Young Writers Society

>Okay, I know we're not supposed to preface our stuff, but this needs some explaining:

For those of you reading In Thrall (which I really am working on), this story takes place several years afterwards, but in the same universe. For those of you who have read some of my original Born of the Stars posts, this is, in essence, the same story, but (I hope) significantly improved. Thank you, please enjoy<


Chapter One

Kivan Shra-matt looked out the shuttle viewport at the world that was the center of the civilized universe, and was not impressed. Locus Nova loomed closer and closer, the green continents bordered in pale blue shores that gave way to expanses of darker blue ocean. Kivan had never before seen the planet that was supposed to be the new home of her species, and now she found it very much like all the other worlds she had visited. The shuttle docked with a bump, and she rose with the other passengers to disembark. They were all human, of course, just like her. At least there was some advantage to belonging to that race—any non-humans trying to enter LN found it very difficult indeed.

The custom’s man eyed her homespun tunic and slacks with distaste, and gave an extra sniff of disgust for her dark green cloak and travel-worn boots. He shuffled through her pack as if glad of his protective rubber gloves, and every time he looked at her, she saw the words alien lover behind his eyes. Kivan smiled warmly at him, her blue eyes beaming, and took her passport back with the greatest courtesy.

Then she stepped out onto Locus Nova—and got a shock. She wasn’t standing on the ground. The custom office had led her out onto a skyway, suspended over the never-ending reaches of the capitol city. The buildings—so big, she had never seen anything like them—towered above her, even here.

Kivan closed her eyes and took a few very deep breaths.

“Get a move on, there!” She jumped back, out of the way, as two burly men manhandled crates past her to a waiting skycar. They were everywhere—the skycars, whizzing by in orderly rows and patterns, as if someone had painted lines for them to follow on the open air. But watching them made her dizzy, so she focused instead on where she put her feet.

Moving into the pattern of the ebb and flow of the crowd was easy, even comforting. It was always a thrill to assimilate into a new world: this would be no different. The skyways were swarming and progress was slow, but she was adept at moving through crowds and made decent time.

After a few kilometers, a tempting smell brought her to a halt near a clogged intersection. A cafe to her left radiated the scents of warm baked bread and fine wine, and she hadn’t eaten since the night before. Common sense tried to keep her moving; she didn’t carry near enough money to pay for a good meal.

A voice harangued her from one of the outdoor tables, “Buy you a drink, love?”

She turned to face the source of the call. A man was sitting alone at the table nearest her. He was some years older than she, with unkempt black hair and dark, almost olive skin. His posture was relaxed, his gaze appraising and intrigued. She hesitated for only a moment, and then joined him, keeping her pack close at hand. “Thank you,” she said.

He smiled, flashing white teeth against his dark skin. “No trouble. What’re you drinking?”

Kivan leaned back, making herself comfortable in the sturdy wicker chair that smelled of sweet hay. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer something more substantial.”

The man signaled a waiter, a thin, wan man with graying hair. “Bring the lady a loaf of your best, and some candied fruit. And I’ll take a refill.” He set his empty wine glass on the waiter’s tray, and then returned to examining her across the round, glass-topped table. His eyes were dark and soft, and something in them was not quite human. She had lived among aliens long enough to know what it was that stared back at her, even though she had never before seen one herself.

She lowered her voice slightly. “I didn’t think the Realmers would take kindly to Changelings on their homeworld.”

His posture tensed just noticeably, but he kept his voice smooth. “No idea what you’re talking about, love. Besides, you don’t sound like a ringing endorsement for human superiority yourself, not with that accent.”

Kivan gave a broad, genuine smile. “What does it matter where one comes from?” she quipped. “The important thing is where you’re going.”

He laughed. “Well answered, love. How very human of you.” He only laughed again when Kivan grimaced involuntarily at the description.

“My blood doesn’t make me human any more than my voice makes me Subryn.”

“So what are you then?”

It was then that the waiter arrived with the bread, fruit, and drink. Kivan took a bite of the delicious, still-warm loaf, chewed and swallowed before replying. “I’m on a quest.”

The man laughed. “A quest? And what’s the point of your little quest, love? Wealth, adventure, fame? Or is it something more noble?” he stressed the word sarcastically, and seemed to abandon all pretense at humanity. “Your race seems to be always doing splendid, terrible things with the idea you know what’s best.”

Kivan didn't answer right away. She knew all to well what her race could do with the idea they were right. Smiling half to herself, Kivan wrapped the loaf and sweets in a length of cloth from her pack and then placed the bundle in one of its inside pockets. She stood and smiled at the man. “Nothing of the kind,” she said.

“What then?”

“Family.” And with that, she moved back into the flowing crowd.

* * *

The sunlight shafted through the large windows, making Mitra Danne squint as she looked out over the never-ending movement of Locus Nova’s capitol. The light, though strong, seemed to vanish the moment it touched her coal-black skin and ebony clothes. She looked like a living shadow, thin and very tall, her arms crossed across a chest that betrayed none of her seventeen years. The light falling through the window-bars bisected her with shadows and warmed the thin, beige carpet beneath her feet and those pieces of worn furniture it touched. There was movement behind her, the creak of the apartment door opening and shutting with the shuffle of footsteps in between. She did not turn around.

“Mitra,” came the clipped, commanding voice she had expected.

Still she didn’t turn. Let him wait, as she had.

“Won’t you even look at your father when he comes home from a five month tour of duty?” he demanded.

A five month tour of duty that was supposed to last only three, she thought. Nevertheless, she turned, slowly, just to show she didn’t care. Just to show she wasn’t fighting back tears, even now. He looked as if he had aged in years rather than months—there was more gray creeping into his short-cropped black hair and a new scar under his right eye.

Mitra looked at him, Kane Danne, lieutenant in the Interstellar Navy of the Realm—no, captain; his shiny new rank cylinders told her he had been promoted once again. So, the Gladiator was his now, and at thirty-eight he would be one of the youngest captains in the Realm. The man who had given her life. But not her father. He had forfeited that right long ago.

“Congratulations,” she said, gesturing coolly to his new cylinders.

He stiffened. “I thought I told you to get rid of that thing before I got back.”

Mitra stroked the long, thin scar that ran from the tip of her right eye, down across her cheek to her chin. “I presume you mean this?” she said, enjoying a cold little shiver inside. He could never make her lose this. And he knew it.

Her large, chocolate-colored eyes bored into his, and before very long he looked away, as she had known he would. Mitra’s eyes were too much like her mother’s for Kane to face them for any length of time. “Someone’s been scything into my accounts,” he said, focusing on the window behind her, the late afternoon sun making him squint as it had her. The shadowy window bars falling across his face gave him the look of a prisoner.

Mitra shrugged fluidly. “You left me hardly any money. Would you have preferred I scythe the general’s accounts from your computer?”

He scowled. “And I hear you haven’t been to school once since I’ve been gone. Truancy does not reflect well on me, Mitra.”

Again, she shrugged. “What’s the point? I can already make more money than the High Sovereign himself with hardly any effort. Besides, you’re planning to marry me off to some old politician’s son once I’m of age, aren’t you?” Her thin lips pulled back in a smile as freezing as artic night. “What use is an education to a Realmer’s chattel?”

He took a threatening step forward, but so did she, and Mitra’s threat was backed up by all 2.3 meters of her wiry body. “You insolent brat,” he spat at her.

“You gutless Realmer,” she returned coolly. “You believe I care a neuron what you think of me? I’m leaving.” The last words startled her as much as they did him. She hadn’t known the truth of them until she said them, but they were true. There was nothing for her here, not now. Perhaps not even since mom had died.

Kane recovered quickly. He scoffed. “You’re not going anywhere, not until you’re eighteen, and then it’ll be to Mayor Allman’s son, as you said, and once you’ve given the old dust-man some grandchildren and he’s gotten weary of office, I’ll be there to step in.”

Mitra uncrossed her arms and headed for her room, as if she hadn’t heard him. She left the door open behind her so he could see her pulling her old backsack down from the top shelf of her closet. “What are you doing?” he demanded, coming as far as the door but no farther. This had been her mother’s office; after her death, Mitra hadn’t left it for three days and Kane had refused to set foot in it ever again. It had seemed almost natural to Mitra that this become her room now. Her mother’s desk was still there, sitting in its corner as it always had. Aside from dusting it periodically, Mitra never touched it—it was the only thing in the apartment that still smelled of her. This was, she reflected, probably the main reason her father no longer entered it.

Mitra began to fill the unearthed sack with clothes, all of them black, of course. She slipped her feet out of the house shoes she had been wearing and into an old pair of high boots. She even pulled the heavy blaster out from its secret case in her dresser, enjoying Kane’s gasp when he saw it. Mitra had owned it for four years without his knowledge, and she was as good a shot as she was a scyther. Yet one more thing he would never know about her.

“What do you intend to do with that thing?” he said, “Shoot rats?” But she could see he was uneasy with the casual way she handled the weapon.

“I’m leaving,” she said again, threading the holster onto her belt. While the hidden case was open, she grabbed the dozen or so fake I.D.s she had purchased or forged, and the twelve datachips that held all the codes she had written, scythed, broken, or discovered over the years.

“And where do you intend to go?” he asked, incredulous.

Mitra put all the d-chips and half the IDs in her pack, sliding the others into various pockets hidden about her person. “Away,” was all she said. Let him try to stop her. Oh, please, let him try to stop her.

Kane snorted. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but stopped. “Fine,” he said. “Fine, go on, have your little rebellious episode. You’ll be crawling back within a week or, failing that, you’ll end up, dead, arrested, broke, or drunk in the lower levels. Don’t think I’ll ride to your rescue if any of the latter happens, either.”

Mitra slung her pack over her shoulder so that it hung by her right hand, opposite her blaster. She looked Kane Danne square in the face. “When have you ever rescued me?” she said, and left.

* * *

Pran watched Latrichia fight, her hands and feet moving in a blur of speed. He had set up the five automatons for her about two years ago—by now they were almost redundant. His adopted daughter moved through the human-shaped machines like a cross between a dancer and a whirlwind, her small body moving into every blow with all the force she possessed and her long black hair—braided to keep it out of the way—followed her like a whip.

There were five of the ‘tons, each built to different human body types and behaviors. Pran changed their programming regularly, so she never grew complacent with the abilities of her sparring partners. Two of them she had downed already, and a third was tiring, as he had programmed them to do. She put that one out of the fight with a well-placed jab to what would have been the solar plexus.

He allowed himself a slight smile, and stroked his trim brown beard approvingly. He had taught his adopted daughter everything he knew, and soon she would surpass even his talents. As the last ‘ton came clanking down, he clapped enthusiastically.

Latrichia whirled, startled to have been observed. A frown tugged at the corners of her mouth. “You were watching?” she asked as she peeled off the fingerless gloves she had been wearing. “How did I do?”

Though she kept her voice light, Pran saw her desire for approval burning in her almond-shaped black eyes. “You were flawless,” he told her truthfully.

He could see her fight to keep the pleased smile off her face—Latrichia was not one to show her emotions openly. It had taken even him their entire thirteen years together—since she was no more than a scrawny four-year old orphan—to learn how to read her. She was strong, which was good. She would need that strength sooner than she knew.

“I guess I’ll turn in, then,” she said, her voice maintaining its usual monotone despite her satisfaction with herself. “You’ll want me to go out again tomorrow?”

“If you don’t mind.”

This time she couldn’t hold back the smile. “It’s never been the outings I minded…” she said.

“Just the fact that I won’t tell you why, I know.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “You’ll know all soon, Latrichia, I promise.”

She looked up at him, her face the picture of absolute trust. “I know.”

* * *

Sharr Koran woke up to three warmths: her family’s cozy apartment, the thick blue blanket draped over her where she had fallen asleep on the couch, and the fire that crackled in the hearth before her. It was only holographic, of course, but it looked, sounded, smelled, and most of all felt like a real one. Not that she had ever actual seen a real fire that big.

Her mother, Latir, saw that she had awoken and walked over from where she was cleaning up the dinner dishes. At nearly five months pregnant, the slim, red-haired woman was only beginning to show signs that she would soon bring a second child—and a son this time—into the world. Sharr smiled at the face that looked like a twenty-years-older mirror of her own. Red hair, green eyes, and a petite figure distinguished both the Koran women.

Sharr’s father, Dr. Jenom Koran, had fallen asleep in his armchair with a book half-open on his chest. A real, pages-and-ink book; Sharr’s family was one of the few who still owned more than a couple. He looked very little like his daughter, with dark hair, blue eyes, and fine, broad shoulders. He snored a little and shifted, the movement sending the book sliding to the thickly-carpeted floor.

Latir bent, with some difficulty, to pick it up before she sat down next to Sharr. The older woman read the title aloud, “A Collection of Ancient Human Myths: Fairytales for All Ages.” She laughed. “Forty-one years old, a top doctor in the capitol city, and still he loves these old tales.” She passed the book to Sharr, who ran her hands lovingly over the well-known linen binding.

“They’re the kind you can’t stop loving,” Sharr protested, smiling.

Her mother lifted the data-pad that had been lying atop Sharr when she fell asleep, and scanned the first few lines. “Another medical journal?” she asked, and there was a note of concern in the gentle voice.

“Why not? I still work part-time at Dad’s office, don’t I?” Sharr asked, her nonchalance ringing hollow. Only two days ago, she had been denied admission to the medical university her father had attended. True, she was only sixteen, but all her teachers knew she was gifted, and the academic training alone would take long enough for her to reach a proper age for real-life experience.

“Of course, Sharr,” said Latir, wrapping an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “Don’t worry about those old dust-men, just wait another year or so and take the tests again.”

“You know I did brilliantly on them, Mom, that’s not why I didn’t get in,” said Sharr. She really wasn’t angry at her mother, but she had to vent to someone.

Latir stroked her hair. “I now it’s hard, sweetie. But what your father does is important. Someone has to show the Realmers that we don’t all think aliens are less than us, and your dad has the right to set his own prices.”

“I know,” said Sharr, and she did. Some of her best friends were non-humans she’d met in her father’s office; she’d never been able to understand why so many people despised them. “But it’s not just that.”

Her mother sighed. “Being a girl is just hard right now, that’s all. Everyone’s wary because of the mess Regent Eserci made while her nephew was too young to rule.”

“That was thirty years ago, before I was even born!” Sharr protested, “and it’s not like her nephew’s doing much better.”

Latir shushed her hurriedly. “That’s enough of that. Come on now, help me wake your father. An early bedtime would do you both some good.”

Sharr stood and helped her mother shake, poke, and tickle Jenom Koran awake. He consented, yawning, to be put to bed, tousling his daughter’s hair as he went and giving his wife an absent kiss on the side of her nose.

Sharr retreated to her own small room, filled as it was with her stuffed animals, shaped as nearly every sentient race the humans had discovered in the past hundreds of years. They made for a very packed room. She grabbed her first and favorite—the brown-furred Chullbar she had named Ko-Kan. She changed into her nightclothes automatically, then tossed Ko-Kan and her datapad down on the bed only to pick them up once again once she had settled herself, cross-legged, atop the covers. She hugged the two-foot tall toy to her chest, and began to read the article again.

Before long, her mom came in to say good-night, and laughed when she found her daughter still reading. “Time to put that up, school tomorrow,” she said.

“Just a little bit longer?” Sharr pleaded.

But Latir took the pad and switched it off, pulling out the data-chip that held the journal. “Lights off, little one.”

Sharr smiled. “Not so little,” she said, as she had every night for as long as she could remember.

After tucking her in and turning off the light, Latir lingered in the doorway a moment before going out. “What is it, mom?” asked Sharr as she sleepily hugged Ko-Kan.

“Nothing, sweetie,” replied Latir, and she closed the door.

Heya Gyr - didn't think I could forget about the crazy bird, did you? ^_~ I've printed this out so that tonight I can go over it pen. Tomorrow, if the day allows it, I'll get it typed up and posted for you.

Hope you're well, Amy.

C'est moi! ... and a crit. ^_~

This, like 'Gypsie Eyes' and 'In Thrall', has a very affecting writing style - it pulls you along without stopping. You sit down just to read the first page and before you know it you're at the end and waiting for the rest. (I think I mentioned this in a 'Gypsie Eyes' crit and one point.) I can't find a single thing lacking in your pacing, Gyr - I thought it was wonderful. ^_^

And now for a few suggestions:


Kivan Shra-matt

The bit with Kivan was my favorite, actually. I admit I was a little dubious when the first two words consisted entirely of an unfamiliar name - I was worried you'd fallen into the old 'sci-fi/fantasy naming trap'. But my fears were groundless: strange names are not a problem if the author handles them well and you did that in spades. You didn't overdo anything and with the initial full-name introduction out of the way, you referred to her simply as 'Kivan'. Good job, with the names.

Her character was well developed and it presented her to the reader as an individual - towards the end of the Chapter, characters started to run together a bit (you need to make them a bit more distinct as they're all female) but more on that later on. Kivan was excellenly drawn, but it was only her veneer, so to speak, that showed. She seemed like a character that the reader would get to know deeply only as the story progressed. There is an upside and a downside to this. If what you were aiming for was immediate and close bonding with a character, where the reader is quickly drawn and attached to Kivan in every aspect, that's not what happened. But on the other hand, I was intrigued by Kivan - I wanted to learn more about her and delve deeper into her character. If I wanted to read more by the end, it was because I was hoping excerpts would find their way back to her. ^_~ So if that was your goal - the initial hook before the drawn-out character development - you pulled it off very well, and I commend you for it.

A thought: you might want to drag out the cafe scene a bit. The man she meets there seems important... but somehow not important enough, because you didn't spend very much time on him. It's a nice opportunity for character development (especially on Kivan's part): two characters, two strangers having just met in a cafe. One buys the other something to eat and they speak, but briefly. What do they speak of? What do they have in common? In what ways are they different? Do they observe the people that walk by? What does the table look like? The waiter? Focus on the details, Gyr, the small and tiny details, and I think that this passage - already terrific - could be made even better. ^_^

A small suggestion on wording:

They were all human, of course, just like her. At least there was some advantage to belonging to that race—any non-humans who tried to enter LN had very hard times of it indeed.

I would sans the 'indeed' at the end - a bit superfluous, and it drags.


Mitra Danne

Here again - focus on the detail. Attention to detail is probably the single most difficult thing to possess when writing, but it's also on of the most saliant. Take for granted that your readers have never been here before, and they haven't. You have to tell them of everything you see - imagine that you're watching this scene in a film, at it's your job to sit there and write everything down in your notebook, capturing every nuance, every color, every short and quiet exchange. Surroundings open a portal to actions; actions open a portal to emotion. Make sure you supply enough of the surroundings and actions to get a feel of what lies beneath. Even more difficult than that is finding the balance between keeping the scene vivid and drowning the reader in small, unimportant detail. But you've got a natural talent, Gyr - practicing the balancing act won't be too difficult, I think. ^_~

Mitra is, as far as character development, well done. She is defiant here, and it shows through in her actions and her dialogue with her father. You also describe her well physically, and didn't overdo any of the adjectives. The emotions felt genuine rather than forced, and her attitude towards Kane demonstrated their distance very well.

A suggestion on wording:

“Won’t you even look at your father when he comes home from a five month tour of duty?” he demanded.

A tour of duty that was supposed to last only three, she thought. Nevertheless, she turned, slowly, just to show she didn’t care.

For the sake of flow, Mitra's line might read better "A five-month tour of duty that was supposed to last only three" - it would carry on the continuity of the sentence before it, but that's a small point.


Latrichia

For me, Latrichia was the character that fell flat. As I noted in Kivan's comments, you've got a story here than, up-to-this-point consists rather entirely of women. Make sure that Latrichia doesn't fade into the background of her stronger and more vivid fellows, Mitra and Kivan. She reminded me very much of Kivan - had you changed their names to the same, I would never have once thought to myself "Now that seems unnatural for the character, she wouldn't do something like that". Make sure Latrichia bears her own individuality. Make the reader care - every character, ever word counts. Try not to waste the possibility of a wonderful character on development that [almost but] does not quite hit the mark.

The fact that she was sparing with automatons was interesting, in any event - that, and her relationship with her father was what caught my interest in her passage. (Which you might want to elongate slightly, for the sake of making it more memorable to the reader).

Typos, here:

She put hat one out of the fight with a well-placed jab to what would have been the solar plexus, The other two fell in short order, and as she stood there, surrounded by collapsed ‘tons, she heard clapping behind her.

1. should be 'that'
2. should be a period rather than a comma


Sharr Koran

Sharr is the distinct character because she is secure. The others - busy sparing and traveling and fighting with their fathers - do not touch her level of peace and tranquility, and the contrast is very nice. At the same time, the level of comfort is something of a facade - disappointment and anger lurks underneath and this conflict makes for fine character development. I also get the impression that she's much younger than any of the other characters at sixteen... this might be erroneous on my part, but the family-life and attitude she possesses hints at a slightly less mature character.

Typo, I think?

“They’re the king you can’t stop loving,” Sharr protested, smiling.

3. 'kind', yes?

Something you might to work on here: though Sharr is drawn well, her attitude changes a bit too abruptly. In the introduction she is secure, safe, warm - six paragraphs down she's on the verge of tears, and this is from extending circumstances, not from the occurances of the moment. Try not to spring it on the reader so suddenly. Maybe she feels the emotion nagging at her as she wakes up, just barely? Maybe throughout her conversation with her mother, it grows and grows on her (subtley) until it bubbles to the surface?


--

This was very well done, overall, Gyr. ^_^ The main suggestion is that you work a bit on defining and clarifying your characters. You're a brilliant writer and I'd love to see a bit more distiontion (physical and emotional) in your cast.

Hope this was helpful, to some degree or another - if you have any questions or any of the above didn't make sense, feel free to PM me. I don't mind. ^_~

--

Edited and Tagged: (Critted for the CCF)

Yay! Someone finally crited it!
Thanks very much, Dreamy! You're suggestions were IMENSELY helpful--I shall work on them as soon as I get out from under the two papers due this week. Thanks darling!

Green = Comment/Correction
Black = Review

*

At least there was some advantage to belonging to that race—any non-humans who tried to enter LN had very hard times of it.

Is that saying non-humans were given a hard time?

So, the Gladiator was his now, and at 38 he would be one of the youngest captains in the Realm.

Maybe it’s just me but I’m sure you’re meant to write out numbers, but it’s all right not to when giving co-ordinates or telling time or phone numbers.

“Someone’s been scything into my accounts,[”] he said, focusing on the window behind her, the late afternoon sun making him squint as it had her. The shadowy window bars falling across his face gave him the look of a prisoner.

End speech marks missing there.

*

Hello Bird!

You’ve got your characters and a new world set out, I’ve yet to understand a few of the Realmers and stuff, but I didn’t really get a feel of the place. I could see what it was like and not just because of description, there needed to be something in it to show that this is another planet/solar system and I haven’t seen anything of yet apart from the mention of aliens and skycars, etc.

Latrichia sounds too perfect; maybe if she comes up again I’ll change my view though I would like to see a flaw in her or perhaps what other characters see in her. Pran obliviously adores her. Also, can automatons tire? Like a human? I think it is more likely it will malfunction or something but not tire, that’s something a live being/animal would be.

There’s not much to say as all these individuals are introduced right at the beginning and perhaps it would have been better to cut some out until a few scenes later but I guess they all come together at one point so it has to be written this way.

The stranger in the bar came to me as Danteel and you lost me there, no idea what they talked about really and I think you could have developed your world a little in their conversation. The way people talk shows something about their people or their background.

Not too clear why Mitra’s father won’t go into her mother’s office. Will that come up later?

Try to avoid introducing each section with a characters name; it is not a must but something you can do to show change of scene of point of view.

One more thing:

He shuffled through her pack as if glad of his protective rubber-gloves, and every time he looked at her, she saw the words alien lover behind his eyes.

Is this a strange ability or is she just reading him as a person? Like the way you can tell a person is a bully or not [depending]?

So far we’ve only seen human characters, would like to see aliens for their side.

Myth

*is a very, very bad bird*

Myth, here you have gone and given me a wonderful, useful critique, and it has now taken me *counts* THREE MONTHS to get around to posting the next chapter!!!! *head/desk* I have integrated your suggestions into my harddrive copy and shall transfer them to the post asap. In the meantime, ladies and gentlemen: chapter two is at hand!

Chapter Two

Tanvark had slept badly last night. He was so nervous; this would be his first solo job. Navik probably wouldn’t be happy with him afterwards, but their parents would be proud of him. Of course they would, they would protect him from Navik’s anger, he was sure of it. Quite sure.

He loitered outside of the girl’s school for the better part of the afternoon, his heart pounding at every Realmer in uniform that passed him. He had the Vamar blood, why was this so hard for him? Then she emerged, her red hair bright against the white-and-blue of her uniform, and he knew he couldn’t do it.

She walked past him, smiling and talking with one of her friends, not even noticing him. Shame washed over Tanvark in waves, and he could feel his cheeks glowing with the force of his failure. He had to, he had to.

Not here, though, he told himself. Not now. Too many people around, of course, it was stupid to think of trying it now anyway. Wait, follow her. You can be patient.

So, with all the grace of fifteen years of endless training, he became a silent shadow, following, waiting, fearing.

* * *

Kivan stomped out of the information office in disgust. The disgust was, of course, mostly directed at herself. But that prim and oh-so-clean attendant certainly deserved some of it. “Well, as soon as I see your authorized Realm I.D., I’m sure we can clear this all up,” she had said, her pale face the picture of helpfulness. “Every child born in Realm territory has one, I’m sure we can trace it back to your birth parents.”

As if she couldn’t tell that Kivan wasn’t born in Realm territory. As if she didn’t know that no human would give their child the surname “Shra-matt.”

It was as much Kivan’s fault, though; she should have known better than to expect help from a Realmer, any Realmer. Just because her DNA made her human, it didn’t make her one of them, and they knew it.

And now she had spent the better part of the day searching through the myriad informational and directory offices scattered about the capitol. Her stomach rumbled at her, reminding her pointedly that work fed and quests didn’t. Kivan stuck a hand in her pocket and counted her remaining credits with her fingers. Two five-cred chips and three one-creds. She still had a little bread from the other day, and this would be enough to buy some food, if she could find the right place.

So intent was she on these calculations that she nearly careened into a crowd of schoolgirls, all looking happy and scrubbed in their blue-and-white uniforms. “Oh, sorry,” she said, and instantly regretted it when two of the girls tittered at her accent. Kivan was glad, not for the first time, that her dark tan hid most of her blush.

One of the girls, however, didn’t laugh. She looked at Kivan with concerned green eyes and said, “Are you lost?”

Define lost, Kivan thought, but aloud she said, “No, thank you,” and walked on.

“Wait!” The girl split off from her friends and caught up to Kivan at a jog. “Listen, I’m sorry about them. You’re new to LN, aren’t you? Do you need any help? My father runs a clinic not far from here.”

Kivan smiled the broad, genuine smile that showed she was truly pleased. “You are kind to offer help to a stranger; what’s your name little Realm-child?”

The girl bristled at that. “My name’s Sharr Koran; I’m not a child, and I’m not a Realmer.”

Kivan laughed. “No, I can see that now.” She held out a hand made tough from work. “My name is Kivan Shra-matt, a wanderer from the outer worlds.”

Sharr shook the hand, and smiled shyly. “Very nice to meet you.”

The wanderer inclined her head. “You as well. But now, Ms. Koran, I must be about my way.”

“Wait!” said the girl again, and fumbled in her pockets for a moment. “At least take this—it’s the address of my father’s clinic. Come there if you ever need anything.”
Kivan took the card and bowed. “Thank you, Sharr.”

Sharr raised a hand, palm outwards, and stammered the words, “Trhee fralen.”
Kivan returned the salute of the outer worlds and said, in Basic, “And fair winds to you, my friend.”

* * *

Mitra had no idea how deep into the lower levels she had gone. When she had grown too tired to go on, she had found something that passed for an inn and paid a ridiculous amount of credits for the use of one of its tiny, dark rooms for the night. She considered herself lucky that she had woken with all her parts intact, as well as all her possessions.

Now she stood in the perpetual gloom of those levels that rarely if ever saw the sun, and knew she was lost. Her heavy blaster pistol, still hanging threateningly from her belt, would keep the scavengers away for awhile, but sooner or later a hunter with more courage would come along.

And the truth of it was that Mitra did not know how to survive down here.

She started walking, heedless of direction, driven by the need to go, to move. Angrily, she kicked at random piles of rubbish as she went—there were more than enough of them. The smarter sort of gutter-scum either scuttled out of her way or made themselves as small and harmless-looking as possible, while the dumber ones gaped at the tall, striding shadow with no thought for the weapon she carried.

Not that they were in any danger from her. Mitra knew there was a world’s difference between shooting a target on the range and shooting a living, breathing sentient, and she didn’t plan to do the latter unless it became absolutely unavoidable. Which was going to happen if she didn’t figure out what in blazes she was doing, and soon.

Work, she needed to find work. The question kept flittering through her mind, though, refusing to be ignored: how? Mitra had never had to find work in her life—work came to her. She rarely knew the names of her clients; no more had they known her face or identity. There was no one who would know her, no one who would shelter her. She was what her mother had promised she would never be: alone.

* * *

The day had been a very slow one for Latrichia. Most of it had been spent strolling the lower walkways, her black trenchcoat and warrior’s walk clearing the way before her as she looked for…what? Even now, she didn’t know. What did Pran expect her to find, if anything?

By now, most of the locals knew her on sight and any trouble that had been brewing before her arrival simmered down or died out. Those she knew to be lackeys for some higher boss or just petty criminals eyed her sideways or dared to snarl quietly at her retreating back.

But those who saw a protector in her face smiled, sometimes offering a credit chip or a few kind words as thanks for the small helps she had given them at one time or another. She always refused the former, but allowed herself a smile or welcomes for the latter. Why these people loved her she would never know; she didn’t do what she did for their recognition. Half the time she was the only reason the thugs made trouble, and she often caused at least as much damage as they did.

Even so she didn’t refuse their gratitude, however misplaced she thought it. But for Pran, I wouldn’t be here, she thought as one man called her into his modest bar for a free drink. That she accepted with gratitude. But for Pran, I wouldn’t have the skills to keep these idiots at bay. You may never see his face, but he’s the one protecting you, not me. They would probably never understand that, though, and Pran seemed content with his part.

Latrichia took her drink—a mild gin—to a table in a far corner and settled there gratefully. The bar was bustling with those returning from a long day of work or heading off to it. This was the time when most of the day shifts got off and the night shifts went on. There were even a few aliens mixed in among the throng of humans: Latrichia saw a few of the tall, fur-covered Chullbars and a reptilian Quiv or two. These lower levels were the only place non-humans were anything close to “welcome” on Locus Nova, and even here they rarely went about alone.

As Latrichia watched, though, a very different sort of person entered. The humans glanced at the newcomer with distaste, their lips curling as she walked past them. But the aliens looked at her as they might have looked at an angel. Latrichia recognized the make of the young woman’s floor-length green cloak—this human had been raised by the Subryn. No wonder the non-humans in the room loved her on sight—humans sympathetic to aliens were rare; humans raised by aliens were all but unheard of.

Though the Quiv made room for her at their table, the young woman bypassed them and headed for where Latrichia sat alone in her corner. “Is this seat taken?” she asked, her voice thick with the accent of the Subryn.

The warrior evaluated the newcomer. She was tall—well, taller than Latrichia, which wasn’t hard—and had skin well-bronzed by several suns. Her hair was long, not in keeping with any current fashion, and braided like Latrichia’s so that it hung in a thick golden rope down her back. But her sapphire eyes shone with an intelligence not seen in the common rim-scum. “No,” said the warrior.

The stranger swung her pack onto the table and sat with an air that suggested she’d been on her feet for a long time. She smiled, white if not pristine teeth bright against the dark tan of her skin. “Thank you,” she said, and stretched a hand that had nearly as many calluses as Latrichia’s across the table. “My name is Kivan Shra-matt.”
Shra-matt, thought the warrior. The Subryn honor her with such a name. They shook hands firmly. “I’m Latrichia.”

Kivan smiled again; the expression seemed to come easily to her. “Tell me, Latrichia, what can I buy here for less than twenty credits?”

The suggestion of a grin tugged at the corner of the warrior’s mouth for a moment, then gave up. Latrichia passed the other a menu. “I don’t normally eat here, but the drinks are very good.”

Kivan’s smile faltered as she scanned the menu. She licked her lips furtively.

“What’s wrong? Nothing in your price range?”

Underneath that nearly bronze skin was the hint of a blush. “Um…you see…” the offworlder faltered. “I’m not exactly…fluent in written Basic.”

“I’m sorry,” said Latrichia, not missing a beat, and took up another menu. She searched it for a moment. “There are a few things here,” she said after a moment. “But not many, and none of them sound particularly filling or appetizing.”

Before Kivan could reply, her stomach entered the conversation, protesting loudly about its emptiness. The offworlder’s blush spread. “Do you know of anyplace cheaper?” she asked, almost desperately.

Latrichia looked around the bar, with its peeling paint, rarely-swept floor, and grimy tabletops. Cheaper than this? Could she be what Pran wanted me to find? the warrior thought incredulously. “I do…” Latrichia began slowly. “What I mean is…my home is not too far from here; we have food and lodgings if you’re interested.”

Kivan’s face lit up. “You would do that for me?” Something seemed to occur to her suddenly, and she said, “Who are ‘we,’ if I may ask.”

“There’s just my adopted father and myself. We live alone, but we have plenty of space.”

“You are sure he…won’t mind?” asked Kivan, and there was a glint of suspicion in those sapphire eyes. So she wasn’t so naive as she seemed.

Latrichia just nodded, and let the wanderer search her face for a lie or a catch that wasn’t there. This one has been hurt before, she thought, reading Kivan’s face in turn. She is quick to befriend, but slow to fully trust.

After a few heartbeats, however, Kivan’s face split into a smile as bright and startling as a shaft of sunlight after the rain. She stood, hefting up her pack once again. “I would be glad to be your guest, Latrichia.”

* * *

Sharr had turned the apartment upside down looking for it. “Mom!” she called out for perhaps the hundredth time. “Are you sure you saw me bring it home?”

Latir emerged from the room she shared with her husband—who had been called into the clinic by an emergency only a few moments ago. “I’m sorry Sharr, I can’t remember. Don’t you have a backup on a d-chip somewhere?”

“That report’s due tomorrow!” Sharr wailed. “Teacher will kill me if I’m late!”

“Well, you said you finished it at school; wouldn’t they have it in their system?”

“I said I almost finished it at school; I still have to write the conclusion.” Sharr flung herself down on the couch and hugged her knees in despair. “I’ll never have time to finish it tomorrow before class, not if I’m going to help dad open up in the morning.” Her head jerked up, the light of hope shining in her eyes. “I could go back now, though,” she said, turning to her mother. “Headmaster always stays late; I’m sure he’d let me in to get it.”

Latir frowned. “Sharr, it’s almost dark.”

“Exactly, if I hurry I’ll be back before sundown.” She began tugging on her shoes and grabbed a light jacket—while the early autumn hadn’t yet made the days cold, it had given the nights an unpleasant bite.

“If we just wait for your father to get back with the skycar—“ Latir began.

“Headmaster may have gone home by then,” Sharr said. She grabbed her mother by the shoulders. “Please, mom, I’ll be fine, I’m sixteen and this is LN after all. We may not love the Realmers, but they keep the peace fine, yes? Please.”

Latir sighed, and gave that little smile that said she’d given in. “Be quick,” she said, giving Sharr a tight hug, “be safe.”

“Thanks mom!” Sharr called before she dashed out of the apartment.

* * *

Tanvark huddled in the cold, scared and miserable. Scared because he knew he would have to face Navik, miserable because he knew he had failed. “You are no true Vamar,” she would screech at him, as she had so many times. “Sniveling worm, useless brother, failure!” And their parents would look sad and stay out of it, which hurt even worse than his sister’s blows.

He closed his eyes, but in his mind he still saw the street where he stood and the nearby apartment building, memory rendering them as vividly as sight. He had all the training, all the instincts and skills of a Vamar. But none of the cruelty. None of the desire to harm. And in the end, he knew, that would get him killed.

Heaving a great sigh, he opened his eyes and began to move away from her building. Sleep well, Sharr Koran, he thought. Tonight you, at least, will not be harmed.

As he left, a splash of color just brushed his peripheral vision. His head jerked to follow it, and he saw the swish of shoulder-length red hair as his prey darted out of the main door and down the skyway, passing so close by him he could have reached out and touched her. No! his mind screamed in agony, all you had to do was stay there!

But it was too late now. A lifetime of training took over, and Tanvark Vamar fell in behind her, every step bringing him closer to his prey.

Oh, yes, I liked this very much! Very well done, your writing style...as always, smooth, fluent and, adopting the manner of the french, I give you smacking kiss on the cheek and say "Je ne fus jamais si asais que je etais de pui tua je."

Don't ask.

Critiques...you have introduced too many characters in a very short time. They're all great characters, mind, but it just gets a little confusing, like 'Wham, wham, wham," and the changes of character and scene are too fast. I would suggest combining more of these character's stories together soon, before they become disconnected and confusing.

If more of the characters are together, we can learn more about them by how they react with other people, as well as settling down the different scenes, thus making it easier to follow.

However, you were beginning to do this very well with the two girls who meet in the bar...forget their names...so I think you'll do fine on this account. Just keep it in mind.

Moving on:

She smiled, white if not pristine teeth bright against the dark tan of her skin. “Thank you,” she said, and stretched a hand that had nearly as many calluses as Latrichia’s across the table. “My name is Kivan Shra-matt.”

First sentence is too wordy. 'White if not pristine' is just unnecessary. Just say off-white, or slightly yellowed, or just plain old white. Saying 'white teeth' doesn't necessarily imply that they're pristine, you know. I have white but not pristine teeth, but it's too confusing to say that, so I just say 'white.'

Anyway.

Mmm...minor point, but I assume you'll explain the significance of 'Shra-matt' later, yes?

So ciao, darling, but continue posting, yes?

We will...*dramatic pause*...meet again.

*giggle* I'm so bad-ass

~The Kool One

P.S. one last thing...it might be easier to critique if you posted the chapters separately, instead of combining it into one super-long post, like Gypsie Eyes. It's hard to find your place again if you have to stop reading, and it's hard, if you find a critique, to tell you about it. So yeah. Keep it in mind. Seeya, luv!

*head/desk* Trust me, dalring, I know I introduce too many characters too fast (though don't get me wrong, I appreciate your noticing it). But the truth is, the honest, painful truth: I have no way around it. For the story to have any kind of pace at all the reader needs to meet all these girls and meet them quickly. *has caught herself justifying and arguing with a critic* *head/desk* *is shutting up now*

THANK you darling. Really, truly, thanks.

Chapter One

I was nervous at first when I saw a complicated first name as the very first word, but I found it very easy to continue reading, so I was able to wave goodbye to my worries ^_^

At least there was some advantage to belonging to that race—any non-humans trying to enter LN found it very difficult indeed

The first part of this quote, including and especially “belonging to that race” sounded a bit awkward to me, like it’s just there for the information’s sake. The abbreviation of Locus Nova to LN I didn’t like so much because Locus Nova is such a pretty name! I’d consider shortening the whole title to one word or the other.

The custom’s man eyed her homespun tunic and slacks with distaste, and gave an extra sniff of disgust for her dark green cloak and travel-worn boots.

The phrase “eyed with distaste” is vague; I’d substitute something brief and vivid, if possible.

The she stepped out onto Locus Nova—and got a shock

The phrase “got a shock” is similar to the above; make me be as shocked as she is ^_^ and if she’s standing on a skyway, why are the buildings towering above her rather than below her (unless she’s not really that high up)?

She had lived among aliens long enough to know what it was that stared back at her, even though she had never before seen one herself.

A few suggested edits: “…know what it was that stared…” to “know what stared” (or never mind if you don’t drift into passive too much). The second half of this sentence is confusing, and maybe not even needed; I’d consider getting rid of it.

Besides, you don’t sound like a ringing endorsement for human superiority yourself, not with that accent.”

Kivan gave a broad, genuine smile. “What does it matter where one comes from?” she quipped. “The important thing is where you’re going.”

I’d have liked to see more description here, something to tell easier whether she’s being serious or facetious. It sounds a little… sappy to me at the moment, but I think it could sound stronger if more body language or voice subtleties were included.

He laughed. “Well answered, love. How very human of you.” He only laughed again when Kivan grimaced involuntarily at the description.

“My blood doesn’t make me human any more than my voice makes me Subryn.”

“So what are you then?”

It was then that the waiter arrived with the bread, fruit, and drink. Kivan took a bite of the delicious, still-warm loaf, chewed and swallowed before replying. “I’m on a quest.”

I’m confused here; I’m not sure who’s talking in the section without dialogue tags. I know who should be talking, based on paragraph spacing, but I don’t know enough, especially in the jargon of this world, to distinguish between the two. Though I do like how in the following paragraphs, the man has an wonderfully distinct style of speaking/wording/language.

Kivan wrapped the loaf and sweets in a length of cloth from her pack and then placed the bundle in one of its inside pockets. She stood and smiled at the man. “Nothing of the kind,” she said.

Does she have really big pockets or was there not that much food left?

“Won’t you even look at your father when he comes home from a five month tour of duty?” he demanded.

Specifying that his tour of duty was five months seems a little like you’re looking to give away information. I think you can cut this bit out as you specify in italics in the following paragraph.

“You gutless Realmer,” she returned coolly. “You believe I care a neuron what you think of me? I’m leaving.”

These words seem too angry to simply be delivered coolly. Description following would be helpful. Don’t forget about what Kane and Mitra are doing while they’re talking to each other. Do they step closer to each other? Do they retreat to opposite ends of the room? Does one turn away from the other? In general (maybe because of what I mentioned above) their conversation seemed a little melodramatic. Like they’re just shouting empty words at each other, when I am sure that they’re not. The last two paragraphs of their point of view, however, I did not feel like they were being melodramatic. It was just sparse enough to have impact without bowling you over.

It’s mentioned a few times in the section about Pran and Latrichia that Latrichia is adopted, clarified as “his adopted daughter”. I’d put in just one of these qualifiers until you flesh it out a bit more (a few paragraphs down) to avoid making more of something than it is.

He could see her fight to keep the pleased smile off her face—Latrichia was not one to show her emotions openly. It had taken even him their entire thirteen years together—since she was no more than a scrawny four-year old orphan—to learn how to read her. She was strong, which was good. She would need that strength sooner than she knew.

I don’t like this paragraph. It’s like there’s too much information at once in too condensed a space.

I think that this section is the most effective one yet.

Red hair, green eyes, and a petite figure distinguished both the Koran women.

Did you mean to say “Korean” women? EDIT (I read farther along): never mind; lol

Latir stroked her hair. “I now it’s hard, sweetie.

whoops! “I know” instead of “I now”

“I know,” said Sharr, and she did. Some of her best friends were non-humans she’d met in her father’s office; she’d never been able to understand why so many people despised them. “But it’s not just that.”

I wish that the bolded part had been shown in a piece of dialogue; I think it would have been more powerful.

I liked this section. Sharr didn’t quite seem to be acting her age, though. There were elements of childishness, of course, but there weren’t as many elements of adultness.

Chapter Two

What I noticed right off the bat was that I didn’t get a sense of how old Tanvark is. Basically: I’m not sure if I’m supposed to think of him as a creepy stalker or a spy on a mission, or a jilted lover type. I’m going to assume the first one for now, as he wasn’t in attendance at school along with the girl.

“Wait!” said the girl again, and fumbled in her pockets for a moment. “At least take this—it’s the address of my father’s clinic. Come there if you ever need anything.”
Kivan took the card and bowed. “Thank you, Sharr.”

It seems strange that she would give away where she could be found without hesitation. Or maybe that’s just my twenty-first century safety-detection speaking.

I like how they’re all starting to interact now. It’s cool.

Work, she needed to find work. The question kept flittering through her mind, though, refusing to be ignored: how? Mitra had never had to find work in her life—work came to her. She rarely knew the names of her clients; no more had they known her face or identity. There was no one who would know her, no one who would shelter her. She was what her mother had promised she would never be: alone.

Very intriguing! But oh no! Mitra’s entry stops there!

No wonder the non-humans in the room loved her on sight—humans sympathetic to aliens were rare; humans raised by aliens were all but unheard of.

I like how you’ve waited to reveal this.

This one has been hurt before, she thought, reading Kivan’s face in turn. She is quick to befriend, but slow to fully trust.

I don’t like how the stream of thought has been included. I find it unnecessary and a bit redundant.

I thought that the very end with Tanvark was especially well written.

The large cast of characters wasn’t so much of a problem, as I had trouble distinguishing gender among them. Take Mitra, for example. I don’t have trouble here because it ends in an “a” and the name’s short enough to easily recall. Tanvark, on the other hand, has a longer name, though it does sound like a boy’s name. Kivan is the one I have consistent trouble recalling because it’s so close to Kevin, a boy’s name, and that confusion initially makes me forget everything I had known about her.

What I liked best about this was how easily I was able to get into it, even with so many characters. I found it pretty easy to care about the characters. What I would be careful with in general, though, is how quickly you give out information about the characters.

PM me if you have any questions
-Amelia

You're a lifesaver, darling!!! You've given me exactly the information I needed on what was going wrong here, and I think I can really make some improvements. Your points about adding more action with the dialogue and cutting down the expo were the most important to me--a million thanks!

*gives lots of cookies!*

'Melia got everything in her wonderful nitpick, so there's nothing left for me to pick out! Except, yes, as sokool said, in the first chapter there was a bit of a character overload, but it wasn't as noticable in the second chapter.

This looks to be as good as your other stuff; keep at it, and sorry I can't be more helpful.

This looks to be as good as your other stuff; keep at it, and sorry I can't be more helpful.

That's what I needed to hear most right now, darling. Don't worry, I think I'll have both the next chapter for this and for Gypsie Eyes up today.

Chapter Three

Kivan noted the first drops of rain without alarm, merely puling up the hood of her cloak and maneuvering her pack so that it hung within the waterproof folds. Latrichia, however, striding before her, started violently when the raindrops began to tap her head. She jerked instinctively into a fighting stance, and looked so comically startled that Kivan couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s just a little water,” she said.

Latrichia didn’t relax. “It almost never rains in the capitol,” she said, though she did not seem to be speaking to her companion.

By now the rain had picked up; it dripped down the front of Kivan’s hood to splatter on the pavement. “Let’s just find shelter then,” said the wanderer, who had been rained on more times than she could count.

Latrichia shook her head, sending her long—by now soaked—black hair swinging. “I don’t trust the lower levels in this weather.”

“Well, how far are we from your home?”

The other looked around as if she hadn’t heard her, cocking her head as if listening to something Kivan couldn’t hear. “Let’s go up,” Latrichia said suddenly, and began to move down a side alley that seemed no bigger than a crack between buildings.

“Wait!” Kivan followed, her broad shoulders scraping the grimy walls. “Latrichia, please, I’m not as nimble as you.”

The warrior slowed slightly but didn’t look behind her. Latrichia was a good deal smaller than Kivan; lithe and agile, she betrayed her combat training with every step. Kivan moved behind her without speaking—her many years on the outer planets had given her an almost unflagging patience.

Then, suddenly, they were out, and only when Kivan saw the pristine skyways and well-kept buildings did she realize the alley had been sloping upward the entire way. The rain fell harder here, without the oppressive overhang of the lower levels. There was a peal of thunder overhead, and Kivan saw Latrichia’s shoulders tighten within her trenchcoat. “What are we doing here?” the wanderer yelled above the growing storm.

Latrichia turned to face her, and in the flash of lightning overhead her black eyes gleamed green for an instant. “I’m not sure.”

* * *

“Hey!” Mitra yelled as the urchin snatched at her pack, wrenching it from her shoulder and darting away. She gave chase instinctively, her hand brushing—but only briefly—the blaster in its holster. Her legs were long, but the dirty little boy knew the territory better than she, and in the growing dark his proved to be the greater advantage. “Give it back, you imp!” she yelled at him as he continued to run, his fellow waifs giving way before his flight.

She cursed aloud when the rain began to fall, and for a moment she thought she had lost him. But lightning flashed, and she caught a glimpse of his tattered coat as he ducked around a corner. And the chase continued.

In a few moments she was soaked, but the thief seemed more frightened by the storm than she did, and she gained on him, little by little. And more and more she became aware of how badly out of shape she was; a career of computers did not lend itself to physical fitness, and she owed her slenderness more to her mother than her diet.

Finally, in one last desperate attempt, she leapt at him, and the two of them rolled over and over along the skyway until she came out, wet and bruised, on top. She twisted the bag none-too-kindly out of his hands, and caught a glimpse of wide gray eyes before he flung his hands over his face defensively. “Please, lady, I ain’t mean no ‘arm, a body’s gotta eat, ‘e does, no ‘arm done, please lady!”

Mitra was breathing hard, and the force of her fury had been almost entirely spent on the chase. She stood, and gave the thief a half-hearted kick. “Get out of here.”

He fled.

Only then did Mitra look around her, realize where she was, and curse.

* * *

Sharr shivered beneath the awing of a now-closed grocery, glaring across the open square at the school. She was soaked through, and halfway between fear and wonder. It had rained here only twice before in her lifetime, and she had never been caught out in the downpour before.

She shivered, and had just made up her mind to make a dash for the school across the puddle-strewn square when she saw a dark shape moving towards her through the deluge. Frightened, wet, confused, she stood frozen to the spot, wanting to run but finding her legs unresponsive. The shape came closer and closer, growing taller with every step it took towards her. Then, when it was only a few paces away, she heard it cursing.

“Mitra!” she almost collapsed in relief.

The tall young woman darted under the awing to stand next to her, looking as startled as Sharr. “What are you doing here, Koran?” she demanded.

While Sharr hadn’t seen the girl in nearly five months, she and Mitra had shared several classes together at school. Supposedly her father was not the best of sorts, and there were rumors that he ordered his daughter home from school when he was away. “I forgot a report at school,” she said. “What about you?”

“Followed some twit who stole my bag, he led me here. Damn it all, why here!”

Sharr had no answer and gave none. “Missed you in school,” she mumbled.

Mitra snorted. “Wish I could say the feeling’s mutual, Koran.” She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. “Blasted rain.”

Sharr nodded mutely. Something flickered at the edge of her vision, just behind Mitra’s back. She strained to get a better look. There was a flash of movement coming out of the rain, and then something akin to instinct took hold and Sharr bowled Mitra to the ground, “Look out!”

The first shot went over her head so close it singed her hair.

* * *

Kivan started at the sound of blaster fire, but Latrichia sprang forward like an arrow loosed from the string. The wanderer followed as fast as she could, but her new friend vanished into the gray rain like a phantom. There was a second shot—which, to Kivan’s ears, sounded as if it came from a different weapon—then a third from the original blaster.

She reached the scene of the danger just seconds after Latrichia, but already the warrior was in the thick of the fight. Her opponent was a young man with dark hair heavy with rain, a discarded blaster at his feet. She had apparently closed with him too fast for him to get a shot off; his only choice had been to face her hand-to-hand. Kivan had never seen someone move as fast or as powerfully as Latrichia did in that moment. Still, impossibly, he seemed to be holding his own against her.

Kivan, looking for the source of the second shot, saw the girl she had met earlier kneeling over a young woman she didn’t know. Sharr’s eyes came up to meet her, and her face was wetter than the rain could account for. “You!” she said.

The young woman she was tending couldn’t have been much older than Kivan, for all she was so tall. There was blood oozing out of an ugly hole in her upper right chest. Thankfully, she was unconscious.

Kivan dropped to her knees next to Sharr, and rooted frantically in her pack for a moment before coming up with several lengths of clean fabric she normally used to wrap food in.

“Here, let me,” said Sharr, who, tears or no, seemed calm. She wound the improvised bandages around the wound expertly, and didn’t seem perturbed by the blood.

Kivan glanced over at Latrichia. The young man she fought had apparently taken a grazing shot to his left leg; he favored it and seemed to be tiring faster than his opponent. Kivan reached to the small of her back and eased out the long dagger she kept tucked in its sheath there. Sharr’s eyes widened at the sight of the weapon, but she didn’t say anything.

The wanderer watched the two combatants fight for a few moments, trying to find the best moment to intervene. Just as she was about to dart into the struggle, the young man dropped to his hands and swung his legs to bowl Latrichia over. She was up again after an instant, but in that instant he had vanished into the dark and driving rain, his blaster somehow recovered. Even his meager trail of blood was almost instantly washed away by the deluge.

Latrichia turned to Kivan, breathing hard. Another streak of lighting lit up the sky once more, and the following peal of thunder shook the pavement beneath their feet.

Sharr’s patient groaned, and seemed to be coming awake. Kivan turned back to her, and heard Latrichia move up beside them. The tall woman’s dark eyes flew open and she immediately began to curse. Compared to the profanities Kivan knew, however, these were rather tame and elicited no reaction from the wanderer.

“We need to get her to a medcenter,” said Sharr desperately; only after the ordeal of the attack did she begin to show signs of fear.

“Hell no!” grunted the patient. “No Realmers.”

“But—” Sharr began.

The other grabbed her shoulders with long hands. “No. Realmers.”

“To my home then,” said Latrichia.

The wounded one looked up at her. “Who the hell are you?”

“The person saving your life.”

“Huh.” She let go off Sharr. “Fair enough.”

“Her name is Mitra Danne,” explained the red-head. “Come on, help me get her up, I think she can walk with aid.”

“You sure you want to come?” asked Kivan as she heaved Mitra to her feet by her good shoulder. “It’s in the lower levels. I wouldn’t’ think—”

Sharr glared at her. “I’m coming.”

* * *

Tanvark barely felt the wound in his leg as he ran, blind with panic. It was now full night all around him, and while the rain was letting up it still managed to obscure most of the light that shone from signs or still-open businesses. He stumbled, fell into a puddle, drenching himself anew, and lurched to his feet.

His left leg stung and burned, and even though he had experienced blaster wounds before, this one was worse. He had never been so afraid in his life.

Navik was going to kill him.

* * *

Sharr’s heart pounded. Every inch of her was wet and cold, and her shivers came as much from fear as from the weather. Someone had tried to kill her. Pointed a gun in her direction and deliberately pulled the trigger. Whether he had been gunning for Mitra or herself, he had shown no more concern for her life than if she had been an insect beneath his boot. By the time the four of them came to a halt, Sharr’s shivering was almost uncontrollable.

When they stopped, she realized that it had probably been a good thing she hadn’t been paying attention during the trip: they were deeper in the lower levels than she had ever imagined going. Down here, the rain came in irregular sweeps as the wind tugged it back and forth and the immeasurably high buildings blocked and didn’t block it in turn. The deep but shifting shadows hid the visual squalor of the place, but the smell gave Sharr enough clues to form a mental picture.

In the dimness, she saw the warrior, barely discernable in her black trenchcoat, move towards the barest outline of a doorway in the alley. Sharr read the words “Top Level Sewer Entrance” above the lintel, and avoided inhaling as the warrior punched in some numerical combination on a keypad beside the doorframe and the door itself slid open ponderously.

Instead of the strong smells of waste that she expected, however, light flooded out of the space behind the door, making Sharr squint in the sudden brightness. Kivan, still supporting the wounded Mitra, glanced over at her, as if checking that she was alright. Sharr gave her a brave smile, then followed the warrior into the unknown.

* * *

As she entered the familiar passageways, Latrichia instantly felt a sense of safety descend upon her. Though the tunnel was bright, she could have found her way in complete darkness. This was the one place in the galaxy that really felt like home.

When she had been about four years old, Latrichia’s parents had been killed in an explosion of some kind. She didn’t even remember their names, nor did she have any idea who they were. For days afterwards, she had wandered aimlessly in the lower levels, a hungry child that no one wanted to bother about.

Until Pran.

A retired bounty hunter, Pran’s name had once been Krieve. After the current High Sovereign’s coronation, he had changed his name and moved into the old sewage system underneath the Senate building, thinking that none of the enemies he had acquired in his trade would look for him there. He had put a lot of work into “refurbishing” it, and had been out one day to pick up supplies when he had happened upon her.

Most other men, especially at that time, would have ignored her, but Pran was not most other men. He took her in and raised her like his own daughter, naming her Latrichia, or “lightning” in one of the older human dialects. He had loved and trained her like a father, and had helped to mold her into the warrior she was now.

Memories of the past faded into the reality of the present, and Latrichia was again keenly aware of those who followed her. They presently came to the end of the tunnel, and she pushed the door chime.

The door slid open, and there was Pran. For a moment, she ran her eyes over his familiar figure, calming her nerves with the sight of something so safe and well-known. He stood not much taller than she, and was starting to show signs of age. His dark brown hair showed hints of silver at the temples, and his well-trimmed beard was shot through with dignified veins of the same. His squarish face and intelligent gray eyes had never changed, however, and Latrichia found comfort in his presence. His gaze flicked over the others, and then he stepped aside to admit them all. She had expected no less.

* * *

Kivan only got a glimpse of the man who had opened the door as she half-carried, half-helped Mitra through the doorway, but once the tall young woman was seated and Sharr was attending her, the wanderer turned back to get a better look at her “host,” for the moment ignoring her immediate surroundings.

He was about average build for a human male, if perhaps broader in the shoulders, and his hands were incurably rough from years of work, yet not over-large or brutish. Dressed well but simply, with marks of neither excessive poverty nor excessive wealth, he would fit into almost any crowd on Locus Nova, until you caught a glimpse of those intense charcoal eyes of his. Those were the kind of eyes that others couldn’t hold contact with, and they belonged to the kind of man who was fully aware of their effect. But Kivan held the man’s gaze, and he studied her as casually yet meticulously as she studied him. Then she smiled, and he smiled, and they shook hands in the way of two who were meant to meet.

Only then did Kivan begin to take an interest in where she was and what was going on. The rooms had low-ceilings, which made her—daughter of the open sky—slightly uncomfortable, but beyond that the space around her was unremarkable. Mitra was laid out on a well-worn, neutral colored couch, doing her best not to wince as Sharr poked, prodded, peered, and otherwise practiced her trade on the wounded shoulder. Kivan couldn’t quite follow what the girl was doing, but her hands moved with a swiftness and a certainty that reminded her of the way Latrichia had moved during her fight. Her gaze lingered on the medic for only a short time, and then drifted back to where Latrichia and the man were talking in quiet tones.

Presently Sharr moved from her patient, wiping her hands with a disinfectant cloth. “She should be fine,” she said, her voice heavy with weariness. “I gave her something for the pain; she’s asleep now, when she wakes up the wound should be fully closed.”

The man stepped forward and asked, in a deep but smooth voice, “Are you Sharr Koran?”

She nodded. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you know my name. I seem to be pretty popular tonight.”

“More than you know,” he said, his voice and face serious, “but I won’t hurt you. Here,” he handed her a recording disc, “I was recording a boxing match—Latrichia and I always watch them together—when a news report interrupted it. I think you should see it. There’s a viewer in the other room.”

* * *

Sharr took the disk from the man, went alone into the other room, and slid the disk into the holographic viewer. The little click as the machine registered the disk and began to play it was, to Sharr’s mind, the most terrible sound in the galaxy.

The image of a reporter flickered to life, and words came from the speaker, “…the entire apartment blown out—fortunately it was at the top corner of the building and no other apartments were seriously damaged. We have determined that the owners of the apartment, Dr. Jenom Koran and his wife Latir, were inside when the explosive went of—forensic teams have found a charred female skeleton with an unborn fetus and a male skeleton that matches the doctor’s height and build—but their daughter, Sharr Koran, is missing presumed dead. Demolitions experts are not…”

The report went on, but Sharr did not hear it. Part of her mind said, It’ll be shock first, then disbelief. Another part said, Oh. But most of her mind was blank, and it took her a long, long time to realize that she was crying, silently, gently. Her body felt frozen, unable to react. And so cold…

Then there was warmth, a warm weight on her shoulders, and she looked up and found that there was a green cloak encircling her now, and that she had somehow sunk to her knees. Kivan’s tanned face was close to her, and in it Sharr saw mirrored the emotions she knew she should be feeling—grief, pain, loss. Yet Sharr was only numb. Kivan drew the medic onto her lap and rocked her gently, and finally the dam of Sharr’s emotions broke and she sobbed and sobbed and sobbed, drenching this stranger’s shoulder with her tears.

Soon Kivan began to sing, a sweet, comforting lullaby in a language Sharr did not recognize. Sharr felt the magic of the song working on her as her eyelids drooped. And she drifted slowly off into a dream world where people did not try to kill you and your parents could not possibly be dead.

* * *

Latrichia, watching silently from the doorway, blinked once, twice, certainly not to hold back tears. A warrior didn’t cry, viable as the reason to cry might be. Kivan looked up at her, and the warrior moved into the room and lifted Sharr gently in her strong arms. Latrichia then carried her into her own quarters, and laid her on the bed, taking a moment to cover the sleeping girl with a blanket. Not out of tenderness, of course, but it could get cold here during the night.

Once back outside, she found Kivan and Pran waiting for her. “What do we do now?” the warrior asked.

“What can we do?” said Pran. “You know I want to help, but how?”

“Stand by her,” replied Kivan, “stay with her, support her.” She paused and glanced meaningfully at Latrichia. “Stand by each other.”

“What do you mean?” Latrichia asked.

Kivan seemed to be having trouble finding the right words. Her eyebrows furrowed and her eyes became serious. “Karama,” she said desperately, “friendship, loyalty.”

Latrichia glanced to where Mitra was sleeping in drugged, healing slumber on the couch. “The four of us have a bond now,” she said quietly.

“Yes,” said Kivan. “Such a bond as does not come often. I am not a believer in destiny, but there are harsher critics of fate than I who would say we were meant to come together.”

Latrichia looked to Pran; he shrugged fractionally. “We do need to sort this all out,” he said. “But it is late, and by all accounts you ladies have had a rough day.”

“In the morning then,” said Kivan.

Latrichia nodded. “In the morning.”

Kivan noted the first drops of rain without alarm, merely puling up the hood of her cloak and maneuvering her pack so that it hung within the waterproof folds. Latrichia, however, striding before her, started violently when the raindrops began to tap her head. She jerked instinctively into a fighting stance, and looked so comically startled that Kivan couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s just a little water,” she said.

There are alot of adverbs in this paragraph; I don't know if all of them are necessary.

The first shot went over her head so close it singed her hair.

The "so close" part seemed a little informal-ish to me, and as a result, I don't' think that the line has as tight an impact as it could, especially at the end of a section.

The young woman she was tending couldn’t have been much older than Kivan, for all she was so tall. There was blood oozing out of an ugly hole in her upper right chest. Thankfully, she was unconscious.

Is she thankfully unconscious so that she doesn't have to deal with being shot? The wording's a little odd. Oozing seems like too general a word, and sounds a little cartoon-like to me.

There wasn't as much dialogue in this part, it seems, which made me sad because I like their dialogue. In general, I think that everything could be a little tighter; see where you can combine words/phrases/sentences to make everything ~punch that much more.

A pat on the back: When I came back to find another chapter, after a few days of having not read, I instantly remembered everyone; that almost never happens when I read things online. Congratulations for creating such memorable characters!