Eryn Landing Pad 10A

Akamori stepped into the Cadaver Crasher’s troop barracks early. The gold trimmed uniform glinted in the harsh white deck lighting. The cool air of the deck teased at his neckline, which was now exposed. Under Yasiin’s advice, he’d paid the credits to trim his character’s hair. Temporarily. If they were making a trip to Aeryn, he wanted to look as professional as possible. Captain Morwen had warned that the Federation brass would come for her, and that they might use any weak links to exploit.

He now thoroughly felt the best place he could be was out on the front, fighting. Being shelved while command had some kind of tantrum didn’t sit right with him. They had a war to win and lives to save. He tugged at his uniform collar with sat a little too snug on his neck line. The direct result of his weight training with the Sergeant. He figured PT was a good way to decompress and the stat improvements wouldn’t hurt.

“Looking good, sir. Almost professional like,” Sgt. Sirsir’s voice said from behind him. The thickly muscled man approached his bunk and opened his locker to examine himself in the small mirror. The NCO ran a hand along his smooth scalp and nodded approvingly. Akamori turned to face him curiously.

“Sgt. You’ve been to Aeryn before. What are we marching into?”

Sirsir scowled and made a disgusted noise. “A vipers’ nest of politics. Most of them are too stuck on themselves to notice us, and the few that do? Well…” he trailed off. “Let’s just say it’d be better for everyone if they didn’t.”

“Is that how we wound up with Lt. Rayshe?”

Sirsir nodded. “The old Eltee wasn’t bad. He just… didn’t have the best way with people or troop management.”

“Sounds kinda bad to me,” Akamori said.

“Yeah. S’pose yer right. Listen. It’s important to mind yourself out there. These guys fancy themselves rich nobles. If you go an piss one off, you’ll be on the chopping block right next to the Captain, an we can’t afford that.”

Message received loud and clear. “Got it. I’ll keep to the Crasher.”

Sirsir bit back a laugh and concealed behind a cough. Akamori caught it, but said nothing about it. “The irony is that’s probably what I’d do.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Me? Well, I got some banked leave. I’ll probably burn that while this whole inquest business gets sorted.”

The deck rumbled as the Cadaver Crasher settled down on a landing pad. The two men braced against Sirsir’s locker. The artificial gravity of the ship gave way to the planet as the aether drive disengaged. The bulky warship sagged into its landing gear as the planet’s gravity reclaimed the mass. Akamori and Sirsir let go of the nearby locker to resume their conversation.

“What about Sala and Yasiin?”

“Those two will probably head down to market quarter. Scuttlebutt has it that Sala’s actually got himself a sweet tooth. And Yasiin fancies himself a good pint of beer.”

“You can’t get those things here? Seems like the star port would be the best place for that kinda stuff.”

“Nah. The market quarter is as old as Aeryn itself. Before the Federation even.”

“Alright then. Guess Amara and I are on our own.”

Sirsir threw a small backpack over his shoulder and clapped Akamori on the shoulder. The two men made their way to the cargo ramp. Repair techs were already scurrying up the ramp with carts of tools. Jets of air hissed from the ship at regular intervals.

Standing at the foot of the ramp was a warrior in emerald armor with golden trim. A sheathed sword sat on the armor’s waist, and the way the suit carried itself, Akamori got the impression it was nobility, or maybe someone who thought very highly of themselves. As Akamori and Sirsir descended the ramp, Amara slid in at his side from behind. She hummed a playful death march tune, and the two shared a mutual chuckle. The good mood turned to ash as soon as the regally armored warrior spoke.

“Lieutenant Akamori Shinjo,” the armor addressed him. A hint of distaste in the voice. Like someone bit off a mouthful of rotten food.

“You’re to report with me.”

“Where to?”

“Your training.”

He sighed. He’d already done this song and dance once. He was tired of having to play the punching bag for other people. “Listen, I’ve already had my hazing. Can we just skip this part and get on with it?”

The warrior’s hand slid to the hilt of her blade and for an instant, Akamori tensed, ready for a fight. The warrior in gold snapped the faceplate back, revealing a tall woman with chestnut hair and almond skin. Her bold brown eyes issued a challenge. She wanted him to get out of line. He resisted the urge to give her what she wanted, for now.

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“No. Filthy air mage peasant. We have standards here. What may pass for field training on this rust bucket of a ship will not pass muster here on Eryn.”

Wow. She was good at this insulting bitch routine. In one salvo, she’d insulted his heritage. His training. His ship. And his rank.

“Wanna bag on my commander for the hat trick?”

“No. In fact. From this moment forth, you’re to refrain from speaking unless requested to. And if you must address me, you will use my proper rank and title. I am Spell Warrior 2nd Caste Cenin.”

“Spell Warrior 2nd caste Cenin, I’m Lieutenant Akamori. Glad we could get off on the right foot.”

The way Cenin glared at him, Akamori knew he’d made a grave mistake in pissing her off. One he was sure he’d live to regret before the day’s end if his luck held out. But it still felt good to put this snobby bitch in her place. He couldn’t stand people who lacked respect for others, but demanded it in return. And rubbing her shiny armor’s face in the fact she wasn’t as high on the pecking order as she thought felt better than he’d like to admit. Petty? Sure. But still damn good.

“Report to the Scions of the Light Spell Warrior college for your training at 0600 sharp.”

“Yeah, see, I’d really love to, but I’ve got a war to fight and all that. You know. Adult things.”

“Correction: You had a war to fight. You’ve been reassigned. Turns out your commander is going to be tried for murdering a noble. That’s usually a capital offense. Her forces have been placed on leave and are being reallocated. You begin your interview tomorrow at six sharp. Don’t be late.”

She spun on her armored heel and mounted her fighter. Radiant golden energy trickled throughout intricate patterns on the vessel like magic blood pumping through veins. The aether drive rumbled to life in a high-pitched whine, and the craft lifted. The profile of the fighter reminded him of a hawk’s beak. Dual indentations on the side of the nose showed off the aether cannons. Twin jets of golden yellow plasma roared from vents that angled downward on the craft, pressing the green and gold craft into the sky. The fighter banked sharply and hurtled off into the forest canopy. A few leaves knocked loose swayed gently left and right on thier way to the ground.

Akamori watched as the sleek emerald and gold fighter roared off into the distance. He smiled and nodded. “She seemed… nice.”

Sirsir gave him a sideways look. “She’s going to give you hell. You know that, right, sir?”

He shrugged. “I’m getting kind of tired of people thinking they can give me hell. There’s so much more important going on than posturing and pissing contests.”

Sirsir grinned, clapping him on the back. “That’s why I follow your orders, sir. Even the crazy ones.”

“Thanks. I think.”

Sirsir tugged his small bag higher on his shoulder and sniffed. “Well, sir. I ain’t one for speeches and goodbyes count as a speech. So… watch your ass out there. Who knows how this will all settle out.”

Sirsir started off, not offering much room for awkwardness to settle in. Akamori found himself thankful for that. As the burly noncom walked down the steps that led into the main path towards the city, Amara slid in next to him.

“Picking fights with the locals already? We’ve been here less than a minute and you’re already making enemies. Your father would be so proud,” she teased.

“Well, you know how it is. Land on a planet full of arrogant pricks and you just have to say hi in the local tongue.”

“I’m sure that’s what Kalenza taught you,” she said.

“Something like that,” he added with a mischievous grin.

“Private Amara?” A stately elf in a scholarly white robe with an impressive spell staff asked. He was handsome in that irritating elvish way. Smooth features, cheeks that could have been chiseled from stone, eyes that rivaled the most vibrant emeralds, and auburn hair styled in a vaguely metrosexual way. He could have been a clothing model advert walking by if it wasn’t for the mage robes. The robes themselves showed stature and position. Ornate gold trimming and a satchel of books clipped to his waist showed the guy was well learned. The spell staff glinted nicely in the sun. It showed off a silver rod with a ring of octagonal amethyst gems that swam along the metal surface of the staff. The pulsed faintly and the void magic within his chest pulsed a resonant echo with them as it sang back.

“That’s me,” she said.

The elder mage studied her for a moment and his expression twisted in mild disgust. “They told me not to expect much. At least they weren’t joking this time.” The elder mage gestured for Amara to join his side. She gave him a reassuring look.

“Go on and have fun with Captain snobfest down there. I’ll be alright.”

Amara bit back a laugh, and the elder mage stared daggers at him. “Filthy soldiers,” the mage sneered.

“What’s that? I couldn’t hear you over the sound of your own self importance.”

Dangerous power flared from the elder mage, and everything in Akamori suddenly screamed for him to run. But he was done running from problems. These snobs didn’t have to like him, but they sure as hell would at least respect him. Even if it cost him blood.

“Elder Weaver Erlaut, pleased to meet you. I look forward to learning with your instruction,” Amara said.

The elder mage sneered down at Akamori. “At least some of you have a smattering of talent. Come along before it’s tarnished.”

Akamori watched Amara walk away with the white robed elder mage. His metallic staff clanking along with each step he took as the two left what passed for a star port. Now that everyone had left the ship, they left him to himself. With a sigh, he strode out. Whatever passed for command in the Federation ordered him to train at the war college. That sounded promising, at least. Maybe they could help him get a better handle on this whole magic thing.

He knew they got really lucky at Hidros and he couldn’t keep counting on that. Luck ran out eventually. He needed to develop his skills and magical prowess if he expected to live long enough to enjoy a retirement. He knew the stakes now. The crew needed him to fight.

He fed his armor a point of AP, and the armors thrusters flared to life with gravity nullifying void energy. Soaring up, he took off for the war college Cenin had summoned him to. If he was going to go through more hazing, he may as well get it started. Best to dispense with the posturing as soon as possible so he could actually focus on his training.

During his flight, he realized how sorely skilled he was at piloting, recounting several instances in which he’d almost met his end while flying his armor. He had some xp banked, but not enough to make a manageable change. Not without additional training, which he was due for. So he held onto his points for now, but kept his skills in mind for his next expenditure.

In the distance, the prime spell warrior college loomed large. A large wooden campus with gold trim and white marble accents. It looked as pompous as he’d imagined it would. It was a large circular structure with several smaller pads to its right for parked golden arrowhead shaped spell fighters, and on the left sat several circular dueling arenas.

Taking the last few moments left to him to steel his resolve, he adjusted his approach to come in to land. Fleeting trepidation creeping in. “Here goes nothing…”