by Natalie Grey
But he had hoped that Soras would be enthusiastic. Instead, he’d gotten the worst thing: initial enthusiasm, and then cold feet.
“As I said, I don’t necessarily think it’s a bad idea.” Soras’s look said that he saw the drift of Talon’s thoughts. “Nor do I want to be … shall we be blunt, cowardly. Clearly, something needs to be done. But the Warlord has assassinated the last person who held my job, he has been able to command fifty thousand mercenary troops—no small feat—and his allies include any number of weapons smugglers, slave traffickers and even legitimate business interests that he might persuade to join forces against you. If you get into this, I want you to know what you’re up against.”
This was ridiculous. Did the man think Talon was unaware of the odds?
“That’s why we don’t give him a fair fight,” Talon said, as patiently as he could. “A Dragon never fights fair. Sixteen soldiers will never be able to take on infantry one on one. At best, we’re looking at Thermopylae.”
More than one Dragon had a tattoo of the Spartan shield, or wore the symbol of it on their armor, in honor of the battleground where Spartan soldiers had stood against a Persian invasion, giving their lives and decimating a force far larger than their own. Dragons chose the same path: stacking the odds in their favor and training harder than their opponents so that they might make the most of their small numbers.
“If your team is willing to do this—” Soras began.
“They are.” Talon did not wait to hear his speech. “The Dragon’s oath is simple: ‘protect the innocent.’ The people of Ymir need us. We are their weapon, and we should have been their shield. We have failed them until now, and that must end.”
Soras nodded. His eyes searched Talon’s face. “You make me want to give all this up and go out into the field again.”
“We’d be lucky to have you.” Talon stood and reached across the desk to shake the man’s hand. “Thank you for meeting with me on short notice.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble.” Soras gave a laugh. “Every time Selection rolls around, I’ve learned to clear my schedule—most Dragon commanders have something or other they want to discuss with me.”
Talon stopped dead. “It’s Selection? When did that start?”
“Today.” Soras gave him a curious look. “You should have received a communication about that.”
“Mmm.” Rather than explain that it was no doubt sitting neatly in the ever-increasing stack of official memos that Tersi carefully printed and he carefully ignored, Talon gave what he hoped was a non-incriminating smile. “Slipped my mind. I’ll, ah … I’ll go grab my XO and have a look.”
He didn’t have any openings on his team, but going would give him the chance to rub elbows with the other commanders, and see who else might be interested in this mission.
8
“If you can’t help me….” The Warlord let the threat linger in the air.
He didn’t need to fill it in. It was a threat that needed no specifics. When the Warlord stopped having a use for someone, he disposed of them.
Or, more accurately, had them disposed of. Ellian Pallas wondered when the last time was that the Warlord had done his own dirty work, and decided that, on second thought, he didn’t want to spend time on that question. It led to the rather more disturbing question of whether or not the Warlord enjoyed pain.
He smiled his businessman’s smile at the screen, where cold eyes glittered from behind the Warlord’s mask.
“I am a supplier. I can get you whatever you need. You only have to ask.”
“I did ask.” The Warlord did not sound pleased. “I asked you to give me something that can crush the resistance. I don’t care what it is, cost is not an issue, and I should not need to give you specifics. You are the expert. Get it for me.”
Ellian held himself very still. He did not let his hand clench around the pen he was spinning lazily in the fingers of his right hand, nor did he let himself swallow.
It was an impossible task. There was no specific weapon that would end the resistance movement on Ymir. That could be done only with troops, well-trained and well-paid—and even then, squashing resistance amongst a slave labor force was more a matter of maintenance than anything else.
If you didn’t want resistance, Ellian wanted to say, you should have chosen goods to supply that didn’t require human labor.
He didn’t say it, for the simple reason that he did not have a death wish. Also, he understood after watching the Warlord carefully for many years, that the Warlord enjoyed having slaves. In a way, he needed the resistance. In order to appreciate the power he had on Ymir, there must be a resistance, and he must destroy it. It was also the thing that most terrified him—and, in Ellian’s opinion, rightfully so.
Humans were tricky, sneaky, willing to give their lives at unpredictable moments. One could never guess when a single grudge might spark and flare into a full-fledged war.
Ellian, being a weapons supplier, found this less worrisome than others might. After all, he profited no matter which way the weapons flowed. Or, at least, he had before he had become the Warlord’s armorer. Wealth beyond his wildest dreams, readily dispensed, had become a ball and chain.
Because there was only one way to leave the Warlord’s employ.
“I will get you what you need.” Really, what else could he say?
The Warlord smiled. You could always tell when he was smiling, even with the mask on. For some reason, that was terrifying.
“I thank you. And how is your wife—the lovely Aryn?”
“She is well.” Ellian smiled tightly. This was one of his sorest points. It had sprung from a single moment: seeing Aryn on one of the security cameras as they tested the system, turning to smile at a friend. Ellian’s breath had caught in his throat.
The Warlord, careless, had made the offer: I’ll have her brought to your ship.
Ellian should have accepted—or refused outright.
Instead, he’d asked to meet her. He had tried to make her laugh. He had offered to bring her off-planet, and when she said no, he went back to see her the next time he was on Ymir. He brought her gifts. He could have had her anytime he wanted—the Warlord was generous with those who served him—but Ellian wanted her to say yes.
It amused the Warlord. He didn’t need this weakness—if he could assassinate the head of Alliance Intelligence, he could crush Ellian anytime he chose.
It did not, however, amuse Ellian. It was common knowledge, among the Warlord’s lieutenants if nowhere else, that while many of New Arizona’s elite had acquired trophy spouses, lovers by the dozen, and any number of hangers-on desperate for their wealth … Ellian actually cared for his wife.
He kept his actions toward her understated. He was in control of himself. But he would never live it down. Even the lowest in the Warlord’s employ took whoever they wanted from among the slaves of Ymir, and disposed of them however suited them—and Ellian had married his.
In some ways, it was one of his greatest failings. A weakness like that, in his line of work, was like blood in the water.
“Good.” The Warlord had clearly already disengaged from the conversation. He was looking away, as if hearing a noise in another room. “Now, go, and get me my weapons. You have three months.”
The call ended and Ellian got to his feet, movements strictly controlled, and went to the sideboard. He poured a careful measure of brandy, and downed it. Then another.
And another.
Behind him, the door opened.
“Ellian?”
“My love.” He closed his eyes briefly before turning. Her voice still made him smile.
He watched her as she came to kiss him. She was immaculately made up, a far cry from the miner he had first seen. Honey-brown hair was swept up, and her dark blue eyes were accented sparingly with makeup—and accented perfectly by the necklace of Vorekan sapphires that lay heavy at her throat.
She reached up to touch his cheek, and he almost shuddered. She did not
love him, he knew that. Even when she had everything to lose by telling him, she had been honest, and he, knowing it was insane and doing it anyway, had told her that he wanted to give her a better life—and if she loved him someday, he would be glad of it.
God help him, he still hoped.
And now, when he could see that she had noticed his mood and that she cared, that hope was all the sharper.
“What’s wrong?” Her gaze never wavered from his face.
“A client wants impossible things.” He tried to smile.
He never, never told Aryn what he did for a living. He had been carefully vague, and she had drawn her own conclusions.
“You’ll manage it.” He got the sense she truly believed it. “You always manage it.”
He put his hand over hers. He must have been staring for too long, because she tilted her head quizzically.
“What is it?”
“Do you miss Ymir?” It was a stupid question. No one would ever miss Ymir.
“Sometimes.”
“…What?”
“I miss my parents. I miss my sister. Samara.” At the look on his face, she sobered. “I know it’s not … easy to go back. I’m glad to be here. I’m always glad to be here. But Ymir was my home when I was growing up. Don’t you miss anything about Osiris?”
“No,” he said flatly. Osiris had been a hellhole. But…. “Well, I miss the street food. It was better there. And … yes. I suppose there are some things I miss. If my sister were still there, I would miss her.”
“See?” She smiled.
“I do. Don’t you have a—”
“Charity dinner. Yes. Another one.” She gave a sigh.
“You’d rather stay home and read?”
“A little bit. But it’s for a good cause.” Again that smile, and she kissed him before slipping away to the door. “Have a good night, Ellian.”
He nodded after her.
He found himself whistling as he settled down to work, a tune from … was it Osiris? Yes, one of the songs the children used to sing there. Curious. He hadn’t thought of Osiris in years. The glass of brandy was empty on the sideboard, but he didn’t care. He kept picturing Aryn’s smile. See? He did. She had a way of making him see the world differently.
His smile faded and he looked at the door.
She had a way of making him see the world differently. She was changing him. She had made herself quietly indispensable over the past two years, until he could no longer imagine a life without her.
He had been afraid, for years, that someone might try to use her against him. He had never thought to worry that she, herself, might become so indispensable that he could not live without her. That she, by the very act of being, could make him vulnerable.
Until this moment, he had not realized just how dangerous she was.
A truck was approaching. They couldn’t see it yet, but they could hear it jouncing and rattling over the rough access road to the launchpad.
“Come on.” Samara slid down an embankment and waved the others ahead of her, into the ditch. “Move, keep moving. If we get seen—”
She didn’t bother finishing the sentence. If they got seen, the guards would realize they weren’t at their shifts, and there wouldn’t be any way to talk their way out of their punishment. All of them knew it, she didn’t need to say it.
They piled into the ditch and Stefan yanked her down.
“Okay, so explain what we’re doing, here?”
“I didn’t tell you?”
“No, you just said you needed to get to the launchpad.”
“Oh.” Samara blushed. “Look, well, I thought—they have a communications booth, right? They have to, in order to speak with the ships that are coming in. And I bet they aren’t monitored. So I figured if we could send a message packet to one of the ships, set to distribute when it reached its next stop after this….”
Stefan gave a low whistle. “We could get a message off-planet.”
“Yeah. We just need to check out the communications booth.” She grinned.
He grinned back. “You know, once you learn to communicate to your team ahead of time what the mission is, you’re going to make a great leader of the resistance.”
“I’m not the leader,” Samara said. “Arlon is.”
“Uh-huh. And what did Arlon say about this mission?”
“I … might not have told him.”
“Because it’s about the weapons he specifically forbid you to get?”
“Possibly."
“Yep.” Stefan grinned. “That’s what I thought. Now, let’s go scout us a communications booth and then get back. I’m hungry."
“So. Major. Yeah, you. Rift. Major Fancy Pants.”
Talon gave a groan and dropped his head onto his hands. He had stripped off his dress blouse before heading to the building where Selection was taking place, but—in a serious lapse in judgment—he had not taken off the pants.
Thomas Fordham, known to his team as Apex, clapped Talon on the shoulder and came to grab a place at the railing. Below, on the wide gym floor, the candidates for Dragon teams were sparring.
“So, what happened? You get hauled up for a tribunal or something? Kill a politician by accident? No one would really blame you.”
Talon laughed. “Had to make a presentation to Soras.”
He had Fordham’s full attention all of a sudden. “About?”
There was a yell and one of the candidates went down. They hit the floor hard enough that everyone could hear the crack of a broken bone, and most of the commanders winced.
“Eh, tell you later.” Talon had not yet decided who he wanted to approach about this mission, especially after Soras had expressed reservations. The last thing he wanted was a commander who wasn’t fully committed.
Doubt could spread between the members of a team like a sickness.
“Well, then. Grab me for a beer? And make sure to change those damn fool pants, you look like a professional chair rider.”
“He’s right, you know.” Nyx didn’t take her eyes away from the sparring as Fordham headed off to circle the room. “Your pants are excessively fancy.”
“It’s nice knowing my XO has my back.”
“Always, boss.” She looked over at him. “So, did Soras tell you to shove it, or what? You’ve been awfully quiet.”
Talon blew out his breath. “No. He didn’t. He told me he was all for it….”
“But?” She raised an eyebrow.
“All the usual: he’s powerful, he’s vengeful, he has friends in high places.” Talon lifted his shoulders. “I get the sense Soras thinks it’s a lost cause, but it’s been eating at him, too. I just need to figure out what leverage to put there to get him on our side, you know? Life would be easier if he were enthusiastic.” He narrowed his eyes and nodded toward the floor, at a particular pair of soldiers sparring. “Are you seeing this?”
“Yeah. I was wondering when you’d mention it.”
Nyx sounded impressed, which was rare—but, in this case, entirely warranted.
The man looked young to Talon’s eyes. Dragons tended to run older than most soldiers. There was the saying that a soldier was at their peak when they had just begun to taste the sting of an aging body. As they aged, soldiers went one of two ways: they trained harder, or they got sloppy. Dragons were the ones who trained harder, and it was rare to find one so young, so untried in both combat and life.
This man, however….
“Chaos,” Talon murmured. “Pure chaos.”
He was smiling at where the man was hanging back, eyes fixed on his opponent. As the other man, older and taller, closed in, the younger man waited until the last second before launching into action. His strikes looked unfocused, his weight shifted so that there was no way to tell where he might hit next, or what type of punch or kick he was planning to use.
But every single one of them landed, and every single one of them hit hard.
“Loki,” Talon announced.
“What?” Nyx looked over.
“That’s what I’d call him. Chaos. Trickster god.” He grinned over at Nyx, and then saw the look on her face. “What? It’s a good name.”
“Nothing, just … if you’ve given him a name, I’d say he’s halfway to being on the team already.”
Talon snorted. “Him? No. Too young. And we don’t have any slots open.”
“Mm-hmm.” She looked back at the fight, a little smile on her lips.
“We’re not bringing him on.”
“Mm-hmm.” Her smiled was growing.
“Go fight him.”
“Eh?”
Now it was Talon’s turn to give a grin. “Go fight him. I want to see.”
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” But she was already getting up. She stripped off her sweatshirt and gave him a look before hopping the railing to drop ten feet into the gym, and she wove between the sparring matches without a backward glance.
Talon saw the other commanders sit up and take notice. A ripple spread through the crowd, and people leaned forward to look. Nyx had been one of the most coveted candidates in her year. He had snagged her for Team 9 approximately 30 seconds after he first saw her, and he knew she still got offers to join other teams. The other Dragons here were looking forward to the show.
On the floor, she murmured something to the man’s opponent, and took his place. She nodded to the boy—he really was a boy, Talon thought—and slid into a fighter’s stance, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet.
And she waited.
The boy hesitated. He darted in close, so close he was almost chest to chest with her, and still Nyx did not move. He was out and circling a moment later.
She had already controlled the fight, and he couldn’t see it. He was circling to the outside, so that she only needed to spin in her stance to keep her eyes on him, and Talon had the feeling that the look in her eyes—easy, friendly, with just the slightest hint of an evil smile—was setting the boy off balance.
This was why the Dragons picked older members.
