Making Peace
MAKING
PEACE
ADAM LANE SMITH
MAKING PEACE
Copyright © 2017 by Adam Lane Smith
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Any questions can be sent to the author at StargiftBooks@gmail.com.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, fictional persons, or actual or fictional events is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Christian Bentulan of Covers By Christian
http://coversbychristian.com
Formatting by Kevin G. Summers
http://www.kevingsummers.com
This book is very humbly dedicated to the military veteran men and women who have given so much in service to their people, and who continue to struggle every day. Your sacrifice is not forgotten, and there are people who care. May you find some of the peace your struggle has purchased for us.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
Afterward from the (real) author
About the author
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Many people contributed to the creation of this book, but the author would specifically like to thank the following:
My wife, for the long years of dedication and for being my most vocal supporter. My mother, for instilling in me a deep love and respect for the written word. My Lord and Savior, who sees me through every hard time and promises better times to come.
The many authors who have helped me along my writing journey, especially Nick Cole, K. M. Weiland, and Brian Niemeier: though you may not know it, each of you has contributed greatly to my growth in our shared craft. Rhett C. Bruno for his generous assistance in launching this book, and for his friendly encouragement when some things inevitably went sideways. And to Alan Dean Foster, who through writing and kindness ignited in me a lifelong love of both science fiction and harassment of authors. You, sir, have been my example.
My six beta readers: Brent, Greg, Jason, Leslie, Mike, and Nicole, the first people to read my first book. You were kind and critical in good measure, and your feedback was greatly valued.
I would especially like to thank those writers in our field who have verbally attacked me for maintaining a moderate stance in recent years instead of sharing their political views, and in particular that individual who threatened to get me fired from my day job because of my religious faith. Your immense hatred and bigotry opened my eyes to the dangerous fanaticism inherent in your beliefs, and spurred me on to achieve success in spite of your behavior toward me. I wish you tremendous enjoyment in reading my first book.
And I would like to thank you, dear reader. It has been my lifelong dream to be an author, and by reading this book you are helping make my dream come true. From the bottom of my heart: thank you.
To Edwin Verger, Editor in Chief
Care of Lush Bodice Publishing Company
1217 Imperial Era
Edwin,
I’ve arrived in the city of Tiers on the planet Sivern, as per your directions. I’ve contacted the commander of the Peacekeepers, been embedded in one of the upper level squads, and will begin my work immediately.
Consider this the cover letter for my project. I’ll be writing everything, no matter how embarrassing or personal, because this needs to feel authentic. When it’s ready, I’ll ship this folder off to you so you can go through it and assemble the book. When I send it, there will be notes for what to remove to protect individual privacy, as agreed ahead of time. Do not release it under any circumstances until those changes have been made. I’ll include my notes, interviews, journal entries, newspaper clippings, and polished up sections of manuscript. I’ll be working to conduct personal interviews with as many of the group as I possibly can, to get a feel for real life in this job. Their commander has agreed to push this requirement with each of them.
I need to get this off my chest: I doubt you could have stuck me with a sorrier group of social rejects if you had tried. Peacekeeper command claims this was the only group willing to take on an embedded writer. As is, there is no way a book about this lot is going to sell on a rich, plush planet like Garden. We’re writing for bored noble ladies, remember? This group is barely fit for the Fool’s Stage on market day.
There are instructions to send this manuscript along in the event of my death. And thanks so much for the opportunity to risk my life, by the way. I noticed that bit in the waiver you had me sign: death by, among other things, giant lizards? This book had better make enough to settle all my debts, like our patron promised.
Speaking of, I remember you said we’ve got a mysterious patron paying for this book, and we’re not supposed to mention that to the Peacekeepers. So far, they think this was my idea, and I’ll probably leave it that way. I’m hoping I can figure out the identity of our patron.
Yours, albeit begrudgingly at this point,
Belkan Candor
CHAPTER 1
THERE WAS NOTHING, and then there was pain.
I jerked back to consciousness with battle raging all around me, but that wasn’t what woke me up. What got my attention was the fingers jammed into the sucking wound in my chest.
Whatever had caused the wound had been ripped out, and someone had rammed her fingers straight into the pulsing gap. My eyes focused enough to make out the form of a woman in plate armor crouched over my body. She straddled my torso in a defensive stance, showing me her back. The armor she wore covered most of her upper body and was crafted from ceramic material painted silver with blue accents. Dark, heavy leather battle skirts looked long enough to hang to her ankles but, right now, were draped across my body and the mud under us as she squatted over my stomach. Her hazel eyes continuously flickered between watching over her shoulder as she worked on me and surveying the dank, miserable alley in which we were all fighting.
I realized she was mumbling something under her breath, something with a musical tone. My chest grew warm, the flesh squirming around her fingers. I think I screamed. The flesh began to knit together, forcing her fingers out of the wound.
My investigative mind went to work. I’d been injured and clearly fallen unconscious. Some sort of battle was going on, and I was more than likely involved. This woman was healing me, so either she was on my side or she had a vested
interest in keeping me alive.
My eyes drifted over the half of her face visible to me, her left side: the strong jaw and pointed chin, the mole like a tear under her eye, her chestnut brown hair pulled back and wound into two tight buns and pinned on either side of her neck. I noticed she held a white ceramic kite shield in her right hand.
Shield. That’s her name.
Right. One of the Peacekeepers I was sent here to write about. The Peacekeeper emblem, a gauntleted fist wrapped in ivy, was emblazoned on the outside of her left shoulder and confirmed her allegiance.
I tried to shake my head and clear it, rolling it back and forth on the ground, but it only made things worse. I nearly blacked out and had to close my eyes. As soon as I could open them again, I turned my head to the side to try and catch the rest of the battle.
Wilted sunlight from a cloudy sky cast the alley in murky shadow. Wooden walls closed us in on both sides and ran in both directions, leaving us in the middle of a long trough. Dark and squishy mud made up most of the ground. The stench of rancid mud and moldy dwellings assaulted my nose. Two warriors seemed to be holding back several men who were wearing the same baggy black clothing. Each of these uniformed men held a sword in his hand. Every visible blade in the alley was made of Sivernite: a white ceramic exclusive to this planet and stronger than any metal.
I spotted a teenage girl in a purple robe covered in straps and buckles which cinched it around each thigh. Her long black hair flowed freely and whipped as she whirled around. At the right knee, one of her legs turned into a black, scaly calf, sloping down to a reptilian foot. She whirled as she brought her bladed staff down across one human enemy’s thigh, crippling him. She slid into a guarded back stance, released her left hand from the staff, and cast the hand forward. She made a gesture as she did this with her palm slanted out, fingers together and angled upward like blades. Ice shards flew from her fingertips and drove into her crippled enemy’s face. He howled as the shards tore apart the flesh of his cheeks, but he limped forward anyway.
Vapor. Her name is Vapor, because she favors ice and water magic.
A mountain of muscle appeared behind the enemy. The mountain drove two short but thick swords upward through the man’s back and out his front, the move lifting the uniformed man completely off the ground. My observant eye took the moment to catalogue a few details: a shirt of poor fabric, seeing the way it parted in clumps under the blades. Dense black material which did not garishly display the blossoming blood as much as I would have imagined. A patch on one shoulder with the number 100 over the letters HH in gold lettering. The uniformed man’s shocked face as he stared down at the two blades which were, by their placement, piercing his lungs.
The mountain’s hideously scarred face appeared again over the enemy’s shoulder. Carved and puckered flesh covered his face and bald head. The web of scars disappeared into a thick black beard. The scarred man drew up one foot and kicked his smaller enemy off the ends of his short blades, dropping him facedown into the muck where he lay unmoving. The victor turned his face upward, grinning at Vapor. He still had all his teeth, and the smile seemed to be intended more for baring those teeth than for any friendly purpose.
Ugly. His name is Ugly. It suits him, inside and out.
Ugly was dressed in thick leather armor, all dark brown. The Keeper emblems stood out starkly on each shoulder. Huge leather straps crisscrossed his body, shoulder to hip, and each held the sheath for his short swords along with several knives and bits of gear. Ugly and Vapor each turned back into the fray to find new targets. Straight away, three men in matching black outfits rushed Ugly, their swords swinging. His blades met their cuts and thrusts, but he couldn’t find an opening. The clash went on for several seconds, becoming more and more dangerous as the men fanned out to his flanks.
Until Shield arrived. She launched herself from atop me and hurled herself at the blonde man on Ugly’s left flank. Her kite shield rang like a bell as it smashed into the side of the blonde man’s face, clearly shattering his cheekbone and his jaw. She followed this up with a vicious swing of her mace, an archaic looking thing made from wood and steel, smashing down on top of his collar bone. His bone broke with a hideous cracking sound. He fell hard to the muddy ground and sat blinking as Shield stepped over him.
Ugly was having a better time of it with only two opponents. They tried to take him from left and right simultaneously. He blocked a swing from the left, stepped in deep, and sliced the inside of the swordsman’s upper arm with his second blade. Without pausing for a kill strike, he whirled to the right in time to deflect the second man’s attack wide to the side. Ugly took this kill, shattering ribs audibly as his blade sank deep into the center of the man’s chest. Without pausing, Ugly wrenched out his blade and spun one more time, slicing the throat of the first swordsman.
Across the alley, Vapor dropped to one knee and slapped her hand down into the mud. The alley turned brutally cold, my breath pluming in the air. Cracking ripples formed around her hands, radiated outward at incredible speed, and froze the mud ahead of her. The remaining three opponents panicked and started trying to wrench their ankles free. Shield leapt over Vapor, landing on the ice. She nearly slipped but managed to keep traction with a nimble grace. Shield began the work of disarming and smashing each of the stuck enemies into submission.
“Get up, scribbler,” a deep voice rasped from a scratched throat, like gravel rubbing against sand paper.
A huge, meaty hand clamped onto the shoulder of my jacket and hauled me to my feet. I turned and came face to face with a massive, scarred visage. Intense, deep-set eyes that would have been more at home in a nocturnal predator looked me over, probing for weakness. It was Ugly. My heart eased its frantic pounding.
He must have judged me well enough to stand, because he released his hold on me and turned to survey the alley. It was a mess. But the squad was intact, and the work was done.
His terrible voice rumbled again: “Let’s get the leftovers back to the Captain.”
CHAPTER 2
NOT A BAD intro, right? Pretty exciting stuff. And all true. All of this book is true, unfortunately.
Hello there, reader. My name is Belkan Candor. No doubt you’ve heard of me from my vast collection of romance novels that have been making the rounds for the last few years. If you haven’t, you should definitely pick those up, they’re exquisite. The Wilted Machine is my own favorite.
But you’re not here for romance fiction, are you? No, you picked up this particular book because you heard I’m making a foray into romanticized fact; that my books are about to become a lot more action-packed. And that’s true. Oh, how true it is.
You see, because of my enormous talent, I was selected to be the first candidate in a new journalistic program. I, Belkan Candor, of tremendous fame and talent, am about to become an embedded journalist with the Keepers of Tiers, perhaps the most brutal city in all the civilized galaxy. And not just any group of Keepers, mind you, but the First Cell, the ones assigned to the topmost level of society.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. There you sit, all cozy in front of a warm fireplace back on Garden, wondering what in the Lady’s name I’m talking about. “Oh, Belkan,” you ask breathlessly, no doubt clutching this book to your bosom, “tell me about this dangerous place they’re sending our literary hero. Promise me you won’t be in danger. We can’t lose your artistic genius!”
Very well. Allow me to share a bit about the city of Tiers. Be warned, the following are snippets I’ve witnessed here myself on my travels, and are not for the faint of heart.
At this very moment, a man is being robbed. His jaw is broken with a mace and his feet are kicked out from under him. The robbers slam him to the pavement, breaking his neck. No one responds to the snapping of bones, because all the doors and windows on the street are closed and shuttered tight. One boy, almost a man and huddling with his family in their kitchen, decides to do something about it, but his father clamps a hand over the boy’s mout
h and holds him, rocking, in silence.
A young woman sits in a doorway with her knees drawn up. Under the dirt, her face is beautiful, all eyes. She reaches out a hand to every man who happens by, but no one is willing to pay today. Her stomach growls. Her hair falls forward to cover her face, and she sighs to herself. She’s going to have to trade it for a place to sleep tonight. Again.
Two ladies sit in front of their marble fireplace, dining from silver plates held by servants. The manor around them echoes with heavy footsteps, scraping chair legs, feigned laughter. The other servants have been instructed to walk through the rooms and engage in conversation, any conversation, to make it seem there’s a large family still living in the residence. It’s been so quiet since the deaths. The masters don’t know, but two of the servants have come to love this task because it’s given them a chance to spend time together. Right now they’re considering running away and getting married. Their masters don’t know, because they aren’t listening for the words, only the noise. Only the comfort of illusion.
And that’s the real truth about this city; this planet. It saps you of the urgency to do what’s right. What good is one drop of water in the desert? How much energy will that cost me? What about my family? It won’t make any difference, anyway. Even the best hearts go dry, here.
Welcome to Tiers.
I sit in my chambers in the center of town. Upper Town, that is. Twenty feet from my bedroom window, the edge of the town drops off sharply in the south, along the edge of the cliff. The sheer rock face plummets for about fifty feet before hitting the next tier down. This happens six times before you reach the major cliff, over which the waterfall plummets. Below that cliff is Low Town. Not Lower Town, no. The extra two letters would cost more ink when drawing maps, and nothing and no one in that part of Tiers is worth two extra letters of ink. Low Town is arranged the same way, in clusters of tiers. These are rougher and less uniform. We’ve got plenty of room to stretch up here in Upper Town, but down there the people and buildings cling to the cliffside for dear life, or what passes for dear life down there. The city could easily widen the tiers for them to allow some breathing space or even, perish the thought, install a guardrail to stop the occasional accidental fatal plummet, but who wants to spend the money?