Luna's Crescent Edge

Luna Sévoss belonged to the infamous Sévoss Family of assassins. Well known amongst the Elravians, but always spoken of in hushed, fearing tones. They were known to work with the element of air - their victims were always found with nary a mark on their body, but their lungs collapsed from the air being forcefully pulled from their bodies. The smallest prick from their Edge (scythe-like weapon designed by an ancestor), and the elemental effect would take their life-breath and leave them dead. For generations the Sévoss Family had been taking out members of the royal family, their reasons their own and unknown. The royal family finally had enough when the crown prince was assassinated by the Sévoss. They sent their pet killing machine, Arial Vaharic, to take out the Sévoss Family. She wiped out all but one of them. She left a young girl who she believed posed no threat. She was wrong. Luna Sévoss was filled with rage and a thirst for revenge, but she knew she was no match for the immortal royal guard. She spent the next 20 years training and murdering her way through lesser nobility for practice. Arial was her true target, and the time was nearing. She had spent weeks trailing Arial, learning her schedule and habits, devising a plan to take her out. While doing so she began to notice that Arial seemed to be...slipping. It seemed the perfect time to strike. But then...Arial disappeared. No trace of her on the planet. The royal family was in an uproar and panicking. Luna was beyond livid. 20 years of training, and her mark just vanishes. She would never know the sweet taste of revenge as Arial’s life-breath was pulled from her. She would never see the look of panic in her eyes as she realized her stupidly long life, was at last, coming to an end. Luna saw only red as she descended on the palace the following new moon under cover of full dark. She went from room to room, killing anyone who had the misfortune to cross her path. Royal family members, servants, guards - they all fell beneath her ice cold rage. But even the hundreds of lives she took that night could not satiate her desire for revenge. She left Elravia the next day. She had a senile royal guard to find, and it was time to go hunting. Luna Sévoss wasn’t successful and died bitterly still seeking revenge, but her Edge has been found at long last. Who found it? Where was it? 

***

“Sir, I don’t mean to be a pain, but -“ “Well, then don’t be. Get your gear and head to the shuttle. They diverted a whole damn frigate for your ass.” This was not how my morning was supposed to go. I was on for fourteen hours yesterday, mostly on foot patrol, and I should still be passed out in my rack right now. I should be sleeping off the booze I pounded down before bed last night. I should be, well… not standing in front of my red-faced CO. But, here I am just the same. Footlocker packed and orders in hand. I just cannot fathom why, though. “Sir, yes, but… TDY to The Vault, sir?” Uh oh, one eyebrow going up. I should stop, but the words keep coming out. “I know the Magnus likes to say how everyone has a part to play, but I’m just general infantry.” He huffs. “Yes, I’m well aware how green you are, Lance Corporal.” Emphasis on the rank. And the “green.” I’ve pissed him off. “HQ says they need you at The Vault, you go to The Vault. Dismissed.” “Sir.” Evidence to the contrary, I know better than to keep the conversation going. Looks like I’m moving out. 

***

It’s a short walk to the landing pad, where the shuttle is idling in the fog. I can’t say I’ll be sad to get away from Albain, with its ever-present low-hanging clouds and damp air. It’s the polar opposite of the dry breeze from home. Always soggy and musty. Even with a quick sprint, my service cap is beaded with water. A crew member is on the gantry, taking my stuff from a drone cart and tossing it aboard. I wince as my footlocker thuds to the deck. Like the CO, this guy seems ticked. “You Ord Mest?” He shouts over the whine of the engines. He keeps throwing gear aboard, never breaking to make eye contact. “Yeah, that’s -“ “Great,” he interrupts, throwing a thumb back over his shoulder. “Get in and buckle up. They’re already red hot up top about being delayed because of you.” “Ah, I didn’t…” Shut it, no sense arguing. I’ve offended enough people today with my mere presence as it is. I mutter a thanks and climb aboard. A minute later, and we’re bursting through the cloud cover. For the first time in months, I can see stars. 

***

The frigate is quiet. I stick to one of the common areas, an out of the way rec room. I don’t have a berth, so it’s just me and my gear. I take a couple restless naps, stare at the stars as we go FTL, and give my equipment a good once-over. My weapons are stowed in the armory, but it’s a nice opportunity to bust out the tactical sponge and get the grime out from between the keys of my data pad. My orders have got me perplexed. It’s temporary duty for three months, to The Vault, and that is it. Be there ASAP, and “see local command,” are the only real instructions. There is no one to report to, no housing info, no base access requirements… it’s like being summoned by a king. It’s not normal. I pack my things up again. Put the cleaning supplies away. Run a few laps around the room. I check the vids they have. Eighty-thousand titles and they all suck. Bleh. I pull my service cap over my eyes, and poorly sleep. *** There’s no sound in space, so it’s kind of ironic that the first thing you notice coming out of light speed is the acoustics. There is a distinct thump from the engines as they transition to sub light. It’s the sound of running something over without the physical sensation. Kicks you right in the gut. My comm buzzes. Command bridge. “Lance Corporal Mest, we’re approaching The Vault. Be at air lock three in fifteen minutes. Your belongings will be offloaded at that time. Over.” “Uh, yeah, copy. Over.” It has been a relatively short trip, at least. This rig covered a lot of ground really quick. It wasn’t days and days sitting in this chair, wondering what the heck I’m going to do with myself at the… …Vault. Wow. Back home, the biggest thing I ever saw was the grain elevators we filled up at harvest time. I remember looking up at them in awe, craning my neck to take it all in. Back then, it didn’t seem possible that anyone could build something so huge; as if the divine had come down to plant them amidst the fields. My time in the service had quickly disabused me of the notions that a simple grain elevator was an impressive piece of architecture. From battle cruisers to orbital shipyards, I’ve seen plenty after I traded in a sickle and crops for a rifle and battalion. But this! The Vault was beyond massive. The perimeter was made up of overlapping defenses, enormous gun platforms sailing over each other and atop shimmering deflector shields. The pieces shifted constantly, creating a writhing cube amidst the void. Well, it seemed to be a cube. It appeared to go on forever; I had never seen anything constructed in space that had its own horizon line, but The Vault was so large that its end disappeared beyond my view. It was like looking at a small planet. The frigate approached a shield gate, a massive structure big enough to support a carrier. It bristled with weapons and sensor arrays. The gleaming outer shield flickered and disappeared, and we flew in. A minute passed as the ship was scanned, a red beam dancing across the hull from stem to stern. After a moment’s hesitation, the outer shields came back online, the inner shield dropped, and we were in. As we exited the defensive line, the internal structure swung into view. There were docks and habitats, repair bays and fighter hangers, and a few incredibly ornate modules that looked drastically out of place amongst the utilitarian superstructure. But the overwhelming majority of the place, by a thousand-to-one ratio, was taken up by a web of enormous containers. Each module was like a monolithic slab, smooth and dense looking, as if they might sink under their weight even in zero-g. Connecting each was a tangled mass of support cables, as thick as a destroyer in some cases. The floated in their web, floating free yet locked in place within the defense grid. I am no expert on secret sites, but you do hear stories. The official line is that The Vault’s just a long-term storage facility, meant for holding the random stuff that the CCAS has collected over the years. But there are always rumors. It is a black site prison for super-powered beings. That they keep a demented god locked away inside. It’s a bio-hacking facility to create a super solider. That every exotic, legendary grail you could name is encased within. It is the origin point of The Precursors… I’m fairly sure someone once told me the secret recipe for Kola Fizz was held there under lock and key. Seeing the place in person, I’m thinking all of it may actually be true. Yet, despite all the protection, I can also tell something awful has happened here. There’s debris. Not the normal flotsam you see hanging around a station; this is burned, blown up, torn apart chunks of metal and machinery. The docking port we’re saddling up to looks fine, but the next one down is nearly obliterated: the hatch has been ripped away, and a fire from inside the station has scorched the hull. I’ve been in war zones more appealing than this. And I really wish I had a gun handy. 

***

A porter drone is waiting at the airlock with my stuff. It gives me a succinct beep as an acknowledgment. We wait in silence as the docking clamps do their thing. The hatch finally opens with a pressurized hiss, and I am in. I immediately wish I wasn’t. It smells like burned electrical wiring and a chemical fire. There’s no smoke, but it’s permeated every surface. The off-gassing is terrible. Should have worn a helmet, apparently. There’s no visible sign of damage, at least not yet. The hallway is dimly lit. It’s brighter than emergency lighting, but not by much. It’s the minimal amount you would use on a partially staffed facility. The place is weird. The drone skitters ahead, down the hall and to the right, and disappears out of sight. Now I’m alone, no one to greet me. Fine by me, everyone has been rude so far anyway. I run into a sign that things are off at the first T-junction: to the left the emergency hatch is sealed shut, indicative of a pressure failure. There’s soot on the walls, I’m guessing residue from whatever fire broke out on the other side. Explains the smell. I take a peek through the port hole. It’s black. Real black. It might as well be a tomb on the other side with the lighting dead. Slowly, my eyes adjust thanks to a trickle of light coming in from the gouge in outer plating. I can just make out silhouettes of debris spinning lazily in zero gravity. There is a mess of wires and pipes and cabling, shattered deck plates and refiber. I lean in a little closer, and cup around my eye, trying to get a better view… Which is when the corpse’s face bumps into the window. I backpedal, letting out a stunted yelp that I’m too surprised by to be embarrassed about. My ankle catches a bulkhead, I stumble, and fall to the deck - hard. The bag I had over my shoulder skids away. Ouch. Ankle hurts, but I don’t think it’s anything major. It’ll be fine, eventually. When I look up, the body is still there, floating in front of the port hole. What’s left of it, anyway. Decompression does not do good things to a body. But this? This was not that. The skin was grey and shriveled, desiccated like a mummy from an old docuvid. Vacuum, flames, plasma blasts… I have seen what all those do. I have never seen this. It’s slowly drifting off, face turned away from me now, swallowed up in shadow. I get up, brush myself off. My tailbone hurts, and the ankle is going to be a beast, but I’m okay. I am mostly annoyed at my reaction. I’ve seen plenty of bodies, but they don’t usually float up into my face aboard spooky space stations. The porter drone appears from somewhere down the hall behind me. It slows as it weaves around me and my bag, lets out another brief beep, and whirs off to the airlock. I watch as the hatch shuts, the clamps disengage, and the hull of the frigate replaced by empty space. In hindsight, the rain on Albain suddenly doesn’t seem so bad anymore. 

***

I gather up my bag, and start heading down the other branch of the hall. It’s still dim, but I can see light from a doorway up ahead on the left. There’s a voice as I get closer; I’m hoping that means no more dead bodies. No dead bodies, but as I round the corner and immediately get yelled at. I’m sensing a theme. “Mest, I presume?” the Solean barks at me as I enter. “Did you take a garbage scowl longways-round getting here? Forget how to strap on your boots? Fall face-first into the head?” A room full of people are staring at me, a motley collection of troopers, technicians, pilots… the works. “No, sir. Sorry, sir,” I mutter, taking my place in the lineup. He looks even more annoyed, probably on account of my mumbling, but lets it go. Thank goodness. The whole setup is strange. Aside from the bizarre group assembled with me, there’s the Solean officer; he’s in a security forces service uniform, and judging by his emblems, he’s the highest ranked person whose bad-side I’ve gotten on today. That I know of. There are two others behind him, skulking in the darkest part of the room. The first guy is human, civilian clothing, but the buzz cut screams prior military. He’s disinterested and absorbed in whatever is on his data pad’s screen. The other is an Automata seemingly quaking in its seat. I didn’t know Automata fidgeted, but this one does. The only other thing in the room is a table with a crate on it. That is it. There’s no equipment, no vid screens, no character at all. It looks like a room someone set up for a murder. This is officially the weirdest roll call I have ever been in. “As I was stating,” the officer said, shooting me a look of disapproval. “This facility and everything in it are rated top secret. If you were not previously cleared at this level, you are hereby temporarily authorized.” He paced down the line, looking us each in the eyes. “As such, what you see here is classified. What you hear while you are aboard is classified. The tests we will be running are classified. Is that clear?” “Sir, yes, sir!” “When you return to the fleet, you are not to discuss anything about this experience with your peers. You are not to discuss it with your commanding officers. You are not to discuss it with your families, your friends, or even your pets.” He stopped in front of me, and gave me a hard stare. “Is that fully understood?” “Sir, yes, sir!” Pets seemed a bit far, but I wasn’t going to point that out. “Violation of top secret confidentiality is considered a breach of state secrets, and is punishable the Uniform Code of Military Criminology with no less than twenty-years imprisonment, criminal discharge, and a complete cancellation of benefits.” He returned to the table. ”And that’s your best case scenario. Is that clear?” “Sir, yes, sir!” “Good.” The volume of his voice had lowered slightly, but the agitation remained. “Four days ago, this facility came under assault by a previously unknown adversary. They infiltrated the complex, breached various security protocols, and absconded with an artifact stored in one of the sealed compartments.” No one moves, but I’m pretty sure I can sense that everyone else standing at attention is utterly confused as to what this has to do with us. Four days ago, I was knee deep in pond scum, looking for pirates. What do I have to do with an attack on one of the most secure complexes in the galaxy? “Who here is familiar with the Elvarian Emp -“ “Elravian,” interrupted the Automata. When he spoke, his head rattled on his shoulders. “What? Are you -? Never mind,” huffed the officer, clearly annoyed but resigned to the correction. “Who has heard of the El-RAV-ian Empire? Raise your hands.” A few scattered acknowledgments, none of them very certain. Elravian sounds familiar, but not enough that I’m going to raise my hand for something I’m probably misremembering. “The Elravian Empire was the main military power in the known galaxy. It flourished for centuries, but spectacularly collapsed around ten-thousand years -“ “Twenty,” the Automata piped up again, bouncing like a rock tumbler. “Twenty-thousand years, sir.” The officer sighed. “Yes, Timur. Thank you for the clarification.” The Automata shuddered again. The other guy continued to ignore everything in favor of his data pad. “Twenty-thousand years ago, the Elravian dynasty ceased to be, almost overnight. The handful of survivors scattered, and blended into local populations.” He walked to the table, resting a hand on the crate atop it. “You submitted a genetic sample when you joined the DAM. Recent analysis shows that you all possess Elravian heritage.” Well, that’s news to me. As far as I knew, the Mest family had been farming the same land for at least five-hundred years. I’ve seen enough of the grave markers in the family plot to know. Beyond that, no idea. Also, how was this about to come back and get me in trouble? “We have reason to believe our attacker was Elravian. You all have been assembled for a test, in the hopes that it will assist in tracking the individual down.” Yeah, this is the part where I get vivisected or frozen or something. In retrospect, this is definitely a murder room. That doesn’t seem like the Concordance’s style, but… “The test is simple. We were able to retrieve an additional Elravian artifact from deep storage. We only need to see if the artifact activates when you use it.” He turns to the crate, and pops the clasps. The lid rises, and he reaches in. “If not, you will be returned to the fleet. If it does function,” he says, pulling out the object, “then you will remain with us. For further analysis.” I am absolutely confused by what he’s now holding from the box. I’m not sure what I expected, but it definitely was not a scythe. I haven’t seen a scythe in years. The last time was as I left home for basic training. My father always used one to mow the grassland around the house, and that was exactly what he was doing as I left. He wasn’t happy about me leaving, and that was how he handled it… my last memory was of him sweeping the curved edge back and forth like he had thousands of times before, trimmings swept to the side in one smooth motion. This… thing… whatever it was, was vastly different. It sure wasn’t for cutting grass. Wrapped in worn canvas straps was a handle made of gorgeous silvery metal. It flowed right into the tang, itself bracketed by rune-covered crescent heels. The blade was the real showstopper. This was a weapon, merciless and deadly, meant for destruction. My father kept his blade incredibly sharp; this was beyond anything I had ever seen. I shudder involuntarily; clear across the room it feels like I can sense the carnage this would unleash. I waver, just a little bit, and have to put a foot back to steady myself. “Come up one at a time. We’ll start with you.” The officer gestures to a scout trooper at the other end of the line. I’m relieved to have a moment to compose myself. The trooper grasps the scythe. He steps back, checks the balance, and takes a swing. It almost sings as it slices through the air, but that’s all. Nothing out of the ordinary. “Uh, sir? What’s it supposed to do?” He asks, swinging down this time. Timur suddenly pops up, and clanks to the table. “According to the runes carved in the artifact, the conduit of this particular weapon was attuned to the element of air. This allowed Luna a high degree of control over local barometric pressure. According to the legends -“ The officer’s turn to interrupt. “Thank you again, Timur.” He turns back to the trooper. “To be quite honest, we’re not sure. This has been in deep storage longer than the Concordance has existed.” The trooper tries again. Nothing. He shrugs, and returns to the line. Over and over, they come to the front. Over and over, they try to make the scythe do… something. Anything. Over and over, nothing happens. Techs, spec ops, navigators, pilots, admins… doesn’t matter. The officer looks more and more forlorn, and even the Automata has gotten less excitable. This clearly isn’t working. And then, it’s my turn. “Come on up, Lance Corporal,” the officer calls. “Let’s get this over with.” It takes me a moment to uproot myself from my spot in line. It’s like my legs just don’t want to go, and it isn’t because of my sore ankle. As it is, every nerve in my being is telling me to turn and run. The scythe is repellant for reasons I can’t explain. It just feels bad. The walk seems to take forever, like I’m wading through chest-deep water. I have that same sense of foreboding I’ve had on patrol before, that moment when you know you’re walking into an ambush, but you have to keep going. That this is your job, your purpose, your mission, and even if something terrible is waiting on the other side, you go. I need to do this. But I also want to do this. “You alright, soldier?” The officer asks. I can tell I’ve gone pale. “Yes, sir,” I croak. “Long day.” I lay my hands out, palm side up. He looks skeptical, but rests the handle in my grasp. I expect it to weigh a ton. Instead, it’s incredibly light. You would think it was hollow, but there is something about the handle that just feels solid. The balance is shockingly good, the weight of the blade exactly right to carry the arc of a swing. The craftsmanship is remarkable. Someone took a lot of time, poured a lot of skill and effort into making it. But nothing seems to happen. There’s no lights, no sounds, no choir from the heavens. It’s… just a scythe. What was I expecting? Yet, why do I still get the sense it’s malicious? I set my feet apart, taking the stance I saw my father use all those years. I let the blade lower to the deck, feeling the balance shift like a pendulum. I rock it back, letting the blade choose the path of travel. The first forward swing, and there is a rush in my ear as the blade soars past me. The doubt and dread fades away as it goes, and I am suddenly hyper focused, paying attention only to the scythe. The sharp edge is so entrancing that I don’t even notice the man in the chair topple over. The scythe reaches its apex and arcs back, and I let the momentum carry, turning it into a flourish. The crescent becomes a blur as it slashes in a circle, over and over again. I am struck by the sound it makes as it spins, building from a whisper into a metallic wail, ringing from every corner of the room. And that’s when I remember. I remember nights in basic training where the air was completely still, arid, and warm. When we would pray that a gust would take pity on us and flow through the squad bay, bringing welcome relief from the oppressive heat. I remember my father again, that last time, swinging his scythe with the effortless precision that comes only from a lifetime of practice. I remember the breeze rippling across the fields, sending the cuttings spiraling on the wind. I felt it flutter through my hair, a gentle tussle. I remember that breeze morphing into a howl as the shuffle craft touched down to take me away, away from the only home I had ever had, its fury battering my clothes and threatening to tear the gear from my hands. It was terrifying, but I stepped forward, and - And then I remember that I’m standing in the middle of a space station. That the stale air from the ventilation system should not be roaring about me like a hurricane. That a swirl of dust shouldn’t be circling me like some mad dust devil. And, most importantly, that the officer should not be kneeling on the floor, clutching at his throat. I drop the scythe, and it thunders to the deck. The whirlwind dies down. And I cannot believe what I see all around me. Everyone is on the floor, some kneeling, some curled in a ball. They’re all grasping at their throats, gasping for breath. Even Timur has been knocked over and is in a twitching heap. “I… I… what happened?” I stammer. I go to help the officer to his feet. He takes my hand, but shakes his head; he can’t answer yet. The man with the data pad is picking himself up, his chair knocked over next to him. My fellow soldiers cough and wheeze, but seem to be coming around. The robot shambles to its feet. “Sir, I’m sorry. I don’t know what -“ “It’s fine,” he sputters. “Everyone, report to your quarters.” He coughs and grimaces. “You’ll receive new orders tonight, and move out tomorrow. Dismissed.” He clears his throat. “Mest, stay here.” The room slowly empties. They all stare as they shuffle by, exchanging anxious murmurs. I was the screw-up before. Now I’m the freak. Timur shambles over, and the man takes his seat again. The data pad is nowhere in sight. The scythe is still on the floor. I keep casting glances its way, afraid that… well, I am not sure. I’m just afraid. That feeling of malice has crept back with a vengeance. The last soldier leaves, and the door glides shut. The only sound is the drone of the ventilation system. We’re all silent for a moment. I feel like I need to apologize. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure… I didn’t mean to.” It’s lame, but I’m at a loss for words. The officer puts a hand on my shoulder. I’m surprised. It’s a kind gesture considering the circumstances. “No need. We asked you to activate the device, we are responsible for the consequences. Maybe next time, we will read the runes a little more carefully, right Timur?” He glares at the Automata, just a little bit. “Certainly. Clearly the design of each artifact, coupled with the specific power channeled through the conduit, will produce varied and -“ The officer holds up his hand. Timur stops. Silence again. I still feel awful, but I relax a little. “Sir, I’d like to help if I can.” He nods. “You certainly can. You’ve given us a chance to catch the monster that tore this place apart.” “Sir, on my way I’m, I… I’m assuming that what I saw through the airlock is related to… all this?” A deep sigh. “We believe the assailant was of Elravian heritage, like you. Unlike you, they were aware of their genetics, and their ability to control a particularly lethal artifact that was stored in The Vault.” “They took the security forces apart like they were nothing. The assailant was highly skilled, and ruthless with the weapon. What you saw was the aftermath.” He looked me dead in the eyes again, unblinking. “I don’t want to scare you, but you need to understand: this individual was able to penetrate some of the toughest physical security in existence. They had intel that led them to the artifact, and the knowledge and ability to use it. They defeated top-notch, heavily armed security forces, and then slipped away without a trace. Whoever this is, whatever their goal, they are dangerous beyond measure. If you come with us, you may be making yourself a target.” It is intimidating, but it’s like foot patrol: you keep going, even if it looks bad ahead, because that is the mission. “Yes, sir. Understood.” Timur broke in again. “Sir, may I elaborate on the stolen item, as it relates to our suspect?” The officer huffs. “Timur has a theory -“ “Based on my analysis of Elravian mythology and relevant scholarly works, the specific characteristics of the stolen rifle as it relates to such mythology and the historical record, as well as the physical condition of the deceased, I am suggesting -“ “Timur thinks the original owner burst in and took back her gun,” the officer spat, through slightly gritted teeth. “I thought you said the… Elvarian?” “Elravian,” Timur corrects me. “Elravian, got it… That the Elravians died out thousands of years ago. How could the original owner have stolen a gun from here?” “If the stories are to be believed, the Lotus, as it was once known, belonged to Arial Vaharic, one of the Royal Family’s top enforcers. Her elemental power, channeled through the conduit of the rifle, allowed her to absorb the life force from her opponents. It was an abnormal ability, unique to her. The Lotus granted her monumentally long life, at the expense of the victim. If all that is true, and the records suggest that it is, there is the distinct possibility that she has survived to the modern day and -“ “Okay, enough.” The officer leaned over and picked up the scythe. He eyed it carefully, critically. “It could also be someone else with the proper Elravian genetics. This scythe, for example, belonged to an assassin named Luna Sévoss. She could manifest elemental control over the air. Apparently, so can you.” “Okay…” I am still stumped. “What happened here was terrible. I do not want that to happen to anyone else . But I don’t know anything about elements, or Elravians, or ancient artifacts. I don’t know what I just did with that… thing.” I gesture to the scythe in his hands. “We know.” He places it gingerly back in the crate. “That’s why we’d like you to use it again. Under controlled conditions, in a lab.” He looks me square in the eyes again. “We’ll take precautions, Mest. You’re not going to hurt anyone.” Timur breaks in. “We can run an analysis aboard the Bloodhound. I am hopeful that we will find a way to track when the elemental powers are activated, which will lead us to the culprit.” “And then we run this killer to ground.” The officer seemed to recover some of his fire. ”So, can I count on you to help us?” It has been a long time since I got up the other morning, bleary-eyed after a late shift, alternately shouted at, ignored, and belittled. When I joined the service, I wanted to get away from the farm, the routine, the expectations that had hemmed in my ancestors as far back as I knew. It did that, but my short career has been unremarkable, filled with small conflicts and even smaller backwater planets. I thought, maybe, there would be something more for me out here. If ever I was looking for a sign… “I… yes. I want to see this through.” “Excellent.” The officer began typing on a data pad. “As of this moment, you’re being reassigned directly to my command. Grab your bag, I’ll have your gear transferred to the ship.” “I, sir, I apologize.” I can’t believe I haven’t asked this yet. “But I didn’t catch your name.” “Tracker Kolt Uzain. Concordance Special Security Division. Welcome to the Poison Lance, Mest.” With that, the door slides open, and I am further surprised by who strides into the room next. I’ve never seen one outside of the vids, but before me now stands an honest-to-goodness real life Thrakian Wraith. They’re even taller than I expected. “Sir,” comes the synthesizer tinged voice from inside the distinctive helmet,” the shuttle will be docking in three minutes. HQ is asking for an update within the hour.” “Thank you, Wraith Zee. And you’re all done here?” “Yes, sir. It’s all bad.” Even under the helmet and all the armor, I can tell the Wraith is upset. “They can start cleanup. We can’t get any more out of that mess.” “Very well. Please inform the Curator’s staff. We’ll be there momentarily.” The Wraith wordlessly stares at me for a moment, then promptly leaves. Timur gathers up the crate, hoisting it under one of its mechanical arms. I’m embarrassed to ask, but I ask anyway. “Sir, if you catch this… Arial? What are you going to do with her if she’s so powerful?” Finally, the man with data pad speaks up. I had forgotten he was there, cloaked in shadow, until his voice boomed out across the room. Whoever he was, his answer seemed to be the final word on the subject. His eyes bored into me like hot coals. “Do what the Elravians failed to do: Terminate her,” he seethed. “With extreme prejudice.” 

***

They watched the shield gate flicker and fade. The vessel sailed through, corrected its course, and jumped away. A few quick keystrokes, and the nav comp was calculating their trajectory. If the crew were smart, the ship would make multiple jumps to elude detection. Even still, there was likely to be some predictability to the route. They were counting on it. They were… puzzled. Was it possible? Possible to feel a conduit activate? They had never felt someone else’s elemental usage before, but the last opportunity would have been so long ago… surrounded by their people. Most disturbing: it was the same electric shiver they had felt running up their spine, only days ago. When they had been unprepared. Again. It was carelessness, just like when the Lotus had been lost the last time. They… she… had allowed herself to become distracted, and failed. It was so hard; her brain always felt foggy, detached from reality. It was more difficult when the others began speaking, began remembering, and their thoughts became jumbled and confused. All these memories, unfamiliar, surfacing from the depths… No. The nav comp spit out a solution. She set the sensor array to measure the Casimir pressure as they flew. If it fell off, she would know they had dropped out of FTL. It would be slow-going, but she could track their course corrections. She could follow. It was time. The stealth ship swung to bear, matte black plating nearly invisible against the dark of space. In a blink it had gone FTL, and the chase was on again.