Slavery was on the out in Freespace, apparently. One would think so, given the name, but some practices remain long after they’ve ceased to be relevant, rotting like a heap of waste that poisons everything around it. No longer; no one in Freespace had held a slave in at least a century, according to Corda, although how he could know that was questionable. The actual trade, the capturing of people to be shipped off to the Empire, still existed, but was illegal.
“Did you see the spires on the roof? No? Well, they can be hard to notice these days,” Corda told them. “That’s where I put the head of any captain who dares to trade in slaves. It was quite the sight in my first few years. Try to get a look before you go.”
Corda became much more receptive once Cassandra explained the Valiance was usually used to carry escaped slaves. They had common ground; a former slave and a woman who freed slaves. The Aquila spared them the details of his former life or his escape, suddenly eager to press on to the business at hand. What followed was a round of negotiations between Corda, Cassandra, and Arc; a whirlwind of ship classes and numbers that Marissa eventually tuned out. She’d done her part, and Arc would get what they needed. She felt no small amount of pride at how she’d flipped the course of the negotiations with a few sentences. Beneath the table, Arc still held her hand, lightly stroking his fingers across her palm as a silent thank-you.
“I admire you, you know,” Corda said.
Marissa started, roused from her daydreaming. “Whuh?”
“I said I admire you, Ms. Rhapsody,” Corda repeated, politely. “I was only a couple of years into my leadership when you appeared in the public eye, and your battles sparked reactions even out here. Before I heard of you, I doubted myself, questioned whether a former whipping-boy could really accomplish anything, much less lead a nation. No disrespect to Mr. Rhapsody, but we of Freespace value strength over eloquence, and you, Marissa, have strength to spare. From slave to celebrity, from servant to warrior—you are a hero to the former slaves in this city.”
Marissa flushed red, stammering out a few false starts. “It’s not that impressive. I went from being an owned gladiator to a free one.”
“But it was a choice you made of your own free will, and one that has proven fruitful,” Corda insisted. “I’m sure you were told on Augerium that you would fail on your own. ‘Slaves aren’t suited to freedom’, or similar drivel. I was told that I wouldn’t last a month without my master’s protection—that I’d be fleeing into a life of poverty and eventual starvation, if I wasn’t murdered in a dark alley first. Well, you stand as a shining example of just how much shit they were forcing down our throats. If even one of your fights could be publicly broadcast in the Empire, if those still in shackles could see what you’ve made of yourself, we might see a mass rebellion.”
“I think you’re exaggerating,” Marissa said. She looked to Arc to back her up, but his face had that far-away look he got when he was thinking.
Corda shrugged. “Maybe. I am a bit of an optimist, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
When all the negotiations were done, the Valiance was set to be accompanied by ten ships from Corda’s fleet; battleships with an array of armaments and five with a squadron of fighter ships each. Against a Magnus-class, it would put them on a reasonably level footing. Cassandra phoned Fredrichs to share the good news, then announced that the rest of Narsh’s crew would be freed once she and the others had returned safely to the Valiance. Marissa didn’t think that precaution was necessary; her conversation with Corda had convinced her that he was, against all her preconceived notions, what Narsh had claimed: an honourable pirate.
As they stood to go, Cassandra gestured to the Phal mercs. Narsh’s chains were undone and folded up, leaving the once-captain sitting alone, wearing a wide frown.
“This has been a strange week,” he grumbled, chugging down the rest of his drink.
“Good luck getting your ship back,” Marissa teased.
“Thank you,” Narsh replied, apparently oblivious to sarcasm. “And good luck to you. Knock those Imperials down a few pegs.”
* * *
Less than a moment after Marissa and the others had stepped aboard the Valiance, Arc spun her around, pulled her into his arms, and planted a kiss on her lips. Marissa was usually the more active participant in their affections, but she happily surrendered to his embrace.
“You are wonderful.” Arc’s breath whistled past her ear, sending little tickles through her body. “What would I do without you, my soul? I love you. Damn it, I really love you!”
“I never doubted that you did.” Marissa gently disentangled herself from him, beaming.
“Sometimes I worry that I don’t show it enough,” Arc continued. “After you saved my life, after what you said today, I’m not sure just being there to lean on is going to cut it.”
Marissa stood on her toes and returned his kiss. “You do far more than that for me, and you know it. One soul, right? ‘Without you, I am incomplete’. Corny as hell, but I’ve always liked the sound of it.”
Arc chuckled. “I said that during the wedding, didn’t I? Well, I don’t apologize for being honest.”
“And I’m not asking you to.” Marissa pulled her eyes away from her other half and found quite a few mercs staring at them. Arc could have waited until they were out of the corridor before reiterating his undying love. Cassandra lurked by the far wall, arms folded petulantly and skin turning a light purple. “Maybe we can save the love-y stuff for later?”
Arc’s eyes went wide, as if only noticing their audience for the first time. “Right. We have more pressing things to discuss, after all.”
They were greeted by enthusiastic crew members as they headed further into the ship, asking about the journey to Shiprest. They’d all heard that it was a success, but they wanted details. Marissa tried to answer the onslaught of questions as well as she could, assuring them that the pirates weren’t mugging each other in the middle of the street, but it quickly became overwhelming. Cassandra swooped in, demanding status reports and asking pointed questions about the crew’s duties. Soon the mercs were giving them a wide berth, and Marissa gave the captain a thankful nod.
Fredrichs and Mela were waiting on the bridge, greeting the conquering heroes as warmly as either seemed capable of. Mela had a small smile for them, congratulating them on a successful mission. “I never thought I’d see the day when Rashani worked alongside pirates,” she mused. “But if it needs to be done, so be it.”
“We didn’t mention what happened to Alis,” Arc assured her. “With luck, we can get aboard Shodus’ ship and destroy the poison without any of the pirates knowing it exists.”
“Rasha willing,” Mela murmured, pressing her hands together.
“I’ll have the pirates released,” Fredrichs announced, her thoughts all business. “Just as well—I don’t like keeping hostages, especially noisy ones.”
While the Commander went to do that, Marissa turned to Cassandra. “So, we going?”
Cassandra collapsed into the captain’s chair, letting out a long, loud breath. “Not just yet. I need a nap after all that. We leave tomorrow, and we don’t stop until we’ve reached Norus II, so I suggest you enjoy these last few peaceful hours. I imagine it’s going to get busy around here shortly.”
“Will do, Captain,” Marissa replied. She took hold of Arc’s arm, and they left the bridge together. They strolled idly through the ship, now unmolested by curious mercs.
“Now, where were we? Oh, right, I think you were saying how much you loved me?”
* * *
They were, at most, a day away from what would probably prove to be a monumental battle, one that was going to be bloody, no matter the victor. Despite that and all the stress that came with it, all Arc could think about as he lay in bed beside Marissa and waited for sleep was Dae Trem.
Based on their brief time together, he’d gotten the impression that the Aquila youth was a bold man, clever but quick to speak without careful consideration. That stunt, waiting until the treaty negotiations were underway to bring up a serious grievance with the proposal, had been incredibly rude and wholly unnecessary. It was the sort of thing Arc would have done, a couple of years back. But it was not the kind of dramatic action a diplomat should perform, not with such an important treaty. Despite all that, the Aquila people evidently saw something in him, so much that they’d partnered him with a legend like Ahn Delse, who had spent his early career ensuring the various tribes of the Aquila Alliance remained an alliance.
But it didn’t matter what Arc thought about Trem’s suitability as a diplomat. He’d been a fellow captive and, for whatever reason, Arc felt like he’d failed him. That strike against Shodus’ scrap-ship should’ve been the end of it; Trem should’ve been rescued along with the rest of the prisoners, but something had gone wrong. It was Arc’s fault in some way; he hadn’t insisted strongly enough on retrieving the Aquila, or maybe his own rescue had been a distraction. These were irrational thoughts, but he couldn’t help thinking them. He didn’t want Trem to go the same way as Delse or Osterly. He wouldn’t let Shodus claim another victim.
It was out of his hands, though. It would fall to the fighters, the mercs and the pirates, to bring Trem back alive. He could ask Marissa to do it personally, but it still felt wrong, like he was rejecting responsibility. He needed to be there to do it himself. The hitch was that Arc Rhapsody was an outspoken pacifist. He had sworn against any sort of violence, especially killing. He had enough blood on his hands, and he’d locked away his inner animal, remade himself with Marissa’s help and become someone respectable—someone he liked. If he fought and let the animal out, what would happen to the man? Would Arc Rhapsody still exist, or would he slide back into being an unfeeling killer? Either answer frightened him; to lose everything he’d become was awful, but if he could just go back to being who he was now, like flipping a light switch, wouldn’t that just reveal it all to be a lie—a mask to hide his true self? He feared to discover the answer to that most of all.
He snapped his eyes shut and pulled the blanket up over his face, futilely trying to shut out his own thoughts. He didn’t have time to agonize over his own sense of identity when danger was swiftly approaching. He turned over on his side and inadvertently jostled Marissa from her light snoring.
“Wha-huh?” she gasped, eyes half-opening. “Whuh’s wrong?”
“Sorry, go back to sleep,” Arc whispered, cringing with guilt.
“You sure?” Marissa asked, gradually rotating in place to face him. “You’re usually asleep by now.”
Arc sighed. What the hell? He shouldn’t be keeping secrets from her anyway. “What would you say if I joined you for the rescue mission?”
Marissa’s eyes opened completely, like blinds snapping up. “It’s going to be dangerous, Arc. You should stay on the Valiance.”
That answer wasn’t remotely satisfying. “I know, but I can’t. I have this—I don’t know what—this feeling that I should be there to help. Sitting back and letting others take care of the problem, that’s not what I do. I became a diplomat because I wanted to make changes and do more than just tell stories. I need to help Dae Trem, or else what am I good for?”
“Plenty of things,” Marissa answered. “You’d be going into a battlefield, Arc. You know what that means? Fighting. Killing. You don’t do that anymore.”
“But I can if I must, and I have,” Arc said, speaking without thinking. His chest tightened when he recalled a certain recurring nightmare since his rescue. “I killed a man, Marissa. The Zulkar they found in the cells—the one with those horrible marks on his skin. Alis did that, but I…” He choked back something between a retch and a sob. He could feel the final shudder of life, the warm drip of blood flowing down the blade and onto his hand all over again. “I slit his throat. Alis said that in his state it was mercy.” He asked the question with his eyes: was it?
Marissa touched a hand to his cheek, brushing it as if she expected to find tears. “You did the right thing, but that’s not the same thing as taking a life in combat. You know that. Can you really go through with that again?”
Arc took a deep breath, calling on his inner orator. “I wanted to fight with diplomacy, not weapons—negotiations, not wars. But I’ve spoken with Shodus, and he cannot be reasoned with. Fighting him is the only way, and I will do what must be done for the good of the galaxy.”
Marissa squeezed his arm gently. “You go nowhere near Shodus—I’ll take care of him. If you want to come, well, we can talk about it in the morning when we’re not tired. But I don’t know if I can protect you.” She turned back over, resting her head back against the pillow, and closed her eyes.
Arc understood what she was saying, but his resolve still lingered. He would be there on Shodus’ ship, and he would try to avoid fighting if he could, but he would do what must be done.
“You won’t have to protect me,” he whispered.
“But I want to,” Marissa said, her voice trailing off into a violent snore.
* * *
A fog rolled in from elsewhere, bulldozing through rooms, reshaping walls and raising roofs. It had no patience for the nonsense that stood in its way, forcibly shooing out the occupants as it proceeded with the reconstruction. Furniture disintegrated, beds and chairs digested into the thick vapour. Lockers sprouted from their remains, sliding up the walls to form even, steady rows. The carpet rapidly decayed, holes spreading and meeting, revealing a tile floor beneath. A long rectangle of the floor rose to knee-height and transmogrified into a wooden bench in seconds. With its work finished, the fog made its way out the door, leaving behind the distant song of a cheering crowd.
Marissa took a seat on the bench, lifted a foot onto her knee, and waited. What could have been a minute or a century passed within that space, the walls shifting between the two extremes of Aegis and Augerium constantly, irritatingly. She stood and paced the room, then kicked a locker and watched its surface ripple like water.
She tilted her head back and cupped her hands around her mouth. “C’mon out! I know you’re there!”
No response. The cheering outside found a rhythm, coming like waves crashing against a shore. She stormed across the room, wrenching open lockers. “Are you really going to hide from me now? I’ve got the fight of my life coming up. Where’s the pep talk? I let it slide last time, but don’t think you can keep walking out on me!”
Again, no answer. The excited crowd, astonishingly patient, only seemed to scream louder, their voices piercing the walls now. “Ma-riss-ah! Ma-riss-ah!”
Marissa put her face in her hands and curled up on the bench. “Damn it, Coach, I need you now more than ever.”
There was a change in the air, and the crowd became quiet, their voices receding back behind a muffling veil. Footsteps, the ruffling of a cloak, and Marissa felt a new weight on the bench. She uncurled herself and stared up into a face that looked older than time itself, yet brimmed with strength and authority. She knew that face, not just from her dreams, but from Paragon Arena.
“You’re that man,” she said, disoriented. “The homeless man. I always see you around when I’m practising.”
Coach nodded, the wrinkles across his face seeming to fade as he smiled. “Every match as well. I wanted to see how you were improving.”
Marissa sat up and fixed Coach with a stern but tear-blurred glare. “Where have you been? Do you know what I’ve been through? How much I’ve needed to see you?”
Coach’s dark eyes held her own, but the rest of his face drooped pitifully. “I was hiding, once again. I’m a coward, Marissa. I ran when I did the crime, and I hide now that I’ve been found out. I fear I’ve lost my courage over these many years—I’m not fit to call myself a warrior.”
Marissa sorted through the babble, trying to find something meaningful to latch onto. “What was found out? By who?”
Coach reached out and brushed back a strand of Marissa’s dishevelled hair. She didn’t mind; it felt as natural as if Arc or her mother had done it. “Sorin. He found me, and he found out about you, and what I’ve been doing with you.”
“I thought Sorin was your friend?” Marissa asked. “He’s on our side, isn’t he?”
Coach wrinkled his brow indecisively. “He is on his brother’s side, which is the side we should all be on, but I’m not sure we share the same goals. But he is like family to me, if that’s what you were thinking. The problem is that I’ve committed what amounts to a serious crime among my people, and meeting with Sorin again has rekindled my shame.”
“So you hid.”
Coach nodded, breaking eye contact. “Sorin is young, but I trust his word more than any other. I made him promise to watch over you, and I hoped that would be enough.”
Marissa stood, pacing circles around the bench, which twisted and folded to stay out of her way. “I don’t get any of this. Your people? Are they other figments of my imagination? You’re being vague—you’re always vague, as if me forgetting half of what you say isn’t enough. You go away—abandon me—and all you have to say for yourself is more confusing shit! Why don’t you be straight with me, just this once? Who are you? Who is Sorin? And why are you both so interested in me?”
Coach looked aghast. “I can’t tell you—our talking right now is a risk as it is. You’re not even supposed to know we exist. I can’t break any more laws. I’m sorry.”
Marissa turned her back to him and folded her arms. “Then I don’t know if I want to see you anymore. I mean, I can’t keep letting a stranger into my head all the time. I guess you’ll just have to disappear again.”
Coach made a choking sound. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” Marissa said through clenched teeth. She kept her eyes straight ahead, watching the shifting patterns on the wall. “All these years and I know next to nothing about you, Coach. At least Sorin gave a name.”
“I’ve told you my name,” Coach said in a low voice.
“Yeah, but I keep forgetting it.” Marissa scowled. “It’s not really sharing a secret if that keeps happening, huh? So why don’t you tell me again?”
“I can’t,” Coach said to her back. His voice was growing weaker, and Marissa pictured him dwindling away behind her. She fought the urge to turn around, following Coach’s own advice about not showing weakness.
“Then I think you’d better leave,” she said, fighting back tears.
“Marissa, please.” Coach was gone, at least in voice, replaced by a man who spoke with no authority, but quite a bit of hurt. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. The truth is so far beyond what you know or believe.”
“So I’m too dumb?” Marissa snapped, sneaking a peak over her shoulder. Coach sat in a heap, his rag-clad back hunched over so that his lustrous mane of grey hair dangled between his legs. Marissa felt a profound sense of wrongness; she didn’t like seeing such a great man looking so pitiful.
“No, that’s far from it,” Coach insisted. “You are skeptical, and that is a good thing. You are not so gullible that you would swallow any nonsense, and trust me when I say the truth will sound just like nonsense.”
“Why don’t you let me decide that?” Marissa asked. “Many people have tried and failed to guess what I might do or say. I thought you knew me well enough not to try, Coach.”
Coach slammed his fists against the bench, making a sharp knocking sound. “I can’t keep doing this! I can’t keep piling on the crimes by breaking laws on a whim. They’ll catch up with me someday, and I will be punished for every one of them. Do you want that?”
Marissa folded her arms tighter, squeezing her ribs so hard she thought she might break them. She would not relent, not until she had what she wanted. “Maybe you deserve punishing. Or maybe not. I don’t know because you won’t tell me what you’ve done. Maybe I can help you—did you ever consider that?”
“I don’t know if anyone can help me.” Coach sighed. He was quiet for a time, but Marissa sensed this was not a silence to be interrupted. When he spoke again, it was with his usual authority. “You must promise me something, and this is vitally important. What I tell you here must never leave your head. No other can hear my words, is that clear?”
“Fine, just tell me something.” She doubted anyone would care what she was dreaming anyway.
Coach made a heavy wheezing noise. “I can’t tell you everything—not now, at least. Maybe someday, though. But I will tell you one thing—my name is Fulmus.”
“Fulmus,” Marissa repeated, nodding to herself. She knew the name. Of course she did; he’d told her countless times, but it had been obscured, hidden away in a dark part of her mind. Hearing it again sparked memories, and it seemed so obvious now, almost like a cop-out. “I need something else. You’ve told me your name before. Tell me something that will surprise me.”
Fulmus gave her a sidelong glance. “Such a bold girl. Fine, I suppose it’s time to tell you. Sorin already knows, so I’ve no excuse to keep it from you.” He looked as if he wanted to say more, but he abruptly clammed up.
Marissa turned to face him. “Go on.”
All of a sudden, Fulmus’ eyes were full of tears, drops streaking down his lined face to wet his beard. He coughed, wiping at them anxiously. “Of course. Forgive me—I never thought this moment would come. I wasn’t prepared.” He lifted his head almost proudly, locking eyes with her. “I am your father, Marissa.”
Marissa turned away again, hand clutched over her mouth to stifle a laugh. Unbelievable. Completely ridiculous! Her father was no one and nothing; a person-shaped hole in the vague, distant years of her early life. Her mother had spoken little of him, and Marissa had never asked. He was just some deadbeat who’d done the deed and then fled, leaving a single mother to fend for herself on a frontier world.
Marissa’s humour began to fade as she moved away from the bench. How would things have turned out differently if the bastard had stayed? With an extra pair of hands to help, her mother wouldn’t have had to work herself to exhaustion every day, and maybe there wouldn’t have been days when the both of them had gone hungry. Maybe she wouldn’t be dead if there’d been someone to protect her when the pirate vessel had cast its shadow over their little colony.
Her fist met the surface of a locker, the metal door buckling from the impact. It toppled like a skyscraper collapsing in slow motion, disintegrating before her eyes. “You’re not funny, asshole!” she blurted out, whipping back around to Fulmus.
The old man sat with shoulders squared and chest out, as if prepared to take a punch. “I make no jokes. I loved Monica, and you were born from that love—our wondrous child.”
This wasn’t real, couldn’t be. It was a dream after all, and Coach wasn’t even a real person. So what if she felt a little more lucid than normal in these dreams, or that Coach sometimes seemed to know things before even she did? He couldn’t be real, couldn’t be her father.
She pointed an accusatory finger at him. “Where the hell were you?”
He didn’t ask for clarification. “Hiding from my first crime. I fled when I discovered Monica was with child, out of fear of what I had done. Abandoning you two was my second crime. By the time I realized that, it was too late to save your mother. I’m sorry.”
Marissa strode up and punched him, right in the jaw. It was like hitting a rock, and she pulled her hand back, knuckles throbbing. Coach, Fulmus, whatever, hadn’t even flinched. “I don’t want an apology—I want an explanation!”
“I can’t give one that will satisfy you,” Coach answered, idly rubbing the spot where her fist had connected. “My very existence is supposed to be a secret, you see. It was not my place to love your mother, but loneliness drew me to her. I could not risk breaking more laws by interacting with you, not directly. That is why you dream, and why I only come to you during the difficult times.”
“It isn’t good enough,” Marissa said, bitterly. “I was made a slave.”
“I know, but the more I interfere, the more I would risk exposing myself—and you. I’ve spent years worrying about what would happen if my kind discovered you.”
“Again with this ‘my kind’ stuff! What do you mean by that? Are you some kind of spy?” A thought came to her, one that sent shivers down her back. Shodus, stopping her mid-strike, Surdt the Zulkar prisoner calling her the child of a god. It was insane, but so was having a conversation with her estranged father in the middle of a dream. “The man we’re hunting, Shodus, he says that he’s a god,” she told Coach. “He says the same about me.”
Coach maintained a conspicuously neutral expression. “Sorin has told me of this Shodus. I’ve no doubt he suffers from a diseased mind, and delusions must come often to him. Still, do not underestimate him, Marissa. That is my advice for tomorrow.”
Tomorrow; that was what she had wanted to talk with Coach about. Tomorrow she understood, while all this talk of secrets and fathers was disorienting. She swallowed her anger and accepted the change in subject for now, returning to sit beside Coach as she turned her thoughts to the near future. “So what do you think? Do we have a chance?”
Coach stroked his beard. “I am not with you as I normally am, so I only have the information Sorin has given me. With that in mind, I have to say maybe. These are not ordinary Imperial soldiers you face. They are cunning, and you must be wary of that. Brute strength alone will always fall to a careful strategy. Your pirate allies may prove a hindrance in that regard, unless you use them as a decoy.”
“Hell, no!” The very idea made her feel sick. She couldn’t let someone die for the sake of an advantage, even if they were pirates. “One way or another, I’m leading that charge. I’ll be careful, though.”
Coach nodded solemnly. “I suppose that’s all a father can hope for in this situation. You take after me—there’s warrior’s blood flowing in your veins.”
“I guess,” Marissa replied, reluctantly. “I need your advice on something else. My husband, Arc, wants to fight with us, but I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
Coach belted out a round of hearty laughter. “Why ever not? That man is nearly as good a warrior as you are. Having him on the battlefield will be an asset.”
Marissa clenched her fists, frustrated. “But he hasn’t fought in years. He hates it! He might say he wants to fight, but what if he goes out there and can’t bring himself to do it? I came to save him—I can’t risk him getting killed now.”
Coach put a hand on her shoulder. Despite its gnarled appearance, his grip was strong and firm. “You worry about him, and I understand completely. But he worries about you as well—you must know that. Can you imagine sitting on the sidelines while your beloved risks their life?”
“I can,” Marissa replied, easily able to visualize the sense of helplessness that must create. “But that doesn’t change the fact he’s rusty. How can I keep him safe?”
Coach stroked his beard again, giving it a few sharps tugs as if trying to pull free some piece of wisdom. “You wish to keep him away from the frontlines—away from your side. I say you find someone you trust, someone reliable, and ask them to accompany him.”
That made sense, and a few names immediately came to mind: Mela, maybe Fredrichs. If Arc was leading the search for Trem aboard the enemy ship, then either of them would probably agree to it. It would just be up to Marissa and the others to make sure the path was clear for them. She smiled, some of her doubts cleared away. “Thank you—for your advice and your honesty. I’m sorry I lost my temper, but I guess it’s not really a big deal. I’ll forget it all again once I wake up.”
“Maybe not,” Coach said. “I think you will remember more than you usually do this time.”
“Why’s that?”
Coach shook his head. “Gut feeling. Normally, I create this space and call you here to give advice. But this time, it was you that called me.”
Marissa blinked. “I did, didn’t I? How did I do that?”
Coach’s face filled with admiration. “It’s not for me to say. Remember, don’t underestimate Shodus.” And with that, he began to fade.
Marissa reached out to him, but her hands passed through air. The fog rolled in from all sides, smothering the cheering crowd into silence, and enveloped the locker room. Everything faded; the lockers, the bench, and then the floor. Marissa felt herself falling, the rushing wind pushing back her hair. Then she woke up.
* * *
Keeping track of time in space was a complicated problem. There were no days to mark the passage of time, no movement of the sun to indicate dawn, noon, or dusk. Worse was the conundrum of individual time zones across multiple planets, which meant that a traveller might paradoxically arrive at his destination the day before he’d left. Attempts to create a ‘Universal Time’ had fallen through almost immediately, in part because every nation wanted their clocks to be the basis, and also because the proposed days would have been thirty-five hours long.
So travellers did the best they could and calculated hours to know when they would be arriving. The ships’ computers usually kept the time of the planet they were from, so the Valiance’s clocks ticked down the minutes on Aegis, and the crew’s routines moved to them as well. They were up when the sun rose above the Posip Ocean, and went to bed based on the capital’s midnight. It seemed to work well for them, and things went relatively smoothly aboard the ship. The only problem was that Iden, the capital of Utopia, and by association the late Moonsaber’s clocks, were four hours ahead.
Mela remained up and about long into the hours of an Aegis night, standing as a model of Rashani discipline to everyone aboard, but Nue noticed the signs of fatigue that her Sikkat tried to hide. Bags under the eyes, the way the corners of her mouth had begun to sag, the minute but noticeable ruffles in her robes and her beautiful red hair. She prayed her Sikkat wasn’t pushing herself too hard. Meanwhile, Vis slept whenever he felt like it, and Nue often had to do the same to keep from collapsing. Fortunately, they were usually awake at the more critical times.
Now was not one of those times. By most of the crew’s reckoning, it wasn’t even dawn yet, but for Nue it was the middle of the morning, when she was usually expected to be training on Utopia, and she had never been one to sleep in. So she tip-toed her way down the empty corridors, where the dimmed lights were just barely strong enough to show her where she was going. She winced at every step, as if scuffing her shoe might wake the entire ship. Vis would have said she was being overly cautious, but then Vis wouldn’t have cared who he woke up.
He’d been sitting in his bunk when Nue had risen, legs crossed beneath him as he stared intently at the glowing rectangle of his computer screen. Despite sleeping in the bunk directly above her, he hadn’t noticed Nue until she stood up to greet him. Nue had been absorbed in books before, but never to the level that Vis was now. That wasn’t even going into how defensive he became when she asked about it, or the wall he’d put around his mind for most of the trip. It was just another thing she had to worry about.
She continued her slow, creeping march past the crew quarters, eyes flitting from one closed door to another. She stumbled and her arm hit against the wall as she tried to keep balanced. Her breath hardened into ice in her lungs, heart blaring a thundering alarm in her chest as she waited for the angry growls of an early and unwelcome awakening. Mercenaries were not the friendliest lot at the best times; Nue dreaded the bleary-eyed glares and angry emotions she was bound to receive for her clumsiness.
But nothing happened. The only sound was the gentle hum of the ship’s generator, and Nue’s own slowing heart rate. Her lungs thawed and she breathed out, blushing and thankful that she was alone. She smoothed out her robe, then continued on her way, picking up her pace just a little.
There was still a light shining above the medical ward door. At this hour, it would be one of the few portions of the ship still operating. Grievous wounds didn’t sleep, after all. She knocked tentatively at the door, and it slid open to admit her.
A single medic greeted her in a hushed voice, asking her to keep quiet around the sleeping patients. Two armed mercenaries stood nodding in the corner by the injured prisoners, but otherwise there was no one except the patients. Nue stepped even more lightly between the beds, breathing in their emotions. Many had retreated into dreams, so the feelings were all muffled to her. Others lingered on the edge of consciousness, and Nue found herself slowing, as if weighed down by the sheer mass of pain. She retracted her mind regretfully, wishing she could do something for them.
Without consciously thinking about it, she found her way to Othus’ shrouded bed. The poor soul was asleep, and the light above him was switched off, for which Nue was thankful; dwelling on his injuries served no purpose. She approached the snoring figure and stood beside his bed. She had no real goal in being here, but it still felt right. Othus had been hurt helping her Sikkat, and that deserved respect.
Othus’ hand rested on top of his sheet. She reached out to him, feeling a sudden impulse to share something with this man who had helped them. The tips of her fingers brushed Othus’, and her senses were overwhelmed for a sharp instant. She pulled away, her face on fire. Sedatives had helped carry Othus to a particularly pleasant and personal dream.
She stepped back, ashamed of herself. She shouldn’t have pried, and she focused on purging the stolen emotions from her mind. It spilled out swiftly, like a rushing river. But a stone stood against the current; an image locked into her thoughts. A woman—a Rashani, Nue knew instinctively—with bright blue eyes, curly brown hair, and a warm smile. There was no name to put to the face—Nue did not recognize the woman, yet the image was in her head. Where had it come from?
She leaned over Othus, hearing his uneven breaths. He’d been engaged to a Rashani, but she’d died on a mission, or so Vis had told her. Could this woman be…? But no, that was impossible. Rashani were empaths, not telepaths; they could only detect emotions, not actual thoughts. The image of the woman, so clean and crisp in Nue’s mind, had to be a creation of her own; a subconscious assumption of Othus’ dreams.
She clasped her hands together and closed her eyes. She reached beyond herself, beyond the Valiance, then focused further, climbing into a place that was both within and without her, where Rasha was said to dwell. She found no presence in that space, just a general sense of being all around her. Her mouth moved as she uttered a silent prayer, wishing Othus a swift recovery.
She left the sleeping pilot and moved a few beds over, likewise shrouded. She felt Alis’ presence behind the curtain, and then a light prod that acted as an invitation. Alis lifted herself into a sitting position as Nue pulled the curtain aside. The older Rashani’s hair had fallen into further disarray, its spiky shape matted down by a recent bath. Her face was pale and gaunt, as if she’d been starved.
“Back again,” she said, hoarsely.
Nue bowed. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t sleep, and I thought you might like some company.”
Alis waved her closer, a strained smile spreading over her lips. “No need for apologies—I like seeing you. Not like anyone else pays me any attention.”
“Everyone’s busy,” Nue said, feeling the urge to explain on the crew’s behalf. “We’ll be at Norus II soon, and they need to be ready to fight.”
“I know,” Alis replied in a sulky tone. “That doesn’t change how I’m feeling. But you’re here, so I guess I should be grateful. How is your training going?”
Nue brought her hands together to keep her fingers from fidgeting. “It’s been slow going lately. Mela has a lot on her mind at the moment, and I don’t want to bother her.”
Alis did not look pleased. “You’re her apprentice. It’s your duty to bother her. Your training shouldn’t stop because there’s going to be a fight. If anything, she should be trying to teach you with it. Has she even tried improving your combat skills?”
Nue flinched, feeling like she should be ashamed. “Not really. Ms. Rhapsody has been helping in her place.”
“Not good enough,” Alis said, firmly. “Knowing how to wield a blade is one thing, but a Lucidil is far more than that. Its potential is limited only by your ability to shape it. In a fight, the best Rashani keep their Lucidil in constant motion, flowing from one shape to another between breaths. That’s why pirates fear us, and how one Rashani can do what entire battalions can’t. It’s Mela’s duty to teach you these things.”
Nue swallowed; Alis was beginning to sound angry in spite of her weakened state. “I’m sure she’ll be able to teach once we’ve returned to Utopia. Now, how are you feeling?”
Alis slumped back, sliding down the headboard. “Better, I guess. I’m not sure. Sometimes it feels like nothing’s changed at all. I couldn’t sense you until you were nearly standing in front of me.”
“I felt you call me in,” Nue volunteered.
Alis shrugged, her expression falling. “I don’t know if that’s something to be happy about. I mean, it’s been, what, a week since I was last injected? And in that time, I’ve figured out how to get someone’s attention, but only if they’re already in shouting distance. Even if I am recovering, how long is it going to take? It might be years before I can return to duty, assuming that what I have now isn’t the full extent of my recovery.”
“Would you stop being so cynical?” Nue snapped, then quickly dropped her voice. “You’ll get better, trust me. And in the meantime, there are plenty of positions in the Enclave that don’t require your powers. You could be an administrator, or a teacher.”
Alis gave her a quizzical look. “Those are options, I guess. Very well, I’ll try to be more positive. When’s the fighting going to happen?”
“Later today, probably,” Nue answered.
Alis blinked. “I see I’m going to have to be really positive. Will you be fighting?”
Nue wanted to shake her head, but she couldn’t. Things were more complicated than just what she wanted. There were the needs of the crew, the future of the Rashani if the poison wasn’t destroyed, not to mention Vis’ own insistence on fighting. But deep down, it came to one simple fact: if she didn’t fight, then she might as well not be a Rashani. That was all she’d needed to tell Mela the day before to convince her Sikkat, a reminder of the duty all of them shared.
“I’m going to join the fight,” she answered, swallowing her doubts. “I won’t be in the thick of it, of course, but I’ll be there.”
“Then I wish you luck and Rasha’s guidance,” Alis said, grinning. “Who knows? You might be the key to turning things in our favour.”
* * *
Change is inevitable, a natural consequence of the passage of time. Cities grow larger, languages and dialects gradually shift, and explorers are ever pushing the boundaries of the unknown. Nothing remains in the same state perpetually, not even Mother Rasha herself. The Rashani themselves were a change; before our birth, Utopia was yet another colony of pre-Kinship human civilization.
Yet there are many within the Enclave who vehemently oppose any sort of change to the status quo or shift in their rules. The reasons for this are innumerable and varying, but at all of their cores lies a single, simplistic emotion: fear. Fear of losing power. Fear of being replaced. Fear of ideas they don’t understand. Out of this fear, they turn to the comfort of the so-called holy texts, dusty old tomes that offer guidance to a society that has been evolving for centuries, that are scribbled in a dialect rife with the abbreviations and informality of their pre-Kinship heritage. Many laws in these books are outdated and worthless to our modern Enclave, or Utopia as a whole.
Vis came to a sudden stop in his reading. He read over the previous passage again, a knot coiling in his stomach. Yes, there it was, embedded in the logical but heartfelt prose: Zira’s heresy, the denial of the authority of the holy texts. There had been inklings of heretical thoughts running throughout the entire book, passing sentences that might be construed to be jabs at the Enclave’s most sacred rules, but this was the first outright, bald-faced heresy. No doubt it would be the first of many in Rashani Reborn, as time passed and bitterness began to creep into Zira’s writing. And Vis had just read it.
He set the computer down on his lap and glanced around the dark room. Empty; Nue had gone off somewhere early in the morning and hadn’t returned yet. But he still had the guilty feeling that someone might be watching, that anyone could walk in at any time and discover his great sin. Now that he had stumbled into the true meat of Zira’s book and smelled the first corrupting whiff of heresy, it would be foolish and too risky to continue. Morally wrong as well.
He ran his finger across the screen to turn the page and plowed on. Surely it couldn’t be so bad. Zira’s rhetoric could be harsh at times, but the more he read, the more he doubted the lessons he’d been taught that said she’d wanted to rip out the very core of what made them Rashani. It seemed too extreme; Zira clearly had a great deal of love for her Sisterhood—otherwise, why would she have written so much on the subject? This heresy was merely a slip, a difference of opinion that Vis was willing to overlook for now.
Zira went on to list some of the ways in which the holy texts had influenced the Council in decisions detrimental to the Enclave. Decisions to offer their services to suspected criminal organizations led to scandals, while Rashani who committed sometimes horrifying acts were glossed over with claims of justice. Vis could not argue with the negative results, but surely most of those examples had come about from how the texts were interpreted, not the books themselves. He used that argument as proof to himself that he hadn’t been entirely taken in by Zira.
He checked the time; he’d been reading for a couple hours now, and the rest of the crew would be rising soon. There was still time though, just enough to finish this chapter. He turned his eyes back to the screen.
Regardless of the Council’s efforts to stop time, the Sisterhood continues its inevitable march towards change. And when we as a society refuse to move forward, Rasha intervenes. A few years ago, we were blessed with a miracle, something that all our understanding of our nature says is impossible. But instead of embracing this gift, we try to forget this wondrous event and label the result an abomination.
No. Was she talking about him? The knot in Vis’ stomach tightened.
I am speaking, of course, about the boy, Vis Unclaimed. To some, the very mention of his name creates a sense of revulsion and irrational anger. I do not think those people will be reading my book. To the rest of you, I do not blame you for fearing the stigma of being associated with the boy and keeping your distance. I have heard that his caretakers, doing nothing but the duty they hold to all Rashani children, have frequently received threats, so I can understand your caution. If blame for the boy’s treatment can be laid at anyone’s feet, let it be at the Council’s.
Normally, Vis would have taken a step back to consider the trend running through the book in regards to the Council, but the mention of his name, right there, had him on the edge of his seat and eager to see what would come next.
The boy’s birth was quite an event, with much of the Enclave in an uproar. The loudest cries came from the hateful, fanatically-backwards women who will not read this; awful creatures who actually had the gall to suggest killing a newborn infant. The Council may have calmed the waters, but did nothing else. They sat on their hands for the first year of Vis’ life, taking no position on the matter for fear of being criticized. As of this writing, Vis is six years old, and the Council has quietly allowed him to begin the first steps of Rashani training, simply by saying nothing. By ignoring him, they hope the problem will solve itself, but they should be doing so much more for him.
I met Vis Unclaimed a few days ago, and that meeting has inspired me to write this portion of my book. I spoke with the boy, looked into his eyes, touched his mind, and do you know what I found? The same thing I have found in all kin of Rasha: potential. He isn’t a monster to be shunned—he is an innocent child. Was he somewhat hostile? Yes, but I was not perfect at his age, either. He simply faces the world with the same temperament the world shows him. If there is anything ‘wrong’ with Vis, then it is because there is something wrong with the Sisterhood that has raised him.
I think, given the proper encouragement, Vis will grow into a fine Rashani. His sex has no bearing on his abilities or his honour as far as I’m concerned, and I would be proud to call him my Brother when the day comes.
Vis tried to go on, but he couldn’t read through the blur of tears. He put the computer down, heart hammering with excitement. Zira had to be his mother. What other reason could she have for putting this in her book? She saw value in him and acknowledged him as a Rashani, if not her son. It was as much as he could ask for.
Almost too late, he felt Nue approaching. He switched the computer off and tucked it away. Nue entered as he descended from his bunk.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Of course,” Vis replied. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’ve been crying,” Nue said, flatly.
Vis wiped his eyes, cursing mildly. “It’s nothing, just some dust.”
“Please don’t lie to me, Vis.” Nue’s tone was gloomy.
Vis suppressed a flash of irritation. “I’m not sad. Go ahead, have a peek and tell me I’m wrong.”
Nue folded her arms and came face to face with him, her green eyes peering into his own. She was uncomfortably close, so close that he could feel her breath on his face as she entered his mind. He kept himself open, knowing she wouldn’t find anything incriminating. He was happier than he’d been in weeks.
She withdrew, both mentally and physically, and frowned. “You’re not lying. I’m sorry for being pushy.”
Vis shrugged; he knew she was just worried about him. “Did you come back for a reason?”
Nue’s eyes widened. “Oh, right! We’ve caught sight of Norus II. The captain’s going to be holding a strategy meeting in the cafeteria. I’m going on the mission, so I need to be there, and I figured—”
“—that I’d be coming as well,” Vis finished for her. “Of course—I can’t just leave you to fend for yourself this late in the journey.”
Nue beamed. “Great! I can’t go into a battle without my meat-shield.”
Vis gave her a sour smile. “And I can’t fight without a certain someone to bludgeon my enemies with. Come on, let’s go.”
* * *
Most of the crew had pushed their chairs into a circle around the centre of the cafeteria, all eyes on a display apparatus that had been erected on a table. Three screens faced outwards in different directions, all displaying the same dirt-brown sphere: Norus II.
Fredrichs stood patiently beside the screens, letting everyone get a good look before speaking. “We’re fortunate to be arriving when we are—our prisoners tell me that the Superius should be airborne now, located on the side of the planet facing us for the next few hours, within the southern hemisphere. We have a straight shot to them, so we can be there within…”
“Two hours,” Cassandra’s voice responded over the ship’s speakers. At this juncture, the captain was too busy handling the ship to leave the bridge. “If we don’t meet resistance on the way, that is. If they don’t know that we’re coming, though, they won’t have much time to prepare once they’ve noticed.”
Fredrichs continued. “We’re on the edge of the solar system right now, and hopefully out of sensor range. The plan is to have our forces perform a hyperspace hop into Norus II’s orbit to get in there before the enemy knows what’s going on. Once in orbit, our forces will ascertain the position of the Superius and engage.”
Marissa shifted in her seat. In her limited knowledge of space travel, a hyperspace hop was a risky manoeuvre. The pilot effectively hit the throttle, then immediately pulled the brake, covering what was a relatively short distance in an instant. The problem was that if the pilot didn’t stop fast enough, they might crash into wherever they were going. Mostly, though, Marissa worried for her poor tormented stomach.
Beside her, Arc raised his hand, a brooding look on his face. “How exactly will the attack be organized?”
“I was getting to that,” Fredrichs replied, sharply. “The Valiance is no battleship, so we’ll be relying on Corda’s ships to get us there.” Fredrichs bowed her head as a murmur passed through the cafeteria. “I know none of you are keen on working with pirates, but it’s the best option we have. They’ve got ten ships, five of which are carrying a full squad of fighters. They will be the first wave, dealing with the arsenal the Superius has waiting and acting as cover for us, the infiltration unit. We’ll be riding in one of the battleships and will take a smaller vessel to the Superius once an opening has been made. From within, we will extract Dae Trem and attempt to take the ship. Mr. Rhapsody urges me to remind you that Dae Trem takes priority.”
Arc smiled, nodding to her gratefully.
Fredrichs tapped a finger against her jaw. “More in-depth instructions will be delivered once we’ve assigned specific tasks to each of you. In the meantime, are there any pressing questions?”
Hands shot into the air all around the room, and a few didn’t even bother with that, blurting out their questions. Fredrichs silenced them with a glare, then picked a hand out of the crowd.
“What sort of environment are we going into?” The speaker was a younger merc with wispy blonde hair.
Fredrichs touched one of the screens, and the image on all three zoomed in on the brown planet. The smooth surface seemed to splinter as the view moved closer, a spider web of cracks spreading across a good portion of the southern hemisphere. “The environment is a sort of desert, with most of the land split into high plateaus and deep canyons. Our prisoner tells us that the atmosphere is saturated with oxygen, however—something about abundant plant life in the crevices—so air’s one less problem we’ll have to deal with. Next question—you.”
A bulky Phal stood to speak. “Will the Rashani be accompanying us?”
“Yes. Mela and her two wards will be on the infiltration team along with Mr. Rhapsody. He and the youths are to be kept out of the line of fire if possible.”
Arc accepted this statement without comment, but across the room, Vis sat with his Sisters, wearing a sulky frown. Marissa could tell what his problem was; Coach would’ve said he had a warrior’s spirit.
Fredrichs continued, heedless. “Right, Deltis. I figured you had something to say.”
Deltis was a tall dark woman, one of the Valk pilots. “What about the Valk suits? We lugged a crapload of equipment all the way out here, and this is the perfect time to use it.”
Marissa’s attention was caught. This was something she understood, partially. She hadn’t had a chance to fly since Barnes had died, but the urge had been ever-present since.
“I see losing the Lieutenant-Commander hasn’t dampened your spirits,” Fredrichs observed. “I’ve arranged to have the four Valk suits outfitted aboard the first wave of Corda’s ships to join the fighters in the initial attack.”
Marissa sprang to her feet. “But you have five suits!”
Fredrichs rolled her eyes. “Yes, Ms. Rhapsody, but we only have four pilots. The last suit belonged to Barnes, and he neglected to train any replacements.”
Marissa smiled, struck with inspiration. “That’s not true—he was training me. I know how to fly a Valk suit. Put me in his and let me join the first wave.”
“Absolutely not!” The shout came from two directions, both from Fredrichs and Arc. Marissa felt a hand close around her wrist and turned to find her husband’s eyes wide with desperation.
“Why not?” she asked.
Arc said nothing, but Fredrichs seemed almost happy to shoot her down. “Because you’re inexperienced. Do you really think Barnes was seriously training you? It takes years to become a proper Valk pilot, and you expect me to throw you into the heat of battle after only a few weeks?”
Marissa didn’t back down. “I never said I was a proper pilot, but I know how the suit works. Ask any of the other pilots, and they’ll tell you I’m a fast learner. Right, Deltis?”
The merc cringed at the mention of her name. “Yeah, I mean, Barnes had a lot of nice things to say about her. She’s not as good as the rest of us, but she’s not terrible. We could use all the help we can get.”
Marissa turned back to Fredrichs, beaming with confidence. “See? Give me my wings and I won’t let you down.”
Fredrichs narrowed her eyes. “I can’t allow it. Barnes’ decision to let you fly a Valk still baffles me, but I let it happen because I trusted his judgment. It’s out of respect for him that I can’t allow you to put your life at risk. He liked you, and he wouldn’t have wanted you to get yourself killed using his suit like that.”
Marissa was ready to argue, but someone else beat her to it. A tall merc rose from the same cluster of seats where Deltis had been sitting. He was a serious looking man, with severely close-cut hair and a somewhat gaunt face. Black, Marissa recalled; he’d assisted her and Barnes when they’d been installing the turrets during her first flight. “With all due respect, Commander, I don’t think any of us could guess what the Lieutenant-Commander would have wanted. He was not an easy man to predict, even at his most serious.”
Fredrichs gritted her teeth, but kept her tone civil. “I agree, Black, but that’s beside the point.”
“That’s Sergeant Black now, Commander,” Black calmly corrected. “You do recall that the Lieutenant-Commander requested I be promoted in the event he could no longer personally command the Valk unit? I was under the impression such had happened in light of his death.” His words seemed to still the mercs around him. Marissa couldn’t imagine many of their number had ever had the balls to talk to the Commander like that.
“You were just too polite to ask, though,” Fredrichs replied with a touch of sarcasm. “Yes, Sergeant Black, you are now in command of the Valk unit. Do you mean to tell me you believe Ms. Rhapsody has had the proper training to properly pilot a Valk suit?”
Black’s face creased in thought, his eyes never leaving the Commander. Marissa held her breath, hoping. To be honest, she’d barely spoken to Black, even less than the other pilots. He’d seemed to fade into the background when Barnes was around. But if he was willing to make a case for her, she’d be his best friend.
“Absolutely not,” Black answered, shattering Marissa’s heart with two words. He glanced at his fellow pilots around him, then went on. “But she does know the basics, and with some supervision, could make a contribution. Commander, let me be frank—we will have next to no aerial presence in the coming battle. The task of handling the enemy’s fighters will fall almost entirely to Corda’s ships, and Inferno’s success will rely on that. I think most of us hate the idea that we need the help of pirates. The Valk suits won’t even our contribution in that field, but they provide advantages against enemy fighters that the pirates don’t have. An extra suit, even piloted by an amateur, will make a difference. I say let Ms. Rhapsody fly.”
Fredrichs’ eyes roved over the cafeteria, moving from Black to Marissa and back again. Her expression was indecisive, something the Commander rarely seemed to be. She touched a hand to her head, as if the debate had given her a headache. “This is unorthodox. Then again, I guess most of this mission has been unorthodox. I’ll consider it.”
Marissa sat back down, satisfied. A few weeks around the Commander had taught her that “I’ll consider it” was Fredrichs’ way of saying, “Yes, but I don’t want to lose face in front of my soldiers.” Marissa had won—she was going to fly again.
Arc’s grip tightened on her arm. “Are you crazy?” he whispered. “You’ll be putting yourself right in the line of fire.”
“If it means you aren’t, then that’s fine with me,” she whispered back. “Trust me, Arc, I can do this. I’m going to help make sure you get Dae Trem back, OK?”
Arc let out the heaviest sigh she’d ever heard from him, then loosened his grip. His hand slid down to find her own, then gave it a heartfelt squeeze. “I trust you. Just don’t get yourself hurt too badly.”