“Little is to be said for those who cannot control their stations. The Synatorium has as much use for a Chidron that cannot govern as the Allegiant Militarium has for a general that cannot lead, or the mercantile guilds have for a cargo ship that cannot fly. The Nova Rim is driven by results, and those that cannot get them are quickly identified and cast aside in any system that values efficiency.”
—Velanus Xyonthran, famed Economist and founder of the Philosophy of Machinism
The city of Deonago was much bigger than Zaina imagined. It sat in a valley in the middle of a massive mountain range, and was thus surrounded on all sides by gently dwelling giant faces of stone. The height of these buildings didn’t compare to those Zaina had seen on Otmonzas or Rishaval, but they were innumerable. Everywhere in the valley and spread out on the adjacent mountainous terrain were near-uniform structures packed in tightly.
With a great view from her vantage point, Zaina took in the whole city. Before her was a stairway made of solid stone, and at least twenty feet wide. It descended what looked like thousands of feet into the center of the city with buildings crammed on either side for most of the way. The stairway connected to a central hub—it appeared to be some sort of garden with a pond on a circular platform—along with four other sets of similar stairs, each leading up into the mountains. These four stairways separated Deonago into quadrants.
The city was alive with movement; at any given moment the entire city appeared to be burdened by a plague of small insects. What stuck out more to Zaina was how quiet it was. There was a low murmur, the ringing of enormous bells, and the sounds of busywork—hammers hitting forges, cargo transports dashing about overhead, and heavy machinery straining to lift long metal crates.
“Let’s get those feet busy, kid,” Xyrthe said. “You stop to ogle every new place and you’ll waste your lancer years.”
“Isn’t it good to get the lay of the land?”
“You can do that while walking.”
“Do you even know where we’re going?”
“The Civic Center,” Xyrthe replied, pointing down the stairs. “All the way at the end.”
“There’s got to be a faster way.”
“We could run, but you’d probably eat shit.”
Zaina raised a finger. “What about our rocket boots?”
Xyrthe scoffed. “You want to waste fuel because you’re lazy?”
A loud voice came from behind. “Pardon!”
Zaina turned—there was a Fodian, gray-skinned and humanoid with a bulbous head and a bony, protruding forehead, riding the strangest vehicle Zaina had ever seen. It was like the bicycles she’d seen back home, but with square wheels; the Fodian was wearing professional attire, and the ride down the stairs was so bumpy he looked to be vibrating as he descended; the square wheels fit perfectly into the stairs, but it still seemed quite uncomfortable.
Zaina stepped aside, and the man shook his way past them. Xyrthe sighed.
“Say,” Zaina said, “where do you think he found that?”
“No.”
“It would be faster—”
“No. I mean it this time. Don’t pull some bralshit like you did with the tubecar.”
“Yeah, admittedly, that wasn’t as fun as I thought it would be,” Zaina replied.
“Exactly. So let’s not repeat history here, shall we? All we have to do is walk in a straight line. You know what we don’t have to do? Talk. Chit-chat. Sight-see.”
“All right,” Zaina said. “I get it.”
“Do you? Because I thought you got it with the tubecar, too.”
“Yes, I get it. You don’t have to treat me like a child.”
“When you stop acting like one, maybe I’ll treat you differently.”
Zaina shook her head and mumbled a few curses under her breath. There was no point in arguing with Xyrthe when she was like this. Their trip continued in silence, allowing the sounds of the city to come alive. Now there was the murmur of people going about their day, shuffling footsteps on the stone paths, and the ever-beating metal hammering in the background.
I wonder what they’re building.
It was another hour before their journey mercifully came to an end. The last stair led to a central platform joining the four massive staircases; here flower-bushes and trees were lined up neatly in uniform strips of dirt surrounded by elevated stone. In the middle of the platform was a shallow pond.
“Okay,” Zaina said, “where to now?”
Xyrthe grumbled and pointed to a rounded set of descending stairs at the platform’s edge. Without waiting for her mentor Zaina strode off toward them and began her climb down to the lower city.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
There was much more to Deonago than the view atop the central stairwell indicated; the main platform connecting the four big staircases was the roof of a thirty-story building, leaving plenty of stairs to walk. If Zaina never saw another stair for the rest of her life, she’d still have seen too many.
The building itself had a very open design. The stairs wrapped around the exterior, and each level had a hallway with doors to either side. Near the top Zaina spotted a sign that said Deonago Administrative Level.
Is this where the Strato would be?
Xyrthe brushed past her. “This way, kid.”
Zaina mumbled a few more curses and followed her mentor. This level was unlike any other in the building that they’d passed on their way down; the walls were solid metal and plain. Deonago wasn’t a very festive or decorative city, from what Zaina had seen.
They came to a twenty-foot tall door with a small sign beside it that read, Strato Benta’s Office. Zaina closed her eyes and took a deep breath, mentally preparing herself for anything. By the time she opened her eyes Xyrthe had already thrown the door open and strode inside.
A voice, warm and wise, came from within. “Ah! Welcome! You must be Xyrthe Belgrand and Zaina Quin—come, please! We’ve much to discuss.”
Zaina cut her mental preparation short and stepped through the door, closing it behind her. Xyrthe had already swung off her mask, shaking her head to free her admittedly gorgeous hair.
“That we do,” she said. “You wanted us here, well, you’ve got us. So let’s get into it.”
The man, an elderly Diveldaran—pale red skin, clear eyes, an elongated mouth, and an aquatic humanoid body—wore plain, simple robes and had a Strato pin over his left breast. “I’ve heard much about you two—including that you hate having your time wasted. So, come. Let’s discuss why you’re here. My name is Rymar Benta, and I’ve been the Strato of Deonago for—oh, what is it, thirty some-odd years now. Long time, is the point. Well, our world of Vyzria shares space with an enclave of the marked. As long as I can remember they’ve been out there, and there’s been peace.”
Zaina’s head tilted to the side as she removed her mask. “Marked?”
Rymar nodded. “They are called by a different name throughout most of the galaxy—but Lady Sivanya, when I met her, requested that I refer to her and her people as the marked.”
“Let’s get back on track. You said there was peace, and now there’s not,” Xyrthe said.
Rymar shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. “My son.”
“It changed when you had a son?”
“No—my son changed it. In his youth he fell in with the Church of Everus—they believe fervently that the marked are, to put it politely, worthy of being eradicated. Out of nowhere one day he began organizing against our neighbors, insisting they were a catastrophic threat and had to be stopped.” Rymar fidgeted with his elongated, webbed fingers. “I don’t know if something caused it, or—I don’t think he got it from me, but I don’t know. I always respected the enclave—I hope he didn’t think I was afraid of them the few times we interacted.”
“So your son hates heretics,” Xyrthe said. “Why does that matter?”
“Unfortunately,” the Strato replied, “the sentiment is less unpopular than I’d initially believed. My son was already the leader of the Deonago Defense Force—admittedly, a bit of nepotism that was a much larger mistake than I ever could have known.”
“Why not fire his ass?”
“That was the first thing I tried when I realized this was getting out of hand. Once he starting spitting off his drivel, people flocked to him. The militia grew stronger. They made it clear that they would not obey a lawful order if it contradicted their directives from my son. If I attempt to remove him again, I’d likely have an uprising on my hands.”
“So he wields all the power around here,” Xyrthe said. “And you haven’t contacted Vyzria’s Chidron?”
He shook his head. “Alfor Oremu. Vyzria’s his first station, and he’s green—and looking for any chance to distinguish himself.”
“And you don’t exactly want him calling in the Militarium on your son.”
Rymar’s shoulders slumped. “Correct. And as such, I’ve lost control of my people—of my city. I thought whatever rifts had grown between our people and the enclave would be easily mended—but I was naïve. Skirmishes starting happening on the border, with my son’s troops taking a harder line against the marked—and the marked responded in kind.” He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “Of course, Dirzo—my son—loves to play up when the marked kill a soldier who was over-eager and rushed into their territory, and I’m sure Sivanya focuses on the negatives as pertains to us, too. And we all deepen in this shared quagmire.”
Rymar stopped for a moment and sighed. Then, he continued, “It wasn’t always like this. There used to be trade and travel between Deonago and the enclave—I’ve been there myself to celebrate their Festival of the Moon as recently as twenty years ago. But now—all the marked were driven from Deonago. And I fear a further complication makes war all but inevitable—the temple.”
Zaina remembered reading some of this in her briefing. “The ancient temple?”
“Exactly the one. You see, Vyzria may be but a humble mining world now, not much to speak of; but the Nova Rim’s history runs through these rocks. Time is short, so I’ll keep my stories so, too. The Marked Empire once claimed these lands, with the Dark Emperor Savon building a temple dedicated to his long-forgotten god; but when Awean J’Miga and the Last Alliance struck Savon down, the Dark Lord’s followers laid a curse on his favored temple—the one here. Should it be opened now, it is said a great cataclysm will swallow all of the land—some say Savon’s spirit itself will return, breathing vengeance and consuming life. A sickness upon the land itself.”
Zaina crossed her arms. “Do they know exactly what kind of cataclysm?”
“No,” Rymar admitted. “There are only theories, and those we have aplenty. All I know is this—the Last Alliance took the time to bury the temple beneath millions of tons of imported dirt and rock; they wouldn’t go to that effort if they didn’t believe, in some capacity, that the temple was dangerous. Considering their proximity in time to whatever scared them, I’ve tended toward heeding their caution. I admit I greatly fear what should happen should the temple be dug up.”
Xyrthe nodded. “And now Sivanya’s trying to do exactly that.”
Rymar ran his hands over his forehead—he looked like he’d spent many sleepless nights wracking his brain over this. “It would appear so. I think her intentions are noble—I believe through those doors, she sees salvation for her people. But this, I cannot allow. You’ve seen my city—my people. I must protect them, even if courses of action prove prudent that I would otherwise avoid.”
“I’m guessing your son’s using that as justification to ramp things up to eleven, too.”
“Yes,” Rymar said. “He believes quite deeply that the cataclysm we were warned about was an ancient marked superweapon—one which Sivanya now wants to claim for use against Deonago. Either that or he knows it is a rallying cry which inspires seeds of doubt—and when the stakes are one’s life, a seed of doubt can quickly make a true believer.”
Xyrthe’s eyes narrowed. “And you think we can change her mind?”
Rymar scratched the back of his head. “I do not know, but that may be the only hope for both peoples to survive.”
Xyrthe muttered under her breath and rubbed her chin—she was thinking. That usually meant she was coming up with a plan. Zaina was surprised she was taking it this seriously.
“Okay,” Xyrthe said after a few seconds. “All right, kid. I have an idea. You’re going to go it alone.”