Rohn

by Nancey Cummings

  Rohn rubbed her shoulder sympathetically but said nothing.

  “They should be looking for me,” she said, heat creeping into her voice. “Why are they expecting a teenager to do all the work? They’re so selfish. They’re always selfish. For all they know, I’m still buried under that school! I’d rather they were dead than assholes who can’t even be bothered to look for their missing kid!” Her last words rang out in the shop. The family at the next table over looked shocked.

  “Are you okay, sweetie?” The mother stood at the end of the table and cast a suspicious look at Rohn. “Is there anyone I can call?”

  Right. Like cell phones weren’t the first thing the Suhlik destroyed. She wished she could call her mom. Nakia felt small and alone and wanted nothing more than her mother at the moment.

  The woman gave Nakia a weak smile and patted her on the back. She flinched away from the unwanted touch. The weak smile turned into a frown. “I know you’re too young to understand, but his kind only want one thing. You’re under no obligation.”

  The woman placed a hand on Nakia’s shoulder and squeezed.

  “Rohn rescued me,” she said. “He dug me out from underneath a building.”

  “You say he saved you, but you don’t owe him anything.”

  Nakia shifted uncomfortably. “He’s my friend.” She didn’t know what the woman was getting at. Okay, she understood that the woman thought Rohn was some sort of creeper, hitting on young girls. He wasn’t. He never touched or looked at her inappropriately.

  No matter how much she wanted it.

  God, did she want him to look at her that way.

  “Enough,” Rohn said, his voice calm but edged in annoyance.

  “I heard about the treaty on the news,” the woman said, turning her ire toward Rohn. “I know all about your kind. I know why you’re here.”

  “Then you know my people were once the thralls of the Suhlik.”

  “You always trot out that old line, but I don’t buy it. I know you’re here to get women. You want babies. Human-alien babies.” Her voice rose in pitch.

  One of the boys tugged on the sleeve of her sweater. “Mom…”

  Rohn nodded, conceding the point. “Yes. That is one condition of the treaty.”

  The woman crossed her arms and gave a smug smile.

  “Is that true?” Nakia asked. “You’re here for, um, brides?” Nakia didn’t want cookies anymore. She wanted to know more about how brides were selected and if she could volunteer.

  “Aren’t you going to answer? Afraid your little girl won’t like what you have to say?”

  “Are you finished?” He spun on his heel and marched away, not waiting for her response.

  “Yeah, sure.” Nakia pushed the bowl away and followed Rohn out.

  Her alien marched several paces ahead of her. She hurried to catch up, but her leg ached. “Hey, wait up! I can’t walk that fast.”

  Rohn paused, tension vibrating in his body.

  “Is it true?” Nakia panted when she reached his side.

  “The Mahdfel were once the thralls of the Suhlik,” he said.

  “Not that part—”

  “It is important!”

  His shout alarmed her. “Okay. Tell me.” She rested a hand on his arm, skin to skin. He was warm to the touch and she noticed that the black ink of his tattoos looked gray in the afternoon light. He looked down at the point of contact and shrugged her off.

  He ran a hand along a horn, taking a deep breath. “Forgive me. The misinformation is frustrating.”

  “So tell me. I’m listening.”

  “We were once enslaved by the Suhlik. They took us from our homes. Changed us. Made us into their perfect warriors.”

  She nodded, having heard that part before. The Mahdfel had been genetically engineered to be super soldiers.

  “Part of the change is that we can only have sons,” he said.

  “No daughters? Not ever?”

  “Not once since our liberation.”

  “How have you not died out?” As soon as Nakia uttered her question, she knew the answer. They made alliance with new planets, places with a population of women. “You can do that? Have babies with aliens?”

  “Terrans are a compatible species.”

  Nakia briefly wondered what would have happened if humans weren’t compatible—if the Mahdfel would have left humanity alone to be slaughtered by the Suhlik. She didn’t want to hear the answer, but she had to know. “If we weren’t, um, compatible?”

  “There is no honor in letting another planet fall to the Suhlik,” he said.

  She sighed. That was an answer of a sort.

  They walked together in silence, but it needled at her. Now that she’d asked a hard question, she couldn’t stop. “Do you have a wife?”

  “No. I have no mate.”

  Mate. She liked that word, to the point and yet it held an air of mystery. “Will you get one from Earth?”

  “Perhaps. Warriors are matched to females based on genetic suitability. There is little choice.”

  “When?”

  “When the Suhlik are gone from Earth, as per the treaty,” he said.

  “But what if you found someone you really liked? Or they liked you? Do you get to pick?”

  Rohn stopped, staring down at her with his bright tawny eyes.

  Pick me, she mentally begged.

  “Rohn, I—”

  “No.” He resumed walking.

  “But you don’t know what I was going to say.”

  “I know enough.”

  She hated the sight of his back to her, stiff with anger, his voice as cold as the February air.

  “You can pick me,” she said.

  He paused before turning back around, fixing her with his hard gaze.

  “If you want. I mean, we’re friends. We like each other. I like you. A lot.” Her cheeks burned. She blinked, staring down at her shoes rather than face Rohn’s judgment.

  He snorted. “You cannot even look at me when you make such an offer. No.”

  Of course, he would turn her down. He could have anyone. He was brave and handsome and a genuine hero and… Wait? She couldn’t look at him?

  She tugged on his hand, summoning the nerve to stare into those tawny eyes. “I’m looking at you now. Pick me.”

  The moment stretched out as they stood together, to people finally seeing each other. Nakia’s lips curved up into a smile. He felt the connection between them. She just knew it.

  “No,” he pulled his hand away. “You are a child.”

  “I am not! I’m sixteen, which is the age of consent.” In some parts of the country, she conveniently failed to mention.

  “You are a child,” he repeated. “I am here because my warlord commanded that I see to your wellbeing until your family can be located. That is the extent of our relationship.”

  Nakia knew she should back off. She offended Rohn and nothing she said would make it better. The thing was—the more Nakia knew she was wrong, the more stubbornly dug her heels in.

  “Age doesn’t matter.” She flinched at her own words, realizing how young she sounded.

  “I am too old for you.”

  “If you’re worried that I don’t have experience, I do. Plenty,” Nakia lied. She kissed a boy once at a party, but that was the extent of her carnal knowledge. The kiss had been wet and sloppy, and she suspected that Rohn would do it so much better when he gave her a proper kiss. She wanted to learn.

  She wanted Rohn to teach her.

  They stood outside the rehab building. Desperate, she said, “I’ll be eighteen in a year and a half.” Then, because she might as well beg, “Please, Rohn.”

  He took a step back, shaking his head. There might as well have been a thousand miles between them. He pressed the security panel and the front doors opened, warm air swirling around her.

  “Concentrate on growing up and worry about mates later,” he said, and left.

  Nakia stood in front of the doors, the afternoo
n light fading into evening as the street lamps flickered to life.

  She fucked that up so hard.

  * * *

  Rohn

  * * *

  A package, folded carefully in dark crimson fabric, rested on his bunk. Rohn knew what lay inside, even before he unwrapped the amser.

  He lifted the weapon, testing the weight and heft of it. A wicked ax curved at one end of the long staff and a hammer provided ballast at the other end. With enough momentum, the amser could deal a devastating blow. It was a brutal weapon, one for ritual combat when blood, blade, and hammer were the only means of reparation. That is what amok amser meant, the price of blood, blade, and hammer.

  He gave a test swing, admiring a beautifully crafted weapon. The amser felt old, possibly ancient. A clan mark and family name had been carved into the side of the hammer. An heirloom, then, belonging to Levin’s family. Wear showed on the staff, where generations of Mahdfel warriors gripped.

  Levin must have sent for it. Briefly, Rohn wondered about a family that solved so many disputes enough to have their own amser relics. His own father did not have such a weapon, keeping instead an extensive arsenal of useful devices. Never one to hold a grudge, his father had been quick with a smile and quip. Rohn could never picture him owning a weapon strictly for revenge.

  The medic must come from a line of warriors who felt passionately or who nursed grievances the way other males nursed their beer.

  The warlord would send them both away, without question. The alliance with Earth was shaky at best. He did not need two hot heads jeopardizing that.

  Rohn wanted to remain on Earth. Specifically, he wanted to remain at Crestwood. He had not yet found Nakia’s family, as he had promised, but he knew his desire to stay was more. He liked Nakia, not the awkward, fumbling way she suggested to be his bride—the sooner they forgot about that the better—but as a friend. At their first meeting, she showed no fear of him, and at every meeting since then, her eyes lit with adoration.

  He knew himself to be a selfish male, wanting the light of adoration in Nakia’s eyes, the joy she felt just for him. If she knew—no, he corrected himself, she already knew what his error cost her, but not that it took Cirra’s life as well—that light would fade.

  Amok amser would not bring Cirra back. It would not give Levin back his unborn son, nor would it give Nakia the use of her leg. It would only end his time with his friend.

  Correction, his time had already ended.

  Determined to find Levin and answer his challenge, Rohn grabbed the amser. He did not have to travel far, finding the male loitering in the corridor, eating a red apple. The sweet flesh filled the space between them.

  “Did you know,” Levin said, mouth full, “that the core of this Terran fruit has minute traces of poison?”

  Rohn had no idea what Levin was trying to imply, probably the general terribleness of Earth and Terrans. “Very interesting. Did you know the apple is the both a forbidden fruit and the symbol of love in Terran folklore?”

  Levin gave the apple a contemplative look before taking another bite. “I did not know that.”

  “Tells you something about the Terran psyche.” He did not want to stand in the corridor and wax philosophically with the male, not with such unadulterated hate burning in his eyes, but wasting Levin’s time pleased him inordinately.

  Levin’s mouth twisted into a bitter frown. “Such charm. Did you think to talk your way out? The warlord might fall for such tricks, but I will not.”

  Rohn’s grip tightened on the amser. It was not his place to defend the warlord, but he had a strong urge to take offense.

  Instead, he brought his hand to the blade end of the weapon and sliced the palm of his hand. He smeared his blood on the handle in acceptance, an archaic gesture that revolted Rohn but obviously pleased Levin, judging from the gleam in the male’s eyes.

  “Tomorrow, first light,” Rohn said.

  Chapter 5

  Rohn

  “Nervous?” Jaxar leaned against the wall, cradling a mug of the bitter, dark brew Terrans liked.

  “No,” Rohn said. His friend made a striking image with his dark complexion and patterns of white, black, and gold tattoos. The mechanic preened, assured of his own pretty face, and it irritated Rohn. Who was the male showing off for? They were alone and still Jaxar insisted on posing as if potential mates would walk through the doors of their barracks.

  Insufferable, vain male.

  “You may confide in me,” Jaxar said, his tone magnanimous. “You are merely a pilot and not often required to do anything more taxing than sit in a chair. Your physical prowess is questionable.”

  Rohn narrowed his eyes, trying to determine if Jaxar wanted to taunt him into a brawl or if this was his miserable attempt at comfort. Rohn would have never chosen a male like Jaxar as a friend, but the close proximity of the barracks led to familiarity, which turned to a prickly type of friendship.

  It pained him to admit that Jaxar had a point about his physical prowess. If he was to go hand-to-hand with any other male than the medic, Rohn would be at a considerable disadvantage. However, he felt that he had superior abilities as a warrior when compared to the medic. He had mass and height to his advantage. The medic’s build was lean, and he had the advantage of speed. The amser required a great deal of strength to wield and Rohn felt that the medic would tire himself out quickly.

  “I am not worried,” he said.

  “As you say.” Jaxar took a sip of his beverage and nodded in appreciation. “The alliance with Earth is worth it just for coffee.”

  “Earth has its charms.” Fresh fruit and produce were difficult to acquire in wartime conditions, but he had enjoyed the unique Earth foods that were available. The fuzzy skin of apricots tickled his lips when he bit into them. He heard that peaches, a summer fruit, had a fuzzy texture just as delightful. “I hope to remain on Earth,” he said.

  “Do you think the warlord will make you leave the clan?”

  “Not while we fight the Suhlik.” Once hostilities ceased and the Suhlik left the sector, then perhaps. No doubt Rohn would be transferred to another post or given a less than desirable mission, perhaps never to fly again.

  He finished his coffee and dressed in only loose trousers. Wearing no shirt, his tattoos were exposed. Normally he took pride in visual representation of his history and accomplishments but today he felt no pride, only a necessity in laying himself bare.

  With the amser in his hand, he said, “It is time.”

  Jaxar inspected Rohn’s appearance. “You are allowed to wear armor but you’re too stubborn to.”

  Rohn grunted in acknowledgment. Levin deserved to see every blow. He would not wear armor and deny the male the visceral satisfaction of watching Rohn bleed.

  They met at the training arena; an area exposed to the elements. The hard-packed ground froze in the cold and turned to mud when it snowed. Clouds blocked the sun, threatening snow and promising frigid temperatures.

  Rohn gave a short nod and took off his boots. He preferred to be barefoot in the mud, fearing his boots would provide little traction.

  Levin growled and paced, practically vibrating with anger.

  Amok amser had few rules. The challenge began with the sound of a gong and would continue until one of the males struck the gong again, signifying that they were satisfied. It never rang as a concession to defeat. Other than the traditional weapon, there was no guide on conduct during the battle. Any dirty trick was allowed. The fight could be to the first blood, to the death, or any point in between.

  Rohn did not have to ask if Levin would be satisfied if he drew the first blood. He would want Rohn wounded badly and incapacitated, perhaps even permanently scared. Challenges to the death were rare. Most Mahdfel were happy to settle disputes with their fists or a quick bout. Once a male conceded defeat, the dispute was finished. Only the most egregious complaints, or a challenge to the warlord’s right to lead, were fought to the death.

  They met in
the center, amsers pressing against each other as they waited for the gong to commence.

  “I will have your broken body at my feet, the way you stood over my mate,” Levin said.

  “If that pleases you.” Rohn kept his voice even and disinterested, which seemed to enrage the medic.

  “It will not! I will break you and I will expose you as a male who cannot be trusted.”

  The gong sounded and they pushed toward each other, muscles straining to overpower the other. Rohn stepped back, letting Levin stumble forward.

  The medic regained his footing and spun, the blade end slashing out.

  Rohn leaped back, foot skidding in the mud, and gained a thin slice across his abdomen. It burned briefly but quickly faded.

  Another swing. This one he ducked successfully.

  Levin moved clumsily, with more passion and anger than real skill. He lunged. Rohn blocked and swung the hammer end, connecting with the male’s side. Levin rolled away and sprang back to his feet.

  He pushed forward, driving Rohn across the muddy ground with his swings. Rohn stepped back, avoiding the blow each time. Eventually his back pressed against warm metal of the gong.

  Levin snarled and brought the hammer up for an overhead blow. Rohn ducked, the hammer slamming into the gong.

  For a brief moment, both males froze. Levin rang the gong—but not to signify the end of the challenge. He had not yet received satisfaction.

  Levin threw his head back and let loose a war cry that Rohn would remember for all his days. It was a wounded male who hated himself and planned to make Rohn pay for every regret and memory that haunted him.

  The hammer connected solidly with Rohn’s thigh. He stumbled, feet skidding. Another blow, on his back, sent him sprawling to the frigid ground. As he landed, he dropped his amser.

  As he lay on his back, Levin stood above him. The blade swung, aiming for his throat. Rohn rolled away at the last moment, the blade catching on his horns. Surprisingly sharp—sharper than the weapon provided to him—the blade sank deep, cutting to the nerves bundled at the center of the horn. Exposed to the air, it throbbed.