by C. Gockel
He had collapsed against the wall, legs akimbo, back slumped under the large number designating their clusterbay. His chest heaved. His hand clutched at his neck, unable to staunch the flow of blood.
Sela squatted down, staring. Her eyes locked with his. Even silenced, he radiated hatred. A sneer always lingered beneath his surface. There was no wonder or surprise in his eyes. They contained a poisonous acceptance of the grim. As if somehow he knew that this had been his designated ending.
“My strength is the soldier beside me.” Sela recited Decca. Perhaps then he would understand. This was a mercy. She did this for the others, her kennel mates, to protect them. She had removed this cancer that would have weakened them as a group. And she was prepared to bear the punishment for it.
“Ty! Help me!”
Sela bolted upright in the grav bench, surroundings realigning against the memory.
Jon shouted once more. This time she could hear it from the vox panel in the wall and from the corridor below the command loft.
Sela climbed over the back of the grav couch and down the ladder to the common passage.
“Jon?”
“Here! In here!” It came from Erelah’s room.
She turned the corner. Jon sat on the floor. Erelah was a rag doll in his arms. She thought of the red welts the girl had carved into her own arms. Perhaps one had gone too deep.
I should have woken him sooner. Not allowed the nav-comp to distract her. Or permitted the self-indulgent review of memories best left hidden.
“What’s happened?” She did not step closer. Even now, she hesitated to touch the girl.
“I can’t get her to wake up.” His red-rimmed eyes pleaded up at her. “She drank something. There was a vial in her hand.”
This was a mercy.
Immediately she felt guilt as she saw the tormented expression on Jon’s face.
Erelah’s breathing came in shallow gulps. Jon shook her. Her arms flopped.
Sela stepped closer, heard the crunch of glass beneath her boot. She saw the crushed remains of a tiny black glass vial. She stiffened. Xiocine. An anti-infective that could be fatal is ingested. It was one of the tincture ampules from the med kit that she had flung from the bunkroom under the spell of her temper. She had not bothered to reclaim it from the floor.
Jon looked at it, then at Sela. The accusation curled the edges of his words. “Did she drink that? Was it that? What did she drink?”
A wave of icy heat paraded down her scalp. She was not going to be held responsible for this. If Erelah had truly wanted to end herself, she could have easily opened an artery with her makeshift shiv.
“Xiocine.” Sela straightened. “From the medikit.”
There is no way this is going to be my damn fault.
Jon’s narrowed eyes told her otherwise. “How did she get that?”
“I didn’t give it to her.”
“Might as well have,” he muttered, holding Erelah’s face in his hands.
She drew her chin up. With a savage growl, she snatched the depleted medikit from the storage locker nearby and threw it to the floor. After a frantic rummage through the pockets, she found it: the emetic.
“Here.” She shoved the bottle into Jon’s hand. “Make her drink this. It’ll bring it up.”
He studied the bottle. Distrust. She had never seen distrust on his face.
“I didn’t make her do this, Jon!” She shoved the sleeve up Erelah’s arm. Maroon dotted the girl’s skin in angry hashes. “She wants to destroy herself!”
His expression collapsed. “Help me.”
“Get her mouth open.”
With trembling fingers, Jon cradled that pale jaw and pried open her clenched teeth. Sela uncapped the bottle and poured its contents into the girl’s mouth. Erelah bucked, pushing against Jon. He held her firmly, hand over her mouth.
“No, baby sister. Swallow it. Come on.”
Her struggles finally relented. Jon brought his hand away.
“Get her on her side,” Sela instructed.
Jon turned her, stroking her back as she coughed and heaved.
“I don’t think that was enough,” he said. “She needs a real doctor, a medic.”
Sela rose. “Searching the nav charts for something like that would take days. She may not have that long.”
Considering its source in Phex, she had little reason to take what information she found there to be trustworthy without thorough investigation. There was simply no time for that.
“Think!” Jon cried. “There has to be something.”
She inhaled sharply. “Lineao.”
“What in the Known Worlds is Lineao?”
But she was running back along the command passage, already climbing the rungs up to the command loft.
She hoped that the priest had meant what he said about seeing her again, and about having to help those in need. There were no other options. Crashing down into the grav couch, Sela pulled the navsys up. The redirect for the next flex point was easy to calculate. It would take half a day, but it was all they had: Tasemar .
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Tasemar was not as Sela had left it. Specifically this sparse little town clinging to the edges of the ruined government complex installed by the Regime. Remarkably, it had become a thriving epicenter, full of life.
Where had all these souls been when my team was fighting its way uphill? Cowering in their homes?
In the market at the base of the hill, Sela received immediate answers regarding the priest. Lineao was well known, having become something of a local legend. The story the merchant told her was of a priest that had stood firm in faith and guarded the Temple of the Miseries.
Under different, less desperate circumstances, she would have found amusement in its name. Apt in so many ways. No one seemed to mention the bloody state in which her team had left it. Or that Lineao had been more prisoner than protector. She was not about to correct this revisionist history.
“Are you sure this Lineao will help?” Jon asked. He paused to adjust his hold on Erelah’s body. “You did not exactly part on the best of terms.”
Where once protocol would have dictated they use Regimental, they employed Commonspeak within earshot of the crowds of Tasemarin.
“We have to try. This is the best chance your sister has.” She gestured in the direction of Lineao’s temple at the crest of the hill. They fell in with the foot traffic making its way there, Sela trying her best to part the crowds as Jon followed in her wake, carrying Erelah.
Once more, she found herself leading a frenzied hike up the hill. To Sela, the cracked stone path riddled with dry weeds had seemed so much steeper, treacherous on her first arrival here with her team. It had been abandoned then.
Now the Tasemarin packed the passages with a near-frenzied joy. The Council of First had declared this place renegade, not worth the expenditure of resources to reclaim it, she learned.
There was singing, excited chanting. Banners fluttered from windows. Children scampered among the crowd. Merchants sold goods from carts and rugs spread out on the walkway under the blinding dwarf suns.
They reached an open square, some kind of town common that had once marked the entrance to the government complex her team had been sent to secure. The crowd swelled there. Their shouts and chanting seemed angrier. She caught glimpses through the press of bodies: a burning Regimental standard cast upon a pile of rubble. A corpse tied to a post, dressed in a dark gray uniform very much like the one she used to own.
Sela quickly looked away, tamping down a strange, untethered feeling.
My son died for this.
Lineao was not hard to find. As their ragged party crested the hill, she spotted him speaking to an old woman, laughing. He seemed taller, less frail than during their first encounter, but his dingy brown robes were unchanged. When he saw Sela approach, the mirth evaporated from his face. His expression was stony but unsurprised as he looked from Sela to Erelah’s limp form.
Before
she could speak, Jon strode forward. “Help her. Please.”
Lineao did not hesitate. He nodded, ushering them into the dark cool of the temple. Jon followed, bearing Erelah like an offering. But at the heavy iron-clad door, Sela paused. Somewhere in that dimness lay the altar room where her son had died, a place she had hoped never to see again.
For the first time in her life, Sela considered prayer. If her mind could frame the silent wishes sent to invisible beings stupid enough to take an interest in the daily affairs of her existence, her wish would be to become a blissfully ignorant soldier once more. She wanted to be like these grimy-faced people in the streets shouting and singing, blind to their coming end, uncaring of the worlds beyond.
“Ty?” Jon turned, blinking out at her from the shade.
Sela took one last look around the blinding yellow sunlight of the courtyard, the crowd beyond. Then she followed Jon inside.
The door shut behind them with a solid thud. Sela suppressed a shiver despite the heat. None of the street noise carried on the warm, dry air. Instead, the distant sound of chanting came from unseen rooms. Compared to the brilliance outside, the corridor was a dark cavern. Shafts of light from high windows plunged square pillars into shadow.
“Sarrid! Wake up!” Lineao plowed forward with hurried strides, as they followed his wake.
A small shadow unfolded from an alcove, took the shape of a young boy. Without breaking stride, the priest issued a rushed series of commands in Tasemarin to the boy, who then scampered off on his mission.
Sweat trickeled between her shoulder blades. They passed the ornately carved door that led to the main altar chamber where Atilio had died. It took everything in her power to keep her gaze forward.
Jon stumbled, resettling Erelah’s limp frame in his arms before Sela could help him.
“In here. Quickly.” Lineao stopped at a curtained doorway and held aside the heavy drapery.
Her captain did not hesitate and lunged inside. Nothing else existed to him. It was written in the desperate set of his jaw.
Sela paused and met Lineao’s eyes. “I was your enemy. Not him. Not her. If you need to tell your brothers about me being Regime, it’s just me. Got it?”
He shook his head slowly. There was a hint of disappointment in his voice. “I see only pilgrims in need of help, like so many others. You are safe here. You have my word.”
The tension in her spine slackened.
“Wait here. I will return with others that can help.”
The morning stretched into midday. Sela imagined that outside, the sunbaked streets would be empty as the Tasemarin avoided the powerful suns. But this was proven false by the sounds of the bustling outside world occasionally carried in with the comings and goings of the temple priests.
Sela sat alone on the stone floor of the hall outside Erelah’s sickroom and leaned against the wall. Flanked by squares of light reflected from the windows high above, she judged the passing of time by watching their slow progress across the floor.
The waiting had given her time to consider the costly leap of faith she had committed to help Jon and Erelah. She had acted in desperation. Even if Lineao could keep their presence secret, there was no guarantee they were completely safe. It was quite possible there was some level of Regime interest in this region, even if they had completely withdrawn from Tasemar. Alternatively, there were those Tasemarin not so content with the Regime’s miraculous departure, who might seek revenge. In either scenario, this was not the time or place to adopt a relaxed posture.
“They made me leave. I think I was getting in their way.”
She looked up to see Jon. He slid down the wall to sit beside her, legs stretching into the middle of the corridor. Listing, he came to rest against her shoulder.
Sela regarded the curtained doorway. “Is she any better?”
“Yes. I mean… no. I don’t know.” His voice was muffled against the fabric of her sleeve.
“You need to rest, Jon…”
He righted himself. His answer was sharp. “I’ll rest when I know my sister is out of danger.”
That can be a long time without sleep. She bit the comment back.
Jon shut his eyes and rested the crown of his head against the wall. He was still for so long that she thought perhaps he had fallen asleep. But then he spoke again, his voice hoarse.
“What did I do wrong, Ty? How did I not see this coming?”
She regarded his profile. “We allowed…personal indulgences to distract us.”
“What?” He looked at her, brow furrowed. “You mean she did this because we had sex?”
Sela grunted, irritated by the sarcasm she heard in his voice. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
“Apparently not. Tell me what I know, please.” He angled away from the wall to face her.
“Lord Veradin?”
In the doorway stood a young boy, no older than ten, head shaven and thin body covered in a simple brown tunic. Something about his appearance made Sela think of the meek, silent Fleet techs on the Storm King . This was the boy Lineao had summoned, Sarrid.
Jon stood, their newly-forming argument seeming forgotten. “What is it?”
Sarrid took a timid step back. “The brothers say you should come back in.”
Chapter Thirty
Erelah was aware of shapes moving around her. They spoke in low serious voices. She could discern none of it. The shaped spoke about her, of course, nothing she would want to hear. Her eyelids felt so heavy. Opening them took a great deal of concentration.
She glimpsed a room filled with the mellow amber light of glow spheres. The lines here were soft and imperfect. Earthen walls. There was not a glint of metal to be seen. If there was a world opposite to the endless series of medsuites and labs of her time with Tristic, this was it. Those rooms had been cold, sterile; she never felt warm in them. Here the warmth was comforting and seemed to soak into every aching inch of her body.
One of the shapes loomed closer. She recoiled into the soft cushions beneath her. The shape coalesced into a broad set of shoulders, dark hair. A strong hand gripped hers. Jon.
Even in this state, half-awake, half-aware, she steeled herself against the flood of images from him. But this time there was no onslaught. Instead, it was a thin eddy of emotion rolling from him: a mix of relief, untwisting anxiety. A brief echo of an argument with Ty that was now a firm knot of regret.
Her own crushing thought bobbed above it: I wanted to be dead. I was supposed to be dead .
“Erelah?” His voice sounded just as battered as she felt.
Her tongue felt too thick. “What…is this place?”
He ran a soothing hand over her hair. “Shhh…Rest.”
She forced herself to focus on him. Unshaven. Slept-in clothing. Darkened eyes.
All because of me.
“I’m sorry.” She managed a dry whisper. “I couldn’t fight it.”
“They tell me you’re through the worst. You’re going to be alright.”
That thought should bring relief.
Instead, she felt the thing stir. It stretched from its dark nest. With it came coldness that the warmth of this place could not overcome. The now-familiar pressure/pain wedged into her skull.
“What did you do?” Erelah heard a voice rasp. She realized it was her own.
She seized Jon’s wrist, squeezed. The strength in the action was impossible. It came from afar. From her: Tristic .
Pain flashed across his face. Jon pulled free. “Calm down.”
Tristic must have been waiting, standing ready to crawl through that soft place in her head and take her over.
Erelah watched what she did next as a bystander in her own body. She was as flimsy as a shadow.
“Where have you taken her? I demand you return her to me.” She climbed from the bed on legs that felt hollow, unreal. Her muscles burned with cramping pain. All happening to someone else.
Tristic filled her now, moving from within to glare ou
t on the room.
“Return you? Where?” This was a new voice raised in challenge. Tyron.
Erelah’s head pivoted. Arms folded, and with an imposing weapon holstered at her hip, Veradin’s breeder glowered from the doorway. An incredible example of selective breeding. Such a shame it would be to destroy her.
/If only to inhabit a body like that…such strength./
“I understand your sergeant expired, Commander. ‘Glory all,’ I believe is the correct sentiment.” Tristic stretched her host’s mouth into a mocking grin.
“Erelah? What are you doing?” Veradin demanded.
Moves rigid, Erelah turned back.
/The brother. Always the brother. The insufferable guilt-ridden expression on his hatefully perfect features. As if all manner of ills the Known Worlds could visit upon their cursed party were specifically designed by his actions. As if a mere mortal could command such influence./
Yet the brother’s words seemed to trigger something in her host. Tristic felt the squirming twitch of the girl’s will, weak but still willing to struggle. Erelah’s fought her even now.
The image of a beach beneath a pale blue sky came to her. Then a crumbling temple, vine-covered and abandoned. Hands, impossibly large and strong. Helio’s, as they walked along the shoreline.
With a shake of the head, the images dissolved. However weak, they were a costly distraction.
“This is for Valen.”
She caught a blur of motion. Then the powerful collision of Tyron’s fist with her jaw. The world flattened under a white hot snap of pain.
“I didn’t see any other choice,” Sela said. It was as close to an apology as she was willing to step. She placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder.
“But tie her down like this?” he asked looking up from his sister’s still body. The girl’s skin held the plastic sheen of sweat. Although her breathing was deep and regular, she had not stirred since Sela’s punch had ended the unnerving transformation.
