Prologue
“Pause comms.” Syndria massaged her temples. Dealing with anyone on the black market was stressful, but negotiating with Perlow Thol was a singular form of torture in itself. A glance at the chronometer on her data tile told her she’d been at it now for almost an hour. The tile’s flickering screen only aggravated her headache. She looked over the displayed test results, then turned back to her comm console. “Resume comms.”
Settling back in her chair, she propped her feet on the desk. “Read me the stats on each bonded realm grouping, and include the declination percentages.”
A man’s voice against a background of soft, hissing static sounded from the comms link. “You just want the averages, not the numbers on each warlock?”
“Right.”
“Okay. Here’s what we have in stock: three Elemental warlocks, four Corporeals, four Phantos, and three Astrals. There are two females of each type; the rest are males.”
Syndria laughed. “What else would they be?”
“Ha, ha. Real funny. You done?”
She frowned. “You have no sense of humor, Perlow.”
“I’m a slaver, not a comedian.”
“Obviously. Get on with it.”
He cleared his throat. “The three reds—the Elementals—can all manifest in the four fundamentals: fire, air, water, and earth. Average declination is uniform in each and steady at fifteen percent when exposed to ANI stimulation.”
“Fifteen percent is acceptable. We’ll take them. Next?”
“The greens are a bit stronger. That’s somewhat surprising, them being Corporeals. But their ability to manipulate physical matter declined by only twelve percent on average when tested.”
“Good. Give me those, too.”
“The Phantos warlocks didn’t fare as well. This set of yellows are not up to the usual standard; hence the reduced price I agreed on. They held their own in mind control, illusion, and dream intervention. But they dropped by twenty-one percent in psychometry and healing. That brought their average declination to seventeen percent on ANI stimulation.”
She drummed her fingers on the chair’s armrest. “What about the blues?”
“The Astral warlocks performed about where I expected they would. We tested them on transmutation, short-range teleportation, energy flow disruption, and telekinesis. They were all consistent and tested out at a fourteen percent declination.”
Syndria swung her legs off the desk and sat up. “Okay, Perlow. I’m not thrilled with the Phantos warlocks you’re offering, but I’ll take them at the reduced price. Give me the others, too. Make sure they’re wearing inhibitors before you deliver them.”
“Deliver to where?”
“The CF1703 facility. I’ll make certain your payment transfers in the morning.”
“I’ll deliver as soon as the payment clears,” he said. “As always, a pleasure doing business with you. Will you need any more? Or perhaps I can interest you in some human specimens?”
“Don’t need humans, Perlow. Warlocks only. Any type—red, blue, green, or yellow. The color of their aura doesn’t matter. Just make sure they can channel the magic from their bonded aetheric realm.”
“Perlow Thol deals only in the best. You know that. Give my regards to your High Council friends. I’m heading back to the Firedrake. Call me when you need more warlocks. Until then. Thol out.” He broke the commlink.
Syndria shut down her comm console before heading for the door. It was nearing time for the evening meal, and she didn’t want to be late. At the CF1703 prison facility, the warlock chef was a convicted multiple murderer but nothing short of a wizard in the kitchen.
With the transaction completed, she could put thoughts of Perlow Thol and his black-market slaving operation out of her mind, at least for a few weeks. That would go a long way toward relieving her current headache.
She’d have time to concentrate on her actual work, the task set for her by the One, the Being, the God of Rycappa. Nothing could prevent her from fulfilling the will of her god. Her name would echo in reverence through the halls of the House of Rael for her accomplishments and unwavering devotion.
“We shall die that We may live.” Mumbling her religious mantra, she headed for the mess hall.
CHAPTER 1
She lay naked on a rough-hewn stone table, shackles encircling her wrists and ankles. Her pulse thundered. Tubes jammed through her nostrils into her trachea forced air into her lungs, painfully swelling her chest. The hoses paralyzed her vocal cords, preventing her from screaming.
My name is Lelisa…My mate is Faarsan…My chi—oh, shit! What are they doing to me?
The black market raiders slapped an inhibitor collar around her neck immediately after they broke down the door of her home. So quick—no time to react. Rifle fire…screaming…her family…blood on the walls…
My child is Lilith…My mate is Faarsan…LeLisa is my—what’s that noise? Is someone there? Help me!
She couldn’t see—they’d sealed her eyelids using a laser cautery. Tubes of various sizes invaded her body to drain away waste.
My mate is Faarsan…My child is Lilith… Where’s my baby? Lilith! Please, is someone there? Electrical humming. Moving closer. What is that? What’s that noise?
Cold, metal-smooth hands grabbed each side of her shaven head, holding her immobile. The humming rose to a screeching pitch. The metallic, seared-meat smell of burning flesh billowed around her. A laser scalpel. My forehead.
Pain burned through her head; panic raced through her veins. Muscles contracted, she balled her fists, nails cutting into her palms until blood dripped to the stone beneath. Her body reflexively tried to thrash, to dodge the cutting beam of the scalpel, but the restraints on her arms and legs wouldn’t budge.
Please…stop!
The scalpel circled the dome of her skull, slicing through skin, muscle, and bone. Blood trickled from her forehead, ran into the well of her closed eyelids, the warm liquid cooling, coagulating to mat her lashes.
Something wriggled around inside her skull like maggots through a rotting carcass. Panic gripped her; the horror petrified her. She teetered on the edge of consciousness. My magic…use my magic.
The inhibitor collar around her neck denied her access to the magic native to her warlock blood. The current of aetheric energy was there, waiting for her command, but she couldn’t touch it.
A mechanical voice. Dispassionate. “Initiate cellular integration.”
Pain. Burning, searing pain.
* * *
Glyndra squinted against the sun’s unrelenting rays scorching down on Endara VI. This side of the planet was currently in its solar phase. Derella’s Rapture, the only spaceport on the globe, sweltered beneath twenty-seven hours of unyielding sunlight. When darkness finally came, it would rule the city for the same number of hours.
Derella’s Rapture enjoyed its reputation as a haven for the lawless and illegitimate; everything and everyone within the city had a price. Like the other buildings in town, the ramshackle bar on the corner looked neglected. The town’s few permanent residents weren’t interested in aesthetics; as long as it functioned, the appearance didn’t matter.
Glyndra stepped from the searing heat into the bar’s cool gloom. She removed her goggles, pulling more of her unruly gray hair from its ponytail. Endara VI’s notoriously clingy dust hadn’t spared her—it clung to the age lines at her eyes, around her mouth, and across her forehead. Not one to dwell on vanity, she didn’t bother brushing the dust away, proud to display the trophies of her almost one hundred years of life.
The packed room held an assortment of patrons—mercenaries, bounty hunters, probably more than one assassin, female and male prostitutes, gamblers, slavers quibbling over the price for a young girl, two who were probably military deserters—the usual crowd.
Low creaks and groans from the wall-mounted cooling units mingled with the background noise of hushed, secretive conversations.
The Worm Hole, ill-kept and violent, was a favorite meeting place for those looking for trouble or hoping to cause it. Regulars indulged in all manner of decadent pleasure and illicit commerce. Though Glyndra saw nothing considered illegal in the eyes of the local authorities, she was no fan of what passed for normal in Derella’s Rapture.
The few patrons who noticed her arrival returned to their drinks as she removed her jacket and tied the sleeves around her waist, leaving the military insignia on the cuffs in full view. That was usually enough to ensure her safety, for a short while, at least.
When her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she approached an isolated table near the back wall.
“Lookin' mighty tasty, Commander," Denosto said when she took a seat across from him.
She glanced at the four empty flagons. He's been busy.
A lecherous smile creased Denosto's face. "My current state of near-fatal dehydration has my eyesight fading, but it would take more than that to dull your radiant beauty." Ample jowls quivered under his sparse and graying beard, and an audible wheeze accompanied each breath. His bulk spilled over the sides of the straight-back chair that creaked in protest with each movement. The sparkle in his dark brown eyes, however, belied his degraded physical state. He was not a man to underestimate.
"Put a lid on it, De. I don't have much time. The admiral expects his shuttle back within the hour. What've you got for me?"
He slumped back in his seat. "Too good to share one drink with me? It ain't like a work-weary warlock comes across a lot of employment opportunities around here."
She smirked. "Work-weary, my ass. If you wouldn't steal from everyone who hired you, you might find more jobs."
"Hell, a man's got to make a decent living. Can't do that working a legit job."
"Tell you what. Give me something worth my coming to this hell hole, and I'll see you get your drink."
He clapped his hands and laughed. "Now, that's the Glyndra I know and love."
She smiled. "So, what've you got?"
He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out an antiquated storage chip, and slid it across to her.
She examined it closely. "Looks to be in decent shape, but that doesn't mean it's readable."
"Oh, it's readable. You got my word on that."
Glyndra nodded toward a male prostitute. "Your word and thirty Imperial bronzes will get me an hour with that guy."
Denosto clutched the center of his chest. "You wound me, dear lady! If I didn't know better, I'd think you actually doubted my word."
"I do doubt your word, and you know it. So, cut the crap and tell me what's on this chip."
"I don't know."
She cocked an eyebrow. "Then how do you know it's readable, or it'll interest me?"
"It’s readable. I just can’t read it.” A sly grin oozed across his face. “It’s written in pre-Cataclysm warlock.”
Her fingers closed around the chip. “You’d better not be shitting me.”
“I’m for-truthing you. The writing's so old, I can’t read it. And I couldn’t find no warlock who could.”
“How many did you show it to?”
“Just a couple degenerates I sorta trust.”
She pocketed the chip and tossed him a silver Imperial coin. “That should keep your thirst quenched until the lunar phase starts.”
He laughed and raked the coin from the table. “Yes, ma’am, Commander Glyndra. That'll do nicely.”
She stood and untied her sleeves from her waist. “You know how to find me if you come across anything else. You know what I’m looking for.”
“Yep, sure do.”
He called for another flagon while she donned her jacket and headed out the door.
* * *
Admiral Devon Bastion strode through the corridor of the Imperial star-runner, his solid footfalls signaling to those ahead to make a path. For those not heeding the sound, a simple glance at the towering admiral was enough to move them aside. At two meters in height, Bastion stood shoulders-and-head above most men. His coal-black hair and beard framed his rugged face, and the gaze from his steel-gray eyes could wither the soul of anyone unfortunate enough to evoke his anger.
The two Imperial guards outside the emperor’s quarters snapped to attention at the admiral’s approach. The metal doors slid open as the ranking guard stepped aside and said, “He’s expecting you, Admiral.”
Bastion’s sword slapped against his thigh as he crossed the room. The polished marble floor shone under the overhead lights and reflected on the study's sleek curved metal walls. The meta-glass outer wall looked over Endara VI spinning lazily on its axis.
The planet was essentially a giant dust bowl, with only one significant body of water near the northern pole. Scattered shallow lakes and muddy oases pock-marked the vast stretches of desert lands. Though bone dry on the surface, it harbored vast underground aquifers that kept the indigenous population from dehydrating. Hydroponics and low-moisture livestock kept food on the table—most of the time, at least.
Bastion made a perfunctory bow to Emperor Ahlaric, then stood, impassive, the wooden desk between them. The engines of the emperor’s star runner, the Monarch, droned with a rhythm that marked the seconds ticking away.
Ahlaric glared at the admiral while fidgeting with a small vial. Inside, a black powder sucked in the light around it.
Bastion cleared his throat. “Your Majesty summoned me?”
Ahlaric dipped a bony finger into the vial and withdrew it covered in powder. He massaged it into the stained patch of skin on the inside of his wrist and then offered the admiral the vial. “Will you join me, Admiral?”
Bastion remained stolid. “I’m on duty.”
“I’m on duty,” the emperor mocked in a high-pitched whine. “Oh, for fuck’s sake! You’re like a goddamned robot. Relax now and then. You’ll live longer.”
Bastion waited stoically for the emperor to explain why he’d summoned the admiral so urgently to Endara VI. The emperor’s eyes fluttered closed, and his face flushed. He leaned his head back and drew a slow, deep breath—his usual reaction to a dose of Tranquil Dark. When he opened his eyes, dilated pupils almost obscured his green irises.
“I’ve made my decision regarding the Lumorta system,” Ahlaric said. “I’ve recalled our diplomats and negotiators. Those Lumortan traitors have defied me for the last time. The official decree is being drafted and will be forwarded to you once vetted. As the capital planet in the system, Myra will bear the brunt of the punishment. You will purge all cities with a population of half a million or more.”
Bastion’s hand tightened on the pommel of his sword. “That will eliminate at least half of Myra’s population.”
“Exactly. Survivors will think long and hard before they turn a treasonous hand against the crown again.”
“I’ll need to mobilize an attack force if you want simultaneous attacks on all cities. The Maelstrom alone would have to purge by sector. That would take longer.”
“It’s tempting to blow the bastards to hell all at once.” Ahlaric applied another dose of Tranquil Dark to his wrist. “But the lesson will linger if the attack takes time. You and the Maelstrom can handle it alone.”
“If Your Majesty will indulge, has the High Council approved—”
The emperor pounded a fist on the desk. “I will not have your impudence, Bastion. I am Emperor, not the High Council. You answer to me. Get that through your head, or I’ll have you dragged out and flogged.”
Bastion fixed dispassionately on the emperor’s gaze.
Ahlaric ran a trembling hand through his thinning brown hair. His squat, emaciated frame hid beneath pale, dry skin marred by a crepe-like texture that looked like it should crackle when he moved. “There is one more thing. You’ll take Chancellor Lasko with you.”
“Chancellor Lasko is not a member of my crew.”
The emperor grinned. “He is now. As of today, he is my liaison to the Maelstrom.”
“Will there be any other changes to my crew?”
“Not at the moment. I’ve concluded my business here at Endara VI. We’ll break orbit in a few hours and return to Kallagor. I’ll be at the palace in Mithara City when you have something to report. Signal me there, but make certain it’s not at some ungodly hour of the night. Now get the fuck out of my sight.”
Bastion bowed, then strode from the room.
Guards moved out of his way as he hurried to the shuttle bay. He rushed up the ramp and took a seat next to Glyndra.
“How’s our boy today?” she asked.
“Take us back to the Maelstrom,” he instructed the pilot, then turned to her. “Worse each time I meet with him.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure, but it'll have to happen before long. I don’t know if the empire can survive his rule much longer.”
She settled into her seat and wrapped an arm around his as the shuttle cleared the Monarch’s docking bay. “Emperor Ahlaric won’t sit on the throne forever. You’ll make certain the empire and her peoples survive until then.”
“You’re an eternal optimist, Glyndra.” He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. “I would really enjoy killing the bastard.”
