribs, cracking something.
Every subsequent breath ached more than the last, and still the blows continued to fall. Aran tried to roll away, but another boot kicked him right back into the other attacks. His lip split, spraying blood across the deck.
“Enough,” the blond man finally called, cradling his nose. Blood trickled between his fingers. “If you keep that up we really will have to file a report. Techie here is sorry for crossing into the part of the ship reserved for Marines, aren’t you, techie?”
“Oh, yeah,” Aran groaned, holding his ribs. Blood trickled down his chin, onto the deck. “Terrible. Decision. Won’t happen again.”
“Let him up,” the blond snapped. “We’ve got a hovertank to fix.” Then he leaned down to crouch next to Aran. “And it’s ‘terrible decision, sir.’ I’m a captain. Just because you’re a mage, doesn’t mean you get to ignore that.”
The captain reached up with one hand and, with a sharp crack, snapped his own nose back into place. A fresh trickle of blood flowed from one nostril. He held Aran’s gaze as he did it, then stood up and walked back to the tank.
Hard core.
Aran didn’t question his good luck, stumbling to his feet and away from the Marines. A rib on his right side hurt like it had been cracked, and his chest and gut were likely a mass of bruises. Fortunately the Marines had restrained themselves, and he didn’t think he’d suffered any permanent harm.
By the time he reached the commissary, he’d composed himself, though there was no disguising the growing black eye.
A wizened old man with tiny spectacles peered out at him from behind a high counter, frowning. “The infirmary is a level down,” he said, turning away dismissively.
Aran fished the pink paper from his pocket, sliding it across the counter. “I’m Private Aran from the tech marine company. Sergeant Crewes asked me to requisition this list.”
The old fellow turned a baleful eye on the paper, finally picking it up with a sigh. He rapidly scanned the contents, then stared at Aran suspiciously. “Is this some sort of prank? Six healing potions? A potion of energy resistance? Another for invisibility? We have none of this.”
“Oh.” Aran blinked and rubbed at his side. “Well, is there anything on the list you do have?”
“Hmm.” The old man scanned the list again. “I suppose I could part with two potions of lesser image.”
Aran wasn’t sure what those did, but he gratefully accepted the two pink vials the old man withdrew from under the counter. Each cylindrical vial was perfectly sized to be slotted into a set of spellarmor.
“Thank you…” Aran trailed off, realizing he didn’t know the man’s name.
The man ignored him.
Realizing he’d been dismissed, Aran limped back toward the tech mage barracks. This time, he took a longer route, circling the edge of the hangar. It added time, but it didn’t add bruises and that made it worth it.
By the time he arrived, Sergeant Crewes was standing outside the hangar, armored hands planted on his hips. He glared down at Aran. “Took you long enough. The rest of the squad is hungry. Pity you used up the time they had for breakfast. You’ve got sixty seconds to get inside and get some slop, then it’s back to work. That is, assuming you came back with potions?”
Aran handed across the two pink vials, and was about to plunge past the sergeant when the wall of a man raised an arm
to block him. “Did you run into any trouble? You look like you had a fall, maybe.”
“No sir, no trouble.” Aran shook his head. “The run went smooth as silk, sir. May I be dismissed to get breakfast?”
“Go.” Crewes eyed him thoughtfully as Aran entered the mess, and Aran thought he might even have seen a glimmer of respect there.
18
Drifter Rock
Voria buckled on the belt she’d been awarded by the academy, then after a moment’s thought hooked her tome over it as well. Tomes were rarely worn outside formal events, but it would be helpful to remind the drifters who and what she was.
She’d discouraged Thalas from calling them pikeys—the pejorative term thrown around back on the capital. It was synonymous with thieves, and unfairly leveled at all drifters. The drifters were nomadic, and it was true that they often solved legal problems by slipping away. But Voria had come to know more than a few, and they had their own rough-spun honor—as much as or more than a blowhard like Thalas. She was counting on that today, but that required she look the part.
Voria strode from her quarters, tracing a path toward the battle bridge. She passed no one, not even the ever-present support staff needed to keep a battleship flying. The battalion had shrunk to less than a full company, really—so few she couldn’t even staff guards. Not that guards would matter here, at the heart of the ship.
“Captain Thalas, have Private Aran sent to docking bay three,” Voria ordered as she strode onto the bridge.
Crewes blinked down at her in surprise, but said nothing. Instead, he busied himself with his matrix, probably sensing the conflict he was about to witness.
Thalas eyed her askance from across the room, raising a delicate eyebrow. “And may I ask—”
“No, you may not,” Voria snapped, tired of his antics. “Follow orders, Captain.”
“Of course, Major,” Thalas said, the words thick with frost. “Sergeant Crewes, you are relieved. Find Private Aran and have him report to docking bay three.”
“Yes, sir,” Crewes rumbled, avoiding eye contact with either of them as he slipped from the bridge.
Voria found it curious that a man who inspired such terror in his company was so squeamish about disagreements between superiors.
“Now that we are alone, may I have your permission to speak frankly?” Thalas stepped from the matrix, nimbly avoiding the spinning rings.
“Granted.” Voria disliked Thalas, and she didn’t have time to deal with him, but if she allowed him no latitude the man would eventually mutiny.
“In a few moments we will exit the Umbral Depths. Instead of arriving at Marid, we’ll be meeting with pi—drifters.” Thalas closed his eyes for a moment, then took a deep breath. “You are, for reasons you are unwilling to explain, taking with you a fresh recruit of no special note, save that he’s new enough to the Marines to still be a flight risk. Major, were you in my shoes, you know what you’d do. We do not like each other, but we both serve the Confederacy. Please, help me understand your actions.”
“Very well,” Voria said. She deftly stepped inside the command matrix, tapping sigils as she assumed control of the vessel. “I believe Aran is a war mage. Not just any war mage, either—a seasoned war mage. I’d bet my life on it. He’s seen a good deal of ship to ship combat.”
“If that’s the case, I can understand that he’d make a formidable weapon. But does that make him worthy of your trust? What’s the point in bringing him with you?” The sourness had left Thalas’s face, but his tone still bore the same arrogance.
“The point,” Voria said, slowly bringing systems back online, “is that Aran could be a tremendous asset. He might even make a skilled officer, and we’re desperately short of those. We’re about to enter the most brutal combat theater in the war to date. We need every asset. It’s possible Aran could betray me, and he might even try to run—but I doubt he’ll do either. If nothing else, he’s a highly tactical thinker. There’s no way for him to escape, not with a Confederate battleship parked right outside. And it is absolutely worth the risk. We need to recruit him, Captain.”
“Recruit him?” Thalas scoffed. “What are you going on about? He’s already a Marine.”
“He’s been conscripted,” Voria shot back. “It isn’t the same thing. How can you not see that? The man has no loyalty to us. He doesn’t understand the fight or why he might be important to it. I intend to show him those things, because I need his loyalty.”
She left out the part about having seen Aran’s face in an augury. That would raise a number of uncomfortable questions, distractions she couldn’t afford right now.
Voria triggered the final sigil and engaged the ship’s spelldrive. Energy, manifested as a tiny, glowing crack, blossomed in the space outside the ship. The crack spread, growing larger even as a cluster of smaller cracks radiated around it. The Fissure cast its hellish glow, bringing light to the Umbral Depths.
Anything capable of sight would see the Fissure from a vast distance, so Voria wasted no time. She guided the Wyrm Hunter through the Fissure, and back into reality. The Fissure snapped shut in their wake, easing her tension.
“I still think this is a mistake, but you are in command,” Thalas allowed, though grudgingly. “What do you wish me to do while you are off the ship?”
“Have Crewes send a missive to the admiralty,” Voria instructed. “See if we can get the most recent combat footage from Marid. That’s our next destination.” She guided the Hunter into the system, toward the station orbiting the fourth world.
From a distance, it resembled the cloud of space debris left in the wake of any space battle, but as they grew closer, that debris resolved into ships. Most were tiny—shuttle class, or even fighter class. Their hulls were scored and discolored, often with several different colors separated by weld marks. None looked spaceworthy, though Voria strongly suspected that was by design.
At the center of the cloud lay a massive asteroid, a sliver of a moon that had likely once orbited this world. The ships congregated around it, drifting in and out as they smuggled whatever illicit cargo they could get their hands on. It really was an unsavory place, the type a Shayan noble like Thalas had been bred to despise.
Voria’s own family would be appalled—well, her father’s side at least—but in her years of service she’d learned to be pragmatic. Drifters saw things other races did not, and while their brews were often…questionable, they also conveyed powerful magic effects.
She slipped from the rings, then departed the bridge. It was a long walk to the docking bay, and the closer she came the more people she saw. All stopped to salute her as she passed. Voria returned those salutes crisply, whether given to a private or an officer. She couldn’t learn all their names, but she could treat every Marine with honor.
Finally, she reached the docking bay. Aran was already there, chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. Crewes had probably told him to run.
Voria smiled.
19
Beer
Aran straightened as Major Voria approached. He snapped instinctively to attention. How much of that was his recent training? Or, had he been military before? So many questions.
The last time he’d seen the major, she’d been in a simple uniform, but now she’d added her parade dress. Her jacket was a Shayan silk, and the belt a dark supple leather. The tome hanging from that belt looked expensive, and likely contained a variety of powerful spells.
The staff cradled in her hand was even more impressive. Magical power rolled off it in waves, whirls and eddies of golden energy. That energy emanated from three teardrop-shaped gems rotating slowly around the tip. The haft was forged from black metal, and a golden cap weighed the bottom. Perfect for smashing an opponent’s bones. The weapon allowed self-defense, in addition to whatever magical abilities it conferred.
“At ease, Private,” Voria said, eyeing him critically. She moved to stand in front of him, the light catching those striking eyes. She was older than
him, though he couldn’t say by how much. Nara had said Shayans didn’t age normally. He wished he’d had more time to ask her about that. “For the duration of this excursion, you may call me Voria, and you may address me as an equal. When we return, that latitude vanishes. Are we clear?”
“If you want me to treat you like an equal, that means I’m not going to be kissing your boots,” Aran replied. He waited a moment to see if she’d react. She said nothing. “Can I ask why we’re here, and where here is exactly?”
“I’ll explain as we walk. We have a great deal of work to do,” the major explained, sketching a sigil in the air before the green membrane that sealed the airlock. It winked out of existence, showing a dim metal hallway leading into some sort of station. “This way. We’re aboard Drifter Rock, one of the largest concentrations of drifters in the sector.”
“Drifters? Like Kez?” Aran asked, puzzled.
“Yes, just like Corporal Kezia. She does what she can to hide her accent, but she’s definitely a Drifter. They’re cousins to the Shayans, and worship the same goddess, though most Shayans don’t like to admit it. You won’t fully understand why until we meet them,” Voria said, hurrying up the hallway. Aran followed until the hallway dumped them into a rocky cavern. “We’re inside a hollowed-out asteroid, or maybe the remains of a moon. The rock is crisscrossed with tunnels that the Drifters can use to hide, and ultimately escape to their ships. Our arrival sent most of them scurrying, which is why this place looks so empty.”
