Straight Ahead
The letters were stripped away or faded in places, but from age, not from the explosion. Tenebrae hadn’t been a hot resort destination for residents of the empire since before the occupation of Fenestala Manor.
As for the sign’s message, it was an irony not lost on her.
“Most relaxing stay of my life, huh? Could use that right about now.”
She looked around. “Biggs? Wedge?”
“Over here.” She heard a groan.
Then another, pathetic moan. “Any chance I could get a hand?”
Each voice came from directly below a mound of mud and rubble. At each, a small section of mud parted, enough for a single hand to pop out. The first was thick and rough. Biggs. The other, with its knobby knuckles, definitely belonged to Wedge. Aranea grabbed each in turn and helped the men pull themselves up out of the debris.
“Looks like it’s mission accomplished, boys,” she said, with a long sigh of relief. Biggs and Wedge both coughed and spat on the ground, their saliva brown with mud and sand. They’d all been to hell and back, but at least they were still alive. The evacuees were safe, too. Aranea shook her head in disbelief. All’s well that ends well, I guess.
A grin lit up Biggs’s face, and he cleared his throat.
“I just want you all to know . . . It’s been an honor to serve with you,” he said, voice pitched an octave too high.
Aranea turned away, hoping to hide her flushed cheeks. Seems they’d heard the little parting message she’d given during her dive.
“She ever say anything like that before?” Biggs asked, nudging Wedge with an elbow.
“Don’t think so.”
“Those’re some pretty heavy words.”
“Got that right. The kind of thing people say before they up and die on you.”
Their skit finished, the two lapsed into a fit of chuckles.
They’re never going to let me live this down, Aranea realized, her lips pursed tight.
And they were still at it.
“Hmm. Sky’s clear, but it feels like we might get a spot of rain,” Biggs jested.
“Real thunderstorm, I reckon,” Wedge chimed in.
“Ha ha, very funny. Now give it a rest, would you?”
But her words were drowned out by a piercing shriek overhead. Daemons. Flying ones. Probably inbound from Gralea.
Seemed about right, given their luck.
“Well,” Biggs said. “Here comes our thunderstorm.”
“I knew there was gonna be trouble,” Wedge added.
They both looked at their commodore, with matching irritated looks on their faces.
“Oh, what, so this is my fault?”
But there was no time for the blame game. The three scrambled to the wreckage of the two MAs, grabbing anything that looked like it might serve as a weapon. They had to stop the daemons, keep them away from the civilians in Tenebrae.
“When the hell are we gonna get some sleep?” Aranea groaned.
It looked like the worst day of her life wasn’t quite over yet.
When they’d eked out a victory against the last pack of flying daemons, killing what they could and sending the rest scattering back the way they came, it was nearly evening. They made for the dropship, dragging themselves along, bodies battered and limp like old rags. They got the craft into the air, and then they were heading toward the people they’d saved in Tenebrae, the children they’d evacuated on the train, and the girl entrusted to them by Loqi.
When they arrived, no sooner did the girl’s eyes fall on Aranea than they were filling with great big tears. It was another scene that seemed all too familiar, an unpleasant echo from a dark corner of Aranea’s past. Before she was even aware of her actions, she’d scooped the girl up into a tight hug and was walking over to settle on one of the benches, running a gentle hand over her hair.
“I was so scared,” the girl whispered.
“It’s all right now. You’re okay.”
“Everyone . . . went away, or died, and . . . ”
Aranea felt the small body trembling in her arms. She knew that fear. She knew that sadness. She wouldn’t have wished it on anyone else in the world, least of all the young girl before her now.
She’d been so eager to wipe every last daemon from the face of the star, she’d not even been able to wait the full ten years to hit her legal age of majority before she joined the mercenary forces. And there hadn’t been anyone left around her to tell her to wait, to not be so reckless.
But her life had gone smoothly enough, all things considered. She met Biggs and Wedge, gained new comrades in arms, and eventually made enough of a name for herself in the imperial service to earn a bit of rank. It had been rough when the empire started toying around with daemons, though. It didn’t feel right owing allegiance to an army employing the same monsters she’d wanted to destroy. She’d strayed a bit from her one great aim in life, but she went on nonetheless.
“Tell me. What’s your name?” Aranea asked. It was a detail she’d overlooked in all the rush.
“Sol,” the girl replied. “Solara Antiquum.”
“Sol, huh? Not a bad name.”
It had an air of dignity to it, bringing to mind that grand, ancient civilization the nation of Niflheim aspired to.
“I want to be strong.”
Aranea smiled. That was another thing she remembered herself saying, all those years ago.
“Like you,” the girl continued.
“Like me?”
Sol nodded, her face earnest.
“I’m not really that strong. I barely even managed to make it through today. Thought I might break down at any moment.”
The girl paused, clearly processing the information, before asking, “Honest?”
“Honest. It’s a good thing a certain little someone showed up to inspire me. What was that you said back there? ‘I wanna fight, too’?”
As Aranea said it, she playfully tapped Sol’s nose.
“Couldn’t let myself get shown up by a little pipsqueak like you.”
Sol gave a bashful smile, and Aranea breathed a silent sigh of relief. It was the first smile she’d seen from the girl. It looked like she was going to be all right.
When Aranea finally lifted Sol off her lap and set her down, a small sparkle caught her eye. It gave her a start. She hadn’t noticed the brooch before, thanks to the blanketing folds of Loqi’s mantle. In fact, she hadn’t noticed the girl’s outfit at all. Sol wore fine clothes, well-tailored and obviously expensive. The design of the brooch was more than just familiar: it was a symbol practically burned into the mind of any member of the imperial forces. The crest of House Aldercapt.