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  Now, he ignores it.

  When the time comes, Gar and Lan won’t be laughing. They’ll pull the triggers on their miners, same as Sax. Gar would probably shoot first.

  The mask is cool, but quickly warms to Sax’s skin. It actually burns a little. Increases Sax’s body temperature to ideal levels for performance. While the mask is getting to equilibrium, Sax and Bas step back from the mirror to see the next part of the show.

  Oratus claws are like diamonds - they can cut through just about anything - but they’re not much help against an enemy at range. The mask helps against weapons fire, but pop enough holes in it, and the mask will fall apart too. Better to eliminate the problem.

  The mirror helps them with that. With a wave of Sax’s claw, the mirror flows up towards the ceiling and reveals blue metal shelves holding an array of deadly tools. Sax moves first, with the confidence of knowing exactly what he wants and how to get it. The target is a pair of black sticks about my height.

  Sax calls them batons. He picks them up with his foreclaws and sets them across his back. They stick to the mask, like a magnet.

  Next comes a belt for his waist, followed by a variety of fun and games. Things to be thrown, fired, or tasted, depending on the situation. Next to him, Bas makes her own choices, and when they’re both done, they take a second to stare at each other. Check the list, make sure nobody’s forgotten something.

  Neither of them has.

  “Evva says this might be the last one,” Bas breaks the silence, and while her mouth moves, the sound actually comes through the mask.

  The four of them are already connected.

  “There are always more,” Sax replies, his voice like grinding sand.

  “But what if it is?”

  “Then we’ll have to find something else to kill,” Gar joins the

  conversation, and their group, in the center of the room. There’s not much to say to that, because everyone agrees with Gar’s assessment. Oratus are like miners - they serve a purpose, and Sax has a hard time thinking of what that might be if not to tear the galaxy’s enemies apart. Lan saves him the trouble by joining in, completing their set.

  They’re ready to go.

  3 Night Rituals

  I’m holding the torch in both hands and watching the flames dance to the nighttime breeze. It’s not heavy - the stick of wood isn’t much longer than my forearm, and the burning rag doesn’t send the fire high - but Father says that holding with two hands signals devotion to the task.

  As I’m going to offer a prayer to Ignos, the god that determines whether my family and tribe lives or dies, devotion seems appropriate.

  It’s dark in the jungle after Ignos goes down. If I’m standing in the village, where most of the trees have been cut to make room, I could see the stars. Underneath the canopy, though, I’d be wading in a sea of black without the torch. As it is, my eyes can’t make out much more than my own feet and the overgrown path beneath them.

  My ears, though, find a world of their own.

  While bird calls drop away as Nomis - the silver sister of Ignos - rises, other animals take their place. Buzzing insects swarm around the light, some of them as large as my hand. The sap I’ve spread over my skin keeps most off of me, and years of practice mean I don’t flinch when a moth lands on my wrist and flares its owl-eyed wings.

  My steps startle a spider monkey somewhere above, and it hoots as it swings away, alerting its family to my coming.

  Fear doesn’t strike me here, even though I’m alone. Our hunters, and those of other tribes, cross these areas enough that any large predators have either learned to stay away or found themselves in our fires. Those same tribes don’t have an interest in taking me, even if they were out at night. Sacrifices are about honoring Ignos, and a sixteen year-old girl doesn’t have much honor to provide.

  Not yet, anyway.

  When I reach the clearing, there’s a small stone totem standing at the far end. About as tall as I am, and bearing another carving of Ignos. This one, though, is white-spotted and washed out. Father says it’s been here since before the village, and that it’s partly the reason why our tribe has survived so long; others make pilgrimages here for their own people, and their gifts pay their peaceful passage. Food and tools that help our village grow.

  I’m the only one here now, though, which is good. Solitude helps me get closer to Ignos, or at least that’s what I think as I kneel before the totem and begin the rites. With my eyes closed, I set the torch to the side, though I have to twist it into the hard dirt. A sign we could use some rain - normally this clearing is a muddy mess. Everyone knows when you’ve been here because you come back with coated knees.

  It’s a ritual prayer. Asking for guidance, strength, and the usual array of graces. Only at the end do I break into originality. Start a one-sided conversation with a god that is so great and mystifying that I have no idea if he can understand me, or if he cares.

  “I don’t know if you’re listening,” I say, and I put my hands on the totem. We’re not supposed to touch it, but nobody’s watching, and maybe it’ll get Ignos’ attention. “I’m asking you for something tonight. Again.”

  I pause. This is the hard part, because when I don’t say it then it doesn’t feel so real. I can distract away the feeling with my chores, or conversation, or just by running through the jungle. But I didn’t come here to be distracted, so I say it anyway.

  “I need a destiny. Father says I can’t be a priest, and Mother tells me I’ll be getting a husband soon. I don’t want that, Ignos. I don’t want what they want for me. Show me something else, please!”

  It’s a plea, and I’m a little ashamed as I say it. Blushing, even, there in the dark, because I know most of the village would say the same thing if they had the chance, but they don’t. They make do with the struggles, and embrace the happy moments: a successful harvest, a dance around the fires, a hunt that brings back enough to feed the family.

  Who am I to ask for more?

  I’m opening my mouth to take it all back, beg forgiveness, when a breeze kicks up and I feel my torch go out. My eyes open to the purest dark I’ve seen in a while, though I’m able to pick up the torch by the heat of it. Not the first time this has happened, and every Solare knows how to pick their way through the ferns and trees at night.

  The dark, though, is why, when the whole sky burns a minute later, I go blind.

  Only for a second, and it’s not really blindness but shock at the white burst overwhelming everything. I blink rapidly as the glow recedes to a single, huge ball hurtling above the trees. The leafy canopy means I catch the fire in spots as it barrels close and then over my head.

  It’s hard to see anything in that angry orange and black, but I track the burning ball anyway. At least until it vanishes beneath the tree tops. First comes the snapping and cracking of trees, and then a rippling bang. Like a thunderstorm letting loose over a lake. The ground shifts and I fall to all fours, my fingers digging into the dirt like it’s a cliff I’m trying to climb.

  Then it’s done.

  Stillness takes over and for a moment everything is stunned quiet. I take a breath. The first insects test their buzzing. Gradually, the jungle restarts its symphony.

  When I stand, holding the burned-out torch, I don’t turn back towards my village. I saw where the bright flash landed. It didn’t look far. I’m thinking of my prayer, too. And destiny.

  Ignos might have heard me, and given me an answer. All my parent’s stories about heroes started with one thing: when given the chance, the hero acted. So I move past the totem, take a walk into the uncut brush.

  It’s slow going without a light and wandering into unfamiliar territory. Bugs bite - ants and other critters undeterred by my sap coating - and animals running away from the crash find me and turn around.

  Unseen branches scratch my face and a thorn leaves its mark on my hand. I don’t turn back, though, because I know what lies behind me.

  Eventually I break through
into what wasn’t a clearing moments before. Now it’s a fiery disaster. Trees hold bits of flame like I might hold a cup of water. Dirt and rocks are piled up everywhere, as though someone went digging with abandon. I notice too that most of the debris are black, and hot.

  I step onto the dirt.

  It sears the soles of my feet, so I dance until I find a but of slightly cooler rock, then take a look.

  There’s a pit in the middle, almost as large as one of our houses. Deeper than I am tall, and in the center is something that, to me, appears like an oval boulder. In the flickering orange, it’s obviously pitted too. Bits and pieces taken out of its sides, though the unmarked parts shine. I’ve never seen anything like it, but that meshes with what I’m thinking. Ignos’ sent along something completely new.

  Something just for me.

  I take the next steps slow and careful. Test the dirt to make sure each step isn’t too hot. Even so, burns get added to my growing list of injuries.

  Never let it be said that Ignos doesn’t make you work for your dreams.

  I clamber to the edge of the hole. Now that I’m closer, I can tell the oval isn’t too much larger than Father. Four or five of him, squashed into the same shape, would make for the entire thing.

  As though the oval knows I’m looking at it, it begins to steam. White streams emerge from what grows to be a line around the middle of the oval, floating up into the sky. Then, before I can decide what to do, the oval pops in half. The top part rises up and falls away from me and I notice it’s attached with a small silver hinge to the oval’s far side.

  What’s more interesting, though, is what’s inside Ignos’ gift. It looks like a black sea, though when I concentrate, I can pick out traces of purple. The ink - because I don’t know what else to call it - appears still, and I take that as a sign to come closer.

  I’m not completely convinced; I take the descent into the pit slow and make sure to identify the easiest way to scramble out if the oval turns out to be unfriendly.

  I reach out with one hand to touch the oval’s outer shell. The lip of the opening. It’s warm, though not as hot as parts of the dirt. If my mind wasn’t in total shock, I might wonder why, but instead I note that it’s safe to touch and keep going closer.

  Both of my hands are on the lip, which rises just about to my chin, and I’m peering into that purple-black ink. There’s something in there. I can make out a shadow, shifting in the firelight.

  I reach for it - trained by years of grabbing at fish - slip on that narrow lip, and fall inside.

  4 The Order

  Sax raises a single claw and the ship takes note. The mirrors slide back into place and hide the remaining arms. Behind Sax, a door, till that moment unified with the pearly sheen of the ship’s walls, shunts open with the hiss of compressed air. Careful not to let his tail get in the way, Sax leads the group from the room and down the ship’s outer corridor.

  And stops immediately. He’s forgotten what Evva said. They’re late to the fight, and as the ship’s outer hull turns translucent - a neat effect of well-placed screens - the four of them bear witness to chaos.

  What look like whole flocks of birds dip and dart through black space. A black palette marred by the orange gas giant staring at them, its churning atmosphere dotted with specks as ships criss-cross in front of it. Constant light shows erupt as pilots try their hands with energy weapons, though Sax knows there are plenty more projectiles flying through that vacuum; invisible and just as deadly.

  Sax is drawn to the biggest blot of the bunch. Makes sense - that’s what he’s here for. It’s a disc, sort of, and it hangs there in space, dwarfing everything around it. You’d think it would be the center of the fight, seeing as it’s the most important ship here, but it looks like the battle has drawn away from it.

  “They’ve set us up,” Sax says. “Should be a smooth ride.”

  “How many do you think, on a seed ship that size?” Gar asks the question, and Sax can almost hear him salivating.

  “Enough for all of us, and more besides,” Sax replies. “Evva says you’ll have to share, Gar.”

  The commander said nothing of the kind, but that’s the implication Sax had when Evva told him they were going with a full assault crew. At least four shuttles, stocked to the brim with soldiers. Sax had made sure they were the only Oratus though. Nobody to take his credit. Still this is a big commitment for the Chorus military, the Vincere.

  “So long as they understand they’re getting the scraps and no more,” Gar hisses.

  At the end of the hall, a circular door spins open. Evva’s on the other side. Not directly, but standing in a Sphere. From their eyes, it looks like she’s stuck her head into a giant, bluish ball. On the inside, Evva is seeing everything the sensors can give her about the fight and letting her float around in it like some sort of god. Sax has tried it before. It twisted his stomach around and cost him a good meal.

  Beyond Evva is the rest of the bridge. Aside from the seemingly huge windshield - screens again, overlaid on heavy armor - the bridge is consumed by pods. Flaum, furry creatures with big eyes and long snouts, sit at some, chattering to each other or to ships outside. Sax resists the urge, though Lan’s low growl says she doesn’t.

  Normally, these things are prey. Normally, they’re snacks to tear apart on course to the real meat.

  Evva leaves the Sphere before Sax gets through his hypothetical destruction of the Flaum, and she’s everything Sax would expect a fourth letter Oratus to be. Her lime green scales are scatter-shot with luminous medals, as though someone had blasted Evva with a cannon full of honors. Each one glows in the light, playing rainbow tricks on Sax’s eyes.

  “We are ready to begin, commander,” Sax says, though a flash behind Evva - some ship meeting a fiery end - draws his eyes away from her.

  “Your shuttle is ready,” Evva replies. Her voice, not through the masks, sounds filtered until Sax looks back at her. Then the mask reshuffles priorities and brings Evva’s next sentence in clear and clean. “Your orders are to proceed directly to the core. Find the Seed Sevora and eliminate it. No need for prisoners.”

  “Of course,” Sax replies.

  “You should all know,” Evva says, and Sax perks up because her voice has changed here. It’s not the commander talking, it’s Evva. “The Chorus declared a tenth cycle. The Great Peace, they’re calling it. It’s up to us to deliver that here, make it so the last nine cycles of war aren’t wasted.”

  “The Great Peace? We’re still fighting,” Bas says.

  “Not for much longer,” Evva motions a claw out towards space.

  “We think this is their last one. The final seed ship. Destroy it, and we’ve finally won.”

  Evva’s injecting emotion there, and Sax knows why. She’s alone on this bridge for a reason. Brilliance, sure, but also because her pair vanished in a seed ship raid gone wrong. Oratus keep their grudges deep, and Evva’s gives the four of them a boost.

  “We honor your lives,” Evva continues, back in formal form.

  “We are honored to serve,” Sax replies, and hears the others say the same.

  It’s going to be a good hunt.

  5 Meeting A God

  When I wake up I know I’m suffocating. I can feel, pressing against my eyes, the cool liquid that must be the ink inside the oval. I also feel my nerves tell me someone’s staring my way.

  I’m not alone.

  As I move my arms - the ink is sludge-like, heavier than I expected - something twitches in my brain. Like a headache blinking on and off, only sharper. I push past it because what I need right now is air.

  My feet hit the oval’s hard bottom and press, raising my head clear. The ink doesn’t drip away clean. It sticks, like fruit juice. I start brushing it away from my mouth, gulp in the first gasp of air, and that’s when noises erupt in my head. A mix of animal cries, grinding rock, and sounds that I can’t identify at all. They cluster together, writhe and burst, and dimly, beyond, I can still make out the cra
ckle of dying flames and nothing else around the oval.

  That, more than anything, confirms that I’m only hearing this in my own head. That, more than anything, drives a stake of fear into my heart.

  Fear.

  The word appears. Like a dream, or a sudden inspiration. Along with it comes a crystal clear tone, as if the word were spoken by, say, a blown hollowed caller. Not the right sound at all.

  Fear.

  The word comes again, along with the tone, but this time there’s adjustments, like speech, as it climbs through the letters. Like a child learning to sound out a word. Like I did when I was young.

  I look down at the ink I’m swimming in, and I find that it’s lower than I thought. No, it’s evaporating. Vanishing into the night. The pool shrinks until it’s barely up to my waist.

  I.

  Yes, I think, that’s me.

  Me.

  I shake my head. Try knocking it from side to side to see if something might pop out. Or if I’ve broken part of my brain and it’s causing these strange bursts. The motion only makes my ears ring.

  New words take time.

  It’s a sentence and not something I just said. I freeze. Maybe, I think, if I stop doing anything else I’ll be able to tell what’s going on. Really, I’m reaching for anything. Running through what my tribe teaches when a predator’s encountered.

  Or an enemy.

  Not an enemy.

  It’s responding to me. The tones are saying the words as they flash into my mind, though I’m not hearing them in my ears, exactly. More like when I imagine someone speaking to me and I can hear their voice despite them not actually talking. It’s a feeling.

  I’m not your imagination.

  That much is obvious. Even though I’m a dreamer, I’m not this good at fooling myself. So I launch to the next question: if this isn’t my imagination, and it isn’t outside of me, then what is it?