Sunlight lanced between the bedroom blinds as Arc awoke from his light sleep. The shuttle left at 10:00 in the morning, and he’d set the alarm for 9:00. It was 7:00. He could never manage to sleep properly when he had important things to do. It wasn’t nerves or worry that kept him up, but a sort of instinctive knowledge that something could go wrong at any time and he should be awake to handle it.
He pushed aside the sheets and folded them over to cover Marissa, who slept soundly, arms and legs splayed carelessly across the bed. He sat on the edge, preparing himself, then tried to stand. His muscles cried out in protest, sore and tight, particularly around his thighs and pelvis. Marissa tried to be gentle, but there always came a point where both of them were too distracted to really hold back. With that strength of hers, bruises weren’t uncommon, though he rarely noticed them until the morning after.
He crept into the bathroom with awkward, uncomfortable steps, then sat on the rim of the tub and gave himself an examination. A few small bruises on his legs, already fading; nothing he’d need to take extra effort to hide. He had worked through much worse pain before, and these would clear up in a couple of hours.
He washed his face in the sink, meeting the intense gaze of his reflection. His scar cut a dull red streak across the bridge of his nose from left eyebrow to right cheek. It was an ugly thing that marred a face that Marissa had assured him was quite handsome, and he’d heard more than one suggestion that he should have it removed. It was a light injury, something a simple skin-graft could remove in under an hour, and it was within their price range. Why not have it removed and show the people the kind, intelligent man beneath, others asked. It would make his career go much smoother, they said, make him more relatable.
But they were missing the point. He didn’t want to put people at ease or make them feel good when they looked at him. The scar was a challenge he put to the Kinship, a reminder of who he was and where he had come from. Before Marissa or the freedom the Rhapsody had given the both of them, his life had been violence, and he could not throw his past away, no matter how much he wanted to. He had other scars, ones only Marissa knew of, but his face served as the perfect symbol for the Empire’s brutality, better than even his slave brand, which he had removed. It conveyed his message clearly; the Empire keeps slaves, which they mistreat, abuse, and kill for their amusement. He would not let the Kinship avert its eyes and pretend it didn’t see its neighbour’s crimes.
He washed, then cleared the stubble from his chin, as he wanted the rest of his face to be presentable. Despite his origins, he’d done his best to prove he was as intelligent and well-spoken as any man in the Kinship, and looking the part was important as well. He returned to the bedroom and picked out a suit, specially tailored to fit his bulky frame. The meeting with the Aquila was not so far away, and he wanted to present them with a fine example of the human race and Kinship society.
He knotted his tie, performing the same tedious motions that now marked the days of his life. What a long way he’d come. He’d grown up an orphan in the slums of Augerium, where the lowliest members of the imperial hierarchy eked out an impoverished living. There were no memories of his parents; his only home had been the cold alleyways, so narrow that only children could squeeze into them. With the gift of hindsight and some research, he had since guessed that his family had been from Quis, the only human-governed world in the Empire until the Kinship had taken it back in their last war, fifty years ago. The upper class of Quis had been loyalists, of course, sharing in the same delusion of nobility as every ruling power in the Empire did, and most had fled to Augerium, taking their servants with them. Arc was likely descended from those servants, though how he had ended up alone, or what his family name had been, he did not know. It was hard even to say if ‘Arc’ was his given name, or simply a random syllable he’d taken a liking to.
He remembered snippets of his childhood, but it was like recalling fragments of another’s story, as if he hadn’t lived them himself. He’d fought to survive, stealing food, clothes, even lives if it came to it. He’d been empty, no better than an animal, with no notions of morality or kindness. He’d had a limited command of speech, enough to make demands and communicate to the packs of urchins he sometimes allied with. He’d had no sense of time to guess at how long he’d lived like that, but it must have been at least ten years. His small size had allowed him to steal without being caught, hiding in the nooks and crannies of the run-down neighbourhoods, and it had been a sudden growth spurt that had betrayed him. With puberty came overconfidence, and he’d foolishly been caught trying to steal clothes from a store belonging to a lesser lord. In the slums, he would’ve gotten a beating and then been chucked back into the street, but this neighbourhood was home to ‘nobles’ and was thus far crueller. As punishment for his crime, he’d been forced into slavery.
Arc checked his suitcase to make sure he hadn’t left anything out. The Aquila Consortium was a week’s flight in either direction, so there was no turning back for anything. A few changes of clothes, his personal computer, and a data nub loaded with literature and philosophy from across human, Phal, and Dwin cultures. He had not been able to find anything written by Aquila that was translated into the Kinship common language, but he had been studying the Alliance language and had some simple texts. Arc had gone most of his life unable to read, and he’d spent the last decade catching up. His ability to adapt quickly was another survival mechanism he’d developed at a young age; learning to read and speak with intelligence was the same to him as turning from thief to gladiator.
In fact, he had adapted to the life of a gladiator more than quickly. Most slaves were sent to the fighting pits because they couldn’t work anymore, but Arc had the misfortune of being sent directly from freedom to the arena, placed under the ownership of a one-eyed Darem named Uqom. The Darem were the heart of the empire, and Augerium their homeworld, but even as an empty-headed teenager Arc could tell that Uqom was dirt poor. He bought slaves no one else wanted for next to nothing, but not to train them into proper warriors; real gladiators with wealthy masters needed something to kill every night, and they paid a decent sum to whoever could provide an opponent. Arc was meat for the grinder, with a life expectancy of hours, and he’d been thrown into a cell and given stale bread with lukewarm water as a last meal before his execution.
Arc couldn’t recall his first opponent, nor most of those that had followed after. In order to survive, he’d become a feral killer, with no hopes and dreams beyond living long enough to fill his stomach. The first victory had been unexpected, a real upset to the audience, and mortifying to his opponent’s owner. For his second match, he’d been thrown to the pit champion, a crazed Phal who wore a necklace of his opponents’ teeth. Arc had only a blunt knife to defend himself against the hulking ape-ish brute, but he’d made do. The outrage that followed his victory had seen Uqom, and by extension Arc, banned from that particular back-alley fight club. It hadn’t mattered; the old Darem had gotten a better idea into his horse-like head, and Arc had begun his journey through Augerium’s many fighting pits.
He stepped into the living room and turned on the news. Traffic looked good—no holdups or accidents yet. His ride to the shuttle should go unimpeded, followed by the flight up to the spaceport to meet the senior diplomat, Gerald Osterly. Despite Arc’s confidence, something still nagged at the back of his mind. Maybe it was his one previous meeting with Osterly, which had been under less than friendly circumstances. Or maybe it was the memories of flesh rending and blood gushing, all by his own hand, which never really left him.
As he’d grown into a strong young man, Arc had been pitted against every species he could name. He’d ripped the quills from the backs of Phal, crushed the skull of a diminutive Dwin, executed numerous Darem criminals, and, of course, killed his share of humans. He hadn’t noticed any real difference between any of them at the time, and felt no special bond with the humans; he’d just seen threats to be killed. He simply adjusted his strategy, if such brutality could be called that, and tore through them all. Even as an animal, he’d always been cunning, able to find a weakness and exploit it.
He took a seat at his desk, going over his notes for the negotiations. All of this was on his personal computer already, and he would read those notes many times on the journey to the Consortium, but he needed something to take his mind off his unwelcome reminiscence. He wanted to escape into his new life and put the past aside, but those memories clung to him like a malignant growth.
When Arc had made something of a name for himself, Uqom had brought him to the real fights in the great arenas. Here, the lords of Augerium sat in the audience and watched the violent spectacles with feigned distaste. One-on-one duels were sometimes switched up with mob battles, where up to ten gladiators would fight to come out on top. When that got boring, Arc was pitted against actual animals—Augerium swamp-lions and massive tortoise-like Scracks. Bigger, stronger opponents they might have been, but they lacked Arc’s cunning.
His hands began to shake. He didn’t want to think about this anymore. He rushed back to the bedroom, nearly tripping over himself in his hurry. Marissa was still asleep, curled up in the sheets like an infant. Arc quietly knelt down beside her, running a hand through her soft brown hair.
Marissa was a true warrior, able to take on opponents twice her size. She was extraordinary, with a strength that was matched only by the size of her heart. Before meeting her, Arc had never conceived of mercy, but she had left her mark on him, opening his eyes to another world. Marissa had withstood Augerium’s arenas, kept her head high even as her masters tried to beat her down. In light of her courage, Arc found he could do no less. When he had met Marissa, the world had suddenly become more than just the present. A future, filled with hopes and dreams, spilled from Marissa and into Arc. He had finally found a soul within Marissa, and she had gladly shared it with him. They had become one, and Arc was the better for it.
He planted a light kiss on her cheek, admiring how strong she looked, even asleep. She had no scars from her time in slavery. She seemed to heal faster than most, perhaps spurred on by that uncontrollable energy of hers. Had the lords known what they had in this incredible woman? Did they regret losing her? Some of the Kinship broadcasts must have been picked up by the Empire, and they would see a former slave of theirs standing strong and free. Arc took some satisfaction from that, even if he had his qualms about what she’d chosen to do with her life.
A sliver of brown peeked out from beneath Marissa’s eyelid. “What are you doing?”
Arc lifted his head, letting her turn to look up at him. “Nothing, just thinking about what I’ll be missing when I go.”
Marissa rubbed at her eyes, smiling lazily. “I thought you’d already done that. I promise I’ll still be here when you get back.”
Arc returned her smile. It was funny how Marissa always managed to get on his good side, even when he should be angry with her. He’d been genuinely upset last night when she hadn’t come home for dinner, but she’d still brought him around. He’d been furious when she’d announced that she wanted to become a gladiator again, which at the time had seemed a betrayal of the freedom they’d fought for, but even that had been worn down to a grudging acceptance. Perhaps it was a part of sharing a soul; he hoped it was a sign of a good marriage.
He checked the time and got a shock. It was nearly 9:00; how long had he been dwelling on his past? It was a bad habit to get into. He could miss so many things that way.
“I have to go,” he told Marissa, still lingering at her side.
Marissa touched a hand to his cheek, then cupped his chin and pulled him into a kiss. “Come back safe. And don’t start any wars while you’re out.”
“I won’t,” said Arc, pulling himself away and grabbing his suitcase. He gave Marissa one last, unsure look from the doorway, then headed out. A taxi would be arriving soon to take him to the shuttle, and then the spaceport and Osterly were only hours away. As he went over his agenda once more, his past slipped away. Right now he needed to think about the future.
* * *
The spaceport’s clean white walls were nearly blinding after the two hours Arc had spent watching the black backdrop of space on the shuttle ride up. It had an antiseptic feel to it, like a really stylish hospital, though that feeling was partially masked by a perfume of pseudo-smells pumped in through the ventilation system. Potted plants lined the halls under circular sunlamps built into the ceiling, as if to offset the artificial nature of everything else. Processions of travellers moved like currents from one gate to another, too busy looking at their phones and computers to notice any of the small touches. Arc was a part of one of these streams himself, breaking free when he caught sight of the lounge.
Through the double doors was a medium-sized room, the walls covered in dull red wallpaper. Arc found Osterly hunched over his personal computer in one of the lounge’s many leather chairs. He was a small man, dressed in an old-fashioned dark green coat that was a few medals short of the military outfit he’d once worn. A pair of rigid square glasses sat on his strained face, and a few streaks of grey had snuck into his receding hairline.
Arc took the seat beside him. “Mr. Osterly, it’s been a while.”
Osterly lifted his head, frowning the same way he had the last time they’d met. “Rhapsody. Wondered when you’d get here. Thought I’d have to go and sort this whole thing out myself.”
“No need to worry about that.” Arc offered his hand, careful not to squeeze too hard when Osterly shook it limply.
Osterly tucked his computer into his briefcase. “I trust you have all the material prepared? Good. Then let’s get going.” They stood together and ventured back into the hall, joining the human tide that moved towards the departure gates.
Although they were in public and dealing in potentially confidential information, Osterly did not hesitate to talk business. “I don’t trust these Aquila. We barely know them, but we’re offering quite a lot with this treaty. And did you hear about the Assembly hiring a Rashani?”
Arc nodded; the news had been the subject of much controversy over the last week. “I can’t say I disagree with their decision. Any sort of military alliance, no matter how small or innocuous it may seem, should be approached with caution. The Rashani style themselves as peacekeepers, and they have no reason to be biased to one side or another. It’s a smart move, and I think it says something that the Aquila have agreed to allow a human to mediate the talks.”
“Well, that’s just it, isn’t it?” Osterly dropped his voice. “Rashani aren’t exactly human, are they? They’re genetic freaks—mutants, if we’re in polite company. You see their neutrality as a good thing, but just because this woman says she isn’t biased doesn’t mean she won’t screw us over. She might lean in favour of the Aquila, if she likes.”
Arc tried to suppress his annoyance. “Neither are our enemies, Osterly. What do you think will happen? If they reject the agreement, we’ll ask the Assembly to write up a better one. The worst-case scenario is that we have to fly back here before trying again.”
Osterly cringed. “I’d rather hang myself. What if we do agree, but it’s not the agreement we wanted? You know what I’m talking about—those Rashani witches can fuck with your head if you let them.”
“Then don’t let them,” Arc said with mild annoyance. Did the man honestly believe such superstitions? The persuasive powers of a Rashani had no grounding in any so-called magic. “We’re both smart, adult men, Osterly, and I trust neither of us is going to be easily manipulated.”
Osterly adjusted his glasses on his nose. “Well, I won’t, at least.”
There was a barb hidden in that comment, but Arc’s skin was so thick he hardly noticed. Osterly had made his opinion of Arc clear the last time they had met: an upstart, far too young to have risen as high as he had, and with a background that should have seen him in prison, not a diplomat’s seat. Arc’s only means of defending himself against such beliefs was to work hard and ignore the prodding. He was actually glad to be working with Osterly, because it gave him a chance to prove the old veteran wrong.
They broke off from the rest of the travellers and passed through a special gate for government ships. The ship chosen for them was a sleek blue craft with the Kinship symbol of two hands grasped in partnership. It was called the Unity, and it was on the large side for a private vessel that would be carrying a little over ten people. The Rhapsody had been only slightly bigger, and he had been crowded in there with twenty other slaves and a full load of cargo. The two of them boarded, climbing up the entry ramp into the ship’s belly. The interior was designed for luxury, with a plush carpet and seats that made the spaceport lounge look like a crusty motel room.
Osterly wasted no time in finding the fridge and pouring himself a drink. He slumped into a chair with a heavy sigh. “This is what I live for. All expenses paid for by the Assembly.”
“Seems a little extravagant for a simple diplomatic mission,” said Arc.
“We’re not star travellers by nature, Rhapsody—we need the comforts of planet-bound life to get us through the trip. I do, at least.” Osterly sipped at his drink, grinning in satisfaction. “Oh, I caught your wife on the sports channel yesterday. Wow. Where’d she learn to punch like that?”
Arc suppressed a heavy sigh; he would happily talk about Marissa all day long, so long as it didn’t involve her fights. “Nowhere—she just knows. I’m almost certain she was born with a mean right hook.”
“She broke the guy’s helmet—shattered it into pieces,” said Osterly with surprising calm. “That’s not an everyday occurrence.”
He tried not to be too angry. Marissa had neglected to mention that. He couldn’t stop her from fighting, but he at least wished she wouldn’t be so rough with her poor opponents. There was sport, and then there was just simple violence.
“If it’s all right with you, I’d rather not talk about it,” he said, taking the seat across from Osterly. “I haven’t actually seen the match myself yet.”
Osterly shrugged. “Whatever you say. You’ve got the whole week to catch it, though.”
The rest of the passengers arrived, mostly armed guards and a couple of aides. Once they’d boarded, the Unity took off, flying free of the spaceport and Aegis’s orbit. The hyperdrive hummed, signifying they would be making a jump soon. That always made Arc feel ill. As the hum increased in intensity, he closed his eyes and drifted off.