by Kyle, Celia
But I have a very hard time—border line compulsive, really—not correcting people when they’re wrong. It’s something I’ve struggled with for a very long time, as long as I can remember.
I once had a professor who said I was overcompensating with my “miss smarty pants” demeanor because my parents were not academic professionals. In point of fact, they worked in the food service industry. Their little café in the Groenig district on Mars turned a tidy profit, enough that they could easily afford to put me through school, but they weren’t billionaires who owned an entire franchise, either.
Perhaps that was good enough for them. I certainly never felt a desire to accumulate vast amounts of wealth. I just wanted a chance to put my intellect to work—no arrogance, just stating a fact.
Lately, however, I’ve begun to wonder if academic excellence and being at the top of my field would be enough. It all happened right about the time I first laid eyes on Zander. He didn’t even notice me at first. He was so busy dressing down one of his technicians who hadn’t made an adjustment to his exacting specifications.
But I instantly recognized a kindred spirit, someone who demands perfection of themselves and tries to bring it out of those around him. Maybe that’s why I can’t stand not correcting people. I don’t really want to be the smartest one in the room. I want everyone else to be on the same page as I am.
Which means I probably should be better at communication, but I’ve tried—I’ve honestly tried. I don’t mean to be off-putting, but I just wind up putting my foot in my mouth sooner or later. This had made me wary of having conversations in the first place, which by proxy lowers my chance of gaining experience from them.
A vicious circle, but only a minor inconvenience until recently. I’ve been trying to figure out how to talk to Zander, or at least make myself less offensive so he’ll talk to me more.
On our last mission, I went undercover as a slave, and he my owner. I played up the part… perhaps a bit too well, and ever since he’s been more nervous around me. All I did was press my head into his foot and beg him to take pity on me. Maybe the miniscule amount of clothing the role required had something to do with it.
But that was out of character for me, and now I’m simultaneously trying to figure out how to avoid ever putting him off like that again while also wanting to relive it in my mind. It can be thrilling, the thought of those massive arms gathering me up and taking control of my body…
Ahem. I’ve reached the bridge, and it seems Grantian is getting a hard time about the lipstick on his neck. Fortunate because it means mine and Zander’s late arrival goes unnoticed.
“I could sit and make fun of Grantian all day,” says Swipt, our happy-go-lucky pilot. “But we have a crewman to save.”
Solair nods in his direction as he gets his chuckling under control.
“Spot on, Swipt.” He encompasses us in his gaze, golden eyes flicking over each of us in turn. Varia, my friend and his mate, stands next to his command chair. “We’ll be reaching the M’Kal system soon. Hopefully, we’ll find that Lokyer is still there.”
He gestures to the navigation console, where Lokyer used to work, and that Fiona now occupies. She taps on her keys and brings up holographic image of the planet M’Kal. Then she zooms in, the lines on the map growing more numerous until we’re looking at a depiction of the largest settlement.
“This is K’Patel, the city where the video I downloaded originated from. I was only able to narrow down the tracking to a ten-mile area, which is most of the municipal area and outlying suburbs.”
Solair sighs and rubs his chin.
“Ten miles is a lot of ground to cover, particularly in a populous city like K’Patel. We need to figure out a way to narrow down our search… somehow.”
Grantian, who is wiping at his neck with a cloth to remove Lamira’s lipstick, perks up for a moment.
“There’s always the time-honored, old-fashioned way of gathering information, Captain. Talking to people and asking questions.”
A chuckle goes up around the bridge—though neither Zander nor I are easily swayed by such incidental “humor”—but Solair cuts us off.
“No, Grantian is right. That’s exactly what we’re going to do. An operation like Project Blue Dawn is going to leave some traces of its existence, especially in a city like K’Patel.”
“They say every brick in every building has its own set of ears in K’Patel.” Grantian nods. “Someone will have seen or heard something.”
I raise my hand, and Solair glances at me.
“Yes, Thrase?”
“We can safely assume that Project Blue Dawn is continuing with its modus operandi, vis a vis maintaining the ruse that they are officially aligned with the Interstellar Human Conglomerate.”
Solair’s brow ridges rise high on his face.
“Indeed. Good point, Thrase. We should be on the lookout for IHC marines, or more likely mercenaries disguised as such.”
“They also employ the Star Crushers, Solair. We should be on the lookout for them as well.”
Swipt grins like he’s said something clever, but Grantian shakes his head with some measure of patience.
“Perhaps, good Swipt, but the Crushers have their origins on M’Kal and still have a strong presence there. Just their merely being in the area can’t be relied upon as a clue to our quarry in and of itself.”
“There’s something else we should consider, Solair.” I feel a bit nervous when all eyes fall on me, but I manage to get through it without putting my foot in my mouth. “When we saw the… the video…”
I can’t say it out loud, though I know we’re all thinking it. The video where Lokyer was tortured.
“…anyway, when we saw the video in question, the K’Patel harbor whistle at M’Kal Capital Docks—if you want to call that ungodly ruckus suck a name—sounded in the background. That would seem to limit our search to an area where one can hear it.”
Solair turns to Fiona.
“How far away can you hear the whistle, Fiona?”
“Just a second.” She taps on her console, doing a holonet search for the manufacturer’s net site, and finds the schematics. “Five miles, Solair.”
“See? Thrase just cut our search parameters in half.” Solair grins, but then it fades to a solemn grimace. “I’m not going to lie to any of you. We have no proof that Lokyer is still on M’Kal, or even in the same area where that video was taken.”
He doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s all over his face. In fact, it’s all over all of our faces. Lokyer may not even be alive at this point in time.
“But we still need to make the effort. You never know. We might get lucky, and anyway even if they have… ah… even if they have moved him somewhere else, we might find important clues as to where to find him.”
“Or to find those who abducted him and avenge his loss if not.”
I turn sharply toward Grantian, and though none of us are happy to hear his proclamation, we all know it could turn out to be prophetic.
M’Kal is a world rife with subterfuge and armed mercenaries walking the streets, and we are going there, right into a nest of our enemies.
I should be afraid, but all I can think of is my earlier faux pas with Zander.
Damn chemical reactions in the brain, anyway.
Chapter Three
Zander
“Zander, you take Thrase.”
With one hand on his hip and a lazy smile, Solair gives me a nod. I just blink at him, not sure on what to make of the expression in his face. As he continues announcing the three teams that’ll go down to the surface, I knit my eyebrows together, slowly realizing he is pairing up jalshagar.
Swipt is taking Ilya, while Grantian is going with Lamira. The fact that he has put me up with Thrase does raise some suspicions. Not that our pairing is inefficient, which is what truly matters. Clearly, my attention to detail, weapons’ expertise, and engineering knowledge will be a strong match for Thrase’s analytical qualities.
She’s one of the smartest people aboard the ship, and our combined brain power should prove a match to whatever situation we may find ourselves in. Still, Solair’s choice appears to have been made with ulterior motives. Intuitive as always, the Queen’s Captain seems to be aware of my “situation.”
“Of course,” I finally say, straightening my back and stopping short of saluting him. The lack of proper military protocol on a ship like ours seems like a horrendous inefficiency, but I’ve come to enjoy the freedom that comes with it. After all, most of the situations we’re in require the crew to be nimble and think on their feet. Formality usually lends itself to slow-moving operations. “Thrase, are you ready?”
“Absolutely,” she replies, not a hint of doubt in her voice. Most women would be reticent about accepting such a job, but Thrase doesn’t seem fazed by it. I’m not surprised. Despite her lack of military expertise, she has already shown she can keep her head over her shoulders, no matter the situation.
“You know what you have to do,” Solair continues, looking away from me and using his gaze to take in the rest of the crew assembled on the bridge. “Be careful, and don’t take unnecessary risks. Eyes peeled at all times, and try to gather as much information as you can. Gear up, and move out. It’s go time.”
Amidst the shuffling of feet, heavy combat boots stepping on the bridge’s smooth floor panels, our little group of six heads out. Each pair takes a different route, Grantian and Swipt engaging in whispered chatter with their jalshagar. And that’s when I realize I haven’t said a word to Thrase. Clearing my throat, I stop when we reach a bifurcation and turn to face her.
“Like Solair said, we should gear up,” I tell her, tilting my chin toward the corridor leading into the armory. She replies with a nod, and I find myself at a loss for words again. I just take in the brightness in her eyes, the small mouth in her heart-shaped face, and the way her mop of straight hair tumbles perfectly over her shoulders. “I think you’ll like to see what I’ve been working on. It’s a—”
“Beam weapon?” she cuts me short, a hint of a smile on her lips.
“How did you know?”
“I’ve heard you talk to your guys about it,” she replies.
“Right, of course.” Clearing my throat once more, I force myself to look away from her and start heading down the corridor, her soft footsteps telling me she’s trailing after me. “Are you familiar with the physics of atomic electromagnetic forces? I’ve been developing a prototype that I think will do well in the field.”
Before she has the chance to reply, I continue explaining all the improvements I’ve made to the standard beam pistol I bought at the last market we went to. She listens politely, nodding here and there, and her smile continues widening until it becomes an amused grin. She must be enjoying the details of my prototype; that prompts me to delve even deeper into the minutia of electron repulsion and attraction, and the practical aspects of applying iron-tight theory to the weapons we have aboard.
“Isn’t the armory back there?” she asks, interrupting me mid-sentence. Pointing at the door we’ve just walked past with one thumb, she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, the slight tilt of her hips enough to wipe my mind clean of theoretical considerations.
“You’re right. That’s the armory.” Only now noticing the panel announcing the door as Armory C, I turn on my heels and follow after her. I input the access codes into the wall-mounted panel and then wait as the reinforced door slides back into its partition on the wall.
The moment we step into the room, the door closes behind us, the locking mechanism activating automatically. A set of bright lights flood the room, illuminating the clean workbenches occupying the center of the room. The walls are lined with weapon lockers, an assortment of high-grade weaponry and tactical gear stacked behind the metallic webbed doors.
“So, this is what I was talking about,” I continue, deactivating the security circuitry and opening the lockers. I grab my custom beam pistol, enjoying the way its polished grip fits against my palm, and proudly set it down on one of the work benches. “I’ve modified the grip, since there isn’t much of a recoil, and added protective lining to the muzzle. The power packs have modified electromagnetic components that…”
I trail off, realizing Thrase doesn’t seem as excited about the beam upgrades as I am. Suddenly feeling self-conscious, I find myself scratching the skin under my neck, an uncomfortable itch settling there.
“Sorry, I tend to get carried away,” I tell her, and then watch as she raises one eyebrow, her smile never leaving her lips. “I didn’t mean to ramble and bore you.”
“You weren’t boring me.” Reaching for the pistol, she holds it up in front of her face. “Your ramblings are… interesting. I like hearing you speak. It’s been a while since I’ve talked with someone who cares about doing things the right way. Besides, you seem to have done a good job with this, assuming it works the way you intend it to. Electromagnetic components aren’t exactly the easiest components to mod.”
“It’ll work,” I say, and I finally find it in me to return her smile. I shouldn’t have been worried with boring her. Someone as bright as Thrase wouldn’t be bored with a lengthy discussion on atomic theory and its practical applications, only energized by it. At least, I know that’s the case with me. “I also enjoy the way you speak, Thrase. It’s good to have someone around who keeps up with what I’m saying.”
“I think I can do more than just keep up with you.” She chuckles then and shakes her head, a few locks of hair tumbling over her face. She brushes them away, tucking them over one ear, and I feel my insides clenching as I watch that motion of hers. It’s as if she’s moving in slow motion, the way her fingers flex and brush against her face almost hypnotic. Maybe that’s normal when it comes to a jalshagar.
Reminding myself that I don’t know if that’s the case here, I just push those thoughts to the back of my mind and focus on the task at hand. Methodically, I start removing the gear we’ll need from the lockers and laying it down on the work benches.
I do away with the high-powered rifles and heavy tactical vests and settle on light weaponry and adaptive vests that can be easily worn under normal clothing. They won’t be enough to stop a bullet, but the fabric is strong enough to stop a knife from cutting into the flesh. On the streets of K’Patel, it’ll be more important to blend with the crowd than to roll in looking like an armored tank.
“How am I supposed to wear this?” Thrase asks me as she struggles with her vest. Nothing more than a shirt made of synthetic polymer fabric, its protective qualities depend on the material being worn in direct contact with the skin. Thrase, of course, is trying to wear it over her blouse.
“You have to wear your blouse over it,” I tell her. “The fabric adapts to the wearer’s body, and it’ll cling to your skin. It can be hard to put it on but, once you’ve done it, you won’t even feel it’s on your body.”
“I see,” she mutters, looking down at the bunched-up fabric in her hands. Slowly, she then raises her gaze so she’s looking at me. I just remain there, staring back at her, when her eyebrows start rising expectantly. “Well?”
“What?”
“Turn around,” she says. “You’re not expecting me to undress in front of you. Right?”
“Of course not,” I hurry to say, although the thought of it is enough to have my pulse quicken. Inevitably, my eyes fall from hers and I take in the perfect contour of her body, her tapered waist making my fingers twitch. When I finally turn my back to her, I have to do it forcefully, my heart tightening into a fist. It’s hard to process the fact that she’s going to be half-naked mere feet away from me.
“No peeking.” I hear the rustle of fabric as she removes her blouse, and then the dull pop of the clasp on her bra. Immediately, I feel a knot on my throat, my mind busy weaving images of her naked breasts, and I have to bite the inside of my cheeks to regain my composure. Closing my eyes, I try to think of possible upgrades to my be
am pistol, but even the sublime physics of it seem to pale in comparison to Thrase’s half-naked body.
“Get a hold of yourself,” I mutter under my breath.
“What? I didn’t hear you.”
“I, huh, it was nothing,” I reply, doing my best not to sound like an awkward idiot. Surprisingly, it’s harder than I expected it to be. “I was just thinking out loud.” Slowly, I turn around to see her wearing the vest, the fabric hugging her curves so tightly there’s little left to the imagination. I swallow hard, trying to whip my mind into submission. “It looks nice on you.”
“Thank you.” Reaching for the other vest lying on the bench, she throws it at me. “Aren’t you going to wear yours?”
“Yeah, of course,” I reply, and then remove my shirt with a single flowing motion. As I put the vest over my head, I notice her staring at my naked torso from the corner of her eyes. My heart jumps up as she runs her tongue over her lips, no more than a subconscious gesture, and it becomes almost impossible to think straight.
Just think of something else, I tell myself. Concentrated laser beams, ion particles, advanced beam weaponry, quantum field, and—
Suddenly, she leans forward and props one foot up on the workbench, the fabric of her pants stretching to accommodate the perfect curves of her ass and thighs.
The curves are hypnotizing and I find a bevy of lust coursing through my veins.
My jaw almost drops to the floor, my eyes becoming as wide as plates.
“How do you strap this thing on?” she asks me in a casual tone, struggling to place her gun holster around her waist. Clearly, she hasn’t realized what’s going on inside my head. That’s for the best.
“Here, I’ll help you,” I say, and then walk around the bench so I’m standing beside her. Carefully, I grab the straps on the holster and fasten them around her waist, my knuckles brushing against her backside momentarily. As I feel the softness of her flesh underneath the fabric, my heart goes from jumping inside my ribcage to kicking and punching it. “Right, it’s done now.”
