Alsea Rising: Gathering Storm (Chronicles of Alsea Book 9) Read online

  She attacked, removing all possibility of conversation as their blades clanged together in a timeless dance. He loved these sessions, when they had the training room to themselves. Tal left her title on the mat then, becoming a looser, easier version of herself.

  When they had tired themselves sufficiently, they broke apart and resumed circling.

  “Vellmar is a sharp blade,” he said, watching her warily. “You chose well. Did she ask about the divine tyrees?”

  “That was the only thing she didn’t ask about. Speaking of which, we’re ready for our first test.”

  He straightened, startled into dropping his guard. “You’re joking. Already? Shek!” His hastily raised forearm barely blocked the fist that had been aimed for his face.

  “Spar or talk, Micah.” She had let her momentum take her past him, infuriatingly energetic despite her claim of exhaustion from too many meetings. He blamed it on her relative youth and small stature. It took less power to move a body so much lighter than his.

  “How are they ready so soon?” He didn’t wait for an answer before attacking.

  She caught his blade on a circle parry, threw it to the side, and riposted with a thrust that went through air as he twisted away. “Salomen,” she answered, settling into her stance. “She worked with the low empath and weaker mid empaths. Brought them up to the level of the others.”

  He feinted, drawing her blade into a defensive position, but withdrew when no opening presented itself. “Well done. Then we’re at fifteen fully trained pairs?”

  The sudden grin warned him before she attacked. Their blades sang together in a furious harmony before she stepped back, still smiling. “Sixteen. Don’t forget Salomen and me.”

  “What’s your first target?”

  “Rahel Sayana.”

  They locked eyes for a breath before dissolving into laughter.

  “Fahla, what an irony.” Micah wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

  “It’s never stopped being an irony. If you had told me a cycle ago that I’d be using a group Sharing of divine tyrees to help Salomen project onto Rahel—”

  “And not for the purpose of killing her,” he interjected.

  “—I’d have laughed in your face.”

  “After punching me.”

  “Micah,” she said in a wounded tone. “I’d never punch you.”

  “You punched me yesterday. And tried again not five ticks ago.”

  “Sparring doesn’t count! Besides, yesterday you dropped your elbow. You deserved it. Never drop your elbow.”

  “I taught you that, you ungrateful little dokker.”

  Her light eyes crinkled with amusement, but he couldn’t help remembering the day she had struck him with true intent, blinded by Rahel’s attack on Salomen. The impact had knocked him down three stairs, an impressive accomplishment given their size difference.

  “I know what you’re thinking.” She retracted her sword into its grip and walked toward the water flasks they had left beside the mat. “It was a cycle ago last nineday.”

  He followed. “The temples have burned a lake of oil since then. When is the test?”

  “Tomorrow morning. We’re fortunate that Rahel always accompanies Ekatya on leave. Admiral Greve won’t think anything’s amiss.” She picked up both flasks and handed one to him.

  “Seems to me he ought to be the first target,” he grumbled, twisting off the cap.

  “Not for Salomen. She’s too gentle. But for me?” Her jaw tightened. “I have a few fantasies.”

  He didn’t ask for details. “How is Ekatya holding up?”

  “She says she’s fine, but she’s not. I don’t know why she tries to lie.” Tal shook her head, a few blonde wisps escaping from her short braid. “That’s not true, I do know. I just don’t know why she thinks we can’t see it.”

  “Has something changed?”

  “No, it’s the same questions, the same idiotic game, day after day after day. But it’s building up.” She swirled her flask, making its contents gurgle. “I think it’s the Fleet equivalent of water wheel torture.”

  In the ancient days of the warring kingdoms, a favorite method of torture had been to cut a flexible switch from nearby rushes and fasten it to a water wheel so it jutted out horizontally. The victim was tied to a plank and positioned next to the wheel. With each rotation, the switch would slap the victim’s body and then slide away as the wheel carried it down, rewetted it, carried it back up, and slapped it again on the same point.

  Water wheel torture was renowned for the way it built from minor irritant to excruciating pain. The first slaps only reddened the skin, but eventually it would part, layer by layer, until the muscle was exposed. Left in place long enough, the switch would cut all the way to the bone: slowly, inexorably, with precisely the same interval between each impact.

  Every day, at exactly the same time, Ekatya reported to Admiral Greve and answered the same questions. At first she had dismissed it with a bitter laugh, relieved at surviving her inquisition with her career intact, if under much closer scrutiny.

  She wasn’t laughing any longer.

  “How deep has the switch gone?” Micah asked.

  “Well into the muscle layer.” Tal looked haunted. “And I can’t do anything about it. I want her out of there, but she knows we need her.”

  “She’s a warrior. She’ll serve as long as she’s able.”

  “Service shouldn’t be like this.” She tilted her head from one side to the other, stretching her neck and inhaling deeply. “Ready?”

  They returned to the center of the mat and extended their swords.

  “Begin,” Micah said.

  In their usual fits and starts, between the metallic song of clashing blades, they discussed the upcoming divine tyree test, the schedule for future tests depending on its outcome, and the point at which they would convene the war council to unveil the existence of a new defensive weapon. It was a well-kept secret for now, Tal’s private strategy that she would not reveal until she had solid results. That the divine tyrees were training together was common knowledge. What they were training for was not.

  When a rare opening appeared, he disarmed her with a sweep of his sword and brought it up, level with her throat. “Do you yield?”

  “I yield. But that was a lucky move.”

  He stepped back, retracting his blade. “You could simply admit that I won.”

  “Or I could truthfully say I’m tired.” She scooped her sword off the mat.

  “Young and tired should still be equal to old and well rested.”

  “You’re not old, Micah, stop trying.”

  No, he thought as they gulped water, he didn’t feel old. Especially not after last night.

  “I have something to ask you,” he said.

  She recapped her flask with a nod, her sudden focus proof that she had sensed his trepidation.

  Which made it more difficult. He cast about for the right phrasing, found none, and gave up. “How much of a political headache would it be if I joined with Dr. Wells?”

  He had rarely seen her eyes go that wide.

  “Shekking Mother! When did—how—Dr. Wells?” Her voice went up on the last word. “The woman with more thorns than a hornstalk?”

  “Interesting that you’re more concerned with her personality than her species.”

  “I’m concerned about you! For the love of Fahla, you could have anyone you want. And you want Dr. Wells?”

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  She snapped her jaw shut on whatever she had been about to say. After a moment of wordless staring, she dropped gracefully into a cross-legged position on the mat. Patting the space in front of her, she said, “Sit down and tell me.”

  He sat with less grace, folding his legs only after settling down, and took another pull from his flask. Then he spoke of a conversation that had lasted half the night and a goodnight kiss that robbed him of sleep for the other half.

  “I haven’t seen you this interested in someone since before my election,” she said when he finished.

  “Longer. I don’t know what happened. We’ve met several times before, spoken to each other, it’s all been professional. But last night . . .”

  “Last night she had spirits instead of blood in her veins.”

  “She neutralized them as soon as we entered her suite.”

  With a noncommittal hum, Tal unfolded one leg and bent over it in a stretch. “As far as the politics go, her species isn’t the issue. The issue is that she’s the chief surgeon of a ship currently under the control of an unfriendly admiral. She’s also Ekatya’s friend. Both of those could be a problem if this fruit turns sour.”

  “And if it ripens?”

  “It could put her in a bad position with Greve.”

  Micah thought back to the story Alejandra had not meant to tell. “She’s not the type to let a higher-ranked officer get in the way of her goals.”

  “Are you one of her goals?”

  He remembered lips against his jaw and a heated whisper. “Er . . .”

  She sat up straight and pointed an accusing finger. “You’re blushing!”

  “I’m hot. We just finished sparring.”

  “It’s as if you forget I’m a high empath.” She switched legs and resumed her stretch. “You really didn’t sleep after that kiss?”

  He shook his head.

  “That was some kiss.”

  He nodded, unable to keep his own smile from growing embarrassingly wide.

  “Great Mother,” she said with a laugh. “Remind me to have a maintenance team check the fire suppression system next time she’s here.”

  6

  Test

  First Guard Rahel Sayana watched the walls of the exit tunnel slide by and thought she would never tire of this view no matter how routine it became.

  She loved flying past the large window of the control room and seeing the shuttle operations staff inside. She loved the green guidance lights flashing down the tunnel to mark their way out. Most of all, she loved that square of black at the end, delineating the magical moment between the safety of the Phoenix and the vastness of space.

  Beside her, Captain Serrado spoke quietly to shuttle ops as she made tiny adjustments with her control stick, keeping them in the center of the tunnel. There was little room for error. Most shuttle pilots opted for the automatic navigation, taking over the controls once they emerged into space, but Serrado refused. “If I’m going to fly, I’m flying from start to finish,” she had explained. Rahel thought that described more than just her piloting philosophy.

  They passed through the bay doors and into an infinite wonderment of stars. She sank into her seat, breathing it in. It was a double impact every time she flew out of the Phoenix: the visceral joy of being in space and the exquisite release from emotional pressure.

  More than twelve hundred Gaians crewed the ship behind her. Every one of them was sonsales, unable to sense emotions or keep from broadcasting their own. Though her blocks had grown stronger in her time aboard the Phoenix, they would never be proof against that relentless river of emotion. Her first two weeks of service had been a nightmare of increasing pressure and pain, culminating in a breakdown that still embarrassed her when she thought about it. Yet it had also been the catalyst for Dr. Wells finding solutions. Now she had touch treatments that reduced her stress hormones and medical dispensation to accompany the captain every time she went down to Alsea—which, given that Serrado’s bondmate and divine tyree lived there, was as often as she could manage.

  Captain Serrado worked unusual shifts, refusing to take normal days off during their patrols. When they returned to Alsea, she would collect her banked days and spend them dirtside, as they said in Fleet. While they were in orbit between patrols, she would do much the same, working longer shifts in order to earn larger blocks of leave.

  Each time Serrado flew down on leave, Rahel accompanied her for what Dr. Wells called an emotional reset. Being away from the ship was a physical relief, yet she missed it while she was gone. When she was back on board, she missed Alsea.

  “Transit completed,” said the guidance officer on their com. “Exit tunnel clear; bay doors closing.”

  “Acknowledged. Commencing external inspection.” Captain Serrado turned them in a tight loop, taking them up and over the enormous engine cradle with its dual exhaust ports, each large enough to house several shuttles. It was her personal indulgence disguised as duty, and the traditional start to their leave.

  “Tail to tip,” Rahel murmured.

  Captain Serrado glanced over. “What did you say?”

  “I was thinking about the dock inspectors at Whitesun, and how they’d spot-check fish landings. For some species, it’s illegal to catch fish old enough to breed. The inspectors measure the length of the fish and check it for the swellings that mean it’s sexually mature. They call it ‘checking from tail to tip.’” She waved a hand at the sleek silver hull passing beneath them. “That’s what you do, every time we leave. Check the ship from tail to tip.”

  Serrado chuckled. “I like it. Though if I find signs of sexual maturity, we’re all in trouble.”

  “I thought that was where shuttles came from,” Rahel said innocently, smiling when Serrado burst into laughter.

  “Don’t tell shuttle ops. They’re not supposed to know.”

  The captain’s emotions were already lighter, their spiky edges smoothing out. Rahel didn’t know what was happening, but she suspected it had something to do with Admiral Greve. Ever since the rear admiral had arrived with the two destroyers and support ships that made up Alsea’s battle group, Captain Serrado had gradually changed. Outwardly she remained the same, but her emotions had hardened and grown more brittle, underlaid by a hot base of anger and crystalline shards of grief. Though she never showed it in word or deed, clearing the exit tunnel was as much of a relief to her as it was to Rahel—except her relief was emotional, not physical, and always paired with bitter guilt. She didn’t want to be happy about leaving.

  Checking the ship’s hull soothed the anger and softened the brittleness. It was, Rahel thought, the equivalent of her touch therapy.

  The silver hullskin gave way to the transparent hull over Deck Zero, and they looked down on the landscaped park that comprised the ship’s top deck.

  “This is my favorite part,” Rahel said.

  “Mine, too. Well, after the engine cradle.” Serrado banked to one side, then the other, a ritual farewell to her crew. She called it waggling her wings, which made no sense when the shuttle’s wings were kept flush against the hull while in space flight.

  “Did you know the state transport does the same thing when it flies into Blacksun? It’s a tradition to let Blacksun residents know the Lancer has returned.”

  Serrado didn’t take her gaze off the view, but a prickle of interest floated through the air. “No, Andira never told me that. I’ll have to ask her about the history.” She shifted the control stick forward, skimming down the elevated portion of the hull, and leveled out over its skirt. Ahead were the enormous black markings that spelled out the ship’s name and identification. From this angle, Rahel couldn’t read them, but she knew what was coming.

  They soared over the markings and past the bow of the ship, an abrupt visual shift that put pleasant squirms in Rahel’s stomach as her brain reacted to the sudden loss of a perceived floor.

  A flick of the control stick and they were looping up and around; another flick and they stopped, hanging upside down above the ship. It loomed before them, now visible in its entirety, a great silver jewel against the endless black.

  Serrado did not speak, but her emotions were shouting. Rahel raised her blocks, both to protect herself and respect her captain. It happened every time. And every time, the complicated, twisted mass of emotions grew darker.

  “Captain Serrado to Phoenix,” she said at last.

  The com screen activated, showing the ferocious visage of Commander Lokomorra. His dark eyes were outlined with a black tattoo, his thick beard was forked and tied off with decorative beads, and his short, black hair was marked with two decorative stripes running from one temple to the other. When Rahel first met him, she had assumed the stripes were shaved. In truth, they were created by permanently destroying the follicles.

  “Are we still in one piece?” Lokomorra asked cheerfully.

  “External inspection shows no hull damage on the dorsal side.” Serrado was more formal. “I’ll check the ventral when we come back.”

  “Very good. I’ll let Commander Zeppy know he won’t have to schedule any hull walks.”

  “Not today, anyway. See you dirtside, Commander.” She cut the communication and tapped her control board, turning them in place as the engines thrummed. They accelerated quickly, leaving the Phoenix behind and racing across space toward Alsea.

  Intellectually, Rahel knew they were traveling at outrageous speeds. Visually, it seemed like a crawl. She could never get used to the distances involved in space travel, even within the relatively short range of orbit, but it made for enjoyable contemplation as they approached the beautiful blue-and-white vision she never tired of seeing.

  A loud pop and flash startled her into a leap, cut short by her harness.

  “It’s all right,” Captain Serrado said calmly. Too calmly, Rahel realized as she tried to slow her racing heart. Serrado had expected that flash.

  “What was it?”

  The captain checked her board, gave a satisfied nod, and turned in her seat. “An unfortunate electrical short that took out the security cams.” Triumph wound tightly around her. “I’ll have to report it before too long. An easy fix once we get back, and no one will get in trouble. It’s already arranged.”

  Rahel stared at her in bafflement. “Why?”

  “Because Salomen has a request for you, and she can’t ask it with Fleet listening in. This is Alsean business.” She turned back to her board and activated the quantum com.

  Bondlancer Salomen Opah appeared on the screen, her dark hair up in an elegant formal twist at odds with her casual shirt and unlaced collar. “It worked, then?”