Arc had been preparing for this meeting for weeks, but now that it was happening, he fought to keep his eyes open at the table. He reached for the cup of coffee at his elbow and sipped the bitter brew while he tried to catch the thread of the conversation. Osterly had been droning on for what seemed to be hours about the many ways they hoped a treaty would help strengthen both nations, and no one had the courage to interrupt. It wasn’t that Arc didn’t care—far from it—but he had a feeling that the Aquila wouldn’t have agreed to this meeting if they hadn’t already drawn these conclusions for themselves.
The two Aquila diplomats on the other side of the table let Osterly go on about better armed borders and joint development projects, both sitting still as statues. Their expressions were hidden behind metallic masks that protruded outwards to give them a bird-like appearance. Arc knew better; according to the documents he’d studied, the Aquila were mammals, and he spotted a few small tufts of hair peeking beneath the rim of the black caps that clung snugly to their heads. The ‘beak’ contained a small but complex breathing apparatus, filtering oxygen down to acceptable levels for their weaker lungs. They’d altered the Consortium’s O2 levels to accommodate their human visitors, and had been surprisingly polite in not pressing that fact.
The senior diplomat, Ahn Delse, had dressed in traditional Aquila robes, crimson in colour with small gems woven into the fabric around the collar and cuffs. Dae Trem, Arc’s Aquila counterpart as junior diplomat, wore a high collared shirt and a pair of tight-fitting pants, but was otherwise lacking in decoration. Both wore thick black gloves to protect their long, delicate fingers, and looked out at the world from dark goggles embedded in their masks. Even in the middle of negotiations, the Aquila hid themselves.
The Kinship had been in contact with the Aquila Alliance almost as long as with the Empire—close to a thousand years—but they still knew so little about them. The Aquila were secretive by nature, seeming to believe that every piece of information held value, and so couldn’t be given away freely. That was why Arc had experienced difficulty in finding out about Aquila culture; they were very good at keeping their secrets to themselves, while knowing a shocking amount about others. The planet the Consortium orbited, Croish, was home to one of the largest libraries in the galaxy, rumoured to house billions of documents, from every known civilization. It had taken almost an hour of careful prodding to get Delse to confirm that.
If it was a lack of trust that kept the Aquila tight-lipped, then Arc understood. The Kinship rarely backed down from a confrontation with the Empire, and to their mutual neighbour, they must seem equally bloodthirsty. There was one significant difference; the Kinship and the Alliance had never gone to war, while the Empire was happy to raid Aquila worlds on a whim. It was that common enemy that had made this meeting possible, and Arc had hoped it would be the beginning of a stronger union, one that was equal in power to the Empire. For the moment, it was an agreement to combat pirates and raiders skimming their borders, and it was not going as well as it could have. It was hard to come to a definite agreement when Delse and Trem responded to the question “How many ships can you spare?” with “Enough.” Building trust would take time, maybe a longer span than he’d hoped.
As Osterly buzzed meaningless platitudes in the background, Arc took the opportunity to admire the room. The Consortium didn’t look like a space station on the inside. The inner walls were stone, with columns spiralling to meet a ceiling painted with heroic figures and angelic beings. All seemed to be masked or faceless, but Arc assumed any Aquila would recognize their identities by some form of iconography. Overall, he preferred the architecture here to the Kinship’s practical and ascetic designs.
His eyes wandered to the short end of the table, where both nations’ approved mediator sat in silence. Alis, Daughter of Cire, wore the deep blue robes of her sisterhood, although he had caught a glimpse of armour amid the shifting cloth when she had come to the table. Other than the outfit, Alis was not what Arc had expected of a Rashani. She was young, somewhere in her twenties, and she had none of the stern, formal attitude he’d been led to expect. She’d gelled her light blonde hair into spikes, and her left nostril was pierced by a small silver ring. She leaned her elbow against the crystal table, supporting her chin in her hand. Arc met her dull eyes across the table and a sudden look of panic crossed the Rashani’s face. She jolted upright, refocusing her attention on Osterly. She seemed more like a bored student than a trained warrior.
At last, Osterly’s ramblings came to a halt as he wiped a handkerchief across his brow. Arc knew he had more to say, but the man appeared to be winded by his own speech. The collective relief in the room was almost palpable as Osterly took his seat. He started, as if struck by some new idea, but he glanced in Arc’s direction and seemed to think better of it. “And that is why I think this agreement will be beneficial to both our governments. I’m sure you will agree,” he added, displaying an arrogance Arc didn’t care for. How could he put words in the mouths of the Aquila? Nothing was certain with them.
Delse shook a gloved hand free of a long sleeve, clutching one of the small, circular personal computers that Aquila used. He slid his finger across the screen in a very deliberate manner, so he probably wasn’t checking his messages.
“There is one matter that gives us pause.” Delse’s voice was clear, uninhibited by his mask. “Here it is. Article four of your proposed treaty, where you lay out plans for the interaction of our forces on the border.”
Osterly’s face became very solemn. “Yes, I helped pen that part myself. What exactly do you take issue with?”
“You ask that your forces be allowed to pursue suspected pirate vessels across our borders, with minimal interference from our own ships.”
Osterly nodded. “If it comes from Kinship space, then it is our duty to deal with it. Better your forces not be diverted from other threats if we’ve already got ships closing in on the criminals.”
Delse set his computer on the table and folded his hands; an innocuous gesture that seemed strangely ominous. “The primary sector for pirate attacks on our shared border is the Alk system, where we have our palladium mines. Our concern is that your ships might enter that system under the pretense of tracking threats that are less than certain. I should also mention a later paragraph that would give you permission to investigate any vessel, Kinship or Alliance, suspected of harbouring pirates or stolen goods, and seizing either.”
“I’m not sure I understand the issue,” Osterly said, brow creased.
But Arc had grasped what Delse was suggesting, and it only deepened his dread. They hadn’t built nearly enough trust between them to take such liberties. How had that gotten through a proofreading? He hadn’t even known about it; Arc’s help with the treaty had been the social aspects, leaving Osterly to handle the military part. Clearly, that had been a mistake.
Trem suddenly broke from his pose, resting his hands on the table and leaning forward. “What Ahn is too polite to say outright is that you might fabricate threats as an excuse to get access to our resources and ships. Our issue is that we fear this treaty may replace our pirate problem with a privateer problem.”
“Dae, please!” Delse said, sharply.
The younger Aquila leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. Arc didn’t need to see an expression to guess Trem had been holding that in for a while.
Delse lifted his hands in front of his face, pressing the palms flat together as if he were going to pray. “Please, forgive Dae for his rudeness—he cares greatly for the Alliance and its well-being.” He lowered his hands. “But I am afraid he is right. I do have concerns about this part of the treaty, and that the Kinship may… take certain liberties based on the suggested terms.”
Osterly adjusted his glasses, trying to compose himself. “I assure you, the Kinship has no intention of stealing from your people. We simply want to ensure that the pirate menace is thoroughly squashed. I personally promise that any interference in Alliance affairs will be minimal and done only when strictly necessary.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Arc saw Alis’s face stiffen. In that moment, he knew they were done. They would not be reaching an agreement today.
“You’re lying.” The Rashani’s voice was on the quiet side, but had the same effect as if she’d shouted at the top of her lungs. All other voices were cut short, all eyes turned to her.
“Excuse me?” Osterly asked, scowling at her interruption.
Alis’s gaze speared into him. “You lied.”
Osterly’s mouth hung ajar. “About what?”
Alis shrugged. “I don’t know—whatever you were just talking about. Deceit wafts from you like a bad smell, as my Sikkat used to say.”
Osterly tried to retort, but it came out in an enraged sputter. Arc put his head in his hands, wishing he was back home with Marissa. They’d come all this way just to embarrass themselves.
Delse gently rapped his knuckle on the table, quieting Osterly’s outraged gasps. “I’m sure Mr. Osterly simply misspoke. Regardless, we cannot accept this treaty as it is. Perhaps we should take a break—a few hours to think things over. I’m sure your Assembly will want to know exactly where we disagree, Mr. Osterly.”
Osterly had shut his mouth and it didn’t look like he was going to open it again. Arc spoke in his place. “Thank you, Ahn Delse, we would appreciate that. Your concerns can be easily remedied, and we will return to you with a treaty that I hope will make our nations close allies.”
Both Delse and Trem glanced to Alis, but she was silent. Arc was always honest when it came to diplomacy, in spite of his doubts. Lies would always be found out eventually. The elder Aquila seemed satisfied with that and stood to leave. Trem followed suit, and the two of them departed the chamber, leaving only the poor fool humans.
Arc touched Osterly’s shoulder to comfort him, but he was shaken off. Osterly gave him a glare, then turned his sights on Alis. The Rashani had remained seated, as if she’d known they weren’t done just yet.
“Rashani witch!” he spat. “What was that? How dare you call me a liar!”
Alis frowned, wilting slightly under Osterly’s anger. “My role as mediator is to make sure the negotiations are fair. Lying and withholding information does not serve to make an equal alliance.”
“But we hired you!” Osterly slammed his fist on the table. “Don’t you have any loyalty to your own kind?”
Alis’s expression altered again, regaining some lost confidence. “My home is Utopia, which I remind you has been a separate nation from the Kinship for close to a millennium now. I was hired to act as a neutral party in this meeting, not to lie for your benefit.”
Osterly turned to Arc. “What did I tell you? Can’t trust a mutant.”
Arc felt a touch of revulsion towards his partner. “She only did her job. The blame lies on us for not considering how the Aquila would interpret the treaty.” He refrained from explicitly mentioning Osterly’s lie, knowing he’d just try to weasel out of taking the blame. “I would be suspicious of such an odd article myself, to be honest.” Internally, he was kicking himself for not giving the entire treaty a thorough reading; it was an oversight that he couldn’t afford so early in his career.
Osterly spared a moment to scowl, then stormed towards the exit. He stopped in the doorway and shouted over his shoulder, “Don’t expect to get paid after that. We’d get a better deal burning the money!” And then he left, slamming the door behind him.
Alis stared after him, eyes widening. She stood as if to follow, but hesitated as she touched the door handle. Arc felt a pang of pity and regret; this woman shouldn’t have to suffer for his and Osterly’s mistake.
“Don’t take him seriously—the old man’s all bluster.”
Alis turned, leaning her back against the door. Her expression was doubtful. “But he wasn’t lying just then.”
“Oh, he thinks you won’t be paid, but give him time to cool his head and he’ll realize there’s no choice. The Kinship needs the Rashani, and not paying our debts isn’t a good way to keep relations strong. Anyway, he doesn’t get to decide that—the Assembly handles the finances.” He smiled, something he probably didn’t do often enough. “Do you have somewhere to be? If not, why not have a seat and talk?”
Alis returned an unsure smile, but slowly made her way back to her seat. “You seem to know Mr. Osterly well. Have you worked together long?”
“I’ve met him once before,” Arc answered. “He called me a thick-headed brute and said letting me have any sort of political influence would drag the Kinship back to the dark ages—whenever those were. Typical mudslinging. No, I don’t know Osterly personally, but I know his history and it tells me he won’t do something idiotic out of anger. Give him some time to cool down.”
Alis slouched in a way that further challenged Arc’s perception of Rashani. “I hope you’re right. My Sisters would be furious if I were to return to them empty-handed, especially if it was through my own failings.”
“You did your job. It’s not your fault Osterly expected something different.” Arc grinned. “You could have cut him short at any time during that speech of his. That benefited no one.”
Alis laughed; a girlish giggle ending in an abrupt snort. “I’ll strive to improve.” She ran her eyes over him, still smiling. “You’re that Arc Rhapsody, right? You must be, with the scar and all. I heard one of your stories on a broadcast a couple of years ago—the one about how you got your name. It was really moving.”
“Does Utopia get those?” Arc’s mind stumbled back to the time before he’d been a diplomat, to his gradual rise to notoriety. His liberators had advised him not to draw attention to himself, to become completely unremarkable, because the Empire had eyes in the Kinship, and they were always eager to take back their property. He’d tried that for about a year, but he soon realized that if there were hidden Imperials seeking out escaped slaves, then the Kinship really wasn’t any safer for him and Marissa than the Empire. Anti-Empire sentiment was strong in the Kinship after centuries of infrequent wars, but the populace was largely ignorant of just how awful slavery was on the other side of the Serpent’s Head. It had offended him just how little people knew, and once he’d been sure of his fluency in the Kinship tongue, he’d sought out any media outlet he could find to reveal the truth: the story of his life, unabridged except for a few deeply personal passages. He’d discovered a sympathetic ear in a variety news show after a few months of searching, and his interview quickly became viral, shared all across the Kinship. Other requests for interviews came in within days, and soon he’d been making public appearances around Aegis and the surrounding worlds. He had become a sort of celebrity, and with some leveraging got his foot in the door to politics and a position as a diplomat.
The story Alis was referring to was not one of the great tearjerkers or shockingly brutal horror stories, but it was one Arc was quite fond of himself. As he told it, “Arc” was just a syllable assigned to him by the other urchins, an alternative to “hey, you”, and he had no surname. Meanwhile, Marissa’s mother had died when she was young, her family name lost with her. The Rhapsody had been the ship that had secretly carried them from the Empire, the place on which their lives began anew. It was fitting then that, having crossed the Serpent’s Head uncaught, the two of them were married on the ship’s bridge and took its name as their own.
Alis’s voice pulled him back to the present. “Oh, yeah, we get most of the Kinship stuff—even the gladiator matches. Plenty of Utopians watch that, and I’m sure there are even some closet fans among the Rashani. I think I heard your wife won a fight recently?”
“She did,” said Arc, hiding his distaste for the subject. “I haven’t seen the match myself though. So, how do you know when someone’s lying?”
Alis gave him a funny look. “It, uh, well it’s kind of hard to explain to a normal person. I get this sense, like a tingling in the centre of my brain, when someone lies. I don’t know what they’re lying about, but it tells me to take a closer look, and Mr. Osterly was sweating like a snowman on a summer day.”
Arc recalled Osterly’s damp handkerchief, stuffed unceremoniously in the senior diplomat’s coat pocket. Hopefully he would wash it before they reconvened. “So it’s a sort of intuition—makes sense. The way the stories go, Rashani can read minds and manipulate people’s wills, but I guess that’s all superstitious nonsense.”
“No, we can sort of do that,” Alis said, almost shyly.
Arc raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Sort of?”
Alis bit her lip. “We’re empaths—we sense emotions and sort of get the gist of how someone’s feeling, like the disbelief you’re feeling now. It’s a bit harder with other Rashani, and there are ways to hide things from each other, but it comes in handy in a pinch. Say I’m in danger—I could sort of send my distress to another nearby Rashani as a way of calling for help.”
Arc didn’t believe in supernatural powers, but Alis spoke so earnestly about them that he began to wonder if there wasn’t something special about it. “What about mind control?”
Alis looked hurt. “No, never. Even if we could, we wouldn’t—it’s not the Rashani way to force others to act on our wishes. We have legends of the old witches from before the Sisterhood bending entire armies to their wills, but those are just stories. The best modern Rashani can manage is the power of suggestion.”
“I take it you mean more than being a persuasive speaker.” Odd as it was, Arc found himself drawn into the conversation.
“It’s mostly that, actually—we can use our abilities to help persuade someone, but it requires physical contact. Also, the subject has to already subconsciously want to do whatever we’re making them do.” Alis trailed off, furrowing her brow. “So, for instance, if I were to hold your hand, and you were thinking about kissing me, I could sort of remove that inhibition and convince you to kiss me.” Her cheeks suddenly burned bright red. “Not that I’m suggesting—uh, it’s all theoretically speaking.”
“Of course.” Arc lowered his head to look down at his empty coffee cup to hide a smile and spare her some embarrassment. “I’m out of coffee—think I’ll get some more. Would you like to come? Walking gets my brain working, makes me a better talker.”
Alis nodded, her face still carrying some rosy colour. “I prefer tea myself. Have you ever tried Aquila tea? They add these berries that make it really sweet, and I absolutely love it.”
Arc clambered out of his chair, stretching out the kinks in his back. “Sounds promising. Why don’t we head to the kitchen and you can show me how to brew some?”
Alis almost knocked over her chair as she stood, beaming with enthusiasm. She hurried out of the room, and Arc almost had to jog to keep up with her down the corridors. The walls were draped with bright tapestries depicting abstract landscapes, and a stretch of multi-coloured carpet ran down its middle.
“So,” Alis said, looking over her shoulder. “Are you still all about ending slavery?”
“Absolutely,” Arc replied, striding up beside her. “Galactic peace is a means to an end. The Imperials are the ones keeping the slaves, and the Alliance doesn’t like them, so you can see my interest in this treaty.”
“Why not just go in guns blazing and snatch the slaves away?” Alis asked.
“Because I have no control over the Kinship’s military,” Arc answered. “Besides, I’m a pacifist, and I think diplomacy is the best means to work towards a slave-less galaxy. Violence lost its lustre for me years ago.” He had never really enjoyed fighting, but it had been the only way he’d survived as long as he had. It had taken him a year of living under the Kinship’s security to realize that he did not need to fight anymore, and that the only things that could endanger his and Marissa’s well-being now were his own violent tendencies. He’d worked hard to suppress them, to starve the bloodthirsty animal he’d once been, and through that he’d come to believe that violence didn’t have to be the answer to problems, personal or political. Peace would prevail, so long as he worked for it.
He kept that knowledge to himself, as he always did, and steered the conversation towards Utopia, prompting Alis to tell him about it. The way she talked about its boundless nature and its immaculate architecture made it sound like a beautiful place; maybe Marissa would like to go on their next vacation. Once in the kitchen, Alis set the tea to brew, and it was done in a few short minutes. Arc sniffed at it, took a hesitant sip. Not bad.
* * *
The Aquila had gifted the Kinship diplomats with an office for the duration of their stay, and that was where Arc found Osterly, seated at the desk with the computer’s glow highlighting the shadows on his crinkled face. The senior diplomat looked to have aged ten years in the last half hour, and his skin had taken on a greyish pallor. His fingers tapped a rapid dance across the keyboard, demanding the whole of his attention; Arc assumed he was working on a revised treaty. He stepped inside, cup of tea in hand, nodding to the guard by the door, who stood off to one side with a rifle slung over his shoulder. The man was unnecessary, but the higher-ups insisted on an armed escort, regardless of the Aquila’s disposition. The Aquila had a handful of guards posted throughout the Consortium, so maybe it was warranted, even if it was simple muscle-flexing; neither side had the numbers or motivation to do anything drastic here.
“Working hard?” Arc asked, seating himself across from Osterly.
“One of us has to,” Osterly murmured. “I had a… long talk with the Assembly. They’re not exactly happy, but they’ve allowed some changes to the treaty. Where have you been?”
“Making nice with the Rashani,” he answered, his tone letting Osterly know how he felt the senior diplomat had handled that situation. “I had to reassure her that the Kinship never goes back on an agreement—it would set a bad example. Do you really want both the Alliance and Utopia on our bad side? Just because the Rashani are neutral doesn’t mean they can’t make things difficult for us.”
The light from the computer screen reflected off Osterly’s glasses, two miniature treaties staring back at Arc. He shrugged in an unnervingly casual way. “They’re mercenaries, and not particularly useful ones. What good are they if they won’t fight in our wars with us?”
Osterly’s arrogance astounded Arc. Despite their differences, he had always had a great deal of respect for the old war hero, who had chosen the life of a diplomat when the Assembly was laying military promotions at his feet. He’d bartered peace between warring colonies and done a fair amount in settling Phal immigrants on Aegis in spite of his professed distrust of other species. That such a man could be so ignorant and lacking in foresight was baffling.
He tried a different tack, hoping to get through to the man. “We have colonies on the tip of the Serpent’s Head that experience regular pirate raids. These are small settlements that contribute only so much to the Kinship, and as of now our ability to respond to these attacks is limited. This treaty will do nothing for them, unfortunately. So, do you know what these unfortunate people do? They pool their money together to hire a ‘guardian angel’—a single Rashani, who they pay to come to their overlooked world as protectors. And they do—Alis was just telling me about a woman who’s spent fifty years on the planet Dresh, married a local and started a family, and will probably breathe her last breath out there. The locals love her—her birthday’s become a holiday there.”
“How quaint,” Osterly replied.
Arc gritted his teeth. “It’s effective, too. Even one Rashani’s skill and guidance goes a long way towards repelling raiding parties, and those colonies have prospered under their protection. Some of them wouldn’t have survived without that help.” He leaned closer, dropping his voice so the guard wouldn’t hear. “The Rashani are as fond of the Empire as we are, and know as well as we do where at least some of those ‘pirates’ are coming from. Thing is, as long as the raiders aren’t flying Bythos’s standard, the Rashani treat them as simple criminals, since it can’t be called an act of war if no one’s fighting in the name of any nation. They are our allies, Osterly, and our first line of defence against the sneaky shit the Empire tries to pull. But if you piss them off, it doesn’t matter how attached they’ve become to those colonies; the Enclave calls them back, and they go. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“You’re saying one woman can take a full ship of pirates?” Osterly’s condescending tone was maddening. “Forget it—it’s not worth going into. If you’re still with me and not planning to join the Sisterhood, you should take a look at the revised treaty.”
Arc leaned in, finding an arbitrary part of the treaty before him with no clear start or end point. “Did you address that nonsense about seizing their ships? That seemed to be the big sticking point.”
Osterly’s answer was cut short by an exclamation from the door. Arc turned to see the guard with a phone clutched to his ear. His face told a worrisome story, and his hand moved up and down his rifle strap, shifting the weapon across his shoulder erratically.
“What’s the matter?” Osterly demanded.
The guard looked at them, struggling for composure. “There seems to be some kind of disturbance in the docking bay. An unidentified ship is attempting entry. The Aquila are—hold on…” He returned his attention to his phone, eyes growing wider. “Well, find out what’s going on! Keep your rifle close and—”
There was a loud but muffled crash, followed by a tremor that shook the room and had Arc’s tea cup come dangerously close to spilling on the carpet. The lights dimmed, and the air was pierced by a loud wail that overturned Arc’s already disturbed thoughts. Someone had hit the alarm.
Osterly bolted upright. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Hello? Please, respond!” The guard spent another minute yelling at his phone before tucking it away angrily. He unslung his rifle and checked it over before answering Osterly. “We may be under attack, sir. I’ve lost contact with the Unity.”
Arc couldn’t believe what he was hearing. They were within Alliance space, in orbit around a well populated planet. How could any attacker have gotten so close to the Consortium without being noticed? It could be a betrayal by the Aquila, but the idea rang hollow. He couldn’t fathom what they would have to gain from such an act.
“We’ve got two men out in the hallways,” Osterly said, slipping into an authoritative tone. “Get in contact with them and find out what’s going on!”
The guard checked his phone again, but shook his head. “Nothing’s getting through. The network connection’s down.”
“Shit!” Osterly slammed his fists on the desk, eyes darting back and forth with internal calculations. “Who is behind this? Rhapsody, could this be the Aquila?”
Arc gave a swift shake of his head, startled that Osterly would turn to him for counsel. “They’ve nothing to gain, and if there was, why turn on the alarm? All they’ve accomplished is putting us on guard. Hard as it is to believe, I think there must be a third party behind this.”
“Then we should find out where the Aquila are,” said Osterly, buttoning up his coat. “We’ll coordinate our forces and repel the enemy.”
The door suddenly burst open, and the guard reacted automatically, levelling his rifle at the intruder. Without even pausing, the blur of blue robes yanked the gun from his hands, then came to a stop. Alis glanced at the rifle in her hands in bewilderment, then met the eyes of the equally startled guard. She smiled apologetically and handed it back.
“Sorry—reflex.” She turned to the diplomats, speaking quickly. “We’re under attack.”
“No shit,” Osterly grumbled. “Have you seen them?”
Alis nodded, slamming the door shut behind her. “I spotted them coming out of the hangar before I had to fall back. They’re no pirates—they’re armed for a war zone. I think they saw me—we shouldn’t stay here.”
“No emblems?” Arc asked, rising.
Alis shook her head. “I don’t recognize the armour either. I don’t get it—why here?”
“We can speculate when we’re safe,” Osterly replied. “If the Aquila have any sense, they’ll have gone to the communications room to send out a distress call. We could barricade ourselves in here and hope to fend off attackers, but I think we’d be safer in a larger group. We should meet up with the Aquila, coordinate a defence strategy—come on.”
The guard saluted. “Sir, I’ll take point.”
Alis held up her hand. “No, I’ll do it, er…”
“Sergeant Garfield, ma’am.”
Alis shot him a warning look, tempered by a slight smile. “Don’t ever call me ‘ma’am’, Sergeant. I’ll go first, please.”
Arc was impressed by her confidence, but he worried it might be misplaced. “Do you have a gun?”
Alis wrinkled her nose with distaste. “Please, I’m a Rashani. Guns are beneath me.” She reached into her robes and produced a small silver sphere. “Come on, don’t pretend you don’t know what a Lucidil is. This is all we’ll need.”
Osterly sighed, apparently resigned to her presence. “Right. Sergeant Garfield, guard our rear. Let’s go.”
Arc had developed an aversion to taking orders since he’d achieved his freedom, but Osterly’s tone was compelling; no doubt part of his time in the military. The two diplomats placed themselves between Alis and Garfield, following the Rashani into the much less secure space of the hallways. Alis was cautious, glancing down every hall before beckoning the others to follow. The station personnel were nowhere to be found, probably already gone to the hangar. The group moved swiftly, the wail of the alarm masking any racket they might have made. Arc glanced over his shoulder almost obsessively, expecting someone to sneak up on them at any moment. He felt tense, but not scared; the gladiator pits had beaten true fear out of him years ago, and he’d gained a wariness of violence in its place. He had no experience in a gunfight anyway, and what remained of his warrior’s instinct was telling him he was out of his element.
Alis breathed in sharply and came to a halt ahead of them. “Get down!”
Arc heeded her advice, dropping low to the floor without asking why. Osterly had done the same, while Garfield had gone into a crouch, rifle at the ready.
Arc looked ahead, catching a glimpse of the enemy a moment before they opened fire. They were swathed in dark green armour with a tinge of sickly brown, but bore no emblems of allegiance, while their helms concealed their faces behind a mirrored visor. They were tall as well, almost a third more than the average human height, and they had to bend their heads forward to keep from scraping their helmets against the ceiling. Their arms and legs were of equal proportion; a distinctive trait of the Zulkar, one of the older Empire races. There were two of them, each carrying unusually long rifles, which they hefted at the sound of Alis’ voice.
In that same moment, Arc realized Alis hadn’t taken her own advice. She remained standing in the middle of the hall, staring down the Zulkar even as they opened fire. He expected to see the woman riddled with holes, and it took all his courage not to look away. Just as well; he wouldn’t have believed what happened next if he hadn’t seen it himself.
Alis held the silver ball in her palm, lifting it before her as the Zulkar’s barrels flashed. With a swift movement of her hand, the metal sphere stretched, flattening out into a wide circular plate that absorbed the impact of the rifle needles, leaving them to fall impotently at her feet. She moved quickly, hefting the plate and throwing it across the hall before the Zulkar or Arc had fully registered what had happened. It spun through the air without so much as a wobble, moving with purposeful precision towards the riflemen. The Zulkar on the right let out a cry of surprise, cut short when the disc clipped the side of his long neck and sliced through the armour there as though it had been mere cloth. He toppled over, clutching at his neck as gouts of violet blood spilled free. The other Zulkar pressed himself against the wall, head swivelling as the disc flew past.
A series of loud bangs left Arc’s ears ringing as Sergeant Garfield opened fire. The remaining Zulkar flinched, dropping to his knee, but there were no signs of a serious injury. The long neck twisted to face them and he spat a curse in their direction.
Alis seemed to be in a trance, barely sparing the surviving Zulkar a glance. The disc struck the wall at the far end of the hall and clattered to the floor. The Rashani reached out as if beckoning it, and the disc collapsed into a silver lump before reforming into its familiar spherical shape. With a flick of her wrist, the ball came rolling back towards her as if pulled by a string.
Arc goggled at what he was seeing, his mind reeling in an attempt to rationalize it. He hadn’t entirely believed the things Alis had told him before, and he’d dismissed the rumours of Rashani magic as some strange superstition. That Lucidil was something else, though, a weapon more versatile than he could have imagined, and all seemingly controlled by Alis’ mind alone.
The Zulkar stood, stepping between Alis and the Lucidil. Garfield had expended his clip to no effect and let out a warning cry. Arc found himself rising to his feet, thinking he could push Alis out of harm’s way. It would put him in the line of fire, but he wasn’t really thinking of his own safety in that moment. But the Zulkar did not fire. He threw his rifle to the ground and lifted his hands into the air. His arms were too long to extend fully upward, and they bent awkwardly as he pressed his palms against the ceiling. For the first time, Alis seemed to notice the tall figure standing in front of her. Surprise was plain on her face, and the Lucidil slowed to a crawl.
The Zulkar looked down at her and grunted. “I surrender. Take weapon.” His Kinship Common was stilted, with each syllable coming out harshly on his tongue. Even with the helmet muffling the voice, Arc recognized the accent: middle-class Imperial. This man was no pirate; he might even be a lower noble.
Arc stepped forward, reaching down to take the Zulkar’s rifle. At a glance, it was a rapid-fire needle rifle, as he’d suspected, but its design was unlike any he’d seen, with a wider barrel and longer stock. If they survived this experience, someone in the Kinship would want a look at this.
“Slave!” The Zulkar shouted, bringing Arc to a stop. “Not you. Surrender to her. Keep honour.” Though he remained with his hands upheld, the Zulkar radiated hostility.
Arc clenched his fists and left the rifle on the floor, facing the Zulkar. An arrogant bastard, even when he’d lost. How did he know who Arc was? The Empire wouldn’t have let any of his broadcasts get across the Serpent’s Head, for fear of inciting slaves to riot. He considered taking the rifle anyway, just to spite this imperial snob and his honour, but a gentle hand fell on his arm.
“It’s all right—I can do it,” Alis assured him.
Arc stepped away, hoping the Zulkar saw he carried just as much hate.
Alis bent and picked the rifle off the floor. She gave it a distasteful sneer, then passed it into Arc’s hands; so long as she was the one to accept the weapon, the Zulkar’s honour was intact. She exchanged a look with the Zulkar, and the Imperial nodded, folding his arms behind his back and kneeling.
“I accept your surrender,” Alis said, stepping closer to touch the Zulkar’s mirrored visor. “Now you’re going to tell me who you are.”
The Zulkar’s arm shot out as quick as a snake’s bite, driving a syringe into Alis’s neck. She let out a cry, grabbing his wrist and trying to wrench the needle free. The Zulkar held fast, pushing down on the plunger with a dexterous digit. Arc brought the butt of the rifle down on the Zulkar’s helm, but the imperial only bowed his head from the impact. The other four-clawed hand found its way around Arc’s ankle and pulled. His feet left the ground, and he fell backwards, hitting the floor hard enough to wind him.
A glint of silver caught Arc’s eye, and he watched with stifled breath as the Lucidil sprang from the floor and elongated into a blade, spearing through the back of the Zulkar’s head and piercing out through the mirrored visor, now coated in violet. The Zulkar’s body tensed, then toppled over, releasing his hold on Alis and Arc. The Lucidil wormed its way free, blood sliding off as it reformed into a sphere.
Alis tentatively touched at the syringe, then pulled it free with a sharp gasp. She held it in her palm, her breath ragged. “What did he stick me with?”
Arc took it from her, turning it over for any sign of its purpose. It was a simple grey tube, small and innocuous, with opaque sides that concealed whatever might have been within. Judging by its light weight, Alis had gotten the entire dose.
Osterly was suddenly beside him, hair dishevelled and glasses askew. “We don’t have time for this! There will be more where these two came from.”
Arc wheeled on him with a snarl, dangerously close to throttling the man. “Alis might have been poisoned! She needs medical attention.”
Osterly stood like a rock in a crashing sea, completely unmoved. “We don’t know that, and we can’t wait to find out. If we get to the communications room, we can call for help and we’ll soon have more medics than we know what to do with.”
“I’ll be fine—nothing feels wrong.” Alis started walking, leaning to scoop up the Lucidil before carrying on. Arc wanted to argue, but he knew it was pointless. Osterly was right; calling for help was their top priority right now. He handed the Zulkar rifle to the sergeant and followed after Alis.
“You’re sure you’re all right?” he asked, matching her pace.
Alis nodded. “I’ve got a little headache, but otherwise I’m fine. If the syringe was poison, then maybe it was made for a normal human.”
A normal human; the words seemed to echo in Arc’s mind, embellished by memories of the Lucidil’s fluid transformations. Alis had willed it to do those things, no physical contact required, just like the stories said. Osterly had said Rashani weren’t really human, and maybe he was right. They were something else, like humans but with capabilities far beyond them. Inadvertently, he thought of Marissa and her unusual strength, though there was clearly a distinction. But once the comparison had been made, he had trouble shaking it.
They marched quickly, spurred on by the occasional barked command from Osterly. Alis continued to lead the way, as if she knew it by instinct. All the halls looked the same to Arc, but Alis would go in one direction at a fork without a second of hesitation. Only at one point did she stop herself, starting down one empty hallway before narrowing her eyes. “Not that way,” she said, then she turned back and ushered the group in the opposite direction. A few moments later the sound of gunfire echoed from that supposedly empty hall. The group ran the rest of the way.
The communications room was positioned at the intersection of three hallways, meaning any attempt to approach would leave attackers vulnerable. Alis’s face was beginning to look drawn, and she clutched at her temple as she hurried across the intersection and pushed inside. She seemed surprised when she found a gun levelled at her face.
Dae Trem stood by the communications terminal, using it as a stand for a long-range rifle. He looked over each member of the frozen group before he lowered his weapon. “You? I thought the Zulkar would have shot you dead by now. Have you seen Ahn Delse? I left him in his office so I could call for help.”
Arc shook his head. “We’d hoped you’d both come here. Have you contacted anyone?”
Trem clenched his fist, a loud spurt of air shooting from the small holes at the tip of his beak. “No, I haven’t. They’ve scrambled every means of communication on the station. I can’t reach anyone, on Croish or the Consortium. They’ve found a way to disable the cameras as well, so we can’t even see them coming. These are no pirates—this attack was planned better than anything a group of thugs could come up with.”
Arc couldn’t agree more. “I think they may be Imperials, though I’ve never seen the equipment they’re carrying. Have you tried contacting anyone outside Croish’s orbit? They could relay our message back to the planet.”
“The signal’s not strong enough for that.” Trem ran his fingers over the terminal’s keys. “The Consortium’s systems were only designed to communicate with Croish and the other stations in orbit.”
Sergeant Garfield took up a position by the door, rifle trained on the front-most hallway. Osterly and Alis moved further into the room, the latter slumping heavily into a chair before she put her head in her hands. Strange; only moments before she had been calm and confident. Arc touched her shoulder and felt a slight tremor. Suddenly, without even a sound of warning, she toppled forward and Arc barely managed to catch her before she hit the floor. He gently lifted Alis back into her seat, and noted how her head lolled back as her arms hung limply at her sides.
“What’s wrong?” Arc asked, stupidly. It was the contents of that syringe, of course. The effect must have been delayed.
“My head,” Alis groaned, jerkily lifting her hands and digging her nails into her forehead. “It’s like the worst migraine I’ve ever had! I can’t—I can’t focus. I don’t know where they are anymore.”
Arc took one of her hands and squeezed it. “Just hang in there. Everything will be all right.” When she didn’t call him out for lying, he knew something really was wrong.
From his position at the door, Garfield raised his weapon. “I see someone coming.” He sounded like he wanted to say more, but an instant later a flash of red streaked into the room, leaving a persistent line in Arc’s vision. A hole had appeared in Garfield’s chest, singed all the way through to his back. The soldier fell in a heap and was still before anyone could even move to help.
Arc stared, uncomprehending, his vision marred by the slowly fading after-image. Beside him, Trem was in a similar state, while Osterly was creeping across the floor on his stomach to grab the fallen sergeant’s rifle. Death had come in a sudden flash of light, lancing the air faster than anyone could have reacted; a laser. How? That kind of weaponry required an immense amount of power, more than could be carried in handheld form. Lasers were restricted by necessity to larger vessels with their own generators, but Arc had just seen one here. Seeing as how there didn’t appear to be an oxygen leak, it must have come from inside.
A shadow fell over the entrance and a pair of Zulkar filled the doorway, blocking the exit. They glanced down at Garfield’s body, and one bent and daintily lifted the rifle out of Osterly’s reach. The other swept his aim across the room, wordlessly simulating how easily he could gun down each of its occupants in moments. They were caught.
“All of you, out!” the Zulkar barked.
There was no way to fight out of this. Trem clutched his rifle a moment longer, then dropped it at his feet. Arc was thankful the young Aquila wasn’t foolish enough to try and fight here, for all their sakes. Alis tried to rise, but her knees wobbled uncontrollably and she began to teeter. He slipped an arm around her waist, supporting her weight as they were ushered out of the communications room. Three more Zulkar cut off each hall of the intersection. A shorter armoured figure stood off to one side, the outward curve of the helm suggesting the long snout of a Darem. The oversized rifle clutched in his hands was attached to a large rectangular box on his back by a series of wires. Steam rose from vents on the sides of the barrel, and the mouth still faintly glowed from its last shot. That must’ve been the laser rifle, but Arc had little time to examine it. The Zulkar were insistent and forceful, marching them back the way they’d come and beyond into the hangar, where they were lined up facing the ships.
The Unity was in ruins, torn apart by the Zulkar weapons. Holes riddled the exterior shell, and one of the wings had been blasted into an unrecognizable heap of metal. Zulkar moved within its husk, removing pieces of scrap and bodies to lay out on the hangar floor. Arc felt uneasy at the sight; he recognized some of those bodies, though the ones charred beyond recognition were more upsetting.
The invading vessel was a grey steel oval with egg-shaped thrusters attached to the top and bottom, and a narrow slit of a viewport running across its middle. It looked to have forced its way between the docked Aquila ships, and was parked on the crushed remains of a small orbital skimmer. Its weapons were hidden from sight, presumably tucked beneath the metal panels on either side of the view port. Like the rifles and armour, this ship was not of normal Empire make.
Another squad of intruders entered the hangar, leading Ahn Delse to join the line-up. It was difficult to tell how the Aquila diplomat was doing with the mask on, but Arc saw no obvious wounds. Beside him, Dae Trem sighed heavily. The young Aquila’s breath carried tones of both relief and defeat. A gun barrel pressed into Arc’s back, and all of them were ordered to get on their knees and put their hands behind them. He complied, refusing to flinch when cold metal closed over his wrists and bound them together. They were prisoners, which spoke well of their chances of survival, but that in no way reassured Arc. He had spent far too much of his life as a prisoner.
Another Zulkar stepped from the Unity’s corpse, distinguishing himself from the other soldiers by the almost casual way he moved. Where the others spoke in curt, hushed voices as they swiftly did their dirty work, this one took his time, seeming to admire what remained of the broken ship. As he strolled out of its shadow, the light revealed a trio of horns decorating his helmet, bearing a more than passing resemblance to a crown. More peculiar was that this Zulkar carried no firearms, seemingly content with the two sheathed blades strapped to his back. The soldier holding Arc and the others captive saluted at the newcomer’s approach and spoke as one in an Empire dialect Arc was not familiar with. It almost sounded like the common address to a superior, meaning “my lord”, but if he hadn’t been familiar with the Imperials’ almost fanatical respect for hierarchy, he would have sworn they’d said “my king”.
This Zulkar that commanded so much respect raised a hand to put his men at ease, then walked from one end of the prisoner line-up to the other, from Osterly to Delse. Arc glared up at him as he passed, and the Zulkar hesitated a moment before moving on. When he had finished, he went back and stood before Alis.
Alis seemed to be the only one uninterested in what was going on. Her back was arched so that her forehead nearly brushed the floor, and her breathing had become harsh and noisy. The Zulkar gave her a prod with his boot, hard enough to knock her on her back. Arc started to rise, but a gun butt to his back brought him down again. Alis groaned in protest, but whatever poison wracked her body left her immobile as the Zulkar slipped his hand into her robes and removed the small leather sling that held her Lucidil. He held it before his visor, turning it over casually, then tossed it to the nearest soldier.
“Lock that up,” he said in the familiar aristocratic accent of an Imperial lord. “I don’t want to take any chances with this witch. Someone go retrieve our own and find out which brave warrior gave his life to bring us this prize.”
“Hey!” Osterly shouted. “What is the meaning of this? I demand to know who I’ve surrendered to!” Direct as always; Arc had to admire that.
The Zulkar commander inclined his head towards Osterly, making his way back down the line. He slipped a handheld computer from a sleeve on his hip, glancing from it to the senior diplomat.
“Gerald Osterly,” he said in Kinship Common, apparently to himself. “Senior diplomat. Former soldier. Decorated.” He sniffed. “You humans baffle me. Why turn from the glorious path of a warrior?”
“That’s my business,” Osterly replied, holding his head high. “Now if you have any honour, you’ll tell me who you are.”
“I didn’t think Kinship vermin knew of honour,” said the commander, gripping the front of his helmet. “I suppose I can humour you.”
He pulled the helmet off in one swift movement, revealing the pale flesh beneath. Two crests of green scales ran from above his eyes and back over his hairless head, a clue to his reptilian heritage. His yellow eyes narrowed, and the two slits in his noseless face flared in amusement. His wide mouth opened, revealing rows of tiny needle-like teeth, an expression that might have passed for a smile among Zulkar.
“I am Vrakk Shodus, and if you ever dare question my honour again, I will open the airlock and throw you out.” He tapped at his computer. “We’ve no time to waste—even those cloud-headed Aquila are bound to notice the station’s gone dark eventually.” He walked back down the line, ignoring Arc and Alis on his way to Trem.
“Dae Trem,” Shodus muttered, reading from the screen. “Not much to be said, I see. New blood, clearly. It must be an honour to work with the great Ahn Delse.”
“I—yes, it is,” Trem replied, his tone perplexed. “He is a great teacher.”
Shodus tilted his head towards Delse. “Such faint praise from your pupil, Delse! No mention of your work feeding the hungry, ending civil strife, and your other efforts helping worthless people.”
Delse shook his head. “Dae knows what is important, and I will never fault him for that. But you—I have never heard of a ‘Vrakk Shodus’, but you speak as if we know each other.”
A smirk twisted Shodus’s face. “I know you. It was my job to know people like you—the heroes, as some call you. I learn all there is to know about you, and you learn nothing of me.”
“You’re doing a poor job of that!” Trem retorted. “You’ve given us your name, and shown us your face.”
Shodus exhaled loudly. “The time for secrecy is coming to a close. As for you, Dae Trem…” He pulled one of his swords from its sheath and pointed it at Trem’s chest. It was a long, thin blade, jaggedly curved, its shape putting Arc in mind of an animal talon. “We’ve only so much room on our ship, and I’m afraid you’re not nearly remarkable enough to come with us.”
Arc’s breath caught in his chest. Shodus wouldn’t dare, not unless he wanted to ensure the wrath of the Aquila Alliance. The attack was already a strike against him, but to kill a bound prisoner—a diplomat, no less—went against every code there was. Yet he began to feel a cold certainty that the man who orchestrated this bold attack would have no qualms about simple murder.
Delse stood with surprising speed, in spite of his bonds. “Please, have mercy—he is just a boy! There must be some other way.”
Shodus lowered his sword, eyeing both Aquila with a thoughtful expression. “You may be right. He is practically nothing—what could possibly come from his death? No, something can be made of him yet, I think. Besides,” with a quick, almost nonchalant movement, he swivelled around and drove the sword into Delse’s chest, “your death will make much bigger waves.”
Delse gasped sharply and fell to his knees, while Trem screamed beside him. Shodus lifted a long leg, pressing his boot against Delse’s shoulder to pull his sword free. The Aquila fell backwards and hit the floor as blood poured from his wound and turned his red robes a shade darker. The Zulkar commander produced a cloth and wiped the blade clean as Trem leaned over his teacher and sobbed.
That last bit of callousness brought Arc roaring to his feet, ignoring the warning grunt of the Zulkar behind him. “You bastard!” he shouted, evading the blow from the Zulkar and storming towards Shodus. “You arrogant, psychopathic, egotistical piece of noble shit!” He had no plan, no course of action to follow, and simply followed the flow of his emotions. He was willing to kill Shodus, pacifism be damned.
He was about to explode into another outburst of mindless insults when Shodus’s armoured hand closed around his throat. Four clawed digits, two on either side of his throat, squeezed with astonishing power. He tried to pull away, but he was suddenly lifted from the floor, his legs kicking uselessly. He struggled to breathe, pain spreading through his throat and chest, and he looked into Shodus’s hateful face with a mixture of panic and bewilderment. He had fought Zulkar in the gladiator pits, and none of them could have done this. A Zulkar’s danger lay in his reach, not strength.
“You have no right to call me bastard, slave,” Shodus hissed, his voice dripping with venomous hate. “Yes, I know who you are. Just because you’ve given yourself a name and the Kinship monkeys have taken a liking to you doesn’t mean you’re anything more than dirt. Perhaps I’ll sell you back on Augerium when I’m finished here—the arenas haven’t been quite as blood-soaked since you left.”
Arc was rapidly growing lightheaded from Shodus’s iron grip on his windpipe, the claws that poked through the gauntlets pricking against the back of his neck. He glared back at Shodus, refusing to try any sort of pleading with a murderer; death was a preferable option to giving any lord the satisfaction of breaking his will. Just as things began to go dark, Arc felt the pressure on his throat release, and he was jolted back into awareness when he hit the floor hard. The need for air took priority over the pain of impact or the hollow feeling in his gut from the drop, and he lay on the floor gasping for breath.
Shodus stood over him, examining him with a sort of detached amusement. “Seems that your time out of the pits has left you soft. A pity.”
Arc didn’t have the strength to retort. He glared at Shodus until the Zulkar commander walked away to address his troops.
“Take the Aquila’s body and put it somewhere incriminating,” Shodus said. “His office, maybe—no, the meeting hall! Poor Ahn Delse, murdered even as he offered peace—it has a nice ring of injustice to it, should stir things up for awhile. As for the prisoners, get them aboard the Obscura and prepare for launch. We’ve wasted enough time here.”
Arc was hauled to his feet along with the other prisoners, disoriented and sore. Osterly held his head high for the both of them, while Alis barely seemed able to stand. Dae Trem continued to sob at the back of the line, his breathing apparatus making unpleasant slurping sounds. Arc felt sorry for him, and for Ahn Delse, but as they were marched up the walkway into the Zulkar ship, what bothered him most was what would happen to Marissa. They shared one soul, but would she know he was still alive? Or would she hear the news and think him dead, become heartbroken? He hated the thought of her suffering needlessly, and he pushed it away, letting his mind go blank as he climbed the ramp into the ship.