A cold, wet pain washed over Arc’s face, startling him from dreamless darkness. Instinct and habit urged him to lash out, but his arm shrieked in agony the moment he moved, forcing him to lie still. He opened his eyes, letting his displeasure be known with a snarl.
Uqom stared down his long snout at Arc with his good eye and dabbed at the slash across Arc’s face with the wet cloth again. Another jolt of pain went through Arc’s face, and he bared his teeth at his master. Uqom didn’t react, the Darem’s expression saying he’d seen everything Arc had to show. “I had good money riding on that fight. Two hundred sol on a sure thing. That’s—damn it, kid!” His speech was slurred and punctuated by a small hiccup. His hand moved shakily to mop the blood from Arc’s face. “You know what I could’ve done with those winnings? Paid off my debts—all of ’em!”
Arc wrinkled his nose; Uqom’s breath stank of cheap booze. “That’s your fault, old man. You would’ve wasted it on drinks anyway.” Even speaking hurt, so he fell quiet and began to gather his jumbled thoughts. After the beating he’d taken, it was a surprise he could speak at all.
He took in their surroundings. They were in a new cell, but it was about the same as every other cell he’d ever been in. It was cube-shaped, roughly ten feet in all directions, with hard stone walls and a dirt floor. There were no windows, only a steel door with a slot to put food through; the light in the room came from a dying lantern Uqom must have brought in with him. Every arena had rooms like these, rented out by the masters of fighters for exorbitant prices to stow their property between matches. What happened if no one paid was a mystery to Arc; he didn’t imagine the management would just turn dangerous gladiators out onto the streets.
He tried to sit up. His body screamed in protest, fire burning through his entire being, but he gritted his teeth and growled through it, half-rising off the bench to prop his back against the cold stone wall. Uqom belched in surprise and pushed his chair back a pace to put some distance between them. He needn’t have bothered; Arc couldn’t have killed a fly in this state.
He’d lost a match. After all these years, it had finally happened, without warning or fanfare. In the back of his mind, he’d known it was going to happen eventually—Uqom had first put him in the ring to be a punching bag for another, now very dead fighter—but it still came as a shock. Almost as shocking was that he was still alive, if this agony could be called living.
“‘Mercy’,” he gasped, the alien word heavy on his tongue. It had been spoken as his opponent had stood over him, in the perfect position to strike a killing blow. He looked at Uqom, confused. “What is ‘mercy’?”
Uqom blinked in surprise. “It means to spare another person’s life.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Arc said, frustrated. “Why?”
“Best not to ask questions—what matters is that you’re alive.” Uqom, sure of his safety now, brought his chair close again and pressed the cloth against the bloody bruises Arc only now noticed blooming across his chest like purple flowers. “I thought you’d kicked it when you got that slash across your face. Yeah, any deeper and that’d be fatal. Good thing it wasn’t, though—don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Arc said nothing. It was hard to read Uqom sometimes, even when he was drunk. Whether he saw Arc as anything more than a meal ticket was difficult to determine. Moments like this made him somewhat regret trying to slit the Darem’s throat in his sleep. But that hadn’t happened yet, Arc realized. That came nearly a full year later, as he’d been making his escape from the Empire. At this time, his thoughts were on someone else—the gladiator who had finally broken his years-long win streak, but hadn’t bothered to take his life.
“Who is she?” He’d never cared to ask such a question before. His opponents had never been more than different faces to the same threat, obstacles standing between him and a few more days of living. He almost never knew their names, unless they were of some renown in whatever town they were fighting in that month, but even then he hardly cared; one of them would be dead soon, anyway.
Uqom gave a minuscule shrug. “Just some nobody. Rumour has it she was a servant in some noble house—a cleaning girl, or something—but she displeased her master and got sent here. You know how it goes.”
He didn’t, actually; he’d been stealing or fighting for most of his life, and had only a vague sense of what a servant even was. But he could work out the meaning; she’d been sent here to die, just like he’d been years ago, and like him, she refused to give in.
“How long has she been a gladiator?” he asked, unusually curious.
Uqom flicked a triangular ear, shaking his head. “Don’t know—since when have I ever known shit? Couple of years, maybe. I’d never heard of her until her master offered to pit you two against each other. I should’ve known better—might’ve saved some money if I hadn’t bet on your sorry ass.”
Arc closed his eyes and tried to picture the woman. She’d been more than a head shorter than him, and his first mistake had been assuming her size was all there was to her. He should have heeded the hard, determined look she’d given him, instead. Most of Arc’s opponents were either terrified of him or far too confident in their abilities, but this one had seemed to know exactly what she was getting into, like she had a firm grasp on what she was capable of. She had been wary of Arc, but not fearful.
It had been a close fight as well. The first unexpectedly powerful blow had knocked the wind out of him, but he’d recovered quickly and tried his best to avoid her strikes, ducking beneath her spear thrusts and attempting to get close enough to stick a sword in her gut. That opportunity never came; he’d landed a few quick slashes against her shoulder plates, even drawn a little blood, but she repelled him with her fists whenever he got too close. After almost ten minutes of darting and weaving around each other, she had gone on the offensive, trading blows with him until Arc’s limbs ached. The strike that felled him had seemed almost like an accident; he’d seen an opening and moved in for the kill, but the woman had suddenly lifted her spear to block, and the tip had cut into his face and blurred his vision red. The pain had been too much and come too fast for Arc to handle, and he collapsed.
Yet he was still alive, because of this woman’s “mercy”. She had stood over him, looked down at him with an expression he did not understand, then shouted her strange word to the roaring crowd. “What was her name?”
“Mah-riz-ah?” Uqom snorted. “You humans have the stupidest names.”
Marissa—yes, that sounded right. Marissa Rhapsody. Only she hadn’t taken that name yet, and neither had Arc. That was a ways off, after many more quiet encounters between the two of them, in which Arc had begun to understand that words and ideas could be just as powerful as any weapon. But there, sitting in that cell and trying to grasp “mercy”, Arc had begun to become the man he was now.
He opened his eyes again, meaning to say something to Uqom, but the Darem had vanished. The steel door of the Augerium cell had likewise disappeared, replaced by the translucent wall he’d grown all too familiar with during the last few weeks. The wall let more light into the cell, but the view wasn’t exactly stunning. The lights in the corridor had been dimmed, perhaps to conserve power, and long shadows stretched across the walls. The cell across the way was dark, but a form was faintly visible on the bed.
“Alis?” Arc called. “You OK?”
“Yes,” Alis grunted, her voice thick with sleep and irritation. Arc let her be.
What a strange dream to have. Fragments of his past often resurfaced to haunt his sleep and make his nightmares, but this had been a good memory, something he cherished. The rare moments of introspection on Augerium had done him quite a bit of good.
He pondered on the dim lights once more. This ship might have been an old vessel, but Shodus would have been incredibly stupid not to replace the generator with something more efficient. He couldn’t recall any other time that the lights had so much as flickered before this, either. So, what had changed?
Maybe they’re hiding from someone, he thought. That was a possibility; the readings given off by high energy output were nowhere near as reliable for tracking as engine radiation, but they could still betray a ship’s position to a searching eye. But that would mean someone was near enough to notice. Arc stood, feeling invigorated, and pushed away the phantom aches and pains from his dream. Someone was out there—someone the crew wanted to avoid. Pirates were the most likely possibility, but deep down he prayed it was a search party of some kind, maybe a full fighting force sent by the Kinship or the Alliance.
A pair of forms emerged from the shadows in the corridor. Two Zulkar, their faces hidden beneath their murky green helmets. They stood shoulder to shoulder in the cramped space, their long arms hanging idly at their sides. Judging by the position of their heads, they seemed to be staring straight ahead, into the darkness at the other end of the corridor. Not a word passed between them; Arc got the sense they were listening for something, perhaps a call on their communicators.
Arc wasn’t sure how long he’d slept, and had no idea how long it had been since Alis had last been dosed. It might just be time for her next injection, but the behaviour of these two Zulkar made him doubt. The injections were normally over quickly, the soldiers in and out of the cell within minutes. This delay was pointless, inefficient, and not in keeping with their normal protocol. Was this some new attempt to frighten them? It was far too late for that.
“Do you want something?” He snapped in the Imperial language, pressing his hands against the membrane. The simple act of slipping back into his original tongue was disorienting, making him speak with more hostility than he’d intended. It seemed that old habits were still tied to the old words.
The lanky Zulkar held their poses, not deigning to acknowledge him. Shodus had trained his men well, or so it appeared. Were they ignoring him out of discipline, or because their attention was on something else? Arc was certain they were listening to their communicators now, and whatever they were hearing had brought them to a complete stop.
As he considered ways he might turn this to his advantage, a loud, metallic wail exploded in his ears. He started. It sounded like an alarm, but an old one that must have come with the ship. The volume and intensity lowered after a few seconds, but by then it had made its point; something had gone wrong.
At the first wail, the Zulkar unfroze, moving in synchronization as they took the last few steps to stand between the two cells. Each turned and faced into a cell, and a helmeted head leered down at Arc. The other faced Alis, reaching behind his back to pull a syringe from his belt. Craning his neck to see, Arc almost missed the Zulkar in front of him perform the same motion, and he caught a brief glimpse of a small opaque tube.
A dose for him too? To what end? Now seemed a little late to begin testing the poison’s effect on regular humans. Maybe there was no scientific purpose, and it was just another way for Shodus to torment him. But even Shodus wasn’t so spiteful that he’d have this done during an emergency. That alarm had been significant, and had set these two pawns into motion. The ship had been found, and it didn’t matter by whom; the point was that their mission had been compromised. So, what did that mean?
Arc thought quickly, piecing together what little understanding he had of the Zulkar commander to try and form a clear picture. He stepped back as the membrane split to allow the silent soldier through. The Zulkar was patient, remaining still until an adequately-sized opening had been made before taking a step. The other soldier was the same, claws wrapped tightly around his syringe.
Discovery meant failure for Shodus. His plan hinged on deceiving the Alliance into thinking that the Kinship had turned on them, using the disappearance of its diplomats to reinforce the suspicion. But if Arc was found here, imprisoned along with another reliable witness like Alis, the scheme would fall apart. Even if they’d managed to brainwash Dae Trem with whatever lies they needed him to tell, it would still be up against the trusted word of a Rashani. So, for Shodus’s plan to succeed now that the ship had been discovered, Arc and Alis could not be found. They had to disappear.
Arc backed into the far wall of the cell as the Zulkar took his first step inside. The second followed suit, minutely rolling his shoulders as he slowly stepped into the opposite cell. Arc tensed, glancing from the killer slowly closing in on him to the one across the corridor.
“Alis!” he called.
His Zulkar took another step, his shadow engulfing Arc now, his helmet nearly brushing the ceiling. The long arms unfolded outwards, syringe readied in one claw, the other opened wide to grab him. Arc’s attention wavered between the immediate danger and the other cell, where the second Zulkar was approaching the Rashani-shaped lump on the bed.
“Alis?” Arc called again. “Alis, wake up!”
It was astounding how far those long legs could carry a Zulkar; a couple of steps had carried the soldier to the centre of Arc’s cell and put him within reach. Arc prepared himself, then let out a final, desperate shout. “Alis, they’re going to kill us!”
Alis’ Zulkar came to a halt, leaning over the bed. He lifted the syringe up to his visor, perhaps checking it over before use, then reached down.
Something in the shadows shifted, uttering a soft sigh of pain. An instant later, Alis’ pale hand intercepted the Zulkar’s bare claws and squeezed around the long digits. The Zulkar froze, and he tilted his head in confusion, before he suddenly lurched back and screamed. Alis added her own scream to the mix, and beneath that Arc heard a hissing sound, like a steak sizzling on a pan. The Zulkar yanked at his arm frantically, but Alis held as tight as a vise. The handicapped Rashani came sliding out of bed, thumping limply onto the floor and into the light. Her lips were pulled back in a wide grimace, her teeth clenched tightly, sweat pouring down the strained lines of her face.
Arc watched in awe, his own problem almost forgotten. The scales on the Zulkar’s hand began to dry and crack while red welts formed across the unprotected skin, spreading up his arm and beneath his armour. The syringe fell from his free hand and he began clawing at his own armour, scraping fruitlessly against his helmet to pull it off. He slammed himself against the opposite wall, pulling Alis’ limp form with him as his screams reached an agonized crescendo.
Alis clumsily pushed herself to her feet with her free hand and wobbled before the Zulkar. Her eyes narrowed as she faced him and she tightened her grip on his hand. The Zulkar’s screams became a gurgling, choking sound, and then he went limp, collapsing to the floor. Alis released his hand, which hit the floor with a squelching sound, then pressed her own hands against her face with a sob.
The Zulkar in Arc’s cell had been as distracted by the event as Arc had, but the collapse of his comrade brought him to attention. He fumbled for the control device on his belt and quickly sealed the membrane to Alis’ cell shut. Arc took his chance while the Zulkar’s back was turned, and charged. He threw himself against the soldier’s back and they both toppled forward. The syringe hit the floor before them, shattering. A puddle of orange liquid pooled around the fragmented tube, and a pungent smell assaulted Arc’s nose. The Zulkar struck the floor next, Arc’s weight driving him down and pinning him.
The Zulkar twisted beneath Arc, long arms reaching behind his back to grasp at him. Arc ducked his head under a sharp claw, knowing what he had to do, but unwilling to do it. He was a pacifist now; he couldn’t fight, not without admitting defeat to the animal. But not fighting meant death, and he was beginning to think that he wasn’t ready to die just yet, not without ensuring that the truth about the Consortium came to light. More than that, he wanted to see Marissa again, to hold her in his arms and feel the life she seemed to radiate. For that he would fight the universe itself; in comparison, this Zulkar and the animal seemed like lightweights.
He rolled off the Zulkar as another claw came swinging, then sprang to his feet. He dug his heels into the floor and raised his fists, adopting a fighting stance he’d learned as a child before he could speak a proper sentence. His opponent’s lengthy limbs were slow to untangle, and as the Zulkar rose, Arc stepped in and hooked his fingers beneath the chin of the helmet. It came off halfway with a single tug, and its wearer gasped in pain as his face smashed against the inside. Another pull had it free, and Arc could hear the faint din of imperial chatter coming from the communicator within. Arc tossed it out into the corridor, meeting his opponent face-to-face.
His foe was an older Zulkar, the emerald scales on his head faded to a duller green, his face lined with a few wrinkles and many scars. A stream of blood trickled from his left nostril where the helmet had knocked against it, which the Zulkar wiped away with the back of his hand. He hissed at Arc, baring his small, pointed teeth, and took a swipe. Arc stepped back without a scratch, but in doing so surrendered enough room for the Zulkar to reach his full height unhindered. Arc sized his opponent up the way he had in the arenas. The Zulkar’s armour put Arc at a disadvantage, especially with only his fists to defend him. The exposed head was a vulnerable point, but the problem was reaching it.
The Zulkar drew his blade from its sheath on his belt, a sword that curved midway down its length like Shodus’. He took a swing at Arc, who ducked backwards as the steel sang past his ear. A decade away from the pits had left him out of practice, but his mind was sharper than ever. He ducked another swing, noting the wide arcs the Zulkar made with the blade. He moved as if on the retreat, letting his opponent think he was winning, leading him towards the side of the cell. Back met wall soon enough, and Arc laid his palms flat against the cool metal and pushed himself under the next swing. He listened for the scrape of the blade against the wall, and felt a tingle of satisfaction at the chunk as the end pierced the aging metal and became stuck.
The Zulkar hissed again, wrenching at his sword. It was too late, though; Arc dashed under the twisting but mostly stationary sword arm and put all the strength in his legs and arm into delivering a powerful uppercut to the Zulkar’s chin. The soldier slumped forward in surprise, and Arc jabbed him twice in the side of his head. He received a gawking stare as the Zulkar teetered and fell.
Arc stood triumphantly over his fallen opponent, basking in the familiar rush of adrenaline. He lifted his foot, tensing to crush the Zulkar’s skull beneath his shoe, but caught himself. That wasn’t him anymore; the animal killed out of habit, but Arc Rhapsody did not. The enemy was subdued, unconscious; he lowered his foot back to the floor, exhaling. The sense of triumph was gone, replaced by a tightness in his chest.
“Alis?” he asked, turning to look across the corridor.
The Rashani knelt just behind the membrane, hands clasped over her face. Her breath came raggedly, as if she was on the verge of weeping. Arc bent down and felt around the floor for the control device the Zulkar had been using. It hadn’t fallen far; his fingers closed around the black cylinder a few feet from where they’d struggled. He checked to see that they were alone before stepping into the corridor to get a better look at the device. The dim light revealed only three buttons, each clearly marked in standard imperial letters. Arc pointed one end towards the membrane and hit the ‘open’ button, and the translucent wall split down the middle.
Arc stepped inside and knelt beside Alis. “Are you OK?”
Very slowly, Alis’ hands pulled back to reveal her eyes, red and moist with tears. “No—no, I’m not. That hurt worse than anything I’ve ever felt before. And my head still hurts.”
Arc touched her shoulder in sympathy. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that any longer. We’re free, and I think someone’s found this ship.”
Alis gave a few short, frantic nods. “M-my S-S-Sisters. I can feel them nearby.”
Sisters, plural. That was the best Arc could have hoped for in a rescue party. From what he had gleaned during his short glimpses of the ship he’d had outside his cell, a group of Rashani should be enough to subdue Shodus’ forces. Even the poison would be useless unless the Zulkar could get close enough to inject it. The two of them were as good as saved, so long as they could find their way to these Rashani.
“Come on, we should get moving.” He reached for Alis’ hand. Their fingers nearly touched before Arc laid eyes on the Zulkar in the cell with them and stopped himself. Large red welts had spread across the entirety of the Zulkar’s exposed palm.
“What did you do to him?” he asked, trying to keep the horror out of his voice.
Alis cringed, a guilty look showing through the pain. “I didn’t—Rashani value focus for a reason, but I couldn’t… My mind is addled with pain, a-and anger. I’ve never heard of something like this, but maybe with the effects of the poison… I have shamed myself.”
Arc shook his head firmly. “You saved both of our lives—don’t beat yourself up about it.”
A smile emerged from the pained creases of Alis’ face. “I wish it were that easy. Guilt’s not so easily forgotten, as you know.”
Arc felt a twinge of surprise. She’d sensed that, had she? Well, it didn’t matter. He stood and approached the Zulkar. “Is he still alive?”
“I feel him,” Alis answered, unhappily. “C-could you do something for me? I would do it myself, b-but everything I do makes my head hurt worse. He has a sword on him—take it, and use it.”
Arc turned back to her, wide-eyed. “But he’s down! He’s not a threat anymore!”
Alis nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line. “What I d-did to him—I don’t think it can be undone. He is almost certainly c-c-crippled, and the pain may stay with him for the rest of his life. Killing him will be a mercy.”
A tremor ran through Arc’s heart. That word again; mercy. This couldn’t be the same thing Marissa had given him. “I was told that mercy meant not taking a life.”
Alis’ head moved as if it weighed twice as much as it should, her bloodshot eyes turning to meet his. “It can mean many things. Mercy is the opposite of cruelty, and it would be cruel to let him go on living like that. Please—I don’t have the strength to do it myself.”
Mercy, the opposite of cruelty. Arc had never thought of it like that, but she wasn’t wrong. Shodus was cruel, killing Osterly and Delse, tormenting Alis like this. Being the opposite of that Imperial lunatic sounded like something to aspire to. But Arc had sworn off killing—could he do it, even in the name of mercy?
“You did this to him,” he accused.
Alis took a deep, unsteady breath. She looked so frail, kneeling there, her back hunched as if anticipating a blow. It was hard to see in that weak figure the fearsome woman who had fought on the Consortium, who had slain two Zulkar soldiers with a few flicks of her wrist. “I know, and I regret it deeply,” she answered. “I acted in haste and without thought—the un-Rashani way. Enemy or not, he did not deserve such awful pain, but he also does not deserve to bear it any longer. Please, Arc, show him mercy.”
Arc looked down on the collapsed Zulkar, his insides turning in on themselves. Even the animal wanted no part in this, seeing no benefit in the act. But maybe it was the right thing to do. He got the sense it would be what Marissa would have done in his place.
He reached behind the Zulkar, hearing the quiet, raspy breaths from beneath the helmet. Arc feared to remove it, to see what ghastly damage Alis had done to the soldier’s face, so he left the helmet in place. He pulled the sword from its sheath, steeling himself for what must be done.
* * *
“Let’s take it from the top!” Barnes roared at the top of his lungs, striding across the limited space within the very cramped Moonsaber. It was a wonder he didn’t tread on any toes with all the mercenaries crammed together. Armoured shoulders bumped with every shifting stance, and physical contact was nearly impossible to avoid with wall-to-wall mercs. Marissa herself could barely see the lieutenant-commander through the forest of taller fighters that had sprouted up around her.
“Our goal is to infiltrate the enemy ship and retrieve the hostages we have reason to believe are being held aboard,” he continued, loud and authoritative. “The hostages are, in no particular order: Arc Rhapsody, a human male of about six feet, and the husband of our lovely Ms. Rhapsody.” Barnes somehow picked Marissa out from the crowd and gave a nod. “The second is Alis, Daughter of Cire, a Rashani—blonde, roughly five-seven. We also have an older human gentleman named Gerald Osterly, and the Aquila diplomat Dae Trem.”
He paused for a short breath before going on. “We cannot be certain that any of them are still alive, but we’re sure as hell going to find out. Just remember, this is a rescue mission—kicking ass comes second, got that?”
There was a general murmur of agreement from the mercs. Twenty of them had been stuffed into the Moonsaber, all human. Trying to fit even a single Phal and its spiny back into the small ship would have been a nightmare. Marissa was boxed into a corner beside Mela, who was either meditating or snoozing. They’d exchanged about three words since they’d boarded the ship, all of them awkward. It was hard to find common ground when coming from such different lives.
“Once we’ve boarded, our engagement strategy is simple—we secure the docking area, clear out the enemy, and then a small squad will push into the ship to find the hostages. Ms. Rhapsody, you’ll want to be in that squad, won’t you?”
Marissa lifted her head, surprised to be addressed directly. “Yes, that’s right.”
“I would like to join them as well,” Mela said, as if she’d always been part of the conversation. “If my Sister is alive, I will be able to find her. My senses will speed up our search considerably.”
Barnes nodded and swept his eyes across the mercs. “You get all that? Ms. Rhapsody and Sister Mela will be joining the search party. Now this is very important: they are VIPs—that stands for don’t fucking lose them. Both of them can handle themselves in a fight, but that doesn’t mean you get to slack off. Keep them safe, and they’ll keep you safe—that’s called a symbiotic relationship, soldiers!”
The mercs confirmed their grasp of ecology with a cheer. Marissa almost blushed at their enthusiasm. She’d never thought anyone would be so pumped to help her.
Barnes tapped his boot on the floor to quiet them. “Once the hostages have been secured, our next move will be to escort them safely back to the Moonsaber. After that, we will make a judgment based on enemy resistance. If we stand a good chance of winning, I’ll give the go-ahead to take the ship. Otherwise, we’ll pack up and fly back to the Valiance.”
More cheers from the mercs, with a little extra from Marissa. It sounded like a good plan, though it probably wouldn’t go as Barnes said. Without knowing exactly what they were fighting, any plans were essentially elaborate guesswork. If Mela’s theory about the enemy having laser weaponry was true, things might go bad very quickly, maybe before they even got off the ship. She just had to hope she could get her feet on the floor, and then she’d fight as hard as she could.
“All right,” Barnes said, breathing in sharply. “From the top!”
The mercs let out a collective groan, which Marissa may have contributed to. They’d gone through this twice now, but Barnes was determined to hammer it into their heads.
The lieutenant-commander frowned. “Don’t give me that, kids. The more you hear it, the better you’ll remember it. Now, third time’s the charm.”
Othus’ charming voice chimed in from the cockpit. “That won’t be necessary, Commander. We’re coming within range of the enemy’s guns. I’m going to need to do some careful manoeuvring, so I’d appreciate some quiet while I focus. Once this starts, we’ll be onboard in no time, so maybe you should be getting ready.”
Barnes’ mouth became a thin line, his face colouring. “Very well. Good luck, Mr. Othus.”
“I don’t need luck,” the pilot responded in a cheery tone, “just my own skill and some of Rasha’s favour. Here we go!”
One of the more disorienting things about artificial gravity is the lack of movement, or rather the lack of feeling of movement. Marissa had once gone on a cruise with Arc around some tropical islands near Aegis’ equator; while the journey had been smooth and relaxing, she had still felt the boat moving under her feet, rocking from large waves or tilting as it changed course. You didn’t get that with artificial gravity—down was wherever the ship’s floor was, and it stayed that way no matter what. Othus could have flipped the ship upside down, and Marissa would have never noticed. The approach to the enemy ship felt the same as the rest of the flight; completely still. She could have opened one of the shutters to get a peek outside, but the dissonance between the lack of movement and the twirling starscape would probably just upset her stomach.
While they waited for the signal from Othus that they’d landed, aware that the enemy might at any moment blow a hole in the Moonsaber and make them all very dead, the crew prepared for battle. Every merc had a needle rifle hanging from their shoulder and a sword folded into their belt, and each set about loading rounds and sharpening blades. Though they were normally reasonably talkative, a heavy silence had consumed the ship, as if the vacuum had already pierced the hull. Maybe nothing else needed to be said; a battle was coming, and it was almost certain that some of them wouldn’t live through it. Better to focus on the coming ordeal than to distract each other with idle chatter.
Marissa, who often spent the time before a fight joking around with her friends, found it hard to take on that mindset. Even on Augerium, where every fight had been to the death, she often entered the arena with a conversation with one of her interchangeable masters half-finished. It was not in her nature to be quiet; Arc had told her that once, meaning it with earnest admiration.
Mela had resumed her meditation/nap, eyes closed and expression empty. That silver ball she used had appeared in her hands when Marissa hadn’t been looking, and the Rashani held it tightly between her palms, as if it might try to escape.
Marissa risked interrupting her, speaking in a low voice. “Hey, um, your honourableness?”
Mela opened her eyes. “Yes?”
“How close do you have to be to feel this other Rashani?” It was important information; the sooner they could find Alis, the sooner they could hopefully find Arc.
“Not too close,” Mela said, surprisingly not annoyed by the interruption. “Once we’re on board, I’m certain I can find her.”
Marissa beamed. “Great—that’s great! So, um, there was something else I wanted to ask.”
Mela raised an eyebrow. “Don’t hesitate.”
“Those kids back on the Valiance,” Marissa said, treading carefully. “What happens to them if you, uh…”
“If I die,” Mela finished with a slight frown. “I had been trying not to think about it, but it must be considered. They must be returned to Utopia, preferably by Othus, or Alis if she survives. Someone who can vouch for how I died—otherwise some Rashani are bound to blame Vis’ presence for it, and possibly Nue as well. It’s a troubling thought, leaving those two without someone to care for them. They are still young and naive to the ways of the galaxy.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you,” Marissa said, quickly. “I guess the best solution to your problem would be to make sure you don’t die. I bet we could pull that off. But if you don’t make it, and I do… I’ll get them home.”
Mela smiled—a genuine, warm smile. “And you actually mean it, too. Thank you. By Rasha’s grace, may we both get through this safely.”
“I’m all for that,” Marissa said, grinning.
The faint hum of the Moonsaber’s engines began to slow, slipping beneath human hearing. That meant the ship itself was slowing down. Barnes slowed his pacing to match, and the mercs tensed around him.
“Holy shit!” Othus shouted, loud enough for every passenger to hear. “The airlock’s actually open! OK, I’m going in—Rasha be with us!”
Barnes rapped his fist against the ceiling like he was leading a cheer. “It’s playtime, kids! Everyone grab your toys and get ready to hit the playground!”
The mercs applauded with their own hammering, one fist against the ceiling and the other lifting their rifles in salute. They assembled into four rows, each five mercs long. Marissa went to join them, but Barnes stopped her with a raised hand.
“You and Mela should stay in the back,” he said, his expression unusually serious. “Let my guys lead the charge. They’ll give you cover, in case our enemy has any nasty surprises in store.”
“You’re putting them at risk,” Marissa said, genuinely concerned. No one was expendable, not to her.
Barnes scratched at the stubble on his cheek self-consciously. “It’s their job to be at risk. Please, just keep back until we’ve secured our position.”
Marissa shrugged. “No promises, but I’ll try.”
Barnes looked like he wanted to argue, but he nodded reluctantly. “Guess that’ll have to do. Just do me one favour—you see a gun, duck.” He strode to the front of the formation to face the exit hatch, sliding his red and white helm over his head.
“Get ready.” Othus had switched over to the ship’s communications system, and his voice blasted over the speakers. “We’re about to set down, and oh boy, are they ready for us!”
Marissa took her place at the back of the formation, where the tall mercs formed a barrier in front of her. Mela stepped in beside her, running her fingers along the surface of her Lucidil. They shared a glance, a small nod, and Marissa felt her confidence in their success grow as she secured her helmet. They could do this; with twenty mercs, a Rashani, and Marissa Rhapsody herself, how could they not?
Something pinged against the outside of the hull. Another followed, and then many more, sounding like heavy rain against a window. Othus’ voice piped up again: “Uh, yeah—they’re not too happy to see us. We’ve landed and are taking fire. I’m just going to pull down the forward shutter so I don’t get shot. Good luck out there, and tell me how it goes!”
A crack of light opened around the exit hatch, then expanded, like the sun rising over the horizon. Barnes raised his gun into firing position, then lifted his other hand to his troops. “Wait a moment.” The hatch slid away, and the ramp quickly slid down to meet the floor of the hangar. The sound of gunfire permeated the air, needles rattling off the front of the Moonsaber.
“All right Inferno Company, let’s burn!” Barnes threw his hand down, and then charged. The rest of the formation followed at his heels, giving one last battle-cry as they crossed the threshold.
Marissa didn’t hesitate. She charged down the ramp and into the battle, the song of gunfire mixing with the hammering rhythm of her heart to make a new yet familiar soundtrack. She hit the floor and raised her spear to pierce the nearest foe, only to find herself facing the starry void. The exit hatch opened out of the back of the Moonsaber, and the airlock stood open before her, with only the faint shimmer of an air-shield to protect her.
She felt a building nausea at the thought, and skirted around the side of the vessel to find the battle she’d expected. The mercs had already rounded the ramp and engaged the enemy, so Marissa seized the opportunity to take stock of their adversaries. Their murky green armour was unfamiliar, but their lengthy limbs told her all she needed to know; Zulkar. They danced nimbly about the hangar, using their long reach to attack while avoiding merc blades.
Both sides had firing teams raining needles on the small battlefield the hangar provided. The mercs crouched in the shadow of the Moonsaber’s wings, each individual firing at regular intervals so that there was never a point where a rifle wasn’t rattling. The Zulkar had taken a slightly different approach; they too had a ship, an oval-shaped vessel almost as big as the Moonsaber. But where the mercs used their ship for cover, the Zulkar firing squad had formed a ring around their own, exposing themselves to both enemy fire and the sword-wielding mercs fighting their way towards them. Marissa glanced behind her; Mela had been less enthusiastic with her charge, but now she stepped off the ramp, her Lucidil shaped into a long, thin rapier.
Mela spent a mere second taking in the battle. “I assume that vessel is their only means of escape.”
“Seems like they’re giving up pretty early,” Marissa said, surprised at the Rashani’s quick perceptions. “We’ve only just got here.”
“These people operate through secrecy and caution—they struck at the Consortium without being detected, then went out of their way to try and erase any trace of their presence there. They bear no clear allegiance, and likely have no official title within the Empire. Now that they’ve been found out, it is only in their character that they would protect a means of retreat. Don’t think they’ve surrendered just yet—I sense deception in these cowards.” Mela spoke this all with a hint of distaste, her cold gaze sweeping over the Zulkar.
Marissa understood the feeling. “Animals are always most dangerous when backed into a corner. Don’t worry—I know all about desperation and dirty tricks. Now, maybe we should be helping?”
A flash of steel caught her eye, and she spied Barnes in the heart of the battle, swinging his sword in quick but careful motions. A Zulkar grabbed for the lieutenant-commander, but the shorter warrior dove beneath the reptile’s grasp and lifted his sword in an upwards arc. The steel scraped against the Zulkar’s armour, leaving a long gash across the torso, but it left no wounds. Barnes hardly seemed to care; with the Zulkar momentarily caught off-guard, he kicked him square in the stomach, and the murk-green warrior toppled backwards like a tree. That exemplified one advantage humans had over Zulkar; the spindly reptiles were so spread out that a strong hit could easily knock them off-balance. Barnes dove after his opponent, disappearing into the swarm of clashing fighters, but Marissa was confident he’d be all right.
She adjusted her grip on her spear, tucking the shaft under her arm so she could hold it steady while she charged. When she’d been a servant girl, she’d sometimes snuck a peek into the books her masters left laying around. One had contained an image from Augerium’s distant past; a sketch of an armoured Darem holding a lance and charging into battle riding a lumpy, four-legged creature. The drawing had stuck with her all these years, especially the way the warrior had held his weapon, and Marissa had adopted it into her own fighting style. She didn’t need a charging animal to put force behind it, either.
Before she could get going, Mela threw an arm in front of her, gesturing down an open corridor off to one side of the fray. “Perhaps we should save time and seek out the hostages. I have faith that Barnes’ soldiers can win this battle by themselves.”
Marissa faltered, meeting the Rashani’s calculating expression. “You sure about that? We could beat them now and not have to worry about getting shot in the back. Unless you feel something?”
Mela nodded gravely, eyes losing focus for a moment. “I sense Alis, I think. Only, she’s weak, and in a great deal of pain. I’m worried. Aren’t you?”
Marissa flushed with shame. One of those hostages was the man she loved, but here she was, looking for a fight. In that moment she sort of understood why Arc was so distant with her when it came to fighting. She didn’t think of herself as bloodthirsty, but sometimes the desire for a good clash was worryingly strong.
“Of course I’m worried,” she stammered, letting the tip of her spear rest against the floor. “But Barnes laid out a plan—shouldn’t we follow it?”
“I respect the lieutenant-commander, but I can see right now that splitting his forces will mean defeat. He needs those troops here.” Mela smiled, faintly. “I’d say the two of us can manage on our own. Don’t you agree?”
Marissa rested a hand against one of the Moonsaber’s landing struts, her mind working through her conflicting desires. The battle raged before her, and a few more steps would plunge her into the thick of it. Which was to say that anywhere she was would become the thick of it. Since they’d left many mercs back on the Valiance, the Zulkar outnumbered the mercs by at least a dozen, but some had already fallen and the Inferno troops didn’t look like they would be stopping anytime soon. One merc cut down a Zulkar as Marissa watched, but her blade caught between the green armoured plates as another foe charged her from her other side. In mere seconds, the merc removed the rifle slung over her shoulder and held it sideways between her hands to block the second Zulkar’s sword, then leapt back and opened fire directly into his visor. At that range, the rapid-fire needles punctured the helm and sent the Zulkar stumbling backwards, screaming hellishly.
Marissa lowered her gaze. “Let’s go.” She lifted her spear upwards, resting the shaft against her shoulder, and walked beneath the cover of the Moonsaber. Mela kept pace with her, apparently unhindered by her robes, her Lucidil spreading out into a shield as they came within range of the Zulkar rifles. Marissa stepped behind her for protection. The corridor out of the hangar stood open and unprotected, the nearest Zulkar engaged in battle. She readied her spear, poking it just beneath the shield so she could use it while in cover.
“We’re going to charge it, OK?” she whispered.
Mela nodded.
Marissa took a breath, then gave the Rashani a soft nudge as a signal. They sprinted as one, skimming the edge of the battle. Needles bounced harmlessly off Mela’s shield, sounding like tinkly music to Marissa’s ears. Her spear narrowly missed a Zulkar, grazing the side of his shoulder before they’d passed on. Marissa thought nothing of it, only to suddenly feel his hand clamp down on her shoulder. She stopped and thrust the back end of her spear behind her. It struck the Zulkar in the chest, hard enough to crack the armour, and a kick knocked him off his feet. She turned back to Mela, only to realize that she was gone. She looked about frantically, desperately hoping she hadn’t just exposed herself to the Zulkar firing squad.
Thankfully, Mela’s blue robes stood out among the colours of the other fighters, and Marissa spotted her at the threshold to the corridor, looking back in bewilderment. She started to come back, but Marissa held up a hand to stop her; no need to put them both in danger. Taking a deep breath, she sprinted with all her might towards the corridor. A few needles struck against her armour, the impacts painful but bearable. Another Zulkar, stumbling with a wound in his side, reached out to stop her, but Marissa elbowed him aside and pressed on. She ducked into the corridor, letting out her breath as Mela shielded her back.
“Are you all right?” Mela asked.
Marissa nodded, panting. “Yeah, no sweat.”
“I should have thought to tell Barnes we were going ahead,” Mela said.
Marissa touched the communicator in her ear. “Barnes, Mela and I are going on ahead. Keep the hangar warm for us.”
No response. She turned to her companion and shrugged.
Mela glanced back to the hangar, eyes narrowing. “I can’t be certain, but he’s likely preoccupied. We should go.”
“I’ll go first,” said Marissa, finally catching her breath. “Watch my back and try to point me in the right direction.”
They walked closely together, a two-woman formation, shuffling cautiously but steadily down the corridor. Compared to the bombastic alarm on the Valiance, this ship’s was more subdued. There was no noise, at least not anymore, only the occasional dull red flash from the overhead lights. There was something unnerving about that, as if these Zulkar weren’t all that worried about this attack. Then again, that seemed in keeping with the self-assured smugness Marissa had come to expect from Imperials.
The corridor split once, twice. The ship’s layout seemed to form into diamond patterns, nothing like a Kinship design. Mela would point her down one path, and the sound of running feet would come from the opposite side, narrowly avoided. The first time, Marissa looked over her shoulder to find the source, only to see Mela’s eyes boring into her.
“Keep focused,” she said. “I’ll know if they try to come up from behind.”
“Right.” Marissa turned back as another split loomed near. That Rashani sense must be very helpful, but it was hard to get used to how Mela just seemed to know things.
They stopped before another fork and Marissa waited for guidance. Doors stood open in either hall, leading into what looked like sleeping quarters; small, tidy, empty. Mela stood in the very centre of the intersecting corridors, her eyes losing focus. Someone shouted further ahead, but Marissa only caught a few snippets of Imperial cursing. She couldn’t say where it had come from either, but she had a feeling that they’d find out soon enough if they dawdled there.
“Which way?” she asked, resisting the urge to shake the Rashani.
Mela lifted a hand to her temple. “It’s becoming cluttered. Alis is in so much pain. We need to find her quickly.” She started down one path, then paused and about-faced down the other way. “This way, I think. Have your weapon ready.”
Marissa didn’t need to be told that. She followed and took the lead again when she’d caught up. She didn’t like the idea of letting Mela being the first to go; Rashani or not, those robes had nothing on a good suit of armour.
A soft step came from around the next bend, and Mela jolted to a stop. “One ahead, quite frustrated. I’m not sure if he knows we’re here yet.”
Marissa bid her stay with a motion of her hand, then crept forward. She moved in a half-crouch, her head bowed low enough to press her cheek against the shaft of her spear. That was what saved her from taking a blow full in the face as the Zulkar cast his weapon out from the side-room she’d been passing. The weapon, whatever it was, whooshed over her head, and Marissa quickly scuttled backwards.
The Zulkar stepped out of hiding and into the corridor, the overhead lights casting a sheen over his green armour. His weapon dragged across the floor as he walked, rattling loudly in the quiet halls. Marissa recognized it from several fights in the arena, although those had been of a lower quality; a krigot, five rods of hard metal that measured about the length of a human forearm each, linked by a long chain running through their middles into a single whip-like appendage. The Zulkar had the first two rods wrapped around his own forearm, and lifted the limb to grab the dangling end with his free claw.
A low hiss emanated from beneath his helm. “I’ve found some!” he exclaimed suddenly, speaking in Imperial.
More cries responded from back the way she and Mela had come, and the Rashani sighed softly. So much for avoiding a fight.
“Can you handle this one?” Mela asked, her Lucidil shifting back into a rapier.
Marissa nodded, a little confused. “What are you going to do?”
“Hold the others off,” Mela replied. “I only mean to slow them, so deal with this obstacle quickly. Goodbye, for now.” She was gone before Marissa could protest, running with sleek grace back around the bend.
The krigot rattled as the Zulkar stepped forward, rolling his shoulders. “Face me, human. You and your comrades must be punished for dirtying His Lordship’s vessel with your presence.”
“Why don’t you take that fancy toy of yours and shove it up your ass?” Marissa replied, her Imperial still near-perfect.
The Zulkar huffed, pulling the krigot taut between his claws. “Just the type of vulgarity I’d expect from a Kinship wretch. I’m not surprised a human can’t understand the traditional tools of a Zulkar warrior. Perhaps you will learn to respect its strength as I use it to bludgeon you to death.”
Without warning, he lashed out, swinging the krigot in a wide arc. Marissa lifted her spear just in time, catching the force of the blow along the shaft. The krigot’s momentum sent it twisting around the spear, holding it in a tight grip. The Zulkar pulled sharply on his end of the weapon, yanking it and the spear out of Marissa’s hands before she could react. Her weapon hit the floor as the krigot unwound, and she dove for it.
The Zulkar chortled and kicked the spear behind him and out of Marissa’s reach, then lifted a knee up into her chin. Marissa started back, pain burning along her jaw. As she tried to stand, the Zulkar reached out and looped the krigot around her neck. Still a little dazed, Marissa tried to break free, spinning around to face away from the Zulkar, but she still felt a cold metal bar pressing tight against her throat, cutting off her breath. She fumbled to get a grip on the strange weapon, but the fingers of her gauntlets were too thick to get between it and her throat.
The Zulkar lowered his head next to her ear. “How does it feel? To have your breath stolen from you—I imagine it’s quite unpleasant. It takes a human between five to ten minutes to suffocate, but I am willing to wait.”
Marissa had a few things to say to that, but given the lack of oxygen, simply clenched her teeth instead. With a quick jerk of her head, she slammed the back of her helmet against the Zulkar’s. It hurt, but it was nothing compared to head-butting Zurn, and she was pretty sure the crack she heard was from the helmet, not her skull. The Zulkar’s head snapped back, and the krigot loosened slightly.
Marissa seized her moment to breathe, then grabbed hold of the Zulkar’s wrists. With a mighty heave, she pulled at his arms and quickly bent forward, hurling her opponent over her head. The Zulkar hit the floor hard, but recovered with surprising speed and righted himself. Marissa took a few steps back and retrieved her spear, hefting its familiar weight. She wouldn’t give the Zulkar another chance to take it from her.
The green warrior untangled the krigot and held it out before him, stretching it so that the chain went rigid. A claw tapped against one end, and the chain retracted, the rods snapping together into a staff about the length of Marissa’s spear. He twirled it in one hand, then folded his elbows to hold it across his chest in a guard position.
“The traditional tool of a Zulkar warrior?” Marissa said, doubtfully. She’d never seen a krigot do that before.
“His Lordship believes that tradition and innovation are not at odds, especially when it comes to combat,” the Zulkar replied.
“I wouldn’t call a big stick ‘innovative’, but OK.” Marissa didn’t make the same mistake she had done before by waiting for him to strike; she charged him, thrusting her spear out towards his chest.
The Zulkar sidestepped the strike, pressing himself up against the wall, then swung his staff in retaliation. Marissa reacted quickly, blocking with her spear, and then the two of them entered into the real duel. Most of the motion was in the upper body, twisting her spear one way or another to block strikes, but Marissa employed some quick footwork to keep up with the Zulkar’s long strides as he tried to manoeuvre around her. It was sort of like a dance, she thought giddily; the rush was kicking in, pushing her to hit harder and faster, but her partner couldn’t quite keep up. He lifted his staff to block too slowly and Marissa landed a hit on his shoulder with the bottom of her spear. What would have normally been a minor strike sent the Zulkar stumbling back until he hit the wall, sluggishly raising his staff to defend himself.
Marissa pressed her advantage, attacking again and again to the rapid rhythm of her racing heart. The Zulkar blocked about half her blows, the others hitting him with enough force to leave him gasping for breath. A momentary lapse in his defence gave Marissa her opportunity; she put both her arms into a thrust that pierced her enemy’s right shoulder and pinned him to the wall.
The Zulkar let out a shrill cry, dropping his staff, and clawed at the spear shaft futilely, hissing hysterically. “I surrender! Please have mercy!”
Marissa blinked, the fog of adrenaline clearing from her mind. She yanked the spear from the Zulkar’s shoulder and felt a tiny pang of guilt as violet blood gushed from the wound. The Zulkar clutched at his shoulder and slumped to the floor. He craned his neck to look up at her. No doubt about it; he was out of this fight.
She leaned forward and pulled his helmet off; the face beneath was rather young by Zulkar standards, barely a man but full of defiance. Marissa made a fist and struck the Zulkar in the side of the head. He went limp, his breath coming out in low rasps. She peeked into the room he’d been hiding in; another set of sleeping quarters, with a bunk bed and a cabinet in the corner. She stripped the corner off one of the bed sheets and bound the Zulkar’s wound, then awkwardly hoisted him over her shoulder and dropped him in the lower bunk.
Would he survive? Marissa couldn’t be sure with that wound, but she’d done more than he rightly deserved. If the mercs managed to take the ship, they would take the Zulkar prisoner and be obliged to treat him. She wondered why she’d even bothered, but deep down she knew she couldn’t refuse a request for mercy. If there was a chance to get out of a fight without killing, she’d take it.
Footsteps reached her ears as she stepped back into the corridor. She raised her spear, tip drenched in violet, expecting another murk-green soldier, then lowered it when she saw the blue robes. It was Mela, looking dishevelled and a little tired, striding towards her.
She stopped and bowed to Marissa. “I’m glad to see you well.”
Marissa peered down the way Mela had come from. “I thought you were going to hold them off. Were you outnumbered? How many?”
“There were three,” Mela answered, panting. “Now there aren’t. I got a little carried away.”
Marissa clapped the Rashani on the shoulder, grinning. “I can sympathize. Come on, let’s get going.”
They set off again, although at a slower pace than before. That fight had made it clear to Marissa that knowing where the enemy was hiding was not the same as defeating them. It would be a serious mistake to underestimate these Zulkar; at least some of them were skilled fighters. Not much farther into the ship’s inner corridors, Mela asked her to stop. Marissa hunkered down on her knee, scanning the way forward. There was another fork ahead, with a door in a wedge between the two paths. It was unmarked, just like the rest; did the crew get lost on this ship as well, or were they just expected to know where everything was? Marissa mused on the question as she sidled around to the side of the door.
“How many?” she whispered.
“Two,” Mela replied. “One of them—I think it might be Alis.”
A loud thump came from inside, followed by the crash of broken glass. Someone growled in frustration, and then heavy footsteps came stomping towards the door. Marissa tensed, motioning Mela to stand back. She tilted her spear upwards, planning to catch the Zulkar under the chin, then listened for the sound of the door sliding open before she struck.
The spear missed, the pointed tip thrusting above his ducked head. A strong hand closed around the shaft to hold it in place, and Marissa suddenly had the tip of a blade hovering an inch from her throat, its edge already stained with violet blood. She took in a quick breath and tensed to pull her spear free and step back, but then she locked eyes with her opponent and faltered. The sight of black eyes burning with intensity, and a scar running between them, left her breathless.
“My soul?” She gasped, letting go of her spear.
Arc’s eyes widened and he retracted the sword, tucking it into his belt. He took the spear in both hands, holding it out to her.
“Yours,” he said, his voice a hoarse croak.
Marissa took the spear and dropped it on the floor. She threw her arms around him, pulling him close to her. “Mine.”
They remained embracing for a few moments, their hearts hammering together. Arc didn’t seem to mind her hugging him in her armour, but Marissa was careful not to squeeze too hard. There were no words to describe the joy, the relief she felt at that moment; for that brief time, it felt as if her thoughts were drowning in a flood of euphoria.
It was Mela who destroyed the moment with a couple of footsteps and a cough. Arc’s arms reluctantly released Marissa, folding behind his back at the sight of the Rashani. His expression conveyed astonishment and disbelief.
“How did you get here?” he asked Marissa. “Did the Rashani bring you?”
Marissa shook her head. “No, we just sort of met up.”
“Then how…?”
“It is a long story,” Mela interrupted. “Forgive me, but I believe it would be prudent to return to the Moonsaber immediately. Reunions can wait a little longer. Now, is Alis with you?”
“Here,” spoke a whimpering voice. Arc stepped away from the doorway to reveal a young woman clothed in Rashani robes, though they were smudged with dirt, her blonde hair a rumpled mess. The room looked like some sort of medical station, and Alis was leaning against an oddly-shaped operating table. She pushed herself up with a grunt of exertion, then walked unsteadily towards them.
Mela rushed forward, just in time to catch Alis as she stumbled. She lifted her upright and placed a hand on her thin cheek. “Sister, what have they done to you?”
Alis cringed. “They put something in me—makes my head hurt all the time. Sister, please, do not touch my mind. It’s unbearably painful.”
“They’re developing some kind of anti-Rashani poison,” Arc explained. The voice was the same as always, brimming with power and confidence, but he carried himself differently, his shoulders slumping slightly. His dishevelled appearance and dirty clothes reminded Marissa unpleasantly of their Augerium days. “She’s been injected with it regularly, so I think its effects are only temporary. Taking her off of the stuff should allow her to recover, I hope. We thought we might find the rest of the poison here so we could destroy it, but they’ve cleaned the place out.”
“I-I’ll be all right,” Alis insisted, gently separating herself from Mela so she could stand on her own. “I’m already feeling not as horrible.”
“Are there any other survivors from the Consortium aboard?” Mela asked.
Arc’s expression hardened, the same way it did on TV when he told the worst of his stories. “Osterly is dead. He was—they butchered him right in front of me. As for Dae Trem, I haven’t seen him since we were locked up, but Shodus told me he’s alive.”
“Shodus?” Marissa removed her gauntlet and took Arc’s hand, sensing he wasn’t as well as he wanted her to think.
Arc squeezed her hand; a wordless thanks. “The one responsible for all of this. Another lord, Marissa, just as pompous as any other. He’s insane, but he knows where Trem is.”
“Then we’ll find him,” said Mela, “but not now. We must return you two to the Moonsaber. It will be safer for you there.”
Arc sighed. “I will fight, if I must.”
“Well, you don’t have to,” Marissa replied, sternly. “You’re the reason I’m here, Arc, and I’m not going to let you get hurt after coming this far. You’re going back to the ship, and then we’ll see about finding this Aquila guy.”
Arc was silent, his eyes shut tight as he thought. Marissa hated when he did that; without his eyes to focus on, his scar became much more noticeable. Eventually, he sighed and squeezed her hand again.
“OK, if you think that’s best.”
Mela threw her arm around Alis’s shoulders and led her back into the corridor. The trip back to the hangar would be a long one with Alis like this. Marissa gave a light tug on Arc’s arm, and they followed the Rashani.
“I thought you didn’t like fighting anymore,” she said as they walked.
“I never did, but I don’t think I have a choice right now, my soul,” Arc replied.
Marissa nodded; she couldn’t agree more. “That sword you have has blood on it.”
Arc cringed. “I don’t want to talk about that. It was mercy.”
Marissa read the pain in his eyes and dropped the subject. “Did they inject you with anything?”
“They didn’t do anything that I didn’t experience on Augerium,” Arc answered, staring straight ahead. He suddenly lowered his voice. “Please Marissa, I’ll tell you, but not now. I’d just like to walk beside you, if that’s all right.”
Marissa rested her spear against her shoulder, then leaned the other shoulder against Arc. “That’s perfectly fine with me.”