Chapter 20
TASK
SFS POLARIS
It’s been almost a week since Task learned that Draven lied to him about Noemi, and he feels restless, like a caged animal. His thoughts have been tumbling about in his head, though all wind up in the same place.
Draven’s been keeping things from him. The revelation about Noemi made him think about the strange file that was left in his room, the bizarre words the Rev spoke to him before Task had slaughtered him. While he’s certain there must be a good explanation for all of it, it’s unsettling him.
Now, he sits at the desk in his quarters, waiting for a call from Draven.
He taps his fingers idly against the metal, and then Draven’s face appears in front of him.
He could be sitting with Task, the image is so clear, so real.
He’s not at his desk today. Instead, he’s sitting in his wrought iron bed, sunlight cutting across his face in a sharp line.
“Uncle,” Task blurts, overcome with fear.
“Task,” his uncle replies, nodding. His skin is sallow, almost gray, and his violet eyes appear dull. Even his dark hair, which generally shines, is muted. He looks as though the light has left him entirely.
“How are you?” Task asks, though it’s a dumb question. He can see he’s sicker than he’s ever been. It’s unlike Draven to take calls from his bed like this, and Task doesn’t think he would unless it was to speak to him. This would make him appear weak, call into question his ability to rule.
“Fine,” Draven says. “How is the Vitalis? Are you keeping an eye on her?”
“Yes,” Task responds, immediately. “Of course.” He feels helpless, looking at his uncle. “What are the healers doing for you?”
“More cortidium,” Draven replies. “They’ve told me to stop using my power.”
“They’re right,” Task says. “There are other Mind Readers at Xaria. You should rely upon them until we have the Vitalis in our hands.”
Draven sighs, loud and long. “The Consortium is fragile, Task. I need to know who I can rely on. I need to know that there aren’t traitors in our ranks, that the Force can be trusted.” He pauses, then says, “Look what happened when I left it to Silgar. Revs infiltrated the Force.”
Silgar was one of the other Mind Readers, who was supposed to oversee vetting Force members.
But Silgar had grown lazy, didn’t want to use his power as he should have been, and thus, Revs had made it into the Force.
Silgar had been punished, of course, but Draven couldn’t stand to lose him, so he’d kept him alive in a cell beneath Xaria.
Not a great quality of life, but he’d done it to himself, really.
“Silgar isn’t indicative of the High Council members more generally,” Task tries. “They’re loyal to you, uncle.”
“Are they?” Draven cocks his head, his eyes narrowed, as if trying to peer into Task’s soul.
Even if he could read Task’s mind, he wouldn’t be able to through the Prism.
Like Task’s ability, it requires physicality.
Still, the way that Draven asks the question unsettles him, as if he somehow knows that Task has had thoughts he shouldn’t, that a certain file is troubling him, that the story that Tullia told him has him wondering. As if he’s really asking, are you?
“They are,” Task says more firmly, as much to remind himself of his position, of his trust in Draven, as he is trying to instill confidence in Draven.
“Please, rely upon Cortalia. Or Silgar. He has no choice but to be truthful with you now, given his circumstances.” Then, against his better judgment, he says, “I can’t lose you too. ”
His uncle’s face softens, almost imperceptibly, but Task catches it. He’s studied the man for decades now, and he knows his tells. “You will bring her to me immediately upon arriving at Port.”
“As soon as I’m certain we’re clear to get off the ship, I’ll bring her,” Task confirms. But even as he says the words, he feels his stomach twist. He doesn’t know her well, but he finds himself wanting to. And that — that would not at all be good for the mission.
That evening, Task circles Voss in the hangar, the closest thing he’ll get to a training ring aboard the luxury passenger ship. They’re wedged in between two Hoppers, just enough space to lunge at each other and dance back, their surge-sabers whining each time they make contact.
After the conversation with Draven, he’d needed an outlet. He’d goaded Voss into sparring with him, but it’s a familiar dance they do, something that brings him comfort.
Voss has been by Task’s side since they were children.
Task was given his first surge-saber a few months after Voss, despite being six years his junior, and when he wasn’t cultivating his power with Draven, he was training with Voss.
Learning how to expertly wield his surge-saber and lumi-dagger, disarm his enemy, deal a killing blow with the weapons.
Voss is shirtless, sweat pooling at the base of his neck and dripping down his torso.
They’ve been sparring for over an hour, and Task hasn’t let up.
He knows Voss won’t quit until given a reason.
He’s persistent like that. Task, in many ways, feels he doesn’t deserve a friend like Voss.
He has strongly held convictions, views things in black and white, believes in his people, in Task, unconditionally.
Task whirls, bringing his surge-saber over his head to stop Voss’ thrust. The sabers whine as they collide again, and Voss grunts with the effort it takes to hold off Task’s weapon. “How much longer are we doing this?”
Task forces Voss’ surge-saber down, then taps his thumb against the hilt of his own, cutting the energy off.
Voss lunges forward, the surge-saber pulsing through Task’s energy shield.
He jolts back, pain radiating from where the saber jabbed him.
“Thanks a lot.” He glares at Voss, who smirks, picking up his discarded shirt and wiping his face on it.
“Sometimes you need someone to put you in your place.”
Task lifts the bottom of his sweat-drenched shirt to wipe his own face, trying to catch his breath. He supposes he deserved that, after behaving like a royal pain in the ass all day long. But in his defense, it wasn’t without cause.
“Water?” Voss asks, grabbing a tin from the edge of the hangar. He holds it out to Task, who takes it reluctantly, still recovering from being stabbed. As soon as he brings the tin to his lips, he chugs greedily, thirstier than he realized.
“Feel better?” Voss asks, wiping his brow with his shirt and smirking.
Task glares at him out of the corner of his eye. “Yes, thank you.”
“Want to tell me the reason you’ve been a piece of work all day?” Count on Voss to get right to the heart of the matter.
Task sighs, pushing a hand through his sweaty hair. “Aside from being trapped aboard this ship with the Lows?”
Voss throws him a pointed look, as if to say, and?
“Do you know anything about a Project C?” Task asks.
The real reason he’s been in a foul mood today.
Or, one of them. The other concerns a certain woman he’d revealed too much to in the sundome — the one he wants to make amends with for reasons he doesn’t quite understand.
He is adamantly choosing not to focus on that.
“The other week, after the attack in the engineering room, there was a Prism in my room with a strange file open. It wasn’t mine.
I have no idea where it came from, but the files…
they were about a mission I have no knowledge of. ”
“A Prism?” Voss asks, taking a sip of water and frowning. “With files about a mission?”
“Yes. My wing apparently executed it in 4027.”
Voss is quiet, digesting, then repeats, “4027?”
Task nods. Voss knows the year as well as he does. The year everything had changed.
“And you have no idea where it came from?”
“It was there when I returned,” Task confirms.
“What did you find?”
Task explains to Voss the redacted details of the mission, the two targets and their codenames. He doesn’t need to explain the relevance of the year.
“Odd,” Voss says.
“That’s all?” Task says. “Odd?”
“Yes, odd. That it was the same year your parents were killed. That the location was so close to Aresgate, and that the file has been so heavily redacted. And that it was just left in your room. Nobody should have access to your quarters…” He pauses, puzzling through the information.
“We know there are Revs aboard this ship. Could it have been one of them?”
Task frowns. “I suppose, though I still don’t know how they would have gotten access to my quarters. And for what purpose?”
Voss raises his brows, inclining his head a bit as if Task is an idiot. “To throw you off, of course. To garner this sort of reaction.”
Task scoffs. “I’m not having a reaction. I’m merely trying to understand.”
“Sure,” Voss says, lightly, a smile blooming on the edge of his mouth. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Voss,” Task shoots out his hand, placing it on Voss’ forearm with no concern for the consequence of touching him. He winces even as he’s prepared for the shock of pain. “Be careful. Just…I got the sense that whatever this was, it was sensitive. Perhaps highly classified.”
Voss snorts. “I’m one of four colonels in the Nexarium Force. I should have access to everything.”
Task still eyes him with concern, and Voss softens. “I’ll be careful, alright? Don’t worry.”
“There’s something else.” Task looks at his friend out of the corner of his eye, biting into his lower lip as he thinks back on Tullia’s words about Noemi.
Voss raises his eyebrows. “What else?”
Task braces himself, trying to bring her name to his lips. It’s gotten easier over the years, but sometimes it’s still a punch to the gut — the grief and the longing, the way he misses what they had. “Noemi,” he breathes out, fiddling with the silver ring on his finger, avoiding Voss’ gaze.
Voss is silent, waiting for Task to continue.
“I… When I was on duty in the quarantine ward the other day with the ambassador, I spoke to Tullia. She told me something strange.”
“Strange how?”
“She told me that Noemi was found floating in the Caliphrades. That it was covered up. That Draven lied to me.” Task’s words float into the cool air, hang there as he waits for Voss to respond.
“I’m sure he did it to protect you,” Voss replies, though he’s gone entirely still.
“Protect me?” Task wants to laugh. If his uncle wanted to protect him, he should have let him rest more, recover more, during his training.
Avoided forcing him to use his abilities on people Task knew.
Even if it was for his own good, it was brutal sometimes, and it had made Task brutal too.
Cold. Unfeeling. Or at least, it had made him very good at packing those feelings away, somewhere so deep he could rarely access them.
“From the pain,” Voss explains. “You were manifesting, going through it, in agony as it was. I’m sure he didn’t want to make it worse.”
“Perhaps,” Task says. “Perhaps.”