Emperor’s Way was as cramped with people as it always was; Darem, Zulkar, and a few humans crowded the sidewalks, all wearing finely tailored suits and dresses that marked their high status. Behind them trailed less impressively-dressed servants, relieving their masters of the toil of carrying their own things. The great palaces of the highest lords stretched high into the air, bunched close to the Emperor’s palace in the distance at the end of the long road. Gilded lampposts rose like tall trees from the sea of people, their crystalline bulbs unlit on this sunny afternoon. The road, normally crowded with sleek and expensive vehicles, was empty that day.
Because today was no normal day; it was the birthday of the great Emperor Dymus Bythos, who had reached the remarkable age of one hundred and eighty, thirty years past the life expectancy of most Darem. A great parade filled the middle of the road, running from the shimmering lake at the southern foot of the capital city and up to the gates of Bythos’s palace. At its head marched the elite of the Imperial army, shelled in ornate and impractical armour as they bore Bythos’ banner, a crown surrounded by five spheres symbolizing the races of the Empire. An orchestra played all the classic tunes of Darem supremacy from a moving platform that trailed behind, and performers of every species danced in its wake, juggling or throwing streamers and sometimes teasing the crowds within the bounds of proper etiquette. After them lumbered the hulking Hammerfists, great bipedal vehicles with a passing humanoid resemblance, emblazoned with the symbols of the Empire’s military might. It was the most exciting day of the year for many on Augerium, and Marissa was no exception.
She wove her way through the thick crowds, not an easy feat when laden with so many shopping bags and cases, trying to keep up with Lady Ramus’ pace. Every step shifted the high stack of boxes in her arms, threatening to tip the whole thing onto the road, so most of her attention was focused on constantly readjusting her balance. Fortunately, finding Her Ladyship was no great trouble; she was garbed in a bright purple dress that shimmered with tiny diamonds, and the unbelievably wide brim of her feathered hat forced the crowd to clear a space around her or be clipped by its edges. As she struggled to pursue, Marissa’s eyes wandered back to the road, where a trio of Zulkar dancers moved sinuously around each other, entwining and separating with fluid ease. How did they not get tangled up with those long arms and legs?
Lady Ramus rarely looked back to see if her young servant was keeping up, but when she did, her irritation was always plain to see. A slave didn’t warrant the manners she spent on nobles. “Come now, girl, keep up!”
Marissa, only recently promoted to ten-year-old pack mule, nodded her head quickly and nearly lost her grip on a particularly slippery hat box. “Yes, your Ladyship.” She didn’t know how she could move any faster with so many things weighing her down, but she had to try; Lady Ramus rarely laid a finger on her slaves, but when she did, it hurt.
These shopping trips happened once a week, when Lady Ramus had grown bored with the previous week’s clothes and demanded something new, lest she go mad from repetition. At these times Marissa, normally a simple cleaning girl, was hauled from her mopping duties in the grand halls of the family mansion and taken out on the town to assist in this vital quest. Even at this young age, she had been unusually strong, and Her Ladyship was always quick to notice anything that might work to her advantage, trading in her old personal servant for a smaller, more compact model without shedding a tear. Despite the exhausting task of keeping up with Her Ladyship’s whims, Marissa enjoyed the privilege of being allowed outside, even if only for a few hours. That this particular trip was the same day as the Emperor’s birthday was even better, and Marissa eagerly snatched glimpses of the parade as she trotted along to the next boutique on Her Ladyship’s list.
A sudden shriek startled Marissa, and she lost her grip on the hat box. It hit the sidewalk, spilling an expensive green hat into a puddle of mud that seemed to have materialized on the sidewalk just to spite her. As if inspired by the hat’s attempted escape, the other bags tried the same, tugging down on her arms before flying out of her grasp and scattering clothes over the crowd. She stared, stunned, a growing sense of dread filling her gut. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She never dropped anything. Never.
A shadow fell over her; Lady Ramus, her face creased with awful dark lines, her eyes glowing red. “You little shit!” Marissa tried to run, but Her Ladyship’s nails, sharp like claws, sank into her arm and held her where she stood. “You good for nothing slave filth! Do you know how much I paid for those? More than my husband did for you!” Her Ladyship bent down to her ear, her breath like fire on Marissa’s cheek. “I’ll give you a lashing for every coin, or until I’ve bled you dry. Whichever comes first.”
Someone in the crowd shrieked again, and both of them turned to a growing commotion a few feet away. A burly figure was surging through the assembled nobles, pushing them aside and laying flat those who tried to stop him. Lady Ramus faced the newcomer, baring a set of suddenly sharp teeth in a snarl. “Who do you think you are, peasant?”
The figure paused long enough to glance at Marissa, then struck Lady Ramus with the back of his hand so hard that she collapsed to the ground. The grip on Marissa loosened, and she pulled free, looking up in awe at the familiar figure.
“Coach?”
Coach nodded. “Time to grow up.” He laid a hand on top of Marissa’s head and lifted, stretching her out to her adult height. Around them, the nobles began to fade away, Emperor’s Way ripping and changing. Lady Ramus’ crumpled form let out a single shriek and evaporated into a fine mist.
Marissa adjusted to the change quickly. “Another dream, huh? Should’ve figured—Her Ladyship was never that scary. I, um—thanks for the save there. I didn’t need another nightmare.”
Coach idly rubbed the back of his hand where it had met Her Ladyship’s face. She wondered if that had been as cathartic for him as it had for her. “Glad I could be of service. How are you feeling?”
The question punctured the bubble of dreamy fog around Marissa and the space around them came into sharp clarity again, solidifying into the Paragon locker room. Rarely did Coach ask her such a simple, direct question. He’d prod and quiz her about the minutiae of her next fight and what preparations she’d made, but that was different from asking how she was feeling. He’d always seemed more interested in her victory than her mood, and the change piqued her curiosity. Why was he here? If the present was what she thought it was, she was done fighting for the next few months.
“I-I’m fine,” she said, stumbling over her words. “Things are pretty quiet right now. No big matches coming up or anything.”
Coach leaned against a wall, acknowledging her words with a brooding nod. “Such a life is enviable. I wonder that you chase after battle when you could easily find peace on this world.”
Marissa shrugged. “Can’t help it. I just like to fight—you know, test myself. It’s like a pull, something deep inside, like it’s…” She trailed off. Arc was the one who was good with words.
“Like it’s in your blood,” Coach finished for her, his voice heavy with some private emotion. “Are you happy, Marissa?”
Again with the odd questions. If Coach was a figment of her imagination, then what had happened to her to trigger this change? Her happiness was all but a given in her waking life, so she couldn’t fathom why her subconscious would bring it up. If Coach was something more, well, then there were even more questions that had to be asked.
“I’d say I’m happy, mostly,” she replied, not needing to think terribly hard about it. “I’m doing what I like, and I get recognition for it. I’m even thinking about going further than spectacle fighting, maybe joining in an official tournament so I can see just how good I can be. There are some problems, yeah, and the house feels empty without Arc, but generally I’m happy. Why you asking, Coach?”
Coach seemed to flinch, a deep frown claiming his forgettable face. “I fear you may soon experience a change in fortunes.” He trailed off, and Marissa realized with a start that he was unsure of himself. “I shouldn’t be talking like this, but it almost seems worse not to. There were so many years when I said nothing. But I’ve adapted, started seeing things day by day now, and I’ve begun to regret that lost time. I sometimes wonder whether I could speak with you, face to face.”
Marissa shuddered, although she couldn’t say why. There seemed to be an extra weight to Coach’s words tonight, a deeper meaning that was just beyond her. “I don’t understand, Coach.”
Coach lowered his head, eyes squeezed shut as if fighting back tears. “I’m sorry. I am a guest in your mind, and I should not burden you with my thoughts. Years ago, I found you through this link, felt your pain from light years away. I should never have gone this far, breaking the rules like this, but you’ve survived because of me. Whatever sins I may have committed to do it, I’m content with the result.”
“Who are you?” It wasn’t the right question, but it was the one she wanted to ask.
Coach stepped away from her, arms folded over his chest. “There’s no point in telling—you won’t remember. Tell me, how did you bear all that pain? When the pirates came, when they killed your mother, when everything was taken from you—how did you go on?”
Again, Marissa hardly had to think about it. “I hoped—hoped there would be someone who would save me, or I would find some way to escape, or that something would happen to make things better. I held onto that hope, even in the fighting pits—that’s what kept me going. Does that answer your question?”
Coach nodded. “Hope. I suppose that’s what’s kept me watching over you all this time. Will you promise me something, in exchange for an answer? Keep holding on to that hope.”
Marissa raised an eyebrow. “Why? What’s wrong?”
Coach touched a hand to his forehead, perhaps to distract from the growing misery on his face. “Do not ask me—you will understand soon. Now, promise me.”
“I promise,” Marissa said. “To be honest, I’ve never let it go.”
“Good.” Coach was almost whispering. “You are strong in both body and soul. I couldn’t be more proud.”
And then Marissa woke up, unsure if he’d answered her question or not.
* * *
With Westri on a ship back to the Zen System with his head hung in defeat, Marissa had earned a bit more attention than she’d expected. She’d spent her years on Aegis sponsored by the owners of Paragon Stadium, fighting whatever matches they set up for her, but her latest victory had earned her a plethora of new offers from agents and advertisers over the last few days. She’d kept a few of their cards and listened to what they had to offer, but she didn’t make any promises. Many suggested that she take the last step from athletic spectacle to competitive sport by signing up for the Kinship Gladiatorial Tournament, where every match was watched across the free galaxy—and the money was amazing—but that was a big decision to make. She needed a second opinion, specifically Arc’s opinion. He might not have approved of what she did, but he would listen if she had a problem. He was good at listening, regardless of the subject. Even if he had nothing helpful to say—which was uncommon—just talking it out often helped Marissa sort out her thoughts and come to her own decision.
The season was over at Paragon Stadium, and the tournament was almost a year away. Marissa had plenty of time to consider climbing into the big leagues, almost too much, in fact. She was not the kind to spend her free days sitting on the couch and watching soap operas. She had to be active and fill the time opened up by the end of the fighting season.
Fortunately, she had like-minded friends. Not an hour after Arc had left for his trip, Marissa had received a call from fellow gladiator Arlen Nilish, asking if she’d like to go for a jog. Halfway across town and barely breaking a sweat, they’d received a message from Matt Rexis saying he was back at Paragon Stadium and ready to spar with any challengers. Well, the words he used were actually “lovely ladies”, but the meaning was the same. For Matt’s sake, Marissa hoped he hadn’t sent the same message to Zurn, as the burly Phal would never let him hear the end of it.
So she spent her time sparring in Paragon Stadium’s vacant arena, honing the skills that might soon make her a champion. Strength was valuable in a fight, but finesse and a quick mind were equally important. Throwing a jaw-breaking punch meant nothing if you couldn’t predict where the opponent’s face would be between the wind-up and the pitch. Her friends understood this; even a dolt like Matt had some battle-smarts where he lacked other smarts. When they were thoroughly worn out, the four of them went into the city for dinner, gorging themselves on inexpensive fast food when they could all afford better. It was just more fun to grab a burger and share a laugh over whatever dumb things they’d done that day than seek out a higher-class restaurant. These were simple pleasures, but Marissa had grown to appreciate the small things. When there was nothing pressing on her mind, she didn’t have to worry about wasting her time.
There’d been a little over a week of this when she’d had the unusual visit from Coach. She went down to Paragon Stadium the morning after with the dream weighing heavily on her mind. Coach’s words lingered in that half-forgotten way that dreams do, refusing to be confronted directly, like something only seen from the corner of the eye. As the bus hummed its way along the wide boulevard towards the stadium, she tried to latch on to something concrete, but it was all so obscure. Hope—that was in there somewhere. Why? As the minutes ticked by on her commute, the answers only buried themselves deeper.
She forgot the dream entirely when she stepped off the bus and found Arlen waiting for her on the bench by the stop. Where Marissa was small for a fighter, Arlen was a giant, more than a match for most men and tall enough to give even a Zulkar pause. She had been raised on the snowy northern pole of some distant outpost on the edge of Kinship territory, and the harsh conditions had made her hardy, meaning she could hit and take hits with the best of them. She was also beautiful, with piercing blue eyes and blonde hair so light it was almost white, which she’d accentuated with red highlights. Marissa did not get jealous easily, but Arlen sometimes brought her to the brink.
Arlen had her gym bag lying across her lap, and the damp marks on her shorts and shirt told Marissa she’d been for a jog. Marissa had lost her keenness for jogging after a couple of days running with Arlen. She may have been stronger, but the tall woman had near limitless endurance. Arlen was courteous enough to keep pace with her, but Marissa knew what it was like to hold back. She’d excused herself from further jogs, saying she wanted to save her strength for sparring.
Arlen stood, spreading her arms wide and rushing forward. Marissa tried to step back, but it was too late. Arlen’s arms ensnared her, pulling her against the taller woman’s chest in a strangling hug. Marissa closed her eyes, knowing it would be over soon. It was exactly three seconds, by her count, before the arms released and pulled away.
“Rissa, how are you?” Arlen asked, all smiles.
Marissa cringed at the nickname; it wasn’t one she’d chosen. Marissa wasn’t a hard name to say, but Arlen insisted on using the strange short form. And why the end? She called Matt ‘Matt’, not ‘Thew’, so why couldn’t Marissa be ‘Mary’? It wasn’t a serious problem or anything, but it was one of many oddities about Arlen she couldn’t explain.
“I’m the same as always, Arlen,” Marissa answered, readjusting her now skewed jacket. “Why all the hugging?”
“You looked like you had something on your mind,” Arlen said. “Don’t want you worrying a hole in your brain, so I thought a hug might cheer you up.”
“Uh, thanks,” Marissa said, unable to resist smiling. “You seem good. We going to the stadium? I bet the guys are already waiting for us.”
“I won’t take that bet,” said Arlen, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I sometimes think Zurn sleeps in the locker room with how early he gets there, and Matt—” She made a gagging sound. “He probably thinks we’re impressed with his dedication, but you know he just wants to catch us in the showers. Come on, let’s not keep them waiting.”
The stadium was only a block away, and they were in the locker room and changing within ten minutes. They donned light practice armour, as the chances for an actual injury during practice were low. It was made from leather taken from the hide of some Dwin-bred animal Marissa couldn’t remember the name of, but it was still tough enough to protect against the dull blades they would be using. Matt and Zurn were already suited up and waiting in the arena. Matt grinned and waved, his eyes roving over them without a hint of shame as he approached.
“Marissa! Arlen! Good to see you!” he exclaimed. “I’m so happy you haven’t been intimidated by my impressive fighting skills yet. I’d hate to be the one to scare you away.”
Arlen put her hands on her hips. “No one could ever be scared of you and your weak-ass game, Rexis, especially not us. I’m pretty sure I’ve won more matches in the last week than you have.”
Matt snorted loudly. “Please. Zurn, who’s won how many matches?”
The burly Phal scratched a thick finger across his hairy chin. “Between you two, it’s been Arlen eight, Matt two. Marissa stands undefeated at ten wins.”
The corners of Matt’s mouth dragged downwards, fighting against his feigned bravado. “Well, I can’t be expected to give my all in every battle. This is only practice, after all. When the next real fight comes along, I’ll be well rested for it.”
Marissa grinned. “I like the sound of ten. It’s a nice, round number, especially next to zero. Eleven’s all right, but I’d prefer to just skip right to twelve. Think you can accommodate me, Matt?”
Matt took a light step backwards, stretching his arms above his head. “I’d like to, but I haven’t finished my warm-ups just yet. Maybe later.”
Zurn’s toothy grin widened with delight. “You know, if we count this season’s televised match and the one before that, it must be at least twelve.”
Matt shot Zurn a glare full of hurt and betrayal. “It’s nice to know you can count, Zurn, but I don’t really care. If I’ve got to explain myself, I can only say that Marissa’s beauty gives her an unfair advantage. I can hardly focus when I see her lovely face.”
Marissa rolled her eyes. “I thought it was my ass you found distracting. Must be why you keep trying to circle around when we fight.”
Arlen burst into giggles, and Matt’s cheeks coloured. “Whatever,” he said, throwing up his hands. “So, are you two going to fight each other while I warm up?”
Marissa shook her head. “We’ve clashed so many times that we know each others’ moves a little too well. I’d like to try something a little more challenging.” She looked past Matt to where Zurn stood. “You up for a fight, big guy?”
The common stereotype of the Phal is that they are brutish, destructive creatures. Zurn did nothing to dispel that belief, but he was a polite brute, and most of his destruction was accidental. The best word to describe him was ‘thick’: thick arms, thick legs, thick middle, and most of it carpeted in thick black fur. His back was adorned with a bed of sharp spines that made getting close to him a risky proposition, and the top of his head was shielded by a dome of hard bone. Like most Phal, he stood hunched, resting his knuckles on the ground when he wasn’t using them.
His back arched at Marissa’s suggestion. “Not a good idea, little lady. Last human I fought one-on-one went to the hospital with a serious concussion.”
Marissa shrugged. “So? In my last serious fight, I punched a guy so hard I broke his helmet. Come on, let’s try it, just this once.”
Marissa wouldn’t deny that her request was an odd one. Because of Zurn’s hardier Phal physiology, it was rare he fought anything other than his own species. He was kept around Paragon for special events, like the time a robotics company had built a fighting machine that would “render flesh-and-blood gladiators obsolete” and needed help sending it to the scrap yard. On days like today, he usually just came by to watch the others and enjoy their company, maybe do some exercises on his own. But Matt and Arlen could only provide so much of a challenge, and Marissa was curious to see how much she’d have to hold back against a Phal.
Zurn held his massive hands over his face and breathed in sharply. “One round. Nothing fancy, or anything that might get you hurt, understand?”
Marissa nodded, and the two made their way to the centre of the arena while the others watched from the sidelines. Zurn reluctantly stood before her, his dull practice blade looking like a butter knife in his hand. The spines made armour difficult for Phal, and Zurn had settled with covering only his chest and legs. The dome made a helmet redundant; Marissa had seen him crack walls with that head.
Zurn swallowed, shifting his large legs into an awkward fighting stance. “I’ll try not to break anything.”
Marissa smiled back. “I didn’t know you were so brittle.”
A nervous grin crossed Zurn’s face. “Brittle in spirit, maybe, but not in body. Let’s get this over with. First to disarm wins.”
Marissa gave her own sword a flourish. “Ready when you are.”
Zurn lumbered towards her, lifting his sword above his head. Given the size of the sword in relation to his hand, his fist was likely to do more damage. Marissa grabbed both ends of her sword and held it crosswise, catching Zurn’s blade and repelling the blow. With an easy stride, she began to circle around him, making the occasional jab. Zurn blocked about half of them, pushing her sword away with light force. His counter swings were slow and simple to avoid. He was going easy on her. Zurn could demolish a car with his bare hands, but Marissa felt no force behind his blows. He was holding back for her sake, as she’d been doing for him. She felt some sympathy, but all this restraint was making for a poor fight. One of them had to loosen up if they were going to see just how much of a match they were.
“Zurn, what are you doing?” she asked, dodging another half-assed swing.
Zurn’s already slow pace slackened. “Trying not to kill you.”
Marissa sighed and thrust the tip of the sword against Zurn’s chest plate while his guard was down. If they’d been playing for points, that would have gotten her a significant lead. Behind her, Arlen and Matt projected silence in place of cheers. In a profession that relied on showmanship almost as much as skill, a silent audience was bad for business. She pulled her sword back, noting how Zurn failed to retaliate as she stepped away. “Well, can you stop worrying? You’re boring our spectators. Come on—neither of us is going to get any better if you don’t put any effort into this.”
Zurn took another swing, missing by a mile but clearly putting more force into it. “I don’t think you appreciate how much effort I go to avoid squishing you humans. I don’t want to, but you’re all almost as fragile as the Dwin. One wrong step and crunch.”
The sword in Marissa’s hand found its way under Zurn’s chin, the cheeky thing holding him in place with the threat of its blunt edge. “Sounds like an excuse to me. You can call me ‘little lady’ all you want, but we both know I don’t crunch as easily as most.” She reined in her sword and stepped back, spreading her arms wide in an invitation.
Large, sharp canines poked from Zurn’s mouth as he watched her. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Giving you a shot,” Marissa replied, twirling in place. “It’s one thing to be undefeated, but to win without taking a single hit? That’s not a fight—it’s bullying. So, I’ll give you a chance to land one good, solid hit to ease my conscience. Go ahead, don’t be shy.”
Zurn’s breath came out in harsh puffs, nostrils flaring wide as his lips pulled back to the gums. “Don’t play games, Rhapsody! You know I could flatten you in a second if I tried.”
Marissa raised an eyebrow, eager to test that claim. “All I know is that you’re not trying. You’re saying a lot of words, but you haven’t done a single thing this whole fight. Matt would’ve given me a better fight.”
Something seemed to ignite behind Zurn’s eyes, and he came rushing at her. Marissa barely had time to raise her sword to block, and the force of impact sent a painful tremor down her arm. Zurn paused, apparently surprised, then went for an upwards swing. Marissa surprised him further by slashing his blow aside and delivering a kick to his chest plate that sent him staggering backwards. Finally, Arlen let out a cheer, as if she had sensed the battle had really begun. Now, it was only a question of whether Marissa really was a match for a Phal. It would be kind of pathetic if she’d talked all that crap only to get crunched.
They traded blows for the next few minutes, blades crashing together with tremendous force, something that the average human could rarely manage. Marissa felt her heart racing, not from exertion but exhilaration. After years of keeping a close watch on her strength, it felt good to let loose a little. She weathered Zurn’s attacks and retaliated with her own, which only baffled him further. He pressed on with the attack, but after a while, both of them began to slow as fatigue caught up to them. When it came time to end the fight, Marissa decided to do something creative, and probably stupid. As Zurn came in for another strike, she switched her sword into her left hand, then let steel meet steel. Zurn pressed his weight into her, trying to force the sword from her hand, but she pushed back and leaned in close, grabbing hold of his shoulder. Their eyes met; Zurn did not hide his bewilderment. Marissa smiled, then pulled her head back. She took a breath, counted to three, then brought her head down against Zurn’s dome as hard as she could.
Red exploded across her vision, followed by astonishing pain. She fought to keep her balance as the world spun in a dizzying blur, until she heard the sound of Zurn’s sword hitting the ground. First to disarm; she had won. She dropped her own blade and stumbled back, her rear suddenly hitting the ground. She clutched her head, wallowing in a mire of misery and hoping it would all sort itself out. When she opened her eyes, she found Zurn standing over her with one hand outstretched and the other clutching his own head. She clumsily accepted his help to stand up, then gave him a hug, careful to avoid the spines.
“That wasn’t what I expected,” Zurn grumbled good-naturedly. “I think I felt that in my brain. How are you?”
Marissa tried to speak, then felt a sharp jolt in her skull. She took a moment to recover before opening her mouth again. “I regret that, but I think I’ll be OK. Not so fragile, am I?”
Zurn shook his head, chuckling. “You’re full of surprises. Come on, we should both sit down.”
Arlen and Matt left the sidelines to help them up into the seats, congratulating Marissa on her victory and admonishing her for doing something so damn stupid. She plunked herself down in a nice, comfy seat in the first row beside Zurn, and the two of them relaxed while Arlen and Matt went to the battlefield in their stead, taking up swords and clashing in the traditional, rule-abiding manner.
Marissa watched for a short time, but her eyes began to wander. Without any games going on, the seats were most likely to be empty, but people were allowed to come in on off-days. There were usually a few curious kids who wanted to see how gladiators practised. She’d invited Arc to come in the early years, reasoning he might be more comfortable watching her when it wasn’t a crowd-gathering fight, but of course he’d refused. She loved Arc with all her heart, but he could be irritatingly stubborn sometimes.
Her eyes found a shape sitting in the shadow of a pillar, all the way up in the back row; a bundle of rags with a few wisps of grey hair. Some things never changed. The old man had been coming to Paragon as long as Marissa had, probably even before that. She couldn’t say he’d been present every day, but whenever she remembered to look, there he was. He was probably homeless, spending his days here because he had nowhere else to go. Marissa had tried to approach him before, wanting to know his name at least, but the old man had a knack for disappearing before she could finish climbing the stairs. Nowadays, she was content to let him be. He wasn’t hurting anyone. Strange as it sounded, she’d be more worried if he wasn’t around.
The continued throbbing in her head centred Marissa’s attention back on herself. Today she had tested her limits, and discovered that, while she could headbutt a Phal, that did not mean it was a good idea. At least she knew now; it was good to see how far she could go, how strong she really was. Her strength was the strangest part of her life, and the only way she could think to understand it—understand herself—was through fighting. So far, the results were inconclusive. At least she knew she wasn’t invincible, far from it. Her days on Augerium had taught her that a blade cut her as it would any other human, and she had suffered one or two near-lethal wounds in the arena. She’d survived, of course, but she guessed it had been luck in that case, not her unusual nature. Maybe her bones could withstand heavier blows, but they would break eventually.
Speaking of breaks, she was lucky she hadn’t cracked her skull. She’d been too caught up in the moment and eager to show off to consider the consequences. Both Arc and Coach had criticized her about that impulsive behaviour before, but then again, neither had asked her to stop taking risks. She touched her forehead; the skin was unbroken, but there would be a bruise for a day or two.
Beside her, Zurn had fallen asleep. His spines forced him to hunch over his knees to fit into the seat, but that hadn’t stopped him from checking out. His snore was a low rumble, sending ripples through his cheeks. Marissa considered waking him, faintly recalling something about sleeping and concussions not mixing well, but on the other hand, she had probably gotten it worse than he had. She let him be, feeling her own eyelids start to droop.
Funny; she normally didn’t fall asleep in the middle of the day. Her arms and legs ached though, and she couldn’t really do anything without those. She closed her eyes. A short nap. Everything would be fine.
* * *
Marissa was awoken by a strong shake of her shoulder and found Arlen peering down at her. Her fellow gladiator did not look pleased, her lips pressed tightly together while her eyes shone with concern. That set off warning bells in Marissa’s head. She sat up, only now noticing Matt and Zurn standing together off to the side, speaking in hushed voices. They met her eye only for a second, but she caught their wary glances, the tightening of muscles around their mouths.
Marissa looked back to Arlen, confused. “How long was I asleep? Did I miss something?”
Arlen slowly clasped her hands together, nibbling at her lower lip. “It’s been about an hour. Me and Matt had our match, and then I went to check my phone, and…” She trailed off, the ball of her hands squeezing and tensing. “Oh, Marissa, I’m so sorry.”
“What?” The words made no sense, or maybe Marissa was too tired to piece them together. “Someone offer you a job at a better place? You get a sponsor?”
Arlen frowned, not a mild frown that hardly meant anything, but a deep one that came close to marring her lovely face. “Rissa, this is serious. I was checking the news, and there was something about the thing with the Aquila. They mentioned your husband—he’s missing.”
In her groggy, maybe-concussed state, Marissa remained confused. Arc was missing? Missing who? Missing her? Aw, she missed him, too. But why was that newsworthy? But no, that wasn’t right. She pushed sleep aside and began to get what Arlen meant. Arc was missing, as in gone.
“What happened?” she asked. Her expression must have been fearsome to drain the colour from Arlen’s face the way it did.
Arlen fiddled with her phone, then handed it to Marissa as the news report repeated. Marissa went into it thinking she was prepared, but each revelation was like a sucker punch that knocked the wind out of her, again and again. A massacre at the Consortium, with many losses for both the Kinship and the Alliance. One of the Aquila diplomats, a popular figure according to the report, had been killed at the negotiations table, while the other was missing. Meanwhile, the wreckage of the Unity had been found drifting in orbit not far away, but no bodies had been found aboard. Marissa nearly burst into tears when a photo of Arc appeared on the small screen. Missing, along with the other human diplomat and the Rashani mediator. The Alliance were already accusing the Kinship of staging the attack, and Arc of being an accomplice, maybe even the killer of this Ahn Delse.
Bullshit, Marissa thought. Arc didn’t kill anymore, and he had wanted the treaty more than anyone. Thankfully, the Assembly seemed to agree, denying any foreknowledge of the attack and vouching for the diplomats. They hadn’t levelled any accusations of their own, but Marissa guessed they wanted to say that the Aquila had set the whole thing up. The report concluded by saying that investigations from both governments would begin shortly.
The video came to an end, leaving Marissa with a spreading hollow in her stomach. Where was Arc? The report hadn’t answered that one, simple question. Where was the other half of her soul?
She hardly noticed when Arlen took the phone from her. “I’m really sorry, Rissa. Are you going to be OK?”
Marissa stood, wiping her eyes before she could shed a tear. “I’ll be OK when I know where Arc is. I need to go home and make some calls.”
Arlen nodded solemnly. “You do whatever you need to. If you need someone to talk to, we’re all here for you. Isn’t that right, guys?”
“Absolutely,” Zurn and Matt said, not quite in unison.
Marissa thanked them, then headed for the locker room. As she crossed the arena, she looked back up into the seats. The old man was still there, curled up in his rags. He wasn’t missing, and everything else would soon be back to normal. Arc’s disappearance was a tiny hiccup in the flow of Marissa’s life, and it would correct itself in time. Arc would be back soon, and all her worrying would seem so silly. That thought sustained her all the way home.
* * *
Every channel was alive with the news. The Eastwind station gave an offensively inoffensive account so vague that it was hard to discern any concrete information, while the Homefront channel put an anti-Aquila spin on it, and the lesser stations ran the full political gamut in between. Marissa watched long enough to be sure they were all telling the same story, then shut the TV off. No sign of Arc, no clues as to where he might have gone.
She made herself a cup of coffee and sat on the couch while she checked the contacts on her phone, scrolling past her friends on her way to the bottom. Marissa preferred to stay out of her husband’s work as much as he did hers, but a diplomat could be judged by his family as much as his work, and she’d been dragged to several dinners with one politician or another. Most had been unremarkable or outright contemptible, but she’d gotten along with a few of Arc’s friends and even kept some of their numbers. One in particular stuck out in her mind, and she couldn’t think of a better time to call.
The phone was picked up almost immediately. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’m really busy right now. Maybe call back in a week, two maybe?”
“Please, wait, Ms. Torwin! It’s Marissa Rhapsody.”
The woman on the other end was silent; even the sound of her breath stopped short. Marissa gave her a moment, then tried speaking again. “Ms. Torwin, you still there?”
“I am.” Torwin’s voice collapsed into a sigh. “Hold on a minute.”
The clack of footsteps carried through the phone, and then the creak of an opening door. Torwin let out another sigh, probably taking a seat as she spoke. “This is about Arc, isn’t it?”
“What else would it be about?” Marissa replied, loudly. “Sorry, I’m just a little anxious.”
“We all are.” Torwin sounded calm, if a little exhausted. “The Assembly’s up my ass about this whole fiasco—as if I had something to do with what happened! Just because the Unity launched from a station in orbit of my planet doesn’t mean I know who was on it.”
Marissa hadn’t even considered that. Talking on the phone like this, or even sharing dinner every so often, it became easy to forget how high up Elizabeth Torwin was. As Prime Minister of Aegis, she was one of the most powerful individuals in the Kinship, second in position only to the collective members of the Assembly who governed the entire nation. With the attack on the Consortium, she probably had a whole storm of problems to deal with.
“I won’t take too much of your time,” Marissa assured her. “I was just wondering if you might know anything that they’re not saying on the news. Please, anything at all.”
Torwin breathed in sharply. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. The Aquila aren’t cooperating right now, and they seem more likely to declare war than let us investigate. What I do know is that Arc and Gerald could never have conceived this. They’re innocent, and I plan to find out what really happened to them.”
Marissa smiled, although it was a faint one. “Thank you. Let’s hope they turn up soon.”
Another pause from Torwin foretold the worst. “Marissa, I know you’re upset as it is, but I have to warn you. You should be prepared, in case Arc turns out to be…” The sentence died prematurely, leaving an uneasy silence.
A shiver ran through Marissa, and she furrowed her brow. “To be…?”
“He’s probably dead, Marissa,” Torwin finished. “The Unity was trashed, and it’s very possible the Aquila just haven’t found the body yet.”
Marissa hung up. It was a rude thing to do, but she didn’t want to hear any more. Arc couldn’t be dead, they shared a soul. She would know, feel it somehow. That was what kept her from bursting into tears, the sense that the two of them were joined. Some might dismiss the whole one-soul thing as romantic fluff, but she knew Arc had been completely in earnest when he’d said it at their wedding, and she loved him all the more for it. Now she clung to it, took hope from it. Torwin shouldn’t have been so quick to give up and write Arc off as dead. They’d lived through worse.
Coach had known. He’d told her to hold onto hope, somehow knowing she would need to. Well, it was good advice. She would hope; hope that Arc was alive, that he would return. Or maybe she would find him. There was always hope.