by Anna Carven
The frigid wind rushes past as I take stock of my surroundings. The roof area is filled with rubble and piles of empty stock containers. It’s deserted, save for…
Something is heading straight towards me. A projectile is flying through the air. My sixth-sense kicks in and before my thoughts have time to crystallize, my arm is moving, and I pluck something out of the air.
A Callidum dagger. It’s the standard model they hand out to the Imperial military’s infantry troops.
Oh? Where did the brat steal this piece of kit from?
I look around. Beside me, Rykal’s hauling himself up onto the beam. A flash of movement captures my attention. I glance towards Rykal, and he nods.
“Got it, boss,” he says quietly. “If he rushes you, I’ll shoot him.”
I prepare to jump, then almost lose my balance as one of Kalan’s plasma blasts hits the eastern wall of the structure.
“Kaiin’s hells,” I say through gritted teeth. “Hold your fire for a moment, Kalan. Let me catch the stray vorchek hiding on the roof. I think there’s only one.”
Perhaps this isn’t the well-orchestrated trap I’d expected. It seems it’s just a lone attacker. He must be crazy, stupid, incredibly brave, or a combination of all those things.
I reverse my grip on the dagger, holding the blade between my fingers. With a flick of my wrist, I hurl it at the spot where I last saw the running figure.
It thuds into a stack of stock containers, toppling the box at the top.
A sharp, partly-suppressed yelp of surprise follows. I leap across the divide, landing lightly on the roof’s surface. The sound of footsteps alerts me to the direction of my prey’s movement.
The brat is fast, but I’m faster. I rush around the container-pile. “If you try to run, you’re dead,” I say softly, letting the end of my gun do most of the talking.
The face that stares back at me belongs to a kid.
He’s little more than a street brat; an adolescent with long, gangly limbs and a wild shock of white hair. A pair of half-matured horns protrudes from his temples, and he’s dressed in the fashion of the Flatedge people, wearing a coarse grey vest and loose trousers. His feet are bare.
“Imperial prick,” he spits. “If you’re going to shoot me, do it now. I’d rather go to hell than be captured by the likes of you.”
“Brat,” I growl, taking a step towards him. “It is not wise to hurl incendiary devices from an unguarded position when you have no escape route. It is also not wise to insult your enemies when you are outgunned and outclassed, especially when you have no intention of dying.”
“Go ahead and kill me,” he shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant. “What’s the point of living if we’re all going to be sent off to work in the Callidum mines anyway?”
His bravado is admirable, but it’s obvious that he’s terrified. I can sense his fear from a kulik away. It’s in the minute tremble of his fingers and the slight widening of his eyes. This one is not ready to meet Kaiin in the Underworld just yet.
And it’s clear that he’s been fed some sort of propaganda.
As I take another step forward, he feints to one side, trying to fool me so he can attempt an escape. I snort. “You will not fool me with that move, child.” I move in close, forcing him to back away until he’s standing against a low wall. On the other side is a four-story drop.
“Fucking monster,” he snarls. He makes an obscene gesture with his hands. “Send me to hell, you cocksucking motherf—”
I move, pressing my gun against his cheek. I grab his tousled hair with one hand and twist, forcing him to his knees. “Assumptions are always dangerous,” I say quietly. “Who said anything about sending you to the mines? What use would they have for your scrawny ass when all the sorting is done by slaves?”
Most of the digging in the Callidum mines is mechanized. The difficult work of sorting is left to the alien slaves, who are worked to the bone until they die of black dust disease.
The mines are a grim, hellish place where souls are condemned to a life of slavery. For so many cycles, they have been the powerhouse upon which the Empire has been built.
Not anymore.
There will be no more Callidum mining under my watch.
I command my armor-helm to retract, allowing the brat to see my features. It is a fine balancing act, this encounter. He is young and angry and desperate, and these emotions are clouding his judgement. He must learn that I am the one who is in control, and yet I must give him something to live for. He must have a reason to hope.
Something about his predicament resonates with me. I cannot quite put my finger on it.
“Monster,” he whispers, his red eyes burning with defiance.
“Yes,” I agree. “And yet you are not dead, despite the fact that you tried to burn me and my men to death. If I am a monster, then I must be a patient one.”
“What do you want?” His voice is full of mistrust.
“Where did you get the firebombs from?” I raise an eyebrow, genuinely curious. They aren’t like any weapon I’ve seen before.
“I made them.” Despite his anger, there’s a note of pride in his voice. “Sylerian burns like a motherfucker. I just finished what the dopeheads couldn’t.”
Part of me admires the kid’s resourcefulness, but I don’t heap him with praise. Instead, I twist the kid’s hair, causing him to yelp in pain. “Watch your mouth, brat. You can swear like a trooper after you’ve fought a few wars. Until then, speak properly.”
“Fuck off.”
I twist harder. “Wrong answer.”
“Kaiin’s hells! You’re not my fucking—”
I press the end of my plasma rifle into his cheek. “Try again.”
He spits at my feet.
Oh, this one is a fighter, but I’ve dealt with worse. After all, I personally trained the rest of my First Division.
“Listen to the boss, kid.” There’s a hint of amusement in Rykal’s voice. “The correct answer is: ‘yes, Sir’. Why don’t you make life easy for yourself? He can be pretty reasonable as long as you don’t piss him off. Trust me. I’m speaking from experience.”
“Rykal…” The warning in my voice is obvious. Don’t interfere.
For the first time, the boy’s expression changes from seething hostility to one of wary curiosity. Slowly, the naked hatred in his eyes drains away, and I release the tension in my grip ever-so-slightly.
“You guys don’t seem like the usual Imperial assholes,” he says reluctantly, after a slight pause. “Why haven’t you killed me yet?”
Sensing a change in his demeanor, I release my grip. “Finally, you decide to use your brain. Get up.” I step back, giving him a chance to rise to his feet. “Firstly, we are not associated with the Imperial forces. Secondly, you will address me as General Akkadian, or Sir. Thirdly, no-one is being sent to the mines under my watch.” I lower my gun. “Do you understand me?”
He stiffens in response to my tone of voice, almost as if he’s standing to attention. His eyes have gone very wide. “Y-yeah… Sir. I didn’t realize you were that General.” His mouth forms an ‘O’ of surprise.
I wave my hand dismissively. My reputation on Kythia probably isn’t the greatest. It is the reason I’ve tried to keep a low profile this time around.
Amongst Kordolians, my First Division and I are either feared, hated, or revered as heroes. I do not know which it is, and I do not care to find out.
Let others be at the forefront. I am only interested in eliminating the danger to my family. Once I am certain the Empire no longer poses any threat to my wife and child, I will go wherever my mate desires.
I have no use for this barren planet anymore.
“What is your name?” Now that I have his attention, perhaps he will be a bit more co-operative.
“V-Vikon, Sir. They call me Vik.” Suddenly, his demeanor changes, his hostility melting away.
“And what are you doing throwing bombs off the roof of an abandoned dope-house when F
latedge is going up in flames? Shouldn’t you be fleeing with the rest of your people?”
“I have no people,” he shrugs, some of his brittle bravado returning. “And where the hell would I go? To the Vaal? To get killed by some stray skazajik beast? That earthquake’s left half the Civilized Zones in ruins. People are saying that the Goddess has finally had enough. That she’s breaking Kythia from the inside out.”
“Perhaps she is,” I mutter under my breath as a blue flare lights up the night sky. It’s followed by a dull boom. The surface under my feet shakes slightly. I point my chin in the direction of the sound. “Who is behind this disturbance?”
Vik shrugs. “The serfs are revolting. What did you expect? They hate us.”
“The serfs?” My voice is low and soft and edged with danger. Those who know me well know that I do not shout when I’m angry. “Which serfs?”
“Veronians, Soldar, the odd Ifkin. Seems they’ve gotten their hands on a whole bunch of weapons. They’re holed up in the Pleasure District, and they’re fighting like demons.”
“Hm.” I narrow my eyes as Vik stares back at me, his expression becoming guarded. “Your people are being attacked, and yet you hurl firebombs at us. What is going on in that thick head of yours?”
“Imperial soldiers are killing people too. I’ve seen it. I don’t trust anyone. Only a fool would expect help in Flatedge. As far as I’m concerned, anyone who comes into my territory is an enemy.” He glances back and forth between myself and Rykal, unable to conceal his curiosity. “Whose side are you on, Sir? Last I heard, you’d gone mad, taken an alien lover, colonized some backwater planet in the Ninth, and told the Empire to go fuck themselves. I thought that was a cool story, even though it sounds like the usual propaganda shit the Empire feeds us.”
“Language,” Rykal warns.
Distant screams drift to me on the wind. I raise my gun. We have wasted enough time here. “Vikon, what exactly do you think is happening here?”
“Beats me. There was a massive earthquake, the palace has collapsed, and now there’s fighting in the streets. Some say that the exiled Prince has come back to claim what’s rightfully his. That’s all I know. I don’t give a shit who’s in charge. They’re all the same anyway. Corrupt, self-serving bastards.” He spits on the roof, and I resist the urge to cuff him on the side of his head. That’s another bad habit I’m going to have to make him unlearn.
“Then you know nothing,” I growl. “If you want to live, stay here until we return. Protect your position. Use the rest of your firebombs if you must.”
There is not supposed to be any fighting under my watch. I signal to Rykal and he makes his way to my side.
Then, we leap off the edge of the roof, landing on the ground below. The blue-green flames have died down, leaving a pungent chemical stench in the air.
Kalan appears at our side, his plasma-cannon balanced on one shoulder. “I take it our little attacker had nothing to do with this insurrection?”
“False alarm,” Rykal says. “Although he did tell us who’s behind it.”
“That figures. You left him alive, after all.”
“We head for the Pleasure Sector,” I snap, summoning my helm. There’s a moment of agonizing pain as the protective nano-structure forms around my face and neck. “We will find the leader of this rabble and make them understand. I hear there may be rogue Imperial soldiers on the loose. You know what to do with them.”
“Yes, Sir,” Rykal’s affirmative answer is tinged with irony.
Kalan simply grunts in agreement.
In this small pocket of chaos, we are about to do bad things. Necessary things. Things my wife never needs to know about.
This unrest must end, fast.
She often protests my unwillingness to share information with her, but I do it for good reason.
One of the things I fear most is Abbey seeing and truly understanding that side of me. She thinks she has seen it, but she hasn’t.
I intend to keep it that way.
Chapter Five
Abbey
I stare out of the giant window, watching the distant stars. As I pour boiling water into the teacup, I wonder what my indomitable husband is up to now.
Whatever it is, it can’t be anything fun. Before he left, he was a little bit quiet; a little bit intense. That’s the way he gets when he’s thinking about Kythian politics and war.
I’m starting to recognize his moods. I’m probably the only person in the Universe who can even try and attempt to read him. Sometimes he looks at me with a certain expression that’s halfway between adoration and madness, countless mysterious thoughts swirling in his wine-dark eyes.
I don’t have a word for that particular emotion. I’ve never seen that look on a Human. It’s completely, utterly Kordolian, and it’s the kind of thing that would probably drive him to start wars, topple empires, and destroy planets.
The scary thing is, he’s perfectly capable of doing all those things.
Scary-yet-melts-my-heart. That’s what that look is.
Maybe the Kordolians have a special word for that emotion. If they do, I’m yet to learn it. I’m still coming to grips with their complicated language.
“Here’s your tea.” I set the steaming cup down on a small table in front of Sera. She’s curled up in a cozy armchair looking totally miserable. “There’s not a whole lot of ginger left, but I’ve set the rest aside for you and only you. I’ll have to ask Mishca to order some more from Earth.”
Mishca’s the inventory guy who travels between the various ships in Tarak’s fleet, taking orders and maintaining stocks. Even though we’re on the other side of the Universe, Tarak’s set up a secret supply line with the help of his contacts, bringing products in from the far reaches of the Nine Galaxies, including Earth. That’s how we’ve managed to keep our special space—the one place on Silence that’s off-limits to everyone except for us Humans—kitted out with the basic necessities of life.
“I feel like death,” Sera groans, placing a hand over her stomach. “Please tell me this goes away eventually?”
A loud crash makes me spin, my senses on high alert. From down in her play-pen, Ami looks at me with wide eyes, her expression perfectly innocent.
Bright blue propagation gel has spilled across the main table. My Veronian savi fruit vines—the ones I’d grown from seed—are scattered all over, and the polyglas jar they were sitting in has tipped onto its side.
Somewhere amongst the mess is Ami’s star-rattle. She’s thrown the damn thing across the room, hitting the gel-filled jar.
“Monster-child,” I scold, trying to sound angry but at the same time suppressing a laugh, “has your father been teaching you to hit targets?” That’s exactly the kind of thing he would do. I have no doubt Tarak al Akkadian’s daughter is eventually going to learn to fight.
Ami pouts, and my heart melts all over again.
God, she’s just so freaking cute. That’s why she’s able to get away with almost anything.
I shoot Sera a wry glance. “She’s so strong already. I get the feeling Kordolian babies develop differently. I swear she can already throw farther than me.”
“If she’s anything like her father, then she’s going to be a handful,” Sera says, a look of mock-horror crossing her face. “Scary. And to think I’m having two of them.”
“That’s why you’re so damn sick. Twins tend to have that effect.” I cross the room and bend over to pick up Ami. She raises her arms expectantly, and I lift her into my arms. “Oof. You’re getting heavy, Ami-tsunami.”
“Mamda.” Ami squeals as I carry her across to the lounge, where Sera is sipping her ginger tea. I fall into a seat across from Sera, placing Ami in my lap.
“Ugh.” Sera’s face has turned pale. “I know I’ll be in love with then when they arrive, but seriously, why did nature have to make things so difficult for us? With all our advanced technology, no-one’s been able to come up with a cure for morning sickness?”
&nbs
p; “There are certain medicines that suppress—”
“No thanks. I might consider it if this were an all-Human pregnancy, but we’re in uncharted waters here. We don’t know what effect our drugs might have on Kordolian development. You saw what happened the one-and-only time I convinced Xal to try wine.”
“They don’t tolerate alcohol well,” I say, my voice going low and conspiratorial. “Tarak flat-out refuses. Says the smell alone is enough for him to know that it’s poison to their kind.”
I wince as Ami tugs on my hair. She opens her palm and plays with the brown strands, staring at them in fascination. Thankfully, daddy’s filed down her claws so she can’t injure me anymore, and luckily I heal quickly these days, thanks to the nano-things Tarak donated to me in a moment of desperation.
Without the rapid healing ability, my arms would be a mess of scratches and scars. Thank Jupiter she doesn’t yet have fangs. Kordolian females only get little fangs, anyway.
Sera brings a hand to her mouth. “Mmgh.” A muffled sound of distress escapes her. I watch her in sympathy, not knowing what else to do. Then the moment passes as she regains control of her nausea.
“Take a deep breath,” I encourage. “The ginger smell should help.”
“Xal’s so going to make this up to me when he gets back from Kythia.”
“I’d suggest he start with massage. Then a box of Veronian sweets. Then, you know…” I raise my eyebrows suggestively. “Sex is a great distraction from the discomforts of pregnancy.”
“With the way I’m feeling right now, I can’t even imagine being in the mood.” An expression of intense discomfort crosses Sera’s face. With what appears to be great effort, she takes small sips of her tea.
“I’ve heard it gets better with time,” I reassure her. “Perhaps Xal can—” I break off as a sudden itch rises in my throat. Suddenly, it feels as I can’t breathe. A violent cough erupts from me, and I cover my mouth. It hurts.
I cough again and again, turning away from Ami and Sera.
Ami stares up at me, her violet eyes shimmering, her rose-bud lips turned down. “Mamda, mamda,” she says softly.
