The Tortured Wind Read online

  The Tortured Wind

  by Alyce Caswell

  Copyright © Alyce Caswell 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Hampton Lamoureux, TS95 Studios © 2017

  Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

  ISBN: 978 0 6481626 0 5 (EPUB)

  ISBN: 978 0 6485444 0 1 (Print)

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  About the Author

  Also by Alyce Caswell

  CHAPTER ONE

  Callista lashed out and her boot connected with a soft, pliable stomach. Her assailant wavered on his unsteady feet and all it took was a single swipe of her electrified baton against his head to send him down cold. Only when he lay on the pavement, glassy stare directed across the road at her audience, did Callista hear the faint hum of her active weapon.

  Tossing a wave over to her fellow Maria clanspeople, she switched off the baton then hooked it onto her faded leather belt where it hung right beside her lasgun, a sleek, silver thing, tapered like a dagger but far more dangerous.

  Her companions had challenged her to take down one of their opponents without shooting him outright. Callista knew they’d have respected her even less than they already did if she’d refused. Having proved herself yet again, she unholstered her lasgun and plugged a bolt into the man’s head. He was dead long before the weapon was back on her belt.

  Callista Krendasta blew stray brown hairs out of her face but they stubbornly returned. She’d tried to bind her hair into a knot but as usual the tie that was meant to be keeping it in place had fallen out. Shaking her head, she jogged across the road, her breath steaming the air. It was cold in Atsa City tonight, a reprieve from the arid desert heat that besieged the streets during the day. She was grateful that she was wearing a jacket, though this had caused her companions to complain about how it was far too easy for her to use it to conceal the symbol on her shirt, the one that revealed her allegiance.

  The buildings around her stabbed into the sky like they did in most of Atsa, but here the windows were cheerfully glowing eyes and the base of each towering residence was lit by a web-like scattering of lamps. Callista cast a sardonic chestnut eye at the streetlight nearest her. The city could use more of these in other, less wealthy, sections but then again…the cover of darkness made it easier for her and the rest of the Maria to wage war against the other gangs, who also preferred to call themselves clans. Chasing Primus gang members into this bright, tranquil region had been a mistake, but Callista hadn’t wanted to argue with her fellow clanswoman who had been placed in charge of the mission.

  One of Callista’s companions opened his mouth to crow in triumph, but Callista held up her hand to silence him. She kept her voice low. ‘Can’t risk making the nice innocent people of Atsa nervous enough to speak to the governor, can we?’

  He shook his head, sullenly silent, and joined the small group of Maria clanspeople as they filed away into the streets, retreating from the most respectable part of Atsa, known among the clans as the No-Go Zone. It was meant to be off limits to the gangs; this was one of the many unwritten rules that policed the city at night when the Chippers, those sent by the Galactic Law Enforcement Agency to provide security to the denizens Atsa, vanished from the streets.

  If someone heard too much noise and reported it to Governor Jon Garnett, the daytime ruler of the entire planet of Yalsa 5, he might have to retaliate on behalf of his voters. And while GLEA’s agents didn’t belong to any planet in particular, they were sworn to uphold the laws of any local governing body. They might actually come after the clans in the light of the day if the governor decided to write a law that made it illegal for any gangs to exist in the city.

  ‘Ain’t you out past curfew, Dancer?’ asked Matron, a slender woman who had earned her name from her habit of counting their number to ensure they were all still alive and kicking.

  Callista twisted her bottom lip around her top two teeth. ‘It’s enough that my street name makes a slight on my inability to glide across the dance floor, but you just had to remind me I still live with my parents?’

  Her companions snickered. Callista ignored them and started scanning her surroundings. They had walked far enough from the epicentre of Atsa’s nicer areas that some of the windows were broken, but they weren’t safe yet. And she could sense the hostile energy of several lifesigns — living, breathing people — lurking nearby. She closed her eyes for just a moment and saw them in her mind’s eye, firing their lasguns at her and her companions.

  But that was in the future. How many minutes away, she couldn’t tell.

  Opening her eyes, Callista wondered, as she always did, if she should let her fellow clanspeople know what she could see and feel but, just as she always did, she decided against it. They would accuse her of being a Chipper, someone who had willingly entered one of GLEA’s temples and stuck a chip in their head. The chip apparently connected them to the Creator God and gave them unique abilities — they could sense the energy of others, which helped them locate lifesigns, and they could generate forcefields which could be used to shield someone or lasso around an object and move it with a form of telekinesis.

  Callista had undergone the required scan upon becoming a member of the Maria gang and nothing had been detected. The sides of her face were completely devoid of a chip. She’d been relieved then, but now she couldn’t figure out why. If she just had an explanation for why she could feel the way she did…had she been born with it? Were there any others like her?

  But even if she’d had a chip, that wouldn’t explain why sometimes she caught flashes of the future. No Chipper could do that — or so they claimed. Something to do with them only being able to read the energy that existed in the present; they couldn’t sense what might exist. Reading thoughts was apparently beyond them too. They might be able to pick up on someone’s mood, if the emotion was strong enough, but that was it.

  Callista thought it best not to mention that she could sometimes see what people were thinking — her clan’s paranoia would condemn her alone. She worked hard not to hear any intimate thoughts when she wa
s outside the interrogation cells, just in case.

  ‘Don’t see why you need to be stuck with your folks,’ Matron said with a shrug, her voice rising to cover the continuing chuckles of their companions.

  Callista winced at the noise they were making and glanced around at the dark alleys surrounding them. She closed her eyes for the briefest of moments — and saw a lasbolt come streaking out of the dark, aimed at Matron’s head. The older woman dropped to the ground, dead.

  When Callista blinked again, Matron was still standing and prattling away. ‘Just take your stuff and leave! And I’m sure Ala’d give you a room back at headquar…’

  ‘Down!’ Callista shouted and tackled Matron.

  The lasgun bolt screamed overhead, singeing the air and making it reek of ozone. Time seemed to slow and Callista caught a vision of the next bolt striking the pavement beside her. Her hand curled and crept towards the area. If she could create an invisible shield, the way the Chippers did…

  Callista jumped when the bolt hit and swiftly reeled her hand back in.

  ‘Chippers!’ Matron hissed.

  They took cover behind a dumpster that was rusted shut. Callista stared hard into the night. If their attackers were Chippers, they would feel like an ever-present buzz to her senses, like they always did —

  ‘Are you mad?’ Matron said, grabbing Callista’s elbow and dragging her away from the road.

  ‘They don’t feel like…it might not be Chippers — I think it’s the Alcazaar,’ Callista panted, naming a rival gang. Aside from not buzzing, these shooters had been wearing Alcazaar colours in the brief vision she’d had of them. This wasn’t exactly something she could mention. She swiftly ducked as more lasbolts whizzed overhead.

  ‘Don’t matter who it is, just that they’re out for us!’ another Maria clansperson said.

  He was right. Callista unhooked her lasgun, dropped to one knee and curved her body around the dumpster to take a shot. Something twinged in her shoulder but Callista ignored it. A pulled muscle, probably. Not important.

  She squinted. A figure was jogging towards her, a shaggy outline that began with the blond mane spilling onto his shoulders and then continued with the rippling cloak he always wore. Throwing a quick look at her companions, Callista saw that they were aiming elsewhere.

  Then she stared down at her body.

  She’d fallen back on the pavement, hitting her head and knocking herself out. The cause was obvious — the smoking hole in the shoulder of her jacket.

  ‘I’m unconscious,’ she noted distantly. The blistering pain from the lasgun bolt came to her slowly, as though the signals from her nerve endings were moving through sludge. She saw her companions shouting, saw their weapons discharging, but silence blanketed everything.

  Somehow this disconnect from her body didn’t bother her as much as it should have. Callista rose to her feet and ghosted towards the man who often came to her in her dreams. It was so hard to stay asleep when she became aware of the fact that she was dreaming. She wouldn’t waste a moment of this.

  She stood before the dream man, hands on her hips, studying him. His slim form was familiar to her but the rest of his face was always a blur. Tonight, though, she saw his painfully blue eyes.

  ‘I’m busy,’ she told him.

  ‘So I see,’ he said.

  She winced.

  ‘Your shoulder?’

  She nodded.

  He pulled her into his chest and his hand fell over her shoulder; the pressure was painful at first, then his powers blasted through the limb and then all the way back to her heart. Callista burrowed against him, enjoying his warmth, knowing that he was healing her without even needing to ask. The energy emanating from him was brighter and more powerful than anything she’d felt in a Chipper. To her, he didn’t buzz. He glowed.

  ‘Why aren’t you real?’ she asked.

  His chest vibrated with a chuckle. ‘Why aren’t you? I should like your name this time.’

  ‘Nice try, dream man. Last time I tried to tell you my name I woke up. Perhaps we are not destined to meet.’

  His fingers glided along her chin. Callista squinted to avoid the headache that came from trying to see past the fuzziness of his features.

  ‘I can have a word with the one who controls destiny and make it so,’ he said.

  She snorted. ‘You, on speaking terms with the Creator God? Not even the Chippers have managed that. Unless you mean one of the other sub-level gods, but I seriously doubt they have that much power.’

  He wasn’t smiling. ‘You are afraid.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘That your dreams are only that — dreams. I know you would prefer to stay asleep. I confess I don’t want this to end either. I never dreamed before you came along and I quite like dreaming.’

  Callista had barely made the decision before violent winds began to tear her away from him. She shouted, ‘Callista! My name is Callista!’

  ‘Owww,’ she said next, lifting her head from the cradle of someone’s hand.

  ‘You okay?’ Matron asked.

  Callista winced and sat up, finding herself surrounded by her clanspeople in a hovercar that was hopefully humming its way towards the Maria headquarters. She forced a smile. ‘How lazy am I, falling asleep on the job?’

  ‘Stark that — I thought you got shot!’ Matron said. ‘When Subofficer Ala hears about this, she’ll have you off the streets for weeks and — ’

  ‘I did get shot!’ Callista exclaimed, suddenly remembering, and looked down at the hole in her jacket which sat right over her shoulder. Soft, unburned skin peeked through the gap. There was no evidence that a lasbolt had touched her.

  Matron grabbed Callista’s arm and pulled her down to inspect the area. Then the older woman withdrew, shaking her head. ‘You’re not really one of us, no matter how well you shoot — still living with your parents, still just a child…’

  Callista bristled. ‘My parents’ connection to rich folk means I get into their houses and case them out for our smash and grabs, which Ala sure appreciates — and I do more than that! Ala wouldn’t let me interrogate our prisoners if I wasn’t any good at it. Now I’ll be talking to her the moment we get — ’

  ‘Take Dancer home — we’re hoofing it!’ Matron called over to the driver and the hovercar slowed down just long enough for the clanspeople to throw their bodies into the darkness.

  Callista blinked back furious tears. Some of them were younger than her, though a lot of them had been on the streets for years. They’d grown tough in alleys full of broken glass and shattered hopes. Callista knew how they saw her — the rich folk princess who they had to put up with because she helped them steal coin-chips and hovercars from her parents’ friends. The very vehicle she was sitting in had come into Maria hands because of her.

  ‘They’re just jealous, mate,’ the driver, Kick, said. He was in his sixties and was often relegated to driving. He seemed to enjoy it and claimed that carting around his clanspeople could be a lot more dangerous than actually entering a lasgun fight. ‘If they had a warm bed with a giant vidscreen and all the food they could ever eat without so much as lifting a finger, they’d stay with the rich folk too.’

  Rubbing her tired, flinching eyes, Callista crawled through the low cabin to plonk herself into the plush seat beside Kick. She watched the headlights chase away the night for a few long moments. ‘I’m old enough to have qualifications, jobs, babies. And where am I? Still stuck with my parents.’ Callista sighed. ‘I’m not brave enough to ditch my comfortable fallback, Kick.’

  Kick hmmed thoughtfully then patted her arm, his olive skin looking much healthier than her pale complexion. He yanked his hand back to turn one of the steering rods, barely managing to send the hovercar around a sharp bend in time. ‘You just need a good reason, Dancer.’

  Callista thought about the dream man. If he was real, she’d go with him anywhere. She argued in her mind that it was because he might tell her why she had these strange powers but i
f she was honest…her lips tilted upwards. She just wanted to be with him, feel him, smell him.

  What if he was a cruel man? No, how could that be — she had dreamed him into being, so he must be perfect.

  If he existed, that is.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The dunes were so still they could have been carved from stone. Enveloped in silence, the priest shed his cloak, the cold air biting into his skin and marking his flesh with goosebumps, then raised his hands, palms beseeching the stars. He was the last man standing tonight; the others lay in their floorless shelters, shoulders pressed against the sand that had supported them their whole lives but had lately become too soft, too tempting.

  Battle awaited them at dawn. For now, the priest would try to raise their strongest defender. He turned deliberately from the faint glow of the campfire that warmed his tribe and became a black figure swallowed by a blacker night.

  ‘My Lord Desine,’ he whispered, keeping his voice low to avoid waking the others. They would have asked to join him, to draw comfort from the ritual. But tonight Head Priest Zron was worried that he would find no comfort for himself, much less any to share with the warriors who would risk their blood when the sun rose.

  ‘My Lord Desine,’ he tried again, desperately seeking the desert god. Of all the sub-level gods that existed beneath the Creator God, the Desine was only one that he served. ‘I have not heard your Call. I have not felt your Smile. I do not know if we should fight. You…you have not told me…who is just, who is right, who will triumph, and who will turn in flight.’

  More silence. It felt like insects were marching down his spine, eager to join the terror pooling low in his gut.

  ‘Desine…you guide us,’ he said, as much a plea as it was a reminder. ‘Please. Should we fight or should we forgive the Kcazza tribe for insulting us? The Magic in me — it is weak, you know this. I…I am afraid their priests will destroy me.’

  His fear did not wake the desert god, nor did the uncertain probe he sent with his powers. The Magic was a special gift that only men and women in the deserts were given. Jealous City Dwellers had put chips in their temples to seek another god; their powers were unnatural and weak. They surely did not have the love of their god.