Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Rogue drifts through a shimmering veil of stars, her red hair floating like strands of living flame as the galaxy unfolds around her in impossible, ever-shifting patterns.

Worlds bloom and fade beneath her feet.

A city of crystal hangs upside down over a violet sun. Ancient towers rise from an ocean black as polished glass. Strange faces turn toward her, people she has never met yet somehow knows she would trust with her life.

She laughs and reaches for them.

She is free.

No walls.

No watchful eyes.

No one deciding where she may go.

Only the vast, singing dark and the thrill of choosing her own path.

Then she feels it.

Somewhere beyond the worlds, beyond the faces, beyond everything the dream is willing to show her, something waits.

Rogue cannot see it.

She never can.

But here, in dreams, she never has to search for it.

The sensation is simply there.

Not a voice.

Not even a thought.

A pull.

A direction.

There.

Rogue turns toward it.

For one strange moment, the stars stretch before her like a road.

Something lies at the end of it.

Something impossibly distant.

Something that has been calling to her for as long as she can remember.

Then the dream ripples.

A familiar silhouette appears at the edge of the light.

Her grandfather’s broad shoulders. His heavy stance. That quiet worry he thinks she never notices.

The stars dim.

Threshold’s gentle artificial dawn presses against the edges of her vision.

Warm.

Safe.

Suffocating.

Rogue’s eyes flutter open.

She lies still beneath the blankets, staring at the familiar ceiling.

One hand remains outstretched.

The road is gone.

The pull is not.

It is harder to feel now.

Waking life is noisy.

Thoughts. Walls. Machines. Voices.

Everything presses against that tiny sensation until it becomes easy to miss.

Rogue closes her eyes again.

Breathes.

Lets the room fall away.

There.

Faint.

Far beyond the ceiling.

Beyond the Ark.

Beyond Threshold.

The same direction.

Rogue opens her eyes.

Still there.

She has tried following it on maps before.

It never helps.

Star charts give her coordinates. Systems. Alliance territories. Shipping lanes.

Whatever this is, it does not fit neatly into any of them.

It tells her only one thing.

That way.

Heavy footsteps echo down the corridor.

A familiar voice booms through the door.

“Rogue! Breakfast is ready. Hurry up, kid. I’ve got to leave soon.”

Her concentration breaks.

The pull slips beneath everything else again.

Not gone.

Just buried.

Rogue lets her hand fall.

“Yeah, yeah.”

With a quiet groan, she pushes herself out of bed.

The rich aroma of breakfast greets her as she descends the stairs. Warm waffles. Sizzling meat. Spiced fruit. Something sweet enough to make her stomach complain that she took too long.

Her grandfather is already seated at the table.

Marcus Bennett is a mountain of a man even while hunched over breakfast, broad shoulders stretching his shirt as he methodically works through a plate large enough to feed three ordinary people.

Looking at him now, no one would guess that Marcus Bennett had once been a Marshal Templar of the Human Alliance.

Rogue mostly knows that part of his life through old stories, half-answers, and the occasional visitor who suddenly stands much straighter when Grandpa enters the room.

Marcus himself prefers talking about breakfast.

Rogue stops in the doorway.

“Nice of you to wait for me, Gramps.”

The sweetness in her tone does nothing to hide the sarcasm.

Marcus looks up, waffle halfway to his mouth.

Then he takes the bite.

“First come, first served, kid. You know the rules.”

“Don’t call me kid.”

Rogue drops into the chair across from him and pours herself a glass of the tart-sweet fruit extract S.A.M. prepares every morning.

Marcus reaches for another sausage.

Rogue clears her throat.

His hand stops.

“I know.”

He puts the fork down.

They bow their heads.

“Thank you for this food,” Rogue says, already eyeing the eggs and muffins through half-closed eyes. “For this home, and for keeping us together. Watch over the people who aren’t as lucky as us, and bring our people home.”

“Amen,” Marcus says.

“Amen.”

Rogue opens her eyes.

They eat in comfortable silence.

For a while.

Then Rogue notices it.

The final thick sausage.

Marcus notices it too.

Their eyes meet.

Rogue slowly extends one hand.

Marcus reaches for the plate.

The sausage refuses to move.

Marcus pulls harder.

Nothing.

His eyes rise toward hers.

“You sure you want to do this?”

Crimson light flickers around Rogue’s fingers.

“This could get ugly,” Marcus warns.

Rogue’s grin widens.

“I’ve been training. Question is, are you brave enough to fight for your breakfast?”

A soft chime sounds.

Blue light gathers beside the table and forms into S.A.M.’s clean, slightly cartoonish holographic avatar.

“I must remind you both that food-based contests carry a seventy-three percent probability of mess.”

Rogue keeps her eyes on Marcus.

Marcus keeps his eyes on the sausage.

S.A.M. continues.

“I finished decontaminating this room twenty-six minutes ago. If you insist upon converting breakfast into combat training, kindly take it below. I will not scrub syrup from the carpet again.”

Marcus releases the sausage and pushes back his chair.

“Training doesn’t give you the right to be this cocky.”

He rises to his full height.

“Fine. I’ll give you a proper lesson before I head up to the Ark.”

Rogue points at the untouched sausage.

“So I win?”

Marcus snatches it off the plate.

“No.”

“Hey!”

He takes a bite while walking away.

“S.A.M., referee.”

“As you wish, sir.”

A faint pause.

“I will keep the safety protocols armed. Miss Rogue has demonstrated poor judgment when sufficiently confident.”

Rogue points accusingly at the hologram.

“Traitor.”

“I serve the household, Miss Rogue. Not your ego.”

Marcus laughs all the way down the corridor.

The underground training arena is a broad circular chamber built beneath the Bennett residence.

Rogue stands opposite her grandfather.

Neither carries a weapon.

Marcus rolls his shoulders.

“Last chance to back out, squirt. No shame in walking away from a fight you can’t win.”

Without a word, Rogue shrugs out of her coat and tosses it aside.

Crimson energy crawls over her hands.

“Ha. And you called me cocky earlier.”

She plants her feet.

“I’m not the same girl you fought before. I’ve grown.”

Marcus’s expression shifts.

Just slightly.

Approval.

“We’ll see.”

He looks upward.

“S.A.M. Dark cavern.”

The chamber changes.

Smooth walls dissolve beneath projected stone. Jagged formations rise around them. Stalactites hang like teeth from the ceiling while veins of pale bioluminescence pulse through the rock.

Cold air brushes Rogue’s face.

Even the smell changes.

Damp earth. Stone. Minerals.

S.A.M. appears along the edge of the arena.

“Environmental parameters established. Safety protocols active. Please avoid damaging the projection matrix. Last month’s repairs consumed an irritating portion of the maintenance budget.”

Rogue smiles.

Then slams both hands downward.

Crimson force detonates beneath her.

She rockets upward.

Marcus looks up just in time to see Rogue twist through the air and land upside down against the cavern ceiling, boots anchored in place by telekinetic pressure.

Marcus blinks.

“Oh, come on.”

Rogue grins.

The simulated stone around her fractures as the arena’s hard-light matter responds to the combat system.

A cluster of stalactites tears free.

She sends them down.

Marcus sidesteps the first.

Smashes the second apart with his forearm.

The third explodes against the ground beside him.

Then the rest collapse at once.

Stone and dust swallow him.

Silence.

Rogue peers down.

“Got you.”

A deep laugh rises from beneath the rubble.

“Oh, you definitely got something.”

The debris erupts.

Marcus rises from the crater as if the stone piled over him weighs nothing.

Dust rolls from his shoulders.

He removes his jacket, tosses it aside, and looks up at Rogue with a fierce grin.

“Okay, kid.”

Golden energy ignites around him.

“My turn.”

He launches upward.

Rogue’s eyes widen.

Both hands snap forward.

Crimson force catches Marcus in midair.

For an instant.

Only an instant.

Rogue grits her teeth.

His momentum bends sideways, but she cannot stop him.

Marcus tears past her and drives one fist into the simulated ceiling.

The cavern roof explodes.

Rogue drops with it.

Stone crashes down around her.

A crimson barrier flashes into existence an instant before the debris hits.

The world disappears beneath dust and broken rock.

Then the rubble bursts outward.

Rogue climbs from the crater, breathing hard.

“That all?”

Marcus lands twenty feet away.

“You tell me.”

Golden light gathers in his palm.

He fires.

Rogue moves.

The first blast cuts past her cheek.

She ducks the second.

Twists around the third.

Marcus fires again.

And again.

Rogue stops trying to consciously track every shot.

She knows Marcus’s rhythm.

The tightening of his shoulder.

The shift of his stance.

The fraction of a second between one attack and the next.

Training takes over.

She slips past another blast.

Then another.

Suddenly the barrage stops.

Rogue’s stomach drops.

Marcus is gone.

“Aw, crap.”

He appears behind her.

Golden light burns around his fist.

Rogue throws herself forward, flips over the strike, and lands hard on both boots.

She spins.

Both hands thrust outward.

Crimson energy twists together into a spiraling drill of psychic force.

It slams into Marcus’s back.

He staggers.

One step.

Then another.

For one brief second, the golden aura surrounding him fractures.

Rogue freezes.

She actually did it.

Marcus glances over his shoulder.

“Not bad.”

The words come out through a grunt.

A delighted grin spreads across Rogue’s face.

Marcus reaches behind himself, catches the twisting psychic current in one hand, and closes his fist.

The crimson energy shatters into fading sparks.

Rogue’s grin disappears.

“Oh.”

Marcus turns.

“But I’ve got a meeting.”

Rogue brings both hands together, gathering everything she has left.

“Then let’s finish this.”

Marcus vanishes.

Rogue’s eyes widen.

He reappears directly in front of her.

“Agreed.”

His fist stops inches from her face.

A controlled pulse of golden force erupts from it.

Rogue’s vision turns white.

Then black.

Rogue wakes beneath the soft glow of an infirmary ceiling.

Her ribs ache faintly, though the regeneration field humming over the bed has already reduced the pain to a distant throb.

She turns her head.

The chair beside the bed is empty.

S.A.M. materializes nearby.

“Welcome back, Miss Rogue.”

Rogue groans.

“How long?”

“Forty-three minutes.”

“Did I win?”

“No.”

“Had to ask.”

“Your grandfather departed for his committee hearing aboard the Ark on schedule. He instructed me to ensure you remain beneath the regeneration field until residual strain falls below acceptable levels.”

S.A.M. gestures toward the small table beside her.

A folded note rests there beside a credit chit.

“He also requested that I remind you that ‘get whatever you want’ does not include another late return. I anticipate you will disregard this instruction.”

Rogue picks up the note.

Kid,

You gave it a hell of a shot. Proud of you for that.

Still got a long way to go before you take the old man down, though.

I left my credit chit. Get whatever you want for dinner tonight and tomorrow. I’ll probably be in a foul mood when I get back, fair warning.

Get your favorite stuff if it helps.

Marcus

Rogue reads it twice.

A small smile pulls at the corner of her mouth.

“Jerk.”

“An unusual response to affection.”

“He knows what he did.”

Rogue folds the note carefully and slips it into her pocket with the chit.

Then she swings her legs over the side of the bed.

S.A.M.’s head turns.

“The regeneration cycle is not complete.”

“I feel fine.”

“You frequently say that while injured.”

“And I’m frequently right.”

“No.”

Rogue stands.

“Want anything from the market?”

“I do not eat.”

“Your loss.”

“Would you like me to prepare anything before your return?”

Rogue grabs her coat.

“Nah. I’ll get dinner myself.”

“As you wish.”

S.A.M. gives a precise tilt of the head.

“I have logged your departure.”

Rogue reaches the door.

“Do try to return before your grandfather’s foul mood arrives with him. I can manage the kitchen. I cannot manage him.”

Rogue laughs.

“Nobody can.”

The market square is crowded by the time Rogue arrives.

She parks the utility rover and climbs out.

Vendors shout daily specials from beneath colorful awnings. Families drift between shops. Delivery drones glide overhead carrying baskets and sealed packages.

Above it all hangs the Ark.

Rogue stops.

She always does.

The colossal vessel floats impossibly high in Threshold’s blue sky, its dark silver hull stretched between the clouds. From the ground, transports moving toward it look like sparks crawling across a wall.

Most people barely glance upward.

Rogue always looks.

Somewhere inside that thing, Marcus is probably sitting at a table with a room full of people he dislikes.

She smiles faintly.

Poor bastards.

“Careful.”

Rogue blinks.

Old lady Mara sits beneath the shade tree outside her little provisions shop, a cloth bag resting beside her on the bench.

Mara points at Rogue’s feet.

“Keep staring at the sky like that and eventually you’re going to walk into something.”

Rogue grins and crosses toward her.

“Hasn’t happened yet.”

“A remarkable streak of good fortune.”

Rogue drops onto the bench.

Mara glances her over.

“You’re moving stiffly.”

“Grandpa.”

“Ah.”

Mara gives a knowing nod.

“You challenged him again.”

“And got closer.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

Rogue folds her arms.

“I lost.”

Mara smiles.

“There it is.”

“You could show a little sympathy.”

“Would that help?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll save it.”

Rogue laughs.

Mara looks toward the Ark.

“Marcus will be up there most of the day, I suppose.”

“Yeah.”

“Those hearings never did finish quickly. Not even back when he still wore the Marshal’s insignia.”

Rogue turns toward her.

“You knew him back then?”

“Everyone knew of Marshal Templar Marcus Bennett back then.”

Mara adjusts the bag beside her.

“Knowing him personally was another matter.”

Rogue studies her.

Mara notices.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The old woman gives her a look.

“You make that face whenever you think someone has said more than they intended.”

Rogue’s eyebrows lift.

“Do I?”

“You do.”

Mara pats Rogue’s knee once and stands.

“You should get your shopping done. The good produce disappears once the evening crowd arrives.”

She gathers her bag.

“Tell Marcus I asked after him.”

“Sure.”

Mara disappears into her shop.

Rogue starts toward the market.

Then stops.

Those hearings.

She looks back.

Mara is already gone.

Rogue had never told her Marcus was attending a hearing today.

Maybe Marcus had.

That would make sense.

Probably.

Rogue resumes walking.

Slower this time.

She hates that word.

Probably.

A heavy transport roars overhead.

Rogue looks up.

The ship climbs toward the Ark, sunlight flashing across its hull.

She follows it with her eyes.

Higher.

Higher.

It shrinks into a bright speck against the Ark.

Then her gaze continues beyond it.

For a moment, Rogue simply watches the empty blue.

Then she reaches.

Not with her hand.

With whatever part of herself has been feeling the same impossible direction for as long as she can remember.

Her steps slow.

The noise of the market fades from her attention.

Voices.

Engines.

Music from a nearby stall.

Footsteps.

She lets all of it become background.

Breathes.

Focuses.

There.

The pull answers.

Faint, but unmistakable.

It does not come from the Ark.

It lies far beyond it.

Beyond Threshold.

Beyond every world Rogue has ever visited on a screen.

She cannot name the star.

She cannot plot a coordinate.

But she knows the direction as surely as she knows which way is up.

Rogue opens her eyes.

The feeling remains as long as she holds onto it.

Other people look at the Ark and see something permanent.

Rogue never has.

It is a ship.

Ships are supposed to go somewhere.

Her gaze follows the invisible direction beyond it.

Someday.

She does not know where it leads.

She does not even know if anything is actually waiting at the other end.

But if someone put her aboard a ship right now and told her to choose a course, she already knows where she would point it.

A smile creeps across her face