The Arrow shifted on their feet, and I realized it—he—was wearing a helmet that was so dark it looked more black than the blue it truly was. I remembered the other times I had seen that sapphsidian color—and him. First on the holoscreen in my apartment and then later on Bodie’s terminal in the Kent Corp lab.
Suddenly, I was glad the husher was in my arm. Because without it, I would have spewed enough curses to make even the most hardened soldier blush at their length, breadth, and violence.
Kyrion Caldaren, the most notorious killer in the galaxy, stood in front of me.
CHAPTER FIVE
KYRION
The first thing I noticed about the woman was her lab coat.
The garment covered her from her shoulders all the way down to her knees, and it gleamed like a white beacon against the gray walls. Given the coat, she was probably a scientist of some sort, although she seemed far more disheveled than any scientist I had ever seen. Either way, she was extremely unfortunate that her enemies had dumped her in with the latest round of conscripts.
The Imperium generals called them conscripts, but we all knew what they truly were: prisoners. Most of them were literal prisoners, plucked from labor camps across the galaxy to help fight the Techwave. But some of them, like the woman in the lab coat, came from other places—Houses, corporations, and organizations where they were no longer needed, wanted, or welcome. Places where the people in charge couldn’t be bothered to kill their enemies themselves but rather shipped them off to the Imperium to have them die in some painful, pointless way.
Oh, the conscripts served a purpose, albeit an unfair, gruesome one. They were usually sent into battle first to draw fire so that aerial drones could map enemy locations, numbers, and weapons and thus give Imperium captains and generals information about when and where to send in the real soldiers, along with Arrows like me.
Despite their grim fate, these conscripts were the lucky ones. Some people ended up in Imperium labs, to be poked, prodded, and dissected until they either died or went mad from the pain, chemicals, and surgeries. In a way, being conscripted into the army was a small mercy. Most of these people wouldn’t survive the coming battle, and so their pain and struggles would quickly, abruptly cease.
Unlike the rest of us, who had to soldier on and on and on with no end to anything in sight. Not the simmering war with the Techwavers, not the ever-fraught relations with the Erztonians, not the Regals and their ridiculous rules, traditions, and demands, and especially not Callus Holloway and his iron-clad grip on the Archipelago Galaxy and especially on me—
“Lord Caldaren!” A captain hurried over and bowed to me. “We’re so happy you’re here for today’s charge! As you can see, we’ve mapped the refinery again, although so far, the Techwavers have maintained their position on the walls and haven’t moved any of their troops . . .”
She thrust her tablet forward, and I dutifully peered down at it. The camera in my helmet would record everything so I could review it later, but the Techwave troop movements didn’t really matter. All that did in the heat of battle was killing—and surviving.
The captain finished her briefing, bowed to me again, and scurried away to ready the soldiers.
A flash of movement on the opposite side of the cargo bay caught my eye. The woman in the lab coat had surged to her feet. Thanks to my telempathy, my psionic ability to sense other people’s emotions, I could feel the rage blasting off her. Even from here, the force of it was as hard as a sledgehammer cracking against my chest. Apparently, she’d realized exactly where she was and what was happening, and she was not pleased about any of it.
The woman glanced toward the far end of the docking bay, as if she was thinking about running forward and hurling herself out of the opening and into the empty air below. Lots of conscripts did that. For most of them, it was a far more merciful death than what was waiting on the ground.
I watched the woman, wondering what she would choose. Most people who felt such rage often charged at the guards, as if grabbing a single blaster would let them shoot their way out of the docking bay. Fools. All it did was hasten their own death.
To my surprise, the woman spun around and stalked in the opposite direction, heading even deeper into the docking bay.
“What is she doing?” a soft feminine voice murmured beside me.
“No idea,” a louder male voice replied. “She’s not trying to escape, is she?”
Two Arrows stepped up beside me. They hadn’t donned their helmets yet, so their faces were visible. Both were in their late thirties, just like me.
Julieta Delano was petite and slender, although her body was all pure, lean muscle. Her long dark brown hair was pulled back into several braids that were woven together and trailed down her back, disappearing beneath the collar of her bloodred jacket. Her bronze skin gleamed under the lights, as did her golden eyes. She was one of the few seers among the Arrows, with a special talent for knowing exactly when and how to strike out and kill an enemy.
In contrast, Zane Zimmer towered over Julieta, almost a foot taller than her and roughly even with me. Zane had wavy blond hair, ice-blue eyes, and skin that was always perfectly tan, despite the fact that we spent so much time in the blackness of space, traveling from one hot spot to another.
Zane was a psion like me and many of the other Arrows. Abilities could vary wildly between psions, but most of us were capable of telekinesis, telepathy, and telempathy, along with creating mental shields that could block out pain. Many psions could also create electrical shields that would deflect small projectiles and even absorb blaster fire and add that power to our own mental energy. Zane was particularly skilled at telekinesis, which he used to ruthlessly dispatch his enemies. Something much more useful than my telempathy, which often drenched me in other people’s annoying emotions.
The three of us watched while the woman stripped off her lab coat and donned a pair of coveralls.
“Well, she’s certainly not shy about making herself at home,” Julieta drawled, her voice sounding in the air as well as echoing through my helmet.
The three of us were the only Arrows on this mission, and we were all connected by earbuds, both the ones in our actual ears and the other ones embedded in our helmets. Standard operating procedure, along with the trackers in our helmets. Callus Holloway liked to know exactly where his prized weapons were.
The woman zipped up the coveralls, then started rummaging through the junk on a nearby table, as though she was looking for something in particular—like a weapon.
Zane let out a loud, overly dramatic sigh. “She’s going to grab something off that table, start screaming, and attack one of the guards.”
Julieta shook her head. “No, I think she has something else in mind.” Power glimmered in her eyes, making them flare a bright gold. “Although I don’t know what that might be.”
“You can’t see anything about her?” Zane asked.
“I don’t see things about every single person I encounter. Mostly, I just know how to kill them.” Julieta’s face turned thoughtful. “Although I can’t quite see how to kill her. Strange.”
The woman’s nose crinkled with disgust, as if the table didn’t have whatever object she wanted. She started to move away from it, but then she turned back, leaned down, and snatched something out of the mess. The woman held a dagger up to the light and then poked the tip into her thumb. Well, at least she had enough common sense to test its sharpness, rather than trying to attack someone with a blunted blade that wouldn’t cut through a piece of plastipaper, much less their clothes and skin.