Page 16 of The Space Between Stars

“Is that right?”

“It is.”

“What a thought-provoking comment, coming from a man with such abundant wealth, he has nothing better to do than spend his time tarnishing the reputations of others. I think I’ll take that to heart.”

Mission aborted. There was no camaraderie to be had here. Niklaus understood, now, how good men turned savage. It was easy, really, when you felt worse than boots against the sand. “You’re here to be popular, aren’t you? Breaking your cycle of being socially disadvantaged. ‘Look how bold that young Azadonian is. Putting his life on the line—in peacetime, mind you—because he’s a true Nelfinden patriot.’ Let me guess. You got the idea following propaganda from Roskaad Thyatira too, eah?”

Thedexemore scrubbed harder at a tray than was strictly necessary. Niklaus should have stopped talking. Had he not been sure of the imminent—and probably deadly—final stages of withdrawal, maybe he would have.

“Do you really think the Red Wing has been recruiting record-holding numbers because they want to protect people? Fighting doesn’t protect anyone. Fighting ignites retribution. Wars. Famine. Disease. Dissonance. There are plenty of ways to protect whatever it is you hold dear without violence.”

“Thyatira has recruited record-holding numbers to provide opportunity during record-holding unemployment amongst Nelfindar’s lower castes. I imagine that might be hard for someone like you to understand.”

“I understand fully the story that’s been fed to you—a bandage of a plan with no real logic nor longevity.”

“Then can you also understand your own hypocrisy? You’re speaking against the military, yet you stand to earn millions from the deployment of Aetech’s defensive plates?”

Somewhere behind them, the mess chef hacked and spat into the sand. The sound was nauseating. Niklaus’s head pounded.

“Maybe I’m against the military because it could con people like you—all heart, no agency—into doing something terrible.” He gestured towards the enlistees, polishing off their meals at the tables under the mess tent. “People who just want to do what’s right, and people who want to do whatever makes them look good. But that’s the real hypocrisy here. If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that the Fates care not for reputation. They only see truth.”

Silence, except for the water swishing in the bin beside him. Why was it that every time Niklaus tried to make a point, it turned into a looping line that ended with him speaking in his defense?

“Sorry,” Niklaus mumbled. “I got carried away.”

Silence.

“And I have a bit of a headache.”

Thedexemore didn’t turn his eyes from the steady task in his hands when he finally spoke. “Want to know why no one really believes you? You discount your words by sheer quantity alone.”

FIVE

ATTILATIA

Year: 748 Post Cataclysm: Present Day

Location: Poqualle District, Seraphinden

When her shift at Aethertech Mechanics ended, Attilatia returned to the little stone house she shared with Thedexemore in Poqualle district. She unlocked the door with a standard key—it would have been unwise to use visible distortion apparatus off Skywalk—and paused at the threshold into the kitchen. Her Dasha had always believed that the inhabitants of a home left an energetic imprint that lingered long after they departed. She categorized such ideas as orchids—beautiful at surface level, but with little hardiness to support them when the roots went sour. But now, the sentiment rang especially true. She didn’t want to admit it, but with Thedexemore enlisted in the Red Wing, their home did feel different.

It felt empty.

She shook the feeling, shutting the wooden door behind her with a clack. The sun had yet to rise. Attilatia had never installed distortion lamps on their walls upstairs, and the sconces never held flame. The darkness was a comfort. It reminded her of her childhood home in the Azadonian underground. The unlit space was perfect: cool, clean, neat as she’d left it that morning, without Thedexemore leaving crumbs or dishes or dirt. Perfect.

Perfectly empty.

She fidgeted with her bracelet. It was a simple thing—thin silver, finely braided with a single, powerful bead looped onto it—and yet she doubted any simple trinket had ever weighed more. Perhaps she wouldn’t have felt this way if she hadn’t set her brother up for failure. He was desperate to become a soldier, but her arrangement with Roskaad Thyatira ensured he wouldn’t engage in combat. Even training was risky, considering prejudices against Azadonians. It would be too easy for an accident to happen.

Attilatia veered into her room and peeled off the Aethertech Mechanics jumpsuit in exchange for a white tipiana dotted with crimson swans. Then, determined to chase away the emptiness with a warm cup of tea, she returned to her kitchen.

In Poqualle, the aqueduct which ran from the Skywalk brought a line into most homes. With the turn of a faucet, the spout bubbled and frothed. Attilatia filled the kettle. She stooped at the woodstove and started a fire. As the water warmed, she pulled several small ceramic pots from the shelves lining the walls.

Tea was a ritual, and while some rituals were strictly done for the sake of tradition, this one made sense. A pinch of freshly ground cinnamon—good for the heart. From another jar she plucked lemon balm, to help with sleep. From a third, she unrolled three thumb-long leaves, dry as paper, tough as tendon. Her mother had liked these. She could no longer remember what they did. From the fourth, she pulled a tuft of pillowy moss—to help with her headache.

The moss was, by far, the most expensive item in the kitchen and strictly illegal. Just another thing Nelfindar had ruined for her. In Azadonia, ‘moss’ had been used as a topical anesthetic. Brewed into tea, it reduced inflammation and left the head clear, steady, calm. In Nelfindar, slumlords synthesized the very same moss into a tablet that was addictive, altering, and life-ruining.

A loud mewling broke her routine. At the window, a dappled cat pressed his paws against the glass. Beyond, Attilatia couldn’t help but notice how four weeks had let the weeds go rampant in Thedexemore’s garden. The stray had made a habit of waiting for him there. She opened the window enough for the mottled creature to slip inside.