Sea of Stars (9 page)

“Probably because you moved your troops to the borders of Peney first. Don’t try to spin this. You guys were there when I arrived in Rafe.”

From the pocket of his uniform, Kyon pulls out a silver disk. He touches it to the manacles on my wrists; it sticks to them like a magnet. Lights flash as it makes a high-pitched sound until one cuff clicks open on my wrist. “I wouldn’t dream of spinning anything with you. You’re a Diviner of Truth.” I don’t try to correct him with the fact that I can discern only lies, not necessarily the truth. He plucks the disk off the cuff, transferring it to the other one as he remarks, “You cannot deny that Rafe went looking for you at the same time as we did. That wasn’t an accident. They have an agenda, Kricket.” When my other restraint clicks open, I’m unable to hold myself up. Kyon catches me in his arms before I fall down. With a deep scowl, he murmurs, “You’re weak.”

“I’m fine,” I say, as my cheek rests against his neck. I’m really not fine, though. I feel like I may pass out at any second. Black dots swim in my vision.

Trying to focus on something concrete, I stare at Kyon’s tribal tattoos on his throat. They’re military—a distinction for those who serve, but Kyon’s are more than that because they’re unlike the ones I saw on Forester or Lecto, his former bodyguards. He has special markings, about which I know nothing. Whereas Trey’s markings are black swirls and flowing lines, Kyon’s are more like black, connected crop circles.

“How long were you unconscious?” he asks, holding me to him.

I lift my head from him trying to gain some distance, “Long enough.”

“You never even had a chance to see me change our plan, did you?” he asks.

“You wouldn’t be here if I did.”

He scoffs at my bravado. “I think you overestimate your skills for diplomacy. You’re Alameeda; no one here can see past that.”

“All of you Etharians are racists. You guys pretend to be more progressive than humans, but it’s really just a front. You hate each other for the most ridiculous reasons: different eye color, hair color, and skin tone. Seriously, I know a stylist in the ’hood who can make you a brunet in less than an hour.”

“That’s an oversimplification of the situation.”

“Is it? Okay, let’s lay it on the line: your lifestyle choices scare the hell outta me. You can’t own people. It’s wrong!”

“We take care of our priestesses. We make you our consorts.”

“That’s bullshit if there’s no choice, and you know it!”

“Every civilization on both of our worlds has slavery.”

“Not legally. Not anymore.”

“But it exists, legal or otherwise, correct?”

I ignore his point. “But it’s wrong. Might does not make right,” I retort.

“Become mightier than me and we’ll discuss it.”

He lifts me onto my feet, putting his enormous hand on the back of my neck. He bends like he’s about to scoop me up off my feet, but I stop him. “I can walk,” I say testily, trying to shrug off his possessive paw gripping me. His hand tightens, causing me to wince.

“You’re still weak. Do I need to cut your hair again?” he asks.

“No,” I mumble. Under my breath I add, “You total freak.”

Kyon walks me past Geteron’s corpse. I want to kick Geteron because if he’d listened to me in the beginning, he’d probably still be alive. When we reach the doorway of the interrogation room, Kyon slips his hand around my waist, pulling me to his side. He raps on the door. It swings open to show a handful of heavily armed Alameeda soldiers. Amid them is a slight, waifish form of an Alameeda priestess. Her look is Goth-like, with thick, black eyeliner, making her blue eyes resemble hot-spring pools ringed with volcanic sand. Her hair is long, platinum, and wavy, pulled back in a ponytail. Attired in a dark Alameeda military uniform, she looks delicate despite the sharp lines it creates on her.

In my confusion, my mouth gapes as Rafe soldiers walk through the corridor near us. No one raises an eyebrow or sounds an alarm. It’s as if we don’t exist to them. I scream to a pair of soldiers who get close to us, “Hey! Over here! Help me!” I wave my arm, but I can’t get anyone’s attention; they just walk on by as if nothing is out of the norm. I want to cry, but I clamp down on my emotions as my respiration doubles.

Kyon’s hand shifts to my nape again. “They can’t hear you,” he warns.

“Why?” I retort.

Goth-girl’s eyebrows raise in surprise. Maybe she can’t believe the tone I’ve taken with him, or my hostility, or the fact that I’m resisting him at all, I don’t know, but it startles her. She murmurs, “You’ve become a shadow to them, and like all shadows, you’re dark and silent.”

“Is that your schtick? Making us shadows?” I ask scathingly.

“Schtick?” she echoes in confusion. “What is schtick?” She looks to Kyon for guidance.

“Ignore her, Phlix,” he advises. “She’s a savage.”

I can hardly believe what I just heard. I let loose on him, “
I’m
the savage? Me? I’m not the one bent on eradicating whole houses of Etharians. That’s you, freaks!” I point to all of them.

Kyon ignores me, “Lead us out of here, Phlix,” he orders Goth-girl.

“What did she mean about us eradicating whole houses of Etharians?” Phlix asks in a weak, whispery voice.

Kyon doesn’t bother to answer her question, but barks, “Phlix!”

His tone startles her; she must be unaccustomed to him yelling at her, especially in a tense situation like this one. She turns and leads us away from the interrogation room, past laughing Rafe Brigadets gathered around another animated soldier who is telling the story of how Trey shot me with the freston, restarting my heart.

All around me, life continues as if we don’t exist. Whenever someone comes across our path, we skirt them, maneuvering against walls. It doesn’t sit well with the brawny Alameeda soldiers that Kyon has amassed, though. Their disdain for their enemies is apparent in the way they hold out their guns to the heads of the oblivious who pass us by.

As we walk, I size up my genetic rival, frightened by her power. But when she glances back at me, I don’t get the sense that she sees me as her enemy, much less her rival. Phlix is simply curious about the savage priestess Kyon has uncovered.

While we weave our way up and out of the underbelly of the floating city, the unsuspecting citizens surrounding me make my stomach ache. They have no idea that their world is about to end. Entering the deck level of the ship, I shield my eyes from the streaming sunshine that illuminates through the geometric windows.

We pass through great domed lobbies with gleaming floors and lush atriums; they make the City Insurance Building where I once worked in Chicago look like a hovel. To my right is a beautifully appointed cafeteria-style dining station where officers and their staff are eating at round tables. Delicate urns of kafcan arise from the center of tables on gleaming trays. Embedded in the tables are menus whose selections are delivered by floating tray-bots. The aroma of the food is enough to make my stomach growl. It’s been too long since I’ve had something to eat.

Feeling faint, I sway against Kyon. My hand goes to Kyon’s back in an attempt to keep myself on my feet. Kyon pauses for a moment. Holding me to his side with his arm around my waist, he lets me rest my cheek against his chest. He strokes my hair. “My little savage isn’t infallible after all? Shall I carry you?” he asks.

My hand brushes up against something cold and steely holstered on his thigh. I snatch the weapon off him, holding his harbinger in my hand. I press the Gatling-like barrels up under his chin. “Welcome to the future,” I murmur. My hand trembles from the weight of the weapon. “You’re on time delay, Kyon. You do only what I want you to do.” I bluff, as if this is all part of my plan.

I back away from him, keeping his harbinger that I have no idea how to fire pointed at him. His entourage trains their weapons on me. Kyon waves them off as he barks, “I kill anyone who harms her!” He brings his eyes back to me and says, “Kricket, no one wants you here. You need to come home now. I’ll take care of you.”

“I’m not a part of your cult! You don’t own me,” I growl. Stumbling back from them, ice-cold air permeates the space. I push through it, stirring black smoky swirls around me. The smoke rises in plumes and evaporates into the air as I burst from within Phlix’s shadow world bubble.

I bump into the table behind me, scattering the contents of a half-eaten meal unto the floor. The soldiers at the table jerk to their feet, startled by my sudden appearance among them out of thin air. I shiver in dread, no longer able to see Kyon and his entourage in their circle of secrecy. I push past the table, colliding with a chair and almost falling over it. A Brigadet reaches for me; I turn the harbinger on him. He raises his hands to me in surrender. I randomly swing Kyon’s weapon around, pointing it in the most unprofessional way at anyone who comes near me as I continue to retreat.

“The Alameeda are here!” My tone is desperate with unshed tears. “They’re going to kill all of you if you don’t stop them! You have to do something!” I look at their faces frantically. “Do something! Please!”

A Rafe soldier near me draws his weapon, but he doesn’t point it in my direction. Instead, he asks, “Where are they?”

I take a gasping breath, choking back my urge to cry at his apparent acceptance of what I’m saying. “They’re right there!” I stab my finger in Kyon’s direction, repeating, “They’re right there.”

He lifts his harbinger and fires at the spot I indicate. Nothing happens.

“Do it again! I swear they’re there!” I insist.

He fires again, and then pauses. It’s silent for several seconds. Watching the spot in the center of the lobby, I search for any movement. Then, I jump in horror as the ear-piercing, sickening sound of ammunition rounds are pumped into the crowd of Brigadets and civilians standing in the commissary. The scent of weapon fire and blood vapor fills the room along with the screaming voices of Brigadets returning fire on thin air. Suddenly, one of the hulking Alameeda soldiers from Kyon’s hunting party falls out of the invisible circle, writhing in pain from a wound to his abdomen. He clutches his middle, trying to stave off the flow of blood wetting the ground. He reaches out in the direction of the empty space in front of him, motioning for them to pull him back into their cloak of invisibility.

Someone near me screams, “Alameeda!”

Kyon comes crashing out of the hidden circle, black smoke swirling in a disturbed burst around him. He murders three soldiers with precision shots before they even know he’s there, but he never stops moving in my direction. Behind him, some of his men come into view, killing Brigadets as they trail him, protecting his flank. Kyon bashes heavy tables out of his path. I’m frozen in fear for a few moments, and then I turn, desperately searching for a way to escape. I plow forward, squirming between the soldiers who are now wholly engaged in the firefight with their enemies. I glance over my shoulder. Kyon is only steps behind me, killing everyone in his path. Because I’m watching him, I miss the hovering service-bot bussing a table of dirty dishes in front of me. Plates shatter onto the floor when I crash into it. The robot holds its ground by forcing me sideways. I smash into the dirty-dish receptacle embedded in the wall, almost falling into its conveyor chute.

With Kyon bearing down on me, he points an accusing finger as he promises, “You will learn to obey me!”

I turn away from him, frantically squeezing myself headfirst into the small dish chute in the wall. It’s a conveyor system used to transport dirty dishes to a place called the dishery. My shoulders barely fit within the chrome-lined space; it’s so tight that I have to round my back so the sensors along the walls and ceiling won’t abrade me. As I enter, thousands of tiny little round air holes beneath me propel me forward into the darkness of the sloping tunnel. It feels as if I’m floating on a magic carpet of air as I glide along, my hair lifting and pushing and slapping me in the face.

From behind me, Kyon’s stern voice calls out my name in frustration. Reaching his long arm in, he grasps the toe of my boot, but I kick back as hard as I can and it slips from his fingers, allowing me to slide away. “Kricket!” Kyon howls my name again, eliciting terror in my frantic heart.

Though I continue moving away from him, I’m too shaken to feel any relief. It takes me a second to realize that choking sobs are racking my body while I move at a steady pace for a bit in the near absence of light. Twisting and turning, I’m gently rolled along the dish corridor, a passenger in the aftermath of a monstrous tea party. Up ahead, light flickers and before long I’m unceremoniously shifted onto an adjoining air-powered conveyor where I’m whisked off at a much faster pace. This corridor leads to an open factorylike area. With a gasping sigh, I’m able to sit up and move my arms as the conveyor of air flows into another enormous one. A menagerie of stained dining settings and sticky utensils surround me that range from chintz to futuristic elegance. I spy the matte-black harbinger that I’d stolen from Kyon among the rabble of dinnerware. Reaching for it, I take the heavy weapon in my hand and stuff it under my shirt against the waistband of my pants. Looking over the side of the conveyor, a Penrose-stairs-like maze of conveyor lines come and go in a seemingly infinite paradox of wine-resin stemware and kitsch plates. I shiver at the size of this facility and desperately search around for a way out.

Ahead of me, robotic arms line both sides of my conveyor. Nimble metal claws select drinking glasses, tumblers, mugs, and flutes from the chaos of floating china, sorting them into racks that get transferred to a different conveyor line. Unable to find a way off this river of air sweeping me forward, I throw my arms around my head and duck as I come abreast of the surgically extracting arms. A scanner passes over me, but nothing else happens. The robots continue to select only the drinking glasses from the mess and leave me be.

I breathe a sigh of relief, but it’s short-lived, because rows of bristly rollers line the conveyor ahead of me. Thrusting back and forth and side to side, the bristles roll over the plates and cutlery, scraping away excess food. The food is pushed off to troughs on the sides of the conveyors and shuttled away onto different conveyors.