Brilliant Starlight

by Anna Carven

  Wait… I thought we were going down. Is there another way?

  Zharek taps something on the wall; a glowing red panel inscribed with Kordolian characters. He mutters something to himself under his breath and taps the panel again. Suddenly, the wall splits open. There’s actually a door here. In typical Kordolian style, it’s well concealed.

  “My old access data is still encoded.” Zharek steps through the door. “Hurry, hurry. I don’t want to be stuck out here when the sec-sweeper passes.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about. I glance at Tarak for reassurance.

  Instead, my mate turns to Zharek. “Try anything stupid and there will be a bloodbath.”

  Torin, Kail, and Jeral nod in agreement.

  Zharek waves his hand in a nonchalant gesture. He seems a little impatient. “I know. Believe me, I know. Don’t worry. From here on in, I know exactly what I’m doing.”

  Questions, questions, questions. They’re killing me right now. I want to know everything about this place. What happened here? What was its purpose? How is everything still functioning perfectly well if it was abandoned, and why the hell did the Kordolians desert this planet in the first place?

  But the grim mood of our little party has forced me to bite my tongue. I don’t want to be insensitive. If this is the place where they were… created, as Tarak calls it, then bad things have happened here.

  We step across the threshold. Tarak keeps me close, putting his arm around my shoulders as we enter what seems to be an oval-shaped, windowless room.

  I’m walking into a room without an escape route. I’m surrounded by menacing aliens. I have no idea what this place really is—I suspect it’s a horrifying bio-experimentation facility where super soldiers were made, but of course, nobody’s going to talk about that—and I’m slowly succumbing to a half-machine, half-virus, blood-eating nightmare that could mutate into bad news at any moment. The monitor on my medi-apparatus is going off—something’s wrong—but nobody knows why.

  If all goes to plan, I’m about to be operated on by a half-mad scientist with a tariss habit.

  I should be paralyzed with fear right now.

  Stars above, I miss my sweet Ami so much. If I think about it too much, I’m going to fall apart.

  Nobody speaks as the door closes. I tap the crixa off, plunging us into darkness. In these close quarters, it’s just too bright, even for me.

  The temperature has plunged all of a sudden. It’s cold and dark and silent. If not for Tarak’s arm around me, I’d be freaking out.

  “There is no reason to be afraid, amina.” Tarak pulls me against him, bringing his other arm around me as he holds me close. My back is pressed against his hard torso, and his arms are crossed just above my breasts. I close my eyes and lean into him, not caring that the only one who’s seeing darkness is me.

  The others can see us perfectly well, but they don’t say a word.

  They don’t dare until one of their monitors lights up, casting an eerie blue glow over us. Mareth is furiously whispering to Zharek. I catch fragments of Kordolian speech.

  Mutating. Aggregating. It’s collecting inside her heart. That’s why the monitor’s alarm was going off.

  If that means what I think it does…

  Several things happen at once. Excruciating pain rips through my chest and I scream. It’s as if someone has reached in and grabbed my heart with their bare hands. Now they’re viciously twisting it as they try and tear it out of my chest.

  Tarak lifts me into his arms. The doors open. He shouts at the medics in Kordolian, and there’s a desperate fury in his voice that I’ve never heard before. He’s going ballistic. Suddenly, we’re running. We pass rows upon rows of glowing blue stasis tanks. Some are empty, some have figures inside, and some are completely dark.

  Bodies? Are they dead or alive? A cold shiver runs over my skin.

  I’m consumed with pain. I don’t have the presence of mind to comprehend what’s around me.

  In the background, something moves. There’s a low, dull groan. A plasma gun goes off. I hear the slick, wet sound of a blade slicing through flesh. Kail and Jeral are swearing. “Where the fuck did that come from?” Kail grunts. There’s deep revulsion in his voice.

  I’m shivering uncontrollably.

  Pain, pain, focus on the pain. Put it in a box.

  It’s in my heart? Throw it away.

  Pressure. It’s in my head. I visualize the box. It’s my heart, and my heart is beating uncontrollably fast. This isn’t like before. I can’t hold the picture in my mind for long. I can’t do anything.

  Everything falls apart.

  I think of Ami instead. I focus on her image and try to feed off Tarak’s unwavering strength.

  Somehow, the pain subsides just a little, enough for me to register what’s going on around me.

  “Almost there,” Tarak whispers. There’s steely determination in his voice. This man does not yield. “My curse will not claim you. You are mine, Abbey of Earth, and only I get to decide your fate.”

  This man will take fate by the horns and wrestle it to the ground. He’s impossible and terrifying and irresistible, and he needs me.

  Who else is going to keep the Big Bad in check when everything else falls apart? Who else is going to be around to teach Ami how to be Human? At some point, she is going to get to live a normal life. I’ll make sure of it. Her childhood memories will be filled with sunshine and lazy afternoons at the beach and endless hours playing in the yard. She’ll have the freedom to get covered in glorious mud and dirt and run around barefoot. She’ll show her father what it truly means to be a soft-skinned light-dweller from a backwater planet called Earth.

  It’s freedom. It’s innocence. It’s all the things he’s never really had until now. Just because I’ve married a war-hardened General from a race of ruthless conquerors doesn’t mean we can’t have all of those things.

  We will fill that void within him. He never talks about it, but I know it’s there. We will give back everything that was stolen from him.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Tarak of Kythia.” With the last of my strength, I activate the crixa once again.

  Light explodes from my wrist, revealing a scene from my worst nightmares. Cages. Restraints. Diabolical looking devices and machines. I can’t even begin to comprehend their function. Stasis tanks are everywhere, emitting a faint blue glow.

  There are bones on the floor.

  A terrible twisted wail erupts from behind us. A plasma gun goes off. The sounds of cursing and blade-fighting filter through to me. Tarak’s running even faster now. Wind rushes past my helmet. Everything becomes a blur.

  “Get her into the surgical tank!” Zharek shouts. “Cold! I need her cold. Hurry up, there’s no fucking time!” His voice sounds distant. Zharek and the other two medics can’t keep pace with the General.

  We’re moving at the speed of light. My light burns away the darkness, revealing the ugly bones of a depraved empire.

  “Don’t look,” Tarak says. His voice is imbued with a terrible sense of knowing.

  A few more steps, and then we’re flying. Seriously, we’re flying. The pain in my chest is about to make me pass out, and Tarak’s leaping into the air like a bird taking flight.

  Splash!

  Liquid takes us. It’s bone-chillingly cold, so cold that my pain is drowned out by the freezing sensation in my head. You know that feeling you get when you drink something that’s too cold and all the ice goes into your head? It’s like brain-freeze, only a hundred times worse.

  To my surprise, I can still breathe. That’s because I’m still wearing the Kordolian space-helmet, which somehow manages to deliver a steady stream of oxygen.

  Tarak’s arms are all around me. His body molds to mine, his hard planes and rippling muscles melding with my frigid skin until I can’t distinguish where I end and he starts. I’m shivering so hard I fear my teeth will shatter. My utility suit is being peeled away from my body. That’s Tarak’s doing
. I don’t know how he’s doing it. He’s probably using his claws. He leaves the bottom part intact, preserving my modesty. So thoughtful, my love, even when you’re frantic. I don’t know what this Zharek is planning to do to me, and I don’t care. I’m beyond fear. I just have to trust that my husband knows what he’s doing.

  He won’t let me down. He won’t risk losing me.

  Skin touches skin. His against mine. He’s naked, but the stiff hilt of one of his swords momentarily digs into me. The armor’s off, but in hostile situations, Tarak is never without his weapons. He engulfs me completely, surrounding me with his warmth. He’s always warm to me. He’s never cold, although his eyes can sometimes reflect the chilly emptiness of the Vaal itself.

  “Th-th-this r-r-reminds me of when w-w-e fi-first met,” I chatter, not sure whether he can hear me or not. Maybe he can, because he’s squeezing me tightly.

  “This is more than that,” he says finally, his words reaching me through my helmet. “I have to let go of you now, but I am here. Zharek is going to put you into Deep Immersion. You won’t feel a thing. Trust me, my love. I know, because I’ve been here hundreds of times before. He might not look it, but he is the best in the Universe at what he does. He has done godlike things with those wretched hands of his.”

  My crixa is still on. It’s turned the stasis tank into a giant light-bulb. I can’t see what’s happening outside. Somewhere out there, the medics are getting ready to operate on me.

  In stasis? How the hell does that work?

  Kordolian technology never fails to blow my mind, even when it’s used for nefarious purposes. I’ll never, ever understand it.

  Tarak slowly disengages from me. I feel his absence instantly. Things rush towards me through the viscous blue liquid. Octopus-like metal arms and tendril-like wires and transparent tubes containing various liquids affix themselves to me.

  Something clamps onto my spine. The next thing I know, my body is numb from the neck down. Things are burrowing into my arms. I can see it happening, but I can’t feel it. It’s as if I’m not even attached to my body anymore; it feels as if I’m looking in from the outside.

  Once I’m fully hooked up, Tarak leaves my side. “I am here,” is all he says. The last thing I remember before my world fades to black is that it’s so fucking cold, just like it was on Kythia.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Tarak

  “You need to get out of the tank, General. I need space.” Zharek’s voice is distorted. I tap off Abbey’s crixa and peer through the blue stasis liquid. Zharek is sitting across from me. His minder, Torin, has disappeared to fight abominations, but it doesn’t matter, because I am here. Zharek is strapped into the remote surgical unit. A neural integrator covers his eyes. Its complex meshwork extends backwards over his forehead and scalp, providing a direct connection between his mind and the instruments in the stasis tank.

  He can carry out the most complicated of surgeries with just his thoughts.

  I should know.

  I’ve been here a hundred times before. I’ve been on the receiving end of Zharek’s experiments. I was the very first success of the Exogenesis project.

  In the early stages, they had no name for me. I was simply referred to as The Prototype.

  Later, they gave me a name. Tarak, meaning: breaker, and al Akkadian: of worlds.

  Breaker of worlds. I have lived up to my name.

  I hesitate, unable to tear my eyes away from my mate. Every instinct is screaming at me to stay; to hold her, to never let her go. It is with great difficulty that I turn and swim to the edge of the tank.

  I lift myself out and drop to the floor, summoning the semi-sentient nanites that have become both my salvation and my curse.

  Our curse.

  Her body contains only a tiny fraction of the machines that are inside me, and yet the destruction they’re capable of is immense. They once saved her life, but now they’re killing her.

  Humans are fragile, and yet they can be immensely strong.

  I take a deep breath as I stare through the transparent walls of the surgical tank. This is a scene out of my very worst nightmares. My very own mate is suspended in the blue liquid, attached to all manner of lines and monitors. Bright crimson blood is beginning to fill one of the tubes. The draining process is beginning.

  Frost starts to appear on the tank’s wall. Zharek is dropping the temperature, fast. I can feel the shift from here.

  My beloved Abbey is trapped in the cold she dreads so very much. As the blood leaves her body, her skin turns pale. A glowing blue plasma knife lights up. It’s attached to a slender robotic tentacle that snakes towards her. It’s followed by a second tentacle, which bears surgical pincers and medical nanites.

  I focus on her face, momentarily unable to look at the medical instruments. Zharek has somehow removed her combat helmet and replaced it with a clear submersion mask. Her eyes are closed, and her breathing is steady and even. Her skin has turned bone-white. Even the delicate dusting of pigment-spots across her nose and cheeks is no longer visible.

  My fists are clenched tight, and my claws are out. A small trickle of blood seeps through my fingers. The blood quickly re-enters my body. I want to fight this, but I cannot. This is not a physical, tangible enemy, and I am powerless to stop it.

  Helplessness is the feeling I detest most. I swore I would never be at the mercy of another ever again, and yet here I am, back in this cursed place. The death-cries of a thousand souls surround me and I am helpless.

  Outside in the stasis chamber, they are fighting monsters.

  Zharek makes a neat incision in the center of Abbey’s chest with the plasma knife. There is no bleeding. It is below freezing, and most of her blood has been collected in a long, transparent column at the edge of the tank.

  I cannot bear this.

  I look away, focusing instead on Zharek. His mouth is a tight line and his lower lip is bleeding slightly from where his fangs have pierced it. It is a look of intense concentration. He barely breathes.

  But most importantly, his hands are steady. He is not shaking. My clever mate was right about the tariss.

  Behind him, Mareth and Joran watch in grim fascination. They have both donned full immersion gear; they are ready to jump into the tank if further assistance is needed.

  I am tempted to say something, but I hold my tongue. It is best not to distract Zharek right now. I have seen this look on his face before. It is the look he gets when he is trying to accomplish something particularly difficult.

  In ordinary circumstances, he talks needlessly. He apologizes and theorizes and expresses regret and tries to exorcise the conflict raging within his soul.

  I know it all too well. Once, he operated on me in the same manner. As he carried out his work in the deathly silence of the deep labs, having chased his assistants out, he confessed so many things to me, as if I were some floating god with the power to grant forgiveness.

  I am not. I do not forgive so easily.

  All this time, Zharek, did you think I was not listening? I know what lurks inside your soul, son of Sirian. I know what you seek.

  That is why, for all his bad habits, I trust him with my mate’s life. I have peered into his soul and found him to be without guile. He is conflicted, tortured, and brilliant, but not deceitful. He is not possessed of innate cruelty like his clan-brothers.

  That is why he left the project. It is why he designed the mind-wipe program used by Mirkel and his assistants to be faulty, ensuring the warriors of the First Division would regain their personalities.

  And it is the reason he ended up squandering his talent, becoming a typical noble brat; a dilettante who found his escape in sex and drugs. The Empire does not recruit washed-up medics with expensive tariss habits and mindless sex addictions. For all intents and purposes, Zharek wrote himself off.

  “Fuck.” The word slips from his mouth like a fission bomb, annihilating the last shreds of my composure.

  “What is it?” I snarl, r
ushing to his side. My claws are out. My heartbeat is thunder in my ears. My senses are stretched taut. I cannot take this any longer. Everything is resting on a blade’s edge, and there is nothing I can do about it.

  “It’s as we suspected. The particles have infiltrated her heart muscle. I can remove them, but it’s going to take a little more time.”

  “Do it.”

  “Ah, shit. I’m going to have to put her blood back and warm up the tank soon. Humans don’t do well with cold. Shit, shit, shit.”

  “Zharek…” My warning growl could freeze the air itself.

  “Zharek,” Mareth says in alarm. “She’s—”

  “Heart rate is slowing,” Joran adds.

  “Fuck.”

  It takes all of my self control to keep from placing my hands around Zharek’s neck. I want to kill him, but I don’t. For Abbey’s sake, I can’t. I can’t think. I want to smash the walls of the stasis tank and tear Abbey away from the lines and monitors that are keeping her alive. I want to yank the plasma blade out of her chest.

  I want to tear this place apart.

  But I can’t. I won’t. If this is what madness feels like, then I am truly going mad. “Do something,” I snarl in frustration. My voice cracks.

  Abbey’s skin has taken on a bluish tinge. It’s almost translucent. Her body is completely still.

  Not again. Not this again. I almost lost her once. Is the death-god himself tormenting me from beyond the living realm? I have sent Kaiin enough cursed souls already. Does he want to take everything from me?

  The three medics are speaking rapidly, using complex medical terms I don’t quite understand.

  Something inside me snaps. “If she dies, you all die with her!” I roar.

  They say nothing. They are deathly still.

  Glances are exchanged, and Joran runs towards the surgical tank. He climbs over the edge and plunges into the blue liquid, carefully making his way towards Abbey.

  Don’t fucking touch her! I want to rip his throat out, but I restrain myself. It takes every single shred of my willpower. Outwardly, I’m perfectly still and expressionless, but a storm rages inside me.