6 Years Later...

Hope conquers fear.

-The Rift Code, Line 2

The Talar slave squadrons were a death sentence, but a simple one. You fought, and you died. There was no hope for rebellion, no chance of escape. You fought, and you died.

That was the point. The squadrons were not truly a fighting force; they were a spectacle. Oh, the Talar would deny it. Fight the enemy boldly, kill as many as you could, and you could go free. Prove your valor, they said, and you could earn your place in the army.

As if the Talar knew anything about valor.

But, Perelor had none of that left himself anymore. Twisting his lasertip in his hand, he swept his eyes over the still-forming crowd, arms folded behind his back, falling into line beside the other slave captains. They were cleanly dressed in their native country’s uniforms, with a camera attached to the side of their heads, just as their masters demanded. Though they twitched uncomfortably, they stood at attention, eyes fixed firmly on the purple-clad Talar guards who oversaw them. None bore any weapons except Perelor; that was technically against the rules until the recording started. No one tried to take his lasertip away, though — the Talar had learned not to try that a long time ago.

Strange that this group was so obedient. Slaves who came here were usually selected because they’d tried to fight Larsh’s growing regime. Granted, they were tortured beforehand, and pain broke people in ways the innocent wouldn’t think possible. Perelor understood that far more now than he had in his earlier years.

The new slaves assembled into a jumbled formation on the dusty ground in front of the captains. Like their superiors, each was dressed in their home country’s colors, creating a chaotic patchwork of hues. More importantly, a camera had been attached to the side of each person’s head. That camera was more armored than the slaves themselves, the cylindrical body covered in a thick sheet of titanium, the lens layered over multiple times with heavy glass, the antenna sheathed in carbon fiber. The slaves didn’t matter, just the cameras. Perelor’s hand tightened angrily on his lasertip.

The slaves finished forming up, and the choosing began. As always, Cyrla — the overseer of the squadrons — asked Perelor if he wanted the first pick, and, as always, Perelor refused. He took the leftovers. He stepped away from the slaves as the others began their bickering, leaning against an old crate. Closing his eyes.

Keep your sister safe, son.

Five years. Today was the anniversary of the day he’d failed, and Eliel had been torn from him. Five years of punishment from Larsh, and five years of watching men he wished he could care for die, over and over and over.

His eye, the one with the slave brand seared into it, burned. His arm ached, too, and the dagger waiting on his belt whispered to him. He hadn’t been able to resist the temptation last night, and his healing Surge was missing a large chunk of its charge. If he weren’t in public, he suspected he’d give in again. The memories were just too strong today. Why couldn’t he just forget, truly and properly this time?

He twisted his weapon in his hand, drowning out the thrum of engines, the chatter of slaves. The echoes, which still whispered, even if they were too quiet now for him to make out the words. He pushed all the sounds away, and tried to let the memories fade. For a moment, it almost worked.

Flames.

Blood.

Screams.

Rubble.

And a blade he so desperately wanted to thrust through himself…

“Okron save us. Okron save us. Okron save us.”

The sound caught him off guard, and pushed the old memories away. His eyes flashed open, darting toward it. It came from a boy, near the back of the remaining crowd. He was trembling, and his eyes were glazed over and scarred.

Perelor’s teeth ground together. Who sends the blind to war?

The child’s camera stared at him in reply. Perelor forced himself to relax, then returned to fiddling with his lasertip. The boy would probably end up in his squadron anyway. The other captains always took the fittest slaves they could; it gave them the best chance of survival, they said. As if survival were possible. He tried to close his eyes again, though the boy continued to pray, and the cries kept him on edge. That was Talar the kid was speaking. They even sent their own to die, it seemed. Not that this should surprise him.

There was a pause as a captain finished making his picks, then marched off with his new men. The next officer stepped up, a man in green and silver Herreon robes. Iravin, was that his name? No, that wasn’t quite right. Irik? No, that wasn’t it either. Names were hard here, with so many deaths in such a brief period. But he recognized the face. This was the Voidling who had tried a charge during the last battle. He’d gotten half of his men killed, yet somehow made it out unscathed. Idiot. He began making his way through the ranks, his expression hawkish as he chose his slaves.

The boy was still praying, his voice growing louder and more hysterical. Finally, a guard slid in between the crowd, grabbing the kid by his shoulder, then slamming the butt of his rifle into the child’s stomach. The praying ceased, and the guard stepped away, but the choosing captain’s eyes immediately whipped toward the boy.

“A blind one?” he hissed.

The guard shrugged.

“Are you trying to get us killed?” the captain continued. Iralik, that was his name. Perelor remembered it now. “We can’t take him into combat; he’ll muck up our fighting. I request his execution. Immediately.”

Perelor growled. Killing the boy? For nothing? All you had to do was tell him to hang back. Give him a guide, so he didn’t get in the way. That was all it took.

The guard hesitated, then shrugged again. “Suit yourself.” He grabbed the boy’s shoulder, then threw him to the ground, then tossed a lasertip toward Iralik. “Just do it with your own hands. Don’t need any more blood on my armor.”

The boy whimpered. Iralik pointed the lasertip at the child’s chest, though he hesitated himself, finger lingering on the trigger. Time slowed.

You know what you have to do, son, his father’s voice said.

So he can die later?

Honor doesn’t get to choose its battles, his father replied.

He paused. Cursed. Then stood straight, snapping his lasertip outward as he strode toward Iralik.

“Enough.”

Iralik’s eyes turned up toward Perelor. He growled. “He’ll get us killed.”

“Enough,” Perelor repeated. Iralik’s expression hardened, and his hand itched toward the trigger, but Perelor was close enough now that it didn’t matter. He thrust his blade forward, forcing Iralik to parry. A quick flick of Perelor’s wrist, and Iralik’s lasertip rammed into the ground. Iralik’s eyes widened with shock, shock that quickly morphed to pain as Perelor kicked him, then snatched his opponent’s weapon from a loose fist. Both weapons in hand, Perelor whirled to face the nearby guard, who stepped back, raising his hands in surrender.

“Torment! Relax, Krot.”

Captain Iralik rose to his feet, grimacing, then growling. “He’s my pick,” he hissed. “I pick him, and I say that he dies.”

Perelor didn’t flinch. “I have seniority. I pick before you. He’s mine.”

“You gave up that right,” Iralik spat. “You said you would take the leftovers.” He snatched his lasertip back, aiming it at the boy. Before he could fire, though, Perelor slammed his own lasertip like a staff into Iralik’s skull. The other captain tumbled back to the ground. This time, Perelor stepped on top of him, pressing the tip of the blade into Iralik’s neck, just enough to draw a few drops of blood. Then he leaned downward, his breath in Iralik’s face.

“You know why I take the leftovers, Captain? Because I don’t need good soldiers on my team to survive. I’ve been here five years. You’ll be lucky if you last a few weeks. Cross me again, and I’ll make sure those weeks turn into days.”

For a moment, Iralik’s face twisted with hatred, but then that expression wilted. Slowly, Perelor stepped off of him. “Go finish your choosing,” he said. He grabbed the blind boy’s hand, pulled him to his feet, then helped him back over to the crate, eyeing Iralik as he walked. Searing Voidling. Unfortunately, men like him were common here. That worried Perelor. His sister’s ailment wasn’t that much different from being blind, not in war. If she ended up in a place like this, would they kill her, too?

Iralik finished choosing, as did the two captains after him, and Perelor found himself facing the remaining slaves — his new men. They were a sorry lot. Half of them were looking at the ground, the other half twitching uncomfortably. The majority were undoubtedly Soulcursed, disabled by the interference of the Void in the physical realm. That made sense; the other Captains hoarded as many of the non-Soulcursed slaves as they could. Better odds of survival.

Perelor didn’t need the odds in his favor, though. The Purity Surge in his back ensured that much.

“Listen up.” His voice was weak. Tired. It always was these days. “We’re taking Cruiser A today. Lasertips are inside. You should already have some basic training. Unfortunately, that is all you’ll receive.” His fist tightened in frustration.

This was the part where he was supposed to give some grand speech about valor, and how, if the slaves proved themselves, they could escape these camps. He was supposed to tell them why they were in their native uniforms, and that if they fought well enough, they could prove their planet worthy of becoming part of Talar.

But, it was a lie. And true valor, the kind of valor his father had believed in, that didn’t lie.

“Men,” he whispered. “You are going to die. I will do my best to save you. But I’m also not going to lie to you. We’re launching a frontal assault, and most of you will not make it out alive. I advise you to abandon your hope. It will only serve for sorrow here.”

The men bristled. A few wept. “Okron save us,” the blind boy whispered.

She won’t, Perelor thought bitterly. I wish she would, but she won’t.

“Sir!”

Perelor turned toward the noise. The speaker was a young man, somewhere in his late teens, who stood with one hand in a fist behind his back, the other in a salute at his chest. Like Perelor himself, he had bright white hair, and wore a blue and silver Ethean uniform. Perelor frowned. He knew little of what had happened on his homeworld since the invasion. This man’s presence here wasn’t exactly comforting, though.

“Yes, soldier?”

“The Talar claim we can go free if we fight with honor. How do we do that?”

Perelor snorted. “The Talar know nothing of honor.” He motioned forward. “Form up.”

The others started clumsily falling into a formation, but the Ethean stayed at attention. “Captain. I don’t intend to stay here any longer than I have to. The Talar say I can go free if I fight with valor. Is that true?”

Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

He raised his voice as he spoke, and the others perked up. Perelor swore under his breath. One of the hopeful ones. Those were always the worst. Given enough time, they ended up like Iralik. Broken, and bitter.

But, he’d need to address it. Mutinies were all too common here. He cleared his throat, then spoke as loud as he could.

“What did they tell you valor was, soldier?”

“Fighting the enemy bravely, sir,” the Ethean said. “Taking down as many of them as we can, no matter the danger.” He let his salute fall. “We can do it, sir. If we fight hard enough, our entire squad can go free. We can see our families again.” He turned, meeting the eyes of the slaves. “We just need to work together, fight hard enough. We can leave this place.”

Some of the slaves remained downcast, but others perked up. The blind boy straightened beside Perelor, muttering another prayer under his breath — a prayer for good fortune. Others muttered their assent. Perelor could feel their echoes, faint, but there, hopeful. They believed this man, as much as they could believe in anything. They genuinely hoped they could go free.

They placed that hope in a lie. A lie that would simply kill them faster.

“At attention!” Perelor yelled. For once, his voice did not betray him. The slaves immediately snapped into posture, at least, what little posture they could manage. Perelor sheathed his lasertip, then began stalking through their ranks, heading straight for the Ethean. The man’s eyes widened, and he placed his hand back on his chest — a traditional Ethean gesture of respect. Perelor raised an eyebrow, nodding to the hand.

“Trying to gain my pity, are you, soldier?”

The Ethean paled. “No, sir.”

“Then put the searing hand down. I’m not Ethean anymore. Neither are you.”

The man hesitated. Perelor growled. “I said put it down, soldier.”

His hand snapped back downward. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“You have military training. Shame they wasted it on you. What’s your number?”

“My name is…”

“I said your number, soldier.”

The Ethean gulped. “I… N527, sir.”

Perelor hesitated a moment, then made his choice. “Well, N527, you’re demoted. You’ll be on the first row during the battle today. Enjoy Torment.”

He turned and walked back to the front of the squadron before he could regret his decision. “Forward march! Ahek, we’re late. You can thank N527 for wasting our time.”

He moved ahead, and the slaves followed. The blind boy, who was still at the front, stumbled behind Perelor, still muttering his prayer, helped along by a solemn, elderly Herreon man. He was far too old to be fighting. Most of them were not fit for this, whether because of a Soulcurse or their age or just their lack of training. This was no march of soldiers. This was a funeral procession of corpses waiting to die. Perelor wished he could change that.

But he couldn’t, and so they would die, just as the men who had died before them. The faces of those fallen souls flashed through Perelor’s mind. He cringed.

I’m sorry.

Making their way across the dusty surface of the staging ground, the squadron arrived at their troop carrier a few minutes later, grabbing the lasertips that waited nearby. The ship consisted of a belly where the troops waited, along with a single cockpit. It was larger than usual; it had been made from a gutted-out luxury cruiser, though the new additions were nothing to gawk at: the armor was thin, and the only weapons were a pair of pitiful plasma guns at the front. The doors were open, and the slaves filed in, moving to spots on the floor where their number sat scratched into the metal. N527, the Ethean, hesitated, but Perelor shot him a glare, and he swapped out one of the men in the front. Perelor couldn’t help but notice the blind child was in the first row. He pursed his lips. Searing Voidlings.

You just condemned someone, too, his father’s voice chided him. Don’t pretend you’re any better than them.

He winced, but the damage was already done. Breathing in, he made his way to the front, inspecting the men as he went. It was an average crew, at least for the leftovers. They’d probably lose, oh, thirty out of the forty? Maybe twenty if he fought hard…

No. Don’t lie to yourself. There’s nothing you can do.

He cleared his throat, then barked out his next orders. “Split into five groups. Practice thrusts and parries. But be careful. If you wound another soldier, their blood is on your hands.”

The soldiers — if you could call them that — obeyed, splitting up by row. Perelor watched as they trained, noting by the hum of engines outside that the fleet was beginning to take off. After watching for a few moments, he turned and moved into the cockpit.

There, three men awaited, a pilot, a copilot, and Arrus, his second-in-command. He was a thin, tan-skinned Talar teen, no older than sixteen by Perelor’s estimates. His hair was a bright blonde, rather than the usual Talar brown, and he wore a purple uniform, though a large rune at its center marked him for what he was: a Soulcursed. An Elekhai, in Talar terms. Arrus was a strange case here; he’d been born into Talar nobility, but had fallen from grace the moment he’d been discovered to be Soulcursed. Fortunately, his noble birth allowed him to wield a Surgeblade, which he wore now on his left hip. Perelor still wasn’t sure why he was allowed that. Supposedly it had been a gift from a noble from House Magala, though he didn’t understand why any Talar leader would care enough to give one away. He smiled as Perelor entered.

“Well hello there. You’re in a lovely mood today. Your poor victims might not even be able to pull the trigger.”

Perelor grunted, then sniffed. Arrus was wearing heavy cologne. Where had he gotten more of it? “I’d rather they know the truth. Besides, you’ve seen the people who come through here. Do you really think any of them are going to get out alive?”

“No. But that doesn’t mean you have to tell them that.”

“They’ll thank me when they know the truth.”

“Will they? They already know what’s going to happen.” Arrus sighed. “It’s going to be a bad one, I think. The Miradorans have intercepted our transmissions. They know we’re coming.”

“Well, then it’s good I’m telling them the truth.”

Arrus frowned, but said nothing. “We should be leaving soon. I don’t have much else to tell you. Except…”

“Except?”

Arrus hesitated, wincing. “There’s a new shipment of slaves coming in. All the way from Xilia.”

Perelor froze. “Have you checked?”

“You know how risky that is for me.”

“I…” Perelor sighed. “Alright.” He couldn’t ask that of his friend. Though I could go myself…

There was a long pause. Then Arrus straightened. “Any luck with your powers recently?”

Perelor scowled.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“I’m not a memory burner, Arrus. Not anymore.”

“I don’t think it works like that.”

“I used to think that, too. But they don’t work now, no matter what I do.” He shook his head. “I should go tell the men. They deserve to know how they’re going to die.” He strode to the door. “Keep yourself out of trouble.”

Arrus smiled, somehow, even though there was worry in his eyes. Pain. Okron, how did he manage it? “According to you, we’re always in trouble.”

Perelor snorted, then strode back into the hold. There, the men were still clumsily practicing with their lasertips. They were horrible at it. Their form was off, their stances were downright awful, and half of them were tripping over themselves. They were cannon fodder, but then, that was the point.

“Enough practice,” Perelor called out. The slaves halted. “Our orders have come in. We’re going to storm the beach, and open up space for dropships. Your cameras will be live, so don’t try anything against regulations. Understood?”

The slaves mumbled their affirmation. Perelor gave them a curt nod. “Fight well.”

And die well, too.

The ship rumbled, then took off, jerking slightly as it made its way up through the atmosphere. Perelor’s eyes instinctively turned toward the hold window, right behind where he stood. In standard troop carriers, it would cover half the wall, allowing soldiers to see through the ship’s shields and out into the battlefield. Here, it was little more than a slit, designed instead to keep the slaves from seeing the fighting, lest they rebel.

The ship moved fast, and within a few moments, they were out in space. The wormhole glittered in the distance, a golden pinprick of light among the stars. Once they struck that pinprick, they’d be able to teleport to any other planet in Delti. Then the slaughter would begin once more. He could practically hear the lasertips clashing, the plasma crackling. The scent of flesh burning. And the green mist, pouring out of the mouths of the fallen, turning to red as it drifted upward, then faded…

He shook himself from his stupor, cursing softly. The blind boy. He needed to take care of that. His eyes drifted to the child, who was shaking, and despite everything, still muttering a prayer.

Voidlings.

He walked away from the window, heading for the Ethean who had spoken up earlier. “N527. To the front. I need to speak with you.”

The young man whitened, but followed Perelor to the window. From there, Perelor pointed toward the blind soldier.

“You’ve noticed him, I assume?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what do you think of it?”

The man hesitated. “They’re vret for it,” he hissed. “I hope they all burn in the Tomb.”

Perelor nodded. “Good. Because that’s exactly what I think of it.” He met N527’s eyes. “Do you know what those cameras on your head are for, soldier?”

“To know if we’ve proved our valor.”

“That’s the story. But do you know what they’re really there for?”

N527 hesitated, then cursed. “Yes. I know. I’ve seen the recordings, before I ended up here. They’re capturing our deaths, to broadcast as propaganda. To keep people afraid.”

Perelor nodded. “Then you know why I demoted you. We won’t prove our valor, soldier. We can’t. This place isn’t just brutal, it’s designed to kill us.”

“You’re right,” N527 said. “I thought perhaps I could invigorate them. I’m sorry. That was the wrong way of going about it.”

“No harm done, soldier.” Hopefully. Perelor pointed toward the boy again. “But I have a task for you. The child is a liability. I hate to say it, but it’s true. I want you to help him. Switch spots with one of the men nearby, and make certain he doesn’t fire his lasertip, or trip us up. Hang in the back once we land. Bladewielders willing, that’ll increase everyone’s odds.”

N527 nodded. “I can do that.”

“Thank you.” Perelor cursed. “Searing Voidlings.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” N527 hesitated. “What’s your name, sir? I don’t think you ever told us your name?”

Perelor tensed, falling silent.

“Sir?”

“Never learn a soldier’s name,” he hissed.

Alarm bells rang. Perelor dismissed N527 with a wave of his hand, turning toward the window, thankful for the abrupt end to the conversation. How could he even explain his logic to someone who had not fought here yet? Well, he’d understand soon enough what Perelor meant.

They were almost to the wormhole. Arrus exited the cockpit a moment later, Surgeblade now drawn. His face was creased with worry, though he pushed that worry away as the slaves’ eyes turned to him, smiling at them and flourishing his blade. Perelor fell into line beside him, yelling to the slaves.

“To your posts, and stay there. Battle stances. This won’t be an easy ride, but I want you ready at the end.” He turned to Arrus.

“Anything new?”

“Nothing. Command has gone silent. We’ll find out how bad it is when we get there, I guess.” He glanced backward. “A blind kid?”

“Yup,” Perelor said. “Voidlings.”

“Amen to that,” Arrus muttered. “Did you at least pair him up with someone?”

“Yes. N527. Tried to speak up earlier about attacking. Felt bad about shutting him up, so I gave him a job.”

“Huh. Well, hopefully they make a good team.”

“They won’t. But we can hope.”

The sirens grew louder. Arrus tensed. “Endowed save us,” he whispered.

If we can save her first, Perelor thought.

The ship’s speakers crackled to life. “Preparing for entry. Five.” The voice over the intercom was a robotic monotone, unflinching, uncaring.

“Four.”

Perelor twisted his lasertip toward the slit, relaxing his muscles, forcing his hands to steady, his mind to clear. He drew in Purity from the Surge on his neck, and his skin began to glow an intense white.

“Three.”

The men behind him breathed in, breathed out. Perelor tried not to think of their fate. Tried not to hope that he could save them. At least he didn’t know their names. It had been worse before, when he hadn’t learned it was better not to know.

“Two.”

Perelor glanced toward Arrus. The young man’s Surgeblade was bared, and he was now aglow with Ever. Though the glow was dimmer than others he’d seen, it was still fearsome, an azure beacon of hope.

“One.”

Hope is dead, Perelor reminded himself. At least, until he found Eliel. Somehow, she would bring it back, bring him back. He clung to that.

“Enter.”

“For Eliel,” he whispered, then closed his eyes as they teleported to Torment.