Beth's Stable

by Amanda Milo

Qolt flips one of his knives in the air, catching it by its blade before rolling it over his hand and sending it to twirling above him again. “I wonder what Beth’s reaction would be to one of her own kind.”

  “Judging by her possessive display over us, I’d say as long as the other female doesn’t show an interest in her beloved and moonringed amazing crew, she’ll be fine.”

  Plus, our Beth is in no condition to spar.

  We both sink into silence. Beth’s been struggling this rotation, citing a general miserable state, swollen and aching and very pregnant. To say her level of discomfort has us concerned would be a cog-damned big underestimate.

  Qolt gets to his feet. “Better get us weaponed-up.”

  ***

  “Pasutha!” I call merrily, and embrace my longtime friend, Pasutha Din.

  An Aneark is an unlikely ally for a Na’rith, and not only because we spend our lives in entirely opposite ecosystems. Anearks—Pasutha in particular—are a law-abiding race who possess acute senses regarding right and wrong.

  As it happens, most Anearks would consider the bulk of Na’rith activities to fall firmly on the side of wrong.

  But he says, “It’s good to see you, Prow,” and gives me a tired-looking smile. “Please follow me.” Under his breath, he adds, “Before we attract more attention.”

  I do as he bids, ducking under the low-hanging doorway and following him inside his room. He’s rented a resting pod; a squat circular structure where sojourners can stretch out on a bed. There’s not much else to the place. “You’ve had some trouble?”

  Looking exhausted, Pasutha scrubs a hand over his face. “I’ve killed more men today than I have in my entire lifespan.” He gestures behind himself, towards the sleeping area. “Her scent is like no other, and has been drawing everyone in the vicinity.”

  “Yeah,” a female voice calls, irritation plain in her tone. “Chanel number fishy whore is unique like that.” She stands rigid on the side of the bed farthest from us. I’m staring at a mass of hair, shapely curves in tattered clothes, and angry eyes.

  I laugh. “Chanel, the perfume—I get this joke!” Beth told me about Chanel when she was helping me select her fragrance.

  The female’s mouth snaps closed; it’s clear I’ve surprised her.

  Pasutha side-eyes me. “You can understand her speech?”

  I send him a proud glance. “She’s speaking English. I have it programmed.”

  His third eyelids nictate. “My translator doesn’t get close half the time. It’s been a challenge, and—understandably—she’s beyond frustrated with my limitations.” He gestures to her, the action charming if a little tired-looking. “Though I do believe I can pronounce her name. This is Greyycee. Greyycee, this is Prow.”

  My gaze travels over the female, and as I take her in, she bristles. I take note of her defensive posture, watch her eyes slit with warning, and see the snarling set to her mouth. I imagine an unwilling stay in the Dome would put anyone in a killing mood the next time a male looks at them. I hold up three fingers. “Three things you might like to know straight off: I have a female of my own, I have no interest in your body—and I’m here to save your day.”

  She relaxes a fraction. “Yippee.”

  Yippee? I brighten. “‘Ki-yay-motherfucker!’” I finish, extending a hand in her direction, excited I can share this human reference.

  A grin ghosts across the woman’s face. “What the hell—you must know a human, and she talks to you.”

  Proudly, I give her a little bow. “I know the best human. Her name is Beth, and—”

  Pasutha’s gills flare yellow. He turns slightly, listening in the direction of the door. “Prow? We’ve got company.”

  Pitching my voice as low as his, I ask, “Any chance they smell like my crew?”

  “Most unfortunately no—how far away is your ship?”

  “Just a Comm away.” I pull out my device and send a message to Qolt.

  Pasutha moves fast, darting back and grabbing the bed by its heavy frame, his arms straining as he whips it upright and wordlessly moves it around to shield Greyycee a click before the door to the resting pod blows open.

  Three Krortuvians barrel in—and stop dead when they see me.

  I look to the one front and center. “Tripe, you’re ugly.”

  The pincers on either side of his thin lips extend slowly, viscous strings of mucus stretching and snapping as he taps them together. I can’t repress a full-body shudder. Seeing this, he smiles. “And you’re a teveking Na’rith.”

  “Please, please tell me you’re going to kill that thing,” snarls Greyycee.

  All three of the Krortuvians’ gazes shift to her—making her fall silent.

  Pasutha raises his hands, readying his defense mechanism.

  If these were any other beings, I might have tried to talk them out of attempting to take Greyycee. It’s not often I blame a male for trying to steal something worth having, and sometimes you can reroute a person’s intentions once they see you’re a Na’rith—but these are Krortuvians. There is no reasoning with them, and there’s no way in hells I’m letting them take this female.

  But three armed Krortuvians against one armed Na’rith—one who isn’t a luck source—means we’re outgunned.

  Then one of the weapons pointed at us gets my attention. “Pasutha?” I call, almost hoarse from the—well? The luck of it. “One of them’s carrying a death knocker.”

  “I know very little about non-aquatic weapons,” Pasutha returns, voice stiff with tension, “But from the name, I gather this isn’t good.”

  My heart is thumping maniacally. “Sutha?” I don’t spare him a look, but I know he can hear my grin because out of the corner of my eye, I see when he shoots me a wary-eyed glance, “This one shorts out.”

  Anearks like Pasutha can produce electricity from their bodies. Pasutha has the ability to generate extremely high voltage.

  Quicker than an eel, Pasutha strikes, snatching the gun barrel and hitting it with a full pulse of energy.

  The Krortuvian doesn’t have time to wrench away. Pasutha’s shock has him locked in place, and I fire on the other two.

  One strike is a killshot, but the third Krortuvian is only wounded. He lunges for his fallen comrade and drags the huge body upright, using him as an ass-ugly—but effective—bulwark.

  My eyes are trained on him, so I miss the fourth one that enters through the door.

  Greyycee shouts “YOUR LEFT!”

  I’d have eaten a laser beam for my carelessness if it hadn’t been for her warning.

  I leap back, and the beam eats up a stream of carpet where my feet had been instead.

  The Krortuvian using his dead friend as a shield shouts, “Fool, he could be a luck source!”

  I’m so caught up in the idea of a Krortuvian referring to another Krortuvian as a fool that I almost delay in shooting the fourth pistol-wielder. I manage to hit him, but my distraction gives the one dragging his dead comrade the chance to rush Pasutha.

  This Krortuvian must believe he’s strong enough to withstand the shock from a full grown Aneark.

  Now here is a fool.

  Pasutha doesn’t let him get close to Greyycee. He lunges forward, striking fast, filling the Krortuvian threat with a charge so bright that I’m temporarily blinded.

  Proving that she’s been privy to his brand of defense before, I’m still blinking the white dots from my vision when Greyycee unaffectedly asks, “Is it safe to look yet, or am I going to get flash-bulbed?”

  Pasutha, perhaps not understanding what she asked, but having an idea of her query, frowns fiercely as he returns to her and takes her arm.

  She stiffens, dropping her hands and shaking off his touch.

  From outside the door, Qolt’s shout rings out. “Prow! Got your Comm. We’re here to save your asses—but move. The crowd gathering out here ain’t friendly.”

  “Greyycee,” I say to the woman standing off by herself now, “You will be safe and welcome
on our ship. You can meet my human female there, speak with her if you don’t attack. Would you like to come along?”

  Her smile is more a slash of lips and a baring of teeth. “I know I don’t want to get stuck in here.”

  “Wise,” I confirm. “Let’s get you to the ship then. Ready to run?”

  Her face is stone, determined. “Lead the way.”

  CHAPTER 42—OQUILION

  OQUILION

  “Tevek, tevek, tevek,” Qolt growls. “We’re pinned.”

  Forced to dodge between two buildings to avoid our pursuers, we’ve managed to pick the one alley in this whole planet-forsaken place that doesn’t even offer a seedy window to exit from. Qolt’s right: we’re teveked.

  “Never fear; your luck source is here!” Ekan crows, his voice bouncing off the brick on either side. He strides down the alley towards us like he’s laserproof. His confidence makes our enemies back away from him. They’re almost certain that only a daft luck source would be this daring.

  They’d be right.

  “Great. Now there are five of us trapped,” Qolt says, and he has an odd talent for making every word he utters an aggressive growl. “Unless you can make a door appear out of thin teveking air?”

  Siblings and their snideness to each other, save me.

  Ekan scoffs. “Of course.”

  He slams his hand to the brick wall to our left, leaving behind a glowing red disk. “BACK. AWAY. FROM THE WALL,” he bellows at the brick. He points to the female next to Pasutha. “Get down. Cover your head and neck. This is about to blow.”

  It does. The explosion is near deafening, and splinters of debris fly around us, pelting clear to the other side of the alley in clatters and hisses as the fires made by the incindary device land in the alley’s many puddles, and violently extinguish.

  “You’re a menace,” Qolt informs Ekan, his clipped tone barely above a snarl. “What if there are spawn and females inside?”

  Ekan rolls his shoulders and sweeps his arm out. “I did warn them to back away.” He straightens and brushes brick dust and whatnot off his hands. “And anyway, it was an outward blast radius; give me some credit, brother.”

  Normally, I’d be compelled to punch him for being obnoxious—not that I would: luck source—but seeing as we have a way to escape thanks to his efforts, I can only heave a sigh of relief.

  (And hope any innocents inside backed well away when warned.)

  Ekan turns to Pasutha’s female with flourish. “After you.” He gestures to his freshly created doorway in the side of the dwelling, proud as can be. Whoever owns this place will probably not be nearly as pleased as Ekan looks.

  For as big a mess as it made though, it didn’t knock all the brick down. The female may need a boost over the jagged edges of the hole, and I’m not the only one who’s thinking so—Pasutha lays his hands over the rough shards that jut up around the ragged crater, jerking his chin to indicate to his female that she should use him to safely climb over.

  I don’t know if Ekan sees the female hesitate, or if Ekan’s just being Ekan—but he hollers, “No need female; give me a click to widen it properly. Incoming!” and he tosses something at the wall that causes another explosion to rip apart more of the home, blasting a clear exit this time.

  The opening is so spacious that we can see the startled family who stares back, gaping at us through the hole that used to be a structural part of their quaint little home. And it is quaint—for being in a scummy part of town, it’s surprisingly homey inside.

  “Sorry for the damage,” Ekan calls to the shocked people. “Couldn’t be helped.” His deranged smile stretches from pointed ear to pointed ear. “Do you have weapons?” He unhooks something from his belt and tosses it to them. A coinstick bag, I realize, as their eyes go rounder, seeming to struggle to believe what they’re seeing. “I suggest you aim for that hole and shoot whoever steps through after us,” Ekan waves to where their wall used to be. “And take the coinsticks with our sincerest thanks. Or apologies—whichever makes you, sir, look less sour,” Ekan addresses the stern looking male in the group.

  The stern-looking male in the group glowers.

  I’m following right behind Ekan so when he comes to an abrupt halt, I slam into him.

  He elbows me back, muttering “I saw it first, jackleg,” and he lifts something from the counter and turns to the family. “May I take this?”

  “What?” the stern man asks, gaze darting from our weapons to the gathering noise of a crowd outside the remains of the wall.

  He barely spares a glance at the spoon Ekan is holding aloft and asking after.

  “Here,” Ekan says, and throws the family another pouch, this one clunking and oddly shaped. “If you need to clear out, set this off—and run. Don’t forget your creditsticks. Should be enough to get you set up in a neighborhood where pirates aren’t blowing up your house.” His tone is carefree, and he’s looking around like it’s simply a cog-damned shame that Na’riths happened to their neighborhood. “So,” he waves the implement he wants to claim, “May I?”

  A look of bewildered puzzlement takes over the whole family, but they don’t keep him in suspense considering Ekan’s odd request—the man looks to his woman, who nods her agreement.

  With panache, Ekan waves to them and tucks their spoon into his shirt before leading us through their house.

  We step out their front door and shut it politely behind us before tromping down their well-maintained set of wooden steps that lead to a main street. Prow cuts Ekan a nonplussed glance. “What’s with the spoon?”

  Qolt’s almost smirking at his brother. “It looks like you have a teveking nipple.”

  Ekan puffs out his chest, making his spoon-nipple bulge out more behind his shirt. “Beth’s wanted a spoon. This is a spoil of war, and I’m going to deliver it to her as a prize. I found out by lucky accident that gifts make Beth weep the grateful sort of tears and give beautiful, blubbering blowjobs.”

  “Spoons for blowjobs,” Pasutha’s female mutters. “Relationship goals with aliens, geez.”

  We hustle through the streets, the female not particularly well shod—not enough to be racing across the cobblestone under our feet—but she refuses to be carried.

  We make good time, only having to dispatch three or four males terminally stupid enough to attack us for her—then we’re rounding a corner, and our ship is within sight.

  This mission is a success.

  Without warning, Ekan lunges against Qolt, body-checking him to the ground.

  We hear the bullet whizzing through the air a breath before Ekan grunts, and Qolt shouts, “TEVEK!”

  Eyes straining in the direction the bullet came from, I spot the shooter and fire until I tag the machaii back.

  “Way to go, Oquilion,” Prow murmurs, gaze panning around us.

  Pasutha and the female scan the area and point out another hostile, and Prow’s fire drops them.

  “Is he…” the female asks, eyes on Ekan’s still body.

  Qolt eases him to the ground, and drops to his knees beside him.

  Pasutha lifts his arm behind the female’s back, elbow curled, like he means to comfort her. His limb hovers for a long moment before he seems to decide against doing so and drops it, his shoulders set in defeat.

  “Area’s clear for now,” I tell Qolt. “How’s…” I can hardly form the question. I can’t imagine our crew without Ekan.

  Qolt grabs his brother on either side of his jacket and hauls him right up to his face to snarl, “You don’t get to die unless I take you out myself, jackleg!” He shakes him.

  “Qolt!” Prow shouts, hand clapping down on Qolt’s shoulder, his face set to serious concern.

  Ekan coughs.

  Qolt drops him—not far, but Ekan’s head lightly thuds into the ground.

  “QOLT!” I chastise.

  “Glad you made it,” Qolt tells Ekan, voice cracking. He shoots to his feet, stalking a few paces away and taking up the job of being lookout like he
needs to do it with a vengeance.

  Prow’s smiling as he helps Ekan to his feet. “Luck sources. But you normally don’t take shots to the chest—how you managed to survive this one…”

  Ekan grimaces and smiles at the same time as he reaches into his shirt and pulls out the spoon—now bent, a scuffed dimple showing where it took the projectile for him. “Ha—look at this. A spoon saved my life! Beth’s going to love this story.”

  CHAPTER 43—PROW

  PROW

  We’re making our way up the ramp of the ship when Qolt breaks his silence. “Ekan?”

  Ekan, who’s been walking beside him not because he caught up to him—but because Qolt dropped back, consciously choosing to keep pace with him—looks to his brother. “Hmm?”

  “Thanks.”

  It’s a rare moment when Ekan doesn’t joke at all. He just says, “You’re my brother. You’re my crew.” He starts to roll his shoulders—but he winces and aborts it mid-motion. “I’d test my luck for any of you idtreks.” He grows even more serious. “Whatsmore, I regret letting my temper get the better of me when I took a pistol to your skull. I regret your damage.”

  Qolt’s sigh is textured. “Any damage I have, I had it before you shot me.”

  Ekan stops walking.

  Which forces the rest of us to stop walking, and Qolt, two steps ahead now, swings around. When he sees whatever is on Ekan’s face, a slow, scum-eating grin reluctantly takes over Qolt’s. “I mean, sure, a shot to the noggin didn’t feel great, but you provided a grand opportunity to enjoy Beth’s sympathy.”

  Ekan stares. “Your memory trouble and your moodiness…”

  “Faked.”

  “You’ve been playing us and stealing Beth’s pity?” Ekan’s words are clipped like he’s biting off the ends of each of them.

  Qolt grins at him. “The whole teveking time.” He tips his head and his smile changes to something that could get him killed. “When she feels sympathy, she gets sweet.”

  Oquilion tackles Ekan before he can unholster his weapon and shoot his brother twice.

  And although Qolt doesn’t see that Tiernan’s appeared at the top of the ramp just behind him, he does feel the moment Tiernan’s cog-damn big hand cuffs him right upside his thick skull.