Bayne

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Other Books By Misa Buckley

Eleanor’s Heart

Tin Cat

Dedication

One

A grunt froze Malia halfway to the door. She waited, barely breathing as she listened to her uncle shift in his chair. Her fingers wound her gray woolen dress into knots.
Please don’t wake up
.

Someone must have heard her silent prayer—the darkened room filled with broken snoring, the pungent smell of alcohol heavy on the air. Malia let out a shuddering breath and unlatched the door, then slipped out into the cool, fresh morning.

Dawn was little more than a smudge of blue on the eastern horizon. No one else in the city had woken and all was still. Malia trod the familiar streets on soundless feet, tracing her well-worn path along the smooth pavement, past houses and industry buildings to the outskirts where the old town crumbled into the sea. She was not supposed to come out here, but she’d spent most of her life doing things she’d been told not to do, and that wouldn’t change any time soon.

She was the only person who dared to venture across the walkway. She remembered asking her uncle who’d made it and the station it led to, and she also remembered the beating he’d given her. Whatever the metal was, it creaked under her slight weight, flexing as she walked across. The first time she’d stepped on it, the motion scared her half to death and only sheer stubbornness enabled her to cross to the other side. These days she was glad for the walkway’s apparent danger—it meant no one would come after her.

The station itself was old, yet held a level of technology unseen in the city. Alien technology, or perhaps belonging to an ancient civilization. She’d know if her uncle had bothered to teach her anything other than how to avoid his fists. But a girl had no need of learning—all she was good for was marrying off and bearing babies. She wrinkled her nose at the recollection of her uncle’s ravings and pushed the large, black metal door open.

A smile curved her mouth as she looked around. A wide entrance room spread out before her, filled with console banks of what looked like workstations, lined up in rows like the pews in church. Malia walked between them, arms stretched out so that her fingers brushed the black metal constructs, and toward a second, much larger door.

Clear panels, like glass but much stronger, were set into black frames and looked out onto a long, wide pier. There had to a reason why such a structure was necessary, why it had been built over the sea and not the land. She had found some writing, but she could only read a few words and those were food stuffs—things she needed to be able to read in order to cook for her uncle. She longed to understand more, but had found no one willing to teach her.

She stared out for a moment longer, then turned and pulled the silvery gray cover off one of the consoles. Beneath lay a variety of devices in various stages of disassembly. Denied a more formal education, Malia had come to the station almost every morning for the past year and, once she’d discovered the devices, had used the precious few hours away from the drudgery of cooking and cleaning to teach herself how they went together. In doing so, she found she had a natural talent for mechanics. Too bad that talent went to waste at home.

With a sigh of frustration, she picked up the device she’d been working on most recently. It was smaller than the others, fitting into one hand, and had a dial on the front of it. There was also a round section covered in latticework. It buzzed when she turned it on, and every so often she swore she could hear faint voices. A few days ago she had pressed the button and spoken into it. If it worked and carried her voice to wherever the others came from, she’d no idea. They had not replied, though. Perhaps she was wrong about the device’s purpose.

Thunder rumbled. Malia frowned and glanced at the large doors. Outside, the sky was lightening with the onset of dawn and there were few clouds in the sky. Yet the thunder came again, louder and closer. Putting down the device, she wandered to the door, her gaze fixed on the sky. A dark shadow fell over the station and the rumbling shook it to its very foundations.

That was no cloud—it was a spaceship.

Malia gaped as it descended. The end facing her angled back, while wings spread out and down, to give the craft a hunched appearance. It was easily half the size of the city; a great bird built from gray metal and lit by a thousand points of light. Windows—there were
people
aboard that thing.

Excitement flooded her, and she ran forward to watch the spaceship land on the pier. The wings wrapped around the structure, fitting as if it had been a missing part. Tremors shook the station, showering dust and debris on her. Malia covered her nose and mouth with the sleeve of her dress, keeping her breathing shallow until the dust settled.

The front of the spaceship opened and two lines of figures emerged. In the increasing light of the rising sun, she could make out gray uniforms slashed with black markings and weaponry that made her step back several paces. Fear clenched her stomach. What did she know about these people? What if they came not in friendship but in enmity?

Her rump collided with the hard edge of a console.
Her
console. She reached back, not taking her eyes off the approaching force, and grasped the first device she found. Holding it in front of her like a weapon, she watched the doors slide open. Air rushed in, smelling of exhaust and salt, ruffling her hair as her father had done so many years ago. The soldiers trooped in and took up positions around the room, uncovering consoles and switching them on. A soft hum rose as the station came to life.

Malia looked around. None of the soldiers paid her the slightest attention. Feeling distinctly foolish, she put down the device and wiped her hands on the skirt of her dress. She chewed at her lip, having no idea as to what they were doing. In moments, they had achieved more than she had in months. Her stomach sank. How could she have ever believed herself to be a technician? She truly was the foolish child her uncle often claimed she was.

Silence fell like a blanket as everyone stopped what they were doing. All their attention focused on the wide opening between the doors. In the center stood a man, physicall
y
unremarkable, but he exuded an aura of power that rose gooseflesh on Malia’s arms.

She shivered and he looked at her. His uniform was black and edged in white, his dark hair loose around his sharply angled face. A neatly trimmed beard framed lips thinned in a taut line. On his left hip hung a scabbard, the handle of his sword banded red and black.

He stepped into the room and every soldier snapped to attention. One moved forward, a silver gray rectangle in his hands. “My lord Bayne.”

There was more, but Malia didn’t hear it over the rushing of blood in her ears. Bayne? This man was
Bayne
? She stared, unable to tear her gaze from his unassuming face. He appeared to be no more than thirty; much younger than she’d imagined him. Much younger than anyone with the epitaph ‘Destroyer of Worlds’ had any right to look. Why was he here?

Lord Bayne looked at her. Stared. She realized she’d spoken that question aloud.

“I am here as Overlord of Sytharion, the system to which this world belongs. I am here because this world owes its Lord tribute.”

Cold knifed down Malia’s spine. It had been years since they’d last paid tribute—so many that she barely remembered the event, as she barely remembered her mother’s face. How much would Terranis owe him now? More than they had spare, that was certain, and Lord Bayne only had one way of dealing with worlds that defied him.

He destroyed them.

Panic flooded her. Before she thought the notion through, she knelt at his feet. “My lord, we cannot possibly make so many years of tribute to you. Not at such short notice. I beg that you give us time.”

“Tribute will be made by sunset, otherwise I will eradicate the city.”

“No!” Malia grasped the hard leather of his trousers. He lifted an eyebrow and the soldier at his side aimed his weapon at her. She flinched and released her grip. “I’m sorry,” she said, voice hoarse. “But please, I beg lenience of you.”

“My lord, let me deal with this,” said the soldier, charging his weapon.

Bayne stared down at her. She swallowed but held that dark, penetrating gaze. He laid a hand on the soldier’s arm. “No, I will hear this.” Still staring down at her, he continued, “Give me a reason for lenience and I shall consider it.”

What reason could she give? What could she offer? She had nothing, other than… “Take me. I offer myself to you willingly in return for your gracious leniency and patience.”

The soldier at the lord’s side frowned and muttered, but Bayne held up his hand then dropped to the hilt of his sword. A
shing
echoed around the station as he drew the blade. He pressed the flat of the tip against her chin. Malia held herself very still; she had little doubt he could end her life with the merest flick of his wrist.

“You give yourself freely and willingly?” he asked.

“Yes, my lord. In return for you staying your hand long enough for my people to collect your tribute.”

“And once they have?”

“What happens then is at my lord’s discretion.”

Silence stretched. Her knees protested against the hard, cold floor beneath them. Her neck ached from being tilted back. But she dared not move, not with the sharp edge of the blade against her neck, so she waited, eyes on Bayne’s face as he gazed down at her. His bland expression gave no hint of the thoughts he entertained.

“Stand,” he said after a long moment.

The sword moved just enough to give her room. Malia pulled herself upright, straightening her spine at the soldier’s sneering look. She held Bayne’s gaze, then lowered hers to stand there, hands clasped over her stomach to settle their shaking.

Bayne walked around her. Would he warn her if she were found wanting, before he ended her life? Did she want him to? She gripped her hands tighter and kept her head bowed and prayed he would be kind and kill her quickly, if that was what he chose.