by Susan Hayes
Skye looked bewildered. “You didn’t tell her? But she’s your mother.”
“Complicated, remember? Also, we don’t like each other. Love, sure. Like? Not even a little.”
“See?” Anya said to her mother. “We’re not so bad, you and I. Not only do you know where I am, but I got you an invite to trade here.” Then Anya raised her glass again. “To family. The ones we’re tied to, and the ones we make for ourselves.”
Maggie happily drank to that, savoring the rich taste of the dark beer she’d poured for herself. Jade had been the family she’d chosen for herself. Now she was a full member of the colony, she’d have more ways to find out what happened to her. This had been their dream, and she wanted Jade to be here to enjoy it with her. She wanted to share everything about this new world. Well, almost everything. Striker she’d keep to herself. Jade could find her own guy… just as soon as she got here.
6
Striker hadn’t carried a comm unit since the wars ended. There’d been no need until now. The few times he’d needed to talk to one of the non-cyborg colonists he’d used the system in his home. Now, he needed to have his comms with him in case Maggie wanted to talk to him.
She did. Several times a day for the last two days. First to set up a time for their first lesson, and after that there had been a steady flow of text messages and occasional vid recordings. She never tried to talk to him directly, which he appreciated. But she’d leave him messages and send him notes about her day.
He hadn’t realized how many classes she attended: languages and cultures, life skills like cooking, and basic maintenance. Energy weapons training had been added recently. No wonder she only came to the woods every few days.
His comm chimed again as he made his way through the back alleys of the artists’ quarter. Maggie wanted to know if he liked something called a walnut. He had no idea what that was, but he was willing to try anything she made him. He sent her a quick text back telling her so.
Murals decorated the walls in this area, and hints to the various types of artisans at work lay piled up by gates and back doors. Broken pottery shards, wood shavings, and piles of metal waited to be forged into something new.
The steady ring of hammers told him the males he wanted to see were hard at work despite the cold, rainy weather. Given their vocation, they were probably happy the heat of summer was over.
The gate swung open at a touch, and he stepped through into the walled yard. The space was partially covered by an overhang that protected the occupants from the worst of the weather. Both males were working at the forge today, their hammers falling in a pattern of blows that was almost musical.
They both looked up at the same time. “I thought we’d see you today,” Tra’var greeted him in Vardarian, and then switched to Galactic Standard. “And before you ask, yes, it’s ready.”
“And I think you’re going to start a new trend. I can’t believe none of us thought of this before.” Damos set down his hammer and placed the piece they’d been working on back in the forge before coming out to meet him.
“Traditional thinking is hard to break out of,” Tra’v agreed.
Physically, the two were as different as night and day. Tra’var was tall and blond, with silver skin and blue eyes ringed in black. Damos was short for a Vardarian, with a much heavier build than his anrik. He had golden skin and pale amber eyes that reminded Striker of pictures he’d seen of the wolves that once roamed Earth.
But while they differed physically, they were alike in many other ways. They were both masters of their craft, passionate about their work and dedicated to spending their lives trying to come up with new ways to annoy and insult each other. They reminded him of the way he and his batch-siblings used to bicker with each other. Only Tra’v and Damos weren’t related by genetics. They were blood-brothers, bound to each other for life by ceremony rather than biology.
“Show me.” His voice was rusty, but not as bad as he’d expected. He hadn’t spoken aloud since that day with Maggie, and the rest must have been enough to undo the damage.
“It’s just inside. I’ll get it,” Damos offered. He walked past Striker, who did his best not to look at the other male’s wings. Something about them didn’t look quite right, like they were slightly too small for Damos’s heavy build. Or maybe it was fine, and he was imagining things. Physical flaws weren’t something Striker had much experience with. If a cyborg was too badly damage, they were terminated. As far as he knew, he was the most damaged one to ever avoid that fate. Sometimes, he wished they hadn’t done him that courtesy.
“I’ll need a dagger, too.”
“Another one?” Tra’var asked. “You lose yours?”
“Smaller. For a human female.”
“A gift?” Tra’v beamed. “For a human female? What’s her name?”
“Maggie.”
“She’s your mate, then?” the Vardarian asked casually.
“What? Fraxx, no! She’s a… a friend.”
“That you’re buying a blade for. In our culture, that’s a serious declaration of intent.”
“He’s buying a blade for a female? I swear the sharhal is contagious. Even the cyborgs are catching it now.” Damos returned, holding a length of black metal in one large hand.
“No mating fever. No mating involved at all. She hired me.”
“Uh, to do what?” Tra’v asked, confused.
“Self-defense.” The real answer was longer and would only lead to more questions.
“I thought the humans didn’t have much in the way of currency. What’s she paying you with?” Damos asked.
“Cookies.”
Both males stared at him.
“She made me cookies. Chocolate ones. They’re really good.”
“This is starting to sound like a mating thing again,” Tra’var said.
“It is not.”
Both males held up their hands. “As you say, my friend. Enough talk of females. Let’s discuss something more interesting. Weapons.” Damos held out the black metal shaft to Striker. “Your kes’tarv.”
He took it, testing the weight and balance of the shaft. “Lighter than I expected.”
“Turns out, most of the weight in a blaster is in the casing. It was a surprisingly easy alteration,” Tra’var explained.
He gripped the shaft in both hands and twisted. Both ends extended and locked into place, leaving him holding more than a meter of steel not much thicker than his thumb. “How?” he asked.
“We wanted to make sure you couldn’t discharge it accidentally. There’s a notch in the handle. If you press it twice, you’ll be able to fire as a stun bolt. Three and you’re going to fry whatever you’re shooting at,” Tra’var said.
He nodded. “How do I know which end to aim at the target?”
“We set the trigger mechanism so it’s closer to the shooter than the target, just like a pulse rifle.”
“And I added a visual cue.” Damos pointed to a ring of silver metal on one end. “Silver toward whatever you’re aiming at.”
“That works. I’d never hear the end of it if I shot myself with my own weapon.” They’d done amazing work and deserved to hear him say it. “This is incredible.”
“We’d like to sell more of them. But it’s your design, so…” Tra’v trailed off and they both looked at him expectantly.
“Of course.”
They beamed. “Excellent. We talked about it. Since this was your idea, we’d like to cut you in on a portion of the profits. Say, ten percent?” Tra’v said.
“No money. Your work. You keep it.”
That made them both frown. “Then you’re getting that one for free,” Damos said.
Striker nodded and then held up two fingers.
“You want us to make you another one?”
“Smaller. Human sized.”
Neither male laughed, but their eyes were dancing with barely hidden humor. “For your friend?”
“Yes.”
“No problem.
We’ve got some made for youths. In fact, I bet we can find a blade for your friend in that size, too. The knife you can have today. The kes’tarv…” Tra’v looked at Damos. “Three days?”
“Four. Will take me a while to get the balance right on a smaller version.”
“That’s fine. I’d like it to have a tracker of some kind, too. Simple. No satellite link.” He wanted to be able to find her if she got lost or ran into trouble.
“You going to start her with a practice one? We’ve got a few used ones in stock.”
Striker shook his head and collapsed the kes’tarv, hanging it on his belt. “Metal later. For now, wood.”
“Old school training,” Damos said approvingly.
“Wood breaks,” Tra’v muttered. “Metal doesn’t.”
Striker grinned. “Exactly. Eventually I’ll be her practice dummy.”
“Definitely wood, then.” Tra’var said.
“You’re buying her weapons and letting her use them on you. She must make the best cookies in the galaxy,” Damos said. “Come on inside. We’ll find a blade for your little baker.”
Striker ignored the good-humored teasing and followed them inside. He wasn’t doing this because of Maggie’s baking. He was doing it because she needed someone to show her how to survive in this place, and he was qualified to do it.
Maggie shoved her hands a little deeper into her pockets and tried to ignore the nip in the air. Cold wasn’t something she was used to experiencing. Hive cities were exactly what their name suggested—crowded places full of warm bodies. Getting rid of waste heat was a constant challenge, especially on the lower levels.
“I’ll get used to it,” she reminded herself as she walked, her breath condensing into a temporary cloud as her words hit the air. There was a lot to get used to these days. The gravity. The weather. New foods and languages. And now she was learning how to mix drinks she could barely pronounce with liquors she’d never heard of before.
It was tiring, challenging, and wonderful. Anya was a rare kind of boss, the sort that folded her employees into her family and made sure everyone felt welcome. The kitchen staff turned out to be a trio of mated Vardarians who worked together with the seamless flow of long practice. They laughed and fought and cooked some of the best meals Maggie had ever tasted.
She’d shared her cookie recipe with them, too, and they’d transformed it into a new dessert. She had no idea what they’d done, but her simple recipe had been combined with something similar to ice cream and a booze-infused fruit sauce that elevated the simple cookie into something close to divinity.
The coordinates to Striker’s place were in her tablet, but the damned thing was glitching. Or maybe she’d messed up linking it to her new comm unit. This one actually had positioning software so she could figure out where she was and how to get to Striker’s home. Hezza had sold it to her, giving her a fair deal and showing her how to turn the tracking system off and on so she’d only show up when she wanted to. She liked Hezza. The woman was grounded and infinitely practical, but she’d somehow avoided becoming cynical despite the life she’d led. Neither she nor Anya said it outright, but it was easy enough to tell that Hezza did whatever was needed to get by, and that meant bending or breaking more than a few laws along the way. The older trader had promised to try and dig up whatever information she could about Jade, too. It was a longshot, but she appreciated the offer.
Maggie hadn’t opened up about her life on Earth yet, but she got the sense that Anya and her mother had already guessed her hands weren’t entirely clean either.
“Dammit. I should be there by now,” she muttered and smacked the edge of the tablet. The dot that represented her hadn’t moved in the last few minutes. The thing was definitely malfunctioning. Maybe Striker could figure out what was wrong with it… if she ever found him.
She put the tablet away and sent him a message instead. “Can’t find your place. Positioning software screwed up. Your cookies and I need an escort.” Once that was sent, she held up her comm unit and took a quick video of the surrounding area and then sent that, too. Maybe it would help him figure out where the hell she was.
He answered her only a few seconds later. “On my way. Start singing. I’ll find you.”
Veth. He’d heard her singing to herself. That was embarrassing. She couldn’t carry a tune to save her life, but that didn’t stop her from enjoying it… when she was alone.
She started humming and then broke into full-throated song, stringing lyrics together as she carefully checked the tree behind her for anything alive before leaning against it.
About five minutes later she heard a triple-knock, like something rapping against a tree trunk. She banged her stick against the tree in response, sending a shower of water droplets cascading down on her head from an earlier rain shower.
“There are times the outdoors really sucks vacuum,” she grumbled and pulled up her hood.
The knocks came several more times, each one closer. She kept singing and rapping on her tree. Before long, she heard a noise in the brush and Striker stepped into view. He was wearing dark green and gray today, a mottled pattern that helped him blend into the woods. He held a metal staff in one hand, but then he touched it with both hands and it contracted to a bit of metal less than a third its full length.
Unlike her, he’d been smart enough to wear his hood up, and he swept it back as he approached, revealing his handsome face.
Damn. The man really was as good looking as she’d remembered. He’d shaved recently, though his jaw was already shadowed by stubble. “Hi. Thanks for the rescue.”
He cocked a brow and lifted one hand.
“I don’t know what happened. The program is glitchy. It stopped working and once that happened, I stayed put and called you.”
“Smart.” He spoke the single word aloud.
She pulled the tablet out of the pack and showed it to him. “See?”
For a moment they stood in silence as he tapped the screen, his frown deepening every few seconds.
“It’s not the tablet. The program seems fine. Might be a solar storm affecting the satellites.” His voice came through the speaker this time.
“Yeah. That used to happen on Earth a lot, too. Someone needs to start making maps that won’t fail every time there’s a solar flare.”
“Interesting notion. You volunteering?”
“Maybe. First, I need to learn how to stay alive out here. Then we’ll talk map making.” She beamed. “And I’ll need to find time in my busy schedule. I’m a working woman now.” She hadn’t told him about the new job in her messages. She’d wanted to share that in person.
“You are? Since when? I thought the new arrivals weren’t due to join the rest of the colony for weeks yet.”
“Skye and Shadow decided to make an exception for me. I’m working at the Bar None, and eventually I’ll be moving to the other side of the river. It’ll take me a little longer to get to our training sessions once that happens, but they’re going to let me pick where I want to live.” She still couldn’t wrap her mind around the idea of having her own place. Hers. Not a rental. Not a by-the-day rented pod. A home. One she could choose for herself.
“You might like to check out the artists’ quarter. It’s noisier than some, but the beings there are friendly, interesting, and you’ll never be bored. There’s always something to look at and someone to talk to.”
“You like it there? Somehow I didn’t think you spent much time in Haven.”
He held up the metal rod and then slipped into a loop on his belt. “They sell some intriguing things.”
“What is that, exactly?”
“A kes’tarv. A traditional Vardarian weapon. Not standard gear, but you’ll see them if you go to the training arenas.”
“It’s perfect for what I’d need.” She hefted her walking stick. “Better than this thing. What does one of those cost?” She needed to buy furniture first, but food and clothing were cheap and plentiful. Between work and her s
cavenging, she could probably afford one in a few months. Less if she could buy a cheap, mass-created version.
“First, you need to learn how to use one. Then we’ll talk price.”
Elation filled her. “You’re going to teach me how to use that?”
“I am.”
“Thank you! I can use it to keep away rockclaws, kill bark spiders, and poke anyone who gets too handsy on the job.”
His expression turned stormy. “Who touched you?”
“It’s part of the job. I’m used to it. Males of any species are all the same. The more they drink, the more they flirt. It’s fine.”
“It is not.” He didn’t use the tablet this time, and his voice was pure growl. “Names.”
“I don’t know their names. I didn’t ask. A few Vardarians have gotten flirty, and a couple of the cyborgs, too. That’s all. I’ve dealt with a lot worse.”
“Vardarians shouldn’t be flirting unless you are their mate.”
She laughed. “They’re not celibate before they find their mate. It’s just no-strings-attached sex. And cyborgs aren’t monks, either. Not even close. By the end of my first shift, I had a much better understanding of why they were giving us a chance to adjust before introducing us to the rest of the colony. It would be easy to get overwhelmed.”
He growled and pointed back the way he’d come. “Then we better get started on your training. Come.”
7
The last time she’d been to his place it had been pouring rain and miserable. She’d barely noticed anything about it. This time, she took a better look. A lean-to type shed at the back of the cabin housed unused building materials and a variety of tools. The batteries for the solar array were stored there, too. A small clearing lay beyond it with a couple of rough-hewn logs laid out around a firepit.
“I bet this place is beautiful in the summer. Do you come out here to stare at the stars?”
“I’ve seen enough of the stars to last a lifetime. I like to watch the flames and listen to the night.”
