Destiny Abounds (Starlight Saga Book 1) Read online

  As her eyes focused downward on that, she considered the pieces of weighty alloy. How much could these lengths of metal withstand, if she called on her full power? How much heat could those suits of theirs resist before the people inside them ignited like candles? Not as much as she could put out, she was sure. How many more guards were there? How much damage could the hull of this fucking ship withstand? Maybe she shouldn't just sit here. Maybe she should focus her will, rip apart these impotent fucking chains and just deal with that device the way she always—

  Prisoner 286’s head snapped up sharply as the door to her side clicked and slid softly open. She continued to grin broadly up at the woman who entered, a beautiful Altairan woman whose elaborate, unmistakable Kalaset robes of silky brown and gold accented her fair skin superbly, highlighting the darker undertones that gave her an enticing, exotic look.

  Her “escorts” hovered deferentially behind her, more volunteers of the Legion, no doubt sent here to help contain the notorious Prisoner 286. One paused, having held the door for the Kala, the other stepping forward with a fancy, elaborately engraved box, awkwardly and gingerly managing it around his gun strap and reflective, reinforced body armor. That guard approached the little metal table, setting the box gently, carefully in the center near her hands, before almost bowing to the Kala as he hastened to step out of her way, yet hover protectively near.

  286 considered slapping the little box off of her table. She had enough range of motion for that, at least, but thought better of it; she wanted to see what the Hel these people were up to first. She instead snorted audibly and derisively at the almost reverent way the Altairans were treating the woman, winked at one of them whom she caught giving her a hard, glaring expression, and finally gave the stranger in question her attention.

  “The Hel do you want?” she said, meeting the Kala’s eyes, an exquisite rich brown flecked liberally with gold. “I’m not exactly dressed for sexy time at the moment.” 286 rattled the chains covering her tank top and cargo-style pants indicatively and spread a casual sneer generously around the room. She’d never had the opportunity to see if she could get under a Kala’s skin before; their composure was, supposedly, beyond legendary.

  That little jab turned out to not draw any ire, as the Kala, instead of responding, slid ever so gracefully into another, more comfortable chair provided by a third member of the Legion who appeared seemingly from nowhere to do so, then disappeared back into the corridor leading to the rest of the dreadnought just as unobtrusively as he had entered.

  The Kala’s infuriatingly serene expression didn’t falter; not at the insult to her distinguished profession nor at the darkening of Prisoner 286’s glare, instead simply sitting and folding her hands neatly across her edge of the table. She met 286’s stormy expression without so much as a flinch or twitch in her flawless face or soft smile, appearing as confident and assured as if she owned this whole ship and was in absolutely no danger at all.

  Then she waved the guards away, bidding them to leave with a demure smile of thanks, opened the box, and began slowly unpacking a delicate, ornate crystalline tea set.

  286 was almost taken aback. Who the fuck did this woman think she was? Normally, her first priority at this point would be to knock her down a peg or ten, physically if need be, but this time she found herself intrigued. Anyone with the stones to just walk in here and start setting up a tea shop or whatever right in her fucking face might actually be amusing enough to be worth her time.

  So she waited. As much as she could, anyway; her foot still tapped the floor in an increasingly frenetic rhythm, her bonds slowly dancing to the accompanying clinking sound. The Kala slowly unpacked and set up, with almost ritualistic care, a rotund self-steaming kettle, intricate saucers, and a twinned pair of detailed teacups, her painted and manicured fingers working with the ease of long familiarity and precision.

  Despite trying her best to wait it out, 286 still broke the ceremonial silence first. “So, you got some courage to just walk in here, unprotected, nary a guard in sight,” she flashed teeth in a predatory manner toward the pair of Legion soldiers who watched apprehensively from just this side of the closed door. “Aren’t you afraid I’m gonna, you know, get you, or something? Set you on fire? Toss you out an airlock, all unprepared-like?” She leaned forward, tilting her head and baring the teeth comprising her crooked grin once again, as she crowded the tea set’s clustered presence on the metallic expanse of her table.

  “Kala Sirrah Nazai,” the Kala replied, seeming utterly calm, pouring a modest amount of boiling water from the teapot into a little lidded cup prepared with some aromatic leaves. She set the pot back into its sturdy metal divot, and closed the lid on the cup, presumably allowing the tea to steep.

  “Sorry, never heard of it,” the Prisoner quipped, leaning back abruptly, striking as casual and relaxed a pose as possible with all of her restrictions and physical impediments.

  The Kala smiled with what to 286 was an agitating tranquility, finally looking up from her tea set at the well-restrained convict across from her. She still seemed as though she were genuinely unperturbed by the situation thus far. “My name is Sirrah Nazai, though you may call me ‘Sirrah’ if you like.”

  Sirrah lifted the little lidded cup delicately with one practiced hand, pressing the fine crystalline lid to it tightly with her thumb as she tilted it over one smaller cup, then another, dividing the tea into two equal servings. She held her long, flowing sleeve of lavish material aside with her spare hand while pouring the tea and setting the lidded cup back in its appointed place. Her gentle gesture smoothly flowed around to sweep her lustrous raven hair from her face, an action more of expression than of convenience or necessity. She then folded her hands into her lap, looking up to finally meet the intensity of the Prisoner’s hard, untrusting hazel eyes.

  “So who is that? And why should I care?” She shifted, broiling in seeming agitation, chains rattling in disharmony. A grinding sound from the floor accompanied a repositioning of her seat, as if one could somehow seek a more comfortable position with all of the hard, unyielding metal. “What do you want, and why are you here?” Her eyes narrowed as the more playful, if psychotic, expression faded into a narrowing of both eyes and focus.

  Sirrah’s easy, peaceful smile never wavered for an instant. “I am a Kala, a sister of the Kalaset, and I’m not here to make you feel one way or another, so caring is optional. I’m here because I believe that everyone deserves a chance.” Her voice was rich but gentle, her diction perfect, unlike 286’s rough-seeming Urzran street dialect. She gently shifted one of the steaming cups of tea across the little metal table, sliding it within reach of the Prisoner, momentarily placing her own delicate hand within the dangerous woman’s reach as well, something most people weren’t brave enough to do.

  She met the Prisoner’s eyes with her steady, calm gaze, and 286 was surprised to find the Kala did so without a hint of fear or threat, without commanding or insisting. To the Prisoner, her eyes were not like others’ eyes. Her eyes were only asking, only offering. Not pushing or imposing, nor demanding. To Prisoner 286, it didn’t make any sense; everyone wanted something. This woman was just good at hiding it, whoever she was.

  So in response, 286 just snorted with derision and tossed her head, feeling the tall spikes of some of her dark, dye-streaked hair beginning to slump slightly from sweat and the lack of proper maintenance. “Seriously? This is just another Altairan reformation intervention ‘please don’t be so damn naughty’ thing? Spare me. I guess I just expected better when I saw something like you walk through the door.” She managed to roll her eyes in an overly exaggerated fashion as she replied, layering it with no small amount of cutting sarcasm.

  “No, the Altairan government no longer believes it is possible to rehabilitate you.” Sirrah maintained her unwavering yet unthreatening eye-contact with the Prisoner. “But—”

  “That’s a first, right? I mean, I thought their motto was to never stop trying.” 286 i
nterrupted, garnering a measure of amusement, or possibly pride, from the admission. She cut her eyes briefly at the numerous Altairans standing vigil about just outside her door as she spoke.

  286 watched as Sirrah’s smile broadened oddly, seemingly as if with amusement despite the slight directed against her own culture. “As I said before, I believe everyone deserves a chance.” The Kala’s smile dissipated into softness laden with emotions 286 had no ability, or care, to interpret. She gazed into the Prisoner’s eyes for a long moment that stretched silently between them, but 286 trusted this about as much as she trusted anything. So 286 just blinked at her in return, letting her readable expressions drip away and leaving behind a mostly bland, mask-like expression of condescension.

  2.1- Sirrah

  Sirrah broke the quiet with the gentlest rustling of her silken robes, as she rose with fluid grace to her feet. She stepped around the table, intentionally placing herself fully within arm’s reach of the menacing woman, lifting the little teacup she had pushed across the table and placing it directly into the chained hand of the most dangerous and notorious criminal known in either of the connected star clusters.

  The Kala then leaned in slowly, once more meeting Prisoner 286’s eyes. In her gaze, she allowed 286 to see neither weakness, nor arrogance, nor self-righteousness; nothing like what she understood usually enraged or disgusted the Prisoner with other people. She met the frightening woman’s eyes with all of the right emotions, and none of the errant ones that the official briefing had warned would possibly get her—and maybe others—killed. Sirrah placed a feather-light touch of her fingertips on the Prisoner’s securely manacled wrist and spoke very softly.

  “I accept you.” She stood as such for a couple of long seconds, touching 286’s wrist and gazing into eyes lightly clouded with puzzlement. 286 watched her every movement, brow mildly furrowing with anticipation and perplexity. Finally, Sirrah moved again, gently circling her fingers to the bottom of 286’s rough hand and pressing the tea upward, suggesting only with the effortless grace of her motions that she try the drink from the tiny, delicate cup.

  Well experienced in the art of reading people, she could see the grades of paranoia and bewilderment in the Prisoner’s eyes; swirling around behind so many other hidden things, many violent and terrible things, but it was something else that she saw within that directed her next actions. The moment stretched out, feeling like a longer span of silence than it really was, but however short the time, it was just long enough for her to watch as Prisoner 286 made her decision as well, whether she realized it yet or not.

  Sirrah’s soft smile returned in force as she backed demurely away from Prisoner 286 and then turned her back in a smooth motion as she moved toward the door. She pressed her delicate palm to an unobtrusive scanner etched into the nearby wall and then deftly entered a string of commands, ones the Altairans had given her, but hadn’t expected her to use. A rapid series of hissing hydraulics and clicking locks raced from 286’s chest downward, heralding the release of the restraints on her wrists, then arms, then legs, the lengths of reinforced metal falling lifelessly to the floor without further preamble.

  “Bring the tea set with you when you’re finished, if you would please.” The Kala moved toward the door and the guard outside hurried to hold it properly for her, with as much decorum as he knew how to muster, while simultaneously peering into the room, seeming horrified at the fact that the notorious Prisoner 286 was now standing unbound, staring through him and toward her potential freedom.

  But, for the moment, 286 just watched as the Kala passed the guards with a polite nod and strode confidently down the hall, not even waiting to see if the Prisoner obeyed her request, or if she was even following her.

  2.2 - Prisoner 286

  286 deeply contemplated not doing it, of course. It was her nature in a way, and she well knew it; the very act of that Kalaset woman expecting her to just follow along caused her to highly consider doing otherwise. She looked down the hallway, at what seemed like a full contingent of Altairan Legionnaires from the Volunteer Corps. They, on the other hand, expected her not to obey; expected her, now free of their costly attempt to capture and jail her, to go violently berserk and rampage through the ship or some such.

  Well, she thought, screw them. She flexed the ample tone of her newly unburdened muscles, then raised the tiny-feeling crystal tea cup to her lips in a surprisingly dainty gesture, before slurping it down with a pointed lack of decorum. She almost felt like bursting out laughing. She’d take an easy freedom, this time; why not?

  286 haphazardly shoved the tea things back into their little box without damaging them, emptying the remaining contents of her companion's teacup into her throat on the way, then draped the lid over the top of it and rose to her full height. She knew she towered over the attendant Legionnaires with the entirety of her nearly two meter height, and liked to assume from their wavering attempts at stoic expressions that they were suitably intimidated.

  Tucking the tea set under an arm, her long strides hastened her toward the departing figure of Kala Sirrah Nazai. It felt good to be free, whatever this woman wanted out of her. It felt good to be out of the oppressive atmosphere and gravity of Urebai again. The Legion wasn’t even trying to stop her.

  Prisoner 286 strolled casually out of the makeshift holding cell and past rows of vigilant Altairan Legionnaires, tonelessly whistling an old Urzran tune and carrying a priceless Mizarian tea set tucked under her arm. Whatever else happened, this particular escape hadn’t been nearly as much of a pain in the neck as she’d anticipated.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Soaring

  Merlo

  Merlo tensed and eased back on the Destiny’s controls; smooth blue steel, warm from extended time in her grip, still glaringly different from the holographic control schemes she’d been trained on for so many years. The solidity and resistance was somehow reassuring though, grounding even. That was what it was like piloting the Destiny: different, but familiar enough to be comfortable. The ship itself was reliable and receptive, easy to control without ever being boring. But then, flying was never boring for her. Flying was freedom.

  The purples and incomprehensible streaks of errant light of slipspace ruptured around her, breaking and dissolving into the purer black of normal space as she stared out the viewscreen ahead of her. Her preemptive easing of the Destiny’s responsive engines proved effective, deadening the massive amount of momentum the ship had acquired during its mere moments in slipspace.

  She smoothly shifted the controls around, skillfully bending its trajectory towards the indicator Mr. Leonard had left on the NADI, the Destiny’s holographic, on-screen, Navigational Assistance Display Interface. That barest blip was all she needed to guide her. For Merlo, piloting was about intuition, about caring and feeling it somewhere deep in your chest, not about numbers and calculations, unlike many she had trained alongside. She could do that too, but for her it was all about the freedom; it was about feeling alive.

  She figured, in that sense, she could relate to some of the Captain’s stories from Fade, about how their best hunters and warriors were the ones that had the instinct for it, and who honed that veteran’s instinct to a fine edge. That description could certainly fit Merlo. She edged forward in the comfy pilot’s chair, her small frame leaning into the exhilaration and excitement of guiding the Destiny’s exorbitant speed, curving the ship’s vector using the controls and external environment.

  She watched from the corner of her eye as the orange bar of the NADI’s heat indicator rapidly dropped, the segmented outer shell of the Destiny’s hull radiating away heat accrued during the slipjump much more rapidly than she would have expected a month ago, when she first launched the vessel into space and broke out of the Koltan system. In a cluster—no, pair of clusters, she corrected herself—so seemingly technologically backward, the Destiny was the proverbial breath of fresh air.

  The bridge’s lights softly gleamed once in confirmation as she s
ettled the sights of their course onto the as-yet rather distant view of Pireida and its enormous, battered shield moon, Gigas. She relaxed slowly back into the the chair, releasing the controls with a degree of reluctance as she savoured the last of the fading rush of piloting the Destiny’s exit from slipspace.

  Those moments when she was at the controls, be they leaving crowded space ports or using the ship’s slipdrive to jump between systems, were in many ways all too brief. She paused a moment to further reflect, sinking into the chair, still comfortable and supportive but slightly too large for her compact Arlesian frame. Despite the friendliness and occasional camaraderie of both the Captain and Mr. Leonard, she still felt as if something was missing, something she couldn’t put her finger on; something more than losing the Defiance: the ship that had brought her here in the first place.

  “Miss Merlo?” Mr. Leonard’s sudden voice over the ship’s com system outright startled her, causing her to jerk suddenly, muscles tensing for a moment in expectation before she made the conscious effort to relax them. “Is everything all right?” She wondered how long she’d been sitting there idle if Mr. Leonard had felt he should prompt her. “Did the jump go okay?”

  Gripping the arms of the chair for a moment, Merlo flexed her corded arms, tossing herself lithely to her feet. “No, everything’s fine. Just getting her settled in. Captain Branwen in her quarters?” Merlo stretched, her lightly armored body suit stretching effortlessly with her, and she found herself wishing that she actually saw Mr. Leonard more.

  Via the com system, which he often monitored, he could seem nearly omnipresent, but his actual physical presence was scarce at best. He occasionally showed up for dinners, but typically ate lightly and quickly, then excused himself—with leftovers—back to the engine room. Yep, the engine room. From what the Captain had said, he didn’t even keep quarters, and just lived in there instead.