Sacred Planet: Book One of the Dominion Series (4 page)

The thumps kept on, coming in waves. Noises blurred together. Sierra’s thoughts scattered like sinking rubble in a dark ocean. Everything grew hazy and distant and numb.

One last jerk of gee force smashed her brain into her skull and blocked out all vision, all feeling, all sound.

Davin took long, deep breaths in his lazyboy as he stared at the screen. Sweat gathered across his forehead, just beady enough to stay in place. He wiped his brow and leaned his head back into the cushions.

The screen showed two frigates in pursuit and one remaining at the yacht wreckage. But they had stopped firing a few minutes ago. The massive white star in the middle of Owl Nebula’s colorful umbrella had eclipsed the
Fossa
, making a nice shield to block their escape—as well as a convenient gravity assist. The gee force would pick up for the next couple of hours as Strange slingshotted them in a wonky arc toward the spacebend gate. Might require a bit more maneuvering to evade any other projectiles, but with the speed from the grav boost, they’d be going fast enough to handle it.

“Sorry about the turbulence back there, Princess.”

Davin waited for a reply, but none came. Not even a stir. He turned around and saw Sierra hunched over her safety straps, head hanging, arms limp on the C-shaped couch where he’d planted her. But she was breathing.

Davin raised his nexband. “Well done, Strange. You’ve earned yourself a bonus.”

She laughed through comm. “You gonna get drunk and grab my ass again?”

“No, I mean a
real
bonus this time. Something big. Something nice.”

“Gotta sell our merch first,” came Jabron’s low voice. He still sounded pissed they hadn’t gone with his idea. “See what this girl’s worth.”

“That’s true, Bron,” Davin replied into his nexband. “But we gotta do this the smart way, not the easy way.”

“What you mean, boss?”

Davin allowed himself to slouch into his lazyboy. “Easy way would be: contact the Carinian government once we get to the spacebend gate, take her back to her family, see what they give us out of the kindness of their hearts.”

“And the smart way?” Strange asked through the speakers.

“First,” Davin said, eyeing the digitally rendered map on his big screen, “make sure we’re not followed. Second, lay low for a while. Let some time pass. Third, when the Abramists are all hot and bothered that they don’t know where Sierra is and Old Man Falco is pissing his pantaloons over his missing daughter,
then
we start a bidding war between the two, drive up the price, and eventually, accept Old Man Falco’s offer.”

“What if the Abramists offer more?” Jabron asked.

“Don’t care,” Davin replied. “I don’t trust ‘em. Besides . . .” He twisted himself around to see Sierra, conked out like a toddler. “I kinda want to make sure this girl gets home safe.”

Deep in the Sagittarius Arm of the Milky Way, on the planet Triumph . . .

The ground trembled under Kastor’s feet.

He paused on the battlefield as wisps of hot air brushed his skin and fluttered the shreds of clothing exposing his cuts. Strands of carmine blood had escaped him in the minutes before his leukocytes sealed the wounds. He pressed his fingers against gleaming red streaks over his deltoid and painted his cheeks under the eyes—first his left, then his right. The aristocracy of Triumph, of all Sagittarius, would see his noble blood.

Solidified lava spires rose high into the air as steam escaped their peaks. Shadows blended in with the rough, scorched ground. Heat escaped from deep fissures, where warm, orange light glowed from Triumph’s molten mantle. So hot that the air rippled above the earth. So hot that Kastor’s skin couldn’t keep from sweating—a body designed to contain blood but not perspiration. It beaded over his forehead and neck and between the hairs of his forearms until it gathered the volume to roll into the hollows of his muscles. The skin under the titanium band around his wrist felt especially damp and soft, almost enough to slip the damn thing off. But cheating would do no good. Where was the glory in that?

Kastor loosened his grip on his katana, keeping the blade edge ablaze—white-hot and ready to sear through the armor of his prey. The red laser wall crept ever closer, only thirty meters out now, the entire diameter of the playing field perhaps seventy-five. Drones hovered above, beaming the holographic partition, closing in fast. Where, an hour before, the playing field had spread across ten hectares of brutal landscape occupied by twenty equally brutal contenders, now it comprised less than a stone’s throw and two finalists who had managed to stay within its bounds. One of them hid somewhere in this sphere of playable ground while the other watched and waited.

Kastor wheeled around, studying the shadows and fissures for movement, but movement was everywhere. The entire crust of the planet moved constantly, creaking and shifting, melting and cooling, evolving, growing. A young planet, still roaring with volcanic power and unreached potential, like Sagittarius itself.

Like Kastor.

Enough waiting. The laser wall was shrinking; his prey had to be close.

“Guarin!” Kastor called out, voice carried by the heavy air. His prey, wherever he was hiding, heard. So did those watching. Including the Grand Lumis.

All of the royal courtiers and their staff watched, as did the Queen Matriarch in the court of the Grand Lumis. Somewhere on this hot planet, Kastor’s old cradlemate watched, inspiring him with her unseen gaze. And in the hours it took to beam the video feed through the spacebend network to the thousand courts across the Sagittarian Regnum, all the nobility would witness Kastor’s glorious moment.

He raised his voice again. “Guarin, step outside the wall and end this, or come out and fight. Your stealth annoys me.”

The laser wall contracted all around him. Ashen clouds swirled above. In the distance, past the laser drones, hovercraft hung in the sky, their decks lined with onlooking nobles. Guarin made no appearance. Why did the noblemen of Swan have so much guile? The slithering serpents. Nothing exasperated Kastor like guile. He resolved to wait. He would not deign to hunt down his prey. That was exactly what Guarin wanted. No, the laser wall would do the work for him, foil the serpent’s ploy. Kastor stepped to a black mound and leaned against it, stabbed the incandescent tip of his blade into the ground, and rested his hands on the hilt.

Moments slipped by. Sweat tingled across Kastor’s skin. The ruby-red Eagle insignia glowed bright from the titanium band on his wrist, beckoning him to finish this, to claim victory for himself as well as Eagle. A smile formed across his dry and cracked lips.

“Guarin!” Kastor called out. “I know why you hide. It is who you are, and who I am. It’s in our nature. The Swan will always kneel before the Eagle.”

That very moment, from a fissure ten meters to Kastor’s left burst forth a soot-coated figure, screeching like a demon, flaunting his sword with its edge blazing bright as a star.

Guarin charged, leaping from foot to foot in a zigzag pattern. Kastor hefted his katana in time to block the downward blow. Sparks flew as superheated blades collided and sizzled against each other. They met again at knee-level with a loud
clang
before Kastor threw a feint to the left and sprang to the right. Blades struck as the combatants kept a safe distance from each other, both of them fast and accurate, never leaving an opening. Guarin, taut face grimy like a peasant coal miner, took no risks in his moves, and neither did Kastor—for the time being.

Swan warriors defeated their enemies through guile and subterfuge. They had no special skill in open combat, though this one was adept for a Swan. Guarin may have squandered his advantage, but he could defend himself capably. Kastor would not break him in a mere handful of moves.

They exchanged contacts, sending more sparks flying. The swordplay was reflexive: move, countermove, swing, block, repeat. Kastor knew this part so well he could focus his thoughts on strategy. The laser wall cinched the playing field to thirty meters in diameter. Soon, he might be able to force the Swan out of it with a few well-timed charges. But Guarin saw the damn wall as well as Kastor. The Swan expected that. Had to get him before.

Guarin’s swift footwork matched Kastor’s perfectly, as if the two warriors were bound by invisible tethers. Each seemed to read where the next blow would fall. Block turned into swing turned into block. Their minds melded in the focused unity of combat. One against one. No man’s thoughts to read but the other’s. Luminescent white eyes glared unblinkingly from Guarin’s black-smeared face, showing no forecasts of his upcoming moves. Blond streaks peeked through his sooty locks as he bounced around in quick motions.

Kastor leaped backward across a fissure. Guarin followed, apparently hoping to catch him off guard. Kastor was ready, forming a quick idea as the laser wall encroached on them in his peripheral vision. Three swings to the left, one to the right. Three swings to the left, one to the right. Every opportunity he got, Kastor followed the pattern until he was certain Guarin had picked it up. Consciously or subconsciously, Kastor had trained Guarin like a mutt to expect him coming. He threw his right-side swings harder, keener, giving the impression he meant to land a hit after throwing Guarin off on the left. Of course, Guarin always blocked them.

Until—

Three times to the left, then Kastor threw a hard feint to the right. Guarin’s katana moved to block, but Kastor rolled left, twirled his blade, and thrust it at Guarin’s leg. The Swan warrior detected his folly in time to flinch away, but the hot blade sliced his thigh nonetheless, instantly cauterizing the wound. Guarin gave a slight yelp and stumbled away.

The wall was close enough now to touch with the tip of an outstretched blade. Kastor chased after Guarin, exchanging a few more contacts before trapping his sword against the ground and punching him in the side. With one more round, Kastor knocked him off balance, sending Guarin’s blade hand far to the side. He had an opening to strike the body, but instead he stabbed through Guarin’s forearm until his incandescent blade sizzled into the igneous rock mound, pinning Guarin—and the Swan-crested band around his wrist—in place.

Kastor switched off the blaze, and the edge of the blade cooled. Guarin let out a sickening cry, a mixture of extreme pain and grisly anger. Kastor’s blade went between the radius and ulna, not breaking any bones. Guarin would have to do that himself if he wanted to escape. But he wouldn’t. Not in time.

The laser wall closed in. Kastor stepped toward the center, leaving his sword sunk a foot into the ground and Guarin’s forearm as a lovely ornament. He waited, watching his foe cringe in agony and aggravation. Inside, as he caught his breath, the realization welled in Kastor that he had won.

Every lord, lady, courtier, and general in the Sagittarian Regnum had watched him climb to victory in the Grand Lumis’s tournament. He had conquered every taker on this quaky, molten planet. In this massive arena, he knew only victory. Only laurels. Only glory.

He claimed the glory of his birthright.

The laser wall crept to Guarin’s boots, and he kicked to reposition himself, as if keeping his body inside the laser wall counted for anything. It didn’t. All that mattered was the titanium band bearing the insignia of Swan. Guarin gripped the blunt side of the katana, yanking futilely. A laugh escaped Kastor from deep in his gut.

“Damn you, Kastor!” Guarin shouted in the rich baritone of a young nobleman.

The wall passed him, and his Swan band blinked and beeped wildly. Kastor threw his fists into the air as the laser wall dissipated. Every muscle in his body flexed, fueled by blood and power. The nobles’ hovercraft whooshed closer as a mighty cheer erupted through the thick atmosphere. Camera drones zipped around him, filming from a half dozen angles. A medical craft landed for Guarin, and the nobles touched down and walked across the sooty ground in their fine garb to congratulate Kastor. He accepted their praises with open arms and an unyielding smile, pride bursting in his chest, a moment of pure, unstained glory.

The Grand Lumis had a new champion.

Gilded columns rose to a barrel-vaulted ceiling over the walkway. Kastor strolled through the open-air corridor in the middle of the vast Diamond Castle, where the Grand Lumis resided with his queen. To one side, a spire of melded carbon steel and diamond, the queen’s chambers, loomed high in the sky. On the other, another great tower, several descending spires flanking it, displayed the greatness of the Lumis and his Regnum.

Fifty meters overhead, ripples of glass spanned the atrium, connected to each of the giant square’s diamond walls. The enclosure allowed for a slight breeze, playing with the tail of Kastor’s gentry robe. He hated the stiff regalia and high collar of lordly attire, but he had to look the part. Even champions put away their weapons long enough to cavort at parties and get blitzed on fine wine and brandy, the thought of which irritated him. Of all his years at the academy, he could not recall a single instance when his instructors taught him how to schmooze—although the part about drinking wine and brandy came naturally enough.

He paused at a stand of polished chrome and poured deep purple wine into a diamond goblet—almost everything on castle grounds was made of the stuff. A poised, clean-cut footman saw Kastor and approached swiftly, not breaking his rigid posture.

“May I assist you, master?” His voice carried more dignity than that of most noblemen.

The “
master
” bit felt odd, but Kastor could get used to it. He could also get used to being waited upon, and by a man older than him no less. The footman’s eyes remained attentive, jawline perfectly parallel with the ground. His crisp, black-and-silver livery cut precisely across his shoulders and neck.

“No,” Kastor said, restraining a grin. Respect felt good. “Oh, wait. Yes. Something to eat. Something small.”

“Any preference, master?” the footman replied.

Kastor sipped wine as he pondered his mood: Proud. Exultant. Distinguished. Wily. “Your finest fish. Off-world, obviously. Nothing from a farm. Thin slices, smoked and seasoned.”