Chapter 40 Samson
SAMSON
The Ayoni have kept their nation and its secrets to themselves. Perhaps that is why they endure today. Whatever darkness they hold, it is theirs and theirs alone.
Ayona emerged from beneath a grey lumbering mass of storm clouds that rippled with distant lightning.
Even within the tanker, Samson could taste the metallic bite of the storm.
The singed charge in the air. When they docked upon the pier with their Yumi call signs, he half imagined the fearsome warriors coming out, lightning burning through the sky with every step. He knew the stories.
“When a female sorceress seethes, all the world shakes,” his mother had said as she delicately plucked a crystal from a smoking pit. The crystal had shattered upon her tongue with blue mist, and the Jantari soldier kneeling before them had cried out as a cut slowly opened along his neck. “See?”
He cast a glance at Elena. Was she one of them? A female sorceress who would make the world shatter?
She must have felt him staring, because without turning, she said, “Are you afraid?”
He watched as the ramp lowered and Ayona appeared before them in its violent shades of purple. “Of who?”
She turned to him with a teasing smile that disarmed him more than he liked to admit. “The Yumi. This is your first time meeting one of the Mokshi.”
“No,” he said, not quite a lie, not quite the truth. He wasn’t afraid of the Yumi, but he was apprehensive about her. Her power. Her sway.
But she’s on your side. And you have her Agni, he reminded himself. He probed their connection and felt her Agni flutter at his touch. If he wanted, he could push further, tap into her nadis and pull what he needed.
He offered his arm. “Ready?”
They disembarked along with Chandi and Jaya. They were each allowed to bring only one companion, and he had elected Chandi, while Elena had chosen the gamemaster. She’s too smart and notices everything, she had told him. We’ll need that when we meet the Ayoni.
A Yumi came forward, along with a short man.
The dockmaster. The Ayoni wore a thick leather coat that fastened at the collar and carried the scent of something sweet, like licorice.
He had thin features and a bleak nose. Small holos hovered around his eyes, but he waved them away and slipped off his clear visor in a manner that reminded Samson of a raven plucking at its feathers.
His lips were painted black, his long hair pulled tight into a low bun and fastened with silver coins shaped like crescent moons.
He said something in his jabbering Ayini and then looked to the Yumi beside him to translate.
“He welcomes you,” the Yumi said in smooth Hind.
“We’re grateful he allowed us to land. It is an honor to be granted passage into your country.”
The Yumi spoke softly, and the man chortled. He looked at them with slight derision, though Samson felt as if the dockmaster was examining him, his eyes sweeping over his shoulders, his legs, his hands. When the man met his eyes, he scowled and looked back at the Yumi.
“He says you are welcome guests, as long as you stay within the set bounds,” the Yumi said.
“And what are these boundaries?” Samson asked, eyeing their surroundings.
They stood on an empty dock, though the port around them bustled with activity.
He could see the glittering hulls of the ships docked at other points and men moving in between, hauling crates, switching tools, mending ships.
They worked with a mechanical efficiency, each movement precise, nothing wasted. But Samson could not hear them.
Beyond the port, the sharp, crystallized buildings of the city sprouted between the violet trees, shining with a vibrancy that made the back of his eyes slightly sore.
A thopter flew from the city and landed on a far dock, and he did not hear it.
In fact, Samson heard nothing. No hum of ships.
No grunts of men at work. Not even the slight vibration of the air as the thopter launched back into the sky.
It was as if silence had unhinged its mighty jaw and swallowed the people before him, shaving them down into pantomimes of movement.
“To speak only when spoken to, to stay with your Yumi hosts, and to leave in three hours.” The man spoke again, and the Yumi hummed. “Oh, and that you all wear this. To show that you are with us.”
She presented armbands that locked around the bicep and whirred softly.
A blue light warmed his skin. A tracker.
Warily, Samson scanned their surroundings again, but the Yumi did not seem alarmed by the strange quiet.
And the dockmaster respected them, enough.
So long as he stayed with the warriors, he was safe.
Chandi fell into step with him.
“Is it just me, or is there something strange about this place?” she murmured.
“I’ve been trying to figure it out myself.
” He watched the workers. None had stopped to take a breath or to even look their way.
They wore helmet visors that covered their faces, so he could not tell one from another, and he had the strange, disembodied sensation of watching cogs in a machine, each as unremarkable as the last. “Why is it so quiet here?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jaya stop to peer at something beneath the dock. She clucked her tongue. “Those are black-market propulsion sensors.”
“Why would they have that?” Chandi asked.
“Keeps the docks afloat. See?” She pointed to the silver metal disc peeking between the planks as they walked across. “I bet it’s underneath all of them. But why is this dock empty?”
“They must have cleared it out for our arrival,” Elena said, her voice low.
But Samson saw no scratches or footmarks on the planks, no scuffs from boots or stalls or shipment unloaded from vessels.
The wood panels glistened, as if brand-new.
It was as if they had arrived in a ghost port devoid of history, of memory.
He wondered if this port ever saw trade, and remembered the Ayoni rarely fraternized with the other nations.
Was that why they had resigned themselves to black-market sensors? Where had they even gotten them from?
“Here we are,” the Yumi said as they arrived at a low building built on the edge of the pier.
“Are we not going into the city?” Elena asked.
“No time. The bounders will be here soon,” the Yumi said. The short man stood aside to let them in. Was it Samson’s imagination, or did his eyes linger on him and Chandi?
“What a peculiar little man,” Jaya mumbled.
“Quiet now,” the Yumi warned. “They may be cold, but they have good ears. Don’t disgrace our host.”
She opened the door, and they ducked inside.
Three Yumi dressed in battle gear stood around a gamepanel, a mock-up battle already unfolding across the table.
Samson spotted the two Jantari killdoms sailing from Rysanti and into the open sea while two smaller ships snuck along the far edge of Seshar.
“General Daz,” Elena said.
A tall Yumi man turned from the projection and looked between her and Samson. “Little queen. I see you’ve finally taken my advice.”
Elena tensed, color warming her cheeks. “The Prophet and I are one. You’ve taught me that, Daz.”
A thrill ran through Samson, quick and electric. His Agni pulsed, and he felt the shiver of hers. We are connected, he thought with satisfaction. How long had he yearned for such a companion? Elena turned to him and offered a quick smile before she approached the panel. “Afira. Rhumia.”
The two other Yumi nodded courteously.
The Ayoni muttered something to Daz, which made the Yumi look up and scrutinize him and Chandi.
Gooseflesh prickled down Samson’s neck as the Ayoni continued speaking.
Continued watching. Was the dockmaster noticing them simply because they were newcomers, or because they were Sesharians?
He was used to such stares, though it had been a long time since someone so small could make him nervous.
Daz made a noncommittal noise and shook his head.
The Ayoni’s scowl deepened, but he sat back.
Carefully, Samson ignored his glare and turned to the panel as Jaya examined the design.
“This is your gameplan?” she scoffed.
“It is incomplete,” Rhumia said.
“It’s total shit, that’s what it is. You’ll never catch up to the killdoms at this rate.”
Over the table, he and Elena shared a look. She arched a brow. See?
“Ignore her,” Chandi said.
“Not if you want to actually win this fight and stick one up Farin’s ass.”
Daz chuckled as Rhumia scowled, her long hair rippling behind her. “And what does a clipped foreigner know about Yumi warships?”
For a moment, Jaya stilled, and Samson saw something hurt and raw cross her face before her lips curled into a sneer. “This clipped foreigner knows that your ships will deplete their fuel before they even set sight on Sesharian harbors. You’ll lose the game before you begin the fight.”
Afira clucked her tongue. “She’s right. And she’s rude. I like the little one. She could be good for you, Rhumia.”
Rhumia snorted. “Your calculations are incorrect, gamemaster. Our bounders are lighter and face less resistance. We’ll still have plenty of fuel by the time we reach the Jantari killdoms.”
“So you intend to sail through the Black Pit?” Jaya tapped the middle of the sea, the cursed area where sensors jammed and ships infamously disappeared. “That’s the only way you can conserve fuel.”
“She is right. You didn’t account for the pit, Rhumia,” Daz said softly.
“I’m sorry, General.” Rhumia glared at Jaya. “I’ll rectify the mistake.”
Daz slowly rose from his chair and regarded the small gamemaster with amusement. He then turned to Samson, and his expression withered into something more solemn.
“Prophet,” he said, gaze lingering on Samson’s glowing armband. “What do you think? You know the seas better than all of us.”
“I have not sailed past the pit,” Samson said as the Ayoni rose and began to walk around the panel.
“But you have been in it, yes?”