A wall of brown dust, as high as a mountain, rolled over Old Ocotiyo and swallowed everything except for the loftiest stems of the Spirine. Gunfire snapped on fab-wood balconies, plasma bolts bit sizzling chunks out of brick walls, and some kind of cannon pounded holes into the tallest buildings as Zyroc’s invasion advanced under the cover of the storm. Xenos of every shape and color poured out of inns, houses, banks and dusty saloons, some running to the fight, some running to get their weapons, and some—just running.

Olm had to shove xenos and slam more than a few against the cramped walls of alleys as he tried to keep pace with Caly, who slipped through the crowds, as graceful as a shadow, as if only on a brisk evening stroll through all the chaos.

There was no sense in asking her to slow down. He knew he had to keep up with her pace. Not-so-distant booms made the ground shake, and the frenzied crowds seemed to dance in time with the pounding of the shells as they scrambled to and fro. Families dragged their children, some of them crying, some of them ghostly quiet. Brothel workers poured out of the houses, decked in silk and lace and clutching rifles and boxes of ammunition, the prettiest militia he’d ever seen. One girl, smaller than Caly, wearing twin bandoliers hung with rows of lemon-sized grenades, gave a war scream before she dove into the clouds of dust. Ten seconds later, there was a whumpf of hot air as some explosive shoved the clouds of dust forward, and gravel and sand rattled on the windows and stung Olm’s bare scalp.

Militia in half-dress ran in loose formations, though not all of them ran toward the battle. Olm almost tripped over one who was curled up in an alley, clutching a plasma rifle that was probably older than him, and sobbing with his eyes squeezed shut.

Out in the avenue, a xeno wearing a broad-rim hat stood on a wooden box in the middle of the street, waving his gun in one hand and a flag in the other, barked through his mustache of tentacles, “Mayor Enri commands all able-bodied to stand and fight! Mayor Enri sends his best to stop this unjust invasion! Zyroc has broken the Long Peace, and this act will not go unanswered! Stand and fight, or be labeled a deserter for all time!” The hat-wearing xeno aimed his flag at the people running away and hurled insults and threats. Mostly, he went ignored. Olm would’ve ignored him too, but the hrutskuld lingered a moment too long (trying to discern which way Caly had gone), when the hat-wearer aimed a squidlike finger at him.

“You there, big man! What color is your liver? Yellow? Or will you stand a perform your duty? There’s not but salty watering holes for the next thousand klicks and if it weren’t for Mayor Enri-”

A bullet whipped the xeno’s broad rim hat off his head. He touched at the tentacles on his scalp, as if he couldn’t believe his luck. Not a single one had been injured.

“Better get down,” Olm growled up at him.

But the suggestion only seemed to incense the xeno. “I was there when the Mayor kept the bandits at bay! I was there when he dug the trenches with his own two hands! And I ain’t about to give up on-” There was a sound, like a small stone clapping into water. One of the xeno’s eyes blinked in surprise. The other one was gone. Indeed, half his tentacled face now featured a gaping, green wound, while a severed artery spritzed blood into the dusty air. It took the xeno a long second to topple from his wooden box.

Olm kept moving.

In one avenue, throngs of xenos parted like a river around a boulder. A lone boveer bull, a huge animal the homesteaders loved to use as cattle, wandered as slow as if it were only grazing through a quiet pasture, heedless of the stinging bullets and sizzling bolts smacking on the sand and the cramped buildings. Up through the power lines, Olm saw a home-made cannon on a third-story balcony that was firing with reckless abandon into the clouds of smoke, no doubt doing more harm than good. The shooter, a tiny, four-armed xeno wearing a pair of muddy goggles, was cackling like the king of jesters, even as the balcony groaned in protest beneath the shuddering kicks of the cannon.

Deep in the crowd, a slender, black suit with a dark, shining helmet moved with purpose.

“Caly!” he shouted after her and charged through a group of confused xenos. A couple of xenos tumbled out of a saloon and started brawling in the street—drunkenly unaware of the ongoing invasion—and before he could stop himself, Olm stepped on one of their heads as he charged past, shouting a half-hearted “Sorry!” over his shoulder.

Someone shouted, and pointed up. The crowd turned as one to look at the sky, where a missile painted a white trail through the dusty brown. Olm paused, waiting to see where it fell. Hoping it wouldn’t fall on her. Or on me, for that matter. The missile almost clipped the Spirine, sailed through one of its outstretched limbs, and disappeared behind the ramshackle roofs. Moments later, the explosion seemed to inhale all the oxygen in the avenue. Then, it coughed up dust and shattered glass. The crowd surged with renewed frenzy.

And Caly was nowhere in sight.

Olm growled his frustration. He couldn’t understand what had gotten into her. Yes, she was impulsive, but she was walking like she was on a mission. And now the dust was so thick, Olm could barely breathe, let alone see where she had gone. He opened his microphone again, and was about to call her name when someone tapped his shoulder. Olm almost swung his fist before he saw Caly standing behind him, one hand on her hip. Her black suit made her look like nothing but a dusty silhouette.

“This is why I always wear a helmet,” she said.

Olm’s hearts filled with relief, but just for a moment. Then, his relief turned to indignation. “Caly, this is madness.”

“That’s why we’re leaving.”

“Not this!” Olm threw his hands up at the dust, the scattered crowds, and the frantic rattling of battle. “The human. I’m telling you, he’s beyond dangerous.”

“So am I. So are we, for that matter. Come on,” she started to turn away, but Olm grabbed her arm.

Dust blew over them. A cinder fell on Olm’s bare shoulder, stinging him, but he didn’t budge. In the background, the gunshots were so regular it sounded like a marching band was playing exclusively on instruments made out of aluminum trash cans. “Caly, you’re good, but I’ve never seen anything like him—”

“That xeno-human thing must’ve sprayed you with something, because I’ve never seen you like this, Olm. Yet another reason to wear a helmet.”

“You are mistaken.”

“Happened before, didn’t it? Remember those bugs on Jeng Joao? Or that bar that served that wine made of smoke, and we had to wear those seat belts before they’d let us drink?”

“I had my wits,” Olm said with finality. “I know what I saw.”

A xeno in a uniform (well, half a uniform) ran shrieking down the avenue, “No, please! I don’t want to die!” One of Mayor Enri’s militia, by the looks of it, with a mind for last-minute desertion. Three other soldiers raced after him, getting ready to shoot before he got too far.

Caly pulled Olm back into a cramped alley, filled with last year’s trash.

Though her visor was dark, Olm could see the condensation gathering on her helmet. “Pride is not your friend. It makes you reckless.”

“And how many more duels, Olm? How many times am I going to have to watch you risk life and limb for us? The harder we work, the deeper we get. This isn’t right. I didn’t drag you out of the Pits to let you fall right back in. I’m going to get our money back, whether you come with me or not.”

“What happens when you catch him? You think you’ll kill him?”

“Maybe I won’t have to.”

“You think he’ll just roll over?” Olm growled, “Give you the money just because you ask? You know that’s not how it works.”

“I will not let them win!” she screamed back at him. And then, went silent for a long moment, so that all Olm could hear was the shuddering of shells pounding the dirt and the bricks.

Her voice was almost too soft to be heard. “How did it come to this? How did I let this happen? It isn’t fair to you.”

“What’s fair got to do with anything?”

“We deserve more than this! For fuck’s sake, you’re Olm Ulaanramr. They talk about you in the histories! Warlord of the Almadrin Host. You were the Tip of the Sacred Spear. And I’m the daughter of the House—” Instead of finishing the thought, she smacked her fist against the brick wall, hard enough to make Olm wince. “I want more than this, damn it! I didn’t leave everything behind to get stuck here.”

“There are worse places to be. Plenty of drinks. Men. Fights.”

“That’s the problem,” she jabbed a finger into his chest, like a twig poking the side of a mountain. “You act like you’re done. Like this is all you have left.”

Olm bristled, because she was right. And because he had just fooled himself into thinking that he could hide it from her, of all people.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

“Caly,” he kept his voice low and gentle, “I know it’s hard. I know this isn’t what you imagined life would be. But whatever you’re chasing, he’s … he’s out of your reach. You don’t know what you’re going after.”

The treads of a semi-truck painted in Zyroc’s colors (rose and black, stained with dust) crawled into the avenue. The truck hauled a trailer that was held up, not by wheels, but by eight repulsor engines that moaned so loudly, it made the buildings vibrate as the semi rolled past. Atop its trailer sat a short-range artillery piece, with two xenos trying to refuel the plasma cells, probably freshly charged by the Spirine. Olm cringed at the way they handled the cells—one wrong bump, and the Mayor would lose the artillery, the truck, and half a block of his precious city.

Caly gestured at its dusty wake, “Are you saying that this is better? Are you saying we should keep running the tourneys and keep hoping we don’t get caught by one of these squabbling lords and their dumb fuck land wars? They’re fighting over desert. Zyroc’s the sanest among them, and you know that’s not saying much. Worse—we don’t have his money. Zyroc’s crew will string us up by our thumbs if they catch us, Olm. And then when our thumbs fall off, they’ll move to the next digit. And the next.”

“Maybe he’ll lose. Maybe he’ll die.”

“It’s Zyroc.”

Olm tipped his head as if to say, “Fair point.” Zyroc was his own Mayor for a reason. And, by the looks of it, soon to be Mayor of this city, too.

“So,” Caly continued. “I’m going to get our money back. Then, we’re going to pay Zyroc off. And if we move quick enough, he might still sponsor me. That’s the plan.”

“You’re forgetting one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You won’t beat him. The human.”

Caly growled her frustration, and the condensation fogged up her visor. Her suit’s fans started to whir.

“Look,” she said, “If you’re so scared, you don’t have to come with me. I’ll drop you off at the nearest town.”

But it wasn’t himself he was worried about. “Caly, please. We can get the money another way. We’ll ask Zyroc for an extension on the debt.”

Caly cleared her visor, so Olm could see the stupid incredulity on her face, “Ask Zyroc for an extension? Are you kidding? You think Zyroc’s going to be in the mood for extensions after a day like this?”

As if to enunciate her point, a burst of pinkish light cut one of the huge power lines running high over the avenue. The power line, which was connected to the Spirine and thus, the rest of the energy grid, broke in half. Two black lines ejected blue tongues of energy as they dropped to the ground and glassed the sand. A few meters away, one of the buildings caught fire, and a few frightened xenos darted out shouting for help. They stepped unknowingly into the electrified glass, and froze mid-stride before crumpling to the ground. A charred scent burned the air.

“You know,” Caly said, “Maybe we talk about this once we get out of town.”

Olm couldn’t agree more.

***

The people of Old Ocotiyo were learning the difference between flame-resistant and fire-proof. Most of their buildings were made with stone and brick foundations, tin roofs, and walls made of fab wood. Flame-resistant fab wood. It only took one fire, and the dust storm did the rest. The winds fanned the flames, and Old Ocotiyo went up like a pile of matches.

Caly doubted that Zyroc meant to destroy the town. And who knew? Maybe it would survive the fire. Lore held that it survived dozens of hostile takeovers before, before the Synod started pouring enforcers onto the planet to uphold the Long Peace. Regardless, the Spirine that dominated the center of the town would still stand, as it had since the Dys built it, and Zyroc would rebuild, so he could siphon its near-bottomless energy once more.

Caly leaned against the fence, peering through the holes in the frayed tarp draped across its links. Between the curtains of sideways-blowing dust, she saw two groups of xenos arguing in front of a garage. It had to be the Mayor’s own officers, because only they would be fool enough to argue with the enforcers.

The Synod enforcers stood stiff in their crisp uniforms, arms crossed or hands on their hips. Their telltale helmets, the antheads as some people called them, gleamed despite the clouds of dust. Their hands hovered over their holsters. In comparison, the Mayor’s people looked like hooligans, in their dusty rider jackets and custom boots with those high and mighty heels that made them feel all kinds of special. Caly scoped in and directed her helmet to pick up their conversation.

The Mayor’s people were trying to convince the enforcers that it was the Synod’s duty to help defend Old Ocotiyo. The enforcers weren’t having it. Not at all. Consequently, the Mayor’s people weren’t having their not having it. One of them, a cyborg or a machine-made, she couldn’t tell which, threw the first punch. His mechanical arm extended with such an explosive force, he actually took one of the Enforcers by surprise. Then, all the enforcers woke up. Caly could practically see the rush of artificial intravenal drugs kick in as the enforcers piled into the brawl, and the rest of the Mayor’s people piled on top of them.

While they were distracted doing that, Caly shot one of the Mayor’s stragglers in the thigh. She made sure it was non-fatal, though he screamed like a dust chicken right before it’s head gets removed from its neck, and he crumpled to the ground. The Mayor’s people scattered, and the enforcers chased after them, leaving the street empty and the garage unprotected.

Caly could hear the hrutskuld’s lumbering footsteps from an alley away, finally catching up with her. Good, she thought.

Right as he came around the corner, Caly slid under the fence and sprinted across the now-empty street, sliding to a stop in front of the nearest garage door.

Synod codes weren’t an easy thing to crack, but Caly had a tool, given to her by her own family, in a manner of speaking. The garage door rolled itself up, revealing not one, but four hover bikes just sitting there, unattended. They were black, with long, sloping saddles and exaggerated windscreens to block the dust. All those sweeping edges and hard points were a little much for Caly’s tastes—nothing at all like the bespoke elegance of a Cavalier’s ship—but the chances of finding a better bike in the whole city … well. They didn’t call them the Synod’s Finest for nothing.

She took out her kit, tapped into the terminal, and sent the bike into a hard reset. While it rebooted, it wouldn’t do much of anything for at least a few minutes. She did the same with two more bikes, before coming to the last one.

Outside, the enforcers were dragging the downed cyborg back, who was mewling like a worm cat. Caly froze. She thought they had more time. Then, the cyborg kicked one of the enforcers (a sound like a metal bat hitting a tree), and took off running. The enforcers chased after him.

A minute later, Olm stomped over, out of breath. Caly climbed onto the last bike and stared at Olm. She kept her visor dark, so he couldn’t see her face. “You coming or what?”

Olm planted himself in front of the bike. She revved the engine, letting him sing in the contained space of the garage. Olm folded his arms over his chest, unimpressed.

I could back up, and go around. Void, I could just jump it over him.

But these weren’t real thoughts. She wasn’t going to leave without him. As much as she hated to admit it, she didn’t want to imagine life without Olm.

So what he said next made her heart melt. “I’m coming with you. I said I’d help you get into the Cavs, and that’s what I’m going to do. But if you go after that xeno, you won’t win. I have no doubt in my mind that if he wishes to kill you, he will. And he won’t find it hard.”

She glared at him. Then, she remembered her visor was still dark, and she cursed it, and made it go clear so he could see her glare in all its withering glory. “I beat you, didn’t I?”

“That was different. I was … not in the mood.”

Caly snorted.

Olm responded with stony silence, in that way that only made Caly more furious.

“You don’t think I’m good enough?” she demanded.

“I don’t think anyone’s good enough. I told you. I have never seen anyone do whatever he did.”

“At least get on the bike, Olm,” she said, trying not to sound like she was begging (though that’s what it felt like). “I’ll drop you off at Kharcino’s, or at the Rock Tower. But I have to go after him. I need the money, even if it means you and I have to split.” The words from her own mouth caused a slight tremor to catch in her ribs. It threatened to crack open her chest and pull her heart out. She didn’t want it to end like this. Olm had been there, and always when she needed him most. Maybe she had pulled him out of the Pits, but Olm had kept her from falling back into something far worse.

Olm said nothing, and Caly couldn’t see his face because her damn visor was frosting over, and not just because of the cold front blowing in behind the dust storm. Her own chill—it was the worst part about being couran. That, and the horns.

“So, Olm? What’s it going to be? Are we splitting, or are we going to find that human and make him pay?”

Olm shook his head. And grinned a half-cocked smile. “You think I’m just going to let you run off? Last I checked, you owe me.”

Caly exhaled harder than she meant to, and her visor’s fans kicked on, trying to clear away the frost. Then, she frowned. “Wait … what do you mean I owe you?”

“That business back in Yonder,” Olm said. “I did my part. But you had to go and run that double deal. It was your fault we didn’t get paid.”

“How come you never said anything?”

Olm shrugged, “Your plans are the most fun.”

“Even this one?”

Olm sucked in his breath. And hesitated. “Not this one. But I have to see it. The way he moves.”

He stopped. Looked sideways at the bike. “Wait. Whose bikes are these?”

Caly gave him a fiendish grin.

“Oh, Caly. No.” Olm groaned, and put his free hand to his forehead, “How’d you steal from the Enforcers?”

“I didn’t,” she said. “Not yet, at least.”

A shout rang from outside, “Hey! Get away from those bikes!” An enforcer, in full uniform (including the anthead helmet) kneeled on the ground, his assault rifle ready to fire.

Olm slapped the gear on his chest. His armor shuddered and stuck before it could finish unfolding over his chest, leaving him totally exposed. The guard aimed at Olm. “Hands up!”

Caly revved the engine to an ear-piercing whine, and blasted the headlamps to blind the enforcer. It wasn’t much, but it was just enough for Olm to—WHACK—to do that. The enforcer crumpled to the concrete, and Olm rubbed at his fist. More shouts from outside. Boots stomped closer.

Caly inched the bike forward and shouted at Olm, “Hop on!”

The bike sank under Olm’s weight. His huge arms wrapped around her waist.

“Ride,” he rumbled in her ear.

Caly smirked. Unable to hide, even from herself, how glad she was that Olm was coming with her. That she wouldn’t have to leave another piece of her heart behind (as if she had any pieces left to give).

And then, she wrenched the throttle on. The bike leaped forward. Her grin widened.