Salvage: The Peridot Shift, #2

By R J Theodore

In the follow-up to Flotsam, Peridot is headed for its second cataclysm. War has sealed borders and locked down the skies. The Five, Peridot's alchemist gods, have seen one of their number die and another fall in their efforts to protect their world from invaders beyond the stars. Defeated and diminished, they are ignoring the prayers of their people, and the rapidly unraveling world must fend for itself.

 

Talis and the orphaned crew of the lost airship Wind Sabre have a plan to set things to rights, but they're stranded on a rock far from the heart of the conflict. When an old enemy offers them a ship and a path forward, it comes with strings that will pull them further from the home they are so desperate to save.

 

Their broken planet has been through a lot, but if Talis and her crew can't navigate hostile skies, shifting allegiances, and subverted governments, their enemies could claim a power that would destroy Peridot for good.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robot Dinosaur Press
• Release date: Jul 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781956771084

R J Theodore

R J Theodore is hellbent on keeping herself busy. Seriously folks, if she has two spare minutes to rub together at the end of the day, she invents a new project with which to occupy them. She enjoys design, illustration, video games (mostly spectating, for she is not as adept at them as she would prefer), reading, binging on media, napping with her cats, and cooking. She is passionate about art and coffee. R J Theodore lives in New England with her family. She co-hosts The Hybrid Author Podcast and writes non-fiction as Rekka Jay.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Emeranth

As the chapter art respresenting the POV character Emeranth, who is the crown empress of the Cutter empire, we have several pieces of lace and a pair of small sewing clippers.

Emeranth woke to a hand over her mouth. As she tried to sit up, its owner pushed her back down. The room was dark, and she could barely see the outline of her bed’s curtains and a person leaning in over her.

Sorry, Em. Sorry. The voice was deep with a solid center, but it was raspy at this hushed volume.

She nodded, and the man removed his hand, allowing her to sit up. Uncle? Why are you—

Uncle pressed something soft and heavy into her hands. Her jacket. We need to go. It’s not safe. I’ll tell you on the way.

Where are my parents? But she did as he said, sliding out of bed and into her slippers while pulling her jacket over her nightgown. The fabric tangled around her hips and knees, and her sleeves bunched up around her elbows.

In the limited nexuslight that made it past the curtains, Uncle’s pale skin—many shades lighter than Em’s own—allowed her to see him step back toward the bedroom door. I’ll tell you on the way. Quietly. It’s not safe.

When an adult said things more than once, they were nervous or mad. Uncle sort of sounded both, and she obeyed with no more questions.

He led them down the hall outside her chambers. They didn’t pass anyone else. Em was even more alarmed than she had been to wake with a hand on her face. There should have been people in the corridors. Guards. Someone. The air seemed to buzz, and she thought she could make out distant shouting but couldn’t tell what direction it came from or what was being yelled. She clung tighter to Uncle.

A familiar voice sounded from very nearby. Em almost yelled in fright. Uncle stopped them before they crossed in front of a doorway that spilled lamplight across the hall. The silver fingers of his left hand reflected the meager glow as he signaled her to be still. She focused on the words coming from within the room, staring at the familiar cogs and pins of Uncle’s beautiful gearwork knuckles.

She is nowhere to be found. The voice was irritated. She recognized Patron Demir’s voice. He always sounded like he smelled something unpleasant.

Another voice responded, heavily accented with throaty stops, hums, and hisses. This one, too, was familiar. Familiar and terrifying. She could imagine the tall Yu’Nyun Representative of Culture even without seeing xin. Unacceptable. You were to have taken care of this first.

When the Yu’Nyun visitors had first arrived, Em had thought they were fascinating and pretty. They looked like living versions of the carvings airship sailors made from sirenia teeth and bones, and they walked with the kind of grace and poise the court folk tried to train into her. Their clothes were beautifully made, even with the burns and tears from the attack at Nexus. As if they were right at home in the royal court, though they looked very strange.

Lately, though, she found it hard to breathe around the aliens. She could tell everyone was trying too hard to be nice to them.

The child must be found and secured. Search the grounds again.

They were looking for her! When she gasped for breath, Uncle tapped one finger on his earlobe. She nodded. He backed away from the door, moving them into the shadows along the other side of the hall.

Why were they looking for her? She gripped Uncle’s arm with both hands and stayed as close as she dared without tripping him.

She can’t have gotten far. Patron Demir sounded like he was in trouble.

Be sure of it. With the emperor and empress dead, she is now the legitimate ruler of the Cutter empire.

Em stumbled. She forgot about being quiet, but as she tried to repeat the words, no sound emerged from her constricted throat.

Her parents couldn’t be dead. She had just said goodnight to them at bedtime. Maw’n sat with her as she finished her needlework, and then they talked about what they’d like for breakfast the next morning.

That seemed like a strange dream now. The alien’s voice seemed all too real. Too sharp.

Her parents were dead.

Uncle tried to pick her up—even though she was nearly fourteen years old, and a princess—to keep them moving. She wrested her arms out of his grip. His metal arm was beautiful, but the joints were fragile. A cog ground its metal teeth at her rough treatment. She didn’t stop or calm down. She had to find her friend Annie. There were killers in the palace!

She slipped away as Uncle chased after. She felt her hair snag in the joints of his fingers but didn’t care. No one else would make sure the palace servants were okay. But Annie was like a sister, and that meant she was the only family Em had left.

Uncle didn’t shout, couldn’t say a single word while hidden outside the room where the Yu’Nyun representative and Patron Demir argued. Uncle would be caught if he didn’t mind the noise of his steps.

But Em was barefoot and could run as fast as she wanted without making a sound.

She headed for the wing where Annie lived with their Breaker tutor, Catkin. Sometimes Em and Annie escaped Catkin’s lessons and hid in the palace’s secret rooms and passages to play until they got hungry and emerged to reprimands and a hot supper. If Annie knew anything was wrong, that’s where she’d be.

There were more angry voices and more shouting. Em heard Uncle calling for her. She ran down the empty halls and ducked into side rooms and around corners whenever she heard people coming.

It had to be the Yu’Nyun. She didn’t know why, but she knew it had to be. Everything had changed after they lost their ships at Nexus. Em wished they had their ships back, so they could leave Peridot and stay away from her family. Her face felt wet. She had no family left but Annie.

She didn’t get why her parents’ advisors had kept inviting the Yu’Nyun representative back. The aliens didn’t behave like other refugees. They didn’t just want help; they wanted to live at the palace and help the Cutter folk govern. Her parents had told them no, and now her parents were dead.

Em went straight for the most secret room she and Annie knew about, pulling a candelabra near a shelf, tipping an unassuming book about trade economics, and stepping on a pressure-sensitive floor tile. She winced as the stone door slid noisily back, then rushed inside and up the darkened stairwell within. She could hear Annie crying before she reached the hidden workshop above.

Beneath a table against the wall, a girl curled tightly around her knees, clutching her arms. There was enough light from the clouded windows to catch the Cutter sparkle in her warm brown skin. The sleeves of Annie’s nightgown were as wrinkled as Em’s own felt beneath her purple velvet jacket.

Annie, come! We have to go.

Annie wiped her face on the back of her forearm, blinking dark brown eyes. Em, thank the winds! What’s happening?

We have to go.

Annie climbed out from under the table and seized Em’s outstretched hand. Her terrified whisper came out as a hiss. Shouldn’t we stay hidden in here?

Uncle had given her a jacket, so he was going to get her out of the palace.

I don’t think it’s safe anymore.

Without giving Annie time to argue, Em hurried her down the stairs and back through the halls. She’d run off without Uncle, but she could still follow his plan. There was a back door to the garden, and if they could get outside and past the palace gates, they could hide in the city.

Em! Annie was shaking. What’s happened?

Em stopped, pulling them into a recess along the wall. They were outside the royal audience chamber, but everything that should have been familiar looked different in the shadows. The couch on which she’d spent so many idle moments waiting for Faw’n to finish his daily audiences so they could walk to dinner seemed the wrong color. The curling fern beside it looked threatening instead of frilly.

My parents are dead.

Annie didn’t speak. Her mouth hung open, as if her thoughts caught on the back of her tongue.

I think they were killed. She swallowed. Assassinated.

The word caught Annie’s attention. Their tutor had just been talking about historical assassinations that morning, and Em remembered too well how similar the described situations mirrored what was going on in the empire since the aliens arrived.

As realization took hold of Annie’s expression, Em nodded. I think Catkin was trying to warn us. Have you seen them?

Annie shook her head, and her chin quivered. Not since our lessons. What are we going to do?

We’re going to escape out the gardens and through the drainpipe.

Annie pulled her hand free and stopped short as a stubborn horse. And then what?

Em didn’t know. She had been out on the streets of Diadem on many occasions, but never unescorted. It wasn’t proper. She was hardly ever far from the watchful eyes of one palace guard or another.

Hide. Find someone to help us.

Annie screwed up her face. Shouldn’t there be people to help us here?

Somewhere, they heard voices shouting. Em couldn’t tell if they came from within the palace walls or without, but they were angry, in a way her father never got angry.

Annie, it was the aliens. I know it was. Anyone who helps them might hurt us. Now that she’d gathered Annie, Em wished she knew where Uncle had gone.

Em’s fingers were cramped and sweaty from gripping Annie’s hand. She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut and wish herself back into bed, to awake from this nightmare and run to Maw’n and Faw’n.

She heard someone shouting Uncle’s name. Her heart lifted with hope. If they could find him again, they wouldn’t need to rush out into the night alone. The shouts sounded like they were coming from the floor above.

Wait here.

Annie pressed herself deeper into the shadows, blending with the darkened shapes of the furniture. Em moved toward the nearest stairwell to listen. Right into the hands of a palace guard.

The woman seized Em’s shoulder. She tried to pull back, but the grip was like iron. Here, now, Princess Emeranth, you’re safe.

Go. Em mouthed the word, and Annie nodded, crept out of the nook, and bolted. If Em hadn’t known she was there, she wouldn’t have been able to see her run toward the kitchens.

The guard shouted up the stairwell above them. Here, m’lord!

Uncle appeared at the railing, his face a mixture of concern and anger as he peered down. When he saw Em in the guard’s care, the expression changed, but in the shadows, Em couldn’t tell what emotion it described.

He rushed down the steps to her side. My little Em, you need to stay by me. There is a dangerous person in the castle. Perhaps many.

Sometimes it was even worse when adults did tell her what was going on, but she loved him for not lying to her. My parents are dead.

Her voice sounded smaller than she would have liked. She swallowed to clear a lump in her throat, but it didn’t move.

Uncle looked like he couldn’t remember the words he needed. He swallowed, too, and sounded strained when he finally spoke. Yes. I’m sorry. I know this is painful. He turned to the guard. We need to take the princess to a secure room.

Yes, Lord Hankirk. The woman took a few steps away.Uncle tried to lead Em out of the stairwell, but she couldn’t move.

No. Her voice was shrinking on her. She repeated it more firmly. No.

Uncle pulled her into a hug. His coat felt strange against her skin. She was shaking.

No. Again, as if she could convince herself not to believe him. Believe what she’d heard and believe what Catkin had tried to warn her about.

He pulled back and held out his filigree-traced hand. Come with me. I’ll keep you safe. They’ll catch whoever did this.

Uncle had lost his arm in the battle at Nexus. He told her he’d been fighting the aliens. And now the aliens had killed her parents because no one else would fight them. Everyone else wanted the aliens there. He was the only adult in the palace she could trust.

She took Uncle’s hand and let him lead the way.

Chapter 2

Talis

As the chapter art representing the POV character Talis, who was the captain of Wind Sabre before it sank to flotsam at the end of book one, we see—in place of the previous airship artwork—a leather journal beneath several pages of sketches that appear to be alchemy, beside a pewter signet ring and a Nexus dial compass

Acaptain needs a crew.

A crew needs an airship.

An airship needs open skies.

Talis ran her hand over the smooth wooden finish of the oak railing, appreciating its craftership. This was a fine vessel. Not too big, but with room for a proper cargo. And it was packed full of worthwhile wares, crates lined with bolts of fabric (and a healthy amount of illicit goods folded away within those) as well as barrels of oil from aquatic fish that would turn a nice profit once they reached the perpetually sailing airships whose crews hadn’t been on land in months and were aching for the healthy fats you just couldn’t get from the gas-filled skyfauna. The ledgers were in order, both the real ones and the official ones. The engines purred, idling, eager to churn air. Steam hissed, rising from the great copper boilers amidship into the lift balloon system above Talis’s head, as the hull strained against the lines holding the ship to the docks. Ready to return to the freedom of open skies.

Talis took a deep breath—her nose filling with the mingled scents of lacquered wood, burning coal, dusty rope, and oiled sailcloth—before she let it out again in a wistful sigh. Then rolled her eyes at her self-pity.

She signed the inspection form, tore off the top copy, then tucked her pencil into the clipboard and stepped down the gangway to meet the airship’s waiting captain.

All set. Talis masked her pain with a liberal coating of feigned disinterest and handed over the approved customs forms to the Bone captain. She was glad her eyes were hidden behind the thick Rakkar goggles. The captain handed over a calico purse of copper and turquoise-inlaid silver presscoins, which Talis bounced in her palm to feel that the sound was right and the weight accounted for local exchange rates. The captain ascended the gangway, and Talis walked back along the dock to shore as another airship departed Heddard Bay without her.

Talis had a crew—best crew on the whole gods-rotted, alchemy-shattered planet—but no ship for them to prove their worth. She flinched, her face contorting into a disgusted wince before she wrestled it back under control. The whole situation was her own doing.

For two years, she and her crew had kept their heads down on the island of Heddard Bay, trying to stay beneath notice in Lippen, its subterranean city.

Ironic, that. She, Tisker, and Sophie were the only Cutter folk to be found living in the subterranean city where Rakkar citizens dominated the population, followed closely by their nearest Vein neighbors, and finally the Bone and Breaker people who filled in the rest of the numbers. At least Dug could blend in, to a degree; Talis and the younger Cutter pair could hardly go unnoticed.

But standing out in Lippen was better than trying to blend into any Cutter city. If they went back—if they could even make it past the closed Cutter borders—they’d have no ship, and there’d probably be Veritors and bounty hunters and who knew what else eager to take a bite of them.

It was safer, until they were back on a ship of their own, to stay out of Cutter skies. Lippen had become a bustling trade city now that proximity to Nexus no longer caused physical pain and ships were willing to come this close. The crew could earn their keep, plus enough to buy the materials Sophie needed for what came next.

Two years. A gods-rotted long time to plan their escape and their triumphant return to the skies of the Cutter empire. They had a plan, but it had to go off as smoothly as the finest Rakkar clockwork.

Talis scanned along Horizon, where the trade winds brought ships in clockwise from Vein skies, and Bone skies before that. And Cutter skies before that.

It was a Cutter ship she was watching for. Always was.

But especially today.

She was disappointed to see the only vessels inbound to port were small local craft. Most were Bone make, as Bone merchants were second only to Cutter folk in sailing skill and often their ships played host to Vein traders with a similar inclination but who needed a sighted crew to carry it out.Talis cast a glance up and around to find the sun. This close to Nexus, the small, pale sun of Peridot was useless except as a timepiece. Everything was lit by Nexus, the brilliant, eye-straining sphere of magic at the center of their world. The only reason she didn’t have to squint her eyes almost entirely shut were the thick, dark lenses of the goggles she wore, which shaded and filtered out the green and restored true color to her vision.

Some days, it felt as though Talis would mold over with the waiting. Cutter ships had become a rare sight since the Imperials had shut down the borders.

There were plenty of rides off the island, but they’d only get her crew as far as another harbor on the wrong side of the border. Their exit strategy required a ship that could handle a low-atmo crossing back into Cutter skies, and enough money to buy a sky-worthy vessel of their own once they were there.

Even working seven jobs between the four of them, those kinds of funds were beyond reach. Smugglers for most of their lives, the novelty of honest work had quickly given over to impatience, but their jobs were a key part of the plans written up in the notes coded onto every scrap of paper they could find.

The thud of her boots on the dock planks turned to a crunch against broken shells at the shoreline. She kept her gaze on her feet as she headed back up to the harbormaster’s office. The shells turned to paved cobblestone and the shadow of the island’s volcano, Vuur Artak, swept over her. With a sigh of relief, she pulled the thick goggles down around her neck and rubbed the creases they left in the skin of her cheekbones and eyebrows.

The Rakkar harbormaster’s office was built as far from the coastline as possible while still being associated with the docks. The staff wasted no space for windows, not wanting to be reminded they were so close to the edge of the island and the long drop through cold, open skies below. Instead, the walls were lined with counters. Below them, filing drawers and cabinets, and above, posted schedules and currency conversion charts. Near the door was her manager’s favorite object in all Peridot’s shattered glory: the time clock. Almost as tall as Talis, the steel cabinet was painted deep red and prickled with handles, knobs, gears, and levers. Almost as prickly was the handwritten note warning everyone not to touch anything, lest the finer movements inside the cabinet be misaligned. The cabinet ticked in precise synchrony with Ra-Kaz, the enormous timepiece that Lippen’s founding engineers had built as the beating heart at the center of the city below. The office’s time clock punched their time cards in specific patterns Talis couldn’t decipher, but which her manager reviewed before doling pay to ensure any lost time was withheld from the promised daily sum.

Talis passed a handful of desks where clerks scratched away at many double sets of ledgers. Their job was to creatively tax the difference in weights and payments so the harbormaster’s office would get its share of the profits from smuggled goods. The clerks were consumed with this meaningful work and ignored her entirely.

Good morning, Nisa. Talis dropped the Bone captain’s purse on the dock manager’s desk with a heavy, metallic clink.

Getting better. Nisa lifted the purse and transferred it between her hands three times.

Like all her people, Nisa had a tough chitin shell masking most of her face. Hers had lovely gradients of gold, peach, and mottled cream. Her red-streaked black hair was carefully combed into six small buns stacked in two neat columns down the back of her head, continuing the line from the largest of her forehead spikes.

The dock manager was smartly dressed in a silk blouse and cravat, waistcoat, and velvet pants gathered at the knee above her stockings. Her shoes, propped up on the supports of her wheelchair, were leather punched with intricate designs over the toes. Enormous brass buckles glittered in the interior lamplight. Just because the nerves in her thin legs were unresponsive didn’t mean she wanted her lower half to go unnoticed.

Lippen was prosperous, and in the two years since Talis arrived, Rakkar buckles had only gotten shinier. Nisa, along with most of her Lippen neighbors, were getting rich off the alchemy that absolutely, no question about it, one hundred percent, did not take place in Lippen.

The corners of Nisa’s mouth creased with satisfaction as she opened the pouch and poured its contents into the porcelain tray of her scale.

Bone coinage, copper and silver, with turquoise and pink feldspars. Ten ounces. This includes the bribe?

Talis nodded. Light stuffing with tinker illicits, but their cargo was mostly harmless.

In Cutter ports, you had a maze of laws to navigate between, or else disguise your cargo and hope to sneak it past. Not here in Heddard Bay. Here, there was a clear understanding of just what sort of goods might arrive to and depart from the docks. Here, customs inspections only made sure dangerous items were well-secured and expensive items taxed to the thousandth decimal place.

Knowing better than to lean against Nisa’s desk, Talis pretended to peruse the reservations schedule while the other woman sorted the payment into piles and made notations in her two open ledgers. Nisa then wheeled her chair to the drop tubes at the far wall. The tubes were installed a half arm-span too high for the normal level of Nisa’s wheelchair. She spun the adjustment wheel on one side until her seat rose high enough for her to deposit the currency.

Talis watched the manager in her periphery. Nisa made the coin deposit, and the whish-whunk of the tube system carried it off to the vault below ground, deep within Lippen’s banking district. The security was admirable, except it made the whole system terribly complicated to crack for those with an eye to make an unauthorized withdrawal. Complicated, but not impossible. Not when one had an engineer like Sophie on her side.

Nisa returned her seat to its usual height and noticed Talis studying the berthing assignment chart.

"The Folly’s overdue." She attempted to sound casual, but Talis knew better. Over two years, Talis had learned to read Rakkar posturing better than she ever had before. She also knew what it meant when Nisa slipped out of her coin-counting tone and dialed up the doting aunt routine.

Sure, Talis had a knot in her stomach over Bill’s tardiness, but not for the reasons Nisa openly suspected. I told you, he’s twice my age and not my type.

Experience can be a very good thing. Nisa had five children and was on her third long-term romance, complete with a contract of partnership and a declaration of joint business investments. Which I can see you appreciate, by the way your eyes light up at the mention of his ship.

Talis laughed. He’s a reminder of home, Nisa. I’m not looking for romance.

Nisa hadn’t grasped that idea before and only clucked her tongue and shook her head now. She didn’t know why, but Talis hated to disappoint her.

I do like Bill’s cat, though. She almost rolled her eyes at herself, knowing Nisa would seize on that opportunity.

Nisa smiled as broadly as her chitin mask would allow, flashing rows of small, perfect teeth, convinced of her victory. Every lasting partnership starts somewhere.

Talis scoffed. Tell you what. When he brings me word that the Imperials have pulled their heads out of their bilge pipes, I’ll give him a right proper kiss and let him take me out to dinner.

Her true interests in Bill were twofold. One, since he’d found her crew and their lifeboat on the docks of Heddard Bay, he had been her sole source of reliable news from outside Vein skies. The empire had sealed off the borders and any word from home could be months old. The information that hopped between so many Vein radio towers was all-but unreliable. Bill brought her fresh news, before the color and life had been drained out of it—or, if not quite fresh, only as stale as the length of his transit from here to there.

Two, he was going to get them home. His humble-looking ship was engineered with an extended buoyancy range, ideal for the kinds of maneuvers it took to get around—and under—border patrols. It was their only chance at getting back without being arrested within minutes. Bill would get them through—and for a friendly fare, so they wouldn’t be left destitute once they got home.

Talis focused on the schedule for the first time. Lotta traffic scheduled for the next week. That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it?

Nisa made a distracted sound of assent instead of answering. Talis looked over her shoulder. The other woman had drifted back into her bookkeeping.

So Talis left the confines of the harbormaster’s office and returned to the docks, where she could feel the cold breeze caress her face and tug at her jacket. One day, they’d leave Heddard Bay behind and let the real winds whip about them. It was the promise Talis had made to herself, and to her crew who’d given up so much on her account.

Dug, who’d lost his goddess because of Talis. Well, to be fair, not lost completely. The deposed Bone Alchemist was around somewhere, reduced to a squawking, furious raven and bereft of her former powers. It was Talis and the others who’d truly lost their god, Silus Cutter, who was murdered by the Yu’Nyun. But at least Talis didn’t carry any personal responsibility for that.

She was responsible for Sophie, whose dreams of building the most ambitious airship in all four skies had gone down to the trash layer of flotsam with the money that was supposed to pay for it.

And Tisker. Tisker, who followed Talis wherever she led, his faith in her never slacking with the change in the wind.

And their winds had changed, damn it to all five hells. Some days, she lost a sense of the wind entirely. Days like today, when she had to board someone else’s ship and the smells and sounds of it made her body ache with old memories, Talis could work herself into a right sour mood about their situation. But it was one they’d come to as a group. Together. And together was all they had after Wind Sabre dropped to flotsam.

It was just the four of them, as it had been for years before the wreck. Just . . . without a ship. The underground city of Lippen had become their home for the time being.

No. Talis bit her tongue as if it could stop the thought. Heddard Bay, Lippen, and the tiny room they rented there were not home. The whole situation was temporary. A refuel stop on the way back to their life. A longer stop than anticipated, to be sure. And might be longer yet if Bill didn’t check in soon.

Hankirk could have helped resolve this, had even once promised her he would—but he’d finagled passage back to Cutter skies mere hours after they’d taken off his ruined arm in a Lippen clinic. He was supposed to stay with Scrimshaw when it was Talis’s turn to see her crew’s medical needs tended to, but he’d taken their defected alien friend and disappeared. Things hadn’t improved in the two years since, so Hankirk had either failed to keep his promise, or failed to try.

Fine. Whatever. Talis didn’t care about Hankirk. He’d failed her at every opportunity—that was all that mattered. Pulling their backsides out of flotsam at the last moment didn’t offset a career’s worth of selfish actions. She cared that he’d handed Scrimshaw back to xist people in exchange for his comfy position in the capital. She cared that she’d had to learn from dock rumors that Scrimshaw had died of xist wounds in Diadem. And she cared that she’d had to carry that news back to their room and witness the grief take another notch out of her crew.

Oi, Talis! called out one Bone merchant in the Common Tongue as she walked past his berth. If he followed his usual route, he had a cargo hold full of lambswool, bound for Gladstone. You still here? Thought you’d have punched through those borders by now.

She waved a dismissive hand. The teasing was all part of her routine these days. You owe me a drink. Why would I leave before you served it up?

Truth was, she was itching beneath her skin to return home. But she and her crew couldn’t just buy transport with the little money they had if they’d arrive with their pockets empty and no ship of their own. Hankirk had a head start on her and was no doubt using it to look for Meran’s other rings for his Veritor bedfellows. Talis and her crew needed to keep him from finding them, either by finding them first, or by making as much trouble for Hankirk and the Veritors as possible.

For now, she played her part, inspecting cargo, renting out dock equipment, hooking up the airship lines and gantries, and spending her days on the docks as close to open skies as she could get without a ship of her own.

Another ship’s crewman was passing her on the docks, close enough to overhear. If they don’t open those borders soon, I’m going to have to install a sub-Horizon rig. His ship had bars of copper headed for Ainteague, but once he ran the conductive material to all the islands in Cutter skies. The border closing had taken a huge bite out of his income. Not fair that the Yu’Nyun getting a leg up when I’m locked out.

Outside of the empire, the concept of Yu’Nyun refugees was laughable. They’d lost their ships, sure, but no way was that enough to make them harmless. The aliens were inevitably going to turn on the Veritors, but those once-xenophobic, still-Cutter-obsessed fools were so entranced by the power Yu’Nyun technology offered them that they couldn’t see the impending treachery. Nor would the regular Cutter folk who looked to their government for protection, guidance, and honesty.

No, there’d be no honesty from the Veritors or the government whose strings they pulled. Certainly not from the Yu’Nyun, who now pulled the Veritors’ strings in turn.

The lot of them had had two years to keep hunting those rings, keep salvaging the Yu’Nyun wrecks to lift what technology they could. And they’d use it to make trouble, Talis knew. They’d awaken another Meran in another simula body, and if Hankirk had learned his lesson about how to control this one, the trouble they’d bring would devastate all of Peridot. It was up to Talis and her crew to stop them.

She hated save-the-world missions. She hated painting a target on her hull and flaunting it in front of the legitimate imperial forces, never mind the Veritors.

But no one else was going to stop this corruption of her nation, her world. Maybe Meran could have, but when Talis thought she could trust the bond between her and the ancient soul of the planet, Meran had proven herself as unreliable as Hankirk. Moreso even.

Gods-rotted rings, and gods-rotted alien tech. The entire Cutter empire would be after them, and Talis didn’t see anyone else trying to stop them.

As usual, it was up to her and her crew to do the job no one else wanted.

Chapter 3

Hankirk

As the chapter art respresenting the POV character Hankirk, a thorn in Talis's side who goes beyond annoying to downright dangerous, depicted as several pieces of invasive surgical equipment, an armband featuring a swirl of wind on a solid background, and a ring with sculpted windswells surrounding a teardrop-shaped stone cabochon

The Veritors of the Lost Codex had lost their way. There was once a time when Hankirk had been poised to prove himself their brilliant leader. But he hadn’t been brilliant.

He’d been naïve.

He paced outside the interview room in the subbasement of the imperial palace, waiting for the Representative of Culture and Integration to present xist-self. Within, Scrimshaw waited for the day’s interrogation to begin.

Hankirk hated that he had returned to Diadem. That he had no other choice if he wanted to save the Cutter Empire from itself.

Upon arriving, he had met with Patron Demir, a leader among the elite class and a leader among the secret Veritors of the Lost Codex. Hankirk had realized then, the elite among the imperial capital were too enamored with the alien technology they’d gained to recognize the threat that the Yu’Nyun posed. Hankirk took his fears next to the emperor, empress, and their court. The emprices took his warning seriously, but unfortunately, they followed legal procedures, challenging the bureaucracy directly in their next congress. And now they were dead.

As Hankirk judged it, whether people had the best or worst intentions, anyone willing to go about things through proper methods was a waste of his time.

Hrrin’ru’taetin, the pompous, condescending Yu’Nyun Representative of Culture and Integration, glided down the staircase at the far end of the corridor. Xist gray-white carapace, high cranium, and flowing veils made xin look like a phantom in the flickering light of the subbasement candles. Hankirk steeled himself. He refused to let the exoskeletoned alien know how intimidated he was.

It wasn’t xist foreign appearance. Hankirk was more than accustomed to that after two years of these meetings. It was what was about to happen, behind the heavy doors of the interview chamber.

Salutations, Mister Hankirk, said the alien.

Mister, instead of Captain. Hankirk had returned without his ship, and no one had offered him another. No one had offered him a seat at the Veritors’ council sessions, either, despite his experience and firsthand knowledge of what had happened at Nexus. No one would let him pursue the rings. No one had offered to let him accompany Hrrin’ru’taetin, either.

That he had to request it was an insult, and it was an insult that he had been granted the task.

Hankirk suppressed the urge to twist his mouth. At least he could remain in Diadem to do what good he was able with the tools he had in hand. Representative. I hope you are well rested. Our friend has been quite stubborn.

The alien tilted xist head, considering Hankirk’s phrasing. Perhaps Sk’kir’kk’sh Imt’urr’sh’tim is your friend, Mister Hankirk. Not ours.

He didn’t reply. Banter with an alien grew more complex and subtle the longer it went on. He preferred to back down while it could still pass as disinterest instead of defeat.

Thankfully, Hrrin’ru’taetin was no more eager to talk with Hankirk. Shall we begin?

Hankirk gripped the heavy iron latch with his reconstructed hand and pushed the door open. It was almost as thick as the stone walls built around its frame, to keep any sounds within from troubling the dreams of the privileged living above.

Hankirk lit candles in the five recesses around the room, lighting the slab of stone in the center. The form secured atop it shifted, making small, pitiful noises.

Scrimshaw’s pale body, a pinker white than Hrrin’ru’taetin’s, gleamed in the candlelight. The newest layers of exoskeleton were smooth and clean and partially translucent, like clouded glass over the raw sapphire flesh beneath.

Xe seems to be healing slower, Hankirk commented.

"Ghi seems to be healing slower, if you please. Transitional non-class pronouns while the subject is without embellishment."

Yu’Nyun society, as Hrrin’ru’taetin had explained, measured a person differently after molting their—ghist—exoskeleton. The molted would carve ghist entire body after it was done to determine their social class. More ornate etchings increased the perceived value of the individual. The alien pronouns for a person between carvings implied the greatest honor—just in case ghi created some truly remarkable design in ghist next iteration—but what Hrrin’ru’taetin was about to do to Scrimshaw could hardly be interpreted as respect. Still, the Yu’Nyun adhered fervently to their social standards.

Hankirk normally remembered Scrimshaw’s newly prescribed pronouns before he spoke—his pronunciation of the Yu’Nyun gh being his usual offense. But today, he was distracted. His thoughts lingered on his past mistakes, causing him to make new ones.

"Ghi, then. Do you not see it?"

Scrimshaw had been denied the exposure to sunlight that would cure each layer of exoskeleton. In the subbasement’s darkness, the newest layer was still soft, unable to support the alien’s weight.The director of Scrimshaw’s misery would only be interested in a proper cure to inflict more insult against xist captive. An illness could slow ghist cuticle hardening. When you clean up, be certain to be thorough.

Scrimshaw’s right leg was missing from a spot above the knee—an older wound, Hankirk’s doing. The large scar across ghist torso—not Hankirk’s doing—cut deep into the bed of ghist deepest tissue layers and was also permanent.

But worse than these old wounds were the precision insults to ghist body under Hrrin’ru’taetin’s administrations.

Hankirk stared straight ahead and steeled himself as the representative produced a tool pouch made from the aliens’ leather-like synthetic material. Placing it near Scrimshaw’s foot, xe unrolled it in a slow, deliberate motion. The gleaming instruments inside clinked delicately against each other, and Scrimshaw feebly attempted to curl away from the source of the sound.

Tell me what we wish to know, and I will grant you the death you seek.

Xe made the same promise at the beginning of every interview. Hankirk had witnessed torture, knew eventually a painless death was the only hope a victim had, but this offer had been made even before the first cut. Something to do with Yu’Nyun honor. He was not so convinced Scrimshaw still sought such a thing.

Once, Scrimshaw had asked Talis for death on Fall Island, but she had given ghin some kind of pep talk that broke the alien’s slide toward suicide. She had that effect on people. Perhaps if Hankirk had not brought Scrimshaw to Diadem, Talis might have talked ghin out of ghist residual depression.

Scrimshaw was a being without a people, which Hankirk could empathize with more than Scrimshaw would ever know. The surviving Yu’Nyun delegation had paraded Scrimshaw in front of the crowds in the capital as a victim of the gods’ unjustifiable wrath, granted no interviews, and then reported that xe had succumbed to xist wounds.

In reality, they had hidden Scrimshaw away beneath the palace and gone to work making ghin as miserable as possible.

The representative administered something from a vial, angling the needle up into Scrimshaw’s chest cavity from below. As always, Scrimshaw keened as the plunger forced the stimulant through ghist body. There would be no passing out from the pain. No calming ghist-self in the presence of the impending assault.

Hrrin’ru’taetin displayed a long, thin knife with a hooked, serrated tip. Made sure it was within Scrimshaw’s field of vision before speaking. You will tell me where we can find the other rings.

Scrimshaw closed ghist jaw with a weak, wet, clacking sound. So far, the exchange was following the script, word for word.

Hankirk clenched his teeth. He had little sympathy for Scrimshaw, but Hrrin’ru’taetin’s practice on the defected alien had not gotten easier to watch.

The aliens might have lost their ships and their tech, but the next time their shipwrecks passed into Cutter skies, a fleet of imperial salvage crews would be waiting at the border. The aliens were months away from having their power returned to them by the Veritors.

Add the remaining four rings to that? Even Meran, who had stolen the power of one ring and two gods, wouldn’t be able to stop them. Rather than use the power to save the planet, as Hankirk planned, the Veritors were going to give the aliens everything they needed to drain Nexus and leave Peridot to ruin.

They may covet the alien power, but the Veritors had just enough sense to be cautious. They had failed to disclose to the Yu’Nyun that Silus Cutter’s ring was here. In Diadem. Hankirk took some comfort that the Veritors knew enough to keep one secret from them.

The mixture, Mister Hankirk.

He braced himself, then took up the long, slender tube from the hook at the foot of the table. A foot pedal on the side of the reservoir pumped a special Yu’Nyun formula of enzymes and saline through a long, flexible hose. Hankirk held it ready and nodded. Hrrin’ru’taetin made the first incision, starting at the tips of Scrimshaw’s long toes.

The interrogation was methodical, slow, and dispassionate. As xe pried the edges of Scrimshaw’s cuts apart, Hankirk flushed liquid beneath the top layer of ghist exoskeleton to force its separation from the undeveloped tissue below. He set his jaw, trying to ignore the alien’s protesting whimpers, then collected the small, iridescent pieces into a steel tray as the representative cut them away, one long thin piece at a time.

It was done with such skill that xe could completely remove each layer of each segment of Scrimshaw’s body without spilling a single drop of ghist blood. The ritual was all the crueler for it.

No surprise to anyone, Scrimshaw said nothing. Ghi made the weak noises of a body barely withstanding torment, but it was Hrrin’ru’taetin who did all the talking. In the Cutter dialect, for Hankirk’s benefit.

As xe peeled away the material over Scrimshaw’s three-toed foot: Your ship did not send its complete reports to the fleet. How long had you planned to betray us?

Scrimshaw did not answer.

As xe sliced away strips over Scrimshaw’s inner thigh: Silus Cutter’s ring was not where your initial report said it would be. Where was it? Who has it?

Scrimshaw did not answer. Hankirk tried to let his mind go blank, keep his breath from changing speed or depth.

As xe removed diamond-shaped segments of Scrimshaw’s pelvic structure: What did Onaya Bone reveal to you in the temple’s audience chamber?

Scrimshaw did not answer.

As xe dropped pieces of Scrimshaw’s abdomen into the waiting tray: Where is Onaya Bone’s ring?

Scrimshaw did not answer.

As xe removed the film of Scrimshaw’s arms: Where is Helsim Breaker’s ring?

Scrimshaw did not answer. Hankirk steadied himself as he held the tray out again.

As xe sliced up the front of Scrimshaw’s neck, from collar to ear: Where is Arthel Rak’s ring?

Scrimshaw did not answer.

As xe opened the long arch of Scrimshaw’s cranial crest: "Where is the crew of Wind Sabre?"

Scrimshaw did not answer. Hankirk felt his heartbeat pounding at the base of his throat.

As xe removed Scrimshaw’s face plating in two pieces, a copy of ghist features that topped the pile as a translucent, haunting mask: What became of Lindent Vein’s ring when its power transferred to the simula?

Scrimshaw did not answer.

Hankirk kept his vision focused on the end of the hose, looking at only a few square measures at a time. He listened to the words, tried to develop his own theories. The aliens’ goal was the same as his, and if there was anything to be learned in these sessions, he would be glad to take part in them.

To the questions, Scrimshaw must have some answers. Any information could have ended ghist torment, but ghi remained silent. Either because ghi was in a realm of pain beyond conscious thought—though Hankirk suspected Hrrin’ru’taetin knew precisely what xe was doing—or because ghi had a fortitude of which Hankirk could not conceive.

He tried not to imagine what it would take to survive the representative’s questioning, or whether the Cutter body was up to the challenge.

At the end of their session, Scrimshaw lay, chest heaving, on the slab. Ghist exposed flesh was a deep shade of blue, almost black, that shone under the flickering lights. The latest layer of carapace curled in the tray as it dried. They would allow ghist exoskeleton to regrow and then begin the process once more.

Without comment, Hrrin’ru’taetin wiped xist hooked blade with a silk cloth, replaced it, and tied the roll closed again. Xe folded xist arms behind xist back and exited the chamber without a word.

It was left for Hankirk to make sure Scrimshaw was fed, ghist body cleaned, and ghist bonds replaced. He retrieved the supports from the gleaming alien container and propped Scrimshaw up so ghist body would not be further malformed as ghi underwent the slow process of healing. Ghi was cool, damp, and slightly sticky, and ghist limbs were too flexible, as though they were made of dense gelatin.

Before exiting, Hankirk turned back to the pathetic form on the table. A few weeks longer.

Scrimshaw watched him, jaw slack. Ghi had nothing to say to Hankirk, either. Hankirk, who had presented Scrimshaw to the Veritors of the Lost Codex like a gift. More like an