Chapter Forty-Four

The door opened, and Zellion saw exactly what he'd feared. A large room, capsule shaped, with workstations set through it and monitors on the walls.

There would be two more levels beneath this, one for activities, one for quarters. It was big enough for the two dozen people who crewed it—but it was no giant sanctuary.

Beside Zellion, the three Beaconites regarded their surroundings with wide eyes, stunned, maybe amazed. They were a technologically advanced people, yes, but they obviously hadn't seen anything like this before.

It was, indeed, a spaceship. A science vessel. Embedded in the ground of this planet to hide and protect it while the scientists took readings. They could maybe take in a hundred and thirty or so refugees. But it would pack the place to the walls, strain their life support.

But…maybe there was another way.

Two people, a man and a woman, stepped up to meet him. They wore small metal ornaments at the sides of their faces, triangular, with red enamel. These were TimeTellers, one faction among the many Scadrian political movements. Theoretically they were neutral in the current conflicts. A group of scientists, seeking to "understand the various mysteries of the cosmere." And they were absolutely not, of course, an arm of the military working in secret to develop tech that would let Scadrial stay ahead in the increasingly dangerous arms race that currently consumed most of the developed planets.

"Rosharan," the man said in his own tongue. "Can we speak in a civilized language, please? Do you speak Malwish?"

Zellion shook his head, pretending not to understand and hoping they didn't speak any of his native languages. At least he could honestly claim ignorance of Azish, having been forced to overwrite the ability to speak that with the local language.

"Very well," the man said, continuing in the local tongue. He had tan skin and was tall for a Scadrian, even an inch or so taller than Zellion. "Rosharan, have you said the oaths?"

"No," Zellion lied. "I'm a free man. I've got no part in the conflicts. Just want to keep my head down and stay alive."

"Can you fight?"

"I have a Blade."

The two Scadrians shared a look.

"How did you get onto this planet?" the woman asked.

"I came via Shadesmar," he said.

"There's no perpendicularity here."

"Got shoved through by a temporary one," he lied. "I was traveling this way but didn't intend to stop. Now I'm stuck. It was the strangest thing. Don't know if I can even explain it."

"There are strange events on this planet," the woman said, folding her arms. Like the man, she wore modern clothing. Black jeans, a lab coat, one of the fancy shirts their space force loved.

"We'll be leaving soon," the man said. "Travel is dangerous these days. We could use someone who can fight. You've done mercenary work, I assume, if you have a Blade?"

Zellion nodded.

"Excellent," the man said, clapping his hands. "You're hired."

"Hired?" Confidence said, finally shaking out of her awed stupor. "But—"

"I'm not interested in a job," Zellion said. "I'm already working for these people. I want to negotiate for you to help them."

"Please, dwellers in the Refuge," Rebeke said, dropping to her knees. "Please. Let us join you. We are hard workers, with strong souls. We have rejected the Cinder King's terrible ways and have overcome so much to get to you. Please."

"You? Join us?" the woman said, sounding amused. "We're basically at capacity as it is. What do you think we are? A charity?"

"Listen," Zellion said, stepping closer to the two of them. "Have you been watching what's going on above?"

"We have a few of the locals already," the man said, "to use as subjects in our research. We could use one or two more, I suppose, but that's it. Really, what we need are those sunhearts, but we already have a supplier of those."

"Supplier?" Zellion asked. "How did you…" It clicked. "The Cinder King. Guy with the glowing eyes. He's been meeting with you?"

"Delivers us things we need now and then," the woman said. "And we give him little tidbits of technology or knowledge. These people had little idea how to exploit their native Investiture."

Storms. The Cinder King hadn't been trying to get into this place—he'd accomplished it, likely years ago. That was probably how he'd learned to make Charred, how he got the bracers to control them. He hadn't been protecting this place because he wanted to escape into it; he had been using it as the secret source of his power.

"Listen," Zellion said, "that man is a tyrant."

"And?" the woman said.

"What are their problems to us?" the man said. "You're a mercenary, Rosharan. You know there are dozens of these little planets scattered around, all with their own backward monarchies and their own stupid ways of doing things. What, you want us to take in everyone who is having a bad day?"

"I…"

The objections were obvious. But he found he couldn't make them because he'd known all along what would happen here. He'd been planning for it to happen. Farther into the room, sitting on a nearby table, was a glowing jar. Dor, they called it. A kind of pure Investiture which he could use to activate another Skip, to escape this world, to run to another planet. Just as he'd hoped. This was why he'd come.

What else had he been expecting?

He'd gotten the Beaconites to the door, then through it. That's what he'd promised. And they'd known. He'd warned them multiple times.

As words failed him, the others tried. "Please, may we negotiate?" Confidence said. "May we invoke, if not your sense of mercy or justice, your sense of commerce? What can we trade you for our safety?"

The two just gave her amused looks. If the Scadrians had wanted anything from these people, they'd have taken it—they likely used the Cinder King as an intermediary more out of convenience than anything else.

"We don't need anything," the man said to the trio of Beaconites. "You may go now; continue your own squabbles. We're not interested in interfering."

"You could destroy the Cinder King's ship," Zellion said, feeling the need to try once more. "The sun will soon rise. You could take this people in only until the light passes us. You…you could do something?"

"You are welcome to stay and take our offer, Rosharan," the woman said, her attention trailing away. "We've heard your plea. That's all that we're required to do by interplanetary law. The locals will need to see to their own troubles."

The man nodded, then gestured toward the elevator, his posture stern. They didn't look armed, but Zellion knew from experience that groups like this were far from weak, even the scientists. Though he'd said he'd prefer a physical fight earlier, he doubted he could take this entire group. If he even had the heart to try. Which right now…he just didn't.

"You were right, Zellion," Rebeke whispered, still kneeling. "You tried to warn us. There is no refuge here."

"I…" He looked back to them, expecting to see anger and dismay at this betrayal.

Their expressions of resignation hurt even more.

"You tried," Contemplation said to him with a nod. "You did everything we asked of you and more. Zellion, there is no need for that look of sorrow. This was the direction we've been pointed for many rotations."

"It was a fond dream," Confidence said, taking Rebeke by the arm and pulling her back. "It's not a sanctuary at all, is it? These are offworlders, like you?"

"Yes," Zellion said. "I'm sorry. They're here to study your sun. This ship isn't that big."

"Ship," Rebeke said. "It's…a ship."

He nodded.

That seemed enough to explain it to them. They knew; they had heard. They retreated to the elevator. He wanted to go with them, but he hesitated before entering.

"What do you think, Aux?" he whispered.

I think, the knight says, that we have gotten exactly what we deserve from this exchange.

Wisely put. He met Contemplation's eyes and knew he wasn't going with them. What point was there in going up to die? He needed to keep running. That was what he did.

This was why it was better not to get involved. A part of him had been preparing for this all along, had tried to keep a distance between him and them. The realist in him took charge, insisting that it was time to be done.

"Stay," Contemplation said to him in a heartbreakingly soft, caring way. "Stay with your kind."

The door closed, then carried them back up to the surface. On a monitor, Zellion watched the Cinder King's forces creep closer, and this time no blast from beneath rose to frighten them off.

The Beaconites were out of power, out of resources, exhausted, and defeated. It was over.

Zellion…Nomad…sighed, then settled down in a place by the wall, closed his eyes, and—for once—let himself rest.