The Wraith-Reacher and the Dragon

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say.

One of the gallaxons will steal you in the night and string you up from the bowsprit and turn you into wraith bait.

You're tricking me!

I would never try and trick you.

Maryn?

Days like this—days we've been sailing so long I can hardly tell one day, one night from the next—that last conversation starts murmuring through my mind again. I climb the rigging while the others are down in the galley in the evenings just to get some space to myself. The stars, the nearest galaxies all but vibrate with life, energy, heat. The breath-snatching beauty of it is almost enough to distract me from his voice, so bright as we talked that evening, before all this. Before the gallaxon came. Before everything went up in flames—again.

Before he was taken away from me.

Before . . .

I close my eyes, breathing in and out, the manufactured air thin in my lungs. My eyes open again, and it still isn't a dream: this ship, the twinkling expanse of the cosmos at its hull, the black flag fastened into a scroll at the crow's nest above me so an unsuspecting merchant ship wouldn't fear sailing fatally close.

When I was a little girl, I told Mum I wanted to be one of them—sailing around the universe, beholden to no one. I flinched at the thought of it only months later, after. I told myself I would be a scholar instead, and I wore the colors scholars' apprentices wore even though we weren't from a wealthy enough family and I would never be an apprentice for a scholar in the city. I wore my hair long, like the city girls, and I didn't carry a weapon, like the city girls. Now look at me.

I take another breath and my fingers reach up, toying with my newly chopped mop of hair as I gaze out into the nothing, the everything of the infinite around me.

What will Noah think of me now, when I find him?

What will he think I've become?

---Chapter One---

"Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say." I flicked a piece of grass at Noah to startle him and pretended to scream in agonized silence against the heavens, and he laughed and laughed.

"I'm serious!" I looked as grave as I could but I couldn't help smiling. I always was a sucker for his little laugh. "You better pay attention, Noah, or one of the gallaxons will steal you in the night and string you up from the bowsprit and turn you into wraith bait! Don't you know that's what happens to little rowdy boys who complain about their chores and don't listen to their big sisters?" I snuck my hands across the grass and tickled him, squealing, and again, he laughed and laughed.

He said stop it, Maryn, and what would I know about space seeing as I had never been off the docks, much less off the planet. I told him I knew plenty, and that's what big sisters were for, of course, and he needed to respect my all-knowingness because gallaxons didn't only come for the wealthy tourists on their pleasure cruises to the neighboring nebula—they came for rotten little boys, too.

"You're tricking me," Noah cackled.

"Nope." I flopped back against the grass, turning my gaze back toward the star-studded sky. "I would never try and trick you."

This was my favorite time of the evening, my favorite time of the whole day. I took Noah out for a walk every day after the supper rush at our family's tavern (Mum still preferred the euphemism "watering hole" around Noah and me, even though I was about to be seventeen and knew full well that none of the sailors who docked their ships in our port were spending their hard-earned shillings on water). We ambled through the port and watched ships come in from whichever galaxies they'd just crossed, emerging like phantoms from the cosmic ether swirling with color and darkness and stars. Noah liked guessing who was captain, which ship was a merchant ship, which one was full of heavily-funded explorers and scientists. He was a good guesser, and I liked the satisfaction of being able to tell him he'd guessed correctly.

After watching the ships for a while, we always climbed the side of the boathouse at the end of the dock and then hoisted ourselves over the cliffside just above it, joking and scaring each other and telling stories for the half-mile walk along the grassy coast before plopping down to stargaze and watch the ships disappear into the sky after launching. We stayed out until the first sun had set and the second was nearing the edge of the horizon, and I had him home before the second sun had dipped entirely out of sight, plunging the world into a bright green night.

Mum told Noah this was so he got his exercise and fresh air like any growing six-year-old needed, but I knew better. At least once a week, our space-weary clientele got rowdy. Fights broke out. Bets went bad. Rivals crossed paths on their way to and from the bar. My job was to keep Noah out of the pub until it came time for his washing up before bed, safe in body and unbloodied imagination from any violent acts or violent talk.

I thought of the fights and the swearing, and I thought of how strong I felt keeping Noah separate from the world of sailors as much as I could. I thought of Drake, too, as I stared into the stars that night with Noah still giggling next to me, both of us so very oblivious to what was coming. It seemed a lifetime had passed since Drake was the one heaving me up the side of the boathouse to protect me from rumbles back at home, from bottles breaking against walls and noses bursting beneath fists.

"Maryn?"

Noah yanked my attention away from my memories, from Drake, from the night of the raid, the night of fire.

"Mhmm?"

"What were you thinking about?"

I sighed through my nose and smiled at Noah, shaking off my thoughts. "I was just thinking about our town, and living here, and how much I love walking with you and telling you to listen to me better."

His big grin lit the evening better than a trillion stars. "Guess what I was thinking about."

"How in the world would I know what you're thinking?"

"Guess!"

I pursed my lips, wiggled my feet in the grass, made a big show of pondering. "You thinking about that berry cake Mum has in the icebox for when we get home?"

"No," Noah giggled, because he laughed easily and was effortlessly delighted even when nothing was funny, and it was maybe my favorite thing about him.

"Are you thinking abooout . . . how your birthday is coming up and you'll be seven pretty soon?"

"I'm already essentially seven," he more or less corrected me. "And no."

"I give up. What are you thinking about?"

"Okay." Noah flipped over so he was on his stomach, propped on his arms as if ready to spring up at any moment. His eyes reflected the fading colors of the sky overhead. He was happy. "Okay, I'll tell you."

I've replayed that second, that fraction of an instant, in my mind. I must have moved myself through the memory a hundred times since then, a thousand maybe. I think about his face—the eagerness, the anticipation and innocence—and I wonder what he was about to say. Maybe I'll never know, but I can't think that way. I can't. I can only allow myself to remember what happened next.

Before either of spoke, the quiet around us collapsed. Imploded. Screams, gunshots, that halting sound of things shattering—chaos rose from the edge of the cliffside, and I dove to stop Noah from running to see what was happening back in town. Gripping his ankles so he fell onto his stomach mid-step, I dragged him back toward me regardless of the grass stains, regardless of how I squeezed his ankles so hard they must have bruised. I leapt over him, hearing my strained voice managing something to the effect of "Stay there!"

He didn't, of course. But by the time I noticed it would be too late.

Fumble to the edge of the cliffside, meters away from where we climbed up along the side of the boathouse. Drop to my knees from breathlessness that isn't from sprinting.

The night of the raid. The night of fire.

"Not again," I heard myself say blankly.

A gallaxon—a massive ship, its ragged black flag billowing—had docked at some point after we climbed onto the low cliff and wandered into the woods to watch the ships launching. Its sailors streamed from inside, barreling down gangplanks, scurrying down the rigging like insects. They were marauders, and our port was proof. Buildings were engulfed in fire, spewing embers and ash into the air. People shouted and shrieked. Parents clutched babies to their chests and ran for the other side of town. The very sailors I was to guard Noah from were out in the streets and on the docks, fighting with their hands, with kitchen utensils, with pistols, with rapiers, with rope.

Another raid.

For a second, it all dissolved. All I could see was Drake. All I could see were his boots scratching wildly at the splintering dock beneath him as two of them hauled him into flame and smoke. And I was here—rooted to this very spot, out of harm's way.

Watching.

I spun feverishly and shouted for Noah, but when I ran back to find him, to hide him, he wasn't there. He wasn't there.

Mum told me later, after it was all over. I'm glad she did; I couldn't remember for myself. It was like some horrible dream my brain kicked into overdrive to eliminate, to burn away into smoke as the rest of the port had been burned away. She told me how, after she was sure they were gone, she crept up from the wine cellar to coax the families and children sheltering inside back aboveground. They fought through the wrecked front wall together, pushing apart debris and choking on the ashes drifting in the air.

She saw me from yards away, she said, but she couldn't be sure it was me for all the smoke. She said I was covered in soot and my shoes were gone, and I was still calling his name.