Hope is a weapon, elegant, beautiful, and dangerous.
-The Rift Code, Proverbs
We are close, God said in Cyrla’s mind. You have done well.
She usually did her best not to show any outside reaction to the voice, but the smile that crossed her face in that moment was irresistible. It felt good, to know that things would come to a head soon. That, after all she’d done, the Shadi — and the Talar — would finally recognize her for the prophet she truly was.
Right now, though, she stood in a large, circular room, with holoscreen projectors covering every square foot of the walls. The projectors showed the day’s footage, first-person views of the carnage that had ensued on Mirador. Blood sprayed across many of the screens, and about half of the feeds simply showed cloudy water or blue skies; corpses were not ideal cameramen. But some of them were perfect. Lasertips flashing, grenades exploding, bodies crumpling, men screaming, all captured in crisp detail. Cyrla’s grin couldn’t help but widen as she watched the spectacle. God would be pleased.
She’d hated accepting Oblivion as God at first. How could God be so cruel? Why should she worship him, rather than the benevolent Okron, or the noble Etheri? But as time wore on, she’d realized the truth: even among gods, dominance was the only accurate measure of morality. With enough power, anything was right. And Oblivion had all power.
Therefore, Oblivion was God. And because he was God, he decided what was right.
“Anything stand out, my lady?” Tyrus said beside her. A hulk of a man, he, as always, wore full titrite armor, only his helm taken off, and even that was stuffed into his armpit, waiting. Tyrus liked to be prepared. It was a virtue she could appreciate, if one that could annoy her.
Cyrla waited a moment before replying. “Perelor’s feed,” she said. “Where is it?”
Tyrus frowned. “You want to watch the memory burner again?”
“Yes. Which one is his?”
Tyrus’ frown deepened, but he pointed to a small panel on the right side of the room. “That one, my lady. But…”
Cyrla raised an eyebrow as she turned to watch the footage. Currently, it depicted young Krot struggling through the water, deep crimson blood dancing in the surrounding current. Cyrla couldn’t resist a grin as she saw the swirling red liquid. They’d think she was disturbed because of it, but let them have their rumors. Kneeling to Oblivion changed one’s tastes in ways a mere mortal couldn’t understand. “But what?”
“My lady… we all agree this obsession is getting out of hand.”
Cyrla snorted. “Obsession?”
Thau it, she thought. They’ve noticed. Not that it mattered. She’d just have to play along with whatever story they’d concocted to explain her interest.
“Yes. You spend more time on Perelor’s screens than all the others combined. I know he’s a memory burner, and of special interest to the Cunning One, but it’s still getting to be a bit… much.”
“And what would you have me do instead?”
“Well, we’re currently backlogged on our broadcast footage. If you could spend more time approving it, it would help our workflow significantly.”
“Consider it approved, then.”
Tyrus blinked. “What?”
Cyrla sighed, turning and putting on what she hoped looked like a somewhat weary face. “Let me be frank with you, lieutenant. I am no journalist. That is your role. I am here for one purpose and one purpose only: security. I am a Voidmage, and my presence keeps the slaves in line, despite their… predicament.”
“I know that,” Tyrus said slowly. “But…”
Cyrla raised a hand. “Let me finish. You know what you are doing. Fear-mongering is an expertise of mine, yes, but ultimately, I am not a necessary part of the propaganda team. My role here is solely to reduce mutinies and address those that arise.
“Perelor Krot is a memory burner. His powers seem dormant, yes, but we don’t yet know if that’s just an act he’s putting on. Furthermore, he is friends with the only Surgewielder in camp. He is more dangerous than anyone else here, perhaps more than all the others combined.
“So yes, I spend time on his screen. Monitoring his behavior is crucial to fulfilling my role. I ask that you not interfere in this, and in return, I will allow you more leeway in your own area of expertise. Am I clear?”
Tyrus hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, my lady. Thank you for explaining. I will inform the others of your decision.”
“Good. You are dismissed.” He walked off. Cyrla watched him for a moment, then crossed her arms behind her back, returning to stare at Perelor’s screen. Her lieutenant had seemed to buy the act well enough. Not completely, but she doubted he suspected her for what she was: a Shadi, infiltrating Talar nobility and working towards the goals of Oblivion.
She wasn’t sure why the dark god was so interested in Perelor Krot. Yes, the boy was the brother of a potential Endowed, but that was of little consequence now that his planet had fallen. He was a memory burner, though that wasn’t uncommon, regardless of the Confederacy’s efforts to kill their kind. Besides, he never used those powers anymore. He just sat in the slave camps, defeated and downcast and utterly pathetic. Cyrla was surprised he hadn’t killed himself yet.
But Oblivion had explicitly commanded her to watch Perelor, and watch him she would. So she kept her eyes firmly on the screen, taking note as Perelor failed to stop another slave from committing suicide, then sunk into the trenches, falling silent as the battle moved on. He wasn’t exhibiting any particularly rebellious behavior. Still, she’d send a couple of trusted scouts to watch the man tonight. Best not to risk losing track of him.
After all, it was not wise to disappoint God.
***
A few hours after the battle ended, Perelor trudged through the streets of a Miradoran suburb. Arrus, and another man from his squadron, walked behind him; they were the only ones in good enough condition to make the trip, though the other man had an upper arm wound that did not look good.
The city had been left surprisingly intact; it seemed the enemy had retreated before the Talar had been forced to bomb the streets. There were only a few bodies lying on the ground, and most were already being cleaned up by slaves in purple cloth. The other man from Perelor’s squadron, a Grahalan in red and silver, kept looking at those slaves, a hint of jealousy in his eyes, something not uncommon among Perelor’s men. The other Talar slaves might not live pleasant lives, but at least they weren’t being slaughtered on camera.
Those cameras were running again, their buzz audible to Perelor now that the shouts of battle had faded to quieter groans of pain. He suspected they wouldn’t run much longer, though — this carnage was bad, but there would be far worse on other sectors of the planet, and those sites would be the ones that were eventually broadcast. For now, though, they continued onward at a slow walk, led by a Talar soldier in shining violet armor — armor as of yet unscathed by battle. He did not speak to the slaves. In fact, his expression grew more than a little nervous every time he looked at Perelor or Arrus, his eyes drifting toward their Surges.
All the slave masters acted like that when Perelor was around. They seemed to think he, with his Surge, was the most likely to try to escape. Well, he could understand that line of reasoning, even if they were wrong.
Eventually, they came to a stop as the city faded back into farmland. The cameras stopped, and the Talar soldier walked away as half a dozen more soldiers, these in scuffed-up, battle-torn armor, strode up to Perelor and the other two men. Grunting, they handed Perelor three large metal tubes, each with a trigger and a massive barrel at its end.
“Corpse duty,” one of them said. “Your squad has the beach sector, borders are cast to your holoscreen. Get to work.”
They stepped back, though their eyes remained firmly on Perelor. He handed one tube to Arrus, and another to the wounded man, who looked as if he could hardly withstand the weight of it. “Corpse duty,” he repeated. “These are mobile disposers. Knob on the left shows charge, top button will dispense the flames. Take any valuables off of any bodies you find, and turn them in to me. Don’t steal, they don’t react kindly to that.”
Arrus sighed. “They really couldn’t just do a bonfire, huh?”
Perelor shrugged. “Keeps us busy.”
“More like keeps us stinky.”
Perelor snorted. “Got a date tonight or something?”
“Well, no. But they don’t know that.” He shook his head. “Very rude of them. Stealing that cologne only goes so far, you know.”
“Yup. I smell you every day, so trust me, I know.” Perelor straightened. “Let’s get to work. I want to get some sleep tonight.”
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And start forgetting the faces of those men.
Arrus nodded. “I can get behind that. Let’s get to work.”
They began trudging back toward the beach, falling into silence. Perelor glimpsed the other slave, though, the one with the arm wound. He was looking back at the Talar soldiers, lips pursed, fire in his eyes. The sheer intensity of the gaze made Perelor shiver.
That one might be trouble. He vaguely remembered seeing this man during the fighting. There was a reason he had survived; the way he’d killed clearly indicated he had military training. But there was nothing to be done about it yet. As they arrived at the beach, Perelor moved away from the others and began cleaning up the wreckage.
It was a slow process. The Disposers, though able to burn away a corpse in seconds, took several minutes to charge — a weakness built into this model to keep them from being used against Talar soldiers. And, though they only had to cover a slim section of the beach, there were at least a hundred corpses just in that area. Though the echoes were faint — most of these men’s minds and memories were well within Torment now — they still murmured in the back of Perelor’s thoughts.
To make matters worse, this was the same plot of ground Perelor had fought on earlier. He tensed as he felt N527’s echoes, clear as the ocean water in front of him, coming from a body that lay face up in the sand nearby.
Better to give up, the suicidal captive whispered. Better to let the quiet take you.
He knew what it felt like to have those thoughts. And he knew, at least a little, how to deal with them. He should have tried harder to stop the boy from killing himself. Should have done better. For a moment, his hand drifted toward the dagger on his belt, but he quickly retracted it.
There will be time for that later.
Kneeling beside N527’s corpse, he got to work.
***
Perelor closed Captain Iralik’s eyes, whispering an Ethean prayer before standing and turning the knob to recharge his Disposer.
It was nightfall now, and the platoon was nearly done with corpse duty. Perelor had been working near the trenches when he’d found Iralik. It looked as if he’d taken a bullet while slipping into the trench, then fallen inside and died there. His carcass, like most, had a face taut with pain and a figure contorted with fear. His dead eyes stared at the stars.
And so Perelor closed them. It was an Ethean tradition; the Meridianite priests there said that a man’s soul could still see through his eyes when he died, and the reminder of his former life made Torment all the worse. Perelor wasn’t sure if he believed in the Ethean religion anymore, but he did this all the same. Best not to risk making a man’s condemnation worse.
His head camera buzzed; apparently, this was bad enough to merit potential footage. Or maybe they just wanted to watch him. They did that, sometimes. Either way, he ignored it. The Talar might own his writ of slavery, but they didn’t own him. At least, he told himself that as he lowered the Disposer and activated it, burning Iralik to cinders.
“Okron guide you,” he said, finishing the prayer, “away from the cold depths of the planets and into the endless warmth of the stars.” His eyes lingered on the man a moment longer. Did he deserve that prayer? He had caused even more of Perelor’s men to die. Surely that earned him at least a little of Torment.
But then, it wasn’t as if Perelor himself hadn’t sat and watched similar slaves die, without even trying to interfere. Perhaps they both deserved Torment. Perhaps neither did. It didn’t matter. Torment was what you got, no matter how good of a person you were.
It was a disturbing reality of the galaxy, one few liked to think about. There was no point in doing the “right” thing, whether you thought it was right to begin with or not. Everyone got the same, horrible reward, so what incentive was there to be moral?
And yet you still try to find Eliel, a part of him noted. Why? She’ll just fail, like the other Endowed did.
He pushed that thought away. Maybe there wasn’t a right thing, but he intended to honor his father’s memory, and that meant protecting his sister. Slowly, he moved toward the others; they were done for now. Those who stayed on the island would probably find corpses in hidden corners Perelor’s men hadn’t scoured, but most of them had been properly burnt away.
Arrus and the other man, N523, gathered around. Perelor collected their Disposers, then nodded northward.
“We’re sleeping with squad three tonight, and I’ll be subbing in for Iralik until they find his replacement. No further duties until tomorrow. Sleep well, though, you’ll need the rest.”
Arrus nodded. “You need help carrying those?” he asked, nodding toward the weapons in Perelor’s hand.
They were bulky, and the three together were heavy enough he probably could have used the help. But he shook his head.
“I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yup.”
Arrus’ brow creased. “Well. Just come back as soon as you’ve got them delivered, I guess.”
“I’ll come back when I want to, Arrus.”
“I…” he met Perelor’s eyes, flinched, then sighed. “Alright.” He walked away, though his eyes lingered on Perelor longer than they should have.
He knows, Perelor thought. Unfortunate, but it wasn’t as if the younger man could stop him. Grunting, Perelor strode into the trees, found a Talar soldier, and dropped off the weapons.
Then he began heading for the city.
He suspected the area they’d walked through earlier would be private enough. All the civilians who’d lived here had been airlifted out during the invasion, and consequently, the residential districts were nearly silent. And, sure enough, as he made his way out of the foliage and into the streets, he saw no one, save for the smoke of a mass corpse burning a few miles off. He found his way to a backstreet, checked for any stray Talar, then closed his eyes, letting his father’s voice call to him.
You failed, it rumbled. You didn’t keep her safe.
Perelor shivered, a nightmare beginning to dance across his thoughts — flames lashing across cement rooftops, blood and mud and dirt flying into the air as fighter planes descended on the streets.
It was not a nightmare. It was a memory. He fell to his knees.
You let Larsh take her.
“No,” he said, voice trembling. “I tried. I tried. I’m sorry, I tried.”
You failed.
You broke your oath.
“I’m sorry.”
Remorse will not bring her back. Remember, Perelor. You lost her.
He did remember, for one agonizing moment. Then he forced himself to forget. The voices, and the images, faded.
The pain didn’t. It raced through his veins, pinning his knees to the ground. It seemed to press hard against his chest, as if trying to stifle his heartbeat. For a moment, he wouldn’t have cared if it succeeded.
Then, groaning, he stood up. Slowly, hesitantly, he retrieved his dagger, drawing it from his belt. His hand shook. He hated that; he’d done this a thousand times, and every time he did it he still hesitated. It was dishonorable.
He held the dagger in front of his face. The metal blade was well polished, and he could see himself in the reflection. His Ethean uniform was in tatters, torn apart by the battle, and though he’d healed himself, dried blood still caked his skin. An eyepatch still covered one of his eyes, even after all these years. He could heal it, and people often asked why he didn’t.
They didn’t understand. The lost eye was his punishment. His reminder of how, and who, he had failed that horrible day when everything had changed.
With his free hand, he swung the patch off his face. Beneath, his eye was barely recognizable as an eye, though the black glyph scarred into it was clearly readable.
Elekhai.
Slave.
Failure.
He tucked the eyepatch into his pocket. Hesitated, again. Then, grimacing, he began to cut.
He slashed himself carefully, avoiding any large veins or arteries. This was meant to hurt, but not to disable him, nor to use too much of his Surge’s power. So he slid the blade close to his skin, flaying himself rather than cutting deep. Within a minute, his arm was a mess of exposed flesh, beads of blood dripping to the ground. Most men would be screaming in pain by now, or, at the very least, incapable of hurting themselves further.
Not Perelor. He’d had years to train himself.
He switched hands, now holding the dagger in a hand that was itself slashed in several places. His muscles stung as they touched the metal, but he ignored them, carefully repeating the process on his left arm, trying his best to replicate the exact pattern he’d made on the right one. It was difficult. He could push back the pain enough to continue cutting, but his hand still shook, and his brain was reeling at the loss of blood.
There was one benefit of this, though, one that outweighed the cost a hundred times over. While he cut, the screams were gone. The past itself was gone. There was only him and the blade. Him and the warm blanket of red covering his arm.
In a twisted way, it almost felt like Eliel was back, embracing him. Almost.
Finally, he finished. His hand, trembling violently now, gave in, and the dagger slipped from his grip. It clanged as it hit the cement walkway, the sound echoing in the night. Perelor himself sat down, head slumped down, exhausted.
Slowly, the hurt, the real pain he’d come here to numb, enveloped him. His father, staring upward with charred holes for eye sockets. A whip, ramming into his back, over and over. Dozens of his comrades laying dead on a battlefield. The men from today that he hadn’t known, but had cared for anyway, no matter what he pretended. All of them lost because he hadn’t tried hard enough.
Most of all, his sister. Gone. Torn from him, five years ago today. The last shred of worthiness he had left, extinguished in an instant.
The tears overtook him. He did not sob, but they ran freely down his cheeks, raining onto his arms. They stung as they struck the open wounds, and somehow that pain was far more intense than anything else.
He sat there, alone, for too long, barely able to control himself, barely able to keep the blood from staining his clothes further. In the distance, the bonfire of corpses blinked out, leaving a puff of smoke in its wake. Leaving him almost completely in darkness.
He rose eventually, though he did not know how much later. Soon enough, at least, that the sun hadn’t risen. Limbs shaking, he closed his eyes and Reached for the Surge in his back. As it always did, the Purity seemed to resist him, pushing almost physically against his mental pull, but, as it always did, it inevitably rushed into his veins. His muscles, once tired, suddenly came alive with energy, and his heartbeat quickened. The pain receded, and within a few moments, his flesh had repaired itself completely, leaving barely a scar in its wake. The glowing white energy also tried to heal his burned eye, though Perelor mentally willed it backward, and it obeyed.
Keep your sister safe, son. His father’s last request.
He’d failed.
The echoes, the screams, returned, the past taunting him. Cursing, he turned and strode back into the night, leaving a pool of his own blood behind him.