- Book info
- Sample
- Media
- Author updates
- Lists
Synopsis
A WOMAN WHO SEES EVERYTHING . . .
Few people know the name Vesper Quill. To most folks, I’m just a lowly lab rat who designs brewmakers and other household appliances in the research and development lab at the powerful Kent Corp. But when I point out a design flaw and a safety hazard in the new line of Kent Corp spaceships, everyone knows who I am—and wants to eliminate me.
I might be a seer with a photographic memory, but I don’t see the trouble headed my way until it’s too late. Suddenly, I’m surrounded by enemies and fighting for my life.
I don’t think things can get any worse until I meet Kyrion Caldaren, an arrogant Regal lord who insists that we have a connection, one that could be the death of us both.
A MAN WHO CAN’T FORGET HIS PAST . . .
The name Kyrion Caldaren strikes fear in the hearts of people across the Archipelago Galaxy. As the leader of the Arrows, the Imperium’s elite fighting force, I’m used to being a villain, as well as the personal assassin of Lord Callus Holloway. Even the wealthy Regals who live on the planet of Corios are afraid of me.
But everything changes when I meet Vesper Quill. I might be a powerful psion with telepathic, telekinetic, and other abilities, but Vesper sees far too many of my secrets.
Thanks to an arcane, unwanted quirk of psionic magic, the two of us are forced to work together to unravel a dangerous conspiracy and outwit the deadly enemies who want to bend us to their will.
Release date: September 20, 2022
Print pages: 427
Reader says this book is...: action-packed (1) dystopian/dark (1) entertaining story (1) great world-building (1) strong heroine (1)
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
Reader buzz
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
Author updates
Only Bad Options: A Galactic Bonds book
Jennifer Estep
VESPER
SOMETIMES IN LIFE, YOU have only bad options.
Like planning to commit corporate espionage in the morning, becoming a whistleblower by noon, and trying not to be murdered by midnight.
Those thoughts—and a dozen disturbing visions of my own potential murder—zipped through my mind as I perched on the sofa and stared out over the low table in front of me.
Screwdrivers, laser cutters, and other handheld tools covered the scarred faux wood surface, along with colorful gelpens and clear plastipapers boasting sketches and schematics of everything from household appliances to shock batons to a pair of gloves designed to mimic the look and feel of human skin. Squiggles and doodles of blue eyes and black arrows adorned the edges of the thin, reusable plastipapers, since those odd symbols had haunted my dreams for as long as I could remember. Wires snaked out from underneath the papers, while a cup squatting on the corner of the table held the remains of a raspberry protein shake that had stained the clear plastic a dull, sickly pink.
I leaned forward, picked up the miniature spaceship in the middle of the mess, and turned it around in my hands. The cheap plastic model was a little larger than my palm and had been spewed out by one of the multidimensional printers at Kent Corp, where I worked in the research and development lab. Yep, I was a lab rat, responsible for fixing flaws in Kent Corp designs, as well as dreaming up new products for the Regal-family-owned company to sell to further increase House Kent’s already hefty coffers.
Velorum was grooved into the side of the model, in the same place it had been on the actual ship, and I traced my fingers over the letters, my skin sinking into the tiny dips and empty curls. Kent Corp products always had boastful, grandiose names, whether it was a new space cruiser, a solar-powered blaster, or a can opener.
I snorted. Hubris would have been a much more appropriate moniker, especially given the small but deadly flaw in the cruiser’s design.
Footsteps clacked along the floor, and a woman shuffled into the room where I was sitting and clutching the model ship like a recalcitrant child who refused to give up her favorite toy.
The thirty-something woman was dressed in a light beige pantsuit that outlined her trim body, while black stilettos added a couple of inches to her already-tall frame. Gold shadow and liner brought out her dark brown eyes, while plum lipstick did the same for her ebony skin. Her dark brown hair was slicked back into a low bun, and a gold chain made of square links hung from her neck.
Her sleek, tailored look was a direct contrast to the shapeless white lab coat I wore over a long-sleeved light gray shirt, matching cargo pants, and work boots.
The woman yawned, her eyes still a bit bleary with sleep. “Why are you messing with that model? I thought you finished your report on the Velorum crash last week.”
“Good morning to you too, Tivona,” I drawled, ignoring her question.
She shuddered and stepped into the tiny kitchen. “There is no such thing as a good morning, especially not a good Mondaymorning.”
Tivona Winslow might be a brilliant negotiator, but she was most definitely not a morning person. Still, her love of late nights meshed well with my get-up-and-get-things-done mentality. The two of us were rarely home at the same time, which made sharing our small two-bedroom apartment—and especially the single bathroom—much more manageable.
A grin split Tivona’s face, and she gave me a saucy wink. “Although the weekend was very enjoyable, especially Saturday night.”
I laughed, despite the tension simmering in my body. “Let me guess. True love lost and found on the dance floor thanks to a chembond cocktail.”
“Something like that.” Tivona scrunched up her nose. “Although she wasn’t nearly as cute and charming the next morning.”
“They never are when chembonds are involved—”
Tivona waved her hand, cutting off my lecture. “I know, I know. A chembond isn’t real.” She sighed with longing. “But it was fun while it lasted. You should try it sometime, Vesper.”
I rolled my eyes. “No, thanks. I’ve sworn off relationships, remember? Especially chemically induced ones. They burn out even faster than regular ones do.”
Tivona arched an eyebrow at the bitterness in my voice. “What was it you said after your breakup with Conrad? Oh, yes. That attraction, desire, and love are nothing more than chemicals in the brain. Dopamine and pleasure centers and all that other technical stuff you spout all the time.”
I lifted my chin. “And I stand behind every single word.”
This time, I sighed, the sound full of the melancholy that haunted me like a bad dream. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should go clubbing with you, down a cocktail with someone, and see what happens. At least you know what you’re getting into with a chembond—and that it will wear off in a few hours.”
Unlike my current heartache, which had been dragging on for months.
Sympathy filled Tivona’s face. “This thing with Conrad will wear off too. Especially when you get out there and meet someone new. You’ll see, Vesper. Soon you won’t be thinking about Conrad at all.”
Her cheerful words were completely innocent, but they blared in my mind like an alarm warning that something bad was about to happen. I held back a shudder, trying to ignore the magic suddenly pricking my skin like needles on a medtable.
Tivona hit a button on the brewmaker on the kitchen counter, which let out a series of high-pitched beep-beep-beeps, almost as if it was talking to her. Liquid streamed down into the chrome pot, and the rich, dark scent of chocolate espresso filled the air. It looked and smelled far more appetizing than my chalky raspberry shake.
Brewmaker was a misnomer, since the appliance was actually a food fabricator that could produce everything from scrambled eggs to almond oatmeal to a serviceable steak, depending on which protein pods were loaded into it. But people called them brewmakers because most folks used them to whip up drinks—coffees, teas, protein shakes. No matter how advanced technology got, folks still loved to gulp down caffeine, ginseng, and other stimulants, along with massive amounts of processed sugar.
Tivona drew in a deep breath. “Ahh. I’ll never admit it, since I am legally obligated to claim that Kent products are perfect as is and defend them vigorously against all lawsuits, but those tweaks you made to this brewmaker last week really worked. Espresso in less than ten seconds that is the perfect temperature and won’t scald your mouth? That’s genius, Vesper.”
“You know I like tinkering with things.”
Tivona’s dark gaze darted over to the mess of tools, plastipapers, and wires on the table in front of me, and her lips turned down into a disapproving frown. “That’s one way of putting it.”
When we’d first moved in together about three years ago, Tivona and I had divided the common room into two sections. Her side, which included the kitchen, was spotless, and everything was either neatly stowed away, like her plethora of mugs in the cabinets, or stacked in precise piles, like the latest contracts she was working on that covered the dining table.
My side of the room, which included the sofa and the low table, was far less organized. Like Tivona, I preferred the pile method of storage, but mine were haphazard mountains that contained everything from old technical manuals to appliance parts. I found the clutter cozy and comforting, but it supremely annoyed Tivona. More than once, she had challenged me to find a particular plastipaper or tool to get me to clean up the mess, but I always located the requested item within a matter of seconds, like an old-timey magician pulling a rabbit out of her proverbial hat. Always knowing where things were was one of the few advantages to having seer magic.
Despite Tivona’s neat-freak tendencies, she was a genuine friend and by far the best roommate I’d ever had, mainly because we didn’t see each other all that often, not even at Kent Corp, where we both worked. Having an in-person conversation with her was a rare treat, rather than an everyday chore.
Tivona poured the chocolate espresso into an oversize mug, then plopped down on the other end of the sofa. She plucked the remote from the end table on her side of the room and hit a button, causing the holoscreen embedded in the opposite wall to flare to life. She yawned and took a sip of her espresso, while her favorite gossipcast played on the screen.
“And now we bring you the latest in the ongoing conflict between the Imperium and the Techwave . . .” The gossipcaster’s voice droned on and on, delivering yet another variation of a story I’d heard a hundred times before.
The Imperium, led by Lord Callus Holloway, who was supported by the other noble families, collectively called the Regals, was one of the major ruling forces in the Archipelago Galaxy, along with the slightly less powerful Techwave and the Erzton. Each group controlled and focused on a different area. The Imperium dealt in magic, genetics, and bloodlines, while the Techwave eschewed such arcane things in favor of cutting-edge technology, experiments, and weapons. The Erzton maintained a neutral stance, selling minerals, wood, and other raw materials to both the Imperium and the Techwave, as well as to other wealthy organizations and individuals. Basically, the three groups boiled down to magic, tech, and minerals, although they would all happily use whatever they could get their hands on to acquire more wealth, weapons, power, and resources.
The Imperium and the Techwave had been at odds for years, but lately, hostilities had increased to unprecedented levels, with the Techwavers attacking several Regal-owned corporations and stealing everything they could. Supposedly, the Techwavers—or Techies, as they were sometimes called—wanted to make personal enhancements, military-grade weapons, and other advanced technology available to everyone and thus level the playing field between the magic-wielding Regals and the common folks. But really, the Techwave just wanted to rule the galaxy the way Callus Holloway had for the last thirty years.
I had little love for the Imperium and even less for the Regals with their self-important Houses, esoteric societal rules, and unrelenting determination to value magic, alliances, and bloodlines above all else, but at least they maintained some semblance of law, order, and freedom. Unlike the Techwavers, who were little more than terrorists who just took what they wanted and left death and destruction behind in their wake.
Like on Temperate 33.
Two months ago, the Velorum space cruiser had crashed shortly after takeoff on its maiden flight, killing everyone on board, as well as hundreds of additional people on the ground in the spaceport below. I’d been one of dozens of lab rats sent to investigate the ship’s smoldering remains. A group of Techwavers had used the chaos of the crash and its aftermath to break into Kent Corp offices on Temperate 33, steal info on the company’s new line of weapons, and blow several buildings to smithereens.
For a group that supposedly wanted to make things better for everyone, the Techwavers hadn’t cared whom they hurt as long as they got what they wanted. Greedy bastards. Then again, someone was always rebelling against someone else in the galaxy.
“The fighting is getting extremely intense on Magma 7, where the Techwave commandeered a large metal refinery three days ago,” the gossipcaster droned on. “The Imperium has taken heavy casualties trying to regain control of the facility. Another attack is expected to begin later today, with Imperium soldiers hoping to finally root out the Techwavers from their fortified position inside the refinery . . .”
In other words, both sides were going to lay waste to the refinery, then retreat to lick their wounds. Something else that was not surprising.
“And now, on to more pleasant matters: the spring ball being held later this week on Corios.”
Tivona squealed with delight. “Finally!”
Like many folks, Tivona followed the Regals’ exploits with great interest, especially when it came to their lavish parties on Corios, their home planet. Whereas I did my best to tune out the incessant gossipcasts, which always reminded me of how I had been tossed aside and twinged my childhood heartache like a finger poking into a deep bruise.
The gossipcaster grinned at the camera, showing off her blindingly white teeth. “The spring ball is one of the most anticipated events of the social season, with several engagements expected to be announced during the event. Some anonymous sources claim one of those announcements will involve Kyrion Caldaren, the current leader of the Arrows, the Imperium’s elite fighting force.”
The feed cut away from the gossipcaster to show a shadowy figure dressed in dark clothes stalking through a smoke-filled hallway on some spaceship. A dark helmet covered his head, so I couldn’t see his face, but I didn’t need to. Just the man’s tall, imposing silhouette, as well as the glowing stormsword in his hand, was enough to strike fear into the heart of anyone with even a modicum of common sense.
Tivona let out another fangirl squeal of delight, completely enraptured by the image on the screen. Well, at least this gossipcast was about someone I had never met, making it far less annoying than most.
“Kyrion Caldaren is the son of the late Lord Chauncey Caldaren and his wife, Lady Desdemona,” the gossipcaster continued, as if everyone didn’t already know exactly who he was. “He is also the current head of House Caldaren and thus in control of the substantial Caldaren fortune. More than one Regal lord and lady has tried to catch Kyrion’s eye over the years, although, so far, he has resisted all attempts to be caught. Perhaps someone will be lucky enough to finally snare him at the ball.”
The gossipcaster chuckled and winked at the camera, as though Kyrion Caldaren was a fat trout just waiting to be plucked out of an aquafarm pool.
I rolled my eyes. “As if anyone in their right mind would want to be engaged, much less wed, to the most notorious killer in the galaxy. C’mon. The man supposedly murdered his own father when he was a teenager just so he could take control of their House.”
Tivona flapped her hand at me, never taking her eyes off the screen. “Shush!”
The gossipcaster kept extolling the many supposed virtues of Kyrion Caldaren, while glossing over the fact that the Arrows were among the deadliest warriors in the galaxy and that their main objective was to systematically eliminate Callus Holloway’s many enemies. Something Kyrion Caldaren had done more than once if the rumors were true.
But among the Regals, Kyrion Caldaren was quite the catch, and this wasn’t the first program speculating about whom he might eventually wed, even if he wasn’t bonded to the person. Then again, he was rich enough to induce any kind of chembond he wanted for as long as he desired. Such things were common among the Regals, especially since truebonds were so rare, even among the nobility’s psions, seers, spelltechs, siphons, and other wielders of magic.
My mother’s voice snaked through my mind. I should be back on Corios. I should be part of the Regals, not rotting away on a useless planet trapped in a useless life with an utterly useless child.
Pain spiked through my heart like a drill punching through a sheet of steel. I grimaced, wishing I could forget that conversation, which was among the last things my mother, Nerezza, had said to her cousin Liesl, whom we’d been staying with at the time. But perfect recall was part of my seer magic, at least when it came to all the horrible things that had happened in my life—especially my mother’s abandonment. Nerezza had left when I was seven, and even now, thirty years later, I could still hear her harsh tone as clearly and vividly as though she had uttered the words a moment ago.
“Vesper? Are you okay?” Tivona asked. “You look like you’re about to snap that model in two.”
My fingertips had dug into the Velorum miniature, and the dull white plastic was creaking in protest. I loosened my grip and tossed the ship down onto the table. “I’m fine. I should get to the lab.”
“What are you working on now?” Tivona asked. “A dozen ways to improve your latest brewmaker design? Even though it’s already perfectly perfect?”
I forced myself to smile at her teasing. “That is tomorrow’s project. Today I have a few final things to wrap up with the Velorumcrash report.”
Tivona toasted me with her mug. She took another sip of her espresso, then focused on the gossipcaster again.
I gathered up the loose plastipapers from the table and stuffed them into the crook of my arm. I hesitated, then grabbed the Velorum model. As soon as my fingers closed around it, magic pricked my skin again. A faint silver glow shimmered around the tiny cruiser, even as a cold finger of dread tickled my spine.
Normally, I would have dropped everything, sat back down, and studied the model from all angles. My seer magic often highlighted things, but it was always up to me to puzzle out exactly what my power was trying to tell me. My mother’s harsh voice was still ringing in my ears, though, and the ache of her abandonment was still spiking through my heart, so I glared at the light gilding the miniature spaceship.
Go away! I hissed in my mind.
The silver glow snuffed out, although that cold finger of dread kept tickling my spine. Somehow, even without my seer magic, I knew that my plans for the model ship were going to cause me a whole lot of trouble—and maybe even get me killed.
VESPER
I WENT INTO MY bedroom and dumped the plastipapers onto my desk. I considered leaving the Velorum model behind too, but that would be akin to chickening out of my corporate espionage scheme, yet again, so I stuffed it into my gray backpack, along with the rest of my supplies. Then I said good-bye to Tivona and left the apartment.
By this point, it was creeping up on eight o’clock galactic time. The twin suns were shining brightly, the warm rays soaking into the solar panels that adorned the walls and roofs of the low, squat concrete buildings like the green scales of the enormous dragons that lived on Tropics 5. People were pouring outside to head to work or school, and I fell in with the flow of human traffic.
Three blocks later, I reached the transport station and squeezed into the last car. I gripped a strap dangling from the ceiling and tried not to bump into the other people swaying around me. Just about everyone in this part of Stahl City worked for Kent Corp, so most folks were wearing some combination of the House Kent colors of light gray, dull beige, and dark brown.
Some people were bopping their heads, listening to the music blasting out of their earbuds or implants, but the lucky few who’d managed to snag a seat had their heads down and their eyes fixed on their handheld tablets. Some were reading books, but many were tuned to the same channel Tivona had been watching, and faces and fashions flickered across the small screens as the gossipcaster continued talking about the Regals’ upcoming ball. More disgust rolled through me, and I stared out the grimy windows and watched the solar-panel-crusted buildings zip by for the rest of the high-speed ride.
Fifteen minutes later, the transport zoomed into the main station at the edge of the Kent Corp campus. I followed the crowd of people streaming toward the security checkpoints manned by guards wearing dark brown uniforms. The guards sported matching polyplastic helmets with clear face visors that constantly fed them information, as well as letting them communicate with their comrades. All of them had a blaster and a shock baton dangling from their belts, but the guards didn’t really need the weapons. Their bodies bulged with muscle, and many of them continually shifted on their feet, ready to dart forward and tackle someone in an instant.
Everyone who worked for Kent Corp received some sort of physical or technological enhancement. Supposedly, the enhancements were a bonus, a perk, a reward for loyal service, but really, they were designed to help us lowly worker bees perform better and faster—and to keep us from being killed so easily while on the job. The guards were given enhanced strength and speed, while the negotiators like Tivona were fitted with watches, contact lenses, and other devices that let them access thousands of corporate documents just by saying certain keywords or blinking their eyes in particular patterns.
Me? Like most of the other lab rats, I had been given an oxygen optimization—or O2—enhancement. A special liquid had been injected into my lungs that greatly increased their capacity and functionality. Basically, I didn’t need as much clean air to breathe as other people, and the oxygen that was already in my lungs and blood would continue to circulate—and thus keep me alive—for far longer than normal.
Most folks snickered when I told them about my O2 enhancement. Admittedly, it wasn’t as visually impressive as bench-pressing another person with your index finger or running a mile in less than two minutes, but it came in handy more often than you might think. Accidents happened all the time in the research and development lab, and you never knew what toxic chemicals might be released. The O2 enhancement gave me a fighting chance of not having my lungs melt inside my chest before I was able to escape a contaminated area. Statistically speaking, it was also one of the best enhancements to have outside the R&D lab, since forty-two percent of all deaths in and around spaceships and ports were due to a lack of oxygen.
I advanced through the checkpoint line, ran my ID card through the reader, and let the biometric scanner sweep over my body. Then I placed my left hand on the metal turnstile and waited for it to check my fingerprints as a final confirmation of my identity. The light turned green, and I pushed through the turnstile. None of the guards so much as batted an eye at me, but that cold finger of dread tickled my spine again.
So far, no one had any reason to suspect that I wasn’t toeing the Kent Corp line along with everyone else, especially when it came to the Velorum crash. That might change in a heartbeat, but for now, I was free and clear, so I tucked my ID card into my lab coat pocket and strode forward.
With more than ten million people, Stahl City was one of the most populous cities on Temperate 42, although you wouldn’t know it from walking through the Kent Corp campus, which had been carved out of the manufacturing district. Lush lawns covered with real grass and dotted with equally real hedges and trees rolled out in all directions, along with red-clay tile paths lined with rust-colored polyplastic benches that clustered around matching fountains. The only things that ruined the view and the illusion that this was an actual park were the chrome-and-glass skyscrapers that loomed over the campus like giants about to lift their legs, stomp their feet down, and crush all the workers scurrying around like ants below.
Scores of people dressed in business suits, lab coats, and maintenance coveralls were hurrying along the paths, most with their heads down, eyes focused on their tablets, and earbuds blaring music, but I tilted my face up toward the suns, enjoying the growing warmth of the day. I drew in a deep breath and was pleasantly surprised when the earthy scent of grass briefly overpowered the stench of exhaust that always polluted the air.
Temperate 42 had gotten its name because it was, well, temperate, with brief winters, rainy springs, bearable summers, and cool falls. The Kents and other Regal families almost always had their corporate headquarters on such planets in the Archipelago Galaxy, although the locations were more for the higher-ups’ benefit rather than any true benevolence toward their workers. None of the Regals wanted their production plants to be shut down due to adverse weather conditions.
As I walked along, more and more guards appeared like patches of dead brown leaves ruining the rest of the vibrant green landscape. Another finger of dread joined those that were already tickling my spine. I shivered and walked faster.
Ten minutes later, I reached the main building, a hundred towering stories of chrome and glass studded with the ubiquitous green solar panels. The energy the panels generated helped ease the burden on the city’s electrical grid, which included the nearby Kent Corp production plants that constantly churned out everything from brewmakers to blasters to spaceships.
I waited in another security line, confirmed my biometrics, fingerprints, and identity again, and stepped into the building. Just like the outside, the inside was all sleek chrome and gleaming permaglass, albeit with a greenish tinge, thanks to the exterior solar panels. Not a single smudge, fingerprint, or speck of dust could be found on anything, not even the large, square chrome recyclers in the corners, and the cool, sixty-two-degree air smelled of stale nothingness.
Several security desks were spaced throughout the lobby, and even more guards were stationed in here than were roaming the campus outside. None of the guards paid any attention to me, but even more worry welled up inside my chest. Not for the first time, I wondered if I should go through with my plan, but it was too late to back out now. I’d already delayed getting the files twice last week, and my buyer would walk—and take their money with them—if I failed to deliver a third time as promised.
Besides, the longer I waited, the more people could potentially die.
I squared my shoulders and marched over to the elevators. They too were permaglass, and I squeezed inside one with more than three dozen other people, as though we were pickles packed into a jar. Instead of going up to the negotiator, sales, and other corporate offices, this elevator went down, down, down, to the research and development lab, three stories underground. All the better to contain the hazardous chemicals, stray blaster fire, and other nasty things we lab rats cooked up and occasionally, accidentally let loose.
I popped myself free from the elevator, the first pickle out of the jar, and scanned my ID card for a third time. I also stepped on a mat that sanitized my boots with ultraviolet light. A soft beep sounded, and I moved forward, yanked on a door, and walked through to the other side.
The R&D lab took up most of this subterranean level. Despite the fact that it was buried half a mile underground, the ceiling soared more than a hundred feet overhead, and enormous models of Kent Corp spaceships dangled from thick steel cables like moon mobiles hanging over a child’s crib. Everything was clean and sterile, from the white tile floor, walls, and ceiling to the long, clear polyplastic workstations.
Some of the other lab rats were already hard at work, peering at their latest projects through thick safety goggles and stabbing screwdrivers, pliers, and utility knives into half-assembled vacuum cleaners, recyclers, and other appliances. I called out greetings to several folks, most of whom murmured absently in response, completely absorbed in their tasks.
My steps slowed, and I drifted over to the right, where the ceiling dropped down and the white tile gave way to thick gray concrete walls that formed a bunker housing the weapons lab. On the other side of the permaglass doors, folks tinkered with blasters, handheld cannons, and other devices. My gaze zipped over to a table near the center of the lab, where a long blade perched in a plastic holder—a stormsword.
Unlike the cheap, disposable appliances that Kent Corp produced, stormswords were artifacts made from pure, genuine metals and minerals, often passed down from one family member to another. This sword had a silver hilt studded with three smooth, roundish stones—sapphsidian, a jewel that was such a dark blue it was often mistaken for being black.
Several smaller pieces of sapphsidian adorned the crossguard, which curved out in two opposing directions before ending in sharp points that were perfectly aligned with each other, reminding me of a yin-yang symbol. Matching twin curls of silver snaked up out of the crossguard and touched the blade, which had a faint opalescent sheen, indicating that it was made of lunarium, a rare, expensive mineral often used in psionic and other weapons.
Supposedly, sigils often covered a stormsword’s hilt, although no symbols adorned this one. I’d heard one of the weapons techs say the sword had been blasted with electromagnets and wiped clean of all traces of magic and any psionic echoes from its previous owner, whoever that might have been.
Another silver sword also sat on the table, although this one looked like a cheap toy and had several red buttons on the hilt, instead of glittering jewels. The Kents were trying to come up with a stormsword—or something similar—that they could mass-produce and sell to the highest bidder.
A weapons tech was tinkering with the Kent Corp sword. Nothing happened with the first two buttons he pressed, but as soon as he hit the third button, red sparks erupted, and electricity sizzled along the blade before abruptly winking out. Smoke billowed up out of the hilt, a clear sign of fried circuitry. The tech waved the smoke away and used a gelpen to scribble some notes on his tablet.
The longer I stared at the faux weapon, the more my magic flared to life. Suddenly, I could see all the parts and pieces of the Kent Corp sword in my mind, along with all the flaws in the design—and how to fix them. I might not care for the memories my seer magic wouldn’t let me forget, but it was quite useful in figuring out how things worked and especially how to make them better. I could easily fix the sword’s circuitry, although it would never have the psionic power of a real stormsword.
My gaze slid back over to the first weapon. I didn’t know if it was a genuine stormsword, like the techs claimed, or just an excellent imitation, but something about it made my magic surge with anticipation, and my fingers itched to grab the weapon and see how it worked—
“Ahem.” Someone cleared his throat behind me.
I jerked away from the clear doors, leaving a couple of handprints behind, along with a smudge where my nose had been pressed up against the glass.
A weapons tech rolled his eyes and scanned his ID card. The doors whooshed shut behind him, and I peered through the glass, staring at the stormsword again.
“She’s a beauty, ain’t she?” a low voice drawled.
A big, burly guy with a shaved head, bronze skin, and bulging biceps stepped up beside me. Unlike the other security guards in their dark brown uniforms, this man was wearing black from head to toe, indicating his senior, superior status. A blaster dangled from his belt, along with a shock baton, although from the rumors I’d heard, Hal Allaston preferred to use his fists to get the desired results. Hal was the head of Kent Corp security, which was just a polite way of saying he was an upper-echelon mercenary who carried out all sorts of unsavory orders.
Hal squinted at me as though the suns were in his face, despite the fact that we were inside. His eyes were the same flat black as his uniform and utterly devoid of warmth, and I didn’t need my seer magic to realize he was very, very dangerous.
“Maybe someday you’ll get to play with that stormsword, if you ever get promoted to the weapons lab,” Hal said.
I ground my teeth. No one wanted to fix toasters for a living, and everyone longed to get promoted to the weapons lab, including me, especially me. Over the past several months, I had submitted designs for blasters, cannons, and other items, ...
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
