Black Star Renegades Read online

  “Ah, damn it,” Cade grumbled.

  Cade felt the pressure of a whole lot of B-18s trained on the parts of himself that he’d grown accustomed to keeping in one piece. He liked his organs. He needed them.

  “Okay, here’s what we do,” Tristan said as, instinctually, he and Cade backed into each other. “You give me your shido, and I’ll get you an opening to get into the temple.”

  “To do what?!” Cade burst.

  “Cade, you can do this, you can—”

  The sound of the Heemahs’ feral cry. The sound of blaster fire.

  Cade hadn’t noticed, and apparently neither had the sentries, but the Heemahs had regrouped and were back on the offensive. But not just mindlessly charging as they had before. They were aggressively attacking the sentries and displaying strength and agility Cade would’ve never assumed they were capable of. And because they were already so close to the drones, the Heemahs could prevent them, at least for a time, from being able to get clean shots off. The mangy beasts tore off sentry limbs, pounced and chewed through faceplates, and battered their metal bodies with ferocious strength.

  The unbridled violence made Cade smile. “On second thought, I like these nutcases.”

  With the sentries distracted, Cade got to work thinning their numbers. As he rushed forward, Cade ignited his shido, and, like Tristan’s, crackling energy burst from its head. Most Rai, including Tristan, held their ignited shidos at the base of the weapon, using it almost like a spear. Cade, though, kept his hands centrally positioned, allowing him to make faster, compact strikes using either the electrified blades at the top or the reinforced boka wood at the bottom to pound his enemies. The combination served him well; he reached the sentries and, using a quick series of strikes, he was able to cut off the power supply in the neck of one drone, tear through the back of another, and—after a near blaster-fire miss—shatter the head of another. Tristan, meanwhile, was a whirlwind. Once he retrieved his shido from the alpha’s head, he struck with remarkable efficiency, destroying every sentry in his path.

  Tristan broke off to the right—heading to where the Heemahs were least concentrated and the sentries were regrouping—which meant Cade was to break left. When they first began their training at the Well, the Masters marveled at how Cade and Tristan could predict each other’s movements and act seamlessly as one, as if they shared a supernatural bond. But Cade knew there was nothing inexplicable about the depths of their relationship. All he had to do was think back on their nights on Kyysring, when they were cold, hungry, and scared, when the only thing in the galaxy they had was each other. He remembered the promises they’d made, that they’d get through the worst and make it someplace better. That was their bond—to survive, together, always. So when Tristan went right, Cade instinctively knew that the play was to divide and conquer and ensure their backs were never exposed.

  Cade had easy pickings. He finished off drones that’d been mangled by the Heemahs and short-circuited others. All the while, he kept an eye on Tristan; no matter how many times they sparred together, how many times he watched Tristan train the Well’s youngest recruits, Cade couldn’t stop himself from marveling at his brother’s preternatural fighting skills. Most people misunderstood why Tristan was so good at beating the snot out of everyone, but Cade knew the answer as clear as day. It wasn’t Tristan’s speed, strength, or reflexes that made him so unique. Nor was it his fighting style, which was as graceful as a silent dance. The secret to Tristan’s success came down to one simple ability that no one else recognized: Tristan could see the future.

  No one would believe Cade if he said that out loud, but it was true—in its own way. Be it human, drone, or an alien from some backward planet no one had ever heard of, Tristan always knew what his opponents were going to do before they did it, maybe even before they thought it. Cade watched as Tristan found himself surrounded by four sentries, three armed with B-18s while the fourth wielded a quanta staff. Any other Rai, including himself, would be dead. But Tristan? Tristan knew that the sentry at his eleven o’clock would fire first, so he kicked the side of the rifle just as it fired, sending the blast into the sentry at his seven. The sentry behind Tristan charged with his staff, and Tristan sidestepped it and took the staff right out of its hands. Seamlessly. He then flung the staff at the sentry at his three; the staff driving right into the sentry’s head and knocking it off its feet. The sentry at his eleven fired again, and Tristan in turn used the sentry who had attacked with its staff as a shield. He shoved the shield sentry forward, where it collided with the sentry that’d been firing its B-18 and landed on top of it. Never one for showy displays, Tristan walked to the pinned sentry and, using his shido, smoothly dispatched it.

  And like that, the battle was over.

  All that remained was the sound of dying electric sparks as the sentries powered down for good. Cade and Tristan were surrounded by nothing more than a metal scrap heap.

  “I guess we don’t have to worry about sneaking back out,” Cade said.

  Tristan smiled halfheartedly, then gestured ahead, calling Cade’s attention back in the direction of the burial grounds. There, he saw that the Heemahs were gathered in a circle—silent, all of them—their heads lowered to the ground. Cade followed Tristan closer, and he recognized what was happening: Centered in the circle of Heemahs was one of their brethren, lying lifelessly on its back. Cade stepped closer and saw charred skin on the Heemah’s chest, the unmistakable wound of blaster fire. Tristan bowed his head, joining the Heemahs in their mourning.

  Cade had always been troubled by death, more than Tristan, more than any Rai. Though he and Tristan both experienced the traumatic permanence of death—and at a very young age—Tristan was well-adjusted enough to acknowledge the tragedy and move on. He had to; all the Rai did. They faced death so often, caused it even, that dwelling on it would probably cripple the lot of them. Cade knew he was supposed to be more … mature, he supposed, and fortify himself with the acceptance of death as part of life, but he couldn’t. He looked at these Heemahs and couldn’t help but wonder if any of them were related to the one who’d been killed. Maybe they’d been friends.

  “Should we say something?” Cade whispered into Tristan’s ear. “I don’t know what they believe in, or what they pray to, but I feel we owe them—I don’t know—some kind of comfort. I feel bad.”

  Tristan turned to Cade and clasped his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” Tristan assured him. “Let them wish their deceased into a peaceful afterlife.”

  When the moment was over, the Heemahs turned to Cade and Tristan. For a moment, Cade was nervous they were going to redirect their outrage at losing one of their own toward its cause: Tristan and Cade’s meddling. It was their fault, after all, that the Heemahs had gotten involved in something that wasn’t their problem. Cade knew he’d be more than upset if the roles were reversed.

  “I am sorry for your loss,” Tristan said, stepping forward. “Your mate, like all of you, fought bravely.”

  The centermost Heemah nodded, then grunted in a way that sounded like it accepted Tristan’s condolences. It pointed sharply at Tristan, then it raised its arm and pointed toward the sky. The other Heemahs followed and did the same thing until they were all standing, silently, pointing upward.

  “Come on,” Tristan said, pulling Cade away. “We should go.”

  As he walked away, he realized that the Heemahs weren’t pointing to the sky to say their friend had gone there. They were pointing to the spire. He turned back and saw the Heemahs hadn’t moved; they were all standing as they had been, watching Cade and Tristan go as they kept their fingers directed toward the Rokura.

  Even they knew what was going to happen next.

  * * *

  The spire’s sanctum was located in the center of the structure, and though he and Tristan were just starting their ascent, Cade was already compelled to complain about having such a long way to walk.

  A winding staircase, carved out of the spir
e’s own rock, wrapped up and around, probably to the very top. Cade couldn’t tell, as the perspective from the bottom to the top eclipsed before it could give a clear view of the peak. At least they didn’t have to drag their butts all the way to the top, Cade thought. That would take forever. Luckily, the trek up the staircase wasn’t without interesting things to look at. All the way up, rooms were dug into the spire, set right into the rock, which was a marvel unto itself. And each room was adorned with spiritual talismans, artifacts, and paintings that, as far as Cade could tell, told the story of the Quarrian race’s history. It was a good thing all that stuff was inside the spire: Its interior was probably the only place that had survived Praxis’s assault and the subsequent fallout intact.

  “Do you ever think about it?” Cade asked as he Tristan stopped to take a break on a platform between stairs. Cade sat with his legs dangling over the edge; they were on fire, sore from all the climbing. “I mean really think about it?”

  “About what?” Tristan stood next to Cade on the platform, eyes scanning everything, eager to move.

  “About what we’re going to eat when we get back home,” Cade sharply replied. “About becoming the Paragon, idiot.”

  “Of course I do, all the time.” Tristan sighed then looked up, as if he were being cautious so the Rokura wouldn’t hear him.

  Cade groaned. He hated having to wrench opinions out of his brother. Somewhere along the path to becoming the most perfect person ever, Tristan had concluded that the best way to satisfy the most people was to keep his opinions to himself. That way, there’d be nothing about him to disagree with or disapprove of.

  “And what do you think about when you think about being the Paragon, Tristan?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I think…” Tristan paused as his brow beetled in thought. “I think I won’t be able to solve all the galaxy’s problems.”

  Cade screwed up his face into a full “Huh?” so Tristan continued: “Look, I don’t know how Wu-Xia brought peace to the galaxy. I have no clue. Neither does Master Jorken or the Well High Council or anyone else. But I’m willing to bet he didn’t do it alone. If I claim the Rokura, then, sure, I suppose that grants me some kind of authority to lead—but a leader is useless without people unified behind him. Praxis can be defeated, I know they can, but only if the galaxy unites and fights as one.”

  “Oh, sure,” Cade said. “Because the galaxy is just looking for a reason to put aside its differences and start getting along.”

  “They’ll get it together, I know it.”

  “Yeah, when a messiah tells them to,” Cade sardonically replied.

  Tristan tousled his brother’s already unruly hair. “Your fake cynicism doesn’t impress anyone.”

  Cade swatted Tristan’s hand away and fixed his hair. “And your unrelenting optimism makes people uncomfortable. You know that, right?”

  “I do, but they come around. Goodness always wins out.”

  “Ugh. You can’t even stop yourself.”

  “Oh, come on,” Tristan said. “I was joking.”

  Tristan pulled Cade up, ending their break. “Let’s go, little brother,” he said. “We’re almost there.” Cade looked at his brother and felt the need to say something. Something important. Soon, things would never be the same for them again. Tristan was about to be vaulted into a new life, and Cade would continue to just be Cade. It was as if Cade were standing on a hangar platform, watching his brother board a ship that would take him somewhere he could never go. The idea filled Cade with a sense of loss, of mourning. But before Tristan departed, Cade wanted to somehow capture this moment and hold it so he could think back, fondly, on the last time when he and Tristan were a pair. Just like they always had been.

  The words didn’t come, though, and Cade continued their climb, following one step behind his brother.

  Tristan was right; they weren’t far. A few turns of the staircase was all that remained before they spotted glyphs, ancient and rendered unreadable by time, that marked the entrance to the Rokura’s sanctum.

  All the Masters had told Cade and Tristan the same thing, that it was impossible to describe the chamber where the Rokura was locked in its stasis. Master Jorken said that thinking about it was like trying to remember a dream, and Cade rolled his eyes. He thought it was code for “I’m too old to remember.” But he was wrong.

  They stepped inside the sanctum, which was much larger than any of the other chambers they’d passed on the way up the spire. And unlike those other chambers, this one wasn’t adorned in any way whatsoever. It was just a cavern given shape by black walls that were slightly obscured by a thin layer of red-tinted mist that hovered eerily throughout the space. The patches of mist swirled slowly, like little universes holding their planets in orbit. And who knows, Cade thought, in this weird place, maybe they were.

  “Echo!” Cade yelled, but the only response he received in return was a scowl from Tristan.

  They continued to take cautious steps forward, and Cade felt the atmosphere change all around him. It was cold, so much so that Cade clasped the outer layer of his tunic shut and huddled into it for warmth. But it wasn’t just that. Cade got the sense that there was a presence in the room with him, something he couldn’t touch or see, but he could detect it all around him. He tried to laugh about the idea of the Rokura’s magical spirit controlling its surrounding climate and setting the mood so it could haunt anyone who dared breach its sanctum. But as much as Cade wanted to make light of what he was experiencing, he had a hard time drawing upon his usual levity. What was happening was real. Cade could feel the presence of the Rokura envelope him, and he felt awed because of it.

  “This is not what I expected,” Cade said.

  Tristan shushed him. “Concentrate,” he said. “Something’s happening.”

  They took another step forward, and suddenly the cavern began to glow. Chrysthums—floating orbs ranging in size from just a few inches in circumference to nearly two feet—bathed the surrounding area in soft blue-tinted light from their luminous core. Cade reached out to touch one that was floating in front of him; as he made contact with its translucent exterior, light met his fingertips and its glow carried warmth right into his core. It soothed him, and he wondered if that’s what the chrysthums were there, in this special place, to do.

  Tristan squeezed Cade’s shoulder, and Cade turned to see many of the chrysthums organized into a single-file row. The orbs formed a line along a stone path that rose out of the cavern’s ground and up; Cade’s gaze followed the chrysthums to where the path ended at a floating platform.

  “I take it they want us to follow,” Cade said.

  “I would say so,” Tristan replied.

  Silently, Cade and Tristan walked the chrysthum path. With every step, Cade felt anxiety welling within him. He knew people took him as cavalier, and he didn’t blame them, because most of the time he acted cavalier. He was reckless, rebellious, and tended to make light of too many serious situations. But, Cade would argue, his shortcomings weren’t all his fault. The Well barely let him do anything. When a civil war broke out on Durang, the Well sent in all their Rai, except for Cade. Someone, they’d told him, had to help the Masters protect their home in case of attack—even though that hadn’t happened since never. When a trade blockade threatened to strangle Sulac, Tristan led a team of Rai to solve the problem, and, even though his brother petitioned for Cade to accompany him, the Masters wouldn’t budge. Cade was excluded like this all the time, and, yeah, it made him pissed and bored. Because the fact was, despite superficial appearances, Cade cared. He cared about the galaxy’s strife, and he wanted to fulfill his duty as a Rai and be an agent of peace and justice. He cared about the planets being trampled by Praxis, the families and homes being torn apart as the kingdom spread its cancer from one end of the galaxy to the next. He cared about his brother, and as proud of him as he was, he was afraid for what might happen if Tristan became the Paragon. How enemies would target him. How allies would use him. Thin
gs were about to change in a way no one—not Cade, not Tristan, not the Masters—understood, and Cade couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that these changes weren’t all going to be good.

  But there was no turning back. The Masters were counting on them; the galaxy was counting on them. As Cade and Tristan stepped onto the platform, uncertainty jabbed Cade in his gut. His instinct was to grab his brother and run, to forget all about the Rokura and leave while they still could. Cade knew that wouldn’t happen—especially when he looked straight ahead and there, not ten feet away from them, was the weapon that had the power to change the course of the entire galaxy.

  The Rokura.

  Cade froze, his glance locked on the object suspended in space, bathed in a soft light that had no source, hovering just above eye level. He didn’t know what he had expected; he spent years conceptualizing the Rokura as a legend, not an object that actually existed. Examining it, Cade noticed nothing outstanding about the Rokura. His own shido, like all shidos, was a replication of its design. Though no one knew what kind of power the Rokura might contain—speculation abounded—its outward appearance was purposefully identical to Cade’s weapon. Long ago, the Masters decided to train all Rai to be proficient with a Rokura knockoff, making it their primary weapon. That way, when the Paragon arrived, he or she would be prepared to wield his or her birthright.

  “What are you waiting for?” Tristan asked. Cade craned his neck to see his brother still standing at the top of the platform, watching him. “Grab it.”

  “Yeah, no thanks. Cleaning up the galaxy is going to be your problem.” Cade laughed, wiggling his fingers like some kind of spell. “You and your magical weapon.”

  If Cade was honest with himself, he’d cop to having moments in which he considered what it’d be like to try to pull the Rokura from its stasis. It’s not like that was something he had the chance to do every day. While the actual moment would be nice, what came after was so terrifying that it didn’t justify the chance he’d be taking simply by putting his hands on the weapon. If he tried to pull the Rokura out and it failed to budge, well, it would be just another reminder that Cade wasn’t good enough. Wasn’t good enough to be the Paragon, wasn’t as good as his brother. It would be the galaxy telling him he was stuck in second place—second place of two. Or—and this is where things got truly awful—if he removed the Rokura, he’d become the savior for countless people on numerous worlds. Cade could not imagine a worse scenario for himself or the galactic population. So he preferred path three: Don’t get involved.