The showers were the one thing that Arc looked forward to every day, without any caveats that would lessen the experience. The food was always gritty and the beds were lumpy, but the showers did what they were supposed to, at least. The walls of the shower room were composed of square green tiles, while the floor was a clean white. Multiple lights hung from the ceiling, which made it the best lit room in the fighters’ quarters. It was also quite spacious, with room for at least twenty bodies and their personal spaces. Arc was alone; his reputation had earned him a separate bathing time, away from the other fighters.
That was just fine with him. The cold water flowed over him, washing away the dirt and dried blood from his wounds. The fresh cut across his face stung the most, but he’d never been bothered by a little pain. He stood with his face tilted up to the shower head, eyes closed as fire burned through the wound. Despite the pain, he still found the shower soothing; a reprieve from the struggle that was his life.
Footsteps padded softly behind him, and he turned to the intruder with a grunt of annoyance. That was usually enough to scare anyone, but when he laid eyes on her, he froze, surprised and a little bit terrified. She stood in the doorway, dressed in shorts and a sleeveless black shirt. Her eyes must have been as wide as his were, but her mouth was set in a tight line instead of gaping like his was. One hand gripped the doorway, fingers drumming on the green tiles.
They held each others’ stares for what felt like years, and Arc began to wonder if this was some kind of warning, a reminder to watch out for her. It’d been a common tactic used by champion fighters whenever Uqom had brought Arc to a new town, the only difference being that he actually felt intimidated this time. This small woman had held his life in her hand, and it was only by her mercy that he stood here now. Then, very slowly, she broke her gaze and her eyes wandered down, down, running over him until the tight line of her mouth lifted at the corners.
Arc felt a strange sensation, making his face grow warm and sending a prickling up his neck. “Do you want something?” he asked, flustered.
Her eyes snapped back up to his face. “Maybe I want to take a shower.”
Arc gave her a level stare. “Someone must have told you about me.”
She nodded. “I was warned to stay away from you.” She tilted her head, a quizzical look on her face. “He said you were feral. Said you were like a wild animal that tore apart anyone who got too close.”
“Who is ‘he’?” Arc asked.
She wrinkled her nose. “The guy who owns me now—hell if I remember his name.”
“You should take his advice.” Arc turned away. That should be enough. He ran his fingers through his hair, raking out the grime, then peeked over his shoulder. She was still there, and that made him very nervous.
She took a single step into the room, her brow furrowing. “Your name is Arc, isn’t it? I had to ask a lot of people to find that out. Most here just call you ‘that vicious bastard’.”
Arc turned back around, cursing himself for foolishly exposing his back to her. “That’s right. What of it?”
“My name’s Marissa.” She spoke in an oddly pleasant tone. “I beat you, Arc. You don’t scare me.”
“Good for you,” he replied, irritated. What did she want from him? Why couldn’t he be left in peace?
Marissa frowned, folding her arms. “You don’t believe me?”
“I don’t care!” Arc growled. He just wanted her to go, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her. He was too frightened at how she might react.
Marissa nodded, eyeing a shower head in the corner of the room. “All right, go back to what you’re doing, then.” She abandoned the doorway entirely, walking across the white tiles, but away from Arc.
Arc turned back to the steady stream of water from his own shower head, unsure if he’d won, or if this was more of this woman’s mercy. He rubbed the tiny sliver of abrasive soap across his arms, wincing as it scratched at the most recent cuts and trying to ignore the potential threat in the room with him. The water dripped into his ears, muffling his hearing; would he sense her sneaking up on him in this state? She could be behind him right now, about to thrust a shiv into his neck.
He snuck another look over his shoulder, and the heat returned. She had removed her clothes, and a part of Arc instinctively scoured her body, taking in the sculpt of her. As he worked his way up from her backside, following the inverse arch of her back before crossing her chest and her toned arms, he eventually found her deep brown eyes, and saw that they were making a similar journey up his body. A hint of red spread across her cheeks as their eyes met.
“Do you want something?” She tried to play it off as a joke, but Arc sensed the first suggestion of anxiety in her voice.
At that time, he didn’t have the mental faculties to make anything of it. He held her look for a long moment, head empty and an inferno raging within him. His experience with women was very limited, in every sense, and the few impressions he’d gained from a distance were that they were frail things, more likely to cry and cower in fear than fight, and thus of little interest or concern to him. But this one was different; there were things about her that grabbed at his attention, demanded it.
Among a swirl of conflicting emotions, he managed to stammer out a question. “Why did you give me mercy?”
Marissa bit her lip, but said nothing. The hiss of the showers became the only sound in the room, and Arc couldn’t help but notice the paths the water traced along the woman’s body.
At last, she shook her head. “I don’t like killing, I guess. I mean, why kill if I don’t have to?”
“But you do, if you want to survive,” Arc said, perplexed.
“But I didn’t, and I’m still alive,” Marissa replied, smiling warmly. “Our fight was pretty close though, wasn’t it? You’re pretty tough. I wasn’t sure I was going to win that time.”
“I’m never sure. I just hope.” Arc didn’t know why he’d said that; he hardly bothered with talk most of the time, but he felt strangely compelled to keep the conversation going. If he didn’t, she might stop talking to him.
Marissa raised an eyebrow, then turned off her shower. Without a word, she strode across the room. Arc backed up as she came to stand under his shower head without a hint of self-consciousness. She lifted her head to look up at him, dropping her voice. “If we’re being honest, I didn’t want to be the only human here, either. Most of the fighters would rather spit on me than talk. That’s why I’m here now instead of when everyone else showers. Plus, I really, really don’t want to see what a naked Zulkar or Phal looks like.”
Arc looked down on the short woman, stunned by her boldness. No one had ever dared approach him like that, and he was surprised at himself for not lashing out. Her hair was a chestnut brown, although it had accumulated some dirt. Arc knew all about that; even lying around in his mostly stone cell somehow drew the filth to him. He dipped his head back under the stream momentarily, letting it cool. Marissa did the same, raking her small yet strong fingers through her hair. She looked up at him again, smiling, and Arc’s mouth curved involuntarily.
She lifted a hand, and Arc tensed. Instinct told him to get away, to retreat before she could hurt him. The cunning animal in him said to strike first to ensure his safety at any cost. But something else, his heart, maybe, kept him still as Marissa laid her palm against his cheek. Her finger gently grazed the mark across his nose, and he flinched.
“It hurts?” Marissa frowned.
“A little.” He was barely able to get the words out.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—sometimes I forget my own strength.” She stuck out her lower lip, eyes bright. “Well, you’re still handsome, at least. Let’s count our blessings.”
Arc stepped away, feeling a light sensation in his stomach, as if it had been filled like a balloon. He couldn’t trust her, he reminded himself. It didn’t matter how friendly she was, or how he was feeling; nothing good came from bothering with other people.
Marissa seemed to understand, retracting her hand. There was something sad in her expression, but she mustered another smile and went back to showering in earnest. Arc felt a pang, a sense of something lost, but he shrugged it aside and went back to washing himself at the next shower over. His time was probably nearly up, anyway; Uqom would be around any minute now to call him back to his cell, if he wasn’t too drunk. He lathered and rinsed, trying to ignore the woman beside him, then shut the water off. He picked the towel off the bench in the centre of the room and, in his irritable state, put only a couple of seconds into drying his hair, so that little droplets still hung from his damp bangs.
Marissa caught him as he was putting on his pants. “You’re not a very good fighter, you know.”
Arc’s eyes narrowed on her. “What?”
Marissa stepped out of the shower stream and placed her hands on her hips, somehow managing to look down on him despite being a head shorter. “Don’t misunderstand, you fought hard, but you didn’t fight well. There was no skill there, just attack after attack—mindless berserker stuff. It’s scary, but it didn’t take me long to see through it and start noticing how vulnerable it left you.”
Arc scowled. “I don’t care about that shit!” He’d always thought he was a pretty clever fighter.
“You should, if you want to survive,” Marissa said, not reacting to his raised voice at all. “Look, I’m not the most graceful fighter myself, but I managed to beat you, and that means someone else—someone less merciful—might beat you again. You need to practice being more defensive, so you don’t get any more scars on that pretty face of yours.”
Arc still felt a dull throb from the wound, and he winced as it was pulled to the front of his thoughts. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I need a sparring partner. What do you say? Every morning, before the others are up, we have a few practice rounds, test our mettle against each other. We can help each other survive by getting better.”
Arc narrowed his eyes further, scrutinizing her. Was this a trap? If it was, he couldn’t see how it was supposed to work. “I tried to kill you. Why would you trust me?”
Marissa shrugged. “Because I have no one else to trust. We’re both human, and that makes us the most hated fighters here. Either we stick together, or we’re both on our own. Yeah, you tried to kill me, but I forgive you.”
Arc began to feel sick. It was a tiny point of pain, right in the centre of his stomach, and he didn’t know what to make of it. He didn’t know what to make of Marissa, for that matter. “I’ll think about it,” he grunted, pulling his shirt on.
“Think quickly,” Marissa insisted. “Meet me tomorrow in the arena at sunrise, if you’re up for it.”
He’d spent that night wrestling with that idea, weighing his options. The animal insisted that there was the potential for harm if he went, and that there was no clear benefit that he couldn’t get from practising alone. But the encounter in the showers had awakened another voice in him, one that insisted there was a very clear benefit in practising with Marissa: he would get to spend more time with her and learn more of her strange ways. The two voices had warred through the dark hours of the night, robbing him of a sound sleep. When sunrise came, he was completely exhausted, and he spent less than a minute on his feet in their first round together.
* * *
Arc awoke from the damp air of a shower room to the warmth of a bed. It was a real bed too, with sheets and a mattress and a warm body curled up against him. He looked fondly at Marissa, wondering how a memory ten years old could feel so fresh. He traced his scar with his finger; the wound had healed a couple of weeks after that day, but he could still recall the flash of red and the sudden pain as if it were happening all over again.
He slowly turned onto his side, careful not to wake Marissa from her well-deserved sleep. The room the captain had lent them was barely a step above the crew quarters, but it was a luxury suite compared to the many cells he’d left behind. Marissa had made it her own in the two weeks she’d been aboard, and the light smell of her in the air made it easy for Arc to settle in.
The minutes after Shodus’ escape had been tense and nerve-wracking; not at all how he’d thought their reunion would go. The mercs had been left in shambles, with their on-site commander dead in addition to over half their number, so it had fallen to Mela to take command of the situation. A few had possessed the foresight to take medical supplies with them when they’d disembarked from the Moonsaber, and Arc had helped to stabilize the severely wounded. It had been gruesome work, and he shuddered at the memory of a young man dying as he tended to him. Marissa had joined in the effort at some point, kneeling beside him in miserable silence. Arc hadn’t prodded; this Barnes had clearly been a friend. It never took her long to make more of them.
With the most urgent work done, they’d used the ship’s communications array to get in contact with the Valiance, giving them the all-clear to approach. Another twenty mercs had surged onboard the minute the ship had docked, and the rest of it was a bit of a blur as Arc and the others had been rushed onto the Valiance. At some point he’d ended up in this room, wrapped in Marissa’s embrace, but the rest he couldn’t be sure of.
Marissa sighed softly behind him, and he felt an arm drape over his shoulder. “Morning.”
Arc reached up and gave her hand a squeeze. “Sorry—didn’t mean to wake you.”
“No, it’s fine. Something was bound to wake me eventually.” Her voice was sluggish, lacking energy. “What do you think of the ship?”
“This is one of Papos’ ships, right?” Arc had noticed many similarities with the Rhapsody.
“Mm-hm,” Marissa replied. “He hired the mercs as well—said he owed you for all the favours you’ve done for him.”
Arc felt a pang of guilt. “Secret’s out, huh? I should’ve told you.”
“You should’ve,” Marissa agreed, yawning. “Why didn’t you?”
Arc searched for an answer and realized he didn’t have a good one prepared. “I assumed you wouldn’t care, and I worried telling might lead to trouble for you if I was found out.”
Marissa shifted upwards, poking her head over his shoulder. “That’s a stupid reason. Why wouldn’t I care? I was a slave too.”
Arc couldn’t bring himself to meet her eye. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“I do,” Marissa said, irritably. “It’s because I became a gladiator. You think I’ve betrayed you somehow, because in your mind sport events are the same as slave-fighting.”
Arc was quiet; there was nothing to be said. She was right. They were one soul, and she knew his thoughts, perhaps better than he did. That was somehow both reassuring and irritating. “I understand the distinction.”
Marissa’s expression softened and she shifted to plant a kiss on his cheek. “You’re lucky I’m so happy to see you alive, or I’d be really mad.”
Arc let himself smile, then turned his face to press his lips against hers. “I couldn’t be happier to be with you again. How are you feeling?”
Marissa’s expression faltered, and her head sank back down behind his shoulder. “I don’t know. Barnes was… I didn’t know him long, but he left a strong impression. He was a good teacher, and I can see why the mercs followed him. I’ll miss him, I think.”
Arc slid a leg out of bed and used it to leverage the rest of his body out from under the sheets. “He sounded like an interesting guy. I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet him.” He stretched and went to the closet. A few sets of bland shirts and pants hung inside, spares from the mercs, and Arc picked one at random to put on. It was nowhere near as stylish as the suits he normally wore, but it fit, so he wasn’t going to complain.
Marissa remained in bed, pulling the sheets tight around her. The image of the blankets draped over her figure caught in Arc’s mind; it was the sort of scene artists painted centuries ago, when the female form had been considered the epitome of beauty. Had he the skills and materials, he would’ve immortalized her himself. “Are you going to get up?”
“What for?” Marissa asked, stretching her arms and legs to claim the space he’d vacated.
“I’m certain the captain will want to discuss what we’re going to do next.” Arc cracked his neck. It felt good to be out of that cell, to be able to move. Maybe he would take up jogging when this was all sorted out, maximize his time outdoors.
Marissa sighed. “What’s there to talk about? We came out here to find you. That was what Papos sent this ship out to do, and what he paid the mercs for. We’ve got you now, so we’re going home.”
“But we can’t,” Arc insisted. “Shodus is still out there, and he has Dae Trem. Do you know how it will look to the Aquila if I turn up without him? Or worse, if Shodus succeeds in twisting Trem’s mind to say what he wants? Any chance of a treaty with them would be destroyed, and we’d have a war on our hands!”
Marissa yawned again. “You’re a diplomat—you’ll talk things out. We’ve got witnesses who can back you up on what happened here. Things will work out. Let the Aquila send out the soldiers—without us.”
Arc couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This couldn’t be his Marissa; the kind, caring woman he’d married would never say something so callous. “You’d just abandon someone who needs our help? What about Shodus? He killed Barnes and is responsible for the other mercs’ deaths. Are you going to let that go unpunished? You were ready to tear his head off yesterday.”
“Yesterday,” Marissa said, soft as a sigh. “I’ve had time to think about things since then. It’s pointless for us to get involved any longer. Barnes said himself there’s no point in revenge. So long as he stays out of our life, I don’t care about Shodus.”
Arc tried a different tack. “What about the mercs? I saw their commander’s face when she heard about Barnes.” The commander, an imposing woman named Fredrichs, had been the first one off the Valiance when it had docked with the Zulkar ship. Arc had recognized her type immediately, with a face and personality as hard and solid as rock. She’d held that demeanour in the face of the devastation in the hangar—the injured and dead mercs all around—keeping her emotions on a short leash. Then she’d seen her lieutenant’s body, and her resolve had seemed to collapse, her face becoming hollow. “They’re not going to stand for just letting Shodus go.”
“Well, they can go find him on their own time!” Marissa snapped, glaring at him.
Arc took a step back, chest tightening. “This is a serious matter, Marissa. What we do could affect the future of the galaxy. We have a responsibility to see this through.”
Marissa held her glare. “Responsibility? Where the hell did that come from? When we escaped, Papos told us that we were the only ones who could decide the course of our lives now. We’re supposed to be free to make our own choices, aren’t we? Well, I say we’re going home, back to the life we built together!”
Arc wanted to be angry, to be outraged at her callous attitude, but he’d lived the same past and understood her opinion, even if he didn’t agree with it. She was not a coward, just a woman who knew tragedy well and wanted no more of it. “Even freedom comes with responsibilities,” he sighed. “What’s wrong, my soul? I’ve never seen you like this.”
Marissa’s look softened to weariness. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so harsh. Things are just so… heavy right now.” She lowered her eyes. “I think I need another hour’s sleep. You go do what you want—I’ll catch up.”
Arc knelt beside the bed, meeting her eyes. “If that’s what you want.” He wrapped his arms around her and hugged tight, but she barely seemed to notice.
He stood, adjusting his clothes before stepping outside. As the door closed behind him, he looked back. Marissa hadn’t moved an inch, her eyes locked on the sheets on her lap. Arc had never seen her look so hopeless.
* * *
Vis stomped down the corridor, head clouded with irritated thoughts. The previous day had been nerve-wracking for him and Nue, and he still hadn’t entirely forgiven Mela for leaving them behind. Nue should have been there, learning from her Sikkat how to fight, and Vis should have been at her side to keep her safe. Instead, they’d spent the assault cooped up in their new quarters aboard the Valiance, both too anxious to speak. Knowing that Alis had been recovered, alive, only somewhat mitigated the anger he felt, and learning of Othus’ condition had undone that.
He kept his head down, walking by mercs who spoke in low, lethargic voices. A melancholy cloud had fallen over the crew since the attack, and Vis found their emotions nearly suffocating. He hurriedly rounded the bend, hoping to find the medical ward, but no such luck. The Valiance was large and strange to him, and he hadn’t yet gotten a good sense of where everything was.
He felt a nudge at the back of his brain and turned around. Nue came down the corridor after him, hands folded neatly in front of her. Vis waited for her to reach him, then mustered a smile. “You wouldn’t know where the medical ward is, would you?”
Nue pointed back the way they’d come. “You just missed it. It was the door on your right, not your left.”
Vis put a hand to his forehead. “Of course! Give me a fifty-fifty chance, and I’ll always choose wrong. Have you seen them?”
Nue nodded, her face becoming solemn. “Alis is quiet, mostly. She says she’s feeling better, but I don’t see her trying to get out of that bed. She winces if I so much as raise my voice above a whisper.”
“And Othus?” Oddly, Vis worried more for him than their Sister. Alis was a Rashani, and a childish part of him still held to the idea that they were invincible. Othus was but an ordinary man, and the way Mela had described the Moonsaber’s destruction, he’d only survived by the grace of Rasha.
Nue’s face scrunched in dismay. “He’s breathing. I think he said a couple of words, but I didn’t understand them. Maybe you should see him yourself—he’ll appreciate the visit.”
“I’ll do just that,” Vis replied, walking by her.
“Wait, Vis!” Nue’s command was more than just words; Vis felt a pull deep within himself, not forceful, but just strong enough to make him pause.
Nue cringed apologetically. “Sorry, I just wanted to ask a question. What have you been reading?”
Vis’ heart skipped a beat, and Nue must have felt the sudden spike of surprise. Did she suspect something? He breathed in, regaining command of himself and walling off his worry. “Oh, nothing, just some silly novel,” he said as casually as possible.
Nue’s eyes veered off down the corridor thoughtfully, then came back to him. “Oh. It’s just, well, you spent most of yesterday reading. I never knew you to be that dedicated a reader, but you looked almost possessed.”
Vis had been reading quite a bit. They had been waiting a long time to hear the news of Alis’ rescue, and he had clung to Rashani Reborn as other Rashani would cling to one of the holy texts. He’d submerged himself in Zira’s words, her sometimes harsh rhetoric and audacious proposals, just to keep his fears for his Sisters at bay. Consequently, he’d swum through a good chunk of the book and had begun to understand something about his mother, if she was his mother. He’d been taught that Zira had wanted to destroy the Rashani, to corrupt their most sacred tenets and reduce them to simple mercenaries, all out of some misguided spite. Having read her words for himself, Vis could see that clearly wasn’t true; despite the unconcealed anger in her writing, Zira had loved the Rashani. She hadn’t wanted to destroy them, and in fact she’d believed that her proposals for change would have saved the Enclave, warding off an encroaching stagnation. Vis had tried to read skeptically, resisting the heretical thoughts Zira was trying to put into his head, but he couldn’t deny that her logic was sound and her intentions well-meaning. He wasn’t completely taken with her ideas, but he couldn’t bring himself to entirely disagree, either.
Vis shrugged. “I was feeling anxious. Weren’t you? I didn’t know if we’d ever see Mela again, or if we’d be safe from the enemy while she was gone. I needed something to distract me.”
“I don’t think ‘distracted’ is a strong enough word for what you were,” Nue said, hands fidgeting with the front of her robe. “We were waiting together for four hours and you didn’t so much as speak to me. I bet I could have walked out and you wouldn’t have noticed. What gives, Vis? What were you reading that was so ‘distracting’?”
A bead of sweat ran down the back of Vis’ neck. “Like I said—just some silly book. It was a fantasy story, the first part in a series, although I don’t know if I’ll bother with the rest. The characters are all a little clichéd and I could see where the plot was going from page one.”
Nue very slowly folded her arms, like she was trying to hug herself. “What was it called?”
“I honestly can’t remember—that’s how boring it was.” Vis knew he was playing a dangerous game. It was easier for a Rashani to lie to another without being found out, but it still took some careful effort. If his mental wall faltered, Nue might see right through him, and he wondered what she’d do then. Maybe the very presence of the wall was enough to make her suspect something.
“Are you hiding something from me?” Nue took a step closer, green eyes digging into his. “Is something wrong? I will help, whatever it is.”
Vis took a step back, blushing. “It’s nothing, I swear! I just like to have some privacy sometimes, you know?”
That seemed to spark something in Nue’s mind, and her eyes went wide as her cheeks turned a bright red. “Were you reading—oh, Rasha, that isn’t my business at all, is it?”
“I guess not?” Vis replied, not entirely sure what she meant.
Nue covered her face with her hands, then breathed out loudly. “I didn’t even think! You’re a man now, so of course you sometimes—you probably wanted to be alone yesterday, didn’t you? I’m so sorry, Vis!”
“I-it’s all right.” Vis grinned nervously. “I wasn’t going to be an ass and ask you to leave.”
“No, of course, but I should have caught on!” Nue’s hands parted, revealing her still crimson face. “Rasha, this is awkward! Next time you need some, um, private time, maybe just try to give me a hint. I think I should be going now.”
Her meaning finally clicked for Vis, and a new kind of panic blossomed. “Wait, Nue, it wasn’t that!” But Nue was already gone, scurrying away as she wrung her hands guiltily.
Vis sighed, shaking his head. Well, it could have been worse. Better that Nue thought he was a pervert instead of a heretic, he supposed. He just hoped she wouldn’t bring it up again. He would be more careful with his reading from now on; if Nue thought something was up, then Mela almost certainly suspected something as well, and she was far less timid.
He turned back the way he’d come, following Nue’s directions to the medical ward. As often happened in these moments, he recalled coming down this way the last time he’d visited the ward, and couldn’t believe he’d forgotten it. The ward’s occupants had doubled since his last visit, and the beds were filled by nearly twenty injured mercs with wounds ranging from mild to critical. A couple of Zulkar were placed in the corner of the room, cut off from the rest of the wounded by an armed guard. Those two were here because of the severity of their injuries; the other three prisoners were down in the brig with the pirates. Vis didn’t need his senses to know that the mercs were not happy about this decision, and he suspected the guard was there for the sake of the Zulkar.
Vis walked down the line of beds, feeling a pang of pain from each patient, until he reached his destination. Othus was nearly unrecognizable in his current state, but Vis knew him immediately. One arm and both his legs were in casts, and bandages lined his ribs. One side of his face was hidden behind a white wall of gauze. He’d been burned in many places and thrown around when the Zulkar ship had hit the Moonsaber, according to Mela, and some of those injuries couldn’t be properly dealt with until they returned to Kinship space. Vis pulled up a chair and sat beside the bed, recalling with a heavy heart the times he’d sat beside the pilot’s chair. Othus had been sleeping, but his eye fluttered open at the scrape of the chair leg. He gave Vis a pained smile, which only added to the guilt.
“How are you feeling?” Vis asked, leaning closer so that Othus wouldn’t have to turn his head.
Othus grunted, then began working his tongue like he’d eaten something unpleasant. “Thought I was going to see Myssa again,” he managed.
“You’re disappointed?” He thought levity might alleviate some of the grief, but Vis didn’t feel any better.
Othus frowned and struggled to speak again. “Someone’s gotta fly you and the others back to Utopia. Can’t go till the job’s done.”
It was Vis’ turn to frown. “I don’t think you’re in any condition to do that. We’ll find another way back, and you’ll be coming with us.” He closed his eyes, ruminating on the real reason he was there. “I should have been there to help. If Mela had allowed Nue and I to assist, the Zulkar wouldn’t have gotten anywhere near the Moonsaber.”
Othus made a growling sound in the back of his throat. “Got guts, but Mela was right. You kids are worth too much to risk losing.”
Vis had already heard enough about being kept safe from Mela herself, but he still suspected she just hadn’t wanted to be held back. Then again, considering how few had returned from the Zulkar vessel, maybe she’d been right. “I just wanted to say thanks for getting us here. Don’t tell Nue or Mela, but you made this trip bearable for me.”
Othus smiled, apparently too tired to speak anymore. His uncovered eye drooped, then slid shut, and he began to snore. Vis stood; the pilot needed his rest, and it wasn’t his place to disturb him like this. He’d seen and said what he’d wanted anyway. Othus was alive and would probably survive, and Vis would have to be content with that.
Another presence loomed nearby, accompanied by the sound of footsteps. He turned to see the man standing at the foot of the bed, arms folded behind his back as he looked Othus over. The face was familiar; anyone who paid any attention to the news knew Arc Rhapsody’s scarred visage. He was a huge man; Vis would’ve thought that a decade out of the arenas would have turned muscle to fat, but Rhapsody still had a broad-shouldered, powerful build and an intense aura about him.
Something resembling a smile appeared on the large man’s face, though it was hard to notice beneath the distracting scar. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to startle you. You’re Vis, right? I’m Arc Rhapsody.” He held out a hand big enough to crush a human skull.
Vis took the hand, feeling an icy clench on his heart when Rhapsody’s paw swallowed his up. He felt a firm but careful shake, and then his hand reappeared, all digits still attached. He bowed stiffly in response.
“I am Vis, but you should know that you can’t startle a Rashani,” he said.
Rhapsody’s brow rose. “Rashani—yes, of course. It’s an honour to meet you.”
“Don’t be too honoured,” said Vis. “Vis Unclaimed is not a well-loved name among the Sisterhood. It seems certain parts of my anatomy cause them offence. My hair, for instance—just last night, Mela told me I don’t comb it enough.”
Rhapsody chuckled, but he was radiating confusion. “It’s not so bad. Just between you and me, I didn’t even know what a comb was until I started making public appearances. Some of the pictures Marissa took when we first moved to Aegis—I looked like a wild man! You, though, have the look of a Rashani—even more once you have the robes.”
“That’s a long way off.” Despite his cynicism, Vis found himself smiling. Rhapsody had a rough sort of charisma, something that was only heightened by speaking to him in person. “I think I’ve seen one of your interviews. I don’t remember what it was about, though—sorry.”
Rhapsody’s amusement continued. “I appreciate the honesty. I’m convinced that most of my biggest supporters tune me out five minutes in with the way they talk about me. Anyway, I know you went on this journey to find Alis, but you found me as well, and I wanted to thank you and your Sisters.”
“Mela did most of the work,” Vis said, flatly. “I just helped fight a few pirates.”
“Well, thanks all the same,” Rhapsody said. “But I’m wasting your time. I was just checking on Alis, and she asked me to call you over.”
“Me?” Vis couldn’t believe it. He had been planning to avoid Alis and assumed that she’d want nothing to do with him. They’d never crossed paths in the Enclave, so why would she now want to associate with the abomination? It sounded like a mistake.
Rhapsody nodded. “She asked me to get the boy speaking with the pilot, Vis Unclaimed. I think that was how she phrased it. I haven’t gotten you confused with another male Rashani, have I?”
“What does she want?” Vis asked, unable to shake his skepticism.
Rhapsody shrugged. “That’s between you and her. Go ask—but keep your voice down. She’s still riding one of those migraines.” He stepped aside, letting Vis pass.
Vis looked up at Rhapsody one last time as he passed. “Thank you.”
“Have a nice day,” Rhapsody said, strolling off down the row of beds.
A curtain had been drawn around Alis’s bed, blocking her off from the rest of the ward, and Vis carefully pulled it open and peeked inside. Alis stared back, brow furrowed in discomfort, the spikes of her blonde hair split and bending.
Vis swallowed. “Hello, Alis. I don’t think we’ve met before.” It felt like a stupid thing to say, but he had nothing else at the moment. His venomous tongue had no place here.
“It really is you.” Alis’ words slurred slightly as she spoke. “Mela told me you were here, but I was so distraught at the time that I thought I must have misheard. Then Nue came to see me, and she mentioned you as well, but I still couldn’t believe it. Vis Unclaimed, here? On a mission to rescue me, no less? No sane Rashani could concoct such a story, so I’ve either gone mad, or it’s true.”
Vis folded his arms, keeping a steady gaze on Alis. “Does it shame you to know the abomination came to help you? If it’s any consolation to your honour, I wasn’t permitted to participate in the rescue mission.”
Alis frowned, which seemed more of an effort than it should’ve been. “No, I’m not ashamed.”
Vis took a step out from behind his wall and reached out to Alis’ mind. The moment their senses overlapped, a surge of pain sprang out at Vis. He physically jumped back in surprise and retracted his senses. Alis winced, groaning softly.
“I’m sorry!” Vis exclaimed, shaking from the unexpected assault of emotion. “I didn’t even think!”
“It’s OK,” Alis said, pressing the back of her head down hard against her pillow. “Just don’t do it again. Felt like my head was going to split.”
“What did they do to you?” It was hard to keep the horror out of his voice. What he’d felt wasn’t just painful, but sickening, something intensely wrong. Maybe that was what other Rashani felt when they saw him.
“They injected me with something, again and again, every day.” Alis’ voice began to waver, her lips trembling as she stammered. “It hurts less now, but Rasha, the pain’s still there, blocking me out. I can feel you and the others sometimes, but other times I feel lost, like I’m all alone, even when you’re standing right there.”
“That sounds awful,” Vis said, sincerely. Ostracized as he felt at the Enclave, he still had that connection to the others, no matter how hard they tried to shut him out. He could always feel people nearby and know he was not completely alone. The thought of having that stripped away from him, leaving his thoughts and feelings completely isolated, had him shuddering. “Have you told Mela or Nue about this?”
“No. I didn’t mean to tell you, either.” Alis smiled weakly. “This hammering in my head makes it hard to keep things in. I mean, what if I never get rid of it? I wouldn’t be a Rashani anymore.”
“Nonsense.” It was out of his mouth before he could stop, but he rolled with it. “There’s more to being a Rashani than your senses. There’s your skill as a warrior, the keen focus that makes the rest of the galaxy turn to you for help. You still have your honour as well, and that’s what makes you a Rashani most of all.”
He paled as what he’d said hit him; he’d just paraphrased a passage from Rashani Reborn, only without the clever rhetoric or nuance. It was unlikely Alis recognized the reference, but it was still worrying how easily it had sprung from his lips.
Alis was smiling, not the meek expression from before, but a full, near-blinding beam. “You’ve put a lot of thought into what makes a Rashani, haven’t you? Have you figured out how to use a Lucidil yet?”
Vis shook his head, feeling downcast at his shortcomings, but happy to change the subject. “I’m just here to make sure the first leg of Nue’s apprenticeship goes smoothly.”
“Well, I’d say you’ve got some of that Rashani honour, then,” Alis said. “The rest will come soon, I’m sure.”
“I hope so,” Vis replied, surprised. “Was there any particular reason you asked to speak with me?”
“Because I wanted to meet you,” Alis answered, matter-of-factly. “All that time in the Enclave, and I never even spoke to you. It seems almost as bad as hating you, really.”
“I took no offence.” He preferred being ignored to being spat on.
Alis forced herself up into a sitting position, gasping on the way up. “No, I mean I regret not meeting you. Whatever others say about Vis Unclaimed, you’ve made a good impression on me.”
It was hard to know if she was telling the truth without touching her senses. But when Vis met her eyes, he knew she wasn’t lying. He bowed to her, lower than he usually bothered. “Then I thank you for giving me a chance. You should rest and recover your strength.”
Alis groaned again. “I know, but I hate this. Sitting around and doing nothing just feels wrong.”
“I know the feeling,” Vis replied, “but it’s better to rest now, while everyone is idle, than when we might need you. Sleep, and awake a Rashani.”
Alis grinned. “They tell stories about you in the Enclave, say you’re a bitter little creature, snapping at anyone who so much as looks your way. Now I have to wonder where those stories came from, because I just don’t see that in you. Goodbye, Vis, and good luck in your training.” She slid back onto her back, pulling the covers around her, then closed her eyes.
Vis hesitated. “I can come back, if you want.”
“I wouldn’t mind that,” Alis said, punctuating her words with a yawn.
Vis left the medical ward in high spirits, letting his mind open a fraction to feel for Nue. He wouldn’t let Mela keep them from the next battle, and he was certain there would be a next. He could feel it in the air; the crew’s desire for revenge and justice. He would be there when the time came, and he would fight, for Nue, for Othus and Alis, but most of all for himself. He would prove himself a Rashani.
* * *
What was wrong with her?
Marissa stared blankly at the ceiling, the sheets pulled up to her chin. It had been almost two hours since Arc had stepped out, and in that time she had hardly moved. The sounds of footsteps and voices passing through the corridor penetrated the thin wall, a sure sign that the rest of the crew was up for the day’s tough decisions. Marissa should be joining them, but she just couldn’t muster the strength to get out of bed.
She felt drained, as if the rush of adrenaline she’d ridden for most of the previous day had siphoned away her strength. That had never happened before, and she suspected she was just making excuses for herself. The strength of her body was something she’d learned she could always rely on, so long as she ate and slept reasonably well. So it was a weakness of mind, then. She had the strength, but lacked the motivation to use it. Why should she? Her work was done, Arc was safe, and now it was time to tell Cassandra to fly them home. She could stay in bed for the next week if she liked. Shodus, Dae Trem; none of that was her problem. Right now, the only thing she should be thinking about was what the next step in her gladiator career was going to be.
But it seemed like no one else was after what she wanted. Arc wanted to save Dae Trem for the sake of “galactic peace” or something, and the Rashani had a similar goal. The mercs might want to get revenge for their fallen comrades, but less than half of their number remained in fighting condition. Fredrichs seemed the type to know when to give up, at least, especially when she wasn’t being paid anymore. Without soldiers or a Moonsaber, Arc and the others would have no choice but to give up. Marissa took no satisfaction from that.
She wished she had their will to carry on, but that had been sapped from her as well. Barnes’ death should have worked her into a vengeful fervour, and the mystery of Shodus’ strength, which mirrored her own, should have made her eager to pursue the Zulkar. She should be furious, but instead she just felt tired.
Even freedom comes with responsibilities. Yeah, maybe, but why did they have to be her responsibilities? She’d spent a good chunk of her life scrubbing floors for a family of nobles who couldn’t remember her name half of the time, so why did she have to do this as well? Plenty of people in the Kinship had spent their entire lives free, so why couldn’t they take up this responsibility Arc talked of, just once? If the price of freedom was putting her life at risk for causes she had no stake in, then it was no different from slavery in her eyes. It wasn’t fair.
She rolled onto her side, facing the door that Arc had left ajar. A thin beam of light poured through, drawing a line across the floor and up the opposite wall. She hadn’t noticed it before, but now she couldn’t take her eyes off it. The way that light intruded on her thoughts was irritating, so she pulled back the sheets, got out of bed, and went to shut it out.
She was reaching for the door when she realized what she’d done, her bare feet pressing into the carpet, and she smiled. Had Arc done that on purpose, predicting what she’d do? Despite sharing a soul, Marissa was never entirely sure what her other half was thinking, but she knew he could be sneaky like that sometimes. Well, she was up now, and now that she was up, she had no inclination to lie back down; might as well go take a walk. She dressed in her training clothes—shorts and a short-sleeved shirt—more comfortable in that than anything else she’d brought with her. She even considered going down to the cargo hold to see if anyone was willing to spar, but then it occurred to her that might be in poor taste after the losses they’d taken.
Breakfast, then. She strolled to the cafeteria, trying to ignore the glum atmosphere the mercs exuded as she passed them in the corridor. A Phal lumbered by, his hard, wrinkled face sporting red rings around the eyes. Marissa gave a sympathetic nod, then carried on.
Only a couple of sandwiches remained in the cafeteria freezer when she got there. She snatched one quickly and took a bite: ham. She ate it on her feet, running her eyes over the room. Most of the crew had already eaten by now, and there were empty tables all around, without a soul in sight. Except for one; a lone merc sat a few tables away. Her hands were clutched into a tight ball, her elbows resting against the hard surface, her head bowed as if absorbed in thought. Marissa stopped mid-chew as she registered the gold marks on the woman’s shoulders before focusing on the face half-hidden behind her hands. It was Fredrichs.
Marissa approached cautiously. The Commander’s distant demeanour made it hard to know where the two of them stood, but if there was a time to test the waters, it was now, when they had a shared grief.
Fredrichs didn’t so much as twitch when Marissa sat down across from her. The Commander’s eyes were closed, the skin around them wrinkled in concentration as she held her position with an almost statue-like stillness, her breath silent. Then it hit Marissa that she was praying. She chewed her sandwich softly, not wanting to disturb. After what seemed like a long time, Fredrichs dropped her hands to the table, palms resting on its surface. She opened her eyes, and Marissa felt her heart lurch at the pain she saw in the Commander’s expression.
“Rhapsody, about—” Her voice cracked and she coughed. “About time you got up. We’ve got decisions to make.”
“That can wait,” Marissa said before taking another nibble of her sandwich. “Let’s just talk for a minute. I’m sorry about what happened to Barnes.”
“It wasn’t your fault. Dying comes with the job.” Fredrichs straightened her shoulders as she spoke, trying to scrape up some dignity, but her words lacked conviction.
“You two were close, right?” Marissa asked, aware that she might be prying.
Fredrichs’ shoulders fell again, her head lowered. “Tim was my brother-in-law, if you really want to know. I’ve no idea what to tell my sister—she’ll probably hate me no matter what. Before the marriage, he and I were both students of the Domos Military Academy. That’s where he learned to fly a Valk suit, and where I learned to be the best damn soldier there ever was.”
Their education wasn’t much of a surprise to Marissa; Inferno’s discipline had always seemed a step above the typical guns-for-hire. Every one of them had clearly been trained, not just given a gun and expected to shoot, and they were more than just bodies to be thrown at the enemy; they were as good as real soldiers.
“What made you leave?” Marissa asked around a chunk of bread and ham.
“Neither of us liked taking orders much,” Fredrichs replied, actually smiling. “The military doesn’t like independence—they want everyone to fit into the same mould, and they get a bit forceful when someone doesn’t. Generals are just soldiers who’ve moved up the ranks, and they still think the same way as a private. That was my problem; I wanted to be a leader, but I didn’t want to be that kind of leader, following the same dusty old guidelines the military has been following for generations. I wanted to be different, and maybe to make a change. Tim wanted the same thing, and he had his family’s money to support us. I know mercs aren’t seen as the most moral people, but I think we’ve done more good with Inferno than we would have in the army.”
Marissa wasn’t going to argue that; it had been decades since the Kinship had seen a conflict large enough to warrant serious military involvement. “You definitely helped me and my husband. Thanks for that.”
Fredrichs’ expression became serious, that rare smile gone in a flash. “And now you want to go home.”
If she was trying to make Marissa feel guilty, it would take more than that. “I came here for Arc, and now I’ve got him, safe and sound. I tried not to think about it before, but do you know how slim the chances were that we’d find him alive? I’m grateful for your help, more than I can put into words, but the job is done. What happened to Barnes…” She paused, recalling her thoughtless rage when Barnes had gone down, then the misery as he’d slipped away. “I want to go, before that happens to anyone else.”
Fredrichs sluggishly rose to her feet, looking none too happy. “The job is done. By mercenary logic, I should be agreeing with you—I don’t get paid until you’re back in civilized space, after all. But I don’t know if I can just let the deaths of so many of my friends go unpunished.”
“You may have to,” Marissa said. It felt wrong, her being cold and logical while Fredrichs was the one who wanted revenge, but maybe people weren’t as consistent as she thought. “The Zulkar didn’t try very hard to defend their ship, so I bet wherever they’ve fled to is better fortified and better manned than the salvage heap we took from them. I don’t care how tough Inferno is, you don’t have the numbers for another assault. It’s suicide, completely—”
Hopeless. She stopped herself before she said it, ice creeping down her neck. No, that word had no business on her tongue, or even in her head. She’d scrubbed it from her vocabulary years ago and then taught Arc to do the same. Because nothing was ever hopeless, as far as she was concerned. Had she really forgotten that?
She swallowed, trying to get her bearings. “What I mean is that I wouldn’t do it, not without knowing what you’re getting into.”
Fredrichs raised an eyebrow; Marissa’s switching gears hadn’t gone unnoticed. “We’re still searching the Zulkar ship for clues, not to mention supplies we can use. If they were as smart as they seem, we won’t find anything. But that’s all right—we have prisoners.”
“You’re going to interrogate them,” Marissa said, unsurprised.
Fredrichs nodded. “Mela will assist me to make them more open to conversation. I could use your help as well.”
“Me?” Marissa didn’t know the first thing about questioning prisoners.
“The Zulkar saw you fight,” Fredrichs replied. “Anyone who’s seen that would know to be wary. They might be intimidated into talking with you in their line of sight.”
Marissa wasn’t sure anyone could find a lovely woman like herself intimidating, but she guessed it was worth a try. “All right, but this doesn’t mean I’m going along with any sort of revenge scheme. You can do that on your own time.”
“Of course,” Fredrichs said, a twinkle in her eye.
* * *
Mela joined them as they made their way to the brig, and the three of them plunged into the depths of the ship together. The prisoners exploded into an uproar the moment they stepped into the wide corridor between the rows of cells, hurling curses in every direction. Or at least one side did; the new prisoners had required a shuffling of the cells, and now they were isolated on the left side of the corridor from the pirates. It was the latter making the ruckus, while the former had settled for silence and steely glares thrown across the corridor.
Captain Narsh’s lumbering mass cast a shadow across the trio’s path, his good hand clutching a bar for support. Marissa, perhaps unwisely, spared him a cocky grin, and the Phal seemed to take it as an invitation to speak. “Hey, you Kinship fools have laws, don’t you? Have to treat prisoners with a degree of comfort?”
Fredrichs turned her stern gaze on him. “If we were in Kinship space, yes, but we’re in the middle of nowhere. You’re only comfortable so long as I think you deserve it.”
Narsh scowled, either unfazed or too stupid to recognize a threat. “Well, I have a grievance to share.”
“A grievance?” Fredrichs repeated, folding her arms impatiently.
Marissa’s smile took a turn for the twisted. “What’s wrong, Captain? Free meals and sitting on your ass all day not agreeing with you? So what is it you want—free drinks every night? I’d bet you’d be a champagne man if Phal could drink.”
Narsh made a guttural noise in the back of his throat. “My grievance is that you’ve put us in here with fucking Imperials! As citizens of Freespace, this is a grave insult to us, and an incredibly dishonourable thing to do on your part.”
Mela chuckled, or maybe guffawed was a better word, her eyes scrunched with laughter. “Forgive me, I just—pirates talking about honour?” She laughed again and made an unsuccessful attempt to smother it with her hand.
One of the Zulkar stirred in the cell across from Narsh, sitting upright in his bed. “The scum squat in space even peasants don’t want, and fancy themselves citizens,” he said in the Imperial tongue.
Narsh stuck his snarling head forward, plated dome knocking against the bars. “What did he say? It was something smug and condescending, wasn’t it? All these Imperials have their heads so far up their asses, they mistake their own shit for the stars.”
“Enough of this!” Fredrichs snapped, striking her hand against the bars of Narsh’s cell. “This isn’t some playground where you get to throw around childish insults. You are prisoners, and you are not free to speak whenever you please.”
The heavy-set Phal startled, backing away. “You mercs aren’t much better, honestly. No manners at all. I demand my crew and I be moved away from these snobs.”
“I might be able to arrange that,” Fredrichs said. “How does the airlock sound? Because that’s where you’re going if you don’t shut up.”
Narsh puffed out his chest, but he locked eyes with Fredrichs and quickly deflated. He waddled back to his bed, cradling both his broken arm and his wounded pride. “Honestly, if you’d just told us you were going after Imperials, we might have been friends,” he grunted over his shoulder.
Fredrichs didn’t dignify him with an answer. She turned to the Zulkar in the opposite cell instead, and the hateful expression that crossed the commander’s face made Marissa shiver. That look was not something she ever wanted turned on her.
“You speak Kinship, don’t you? You’re a spy, after all,” Fredrichs demanded, her voice chillier than ever.
The Zulkar grinned, resting his hands on his raised knee. “I no speak well, miss. I not spy, too.”
“I’d say spy is as good a word as any,” Fredrichs grumbled. She beckoned Mela to her side. “Is he lying?”
“About not being a spy, perhaps, but I believe he’s sincere about his speaking abilities,” Mela replied, promptly.
Fredrichs scowled. “Fine, you can speak Imperial then, so long as you understand what I’m saying. Rhapsody, you still speak the language?”
It took a moment for Marissa to answer. She’d never expected someone would need her as an interpreter. “Um, yeah. I’ll translate what I can.”
The Zulkar’s face turned an angry purple, and he began to bark in Imperial. “You assume I will tell you peasants anything. You are wrong. I will die before I betray Lord Shodus.”
Marissa relayed the message back to Fredrichs, who wrinkled her nose. “Poor choice of words. I’m beginning to run out of patience with you Zulkar after this ordeal you’ve put us through. We know your comrades escaped on a ship with a Lacus engine, and we can track its course, meaning we already know where they’re going. What we want to know is what we’re going to find once we’ve tracked them down.”
The Zulkar arched his long neck back, turning his face up towards the ceiling. A clear refusal, one Marissa didn’t need to translate.
Fredrichs seemed unconcerned. “You’re only hurting yourself by refusing. I’ve got two other Zulkar I can interrogate down here, and another two up in the infirmary. You are expendable. Maybe I should ask Mela to have a go at you with some of her Rashani techniques.”
The Zulkar twitched, lowering his gaze, as a bluish colour tinted his features. Mela’s gaze shifted questioningly to the commander.
Fredrichs went on, heedless. “You’re the one we found in the cell—the one who tried to kill Mr. Rhapsody. We found your friend as well, the one stupid enough to piss off a Rashani. Let me tell you, that body was not a pretty sight. But of course, you saw it firsthand. If a crippled Rashani can do that to a person, what do you think Mela here might be capable of?”
Mela’s expression was a near perfect match of the Zulkar’s. “Commander Fredrichs, I could never—”
“You might have to if you want to find this Rashani poison Shodus has cooked up,” Fredrichs interrupted, her voice as sharp and fast as a knife.
Mela didn’t flinch, holding the commander’s glare with a calm expression. “I will not misuse my gift—forfeit my honour—for a horrible act that may result in nothing, no matter how grave the threat. What Alis did happened under great duress and the influence of that drug. Rashani do not do such things when in their right mind, and I am not certain I am even able to. We will try other means.”
Fredrichs sniffed. “What other means? Can you force him to speak?”
“Maybe I could twist his arm a little,” Marissa said, stepping in before things escalated. She turned her brightest smile on the Zulkar and spoke in clear Imperial. “I would answer quickly, if I were you. Too much force, and it might pop right off.”
The Zulkar’s eyes narrowed to thin slits. He flashed his needle-like teeth, then pressed his lips tightly together. His hand came to rest in his lap in a way that, surely by coincidence, prominently displayed his claws. Marissa cracked her knuckles in response.
Before anything physical could happen, another Imperial voice made itself heard from the neighbouring cell. “Child of gods, you are wasting your time. Framt is old and stubborn—a rock would be more cooperative.”
Marissa knew that voice. She went over to the next cell and peered inside. The Zulkar was huddled in his bed, back pressed to the wall. His shoulder was injured, but sported a better bandage than the patch-job Marissa had given him after their duel. The former krigot-wielder nodded to her, then stiffly lifted himself to his feet.
“Why did you call me that?” Marissa asked. Shodus had said something about divinity as well, and it made her stomach clench.
The Zulkar came closer, then bent his knees to meet her at eye-level. “Because that is what you are, just as Lord Shodus is. I believed in him because I had seen his strength, but I couldn’t believe a mere human could be divine. But then we fought, and I saw it in you as well—a power beyond any mere mortal.”
Marissa backed up, remembering how long a Zulkar’s reach was. “That’s nuts! I’m just an ordinary person.”
“The entire galaxy knows that’s not true,” the Zulkar replied. “You carry the ichor of a god within you, more than any Rashani.”
“No, I don’t,” Marissa insisted, stamping her foot. “I remember my mother. She was just an ordinary woman who died protecting me, and my father…” She hesitated, doubt creeping in. “My father was just some deadbeat. Do the Zulkar have a god of unpaid child support? I doubt it.”
The Zulkar gave a slow shake of his head. “These are not Zulkar gods we speak of. These are the true gods, the ones of which the gods of all religions are mere echoes. Their names are lost to time, but I’ve seen traces of their presence—hieroglyphs scratched onto the surfaces of moons, the great monoliths of Hazdra. They created us all, every species in the galaxy, and they watch our progress. When we stray from their intended path, a mortal is blessed with a divine child, destined to guide us back to greatness. You and His Lordship are two such children.”
“I am not divine.” She drew out the words in frustration.
A hand fell on her shoulder, making her jump. “What are you two talking about?” Fredrichs asked.
Marissa almost blushed. She’d been speaking to the Zulkar entirely in Imperial, and maybe that was something to be grateful for. More witnesses to this strange line of conversation only made things more awkward. “This one wants to talk. I was just trying to figure out if he was trustworthy,” she said quickly.
Something flickered in Mela’s eyes, but she said nothing.
Fredrichs turned an intimidating glare on the Zulkar. “Well? Are you going to talk, Zulkar?”
The Zulkar held a hand to his wounded shoulder, but he didn’t seem frightened by the commander. “My name is Surdt, and I may talk, if it suits me.”
“Traitor!” the Zulkar named Framt hissed.
“I betray nothing,” Surdt snapped back. “They already know where to find His Lordship—I merely wish to tell them it is futile.”
Fredrichs folded her arms in an oddly aggressive manner. “I’ll be the judge of that. Speak.”
Surdt clicked his tongue. “I haven’t told you my terms yet.”
“You’re not in a position to make terms!” Fredrichs snapped, so ferociously that Marissa flinched. “You’ll live—that’s the only promise I’ll make. You tell me what I want to know, and you and your comrades will reach Alliance space unharmed. What the Aquila decide to do with you after that is their business.”
Surdt scowled as only a Zulkar can, but gave a slow nod. “That is acceptable. Lord Shodus makes his return to a planet we’ve designated Norus II. Like many worlds outside of civilized borders, it appears to be a dust bowl, but it hides a wealth of valuable minerals and life in its early stages.”
“Why make a base there?” Marissa asked. That kind of planet seemed like a horrible place to live.
“Because no one would look there—even the Empire,” Surdt answered. “Lord Shodus wishes his machinations to remain hidden until the proper time.”
“What kind of structure is this? What armaments?” Fredrichs demanded.
Surdt grinned widely. “Our centre of operations is the Superius, a modified Magnus-class battleship which hovers above the great plateaus just south of the equator. It is equipped with auto-turrets with enough firepower to shred a mountain from halfway across the globe, twin wide-spread shrapnel cannons, and a high-yield laser capable of shaving the crust off the average planet’s surface. It also carries a full squadron of fighter ships outfitted with up-to-date weapons.”
“Where the hell did you get all that?” Marissa exclaimed. A Magnus-class ship wasn’t just something you could pick up at a scrap yard.
“We stole it,” Surdt replied. “Forge the right documents and sprinkle some money around, and the Empire shall supply whatever you wish.”
Fredrichs had a skeptical look. “Mela?”
“He’s not lying,” the Rashani replied, her face pale.
That settled it then. However vengeful Fredrichs felt, she didn’t have the resources to take on a military battleship. It was sort of a relief, knowing that they could all go home. Marissa had been worried that Fredrichs might force her and Arc to come along, but that wasn’t going to happen now. Fredrichs clenched her fists and went storming down the corridor, while Surdt continued to grin.
Marissa followed after her, empathizing with her dismay, even if she didn’t agree with it. “We know where they are. When we get back to the Alliance, we can tell the Aquila and let them bring Shodus to justice.”
Fredrichs spun around, face contorted in anger. “It’s not justice I’m after! I want to hurt these bastards and stomp them into the dirt until there’s nothing left! They killed my soldiers—good men and women—and the Aquila can’t mete out the punishment they deserve.” She paused to breathe, a measure of composure returning. “Even if we gave the Aquila the coordinates, that’s at least a week wasted—Shodus will have moved, if he has a brain.”
“It’s better than nothing,” Marissa said, very aware how unhelpful that was.
Mela caught up with them, her head bowed. “I’ve no doubt the Sisterhood will assist in the search, once they’ve seen Alis and understand the threat these Imperials pose.”
“There is another option.”
Marissa glanced back to Narsh’s cell, where the big Phal reclined smugly on his bed. He motioned with his good hand for them to come closer, but the three women stayed where they were. Narsh scowled, hoisting himself out of bed.
“These Imperials—these are the ones piloting the ghost ship, yes? I mean the vessel that escapes any sensors, whose crew sneaks their way around Freespace and steals from its hard-working citizens. It’s been a thorn in the sides of the Captains of Freespace for years. If you want to fight that scum, you may find an ally in us.”
Fredrichs’ face was blank. “Work with pirates? I don’t think so.”
Narsh shook his head. “We are not the disorganized rabble you take us for. We of Freespace may have left behind the archaic rules of ‘civilized society’, but we have a hierarchy and a loose sort of government, in which I, as Captain of the Night Terror, have a place.”
Marissa smirked. “As I recall, the Night Terror left you behind. Pretty sure that makes you ex-captain.”
Narsh flared his nostrils. “Be that as it may, I may be able to give you a way to fight these Imperials. Our Democratically Elected Leader, Ago Corda, has nearly a hundred vessels at his command alone, and he isn’t fond of Imperials at all.”
“And what’s to stop you from stabbing us in the back?” Mela asked. “More of that pirates’ honour?”
Narsh puffed out his chest. “Yes, actually. We citizens of Freespace like to trade in favours. Returning me and my men to Corda means he will do something for you.”
Mela frowned. “He certainly thinks he’s telling the truth, but that might be because he’s an idiot. We can’t know if the other pirates will share his sentiments.”
“But there’s a chance they might,” Fredrichs countered, squeezing her fists tightly. “Where would you have us take you?”
Marissa’s heart sank. Why couldn’t they leave it to someone else? Making deals with pirates was an even worse idea than taking on Shodus on their own.
Narsh smiled crookedly. “There is a station called Shiprest, a gathering place for all captains. It is hidden among an asteroid field—I will give you specific coordinates. Rest assured, it is forbidden to fire on another ship within proximity to Shiprest. Even if Corda does not agree to help, you will have safe passage in and out.”
“Sounds too good to be true,” Marissa said, nervously. Mela hadn’t yet called Narsh a liar, and Fredrichs had a worrying look in her eye. “Maybe we should think about this, before we jump into anything.”
“Absolutely,” Fredrichs agreed, much to her relief. “I need to speak with Cassandra, first of all, and then I’ll put it to a vote for the whole crew.”
Considering that most of the crew was composed of angry mercs, a vote didn’t sound like the best idea to Marissa. But it was at least a small reprieve from making a decision, and maybe Fredrichs would see sense and change her mind. Fredrichs and Mela began to talk coordinates with Narsh, so Marissa wasn’t necessary anymore. She wanted to go, but something else came to mind. She went back to Surdt’s cell, where the Zulkar sat with a bored expression.
“You hear all that?” she asked.
Surdt nodded. “It won’t make a difference. Pirate vessels are poorly made, like perforated tinfoil. The Superius will not fall to the likes of them.”
“Why did you tell us, really?” she asked, getting to the heart of the matter.
Surdt met her eyes, and all the animosity, the hate and hostility, was gone. “I did not expect mercy when I asked for it, but you spared me. I thought I should do the honourable thing by sparing you from death in turn, but it seems your crew is determined to kill themselves. I pity you, Marissa Rhapsody.”
He’d meant it in sympathy, but something about his words rubbed her the wrong way. “What if we win? What if all your talk about superiority is just ego?”
“Lord Shodus’ hudriss is to rule the Empire,” Surdt answered. “He will not be defeated in your desperate skirmish. You will all die, but at least you yourself may have the opportunity to face His Lordship in proper combat. A clash of gods—I would almost urge you to go on this suicide mission, just to see that.”
Marissa had nothing more to say to him. She strode past the others, barely sparing them a glance. She needed to hit something and take her mind off the course Valiance seemed set on.
* * *
Sorin input the coordinates he’d overheard from the pirate automatically, letting the Chariot’s computer throw up a map of the solar systems in relation to the Valiance’s position and the planet the Zulkar had spoken of. He noted mechanically that the voyage to this Shiprest and then to Norus II would only take a handful of days for the mortals. Out of habit, he switched on a human jazz tune and leaned back in his seat.
Consciously, he traced his trajectory backwards through time, trying to find the exact moment he’d gone wrong. Perhaps it had been opening the hangar on the Zulkar ship, or sending the distress call during the pirate attack, or maybe even when he’d given Marissa Rhapsody that map. In the end, the result was the same; he’d picked a side. Consciously or not, he’d given the crew of the Valiance the favour of a Deus, at the expense of other mortal lives. Deus should not meddle in mortal affairs, should not impose their own morals on their creations, and most of all should not use mortals as pawns or subjugate them in any way. That had been Gelia’s decree, the line drawn to separate the Deus of Okirazon from the Tyrants they’d walled themselves off from. It didn’t matter that Sorin was certain that Vrakk Shodus was in the wrong, or that he personally found the Bythos Empire’s culture distasteful. He had a responsibility to remain neutral and not act, lest he tip the balance in favour of one side or another. But he’d already done that, and now he couldn’t see any course of action that wouldn’t tip it more so.
Lutus would be furious. Lutus was probably already furious. Sorin hadn’t bothered to reply to his brother’s last message, sent a week ago; he couldn’t think of what to say, except to lie about what he had been doing. Did this conflict have anything to do with an outside presence? Sorin was less sure every day. He had been so focused on the meat of Lutus’ prophecy—the impending war—that he had almost forgotten about the intruder he was supposed to be looking for.
Was that wrong? He had privileged the lives of some mortals over his duty, but surely preserving that life was also his duty. But then, what of those lives that had been lost because of his actions? These thoughts churned in his head, and their edges ground against each other painfully. Was his duty to the ideals of the Deus really so at odds with the wish to preserve their creation? He didn’t have an answer.
He couldn’t even say if this was solely a mortal matter any longer. The conflict now involved two half-Deus. Sorin had witnessed Vrakk Shodus’ abilities in his confrontation with Marissa Rhapsody, and there was no doubt that he shared her unnatural strength. Stranger still, the Zulkar somehow knew of his lineage, although that could be a symptom of Imperial mania and egotism. Either way, his existence complicated things further, adding another crime committed by Deus against mortals.
He turned down the music and gave Fulmus a call. The older Deus was slow to respond, but his bearded face appeared on screen within a few minutes. “Sorin, is all well? Is my daughter safe?”
‘My daughter’. He was so casual about it, and right now that irritated Sorin to no end. “She is well. Now tell me, Fulmus, have you ever lain with a Zulkar?”
Fulmus almost looked insulted. “No, Monica was the only one, I swear. Why? Don’t tell me you’ve found another half-Deus.”
“I have,” Sorin said, gravely. “The one who instigated all of this. But if you aren’t the father, then…” There was only one conclusion to make, and it felt like he was being stabbed in the side just considering it.
“Another one of us has erred as I did,” Fulmus finished for him, lowering his eyes. “Seems we Deus are not as perfect as we’d like to believe.”
“But who?” Sorin slammed his hand against the arm of his chair, furious. This wasn’t right, all this rule breaking. How could his fellow Deus go so far as to create these children, and then dare to abandon them? ‘Irresponsible’ barely began to describe it.
“We may never know,” Fulmus answered, glumly, “but I’d say this makes things more complicated. Do we owe this Zulkar the same protection you’ve given my daughter? Do we step in and find some way to stop the conflict, or do we stand aside and let them try to kill each other?” His tone was bitter, his wrinkled face mirroring Sorin’s own internal turmoil. “Well! Why don’t you call your brother? He’s the law-keeper, after all, and he always seems ready to tell others how to act.”
“No, we can’t tell Lutus,” Sorin insisted. “If he found out, I don’t know what he might do.”
“Kill us? Kill them?” Fulmus narrowed his eyes. “We both know what he’s capable of.”
“He wouldn’t do that,” Sorin said, firmly. “I just don’t want to upset him. This can be solved without his intervention.”
“So what will you do?” Fulmus asked. “I should tell you that if you decide to get out now and leave my daughter unprotected, I can’t promise I won’t intervene myself.”
There was no easy answer. Sorin did not like Vrakk Shodus. What he’d seen of the Zulkar proved him to be cruel, egotistical, and manipulative. Shodus had killed mortals who had not deserved to die, and he planned to start a war that could kill billions more. Sorin’s heart told him he should fight against Shodus, but following his heart would mean breaking the laws. Then again, following the laws might break his heart.
“I make a poor Deus,” he confessed, speaking his mind aloud. “I know what I wish to do, but I have so many doubts.”
Fulmus shook his head. “Without doubt, there is no thought. I always doubt myself. Did you think your mother had no doubts when she turned against the Tyrants? Or your father? We need doubt—otherwise we are just mindless machines, following a course that might be entirely wrong. Don’t fear your doubts, learn from them.”
Easier said than done, Sorin thought, but Fulmus had a point. He had to do something, and he couldn’t let his doubts bind him with indecision. It came down to one question; the laws, or the mortals?
Gelia had written the laws as the foundation for peace in the galaxy she and the older Deus had created. Their purpose was to protect the mortals from the Age of Tyranny that had overtaken the outside universe, where life was created with little thought, then subjugated with even less. The laws gave mortals the right to control their own destiny and do with their lives as they saw fit. But what would that freedom mean if so many were dead?
The answer came gradually, unfolding in Sorin’s mind like a rising sun. Mother would not have sat by while the mortals destroyed themselves; she would have done something, even if it had broken her own laws. Those laws existed to protect mortals.
Sorin smiled weakly at Fulmus’ grim expression. “Your daughter is safe with me, Uncle. Whatever else happens, she will live. I promise.”
“I pray you can keep that promise.” Fulmus chuckled, his face brightening. “I’m beginning to talk like one of them. Who does a god pray to?”
“No one,” said Sorin. “In the end, it falls to us.”
* * *
Marissa returned to her room that night exhausted, both physically and mentally. No matter many how many rounds she’d sparred, she couldn’t take her mind off her worries. The mercs had started running drills again in the cargo hold, pushing themselves harder than they ever had under Barnes’ supervision. The Phal mercs, five individuals who’d missed most of the action and were pretty frustrated about it, were particularly active and ran through combat manoeuvres that a human squad would have had a hard time pulling off. Both of the Rashani kids had been down there as well. They’d been practising combat stances, with Nue shifting her Lucidil to block Vis’ light strikes. Both had stopped to bow as Marissa passed, and she’d spent a few seconds greeting them. She’d seen eager determination in the boy’s face; he was ready for a fight. Why couldn’t she get so motivated?
She’d found a few sparring partners, but she couldn’t help but notice how expectant they all were. Each one spoke to her as if the plan to chase the Zulkar had already been decided on, and that she would be joining. It was kind of rude, but she hadn’t had the heart to correct them. So she’d sparred and worried, until she was drenched with sweat and her body ached.
Arc was already in the room, buttoning up a slightly more formal shirt. He gave her a surprised look and quickly helped her to the bed, the two of them sitting side by side on its edge.
“Training hard?” he asked, idly brushing Marissa’s damp hair from her face. “And here I thought you didn’t want to fight. Have you changed your mind?”
“I’m starting to wonder whether I have a choice,” Marissa grumbled. “Everyone else seems set on going.”
Arc leaned close and kissed her forehead, not seeming to mind the sweat. “You always have a choice, my soul. If you don’t want to fight, you don’t have to. You’re a free woman—you have that right.”
“And you?” Marissa turned a glare on him, but what she felt was concern. “Have you given up on pacifism?”
Arc winced at that. “My priority is rescuing Dae Trem. I don’t want to fight, but I know Shodus better than you, and I know someone is going to have to do something about him. It’s not how I want things to be, but I really don’t see another way.”
Marissa sighed, leaning against Arc’s shoulder. “There is, but you won’t listen, and neither will anyone else. Thing is, it feels wrong to just sit by while everyone else is fighting. Coach would chew me out for that.”
“The coach,” Arc repeated, furrowing his brow. “Does he still visit you?”
Marissa said nothing. She knew Arc’s opinion on her odd dreams, and there was no point in bringing up the subject again. She hadn’t heard so much as a peep from Coach since she’d left Aegis. Only Sorin’s cryptic words gave any hint that Coach hadn’t abandoned her. Maybe it was the drought of his pep-talks that had robbed her of her confidence, or maybe that was just another excuse.
Arc shifted to wrap an arm around her shoulder. “Dinner will be soon. Why don’t you take a quick bath, put on something nice, and we can go together? A good meal might make you feel better.”
Marissa groaned. “I bet that’s where Fredrichs is going to share her plan with the crew. She’ll hold a vote, and everyone will go along with her. I’ll skip dinner, thanks.”
Arc nodded in sympathy, loosening his collar. “I suppose it is a bit of a foregone conclusion. Even the Rashani are acting more bloodthirsty than usual, not that I can blame them. Honestly, I don’t have much of an appetite either. You just want to go to bed?”
Marissa closed her eyes and breathed in. She could smell the sweat on her skin, but she could also smell Arc beside her. He had a certain scent about him, one that she’d always liked. It turned her mind to other thoughts, ones that didn’t involve fighting in the slightest. She nuzzled against his neck, breathing in more of him. Her hand moved automatically to his shirt, brushing her fingertips against the soft fabric before pulling at the buttons. Without a word, Arc began assisting her, taking her hand in his own and gently guiding her fingers to each button, working downwards. She opened her eyes, leering down at the widening opening in his shirt, at his broad chest peeking through. She undid the last button, and Arc’s hand fell away.
He stood, shrugging the shirt off his shoulders and carelessly letting it fall to the floor. “Really? I thought yesterday was more than enough. Hold on, let me lock the door.”
Marissa followed after him, walking her fingers from the small of his back and up his spine. “That was different. Yesterday I just needed to feel you and convince myself you were real. After so long, I couldn’t be sure I wasn’t dreaming. Tonight, I just want us to be one, completely.”
Her eyes moved with her hands, scaling the rugged mountain of Arc’s back. Then, as she neared the summit, she came upon a patch of red flesh between his shoulder blades. Arc tensed as she ran her fingers across it. To her mind, it looked like a snake or worm of some kind.
“What’s this?” she asked, thoughts of lovemaking pushed aside for the time being.
“A gift from Shodus—his own personal mark,” Arc answered.
A slave brand. Marissa could recall her own, a sort of swirling pattern. She’d had hers removed as soon as she could once they’d escaped, as had Arc. To see him marked like this again brought up a flood of emotions she’d long thought buried. She circled the brand with her finger, avoiding direct contact.
“It hurt, didn’t it? I know there’s a way to do it painlessly, but they always make it hurt,” she said.
“Yes, but it’s fine now,” Arc said, quietly. “I’ll have it removed, later.”
That arrogant bastard! Marissa screamed internally. Of all the awful, outrageous things to do; branding a free man! She closed her hand into a fist and rested it against Arc’s back.
“My soul?” Arc asked, peeking over his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
Marissa’s lip trembled, resisting the hateful words building in her throat. She pictured Shodus, wearing that snobby expression all lords had as he stood over Arc and applied the brand to his back, just as he’d plunged his blades into Barnes. The branding was almost worse than the killing, and the two acts together made her blood boil.
“Marissa?” He turned around and put his hands on her shoulders, face full of concern.
“I’m going to kill him,” she replied.
“What?”
“No one owns us, Arc—not anymore.” She met his eyes, let him see her outrage. “But these lords never learn. I’m going to find Shodus, teach him that lesson, and then I’m going to kill him.”