Measure of a Messenger ch 3: To See in the Dark

The longer the computer left his query unanswered, the faster Zah ran. The corridors, ribbed cylinders with a flat ceiling and floor, curved to intersect one another at inconsistent intervals, forming a maze he knew as intimately as the sound of his own heart. If it would just tell him where Defender Mesadu was, he’d know where he was running to.

He hadn’t even bothered to ask about the teleporters. This flagship was large enough to merit having them, but if they had been operational, Wen would have used them earlier. He thought of his brother-in-law’s grimaced response when questioned about the interrogators and Zah leaving his cell.

“They were not in favor of it.”

He wouldn’t get an answer from the computer. Wen had probably disabled the teleporters and the internal positioning system.

The search parties could not use it to track him.

He couldn’t use it to find Mesadu either. He had to start somewhere. Might as well try the Defender’s quarters.

The sounds of his pursuers echoed—multiple parties, frantic, flustered, angry. He crossed one’s trail, alerted by the slightly warmer air and the mingled scents of individuals.

He was only a corner or two behind the group. He knew them, all of them. They had been assigned under his command for seven months of last year, every day working alongside one another, defending ungrateful miners from Tradafin pirates or worse. Surely this group didn’t think him capable of the horror heaped upon him. If he just spoke with them, then maybe…

Maybe they were still his team.

He missed his sys—the communication device worn by all legion members. With it, he could address them without giving away his position.

Its absence weighed upon him far more than just that. It represented a sense of belonging he could not feel now, the constant connectivity gone. He was alone, a wild animal relying on his senses. Prey.

True, his senses were a lot better than theirs, but he wanted to be on their side.

He was less than a corner behind his group, past the vacporters that would carry him to Mesadu’s deck. Nothing but clear air separated him from the search party, a straight shot down the hallway.

One of them, Sani, turned, and Zah stilled in the shadow of a thick, curved girder. Sani stopped. Then Shosa stopped, gaze tracing his comrade’s sightline.

Sani’s shooter rose. Zah retreated.

As he tore around the corner, exa-darters punched into the opposite wall—all shots from Sani’s automatic. Shosa didn’t waste shots. He fired once and hit his target.

Even around corners, Zah recalled, sprinting faster.

Sani’s unit wasn’t far behind. Their bellowed calls blended into a crazed chorus.

Such was the beauty of constant connectivity: Everyone instantly knew Sani’s unit had found Zah, and everyone instantly knew where Sani’s unit was.

Zah’s heart was a twisted, tattered rag. He had been the one to teach Sani to shoot accurately while running. The trooper had caught on gratefully, despite his initial protests that someone younger than him could have anything to teach. Aylata didn’t edify their skills. Or they weren’t supposed to, not to those considered beneath them.

As his mentor had explained, “You cannot teach the blind to see in the dark.”

Now the men he had trusted shot at him, hunting him down.

It blindsided him. He had no warning, hadn’t heard it, which was the kyax’s natural advantage. They were synonymous with silence.

One moment Zah ran, too worried about the troopers behind and ahead and in every corridor to take note of the desert predator. Then he was on the floor, the creature pinning him. Its forefeet pinched his shoulders with gleaming talons. He twisted in its grip. Its beak-tipped muzzle snapped shut within a hairsbreadth of his collarbone.

He kicked at its haunches, though his toes protested the beating wrought against its armor. Few of the kyax’s iridescent black feathers were visible beyond this man-applied coat. Their color matched the sands of the homeworld it had never seen.

The creature stared at him, and though he continued to struggle, he couldn’t look away. He felt every blow, every scratch, every twist and rip of his skin, but the scene felt somehow distant, as if he watched someone else battling for his life.

The common thread between Aylata and kyax shone in their chrysolite eyes, differently shaped and currently exuding a contrast of emotions, but of a similar shade—a hazy, golden emerald. Chrysolite was the theme color of the now dead planet Magni, a warning of its children’s strength and superiority.

The kyax’s slender hips fell under his blows. He fought to roll it over completely and tear free of its grasp. His scream reverberated through the gathering crowd.

He kept one hand on the creature’s lower jaw, keeping the hooked beak at bay, but the kyax’s tail thrashed, and it was more dangerous than beak or talons. The stinger on its tip and the poison it administered would turn his insides to mush. In the wild, the kyax would then whisk his melting carcass back to the nest to feed its beakless, talonless babies.

He did not fancy becoming baby food, now or ever.

The tail swung again, and he kicked at it. Scissoring it between his feet, he dragged it to the floor as his free hand stretched around the creature and reached for its ears. These hid atop its head in a pouf of feathers that looked like an updo gone wrong.

His hand never made it.

Someone grabbed his wrist and yanked him away from the kyax as another gave the beast’s release command. Zah scrambled to get his feet under him as fingers dug into his arms. Four troopers held him, and he screeched on behalf of his bloodied shoulders as he was forced to his knees, hoarse cries barely heard above the shouting mob.

Sani stood before him, leg-sized shooter aimed at Zah’s forehead. He stared at the hollow darkness of the weapon’s barrel, utterly still. Either Sani would shoot him here or they would drag him back to the interrogators.

Either would mean his end.

Shapes and shadows blurred as tears gathered in his eyes, but amidst the pounding of his heart, sound only sharpened—Sani yelling back at those yelling at him, some to fire, some insisting he not; the tamp of angry feet; the swoosh of gesturing arms; the sticky tap of Sani’s indecisive finger on the trigger.

As this last lingered, Zah threw himself to the right. A strategically placed kick in that direction brought down the captor he knew had an injured knee. This one’s collapse helped him drag the others off-balance. More kicks loosened their grasps. He heard the click of Sani’s trigger, followed by a near silent ping, then a shriek.

One of his captors had been hit, but Zah didn’t stop, didn’t look. He didn’t want to know.

He tore away and crashed into the wall as if flung from a catapult. The sealed hatch set into the partition was his goal, fingers scrambling over its touchscreen controls.

Before he could complete his request, the crowd hauled him back, his thrashing in vain. There were too many of them.

“Computer!” he called. “Open hatch Two-Seven-Seven!”

The number painted on the circular inset signified their precise location in this largest of Mesadu’s ships—not far above its belly, but almost the exact middle between nose and aft and either side.

This time, the computer answered. “Are you certain, Aylata Messenger?”

Annoying safeties that ensured no drastic command could be given on accident. But at least the machine acknowledged he had the authority to issue the command. None of the troopers of the rank surrounding him had that option. They couldn’t contradict his order.

Someone covered his mouth, and the crowd scrambled away from the hatch, but the computer heard his affirmative reply. The circle split into a dozen curved triangles and folded into the wall, leaving an open portal half as wide as Zah’s height.

The wind was instant and fierce. Like a mythical creature luring innocents to their doom, it tugged at those standing. Many dropped to the floor and grabbed at the hallway’s ribbing. Few hands remained on Zah, and he twisted free to run with the wind.

It would not allow him to stop, even as he neared the open hatch, doubt and fear doing their best to halt his progress.

The wind took him. He barely managed to tell the computer to close the hatch as he slipped through it.

This vast room was the heart of the ship, the engine core, meant to be accessed only when docked and cleared for maintenance or in the case of extreme emergencies. No gravity was applied, and what little air belonged in here wasn’t breathable. What had he been thinking?

That you needed to escape, you dolt, his sub-conscious chided, and it worked.

But I can’t breathe in here!

Not that suffocation was the quickest way to die in this room. It was simply the first to alert panic.

The breaths he had taken burned his lungs, but he refused to empty them. His eyes were cinched shut and still stung from the brightness. Electric streams formed a loosely woven tapestry, a web that if touched would end this quickly.

As he drifted near one, its searing power was a sharp contrast to the room’s cold. Pops speared his ears—the streams’ violent reaction to the hallway’s air. He moved like a swimmer, trying to direct his course between the strands. Even with his eyes closed, they possessed an alluring beauty, a buzz that danced across his skin, but already he was losing feeling.

The cold stabbed at him, clinging to his now-scabbed shoulders, his face, and exposed hands. His Adapt jacket would have offered some protection. Folded segments in the wrists and collar would have expanded to glove his hands and form a helmet with a small supply of air.

But he didn’t regret giving the jacket to Makalu.

Eyes cracked open and arms stiff, he lost all contact with his hands. In a shuddering cough, he expelled his captured breath, choking. His arms curled closer to his chest, as did his knees. A line of chrysolite blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and formed spheres. Their iridescent, peridot color shimmered like the streams.

This was a stupid way to die. Aylata were better than this. They were to be feared, respected, hailed, and mourned. They were often above the law, their essence a defiance of the concept ‘impossible.’

But Zah couldn’t move. His last breath was gone, and he felt nothing.

Someone grabbed the back of his shirt and towed him through the web of burning strands, deftly avoiding their oscillating touch. They dropped him on a hard floor, its metal warm against his frozen cheeks. The hand that checked his pulse was even warmer.

It must not have been satisfied with what it found because it left much too quickly, performing two firm jabs to his chest and stomach.

Zah gasped in a breath. He rolled onto his front, hands tingling as they tried to push him away from the floor. Small, retching coughs overtook him, and he fell as his savior rose.

A faint, sweet smell wafted from the folds of shadowy fabric that swathed this mystery. Feet encased in padded black boots walked past him. As Zah tried to move so his gaze could follow them, the figure they carried was blurry, cape waving farewell.

“Wait!”

The figure gave no indication of having heard him.

Nausea dared him to move again, slamming into him like ocean waves, relentless, rhythmic.

Zah closed his eyes and took deep, calming breaths. He wished his savior would return. It was nice to think someone would watch over him while he lay here for a few moments more, that an ally would keep harm at bay until he could get up again.

The obsidian peace of unconsciousness encompassed Zah from all sides like a slowly closing fist, and as he lay motionless, no one watched.

***

Makalu was gone, Wen realized, eyes snapping open. Instead of his wife, a trooper approached, kanaber in hand. Wen sat motionless and waited for this assailant to draw closer. The weapon’s laser blade was within a hand span of his re-bound arms before Wen lashed out, both feet tied together flying for the man’s throat.

The trooper was faster, a hand capturing Wen’s ankle and twisting. He flipped Wen onto his front and pressed an elbow into his back.

“I’m trying to help you!” the man hissed. The kanaber sliced through the restraints on Wen’s ankles with a sizzling pop, emphasizing the point.

Wen remained still, watching as his wrists were freed as well.

“Where is Makalu?” His narrowed eyes scrutinized this savior.

“Lady Kimidjee is calling Refraction Leader Nalavoy.” The soldier pulled Wen to his feet. No one else appeared to be around. “She was loath to leave you, but you will need his help. Until he arrives, you need to run, Ravi Kimidjee.”

Wen tried to concentrate on the man’s words, on his near expressionless face. The floor tilted back and forth like a small boat on an angry sea, but he got the impression he was the only one who could tell. He staggered though trying to do nothing more complicated than stand.

Ridduxe was not permanent. Of that, Wen was immensely grateful, but it sure did take an awfully long time to wear off.

“Go.” The soldier shoved at him.

This did nothing to help Wen’s balance, and he stumbled against the wall. His hands found nothing to catch on its smooth surface, but it was solid and calm. His Kinetics tugged at it, using it to orient himself, but the drug left his Talent far too weak to support his own weight in such a manner.

He did not flee as instructed, gaze locked on the one who wished him to go. With his hooded, deadpan eyes, harsh cheekbones, and dark fuzz he called hair, this trooper looked like Fanli, the leader of the guard Wen’s uncle had sent with him. He moved like Fanli, his limited range of expressions spot on. But his voice was somehow different—very, very close, but shallower. This man spoke with a precise approximation of the troopers’ accent, but it was just that, an imitation.

“You don’t have time to stand there gawking at me,” Not-Fanli growled with another shove.

Wen swiped at his wrists and managed to catch only one of them. “There’s something off about your life-signature.”

He wanted it to be Fanli, for this trusted guardian to tell him these inconsistencies were a result of his drug-induced confusion. Yet, it wasn’t Fanli’s eyes that glared at him now. These were the coldest, emptiest eyes Wen had ever seen. Though they were the same deep gray and sagging-oval shape as those of the guard he knew, they siphoned any hope lingering in the area.

Wen turned away, lost. It was still so hard to think, and he feared he hallucinated.

Not-Fanli grabbed Wen’s chin and forced him to turn back. His short nails burrowed into Wen’s cheeks. His voice was completely different now as he spoke, still low, but smooth and with a hissing lisp.

His words sent dread slinking down Wen’s spine. “You will run, little Ravi, because if you do not, they will come for you. They will kill you, and I will not stop them.”

Continued in Chapter 4: Madness is Contagious

Thank you for reading!