Aboard the Avernus
Father never said I told you so.
Kier’s footfalls echoed in the metal gallery. As he walked, warped and hazy shadows of himself trailed, like ghosts in the brushed chrome walls. The Avernus felt cold to him now, the loneliness gnawing at his gut like a disease. Father was here often, but his presence was remote and icy, his eyes looking anywhere but at his own son. Kier knew his failure had cost his father dearly. Not just the loss of the nareian princess, but his failure to do the one thing Father had insisted he could never do: bring his sister to their side.
He never said I told you so, but his anger at being proven right in so spectacular a fashion shimmered around him like a flame.
As a child, Kier had learned to avoid him when he was like that. But he knew now that to avoid Father’s anger was only to prolong it. Instead, he needed to prove his worth yet again.
Admiral Tully Coolidge often accompanied Father on his visits to the Avernus, a mocking smile on his lips. Kier knew how he must look. How he had always looked: the broken firstborn.
But Kier was stronger than Tully and his father thought. There were times in his adolescence when he’d known himself to be capable, to have resolve. Even if those moments broke apart and vanished like dust on the breeze. It was something he could recall, if he closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough: the way he had felt the day everything changed.
The man he had been—just for an instant—when he hid his little sister in safety and turned to face the monsters invading their home.
Father had called that choice foolish, and Father was usually right about him. He had been right about Jaya, too. She hadn’t seen the righteousness of their cause—the Union had clawed her away from them, erecting invisible walls with their years of brainwashing. Kier had seen those walls rise around her that day on Argos, when he’d watched her play the piano and something old stirred in his heart. When he had begged her to come with him. Something had flashed in her eyes, then: disgust.
Kier nursed that pain deep in his chest as he tread familiar paths through the station. He had been relegated to administrative tasks, to hiding deep in the heart of this station, teaching the newly enhanced soldiers how to use their abilities to the greatest effect. Father said it was for his protection, but Kier knew a prison when he saw one.
He entered the station’s hangar just as Father’s ship was arriving from Argos. The powerful thrusters sent a wave of heated air out, snapping Kier’s crisp white shirt against his chest. The airlock opened after a moment, and two figures stepped out into the Avernus. Kier crossed his arms over his torso and set his jaw. He would not give Tully the satisfaction of goading him to emotion—he would be the proud and strong son his father, the Chancellor of the United Human Nations, deserved.
Father tipped his white head slightly in acknowledgment when he saw Kier, and Kier fell in line beside him as they walked toward the hangar bay’s entrance.
“We have another visitor arriving shortly,” Father said. “I’ll need you to deal with him.”
“When?”
Father checked his watch lazily. It was an expensive watch, designed to look like an elegant antique, but connected to his palm drive with full functionality. “He departed the Hermia facility a few hours before we left Argos, so I would be expecting him any minute now.”
Kier looked at his father. The sharp line of his chin was tipped up, his nose and cheekbones somehow still handsome in the harsh lighting of the Avernus. Kier knew Father had paid richly for that face, and it had been worth the price. He’d gotten a new beginning, a chance to rewrite his story—a story that now ended with him in the most powerful position in the galaxy.
Father snapped his hazel eyes to Kier—those eyes were the only feature they shared anymore—and a crackle of fear arced down Kier’s spine at their intensity.
“Bring him to me in my office straight from his ship. Make clear the extent of my displeasure with him.” Father waved his hand, and Kier stopped as they approached the door. “And Kieran?” Father paused in the doorway without looking back. “He needs to understand the magnitude of the work we are doing on Hermia. Do you understand?”
Kier bowed his head in a nod. “I understand.”
Kier’s footfalls echoed in the metal gallery. As he walked, warped and hazy shadows of himself trailed, like ghosts in the brushed chrome walls. The Avernus felt cold to him now, the loneliness gnawing at his gut like a disease. Father was here often, but his presence was remote and icy, his eyes looking anywhere but at his own son. Kier knew his failure had cost his father dearly. Not just the loss of the nareian princess, but his failure to do the one thing Father had insisted he could never do: bring his sister to their side.
He never said I told you so, but his anger at being proven right in so spectacular a fashion shimmered around him like a flame.
As a child, Kier had learned to avoid him when he was like that. But he knew now that to avoid Father’s anger was only to prolong it. Instead, he needed to prove his worth yet again.
Admiral Tully Coolidge often accompanied Father on his visits to the Avernus, a mocking smile on his lips. Kier knew how he must look. How he had always looked: the broken firstborn.
But Kier was stronger than Tully and his father thought. There were times in his adolescence when he’d known himself to be capable, to have resolve. Even if those moments broke apart and vanished like dust on the breeze. It was something he could recall, if he closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough: the way he had felt the day everything changed.
The man he had been—just for an instant—when he hid his little sister in safety and turned to face the monsters invading their home.
Father had called that choice foolish, and Father was usually right about him. He had been right about Jaya, too. She hadn’t seen the righteousness of their cause—the Union had clawed her away from them, erecting invisible walls with their years of brainwashing. Kier had seen those walls rise around her that day on Argos, when he’d watched her play the piano and something old stirred in his heart. When he had begged her to come with him. Something had flashed in her eyes, then: disgust.
Kier nursed that pain deep in his chest as he tread familiar paths through the station. He had been relegated to administrative tasks, to hiding deep in the heart of this station, teaching the newly enhanced soldiers how to use their abilities to the greatest effect. Father said it was for his protection, but Kier knew a prison when he saw one.
He entered the station’s hangar just as Father’s ship was arriving from Argos. The powerful thrusters sent a wave of heated air out, snapping Kier’s crisp white shirt against his chest. The airlock opened after a moment, and two figures stepped out into the Avernus. Kier crossed his arms over his torso and set his jaw. He would not give Tully the satisfaction of goading him to emotion—he would be the proud and strong son his father, the Chancellor of the United Human Nations, deserved.
Father tipped his white head slightly in acknowledgment when he saw Kier, and Kier fell in line beside him as they walked toward the hangar bay’s entrance.
“We have another visitor arriving shortly,” Father said. “I’ll need you to deal with him.”
“When?”
Father checked his watch lazily. It was an expensive watch, designed to look like an elegant antique, but connected to his palm drive with full functionality. “He departed the Hermia facility a few hours before we left Argos, so I would be expecting him any minute now.”
Kier looked at his father. The sharp line of his chin was tipped up, his nose and cheekbones somehow still handsome in the harsh lighting of the Avernus. Kier knew Father had paid richly for that face, and it had been worth the price. He’d gotten a new beginning, a chance to rewrite his story—a story that now ended with him in the most powerful position in the galaxy.
Father snapped his hazel eyes to Kier—those eyes were the only feature they shared anymore—and a crackle of fear arced down Kier’s spine at their intensity.
“Bring him to me in my office straight from his ship. Make clear the extent of my displeasure with him.” Father waved his hand, and Kier stopped as they approached the door. “And Kieran?” Father paused in the doorway without looking back. “He needs to understand the magnitude of the work we are doing on Hermia. Do you understand?”
Kier bowed his head in a nod. “I understand.”
Kier brought Commander Maki to his father’s office promptly, wrinkling his starched sleeve with the strength of his grip. He had to admit the man was admirably stoic, but even this silent officer couldn’t prevent the wheeze of air escaping his chest as they came to a stop in front of the Chancellor.
Father was at his desk, surveying the scene calmly, and Kier noted with annoyance that Tully stood behind him, his admiral insignia catching the light from the desk lamp. Maki struggled to regain his breath as Kier stood behind him.
“I understand you’re not pleased with the way we are moving forward on Hermia,” Father said. “You wanted a meeting to express your concerns?”
Maki had control of his breathing again. He straightened, the very picture of the disciplined officer.
“I’m hearing things about the testing,” Maki said. “We’re moving too fast. We’re not ready to scale up.”
“That’s odd,” Father said. “The report from the chief scientist supervising the progress says the opposite. It’s an enthusiastic endorsement. You’ve read it, Admiral Coolidge?”
Tully scowled at Maki. “I have. It’s a glowing report. The commander is giving too much weight to rumors.”
Father looked back at Kier and gave a slight nod. Kier reached for Maki, grabbing him by his short blond hair and slamming his head against the wall. The man shouted and Kier adjusted his grip, holding him still with a hand to the back of his neck. Maki struggled, but Kier held firm.
“The hell?” Maki’s voice was muffled. “I can’t move.”
The man’s muscles strained beneath Kier’s palm, but he was like stone. A satisfied shadow of a smile played at the corners of Father’s mouth. He leaned back in his chair.
“My proudest creation,” he said softly. “You see why we need these enhancements to be widespread? The faster we move, the swifter our victory will come. This war will end. All war will end.”
Even with his face pressed into the wall, the commander was stubborn. “Brute strength is not enough,” he said. “So what if we make our soldiers stronger? It’s not worth the risk.”
Father rose, coming around his desk to stand beside Maki. Kier released the commander, letting the man face his Chancellor.
“What will convince you?” Father wondered aloud. “I can’t have my leadership doubting the importance of the tasks I’ve assigned to them.” He turned, doubling back around to his desk. His voice was thoughtful, following the unhurried pace of his feet. “This mutinous uprising is spreading. They were few, but their numbers are growing. They’ve learned when to hide, and when to strike. We’re bleeding from a thousand tiny cuts.”
Father stopped at his desk, sliding a drawer open. He removed something from the drawer, a small bundle wrapped in a cloth. It was a gun. This wasn’t like the gun that Father used to keep in his desk at home on Hermia. That gun had been for protection—a particle beam pistol that delivered a powerful blast for its size. Kier had learned that the first time he had fired it, killing one of the soldiers in unmarked armor attacking his mother in their living room. He still remembered that first life he had taken, how his hand had shaken, how he hadn’t expected it to work.
Father dropped the cloth to the table and shifted his grip on this gun—this one was an antique. Father didn’t need a gun for protection now, with the strength of the Union Navy at his back. This gun was a curiosity, with its small metal slugs and its decorative carvings.
“These people used to be Navy.” Father looked up at the commander, who had pulled himself back to his attentive stance. “They used to be like you, Commander Maki. But now they kill our people. Every day that passes, we lose more good people to their violence.”
“I understand, Chancellor Emory—”
“I don’t think you do,” Father said. He looked at Kier. “What we can do for our people is protect them from these mutineers, these betrayers. We can make them stronger, yes, and faster. We can accelerate their healing and we can increase their capacity to end this rebellion swiftly. You don’t understand the extent of this gift I am giving them.”
“I do understand,” Maki protested. He pursed his lips, a rebuttal forming in his eyes.
Father raised the gun and tipped it toward Kier, who steeled himself.
He fired. The metal slug thudded into Kier’s stomach, heat and pain igniting in his belly. He exhaled, heard an echo of his own breath in Maki’s gasp of horror. Kier pressed his hand to the wound. The pain was dulling already, its haze evaporating from his mind. He saw the room in exaggerated slow motion: the faint shimmer of white in Father’s hair as he took a step forward, Maki staring in horror at the blood on Kier’s shirt, Tully watching the scene with folded arms and a smirk.
The bullet gnawed at him, even as his body tried to heal itself. Like an oyster with a grain of sand, his body would try to close around it.
Father held out a hand.
Kier released the buttons of his shirt, unfastening them from the bottom up. He pulled the red-soaked fabric aside and reached into the hole. Pain seared again, blurring his vision, but he had more control than that. He breathed deeply, understanding this pain to be a fiction of his mind. He was in no real danger. Father had made sure of that many years ago.
It was better to be fast about it. He felt for the warped metal and dug it out with his fingers, clenching his jaw against the impulse to scream.
He dropped the bullet in Father’s hand. Father smiled at him as Kier drew a deep breath. The itch of healing had begun, the virus in his cells working to seal off the damage and begin its repairs. The bleeding had already slowed to an ooze.
Father took Maki’s hands and placed the bullet in the commander’s palm, smearing Kier’s blood across his fingers. He gestured to Kier.
“Can you imagine what we can do with millions of soldiers like him?”
Maki swallowed, his hand tight around the bullet, his face white. “I understand, Chancellor Emory.”
“Good,” Father replied. He returned to his seat, wiping his hands on the cloth that had wrapped the gun. When he was done, he replaced the gun in the drawer and tossed the bloodied rag to Kier. “This is our top priority. I wouldn’t want it to be in the wrong hands.”
“It’s not.”
“You’d better head back, then,” Tully said. “And the Chancellor will be expecting a progress report by the end of the week.”
Maki nodded. Kier stepped aside, gesturing to the door, which opened smoothly on its track. The commander left quickly, and the door closed. Kier buttoned his shirt again, the ragged edges of the fabric around the entry wound still absorbing the syrupy flow of blood. He pressed the rag to the wound.
Father perched his chin on steepled fingers, his gaze thoughtful. “I want another set of eyes on Hermia,” he said. “Someone I trust.”
Kier swallowed.
“Father,” he said, “let me oversee the work on Hermia. You know the strength of my commitment to this cause, and who better to inspire the workers there than the first of your creations?” He gestured to the bloodied mess of his shirt, his strength already returning.
Father’s eyes followed Kier’s gesture, but he had already turned to Tully. His eyes left Kier.
“I need one of my admirals,” Father said. “I think Reid has things under control on Argos. Admiral Coolidge, I want you to take up a temporary position on Hermia. Keep an eye on the lab. Make sure we’re progressing.”
“Father.”
Father’s eyes snapped back to him, and Kier’s throat dried up.
“You will continue to oversee the training,” Father said, “once our next batch of enhanced troops is prepared to learn to use their new skills.”
Kier dropped his head in acknowledgment. He looked down at his own feet, the blood on his white shirt hazy in the periphery of his vision. “Of course.”
Father dismissed him with a wave of his hand, and Kier knew better than to linger where he was no longer needed. He went back to his room, pausing in front of the viewscreen beside his bed. The binary stars pulsed in the screen, warm yellow light casting the room in a comforting glow.
He turned away and began to release the buttons of his shirt, widening the opening at the collar, loosening the red-splattered cuffs. He shrugged it off and let it drop to the floor, along with the rag. The light shone on the smooth skin of his chest and arms.
He removed the first-aid kit from its panel in the wall and applied repair accelerant to the wound, sealing it tight with an adhesive bandage that molded to his skin. He injected one of the wound-care concoctions next to the bandage—antibiotics, painkillers, and a delayed-release accelerant. It was one of the standard-issue kits that all the rooms on the station had, and likely more than this wound needed. Kier wasn’t worried. Within a day or two, his abdomen would be free of any signs of this injury, his muscles hard and strong beneath skin as soft and clear as any newborn’s.
He was free of flaws, free of scars, despite the Union’s best attempts.
He had been unable to give them answers, no matter how many times they demanded. He had been as confused as the men who beat him, who questioned him. When his body had failed to show their marks and they failed to understand why, they had left him alone in the dark. A long time had passed. So long he had lost any sense of it, any way to trace the passage of the days, weeks, months. And then Father had come for him. Freed him. Given him a purpose.
How long does it take to lose your humanity in the solitude of a darkened room? Kier never asked. He didn’t want to know how close he had come.
Kier went into the private bathroom and held his hands beneath the faucet. The sink spluttered to life, warm water softening the blood that had dried into the creases in his skin. He scrubbed at his hands.
His punishment for his failure of the last year was not over. Father’s anger was deep, buried. It would take longer before it bubbled to the surface.
Father was at his desk, surveying the scene calmly, and Kier noted with annoyance that Tully stood behind him, his admiral insignia catching the light from the desk lamp. Maki struggled to regain his breath as Kier stood behind him.
“I understand you’re not pleased with the way we are moving forward on Hermia,” Father said. “You wanted a meeting to express your concerns?”
Maki had control of his breathing again. He straightened, the very picture of the disciplined officer.
“I’m hearing things about the testing,” Maki said. “We’re moving too fast. We’re not ready to scale up.”
“That’s odd,” Father said. “The report from the chief scientist supervising the progress says the opposite. It’s an enthusiastic endorsement. You’ve read it, Admiral Coolidge?”
Tully scowled at Maki. “I have. It’s a glowing report. The commander is giving too much weight to rumors.”
Father looked back at Kier and gave a slight nod. Kier reached for Maki, grabbing him by his short blond hair and slamming his head against the wall. The man shouted and Kier adjusted his grip, holding him still with a hand to the back of his neck. Maki struggled, but Kier held firm.
“The hell?” Maki’s voice was muffled. “I can’t move.”
The man’s muscles strained beneath Kier’s palm, but he was like stone. A satisfied shadow of a smile played at the corners of Father’s mouth. He leaned back in his chair.
“My proudest creation,” he said softly. “You see why we need these enhancements to be widespread? The faster we move, the swifter our victory will come. This war will end. All war will end.”
Even with his face pressed into the wall, the commander was stubborn. “Brute strength is not enough,” he said. “So what if we make our soldiers stronger? It’s not worth the risk.”
Father rose, coming around his desk to stand beside Maki. Kier released the commander, letting the man face his Chancellor.
“What will convince you?” Father wondered aloud. “I can’t have my leadership doubting the importance of the tasks I’ve assigned to them.” He turned, doubling back around to his desk. His voice was thoughtful, following the unhurried pace of his feet. “This mutinous uprising is spreading. They were few, but their numbers are growing. They’ve learned when to hide, and when to strike. We’re bleeding from a thousand tiny cuts.”
Father stopped at his desk, sliding a drawer open. He removed something from the drawer, a small bundle wrapped in a cloth. It was a gun. This wasn’t like the gun that Father used to keep in his desk at home on Hermia. That gun had been for protection—a particle beam pistol that delivered a powerful blast for its size. Kier had learned that the first time he had fired it, killing one of the soldiers in unmarked armor attacking his mother in their living room. He still remembered that first life he had taken, how his hand had shaken, how he hadn’t expected it to work.
Father dropped the cloth to the table and shifted his grip on this gun—this one was an antique. Father didn’t need a gun for protection now, with the strength of the Union Navy at his back. This gun was a curiosity, with its small metal slugs and its decorative carvings.
“These people used to be Navy.” Father looked up at the commander, who had pulled himself back to his attentive stance. “They used to be like you, Commander Maki. But now they kill our people. Every day that passes, we lose more good people to their violence.”
“I understand, Chancellor Emory—”
“I don’t think you do,” Father said. He looked at Kier. “What we can do for our people is protect them from these mutineers, these betrayers. We can make them stronger, yes, and faster. We can accelerate their healing and we can increase their capacity to end this rebellion swiftly. You don’t understand the extent of this gift I am giving them.”
“I do understand,” Maki protested. He pursed his lips, a rebuttal forming in his eyes.
Father raised the gun and tipped it toward Kier, who steeled himself.
He fired. The metal slug thudded into Kier’s stomach, heat and pain igniting in his belly. He exhaled, heard an echo of his own breath in Maki’s gasp of horror. Kier pressed his hand to the wound. The pain was dulling already, its haze evaporating from his mind. He saw the room in exaggerated slow motion: the faint shimmer of white in Father’s hair as he took a step forward, Maki staring in horror at the blood on Kier’s shirt, Tully watching the scene with folded arms and a smirk.
The bullet gnawed at him, even as his body tried to heal itself. Like an oyster with a grain of sand, his body would try to close around it.
Father held out a hand.
Kier released the buttons of his shirt, unfastening them from the bottom up. He pulled the red-soaked fabric aside and reached into the hole. Pain seared again, blurring his vision, but he had more control than that. He breathed deeply, understanding this pain to be a fiction of his mind. He was in no real danger. Father had made sure of that many years ago.
It was better to be fast about it. He felt for the warped metal and dug it out with his fingers, clenching his jaw against the impulse to scream.
He dropped the bullet in Father’s hand. Father smiled at him as Kier drew a deep breath. The itch of healing had begun, the virus in his cells working to seal off the damage and begin its repairs. The bleeding had already slowed to an ooze.
Father took Maki’s hands and placed the bullet in the commander’s palm, smearing Kier’s blood across his fingers. He gestured to Kier.
“Can you imagine what we can do with millions of soldiers like him?”
Maki swallowed, his hand tight around the bullet, his face white. “I understand, Chancellor Emory.”
“Good,” Father replied. He returned to his seat, wiping his hands on the cloth that had wrapped the gun. When he was done, he replaced the gun in the drawer and tossed the bloodied rag to Kier. “This is our top priority. I wouldn’t want it to be in the wrong hands.”
“It’s not.”
“You’d better head back, then,” Tully said. “And the Chancellor will be expecting a progress report by the end of the week.”
Maki nodded. Kier stepped aside, gesturing to the door, which opened smoothly on its track. The commander left quickly, and the door closed. Kier buttoned his shirt again, the ragged edges of the fabric around the entry wound still absorbing the syrupy flow of blood. He pressed the rag to the wound.
Father perched his chin on steepled fingers, his gaze thoughtful. “I want another set of eyes on Hermia,” he said. “Someone I trust.”
Kier swallowed.
“Father,” he said, “let me oversee the work on Hermia. You know the strength of my commitment to this cause, and who better to inspire the workers there than the first of your creations?” He gestured to the bloodied mess of his shirt, his strength already returning.
Father’s eyes followed Kier’s gesture, but he had already turned to Tully. His eyes left Kier.
“I need one of my admirals,” Father said. “I think Reid has things under control on Argos. Admiral Coolidge, I want you to take up a temporary position on Hermia. Keep an eye on the lab. Make sure we’re progressing.”
“Father.”
Father’s eyes snapped back to him, and Kier’s throat dried up.
“You will continue to oversee the training,” Father said, “once our next batch of enhanced troops is prepared to learn to use their new skills.”
Kier dropped his head in acknowledgment. He looked down at his own feet, the blood on his white shirt hazy in the periphery of his vision. “Of course.”
Father dismissed him with a wave of his hand, and Kier knew better than to linger where he was no longer needed. He went back to his room, pausing in front of the viewscreen beside his bed. The binary stars pulsed in the screen, warm yellow light casting the room in a comforting glow.
He turned away and began to release the buttons of his shirt, widening the opening at the collar, loosening the red-splattered cuffs. He shrugged it off and let it drop to the floor, along with the rag. The light shone on the smooth skin of his chest and arms.
He removed the first-aid kit from its panel in the wall and applied repair accelerant to the wound, sealing it tight with an adhesive bandage that molded to his skin. He injected one of the wound-care concoctions next to the bandage—antibiotics, painkillers, and a delayed-release accelerant. It was one of the standard-issue kits that all the rooms on the station had, and likely more than this wound needed. Kier wasn’t worried. Within a day or two, his abdomen would be free of any signs of this injury, his muscles hard and strong beneath skin as soft and clear as any newborn’s.
He was free of flaws, free of scars, despite the Union’s best attempts.
He had been unable to give them answers, no matter how many times they demanded. He had been as confused as the men who beat him, who questioned him. When his body had failed to show their marks and they failed to understand why, they had left him alone in the dark. A long time had passed. So long he had lost any sense of it, any way to trace the passage of the days, weeks, months. And then Father had come for him. Freed him. Given him a purpose.
How long does it take to lose your humanity in the solitude of a darkened room? Kier never asked. He didn’t want to know how close he had come.
Kier went into the private bathroom and held his hands beneath the faucet. The sink spluttered to life, warm water softening the blood that had dried into the creases in his skin. He scrubbed at his hands.
His punishment for his failure of the last year was not over. Father’s anger was deep, buried. It would take longer before it bubbled to the surface.
