part0097

Sela collapsed into the grav bench beside Jon. She was a bundle of throbbing ribs and aching muscles. With heavy arms, she pulled the nav interface into position before her.

“This doesn’t change anything,” she said, tapping through the charting protocols.

“I understand,” Jon said. He kept his eyes forward, concentrating on the velo feeds.

She studied his profile in the strange electric silence that stretched between them. Suddenly she felt so weary of fighting that noisome ache in her chest. It sapped her energy, a wasteful burden.

Remaining at the temple with Lineao would have only brought more mercs even if, miraculously, Tristic decided not to lay waste to the entire planetary system as she sought out Erelah.

“We get clear at the next flex point. And then anywhere…anywhere you want to go,” Jon offered. That particular angry-muscle stood out on his jaw. He was avoiding looking at her. She found she could not blame him. He had told her he loved her. No one had ever said that to her. She rewarded that by declaring her intent to leave.

Guiltily, Sela sank further into the bench and rested her head against the torn cushion. The curling of light in the conduit was the only illumination from the forward viewer. Around them the Cass plowed on in its familiar uncertain rhythm.

“The Storm King ,” she said quietly, watching the undulating light. “That’s where I’d go.”

Jon’s forehead wrinkled. He turned to her. “You can’t be serious.”

“Everything made sense there.”

Realistically, Sela knew that returning was impossible. It was foolish to even fantasize about it. But it held the comfort of the familiar and predictable. The Storm King ’s world made sense. Her niche there had been plain. Her duties were clear.

Yet she also knew that she could not for a moment squeeze back into that life. It would be two sizes too small and its view of the Known Worlds too narrow. It was an impossibility, even if her honor was miraculously restored and she was no longer considered renegade.

“I know,” Jon whispered.

Cautiously, as if fearful he might frighten her away, he inched closer. His hand rested atop hers on the arm of the bench. She did not shrink away.

It still hurt, the untidy mass of emotions wedged beneath her ribs. She had wounded him, yet he still cared, and for some inexplicable reason, still tried. No doubt there were more hurts on the horizon for them. More things to overshadow the last and make these seem common and petty by comparison.

Her eyelids grew heavy as she watched the nearly hypnotic light show on the viewer. She understood the phenomenon in vague terms. It was simply the light of stars pinioned to normal space when viewed through the veil of the vessel’s present course in the conduit.

There had been few areas to watch it on a carrier like the Storm King , and not many of her comrades would have wasted the time to witness it. It was stuff for techs or, at best, a fleeting distraction. Well before her promotion, when Jonvenlish Veradin was still a life-upending storm on the horizon, Valen had smuggled scorch rum back onship. They had stolen into a forward section of the Storm King and lounged against crates, laughing at their own brazen action as they watched the dancing lights of the conduits from the slender portal.

Sela drifted into the less-solid realm between memory and dreams, head tucked into her chest. Exhaustion claimed her.

It was the vicious buck of the deck that jarred her awake. A metal purring mingled with a new protesting whine from the Cass’s engines.

She righted herself on the bench, realizing that she had been resting against Jon’s shoulder.

As she watched the viewers the tapestry of conduit lights evaporated, to be replaced by the stagnant star field of normal space.

Jon cursed under his breath. “Lost the mains. Very lucky we were near a flex point.”

Very lucky, indeed. The violent forces of popping lose from a conduit without a flex point could shred a vessel into metal scrap.

Sela blinked away sleep and pulled down the interface from its perch on the mounted arm. The navsys screen was still up where she had left it. What she saw there was less than ideal.

“Dead FP,” she muttered, taking in their coordinates. Although there was a naturally-occurring flex point, there was nothing of value nearby: no ports, no trading stations. Not even a meteor belt with modestly useful ores for processing. It was a good place to hide. But not the best place to be a distressed ship. Sela doubted that any official Regime nav charts would have even bothered to include this dead FP. Considering the chart’s source, it would be exactly the sort of place used by Phex’s customary level of clientele.

“Maybe we were too close to the horizon when we passed a flex point?” Sela ventured.

Jon shook his head. “Unless the guidance is off calibration, I don’t see how. And it doesn’t explain the shut down.”

The Cass was essentially adrift. A quick glance told her that they were working off battery reserves, which was why they still had atmo and a-grav.

“Pull up a diagnostic,” Jon ordered. He unbuckled his harness and climbed over the back of the grav bench. “I’ll check on Erelah on my way to the engineering loft.”

Sela nodded distractedly, her attention riveted to the program lines. An unsettled sensation grew. For a second, she thought of the strange dream with Atilio seated beside her, thumbing through nav charts.

Something about the display danced on the edge of memory. Frustrating, unfocused. If there was one thing Sela could always rely on, it was a faultless memory. She thumbed out of the navsys with the intent of looking for what passed for a diagnostic program on this bucket. A series of unfamiliar commands caught her eye, followed by the red-bordered screen with captions in Commonspeak.

The unsettled sensation blossomed into an electric jolt.

“Jon!” she shouted, slapping the vox line open.

She scrambled over the bench, headed to the engineering loft.

“It’s not the engines,” she called.

Ignoring the ladder, she jumped down to the common passage and nearly collided with his back. He remained frozen in place, hands out at his sides.

“The ship was programmed to dump us out here,” Sela continued, confusion mounting. “We’re locked out.”

Dressed in the same baggy flight suit in which they had found her, Erelah stood at the opposite end of the corridor with the plasma rifle trained on them.

“You’ve done this.”

“I did,” said Erelah. “You left me no choice.”

The look of betrayal on Tyron’s face was as Erelah had expected. On Jon, it was enough to crush her heart. She nearly lost her nerve.

There was no time for second-guessing.

They were well clear of Tasemar. Their course would have drawn Tristic here. Right where she had intended.

When Erelah had found the dead FP node on the Cassandra’s nav charts, it was perfect. She needed a large sector of uninhabited space. The fewer innocents to impact, the better. It was as if Miri herself had answered her prayers.

Of course, Tyron’s rage would be astronomical when she realized Erelah had essentially sight-jacked her while she slept to input the new coordinates. She had little choice. The soldier was nearly impossible for Erelah to influence while conscious. At least she had tried to disguise it as a pleasant dream for Tyron. There were few pleasant things in the soldier’s memory. It was pretty dark in there.

The seconds were ticking away. And there was still so much to do. By now Tristic would have detected the new course. Erelah had been as careful as she could be. In tiny sips, she had allowed the images to seep through that soft scar within her mind. It was easy to picture some gruesome black animal at the other side of that delicate membrane, hungrily lapping at the fissures and trying to claw its way back in. She counted on Tristic being so bent on her designs, so set on her recapture, that she would not question this new destination.

The Questic was on the way. This had to work.

As if Miri heard her silent prayers, the proximity alert beacon chimed self-importantly from the command loft. Another vessel was exiting the flex point.

“What are you doing ?” Tyron challenged. She took a menacing stride forward, placing her body in front of Jon. The brave shield maiden still.

Jon seized her by the shoulder. “Ty, don’t.”

His gaze never left Erelah.

“She did this. Locked us out from the com-sys,” Tyron said. She knew she was marked a traitor in the soldier’s eyes forever, despite the brief period of acceptance she had afforded her.

“Actually, you did,” Erelah corrected.

Tyron’s eyes widened as realization sank in. She lunged. Jon grabbed her by the collar, barely restraining her.

He wedged himself between them. “Erelah, what are you doing? Think about this.”

The alert continued to bleat, an insistent tempo.

“This is how it has to be. I’m so sorry.” Tears prickled the corners of her vision.

“You’re surrendering to Tristic?” His face folded.

“She will pursue us until there is nothing left.”

“We can figure something out.”

“No.” Her courage threatened to lag once more. “It has to end here.”

“Tristic won’t stop with just you. You know that.”

Erelah nodded but did not correct him. True, if she had planned on simple surrender, Tristic would capture the Cassandra or just have it destroyed in a grand and menacing gesture.

“When this is over, you’ll regain control of the ship. But don’t linger. Just in case.” She saw the expression of anger on Tyron’s face change to realization. Although the bull-headed soldier had refused to hear her plan, she had become a part of it.

“I can’t let you do this.” Jon took a stride forward, decisive.

Erelah pushed out at him. That now-familiar prickling sensation rushed through her and focused on Jon. Feelings and images flooded from him. She ignored them. They were a distraction. Instead, she delved into the deeper place under his waking mind, the bedrock.

Erelah uttered a single word, focused as a command: “Sleep.”

Jon folded mid-stride. Tyron caught him on his way down, guiding his limp body to the deck. She righted Jon’s head, checked his pulse.

Erelah lowered her arm, allowed the weapon to clatter to the deck. She was glad to be free of its cold, sinister weight. Tyron saw, but did not take this as an invitation to move in on her.

Now that she knew what Erelah could do.

“This was your plan?” She hissed. “To do this to your own brother?”

“He would have tried to stop me.”

The question was plain on the woman’s face.

“I can’t make you sleep like that. Like I said, you’re all sharp edges, hard to get underneath,” Erelah replied. “Besides, you have to watch over him.”

Tyron’s face churned. The anguish in her voice like nothing a soldier would ever reveal. “Just do what you’re going to do. You’ve already done enough damage here.”

Erelah wanted to tell her how much her brother saw in her: the potential he believed dwelled beneath that hard surface. She wanted to say how right Jon was and to beg her not to destroy that tender faith he still held. Because she deserved it.