Cassiel Winters 1: Sky's End (2 page)

I have to tilt my head a touch in order to look up into his eyes, and I’m 5’8”. They really are an incredible dark blue. His rich auburn hair’s slicked back in a trendy, ESE-accepted style.

“I guess so.” I respond quietly since I suspect the cadets around us are straining to eavesdrop. I gulp down my restorative, as does he, and I’m speechless when he uses his ESE-issued sculpted body to both guide and shield me out of Proxy, all without making any actual physical contact (despite my heady anticipation).

“Cassiel, it’s important that you pass this time,” he says, after an awkward pause just outside.

“I know!” I exclaim, exasperated, surprising myself—and him, judging by his raised eyebrows.

“Sorry. I just . . . I know what’s riding on this, believe me.”

“Cassiel. You will pass. Just don’t let down your guard.”

Or, in other words, totally wig out.

Oh, how I wish those dimples—I mean, they are cosmic—were as reassuring as they are sexy. “Just remember,” he adds, motioning us forward, “in the moment, when it counts, your learning will kick in, and then you only need to trust this.” He points to his gut. “Listen to it. Follow it. You’re a Winters, after all.”

I glance at him briefly, appreciating the pep talk, and the reference to Daz, known as Daredevil around ESE, who’s one of his best friends.

I’m sort of convinced that King’s friendship with my brother is the only reason I’m walking down an ESE corridor with him right now, listening to him run through pointers about possible challenges in today’s H2H test. He invites me to Proxy every couple of weeks for a Taza Mud and a totally impersonal conversation about how my classes are going.

Of course I asked him about Daz’s whereabouts very early on. Three times. He sticks to ESE Command’s line: On a mission.

I try to believe him.

I want to believe him.

The thing is, the first time I met King, he was doing his best impression of a burglar. Yeah, for real. He’d broken into our dome, somehow, the very next morning after I’d had the freaky déjà vu.

I still can’t believe it sometimes. There he was, just standing there, staring down at me, as I awoke. I had crashed on the sofa, with all the lights on, too spooked after the note to sleep in the dark. His chiseled face was passive, like a mask, only with King, I later learned, if you look close enough, you can see a hint of the stormy emotion underneath. That morning it was his clenched teeth, visible through his zero-body-fat cheeks. His eyes, wide open, alight, were so penetrating, for a moment, I felt there was no escaping them. I yelped and scrambled toward the end of the sofa while he came to life and rushed to introduce himself, offering up the lame excuse that Daz had asked him to check on the place.

Please
.

Lucky for my intruder Daz had spoken often about this ‘King’ in training. How King was almost as good a pilot as him, how King was an incredible fighter, how King was always doing this or that, though, he never mentioned how good-looking this King was.

He might have at least mentioned that.

Anyway, you’d think someone who had just scared the living daylights out of someone else would be somewhat contrite. Not King. He couldn’t seem to wipe the smirk off his face, even after I asked him to pass me the blanket on the nearby chair (I was wearing nothing but a worn, thin nightie, covered in very tiny pink cherries, which I still squeeze myself into because it was the last thing Mom ever bought me). I flush, even now, remembering (okay, reliving) how he didn’t even try to rein in those roving eyes of his.

“. . . and don’t forget about the screwdriver,” King adds, as we step into the turbolift. He’s unusually animated as he recounts other things that ESE might throw at me. The “screwdriver” is a colloquialism among cadets and refers to ESE’s ability to trick you into thinking that things just can’t get any worse—they always do.

Obviously, I’m elated at how keen King is to help me out. He seems . . . oblivious to the fact there are other officers on the turbolift.

Okay, confession: I have a possible reason to support the theory that there’s something more than a passing, quasi-obligatory interest in me. That morning he broke in, he saw the Academy admission form on my com-tab (well, I had to invite him for breakfast, he’d come all that way!). He encouraged me to go for it, and I was accepted so quickly, I wondered if he’d somehow pulled some strings to get me in—naw, wishful thinking. But that’s not why I’m hopeful. When I hedged about applying, he said, using these exact words, “Is there some reason that would stop you from joining?”

Well, I took a good, long, hard look at him. The first thing I thought of was the note.
But, come on
. Then I thought, surely Daz would not have told him about my ability. Not when he’d warned me a million times to never tell another living person—he was always scared he would lose me to a Care Center.

Well, King met my stare, inhaled through his nose, and clenched his teeth, again.

Knowingly.

Pleased.

Possessive.

I gasped, and some kind of recognition flickered across his face, then surprise, then nothing. He changed the subject casually, and the moment was over.

I can’t explain it, but I swear, I wasn’t just imagining those facial expressions. For the briefest time, standing in the kitchen, a stack of pancakes between us, I felt those specific feelings he was having about me, inside of me. And, even weirder, I knew
he knew
that I’d felt them.

But . . . what do you do with that?

Fear slices through me as the turbolift doors vanish at Level X,
already?,
and the gigantic room, dedicated solely to combat training, opens up before me. A ruckus of bodies hitting pads, encouraged by deep male voices shouting really mean things ricochets down deep in my all-too-sensible core, which would really rather be reading in my downcore right now.
Ah, the sound of pain
, and . . . as the stench of ripe onions and sour milk reaches my nostrils—
the smell of fear
. I step out hesitantly, and it takes me a second to realize King has stepped out, too.

“You’re not . . .?”

“Staying?” he fills in for me. “Of course.”

“Oh no, really. Thanks, but—”

Out of the corner of my eye, my combat instructor, Lt. Lazarus, closes in, and there’s no time to add, “you’ll just make me so nervous I might vomit.”

King seizes my arm, startling my already weak heart, then leans in and breathes out, “Do not go gently.” He releases me quickly, just in time for the arrival of Lt. Lazarus, who greets King with a cool but friendly demeanor.

What the . . .? My ear is still tingly where I’m pretty sure King’s lips have just grazed it! But nerves have really taken hold as I can’t sort out what to sort out: the comment he just made (I think it’s a quote from an ancient poem) or my pending doom. Pending doom.
Definitely focus on that.

The two of them head off, leaving me to follow them toward the Lightvision
TM.33
pad, where I observe my class convening.

There’s a real turnout for the test today.
Super
.

Dozens of clean-shaven, young, tough-looking men and a few flinty women are seated in rows around the giant square simulator pad, which looks like a slightly elevated stage. Lightvision
TM.33
transforms the 200-square-foot pad into a world that rolls, rotates, and shifts. The participants perceive and interact inter-dimensionally (that’s not technically true, but it’s how the manufacturer, Vesda, markets the technology) while the audience watches the events unfold all within the stage area, a three-dimensional live-action film in cube form, if you will.

My eyes always fall on Cadet Stoddard, the human brick. Seriously, his head’s almost rectangular, and he’s this test’s replicam commander. For some reason, ESE likes to fictionalize real classmates in the tests, probably because someday we’ll be on real teams together.

Stoddard will just love his replicam’s elevated status.
Ugh
. The one or two times I’ve been partnered with him in H2H, and inevitably slammed and crushed under his impressive body weight, he’s taken his sweet-ass time getting off of me. He’s an alpha. I was taken aback to discover such an evolutionary ranking system is still so pervasive. Then again, I suppose, in evolutionary terms, that is how we humans have survived these millions of years: the strong eat the weak.

That’s it. Way to keep up the positive thinking, Cassiel.

His buddies look my way, but not before I can avert my gaze. Then I spot Jordanna sitting on a second tier, behind a bunch of yapping cadets. I can’t hide my shock, and my first thought’s that she’s here to watch me fall on my face. But as our eyes meet (how can she stand those long bangs?), she gives me a quick nod.

Is she here to support me? Guess she’d miss all my “crappy, smelly old books and lame scribbles cluttering up” our pod.

Then Jordanna spots King, and looks back at me with exaggerated ‘utter disbelief,’ before settling straight forward with a look of ‘cold disdain’ on her otherwise pretty face.
Hey, I’d just as soon he weren’t here either.

King and Lt. Lazarus, after sharing a word or two, have taken their seats. They glance at me approaching. Seeing the two together, I’m reminded of how Lt. Lazarus differs from other officers. He’s fairly young, maybe in his 30s, but seems . . . worn. He’s got dark hair, which he keeps surprisingly long and scruffy, by Command standards, and deep-set brown eyes. Sometimes he’s unshaven, but I find that complements his strong Roman nose and full lips.

For a moment, I imagine something unusual in Lt. Lazarus’s expression. Hesitant expectancy. But that can’t be. In fact, Lt. Lazarus, who’s back to being as stony-faced as ever, wants me to fail. I know it in my bones.

I try to center myself with a deep breath, slowly exhaling as I head toward the staging pad. The chatter turns to murmurs.

Pointlessly, I pull up a jumble of the contents of the test brief in my head.
Yup. I’ve got scatta-brain
. Bukin’s already on the stage, striking and powerful with his black jumpsuit and close-cropped white-blond hair. This is his first test, and I don’t doubt
he
will pass. He doesn’t acknowledge me as I step up.

“Cadet Cassiel Winters and Cadet Dimitry Bukin,” says Lt. Lazarus, hushing the audience with his baritone voice. “Are you both ready?”

I meet his cold gaze.
Uh, how about never?

“Yes sir,” we both answer simultaneously.

Lt. Lazarus uses two fingers to quasi-salute, then points them at the programmers who manage the controls. The last thing I recognize is King.
If that’s his reassuring face, it isn’t working
.

The air around me goes static.

Chapter 2

The scene slowly charges up. I crouch down quickly, remembering that I’m supposed to adopt a protective stance at all times. I reach for my built-in thigh holster, clasping for the familiar feel of the blade handle. Empty.
Right. Must ‘neutralize threats’ in the most efficient way possible, using only my body and brain.

It’s still really dark.
Okay
.
Makes sense
. The test brief mentioned the rescue would take place during the Nights of Niian (its solar star rises only every two days).

Good, Cassiel. You’re holding it together!

My eyes have almost adjusted. I make out my mission members, also crouched.
Well, I did that right.

Quickly I take in my surroundings. We’re huddled closely in a circle, at the foot of what appears to be a steep crag, a half a mile NE of the makeshift space outpost where Sgt. Henderson is being held (I know this from the test brief). Because of the outpost’s remote location on Niian, we assume (correction,
I
assume) the complex will be pretty basic, a few rooms, max. Less trouble for us to have to ‘infiltrate and clear’ in our search for the target.

My breaths are rapid and short in the glow of Stoddard’s UPS (Universe Positioning System), which he wears on his wrist. Niian is very cold when its solar star’s absent, and my gear offers very little protection, in more ways than one. I expect Stoddard to be staring at my headlights. Instead, our “commander” is acting totally professional.

“All right, team,” says Stoddard.

Team?

Whoa
. Bukin and I glance at each other. The word
team
is not in Stoddard’s vocabulary. The guy’s all for one and one for all. Some programmer’s getting a kick out of making Stoddard into the pro he should be. (For a second, I’m deeply disturbed by the fact that the real Stoddard won’t see the irony. Watching this replicam of himself will only inflate his already huge ego).

Stoddard continues. “Looks like the transporter fucked up. We’re approximately one mile north of the outpost.”

Crud
. Curve ball No. 1. This little Command ploy means we’ll be doing a flat out run for at least 10 minutes, leaving me out of breath and shaky.
Metatabulous
.

“Our ride’s slated for a return pick up in”—Stoddard checks his UPS—“30 minutes, giving us just enough time to get out of here before the next Gogol security sweep if we really crack it.”

“We’ll have no more than 12 minutes to locate the target in the outpost,” he continues. “And just eight minutes, tops, to return to the rendezvous coordinates.”

“I’ll lead,” Stoddard says. “Winters, you bring up the rear.”

Stoddard, who has already determined the route, shoots out into a hunched run, like a professional athlete. The other replicam, Jackson, follows, next goes Bukin, and then I give it my best effort, stumbling just a smidge.

Come on. You can do this
.

At first I concentrate on keeping Bukin’s long legs within sight, which, in the darkness, is at best about eight feet in front of me. But right away I discover it’s really hard to do so while also watching my footing on the jagged rocky terrain. A few times Bukin disappears in the dark completely, and panic propels me forward faster. If I lose him, I’m Gogol meat.

After about five minutes, my chest’s burning, my face is stinging, and I can’t feel my nose in the cold, though I’m pretty sure it’s running. I’m seriously winded. It’s not my physical condition. An ESE cadet’s fit. It’s my bloody nerves. My cortisol levels are out of the atmosphere. I need to calm down and establish a steady pace behind Bukin.

And you need to keep a lookout
.

Damn it.
You should be on guard!
Prepared for an ambush at any time.
These rocks are perfect hiding places
.

Like the programmers anticipate my error, I hear a thud-like sound that only two bodies make upon full impact. I halt in front of a heaving mess of arms and legs wrestling on the ground.

It takes me a split second to make out what’s happening. A Gogol’s choking Bukin. Bukin lets out a croaky grunt as he tries to deploy several moves to break free. The Gogol’s too strong.

I make to launch myself on its back. Mid-stride, pain rips through my neck as my head’s yanked backward, hard. My first instinct is to wrench myself away from the Gogol that’s pulling my hair, when my training kicks in. I couldn’t if I want to. My back’s arched so far my legs are about to snap out. And that would put me on the ground. That would be real bad.

I force myself to do the exact opposite of what my instincts tell me: I lean back into the Gogol just enough to gain slack. Quickly I twist forward onto my left leg so that I’m facing his slobbering mess of a face. With momentum in my favor, I swing up my right arm to deliver a powerful groin strike that jars my entire body.

Bulls-eye. The Gogol howls and bends forward in pain. Without wasting a nanosecond, I grab his shoulder with both hands and use his forward momentum to pull his face right into my knee hard. I ram my knee into his face again. And again. I’m pretty sure I broke his nose that last time. He collapses, unconscious. Slime and gob and blood are all over my leg.

Quickly, I spin around.
Where’s Bukin
? I’m shaking all over, and forcibly swallow down the bile that’s climbed up my esophagus. Frantically scanning, I spot a pair of legs on the ground ahead, the rest of the body hidden in the dark. I spin around a second time, preparing for another attack. Nothing. I stare back, harder at the pair of legs, hoping not to see ESE’s recognizable boot soles.

“Bukin?” I say just loud enough.

Just as it sinks in that is not Bukin, and that I’m alone, Bukin emerges from the dark. There’s blood on his hands.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yup,” he says, hoarsely. I study him closely. He’s awfully white, and I probably look the same.

“Let’s go!” I whisper, panicking. Stoddard and Jackson wouldn’t have stopped for us given the tight timeframe. We have to catch up with them now. In order to pass the test, Bukin and I have to assist in the actual rescue.

Without another word, I take off in the direction they were headed. Bukin follows.

I’ve never run this fast in my life. I no longer care about my footing. Something else has taken over. My legs appear to run free of my conscious control. I focus only on guessing the right direction. Fortunately the rock outcrops are so steep and concentrated that Stoddard couldn’t have gone any other way.

Just when I begin to doubt myself, we come to a sudden stop at an opening where the rocks have been cleared. I can just see the beginning of the rock crops across the barren area, at least 100 miles in the distance. Up ahead, about 60 feet in front of me, are two giant Gogol warships, parked, and beyond that, the outpost, which is a rectangular, single-level compound.
Thank you!
The entrance is on the north side. We’re facing the west side.

“Quit it,” I whisper harshly to Bukin, who’s practically leaning on me, panting in my ear. I’m breathing heavy, too, but this is ridiculous. I face him and notice that he’s fixated on something straight ahead in the distance. I look in the same direction, hard. It’s Stoddard and Jackson, lying flat on the ground hidden by one of the warships, no doubt assessing the situation.

Bukin and I hit the ground and crawl across the sharp gravel, immediately adjusting our scramble in order to minimize the crunching rubble noises. Stoddard watches our approach. When we finally arrive, he gives us a rapid series of hand signals.

There are four guards.
Oh goodie, one for everyone
. Two guarding the entrance to the outpost. Another two just went inside. But,
wait
, I watch Stoddard’s hands closely.
Oh great
, there could be more inside. We now have 10 minutes once we are inside to locate the target, Sgt. Henderson. Stoddard and Jackson waited for us, after all, costing us two minutes.

Stoddard indicates that Bukin and I should take out the two guards near the door to clear the way for him and Jackson to gain entry.
Great
. On his command, he counts to down from three with his fingers.

Wait!

. . . Two. One.

I inhale sharply and leave the safety of cover, doing my best to dart silently the 30 feet or so to the lit wall of the outpost. Bukin’s behind me. When we reach the wall, we turn, getting our backs against it. I pause.
Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in.

I’m absolutely still. The Gogols are just around the corner. All I have in my favor is the element of surprise. But the running has wiped me out. My legs are jelly. My energy reserves are empty.

I bet Bukin’s wondering why I’m hesitating. Every second that ticks by, more fear spreads. It’s like a virus. My mind’s deadlocked. It’s ludicrous to confront these Gogols. But I can’t not. Doing nothing means a dead-end. No Daz. No King. No future.

You’ve come this far
.

Like in slow motion, I will my legs to take a few steps sideways, quietly, until I’m at the edge of the corner of the building. I’m only delaying the inevitable. Bukin must think I’m mad. Then again, it’s not like he’s diving into the fray. Just as I decide to jump out, my hand brushes the wall. A Gogol’s right in front of me, followed by the second, who spots Bukin and makes for him.

Without thinking, I resort to one of my favorite moves, a vertical front kick. Using the ball of my foot and the thrust of my hips forward, I aim right for the Gogol’s gut. He tries to move back but doesn’t quite make it. I get about 80 percent impact, which winds the Gogol but fails to knock him down.

He watches me with his mouth half-open, straining for air, a long string of gob hanging out. I just want to run. Bukin’s clearly in the thick of things with the other Gogol, given the grunting and rustling I hear. I’m on my own.

My Gogol hasn’t caught his breath but he’s coming in for an attack anyway. Terrified, I take a 360-degree defensive stance, my arms at oblique angles, hoping I can deflect any direct blows. I manage to block three rapid strikes (that hurt like an SOB) from the Gogol who has swung for my torso once and my head twice. But I’m not strong enough to prevent the fourth hit from knocking my own arm into my forehead, painfully. I stumble back to just miss another blow that would have knocked me out. I simply don’t have the strength. I search frantically for an escape route. But there isn’t one! The running, the fighting, my body is collapsing.

Not again.

The thought of failing generates a brand new kind of mind-boggling rage, and its energy infiltrates my body. I’m light as a feather. As deadly as a Vypie. I will kill this effing thing. I will inflict pain like it’s never felt.

I launch my body and a straight-arm-fist with all might at the Gogol, only I use my legs to hurl me forward instead of my torso. Using the strength of my lower body, my block and strike are supposed to land with 300 pounds of force. Lt. Lazarus spends extra time teaching the women moves for just these situations. As I propel my body a strange noise roars out of me.

I can’t believe the impact. The Gogol’s thrown back. I stand firm on the ground not far from where I started. With any luck I’ve collapsed his windpipe. Well, he’s grasping at his throat.

I’m still angry but the fire has died down. I don’t waste any time tripping the Gogol. He lands on his back, and I deliver three kicks to his head, not hard enough to actually kill him. But hard enough. He’s done. I tear my eyes away, and half-yawn. My jaw’s so tight.
Keep moving, Cassiel
.

I just catch Bukin slipping into the outpost entrance.
What the Jupiter
? He’s obviously heard how I failed the test the first time. I’d been eliminated by a Gogol while trying to help another cadet. Protocol is that we aid each other. Of course, we’re not supposed to get killed doing it. Maybe Bukin could see I’d handled my Gogol.

I make for the entrance, determined not to be left behind.
Dig deep Cassiel, you can do this.
Quickly I move all the way in—someone has blown the lights—so no one inside can see my silhouette in the doorframe. A thick smog, about three feet high, greatly reduces ground visibility. The only noise is a muffled alarm, which one of us must have tripped, going off. I stick close the wall, entering the first room slowly. I observe nothing in the dim light given off by the equipment but a typical outpost room. Comms, satts, a few tables and chairs. I look around again. There! Bloody handprints on the wall near the entrance to a room on the west side. I catch my breath. This is wrong. Very wrong.

A loud bang makes me jump, and the sound of wrestling in the room next door sends me into action. I race for the entrance, and go down like a ton of bricks. My chin hits the floor and by the grace of a nebula, I don’t bite my tongue.
Unbelievable. Did I really just fall on my face
? Dazed, I don’t bother trying to shake off the distorted vision. It begins to clear on its own.

I must have tripped over something in the fog. Heart fluttering, I twist around on the ground prepared for a Gogol, but it’s clearly Stoddard’s buzz cut. I crawl up to him real close because of the thick fog, and see,
what the . . .?

I can’t believe my eyes. Stoddard’s throat is slit. Wide open. Less than one foot from my face. Blood,
lots of it
, on my arms and hands, and I make the connection about why I felt something wet on me as I crawled over to him.
Is he dead
? Of course he’s dead. He looks doll-like. I have never seen a dead person before.

I sit up, my legs straight in front of me, shocked. To the core.
This is
. . .
wrong
. I rub my hands on my legs desperately, but the blood just gets stickier. I hear a whimper. From me, I think.

More banging next door. My head pops up.
Focus
. Drumming!
That’s your heart
, idiot. I lean forward on my hands to get up and feel a wave of dizziness. I prop myself up as best as I can and weave my way toward the next room’s opening.

I’m not at all prepared for what I see. The fog’s much lighter. Jackson’s on the floor, lying in a pool of his own blood, on top of what I hope is a dead Gogol.

Then I hear Bukin and, dazed, follow the yells, “Winters!” until I spot him through the haze on the other side of the room on the floor. He’s terror stricken, straddled by a Gogol gone haywire. The giant monster’s holding some knife-like weapon in the air with both hands, preparing to stab him. I have enough sense to run toward him but I’m not going to reach them in time.

Just as the Gogol brings the knife down, Bukin manages to twist out from under him . . . and I reach the Gogol. Before he stands upright, I land on my knees and apply a chokehold from behind with what little strength I can muster.
Oh, it’s not strong
—