by Ann Aguirre
“Don’t be sad, but we can’t take you with us tonight. Stay here, run around as much as you want, and then nap. We’ll be home soon.” While she didn’t know if that was true, she also felt fairly sure that dogs didn’t have a great sense of time. “Be good, okay? If you need to go, do it here.”
“I know, I know. I’m a very smart boy,” said Snaps.
That called for another round of belly rubs and some baby talk, then Beryl straightened. “Ready.”
Zylar reached for her hand this time, as if the gesture had already become natural to him. He led the way to the spaceport, moving slow enough for her to memorize the route. The sky cars still fascinated her, and she appreciated the way he shielded her with his body, although the crowds weren’t bad at this hour.
The spaceport was as huge as she remembered, still bustling, and the market he’d mentioned looked like a random assortment of kiosks. Most travelers hurried past without sparing a moment to browse, despite the eager calls from the vendors. Not all of the stalls were attended, though—some seemed to be automated with a vending capability.
Enchanted, Beryl followed her nose to a booth that sold food, pale chunks spinning in a red field that inexplicably reminded her of popcorn. She breathed deeply and thought of home, grubby cinemas with sticky floors, and people who played with their phones during a movie. Funny how nostalgia worked. That stuff annoyed her before, to the point that she’d much rather watch Netflix than see a movie at the theater, but now that she couldn’t go home unless Helix was fixed? She missed all of that.
“This is not something you can wear,” Zylar noted.
She glanced up, feeling her cheeks heat. “Sorry, this smells familiar.”
“It’s a treat that Xolani doomsayers enjoy. Toxic to most others.”
Quickly, she moved on and focused on her original task, checking every display for any useful items. At first nothing caught her eye, but in the last kiosk, she found a colorful range of fabrics cut in shapes that clearly weren’t meant for humans, but maybe—
“What are these?” she asked.
“Adornments for pets.”
Come on, seriously? I’m in the alien equivalent of a dog clothing store.
Still, with a little ingenuity, she could fashion some fresh looks from these materials. And this one, with a little tweaking, I can wear tonight. “This one” was a bright blue tube with some fluttery bits attached. She tried to imagine the species that it would fit perfectly and could only envision a giant snake person. If she wrapped the fluttery bits around her and tied them off, shoulder to waist, it should look like a sheath dress. There was nothing she could use for shoes, so these sandals would have to suffice for a bit longer. As she had competed in a few events barefoot, she would need more options at some point.
Zylar paid with some shiny tech she didn’t understand, coded via a light exchange. Add that to the list of things I have to learn. Beryl rushed away, and they stopped back at the apartment so she could get ready, including using of the hygiene facility. When she was dressed and had pinned up her hair, she didn’t expect a compliment, but he still studied her altered appearance as though he could judge human beauty.
“I like your fur that way,” he said. “And that color is cheerful.”
Briefly, she wondered how the hue appeared to him. “Thank you.” She turned to Snaps. “Sorry to get your hopes up, we’re not back for the night. See you later.”
Time to check on Kurr.
Beryl had never been to the intended dormitories before, and the spaces allotted couldn’t be large, considering how close together the entrances were. Zylar checked an informational display and received Kurr’s room assignment, once he entered his Kith B’alak credentials. That brought home how powerful his family must be. Basically, it seemed like he could have anything he wanted, based on his bloodline.
Scary. And impressive. No wonder Ryzven is a monster.
Kurr lived on the fifth level, and a fearful feeling took root in Beryl’s belly. Surely, they wouldn’t have done anything drastic, right? She wished she had asked more about their life, about why they couldn’t return to their home world. Quickening her steps, she was practically running by the time they got to the smooth, white panel. Zylar activated a light box, and a tone resounded inside the residence.
Alien doorbell. Some things are universal, I guess.
No answer.
He rang twice more before saying, “Kurr, if you’re at home, please respond.”
Beryl tried whacking the panel with both hands, but it didn’t open. Finally, Kurr replied, “I have said that I wish to be alone. I appreciate your concern, but that sentiment has not changed. Please respect my wishes. I will speak with you tomorrow.”
Sighing, she stepped back. “I guess…we tried.”
“It’s all one can do.”
Seeming no more eager than she was, Zylar headed back toward the holding owned by Kith B’alak. The lift carried them to a much higher floor, and at one point, he had to enter a security code. This is like the penthouse level.
Knowing that couldn’t have prepared her for the sheer opulence when the lift landed. It was all white and platinum, with alien flora growing wild on the walls and up through them, woven like a living lattice. The petals fluttered as if the plants were breathing.
“Sha blossoms,” Zylar said, following her gaze.
Though the furnishings were unfamiliar, she could tell they were carefully crafted, and she paused to admire a shining, metallic device made of tensile, braided strands with fine mist pouring out of it. Maybe it was a freshener because the air even smelled different here, brighter and fresher, somehow, with a scent she couldn’t pin down, like pineapple, celery, and freesia, blended deliciously and topped with a cherry.
“It’s beautiful here,” she admitted in a grudging tone.
Zylar turned to her and let out a quiet churr. “This is how the powerful ones live on Barath. Prepare yourself for what you’ll see inside.”
[ 15 ]
Ryzven’s inner sanctum was exquisite.
Crystal and metal blended seamlessly, glimmering in the changing lights. It was like standing in a river, and then when the lights shifted, brightened, they revealed the bodies moving about the room. There were no limits here, Barathi mingled freely with outworlders, though none were so rare as Beryl.
Revelers undulated in the center, a sea of self-indulgence. He recognized a few of the guests. Some occupied the highest strata among the kith, while others were being used as playthings. Pleasures that had been deemed immoral by the Council thrived behind closed doors.
There was an entire tank of Darveelan crawlers waiting to be devoured. In these enlightened times, the Matriarch frowned on the consumption of live food, but doubtless she didn’t know about Ryzven’s secret predilections. Consuming the crawlers went a step beyond cruelty because they tested at a level approaching sentience, so they understood the danger, and fear permeated their whole bodies as they darted back and forth, seeking a means of escape. Zylar had been told that terror made their flavor sharper and more pungent, but he would never partake of such torture.
Beyond the diabolical delicacies, there was a vast array of illegal chem—sparkling powders and glowing vials, an assortment of elixirs and mood enhancers—and on the crystalline terrace beyond, party guests swapped nest-guardians and played lovers’ games for the amusement of others. One of the participants seemed revolted by the one touching her, and Beryl took a step toward the group.
“Wait,” Zylar whispered.
One of Ryzen’s cronies said, “When you accepted this invitation, you agreed to whatever I want. Be still.”
The doomsayer, who was physically powerful enough to throw off everyone who was touching her, lay back with a snarl. Zylar looked away. For him, this coercion didn’t work as sexual enticement or entertainment, and the scene made him feel vaguely ill. Beryl’s expression reflected confusion, if he was reading her response correctly.
“I don’t
understand. By agreeing to attend, did we tacitly submit to whatever deviance is asked of us?”
“The rules are different, depending on social status,” he said. “I belong to Kith B’alak, and you are the highest-ranking intended in the Choosing.”
“But that’s not the case for someone of lesser standing.” Beryl shivered and stepped closer, and it took all Zylar’s self-control not to pull her against him, like someone might attempt to physically wrest her from his side.
The music was loud and discordant, ringing in his aural cavities until it was hard to think. Flashing lights made that no easier, a constant onslaught of bright and dark that lent the partygoers a stop-and-go aspect. In those shadow sweeps, people moved, appearing in different spots around the room.
He lowered his head and spoke near Beryl’s ear. “We don’t have to stay long.”
“I’m ready to go right now.”
Beryl cringed, and Zylar followed her gaze with his to where a tall Barathi was slurping down Darveelans, straight from the tank. The others scrambled away from his claws, and just then, the music stopped, so their high-pitched shrieks were audible. He hoped she couldn’t hear them, but then her eyes widened.
“Are they screaming?” she asked, shuddering.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to see any of this.”
“Terrible things exist, even if I don’t see them! We have to save those little dudes. They look like…” Here, the translator completely lost any ability to glean her meaning.
Zylar wanted to be a hero for her. He did.
But the prospect of fighting Ryzven on his own ground, along with all his sycophants, sent a spike of visceral fear through him. The wrong tactic here could end his hopes for a life with Beryl. Yet if he did nothing, he was unworthy of someone so brave and beautiful. Zylar dug deep and found some courage.
A verbal protest here would do no good. Sometimes, one had to be clever. Quietly, he drew Beryl toward the display of colorful liquids and powders. “Stay calm. Feign an interest. Ask me a question.”
Thankfully, she was a clever person. “What’s that?”
That was a sparkling pink dust, doled out in tiny vials. “It’s joy enhancer. Everything gains a patina of brightness, so jests seem funnier. Everyone looks more attractive. I’m not sure if it would work on you.” As he spoke, he activated his comm unit and keyed in a code that would block his identifying frequency, then he sent an urgent warning to the Protected Species Advisory Board.
There, done. I hope they come quickly.
Shortly after he turned off his comm, Ryzven joined them, shouldering between Zylar and Beryl like he had every right. “You look most charming tonight. This is new?” With one claw, he touched the fabric twining around Beryl’s shoulder.
“Yes. Thank you.” Beryl stepped back, removing herself from Ryzven’s reach.
His nictitating membrane flickered, revealing his irritation at her failure to be charmed or impressed. Still, the flavork tried again. “I trust you’re enjoying my hospitality.”
Be civil, he urged silently.
Beryl showed her teeth. “That’s one word for it. I’ve never seen anything quite like…this.”
Unsurprisingly, Ryzven took pleasure in what he judged to be a compliment. “It would be my honor to show you around my private collection. I have art the like of which you will never have experienced.”
“We would be delighted to take a private tour,” Zylar answered for both of them, earning a look of pure malice from his nest-mate.
“You don’t have any particular interest in the arts, do you?” That was a warning, a hint that he should back off and let this happen.
Beryl said in a desperately bright tone, “What do you collect, Ryzven? I don’t know anything about Barathi art. Back home, artists work in so many mediums.” Soon, she would start babbling, but it wasn’t enough to get Ryzven to stop glaring.
Before the situation could escalate, the doors chimed at the use of an override code and agents from the advisory board stormed inside. They located the threatened Darveelans instantly and boomed a warning at the greedy flavork still slurping them down.
“Back away from the tank! This gathering violates codes eighteen and forty-nine of the Protected Species Act. Violators will be—”
The moment Ryzven turned to deal with this intrusion, Zylar seized Beryl’s grabber. “We should go.”
Since others were already scrambling for the exit, they wouldn’t draw undue notice, and the agents would rescue the surviving Darveelans. She clung to him as they blended in with the throng currently fleeing from Ryzven’s lavish entertainment. This anonymous report might have future consequences, but he didn’t regret his choice. While Ryzven might guess that Zylar was responsible, he couldn’t prove anything. He suspected if he had named the offending party, instead of simply providing the location, the agents might have hesitated about crossing the most powerful scion of Kith B’alak. That made this turn of events even more satisfying.
He didn’t pause until they reached the safety of his quarters. When he turned, he found her laughing. “That was amazing. You wrecked his party. How much trouble is he in?”
“Not enough, unfortunately. I suspect he’ll be fined, little more.”
“But won’t this smear his good name somewhat? He got caught breaking the rules, and your people seem to care an awful lot about appearances.”
When she put it that way, Zylar paused, considering the implications. “It’s possible that he could lose some favor with the Matriarch,” he allowed.
“That’s good for us, right? It means less fuel for his nasty whisper campaign.”
Snaps trotted into the room, blinking sleepily. “You’re back? You’re back! I missed you both so much! I thought I would die of missing you.”
Zylar knelt and scratched the fur-person on top of his head. That was a beautiful thing to hear, even if he had only been gone for a short while. Especially then, perhaps. Snaps rolled over and presented his underside. He glanced at Beryl, who confirmed it was acceptable to proceed. The fur-person flailed all his limbs and wriggled in what Zylar presumed must be enjoyment.
“He especially likes it when you get the spots he can’t reach. Like here…and here.” Gently, she guided him, showing where to employ his talons to the best effect.
“I love you the most,” said Snaps, closing his eyes.
“Hey, what about me?” Since she was showing her teeth, she must be joking.
“I love you the most too.”
“That’s not mathematically possible,” Beryl pointed out.
“Talking dogs aren’t mathematically possible,” Snaps said, “but here I am.”
Zylar churred. The sheer joy he experienced with these two in his life made him feel as if his blood had become effervescent, constant contentment fizzing away, leaving him both giddy and lightheaded. He picked Snaps up and beckoned Beryl toward their nest.
She did whatever humans needed to do before resting, then she joined him, settling against him with a surety and trust that made Zylar even more determined not to let her down. “The Darveelans will be safe, don’t worry.”
“I’m glad you rescued them, but I’m more concerned about us currently. There are two events left in this round. Do you think Ryzven will blame you for this?”
At least this time, the blame was warranted. Not that Zylar planned to admit filing the report. “Even if he does, he can’t sabotage the Choosing. As long as I’m competing for your favor, I’ll pass the second stage somehow.”
“You promise?”
“I do.”
“What about Kurr?”
Zylar stroked Beryl’s head, wishing he could put full faith in these words. “We’ll find a way to help them too.”
The next day, Beryl feared that Kurr would be missing, and she leaned up against the wall in relief when she spotted them passing into the arena. Snaps wriggled in her arms in excitement; she didn’t let him dash off into the crowd. It was impossible for her t
o judge the Greenspirit’s mood from facial expressions, but their body language seemed a bit better than the day before. She pushed upright and hurried toward her friend, reaching for them, then she hesitated. Kurr twined a pair of fronds around her wrist, squeezing gently.
“Thank you for coming to me yesterday, but I was in no state to bear company.”
“I’m so sorry.”
A mournful sound, like wind rustling through dying trees, slipped from Kurr as they headed for the intended seating. “It’s not your fault.”
Beryl chewed her lip, wrestling with the proper choice here. If she confessed the whole truth, Kurr might hate her, but she wouldn’t be much of a friend if she pretended the situation had nothing to do with her. As they settled in, she made up her mind.
“But it is…sort of. At least indirectly.”
Kurr pulled their fronds away, turning to regard her with a chilly stare. “What do you mean? It was an accident.”
After taking a deep breath, she explained about the rivalry between Zylar and Ryzven, Ryzven’s unwelcome interest, and how he’d interfered with the Choosing, causing the Gauntlet to be unleashed instead of the competition that was originally planned. That petty, malicious act had been meant to screw with Zylar, but Arleb ended up paying the ultimate price. When she finished, she could hardly bear to look at Kurr, who must certainly hate her now.
“Thank you,” Kurr said finally.
“I…what?”
“For telling me the truth. Before, I thought there was nobody to blame and it was just my sad fate.”
Something about Kurr’s tone sent a shiver through her. “Again, I’m truly sorry.”
“This was not your doing, my friend. This tragedy is born from an evil heart that despises the possibility that others could be happy.”
That was true enough, but Beryl couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding as she regarded Kurr. “What will you do now? You mentioned that going home isn’t an option, so…” She hesitated.
It seemed heartless to ask if they meant to try to attract someone else at this stage in the Choosing, but the fact that Kurr was still attending the competition seemed to indicate they planned to keep going.
