Page 11 of The Space Between Stars

Year: 748 Post Cataclysm: Present Day

Location: Jiradesh Desert

Beneath the sweltering heat of the Jiradeshi sun, Niklaus swore that he would—he would—prevent the fall of the oligarchy, so long as he stayed alive. Not that swearing did much good. The cooking hearth belching flame beneath the canvas mess tent made it even warmer in the shade, and he was nearly sure that under fire, morals disintegrated the same as any other fiber.

Sweat beat out a slow, steady dirge as it dripped from his hair and the tip of his nose into the increasingly dirty wash water where he scrubbed meal trays. The bin was saltier than the Casowhatan by now.

Niklaus’s hands trembled, reaching for the moss tin in his breast pocket—but no, he was on restricted access. If he had it now, there would be nothing for him when he truly needed it. There was a joke in there somewhere: something to do with a rich man learning to ration. He’d never wanted for anything… Except perhaps self-respect. Hardly a comparable experience. There was no way to set aside a thing which had long since run dry.

A tremor shook his body. Bone-deep chills coursed through him, cresting with another spike of nausea. He closed his eyes, waiting for the sensation to pass. Preservation help him. Joining the Red Wing might have been a good decision if the welcome had been as warm as the desert, the desert as exciting as the prospect of his weekly shower, and his weekly shower as isolating as his reputation. But causing enough discord to have his assets revoked in the first twenty-four hours had not been a part of the plan.

Niklaus spoke, hoping it would prevent anything else from spilling out of his mouth and into the dishwater.

“They were right to call this place a wasteland,” he rasped, his words directed towards the only person within earshot: the cook. He was more boulder than man, his figure so imposing that he had to work with his hairy arms fully extended to scrape at the griddle without burning his gut. “You would never guess that we’re moving. It’s looked the same in every direction for almost a ten-day.”

The cook grunted.

“Not that I mean to insult the desert—after all, it constitutes sixty-five percent of Nelfinden topography and I’m a patriot. I’m sure we’re just seeing it under adverse circumstances, when it hasn’t rained in a while.” The witticism was met by silence. “Don’t you think?” Though Niklaus could not tell for certain whether the man thought at all.

He straightened, ignored the stars before his eyes, and moved to the cook’s station, where he pulled another stack of dishes into his basin. It slipped from his sweating hands to the ground. He steadied himself with a hand as he re-collected the dishes. Fates, this day would have to come to an end at one point or another. The only way through was sweating.

Out it came—not vomit, more words. “What do you think about General Prime Thyatira?” The silence was stiff as the lack of breeze beneath the tent. “Incredible what he’s accomplished, isn’t it?”

The cook responded this time by spitting directly onto the griddle and continuing to fry some kind of half-spoiled meat in the recycled grease from that morning’s lard. There was no indication as to whether the gesture stood to his regard for their leader or for Niklaus’s question. Niklaus wiped at the sweat on his face again. The cook did not appear to be perspiring, even with his proximity to the fire. All that insulation, yet not a bead.

“It’s hot today,” Niklaus commented idly.

“Do you ever shut it?” the chef snapped.

So he could talk.

He turned toward Niklaus, fist raised. Niklaus made an evasion attempt, which was really just him flopping onto his back in the sand under the tent. The cook shook his head and turned back to his cuisine, blessedly deciding against turning Niklaus’ face into a pancake. “Fates cursing me to get stuck with the likes of you,” he said.

Niklaus felt like a drop of honey in a warm mouth as he lay on his back, the growing pile of dishes abandoned at his side. His shaking fingers found their way to his emergency flask—which, admittedly, he had been using in an extracurricular manner. He drained it. Please let this torture end quickly. Please let the rest of the day be painless. Easy.

A shadow passed over the sands beside the tent.

“Meyernes,” a familiar voice growled, somewhere between an order and a curse. Lieutenant Baem Limtush, his late father’s once-employer.

Well, there went any chance Niklaus had at joining the clergy.

Niklaus winced. Baem Limtush was the sort of man you didn’t want to know. If there was anything that surpassed Baem’s greed, it was his lack of empathy. If there was anything that could soothe his temper, it was his own self-righteousness. And yet here he stood, Lieutenant in the Red Wing for twenty years. That went to show that a single victory, like the one he’d gained at the Battle of Casowhatan, could earn a person credibility for life.

Just as one failure would get a person ostracized indefinitely.

Niklaus scrambled to his feet. “Limtush. Always a pleasure.”

At Limtush’s side stood the most unfortunate-looking young man Niklaus had ever seen. Thin as a twig and with a nose entirely too large for his face, the boy wore large, dark oculars, fixed adamantly on the ground. An Azadonian. By all accounts, unusual. Nelfindar had closed its borders to Azadonia—a southern nation of cave-dwelling matriarchs—nearly a decade ago.

“How are you finding your time in the Red Wing?” Limtush’s haughty sneer did nothing to help Niklaus’s stomach.

Niklaus swayed on his feet but steadied his voice. “Well, I can’t say I love the desert, but I’m sure I’m just seeing it under adverse circumstances, when it hasn’t rained in a while.”

Limtush pinched at the bridge of his nose. “The east quarter chef has asked to be removed from assignment with you.”

Niklaus stole a glance at the boulder-chef, who coughed and looked determinedly at the griddle.

“We don’t have that kind of flexibility. I need you to get your shit together. Now. Did you know Rebethel is working like a fiend to clear your name?”