Chromian’s hole seem fresh.
“I’m not completely sure. They’ll probably check his manifest and pass us or confiscate us.”
“Great.”
Vashia nodded but kept her eyes riveted on the port officials. They approached the slaver first––the one she knew for sure was a slaver––and waited for him to provide proof of merchandise. The man had the tucked tail look of someone who made a life off of others’ suffering. He slunk forward and handed off his pad. His eyes flickered sideways, always moving, waiting for the attack that he knew had to come eventually whether from those he exploited or those he dealt with.
The officials nodded and handed him back his device. Vashia felt a stab of shame. This happened every day. It happened under her father’s nose, with his blessing even. The line of slaves stood and followed the jackal to the front of the hangar, out to his ship and away to a life that Vashia could only guess at. She looked to their coordinator with a sudden shiver. It could be exactly where she was headed.
She’d lived in Wraith in relative luxury for nearly twenty years and done nothing. All that time, there might have been something she could have tried, some influence she might have had. She’d never even attempted to help the people in Wraith on Eclipsis. She’d been far too wrapped up in her own misery.
The bench rattled as her line stood. The coordinator flashed a nervous look back in their direction. Vashia scrambled to keep up, but the restraints still jerked her forward. She listened to the pattern of their feet against the steel and wondered if she could have made a difference either as her father’s daughter or even as Jarn’s wife. Her feet slowed and she was rewarded with another sharp tug. Murrel, chained in front of her, hissed under her breath.
“What are you doing?”
“Running away.” Vashia stared at her feet, stuffed into the wrong sized boots. Suddenly, she felt certain she should stay.
“Duh,” Murrel snapped. “Who isn’t?”
The chain jerked and they both stumbled forward. Vashia caught Murrel’s dirty look and took it to heart. She could screw this up for all of them by dragging her feet. Her shoulders came up and she straightened, kept pace, and didn’t falter again, but as they marched through the hangar doors, across the grease-stained landing platform to the back end of a ramshackle ship, Vashia felt the sting of tears. Regardless of their destination, she was certain that here on Wraith she’d made a grievous mistake.
T he platform sat in the middle of nothing. The only entry or exit point from the planet’s surface, it had been built near enough the palace to serve the king, but far enough away from anything to prevent the threat of invasion. Any attacker that managed to get this far would find themselves lost without an intimate understanding of the core’s magnetic strips and the assistance of constantly relayed Shroud readings. The small security detail and half-dozen hover crafts stationed there at all times only reinforced that.
Dolfan left his bike under the hangar roof, clamped safely and waiting for the next rider, and watched the Shroud swirl around the space elevator. A car had already descended the tether to return him to the moon base. The readings on the hangar screens registered within normal, with no threat of storm to delay his ride.
He looked up and frowned at the blur of colors. Mofitan had put in for duty on the base. He read the message relayed through his comm for the third time. Not exactly subtle, Mof . He’d barely arrived at the platform when the order came, which meant the other prince had petitioned for it the second he’d kicked off from the pad.
He pulled his wrap around his mask and frowned. Let him come. Refusing the request would only cement Mofitan’s suspicions that he wanted the throne, but allowing the transfer would leave him tripping over the hostile prince. He doubted there’d be room on Base 14 for both
“I’m not completely sure. They’ll probably check his manifest and pass us or confiscate us.”
“Great.”
Vashia nodded but kept her eyes riveted on the port officials. They approached the slaver first––the one she knew for sure was a slaver––and waited for him to provide proof of merchandise. The man had the tucked tail look of someone who made a life off of others’ suffering. He slunk forward and handed off his pad. His eyes flickered sideways, always moving, waiting for the attack that he knew had to come eventually whether from those he exploited or those he dealt with.
The officials nodded and handed him back his device. Vashia felt a stab of shame. This happened every day. It happened under her father’s nose, with his blessing even. The line of slaves stood and followed the jackal to the front of the hangar, out to his ship and away to a life that Vashia could only guess at. She looked to their coordinator with a sudden shiver. It could be exactly where she was headed.
She’d lived in Wraith in relative luxury for nearly twenty years and done nothing. All that time, there might have been something she could have tried, some influence she might have had. She’d never even attempted to help the people in Wraith on Eclipsis. She’d been far too wrapped up in her own misery.
The bench rattled as her line stood. The coordinator flashed a nervous look back in their direction. Vashia scrambled to keep up, but the restraints still jerked her forward. She listened to the pattern of their feet against the steel and wondered if she could have made a difference either as her father’s daughter or even as Jarn’s wife. Her feet slowed and she was rewarded with another sharp tug. Murrel, chained in front of her, hissed under her breath.
“What are you doing?”
“Running away.” Vashia stared at her feet, stuffed into the wrong sized boots. Suddenly, she felt certain she should stay.
“Duh,” Murrel snapped. “Who isn’t?”
The chain jerked and they both stumbled forward. Vashia caught Murrel’s dirty look and took it to heart. She could screw this up for all of them by dragging her feet. Her shoulders came up and she straightened, kept pace, and didn’t falter again, but as they marched through the hangar doors, across the grease-stained landing platform to the back end of a ramshackle ship, Vashia felt the sting of tears. Regardless of their destination, she was certain that here on Wraith she’d made a grievous mistake.
T he platform sat in the middle of nothing. The only entry or exit point from the planet’s surface, it had been built near enough the palace to serve the king, but far enough away from anything to prevent the threat of invasion. Any attacker that managed to get this far would find themselves lost without an intimate understanding of the core’s magnetic strips and the assistance of constantly relayed Shroud readings. The small security detail and half-dozen hover crafts stationed there at all times only reinforced that.
Dolfan left his bike under the hangar roof, clamped safely and waiting for the next rider, and watched the Shroud swirl around the space elevator. A car had already descended the tether to return him to the moon base. The readings on the hangar screens registered within normal, with no threat of storm to delay his ride.
He looked up and frowned at the blur of colors. Mofitan had put in for duty on the base. He read the message relayed through his comm for the third time. Not exactly subtle, Mof . He’d barely arrived at the platform when the order came, which meant the other prince had petitioned for it the second he’d kicked off from the pad.
He pulled his wrap around his mask and frowned. Let him come. Refusing the request would only cement Mofitan’s suspicions that he wanted the throne, but allowing the transfer would leave him tripping over the hostile prince. He doubted there’d be room on Base 14 for both
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