Prologue

Standing bright, languid in perception, a storm-torn flag emerged from the mast of the ship. Above salt-washed decks and impossible stains, a figure paced the stern of the ship. His hands moved from the chipped-paint railings to the various hatches, passively opening and closing them. Sea-weathered wrinkles creased the old man’s face which folded in thought like the waves lapping against the ship. A gust of wind caught the banner and breathed life into the fabric, which drew the old, sparkling eyes upwards into the blue.

He swept his high-powered binoculars from beneath his cloak and glanced back over the infinite horizon. Just two ticks from southwest, the blurb sat on the dividing line between sky and sea, pressed into the blue by blue. The ancient seaman rubbed his scraggly beard. Removed his hat and slicked back the wispy white hair. Patted the cap back down tightly. A few beads of sweat lingered on his aged forehead. He inhaled the fresh salt-air and walked the length of the ship. Twice.

The next time he ventured to gaze through the binoculars, the vessel had nearly halved the distance. If he squinted enough, the sailor could determine the approaching ship’s class. It appeared to be a small yacht, with several deck levels. Perhaps an off-shore sport-fishing rig. Most definitely Mizeronian in construction—with two side-mounted hydrofoils. He searched his memory archives, failing as they were, but could not remember anyone with such a vessel.

And so the ancient sailor paced the deck, allowing the answers to develop at their own pace, as they always did. His ship was a large vessel, named after his departed wife—Sala—and he transported many valuables to and from the eastern and western borders of the Empire, even to the far north colonies, if the season permitted and the straights were open. But this day, his cargo was not one the Emperor had mandated, or would even allow. His status as a smuggler rarely affected his choices, judgments, or life. In fact, it was his position that any who might ask he would help: especially if a little extra coin was tossed into his pocket.

And, indeed, it was his creative genius that protected him from countless government inspections and customs examinations—sometimes with a little scientific help from his old friend, Dr. Wilcox. His contraptions often aided him invaluably, and so he kept in contact with the scientist every time he visited port in Mizer. Wilcox was one of his better friends, he supposed. The last he had heard, just before this journey to the northern colonies, his old friend was working on some secret government project.

He remembered that he had told the doctor to refrain from working for the Emperor, but the pay was right, Wilcox had reminded him. The sailor smiled at the memory. Wilcox had been adamant about something, dripping excitement from every pore in his body. The doctor had mentioned that it would be the greatest achievement of his lifetime, even the greatest of all history. As a pessimistic old seaman, he had criticized Wilcox, wondering if his second ale hadn’t blurred his mind. Of course, it hadn’t. Wilcox tolerated his ale almost as well as the old sea-dog.

The binoculars rose to his old eyes again, and this time, he could make out figures scrambling across the deck. He considered calling his granddaughter Eva to the deck, but she had conjured a nasty cough and a fever from fighting the storm: she was a tough girl of eighteen, lean and polished by the wind and waves of too many journeys with him. He had suggested that she go ashore for a few years, attend university—abandon the sea-life for another, better life. But she had refused. And he loved her too much to let her go; so she stayed. Her dalliance was renown among the shipyards and dockworkers—indeed she possessed a raw, impenetrable beauty, immune to the fancied glances and hopeful pick-up lines she attracted when ashore.

He squinted again into the sun, this time without the mechanical empowerment. As the vessel neared, he could depict the maroon strip emblazoned on the side: an Imperial guard boat. He glanced back towards his own banner, just to make sure he was flying the right colors. They matched those of the boat now pulling next to his own. Another government inspection. It made sense, he told himself. He was only several leagues from the docks, yet somehow he dreaded this check. Pushing aside his misgivings, he made his way to the port side of the ship and pulled off his cap, waving to the men in black suits clambering aboard.

^*^

Eva Decon woke with a sweat and tossed the covers aside. She had slept far too long. As of late, her grandfather had grown soft on her, waking her only after all the morning chores on the ship had been taken care of or insisting on routine breaks during the days work. And since she had been unable to hide her cough, though, in truth, her throat had burned fiercely last night, she felt that she still needed to help keep ship. Her grandfather was much too old to be running a ship by himself. Eva decided, as she did most mornings, to help her grandfather out more and give him the rest he deserved.

She walked to the mirror and pulled her hair into a quick ponytail and fastened it. She fluffed her bangs, and snuck the few escaping strands behind her ears. She donned a thick leather jacket to combat the post-storm chill lingering in the morning breeze. Grabbing a bran muffin on the go, she ascended the ladder to the command bridge above, overlooking bow of the ship in front and the cargo hold behind. Glancing to the port side, she saw a small Imperial gunboat approaching them.

With a scowl crossing her thin brow, she descended the ladder, past the living quarters and down to the cargo hold entrance. Her grandfather had engrained the drill into her—when the government inspections come, I’ll keep them busy while you enable the security measures. This usually meant a hidden switch somewhere and a follow-up round to make sure everything appeared as it should to the Imperial agents. As a little girl, the routine had intrigued her; she played the game out of a competitive spirit. Now she played for her parent’s memory.

When she was halfway through her round, two thunderous echoes shot through the metal hatches above her. Instantly, she assumed the worst and rushed, not to the deck, but to the emergency lockdown cell. It was the one secret only she and her grandfather shared. The room was, for all practical purposes, invisible to one who did not know where to look for it. Once in it, she activated the surveillance system, and switched to the upper-port camera, which confirmed her fears.

Shalre Decon, her beloved grandfather, lay in a pool of his own blood at the feet of several men in black wet-suits. Eva’s toughened lips quivered and her brow furrowed. A glistening droplet escaped her eye and coursed down her flushed cheek. She bit her lip when they picked him up and idly tossed his body overboard. As it had her parents, the Empire had now taken her only family member away forever.

In the next hours while the ship was searched, probed, and finally packed with explosives, Eva mourned her grandfather. She had considered giving herself up, going with her grandfather to a watery grave, but the horrors which might precede her death kept her from it. Instead, she began plotting an escape, hoping for any chance of life, to the end of vengeance. Just before the last man stepped from the cargo ship and the gunboat guided to a safe distance, Eva left the secure cell and lowered herself into the repair submersible. With the water-lock shut, she fingered the remote and opened the hull-doors. Guiding her craft downwards as quickly as she dared, Eva awaited the forthcoming explosion.

When it came, it sent the tiny craft tumbling through the water, and for an exhilarating moment, everything was bubbles and spinning. When she hit her head on the control panel, though, everything went incredibly black and comfortable.