by Anna Carven
And I’m determined to share it all with Ami.
“Maybe you should ask him about it,” Rykal suggests, offering an apologetic half-shrug. “We’re not allowed to say anything. You know how it is.”
“Well, we’re definitely going to have a little talk,” I growl, understanding the situation perfectly well. None of the First Division warriors would ever disobey Tarak, not even if I begged them to.
Kalan and Rykal share a silent little look as Kalan lifts Ami up onto his shoulders. From her newfound vantage point, she looks excitedly around the street, taking in the soaring buildings and glittering Christmas decorations. The city is an eclectic mix of old and new, with beautifully preserved old Victorian structures nestled amongst glistening modernist architecture.
Now that the Enforcers are gone, people are starting to trickle back into the street, some giving us wary glances, but most minding their own business as the scene returns to normal.
Amazing.
“Now, where were we?” I look up and down, trying to remember where all the good shops are. It’s been a while since I’ve been here… years, in fact.
I can’t remember when I last away from the compound, the warships, the impenetrable security…
A familiar scent wafts through the air, tickling my memories. It’s sweetness and spice; wholesome and comforting and utterly delicious, a scent that can’t quite be replicated anywhere else in the galaxy.
Donuts. Waffles. Cinnamon.
My mouth starts to water.
If my memory serves me right, there’s an awesome old food market around the corner. It’s been here for centuries, and I have fond memories of visiting it with my dad when I was a kid. The food they sell there is real, not the lab-grown recombinant stuff that sustains most of Earth’s human population.
“Hungry, Ami?” I tug her foot as Kalan draws near.
“Yumyum!”
“We’re going for lunch,” I announce, motioning for Rykal and Kalan to follow. “My treat.”
Ami and I will have donuts and waffles, and the boys can eat whatever fresh meat takes their fancy.
Kordolians are pure carnivores, after all.
11
Tarak
“That was quick,” I give Jeral an approving glance as we stride down the corridor, approaching a pair of workers from the tech division. A transport platform hovers beside them, stacked high with various alien weapons. I recognize the designs. They’re human-made; long, ungainly and oddly shaped.
As the techs recognize us, they freeze, their fists going to their chests in a stiff salute. I pause, and Jeral silently comes to a halt beside me. The techs regard us warily, their eyes wide, their bodies tense.
Even amongst my own people, we of the First Division are feared. The rumors aren’t exaggerations. They know what we are.
Still, these techs have no reason to fear us. They are doing important work, carrying out my orders to acquire, catalog, dissect, and understand every single piece of human technology that is currently in use.
Technology is power.
“Find anything interesting?” I ask casually, my tone a signal to the techs that they can relax.
“More projectile guns,” says one of the workers, a baby-faced weapons tech called Mavrel. “Humans like their guns, it seems. Oh, and this…” He holds up a strange, menacing looking gun with an extremely wide barrel. Some sort of energy blast weapon, perhaps. “Apparently, it is used for drying hair,” Mavrel explains.
“Naturally,” I say dryly, remembering some of the strange devices Abbey uses for grooming and household tasks. “Add it to the database, along with everything else.”
Mavrel nods to his companion, an engineer called Yuris who has fashioned his long hair into dreadlocks, a distinctly human style.
“This is the best job I’ve had in a while.” A faintly ironic smile curves Yuris’s lips. “They might not be the most advanced species in the Universe, but they have the coolest tech. Backwater kitsch, I call it.”
“Hm.” I study the two for a moment, trying to understand their enthusiasm for this mundane task. There is a reason they are the techs and we are the soldiers.
“Carry on.” I dismiss them with a nod. They snap to attention immediately as we depart, as if suddenly remembering that there’s a chain of command.
“You did not take long to locate the buyer,” I tell Jeral as we head down to the prisoner holding bays.
“Wasn’t too difficult,” he replies softly, his orange eyes hard. “Once we got to Zarhab Groht, the bastard didn’t waste time seeking out the Ephrenian ship. Didn’t even do his basic reconnaissance beforehand. His cockiness is what brought him down. He’s in the cell next to Relahek’s.”
“Good.” It wouldn’t have been any kind of contest. Just like his brothers, Jeral is a ferocious hunter. “Who is he?”
“Sagarath Rexu. He’s ex-military.”
“Oh?” My anger stirs. Anyone who did not join my side after the downfall of the Empire is either a misguided Imperial loyalist, a traitor, or a deserter.
Everyone knows what I do to traitors, Empire-worshippers, and deserters.
“I searched his cruiser. There was a captive. Human. Female. She’d been tortured. Rexu gets off on inflicting pain, apparently.”
I go silent. For a moment, I’m overcome with the most terrible kind of rage. Why don’t I just destroy that entire fucking trading station and be done with it?
No… if I destroyed Zarhab Groht, another one would rise out of the vapor and metal-dust. We have already infiltrated this one. It is a vital intelligence-gathering point.
“The female... she is being looked after?” I say at last, barely keeping the anger out of my voice.
“She’s with the medics. Zyara’s come up to handle the case. The human will be returned to Earth once she’s strong enough.”
Of course. My crew has strict protocols in place for dealing with human survivors.
Jeral gives me a cautious look. “Thought I’d save the questioning for you, boss. This one is a little more depraved than your average military deserter.”
“Hm.” That is no surprise. Once the yoke of military discipline is gone, some of my kind become little more than mindless savages.
Tch. Undisciplined wretch.
I will speak to this Sagarath Rexu and decide for myself if he will be of any use to us.
I am already highly tempted to cut off his head and send it back to Zarhab Groht as a warning for others who would try and steal from a planet that is under my protection.
Abbey would never know of it. She does not need to.
As for Ami, how long can I protect my sweet, innocent child from the dark realities of the Universe?
Forever, I hope.
None of this filth will touch them.
We pass through a series of Qualum doors, the dark fibers unraveling instantly in response to our biological signatures. Commander Ikriss emerges from a side chamber, giving me a lazy salute as an ironic smile ghosts across his lips. “He’s a nasty piece of work, this one. Former dark-ops. Enjoys torturing weaker species. Likes the sound of his own voice way too much. You know the sort.”
“I’m surprised at your restraint, Kris. You haven’t taken his head off yet?”
“Tch. You think I’m that undisciplined, Jeral?”
“No, you’re one of us,” Jeral says simply. “You do things properly.”
“One of us? You mean a mercenary?” Ikriss’s smile widens, becoming hard-edged.
“Aikun,” Jeral corrects, and we both know it’s true. As with all the five Commanders, Ikriss likes to spar with us on occasion. We’ve seen the ritual scars that cover his chest and back.
Jeral is Aikun, as am I. The blood of the Lost Tribes runs deep in the military, because we are natural hunters.
Ikriss gives Jeral a strange look. “My office is always open if you ever truly want to learn about the Lost Tribes—your people.” His amber eyes flick toward mine for a fraction of a heartbeat,
and the message is clear. You too.
Unlike us, Ikriss was never stripped of his memories. Under the old Imperial rule, he, like every other member of the Imperial Military Forces, was forced to renounce his heritage and swear loyalty to the Empire. He cut his braids and hid his scars under a dark uniform.
Now his shorn hair grows long again, falling past his ears. When it is long enough, he will probably braid it in the traditional style of an Aikun warrior. Ikriss is no longer bound by military regulations. He can adopt whatever style he likes. He is a mercenary, after all.
“I will interrogate Rexu personally,” I say softly, moving into the second chamber where the isolation cells are located. Jeral and Ikriss remain a half-step behind me as we come to Rexu’s door. “The two of you can remain outside.”
“Sir?” Jeral seems surprised. “Don’t you want to know about his—”
“There is nothing more I need to know. I will handle him.”
Jeral wisely keeps his mouth shut. He knows the prisoner poses no threat to me.
Perhaps I am strange in that I prefer to do a lot of the dirty work myself. Most Kordolians in my position would sit back and delegate, but I can’t disentangle myself from the dark heart of my operations.
The moment I do that is the moment I lose touch with reality.
When I turn to Ikriss, there is a fire burning in his golden eyes. “I swore a revenge-oath on behalf of someone,” he says quietly, “but I will gladly let you mete out punishment on my behalf. You of all people would do it the right way.”
A revenge-oath? So Ikriss has a personal stake in this prisoner’s fate. It is some measure of his trust in me that he would allow me to take revenge on his behalf.
“Revenge oath?” Jeral’s tone becomes respectful. A Kordolian’s need for revenge is never something to be taken lightly.
“He wronged someone who is… important to me.”
“Someone?”
“Someone,” Ikriss says flatly, his tone indicating that he does not want to elaborate. I can sense the anger radiating from him, turning his aura dark with killing intent.
As if he could lose control of his rage at any moment.
This precarious state—he does not hide it well.
I have not seen Ikriss like this before.
Someone, hm? Who is this someone? I think I can guess, but I will not interfere in Ikriss’s private affairs.
As if responding to Ikriss’s dark mood, my own anger comes alive, but I am much better at concealing it. After all, I practically live in this state, walking a precarious line between sanity and madness.
The anger, the vortex… it is always there, but most of the time, I can control it. For Abbey and Ami’s sake, if nothing else, I control it.
“Ikriss.”
“What is it, Tarak?” He drops the honorifics, calling me by my first name—under the old Empire, he would never have dared.
But I do not mind. In fact, amongst my trusted inner circle, I prefer it.
“You can go in my place.”
“What?” Both Ikriss and Jeral stare at me as if I have grown a third horn.
“You may go in my place and interrogate the prisoner, but on one condition. I need very specific answers. This incident is not an isolated one. Relahek, Sagarath… they are part of something bigger. I need to know who’s behind this.” So I can destroy them. Females of the human species have suddenly become one of the most sought-after commodities on the black market.
Unacceptable.
Relahek has given me some important clues, but his knowledge only runs so deep. Each prisoner we capture is like a piece in the puzzle, leading me toward an elusive target.
I have no doubt Kordolians are behind this, and even though I have defeated them once, I never underestimate my own kind.
The Empire was brought down because of its arrogance.
I will not make the same mistake.
Ikriss’s composure cracks and his anger bleeds through, his expression turning fierce as he bares his fangs. “I… I fear I will kill him before I get the information you need.” He is trembling.
Ikriss, the one they call Vassa—calm frozen ocean—because he rarely reveals the deep thoughts hidden under that perfectly controlled exterior, is actually trembling.
I can read him sometimes, but that is only because I have known him for so long.
Ikriss looks ready to kill. He is furious.
“I will do the questioning,” I say softly, and he exhales in relief, as if he feared he might disappoint me. “And then I will leave it up to you to decide what kind of punishment he deserves… after he has outlived his usefulness. I will not take your revenge from you, Ikriss.”
No, I will not deprive Ikriss of his blood-right.
I will reserve my anger for the ones behind all this.
“In there?” I nod toward a set of secure doors that lead to a small antechamber. Beyond is a small, windowless cell.
“Yes.”
I walk forward. Jeral and Ikriss step back. “This will not take long,” I say darkly as the obsidian Qualum fibers unravel. “The two of you may leave. Ikriss, I will let you know when you can have him.”
Truth is, I do not want anyone in there with me right now.
This is highly personal.
“Quick sparring session, Kris? Might take the edge off.” Jeral knows exactly what he’s talking about.
“I’ll take you up on that offer, my Aikun brother,” Ikriss says, sounding a little relieved.
I barely hear them as the doors fuse shut behind me.
Do I have enough self-control not to kill the bastard in the next cell?
Yes, I think I do.
The second door opens, and I step inside, welcoming the perfect darkness. I am greeted by an angry hiss, and the prisoner’s stench—filth, metal lubricant, a whiff of anger and desperation—hits me in the face.
I feel a slight, almost imperceptible change in the direction of the air. There.
He is on his feet already, moving toward me at impossible speed.
Of course, the prisoner is unrestrained. Artificial restraints have their uses, but we prefer to keep this one on edge. Give him hope, then crush it completely.
I feint to the left, dodging a wild swing. Sharp claws rip through thin air, finding the spot where my face was just a heartbeat ago. I put my arm up, blocking his reverse swing as his powerful blow finds my armor-encased arm.
“Oof,” he grunts, but there’s no time for him to utter the curse hovering on his lips, because my other arm shoots forward, my hand clamping around his neck.
I move, propelling him backward with such force that he nearly topples over. He chokes and splutters, his eyes going wide in fear.
Sagarath Rexu hasn’t truly fought against one of us before. He’s still in denial. I can tell. It’s always a shock when the realization hits them. According to Jeral, Rexu’s capture on Zarhab Groht was quick and painless; he was taken by surprise.
“That,” I say softly, “is the difference in power between us. Now don’t do anything stupid, Sagarath, unless you want to suffer the kind of death that would make even Kaiin himself deny you your place in hell.”
I can see his face perfectly well in the darkness. He is battle-hardened and scarred. His crimson eyes are flat and empty.
I know his kind. He is capable of the worst kind of cruelty.
I know that look.
I have been there.
But his depravity is different, because Sagarath doesn’t care about anyone but himself, and he doesn’t care whether he lives or dies.
“Traitor.” He spits in my face, or at least he tries…
I am squeezing his neck too tightly.
“Yes.” I bare my fangs, not caring in the slightest that he calls me by that name. I betrayed the Empire, it is true.
I have no regrets.
I release my grip on Sagarath and he drops to the floor, choking. He is a big man, taller even than me, with broad shoulders and a thick neck.
The marks of various military divisions are tattooed on his back.
Dark-ops. Division thirty-eight. Mark of the death-squad. Planet-killer.
Fucking hells. He’s actually proud of that shit?
Well, none of it means a thing anymore, because now his pride is shattered.
“Y-yer gonna get what’s coming to ya, traitor. Ya think the Empire is so easily defeated?”
No. I am not that naive. I know that several of the nobles and the warrior elite managed to escape Kythia before we decimated the place, but I do not tell him that.
“Vionn is dead,” I snarl, deciding to play into his little game. “General Daegan is dead. You chose the wrong side, Rexu.” I lean in as he stares up at me, a toxic mixture of hatred, disbelief, scorn, and fear crossing his face all at once. He tries his best to hide it, but I can always tell. “If I had known Daegan’s forces were so pathetic, I would have done this a long, long time ago.”My words are truth. The thought of taking down the mad Empress and the nobles who suckled so desperately at her teat had existed in my mind long before I found my mate. “I could have had you sent to the medics for chemical interrogation,” I say as Rexu rises to his feet unsteadily, “but I suspect it would be a waste of time.” As a former special-ops soldier he would have bio-engineered immunity to truth-chems. “Anyhow, this seems more appropriate.”
Rexu smiles, and it is a bleak smile that never reaches his eyes. “Ah, I’ve already accepted death.” He laughs in a way that only a Kordolian can. “There is nothing ya can do to me. Mating with humans has turned ya soft and stupid, General.”
Instinctively, my claws flick out. “Don’t be so sure of yourself.” This Kordolian is a creature of the Old Empire; he doesn’t understand a thing.
This is my galaxy now. This is my ship, my cell, my interrogation.
In the deep void of space, far away from my mate and child; in the darkness, the cold, the endless vacuum, I am little more than a monster, cut from the same cloth as Rexu.
He tried to fuck with my wife’s people. My people.
