Chapter 3 #2
The interior of Xaria was as harsh as the exterior, boasting similar hard lines and edges.
The floors were a glossy black, and although the infirmary was painted a bright white, the rest of Xaria was all muted grays or blacks.
The long hallway leading to Draven’s study was dark, and as Task stepped over the threshold from the stairwell, lights automatically came on, illuminating the corridor.
Framed photos of Nexarium’s desolate landscape adorned the walls.
Task had studied them growing up, and could name every single location, the year the photo was taken, and why the location was significant.
Day after day, week after week, Task had stood in this hall asking questions of his uncle, then reciting the facts he’d learned back to him.
Now, he had good news to share with the uncle who’d done so much for him, and excitement prickled under his skin.
Draven had been patient, but Task knew he’d been anticipating this for some time.
Draven had no heir, and Task couldn’t help but think this might make Draven view him as a favorable stand-in.
Someone to succeed him, whenever that became necessary.
People on Nexarium were not immortal — all the technology in the world hadn’t been able to solve that problem.
But they tended to live long lives, especially the Ruling Class, thanks to the power tithes.
Task supposed his uncle must be close to one hundred and seven now, though he still appeared as though he were in his early forties.
Draven’s door was large, crafted of black iron, not unlike the one leading into Task’s own chambers.
Nothing remarkable about it, despite being the place where the Governor of Nexarium ruled the planet.
Two guards stood outside, clad in the navy blue uniform of the Nexarium Force. They nodded to him.
“Task,” the one on the left said. Hanson, he thought.
“Is my uncle available?” Task asked.
“Let me check,” Hanson said, pushing open the metal door quietly and leaving Task with the other guard. He returned a moment later, beckoning to Task.
Task followed him through the doors, into his uncle’s sitting room, lined with black leather sofas on either side, a fireplace quietly crackling between them.
“He’ll be out in a moment.” Hanson nodded again and was gone.
Task was too anxious to sit, so he paced instead, thinking about how he would tell Draven this momentous news.
His whole life had been leading to this moment, when he would become valuable to Nexarium, valuable to Draven in a way he wasn’t yet.
He often felt like a nuisance. He was too old to be considered a child anymore, but he couldn’t have a seat on the High Council without manifesting, nor was he Draven’s heir.
He wasn’t providing Draven or Nexarium any real value.
He went to school, of course, and put in the time and energy to learn everything he could about Nexarium and all of the planets that surrounded them, their intricacies and their histories, the treaties that governed them, the fragile ecosystem that was the Consortium.
Eight planets — Calandra, known for its natural resources; Etharia, known for its technological prowess; Syndaris, the economic hub of the galaxy; Oraxis, known for its manufacturing; Aquidium, largely made up of ocean but with one undersea colony bigger than Etharia and Oraxis combined; Vermaxian, known for its lush vegetation and agriculture; Lumaria, known for its medical abilities, and of course, Nexarium, known for its pink salt.
All the planets were governed slightly differently.
Nexarium was a caste system, where people were divided and organized based on their abilities.
Those that were most powerful — people like Mind-Readers, Diviners, Power and Energy Manipulators, Time Warpers — were part of the elite, Ruling Class.
They sat on Draven’s High Council or occupied other high-level, official positions.
The Mids, as they were informally called, boasted elemental powers — wind, rain, shadows.
The Lows had only very basic magic — things like heating a pot of water, perhaps some light mending, a touch of healing — and were normally employed as servants.
Lumaria was organized differently. The minister was popularly elected, and they were not organized based on any type of power structure that Task could tell.
They had powers on par with the Lows, which in Task’s mind, meant they weren’t very valuable at all.
They were employed based on what they could contribute to society, and there wasn’t any indentured servitude. Absurd, really.
The door opened, snapping Task out of his history recitation.
“Task,” Draven smiled, his black hair falling over his forehead. He was dressed informally, a tunic over a pair of trousers, no crown atop his head. No visitors today, then. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
And all the carefully crafted sentences that Task had put together went out of his brain as he blurted, “I think I’ve manifested!”
Shock, and then excitement crossed Draven’s face. He grabbed Task and pulled him in for a hug. “I knew it would only be a matter of time.”
Task was suddenly submerged in a well of pain so deep, he couldn’t tell which end was up.
Flashes of loss, of a deep-seated grief Task knew nothing about, of a battle wound to the thigh, all flowed into Task, and he was overpowered.
Overwhelmed. He felt himself going limp in Draven’s grip, his vision blurring.
“Task?” Draven asked, stepping back to peer at him. “Are you alright?”
“It’s the…” Task tried to fight through the agony. “The power, I think.” He was sweating now, and he needed to tell Draven to stop touching him, but he couldn’t get the words out.
A flicker of recognition crossed Draven’s face. “Task,” Draven said, calmly. “Will you be alright if I let go?”
“Yes,” he gasped out. Draven released him, and it was as if his hand had been removed from a vice. A rush of relief flowed through him so quickly, it made him dizzy. “I need to…I need to sit.”
“Of course,” Draven said. “Here.” He ran to pull a sleek metal chair over from a console table. “Sit.”
Task obeyed, trying to right himself. “Sorry,” he breathed. “It hurts. When someone touches me.” He could still feel the aftereffects of Draven’s touch roiling through him, buzzing through his blood, pounding in his forehead.
Draven crouched down so he was eye-level with Task.
“I’m sure,” he said. He was silent for a moment, his violet eyes scanning Task as if taking him in for the first time.
“Task…I haven’t seen this in decades.” Task could feel the excitement pouring off his uncle.
He saw the way his eyes widened, the way his left hand was tapping his left knee.
“What is it?” Task moaned. He dropped his head into his hands, running them through his hair. His head was pounding, and he felt full, stretched to bursting.
His uncle looked at him again. “Are you alright to stand? Why don’t we go into my office?”
Task wasn’t sure he could stand, not with the pain threatening to blind him. But he agreed. He didn’t want to look weak in front of his uncle, not when he’d been counting on this to prove his value, to catapult him into his uncle’s official ranks.
He pushed himself up from the chair on shaky legs, his uncle hovering next to him with an outstretched hand. Not that it would be much help if Task fell, not unless he wanted to inject another surge of pain into him.
Task moved across the sitting room towards the entryway to his uncle’s office, a large, obsidian room that attached to Draven’s full chambers.
There was a large window carved into the right side of the office, where Draven could watch his ships come and go, and keep an eye on his space force, their training exercises.
It was midday, but the sky was gray, making it dim inside of Draven’s office.
Draven snapped his fingers as he entered the office behind Task, and the torches along the walls behind his desk illuminated.
He gestured toward the two wooden chairs in front of his desk for Task to sit down, walking around and taking a seat on the other side.
Task slumped into one, trying to take even breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth.
Draven flicked his hand to the side, and the metal door behind Task swung shut.
Draven looked at Task again, locking eyes with him.
“Task,” Draven said, slowly, once he was sure his door was firmly shut, “you’re a Pain Echo. I’m certain of it.”
“A Pain Echo?” Task rested his head on the back of the chair, looking up at the ceiling. He’d never heard of it. No one that he’d encountered in Draven’s space force, on his staff, on his Council, had such a thing.
“They’re rare,” Draven said, resting his hands on his desk.
A signet ring on his left hand glinted in the torchlight.
“We haven’t had one in decades. The last time one sat on my Council was seventy-five years ago.
” He sighed. “It’s a unique gift, but you’ll have to learn how to wield it. It’s not as easy to master as others.”
Task tried to focus on what his uncle was telling him. “What does it do? Besides give me a headache the size of Syndaris.”
“It can be lethal,” Draven explained. “You can feel the pain of others when you touch them, or when they touch you. You can internalize that pain and echo it back into them.” He could see Draven calculating something in his mind.
“A game changer in battle. In my Force.” He said the last part to himself, but Task caught it.
This was good news. He had a power that could be a game changer. That was what he wanted, wasn’t it?
Task nodded, still looking at the ceiling. “I see.” His immediate concern was how to make the residual headache go away, how to reduce the feeling of fullness inside of him. “And the side effects?”
Draven studied him. “You’re still feeling them?”
“Unfortunately,” Task groaned.
Draven was briefly silent. “I think you’re much stronger than you realize,” he finally said, looking at Task, his violet eyes traveling over his face.
If only Task had known what that statement meant then, what his strength would contribute to Draven’s High Council, his rule.
He’d wanted to be meaningful to Draven; he’d counted upon his power being valuable in some very significant way. But at what cost?
In that moment, Task tried to hide a smile, despite the pain. All he’d wanted was to be strong, to be powerful, to be of value in Draven’s court — to repay him for everything he’d given Task in the wake of his parents’ death. And now here he was, manifesting, stronger than he realized.
“Like I said.” His uncle’s voice broke through his racing thoughts. “Pain Echoes are rare. We haven’t had one in the Nexarium Force in nearly a century. We’ll have to train you, of course, so you know how to wield. This is something that we can use to our advantage, Task.”
Task nodded, lifting his head from the back of his chair and locking eyes with Draven. “Good. However I can be of service to you, uncle.”
“We begin training tomorrow,” Draven said, squaring a piece of parchment on his desk, moving his writing utensil so it was at a ninety-degree angle with the page. He nodded again, almost to himself.
Task wanted to ask about the side effects, about the fullness he still felt, but he was finally useful. He didn’t want to raise them again and risk appearing weak to Draven. So he sat quietly, his head throbbing, his chest full, and vowed he would fight through it, no matter how bad it got.