“And remember,” Percival said as the boarding ramp hissed and lowered, “you’re the Paragon. The Chosen One. Act like it. Do not piss these people off.”
“Hey, give me some credit,” Cade said as he strode alongside Percival across the esplanade. “I don’t piss off everyone I meet.”
Percival shot him a look that expressed his disagreement.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll be good.”
A row of guards assembled at the foot of the palace stairs, waiting to intercept Cade and Percival.
“I guess this is as far as we go,” Percival whispered to Cade as they stopped about ten feet shy of the barrier. The guards, who were dressed in black leather tops that buckled tightly over their chests and dark pants to match, eyed Cade and Percival wordlessly, and Cade was impressed by how well they could maintain their brooding intensity. He was about to comment on it when he remembered what he’d promised Percival, so he bit his tongue. The pull to mock the excessive seriousness was strong, but Cade was saved by a rumbling noise that drew his attention to the palace doors. They were opening at last.
For all the theatrics that their arrival engendered, Cade expected a battalion of Monaskis’s best to storm out of the palace, or at least a royal entourage that exuded intimidation. But that’s not what came out of those doors. Instead, a band of four men in light tunics—blue like the palace itself—and armed with compression pikes holstered at their sides stepped forward. They walked in perfect unison with one another, forming a square around a young woman who stepped gracefully down the stairs under the protection of her guards.
What became most apparent as the woman and her retinue drew closer wasn’t just that she was young. She was really young. Sixteen at best, Cade figured. Dressed in a white robe that tied with a golden belt at her waist, she had long, black hair that flowed freely over her shoulders and smooth, dark bronze skin that seemed to glow in the light. But beyond all these polished touches, Cade noticed more—namely, her toned arms, the quiet intensity behind her eyes, and the gold-painted gamma blaster that was meant to blend with bangles hanging from her belt. Whoever this woman was, she was likely royalty, but Cade got the impression that she could hold her own in a dangerous situation. Even though she was pretty much just a kid, Cade still hoped whatever relationship they were about to embark on didn’t involve him finding out just how capable she was.
But then she spoke, and Cade felt a piece of that hope die.
“Kneel,” she commanded once she reached the bottom of the stairs.
All the guards save one parted to make way for her, and she stepped just far enough past them so there was nothing between her and Cade and Percival. And standing directly behind her was what Cade took to be her personal bodyguard; he stood at least a foot over her head, and he didn’t appear to have an ounce of fat on his muscular frame. His head was totally bald, and his eyes were wide and alert, though he stared into the distance, not settling on anything or anyone. Cade was caught up admiring his stature when the woman spoke.
“Kneel,” she repeated. She looked both Cade and Percival in the eye, holding their attention.
Cade looked at Percival, who stood up straight, put his chin and chest out, took a deep breath, and then knelt.
“Seriously?” Cade asked.
“Cade,” Percival implored.
Knowing he wouldn’t get anywhere with Percival, Cade turned his attention to the mysterious queen or princess or whatever she was standing in front of him. “I’m sorry, but who are you?”
“I’m the one who commands the many weapons that can kill you in the time it takes to draw a breath. Now, as I’ve said twice already—”
“Yeah, that tells me what you can do. It doesn’t tell me who you are.”
The woman clenched her teeth hard—Cade could see her jawbones protruding beneath her skin—and then tore her icy gaze from Cade and redirected it onto Percival. “Do you always allow your squire to speak with such insolence?” she asked. “And why in the world would you entrust him to carry your Rokura?”
Percival looked up at Cade and groaned, much to Cade’s satisfaction. For a moment, he considered explaining to this woman that he, not Percival, was the Paragon, but he stopped himself. He’d let Percival do it while he stood idly by, smiling. It was the stupid grin, Cade was certain, that agitated Percival the most.
“Your Majesty—I assume it’s proper for me to call you that?” Percival asked.
“It is,” the woman replied, her tone gentler than it had been with Cade. “I’m Queen Lux Ersia, ruler of Monaskis. And you are the Paragon come to my planet. But why?”
“Actually, Your Majesty, I’m not the Paragon.”
“I am,” Cade blurted. He couldn’t help himself.
An amused smile spread across Ersia’s face as she turned her attention back to Cade. “Is that so?” she asked. “And why, Paragon, have you come here?”
Cade’s eyes roamed, taking in everything around him—the palace, the guards, even Ersia—and he reminded himself what was at stake: the countless systems and the lives spread across them all. None of them were quite like Monaskis, but Praxis hardly discriminated when enforcing its tyranny. Whether other systems liked it or not, Praxis bound them all together. They would either be unified in fighting back or unified in living under a cruel oppressor. To help ensure the former, Cade knew he had to get serious.
“We need your help, Your Majesty,” Cade said, trying to put his best foot forward. “To defeat Praxis, to free the galaxy, we need your help.”
Ersia toyed with Cade, flashing an expression of mocking confusion for everyone to see. “But you’re the Paragon. Why would you possibly need my help?”
“That is a great question, Your Majesty,” Cade said, trying to buy himself some time as he decided whether he should tell Ersia the truth or lie. Since he couldn’t think of a lie that made the least bit of sense, he had to go with option number one. Unfortunately. “I need to learn. About the Rokura, about being the Paragon—everything that Wu-Xia lived and understood when he created this thing. He was from Monaskis, right?”
“Indeed he was,” Queen Ersia said as she slowly paced the area in front of Cade, studying him with passing curiosity. “Wu-Xia was a Monaskin through and through; he was bred for battle, trained to be a warrior since before he could walk. But then he betrayed everything Monaskis stood for and turned the weapon that he made on his own home. His own people.”
Cade cast a sidelong glance at Percival, and he could tell they were thinking the same thing: This wasn’t going anywhere good.
“I didn’t know any of that,” Cade said. “But I promise you, we’re not here to cause anyone harm. I just … there are things I need to know in order to do this right.”
“You’re not the first to come to our gates posing as the Paragon,” Ersia said as she stepped back toward her guards. “Some claim to be the descendant of Wu-Xia; others simply try to pass themselves off as the Chosen One, flashing a weapon of their own making as if we don’t know any better. They demand our riches, they demand our weapons, they demand our ships. Do you know the one thing they share in common?”
Cade swallowed hard. “I don’t.”
“They never leave this planet.”
Cade eyed Ersia skeptically, then moved to take a step forward. The guards flinched at his slightest movement, so Cade withdrew. “I’m guessing you’re not implying that they fell for Monaskis’s charm and decided to stay of their own volition, right?”
Half of Ersia’s mouth rose in a smile. “Nope.”
“Your Majesty,” Percival said, still kneeling, “we demand no riches, no weapons, nothing. We seek only knowledge and guidance.”
Ersia barely acknowledged Percival, choosing instead to keep her focus on Cade. He felt increasingly uneasy under her gaze, which was equally dignified and deadly.
“So … you’re the Paragon?”
Cade groaned with uncertainty as Ersia’s walls closed in on him. “I sure am,” he said wit
h as much conviction as he could muster.
“Good,” Ersia responded. “Then you’re prepared to prove it.”
“Um … sure?” Cade said. “But prove it how?”
Ersia smiled in a way that Cade didn’t like at all. “By surviving the Trial of the Paragon, of course.”
“The wha—” Cade didn’t have a chance to inquire any further.
Suddenly, Cade’s world went black as one of the guards threw a mask over his head. At the same time, a set of strong, large hands gripped him hard at his shoulders and forced him forward.
“Hey!” Cade protested as he fought against the momentum and the guard that was carrying him forward. He pulled with all his strength, but his arms wouldn’t budge an inch, and he continued to be pushed along. “What do you think you’re doing? Answer me!”
“Throw him in a cell, Xeric,” Cade heard Ersia say. “Then make preparations for the trial.”
No one else said a word. Nothing from Xeric—who had to have been Ersia’s top guard—nothing from Ersia, and nothing from Percival.
“Percival?” Cade yelled, but there was no response. He hadn’t heard a blaster fire, so he could only assume Percival was in no worse condition than he was. And at the moment, his condition was bad. He was being led up on the stairs, which could only mean he was being brought to the palace. What awaited inside, Cade couldn’t even venture to guess. This trial, whatever it was, couldn’t be good.
He reached the top, and the hands held him solidly in place.
“There sure are no shortages of Paragons in the galaxy,” Xeric said.
Cade could tell Xeric was standing just a few inches from his face; he could feel the heat of his breath through the mask that’d been pulled down over his head.
“You’re making a mistake!” Cade snarled. “You don’t know what you’re doing!”
“We’ll see about that,” Xeric said. “For now, where you’re going, you won’t be needing this.”
At that, the Rokura was torn from Cade’s back—and it hurt. Cade’s head filled with pain, like he’d had the blunt end of a sidewinder smashed into his skull. He howled, feeling his entire body burn, but no one cared. Xeric resumed the march, and as much as Cade violently wrenched his body, it was no use. He couldn’t break free.
“Don’t you dare try to use that weapon!” Cade screamed. “You have no idea what it can do. You hear me? Do you hear me?!”
No one responded. No one uttered a single word. The only sound Cade heard was the palace doors slamming shut behind him right before a jolt of electricity plunged into his spine. His body went limp, and before the device was torn from his back, Cade was out cold.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kobe moved impossibly fast. Kira didn’t know if the soldier nearest Kobe had taken his eyes off him or if he’d just blinked for too long. It probably didn’t matter. Kobe leapt against the viewport and catapulted his body forward, right at the soldier. He kicked the blaster right out of the soldier’s hand just as he pulled the trigger; the shot went errant and bounced around the cockpit before burying itself into the floor. The lead soldier turned at the sign of distress, but he had no chance. With his inhuman speed, Kobe had the disarmed soldier gripped by the collar of his jacket and the seat of his pants, and when the commander turned to address the trouble beside him, he was met by his companion being flung in his direction. The disarmed soldier, charging uncontrollably forward thanks to the momentum Kobe forced into him, slammed into his commander and knocked them both off their feet.
Whoever these people were, their siege of Kira’s ship was over.
Using the distraction as an opportunity to make his move, 4-Qel charged at the remaining soldier and pinned him against the cockpit wall. He grabbed his blaster at the barrel and crushed it in his grip.
“I think I broke it,” 4-Qel said, effortlessly lifting the soldier off his feet. The soldier looked ready to cry.
The commander—a Poqlin, from a race of refugees that came to Praxis just before Kira was born and had been serving as the underclass since arriving—wasn’t as willing to surrender so easily, though. Using his uncanny Poqlin strength, he shoved his mate off him and, positioned on his knee, trained his blaster at 4-Qel.
“Let him go, or I will be forced to shoot you,” the commander said, but Kira had serious doubts about his resolve.
Plus, she was standing behind the commander with her sidewinder pointed right at his head.
“Ahem,” she said, and the leader’s shoulders visibly sank.
“Awww, man,” the commander said.
“That’s my friend you’re pointing your blaster at.”
Still, the commander persisted, even though his body language screamed how much he wanted to surrender. Kira could tell that he knew he was screwed. “But he’s about to kill my friend,” the commander responded. “That will really pull down the squad’s morale.”
“No one,” Kira forcefully said, “is killing anyone. Four-Qel?”
4-Qel nodded and gently set the soldier back on his feet. He then patted him on the head.
“Your turn,” Kira said, addressing the commander. “Drop it and push it over to me.”
The leader hesitated, and his body sank even farther. But he had no choice, so he dropped his blaster to the ground and raised his hands to the sky.
“Go ahead and kill me. I won’t make you feel bad about it; you got me fair and square,” the commander said. “Just, please, give my men fair treatment. Try not to be half as savage as Ga Halle.”
Kira looked back at Mig, who shrugged his confusion. “They think we’re Praxian? But they’re also Praxian, so why they’d want to kill us … is kinda confusing,” he said.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Kira said, turning back to the commander. “You attacked us because you think we’re Praxian?”
“Ummm … what is the answer you’d like to hear?”
Kira sighed. “Take a look around. Do we look Praxian?”
“You’re in a Praxian ship,” the commander said, perplexed.
“Okay, that’s a fair point,” she said. “But even if we were Praxian, why would you attack us?”
“I knew we were doing a poor job of marketing this thing,” the commander said ruefully. He stood up slowly and brushed off his pants while keeping his eyes on Kira.
Kira kept her sidewinder trained on him, but she had a pretty good feeling there’d be no sudden, rash movements from him.
“Trying to kill us is one thing,” Kira said, making no effort to conceal her agitation. “But now you’re testing my patience and—”
Kira was cut off when an explosion—a plasma detonator, she assumed, likely no more than a hundred yards away—invaded the relative quiet of the cockpit. Its blast reverberated off the walls and through Kira’s teeth. Everyone but Kira flinched.
“Better make your story quick,” Kira said when she was confident she’d be heard again.
“My name is Gunk,” the commander said.
“Gunk?” Mig asked, stifling a laugh.
“Yes, well, our language is different from yours,” Gunk asserted. “In Poqlin, ‘Gunk’ carries a different meaning.”
“What does Gunk translate to?” 4-Qel asked.
“Aren’t we getting personal awfully fast,” Gunk said defensively. “I’ll have you know it’s a family name. My mom is a very sentimental lady.”
“All right, let’s cut the family history here,” Kira said. “What we really want to know is what this thing is that you’re leading. Who are you, all of you?”
“We’re the people’s movement, of course,” Gunk said as he puffed out his barrel chest. Poqlins were known for their physical strength, but how their physiology actually worked escaped people. Poqlins were made of rock. They looked exactly like humans, if humans were covered head to toe in thin sheets of some kind of beige stone. There were a few details about their species most people didn’t understand, particularly reproduction, but Kira spent as little time thinking about that
as possible.
“You’re looking at the tip of the spear,” Gunk continued.
“If you’re the tip of the spear, let there be mercy for its hilt,” Kobe said.
“Quiet,” Kira snapped at Kobe. Then to Gunk, she said, “People’s movement—for what? Who are you fighting against?”
Gunk’s mouth crunched in an O shape, and he looked at Kira in complete bafflement. “You really don’t know anything about what’s happening here? This is so disheartening.”
“Remember what I said about testing my patience?”
“Right. The Praxian uprising,” Gunk said. “The people’s movement? The fight against the military regime? None of this rings a bell?”
Gunk’s eyes jumped from Kira to 4-Qel to Mig to Kobe and back to Kira. He was obviously looking for some kind of recognition. He found none.
“We’re in the middle of a civil war.”
“How’s it coming?” Mig asked.
Gunk tried to suppress a wince. “Peaks and valleys.”
Kira holstered her sidewinder, picked up Gunk’s weapon—a hefty tri-blaster—and shoved it in his chest. “Let’s go,” she said. “You’re going to take us to your leader.”
“He’s kinda in the middle of something right now,” Gunk replied. “Can it wait?”
“No. It looks like your people’s movement needs all the help it can get. What’s your mission anyway? I mean, you didn’t think launching a campaign in the middle of the business district was a good idea, did you?”
Gunk put his hands to his temples as if fighting off a headache. “Wait, who are you?”
“We’re the Black Star Renegades,” Mig said proudly.
Gunk’s eyes lit up. “The Black Star Renegades? The ones who blew up the War Hammer?” His awe, though, quickly turned into embarrassment. “Of all the ships to shoot down, we shoot down the Black Star—”
“That’s not—we don’t have an official name,” Kira said, smothering a groan. “Let’s stay focused. What is your objective? What’s your mission?”
“We have a Shadow, one of the best,” Gunk said. “The plan is to get him to the financial core and have him hack it to bits. That’ll keep the treasury out of Ga Halle’s hands for at least a little while.”
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