Never show your hand, no matter what life or the moment has dealt you, be it a curse, an unquenchable anger, or a pretty girl. You might have an edge that leaves others green with envy or seeing red, but there’s always a card waiting in the dealer’s hand or a roll in a rival’s ready to take you down. Life will never be shorted its due.
My father left the game before I was born. He’d been hauled off in the latest Imperial Guard founding for the planet of Santerra II. My mom used the word ‘conscripted,’ but she spat it out as if it were a lie.
There were only the two of us now.
Mom worked ten-hour shifts at the manufactory next door. We lived low—Sector 62B was a mile-deep industrial sector with heavy, tainted air and little in terms of prospects for those wanting more. We were housed and fed to Imperial minimum standards of nutrition and held next to nothing of our own.
When I turned nine, my mother ended my sanctioned schooling. She never said why, and at first, the thought of endless freedom ran rampant in my mind. The surrounding hab blocks beckoned.
I wasn’t alone in my new world. Others my age followed the same path, learning the streets, playing the games, meeting new faces—young and old.
Did I get lost? Sure.
Did I get into trouble? By the time I was twelve, that was the point of my day.
Thankfully, I had certain skills that helped me slip in and out of any net. Maybe that was my mom’s point all along. Skills were made to be honed. Skills were only valuable if they were used in the right way. I’d taken to the first idea, but not the second—not until it was too late.
By the time I was fourteen, I was doing odd jobs for a few of the local businessmen, mainly opening doors or tripping up their competition. I said they were odd jobs and meant it.
I had a knack and a reputation as a good luck charm. A few local powers took notice, and I used it to create opportunities for myself, propelling me into a new world within the old.
Buried deep within the utility districts, Carboy’s Exchange was a back-alley gambling den that formed and cleared out every day. To get there, I traced winding ducts, climbed plasteel ladders, and traversed dusty service decks. That was only part of the fun.
Antoine Carver, the local boss, owned Carboy and the entire sub-sector in terms of unsanctioned enterprises. He backed the illicit den, providing watchers and enforcers as protection from the misguided and greedy. They decided who could join in the games, who should leave, and how any sizable debts would be collected.
In the demand-driven lower hive stacks, coin was of limited use. Personal services were always tops, followed by loyalty and illicit goods. Lives were captured and traded with one bad roll of the dice. Futures were set on edge. New claims were made to territory, shipments, and information regarding Arbiter activities, rivals, and prospective members.
I spent the bulk of my childhood getting an education and a thrill among the backstreets of our lower hive sector, but there was a third group beyond the bored and the untamed—the hardened outlaws. I didn’t want to work for the local boss or his crew of murderous thugs. That’s where I drew the line, and it’s the reason I remained a free agent among those who played for keeps.
My initial benefactor was a man named Skiff—a player by profession—who lived in a different subsector and worked for another boss. He taught me the games, the tactics, and how to win or lose at Carboy’s Exchange. He’d made it clear to Carboy and his crew that I was present and playing on his behalf. In my mind, we would be partners up until the day he thought to own me or couldn’t keep his hands to himself.
Looking like a player was easy. Sure, I was young, but plenty of underage hive-dwellers worked for the local bosses. And I dressed the part. Leaving my generic hab-owned scrubs behind, I wore a counterfeit jacket over a plain grey bodysuit. Each had plenty of pockets—some obvious, some not. It didn’t draw attention and held no easily identifiable marks.
My age allowed me to play overly cautious at one table and reckless at the next. I always brought enough in terms of loot to ante up at any game and the attitude of one willing to play through a losing streak.
Even in a back-alley complex without any video sensors, there were plenty of eyes on every game. Hosts were trained to swap out the dice after every throw, spot suspicious moves, and keep a log of any overly consistent winners.
My tactics were simple. I never touched the dice and lost far more than I won in terms of rolls. The key was always to win big early on and play off of that for the rest of the night, losing at least half on my way out the door.
Streaks were memorable; one lucky roll went unnoticed, but two was considered a crime. Skiff called the tactic ‘beginner’s luck,’ and it was my ticket forward in a life going absolutely nowhere.
My knack helped nudge a roll, turning it from a sixty-nine to a double-zero in a blink. All it takes is practice. As a semi-schooled product of Sector 62B, I’d spent endless hours honing that skill. I gave Skiff one winning roll per night, and he let me play the rest on my own.
Used in such an environment, my ability was a small thing and undetectable. Should I have paid more attention to its bearing on my life when I had the chance? Sure, but not while my eyes were locked on those of a girl named Skye Howard.
Our initial introduction had been odd. She’d bumped into me, though she swore it was the other way around.
I hadn’t argued or checked my pockets. I’d simply held out my hand, saying, ‘Jax.’
She’d given me her full name—a rarity to share in that setting—and smiled, pinning me with the weight of expectation.
‘Jaxon Cross.’ It sounded like a confession more than a name.
I’d just won my second roll of the night—one had been pure luck, one not—and used Skye’s welcome distraction to walk away from the game before the dealer could call in the next bet.
Skye always wore an outfit far better fitting than mine, and her regular presence at Carboy’s meant she was connected. Her hair was coloured a faded pink to match her lips, and she moved with a grace that suggested she wasn’t as unschooled as I.
She always showed up late, and I always kept an eye out for her arrival, hoping she’d give me a second chance to ask her out. I’d crashed and burned on the first, not knowing how to ease my way past the line of an acquaintance.
Skye didn’t give me a break.
Instead, we became a platonic item among the edgy crowd. She made her usual rounds knowing that I was there, but never sliding into a quiet spot where a couple could form a more intimate bond. Weeks turned into months and offered a familiarity I’d never felt with anyone else.
Maybe it was the young woman, or maybe it was the familiar pattern of our interactions, but I felt comfortable amidst the glaring noise and shouts of rampant betting. Winning wasn’t the only thing in life—or so I thought.
One night, without warning, things changed.
Skye was walking with me around the circuitous club as if we were on a date—but not. Call it the usual, but I detected a new glint in her eye, a hidden challenge perhaps, and decided tonight was as good a time as any for my second roll.
I said, ‘Skye, are you with anyone?’
That simple line bought me an amused smile and a ‘Maybe.’
Skye grabbed my arm, steering me to a favourite table. ‘Why don’t you show me what you’ve got.’
What I had was a heavy pocket.
Skye nodded to the dealer manning the wall, as if placing a bet.
The wall was the backstop for every game. All five dice had to hit the wall and bounce clear of the dealer’s line, or a roll didn’t count. Players vied against everyone else, and the high roller took the pot minus a cut for the house. That was the simple version. There were twists, bonuses, and rerolls depending on the dice, the ante, and subsequent betting.
My favourite play was to ruin the bounce of a rival, forcing him to ante twice in order to stay in the game. It was a sneaky way to pad the pot for everyone else.
With Skye on my arm, I didn’t intend to try anything special. I was about to place my biggest bet on her. ‘I’ve got enough here to take you somewhere nice, if you’ve got a free night coming up.’
‘How nice?’ she replied.
‘Sector 40B nice.’ I’d always wanted to climb out of our hole and try the lower hive entertainment districts for once. The atmosphere and the lighting were far better there.
Skye crossed her arms, raising the stakes, ’10B is even nicer.’
10B was higher up the stack and would easily cost twice as much.
Feth it, I thought. It was time to go all in.
I called her bluff, if that’s what it was. ‘Fine, but you’ll do the rolling for me.’
‘Why me?’
I shrugged, ‘You’re my good luck charm.’
Glances of scepticism darted around the table at that open declaration, and I caught the glare of one chap whose eyes never strayed far from my girl. Somehow, his first two rolls came up short, while Skye’s landed on ninety-nine, giving us the game’s outright win and a bonus.
What happened next had nothing to do with luck. As I scooped up my winnings, Skye grabbed hold of my arm and dragged me around an unused corner to a secluded spot within the complex. There, she checked my lips, tongue, and pockets without anyone noticing but me.
I let her do it.
It was the first real kiss I’d ever experienced, and the pervasive shadows of sub-zero seemed all the brighter for it.
‘Where’s your coin?’ she asked. ‘How did you get in here without it?’
Each boss minted a token that acted like a seal of loyalty and a pass to get one through the unsanctioned lines of life. I’d skipped that step by making my own connections with Carboy’s crew via Skiff.
‘Somebody must have lifted it when I wasn’t looking.’ I didn’t want to appear dependent on another’s hard-earned status.
‘And what’s this?’ Skye held up a heavy, metallic ball.
‘It’s a gift from my mother—my original good luck charm.’
‘It’s polysteel and certainly not good luck if an Arbiter finds it on you.’
‘Do you want it?’ I said.
‘You’re giving it to me? You barely know me.’
‘I could say the same to you, and yet you kissed me.’
‘Did you like it?’ She blushed.
‘Of course. I—’
‘I know a more private spot—it’s not far. My father won’t allow me to be out too late, but maybe you can meet me there tomorrow morning. We have a date to plan.’
‘Sure. What do we do now?’
‘Now, you walk me home.’
‘You’re back late.’ My mom never slept until I slipped through the door at the end of every night. Imperial standard days were long, and life was too tiring to share the long version of anything, but she needed to hear my voice and know that I was OK.
‘I got lucky.’
‘Not too lucky, I hope.’
‘Never that.’ I followed our usual script, a mother-son banter that erased the unease and allowed us both to wind down from another long day. ‘I met someone—a girl about my age. I think she likes me.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Skye.’
‘Where’d you meet her?’
‘Carboy’s.’
‘Does she work for Carboy or Boss Carver?’
‘One or the other.’
‘So you’ve been noticed—be careful.’
I hoped I’d been noticed. I had certainly noticed Skye’s lips as I kissed her goodnight outside her hab. That we’d been followed home the entire way was another fact I left unmentioned.
My mother took my sudden silence as a clue from the clueless. ‘Jax, you need to keep your distance, or you’ll end up on the wrong end of someone’s leash.’
It was the gentlest warning I’d ever get, but I mistook it for something else entirely. ‘Is that what happened to my father?’
She sighed. ‘In a way, yes. Ben took something he shouldn’t have and ended up paying the Emperor for it. I don’t want the same thing happening to you.’
‘You always said he was too hot-tempered. That’s not me.’
‘No, it isn’t, but Ben was easy-going up to a point.’
‘What did he take that did him in?’
‘He took me.’ She could see that wouldn’t cut it. ‘Neither of us had gotten permission from Boss Carver, and rumour had it that I was promised to another.’
‘Was the rumour true?’
‘A rumour can be law, depending on who repeats it. We weren’t smart enough to heed the talk.’
‘Is that why he ended up in the Guard?’
‘The boss never forgave our connection. He simply waited for it to matter most before he acted, and Ben Cross fought back. He killed Carver’s oldest son.’
Her words chilled me to the bone. Carver was still the boss, and I had been noticed. Easy math.
I was schooled enough to understand the implications. ‘Why the Guard?’
‘Why not? Your father had one life to spend. He could stay and die a worthless death or make it count.’
‘He knew he wasn’t coming back?’
‘We held his funeral early—that bought us some respect.’
‘Did he know about me?’
She sat up straight, as if bracing herself for the memory. It felt like hours before she responded. ‘Now you’re asking about the hardest decision of my life. I told Ben the news as he was walking out the door for the last time.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He kept on walking and never looked back. A Guard escort waited outside the block, making sure all the recruits made it into the founding. Carver was there, too, just to be sure.’
‘What should I do about Skye?’
‘You be kind and cut her loose before anyone finds out.’
Chapter 2
Tucked in behind a water filtration plant, the rhythmic moan of pumps lent a certain romantic air to the spot. I’d arrived early, scouting the secluded alley for video sensors and other ways out, finding none.
It was a lot like the area I used to practice my craft. Things moved, jumped, and bent whenever and wherever I asked. It was creepy-cool, and I didn’t dare tell anyone about it. That was a rule set by my mother under threat of a beating.
It was late morning. The day shifts were working, and the night shifts were asleep. We would have the private spot to ourselves.
I didn’t know why a pretty girl like Skye would know about this out-of-the-way alley, but the answer soon arrived in the form of seven angry teens.
OK, make that eight.
The seven newcomers were obviously put off at being up before the half-day mark, and I wasn’t in the mood for being set up by anyone, no matter how cute their smile.
They were all about my age, but the lead mouth sounded like he owned the place, ‘Well, what do we have here? Jaxon Cross? I thought you’d be larger.’
We’d never met, but I knew the face of Resto Carver, the sub-sector boss’s nephew. Skiff had once pointed him out with a warning to stay clear.
I didn’t have a choice. ‘Resto Carver, huh? I figured you’d be ugly. At least one of us was right.’
‘Feth off, punk.’
‘Done.’ I took one step toward the alley’s mouth.
Resto put a hand on my chest, ‘We’re not done yet.’
I almost said, ‘Your uncle let go of your leash?’ but that would’ve hit a bit too close to the mark. I kept it simple, ‘What do you want?’
Resto smiled, ‘I know what you want, and you can’t have her. Skye sends her regards, by the way, and hopes you’ll have a chance to become better acquainted. It sounded like a joke to me.’
With Resto and his crew staring me down, I couldn’t disagree. ‘What now?’
‘You’ve been enjoying the boss’s good graces at his favourite gambling establishment. If you were sixteen, you’d be meeting his second regarding work assignments or recycler dates. As an underage ghost, well, you get to meet Tremor, my second.’
Resto was nearly untouchable when it came to dealing with the younger crowd, but we wouldn’t be talking if there was only one goal in mind. There had to be an out.
I was old enough to work for the local boss. A street watcher was always the first step, and anyone could do it—the younger the better. Kids were off-limits, and they were usually quick enough to scamper away through the narrow, busy streets when the situation demanded. Being old enough to act and give witness, teens were usually allowed to sort themselves out without any Arbiters getting involved.
‘What choice do I have?’
Resto replied, ‘You can take the beating and choose to join us or not, but don’t expect to go on any hot dates.’
‘Leave Skye out of this.’
Resto laughed, ‘You really don’t know who you’re dealing with, do you? Roddick Howard works for Boss Carver and runs security for Carboy’s Exchange. His daughter Skye is the one who got us out of bed at this fethin’ hour. This meeting was her idea, but my uncle was all for it. Consider it a message from Boss Carver to Myra Cross.’
I’d made two incredibly stupid mistakes. I’d given Skye my real name, and trying to impress her, won on demand, hinting strongly that my carefully wrought game wasn’t entirely square.
To make matters worse, I was the son of Myra and Ben Cross. The former did everything in her meagre power to make sure I reached sixteen—the Imperial age of majority—while the latter’s reputation did the opposite. In short, there was no way the boss would want me around.
My future didn’t exist within any sanctioned system. I already struggled daily with the frustration of a dead-end life and kept my anger caged—a cage Resto seemed eager to kick open.
I wasn’t scared of Resto’s second. Sure, Tremor had the name and the sizable fists to match, but I could understand his role. It was simple and to the point. I’d taken beatings before, and if this one meant my mother didn’t have to watch her back on the way home from work, well, sign me up.
What got me was the easy way in which I’d been gulled by Skye and cornered by Resto. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before, but a closed fist can do wonders for a growing boy’s clarity.
Resto’s crew slid back, blocking off any escape and giving Tremor room to work.
‘Tremor, back off or I’ll—’
My nose cracked. Blood ran down my chin.
Tremor had grown up faster and larger than those around him. His fists had followed suit. His first punch came in quicker and harder than anything I could imagine. The next punch knocked the wind from my gut and threw me backwards into the alley wall.
The oversized, underage thug smiled. ‘Or you’ll what? Run home to your mother?’
Blood leaked into my mouth. The iron-tinted deluge would hurt my mother as much as the bully’s fist hurt me. I was her one weakness. Myra Cross would worry herself sick if she saw me now, and maybe that was Boss Carver’s point.
Sub-zero was like that. Luck was a mirage. Everyone carved out their place and built their walls, or they didn’t survive. To care about someone else was a weakness. To have a name was a weakness, and unless you owned it, they owned you.
I shrugged off the wall, wobbled, and fell to my knees, covering my stomach.
The kick was meant to end the scuffle. Tremor didn’t try to hide it. He probably didn’t think I could avoid it even if I saw it coming. He was fighting a nobody kid in a nowhere alley, and when he was done, my brain would be nothing more than grease on his boot.
But I was Ben Cross’s son. I was done being a nobody. My left hand rose to block the incoming boot, and I pushed back with my mind, bending reality between Tremor and me.
Everyone cringed at the loud snap.
Tremor screamed. He took one step back and fell, clutching at the naked bone protruding from his shin.
I scrambled up and circled the thug, fighting the urge to land a kick of my own. I screamed out a challenge, ‘Who’s next?’
The gang quickly parted, offering me a way out.
As I stepped forward into their loose formation, a sharp whistle cut into my ear and the six remaining assailants attacked.
A knife scored my side.
A punch racked my kidney while another grazed my forehead.
I spun, looking for the owner of the knife, and found Resto waving his five-inch blade in my face. ‘Pick an eye, Jaxon. We’ll let you keep the other so you can see what we’re gonna do to your mom.’
That was his mistake.
Up until that moment, I could have walked away.
I wiped another swathe of blood from my nose and smeared it across my chest, palming the polysteel ball from my shirt pocket.
On my fourth birthday, my mother had handed me a jagged shard of polysteel—the result of an Arbiter action in our lower hive sector. ‘Don’t let life cut you. Make it smooth,’ she’d said.
For a four-year-old, it was a prize that honed me as much as I honed it.
Polysteel was found within the foundations that held each hive city straight. It didn’t degrade. It didn’t crack, and it took a hellgun blast to displace it. Like a manufactured blade, it was illegal to possess.
The scrap of hive had taught me that in the right mind, wishing and doing could be the same thing.
On my sixth birthday, I’d handed back a smooth round stone of polysteel—its edges gone, folded back upon itself.
The ball fit perfectly into my mother’s palm. She’d pretended to make it disappear while I waited for her reaction. She’d hugged me, and the precious object went into my front pocket as a birthday present far better than the last.
Myra Cross had smiled, saying, ‘The Emperor has given me a special gift. I’ll do whatever I can to keep it.’
I wasn’t about to let Resto ruin her intention. ‘Carver, your family means nothing to me. Skye means nothing to me. Take your knife and FETH OFF.’
Another kidney shot landed on my lower back. The pain of it made me puke, but I didn’t look back.
Staggering forward, I threw a jab at my main adversary’s throat. My fist came up short.
The smile grew on Resto’s face. I’d overextended, leaving my armpit exposed.
As his knife hooked around toward my side, the polysteel ball shot from my outstretched hand.
Resto’s left eye exploded. His head snapped back, sending the bully crashing into his own wall while the knife was ripped from his grasp.
Behind me, a grunt and a whine sounded as the kidney puncher caught Resto’s blade—tip first—in the thigh.
With another mental tug, the bloody ball jumped back into my hand as I spun to face the rest.
My closed fist collided with the next teen who stepped into my personal space. The punch’s unexpected force broke his jaw, providing an instant knockout for the remaining three to ponder.
Two of them ran; one stayed.
With two broken hands and a face beaten raw, the remaining teen joined the other four on the alley’s filthy plascrete floor. He’d come at me last—that took guts—and neither of us had any reason to hold back. I’d blocked every punch with an invisible counter and added his blood to my augmented fists.
Skye Howard had picked that remote alley for a reason. The locals knew the blind spots in the Arbiters grid and made use of them at every turn.
I made use of them too, for as far as I could. There was no hiding the blood on my shirt. The fact that two of Resto’s crew had gotten away guaranteed I wouldn’t go unnoticed for long. It was only a matter of who found me first.
Fights between teens happened all the time in the densely packed confines of a hive city, but few required a stay in the local Medicae facility, and even fewer took down the local boss’s nephew. The lower hive gangs had a hard-set rule keeping their sanctioned children out of the equation for any deal gone bad. They’d broken that rule, but I doubted anyone would see it that way.
Ben Cross had a son that operated too much like his father—that Resto Carver had started it didn’t matter. I’d failed my mother and the careful existence she’d wrought. Myra Cross was a survivor. Jaxon Cross had just cast aside her path by stepping into the shoes of his angry, absent old man.
I’d never used my gift to hurt anyone—not until now—and a new door swung open in my mind. The room behind it was filled with rage at the long, empty days of an unknown teen and a dream date turned to dust.
Chapter 3
My mother’s shift at the recycling plant was only half over. I wouldn’t have dared to go home otherwise. The sparse mid-shift crowds and the vast screen of Arbiter video sensors were a big risk, but I figured I had enough time to say goodbye.
I quickly showered and swapped into my plain, clean hab clothes, rinsing and dropping my bloody garments into the stack’s common laundry chute. They weren’t the normal hive scrubs, but somebody would enjoy the finer garments—maybe somebody with a real girlfriend.
Skye Howard had acted like she was into me, but she was merely the opening act for a cold-scripted revenge. I should have known better, but that first kiss had wiped away my common sense.
I left the smooth polysteel stone—dried blood and all—sitting in a mug on our kitchen’s small counter. Myra Cross would find the clue and know that bad things had happened. Life wasn’t so smooth after all.
The chances of a random pounding on our door in the middle of a shift were nearly nil and a sure sign that I’d made yet another mistake.
Fortunately, there was another way out. The laundry chute was easily traversed by any bored teen with strong hands. As soon as the lid closed, the way down was pitch black, but the familiar angles and potential holds were etched into my mind from a thousand prior excursions. Ten floors down—two short of street-level—I forced open the laundry lid on another flat and listened.
Silence—nobody home.
I climbed out and kept my head down, avoiding the static scenes of others on my way out the flat’s front door.
There were video sensors everywhere within the hab’s hallways, and there were ways to avoid them.
I didn’t try. I simply walked like a bored, forgotten teen on his way to nowhere.
The manufactory neighbourhood was too enclosed, too regular, and too easily watched at this time of day. Light sources were everywhere, piping artificial sunlight between block after block of vertically constructed towers, habs, and plants, but the shadows always won.
Clearing my block, I scanned the street ahead and broke into a run. More hab blocks loomed ahead, and beyond those, the utility district with its dark and twisting technoscape. That was my destination.
If I went up, sanctioned authorities might take note. Citizens were tracked at the transition points. Cameras and biosensors captured the movements of millions and machine spirits scanned for anomalies.
Sector 62B, my home city, wasn’t the bottom of the hive, but it was close. Another twenty sectors existed below ours, and below that, the underhive anchored everything that needed anchoring. There, I might have a chance. Nobody messed with the underhive domain, not even the Arbiters.
My plan was to disappear within the maze of the utility sub-sector for a day, letting the heat subside and the watchers become weary. Then, I would time my escape with a shift change and work my way to a busy-yet-out-of-the-way service lift for a ride down.
The utility district handled the air, water, and power distribution for the entire sector. The three-dimensional maze scaled vertically for a few hundred feet and horizontally for several thousand. Elevated platforms, towers, and other hard-to-reach places abounded. Key engineering points were guarded. Motion detectors and video sensors reacted to my presence, causing me to jump, but the official feeds went straight up for official processing, not into Boss Carver’s pocket.
My posture said I was unarmed, harmless, and lost. I hoped that was enough to be ignored.
The zone had always been off-limits, but that had never stopped my peers from crossing its boundaries. Boredom ruled our lives and the need to explore rarely did us in.
As I worked my way deeper into the sub-sector, I found a few scraps of plasteel. The material was lighter and less durable than polysteel, but it bent when I asked it and didn’t slow me down.
I reached a narrow burrow between two holding tanks with an exit on either side and a sliver of an opening above, giving me a tiny view of the sector’s high ceiling.
All I could do was think and wait.
Hours passed. The deep shadows didn’t move. I heard the call of the distant shift-change bells.
My mother would be home by now. She’d find the birthday relic coated in blood and go hunting for me. She’d start with Boss Carver, and I hoped he wouldn’t start in on her. That thought nearly dragged me from my hiding spot. If the boss hurt her, I’d kill him. That much I knew for sure.
I’d jumped from one category to the next without a clear thought. I was an outlaw, not knowing that I’d been one from the day I was born.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, Imperial Standard Time, an angry whirr filled the surrounding area.
At first, I thought I was dreaming, but my eyes were open, and the cast of uneven sounds drew closer. My adrenaline spiked with the memories of the prior day and the potential challenges of the next.
A drone passed overhead. And another.
Feth it all—how long had I been out?
Suddenly, things felt very real. As the next drone zipped past overhead, one of my plasteel projectiles shot upward, sheering it in half.
The incessant buzz became a swarm. Drones danced at the edge of my vision, veering hard and fast among the towers overhead.
I focused—hit that and that.
My last two missiles chased a pair of fast-moving targets. Their trajectories were as difficult to follow as the drones they tracked. I could only watch one at a time—each a blur, speeding and turning with its mark. The plasteel had somehow come alive.
The truth collided with my mind as a hundred pieces of Arbiter tech rained down around me and a new reality settled in: This was all a bad dream.
It was that first kiss—it had to be.
Skye had somehow cracked my reality in two. One half held a bored and lonesome teen. The other offered the potential of a friend, a future, and more, only I didn’t know what that meant. I was afraid, and as I slept, my dreams were playing it all back with an impossible outcome.
The engineering sub-sector was the nightmare’s arena, and I knew what I had to do. If I could make it to the maze’s far side, I’d awaken to a whole new world—one where I fit in.
I slipped out my burrow’s back passage and around a corner, listening for pursuit.
Pursuit? The drones swarmed overhead.
Did I know where I was going? Barely. Tracking a meaningful direction in a maze is a skill long learned. My life had never been more than a holding pattern—like a drone circling through a mindless technoscape—until now.
I wanted to run but knew enough of the surrounding environment to scout with my eyes first, checking for dead-ends and picking useful points of light as guides. Progress was slow, but I was determined. This was my dream, after all. It would go as I planned.
Reaching another intersection, I angled away from the nearest engineering plant and found a split path. To my right, a dead-end. To my left, more options.
I breathed a sigh of relief and turned right.
The dead-end was deep and partially covered. It offered the perfect spot for an ambush, so I took it. Drones filled the narrowing wedge of sky above me. There was a pattern, a brief slowing and a burst of acceleration, allowing the next drone to partake in the constant dance.
I cut in; an invisible wall jumped into being in the middle of the drones’ swarm like a belligerent drunk.
Drones shattered in mid-air. Drones collided with each other and nearby towers. Some bounced and righted themselves, only to slam even harder into the next obstacle I set forth.
My rage was all part of the same dream, so why not use it?
My mother had taught me to never ask why things were as they were. She said that you didn’t keep your mind long by doing that. I’d followed her advice, and look where it had gotten me—stuck in a nightmare without end.
Dozens of the buggers had come apart, but the air above seemed as dark and cluttered as ever.
In a flash, everything changed. A single drone banked hard and spat at me. A narrow bolt of light drilled into my shoulder.
The pain should have woken me up, but all it did was burn.
I reacted with a sweep of my hand and broke into a run.
The air above echoed with a storm of collisions. The surrounding structures rattled beneath a rain of debris.
Another hab district beckoned ahead — FINALLY.
Somewhere in my scramble for freedom, I’d left the last of the drones behind. I was filthy, burnt in a dozen places, and happy as hell as I stepped out into the open street. I wanted to dance in triumph, but the lack of any traffic slowed me to a halt in the eerily silent space.
I’d emerged into a world even emptier than before.
No! I’d made it out. That was the deal!
Hope began to slip and the door in my head began to crumble.
Shadows shifted and lights blinked. The silence gave way to the click of distant commands.
I wasn’t alone after all.
Locked in an argument with a ghost, I halted and knelt.
When I wake up, let it be where someone will find me and bring me back home, I thought.
A stranger in an Arbiter’s uniform strode toward me. His face wasn’t unkind.
‘Is it over?’ I whispered.
‘For you? Yes.’ He pointed his weapon and fired.
In an agonising flash, the dream was over, but my nightmare had only begun.
Chapter 4
I sat in a chair beside Myra Cross and fought the urge to vomit. My hab scrubs showed the stains of my success.
‘Mom?’ I whispered.
My mother’s face was a horror within the nightmare. One eye was taped over. Her lips were bloated and stitched, and her cheek was dented almost beyond recognition.
She didn’t stir, but she breathed my name, ‘Jax.’
I waited for the accusation that was sure to come—a ‘what did you do?’ or a ‘why?’
‘Remember,’ she whispered.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Not your fault—mine. I was selfish. I lost your father. I didn’t want to lose you too.’ Blood dribbled down her chin. ‘Don’t be scared.’
‘Who said I’m scared?’ Tears sprouted in terror on my cheeks.
‘Take it so you won’t forget,’ she said. ‘Call it back when you need it.’
‘Take what? Forget what?’
My mother’s hand slowly opened, showing me a bloody polysteel ball. ‘Don’t forget me.’
I sat there for an aeon, not daring to move—not daring to reach out—knowing it would be the last time I touched Myra Cross. My father hadn’t looked back, but that wasn’t me. I stared, I bawled, and in the end, I grasped the bloody, unbreakable sphere.
The nightmare blurred into an entirely different Medicae. The air was different—lighter, and far less humid. The bed wasn’t any worse than the last, except for the fact that I was the one strapped into place and the surrounding drones were an entirely different set. These squawked in alarm as I opened my eyes.
‘Mom?’ I whispered again. ‘Are you there?’
No answer.
A chill crept down my spine.
My right hand tingled, and my eyes ached. My whole body felt as if I’d been stomped on for weeks.
I couldn’t fight it—didn’t want to fight it—so I gave in and went back to sleep.
‘Hit him again just to be sure.’
Be sure of what?
My body locked solid and jumped at the same time. Restraints held me down, or I would have bounced off the ceiling of the Medicae cell.
‘There he is. Welcome to cell block M.’ A gruff voice hovered overhead.
‘Who are you?’ My tongue felt like it was two sizes too big.
A female spoke from outside my view, ‘He’s not very polite for a ghost. I’ll tell Lancaster he’s awake.’
Gruff clicked a switch.
My bed morphed into a rigid chair—consider it an exoskeleton without the convenient ability to flex or move.
‘Rule number one,’ he said. ‘Don’t freak out. Rule number two: we can and will hurt you if you don’t. Now, follow me.’
My eyes bugged out at his impossible command, and he laughed, ‘Gets them every time.’
I closed my eyes and searched backwards, trying to figure out how I got there.
Nothing.
‘You said he was awake?’ A new voice—female and full of authority.
I opened my eyes in a different room. My chair was clamped to a table facing a woman in her early thirties.
‘I am.’ I flinched at the sound of my voice. It was raw like my skin.
Ouch.
‘My name is Interrogator Lancaster of Ordo Hereticus. You are in the custody of the Inquisition.’ The woman paused, waiting for her words to sink in.
Her meaning was simple: she was a witch hunter, and I was the witch. Care to disagree?
I kept my mouth shut.
She nodded in approval. ‘Good. What is your name?’
‘Jaxon Cross. Temple Primus Hive—Sector 62B.’
‘Planet?’
Planet? ‘Santerra II.’
‘Our records indicate Jaxon Cross died five years ago, just short of his ninth birthday. His mother signed the affidavit and provided a receipt from the recycler.’
Nope. The nightmare had only begun.
I fought a tear at the corner of my eye, hating that I couldn’t wipe it away. ‘Is my mother OK?’
‘Irrelevant.’ The woman smiled as if she were the Emperor doling out gifts. ‘Your new name is Jinx. Acolyte Unger thought it fitting for the curse your life has become.’
The interrogator tapped the table. An embedded screen came to life, showing a file with the name Jinx at the top, followed by a pair of ratings: Astra Telepathica—Gamma Standard and Adeptus Arbites—Lethal.
Another series of taps and a series of images cycled slowly past on the screen—each tagged as a victim with a number. One through seven were Resto Carver and his entire gang.
I gripped the chair and bit my tongue as I scanned each image. They looked younger than I remembered, even Tremor. Each teen had been beaten, stabbed or both—even the two that had gotten away. Tremor looked far worse than I’d left him, and Resto leaked blood from an empty left eye socket.
Image eight almost pulled me from my chair—Skye Howard, her face one big yellow and purple bruise.
Ninth was the man I knew as Skiff. He wasn’t coming back from the damage that had been done to him.
Feth.
‘There’s one more, or do you want me to stop?’ Lancaster was enjoying the show and its obvious effects.
I knew who would be staring back as victim number ten. I whispered, ‘Please stop.’
Lancaster raised her finger from the screen, paused, and brought it down, hitting the advance. The tenth showed my mother chained to a Medicae bed, looking as I’d seen her last. Her left eye mirrored that of Resto, her face that of Skye, and her body that of Skiff.
I wanted to reach out and touch it. I wanted to ask if they thought I’d done it, but all I could do was bar the door that rattled in my mind. There was a beast in there, roaring to get out.
Lancaster nodded and clicked off the table’s embedded screen. ‘You’re young. You’ll get over it. Be glad you’re getting the chance.’
‘I’m not a killer.’
‘You’re an aberration—a psyker—a telekine.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that you aren’t human. It also explains why your mother went to such lengths to hide your existence. She knew the law. She knew where psykers end up.’
‘And where is that?’
‘When they come of age, the answer is usually war. A trustworthy telekine is incredibly valuable to the Imperial Guard. In fact, her continued existence now depends on it.’
‘And if I’m not the trustworthy type?’
‘You’ll wish you were. The Emperor makes full use of those too.’ Lancaster reached out and placed a circular device on the table between us. A flick of her wrist freed one of my restraints. ‘Put this on.’
‘A slave collar?’
‘Call it what you like. It’s the price of admission to the rest of your life.’
I picked it up and examined the intricate device. ‘Do I want to know what it can do?’
‘You should. Besides the standard tracker, psychoactive sensors, and a focused explosive charge, it has a built-in clock and comms circuit.’
In my mind, it couldn’t be worse than a lower hive existence. Each hive sector was a prison, each citizen a worker bowing to an overseer’s demands.
The collar clicked into place around my neck.
‘Welcome to Schola Psykana—induction class 1137-Lima.’
‘And my mother’s life?’
‘She’s already paid the price for her folly. If you behave, she will be allowed to continue her miserable existence, but don’t expect to ever see her again.’
I was all that Myra Cross ever had. ‘Does she know that I’m alive?’
‘She knows you’ve been claimed by the Inquisition. Assuming you prove yourself to the Emperor, there’s a solid chance she’ll be notified of your death.’
In my last dream, we’d said our goodbyes. My mother had departed, leaving me behind with a relic of our time together.
I ignored the sudden tears rolling down my cheeks, and spoke the utter truth, ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’
Lancaster’s face changed from one of practised control to shock. She knew that I knew, but neither of us understood how that could be the case.
Anger quickly replaced shock.
She was pissed, but not at me. ‘It was Unger. He told you, didn’t he?’
‘Who’s Unger?’
‘He was your minder for the trip in. You’ve got him to thank for getting you here in one tender piece.’ Lancaster slapped the table and stared into my eyes. ‘Now, tell me, did he spill the news?’
I wanted to say, ‘Yes,’ for the trouble it might cause between my captors, but my priorities had changed with the collar around my neck. ‘Nobody told me. I saw her leave. She was in a Medicae bed. She was badly hurt and didn’t want to go on without me.’
‘How?’
‘What do you mean how?’
‘You’ve been kept in a coma since the Arbiters first apprehended you. It was a job well done on their part and ours. To pretend otherwise is pure FETH.’
Unable to lift my arms from the sled, I twisted my wrist and slowly opened my right hand.
A bloody, round polysteel ball hopped from my palm onto the table and rolled to a lazy stop halfway between us.
She placed her finger on the ball, saying, ‘What does this stone mean to you?’
‘The Emperor can take everything from me up to a point.’
The ball slipped from her grasp and rolled back to my side of the table.
Lancaster didn’t flinch. ‘And what point is that?’
It had been a dream so real, I couldn’t wake up. ‘Inquisitor, we’re about to find out.’
About the Author
Rory Surtain resides in Texas. As a longtime fan of the Black Library and the genre of science fantasy, he recently took a step into the world of a novelist and hasn’t been able to find his way out.
