I am afraid to close my eyes, for every time I reopen them, I am haunted by a nightmare I cannot remember.
-Arath Dralei, circa 2,900 Post Fall of Meridian
Grins spread across the faces of Captain Vyrus’ soldiers as Ryla stepped inside a rusted troop carrier, followed shortly by Naidi. Naidi grimaced as she stepped inside, wrinkling her nose; this place was filthy. Rust spots dotted the floors, the smell of sweat permeated the air, and as Ryla gripped a stabilizer rod, she felt grease squelch beneath her fingers. There were certainly more sanitary places to be, even on a battlefield.
Any disgust Ryla felt melted as Captain Vyrus strode up to her. He was a tall, bulky man, with buzzed hair and a face matted with so many scars she could hardly tell which cuts were fresh. His uniform, scuffed with dozens of char marks from plasma bolts, was hardly purple at all; the paint was peeling badly. His appearance would make most think he was a hard man.
Ryla knew better. She smiled as he entered the troop hold, his helmet tucked underneath his armpit, and he smiled back.
“Shal Magala!” He always called her by her formal title, even though she told him not to. He nodded respectfully to Naidi. “And Lady Evar. Nice of you to join us today.”
“Yes,” Naidi muttered, studying the grease on her hands with obvious distaste. “I definitely wasn’t forced to.”
Vyrus just shook his head fondly. “Weren’t we all, Lady Evar. Weren’t we all.” He turned back to Ryla. “My men tell me you won a duel yesterday.”
Ryla shrugged. “Wasn’t too hard.”
Vyrus’ eyes twinkled. “That’s not what they said, eh, Haevus?”
Another of the soldiers — Haevus — nodded. “Fought a Voidburner, I heard. Was up on the Holochannels. Quite a close one, if you ask me.”
Ryla shrugged again. “He challenged me. I couldn’t afford to lose.”
“Still, quite impressive, lass.” Vyrus shook his head. “I’ll never understand why you avoid the war front so. We could use your help.”
“I think I can help you better in other places,” Ryla said. Ice crept into her voice, even as she tried to keep it out.
Vyrus frowned. “Perhaps. War is hard to end. Harder than you realize, I think.” He was silent for a moment, but then his characteristic grin returned. “Should be an easy one today. Things were bad earlier, but the Grahalans have mostly evacuated now. We’ll have to deal with those soldiers later, I think, but I’ll take the lazy days when I get them.”
“Aye,” another soldier called out behind him.
Lazy days, Ryla thought. We’re going to ransack a city, burn buildings to the ground, and leave thousands dead, and it’s a lazy day.
Thaus, but I hate this.
She paused, mind drifting to Cyrla again. To her and Traegus’ offer. Okron, she hated the idea of working with that woman. That filth.
And yet, wouldn’t it be selfish of her not to? Sure, Cyrla wasn’t a good woman by any measure, but Ryla’s attempts to overthrow Larsh on her own had been fruitless; she was lucky she hadn’t been caught yet.
And I’m heir. Once Larsh is dead, all it would take is a wave of my hand, and Cyrla dies…
Dangerous thoughts. Perhaps traitorous thoughts. Or perhaps thoughts that would pave the way to these men’s salvation. She wasn’t sure if this path was the right one or not.
That was what scared her most.
“Shal Magala? Are you alright?”
Ryla blinked. “What?”
“She’s fine,” Naidi sighed. She still seemed disgruntled; she hated combat even more than Ryla did. “Just lost in thought.”
“Sorry,” Ryla said, realizing Vyrus had continued to speak to her, even as she’d been musing. “What were you saying?”
“Oh. Just that we’ve taken off. And to be ready.”
Ryla nodded. Yes, the engine was humming now, and as she focused she could also hear the soft shriek of the wind against the hull. The battle would begin soon. Men would die soon. Maybe even her brother.
Kairus probably isn’t in this battle, she reminded herself. He’s barely done basic training. Yet it was still possible. Larsh’s army was stretched thin these days, and she patched the holes with whatever and whoever she could find, no matter who it harmed. It was necessary, she said. So she did it.
Necessity. Could Ryla forge an alliance of necessity, and nothing else? With someone she despised?
I need your help uncle. Now more than ever. I don’t know what to do.
There was silence, save for the distant thud of explosions as they drew closer to the enemy city, and the battle began.
***
Dust and ash sprayed out from under Perelor’s feet as he dashed back to the slave camp, muttering every curse he knew. The shrieks of the raid alarms rang out around him, accompanied by the yells of Talar guards as they bullied the slaves to their feet. He could hear Cyrla’s shouts within the cacophony, high and shrill, though he could only spare a brief glance toward her, now waiting on the edge of the grid of cots. Stumbling into camp, he shoved past a couple of slaves, then stopped, realizing that, in his panic, he had forgotten where he was going.
My squad. I need to get to my squad. He realized he didn’t remember most of the survivor’s faces; he hadn’t bothered to memorize them before being sent to face Ithrey. That, and he’d have new men, the ones Larsh had sent from Ithrey’s captive soldiers.
Find Arrus. He’ll know what’s going on. Forcing his breathing to steady, he paced around the bustling camp, trying to find his friend, and trying not to think about Cyrla’s veiled threats. I’ll be fine. I have a Surge.
He still glanced back at her blazing figure, stomach twisting.
He turned his eyes back to the crowd, sweeping them through the chaotic blend of faces. Around him, guards continued to shout, forming a circle as they pushed the scrambling slaves toward empty carriers waiting nearby. Finally, Perelor found Arrus standing next to Ithrey. She was flanked by a pack of men in Miradoran uniforms. She had her arms crossed, and Arrus’ brow was scrunched upward in confusion, though he lit up as Perelor approached.
“Hey, you’re here! I was beginning to worry Larsh had killed you.”
Perelor forced a quick smile, though his stomach churned at the mention of Larsh. “I’m fine. But this surprise recording. Do you have the details?”
“I do. Perelor, there’s not going to be a fighter escort.”
Perelor tensed. “They haven’t done that in years. Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure, Arrus?”
“I checked three times.”
“It’s been years.” Please be wrong.
“I know. It’s random, but the orders are there.”
No, it’s not random, Perelor thought. This is exactly what Cyrla was threatening. Without a fighter escort, their ship would be vulnerable to enemy cannons, meaning it was possible they’d get shot down, the entire squadron killed. Including Perelor, depending on how fast his Surge could heal him. It wasn’t something the Talar did often, not with the slave squadrons; a flash of light accompanied by screams wasn’t gruesome enough a death for their propaganda. But for Cyrla, who seemed only to be looking to kill Ithrey without sullying her own hands…
I’ve been outmaneuvered. Badly.
Ithrey cleared her throat suddenly, and Arrus wilted. “The other problem,” he muttered, “is her. Sorry, Perelor, I did try to tell her…”
Perelor frowned. “Tell her what?”
“I intend to take command of the squadron,” Ithrey said.
Perelor paused, then snorted. “They won’t allow that. I won’t allow that. End of story.” He waved to the men behind her. “Grab your lasertips. It’s time to load up.” And time to make a plan for dealing with Cyrla, he added to himself. Was there some way to appease her without killing anyone? He turned away, mind racing, too caught up in the chaos to truly absorb what Ithrey had said. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be stubborn…
“No, Captain. I’m afraid that is not the end of the story.”
Well, maybe just hoping wouldn’t work. He turned, glaring. “We don’t have time for this.”
“We don’t, but I cannot fail to address it, either. From this moment onward, I have no intention of following your orders. I will try not to anger the Talar any more than I have to, but if I have to, I will. I cannot yet explain why.”
Arrus winced. “Sorry. I tried to tell her, I really did.”
Seeker of the Light, Perelor thought, remembering Cyrla’s words from earlier. Has motives of her own. He’d guessed that much, though he’d never heard that name before, and he had no idea what it meant. Whatever her goals were, though, he would not let her start a mutiny.
He glanced at the uniformed Miradorans behind Ithrey. Soldiers, or at least they carried themselves like soldiers. They certainly knew how to hold their lasertips. “And you fools are following her, I take it?”
The men nodded. Hesitantly, but they nodded. Perelor cursed silently as he noticed more men in Miradoran uniforms gathering nearby. He also saw several Talar guards’ helms swiveling towards their conversation. Though he wasn’t sure how to deal with Ithrey, let alone her followers, he knew one thing: he did not want those men hearing anything about treason.
“Fine,” he said. “For now, at least, we have the same goal. Survive. I hope you plan to do at least that.”
Ithrey smiled. Tar and flames, Perelor wanted to slap that grin off her face. “I do.”
“Then I’m your best chance. So for now you follow my lead, and we’ll talk later.”
The smile faded —thank Okron— and Ithrey hesitated a moment, then, seeming to notice the surrounding chaos, she nodded. “That is acceptable.”
With her lips still pursed and her arms still folded, she did not look as if she were actually going to back down, but before Perelor could argue further, a Talar guard pushed toward them, shouting.
“No more chat! We’re moving out in minutes, vret. Minutes, not hours.” He shoved Arrus forward, then paused as he saw Perelor, his eyes widening as he took in the Surge on the back of Perelor’s neck. The look of fear was quickly replaced by a scowl, though. “Move. Now.”
The guard left before Perelor could reply, but he found his hand tightening on his lasertip. That guard had been new. He didn’t know the Talar’s names, but he recognized their faces. Usually, they carried a certain solemn reverence as they did their duty, not sparing the slaves, but not relishing in the cruelty of it. Larsh kept them that way deliberately.
That guard, though, was enjoying himself. You could see it in his eyes. The sickening light in them.
Is Cyrla somehow changing out the guards? Trying to keep Larsh’s eyes off her? But no, she couldn’t have done so this fast. He was jumping at shadows. Cursing, he realized he’d been standing still as Arrus and the others began marching toward their carrier. He hastened to the front of his still-forming squadron.
As usual, there were only a few hollow-eyed survivors from the previous raid, many bearing wounds that would certainly doom them in the coming battle. The rest, though, were as Larsh had promised: Miradorans, all with the same muscular build and hardened expressions of soldiers. Dressed in their now-conquered home planet’s uniforms, they almost looked like an army of their own, if one that was being swallowed up by a sea of Talar purple and gray.
Most slave captains would have given half a limb to have a group of well-trained, well-coordinated men under their command, Perelor realized. But not him. Not now, with Ithrey threatening mutiny and Cyrla threatening executions.
“Lasertips are outside the carrier!” Perelor yelled. His voice was barely audible over the still-blaring alarms. “Inside there’s an eight by five array on the floor. Stand where your number is. Faster, let’s move!”
There was a long pause. Too long. These men were still questioning whether to obey him or Ithrey. Sear Larsh and her games. After a moment, though, Ithrey moved to her spot —a place in the front, Perelor noted — and the other Miradorans followed. Perelor let out a relieved breath as he and Arrus stepped inside the carrier, shutting the door behind them.
Stomach-wrenching fear quickly replaced relief as the engine hummed, and he remembered that there would be no escort this time. No way to control whether his men lived or died. His eyes drifted toward them, injured, beaten, eyes wide, limbs shaking. Even the Miradorans didn’t know what they were stepping into. He could feel their echoes, fast, chaotic, dreading what was to come. He saw their families and friends flash through their memory, heard the words of regret and love and sorrow that ran through their minds as they faced the end…
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Beside him, Arrus cleared his throat, and Perelor realized the man had been speaking, though he had hardly noticed through the haze of the echoes.
Fool. This is why you don’t learn their names. They’re all going to die.
“So,” Arrus said. “She has a Surge? What happened while you were gone?”
Perelor hesitated, eyes drifting toward Ithrey. She was assigned to the front, but had moved away from her allotted number, and was chatting with another man, her hand on his shoulder. Chatting. He shook his head angrily. Chatting, when they were all about to die. He cleared his throat, then shouted again. For once, he had no difficulty making himself heard.
“Men,” he said. “You are going to die. Don’t let anyone—” he glared at Ithrey, “anyone deceive you. Talar or otherwise. There is no escape. Trying to save yourselves will only kill you faster. There is no chance. No choice.”
The way he practically growled the words surprised him. He was supposed to be calming these men down, not riling them further; mutinies came from fear just as often as they came from anger. Perhaps Cyrla had unnerved him more than he’d thought.
Not just Cyrla, sear it. All of this. I spared one woman, and now everything’s falling apart…
Everything falling apart. In a way, it felt just like the day Ethea had been conquered, so many years ago.
He realized he’d been standing silent again, and the whole squadron was staring. Snorting, he lowered his voice, though he still shouted his orders. “To your posts and stay there. I don’t want any complaints. I don’t want any talk. Understand?”
It was harsh. Too harsh. But they fell quiet, especially as the engine thrummed louder, and they lifted off. Arrus twitched uncomfortably beside Perelor, and Perelor didn’t think it was just because of the way he’d snapped at the slaves. Indeed, as his friend had said, Perelor didn’t see fighters soaring beside them as they gunned the boosters and sailed toward the burning city.
“This is bad,” Arrus muttered. “Very, very bad.” He craned his neck to stare out the hold window. “Don’t tell anyone I said that, though.”
Perelor nodded. It would be even worse if the slaves were panicking. If they weren’t already. “Is your Surge ready?”
“Yeah.” Arrus met his eyes. “I can only do so much with it, Perelor. I’m worried.”
“Well, it’ll have to be enough.” Perelor tried not to think about what would happen if it were not enough. He also tried to ignore Ithrey staring daggers at his back. It seemed she had not appreciated his speech, though, thankfully, she didn’t seem to be starting her rebellion just yet. She was glowing with Purity, enough that it was easily visible, drawing the eyes of both the Miradoran slaves and the slaves who had been here before today. There was awe in their gazes. Perelor pulled in his own Purity, as much as he could hold. This woman would not outdo him. He would not watch men die for nothing again.
This has nothing to do with them, a part of him whispered, and everything to do with what happened to Eliel.
He ignored that part of him. It should not exist, for the rest of him could not face the memory of that day, no matter what he did.
They were above the city now, fighters dueling in the air all around them. A plasma bolt missed them by only a few feet, and Perelor noticed Arrus’ glow visibly diminish as it did. The Talar teen was still staring intently out the window. Perelor shivered as he thought of what would have happened had Arrus not been there.
He’ll die if they hit the ship, he realized. The thought made him sick to the stomach. The others he could live with losing, but Arrus…
I should never have learned his name. Because he will die, one day.
They all will, Perelor….
That last part was spoken in a hissing voice in his mind, and he tensed, eyes darting about. The last time he’d heard a voice like that… well, it had not been a day to be caught idle. He swept his eyes over the cruiser, searching for any sign of Void, finding only the usual red lights on the inside of the ship. He forced himself to relax.
Jumping at shadows again.
He winced as he turned back to the hold window to see a fighter whizzing past them, guns ablaze. Heat and color burst in a wave outside the ship as the carrier’s shield barely absorbed the blows. Arrus’ glow was almost gone, and he was sweating, his usually jovial eyes laser-focused. They widened as he pointed toward a nearby building.
At first, Perelor had to squint to spot them, but once he did, he could not unsee them: Surgewielders, aglow with the blue light of Ever, hovering in the air in a tight formation. Their silhouettes were growing larger, and there were at least ten of them. Perhaps more; with his heart beating fast in his chest, Perelor could not summon enough concentration to count.
“Thaus,” he swore. “Thaus, thaus, thaus.” It was an incredibly risky maneuver on the part of the Grahalans; no amount of Ever would save you if you were hit by a plasma cannon, and then the enemy would have the very object you’d tried to use against them. However, though they had little defensive power, a well-trained Surgewielder could often weave about and bring down dozens of ships before their opponent could land a lucky shot. It was risky, ships were easier to replace than Surges, but then, it wasn’t as if Grahala could win this war without risk.
Today, it would pay off. The Surgewielders were headed straight for Perelor’s carrier, and nothing Arrus or the shields could do would stop them. He tried to think of some way out, anything, but he found himself standing still, heart pounding. Remembering a day, five years ago, when he had also stood frozen in shock, watching as his sister was taken away, unable to think fast enough…
Suddenly, a blazing streak of blue shot through the sky toward their enemies.
***
Of course you had to get yourself into this, Arrus. Of course you did.
Warm, humid air whipped against Ryla’s face as she swung the door to the troop carrier open, then leaped outward, closing her eyes to Reach as she fell.
The tug of weightlessness in her gut made it more difficult to focus, but after a couple of moments she found enough stillness within the wind to call on the First Power. To Reach, as other memory burners liked to call it.
Though she used it, too, she found the term silly. It wasn’t as simple as just extending your arm and grabbing something. Maybe if you were using a Surge, but not if you were truly memory burning. It was more like taking hold of a great weight and hoisting it into the air, except the strain was in your mind and not your muscles.
That weight took hold as echoes flooded her. Not the barely audible echoes from before; she had to concentrate to hear those. No, these were far, far stronger. Men’s panicked, rushed thoughts as they tried to follow orders. Flashes of their vision as they fought through clouds of smoke and hordes of enemies. Snippets of memory as they recalled events they did not even realize they were remembering, for the First Power knew even a man’s subconscious. Time slowed, sped up, blurred. Where using a Surge felt like drawing water from a trickling stream, this was like blowing apart a dam and spreading your arms outward to catch it all. It was no wonder to Ryla that so many burners lost their sanity long before they mastered their powers.
Ryla was not insane. Tired, angry, and confused. But not insane.
Mentally pushing with all the willpower she could muster, she burned the echoes, letting them flow over her, somehow standing firm as the dam broke. As they raced through her mind, then faded into whispers, she opened her eyes, finding herself back in reality. Though it had seemed like days to her, no time had passed here, and she was still plummeting downward, the wind of her fall threatening to push her pinned-up hair out of its restraints.
Her veins were now glowing. Light and energy spread rapidly outward from the center of her forehead, through her blood, then out into her skin, all of it happening so fast that to an outsider it appeared as she’d suddenly lit ablaze with the radiance of an azure star. Were it not for special contact lenses she’d placed in her eyes before the battle, even Ryla would’ve been blinded by the sheer intensity of her aura.
She pushed herself back upward, then shoved herself toward the Surgewielders, continuing to burn Ever and accelerate until she was rocketing at them like a comet. Her mind quickened, a rusty machine suddenly greased. She counted the enemies as fast as she could flick her eyes over them. Sixteen total, all glowing with the blue light of Ever. She felt their echoes, and while Connected to the First Power, she could focus on them easily. They were desperate. The entire planet was desperate, but these soldiers especially; she could tell by the way they held themselves in the air that they were untrained.
This’ll be easy, then. She felt sickening guilt wash over her. Sixteen Surges was a fortune; they’d likely thrown all of them against the Talar line in hopes of buying time to further their evacuation. As she looked past the figures, Ryla could still see dots rising in the distance. Ships, holding civilians.
Many of them would die, because of what Ryla was about to do. But then, if it weren’t Ryla, it would be someone else.
I’m sorry, she thought.
Then she attacked.
Burning the smallest pinch of her newfound reservoir of Ever, she directed herself toward three of the Surgewielders who had clumped together in a pack. They tightened their formation as she approached — an unwise move. They should’ve raced forward, rushing toward Ryla and engaging her on their terms. Instead, they allowed her to crash into them, spewing bursts of heat and flame as she struck them down; they did not defend themselves properly, and no amount of Ever could heal their wounds. Ryla felt their rushed, almost incoherent thoughts as they died. With her perception quickened, it seemed to take an eternity for them to fall, their auras fading as the Ever they had wielded puffed away. She saw their frightened eyes, their burned chests and faces, and for just a moment, she let herself feel ashamed.
I’m sorry. At least she had killed them quickly. It was the only mercy she could grant.
Her uncle would’ve despised this. He’d always insisted war was never necessary. He would’ve been shocked to learn that his niece had entered the war at all.
But, he’d been wrong, and Kairus was wrong with him. The luxury of refusing to fight was just that: a luxury. Like all pacifists, he now lay in an early grave. She shivered as she realized that, when she learned Void, she might hear his voice, screaming in Torment. The other Voidburners always said they heard those shrieks.
She burned Ever to turn herself upright, hovering in the air. She drew her blade from her belt, a simple, steel blade, no ornamentation, no Surge. A traditional Talar sword. Almost immediately, bolts of flame and plasma soared toward her, along with two of the other Surgewielders, their own blades bared. Instinct taking over, she let the nerve-wracking thrill of battle consume her, her expanded mind drifting involuntarily toward the decision she faced.
How far am I willing to go to get out of this? How far can I go to end this war, while still keeping my humanity?
Metal clanged as she parried a swinging sword from a nearby Surgewielder, a tan-skinned woman with long, blue-dyed hair. She saw light in her peripheral, and only by reflex twisted away from a bolt of plasma that whizzed past her and almost hit the blue-haired woman.
Even if I have to use Void, I probably won’t become Mother. Larsh says there is some level of self-control to it. Heavens, Larsh manages it better than Mother seems to.
And yet, she couldn’t get the image of Nythla’s crimson eyes, staring at her as she prepared to lash out again…
She batted aside another attack from the second Surgewielder, then burned Ever to flip in the air and kick a third man who had flown in for a melee strike. He grunted as he was knocked back, then groaned as Ryla sent a bolt of plasma into his neck. Green mist poured from his mouth as his glow faded, and he fell, eyes wide. For a moment, the shame returned.
Could she really stop herself, when tempted by the will of a dark god?
Unable to answer her own question, she continued to fight, swooping between enemies, her legs pulled in tight, only lashing out with her arms to cut down one of her opponents. It wasn’t an easy contest, but it wasn’t hard, either. In a sickening way, that was perfect for today. It required just enough of her that she could release her pent-up tension, while still using her quickened mind to ponder her new course of action.
Insanity, or working with someone insane. A terrible choice. Yet, when had she ever had the choices she wished for?
She ran another Surgewielder through the chest, then ripped it free and let the body fall. These men could’ve overwhelmed her if they were more skilled; she suspected few of these soldiers had used their Surges for more than a week. A memory burner, according to Larsh, was worth about four and a half average Surges in raw power. Ryla wasn’t sure exactly how Larsh had calculated that, but she acted as if she’d gotten a precise number, and it seemed about right.
It was something the Talar leader always cited to them, reminding them just how much they were worth to her. Just how easily they could be replaced, if she wanted them gone.
But I can’t let myself be replaced. I’m the only one willing to end this war.
Larsh. It always came back to Larsh. Every time Ryla tried to break free of that string, it only lashed around her tighter. She’d tried to avoid going to war at first, and Larsh had talked her into it. She’d tried to avoid learning under Cyrla, and Larsh had forced her to anyway. She’d tried to use her pay to free Arrus, and Larsh had forbidden her. She’d approached dozens of assassins, and they’d all told her it couldn’t be done. Her own plans to overthrow the warlord didn’t amount to much.
Endowed, she hated that woman. Growling, she let her hatred out on the Surgewielders, downing two more with bursts of fiery plasma. Shame blossomed yet again as they plummeted.
Thaus, I can’t even control myself without Void.
Larsh, and Void. She had to get free of both, somehow. Running away wouldn’t work; she knew too much, Larsh had flatly threatened to kill her if she even tried. Ryla couldn’t beat Larsh in a duel, even with surprise, and the assassins she had hired were all dead now.
Cyrla and I’s offer is still on the table.
Which choice was worse?
Her brother’s face flashed in her mind, a vision of him lying dead on a battlefield. She shivered, then steeled herself, focusing and finishing the last of the Surgewielders off; now that enough of them had fallen, they fell to her as easily as infantrymen would to them. A blast of plasma there, a careful sword stroke here, and soon they were all dropping to the city floor below. She did not bother to recover the Surges. The infantry would see to that, and she had Arrus to protect.
Her foes defeated, she hovered alone in the air for too long, considering, adrenaline still pounding through her veins, Ever still sharpening her mind. None of it helped. This decision was not something that could be simply puzzled out, nor was it one that should be made on impulse, no matter how much she wanted to lash out right now.
She would talk to Cyrla, she finally decided. Just talk to her. The final choice could wait.
If only because she wished she didn’t have to choose at all.
***
Perelor had to shield his eyes as the flying girl’s figure grew suddenly brighter, a meteor ripping through the air toward the Surgewielders. Two of them fell immediately, bolts of fiery white plasma tearing into their chests before they could react. The memory burner — for it could not be a mere Surgewielder, not with that glow — twisted in the air, then wove through the Surgewielders as they moved to attack her, spinning to and fro with uncanny grace. Whoever this was, they were as skilled as Crelang had been. Perhaps more. Two of the Grahalan Surgewielders shot glances toward the carrier, but as more of their peers fell, they, too, swooped down to join the fight against their new opponent.
Arrus relaxed as the ship veered away from the Surgewielders, though his eyes still followed the Talar memory burner intently. Perelor let out a relieved breath, though his chest quickly corded back into a knot as he felt the ship descend.
We got lucky. That doesn’t mean we’ll get lucky again. He knew it was just superstition, but he wondered if Vertras, God of Fate, would ensure something particularly bad happened on the ground, as payment for interfering here.
He turned to Arrus. “What’s our objective?” It didn’t matter, really, they were only here to die, but perhaps it would calm his nerves if he knew.
“They didn’t say,” Arrus replied, voice deathly quiet. “The orders just said to ‘fight until we tell you to hold’.” He met Perelor’s eyes, his own eyes wide, and suddenly Perelor remembered that, for all his bravado, Arrus was only seventeen. “What’s going on, Perelor?”
Perelor hesitated, debating lying, then spoke. “Cyrla’s trying to kill us. Ithrey, specifically, but we’re collateral damage.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know anything?” Arrus pressed.
“Not enough, at least. Just be careful, and keep that Surge of yours charged.” Okron, please don’t let me lose Arrus.
As if the universe had heard his plea and thought to taunt him, the ship immediately descended onto the ground below a city hoverlane, grinding against the asphalt as the engine slowly cut out. Arrus’ pocket buzzed, and as he stared at it, his face turned white.
“What is it?” Perelor asked. He had to ask, even if he did not want to know.
“It’s a timer,” Arrus whispered. “An hour, Perelor. A full hour.”
Perelor felt the blood drain from his cheeks. “What?”
Arrus closed his eyes, his face taut with concern. “Do what you can,” he muttered to himself. “Let the Endowed handle the rest.” It was a Talar prayer, and Perelor ignored it.
“An hour? Are you sure you read it right?”
Arrus only responded by handing him the holoscreen. Sure enough, the only thing it displayed was a not-yet-started timer. The softly glowing one trailed by two zeroes was the most haunting thing Perelor had seen in days.
An hour. Most battles lasted fifteen minutes; there would be no survivors to speak of otherwise. An hour. These men would all be dead within that time, he realized.
Even Arrus.
“No,” he said. “No.” He extended his lasertip, gripping it furiously as he stepped to the hold doors, which hissed, preparing to open. He would not let his friend die. Not like this. The Talar might not have valor, but he did. He would save him. He….
The door snapped open, revealing a half dozen Grahalan troops, rifles already aimed at the carrier hold, and Perelor’s courage melted like wax held up to a thruster.