Page 28 of Stars in Umbra (The Sable Riders #8)
Divine Terrifying Power
RINA
A few weeks later, just after second dusk in New Rambasa, the sky above Dunia fractured with light.
It wasn’t the soft shimmer of atmospheric satellites or the gleam of incoming trade shuttles.
It was a tear. A violent, blazing rupture in the violet dome of the evening.
Followed by a silhouette hurtling out of the heavens with terrifying speed, limbs limp, tumbling headfirst through clouds and industrial air currents.
It slammed with significant kinetic energy into an arterial skyway between two commuter districts, plummeting through it and onto the ground.
The impact shook the pavement.
Vehicles screeched to a halt.
Pedestrians screamed and scattered.
A crater bloomed in the street, debris flung in a jagged halo around the motionless body at its center.
He, for it was a man, stirred.
He should have been dead, but somehow he survived a drop from the lower atmosphere.
Steam curled from his back. Blood trickled from his temple.
His clothing, what remained of it, appeared scorched, charred at the edges, as if he had passed through a massive inferno or an interstellar forge.
His body, half-buried beneath the rubble, was covered with a shifting, glowing glimmer.
Someone screamed. Another ran for help.
Within minutes, the first-response drones were overhead, sirens wailing. Clinical bots scanned him, attempting to stabilize his vital signs.
Nothing made sense. His biometric signature returned a null reading.
He had no ID chip, no civilian tag, no affiliation.
Still, he got rushed to Dunia Central Medical, the city’s top trauma facility.
Just as news holos picked up the scene, dispatching sleek cam units to hover over the wreckage.
By nightfall, the footage was everywhere.
Rina stirred in her bed, the gauzy curtain panels rippling in the dawn breeze.
Her townhouse was perched on the third terrace of the Silverlake District.
This historic yet refined quarter of New Rambasa was built on the edge of the eastern bluffs, offering glimpses of the ocean beyond.
It had high ceilings, brass-fitted windows, sun-drenched timber floors, and walls lined with awards, military artifacts, and shelves overflowing with books and art.
The rest of the interior was minimalist and elegant.
Everything had its place, reflecting life lived in quiet order.
Yet this morning, her body protested the routine.
Her eyes opened, heavy-lidded and unfocused, and she immediately knew something was wrong. Her stomach twisted.
She flung the covers aside, stumbled into the ensuite, and made it to the sink before retching.
The nausea came in waves, retched biliousness that was bitter and insistent.
Her knuckles turned white against the porcelain as her limbs heaved again, then settled.
Breathing hard, she wiped her face, cursing under her breath as she reached for her toothbrush and paste.
‘Damn leftovers,’ she muttered, bracing a hand to her forehead. ‘Should’ve tossed them yesterday.’
After rinsing out her mouth with mint gel, she peeled off her nightshirt, showered beneath a blast of water that stung her skin back to life.
She dressed fast in a form-fitting slate-gray uniform, brass collar pin, and dark boots.
She whipped on lip gloss in the mirror.
Her honey-toned reflection was paler than usual, and her cheeks were hollowed.
She ignored it, brushing her curls into a knot and grabbing a dry cracker from the kitchen counter as she passed.
In her garage, she stepped into her flyer, keyed in the pilot commands, and rose into the busy skies of New Rambasa.
Parliament House loomed like a crown above the city, a vast, domed complex sheathed in obsidian glass and gold-veined sandstone.
The Dunian Military HQ sat nestled within, its corridors alive with dignitaries, aides, and the ever-watchful Peace Corps.
Rina arrived in the executive administration wing, her boots echoing across the polished floors as she entered the war room for her 0800 meeting.
Her team stood and saluted as she swept in.
‘As you were.’
They settled into their seats, as did she.
Her glance fell on Lieutenant Voss, all sculpted, tailored lines and restless energy. A native of the Kura Basin, he grew up among refinery stacks and union strikes.
He was brilliant but brash, a tactical prodigy who earned an early promotion for cracking a Rhesian encryption wall during the Varnathi border crisis.
He now tapped through his commtab with impatient precision, his jaw tight with focus.
Commander Jukari loomed beside him, older, barrel-chested, with a face weathered by sun and time.
Born in the coastal province of Miran Veldt, he’d once been a marine sub-commander before transitioning into diplomatic security.
His deep, deliberate voice carried a quiet command as he orchestrated the briefing with unhurried ease.
He was the stabilizer, the man whose calm held the line when tempers flared.
Major Hensley, composed and exacting, was a native of New Rambasa’s elevated civic district.
She had graduated top of her class at the Dunian Military Strategic Institute. She was a cold-eyed analyst turned field operative who rose through the ranks by coordinating the high-level evacuation during the Mistral Riots.
Her braids were pulled into a taut crown, and her fingers stayed laced behind her back as she observed everything, calculating six steps ahead.
In the room before them, holo files hovered mid-air, glowing columns of data rotating, casting flickering light over their faces.
They had a long list of items to get through.
Vesk Tyran’s killer was still at large, the Falasian escapees had been located, and charges brought.
However, her team had to provide a report to the UGM Justice Department to bolster their case.
Rina took a breath and kicked off the meeting.
‘Begin. Individual reports, please.’
Jukari launched into the latest interplanetary security updates, his voice steady, until the holo display beside him blinked.
A breaking news alert spread across the stream.
UNIDENTIFIED MALE SURVIVOR FALLS FROM SKY, CREATING NEW RAMBASA TRAFFIC CHAOS.
MYSTERIOUS FIGURE PLUMMETS FROM SKY ABOVE DUNIA.
SOURCES SAY THE PATIENT IS ALIVE. IN CRITICAL CONDITION.
The footage was blurry, handheld. Emergency lights flashed, crowds screamed, and bots swarmed.
Then the still frame showed a man, half-naked, bleeding. Face bruised, eyes closed. Body strobing with gold sigils, cratered into the street.
Rina’s heart stopped.
Her chair scraped back with a screech.
She stared.
The injuries and grainy film distorted him, but it was enough for her to identify the person.
‘Mo,’ she whispered.
The room whirled around her.
‘Where did they say they were taking him?’
Her whisper was tinny, laced with panic.
‘The man is being held at the New Rambasa General,’ Jukari confirmed.
Rina didn’t hesitate. She grabbed her bag, jacket, and comm tab, and bolted toward the exit.
‘Block my calendar for the day!’ she shouted over her shoulder.
‘Commander, wait!’ Voss called after her, startled.
But she was already gone.
Her boots hit the corridor, fast and loud. Her mind was spinning, her pulse thundering.
Mo.
He was alive, but he’d fallen from the sky.
How and what the fokk?
New Rambasa General rose above the city’s heart, a steel-and-glass testament to Dunian efficiency and austerity.
Above it, medevac flyers cut through the skyline, heading towards rooftop bays.
The lobby was a sea of movement, civilian patients, soldier aides, holo-reporters swarming the front screens that looped the footage again and again: a man plummeting from the sky and crashing into the middle of a public avenue.
Rina’s breath hitched as she reached the intake desk, where a young nurse was focused on her screen and ignored her.
Annoyed, Rina slammed her credentials down.
‘Military override. Commander Rina Mendi. Clearance Alpha. I need access to the individual who fell from the sky and who has just been brought here. Where can I find him?’
The officer paused, hesitating only long enough to glance at the badge before nodding her through. ‘He’s in Ward 43, Bed 12B.’
Rina didn’t wait for more.
She moved past the queue, into the lifts, her thoughts churning as she fought to keep her composure.
The ride up was claustrophobic; the walls were too bright, and her reflection in the polished chrome was too pale. Her chest constricted, her lungs tight, as if something unseen was bearing down on her ribs.
When the doors to the critical care clinic opened, the sound of hushed voices and beeping monitors met her like a wall.
She stepped into the corridor, rushed into the unit, and came to a stop at Bed 12B.
There he was.
He lay unconscious on a hover bed in the center of a private treatment bay.
He was naked to the waist, his body draped in translucent mesh and lined with glowing lattice bands of regenerative gel.
Vitals pulsed erratically on the holo-screen beside him, frequencies too high, rates too fast.
An energy inside him was burning at a different cadence than usual.
His chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm, the movements shallow. A circle of doctors stood nearby, reviewing data, murmuring in clinical tones tinged with confusion.
Rina took an inhale and approached the bed, until a tall physician with copper-toned skin and close-cut curls moved to intercept her, blocking her path with a lifted hand.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am. This section is restricted.’
Rina didn’t slow. ‘Commander Mendi, Dunian Military HQ. Let me through.’
The doctor raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you a relative?’
Rina glanced at the man lying in the bed.
His hand, most times so steady and sinewed, lay unmoving at his side, marred by fresh bruises and what appeared like faint burns.
‘In a manner of speaking,’ she replied, her utterance commanding.
With a reluctant nod, the medic stepped aside.
She crossed the room, careful, her pace slowing as she reached the edge of his bed.
She hesitated only a second before lifting his hand into hers, her fingers encircling his.