Episode 30: Covenant with Death
Not a half hour after the gala ended, Sabera stepped into the Warbringer's temple. The two assigned to guard Gairen's door stiffened when they saw her. She didn't bother addressing them and instead continued into the congregant hall to meet with Dyre, who'd entered via alternate means so they wouldn't be seen going inside together.
Rows of tightly packed seats spanned from the entryway to the platform to allow hundreds of attendees to crowd inside.
She hated this place. Every service was stuffy and formal. The only ones who found value in them were the nobility, who used them as opportunities to flout their traditionalism in front of peers, hoping to garner favor from others who espoused their views. The truly devout also attended faithfully, but in her lifetime, she'd met only a handful who fully embraced the Warbringer's ways.
Of the many teachings of Gatlantis' faith, she believed only one, the Warbringer's promise to give them possession of Origin. That promise alone offered everything she needed.
Sabera walked the long aisle. Ahead, the altar where the sacred basin of blood sat during ceremonies was empty. The acolytes would still be sanitizing it for the upcoming service after their decimation of the Diviner's world.
Without crowds of people to warm the room, cold seeped into Sabera, making her wish she'd worn something thicker and longer, but a bit of discomfort was worth the night's triumphs in humiliating Invidia and swaying Nasca. She should have left the girl to her own devices much sooner, and bribing Nasca had proven far easier than anticipated. The difficult portion of her plans was still ahead. She had to keep control of both the general and the princess—no mean feat. Hopefully, her meeting with Dyre would ease some of that difficulty.
As she neared the front of the hall, her thickly wedged boots pinched, and her feet ached from hours of balancing in precarious footwear. She hated these shoes, but they screamed confidence and power—two things she most wanted to exude at tonight's gala. If she'd been elsewhere, she'd have taken the boots off and walked barefoot the rest of the way to the front of the room, but ceremony demanded she leave them on.
By the time she reached the base of the platform, she was staving off cold and discomfort, and her lips twisted into an irritated crinkle. At least the Stardust high from earlier had worn off, though she still buzzed from humiliating Invidia. Now, once Telezart was razed and the Diviner—if she existed—was dead, Zordar's throne was Sabera's.
Whispers floated from the far end of the front row, where General Dyre kneeled. In one hand, he gripped his ceremonial dagger—identical to the one Sabera wore with her Prime Minister's garb. Dyre had set aside the white gloves he usually wore, and he poised the middle portion of his blade over one bared forearm. Two bloody trails already laced his skin, and he would soon make a third and final slice as part of this traditional recitation of the Rite of Terzo.
Blood dripped onto the floor in quiet patters, and Dyre still seemed unaware of Sabera's presence. His eyes fixed as he remained entranced and murmured the remainder of the rite in the language of the founders.
As Dyre drew his last shallow cut, he shivered in relief, but instead of finishing the Rite of Terzo and coming out of his trance, he blazed into another prayer—the most sacred of their liturgy—the Quickening Oath.
That he dared utter this prayer stunned her. She'd never considered Dyre stalwart enough to defy tradition, much less this flagrantly. Until they reclaimed Origin, the Quickening Oath was only to be recited by the high priest, once every half century. Many aboard Gatlantis were too young to have heard it once, much less know it well enough to recite it. But as the words of the prayer infused the empty hall, they compelled Sabera to listen.
Dyre raised face and open hands to the viewport above the platform. Blood ran down his arm and stained his rolled-up uniform sleeve. A stray drop or two even soiled his pantleg. He didn't appear to notice. "Master of battle and blood," Dyre recited in the common tongue instead of the founders. "Grant us the wonder you've promised to us. Return those given in your name to stand among your servants once more."
Sabera's skin prickled, and her heart hammered as she thought of her son, screaming in terror as she surrendered him to the high priest years ago and watched as the flames of the Warbringer's altar consumed him.
"Bring us to Origin's heart, the lowest place within her sphere, where we may offer our thanks for your glorious provision, and your triumph in bringing your loyal ones back to the shores from whence we sprung. When we stand in that lightless hollow, Warbringer, show us your undeniable presence, your power, your majesty, and raise our dead to life again." Dyre bowed his face to the floor, bare palms outstretched on the cold, hard surface.
Sabera clung to the last words of the Oath until they dissipated. The Oath called for the Warbringer's followers to descend to the lowest point on Origin's surface before performing it. Such a feat would take them far beneath Origin's seas, to a place so dark and desolate only creatures of the deep would be present. There would be no distractions, no one to detract from the enormity of what was happening. So many would be resurrected, including her Mil. The thought of him with her again was enough to prompt tears, and she couldn't help folding cold arms over her chest, imagining her son safely tucked there. She would even treasure his wails of irritation when she didn't respond to him quickly enough for his liking.
The thick makeup caking her eyelashes smeared as she dabbed away tears before Dyre caught her.
Dyre finished his prayers before treating and covering his cuts. When he discovered Sabera watching, he disguised a start. "Prime Minister." He bowed, eyes averted from her ostentatious dress. "I didn't expect you so soon."
"There are only a few hours until the morning. Perhaps you've lost track of time." She stood tall, though she desperately wanted to sit and give her feet some relief. "I've leashed Invidia, despite your help."
"I apologize. My efforts to glean information from the princess have been… frustrated as of late."
"I'll pardon you. This time. Allowing me access to your latest meeting inside Invidia's sim room was useful, and I found wearing the guise of an annoying child amusing." She smirked as she recalled throwing a stick at Invidia's avatar. Such a ridiculous guise. The princess had all but copied Sabera's appearance, albeit with a few changes.
Dyre adjusted his hastily donned gloves. "I wondered if that troublesome boy was you, Prime Minister."
"Learning the princess' plans in regard to the Gamilon enabled me to thwart her cover-up when he escaped earlier this evening."
A flicker of surprise lit Dyre's face, but he snuffed it quickly. "I'm sure you apprehended the Gamilon Leader before he left the worldship."
"And fix Invidia's mess myself? Of course not. No, the Gamilon is gone, and with Zordar's approval."
Dyre paled but maintained composure and didn't give a reason for his unease.
"Continue monitoring Invidia and keep me apprised of everything she does. I want to know where she is at all times, and since technological methods are never completely reliable, you are my failsafe."
Dyre nodded.
Drips of blood from the general's arm still stained the floor. Acolytes would expunge it once Sabera and Dyre left, but even those few drops exuded their intense aroma and goaded Sabera to speak what—until now—she'd only said in the quiet recesses of her own mind.
"When Zordar is gone, you will be at my right hand. Prove your loyalty to me, and you will always have a place of power."
General Dyre gave her a deep bow. "Yes, Prime Minister."
Sabera left the congregant hall. The lingering scent of shed blood made her consider visiting Gairen. She hadn't seen him since ordering his seclusion, and thus far she'd had no eventful reports from those guarding his quarters. The old man had been stunningly compliant. She'd expected resistance, or at least an attempt at an audience with Zordar. But the old man seemed resigned to his fate.
No matter. The fewer complications, the better.
Her plans were moving forward, and soon the throne of Gatlantis would be hers.
She left the temple and went straight to her quarters, where she immediately threw off her boots.
Invidia stood beside her father as he, his generals, and Sabera conducted yet another war council.
Of Zordar's generals only one was in attendance via holofeed. Nasca's deployment earlier today to join his fleet closer to Origin meant he was already lightyears away from Gatlantis. Bleak and Manic were to be dispatched within the week to pave the way for Origin's conquest, and though Invidia's knowledge of her father's plans was limited, she considered it a mistake to send out three of the four generals whose loyalty she and her father still possessed.
To her right, Dyre fidgeted. Distraction was unusual for him, and his odd behavior made her uneasy. If her father hadn't ordered her here as part of his attempts to "manage" her behavior, she'd be in her quarters, making another attempt to contact her source aboard the Original ship. The traitor Jeshurunian on Iscandar had gone silent too, and though she hadn't gleaned enough information to deem the Original ship truly dangerous, she wasn't ready to dismiss them yet, especially in light of Gairen's visions concerning the Diviner.
The bruising around her throat from last night lingered. Her personal physician had been too intoxicated this morning to administer treatment, and her voice suffered for it. Though her high collar hid the discolored skin, it did nothing to disguise hoarseness. Just as irritating were the aches in her back, arms, and legs from her forced march to the transit station. Even standing pained her, but she would show no weakness to this group of carrion.
Beside Dyre stood Venik and Beale—replacements for Scorch and Torbuk. Both men received word of their promotions last night after the gala, but they already flouted their new rank just as flagrantly as the others.
Torbuk's death at the hands of the Originals was deserved, in her opinion. The reports she'd read indicated incompetence.
Scorch also deserved his fate—working in the reactor core for the foreseeable future. He'd always been brash, but gutless, and proof of his cowardly ways had finally come to light. Though she couldn't blame him for retreating from the Diviner's world. Some things, like the Diviner, were never meant to be disturbed. She did, however, condemn his flight in the wake of the Originals. To show fear to those inferior to Gatlantis was unacceptable.
But some fear was healthy. She'd seen the vids, the images of what the Diviner did a century ago, and she had no desire to see Gatlantis defeated in the same fashion as Indrisian. The first worldship had suffered so greatly at the Diviner's hand it had been decommissioned once it limped back to the homeworld. There had been barely enough people left alive to operate it. Analysis conducted on the dead was disturbing enough to haunt her dreams since childhood.
Zordar droned about tactics for their coming reclamation of Origin. While she was eager to see the world under their control, she didn't believe all the mystical tenets attached to it by many who espoused the Warbringer's faith—her father included. But any planet that could return from the brink of annihilation was well worth taking.
From the other side of Zordar's throne, Sabera cast flaming glances Invidia's way, but her hostility was expected. What was troubling was the smugness she radiated as she appraised every general, then Zordar, and finally Invidia. It reminded her far too much of a wild animal targeting prey.
Nasca in particular seemed more eager than usual to leave the council, and whenever a new point of business rose, he glowered.
After a solid hour, discussion appeared to be ending. Until her father broached a new subject.
"We arrive at Telezart in seven days." Stiff silence met Zordar's announcement.
Nasca's posture grew nervous. Dyre seemed rigid as ice, and even Bleak and Manic gave Zordar questioning glances. Gorse tapped a boot until Sabera's glare stilled the nervous tick.
Venik and Beale were the only ones seemingly untroubled by Zordar's statement.
Venik spoke first. "Prince Zordar, it would be my honor to lead the assault on Telezart. If anyone remains alive on its surface, they'll soon breathe their last. My reputation for quick results is not exaggerated. I would—"
Zordar raised a hand for silence. "Your enthusiasm is appreciated, General Venik, but I've already decided it will be Gatlantis herself matching strength with Telezart."
"But, my prince—"
"This is final, Venik." Zordar's tone sharpened, indicating he was not to be challenged further.
To his credit, Beale held his tongue.
Invidia wanted to scream. The Diviner was real, and if Gatlantis challenged her, it would be the death of them all, no matter how much firepower they had. Yes, they'd had a hundred years to prepare to face her again, but she'd had the same amount of time to prepare, and her power was undoubtedly far above theirs. Indrisian had been a poor match for her a century before. What made her father think Gatlantis would win where Indrisian had failed? She had to intervene. But if she framed this as a retreat, she'd be laughed to scorn, even by those who might agree with her.
The only option was to appeal to Zordar's pragmatism. "Father, the Diviner's world is of no strategic interest." She swallowed a grimace at the gravelly timbre of her voice, but for once, pride had no place, so she forged on. "We should continue to Origin without wasting time on a world that has no value."
"Invidia." Fiery displeasure erupted in Zordar's eyes. "We will take Telezart. Your opinion on this is insignificant, and I won't have you peddling your personal deficiencies to my war council. Unless you have something profitable to contribute to this discussion, you will remain silent."
She bit her tongue hard enough to draw blood, and the warm metallic taste only added to the bitterness of being so quickly dismissed. She was not a child, as she'd often proved over the past several years. This assault couldn't happen. She would find a way to stop it, even under the watchful eye of Sabera Shifual.
Dyre hid a deeply troubled expression. She would meet with him later to formulate a way to thwart this ill-advised attack. Their options and resources were limited now, but unless they found a way around their limitations, all of Gatlantis would suffer. Gairen had warned of this in his visions. They were hurtling toward doom, and her father was too blind to see it, so it fell to her to prevent it.
An ache radiated from the small of her back where Desslok had rammed a knee into it last night. He would pay for how he'd humiliated her, and she would enact her vengeance personally. She'd wanted to keep him as a prize, but he'd proven too dangerous. If he wouldn't be caged, she'd have to put him down. But even Desslok took lower priority than surviving the next seven days and preventing her father from confronting the Diviner.
On Iscandar, Starsha took the winding stairs all the way down to the ground floor. Adults, children, and young people wore skin tones in varying shades of blue, black, brown, and white. She greeted them all, and by the time she reached the base of the stairs, the effort of constant interaction had drained her. After years alone, the presence of so many people was overwhelming at times.
She'd left Sasha with Elisa, Irii, and Delina to take some time alone, but there were few places only she had access to. With Sasha's arrival, even Starsha's quarters weren't just hers anymore, and there were nights when mothers with sick children and others with ailments took refuge in her apartment to be closer to medical services.
Though she loved Sasha, caring for an infant while overseeing thousands of people was exhausting. Another group would arrive in a few days, and preparations still needed to be made.
When no one was watching, Starsha activated the hidden elevator beneath the stairs and stepped onto the faintly glowing circle of floor that would take her to the palace sublevels.
The descent took less than ten seconds, and when Starsha stepped off the elevator, welcome silence surrounded her. Occasional luminescent crystals lit the room. She'd only been down here once since the virus killed nearly all of Iscandar's people.
Only two years ago, the fabled Rophi Shamayim had been housed down here, and she'd tried to use it to rid Iscandar of the virus, but she'd failed. Ultimately, she'd given it to the Eratites, and it had saved millions of lives by restoring their world after its devastation by Gamilon planet bombs.
More crystals flickered to life around Starsha as she approached two familiar curved stone benches. When she was younger, she'd sat here, wondering what her future might bring. She'd never imagined this.
To one side towered a glowing crystal that stood at least two heads taller than her. Not so long ago, she'd used that very crystal to transfer power to the Eratite ship during its voyage to Iscandar. It had been an exhausting exchange, and she still bore slight scars from it on both palms, but her suffering had been worth it to save the Eratites.
Ahead lay the vault. In here were Iscandar's most valuable treasures—pieces of history from ages past. Boxes, made from crystal grown in a cavern on another of Iscandar's islands, sparkled as ensconced floor lights illuminated them.
As blessed silence filled the vault, Starsha took joy in the comforting quiet.
Yahweh, this quiet communion is restoring. She sat against the vault's outer wall, knees up. Her boots peaked from beneath her dress hem, and she tipped her head back until it touched the crystal. The hard surface was cool, but not icy like metal. Thank You for the strength to see these people safely to new homes, even though they're only here temporarily. Having others here has been… good. Though I'd be lying if I said I didn't often long for the silence of solitude.
Thank You for bringing Sasha to me when she most needed someone, and though I know there will come a day when she'll leave me, for now, we have each other, and for that, I am grateful.
She wished her sister Astra were here. She'd been the strong one, always ready to take the lead, do whatever was needed.
Had it really been nearly two years since her death?
So many memories lingered in this place—remembrances of times past, records of eras long forgotten.
She clasped cold hands and breathed into them to thaw chilled fingertips. The temperature down here had always been lower than upstairs, but it had never been this pronounced.
To stave off the cold, she got up and toured the rows and columns of crystal boxes. Each translucent box partially obscured its contents, and though she discerned some items, others were unidentifiable. Ancient documents, artifacts from kings and queens past, a few personal possessions from Iscandar's founders—everything was carefully marked and stored. Many items were sealed to stave off deterioration. The document the Eratites had uncovered inside Iscandar's world tree last year was housed safely a few columns down.
For fear of destroying something irreplaceable, she hadn't opened most of the vault's contents. The set of boxes she'd just passed were over five hundred years old, and as she progressed toward the far end of the vault, each interned object grew older.
This wasn't the only part of the palace home to secrets. She was still discovering hidden rooms, concealed mechanisms, secret panels, even a few passages built into the walls.
Only a few months ago, while in the palace's topmost chamber, she'd stumbled upon a switch built into the underside of a table. When she'd triggered it, a glowing dome had risen from the polished metal. She hadn't dared touch it, and within a few seconds, she'd turned the switch back off. The dome had recessed, but she'd sealed the room to prevent anyone else accidentally finding it. Now, she was the only one able to access it, and though the chamber afforded a phenomenal view of the island as well as Gamilon, she didn't dare return until she'd uncovered the truth of what she'd found.
Near the back wall of the vault, Starsha found a box that seemed empty. Registry information said it housed Brynurian Crystal, but unless the contents were crystal chips, they should be visible through the front of their box.
Exposure to air shouldn't harm crystal, so she carefully opened the box.
The seal broke. Hissing echoed through the vault as a portion of the nearby wall vanished to reveal a dark, narrow door. Unlike the palace's standard, spiral doors, this one was rectangular, much like the ones aboard the Eratite ship.
She'd studied the vault's layout multiple times, and nothing on the plans indicated a secondary chamber.
Though the escaping air was sour, it lacked the stench of death and decay. Whatever was beyond this door, at least it wasn't a tomb. Or so she hoped. Preserving the dead, though not traditional, was sometimes done at a family's behest, and they'd long ago perfected the science of preventing decomposition, though such a process always came with a certain astringent odor.
She braved a step through the door and found a thin railing to one side of her and a stone wall to the other. Stairs led downward. She found the edge of the top step and eased onto the next stair, wary, lest the structure collapse.
One step at a time, she descended, keeping a hand firmly on the rail as her eyes adjusted to the dimness.
When the doorway was barely visible, light seeped up from a hollow below. Crystals of varying heights sprang from the stony ground and walls. Some crystals exuded green light, others blue, and still more were warm orange or gold. Though the dancing colors were beautiful, something about this place made her skin crawl.
Starsha followed the stairs until she reached a second door. It was locked with no visible means of entry.
Tired from the hike down and dreading the climb back up, Starsha resolved to abandon her investigation for now and continue it another day. Just as she turned her back to the locked door, a soft click and the grind of ancient gears filled the hollow before the door slid open. Light spilled from inside, but instead of the rainbow of colors represented out here, this light was pale, cold, and made her hands feel like ice again. She tucked them into pockets to warm them before daring to enter the new room.
To her relief, the door remained open once she was through it.
Inside, a crystal twice her height and nearly as wide occupied most of the room. Cold light seeped from the colorless formation and pulsed in rhythm with her heart. The crystal's thick base appeared more onyx than crystal, and blackness congealed, as if trapped within the rock.
The urge to leave sent Starsha partway through the door, but curiosity made her stay. She approached the crystal. Her fingers were numb from cold now, but she touched the crystal's smooth surface, then laid one palm flat against it.
The inky blackness at the base of the crystal bubbled upward to form a woman, taller than Starsha. Her deep blue hair fell to her knees, and a dress blacker than the void covered her frame from neck to toe. Her skin was pale, hovering somewhere between Gamilon blue and ashy Bolar white. On her head was a jade crown. Two of its three branches circled her head and rested behind slightly pointed ears to hold the crown in place. The third branch resembled a bird's crest and jutted a few inches into the air. Around her waist was a belt studded with gems the color of old blood.
"You've finally come." The woman's voice was deep and terrible.
Starsha jerked away from the crystal, but the woman shot out a hand, and the crystal echoed her movement, reaching out to encase Starsha's arm and prevent her from leaving.
"I have waited for one like you for a thousand years," the woman said. "Now that you are here, we can begin what should have commenced centuries ago."
"Who are you?" Starsha said as the room's temperature dropped and her breath clouded.
The woman within the crystal said, "Who I am is not important, Iscandarian. What I am is of far more consequence." She leaned close and locked eyes with Starsha before rising to full height and letting out a terrible, otherworldly screech. "Oh, how you pretend to be so brave, little Iscandarian. Your kind has not seen one like me in far too long to remember. I am the one who will over see the transformation of this world. I am the architect of your and every other flesh thing's future. I am a masterpiece of my own design. Iam Mazone!" The woman morphed into a creature with razored teeth and too many clawed hands. Its hundreds of tiny eyes whirled with madness.
Mercifully, the woman reverted to her previous form after only a few seconds, but a familiar rustle of wind through leaves trailed the transformation.
Just as quickly as she'd formed, the Mazone melted back into a dark, shapeless pool, and the crystal released Starsha.
Though the room's temperature remained low, it rose enough to thaw her hands as she fled the room. Before the door shut, Starsha had climbed the first fifty stairs, and she didn't stop until she was back in the vault and had resealed the entrance to the underground hollow.
She waited for something to break the silence, for whatever horrible event the Mazone had triggered to begin. But nothing happened. Her heart still raced, both from the quick ascent and from the haunting encounter.
The thing below had said it waited a thousand years. Many records from that era had been lost. Perhaps the Mazone was the result of a failed experiment, or a computer-generated construct, similar to a hologram. She might not even be who or what she claimed.
With no evidence to support any conclusion about the being that resided in the hollow below, Starsha left the vault, but as she rode the elevator to ground level, the sound accompanying the Mazone's transformation ate at her. She knew that sound, had heard it many times a day her whole life. It was the same sound the Jeshurunians made just before they spoke.
Before making a judgment about the veracity of the Mazone's assertions, she would have to consult Adrianna.
Hours after reclaiming the flagship, Masterson followed Desslok to the brig. The Leader's personal guard would have followed them inside had Desslok not directed them to remain at the door.
Brig personnel saluted the Leader.
If anyone was dismayed at Masterson no longer being in a cell, they showed no sign of it. A few even seemed relieved, though there remained a sense of unease among the crew, but Masterson suspected it had more to do with Desslok than him.
When they reached Morta's cell, Desslok dismissed the guards. "Stand outside until directed otherwise."
They didn't ask questions as they filed out.
Once the brig was empty except for Masterson, Desslok, and a sleeping Morta, the Leader opened Morta's cell door.
Had Masterson realized what Desslok was doing, he'd have attempted to stop him, but by the time Desslok had Morta by the collar and was dragging him to his feet, it was too late. "Your last sedative dose wore off hours ago. Stop your charade and tell me what I want to know, or I'll end you. I have no more affection for Cometines than you have for the grave." The bitter edge in his voice turned the room icy.
Morta's eyes cracked open, and he feigned just waking, but his attempt at subterfuge was amateurish at best. "I don't have to answer any questions from a has-been."
The blow came quickly and without remorse. Desslok let go of Morta and struck him across the jaw, sending the Cometine into the cell's back wall. As Morta sputtered and spat blood, Desslok stalked closer for a second strike, then a third. Each successive hit made Morta sag further down the wall and resulted in more frequent spatters of red dotting the cell.
Morta tried to counter several times, only to be quickly outmaneuvered.
The desire to see Morta suffer warred with Masterson's sense of honor. The young Cometine deserved a rough-up for his behavior while aboard this ship, but beating him senseless wasn't justice. It was revenge.
"Sir, perhaps—"
"That's enough, Talan!" Desslok whirled on him, and the look in the Leader's eyes could have melted stone. "Three days in a Gatlantis prison brought clarity. This filth planted explosives on my ship, endangered my crew, and threatened my life. If he wishes to stay alive, he has quite the debt to pay." Desslok raised a bloodied glove. "And this is only part of what he'll recompense me."
Morta groaned and collapsed onto the floor. But Desslok would have none of it.
The Leader hauled Morta to his feet and forced the young man to the blood-specked wall. "Did Zordar know about the explosives?"
When Morta didn't answer, Desslok slammed the other man into the bulkhead and roared the repeated question in Morta's face. "Did he know?"
Ever so slowly, Morta nodded.
"Did he intend to use them?"
Morta's eye swelled from a hit he'd taken to the face, and he'd have matching black eyes in a few hours. "Only… if he had to. Zordar does not throw away resources."
This seemed to somewhat pacify Desslok, if only temporarily. "No, he does not. But that doesn't speak to why he had explosives set aboard my ship. Or how Invidia knew about them." Desslok allowed Morta to crawl to his cot. "You told her, didn't you?"
"Y… yes." Morta's faint reply was punctuated by choking as Desslok pinned Morta to his cot with one hand around the other man's throat.
"A witch once tried to kill me."
Morta struggled for air, and Desslok periodically allowed him to catch enough breath to keep from passing out.
"The Eratites sought my life for a full year. In all the months I was aboard Gatlantis, Invidia tried to cage me and failed an embarrassing number of times. Even under the direction of Zordar and Invidia, did you think you, a boy barely out of his teens, could perpetrate my demise?"
"A—mis—take—" Morta choked.
"A grave one." Desslok's grip on Morta's throat tightened, and the young man's skin faded from olive green to a disturbing maroon. "I said I would deal with you, and I keep my promises."
Masterson couldn't allow Desslok to kill Morta. Not like this. "Sire, wait." He dared grasp Desslok's wrist, cutting off power to the death grip the Leader had on Morta's throat. "There's more we can learn from him." Only when the burning wrath in Desslok's face turned to calculated anger did Masterson let go.
"You have a point, Talan." Desslok released Morta, who gasped and coughed, hand to his abused throat as he hauled in wheezing breaths. "You have twelve hours to tell me why my ship was outfitted with voice-triggered explosives. If you fail to cooperate, or you lie to me, I will kill you."
Morta said nothing as Desslok secured the cell door and preceded Masterson out of the brig. With the wave of a hand, he sent personnel back inside.
When they reached Desslok's quarters, Masterson expected to be dismissed, but the Leader motioned him inside.
Only when the door was sealed and locked did Desslok speak. "You surprise me, Talan. I expected you to intervene far sooner."
He should have acted the moment he knew what Desslok intended. "Sire, I—"
"I do not need your explanation." The bite returned to Desslok's voice. "I'm simply glad you've learned some self-control. You may go."
Shame fell over Masterson, and he wanted to slink away, try to expunge crushing guilt for allowing Morta's beating, but before he left, he needed to return something. "I believe this is yours." He extended Desslok's Iscandari-made weapon—the same one he'd carried for over ten years.
Desslok took the gun and slipped it into the holster, hanging empty at his side.
"The Gatekeeper at the detention area had it," Masterson said.
A piece of Desslok's façade broke. "You've always been a friend to me… Masterson." But all too quickly, the crack was mended. "See to it you do not challenge me in front of the Cometine again."
Masterson accepted the instruction and left Desslok's quarters. To distract from the ache in his gut, he sent Starsha a brief message to notify her normal communication had been restored and that he and Desslok were alive and well.
When he reached his own quarters, he collapsed into bed and sank into troubled sleep.
Trelaina maintained a reasonable gap between herself, Captain Wildstar, and the rest of the group following her. Arach remained at her side, no matter her pace.
The temperature had dropped since sunset, and were she not shielded by dark matter particles, she'd be freezing by now. Despite the Originals' arrival, a sense of foreboding overshadowed the clear night. The Cometines were only a week away, and if Captain Wildstar's assessment was accurate, repairing their ship would require most, if not all, of that week, even with her help.
"The Cometines will not spare them," Trelaina whispered to Arach, quietly enough to keep even Mark Venture and Royster from overhearing.
"True," the angel replied. "But is Shaddai not more powerful than a host of worldships?"
Arach's words spoke peace to her, and her dread dissipated, but a thin veil of unease still blanketed the silent sky as they crossed the dunes. The only one in the group behind her who seemed to notice it was Captain Wildstar, and he was too occupied with his comm to comment.
Within the hour, they neared the Originals' ship. Its outline was shadowed by the mountainside, but the ship's majestic lines, her noble bearing, couldn't be eclipsed, and Trelaina stopped a moment to wonder at the sight. Something about it spoke of both crushing defeat and great triumph, as if it somehow possessed a soul.
They reached the ship, and a hangar door on the ship's underside was open enough to admit them. Already, a crowd had gathered to meet them, and Trelaina was glad for the little translator she'd brought with her. Inside the mountain, her home had provided translation for both her and anyone who visited, but here, she would have to rely on the tiny device hugging the base of her ear, and it wasn't designed to provide others with a means of understanding her language.
"How will they know what I'm saying?" Trelaina whispered to Arach.
"Go to him." Arach pointed out a tall, stoic man with short hair, wearing a blue and white uniform. "Tap your translator. He'll understand what you mean."
Captain Wildstar and his group were still behind Trelaina when she forged into the waiting crowd. Some onlookers waved or called to get her attention. Many seemed in awe of her, which was even more uncomfortable than the tightly packed room.
As she closed the gap between her and the man in blue and white, two men shouldered through the crowd and swarmed her, spouting flattery—not all of which was within the bounds of propriety. She pushed them away without summoning dark matter particles. To use them on people was deadly, as she'd learned a hundred years ago.
The men were undeterred and came uncomfortably close. One ran a hand down her arm, and when she pulled away, he grabbed her.
Nagakura intervened, shoving her rifle barrel between Trelaina and the man who had her by the arm. "Beat it," she hissed.
The man and his friend threw up their hands and retreated, muttering less than savory labels for Nagakura, to which she rolled her eyes.
"Don't judge the whole ship based on a couple bad apples," Nagakura said. "You okay?" She brushed a wrinkled out of Trelaina's sleeve, and though her expression was still guarded, she wasn't as austere as before.
Trelaina nodded and offered the other woman a grateful smile.
Captain Wildstar was at Trelaina's side an instant later. "I'm so sorry. Those two will be reprimanded and suitably punished, and we'll make sure they're nowhere near you while you're onboard."
"Thank you, Captain."
Though Wildstar had no way of understanding her words, he did seem to discern her meaning.
Derek followed Trelaina closely as she wove through the adoring group who'd assembled in the hangar to meet her. The press was so thick Mark and Royster had been held back almost as soon as they'd come inside.
The crew had probably seen them coming long before they reached the ship. It was hard to miss a glowing woman traversing a desert at night, and something about her seemed to draw people. He'd felt the pull himself, but his turmoil over what to say to Nova dimmed it. If his duty as captain hadn't kept him here, he'd already be in the infirmary, sitting at Nova's bedside, even though he still had no idea what to say.
His comm held three full pages of notes he'd jotted on the way back to the ship. Each sentence he came up with fell woefully short of what he wanted to say, and part of him was terrified to talk to Nova at all, lest she laugh at him or fail to return his sentiments.
If he said he loved her, there would be no going back—no way to lock those words safely away again. If she rejected him… he didn't know how he'd handle it.
Mark and Royster shoved through the crowd and joined Nagakura in creating a protective wall around Trelaina to dissuade any more unsavories, so Derek let them pull ahead of him as he fought to find the elusive perfect words for his coming conversation with Nova.
Sandor parted the crowd, waving away onlookers and on-duty personnel alike. "Get back to your posts," he thundered over the gawkers' din.
Most grumbled, but all obeyed.
Trelaina stood near Sandor as the XO fixed a translator behind his ear. "I understand," he said to her. "I anticipated this." He extended a hand to Trelaina. "I'm Stephen Sandor."
Trelaina studied Sandor's hand curiously until he explained it was a greeting.
Just like a moment ago, when Trelaina spoke, Derek didn't understand her, but Sandor seemed to have no trouble comprehending her speech.
The XO handed Derek a translator. He must have made another one during the past couple weeks.
"I have five more if we need them," Sandor said clandestinely.
Derek slipped the device into place. "Give Mark one," he whispered. "And Nagakura. Keep the other three for now. We might need them later."
Sandor deftly passed out the devices as directed. If Royster noticed the exchanges, he gave no sign. His attention was fixed on Trelaina, though he looked far more like an adoring puppy than the two lecherous crewmen who'd showered unwanted affection on her earlier.
With difficulty, Derek shifted his thoughts from Nova to their present circumstances. "We have a lot of work to do over the next few days, Sandor, and we're racing the clock."
The XO's expression turned grave. "We know all too well what that's like."
"There's a force coming that's set on destroying us and taking over Earth. If we don't get out of here within seven days, warning Earth will no longer be possible," Derek said before drafting a message to the crew. "Everyone will have their assignments within the hour." He faced Trelaina. "I'll need to brief my officers. Will you advise me?"
"Of course, Captain Wildstar."
"Thank you. Our meeting is in twenty minutes."
"I will do whatever is necessary to see your crew safely away. Shaddai wills this ship to remain, and so it must survive. You may need to save minor repairs for your return journey to Origin."
"That was my conclusion too," Derek said before sending his message to the crew and drafting a separate one for the officers, advising them to meet in the operations room in fifteen minutes. Though Nova would be unable to attend, he copied her on the message, noting he didn't expect her to be present, though she would likely read the report to stay apprised. He'd do the same in her position.
Just before he sent the note, he was tempted to add a more personal postscript, but shook off the urge and sent the message as it was.
Derek escorted Trelaina to the operations room along with Mark, Sandor, and Nagakura where they waited for the rest of the officers to arrive.
Starsha returned to her rooms via lift instead of the interminable stairs. Her encounter in the sublevel chilled her. She had to get to Adrianna, find out what the Jeshurunian knew. With each level she passed, Starsha's anxiety grew, and by the time she reached her stop, she flew off the lift and hurried to her suite.
With Sasha in Elisa's rooms and all refugees either helping to clear housing in Mothertown or gathered in the common area on the next level down, Adrianna was alone in Starsha's rooms.
The air in here was too still, too quiet, and Adrianna's leaves were brown and crisp, and they draped limply over the edge of her hanging planter.
"Adrianna?" Starsha approached the silent Jeshurunian.
The hanging planter creaked as it swayed from a metal hook embedded in the ceiling.
Adrianna didn't respond, even when Starsha repeated the Jeshurunian's name several more times.
When Starsha reached the planter, she touched one of Adrianna's leaves. The instant she made contact, every leaf shriveled, crumbled, and fell to the floor in a shower of brown dust.
"Adrianna, say something." Starsha didn't dare touch her again for fear of doing more damage.
A weak whisper escaped the dried husk. "I'm… sorry…"
"Whatever's happened, it doesn't matter." Starsha leaned as close as she dared. "Tell me how to help you."
"No… must… die…" Her voice grew feeble as life faded from her body. "Plant… seeds…" A final whoosh of air escaped the Jeshurunian before her stalk wilted, leaving three black seeds where a thriving green form had once been.
Starsha scooped up the seeds and put them in a crystal cup for safekeeping while she ran to gather the needed soil and water to replant Adrianna. She had to know what caused this, whether it was connected to the ominous woman locked below the vault.
It would take two weeks for the seeds to sprout, and until then, she'd have to search for answers without Adrianna's help, and the sourness in her stomach said she wouldn't like what she found.
Once she'd seen to Adrianna's replanting, she made haste to the palace library and set about searching for any references to the Mazone, or anything dating back over a thousand years. If something was again threatening those living on Iscandar, she would not be caught unprepared. Not this time.
That night, at a formal dinner, Sabera sat at Zordar's right hand. To her chagrin, Invidia was seated to his left and eyed Sabera with all the civility of a jackal waiting for the first hint of weakness.
Little did the princess know, Sabera had slipped instructions to the kitchen staff to make sure Invidia's food contained enough grutian weed to leave her sick until they reached Telezart. The irritant would also go into several dinner guests' food to make the sickness appear like food poisoning. Even Zordar had received a minor dose, but only enough to make him mildly uncomfortable for a night. It would do no good to have her chief pawn taken out of the game now.
Sabera sipped amber wine and stole glances at Invidia throughout the meal to make sure the grutian weed hadn't taken effect too early. She needed to ingest the full dosage.
Throughout the meal, when she wasn't spying on Invidia, Dyre's recitation of the Quickening Oath last night captured her thoughts, and memories of Mil came unhindered. She would not be denied her son, not by Invidia, or the Diviner; not the Originals, or even Zordar himself. Mil was his son too, but he'd seemed unconcerned with the child's death. He'd watched Mil's sacrifice with stone cold eyes and never given any indication he cared for the infant.
Zordar had other children besides Invidia. He'd even sired a daughter by a Gamilon girl some years ago. That daughter would be several years older than Invidia, assuming she was still alive. The girl and her mother had left Gatlantis over a decade ago, and she was Zordar's only other living progeny. All others had been done away with over the years without so much as a thought. Not that they mattered. The only child she cared about was hers.
Invidia sipped crimson wine, and it stained her painted lips.
It was obvious when the grutian weed took effect, because Invidia's expression soured. She whispered something to her father before quietly leaving, though her steps were a bit quicker than was polite.
Zordar too seemed to be experiencing discomfort, but not enough to prompt him to leave, though others who'd ingested the substance soon left one or two at a time, citing pressing business or personal matters.
If only she could have simply poisoned Invidia, but the best poisons left distinct odors easily detected by a trained taster. Grutian weed, while annoying, was essentially harmless, and tasters wouldn't receive enough of it to be bothered.
No, Sabera would kill Invidia herself, when they stood as victors beneath the waves of Origin's seas and offered the Warbringer's Quickening Oath. Then, she would cut Invidia's insipid throat, and not even Zordar would be able to stop her.
Episode 30 Notes:
The title for this episode was taken from Isaiah 28:14-18
Wherefore hear the word of the Lord, ye scornful men, that rule this people which is in Jerusalem.
Because ye have said, We have made a covenant with death, and with hell are we at agreement; when the overflowing scourge shall pass through, it shall not come unto us: for we have made lies our refuge, and under falsehood have we hid ourselves:
Therefore thus saith the Lord God, Behold, I lay in Zion for a foundation a stone, a tried stone, a precious corner stone, a sure foundation: he that believeth shall not make haste.
Judgment also will I lay to the line, and righteousness to the plummet: and the hail shall sweep away the refuge of lies, and the waters shall overflow the hiding place.
And your covenant with death shall be disannulled, and your agreement with hell shall not stand; when the overflowing scourge shall pass through, then ye shall be trodden down by it.