Milton, Ontario

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, events, and organizations portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Brain Lag

Milton, Ontario

http://www.brain-lag.com/

Copyright © 2022 Simon A. G. Spencer. All rights reserved. This material may not be reproduced, displayed, modified or distributed without the express prior written permission of the copyright holder. For permission, contact publishing@brain-lag.com.

Cover artwork by Andre Podolsky and Catherine Fitzsimmons

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: Shadows of slavery / Simon A.G. Spencer.

Names: Spencer, Simon A. G., 1993- author.

Description: Series statement: Birthright ; book one

Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20210374527 | Canadiana (ebook) 20210374535 | ISBN 9781928011651

      (softcover) | ISBN 9781928011668 (ebook)

Classification: LCC PS8637.P474 S53 2022 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

To Evan, for being a pretty good brother.

Chapter One

Sun God

This far from the centre of the galaxy, the darkness was overwhelming. The light of the nearest stars had only just reached this quadrant, less than pinholes in the fabric of space. Neither telescopes nor probes had penetrated this far, and they had no reason to. This place was a void, overlooked by the natural flow of materials throughout the galaxy that would have led to the formation of celestial bodies. If anything at all were to exist here, much less stars, it would be a miracle.

As a Deus, Sorin was quite proficient at making miracles. For this particular batch of stars, he’d picked this dark corner of space, where mortal technology would not be able to observe for a long time, if ever. Over the last century, he’d gathered the appropriate materials to this area, forming an adequate nebula for the stars to be born in. It had been a long process, and it was bound to take even longer if he followed the proper, natural procedure, but Sorin was young, only half a billion years by mortal measurements, and with youth came impatience. Stars are not supposed to be born in one day, but in this secluded place free of prying eyes, he saw no reason not to bend the rules a little. After only a week of observing the new nebula from beneath the transparent dome of his Chariot’s cockpit, he leapt from his seat and strode to the airlock.

The void held no terror for a Deus. The Chariot was simply a convenient vehicle, allowing him to travel through the Aether and cross vast distances in manageable amounts of time. Sorin stepped into space wearing only the red cloak he’d had wrapped around his shoulders. Without it, his charcoal-black skin would have made him nearly invisible in the void, save for his yellow eyes and the veins that periodically blazed orange as they coursed with fire.

He freed a hand from his cloak and held it out behind him, summoning his inner power to propel him forward as crimson fire danced in his palm, pushing him further into the nebula. He gathered a cloud of the gases between his hands, and then focused the perpetual flow of energy that sprang from his very soul. As he pressed his palms together, the gases condensed and became the beginning of a star, a small glowing spark hanging weightlessly before him. It would quickly burn through its base materials, and then begin drawing on the nebula to feed itself.

He smiled at a job well done, allowing himself a moment of pride, then pushed away from the little star. It would grow over millions of years, until it was big enough for even mortals to see, far away as they were. As it grew, debris would gather in its orbit, crushed together by gravity to form planets. Should one of those planets happen to have the right materials, or if someone did some discreet fiddling, there could be water, and with water might come life. Thus, Sorin played his role as a Deus.

He watched the newborn star for a time, hugging his robe to his body. Space was cold, and even the heat he generated within his body could not keep the chill off his skin. He bore the inconvenience until he was sure the light could sustain itself, then turned and propelled himself in a lazy circle back to the Chariot.

Shrouded in the darkness of deep space, the Chariot was practically invisible, and Sorin only found it by the blue guide-lights he’d left blazing around the cockpit. He landed on the gold-shaded hull, which shone slightly by the light of his inner fire, and ducked in through the hatch on top of the oval-shaped vessel.

Most Deus found a home for themselves, a lifeless planet or piece of space debris they could bed down in and claim for their own. Sorin preferred to wander. Chariot interiors were only designed for temporary dwelling on long voyages, but Sorin had converted his sleeping quarters into a rec room, where he kept records of the music, fiction, and art of hundreds of mortal civilizations. He preferred to sleep in the cockpit, where he could sit in his chair and look out at the stars, planning his next destination before slumber took him. During his forays into civilized space, he enjoyed parking the Chariot where it couldn’t be seen and watching mortals go about their lives.

The dashboard monitor came to life as he took his seat, informing him he’d received a message. It had been at least a century since he’d received any sort of communication, but Sorin could guess who had sent this one. He tapped the screen to call up the message, and was unsurprised to find a single sentence: See me. No greeting, no signature, not that Sorin needed either. There were only so many Deus out there, and only one who would want to contact him these days.

He sighed. It sounded urgent. It always sounded urgent. What could be so important as to break a two century-long silence? Sorin had never enjoyed solitude, but he’d grown used to living on his own, and this sudden summons didn’t sit well with him. It wasn’t the first time that had happened, either.

He shrugged it off. Centrus was light years away, and it would take him at least a week to get there. That time could be used to think, to guess, to prepare, but he knew he wouldn’t have any answers until he got there.

He set the Chariot’s coordinates back towards occupied space, stoking the engines with the push of a button. The vessel’s dormant systems hummed to life, the Aether drive growling like a hungry beast, and Sorin grabbed the steering yoke; some preferred to let the Chariot fly itself, but he liked to feel in control as he blazed across the galaxy.

He hit the throttle and breathed in as the Chariot’s engines roared to full power. The vessel zipped through the nebula at high speed, covering miles in seconds. He’d been called reckless many times before, but he enjoyed the thrill of shooting across space. It was exhilarating, the feeling of boundless freedom.

The howl of the Aether drive filled his ears as he approached light speed, overwhelming even the hammering beat of his heart. His hands hovered over the control pad, waiting for the exact moment the drive would reach full power. The starscape in front of him became an abstraction as he counted down the seconds.

The indicator blinked green for go, and Sorin slammed on the control pad. The drive let out a piercing wail, and then Sorin and his Chariot were gone, diving through the Aether.

* * *

Centrus popped into view on his third breaching. Second planet from the star Centra; Sorin’s two century absence had failed to dull his navigational senses, especially his memory of the stars in the sky. He flew the Chariot into Centrus’ orbit, and ran a scan of the blue sphere out of idle curiosity.

Life had begun on this planet some thousand million years ago, as Sorin recalled. The images that graced his monitor were about the same as he’d seen on his last visit: primitive aquatic life, one step above bacteria. It would take many, many millions of years for them to form complex organs, and far longer than that for any sort of civilization to rise. They should get there, though, if their overseer was kind to them.

The planet’s moon peeked around the curve of its parent as Sorin rounded the sphere. Like most moons, it was a desolate grey, pock-marked with craters and the deep grooves of canyons. At a glance, a mortal would have the impression of a lifeless, inhospitable piece of rock, and Sorin had to hand it to his brother for his craftsmanship; even the Chariot’s sensors detected nothing but dead debris.

He called up a map of the surface. A holographic sphere hovered above the dash, a near perfect replica of the moon, although in a fit of boredom many centuries ago Sorin had marked out the patterns and shapes he saw within the craters in bright red light. A red X glowed over the moon’s north pole, east of the frowning face and just above the winged aquatic creature.

He brought the Chariot low, skimming across the rock surface. The crater he sought was indistinguishable from all the rest, save for one detail: it was a perfect circle. It would take some very careful measurements for the uninitiated to discover that, a disguise to throw off potential mortal explorers, but it was a red flag to a Deus, a marker of intelligent intent. The crater came into view on the horizon and Sorin switched the thrusters around to bring the Chariot down to a gentle landing within the depression. Moon dust scattered beneath the ship’s exhaust, and there was a slight bump as it came to rest.

Sorin switched on his communication systems. I’m here. He waited, but after a few minutes it became clear he was going to get no reply. He sighed, not at all surprised, and searched through his sound files. There was a special tone that when broadcast would open the way automatically. He’d been given a recording as a sort of emergency key centuries ago, after an incident where he’d been left waiting on the moon’s surface for three days straight. Now he just had to find the thing.

For reasons he could no longer recall, he’d buried it near the end of his list of audio logs. Had it really been that long? Trying to remember exactly when he’d been given the recording made him feel old, a strange sensation for him, and he quickly pushed the thought from his mind. He cued up the recording to transmit, and leaned back in his seat as the tinny chord played, pursued by a bubbly howl. It was almost certainly one of Auraphon’s compositions, written before they’d all parted ways. An odd choice and not really to Sorin’s taste, but unique and difficult to replicate.

As the recording finished, the Chariot shuddered, prompting Sorin to stand and peer outside. A split had opened along the crater’s circumference, dividing the grey rocky bed from the rest of the surface. The Chariot shuddered again, nearly knocking him off his feet as the ground beneath began to descend into the moon’s depths. Sorin returned to his seat, hands fidgeting impatiently as the slow journey commenced.

The hangar was several kilometres below the surface, indicated by an opening in the side of the long elevator shaft. The elevator came to a stop after nearly an hour, and Sorin guided the Chariot through the opening and set it down beside a similar silver vehicle. The second ship’s brilliant sheen was obscured by a thick coating of moon dust, and Sorin hesitated to even guess what condition the engines must be in without regular maintenance. He put it from his mind, shut off all but the most necessary systems on his own Chariot, and disembarked.

The interior of the moon reminded Sorin of the exterior. The dull, grey rock was replaced by dull, grey metal, only now it lacked the occasional interesting crater to keep it from complete monotony. Bright domes of light clung to the ceiling and walls, all perfect and uniform and boring. The bareness upset Sorin a little bit; how could Lutus spend so much time down here and not make it his own? Where were the flourishes and decorations that should have covered the drab walls?

Sorin knew the answer, of course, but knowing and accepting are different things. He sought out the exit, a passageway at the far end of the hangar that led to another elevator. He stepped aboard and began the long descent into the labyrinth below, occupying himself by thinking on why his brother would break his reclusive habits. A prophecy, no doubt, but none of Lutus’s predictions over the last two hundred years had motivated him to request Sorin’s presence. His imagination ran wild with possibilities, but turned up nothing fruitful.

Somewhere in the middle of his train of thought, the elevator came to a stop, the door opening onto a short hallway. A larger door waited at the other end, emblazoned with a crescent moon; Lutus’s chamber. Sorin crossed the distance in seconds and pressed a hand to the emblem. No point in knocking if Lutus wasn’t answering his front door; the crescent filled with a pale shimmer at his touch and the chamber opened to him.

Despite the drab appearance of the rest of Lutus’s home base, his personal chamber always gave Sorin pause. The walls and ceiling curved into a dome with wide monitors spread across every inch, and no visible break from one screen to the next. A long, thick black cable snaked from the apex of the dome, reaching down towards Lutus on his throne.

The older Deus sat nearly immobile, sweat shining on his rough grey skin. The upper part of his face was concealed by a wide visor, which wrapped around to the back of his head and connected with the cable, allowing the concentrated information from the monitors to flicker directly before his eyes. His squarish jaw was clamped tight, mouth pressed into a thin line, and his hands, large and powerful things that Sorin quietly envied, gripped the arms of his throne as if he feared to be flung from it.

Sorin knew better than to interrupt Lutus when he was compiling a prophecy. He took a place beside the throne, gazing up at the multitude of images spread around him. The entire galaxy was displayed here, data intercepted from millions of broadcasts across countless planets, along with feeds from special recording devices Sorin had placed at Lutus’ behest over a period of many years. His eyes flitted from one screen to another, almost immediately forgetting whatever information he’d seen in between.

Gradually, the images began to change. Immense star ships replaced news reports, decimated cities took the place of mortal dramas, until every monitor showed only death and chaos. This was Lutus’s vision, then, in the process of compiling. Sorin winced at the sight of ships gutted by laser cannons, vast metropolises aflame, and mortals locked in bloody combat. Everything went by too fast for him; he could barely get a sense of an image before it was gone, replaced by another in a cascade of escalating violence.

Lutus let out a pained grunt, his lips pulling back to reveal his tightly clenched teeth. The images began to unify, the same visions spreading across each monitor: an entire military fleet, ships numbering in the hundreds, descending upon an inhabited world with weapons blazing. Then, all of a sudden, every screen went black; the vision was over. Sorin turned to his brother, expecting some kind of explanation, but Lutus remained seated. His thick arms tensed, as if struggling against an unseen pull, and the cords of his neck stretched nearly to breaking point.

A new sound brought Sorin back to the monitors. What began as a low whine grew and multiplied, each screen adding to the rising din. It swelled into a howl, distorted and metallic, assaulting Sorin’s senses like a powerful wind storm. The unrelieved black of the screens was accented by brief flashes of red, like the flicker of a rising flame, while the sound grew to unbearable volumes, forcing Sorin to cover his ears. Beside him, Lutus opened his mouth and added his own scream to the howls. He thrashed his shoulders about, his head suddenly shooting back as if he’d been punched. His chest, wrapped in a blue cloak, rose in frantic breaths.

Sorin leapt behind the throne and grabbed hold of the cable, pulling it from its socket with a sharp tug. The howl fizzed into nothing, the screens now truly dark. Lutus curled forward, his head hanging near his knees.

Sorin knelt before him, clasping his shoulder. Lutus? Speak to me!

Lutus grunted, head turning in his direction. Brother? Is that you?

Sorin lifted the visor from Lutus’s face and set it aside, meeting his brother’s silver eyes. Are you all right?

Lutus blinked a few times, then slowly sat up. I’m… yes, yes, I’m fine. The vision has grown stronger since I last experienced it. I was not prepared for its intensity.

It looked like it was going to kill you, Sorin said, accusingly. What would have happened if I hadn’t arrived when I did?

I would have fallen unconscious, then woken up in a few hours, as has happened the last five times. Lutus rubbed at his eyes, turning a faint smile on Sorin. The worst the visions can do is give me a slight shock, nothing more—you need not be concerned. It is good to see you again, brother.

I’m not so sure. Sorin frowned. It never seems to be good news when you call. You never ask me over to share a few drinks and reminisce. It’s always some urgent business.

Lutus returned a sheepish grin. Thank you for coming.

Sorin sighed, let himself smile. I always do, brother.

Lutus stood and walked a circle around the chamber, stretching his arms. Sorin poked his nose into the neighbouring room and procured a few drinks from Lutus’s stock. Darem wine, aged almost a hundred years and fermented enough to kill all but the hardiest of mortals. Consumed in sufficient quantity, it could get even a Deus drunk. He brought an extra seat with him and the two sat and shared a bottle, discussing Sorin’s star fostering project. The vision could wait until the tension left Lutus’s already severe face.

You’re doing good work, Lutus said, sipping at his glass. What better purpose for a Deus? Of course, we may run out of dark corners to hide in, once you’ve lit up the whole universe.

We might be forced to reveal ourselves, Sorin suggested, only half joking.

Lutus frowned, setting his glass on the arm of his throne. You know the law, Sorin—let’s not entertain thoughts of breaking it.

Sorin sighed. There may come a time when we have no choice.

I don’t foresee it, Lutus replied, a stern edge creeping into his voice. Our job is to work in the shadows. Minimal contact is best.

Sorin sipped his drink, forcing a chuckle. The Sun God, working in the shadows?

We’re not gods, little brother. Lutus clenched his fist on his lap. That’s how Tyrants think. We know better, don’t we?

Sorin fell silent, Lutus’s silver eyes burning into him as nothing else could. Guilt welled up in him and he averted his gaze, then bowed his head in submission. The two drank in silence for a long while, neither looking directly at the other. Fortunately, the drinks had the effect of bolstering Sorin’s courage. So, that prophecy—another war is coming. Who’s it between?

Everyone, Lutus said, stroking his temple.

Sorin’s eyes widened. How do you mean?

I mean that it will start with a typical conflict between two of the larger powers, likely the Bythos Empire and the Kinship, but in time, the entire Syr galaxy will be drawn into it.

The entire Syr galaxy; all the civilized life he and his brother watched over. Sorin had witnessed mere solar systems at war with each other, and that had been more than enough bloodshed for him. But all of Syr? Sorin had travelled from one end of the galaxy to the other, but he had trouble conceiving of a war of such magnitude.

How accurate have your prophecies been of late? He only barely grasped the mechanics of how Lutus compiled his prophecies; it had something to do with gathering information, then running it through an algorithm that supported Lutus’ own natural foreseeing abilities.

Almost inevitable, Lutus answered. The only things the system can’t predict are the actions of Deus and their impact, but we have never played a significant role in mortal events.

Who wins? Deus were not supposed to favour any side in mortal conflicts, but knowing the details might present a course of action.

Lutus shook his head. I can’t know for certain—my prophecies merely take current events and use them to predict general outcomes. If I had to guess, the Empire. They have the numbers, the resources, and the callousness to trample any of their enemies. Many will die, regardless; more than any previous war in our lifetimes. He let out a heavy sigh, gazing into his glass. They were put too close together. Mother and the others should have spread their seeds further, but instead they chose to concentrate their efforts relatively close together. She wanted the mortals to meet each other, someday. Well, she got her wish, and I suppose there’s no point in agonizing over what’s been done.

Exactly. Sorin stood, already resolved to take action. We should be thinking about what we can do to stop this war.

Lutus leaned back in his seat. We will do nothing.

Sorin furrowed his brow. Come now, you can’t be thinking about the law at a time like this.

We’ve already discussed this, Lutus said, coldly.

That was before I knew what we were really talking about! Sorin exclaimed. He knew his brother could be stubborn, but this was a new low for him.

What we were talking about is interfering in mortal affairs, letting our biases influence the course of their lives. Lutus narrowed his eyes. We have no right to interfere, regardless of the consequences.

The death of billions is quite a heavy consequence, Sorin snapped, folding his arms. Can you live with that? I’m not sure I can.

Lutus closed his eyes and tilted his face up towards the ceiling. I’ve lived with worse.

Sorin eyed his brother, trying to read him, before a flash of insight came to him. Will Utopia be involved?

Lutus winced, his face tightening with wrinkles. The Rashani have always been a blind spot in my prophecies—you know this. Theoretically speaking, they’d be mad to sit by while the rest of the galaxy goes up in flames, neutral or no. It is not our concern.

Then why did you summon me here? Sorin demanded. It was a cruel thing to warn him of approaching disaster only to tell him he could do nothing about it.

Lutus opened his eyes and lowered his head, meeting Sorin’s glare with a calm blankness. You saw the end of my vision.

I heard it, Sorin corrected. What was that?

Lutus leaned forward, pressing his hands together. I don’t know. It was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. It was as if the computer was trying to visualize something outside its field of knowledge, but that’s impossible. That database encompasses all Deus knowledge—what is there in this galaxy that it wouldn’t recognize?

A chill passed through his fiery veins as the answer came to him. Something that isn’t from this galaxy.

Lutus nodded grimly. An alien element, maybe even the Tyrants themselves. Mother feared this day would come, but I can’t help but feel a little surprised. I cannot say what it is or how it pierced the Firmament, but the prophecy tells me it will play a part in this war—may even serve as the catalyst for it. This is where I want you to act. Find out what it is that doesn’t belong and remove it—discreetly, of course. Can you do this for me, brother?

Hope sprang anew in Sorin’s heart, mixed with apprehension; the Firmament was supposed to be impenetrable. For Mother’s memory, I will gladly do this. Will you come with me?

Lutus drummed his fingers on his throne, refusing to meet Sorin’s eyes. I believe you are capable enough to do this on your own. I have already made one mistake when it comes to mortals, and I do not wish to make another. Go, and I will remain here to try and better decipher the prophecy.

Sorin was disappointed, but not surprised. He’d known somehow that even an intruder, something their parents had often cautioned them about, would not be enough to make Lutus leave his hiding place. He put his arms around his brother, drawing him into a hug. Don’t overdo it. I expect you to answer the door when I return.

Lutus smiled, gently pushing him away. I will try to remember. His eyes fell to his glass once more, and he downed what remained. If it’s something from outside that you’re searching for, then your first course of action should be to check the Firmament and see how it might have gotten through.

The double meaning in Lutus’s words was hard to miss. The Firmament was more than what its name suggested, of course—it had become a point of contention between the two of them since their mother’s death. What rested there was a source of much anguish and disagreement. He nodded, then bid his brother farewell.

It was time to visit Father.

Chapter Two

Gladiator

The locker room swirled around Marissa, shifting wherever she wasn’t looking. It was an amalgamation of two worlds; the polished white tile of Paragon Stadium on Aegis, and her dirty, dark cell on Augerium. She couldn’t understand how they had come together like this, but she quickly forgot the discrepancy as her mind turned to other matters. She was sitting on a bench which looked like hard, solid wood, but felt as soft as a cushion. Stranger than that, though, she’d somehow come to be here dressed only in her nightgown, which would be a problem if she was supposed to be preparing for a match. Come to think of it, she couldn’t recall how she’d arrived here, either.

Don’t concern yourself with that right now, Coach said. Marissa hadn’t noticed him come in, but it felt as if he’d always been standing there.

It’s nice to see you again, Marissa said, examining every facet of Coach’s face. She never remembered what he looked like when she woke up, having only an imposing impression of him, so she took her time getting reacquainted with his appearance. There was always a sense of familiarity about the man, and every time she wondered how she could have forgotten him.

Coach folded his hands behind his back and paced the shifting floor in front of Marissa, watching her out of the corner of his eye. We don’t have time for pleasantries—you have a battle ahead of you quite soon.

Marissa glanced at the clock on the wall, but it had morphed into a hairy bat-like creature when she hadn’t been looking. That late already? She stood, hoping to find her armour in her locker, but Coach gently pushed her back onto the bench.

I said you don’t need to concern yourself with that right now, he said, sternly. You can’t choose the right tools until you know your enemy.

But everyone uses standard equipment on Aegis. For a horrible instant, Marissa wondered if she had somehow wound up back on Augerium. She frantically looked about the ever-changing locker room for signs of where she was.

Pull yourself together! Coach snapped. You’re in a dream, you foolish girl, so compose yourself and pay attention.

Got it, Coach, Marissa said, feeling relieved. Just wanted to be sure.

Coach sat down beside her, his eyes narrowed, scrutinizing her. Who is your opponent?

I forget, Marissa answered, plainly. Some big shot from the other side of the Kinship, I think. He’s been on TV the last few weeks, gloating about how humiliating my defeat is going to be. It’s going to be really embarrassing for him when he loses.

Bernhard Westri, Coach answered for her. Your opponent is Bernhard Westri. Do you recall what he looks like?

Marissa shrugged. Like most gladiators—big biceps, small head.

Coach nodded. Close enough, I suppose. How do you plan to beat him?

Marissa considered the question carefully. Depends what weapons we’re given, but my general strategy is to hit him really hard.

And if that doesn’t work? Coach grumbled.

Hit him harder, Marissa answered, grinning. You know I can.

Coach nodded reluctantly. You can, but I think you could do with a battle plan to help the hitting process along.

Marissa wrinkled her nose. You know me, Coach—I make it up as I go. The problem with a set plan is that the moment something goes wrong, it’s all going to go to pieces. Trust me—I’ve handled guys like this plenty of times, and if I fail this one time… well, this isn’t Augerium. Just in case she was wrong about that, she waited for Coach to nod in agreement before she relaxed.

You walk a fine line between strong-willed and thick-headed, Marissa. Coach slapped her on the back, nearly pushing her off the bench. I’m proud. Fine, do it your way. Just don’t humiliate yourself out there.

Marissa smiled crookedly, lifting herself upright. Please Coach, it’s been, like, days since I last did that.

They shared a laugh, Coach’s chuckles deep and booming. Around them, the locker room became more cohesive. The walls ceased their undulations, objects remained in their previous state when Marissa looked away, and overall, it was looking more like the free world of Aegis than Augerium.

Hey, Coach?

Yes?

What’s your real name? She called him Coach because of these talks, but she had never actually caught his name. When they talked, he felt so familiar that it seemed that she must know it.

Coach gave her a measuring look. Must we bother? You’re not going to remember.

Marissa shrugged. Maybe this time will be different.

Coach sighed deeply, shaking his head to hide whatever he was really feeling. Very well. Then he told her, and Marissa was pleased, right until she woke up and had completely forgotten both the name and the face.

She opened her eyes gradually, accepting the light that slipped between the blinds in increments. Traffic reports nattered from the living room, along with the rapid tapping of a stylus on a screen. Marissa rolled out of bed and dragged herself to the bathroom.

She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t known Coach. Her memories of her early childhood were hazy, but it had seemed like he’d always been there, waiting in her dreams to push her forward. He wasn’t there every night; he picked his times, but he always seemed to know the moments he was needed. Coach was ready to talk before every match, both on Augerium or Aegis, always with advice and encouragement. It was the stressful times he showed up for, too, like the great escape; he’d been present for every leg of that taxing journey. Arc’s opinion was that Coach was a figment of her imagination, a way for her subconscious to deal with anxiety, but Marissa wasn’t so sure. Either way, she wouldn’t have been able to get through some of those times without his help.

She cleaned herself up, then did a few stretches. The day was young, and her bout with Westri was hours away. She could fill the time until then with a trip to the gym, maybe answer a few questions from the reporters who always seemed to flock around the stadium before a match, or maybe she’d just stay home and conserve her energy. The biggest perk to living in the Kinship was being able to plan her day as she wanted.

She found Arc at the table in the living room of their small home, stabbing away at his tablet screen with a stylus. As always, he appeared to be completely absorbed in his work, his broad shoulders hunched forward as he input whatever report or speech he was working on. His nearly-black eyes were fixed on the screen, the scar running between them and down across the bridge of his nose adding to the intensity of his stare. He didn’t spare Marissa a glance as she entered.

Morning, honey, Marissa said, alerting him to her presence.

Arc paused in his work and turned to her. Morning. I made coffee, if you’d like some.

She did. After procuring a hot cup from the kitchen, she returned to the living room and took a seat on the couch. A screen hung from the wall across from her, showing the most recent news from across the Kinship. Pirates had been raiding along the frontier again, and there were rumours they were getting support from the Bythos Empire. Negotiations with the Aquila Alliance to establish stronger trade and relations would soon be underway, though the news of a Rashani acting as mediator had caused some controversy with more nationalistic individuals. Marissa began to tune the news out as it turned to some new fad religion that was gaining traction across the galaxy. Things seemed pretty good, as far as her life was concerned.

Her eyes wandered downwards to the mantelpiece beneath the screen, where her old spear from Augerium rested across the top. Its long shaft ended in a cylinder of hard blue plastic, which connected it to the sharp steel triangle it had for a head. The cylinder was ringed with narrow slits that would release an array of backwards facing hooks when a button at the base was pushed, ensuring that whatever was stuck with the spear stayed stuck. It was a horrible weapon, more suited to fighting large beasts than people, but it had been used for both. All the same, Marissa didn’t mind taking it down some afternoons and spearing a few practice dummies, just to recall the sensation of using it.

Will you be going out soon? Arc asked from his place at the table.

Uh, yeah, in a few, Marissa answered distractedly, her thoughts pulled from the old world back to the new.

Any idea when you’ll be back? Arc continued to work as he spoke, every word punctuated by the tap of his stylus.

I have a match today, she replied. She wasn’t sure if he needed reminding, but it couldn’t hurt to try. Four o’clock. You gonna come watch?

Arc’s lips pressed together. I’m busy today. I need to be home to make arrangements.

Oh, Marissa said, weakly trying to hide her disappointment. Well, are you at least going to watch the broadcast? It’s going to be all over the sports channels, so you can’t really miss it.

If I remember. That was Arc-talk for ‘no’.

The refusal stung, as it always did, but Marissa was hardly surprised. Arc had made it no secret that he disapproved of her choice of work. He didn’t see any difference between the fighting pits of Augerium and the stadiums on Aegis, and acted as if getting paid and not having to worry about losing her head wasn’t a huge change. She understood his aversion to being a gladiator, but she was the one still fighting, not him. They’d argued about it when she’d first started, but now that Marissa Rhapsody had made something of a name for herself, Arc had settled for mere indifference towards her career.

I’ll make something special tonight, Arc said, all of a sudden.

Marissa’s ears pricked up at that. Huh? What’s the occasion?

Arc gave her a blank look that was far more expressive than a glare. The negotiations with the Aquila are scheduled for a week from now, and I’m catching a ship tomorrow morning. I thought I might do something nice before I leave.

Oh, right—I remember. Well, at least she remembered now. Would you remind me how long you’re going to be gone for?

Arc turned his eyes back to the screen and tapped his chin. Two to three weeks, depending on travel times and how easily the Aquila can be persuaded. Is that OK with you?

Three weeks alone; what was she going to do with herself? She had friends, mostly other gladiators, so she would have people to talk to. But at home, at least, she would be lonely. Yeah, I’ll be fine.

Good to know. Arc leaned towards the screen, giving it his full attention, and that was it for their talk.

Marissa got herself a bowl of cereal and ate it while half-watching the TV. An ad for the match popped onto the screen, grabbing her attention: an invisible announcer bellowing, Aegis gladiator Marissa Rhapsody takes on Zen System champion Bernhard Westri at Paragon Stadium! The rising star versus the galaxy famous brawler, today at four! Don’t miss it! The announcement was accompanied by clips of Westri, a huge man with only a small scattering of hair, disarming opponents in an assortment of competitions. Marissa received a single clip from the previous season, when she’d thrown Darrin Zaet, a man more than twice her size, over her shoulder and a fair distance behind her. More than five years fighting at Paragon, and that was the only accomplishment they thought worth showing? Westri was clearly the favourite to win; at just barely five feet, she must look pretty minuscule next to that bulk of a man. At least she didn’t have a tiny head.

She gathered up her gym bag with everything she’d need for the day before her, then swung by Arc to plant a light kiss on his forehead, which he accepted without resistance. She headed for the door, feeling around her pockets for change she could use for the bus.

My soul?

Marissa stopped and turned, smiling. For the first time that day, Arc’s eyes were completely occupied with her. Yes?

Arc folded his hands together, brow furrowed. Don’t kill anyone, and good luck. He said it without a hint of humour. Remember, never make the first move.

Marissa rolled her eyes. Yeah, I’ll remember. But honestly, I prefer to make it so that the first move is the only move.

Arc replied with a tiny smile. Be home for dinner tonight, remember.

Marissa nodded, but her mind was already focused on her date with Westri at four.

* * *

The crowd was chanting by the time Marissa stepped into the arena, hollering from the bleachers encircling the stadium with requests for violence. Where most of Augerium’s fighting pits had been shoddily constructed arenas with uneven dirt floors that often made it difficult to get good footing, Paragon’s arena was level, with the boundaries marked out in white paint. The cameras attached to the structure’s support pillars swivelled at her approach, and suddenly Marissa’s face was bloated to massive proportions on the big screens above the audience. She smiled and waved, both to the crowd around her and the viewers across the Kinship, as her name was hollered by many of the former.

She’d gone with her usual lightweight armour for this match. It was coloured blue, with a white emblem painted across the chest plate displaying the Serpent’s Head constellation: six white stars arranged in an arrow shape. The Serpent’s Head was the constellation between Kinship and Empire territory, and she’d chosen the symbol as a reminder of how far she’d come. The armour covered all her vital areas, combining metallic plates across her torso and limbs with a durable fabric for mobility. The company that had supplied the armour bragged that the lightweight alloy could stop bullets and concentrated laser fire, although she’d thankfully never had to test that claim. It was far better than the armour she’d had in her earlier years, which couldn’t stop a pin.

She held her helmet at her side, wanting to greet her opponent face to face before putting it on. The helmet would cover most of her head, and she’d tied her brown hair back in a ponytail to fit it through the small hole at the back. The face was open, but a long nose-guard reached down to block any direct attacks.

Westri’s arrival was heralded by a crash of drums over the loudspeakers as he emerged from the far doors. His armour was such a mess of advertisements and corporate logos that it was impossible to see the emblem that signified his gladiator identity. He’d already donned his helmet, perhaps to hide the tiny-ness of his head, but his arrogant smirk could be seen from miles away as he casually strode to the centre of the arena, working the crowd into a frenzy with broad sweeps of his arms.

Marissa met him at the centre, and the difference in stature was suddenly very apparent. Westri was more than a head taller than her, and his shadow stretched out to eclipse her entirely. To emphasize the point, the large man hunched forward to look down on her, his smug expression reminding her of countless brutes she’d fought over the years. She offered her hand, hoping to dispel some of Westri’s animosity. The hulking gladiator looked at the offering with a grin that edged on a sneer, then clasped it in his own meaty paw.

May we both fight to our best, Marissa said, meeting Westri’s leering eyes without flinching.

I plan to. Westri held her hand longer than most fighters did, leaning in close to whisper, You should have stayed in the Empire, little girl. Then he released her, strutting back to his place as the sword-bearer approached.

The shock hit Marissa like a punch in the gut, and she fought to hide how much those words had hurt her. He couldn’t know; Westri didn’t seem the type to pay attention to anything outside his own little universe. He couldn’t know what it meant to be a gladiator on Augerium, what she’d suffered through. Ignorance was the only explanation for why he would say such a thing. He wouldn’t have said that if he’d known, unless his heart was rotten.

A mild cough shook Marissa from her daze. The sword-bearer was standing beside her, holding a box containing two silvery swords. Per tradition, the home fighter had the right of first choice for weapons. Marissa muttered an apology and selected one of the blades, then held it above her head for the crowd to see. A cheer erupted from all around the stadium. She slipped her fingers into the grip around the hilt, then nodded to the sword-bearer, who took the other sword to Westri.

Marissa met her opponent’s gaze across the ten-foot space between them, and saw that smirk again. He knew. How could he not? Marissa had never hidden her past when asked about it, and Arc had built a political career out of his own. If Westri knew she had once lived in the Empire, then he must have heard at least some of what she’d gone through. He knew, but had said it anyway. Should have stayed in the Empire; should have stayed a slave.

Rage built within her, filling her up like a container until it seemed to clog her ears and muffle the roar of the crowd. Where did a pampered baby like Westri get such arrogance? He had never lived the life of a real gladiator, never had to kill for the amusement of high-and-mighty lords, just to earn the right to live. He’d never known the humiliation of sleeping in a filthy cell every night, eating the scraps and tasteless mush that was offered, or suffered the anxiety of knowing the next day might be the last. Westri wouldn’t have lasted a week.

She almost didn’t hear the starting bell. Arc’s advice had been for naught, as Westri came charging at her before she could even consider making the first move. His sword came swinging straight down on her, and she stepped aside, nearly tripping over herself. She gritted her teeth and tried to focus. She was getting careless; the strict safety measures on this planet meant she wasn’t constantly fighting for her life, and it was difficult to deny that it was affecting her performance. But her dignity was at stake now, and she was not going to let Westri’s taunting go unpunished.

Westri stabbed in her direction. Marissa caught the sword with her own blade and pushed it aside with a flourish, and the crowd whooped in response. Westri growled, then continued on the offensive, striking at her again and again but landing only a couple of weak blows on her arm guards.

Marissa had learned a long time ago that constantly attacking was a mistake. There was no time to catch a breath; such attacks came continuously, one after the other, which meant the attacker was less focused and increased the odds of making a mistake. Case in point: Westri misjudged a stab, missing Marissa and extending his arm far out in front of him. Marissa ducked low and wrapped her arms around his wrist. She tugged sharply and Westri dropped his sword with an exclamation of pain.

One point for her. Gladiator fights lacked many of the strict rules of conventional sports, and win conditions varied widely from match to match, especially in a non-tournament bout like this. On Augerium, it had usually been to the death, but the Kinship was far less barbaric. The armour was better, meaning blades wouldn’t cause serious injury, and the victor was usually decided by a certain number of disarms or until one fighter was incapacitated. Unfortunately, after the shock of Westri’s taunt, Marissa couldn’t remember the number they’d agreed on. She released Westri, who pushed past her to retrieve his sword.

Was it best out of three, or three disarms total? Marissa asked.

Most of Westri’s face was hidden behind his helmet, but she could tell he was furious. Three disarms, you stupid bitch!

The bell rang and the next round went by in a blur. Marissa had heard Westri’s words, then his sword was coming at her, and she knocked it out of his hand with a single swing.

Right, sorry, I forget sometimes, she said, smiling sweetly. Guess that’s two-zero, huh?

Looks like you’ve got the brains of an Imperial, too—no room to fit anything, Westri snarled, moving to retrieve his sword.

That was it. Hold it! Marissa had only meant to speak normally, but the force of her voice brought Westri to a halt and stunned the tumultuous spectators into silence. All eyes were on her.

She dropped her sword and kicked it aside. You’re a brawler, aren’t you? That’s what I hear, at least. Since you obviously know nothing about wielding a sword, why don’t we settle this with our fists?

The sword-bearer, acting as a referee from the sidelines, raised his voice to object, but Westri lifted a hand to quiet him. Sure, we can do that, he said, his voice filled with glee. First to surrender loses?

How else would we do it? Marissa asked, blankly.

The ref hollered at them impotently to keep to the rules, then ran off to find the stadium’s managers. Marissa didn’t let it worry her; this would’ve been a serious rule infringement if they were in a tournament match, but there was nothing really at stake here except their reputations. The managers were smart, and they wouldn’t interfere if they thought it would make a good show for the crowd, who were already screaming enthusiastically. They were not particular as to the kind of violence they watched, so bending the rules wasn’t a big deal. Cries of Rhapsody! reached Marissa’s ears, and she readied herself to give them something to remember. She removed the armour on her arms and her helmet, wanting to let Westri have a chance by giving him something soft to hit.

Westri made a show of cracking his knuckles, but kept his open-faced helmet on. If he had seemed smug and confident before, he now appeared absolutely convinced of his victory. This was his fighting style of expertise, no doubt about it.

They circled each other, each taking stock of their opponent in light of the new medium of combat. Westri was a big man, his bare arms thick with muscles, and he could probably put quite a bit of strength into a punch. He almost seemed to strut, more focused on working up the crowd with waves and thunderous roars than on Marissa. He probably thought he’d just had a lucky break, and that he could trounce her in a fistfight. Maybe he was right.

But Marissa had another weapon, one she spent most of her bouts trying to hold back. Only today her anger was like a pressure inside her skull, pushing for a way out so that it could scald Westri with its burning wrath. A showboating gladiator was nothing new—Marissa had done it herself plenty of times—but this tiny-headed tool had touched a nerve, one that she’d thought was buried far deeper. She couldn’t let him get away with that.

The crowd was relentless, urging both combatants to make a move. The rage within her was almost impossible to resist, pushing her to lash out, but Marissa knew she had to restrain herself like she always did, at least for the moment. She pictured Arc, who had lived nearly the same life as her, and had become ever calm and cool-headed, but still strong. Patience, he said to her, never make the first move. She came to a stop, eyes fixed in a hateful glare on Westri.

The brute came to a stop as well, tilting his head like some dumb animals did. Well, are you going to come at me, or just stand there and piss yourself?

She couldn’t hold out against her own anger. It was like trying to stop a tidal wave, only the rushing current was herself; a primal will that had kept a little girl alive when she should have died long ago. She lunged towards Westri with a snarl.

Westri raised a fist to bring down on her head, but Marissa jabbed him in the side he’d exposed, digging her knuckles into the fabric between the plates of armour. He winced back, clutching at his side and swearing. He swung out with his fist, but it lacked whatever force he’d meant to put into it, and Marissa swatted it away as she might an insect. Next, her fist found its way to Westri’s chest plate, hitting the mess of advertisements with unrestrained force. The armour buckled from the impact, knocking the wind from Westri. Marissa pulled her fist away from the indentation, her knuckles not even scratched, and a shocked murmur spread through the crowd.

Westri stood half-bent and dazed, and Marissa wasted no time in pressing her advantage. She grabbed hold of his shoulder, digging her fingers in hard, then yanked him down. Westri went to his knees with a startled gasp and a pitiful attempt to pull free. She struck the side of his head to keep him still, leaving a crack in his helmet. A second blow brought a pained whimper and more desperate struggling. The crowd had erupted into an uproar once more, although it was hard to tell if they were excited or terrified.

The ref returned and came running, his voice a dull buzzing in Marissa’s ears. He wanted her to stop, she guessed, but she wasn’t finished with Westri just yet. She took aim at his face, just long enough to give him a fright, then delivered the final blow. As her fist slammed into Westri’s helmet, there was a snapping sound that only Marissa’s keen hearing could pick out, quickly muffled by the gladiator’s howl of fear. His helmet fell away from his head in pieces, smashed beyond repair.

She released Westri, but the other gladiator remained on his knees, trembling as he ran his hands over his now exposed head. He met her eyes, arrogance replaced with a pathetic, pleading look.

M-mercy, he said, whining out the word.

The rage spilled from Marissa in an instant, leaving her wavering on her feet. Her hands fell limply to her sides, the fight gone out of them. She looked at Westri again and felt a twinge of satisfaction, but also guilt.

The ref conferred with his phone before nervously approaching Marissa and taking her hand. He lifted it above their heads, declaring her the winner. Despite their confusion, the crowd never turned down a chance to cheer, and Marissa’s name roared across the arena.

A troop of medics came to help the dazed Westri to his feet and led him out of the arena. Marissa watched him go, and before he disappeared through the locker room doors, he turned a look of misery and fear in her direction. He would be fine physically, but his ego might have taken some lasting scars.

There was another stab of guilt. She didn’t doubt that she deserved her victory, but she could have achieved it in a more restrained way. She hadn’t meant to get so angry, hadn’t meant to break anything. If she hadn’t got a hold on herself when she did, Westri might have needed a stretcher. For once, she was glad Arc didn’t watch her matches; he would not have approved.

She didn’t know where her strength, which seemed so out of proportion to her small size, came from, only that it was hardest to control in the heat of battle, especially when she got angry. It exceeded the strength of any human fighter she’d ever faced, and had made her a curiosity among slave holders in earlier years. She didn’t have many occasions to talk about it, and even Arc shied away from the topic, so it was sort of a secret, although people must have noticed when she slipped up like today.

The difficulty in fighting on Aegis had nothing to do with winning. She was certain she could beat any gladiator the Kinship could throw at her. The real challenge, and the subject of many of her nightmares, was trying not to kill anyone.

* * *

The showers at Paragon Stadium were always good for cooling Marissa’s head. Once she’d slipped past the mob of eager interviewers that had broken through security, she hid in the locker room and disrobed. With the turn of a knob, cold water doused her body and washed away her worries for a short while. It was soothing, allowing her to empty her mind and put it all back in neatly.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood beneath the downpour, but at some point, she decided that was enough and turned the water off. She returned to her locker, drying herself off as she went. She dropped the towel on the bench beside her as she opened her locker to retrieve her everyday clothes.

Footsteps came from the other side of the room, then stopped not too far behind her. Y’know, as far as gladiators go, you’ve got the finest ass among them.

Marissa glanced over her shoulder to see Matt Rexis, a grin spreading across his stubbly face. His presence was not unexpected, as gladiator arenas rarely had gendered locker rooms. It was a tradition Marissa had never understood, and back on Augerium she’d just assumed it arose out of indifference towards the fighters. Aegis, which was far more mindful of its people’s rights and comfort, had no such excuse.

Then again, it wasn’t all bad. Marissa discreetly eyed the tight muscles of Rexis’s stomach, working her way down to the towel that hung so low on his hips as to give a hint of his grooming habits. From this perspective, the pros and cons seemed to balance out.

She turned back to her locker and unhurriedly reached for something to put on. Speaking of asses, is yours still sore from that whooping I gave you last week?

Matt laughed. You got lucky, babe. Next time we’re in the ring together, I’ll give you the best fight you’ve ever had.

Mhm, Marissa replied, unfolding her clothes. She’d actually held back more than usual in their match, expecting Matt to pull some kind of trick. But after ten minutes of evading his blows, she’d realized with some disappointment that he was a pretty mediocre fighter. She’d taken one of his hits and feigned being winded to avoid humiliating him completely, then quickly disarmed him. It seemed to have just inflated his ego further.

Matt’s hands suddenly fell on her bare shoulders, the warmth of his body pressing against her back. Of course, we could have a little wrestling match right now, if you want.

Marissa looked up at him with a smirk. Matt inspired absolutely no fear in her. Disregarding the fact that she could easily floor him if he tried anything really untoward, he was mostly harmless. I’m good, thanks.

Matt met her eye for a moment, and something there told Marissa he was thinking of the match she’d just won. He stepped back, seating himself on the bench as Marissa dressed herself. Great job today. You really kicked the shit out of Westri.

He’s the best gladiator in the Zen System, or so I was told, said Marissa. I didn’t want to hold anything back.

That’s what I guessed, said Matt, but a touch of concern had crept into his voice. He say something to you? You looked pretty angry.

It’s not important, Marissa said, pulling a shirt over her head.

Guess not. Did Scars make an appearance today?

Marissa turned to face Matt again, giving him a stern look. He only has the one scar, and you know it. No, he has important work to do—he’s part of that stuff with the Aquila.

Matt shook his head. I just don’t understand how a man can marry a woman so amazing and then just ignore her. Your ass alone should have him following you everywhere.

Marissa didn’t entirely disagree, but she was driven to defend her husband. Arc lived the same life I did, and we deal with that past in our own ways. I can’t blame him if he never wants to see another arena ever again.

I guess. Matt nodded slowly. Did you two ever fight?

Did you want something, or did you just come to ogle me? Marissa snapped.

Matt held up his hands in surrender. The others will be finishing their training soon. I wanted to ask if you’d like to have a few drinks to celebrate your win. I know Arlen and Zurn are down for it.

Marissa relaxed and let herself smile. No need to get so angry. Zurn? I thought Phal couldn’t drink alcohol.

Matt grinned once more. Gotta have a designated driver. You in?

A drink sounded good. Hanging out with her friends sounded better. I’m in.

* * *

The lights were dimmed when Marissa returned home late that night. Was it a romantic gesture, a power shortage, or a burglary in progress? Marissa closed the