Page 161 of The Space Between Stars

The geologist shrugged and waved a hand in circles. “When following the natural course of things, these sorts of tremors will begin days or even weeks before a magmatic eruption.”

“And if it’s not erupting as a matter of the natural course of things?”

Mitek, finally catching on, swore loudly. “He could do that?”

Yes, her Luck pressed. And worse. “We’re about to find out, aren’t we?”

“What else would cause an eruption?” the geologist scoffed.

“A weapon.”

If Drogus hadn’t been frowning before, he certainly was now. “Awaiting your authority, Captain.”

The caliginous pulse of bad Luck grew heavier against her with every heartbeat until she was nearly suffocating. There was no time to waste. “First, we put a league between us and Vespeyan’s base.” Drogus would have their signal scouts relay orders to the other vessels. “Then we maneuver to seize. Once we get a better handle on the Tera’thians’ numbers we can—”

The explosion was so loud, it shook the very seabed.

It brought Fankalo to her knees. She clapped hands over her ears as the deck vibrated, then shot back to her feet. Unstable as she was, she would only be seen standing in the face of fear. Shocking plumes of black smoke emanated skyward from Mount Vespeyan into the fading stars. Screams punctuated the sulfuric air. She could hardly hear them past the ringing in her ears. The clouds pulsed outward until they obscured the sky and billowed towards them like a midnight storm.

She let her hands scream for her. They wouldn’t be able to signal between ships if they were surrounded by the fumes.

They wouldn’t be able to breathe.

Her thoughts did not move as fast as the flames that came next. The mountain belched glowing debris in every direction. It barreled into the ships amidst bellows and cries. They hadn’t been fast enough. There was no need for sound—no need for signals. All ships moved toward the now glowing horizon in disarray.

Firstlight silhouetted innumerable inky dots on the horizon. Another great crack sounded as two of her ships careened into one another in the chaos.

Fankalo gritted her teeth. She looked at Mitek. In the glowing light from the mountain, a black trickle ran from his ear down to his chin. He gave her a pained expression. We’re too late. To outmaneuver Cul’Mon, they would have needed to leave port hours ago. Now, they had just enough time to not get cornered in the cove.

Mitek had the same thought. “Fight or flee?” he asked, as a flaming boulder crashed into the Dreiden distortion compound on the island. Flames engulfed its walls within seconds.

Two dozen others shifted around her, their eyes locked on her, awaiting her word. Fankalo’s father’s words echoed in her mind. She thought of the damage the Ruxian boy had done. These men entrusted her with their lives, and they hadn’t expected to go into battle for another year.

Cul’Mon’s sights were set on Steila. Pursuing them east toward Casowhatan would give away his position. He hadn’t set foot on Nelfinden soil in fourteen years. She wagered he wouldn’t again until he was certain he had the upper hand.

“Flee,” she said and signaled together. The words tasted wrong as they pitched into the fading night. She felt no strength in putting her tail between her legs, even understanding the lives it spared. “We make haste for Casowhatan.” They’d begun scoping a new base just south of Seraphinden. It was time to expedite the process. “What Cul’Mon wants is moving towards Steila. He won’t give up his real prize for a conduit.”

Mitek swallowed. If he was relieved, he did a good job of hiding it. “We flee,” he echoed.

What was it that made surrender so much less agreeable than death? She spared a final glance and the desolation beneath Mount Vespeyan. That was the beauty of a spartan warehouse. Of spartan barracks. Of a stinking island. Even after five years of residence, they were of little consequence.

“Notify our contacts in Nelfinden border control. Dreiden headquarters is shifting to the mainland.”

NIKLAUS

A tent erected for the sole purpose of an interrogation was not done so meticulously. The dip in the fabric overhead and odd gaps between fasteners were all Niklaus could fixate on. The brain did strange things when it knew its heartbeats to be numbered. Two lamps glared over the spartan interior—one in Thyatira’s hands, and one overhead—illuminating sand that met with canvas of the same hue. A guard stood behind Niklaus. Another by the flap.

Niklaus’s body trembled as he eased through the pain in his core. “The Azadonian?”

“You were assigned to keep watch of him.”

No, Dex had been assigned by Thyatira to commit homicide against Niklaus. “Ah. That Azadonian.” Niklaus’s tongue seemed thicker than usual, and he spat into the sand beneath the tent. “No idea.”

The next hit landed. A bulging in his throat forecasted vomit. Remarkable how much pain could be elicited without anything breaking.

Thyatira didn’t wait for him to recover before speaking again. “I have spoken with Major General Mastico. I have spoken to my men. You’ve been affiliated with Calverous Curtiam—whom Nelfinden records state as fifteen years deceased—posing under the name Dallard Friyal for more than a moon cycle. The boy’s with him, isn’t he?”

“You have no idea. What you’re. Talking about.” Niklaus choked out.