Chapter 16: Brass Tempo

  It wasn't obvious, but he could notice the subtle burn. It wasn’t a searing realization, but a grating resistance pressing against the interior of his chest. Ronjah’s lungs felt as if they had been brushed with steel wool; and the cold climate controlled interior of Tachnen Spaceport’s sky tower did little to numb the pain. In fact, it made it all the more acute, like an itch insisting on its visit. Boots barely lifted themselves from the grates tiled along the floor as he shuffled through the crowds pushing toward the lifts ahead.

  Stairs and ramps guided the travelers toward the third level of the tri-scraper reaching toward the sky. Kiosks and lounges lay littered around for the many “sky climbs”-- scheduled departures via the massive cage-like elevators meant to carry groups of people and their equipment up into the airbase high above the impossible structure guiding it towards the stars beckoning to the jet-powered vehicles housed within its hull.

  Beside him, Aris skulked along, her cloak dragging behind like an anchor in suspension. Her eyes scanned the periphery while ears multitasked between ISI Shadow security feeds and her immediate environment. Section 52, the bodyguard attachment she belonged to, had reported a Harazite Keymaster; a significant detail of the chase being conducted by Insia’s own intelligence services. Harazan didn’t send their spies for just any sort of mission. If Insia’s Ushers were coordinating with Harazan’s royal relic keepers, maybe things were more serious than she had assumed earlier.

  Her jaw seemed to clench as much from that detail as the weight of the mechanical cloak digging into her collarbone – a consequence of her unfinished modifications on the powered equipment. It was an accumulation of complexity almost as heavy as the mess over her and her Jathka’s head. If by Etmos they could get to terminal 18, their trip to Idris 7 would be all but guaranteed. Aris doubted that would happen without Idranto- a ritual duel aimed at capture and interrogation instead of killing. And knowing Ronjah's luck– their chances seemed terminal. The ground beneath seemed to be pulling the two towards the planet. The weight hanging over their shoulders contrasted with the buoyant skies pulling at the spindle guiding the lift towards the edge of the horizon.

  The stagnant air around the rail-like elevator seemed rigid; the sky around the skytower appeared to yawn as it stretched high towards the second atmosphere. The various aircraft zipped and sped above, below, and throughout. These vertical rails were aligned – not attached to a skeletal shaft that culminated in a massive airship arrested on an assembly of rotors, propellers, jets, and balloons. The suns' bold rays radiated off the golden gas clouds. Jets sprouted from the flying fortress like insects swarming in and out of a hive. To the shuttle in transit to the regional logistics hub for commercial and military intra and extra planetary routing, the station was as much a living thing as the Argo-Mantas propelling themselves through the sky, subsisting on vapor-wasps. For Lilath'k, the invisible pockets of gas were minor landmines in comparison to the situation the Jathka, far below, was in. This was the one window he had to get to Idris 7 with enough time to attend to his diplomatic affairs.

  Arataab Air station waited ominously over the impossibly tall spindle. Its two iron attendants braced against it like a stern verdict against the sky itself. The elevator twisted like a serpent caught between them and the floating fortress. It was ambition arrested by vigilance and momentum; a testament to inertial industry.

  Bright lime irises pierced through the opaque laminated screen – a refuge against the harsh toxic gasses that accumulated high up in the secondary atmosphere. Awe mixed with the impulse to move; the back of her neck was buzzing like a swarm of vaporwasps nesting among a cluster of skybarnacles.

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  Ronjah had 21 minutes to get to his scheduled lift, unscheduled maintenance on the Vorpal Glare’s Quantum Frequency Transmitter had shrunk the operation’s window. If Ronjah wanted his chance to eliminate Zalmar from the board, he had to get to the air station TODAY, not a moment sooner. “Aris, report. What’s the situation inside?”

  The words were like wisps of pressure crackling upon the folds of her ears. They crawled along the channels covered by the foam of the pads cushioning her helmet against her skull. The words were a reprieve against the endless scan of the tower’s expansive corridors and lobbies. And while they could massage the growing migraine between her temples, they couldn’t soothe the growing lump in her throat. Insia and Harazan were not leaving threads about the spaceport’s wiring malfunction unexamined. And the two nation’s intelligence agencies weren’t known for being slow or dispassionate. If Insia’s Usher ministry were calling the shots for this hunt – Idranto, it must mean that the trade-off of Ranova between the Conglomerate and the Imperium might be in question.

  19 minutes

  Lilath’k was probably already ready at the station. “We’re making our way to the second level,” Aris reported. Ronjah’s back was to her as he climbed the steps. Each one he took was brisk, disciplined. But Aris knew him. She could see the microsecond of hesitation as he ascended the rising platforms arranged on the spiraling platform leading to his aim. His lust for vengeance surrounded him like a personal aura. Just as he was going to reach the landing to the second floor, his head cocked to the side a split instant before a synapse scrambling round could hit him square in the forehead. Crouching, Ronjah clenched his fist, stretching a web of lighting out from the tips of his fingers as they unclenched. Fangs bared, the Jathka turned toward Aris.

  She lept, leapfrogging over him, unsheathing her Hochkner 2.07, a submachine gun. It used a blend of powder and magnetized rails to launch its bullets. Nostrils flared, she sniffed the air, hoping to pick up the scent of aggression coming from their assailant(s).

  Out and across, agent Jessina Thauntaum of Insia’s Usher Ministry lay on her perch, her scent glands focused on her target.

  He was fast. Amazingly so.

  ‘Were all rhasweavers this quick?’ a thought within her skull blared. Her abdomen clenched as she kept her thoughts on the task at hand. She tensed her forearms as she took aim at the bodyguard who’d got ahead of her mark.

  Shards of copper burst from the armored cloak as its deployed mass shrugged off shot after shot of the womphawk rifle. Aris advanced, sparks flying towards her as the mechanized armor tried to move with her. Its servos locked as plates attempted to overlap and reconfigure. Ronjah moved past, making sure to keep low to the railing, pausing to have his bodyguard move up to tank their assailant’s shots.

  “We’ve got seventeen minutes before our lift leaves,” Aris whispered in his ear.

  Ronjah grimaced as he rushed through the bewildered crowds.

  That was enough time, just enough.

  A snarl broke the thought before it could even unfold. Armored fist met gloved palm as an armored figure vaulted up from below. He was wearing an older pattern of Royal Marine armor, Ronjah recognized. His eyes narrowed as he recognized the lidded eye embossed on the chestplate. “Usher…” he snarled. Bolts of electricity flowered from his fingertips, absorbing the agent in a cloud of hot plasma. Pain was the reply and its shape was a hammer. His head tensed as stars filled his vision, his arms moving almost independent of his thoughts as he blocked the coming punches and strikes from the armored individual unstaggered by the arcs of lightning blasting at his armor. Fists and legs seemed to emanate from the web of lighting surrounding his assailant like a vortex – it was more like a tunnel than a snare. Aris was pinned, too preoccupied with the womphawk to intervene. She risked a glance over her shoulder, only for another round to stress the seizing servos on her armored cloak.

  Boots skid and metal sparked against metal as Ronjah attempted to magnetize his feet to the grate. His knees shuddered with the friction of resistance as hammer like blows probed through his defenses. Ronjah countered a jab, ducking and swinging his leg, attempting to trip up his opponent. A loud thud echoed through the prince’s jaw, a constellation of pain rocketed up to meet the pressure pressing at the top of his head. Breathes ragged, Ronjah focused…