Death stalked the emptying halls of the Cultivation Palace, exacting her inevitable toll on the upper echelons of Solvonus society. The Red Fist knew their business and paid tribute to the goddess with efficient destruction, according to the plan Kosh had detailed for them. Each operative had killed their respective targets, implicating a rival house.

  Old feuds, and new, ignited tonight, threatening to throw Solvonus back into a system-wide war. The Red Fist, already spoken of in fearful respect, was now the unspoken pinnacle of chaos throughout Solvonus’s underbelly.

  ___________

  Kosh made his way through service corridors, the teeming staff from tonight’s celebration having scurried away at the first sign of the horrors to come.

  The rabble is always so much smarter than the damn elites when it comes to their own lives.

  Kosh whistled a half-forgotten tune absently as he made his way out of the meandering hallways, across a main concourse that a short time ago roiled with those same joyful elites. He scanned the massive expanse devoid of people. The area was silent except for distant screams of terror. The giant Nthandian smiled, as his part in the horrors taking place all around him warmed his blood.

  Kosh reached the far side of the concourse, approaching a set of double doors that slid silently open for him after entering his code on the keypad. He stepped through the doors, allowing them to glide close behind him as his eyes adjusted to the dim lights of the hangar. A slight change in pressure, barely noticeable, caused the Red Fist leader to tense, and he turned, scanning his surroundings. The outline of a man stepped forward from the gloom, and Kosh relaxed as he noticed who it was.

  “Mr. Esplin, report please.”

  An almost imperceptible upward tug flashed across the younger man's lips before he settled his emotions. He knew his boss was a powerful man, and he respected his employer, but the younger Nthandian enjoyed seeing cracks in Kosh's armor.

  “Sir,” Esplin said, nodding as he pulled his data-pad from inside his suit jacket.

  The Power, the Red Fist’s only Traveller, swiped the screen a few times, watching the security camera feeds from around the Cultivation Palace.

  “The Palace is in chaos. As you wanted.”

  “And?”

  Callon Esplin knew what Kosh really wanted to know and spent another few minutes scrolling through the security feeds, gleaning the answer his boss needed. For his part Kosh stood quietly, his impatience kept in check by years of meditation, forcing discipline and an outward calm. He knew results, and information took time, and Mr. Esplin had earned his respect countless times. Kosh could, would, wait a few minutes for the answer he needed to hear.

  Callon thumbed through the menus until he found the upper terrace cameras, and began flicking through them, collating highlights as he went. The center of the terrace was a crater, the smoke from multiple explosions billowing in the swirling wind. He read the data readouts for each camera and saw that the force fields around the terrace were all down, leaving the upper tier of the palace exposed to the harsh elements of the Crater Rim mountains.

  Mr. Esplin continued to study the images on his data-pad, noting the strewn bodies of the Royal Crest, citizen and wait staff alike. Bodies ranged from mangled, torn apart atrocities to appearing as if at peaceful rest, the gushing wind animating their empty husks. He shook his head at the intimate abandonment that Death doled out, her randomness always a curiosity to the young man.

  His study of the images complete, he finished collating the video for Kosh, before handing over the data-pad. The head of the Red Fist watched the complied video for long moments, allowing it to loop a few times as a feral smile crept across his face.

  “Good, it’s done,” he said as he handed the data-pad back to Mr. Esplin. “Callon, it’s been a long mission for you, I know. However, I need you to do one last thing for me before tonight is done.”

  Callon Esplin stood at ease, a small nod his only acknowledgement as he stared back at Kosh, waiting expectantly.

  “We can’t let there be any evidence of what happened here tonight. We need it to be what we say happened and nothing else. Head to the security offices, deal with anyone you find there and destroy the databanks. After that, make your way back to the imperial palace. You’ll find your apartments are already set aside and prepared for you.”

  Callon gave a second nod and reached into his jacket, removing a small beat-up tin. He opened it and removed a pinch of Lush. He crushed it between his fingers, releasing the cloying scent of vanilla into the air. He sucked on his fingers, his eyes slightly glazing over as the drug hit his system.

  With no parting words, the Power Traveled, leaving Kosh standing alone inside the landing pad. He stared hard at the place the young man occupied for a long moment, his face set with hard lines.

  That man is going to be dangerous if I'm not careful.

  __________

  Lieutenant Tusk struggled back to consciousness, his mind fighting him as he tried to swim out of the black depths that had pulled him down as the terrace exploded around him. Confusion wrapped its tendrils around his thoughts, his darkened vision making it hard to get his bearings. The pain in his head told him he at least lived, but little else. The piercing ringing in his ears, a gift from too many explosions at once, subsided, replaced, at first, by the sound of his own ragged breathing as it echoed around him.

  He focused on his breathing, wrestling control back from the fates. As his breath slowed, the hoarse rasp quieting into his lungs, he heard another sound replace it, muffled by whatever he was buried beneath. It took a few long moments to place the noise; the cobwebs clogging his mind, proving difficult to remove.

  Wind. The force fields.

  The tendrils retreated, releasing their grip on his mind, as he remembered where he was and the events of the evening. His team had tailed the empress, Lord Hakana and Captain Nadim, as they had a rare night of frivolity, strolling about the Cultivation Place, draped in Illusions. They had arrived at the upper terrace where the empress revealed herself to the throng of people gathered there and gave a speech. A nice one, if his memory was correct. Then the night’s entertainment had exploded into terror ...

  Interlopers.

  The lieutenant’s leg screamed at him as his body flinched away from the memory of the ancient horror walking among them. In Solvonus. He knew he should follow that thought, but years of systemic engrained fear clamped down that line of thinking before it even began. Instead, he began an assessment of his current condition. Starting from his head, the ringing fully subsided now, leaving a dull ache behind and down to his toes.

  Thankfully, he could feel those as he wiggled them in his boots, the movement threatening a painful response if he failed to stop.

  So, not paralyzed. That's something.

  A large moan broke through the howling wind, seeming to come from directly above whatever he lay under, followed by a crash that sent brief flashes of searing white pain shooting through his body. The tendrils snapped back into place and plunged him back into the empty blackness.

  He woke to waves of pain washing over him as his body shivered in the icy mountain air. His mind felt more clear this time, and he quickly assessed his situation.

  It was not good.

  How long was I out?

  Jon was dressed in civilian clothes, to blend in with the milling crowds while clandestinely tracking the empress throughout the evening. Underneath, however, he wore his light duty armor that was almost a second skin for the Royal Crest. The armor, little more that some ballistic panels sewn into black combat tights, came with a few extra built-in capabilities. The captain had upgraded the standard light armor years ago, recognizing the need for discretion when accompanying the empress on her more furtive excursions.

  Thank the gods for the captain.

  He flexed both arms, tensing against the pain of broken bone, but, thankfully, none came. He wiggled his hands, trying to raise them in the dark, tight confines. His left arm had some movement, but his right arm was pinned fast between him and something solid.

  That’s a bit of luck, eh, Jon?

  His suit’s controls were built into the inside of the left arm. With his right arm pinned, his only option was to use his mouth to access the controls.

  Good thing the cap thought of that, and had us train for this. Damn, the stories about the old man must be true.

  Jon thought of the tales the veterans told about the captain late at night in the barracks. He was a war hero, that was public knowledge, but some of the old timers, the ones in teaching and mentorship positions in the guard, knew some of the details.

  Or at least they said they did.

  The stories they told about Captain Jovani seemed to come straight from the story books the soldiers knew their captain preferred. Supposedly, he single handily captured a group of Da'ashani rebels that were terrorizing his home-world a few years before he came to the Crest. That mission was classified way beyond Jon's pay-grade, but the way the veterans told it, the captain had disobeyed multiple orders, risking his own life. In the end, instead of being thrown in the brig, he received a promotion from Lord Hakana himself, and placed on the fast track to leadership in the Royal Crest.

  Jon flexed and wiggled his left arm, causing a small cascade of loose debris to fall around him, the dust causing him to cough uncontrollably. Pain wracked his body from the movement. He kept at it despite the pain. He could not stay trapped here; either his injuries or the cold would kill him if he did not escape. A tearing, ripping sound reverberated around him as his outer sleeve tore from the debris' grasp, and suddenly his arm was free.

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  He moved his arm slowly, monitoring for any restriction in movement or pain, bringing it to his mouth. Jon felt the fabric of his jacket brush his lips, and took hold of it with his teeth, his mouth filling with dust. He ripped the torn sleeve away, exposing the tight cloth of the light armor underneath. Twisting his forearm, he used his mouth to find the small data-pad built into the sleeve, and used to tongue to activate the screen. He saw that the armor’s automatic systems were offline, but manual control was still functional, the suit’s power cell still intact.

  Jon swiped through the menus with his nose. He managed to access the suits survival suite and pressed the activation button. He felt warmth flood his body as his suit instantly responded. There were gaps where the cold seeped in, the suit damaged in places, but there was enough warmth that he knew he wouldn’t die from exposure, at least not as long as his power cell lasted.

  He nosed the controls, entering the medical menus, and pressed another control. Jon felt a small prick at the small of his back, his body relaxing almost instantly as a slurry of analgesics, antipyretics, and anti-inflammatories flooded his system.

  God, that never felt so good.

  The immediate needs seen too, his brain assessed his current situation further. The light from the data-pad illuminated a small hallowed out area, slightly smaller than Jon, his body wedged into the crevice when he was thrown here by an explosion. Above him, a few inches above his face, was one of the many tables that had stood around the terrace, the surface pockmarked with blaster fire.

  Jon’s mind took several moments to work through the events that saw him buried, alone, and injured. His bone deep exhaustion threatening to overtake the adrenaline that had infused his system as the combination of warmth and drugs worked their magic on him.

  The gunfight.

  Interlopers?

  Interlopers. The captain…

  Oh, damn. The High marshal!

  Jon remembered the seeing the captain firing his blaster on Lord Hakana, his body wracked with pain, blood pouring from his body.

  I hope the captains by my side if something like that every happens to me. Holy hells, what a way to go.

  The Interlopers. That was the most important thing. Not that Jon could do anything from where he was.

  Did anyone else make it? That carrier… our carrier!… why did it fire on us?

  Jon worked through the racing thoughts, his brain working clearly, as it didn’t have the pain and freezing cold to distract him.

  We’ve got a traitor in our midst. Who was on carrier detail tonight? Who were they working for?

  Jon took a firm hold of his sprinting brain, forcing it to slow down, focusing on the here and now. Those questions could, and would, be answered later.

  Jon nosed through the data-pad on his sleeve again, swiping through to the guard’s broadcast channel. He sent a ping on the system, querying if anyone else was within signal range.

  The signal returned, beeping in the negative.

  Damn.

  Jon adjusted the channel and signal strength, broadening it, trying to get it to penetrate all the surrounding debris. It was slow going, his nose not the best way to interface with the tiny data-pad. After a few attempts, he got the signal out, though.

  Another negative return.

  With a traitor among the Crest, Jon didn’t know who to trust. He knew he needed to get free and get the information of the Interlopers and the traitor out, but he didn’t know who to bring it to, even if he did escape.

  Did the captain make it?

  The way the carrier eviscerated everyone from only a few dozen feet above the terrace, he was surprised he survived. He doubted any others did, especially given the empty replies to his pings.

  Worry about who to report to later. Time to get moving, lieutenant. Get out of here first, see to the immediate needs, then figure out the next steps.

  His pep talk helping focus his mind on the immediate nature of his predicament. Jon raised his data-pad, again swiping through with his nose. He pulled the medical screen up again, and this time, he pressed the status button. The suit came installed with an A.I. powered medical suite that provided detailed information about his body. He saw that other than dehydration and countless contusions and minor abrasions, he was, mostly, intact.

  Except for the shattered right leg. That was a mangled mess.

  A button popped up on the screen, the suit asking for permission to see to the leg. Jon pressed the button, authorizing the action. Pain shot through him, overriding all the good the meds and warmth had done.

  Jon Tusk blacked out, the void welcoming him as a long-lost friend.

  ___________

  Buzz

  Buzzzzzz

  Buzzzzz

  Jon woke with a start, his heart racing, his ragged breath sounding too loud in the tight crevice. He forced himself to take a few deep breaths, counting a box rhythm his instructors taught him in basic years ago. A deep breath in for four seconds. Hold for four. Exhale slowly for four seconds, then hold again for four. Repeat.

  Repeat.

  Repeat.

  Jon focused on his breathing, feeling his body calm, the stress leaving his body.

  Buzzzzz

  What is that?

  Buzzzz.

  The data-pad.

  Jon raised his arm and toggled the small device on with his nose. A message widow filling the screen. He read the message. Then read it again, before nosing the window closed. He glanced at the readouts on the screen and saw that his right leg was now encased in a battle field cast, created by his armor adjusting the built in armor into a rigid formation, immobilizing the leg, after straightening and setting the bone the best it could.

  He smiled to himself. His sub-dermal tracking beacon was active and broadcasting his location. Someone was looking for him.

  The smile faded as his thoughts wandered to the traitor.

  Shit

  The lieutenant’s instinct made him reach for his blaster at the thought, but his right arm was still pinned beside him.

  Damn it!

  Dust filled the small gap he was wedged in as the surrounding debris shifted. Someone was here. Jon could hear a muffled voice, but whatever buried him was too thick for the voice to get through.

  Jon looked at his data-pad, the light from the screen reflecting off the dust cloud growing around him. His communications suite still reported negative contact.

  “I'm here.” Jon said, his voice a harsh croak.

  He tried to swallow, willing some spit to coat his throat, but the permeating dust coated his mouth and tongue. Jon needed to get out or he would suffocate. He didn’t care who was out there. Anything was better than dying in here.

  A small shaft of light, flickering in and out, suddenly broke through, adding its light to the illumination from his data-pad.

  “Hold on, soldier. I've got you,” a voice said.

  Jon held his breath, daring to hope, but afraid to at the same time.

  More debris fell on to Jon as his rescuer worked to free him. A heavy piece of marble shifted, falling a few inches and slamming into his leg. He fought the urge to yell, his eyes filling with tears at the renewed pain.

  Fucccccckkkkkkkkkkk

  More debris shifted, and he felt the restricting weight on the right side of his body lessen a little.

  “More,” he croaked.

  He heard a grunt in reply, closer this time. Jon saw fingers work their way through the gap where the shaft of light shone through. Another grunt, followed by a low growl, found its way to his ears, his rescuer obviously straining to move the table that pinned him down.

  The crevice’s hold lessened, and Jon pulled on his right arm. A tearing sound filled the small gap around him as his arm tore loose, his uniform in tatters.

  He braced both arms on the table above him and heaved.

  Nothing.

  The light that streamed on him darkened, and Jon glanced to the gap. He saw an eye staring at him, lit only by the data-pad.

  “Jon?”

  “…yeah…”

  “Able to help at all?”

  “Yeah,” Jon said again. He really needed some water to wash all the dust away.

  “On three then,” the voice said before the eye disappeared, the shaft of flickering light refilling the gap even as a hand reached in, grasping the edge of the table.

  “One. Two. Three.”

  Jon pushed against the table with both arms, straining against the immovable force, his grunt mixing with the one from whoever was on the other side of the table. More debris fell, threatening to bury him alive. A fresh wave of adrenaline coursed through his body, lending its strength to his failing arms. He gave one last heave, and suddenly the table flipped off of him. He was showered with dust and debris, but powerful arms reached in, hauling him from the hole. His body protested, a thousand minor injuries protesting at the rough treatment.

  His rescuer lay him against a broken pillar, one of dozens that filled the terrace. Jon tried to focus through the haze of pain and the cloud of dust that was slowly dissipating. He saw a fuzzy outline of someone beside him and he could feel hands wandering over his body, checking him for injuries.

  “…my leg…”

  The hands ran over the left leg first, before moving to the right, where their movement slowed, their inspection becoming more methodological.

  “Shit, Jon. What did you do to yourself?”

  Wait, that voice. I know that voice.

  “Sir?” he asked, his voice hesitant.

  Jon tried to sit up straighter, but powerful hands grabbed his shoulders, holding him in place.

  “Hold on, Jon. Let me finish checking you out first. Wait.”

  Jon could hear some rustling, the hands holding him disappearing for a few seconds. The blurry form came back, settling in front of him.

  “Brace yourself, this is gonna be cold, lieutenant.”

  Before Jon could brace himself, a cold liquid dosed his head, calloused hands rubbing the caked dust off his face. He could not help himself as the icy water hit his lips, his need to parch his thirst instinctual.

  “Don't drink it,” Captain Jovani said. “Swirl it around and spit it out. Good. Here, take another swig, and do the same thing. You need to get as much of that shit out of your mouth before drinking.”

  Jon felt a cup thrust into his hand and did as the captain said.

  “One more dunking, lieutenant. Ready?”

  Jon nodded, spitting a mouthful of murky water out as he did.

  Icy rivulets streamed down his head, across his face, the bracing cold helping his mind find focus.

  “Here.”

  Jon felt something soft in hands and he closed his hand around it.

  “Wipe your face. There’s a few abrasions, but nothing serious, so give it a good scrub, especially your eyes. They’re caked with dirt.”

  Jon did as he ordered, taking a long moment, trying to clean every crevice of his face. When he was done, he opened his eyes and saw the captain kneeling beside him, his own uniform in tatters and caked with blood in a few places.

  “Sir?”

  “Take another drink, Jon. Try not to talk.”

  Jon did as ordered. The first few sips brackish, the water mixing with the remaining dust in his mouth and throat. He gulped down the rest of the cup down as the water washed away the remaining dust.

  “Better?”

  Jon nodded.

  “Good. That leg doesn’t look good. Your armors got it in a cast though, so that’s something. Did you get the suit to administer the drugs?”

  Jon nodded again, looking at the glass he held, wishing there was more water.

  Captain Jovani glanced at the cup and back to his lieutenant.

  “We’ll get you some more water as soon as we can, but right now we've got to move. Think you can?”

  Jon gulped, his throat hurting, but nodded again.

  “Good.

  Captain Jovani stood, stooping low to grab Jon by the armpits and heaving him to his feet, a groan escaping Jon's lips as a wave of pain washed through him.

  “Test the leg,” Captain Jovani said, ignoring the lieutenant's obvious pain.

  Jon stood on it, slowly putting his weight on the injured limb. The stiffness of the suits cast helped, but the pain was still enough to almost make him black out.

  Almost.

  “I can make it, sir,” Jon said, trying to squash any outward sign of pain.

  “I’m sure you’ll do your best, soldier,” the captain said, a small smile twitching the corner of his lips. “Hold on.”

  Jon watched as the captain reached under his shirt, around his back. He heard a click and watched as the captain pulled a small square tile from behind him. Jovani stepped beside Jon and reached behind the lieutenant, his hands feeling along his back. Jon heard another click and felt a pop. Something fell to the floor behind him, a dull ring as it bounced off the strewn debris there. Jon felt a sudden pressure, which was followed by another click.

  “Activate your medical suite again, Jon.”

  “Sir,” Jon said, realizing what the captain had done. “Those are your meds, and I've already had my dose.”

  “Take it Jon, you need it more than me, and your system can handle it. We need to move. I can't have you being hobbled any more than you need to be. That's an order.”

  The captain saw Jon hesitate before doing as ordered. The lieutenant raised his right arm and activated the data-pad.

  That’s a lot easier with both arms.

  A second later, his suit hissed again, as he felt a prick at the small of his pack. Meds flooding his system, relief coming quick and hard.

  Jovani watched the guardsman for a long moment, watching his eyes, assessing his soldiers’ state.

  “Ready?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jon said, standing tall, his weight balanced only slightly to favor the right leg.

  Captain Jovani stood beside the lieutenant and wrapped his arm around the lieutenant’s waist. Jon, for his part, wrapped an arm around the captain’s shoulders, the angle slightly uncomfortable as the captain has a good five inches on the guardsman.

  “Sir, the Interlopers…”

  “I know Jon. Later. There's more than one threat out there tonight, and we need to get out of here.”

  Jon nodded as the two men made their way across the terrace, littered with bodies and debris. He thought back on one of the very first lessons he learned as a fresh recruit.

  Safety first. Then regroup. Then questions.