Free Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1) by Brian Niemeier Page A

orbiting rocks.
    “They jumped in behind us,” Deim said.
    Jaren knew that running and fighting were equally hopeless. The Shibboleth could outpace its pursuers, but not before their cannons tore it to shreds.
    The captain mused darkly that the enemy had never gotten so close. Then he corrected himself. They’d gotten closer at Melanoros. He shot a glance at Teg and found new inspiration. “Take us deeper,” Jaren told Deim.
    “I doubt that’ll shake them.”
    “I know. Do it anyway.”
    Deim’s jaw clenched as he intensified the Working that brought ships into the ether. As the Shibboleth delved deeper, the rocks became blurry outlines before disappearing altogether. Finally, the stars gave way to a murky, rose-colored limbo.
    “We've passed the second transition,” Deim said.
    “Are they still there?” asked Jaren.
    “Right off the stern.”
    “Maintain course and speed.” The captain rose from his chair and turned to Nakvin. “Take over for me,” he said, bolting from the room before she could reply.
    Jaren remembered his father comparing the ether—that exotic universal medium through which light traveled—to the dust of Tharis. On the surface, the grit was fine and loose. It would flow through one's hand like water, but the weight of the upper layers compressed the lower strata until they became solid rock. This analogy was imperfect because, unlike concentrated ether, sandstone wasn't explosive.
    Jaren raced through the Shibboleth’s corridors, finally ascending to the fourth and topmost deck, which was dedicated to housing the ship's four retractable grappling arms. He forced himself to relax as he worked the controls, sure that the guildsmen wouldn't be stupid enough to open fire at such a depth. They'd certainly destroy their target, but the clumsy corvettes would have no hope of escape. The Shibboleth , on the other hand, with its head start and outgoing trajectory, might weather the worst.
    Jaren deployed a grappling arm, extended it fully to aft, and scrambled up the boarding tube. When he reached the end he drew his rodcaster, removed the silver shells that had filled all three cylinders, and loaded a single brass round.
    “Deim, pull us back to normal space!” Jaren sent as he jammed the gun’s muzzle through a special port in the hatch and squeezed the trigger.
    A thunderous roar smothered his last word. The grappling arm lurched so wildly that he feared it would snap off, but the shaking subsided, leaving his body aching but the ship intact.
    Jaren peered into the misty expanse beyond the porthole slit. He saw three Guild corvettes. Two had no visible damage. The middle ship's third hull segment began bulging outward—an unmistakable sign that its engines were about to blow.
    The realization that he was still in the ether sent an electric burst of panic stabbing down Jaren’s spine. One incendiary round had crippled a ship. The inferno unleashed by her ruptured engine would consume the last two corvettes, and probably the Shibboleth as well.
    Jaren watched in mute terror as the corvette’s engine blew.

11
    Marshal Malachi sat in the Tea Room perusing the contents of a thick black binder. The piping cup of Cadrys black set before him exhaled a nostalgic aroma. He periodically glanced across the worn clay table at his predecessor. Narr’s hawkish features were backlit by the dawning desert vista framed in the window behind him. The old Master had forgone his robes in favor of a cotton dress shirt and a pair of slacks.
    More than a month had passed since Malachi’s installation as Guild minister. But having neither family nor business awaiting him elsewhere, Narr had opted to stay in his service. For his part, the new minister relished the challenge of rehabilitating his elder Brother. He’d feared Narr incorrigible, but he’d also seen untapped potential.
    Malachi admitted himself pleased by the old Master’s progress. They had already conducted successful raids on eight pirate