by A. R. Knight
Which means I’m the last one of us. Which means it’s up to me to stop the seed ship.
First, I go back to the weapons rack. Take a pair of miners, take up the short half of the staff that popped out of Gar’s head when he fell. And then I go. One miner slung across my back, the other in my left hand with my right wielding my half staff and using it as a crutch when I have to.
I go back to the ring, which feels emptier than ever before. For a hot second, I think about going back, finding the docking bay, Malo and T’Oli. We might be able to escape, the three of us. But no, that would only delay what needs doing.
I have to stop the Sevora. For Viera, Gar, Lan and all the others.
So I orbit the ring and walk beneath those glistening seeds pointed down like daggers over my head. I breathe steadily cleaner air as recyclers, newly activated, cleanse the ship of the musk of what must have been years and years of floating here abandoned in the black, waiting to be called upon. The last hope of an evil race.
I find my goal on the far side of the ring, near where the Sevora had nearly fought each other earlier. When Nasiya claimed its right to the center of the ship.
The silver walkway across the ring leads to a wide, square door in the deep gray central core. A door that Ignos said would be sealed. A one-way crossing for the Sevora that would give its life for the rest of its species.
“I guess you’re too slow,” I mutter, taking my first step on the walkway. Around me, beneath me, the ring extends down into the black void of space. I can see it all, infinite. It makes me dizzy for a moment and some part of me feels like I should just take a jump. Glide down and out and forget all of this.
And maybe I would have, except the walkway shakes. Something starts a process which cannot be undone. Behind me, at the edge of the ring, the walkway begins to recede. Pull back towards the center. I move. Hustle across the metal towards the door with no control panel. One that may not open, that may leave me stranded on a vanishing edge.
So as I stumble forward, the pain in my sides keeping me from moving too fast, I aim with my left hand, flip the miner to the third mode, one Viera showed me once but that I’ve never used. The trigger on the miner is light, built for smaller Flaum hands. When I press it, instead of scattered shots the miner bursts forth its energy in a solid beam as I run, racing my own plummeting doom towards the door.
The pattern I sketch, the opening I roast is not pretty. It’s not large. But the elongated oval is enough, its edges burning orange with heat, for me to fall through and land on the inside. I’ve arrived right never thought I’d be. In the heart of my enemy.
It’s a strange look, when I stand up. Pick myself from the floor and stare as, behind me, the thin door I cut through is replaced by slamming outer plates. A seal too thick for any miner to ever pierce. In front of me is a tall, black, walled cylinder. It’s perfectly rounded, smooth. Without any way in that I can see.
I walk around the outside. Looking for an entrance and finding only what must be bins for nutrient goop, for food and drink. There are links to pipes coming from above, narrow and slight. Too small for anyone to sneak through. Except maybe another Sevora.
What I also find, though, is a total lack of an entrance. There’s no door, no control panel. No waving flag saying here, here is what you’re seeking. In the absence of all that, with only the thrum of the ship for company, and feeling so alone, I collapse against the outer wall and sit. One miner in my left, my short staff in my right, and my second miner looped over my shoulder harness. Armed, dangerous, hurt and pointless.
“What would you do?” I ask the air. I ask Viera, Malo.
Viera would probably just start shooting. Claim that there’s no reason to fret as long as you have energy. As long as you can burn your way through. Who knows if that wall can be penetrated by a simple handheld miner? Who knows what’s on the other side? If I burn through all my energy here, what happens? Would Nasiya simply tear me limb from limb? Could I beat a Flaum controlled by one of the most vicious Sevora with only my staff?
Malo might be more strategic. Hunt around for another way, but I didn’t find anything obvious and I’m running out of time. I can feel it, as Viera promised I would; T’Oli’s temporary cure is starting to fade. The pain’s only increasing, and the edges of my toes and my fingers are growing weaker, more numb. I have to end this, and I have to do it quickly.
And T’Oli? What would the Ooblot do? Rattle off some facts about... No, wait. I look at my left wrist. It’s right there, the answers I need. So I take what’s left of my weakened spirit and send it into the Cache. Dig its depths to find the seed ship, and how I can destroy its core.
The answer is simpler than I’d realized: The central Sevora is protected by the main core walls. The only thing that’s going to bring them down is a great force or, if necessary, provisions. The need for food and water, especially early, when the Sevora is still maturing. That’s it. All I need to do is make sure the food arrives, and those walls will come down for me.
I leave the Cache and its emerald flash, and hope that Ignos’ gift to me will be the end of its species. I stand and go back to the basin with the little pipes leading to it. Next to them is a small panel with only a very simple request. A green button covering the entire screen. I press it and there’s a rumbling, a whooshing noise as deep purple sludge begins to drop from the pipe and into the bottom of the basin, collecting into a puddle. A trap being set by the Sevora’s own ship.
I hear it then. The clicking, winding and whirring of gears out of sight. The black walls slide down one after another as I turn to see what a Sevora finally given a chance to grow looks like.
A younger me, more naive, would have screamed. Would have run at the sight of this thing in front of me. That it was a Flaum is evident, but it, very much, is no longer one. The furry body stands at a set of terminals and, springing from that fur, as if pores had opened into new life, stringy red and yellow and green tentacles arc up and down, clinging to the computers, lodging into spaces beneath the Flaum and the grated floor it stands on. Yet, the Flaum still lives. I see it tapping away, I see it breathing and I see those blood red eyes turn towards me as the walls finish descending.
“The human,” Nasiya says. It’s a voice far from the squeaky skitters of a normal Flaum and trending more towards a scratchy broken noise. Like a person in the morning after a too late night with too little water to drink. Muscles frayed and at the end of their purpose.
“Yeah, I am human,” I say. “And I’m here to stop you. To stop your species. To stop this war.”
“I don’t care why you’re here. I just care that you die.” Nasiya punctuates the reply by stepping back from the terminals.
As the Flaum moves, the tentacles coming out of its arms and back and shoulders quiver and withdraw, until they arrange around the Nasiya’s Flaum like a halo of scraggly hair. It’s strange, but I’m too angry, too tired and hurting to be scared anymore.
I aim the miner and fire.
A long bolt of energy launches forth – I realize I forgot to switch the weapon from its single-beam setting – and cascades into the set of terminals next to Nasiya. The screens and their metal housings burn, exploding in sparks and raining fire across the central cylinder. My shot gets to Nasiya, who growls a hoarse, low noise as I leave a black burning scar across its chest, and heads towards me. But the Sevora has weakened its own host, and the Flaum lurches, stumbles even as those tentacles head my way. Even as my miner sputters out of power.
I use the basin and push myself to the side, continuing around the ring as Nasiya lurches out of its grated home after me. For every step the Flaum takes, its tentacles move even faster. They seem to be growing too, chasing after me like weeds, growing along the ground in my direction. With my left hand, I drop the dead miner and swing my shoulder, pulling my backup weapon around my chest where I catch it even as my right hand and the short staff keep me up and stumbling away from the creature.
“Stop and fight
,” Nasiya says behind me.
“It’s not my fault you’re slow,” I reply. I give the miner a quick glance to make sure it’s going to fire the quick bursts of bolts, and twist. I plant my feet and turn, ignoring the sting of pain that I’m so used to already, and pull the trigger. Hold it tight as red bolts stitch across the inside of the chamber.
Most miss as Nasiya crouches, but a pair strike its body, burn holes into its shoulders and Nasiya falls forward. But the tentacles don’t stop. They wrap on my legs, crawl up my calves and over my knees and I swipe at them with my staff. A pair of green tendrils latch on to the gray metal stick as I strike, and while they don’t pull it away, they stop its momentum. I have to let go to get my hand back, to push away another set of yellow vines getting close to my throat. I kick and push, but can’t get away from the things as they multiply, seeming to come from everywhere and cover me like a net.
They’re at my neck now, climbing around my throat. In a second they’ll get to my eyes, my mouth, or choke the life out of me. I do the only think I can think of: aim the miner lower and pepper more bolts, more hot red, into Nasiya’s body. Into the Flaum until it catches fire.
The tentacles climb over the bottom of my chin, I feel them in my hair, around my neck.
Now, finally, I scream. But it’s not fear. It’s anger, determination, desperation all coming out because I’m holding that trigger and I’m shooting my enemy. Not for me, but for my friends, for my species, for this galaxy that has apparently suffered so much at the hands of these evil creatures.
I just want it to end.
And even as the tendrils use the scream to climb into my open mouth, it does.
Nasiya has no final battle cry. There’s no grand proclamation, no evidence of my triumph other than the harsh crackle of flames and the smell of liquefying flesh as the tendrils begin to shrivel black. They die away and I spit them out of my mouth, brush them from my legs and back and stare at what had once been the leader of the Sevora. At the last remnant of a species so hated by so many.
“Viera, Malo, I did it,” I say to myself. There’s no one else here. There’s only me, trapped inside the central core. Any terminal I might use is burned and broken.
So instead I make my way to the basin of nutrient goop. Try a bit of the substance just to get the taste of Nasiya’s tentacles out of my mouth. As my body gets looser, as the pain grows and my eyes start to water, as every breath gets harder than the last I press myself against the wall and watch as the Sevora’s last fire burns out.
28 Fate
They stun him, of course. Barge into the control room with miners firing and they don't stop until Sax is a burned, disabled husk on the floor. Kah tears away Sax's mask, pausing only to sneer and offer up some insults at Nobaa's metal patches. Then they pick Sax up and haul him away.
Sax gets the whole experience fed to him like a dream; it's a series of blurry images as what's left of his senses struggle to piece together the scrambled feed. There's a mag-lev train in the basement of Cavignum that he's brought to, both mirrored Oratus taking point on his escort. They clear a whole car for Sax, giving the Oratus the most prized ride he's ever had on a transport.
The train shoots fast through the endless nighttime vine forest, and the inside is light only in the low blues of a deep ocean, as their attack on Cavignum apparently carried into sleep cycle time. Not any anyone in Sax's car - except, maybe, Sax himself - gets any.
So everyone sees the Meridia as it comes into view. To say that the Meridia is a shaft of light would be too simplistic; it's a living space, a fortress, and a center of public governance all in one. There's all manner of blinking lights, yes, but each one sends a different message: the constellations of steady red mark countermeasure turrets, the wider, broader whites and yellows give hints to residents, while greens and blues illuminate docking spaces for messenger drones, small ships, and more.
The other defining feature of the Meridia is that, from the ground, there doesn't appear to be a top. The atmosphere and darkness of space beyond muddle away the definition of the construct well before it actually ends, like a mountain vanishing into clouds. As such, to Sax, it's as if the horizon's been split by an ax, rising thick and strong from the surface.
Like parasites clinging to the host, there's a vast city surrounding the Meridia, with plenty of other buildings shooting high and always, always looking miniature next to the galaxy's premiere structure. These, too, glitter in the night, and their lights peek in through the train windows or shine up from beneath as the track passes overhead.
The train isn't the only thing moving in the skies either - despite the apparent hour, skiffs, shuttles, and ships maxing out the limits for atmospheric entry clog the skies above the buildings, though again the Meridia acts like a filter, with only a few allowed to slip within the mandated perimeter.
The train isn't one of them, and it slides into a massive, slab-like station near, but not too close, to the base of the Meridia. Sax, numbed again with a couple more courtesy stuns, is loaded onto a waiting cargo sled and, with the two mirrored Oratus continuing their escort, walked along a broad avenue towards the Spire.
Sax doesn't think his eventual end-point is all that high in the Meridia, but without windows, it's hard to tell. He's shuffled into a room, lowered through a ceiling to a cell, which is where his escort finally leaves him.
The Oratus doesn't bother moving - he knows what's coming, he's seen it plenty of times before; when the Chorus decides, Sax will have a simple death, sent out across the galaxy, to mark the end of yet another futile attempt to change the set course of the universe.
An Excerpt from The Last Cycle, The Skyward Saga Book Six
I burst off the chair towards Ferrolite, who responds with a startled shout. I don’t see what happens to Malo, but given the sudden angry hissing erupting from behind me, I gather my warrior isn’t dead. That’s all the attention I can spare him, though, because Ferrolite’s floating back and trying to get its miners angled at me.
Unfortunately for the Amigga, I’m small. Fast. And I’ve had plenty of practice juking around trees and out of lines of bow fire.
Ferrolite’s trying to get back to its glass door. I jump and one of its miner shots streaks by me, the mask keeping me safe from any harm, and I tackle the Amigga. Hit its metal arms and shove its floating body out of the doorway and back into the continuing glass wall. Shrieks abound as Ferrolite’s exoskeleton scratches the wall’s surface. I’m hanging on it now, looping my left arm around Ferrolite’s right side, and my hands are grabbing for the miner gripped in its holster.
The Amigga’s saying things too, threats and commands and shouts, but I don’t care. The miner’s all that matters. But I can’t get it. I’m trying, tugging and pulling and it’s not coming out from its socket. Ferrolite spins, puts my back against the glass wall, and then presses me against it.
The Amigga’s gray-blob form is so ugly up close, and I try to look away but it’s hard when the creature has me pinned. When it’s crushing the air out of me.
I bring up my knees and kick out against the Amigga’s spongy-soft form. Microjets might be good for floating but they’re not much for resistance, and my kick gets me enough leverage to let go of Ferrolite and drop to the floor. Almost at the same time as I hit the ground, I see Malo fly across the room, red lines across his chest, and slam into the glass wall opposite me.
Cracks form where Malo’s shoulder hit, and he’s slow to get up, but he’s lying near my old metal bar. As Ferrolite re-orients my way, the mirrored Oratus snatches T’Oli off its back and opens its toothy maw.
“All this resistance, and you’ve still lost,” Ferrolite says. “Instead of your loyalty, everyone is seeing your failure.”
I stare at the green lights behind the Amigga. If every one of those lights is an eye through which the galaxy is seeing our last moments, then they’ll see that I won’t give up.
“Yeah, well, you’re ugly.” I push myself away from the wall and
spring at Ferrolite again. “Slide it now, Malo!” I say the words in Charre, hoping the warrior can hear me, can still act.
To the side, I see Viera make a swipe with Malo’s metal bar, knocking aside the mirrored Oratus’ Ooblot-clutching foreclaw. And my reward for the glance is a shot to the chest, one the mask catches, and partially absorbs. Burning pain ripples from the spot, but given how close I’ve come to death before now, it only makes me laugh.
This time, I go below. Duck beneath Ferrolite’s shooting arms and snag the metal bar as Malo slides it towards me. Ferrolite wheels itself around, expecting me to go completely underneath its bobbing body. Instead, I back up, using my feet and their grip to get behind the Amigga and line up for a hard swing. I connect, delivering as strong a stroke I can muster. The blow sends the Ferrolite careening forward into the glass wall near Malo, and the Amigga gives off a howl of purple rage to match its bruising skin.
Advantages shouldn’t be lost, so I follow up the swing with a three-step approach, raising the bar above my head and planning to bring it down on what should be a final, destructive blow. Instead, just as I catch my own face reflected in the glass, the mirrored Oratus slams me with its tail, catching my stomach and flinging me, metal bar and all, back across the room. I hit the glass hard and things go hazy for a moment, with a few crystals falling on the ground around me.
When I shake the blurs loose, I get a grim picture: the mirrored Oratus is helping Ferrolite get itself turned around. Malo’s still on the ground, though he’s at least sitting up. Viera’s motionless over by the lift doors, and T’Oli’s sliming my way, but Ooblot’s sporting a series of new dark lines on its cream-colored skin, and one of its eyes is gone entirely, the stalk waving with nothing more than a bloody stump on top.
