Page 27 of The Sunlit Man

“Older teens?” Confidence said.

“No, older,” Contemplation replied. “Young twenties.”

Storms. He knew that he looked alotyounger with the grey no longer appearing in his hair, but young twenties? He’d been thirty-eight when time had finally stopped tracking him, his soul bending under the Dawnshard’s influence—and that was by his planet’s accounting, which had longer years than most.

Granted, he might have had trouble guessing their ages, living perpetually in darkness. But still.

“I’ve experienced much more of life than you’d expect from my appearance,” Nomad said. “And I’ve seen a great deal of tyranny in the name of, to be blunt, what people called ‘the greater good.’ Names are irrelevant. You want to avoid being considered tyrants? Act like it.”

The other bracer came off. Nomad nodded his thanks to Zeal, who backed away, eyeing him—as if worried he’d grab the rifle immediately and start shooting. A part of Nomad wanted to do just that: fire a few rounds into the ceiling, if only to give these people the shock of their lives. Shake them up. Auxiliary would chew him out, though.

Instead he just shouldered his rifle. “Food. Clothing. Bed. That order.”

“Rebeke can fulfill that assignment,” Compassion said. “As part of her punishment.”

“Can you fly, outsider?” Contemplation asked.

Nomad froze. He looked to the three of them, his mind racing, emotions surging…until he realized they meant fly a ship.

“I could probably figure it out,” he said, “with a little instruction on the controls. I’ve flown similar craft. Why?”

“Because the region holding the entrance to the Refuge will soon be upon us,” Contemplation said. “We will have to make our case to the people and have a decision soon after. Then we’ll need to divide the city and go hunting for the way. And I’d rather know…”

“…if you needa babysitter or not.”

Contemplation’s smug tone still echoed in Nomad’s mind as, three hours later, he and Rebeke burst from the cloud cover back into the light of the rings. Previously faint to him, the illumination now seemed bright as…well, not day. A night with the largest of the moons shining, perhaps.

They were again on Rebeke’s quadcycle. As she’d been the one to rescue him, the others seemed happy to make her play nursemaid to him. He wasn’t certain what she thought of that. She hadn’t said more than a few words to him as she found him a place to rest, then scrounged up some clothing for him. He’d worried they’d have trouble finding something that fit him, but the local seamstresses worked with serious efficiency. Perhaps that’s what happened to a society when it was constantly on the run from superheated death.

So he now wore a long brown duster coat with deep pockets, ashe preferred. It was the second they’d offered him—the first had looked too much like a uniform. He was still ashamed of how he’d snapped at Rebeke for that. This one was rather nice. It had been a few worlds since he’d been able to obtain something this suited to his tastes. Under it, he wore sturdy trousers and a light shirt.

As they soared out of the darkness on the large hovercycle, a small fleet of ships followed. He and Rebeke, along with other scouts on hovercycles, had come out first to make sure the Cinder King wasn’t here. Now that the way was confirmed clear, though, the rest of Beacon had arrived.

Beacon, it turned out, was made up of around a hundred and fifty people—and around thirty ships. Most of those ships, as he’d seen at the larger city—called Union, he’d since learned—resembled bumblebees more than hornets. But all could fly, and fly well.

He was still amazed that entire cities could just disassemble on command. He told himself that he’d seen tens of planets by now and ought to be too jaded to marvel at each novelty. Yet the truth was that each one had something like this—some fascinating quirk that made him want to linger, study, learn.

If he did, of course, the Night Brigade would take him—all to find the next link in the chain leading to their prize. He was certain their treatment of him would be very illuminating. His insides would get to see the light for the first time.

He turned his mind from that to surveying the landscape. He’d noticed the mud earlier, the leftovers of the passing storm in the darkness. The ground was basically grey slush here, no sign of plants or life at all—but that didn’t mean it was boring or flat.

Improvised rivers had already carved channels in the mud,eroding soil, creating networks. It all had the feel of an estuary, where river met ocean. Except without the ocean. There were lakes, though. Shallow expanses of water that reflected the rings above in striking, colorful mimicry.

The landscape had a strange variety to it. He’d imagined this entire place like one big salt flat or mud pit, but they passed steep hills and winding valleys with water running down them. Among them stood strange rock formations, wickedly jagged and pocked with holes. They passed a plain with hundreds of them, like sculptures made by a madman.

What do you think of those? the studiously serious knight asks, somewhat confusedly.

“You know,” he replied, “Master Wit always told me to avoid using too many adverbs in descriptions.”

And how am I to project my emotions, then? he asks even more confusedly.

“Through context. Tone of voice.”

Tone of voice, he says flatly,he said flatly.I have exactly one tone, Nomad. Being dead has costs, you know.

“Silence, unfortunately, not being one of them.”

The rock formations, Nomad, he says with mounting exasperation. What are they?

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