Pain is a shield. It is heavy to bear, but it can save your life.

-The Rift Code, Proverbs

Perelor drifted in a field of golden mist, eyes closed, and for a moment, he was in the past. Watching as his father came home, hugged his mother, kissed a young Eliel on the cheek. Then picked up Perelor himself, and held him. The illusion felt so real, so perfect.

That was how he knew it wouldn’t last.

White light flashed as the wormhole did its work, and Perelor found himself back in the ship, kneeling on the floor. His stomach swirled. Nobody knew exactly how Ancient Meridian had created the wormholes, but teleporting halfway across the galaxy was not a pleasant experience for the gut. However, he was mostly used to it by now, and he quickly recovered, then knelt beside the window, looking down at the planet below. It was largely covered in blue oceans, though black, volcanic islands dotted the entire surface. Perfect for farming: rich soil, and lots of water. It was a beautiful sight. Most planets were, from a distance.

He didn’t get to stare long, though, for the enemy awaited them, positioned just outside the wormhole, where the rest of the Talar fleet would also materialize. Fighters and battlecruisers held in formation, a sphere of metal and cannons the invading force would have to penetrate. He sucked in a sharp breath. This was the worst part, where everything was chance and his lasertip was only a handle to grip amid the chaos.

As more of the Talar ships flashed into existence, the Miradoran fighters soared inward, cannons flashing as they attempted to stifle the invasion before more Talar reinforcements arrived. Plasma struck energy shields, resulting in a sinister, unceasing crackle. Several of the slaves retched, the strain of teleportation and combat maneuvers too much for them.

“Clean up the mess,” Perelor ordered. “I don’t want anyone tripping.” Arrus nodded, raising his hand and burning Ever to incinerate the slop. He called out to the slaves.

“Don’t worry. We have an escort. We’ll be fine.” He eyed Perelor, as if expecting him to add his own reassurances.

Perelor said nothing. The camera on the side of his head seemed to demand his silence.

A carrier nearby blew apart, its shields and armor spent. Perelor gasped as he felt the echoes of the Talar men inside. Usually, he didn’t feel those anymore, but at war, when men were dying, they were too strong to ignore. They murmured in the back of his mind, flashes of smell, taste, sound, and light, a pulsing cacophony of thoughts, mostly thoughts of fear. He shoved them to the back of his consciousness. The echoes weren’t evil, but there was a chance they’d awaken memories of his past. Memories that could make him hesitate — and here, those who hesitated paid in blood.

A fighter soared past their carrier, unleashing a hail of fire that struck the bottom of the hold floor. Perelor flinched as the bullets exploded. They did no damage; their energy shield was still operational. It was still unnerving. Several of the slaves whimpered and screamed. Arrus called out again, assuring them this would pass, and that the cruiser would survive.

It would. They had a fighter escort, and the slave squadrons always made it to the ground; a ship’s destruction didn’t give enough footage for Talar propaganda to be effective.

A shame, really. A brief death would be far preferable to what came next.

Talar fighters streamed out of the wormhole, then split into groups to fight back their Miradoran counterparts. The carriers moved forward as the invading forces cleared a path toward the planet below. Soon enough, they were about to enter the atmosphere.

Perelor fell into stance, ready to run, ready to fight. Out the window, he saw a blur of flames as they passed through Mirador’s thermosphere. A vast, blue ocean followed the flames, dotted with islands that were in turn dotted with grain fields and storage silos. As they drew closer to their target, he saw cannons hidden within the wheat, accompanied by men who swarmed in trenches all over the shore.

“Dropping in ten!” the pilot yelled.

“Be ready!” Arrus yelled. “And fight bravely.”

“And say your prayers,” Perelor muttered. Out the window, Miradoran soldiers, in black and orange armor, aimed their lasertips and rifles toward the descending carriers. Perelor cleared his throat, then Reached and drew in even more Purity.

“File out and do it fast! Then follow my lead.”

The ship slowed to a stop. For a single moment, they waited in silence.

Then Perelor felt a metallic click to the side of his head, accompanied by a barely audible female voice.

“Cameras are live.” In theory, that meant this battle would be broadcast to the rest of Delti through hacked comms channels, after the footage had been processed. A propaganda machine, to keep nations who had not yet entered this conflict further away from it.

A propaganda film. These men’s lives would be sacrificed for that, and nothing more. Unarmored foot soldiers would be no good in this fight. But they could die in spectacularly gruesome ways, so here they were.

The carrier doors opened. Sound rushed into Perelor’s ears, screams and shouts and crackling plasma. Immediately, Arrus raised his hand, burning much of his Ever to create a shield of blue plasma in front of the soldiers as they dropped. The rest of the slaves filed out in an eight-by-five formation, splashing into the water below. Waving them through, Perelor waited until they were all out, then leapt down himself.

Water rushed up his leg, accompanied by a flurry of sound as the battle began. The ocean was knee-height here. Warm and clear, it pulsed up and down from the shore, the heartbeat of the island. Perelor rushed to the front of his squad as Arrus’ use of Ever slowed. The shield grew visibly thinner. Bolts of energy began flying through it, rather than stopping as they struck.

And death began.

An Artensian man to the right of Perelor fell first, shot in the head, bone and sinew spraying outward as he collapsed, his white and gold uniform suddenly stained crimson. An orange-haired Herreon woman behind him died next, struck in the aorta. Liquid exploded from the wound as she fell, and the water swirled red. Green mist poured from both of their mouths — their souls, leaving their bodies. Perelor felt their echoes as their minds fled into the afterlife. The woman was a nurse, who’d only been taken here because she’d tried to help during a street fight between the Talar and some rebels. The man had a child, back home, who was in his early teens.

Like Perelor, that child would never see his father again.

The memories ended, and Perelor returned to the battlefield. Though he’d felt as if he’d spent several minutes reliving those snippets of the fallen soldiers’ lives, it hadn’t taken any time in the real world. The Everrealm was odd that way. He dropped to a crouch, returning fire. They were still far away from the enemy targets, but Perelor had enough experience that he managed to hit most of them. He was grateful he wasn’t close enough to feel the echoes of the men he’d slain. All this time, and he still hated killing.

“Kneel and shoot!” he yelled. The slaves who were veterans of the last few battles were already returning fire, but many of the newcomers just stood, stunned. Their hesitation proved to be a fatal mistake. Perelor saw at least four more fall, stunned silence turning into pained shrieks as fiery bullets tore into their necks and skulls and limbs and hearts. At the very least, though, their deaths made the others snap into action, and the survivors fell into crouches, lasertips flashing as they shot back. Few of the plasma bolts found their mark, but between Perelor’s crew and the half a dozen other squads landing here, the Miradorans were forced backward. Between that, and Arrus’ Ever shields, only four more slaves dropped.

Only four. Perelor gritted his teeth as their echoes flashed through his head. Only four. Those were good numbers.

It was hard to reduce them to numbers, when you were seeing through their very eyes.

He returned to reality again, and attacked with more vigor. Supposedly there were memory burners who struggled with the echoes during fighting, finding it disorienting to jump between combat and thought. Not Perelor. Knowing who he fought for just made him more determined. He ran in front of the blind boy, who, thankfully, was still alive, then fired as fast as he could. They were getting closer to the beach, and Perelor could see silhouettes falling rapidly as he attacked.

Unfortunately, his accuracy drew attention. Several riflemen turned their attention solely on Perelor, and plasma bullets flashed in his direction. One struck his shoulder, ripping its way straight through his bone. He winced, but burned Purity. The Second Power took hold, and the wound healed itself instantly, bone popping back into place, flesh knitting itself back together. Purity could shift one’s body in a variety of ways, but quick healing was certainly its most practical use here. Still, blood ran down his arm, staining his uniform, and the impact immobilized him for a moment. Another shot landed, this time hitting his left thigh, sizzling as it burned his muscle. He fell to one knee, skin scraping the rock below. Cursing, he stood back up as that, too, healed.

N527 was still behind him. To his credit, he seemed to know how to use the lasertip, though his eyes were still wide and his face was pure white. Evidently, he’d fought, but not in anything like this. He stumbled through the water, dragging the blind boy behind him. He was moving too slowly, and they were behind the main squadron. That was dangerous; Arrus’ Ever shields were only effective when he was close by.

“Faster!” Perelor yelled. And, to his credit, N527 continued onward, hoisting the blind boy onto his back, then rushing to meet up with the rest of the squadron. Perelor raced beside him, distracting the Miradorans and taking any bullets that came too close. One of those bullets even grazed Perelor’s good eye. He swore, healing it, then continued onward, blood running down his cheek.

Ahead, Arrus led the squadron forward, lobbing fireballs into the Miradoran trenches to flush them out. Green mist was everywhere, thin enough it didn’t block Perelor’s vision, but there nonetheless, a constant reminder of death. Perelor swept his eyes over the squadron, taking a quick headcount. Arrus’ Surgeblade was making a difference — thirty of the forty remained — but that was still ten lives gone. One of those hadn’t even reached his twentieth birthday. He was scared, and he thrashed violently as Torment took him…

The camera whined, and Perelor snapped back to reality. Fool, he chided himself. Stop caring. There’s no time to care.

They’re all going to die.

As if on cue, to their right, another slave squad broke apart, a group of Miradorans suddenly bursting out of their trenches, throwing grenades into the squadron’s tightly knit formation. Bodies flew, then rained back down, some of them in multiple pieces, others charred beyond recognition. The few slaves who survived the initial blast stumbled back, bleeding from shrapnel wounds, then found their own death as they were mowed down from behind. Perelor’s camera whirred faster as he took in the scene.

Then the Miradorans turned toward Perelor’s men.

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He swore as bullets flew into their side, flanking Arrus’ Ever shield, which only protected against attacks from the front. Men fell faster than he could think, and it took all Perelor had to avoid reliving their echoes. Arrus turned, expanding his shield to cover the sides of the squad, but it was no use. The Miradorans were already rushing toward them, lasertips and daggers and swords in their hands.

“Into stance!” Perelor yelled. In the chaos, no one obeyed. The Miradorans rammed into the squad’s already scattered formation. Blades flew forward, and men on both sides fell. Perelor rushed into the fray, engaging three enemies at once. He took wounds to his stomach and arms as he slashed without thinking, ignoring the defensive and simply healing the blows as they came. It was an effective strategy. His spear tugged on his arm as it tore into other men’s flesh, over and over and over.

Arrus let go of the shield — the Miradorans couldn’t fire on them anyway, now that their own troops were mixed in the fray. Instead, he spent his energy to send a bolt of electricity arcing between the enemy soldiers. It wasn’t enough to kill them, but it was enough to confuse them into scattering.

Perelor took advantage of that, lunging inward, cutting down men before they could recover. More blood spurted onto his tattered blue uniform, some his own, most of it others’. Arrus lashed out with Ever again, summoning a large bolt of plasma this time, and a troupe of other Miradorans screamed as they burned to ashes.

That took most of his Ever, though. He was hardly glowing at all now, and there were still enemies heading toward him, probably hoping to claim the Surge.

No. Perelor snarled, burning more Purity, enhancing his muscles, making them quicker, stronger. His fist slammed into a Miradoran’s back, with such force the woman’s spine snapped. His spear tore through another soldier’s chest as he spun around, twisting to fight his way toward Arrus, who was brandishing his blade now, preparing to duel a pair of Miradorans.

I will not fail. Not again!

A boot lashed out, and Perelor’s head struck the water. A blade stabbed into his chest, then yanked backward, taking a chunk of Perelor’s flesh with it. His lasertip fell from his hand. Gasping, he whirled around, only for a Miradoran boot to shove him back under. Muffled screams filled his ears. For a moment, the echoes overtook him, and he remembered everything. His father’s death. Years in slavery. And that day…

No!

He pulled himself back out of the water, healing himself and throwing a Purity-enhanced punch at a Miradoran. The man doubled over, ribs snapping, but another beside him quickly snatched Perelor, impaling him directly through the spine. Pain shot up his back, accompanied by the feeling of his muscles locking. In his peripheral vision, he could see Arrus fighting off the two men, barely holding his ground.

No… not again…

Deep down, though, he remembered, and knew that he’d already failed.

“Erran naut tak veras!”

Weakly chanting their war cry, another squadron slammed into the Miradorans from behind, slaughtering the rest of their forces in a single burst of plasma. Perelor sighed in relief as the Miradorans holding him fell limp, and his spine repaired itself, letting him move again. Arrus twisted back toward the trenches, burning the last of his Ever in a burst to reactivate the shield as the new squadron filed in behind. Perelor noted Captain Iralik at their head. The man shook his head as he approached.

“Vret,” he snorted. “You almost lost your entire squad.”

Perelor cringed, but swept his eyes over his slaves. Two, four, six, eight, nine…

Nine. There were nine left. Nine left, forty to start. Thirty-one lost.

The water grew colder. Echoes danced through his head, accompanied by flickers of memories he’d long forgotten. The lasertip felt loose in his fingers.

This is a bad one…

“Your squad is broken,” Iralik snapped. “But this isn’t over yet, and I don’t intend to die without a fight. I’m taking over your squad. There’s more of mine left, anyway.”

Perelor nodded numbly. “I… alright. Tell Arrus.”

Iralik smiled. “Good.” He raised his lasertip high. “Forward charge. For valor!”

Perelor’s eyes widened. “No! We need to wait for…”

Iralik ignored him, rushing forward. Arrus’ shield broke a moment later, his Ever spent. He’d still be able to use a little of it as the Surge recharged, but not enough. Not even close to enough for an offensive.

Cursing, Perelor turned backward. Several of the men, both Iralik’s and his own, lagged, wounded. One had a gaping hole in his leg. He was screaming desperately as blood leaked into the water, his skin growing pale.

You could heal him…

But that was against their rules. He’d tried it, and the Talar had executed his entire squadron as punishment. With the camera still running, it was foolish. And so, he would let the man die.

The blind kid, though. Where’s he?

He saw no sign of him. N527, though, stood to the side, kneeling in the water. There was blood on his hands. He was staring numbly at it as it dripped down his fingers, eyes distant.

“Thaus,” Perelor swore. He ran to the Ethean. Bodies flowed all around him, some face down, others on their sides. All of them were taut with the fear of death, a fear now realized. He could hear their souls howling as they descended into Torment. Condemn him to the Tomb, but no matter how faint they seemed, he couldn’t stop himself from hearing those screams.

“The kid. Where is he?” He already knew the answer, but it still needed to be said.

“He… he’s… dead.” N527 shook as he said the words. “They attacked us from behind. I fell into the water, and there was plasma everywhere, and… and then he was dead.”

Perelor nodded. “I’m sorry.”

N527 looked up, meeting his eyes. “You were right. This is Torment.”

“I’m… sorry.” He motioned toward the beach. “We need to move.”

N527 was silent.

“Soldier?”

“They were right,” he whispered. “Back on Ethea, they said hope was dead. And they were right.” He released his cupped hand, letting the water flow back down his arm into the ocean below. His grip tightened on his lasertip. Tears welling in his eyes, he charged, running fast enough Perelor had to sprint to keep behind him.

Ahead, Arrus blasted flames into the Miradoran trenches, furiously forcing the enemy out. That was both blessing and curse: on the one hand, it exposed their opponent, on the other, it made the Talar slaves easier targets. Plasma flashed, and men dropped. As he arrived within range, Perelor fired his lasertip, downing two Miradorans before pushing his way to the front, falling into line right beside N527.

“Get in the back,” he hissed. “You’re pale as an Ethean’s hair.”

No reply. A grenade exploded nearby, not close enough to do much damage, though shrapnel still flew toward them, forcing Perelor to step in front of N527, absorbing the metal shards. Though he healed quickly, they still sent sharp jabs of pain racing up his arms and legs and back. Purity might be able to mend his wounds, but it did nothing to reduce the associated agony.

He was running low on Purity, he realized, between his lapse last night and the sheer toll this battle had taken on his reserves. Like Arrus, if he ran out, he’d still be able to run on the Surge’s generated power, but that was fumes compared to what he had now. If that did happen, he’d almost undoubtedly fall.

Strange, he realized, how welcome death felt these days.

“Get in the back,” he snapped again. “You’re in shock. You’ll do no good up here.”

N527 ignored him still, instead rushing forward and engaging another Miradoran. He won the duel, barely. Perelor cursed, forcing himself to look away. Nothing he could do if the man didn’t obey orders. Nothing he could do even if he did obey.

His squadron attacked another large pack of Miradorans, attempting to retreat into the fields farther inland. It was a bloodbath. Blades flew forward from both sides, slamming into unprepared chests. Perelor slew three men before the exchange was over. The kills were easy— too easy, the product of years of muscle memory. Echoes danced in his head, terrified whispers of the men he’d just slaughtered. They twisted his vision so much that he barely noticed when the skirmish was over.

He glanced back. Six more men had fallen, though none from his squadron. Somehow, N527 was alive. With a wound on his upper arm, and caked in blood, but alive.

There’s no use in checking, Perelor chided himself. Not if he won’t listen.

His thoughts were interrupted as he saw another pack of Miradorans, taking up position in a patch of trees. Their rifles bristled from the branches, aimed directly at his men. Though they were far off, he could see the barrels well enough to know that those were rapid-fire rifles — weapons fast and powerful enough to end his entire squad in a few heartbeats.

“To the trenches!” he yelled. He ran himself, sliding into one of the sandy ditches nearby. “Now! Move!”

As predicted, plasma flew from the trees, a hail of fiery death, so hot and furious Perelor was surprised the sand hadn’t turned to glass. Five more men dropped as the survivors slipped down and into cover. And N527…

N527 hung behind, still shaking. A bullet struck his shoulder, and he collapsed. Perelor’s eyes widened, and before he could think, before he could stop himself, he leapt from the trench, dashing toward the boy. The Ethean turned, meeting his eyes. Perelor knew instantly what he was doing.

“Okron forgive me,” he whispered. Perelor couldn’t hear the words, but he knew them all too well. “For welcoming death’s embrace.”

Energy ripped into his throat, and he fell without a sound. More bullets tore into his stomach and chest. Perelor slid to his knees beside the man. Another plasma bolt hit him in the chest, but he hardly cared. He grabbed his comrade, desperately pushing Purity into him, for a moment forgetting the Talar rules.

Nothing happened.

No… we almost made it… we almost made it!

Green mist poured from N527’s mouth, then rose upward, turning red as it dissipated completely. That mist screamed, ranted, writhed. As if the man’s last act had been to condemn Perelor himself.

Perelor sat for a moment, shocked. Then, another bullet tore into him, then another, and, no longer able to ignore the pain of the blasts, he cursed, then rose. He should have cried. Should have screamed. Should have mourned somehow, someway, for a brother who had given up.

Instead, he just… left. Slid back into the trench. A moment later, he heard the camera click, and its voice whispered in his ear.

“Recording complete.”

Arrus walked over a moment later, announcing that they’d been ordered to hold their ground. Perelor let out a relieved breath. They were safe, for now. The real soldiers were arriving, and they rushed onto the beach, slaughtering the Miradoran forces everywhere they went. These Talar were well equipped, in full armor, with grenades and blasters and sensors and all. The purple, almost royal glimmer of their helms seemed contradictory to the Torment of this place. Perelor distracted himself from his failure by watching them, occasionally firing a pointless lasertip blast into the forest.

A figure came roaring through the front line, cutting through the Miradoran lines with hails of electricity. Traegus Yral, Arrus’ father. Bullets deflected off his titrite armor as he pressed forward, a pack of Surgeblade wielders behind him. As he did, the battle moved further inland, well past the slaves. Perelor allowed himself to fall to his knees, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Arrus approached him, Surgeblade gone; he’d handed it off to another soldier to continue forward. “You alright?” he whispered.

“I’m fine,” Perelor said.

“We both know that means you’re not.”

“I’m fine,” he repeated. It came out more shaky this time, but Arrus just sighed, leaning against the wall of the trench.

“How many survived?” Perelor asked.

“Six,” Arrus said.

Perelor nodded. “At least I told them.” He sighed. “I warned them. At least they were ready.”

Arrus gave him a concerned look, but said nothing. “Voidlings,” Perelor muttered. He leaned against the back of the trench, stretching out his legs. “They’re Voidlings for this. Searing Voidlings.”

He wanted to do something. He wanted to lash out, fight, cry, do anything but sit there.

But he also knew the futility of such a display. He’d learned long ago that any resistance, any hope, any spark of life at all, was fleeting and aimless. Hoping as a slave was like trying to start a fire in the rain. You could fan it all you wanted, but eventually, the flame would be quenched.