A Blue Star Rising

by Cecilia Randell

“Come, shopa. We must eat, and then we should be getting to bed. There is an early morning, and you have been through much the last few days.” Mo’ata pushed up from his seat and headed to the kitchen.

  In minutes, there was a small salad and the scent of meat permeated the room. The clansman was much more efficient than she was in kitchen. “Actually, maybe we should just make you the official cook,” she said, watching as he chopped up a piece of opi, the knife flashing in his hand. He scooped the slices into a bowl, seasoned them, and just like that, the vegetable was ready to go into the wave-cooker. What had taken her at least an hour yesterday had been done faster than Forrest’s mom could say smoothie.

  Wonder if they have something that would make smoothies? Surely I can get my hands on a blender.

  “No. You must learn.” He sent her a teasing look. “What if I am late one day? You will starve?” He pulled bowls from their place in the upper right cupboard and handed them to Blue.

  “Maybe. Because it would take me as long to make the meal as it would to wait until you got home.” She took the bowls and salad to their little dining table and set them out.

  “I should tell you something before you get to the big-eyed, pleading stage of this conversation.” The wave-cooker dinged, and he removed the meat and got the veggies going.

  She hadn’t been going to pull out the puss-in-boots look. She really hadn’t.

  “I know how to make two things. This and stew. And as much as you enjoy the stew, I am sure that the others would eventually mutiny.” He grabbed an insulator and brought the roasted meat to the table.

  Forrest refilled her juice and brought glasses for the others as Levi set out plates and utensils. When the wave-cooker went off, signaling the final element of the meal was done, Blue was more than ready to eat.

  “How is it you only know how to make two things? Weren’t you talking about how you had to live on your own for a few years? How we have to be efficient and self-sufficient and not eat at stalls and restaurants all the time?”

  “Yes, well, I like stew too.”

  It sounded like there was a story there. “You’re backlogged a few days in your ‘tell Blue something new every day.’ Spill?”

  At Mo’ata’s raised brow, Forrest translated. “Tell her.”

  He spooned a helping of the opi onto his plate. “It is not an exciting story, really.”

  Blue grabbed the salad and filled her bowl, then passed it down to Levi. “Tell me anyway?”

  “Very well.” He set his fork down, and suddenly Blue wasn’t sure she wanted to hear this. “It has to do with my fathers.”

  Had she ever heard him talk of his fathers? Of his family, other than the occasional reference to the matriarch, his mother? No.

  “You don’t have to say if you don’t want.”

  He rapped his knuckles on the table. “No. I will tell you. Like I said, it is not an exciting story, but there is no reason you should not hear it.”

  Blue nodded, her eyes wide. She speared a forkful of leafy greens and brought them up, her gaze trained on the clansman. She missed her mouth.

  Forrest snorted, and Levi chuckled as Mo’ata smiled. “It really is not that interesting.”

  She waved the fork. “Just talk.” Then, careful to make sure the food went where it should, she chomped down and crunched through the veggies.

  “The Mamanna’s prida is usually a little different from others. Because she must act as the heart of the entire tribe, and not just her family, many of the roles are shifted. The males are in charge of the household and cooking, as well as providing the day-to-day necessities. The draga and warriors provide general protection for the clan and the Mamanna. In this case, one of my fathers, Fo’ata, was the draga, though this is not always the case. I had one other father, Mo’tat, as my mother kept her own prida small. Maybe she preferred it that way, or maybe she simply never found another male who… fit.” He speared a piece of the pucho and placed it very deliberately next to the orange opi. “Mo’tat was… gentle. He was the perfect counterpart for Fo’ata and my mother. He enjoyed the cooking and caring for the tent. He would spend his days gossiping with the other women, and if he heard signs of discontent, he would pass them along.”

  Mo’ata cut a bit of meat, scooped up a portion of the opi, and brought it to his mouth. After he swallowed, he continued.

  “He was also a very proficient hunter. When I was ten, the winter was harsh—much harsher than any in my mother’s rule. And so, even though he usually kept to home, Fo’ata left with the other warriors, the other men, and hunted. They had to go farther than usual and find new hunting grounds.” He took another bite, chewing absently, his vacant gaze telling Blue he was far away, lost in memories.

  “There was an avalanche. Neither of my fathers returned from that trip, though those who did were able to find a large heard of fela and bring in enough meat that we lasted. Many were lost that winter.”

  Tears gathered in Blue’s eyes. He said it all so matter-of-factly.

  He focused on her. “The next draga was a good man, and he helped train me. But Mo’tat’s favorite meal, the first he ever taught me, was pucho and opi.” He flashed a grin. “The stew I learned because it keeps very well. I was… stubborn about the rest.”

  Blue set her fork down and leaned toward him, her hand extended. “Mo’ata…”

  He took it, gave her fingers a squeeze, then wrapped them back around her fork. “Eat, shopa. I am all right. It was a very long time ago, and the pain is distant. We should not dwell on that which cannot be changed.”

  “Still…”

  “Shopa.” His voice was stern, though his smile was gentle. “This is not a hurt you need to heal. It is simply something new that I am telling you.”

  She nodded and returned to her meal. The others remained silent as well.

  But when she went to bed that night and lay down next to her clansman, she held him just a bit tighter.

  Chapter 18

  MIYARI

  He gazed down at the pale-skinned figure laid out on the metal table before him. Blood drained from the Y incision into the runnels on either side of the table and down to the drain. The cranial cavity was empty, the brain sitting on the dissection tray a few feet away.

  “Useless.”

  Pale light flickered as he abandoned the operating room and entered his office. Equations and formulas decorated his walls, beautiful in their complexity. His life’s work, shining like a beacon.

  Black leather creaked as he lowered himself into the only indulgence he’d allowed into this facility. It was a necessary luxury, though. To think, he needed to be comfortable. And to be comfortable, he needed this chair.

  He sank into it, the conforming foam beneath the leather cradling his muscular bulk, and let out a sigh as his eyes slid closed and he folded his hands together. His thinking position.

  The Falassians were an interesting race. No extrasensory abilities like the Karranians or the Padilrians—yes, he knew of that despite the attempts to hush it up—or the Turamm. Cularnians did manifest heightened senses, as did Martikans. Their evolutionary lines were so close they may as well be the same race of people.

  Maybe that was where he was going wrong. Though he’d found the key to his formula here on Falass, it was almost as if the people had evolved with an immunity to the flower’s effects, hanging on to their mundanity with the steel claws of a grimal. Nothing he had done had generated enhanced sensory effects he was going for.

  Diethyl glutamate neoplumarine—DGN—was beautiful in its simplicity. A basic stimulant, but when combined with the noafa, extract it excited the brain’s natural sensory pathways. The trick had been adjusting the exact proportions and amounts of the extract in conjunction with the glutamate. Too much, and the brain bleeds and seizures began. Too little and nothing was achieved.

  There was also a punch list of adverse effects to be addressed, including the matter of the reported chlorosis and iron deficiencies. The noafa combined with
the body’s own supply of iron at an alarming rate, which reduced the oxygen carrying red blood cells. Which then combined with the expanding blood vessels and the brain’s need for more oxygen to overwhelm the anterior cerebral artery and…

  He needed new subjects. And he needed more than the haphazard results being gained from the field experiments. Bleeding the drug into society had been a clever idea of his protégé, but the data was incomplete. He needed someone here, where he could monitor every beat of their heart and spike in hormones or neurotransmitters and could regulate the exact dosages. He also wanted to be able to compare the DNA signatures and markers before and after. Not that he expected a change, per se, but if he could isolate a marker that would, in the future, indicate success with a subject, he would be that much closer to bringing his program and findings into the light. And more importantly, redeem his name.

  He did have a few workers and assistants here at the compound that he could use for his tests. Most were Falassians, though and thus were useless to him. He had convinced them years ago of his skill as a chemist, and now they believed his tales of medical research. They weren’t lies, exactly, but he was certainly not researching what they believed he was.

  There were the Ministry agents the village corrabi—the village elder—had apprehended and brought to him. The Falassians were very loyal to their alliances, and he had formed one with them years ago. The agents had attempted to stop his latest shipment of the drug into Karran. Bad move on their part.

  He would start with them.

  But he’d still need a wider sample. And it would be a waste of resources to use any of his hired men.

  Decision made, he opened his eyes, unclasped his hands, and picked up his comm. He placed the call.

  “Hello?”

  “I need new subjects.”

  “Culan’s bones.”

  “Now, now. It should be simple enough. Just mark them. My men and I will do the rest.”

  “How many?”

  “At least five. And if you can get me a… variety, that would be ideal.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “And make sure you take care of that boy, the one from the Academy.”

  “How?”

  He sighed. Did no one have any initiative these days? He was never going to achieve his goals if he couldn’t delegate anything properly. “However you have to. You don’t want him leading anyone back to you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter 19

  SARAH

  Petyr lay on the healer’s bed partially obscured by the vitals monitor, and a rejuvenator covered his lower half.

  He was so pale. He blended into the white sheets and walls. The only spots of color were the purple shadows around his eyes and the red of his hair. Even his eyes were washed out, the hazel she remembered faded to a pale gray.

  Or maybe it just seemed that way.

  Sarah hovered in the hallway, her hands folded together to keep them from shaking and her expression arranged in careful concern. The nurse had said he was awake and they were allowing visitors. The orange-robed agent standing in the corner of the room monitored all conversations. A bit of careful prying had revealed that, though Petyr was awake, he wasn’t exactly coherent, and the healers weren’t optimistic about a full recovery. Whatever he’d taken had damaged parts of his brain. And though Alliance and Karran medicine was well advanced, and though they should be able to regenerate the cells of his brain, they couldn’t piece his mind back together again—the mysteries of the mind still eluded them.

  The guard’s gaze shifted and locked on her through the viewing window, and she stepped back. Another visitor was with him already, a girl with dark hair and big eyes. She looked familiar, though she wasn’t at the Academy. She’d probably been to a few of the parties Petyr had thrown. More like bug eyes. And they were the same insipid color as that Blue’s.

  She sniffed. What kind of name was that? It was ridiculous. The girl herself was ridiculous—a misfit, a freak—and she should have been banished back to her own world.

  Pushing the thoughts away for now, Sarah dismissed the girl and turned her attention to her mission: How to get Petyr to give her his source without tipping off the guard. She’d have to be careful. Something that Petyr would understand, but that the agent wouldn’t. If only she knew Petyr better, but they barely ran in the same circles.

  I don’t want to be here. She didn’t want to look at what Petyr had done to himself. But she’d promised Annaliese. How did my life get so shit?

  She sniffed again. Someone was going to think she didn’t know how to breathe, but some things deserved a good expression of disdain. And she knew exactly how she’d ended up in this hallway. Rachel. The perfect big sister. The one who had everything and could do no wrong. The one in whose shadow she had always walked. Even now, even after she was dead, still her parents compared them. Jason compared them.

  Jason.

  Her chest tightened. She’d messed up there. Bad. Mother had warned her not to push things the night of Rachel’s party. But she hadn’t actually seen Jason in four years. Four whole damned years. He’d been just as handsome as she remembered.

  Her heart pounded, but not in dread or anger this time. She’d waited those four years just for the moment of seeing him again. When he’d left for his Earth assignment, she’d been a kid, barely ready to start at the Academy. He’d come to her lower-school graduation, given her a kiss on the cheek, smiled, ruffled her hair, and left. He hadn’t even lingered to see Mother or Rachel.

  He’d had a tight timeline and had to report to the Ministry, she knew, but Sarah had built a whole fantasy around that moment—a whole life.

  After Rachel had disappeared and was presumed dead, Mother had switched her focus to Sarah and Jason. And Sarah’s fantasy had become entangled in resentment and hope. It was a strange combination, and the emotions mixed together to sit like a ball of tarred miriski feathers in her chest, beautiful and disgusting all at once.

  Someone stopped beside her, then leaned against the wall, arms crossed. The orange of a Ministry agent’s robes flashed in the periphery of her vision.

  “I can be here, you know. The nurse—”

  “I know.”

  That voice. She turned her head to meet Jason’s gaze, the deep brown of his eyes both soft and piercing, as though he stripped the layers of her skin and muscle and bones down to that strange ball of tar and feathers.

  “You didn’t come to dinner the other night.”

  He didn’t react.

  She drew in a breath and let it out slowly. Get a handle on yourself. This is not the way to win him over. Mother was constantly saying that to win Jason, she needed to make herself agreeable, be there for him, be a help. And just a little bit alluring.

  Sarah drew her shoulders back, bringing attention to her chest, and ducked her chin just enough that she would look up at Jason, but not directly at him. She’d never been sweet, but she’d been practicing alluring. “I missed you.” She kept her voice soft.

  It worked. Some of the stiffness left his expression. He sent her a small, apologetic smile. “I’m leaving tomorrow for a new assignment.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s to Falass, and I’ve been busy reacquainting myself with the customs.”

  “That’s quite a bit different from Earth.” Inside she cheered. The assignment took him away from her, but it also took him away from that Blue.

  “It is.” His cheeks colored, and his gaze drifted to Petyr. The girl had bent over to give him a hug. They were almost done.

  “So you’re not here for Petyr?” Anticipation thrilled through her.

  “No. I need to talk to you, actually. I came to ask a favor.” He shifted his weight.

  Was he nervous?

  “Could you see if Petyr will tell you anything about where he got… whatever it was that did this to him? They’re having trouble getting it out of him, but he may trust you more than someone in orange robes.” He sent
her a small smile and plucked at a fold of his robes.

  Anticipation curdled, and she grimaced. She swallowed, trying to rid her mouth of the sudden sour taste that had invaded. It had nothing to do with anything she’d eaten and everything to do with the man beside her. “So, you are here for Petyr.”

  “No. Yes. It’s just we need to track this shit down. Look what it did to him. Do you want that happening to anyone else? To one of your own friends?” He placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “To you?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “And would you care?”

  “I would.”

  She searched his expression, but didn’t find what she wanted, what she needed to see. “What am I to you?”

  It was his turn to narrow his eyes. “You’re my friend. I think. I haven’t seen you in years, but I remember from when you were younger. And you’re Rachel’s sister. I couldn’t allo—”

  That was the wrong thing to say. “Get your hand off me.”

  His fingers tightened then sprang open, and he held up his hand. “Sorry.”

  “I am not Rachel.”

  “I never said you were.”

  “I will never be Rachel.”

  He tilted his head, brows drawn together. “I know that.”

  “And that girl, that Blue, will never be Rachel either.”

  “I don’t want her to be.” But his gaze shifted away.

  “Don’t you though? Don’t you want some mix of perfect Rachel and perfect lover? Some grand romance where you get to come in and sweep the girl off her feet, rescue her from the big bad?”

  He blushed.

  “Open your eyes, Jason. She doesn’t need you. She never will. She’s got two other guys ready to do that for her, and she’s already committed to them. They’re a prida. She’s basically married.” She poked his chest. “Are you telling me you’d settle for being one of many? There’s no room for you there.” She dug her finger into him, wanting to hurt him, to inflict on him even a fraction of what he’d done to her.

  He grabbed her hand and squeezed, but stopped short of bringing pain. “Do you think I don’t know that as well?” he ground out, gaze boring into her once more.