Beyond the Red Page 28

  The soldiers notice us when we’re two hundred paces away. Out of the eight standing guard, two lift their phasers, but others are hesitant—they can’t very well shoot ken Sira-kaï and his betrothed, can they?

  Serek shoots first—firing a burst of five shots, three of which hit their mark as the remaining guards dive out of the way. I take down two others and don’t stop running until we’re on top of the soldiers. A guard levels his phaser at Serek and screams “Stop!”—I shoot him in the chest with a white burst just as someone tackles me from behind. We hit the sand hard, the brunt of the impact on my forearms. Two high-pitched whines cut through the air and the guard on my back slumps over. His weight slides off me moments later as Serek helps me up.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” I nod to the heavy metal door in the sparkling gold tower just three measures away. “Let’s go.”

  Serek presses his palm into the door and a blue light flashes above it before sliding open. I glance down at the men at my feet—they’re breathing, but unconscious. Serek set the phasers to stun.

  “C’mon,” he says, and we slip inside.

  Two guards stand by the door, apparently in mid-conversation as they break off and stare at us. Serek stuns them both without hesitation and drags one of the unconscious men to the door. He scans the guard’s hand, then his own. Two flashes of blue light, and that door opens as well.

  Stairwell. A tall, curving set of stairs with seemingly no end, spiraling to the very top. I don’t have to ask Serek what level we need to get to—the control unit is on the top floor.

  We start climbing.

  I stun Gray first, then fire off bursts at the guards still moving in the sand. The ones who have fallen still I can only assume are dead, and I don’t have time to check. I duck out of the tent and start shooting anything that moves. The screams are awful—grating on my ears and heart and stomach. There are too many who have already fallen still in the sand, too many that are too late to save.

  And as far as I can tell, I’m the only one left unaffected.

  I can’t save everyone. The realization pulls me lower with every shot, stings my eyes and twists my gut. People are dying around me and I’m stunning as swiftly as I can, running as fast as my legs will take me, trying to find those still with fight left in their bodies. But it’s not enough. With every person I stun, two fall and stop breathing.

  I need to find Aren, Jessa, Mal, and Nia. I need to find what’s left of my family and save them before it’s too late.

  I race toward their tent, stunning everyone I see on the way, praying it’s not too late, blinking the sweat from my eyes and ignoring the burning in my lungs and legs and twisting through the rows of tents to reach the outskirts, where Jessa will be with the kids. There are too many bodies. Too many children who have fallen in mid-stride, too many mothers forever holding their babies in the sand. There isn’t any blood. The dead almost appear to be sleeping, but they’re too still for that. They’re empty shells of their former selves.

  The tent with the Kit family crest is a hundred paces away, placed at the edge of camp. Cries and screams surround me and I can’t tell if it’s coming from the tent. I stun a teenager dressed in army fatigues and his little sister. A mother and her child. Three girls, scarcely breathing.

  Something heavy and cold weighs on my gut. Even set to stun, the pulses have been known to cause heart attacks—how many am I killing with the stunning blow? But I can’t think about that. Not now.

  I duck into Jessa’s tent. There’s crying here, but only one of them is moving. They’re huddled in the center of the tent, Jessa holding the children, a hand over her swollen stomach. Aren, Nia, and Jessa are perfectly still, perfectly silent. Mal is whimpering in his mother’s arms, still holding Aren close to his chest. Mal’s eyes are squeezed closed and his face is streaked with tears.

  I pull the trigger. My eyes sting and I’m going to be sick. I can barely breathe but there are still cries out in the sand. There are more I can save.

  But it will never be enough.

  Serek bursts through the door and stuns the four men at the controls. They drop like sacks of muscle and bone. Roma is nowhere to be seen.

  Serek drops the phaser and races to the controls, typing frantically through the low hum of the running computers. Tears stream down his cheeks as he inputs commands I don’t understand, then places the disc on the screen. His fingers fly across the surface of the computer and finally he slams his hand over the screen and silence falls. He stands, gasping for air, shaking from head to toe, staring out at the overlook.

  “Did it work?” I ask. “Is it off?”

  “I’ve disabled all functioning nanites,” he whispers. “Permanently.”

  Cool air blows through me. “All of them?”

  “I didn’t have time to finish a differentiating program, Kora. A mass kill command was the only option.”

  This doesn’t feel like a victory. People’s lives, fields of crops, doctors and the domesticization of animals like kazim—not to mention the foundation of Safara’s technological advancements—all depend on nanites. This solution will cause a host of chaos on its own.

  I step beside him and look out over the clusters of buildings, over a city that has fallen eerily still. “How many do you think are dead?”

  He shakes his head. “Impossible to say until the coming sets.”

  I step next to him and he slides his fingers between mine, then squeezes my hand. “I hope Eros’s family is okay.”

  He sighs. “Eros—”

  The door crashes open behind us. We spin around and Roma takes two long strides, raises a large, gleaming black cylinder with a glowing red barrel strapped across his shoulder, and squeezes the thick trigger. Something hot splatters on my face and Serek gasps, stumbles back a couple steps, and sinks to the ground. But he isn’t stunned.

  There’s a hole in his chest the size of a fist. Roma isn’t holding an ordinary phaser—it’s a cannon. I start toward him, but Roma releases the cannon, letting it hang off his shoulder, grabs my throat, and shoves me against the wall. “I told you I would have your head for this,” he hisses. He glances at Serek, bleeding and gasping on the floor, and for a moment his face softens. “I warned you not to get in the way.”

  Roma turns back to me and his eyes harden. He squeezes my neck and stars dot my vision. But I am not helpless yet.

  I grab the knife in my belt and ram it into the crook of his elbow. He screams and his fingers slip—I rip the knife out of his arm and crash into him. He shoots, but it bursts into the floor. The knife is slick and warm in my hand and I bring it down over his heart with a scream. Roma catches my wrist with his uninjured arm before the blade reaches him, shaking with effort. I push down with all of my weight, but it’s not enough—he’s much stronger than anyone I’ve ever sparred with.

  He twists my wrist hard and the knife clatters from my hand. Pain shoots up my arm, but I ignore it and lunge for the knife with my free arm. He yanks me back and my shoulder burns as my head slams into the ground.

  Roma is on top of me, pinning my arms to the metal floor, blood dripping out of his arm and onto my chest. He laughs, and with the blood on his face and the wideness of his eyes, he looks crazed. Maybe he is. “Very good,” he says. “You know how to defend yourself. How refreshing.”

  I spit at him and he presses down on my flaming wrist. Pain burns through my arm and a cloud of darkness floods my eyes. I stop struggling and let the tears fall. Blinking back the darkness, I stare up at him. “Kala will never honor this. You’ll spend your afterdeath in the Void.”

  “You think so, do you?” Roma smiles. He knows he’s won, and now he’ll take his time enjoying his victory. “I suppose you’ll find out before I do. Now, where’s that knife, hmm?”

  “Please,” I whisper. He laughs and reaches for the knife, looking away for just a moment.

  But a moment is all I need.

  I strike his groin with my knee and t
wist hard, throwing him off me. Rolling on top of him, I stab my fingers into the soft spot at the base of his throat, then slam my hands over his ears, poke his eyes, and lunge. The knife is out of my reach, but his phaser cannon isn’t. He’s too busy blinking away tears and fighting off the onslaught of pain to see me grab it. Which is a shame, because I would have liked to see his face when he realized he lost.

  I smash the barrel of the cannon against his temple, and he slumps, still.

  Climbing off him, I race over to Serek. With the adrenaline fading from my veins, the pain in my wrist is unbearable, but I ignore it until I reach him.

  My heart sinks as I crouch next to him. His face is pale and drenched in sweat, and he’s bleeding out far too quickly. I rip off a portion of my shirt and tie it around his chest. The cannon hit him close to his abdomen, and while it doesn’t seem to have sliced all the way through, he must have damaged organs. He needs a doctor immediately.

  Serek hands me a syringe with a glowing blue vial inserted in the tube. “Inject this into Roma,” he rasps. “Hurry.”

  I take the syringe with shivering fingers and move back to Roma, inserting it into his arm. Serek nods his approval, so I press the plunger and hurry back to his side. “What was that?”

  “The last of the live nanites,” he whispers. “It’ll keep him comatose indefinitely.”

  My stomach sinks. “Nanites? But you could have programmed those to heal—”

  “We don’t have time. It’s done. There’s a broadcasting unit in the cabinet on the left wall. I need you to get a guide and begin streaming. I can tell you how, but you must hurry.”

  “Serek, you need a doc—”

  “Do this. Now.” Despite the pain he must be experiencing, his eyes are fierce. I can’t waste time, not now. I rush to the cabinet and rip it open. There are rows of identical mirror-like orb-guides about the size of my fist. I grab the nearest one and run back to Serek. Crouching next to him, I tap twice on the orb-guide, waking it, then open my hand, releasing it. It bobs in the air just above my palm several times, then steadies and spins slowly in the air.

  “Do you require assistance?” it chirps.

  I look at Serek. “Now what?”

  “Help me to the control panel. I’ll activate it and you’ll do the rest.”

  I slide my arms under his and pull him as gently as possible toward the panel. Sharp pain rips up my arm, but I grit my teeth and ignore it. Serek groans and pushes with his legs to help the best he can, then finally shouts “Enough!” and reaches for the screen. He presses his bloody hand over the panel until the screen lights up.

  “You are in need of medical assistance,” the orb says, whizzing over Serek’s head. “Shall I call for a medic?”

  “Naï,” Serek gasps. He closes his eyes and shudders, squeezing my hand. “Touch voice activation.”

  I find the icon and press it.

  “Command?” a computerized voice says.

  “Inter-territory streaming,” Serek says. “Immediate emergency override. Begin.”

  “Record from nearest guide?” the computer asks.

  Serek nods at me and I release his hand and step away. “Sha,” he says. “Begin.”

  The computer makes three long beeps, then the guide spins quickly, bobs at eye-level in front of Serek, then says, “Streaming live.”

  Serek trembles and looks at the guide. “People of Safara, this is Sira-kaï Serek d’Asheron. My brother Roma, the former Sira, has committed an atrocious act, ending countless lives. As such, I have acted as I must and removed him from his position.” Serek closes his eyes, inhales deeply, and opens them again. “I have been fatally injured by the former ruler, and as such will be unable to take his place on the throne. But there is a man with royalty in his veins, a man whose birthright outweighs Roma’s.”

  My hand clasps over my mouth, stifling a gasp as tears spring to my eyes.

  Serek takes a shaky breath and looks at the camera again. “His name is Eros, and he is the firstborn son of former Sira Asha. His genetics have been tested, and I personally verified his birthright to the throne is legitimate. He is a half-blood with golden eyes, somewhere in the desert, and he is the only rightful heir to the throne.”

  Serek gasps and grimaces, then opens his eyes again and shivers. “Eros, please return to Asheron. The territories—and your people—need you.” He nods at me and I tap the guide twice, turning it off and catching it as it drops to the floor.

  Serek closes his eyes and slides lower to the ground. I put the guide down and kneel beside him. My fingers find his and Serek struggles to open his eyes. He smiles ever so softly, and when he touches my cheek, his fingers are a light breeze. My chest aches and everything slows—I take his hand and press it against my tear-stained cheek and every breath is an eternity.

  Blood dribbles from his lips and he watches me with smiling eyes. His pain is a heavy blanket smothering my lungs. I’m choking on tears, trying to smile, holding his hands as he struggles to breathe. I want to call for help, I want to get him the best emergency care possible, but there’s nothing to be done. Serek destroyed the nanites and our best medical care with it. He used the last of the functioning nanites to keep his monster of a brother comatose, rather than killing him like he deserves and using them to heal.

  Serek, who refuses violence even in his final moments, even if it means an untimely death. And there’s nothing I can do but hold his hand and wait.

  My vision blurs and I blink the hot tears away—I don’t want to miss a moment, not one breath of the beautiful peace smoothing over the pain in his face. His fingers gently stroke my cheek and he doesn’t say it, he doesn’t say anything more, but I see it in his eyes, more powerful than any words could ever express.

  “I love you too,” I whisper.

  Serek’s eyes flutter closed. He sighs, and all at once, becomes perfectly still.

  The screaming stops like the flip of a switch. Like Kala pressed the mute button on the world, or maybe I’ve gone deaf, maybe I’ve heard too much.

  The camp is horrifically still. I sink into the sand, surrounded by the unconscious and dead, sweat on my back and tears in my eyes. The suns are low in the sky, painting the dusk with deep shades of blood red and purple, and not even a breeze disturbs the perfect, chilling quiet. This is a gravesite. A battlefield, with only casualties and not a single victor.

  I don’t know how long I stay there, kneeling in the sand and shivering in the silence. Eventually, my legs move and I find myself in Jessa’s tent again. I check pulses even though I know what I’ll find. Only Mal’s heart is still beating.

  I carefully lift Aren from his arms. Holding his tiny body sends a pain through my center like I’ve never experienced. He’s too still, and he’ll never wake. I’ll never see him smile again and it fills me with an empty rage that blinds me with a sickly black tar spreading through my veins like acid. I scream to the sky, to the suns, to this unfair and cruel place, this life that has allowed me to live and stolen the air from the purest life I know. Why? How could anyone even try to justify this? How could anyone end a life—countless lives—with the press of a button?

  I wrap Aren in silks from Jessa’s pack and place him in the sand. I do the same for Nia, then Jessa herself, careful to cover her permanently swollen stomach. When they’re fully wrapped, I pick Mal up and duck out of the tent.

  I won’t have him waking next to his dead family.

  Some are stirring around me as I step through camp. A few are already awake and watch me with wide eyes as I walk. I don’t know if they heard me scream, I don’t know why they look at me with something like wonder. Whispers slip around me, and still I keep walking. I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know where I can put Mal that’ll allow him to wake without the horror of death around him.

  Death is everywhere.

  “Eros.”

  I don’t stop at the sound of my name. I don’t care what Gray has to say to me.

  “Eros, wait.” He ta
kes my shoulder and I shrug out of his grip. But I stop walking. My shoulders burn from carrying Mal—I’m exhausted in every sense of the word—but nothing compares to the agony inside me.

  Gray steps in front of me and hands me a com. “You should listen to this.”

  I can’t believe him. After everything that’s happened, after all this death, after the silence and the screams, he’s giving me a blazing com to listen to?

  “It’s important,” he says, and something about his gaze stops me. It’s the way the others are looking at me. With a sortuv respect and gratitude that doesn’t make sense. I shift Mal’s weight onto my left arm and slide the com into place.

  Serek’s voice comes over the speaker. “… and he is the only rightful heir to the throne…. Eros, please return to Asheron. The territories—and your people—need you.” A pause, then the message begins again. “People of Safara, this is Sira-kaï Serek d’Asheron …”

  And then something happens that I can’t explain. Something I don’t want, something I don’t need, something I don’t deserve.

  Gray drops to one knee and bows his head. “Thank you,” he whispers. “You saved our lives.”

  Murmurs of agreement ripple around me, and one by one, all who are awake follow his lead and kneel in the sand.

  “Uncle Eros?” Mal whispers. “Why are you crying? Why is everyone bowing?”

  But I don’t answer. My voice is caught in my throat, and I can never reconcile what’s happening here today or Serek’s words playing endlessly in my ear.

  The territories—and your people—need you.

  Acknowledgments

  For years, I’ve loved reading the acknowledgments at the back of my favorite books, both because it shows how much work goes into publishing a novel, and because I’d imagine writing my own. Now I get to.

  First thanks go to the Big Guy upstairs, as Gray would say. While I never imagined it’d take me a decade to get here, You put this dream in my heart to begin with. I couldn’t be happier.