Beyond the Gates Infernal: Shattered Gates, #2

By Bryan S. Glosemeyer

Beneath Long Forgotten Stars, An Ancient Vengeance Stirs.

 

Guided by visions and with blood on her hands, Sabira Stargazer races for the mythical Shattered Gates of Heaven, hoping for a new life with her new family. Little does she know, her old life isn't done with her yet…

 

Enraged at Sabira's betrayal, those she left behind vow to hunt her across the stars. But when both hunter and hunted are snared in a cosmic trap, they have only one way out:

 

Unleash the mysterious power lurking in the heart of a dead world.

 

With nowhere to run, Sabira must confront the loved ones she had forsaken. But can she fight her old family to protect her new one? If not, the forces of tyranny may acquire a weapon so great and vengeful, it will change the fate of the galaxy forever.

 

Bryan S. Glosemeyer's Shattered Gates novels deliver fast-paced, thrilling sci-fi adventures set in the distant future, filled with vivid worlds, compelling characters, and gritty action.

 

Shattered Gates Volume 2 continues the journeys of Sabira Stargazer and expands the lore of the Shattered Gates Universe. It includes an updated Lexicon, along with a full lineup of characters, locations, and ships.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Void Forms Media
• Release date: Dec 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215394922

Book preview

PART I

TRANSFIGURATION

1

ATREMENDOUS NOISE like a giant egg cracking apart jolted Daggeira awake. Dreams still lingered at the edges of her mind—animals squealing, high-pitched screams—when everything around her suddenly convulsed and shuddered. Another violent shaking followed immediately after, jostling the dream echoes from her head and nearly throwing her out of the cot. Heart pounding, she willed her groggy mind to focus.

Where was she?

Right. Quarantine wing. Infirmary. Battleship Pyramid Zol-Ori.

Alone.

Light strips flickered and hissed overhead. Medtech stations rattled where they lay strewn about. Some brutal force had angled the floor up toward the ceiling while she slept, buckling the front wall and snapping the quarantine door in two. Its broken pieces hung at odd angles. That must’ve been the noise that jolted her awake.

She found a basic uniform folded beside her bed and yanked it on. Seemed to take forever just to pull on a pair of boots. Swaying up the slanted floor, she headed out. No one in the outside corridor, either. Its flat plane had been reshaped into a frozen ripple of cracked and undulated plating. No announcements issued from the intercom to explain what was happening or give instructions.

Sonorous booms rumbled through the infirmary and almost knocked her off her feet. Smoke billowed down the corridors. The overhead light strips sputtered out and the emergency lights came up—faint pink, bioluminescent strips outlining the corridor’s edges.

The explosions sounded like they came from the interior of the battleship pyramid, not the hull, which hopefully meant they weren’t under attack. Maybe there was some kind of weapons malfunction or a problem with the engines? She needed to get to the servants on the lower decks. Someone there would know what was happening. They would be able to tell her what to do.

Daggeira staggered down the corridor to the lifts, until a wall of mangled steel and super ceramic blocked the way. How in all the hells? Things were going from deep bad to godsdamned catastrophic.

She remembered that maintenance shafts connected the decks, but not where to find them. Coughing from the smoke, she investigated the dim passageways, opening every door she could. She quickly got lost in the unfamiliar corridors of the medical deck; stopped by dead ends and turned around by caved-in passages.

She finally found a sign pointing to the maintenance shafts when a massive thud rattled through the deck. She lost her balance and fell, smacking her head against the bulkhead. Dark stars danced in her vision. That last explosion came from the outer hull. If the Zol-Ori wasn’t under attack before, it sure as hell was now. She didn’t know how much time she had to find safety, but it was running out fast. Head still spinning, she pulled herself up and stumbled to the maintenance hatch.

That’s a shaft alright.

Daggeira didn’t know what she was expecting, but it should have been a narrow vertical tube with bright yellow rungs up and down its length, because that’s what she got. Blinking away dizziness and the sedative murk, she stepped onto the ladder and climbed down, rung by shaking rung. Conduits of biotubing and reflexor panels lined the walls. Halfway to the drummers deck, a reflexor popped and sizzled, spitting hot sparks over her bare scalp. Harsh fumes stung her eyes and nose. She wiped her face on her uniform sleeve and kept descending.

Daggeira spotted the door to the drummers deck and kicked it open. Smoke and vapors choked the air. The stench of biomech oils tasted acidic and rusty on the back of her tongue. She pulled her tunic over her nose and went in. Keeping low beneath the worst of the smoke, she searched the corridors and called out for others. No one answered. When she reached the center of the drummers deck, her mouth dropped open.

Somehow, impossibly, the Servants Hall was gone. The center of ritual life, wide enough to hold every soul aboard the pyramid, had been reduced to a ragged hole in the floor. Daggeira looked down through the rupture to where the granks were penned. The lower deck was intact, but she didn’t see any of the war beasts. The pens were piled with rubble and coated with grit. And bodies. Thousands of bodies. Human and Gohnzol-Lo alike. She gagged, acidic bile stinging her throat. Falling to her knees, she pulled her tunic below her chin and puked.

Daggeira had seen plenty of death and killing in her life, but nothing like that carnage.

She stood, wiping the filth from her lips, and looked away. Anywhere but down. The floors directly over the hall had also been ripped open. Billowing smoke clouded her view. From out of the smoke, heavy chunks of flaming debris fell from the upper command levels, down through the rent open floors, to crash onto the grank pens below. Rings of dust and grit puffed into the air.

Daggeira struggled to make sense of what she saw. For some reason, the granks must have stampeded as rites were being held in the Servants Hall. Some of the granks had flown up on their implanted hover pods. They might still be rampaging upward, tearing open the Zol-Ori from within, deck by deck. If the war beasts were still going up, she better keep moving down. At least the lower levels looked to be intact.

Daggeira found a discarded palukai rifle among the wreckage, where the tattered edge of the floor twisted up and over on itself. Weapon in hand, she headed back to the maintenance shafts and climbed down until she came to a dropship hangar adjacent to the pens.

Inside the hangar, bioluminescent sparks showered down from blown-out light strips, casting shadows into demonic dances across the bulkheads. Sirens blared dire warnings that they were under attack. The entire pyramid shuddered from missile fire detonating on the Zol-Ori’s hull. A chunk of ceiling crashed to the deck, splashing dust and embers into her face. Coughing, she wiped the grit from her eyes.

How under the rocks did this happen?

A trail of blood stained the floor, half-hidden by the settling chalk and ash, leading to the three dropship berths. One of the droppers was gone. Someone had made it off the Zol-Ori.

Two more droppers still waited in their berths. She had a way out.

If only she knew how to fly them.

Standing in the dead center of the dropship hangar, Daggeira mentally ran through each of the catastrophic disasters shattering her life in the past weeks. From the grank stampede they had almost caused on another pyramid; to the nine eyes branded across her back as punishment; to the disastrous infiltration mission on the target planet they now orbited, watching her crewmates killed one by one in front of her; to stumbling toward the brink of death herself, only to wake up surrounded by blasphemy and the traitorous unseen. And when she looked into the center of each disaster, the same face always stared back at her. Even if Daggeira didn’t know how this latest catastrophe had happened, she knew exactly who would be found at its beating heart.

A new, rhythmic thudding pulled Daggeira from her reverie. The heavy plodding steps of a war beast resounded over the rumbles and rattles of the dying battleship. A huge grank emerged from a cloud of toxic dust. Dark human and warseer blood stained its thick legs. Scorch marks and grit coated the biomech’s gray-black plating. Its four green, glowing eyes scanned her as it lumbered out of the tunnel connecting the hangar with the pens. Across its wide back and weapons platforms lay the escaped khvazol humans, staring at her with fearful eyes.

And on top of the war beast rode the catastrophic heart herself, Sabira Stargazer, locking eyes with Daggeira through the smog.

Because of course she is.

The grank stopped in front of her, close enough that Daggeira could reach out and touch its horned snout. Sabira crawled down its side and positioned herself between Daggeira and the grank. Sabira held a palukai of her own and leaned onto it like a staff, vainly trying to hold herself proud and erect. The wan, drained look from overuse of the yarist gem was obvious in Sabira’s every gesture. Plastered with more blood and grime than even the grank behind her, she looked as if she had just slaughtered the whole pyramid herself.

Perhaps she had. Perhaps Trickster’s seed truly had taken root in Sabira’s heart and ripened into something terrible.

I was in the infirmary when . . . Daggeira started. I didn’t want to believe it was you, but I knew. Death and chaos trail you like a shadow, Stargazer. I just knew. When I saw a dropper missing, I thought you were already gone. I didn’t want to believe you could betray us, that you could possibly do this.

Daggeira’s eyes twitched, irritated by the fumes. You should have died on that target planet. We both should have.

I’m not . . . Sabira appeared so exhausted that even speech required too much of her. I’m here for them, that’s my duty now. She nodded toward the khvazol clinging to the biomech.

Nameless cowards and blasphemers? Really? You would fight me for . . . them? Daggeira gestured at the grimy unseen with her palukai.

Sabira pushed Daggeira’s stick aside. I don’t want to fight you. But if you make me . . .

There it was, that anger always just below the surface with Sabira. At least something recognizable remained within her.

Daggs, no one else needs to die here, Sabira said. You could come with us. You could have freedom. Isn’t that better than us killing each other?

Look at you. You can barely stand. You think you can fight me? You think I'm the one who will die here?

Please, don't do this. The Warseers are liars. The Masters are liars. It’s all lies. I can show you. Come with us. Come with me, and I’ll show you.

I heard you, you know. When you were talking to me back on the planet. But I didn’t want to believe it. I thought . . . I thought I must have dreamed it. But it’s true, isn’t it? The Stargazer I knew could never . . .

Daggs, please. There’s so much . . . Just come with us. We can be free, together.

I can’t betray everything I believe in. I’m not like you. I thought I knew who you were, knew your heart. Was I so wrong?

I have a yarist gem. Sabira touched a bulging pocket with her free hand.

You think that will help you? You couldn’t beat me at obezya. You couldn’t beat me when I invoked Conqueror. And you sure as grankshit can’t beat me now. Gem or not. I could take your head if I wanted, and nothing this side of the Gates could stop me. I’d be promoted straight to caller. Maybe even first drum. I’d be covered in glyphs.

We can stop you. A pillow boy stood atop the grank, aiming a palukai at her. We could slag you right now.

The pillow was pretty, but clearly had no idea how to hold a palukai. Daggeira could blast the silly driller to ash and vapor before he squeezed the trigger.

Don’t even try to hurt Sabira, warned the mine rat with them. Our grank will stomp you dead, dead, dead.

Sabira didn’t turn to look but gestured behind her for them to back down. A rapid succession of thudding booms shook the hangar. Showers of hot sparks poured from above.

Daggs, kill me or let us pass. But do it now. Otherwise, we're all going to die in this pyramid.

Daggeira’s left hand twitched as she gripped the palukai tighter. Even if I let you go, they'll come for you. The Warseers will hunt you across the galaxy.

Not where we’re going. Sabira shook her head. They’ll never find us.

And what about the Gods, can you hide from them? You'll never pass through the Gates now. Is freedom really worth that?

The Gods always demand a sacrifice, you were right about that, Sabira said. Whether it’s Warseers hunting me across the stars, or the Gods exiling me from Heaven, if that’s my sacrifice, so be it. But see me now, Daggeira. I see you. I see you like no God or Master ever could. Do you see me, too, here now, before you?

I see you, Stargazer. I always have.

Then believe me, this isn’t a trick. It’s not a game. We can escape the Unity forever. We can travel to the farthest end of the galaxy, together, free. Or we can die here now, together, for nothing. For nothing at all.

I held you to me and kissed your scarred breast beneath the stars and the Shattered Gates of Heaven. Dancer’s holy sweat, I want to go with you. But it feels wrong. It is wrong.

"Maybe we should die here," Daggeira said.

It doesn’t need to be like this. I’m not . . . Sabira pulled back her shoulders, lifted her chin. I’ve changed, Daggs. Maybe the Sabira you knew really did die down there.

The Sabira I knew never could have slaughtered thousands of her own people.

I never wanted that to happen. We just wanted to get away. If there had been another way . . .

It really was you, then. Godsdamn. Daggeira felt as though she saw Sabira for the first time. Even in betrayal, even with the blood of her fellow servants and warseers on her hands, she still thinks she’s righteous. She can’t see the monster she’s turned into.

I prayed, Daggeira said. "With every breath I could barely take on that rooftop, I prayed. Knew I was dying, but I begged Mother of Life to see you. Prayed for She Who Waits to take me if it meant She waited for you a little longer. And I swore that if the Gods somehow saw us both, then I would be Their truest Servant. Don’t you see? They heard my prayers. They saved us. You would still turn your back on Heaven now, after everything?"

It wasn’t the Gods that saved our lives. It was them, my new brood.

New brood? No, Sabira, the Gods saved you, and it was you who saved me. I know what you did. Gave me your last air tank. I remember your breathers were almost finished. Could’ve kept the canister for yourself. Instead, you gave it to me, even though I was already almost . . .

Daggs. Sabira held out her open hand to Daggeira, caked with dried blood, and her eyes pierced through her.

Daggeira had stared into those gorgeous eyes at the peaks of both bliss and dread, and she badly wanted to give in to them. Something was different though, as if they were the same eyes, but someone new stared through them. She turned away from Sabira’s outstretched hand and uncanny gaze.

I can’t betray our Gods, Daggeira said. I can’t betray you, either.

And that, Daggeira realized, was all she had to say. Without another word, she turned her back on Sabira and her new brood of traitors and walked to one of the remaining dropships.

2

ALONE AGAIN, DAGGEIRA scaled up the side of the dropper. She pulled open the outer port of the command cockpit and stopped frozen, overwhelmed by the rows of interfaces and biomech reflexors within. She had gone through basic piloting disciplines, like any servant assigned to an infiltration crew, but she was just an unranked skin. The advanced piloting disciplines were for ranks only. She had little-to-no idea what anything did. At least when she had turned her back on Sabira, she had managed to close the hangar doors on the first try.

You’re better off surviving on your own, she assured herself. Always have been.

Daggeira closed the port behind her and climbed into one of the three seats designed for Gohnzol-Lo Warseers. Within its oversized contours, she felt like a mine rat again. The primary controls were barely within reach. The pilot’s harness was looser than preferred, but she managed to tighten it enough so she wouldn’t float free after leaving the pyramid’s gravity field. She found a nearby strap to tie down her palukai stick.

Scanning the complex interfaces, a few stood out as familiar, and she tested triggering each. With a sigh of relief, the cockpit’s bioluminescent light strips faded on. A holo projection surrounded her with the visual input of the dropship’s sensors. Directly ahead, as seen through the holo, the bay’s outer doors jerked open. Fiery, chaotic destruction raged outside, outshining the milky glare of the local cluster’s crowded stars. Launching the dropper into the losing side of a space battle would mean almost certain death. Not launching, and getting blown up along with the pyramid, would remove all doubts.

Conqueror see me, she whispered. Mother of Life, you’ve shown me Your mercy so far. Please see me still.

Daggeira triggered the ignition sequence and blasted into space. The void churned with stellar-bright webs of plasma fire and the streaking tails of missile barrages. Thank Star Father, the Monarchy forces didn’t appear concerned with targeting a single small ship. Not yet, at least. Daggeira knew little more than how to turn the lights on and ignite the engines. Maneuvering through an active space battle was beyond her capabilities. All she could do was watch.

Enemy Vleez warships filled the holo as bright, hexagonal diamonds unleashing a torrent of missiles at the Zol-Ori. Below, the ringed Vleez homeworld turned from day into night, leaving only a green-and-purple crescent against the black. Farther off, another Unity battleship pyramid, holo-identified as the Ihvik-Ri, and a swarm of smaller attack ships, unleashed a cascade of massive plasma bolts on the Monarchy forces. Standing sentinel at polar opposites of the battle, the clear, bright sun of the target system and the bloody smear of the Shattered Gates nebula.

She needed to get to the Ihvik-Ri but had no idea how. The pyramid where she’d been stationed before the attack on the target planet may not be any safer, but it was home.

Behind her, another dropper burst from the Zol-Ori—Sabira and her new brood. Immediately, the second dropper spiraled around a wave of enemy missiles and arced toward open space, away from the battle. How under the rocks could Sabira fly like that?

Should I do the same? Fly as straight and fast as I can, and leave this madness and death behind? Let the stars choose my fate?

It didn’t take the stars to make Daggeira realize what her fate would be. Droppers were made to shuttle servants and granks from pyramid to landfall and back, not extended journeys into deep space. Didn’t even have artificial gravity. Without an aku-vayk engine to travel faster than light, she’d freeze or starve before making it as far as the target planet’s nearest moon.

All those stars, and none of them for me.

The clamor of metal striking metal came from below. Daggeira hadn’t come up through the crew hold. If someone else had made it on board, perhaps they could pilot the ship. If it was a warseer, though, would they label her a deserter? Save her life only to redeem it within the clutches of a sacrificial altar? Could also be one of Sabira’s treacherous brood. The pretty pillow who thought he could fire a stick like a disciplined servant, perhaps he had come to claim some kind of misguided heroism.

Nothing more she could do in the cockpit anyway. Better to find out who was down there, and what they intended, sooner rather than later. Daggeira released the harness, freed her palukai from the strap, and took the small lift down to the next deck.

The lift doors slid open to reveal the dimly lit servants’ hold. Two rows of human-sized harnesses, enough to transport a task of twenty-seven servants, formed three aisles down the length of the hold. She could see down the middle aisle, but the left and right were dark and blocked from view. A muffled wheezing came from the aisle to her left.

She called out, If you followed me looking for a fight, I’m right here.

Another muffled wheeze was the only reply.

Daggeira pushed off with the slightest twitch of her ankle and floated forward. After stopping her momentum with a harness, a nearby movement caught her attention. Something floated lazily through the air. From starboard aft, small blobs drifted under the dim light strips. The blobs were fluid, red as . . . blood.

Less worried about an ambush, yet still keeping her palukai ready, Daggeira pushed herself to her left and peered down the starboard aisle. A bloody mess of a man hovered at the back, low to the deck, face down with one leg crudely tangled in a harness strap. A medic kit rotated weightlessly beside him. The wheezing sound was his slow, wet breathing.

She launched toward him, still keeping the stick ready just in case, and grabbed another harness to stop about a meter away. You look like hammered grankshit.

When he didn’t respond, she reached out with her palukai, wedged it under his shoulder, and rotated him over. The moment his grimy, blood-splattered face turned into view she gasped and let go of her stick. Grabbing a handful of his bloodstained uniform, she pulled the two of them together. A mound of red, inflamed flesh encased his right eye. His left eye, biomech silver, slowly blinked and twitched. A few teeth were missing behind swollen lips. The worst wound, however, was his left hand. He had it wrapped in a wet, soiled tunic. Red globules pulsed from the soaked-through cloth and hovered, quivering in the air.

Don’t worry, Attendant Spear, I got you. She caught the spinning med kit and pried it open.

Sabira? He asked for his blood-granddaughter, then coughed and spat something thick and viscous from his mouth.

No, Attendant, it’s me, Daggeira. She quickly scanned through the kit. Cannon had been the crew’s medic; he would have known instantly what to do. If his face hadn’t been melted off by the drilling infidels.

Sabira . . . Must . . . Sabira . . . Spear reached out his bloody, bandaged hand.

Sabira, Sabira, Sabira, always Sabira. Even now.

Growing up in the aggie caverns of Nahgohn-Za, Daggeira had tended to many wounded and sick animals, and in the Servants, she had been disciplined on the basics of battlefield first aid. She bandaged Attendant Spear’s hand and stanched the blood flow from the stumps of three severed fingers. She had just placed the stinger to his neck to inject him with painkillers and antibiotics when the speaker membranes throughout the ship came to life with a shrieking hiss.

The hiss ended and Gohnzol-Lo Warseer’s voice urgently called from the speakers in the high language. "All ships of the Holy Unity, fall back to the Pyramid Ihvik-Ri. You have nine hundred seconds to comply. Otherwise, regroup at rendezvous point seven-dash-seven. This is a command for full withdrawal. Repeating. All ships of the Holy Unity…"

Chewing on her bottom lip, Daggeira quickly dug through the med kit again, looking for a stimulant. Though it felt like it took forever, she found the right stinger. The old man spasmed and gasped soon after the injection.

A fit of deep, wet coughs racked through him and would have sent him tumbling if his leg wasn’t snagged in the harness. He coughed up a thick, moist glob of crimson before he finally stilled himself. His biomech eye darted around as he appeared to get his bearings. All the while, the transmitted command to withdraw counted down the remaining seconds.

Attendant, can you hear me?

He craned his neck toward her. I hear you, servant. But you’re . . . my vision is blurry. Where are we?

"In a dropper a few kilometers out from the Zol-Ori, she said. Just the two of us."

"And we need to get the Ihvik-Ri before they leave without us," he said.

We do. But like I was saying, it’s just us. No pilot.

Wait. He twisted his head stiffly back and forth, looking for something. Sabira. Where’s Sabira? Have you seen her?

Daggeira ground her teeth before forcing her mouth open to speak. I’m sorry, Attendant. I don’t know where Sabira is.

We have to find her.

"We have orders, Attendant. We have to return to the Ihvik-Ri. Not that it makes a difference either way."

No, he said quietly. No, you’re right. We go to the pyramid.

But Attendant, see me now. There’s no drilling pilot.

He smiled as much as his swollen and bruised face could allow, revealing dark gaps of missing teeth. "Now, you see me. We never stop. Never. And whatever happens next, live or die, we face it together. Just drag me up to the cockpit . . . and pray Conqueror sees us one more time."

3

HAD THEY BEEN under gravity, lugging Attendant Spear’s dead weight to the cockpit would have taken far too long, and the strain put on his injuries might have killed him. Though the lack of gravity helped, every bump sent him spinning and drifting. After she finally got him settled, with Spear’s calm and precise instructions, she maneuvered the dropper’s trajectory toward the Pyramid Ihvik-Ri and steadily pushed its engines harder. Somehow, the Gods continued to see them, and neither side’s weaponry targeted the dropper.

The constant drone of the warseer’s transmission scratched at her nerves. The countdown neared the four-hundred-second mark as the pyramid grew closer in the holo displays.

Conqueror sees us, Spear croaked.

We did it together, Attendant. Just like you said. First round of diggers beer is on me.

Then the Zol-Ori blew up.

Their dropship lurched. Decompression alarms blared. The holo display reeled dizzyingly with twirling images of the Ihvik-Ri, the massive fireball that had been the Zol-Ori, and the purple-green crescent of the target planet. Daggeira’s guts slammed into her throat. The screech of multiple, desperate alarms grew to a deafening pitch.

The blast of overwhelming sensory input suddenly crystallized. Like a finely crafted machine, each sensation and data flow found their precise niche in her awareness. The dropper rotated on multiple axes, causing the vast hull of the pyramid to slide into view from a new direction every other moment. Her mind fell into sync with the chaotic pattern, predicting where and when the pyramid would appear. In some distant part of herself, Daggeira recognized her shift in consciousness as being similar to the effects of pitters brew. Except she felt no burning aggression driving her, or acidic scorching in her belly, as sensory input and physical reflexes coalesced into a sublime wholeness.

The lower holds of the dropper were decompressing, but the cockpit remained sound. Next to each seat, a compartment opened to offer emergency breathing masks and oxygen tanks. She fit the oversized mask over her nose and mouth as tightly as she could and strapped the tank over her back. From the edges of the mask, a transparent membrane unfurled and sealed itself around her head and neck. If the cockpit decompressed, at least she’d have a few extra moments before her eyes crystalized in their sockets.

A new message replaced the retreat countdown transmission. The disembodied voice called to them directly, saying that the dropper was tumbling toward the pyramid at a dangerous velocity. They must get the ship under control within seventy-two seconds or be vaporized.

She released her harness, but centrifugal forces held her to the pilot’s seat. Pushing off with her legs, she managed to reach Spear’s station. His one open eye rolled up in its socket, and she couldn’t tell if he was conscious. She put his mask on, released his harness, and pressed the membrane of her mask against his.

Live or die, Attendant, she said.

Spear’s biomech eye rolled down to meet hers.

Together, he said.

Fifty-four seconds.

They pushed and pulled their way to the port. All the while, part of her continued to flow in synchronicity with the rotating appearance of the pyramid. It loomed so large now, it was impossible for the holo to display more than two edges of its rectangular hull at once. When they turned away from the Ihvik-Ri, fiery blossoms of orange and green streaked through the black from where the Zol-Ori had been.

Forty seconds.

Daggeira wrapped her arm around his thick back close and held tight to his tunic. He gave the slightest of nods and interlocked his arms around her.

Daggeira let the synchronicity envelop her completely. A fraction of a second too early or late and they’d be lost, frozen and falling forever. Even with perfect timing, they could still die from hypothermia before the pyramid picked them up. Not that they had another choice.

She held up three fingers before Spear’s eye so that he could see them through the membrane.

Two fingers. They each took a deep breath in.

One finger. They pushed all the air from their lungs.

Fist.

Without having to look, she punched the release, and the port blew open. The rush of decompression kicked them out of the cockpit and into open void.

Daggeira quaked and shivered from the terrible cold, even as the exposed skin of her hands burned from the unfiltered rays of the local sun. Panic flared when she couldn’t see the pyramid. At this range, it was too huge to miss. Had she drilled the timing after all? Through the membrane, she saw the dark silhouette of the wildly spinning dropship, backlit by the burning shell of the Zol-Ori, and realized she faced the wrong direction. She tried to crane her neck to look where they were headed, but her muscles were locked and frozen. The gilded crimson edge of the Ihvik-Ri’s biomech hull just touched her peripheral vision.

Barrages of searing heat and crimson light flashed from the pyramid’s cannons. The silhouette of the dropship exploded into vapor and white-hot shrapnel.

The mechanical precision of her thoughts and senses turned hazy, stuttering. Daggeira no longer felt her arms or legs, only the reassuring pressure of the old man’s body pressed against hers. All she could hear was the thrum of her pulse. She focused all her will on not inhaling. If she did, her lungs would explode inside her chest.

Shrapnel from the dropper shot through her lower belly like a jagged bullet. Blood spat from between her hips. She gasped, involuntarily sucking in air. The hit sent them rotating, and the towering hull of the Ihvik-Ri finally came into view as her chest burned.

Oily blue light enclosed the pyramid in a vast shimmering eggshell—the battleship’s aku-vayk engines slicing them off from the surrounding void. Thank Mother of Life’s mercy, they were on the inside of the shell. Sealed within the egg of warped space along with the pyramid, they hurled motionlessly through the cosmos, faster than light itself.

4

DAGGEIRA AWOKE TO a pair of strong hands pulling her out of constricting darkness. Rubbery layer after layer curled back, parting like moist lips one within the other, allowing her head and shoulders to emerge. Silvery vines fell from her mouth and nostrils, and she breathed in deeply. She caught rich, musky scents with twinges of biomech oils. Daggeira’s bleary vision quickly came into focus. From the bust down, she was encased in a large botanical pod. Blood-red veins pulsed through its pulpy silver and green layers in rhythm with her heartbeat. She struggled to free her arms, but they were secured within the deeper leaves. Panic swelled in her sternum.

"Servant Daggeira, welcome back to the Ihvik-Ri," said a nearby male voice.

The Ihvik-Ri? Home. She was back home. Translated into Khvaziz, the name meant best of the best. She always liked that. She was right where she belonged.

The man stood on a nearby raised platform and towered over her. He took two steps down to be at eye level. His stark features were tinged by the red-tuned light strips. He observed her with intent, slate-gray eyes, and bore the Medics glyph on his right cheek.

What? I thought I was . . . Daggeira trailed off.

You almost were, he said.

Who are you?

"Temporary designation Pyramid Ihvik-Ri-Pod Station One-First Tier Medic Three." He wasn’t a servant or chosen, so he hadn’t earned a name, only a temporary designation.

First Tier Medic Three, get me out of this. Now.

I’m sorry, but I can’t yet, he said. I’ve been instructed to leave you and Attendant Spear in the omoloz pods for another three shifts.

Spear? He survived?

He’s in the next chamber over. First Tier Medic Three indicated the bulkhead to his left. An intricate network of silver-green vines clung to the dull gray walls and plugged into biomech sockets dotting its surface. Deep red arteries pulsed through their fractal branches. Warseers commanded I keep you separated for now. Soon as that command is lifted, I’ll let you know.

She Who Waits will have to wait a little longer, Daggeira whispered. The swell of panic had been tamed by the news of Spear’s survival, but as long as she was kept immobilized within the pod, it would remain a cold, heavy lump. Conqueror sees me.

Gods be praised, I think you’re right. First Tier Medic Three’s eyes darted up to the ceiling and back. "And They aren’t the only ones. Attendant Bolta