Crucible

By Moira Katson

"We have come to a moment when what we know as goodness and mercy will not be enough to guide us any longer. Your loved ones may not ever understand what you did here today, but they need you to stand for all that is good in humanity."

With these words, war hero Benito Sandoval launched one of the most brutal massacres in human history, attacking the undefended colony of Guan-Yu and slaughtering forty thousand of the civilians he had sworn his life to protect. When humanity's fleet arrives, too late to stop the attack, all that is left is ruins--and the cryptic words of a lone alien survivor, warning humanity of the Henth, a race that has devoured everything in its path.

Hunted to the brink of extinction, the Aireni were fleeing across the galaxy when they stumbled onto a living weapon with speed, strength, and brutal cleverness: a fragment of humanity on a long-forgotten planet. In desperation, the Aireni set about honing humanity, breeding and modifying the colonists into a weapon that might be the last hope for life in the galaxy.

As the human fleet searches the stars for the Henth, they leave the ruined colony behind them. But the colonists have not been destroyed. They have hidden. They have survived. And they know who their enemies are. It is only a matter of time before they return from their exodus to the destroyed city, to find the technology the Aireni left behind. It is only a matter of time before that technology carries them into the galaxy. And then, as the last remnants of the surviving races face down the final advance of the Henth, it is up to humanity to convince a long-lost weapon to come to its aid...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Moira Katson
• Release date: Apr 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781938735035

Moira Katson

Moira Katson is an indie author living in the oft-frigid wastes of the American midwest. As a transplant, she is learning to love hot dish, fried food on a stick, ice fishing, and the hilarious faces her friends make when she posts about winter temperatures. Her less geeky interests include running, STRONG coffee, and cooking; her more geeky interests include gaming, voracious reading, and, of course, writing science fiction and fantasy novels!You can find Moira’s work online through Barnes & Noble, Amazon, and all Smashwords affliates. Moira is also on Facebook, and can be found on twitter as @moirakatson.Questions? Feel free to contact Moira at [e-mail]!

Book preview

Novum, Book I

Crucible

Published at Smashwords

By

Moira Katson

Copyright © 2014 Moira Katson

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

Cover art by Sandro Rybak.

Table of Contents

Cast of Characters

Prologue

Section I

Iliana: 1

Daniya: 1

Menuha: 1

Yehoram: 1

Vasiliy: 1

Section II

Yehoram: 2

Daniya: 2

Vasiliy: 2

Menuha: 2

Section III

Yehoram: 3

Daniya: 3

Vasiliy: 3

Menuha: 3

Epilogue

Cast of Characters

* denotes narrator

Western Refugees

Elyakim, royal

Kadir, guard

Layla, royal

*Menuha, consort to Yehoram

Meryem, royal, daughter of Elyakim

Northern Refugees

*Daniya, royal servant

Fateen, royal

Nabila, consort to Yehoram

Tahir, royal

Eastern Refugees

Batya, consort to David

Eshkar, guard

Gilad, son of David and Batya

Inanna, royal

Sayyid, guard

*Yehoram, royal

Southern Refugees

*Iliana

Shilad

Fleet of Human Nations

Petty Officer Baako Abdjenie, Persephone

*Lieutenant Commander Vasiliy Chagaev, Pesephone

Commander Jonathan Goll, Persephone

Commander Nikolaus Karveli, Susano-o

Commander Vakeel Naidu, Osiris

Commander Noemi Rossi, Persephone

Admiral Benito Sandoval, Minerva

Lieutenant Commander Misaki Takahashi, Persephone

The Royal Family

David

Elyakim

Fateen

Iliana

Inanna

Layla

Shilad

Tahir

Yehoram

Prologue

I didn’t plan on going out like this.

You didn’t? But she could see that it was true. He was sweating, his pulse beating shallow at his throat against the desperate stillness.

I always thought—you know. At her unhelpful silence, his face twisted. That I’d be able to do things that didn’t mean… Dying. She looked down at her hands, and he let the rest of the words out in a rush: The planes are fouled up. What if it’s a sign? What if the admiral’s wrong?

A rush of bad temper. She hadn’t planned to spend the last few minutes of her life talking sense into some panicked kid. She didn’t want to admit that, because it seemed an awful lot like having regrets—and she refused to believe that she had any of those. Refused.

She had just wanted to sit, that was all. Sit and meditate, be calm in the certainty that this was right, until she could be in the cockpit and she could know that it was right. The bird would tell her. But if this stupid jock panicked, it would ruin the mission, and she had already staked her life on the belief that this must happen. She knew what the admiral would say, too: get it done. And this was what she needed to do.

She drew a breath to steady herself.

A pilot like you, joining up right before this happens? Doesn’t that seem like a sign, too?

They said at command that we shouldn’t—

"The admiral says we don’t let them get away with this." Flat.

Hell of a thing for a kid to deal with, though. Must be twenty, at most. Transferred to the Minerva three days earlier, a kid they said to watch. Bright one, has a good future ahead of him. Well, not any more, he didn’t. He could choose to die quick, out the airlock, or less quick, in this run, or slow—while they hunted the admiral down. The navy’s flagship, he’d taken, no less. Jesus. And the admiral was seventy, wife dead and kids grown and not military anyway—he’d gamble more than this kid, for sure, who had everything still to do.

And so she tried not to wince when the boy nodded, but it was so damned hard not to feel cruel when he looked down at the floor like she’d slapped him.

I hadn’t thought of it like that. He was trying to be fair. She hated him for being so young, for that look in his eyes; she hated doing this to him. She didn’t want it to be the last thing she did. But she didn’t have a choice, did she? Not with what was going on down there. She’d spent her whole life waiting for a moment like this, and now that it came it was a shock.

He was too jittery for talk of glory, she judged. So was she.

You can’t imagine the horrors you’ll put an end to, she said, as gently as she could. Which was not all that gently, but at least what she said was true; he probably couldn’t. There were horrors that had already been, the admiral said, and horrors that were coming if these monsters were unleashed on the world.

Really? Desperate to believe it.

Yes. Her voice was emphatic. She had seen, and this boy could not have the first idea of it: skin stretched over metal, bodies on slabs, men and women with dead eyes and twisted limbs. And others—they looked so normal. Things on the inside, though, the admiral said, viruses and machines. And mind games. Some of them wrong in the head, even if you wouldn’t know it until…

Well, we don’t mean to find out, the admiral had said, with finality. So you do what you have to do to remember they’re not human. And don’t let the kid get sentimental. And how was she supposed to do that?

We can’t heal them? Of course he’d ask that.

No. She looked over. You gotta put that out of your head. They’re not alive, not like we’d think of it. They don’t have souls. He just looked at her, her words too far beyond for him to believe any of it.

But what if they are? What if they do?

They don’t. God in heaven, she could not deal with this. An alarm sounded: ships ready. So are you coming? Harsh; he looked like she’d hit him. These would be some of the last words he would ever hear, and that cut her up inside. Damn it. So she held out her hand, helped him up. You’re a good man, Rios. Hell of a pilot. It’s an honor to fly with you.

His hand was warm, his grip firm. One of the last moments she would ever have. All over soon, and right and wrong were turning over in her head, sin floating away into meaninglessness; he was beautiful.

Just a grab at life. She took her hand back, put on her helmet. Her hands were shaking now, and sweaty. She could feel her heart pounding against her chest. She had to concentrate to climb the ladder to the bird; light-headed, the spikes on the rungs biting into her palms.

The reserve pilots were watching them go, waiting by their tubes—some wishing they were her, some hoping she’d do what she had to so they didn’t have to go out. Most people weren’t made for combat, they said at the Academy, even fighter pilots. Crew of five thousand, they were bound to have a few. The admiral liked to mutter that peace was fine, only now he had a crew with no notion of war.

A measure of peace descended upon her in the cockpit. She had always felt most at home here. Tears stung her eyes; she could truly cry with how sure she was now, how relieved she was to know that.

Everett. A voice in her earpiece. Are you ready?

A moment to press her lips together. Yes, sir.

No time for second thoughts. Of course he would hear it in her voice. We have come to a moment, he told her in the still of the hallway, when what we know as goodness and mercy are not enough to guide us any longer. Your loved ones may not ever understand what you did here today, but they need you to stand for all that is good in humanity. Courage, Everett. Ours is a path of darkness and doubt. Do not waver or all will be lost. And she believed him.

No second thoughts, sir.

He accepted that without comment. How’s the kid?

He’ll hold.

Good. And Everett—

Yes, sir?

See you in hell.

Yes, sir. And she pressed the button, was sucked back into her seat as the bird hurtled out into the black—

Her hands were light on the controls, the familiar joy rising up, near to choking her as the bird banked smoothly down towards the curve of the planet. If she had to die somewhere, damn, she was glad it was here. Here, where she was more than she ever had been on two feet. Dawn was breaking against the black, a flood of light on oceans, mountains casting long shadows across the waves. A nimbus cloud piled high as she arced away and sped into the darkness, the ship slicing through the air like a knife.

Her radio had a sudden burst of chatter. Pilots, to your ships.

Why are they loading up? He said it was one run, and back to the ship. The kid’s voice was panicked.

Stick to the mission, Rios.

Something rocketed past the bird.

Fuck! Echoing in her earpiece. The kid, voice raw. What the fuck was that?

Keep it together, Rios.

That was a fucking missile!

And, in perfect time, an explosion of static on the comm, another shape hurtling towards her, and she was swerving desperately. Command! Come in!

—Blew a hole in my goddamned ship! The admiral’s roar, shouts in the background.

Fuck.

Everett… Panic rising in the kid’s voice. Her wing was trailing smoke now, how was she going to get back up through atmo?

Not a problem for right now. That was wavering.

Listen to me. I’ll stay on course, you peel off. Swing around and attack from the north.

They’re attacking the ship!

And the only thing we can possibly do to stop that is to hold to the mission. Do you understand me? The silence stretched so long that she peered out into the darkness, looking for the spiraling shape of a downed bird. Then she saw him drop away, down, speed increasing. What are you doing?

Ending this. She might never have heard that voice before. We can’t afford to focus on the farms. Not with these missiles. We have to take the base out.

Our strike crews on the ground—

Do you really think they’re still alive? He’d gone cold.

Rios!

If we speed up, I think we can get to the heart of that command center. Take out the side towers, anywhere with a strong heat reading—then that main command post. They said it was down in, we’ll need to save fuel to drive at it. And he was gone, his ship like an angel in flight, catching the first rays of the far-off dawn, drifting gently around the missiles that roared towards them.

Hell of a pilot. She’d meant that.

And so she followed him down. It was what she’d been going to do; what, had she hoped he’d survive if she sent him north? Survive for what? The command ship was crippled. None of them were coming out of this alive; she’d only just realized that the admiral had guessed that all along. She’d known it, too. Probably even the kid had known it. Whatever the aliens had here, they wanted it bad. They wouldn’t just let the human fleet blow in and take it out. The admiral had known that—he’d kept saying not to worry about their fleet, hadn’t he?

The city was rising up in her view, the tower a beacon with its golden minaret, a spear of static on her computers. Silence on the comm. She did not look back to see the ship behind her in its last moments. She would be gone by the time it came tumbling from the sky, out of the silence of space, and at sunlight, there would be the tangled skid of it. Not now. Now there was only darkness, and missiles, and the streaks of their ships trying to bring her down and she would not be brought down. Not now. Not by them.

For us. Did she hear the kid echo her words? She knew he was there, locked on with her. The city was rising up in her view, towers and walls, and she wrapped her hands around the controls and closed her eyes. Her ship arced through the light of the missiles hurtling past, twisting as it sped down toward the towers ahead.

Section I:

The Attack At Guan-Yu

It is important, when studying Benito Sandoval, to remember that although historians and conspiracy theorists have long posited many motives for his final actions, he was almost universally vilified in the press, military, and public spheres in the years following the attack at Guan-Yu. It was not until the Recksvold Documents were declassified in 3974 that Sandoval’s motivations became clear; by that point a century and a half had passed, and Sandoval’s place in history was firmly established as a mass-murderer. It is still rare that society acknowledges the mitigating factors behind Sandoval’s actions.

Further, whether not the attack was justifiable, there is no question that the human cost of Sandoval’s actions was immense. It is widely agreed that at least thirty thousand civilians lost their lives at Guan-Yu, although many historians place the number far higher. In addition, the entirety of the SHN Minerva’s crew, numbering 4632, was lost in the attack.

Sandoval has been criticized for the cruelty of his attack, such as the use of prohibited weaponry against civilians. (It is important to ask ourselves why the Minerva was outfitted with such weaponry in the first place, for it is quite possible that Sandoval’s disillusionment with the League had begun long before his testimony at the Recksvold Hearing.) It is worth noting, however, that the Minerva was in the final stages of her outfitting and had not been formally launched. As such, she did not hold nuclear weaponry, and Sandoval’s allegedly cruel methods were almost certainly the only ones available to him.

-From A History of the Outer Colonies, Fifth Edition, by Iulia Fiedler

Iliana

Sleep, flower of my heart

You were my destiny, my true love

Sleep, my darling

You were my nightingale, my heart’s comfort

Sleep, my strength, light of my soul

Sleep well

—From Lullabies and Folk Songs of the Seed Colonies, assembled by Espen Aoki

She was already awake, in the darkness, when they came to her. She did not know what had awoken her, and she did not pause to think on it; danger always became clear enough in time. Examine your surroundings, her teachers would say. And get to the safest place, with a weapon, and wait.

Iliana did not even question that what had awoken her was a danger to her. She accepted it; instinct had saved her more times than she could count in the arena. Instinct, she had learned, was nothing more than learning to pay attention to a change: her senses would know that something had happened before her mind could.

Her fingers were curled around the haft of her knife, and Iliana held her breath for a moment, her eyes fluttering shut. She could not hear the sound of breath, the infinitesimal movement of another body. Eyes open once more, she ran her gaze around the room: no one in the shadows, no peculiarities in the fall of moonlight across her bed, or in the flutter of the door hangings in the nighttime breeze. The arched window framed the sharp northern peaks, chiseled and unchanging.

Then Iliana understood: it was no noise that had woken her, but the silence itself. Above her head, the beautiful inlaid panel, lit with gold and green, had gone dark. She could have woken on any other night to see its lights flickering, listen to it chirping and whistling in the darkness; often when she woke, she would twist her head to watch it, smiling as she drifted back to sleep.

She found herself unaccountably distressed by its quiet. She knelt up on the bed and ran her hands over it, her face close in the dark, the pads of her fingers pressed against the surface, her breathing coming short as she could not make it respond. It never slept, it had always been there, awake in the darkness—almost, she might say, alive. It knew her, knew when she was there in the room with it. It spoke in rhythm with her own heart, and always had. When she awoke from a nightmare with her heart racing, she would hear it trilling its distress; only as her panic faded and her breathing slowed would it sink back to its low chirp, lulling her back to sleep.

And now it was silent. Iliana had never heard that.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway recalled her to herself. Danger, yes. Her instinct told her that this was danger, this silence. She had been a fool to lose herself in a sorrowful moment; she might as well be saddened for one of the fish in the royal garden ponds. She was across the marble floor and behind the door hangings in a moment, the panel forgotten, a knife clutched in her hand. A quick rap upon the door, and it opened at once, a terrible breach of etiquette. Unusual. Iliana did not like unusual. She slid behind the intruder and laid her knife at their throat.

Iliana—your highness—my apologies for the hour. Oelen, one of the Aireni. Oelen was the one who monitored Iliana’s progress each day; the sense of danger was overlaid with confusion. Oelen was a friend, and never a participant in the arena trials. Please. You must come with me.

What is it? Iliana stepped back, looking into Oelen’s face. She cast a look over her shoulder, and swallowed. She must ask. She must know. Why is the panel dark?

I will explain. I beg you—come now. There is danger. You must be quick, to survive.

The words had no inflection, the face did not move. This was the problem with the Aireni. Iliana turned her face away as she went to the bed, to find pants and a shirt. The Aireni had emotion. You learned, in time, to read it in their voices, in their words. But they were cloaked and masked, or at least it seemed like they wore masks. Iliana could never find the join between mask and skin, but their beautiful, angel faces hardly moved.

They did not smile, or laugh, or cry. Such things were for humans, like the arena trials. Iliana accepted that—it was the way the gods had made the humans and the Aireni, the same way the Aireni had fragile bones and blue-tinted skin—but it made it difficult to tell what they might be thinking, and Iliana liked to know what people were thinking when she was near them. It made her feel blind not to know.

Iliana walked with Oelen across moonlit marble, but she walked with deep misgiving—she found her pulse beginning to race. It was not only the panel that had gone dark: the soft globes of light that had illuminated the long corridors, day and night, had been extinguished. The murals of saints and angels were lost in shadow, mosaics colorless by moonlight, and the beauty of the palace remained only in its graceful columns and arched windows, shadowed shapes in the dark. The low hum of the castle itself was gone, as were the guards that had stood watch. The castle was dark and deserted, the silence complete. Too many unusual things: silence, the lack of guards, Iliana herself waking in the night and Oelen coming to her. Her muscles were tensed, every sense was screaming at her. She breathed with it. Channel it. The rush that comes now is your friend, or your enemy. It will give you strength, or undo you.

Where are we going? she asked, as they padded through the hallways.

We are escaping, Oelen answered simply, voice echoing in the darkness. There is an attack coming.

At this, at last, the pieces fit together. Iliana found she was smiling with anticipation. This truth was the answer to prayers spoken every night.

The Great Evil, Iliana said, tasting the words. At last. Every moment of her life had been spent preparing for this. She had been born to the royal family, the line that carried the blessing of heaven, gifted with the strength and fire of the gods, and all her life long she had been trained for the battle to come. Centuries had been spent in the wait for this fight, and Iliana had known it was foolish even to hope that she would be blessed to lead the charge.

Oelen did not even look at her. There was the faintest hesitation in the confident stride. A moment stretched and shifted in the moonlight, the dark walk took a new shape.

Yes, the Aireni said, after a moment. But it stopped and looked over at her. There is…something we have not yet told you. Iliana said nothing. This was fear, she thought, that she saw in the Aireni at her side. She had never before seen one afraid.

The Great Evil wears many faces, Oelen said at last. It may even appear to you as a human. Such you may see tonight, as you flee. Be strong in your belief that what is coming is no ally to you. You must run from it.

Run? Iliana could hardly make the word. But I was born to fight it. Not run from it. All my life, I have trained to fight it. I don’t run. I was not made to run.

You cannot fight it and win, Oelen said, and it shook its head; they had learned some human mannerisms. Not tonight. Not this time.

How do you know this?

We have ways. There is no time to explain. Promise me, Iliana. Promise me that you will not be fooled.

I promise, Iliana said easily, testing—but she could not read the flash of emotions she saw as she agreed.

Then come with me. Tonight, you must make for the southern hills. There is a warren of caves there, some that go very deep. They were walking again, Iliana nearly running to keep up with the Aireni’s longer stride. Go as deep as you can, and wait there.

Iliana held out one hand, stopping Oelen. She had heard the faintest whisper of movement in the halls. She tilted her head to the side, listening. Yes. That was many people.

What do you hear? the Aireni asked, curiously. It was watching her very intently, and Iliana paused. It felt like more than one question, and she did not know the second meaning. But she held up her fingers: ten, maybe twelve. She raised her eyebrows in question, and clenched her hands at the long moment it took Oelen to understand. Then Oelen shook its head.

Iliana was sure of the fear now.

She drew Oelen into the shadows, and motioned for the Aireni to stay. Oelen reached out, grasped her wrist, cold skin on warm, but Iliana twisted away easily, moved pad-footed across the hallway to stand in the shadows by a side corridor, and she tried not to smile; teeth shone in darkness.

She never felt so alive as in the arena.

It seemed a long time until they started to move past her. Men, from the looks of them, but it was not easy to see under their thick vests and heavy boots. They were small, shorter than the Royals; panic fluttered. Short could not be faked. Was this truly no game?

She knew it was no game, it was only difficult to believe.

The group moved quietly, for all their armor, and they held weapons out in front of themselves, dark and ugly-looking, their fingers curled around triggers. They moved with precision, they moved behind statues and plinths to take cover as they made their way across the receiving chamber. These were trained soldiers.

But they were afraid. Iliana could not have said how she knew it, only that she did—she could fairly smell it off them, and it set her heart to pounding, and gave her only one thought:

This is prey.

Easy, pathetically easy, to step behind one of the men and twist his neck sharply, lowering him to the floor and launching upwards again in one clean movement, the point of her blade burying itself deep into his partner’s neck. The second man fell without a cry, and Iliana was already spinning, the bloodied knife biting into the flesh of a third, one leg planted on the floor and the other lashing out for the fourth; for him, she threw the knife.

They had cried out, and she had expected it. Two was fair to get silently, four was an honorable number to take down on one’s own. There were six left, six of them and she had no partner. A challenge, and one she would not have chosen.

But she hadn’t chosen—and she could not seem to stop. These were enemies, they were, she knew it, and they were scared, and she was faster than they were—

The thought was gone, and she was launching herself at the fifth of the men. He had hesitated when he saw her. Iliana thought she saw horror in his face, but that mattered less, for this one moment, than the fact that he had brought his weapon up and not fired. It was twisted away from him, her left hand slamming into his exposed nose, and Iliana realized that she had never heard that sound before, the sound of bone splintering as the shards sank into his brain. The life was draining from his eyes as she turned, swinging his weapon like a mace, and it knocked the sixth man off balance, enough for her to grab his knife and jam it, awkwardly, into that same area of exposed flesh below his chin, even as she staggered and cast away the strange weapon.

There were still four, and they would not be hesitating for long. On instinct, Iliana dragged one of the bodies in front of her as the marble around her exploded in a shower of stone chips and sound. One of the men must have found the trigger.

A line of pain streaked across her thigh, and Iliana did not bother to look. Skin, perhaps a little deeper; she could cope with that. She pushed the body up and forward, watching with amusement as the seventh man stumbled back. Superstition; humans did not like dead bodies. It was the man’s undoing, and the new knife—a knife she wanted for herself, a weapon she admired—was gone, her enemy’s blood spilling from his throat just as a blow caught Iliana from behind.

Seven before a hit. If this were the trials, Iliana would be congratulated. Only weeks ago, she had been lauded for less: You got through six of them before you went down! Layla and Shilad clapping and Yehoram’s hand squeezing her shoulder, Elyakim’s solemn nod of approval. Even Fateen had almost smiled.

Now, for the first time, Iliana was profoundly scared. She was turning as the second blow came, sending her sprawling onto the floor.

That blow was stronger than any she had taken before. Her eyes caught the glint of metal on the man’s hand, the structure built around his arm. She dragged herself up, shaking from the adrenaline, and looked around at the last three men.

They had surrounded her, finally, their weapons up. As Iliana pushed herself to her feet, she could see shock in their eyes; she never should have gotten up after that blow. None of them would have. But it was not enough to keep their fingers from the trigger. Game over. Unless…

A figure in the darkness. The faintest sound, breath and padded footsteps. Hope swelled.

Why are you here? Iliana asked them. Who are you? She frightened them, she knew she did—the very sight of her was terrifying to them. When she looked them in the eyes, they flinched. If she could make enough of that fact, there would be time.

Something whispered softly in her mind: was this the sort of soldier the Great Evil sent? Was this the great trial the Aireni had told them of, these scared men? Could that possibly be the truth?

There was no time to think. A figure hurtled out of the blackness, crashing into one of the three; Iliana heard bones break as Yehoram’s hands found the man’s head and turned. Her own hand lashed out, dragging one man forward by his weapon as she slid out of the way, her knee slamming into his sternum, her elbow crushing his throat.

The weapon was hers, and she turned, of a single mind with Yehoram, towards the tenth man. He died in a spray of gunshots, and Iliana was already turning back to her brother, his features picked out in the fall of moonlight.

How did you find me? He was hardly listening. He had come to her side the moment the last man lay still.

Oh, gods, you’re alive. Thank the gods. He was urgent, his hands touching her face, her shoulders, squeezing her hands. You’re alive. I made it in time. It was when his relief faded, his face stricken, that Iliana knew to ask. She felt a curl of dread in her stomach.

Who? She forced the words out. Her hands slid back to the weapon. It was comfort, of a sort. Who did they kill?

They took down David. Yehoram’s eyes were closed. Ten, like this. He got six and I took the rest, but it was too late. Then I heard your fight.

Iliana’s heart squeezed. David? she echoed. In her relief to be alive, she realized, it had begun to feel like a game once more. They were a team, they had won. It had never occurred to her that others were playing, too. In the fight, there was only you, only your opponents.

And David, David… Born so close they might have been twins, always her match in classes, always the one who found her at banquets and shared her sense of the ridiculous. It was David she sought out when she had nightmares, and she was the one David had sought out when he did not want to do his duty to produce an heir. They would stay up far into the night, laughing quietly from the shadows of the gardens as they watched the Aireni search for them.

David is dead? Iliana heard herself say. Her hands were still clenched around the weapon, she could not make them work. David could not possibly be dead. Not a man like that. He had been the best of them in the arena—everyone had gathered to watch him go through. He was so clever, always the best in strategy, and the best in a fight. And it was more than that: he was such a joy to watch in motion, he always had been. There had been a beauty to his strikes, pure and deadly.

Had been. How could he be dead? David could not be dead.

There were too many of them. I’m sorry, Iliana. Yehoram’s voice seemed to be coming from very far away, as Iliana turned and unleashed a hail of bullets into the body of the last man. She flung the weapon away from herself with a cry, pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes.

And then Oelen was there.

Iliana, I beg you, we must go. Yehoram—Toreun will be worried.

Where is he going? Iliana spoke, her voice in time with Yehoram. Oelen held up a hand.

All of you are to escape. But you must come now.

David won’t escape, Iliana said. She did not want to move. At least let me see him.

"There is no time. Oelen would have snapped, if the Aireni ever snapped. Its words were quick. There is more to this attack than those men. You must leave now. Yehoram, go."

We will see each other again? Yehoram asked. Iliana would remember that, later. Oelen’s hesitation was minute.

If fate wills it.

Iliana drew herself together. She wanted to drop down to the floor, she wanted to put her arms around herself and cry and cry. She could hardly feel her fingers, or her feet where they were planted on the floor.

You have to go, she told Yehoram. It isn’t safe here. You know David would have said to go on, she added, gently. Tears were starting in Iliana’s eyes. It was true, she knew David would have said that. He would never want them to get killed for mourning a dead comrade.

He’d been the best of them, in the arena. How could he be dead now, and the two of them alive?

Yehoram’s embrace was rough, his hands clasping behind her back, his face pressed against her shoulder, her neck. Iliana hugged him back. I think this is goodbye. Was it her thought, or his? She squeezed her arms, and he stepped back, his jaw set.

Be safe, Iliana.

And you. He disappeared into the darkness, and Oelen’s hand, insistent, tugged at Iliana’s wrist.

You must come. Iliana, please. Iliana bent to retrieve her knife and began walking again, numbly. She hardly cared where she was going. She was sure, as she saw Yehoram fade into the shadows, that she would never see him again.

Her leg hurt. For a moment, Iliana could not remember why, then her fingers drifted down, finding ripped cloth and torn flesh. The bullet had bit deeper than she thought, ripping across the skin of her thigh. She winced, withdrew her hand—the muscle was undamaged, and that was enough. She should bind it, but she could not bring herself to care. And in any case, Oelen would not want to stop again.

Are you coming with me?

I am not. Oelen shook its head. It is my duty to stay and meet this fight.

Then why not me? Iliana swung to face her. Oelen only pulled at her wrist, and Iliana began to walk again, peering at the Aireni. I’m the one who trained for it. You said every race must face the Great Evil for itself. Something itched in her mind, not a sound, not a smell. Like she had forgotten something. Fear in human eyes, a finger curled on a trigger.

You will get your chance, Oelen said, and Iliana could not have said if the emotionless tone of its voice was wry, or grieving. But now, this time, it is too early. We will hold them off, long enough for you to escape.

You’ll die, Iliana said, as much a question as anything else, and Oelen did not look over at her.

It is better this way, it said oddly, and Iliana blinked. The itch was growing stronger, something calling for her to pay attention. But the corridor ended, and they were in one of the courtyards. Iliana raised her eyebrows.

Six land vessels stood at the ready in the darkness, one or two already running, lesser palace servants hastily stowing large packs in the cargo bays. Iliana could see two more Aireni overseeing the process. Their faces had turned to her the moment she emerged from the corridor, and they nodded at Oelen.

What is it? Oelen asked, seeing Iliana’s head tilted.

Vessels, Iliana said. Not ours. The low drone was growing steadily louder, a frequency Iliana had never heard. Oelen made no response, only took Iliana’s hand again. They were practically running across the courtyard, through the servants in their terrified near-silence, whispers in the darkness. Panic beat at Iliana in waves.

The men in the corridor, she realized now, had been only the first wave. They were not running from more such men. They were running from what was coming next. The race of her heart, dulled by shock and grief, kindled once more.

The others are coming, Oelen said, its voice barely loud enough to be heard. Shilad will go south with you. Come, I must show you something. It led the way to one of the vessels, and climbed inside, with Iliana. On the floor, by the steering column, lay a strange black object, something like a book—a cask, encased in metals and plastics. Oelen pointed to it.

Bring this with you, it said. "Protect it. Carry it. I cannot come with