Chapter 1: The One Who Cannot See

Faith conquers fear.
-The Rift Code, Line 2

The Talar slave squadrons were a death sentence, but a simple one. You fought, and you died. There was no chance of rebellion, no hope of escape. You fought. And you died.
Right now, the newest batch of slaves stood in the choosing line, waiting to be selected by a squad captain. Perelor Krot was one of those captains. However, unlike the others, who stared like hawks at the incoming slaves, he leaned against an old crate, fidgeting with the tip of his weapon, lost in thought.
“Okron save us. Okron save us. Okron save us.”
The sound caught Perelor off guard. It came from a boy, near the back of the choosing line. Perelor could hardly see him, though he could see enough to know that the child was trembling. Fitting, for the boy’s eyes were glazed over and scarred.
Who sends the blind to war? Perelor thought. Damn them.
That was an empty threat. Everyone was damned.
The line shifted forward again as another captain began to choose. Perelor stretched. Just a couple more left, and then it was his turn. He could have gone first, if he wanted, but he hardly cared to. He glanced at the captain who was choosing, realizing he didn’t even recognize the man. That wasn’t anything new, though, leaders got replaced every week or so when the old ones died.
The boy was still praying. He was dedicated, particularly for a Talar. Finally, as the boy’s voice grew louder, a guard pulled him out of the line, slamming the butt of his weapon into the kid’s stomach. The praying ceased.
“Sir!” the guard called out. “This one’s blind.”
Perelor didn’t react. Blind or not, the kid was headed to his doom. However, the choosing captain stopped, then rushed over to the guard. They began conversing in a hushed voice.
Perelor frowned. The platoon didn’t have time for this; they were about to leave. Besides, they wouldn’t have the kid executed, would they? Sure, he’d trip up the other men if they didn’t, but they wouldn’t kill for that.
Except, they probably would. Perelor sighed, standing straight and walking over to the conversation. He twisted his lasertip nervously as he did. The weapon was glaive-like, with a blaster taped to the end, and a trigger on the handle.
“Hey! What’s the trouble? We need to get a move on, you know.”
The other captain turned toward Perelor, and Perelor realized he recognized the man. Captain Iralik. He’d tried a charge during the last raid. Most of his men were dead because of it, but somehow the bastard had made it out unscathed.
“A blind soldier is a liability, Captain Krot,” Iralik said. “We’ve just decided to execute him.”
Great. Dirty bastards.
“And why would we do that?” Perelor asked. Between him and Iralik, the boy whimpered.
Captain Iralik snorted. “We don’t have time for more debate. I will take care of it.”
He moved toward the boy, aiming the blaster of his lasertip at the child. Perelor reacted faster than he could think, thrusting his own blade forward and forcing Iralik to parry. A quick flick of Perelor’s wrist, and Iralik’s lasertip rammed into the ground. Iralik’s eyes widened with shock, shock that quickly morphed to pain as Perelor kicked him, then snatched his weapon from a loose fist. Both weapons in hand, Perelor whirled to face the guard, who stepped back, raising his hands in surrender.
“Torment! Relax. We’re allies, yes?”
Captain Iralik rose to his feet, grimacing, then growling. “You have no right to interfere, Krot.”
Perelor didn’t flinch. “I’ve been here five years, and you won’t last another week. The child is mine.”
Hatred crossed Iralik’s face. “Arrogant vret,” he hissed. “We’ll see how well you do with a blind man tripping up your squad.” But he did not protest any further, instead motioning to a clump of slave-soldiers nearby. “You four. Get over here, and get equipped. Hurry. We don’t have an eternity.”
Perelor’s eyes followed Iralik as the other captain left for his cruiser. The man had a cruel streak a planet wide. It worried Perelor. His sister’s ailment wasn’t that much different from being blind, not in war. Would they kill her, too?
Iralik disappeared, and Perelor turned back to the men remaining, his new men. A sorry lot. Half of them were looking at the ground, the other half twitching uncomfortably. The majority were undoubtedly Soulcursed. That made sense; the other Captains hoarded as many of the non-Soulcursed slaves as they could; it gave them a better chance of survival. Perelor, however, didn’t need the odds in his favor. The healing jewel in his back ensured that much.
“Listen up.” Why was his voice so hoarse? “We’re using Cruiser 53A today. Lasertips are inside. You should already have some basic training. Unfortunately, that is all you’ll receive.” His fist tightened in frustration, but he continued.
“Men, you are going to die. I will do my best to save you. But I’m also not going to lie to you. We’re launching a frontal assault. Most of you will not make it out alive. I advise you to abandon your hope. It will only serve for sorrow here.”
The men bristled. A few wept. “Okron save us,” the blind boy whispered once again.
“Sir!”
Perelor turned toward the noise. The speaker was a young man, somewhere in his late teens, who stood with one hand in a fist behind his back, the other in a salute at his chest. The chest salute, along with the white hair, told Perelor he was Ethean, like Perelor himself. Perelor raised an eyebrow. “Yes, soldier?”
“The Talar claim we can go free if we kill fifty hostiles. Is that true?”
Perelor sighed. “You think you can kill fifty men?”
“With all due respect, that wasn’t the question, sir.”
“I see. Well, the answer is, technically, yes. If you kill that many, you can move up in the ranks, assuming you’re not Soulcursed.”
The man nodded. “Good to hear. I’ll be out of here within a few weeks.” A sly grin crossed the man’s face, and a few ears perked up at the mention of freedom. Perelor sucked in a breath. Lovely. This man was trying to rob him of his authority. Perelor wouldn’t have really cared, if he weren’t so stupid about it. Trying to kill more of the enemy inevitably resulted in more dead slaves, and that was exactly what this soldier was encouraging.
“At ease, soldier,” Perelor said. The man kept his salute, even as Perelor strode toward him. “I said, at ease.”
The soldier finally lowered his salute. Perelor stopped directly in front of him. The man, whose tag was N527, was taller than Perelor, and hulkier, too. However, as Perelor drew his lasertip, the soldier paled. Good. Perelor needed to undermine the confidence that extra bulk gave him. Being tall didn’t matter if you were too stupid to use it.
“Do you want to know the difficulty of what you’re attempting, N527?”
“My name is…”
“That wasn’t the question,” Perelor said coolly. The soldier paled even more. “Now, do you understand what killing fifty men entails?”
The man hesitated. “No.”
“Then you are a fool to attempt it. Slave N527 stands in the second row. We lose about two-thirds of our second row soldiers each raid. I think you can do that math yourself.” He raised his voice. “We will not be taking the offensive today. That will only kill us faster. If you really wish to survive this Torment, hang back as much as the Talar will allow. Just be careful you don’t earn yourself a whipping. They’re not kind to stragglers.”
N527 opened his mouth, but before he could argue, Perelor marched to the front of the squadron. “At attention!” he yelled. The soldiers snapped into posture, at least, what little posture they could manage. The blind boy, who was still at the front, stumbled to his feet, saluting, still muttering his prayer. Perelor glanced at the boy’s glazed-over eyes, the faces of men long dead flashing through his mind.
I’m sorry. He motioned forward. “March! Ahek, we’re late.”
The men followed him. Though, if they’d had any motivation before, it now seemed gone. Instead of jogging, they walked, eyes down, a funeral procession of corpses waiting to die. Perelor winced. Perhaps he’d been too harsh…
No. Better they know the truth. Better they don’t make the same mistake I did.
The blind slave, thankfully, was helped by the soldier next to him, and they arrived at the troop carrier, grabbing the lasertips that waited nearby. Medium-sized for a cruiser, the ship consisted of a belly where the troops waited along with a single cockpit. It was larger than usual, mostly because it had been made from a gutted out luxury cruiser, but its armor was unusually light, and the only armaments were a pair of guns at the front. The doors were open, and the slaves filed in, moving to spots on the floor where their number sat scratched into the metal.
Perelor helped the blind boy to his spot, then moved through the lines, inspecting the men. They appeared to be about average build, and most seemed sane enough, though it was always hard to tell if a man’s sanity would hold up once combat started.
He made his way to the front. Some of them were whispering to one another. He caught a couple of them asking for each other’s names. Perelor was half-tempted to stop that. But he also couldn’t control everything. Clearing his throat, he barked his next orders.“Split into five groups. I want you to practice thrusts and parries. Be careful, we don’t want anyone wounded.”
The soldiers obeyed, splitting up by row. Perelor watched as they trained, noting by the hum of engines outside that some of the fleet had taken off. After a moment of watching the slaves, he turned and moved into the cockpit.
There, three men awaited, a pilot, a copilot, and Arrus, his second-in-command. A short, Talar man with blonde hair, Arrus was also their unit’s Surgeblade wielder.
“Well hello there,” Arrus said, smiling as Perelor entered. “You’re in a lovely mood today. Your poor victims might not even be able to pull the trigger.”
Perelor grunted, then sniffed. Arrus was wearing heavy cologne. Where had he gotten more of it? “I’d rather they know the truth. Besides, you’ve seen the people who come through here. Do you really think any of them are going to get out alive?”
“No. But that doesn’t mean you have to tell them that.”
“They’ll thank me when they die. When are we launching?”
“Orders should come in soon,” Arrus replied. “For now, all we know is we’re attacking a place called Grahala. I tried to ask more, but father wouldn’t tell me anything. It’s classified, so he can’t give it to a slave.”
That was an oddity. Arrus was the son of Traegus Yral, one of the top generals in this division, and a Shalarhai, a noble. That meant Arrus would have been a general by now, had he not been born Soulcursed. Fortunately, Arrus’ noble birth still allowed him to wield a Surgeblade. Today it hung at his right hip, a chrome sword with a small glowing jewel embedded into the hilt. It wasn’t a powerful Surgeblade, but it was enough to make a drastic difference on the battlefield. The weapon had saved Perelor’s neck far too many times.
“I don’t care where we’re attacking,” Perelor replied. “I just need to know when we’re being deployed.”
“We should know soon,” Arrus repeated. He hesitated a moment before adding, “in other news, there’s a new shipment of slaves coming in. All the way from Xilia.”
Perelor froze. “Have you checked?”
“Not yet. I was waiting to see if you wanted me to.”
“Of course I want you to.” Every squadron has a chance of having Eliel in it.
“Ok. Sorry, I’ll tell Traegus when I get a chance.” Though Traegus was Arrus’ father, Arrus rarely referred to him as such.
They fell silent. Perelor found himself ruminating on his sister, remembering, just vaguely, the night they’d been separated. He could hardly recall it anymore. Perhaps because it was too painful to remember. But he knew one thing: Eliel was out there. And he was going to save her.
The ship’s engines roared, and it took off, jerking slightly as it made its way up through the atmosphere. At the same time, something inside the pocket of Arrus’ uniform buzzed. He pulled a holoscreen from it, a small, metal pyramid that projected an image upward once activated. Arrus frowned.
“Looks like we’re going to be storming the beach of a farming island.” Arrus winced. “They’ve got pretty decent defenses.”
“At least I already told the men they’re going to die,” Perelor muttered.
“Oh c’mon,” Arrus said. “We’ll be fine. We’re always fine.”
“We will be,” Perelor smirked. “They don’t have a Surge.”
“Doesn’t mean we can’t try to save them.” Arrus grinned. “Plus, you could have another Surge if you wanted.”
Not that simple, Perelor thought. “We shouldn’t talk about that,” he said. He glanced toward the door. “I’m going to go see how training is going. Keep yourself out of trouble.”
Arrus rolled his eyes. “According to you, we’re always in trouble.”
Perelor snorted, then went back into the hold. There, the men were still clumsily practicing thrusts. Several of them tripped as they did, almost falling onto their weapons.
“Enough practice,” Perelor called. The slaves halted. “Our orders have come in. We’re to storm the beach and open up space for dropships. Understood?”
The soldiers mumbled their affirmation. Perelor gave them a curt nod. “Stay in your stations until I order otherwise. Die well.”
He turned toward the hold window. In standard troop carriers, it would cover the entire wall, allowing soldiers to see the battlefield. Here, it was little more than a slit, designed instead to keep the soldiers from seeing the battlefield, lest they try to rebel.
They were almost to the wormhole now, a golden pinprick of light among the stars. Once they struck it, they’d be able to teleport to any other wormhole in Delti. Once they struck it, the raid would begin. Once they struck it, the slaughter would begin.
Arrus stepped into the hold, his Surgeblade drawn. The slaves’ eyes followed the weapon, and some gasped. Arrus flourished the blade, sending sparks of blue hissing about, then took a bow, chuckling. Perelor rolled his eyes.
Arrus finished his bow, then turned to Perelor. His voice was grim. “My father just told me there was a comms leak. The Grahalans know we’re coming.”
“Praise to Etheri Almighty,” Perelor muttered.
His eyes turned to the blind boy. The child was shaking even more than he had been during the choosing, and, despite everything, was still muttering his prayer. Perelor thought for a moment, then turned to Arrus.
“Give me a minute or two. I need to do something.” Walking away from the window, Perelor found N527, the man who had mentioned the promotion rule.
“N527.” He kept his voice soft this time, no need to shame the man further. “To the cockpit. I need to speak with you.”
The young man whitened, but followed Perelor into the cockpit. From there, Perelor pointed to the blind soldier.
“You’ve noticed him, I presume?”
The man nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“And what do you think of it?”
The man hesitated, then spoke. “I think they’re dirty bastards for it, sir. With all due respect.”
Perelor clenched a fist. “Good. Because the Talar are dirty bastards. The entire reason they tell you to kill fifty men is so that we’ll get rid of more enemies before taking a bullet. They won’t actually free you if you pull it off. They’ll just make sure you die before the promotion process moves forward. I’ve seen it happen.”
N527 nodded. “So you discouraged me so the others wouldn’t get themselves killed?”
“That was part of it.”
“And… the other part?”
Perelor met the man’s eyes. There was still a glimmer in them, a hope. It was dimmer than before, but still there. “This place is Torment, soldier. You need to be prepared for death.”
“I also need to be prepared for survival.”
Perelor shrugged. “If you think that’s possible, I probably can’t convince you otherwise.” He pointed toward the blind boy again. “But for today, I have an assignment for you. The child is a liability. I hate to say it, but it’s true. He’ll stop a plasma bolt, which is enough for the Talar, but he’ll also get in our way. I want you to help him. Switch spots with one of the men nearby. Make certain he doesn’t fire his lasertip, and make certain he hangs behind us, where he won’t get in the way, and has less of a chance of dying.”
N527 nodded, grinning. “I can do that.”
“Thank you.” Perelor shook his head. “Dirty bastards.”
“Agreed.” N527 hesitated before adding, “What’s your name, officer? I don’t think you ever told us your name.”
Perelor was silent.
“Sir?”
“Never learn a soldier’s name,” he whispered.
Alarm bells rang. Perelor walked back to the window without another word, falling into place beside Arrus. N527 stood still for a moment, but quickly strode over and switched to a spot near the blind boy. Arrus smiled.
“Good call. They’ll make a good team. Maybe even survive this.”
“Hopefully,” Perelor whispered. The cruiser lurched as it turned toward the wormhole.
“Any chance you’ve mastered those powers? They’d be awfully handy today.”
“I’ve told you, I won’t mess with that.”
“And I think you should reconsider.”
“Perhaps. But it’s not like I can do that right now.” The sirens grew louder. Perelor turned to his men.
“To your posts, and stay there. This will be a rocky descent, but I want you ready at the end.”
“Preparing for entry. Five.” The voice over the intercom was a robotic monotone, unflinching, uncaring. Much like the Talar.
“Four.”
Perelor twisted his lasertip toward the slit, relaxing his muscles, forcing his hands to steady, his mind to clear.
“Three.”
The men behind him breathed in, breathed out. Perelor tried not to think of their fate, tried not to think of protecting them. At least he didn’t know their names. It had been worse before, when he hadn’t learned it was better not to know.
“Two.”
Perelor glanced toward Arrus. The man had his Surgeblade bared, and he was now aglow with Ever. Though the glow was dimmer than others he’d seen, it was still fearsome, an azure beacon of hope.
“One.”
Hope is dead, Perelor reminded himself. At least, until he found Eliel. Somehow, she would bring it back, bring him back. He clung to that.
“Enter.”
“For Eliel,” he whispered, then closed his eyes as they teleported to Torment.