Moon Struck

by Heather Guerre

  It was with grim amusement that Errol realized she thought her scent affected him in the same way Scaeven toxin affected her—that it triggered an otherwise non-existent desire that faded when the stimulus was removed. He would prefer if she thought that. He couldn’t stand to see the revulsion on her face when she realized the ugly, hulking brute wanted her always.

  “The inhibitor is drying out,” he said—which was true, even if it wasn’t nearly the whole truth. “I’ll get more in a little bit. You need to change into dry clothing and get into a dry bed.”

  Her eyes lit up for the briefest moment, before fatigue snuffed them again. “There’s a bed? Hamdu a Cristo.”

  He remembered the dry clothing draped over his shoulder. “Here, change into this.” He draped a billowing ivory akh-gakh-ki over a dry, warm pipe that ran the width of the wall. The akh-gakh-ki was a type of formal cassock worn by male Yiruban youths. It was all he could quickly find that would be comfortable enough to sleep in without swallowing her whole. Humans were small, and this one was even smaller than usual.

  He retreated from the lav. He could hear her struggling to get up, but he couldn’t help her. He couldn’t look at the cling of wet silk on her body while he touched her, while felt her heat and heard the soft sounds of her exertions…

  He sank his fangs into his lower lip until he tasted blood.

  Hadiza emerged from the lav. The akh-gakh-ki reached to the floor and billowed around her like a cloud, completely obscuring the shape of her body.

  Her gaze traveled over the meagre sleeping room. There were two beds, bolted to the wall, one above the other. They were narrow by Scaeven standards, and covered with stale, dusty linens. With Hadiza half-dead in his arms, he’d taken the first available lodgings he’d come to—a dingy strip of dockside rentals filled with the harsh scent of all-purpose disinfectant and the faint buzzing a security electrofield.

  Hadiza leaned heavily against the wall, her large eyes heavy-lidded as she caught her breath. Errol moved towards her, his instinct to scoop her up and lay her on the bed. He remembered himself after a single step, and froze. Hadiza looked at him for a moment, her expression unreadable.

  “Go on then,” Errol said, making his voice careless. “Or do you need to be carried across a single room as well?”

  Hadiza scowled at him. Good. She pushed away from the wall and walked the rest of the way to the beds with the heavy stride of somebody who was functioning under the force of will-power alone. She flopped onto the lower bed, throwing up a little cloud of dust, and crawled beneath the dingy covers.

  “Errol?” she murmured his name indistinctly. She was already halfway to unconsciousness again.

  “Sleep,” he told her.

  “Thank you,” she said faintly.

  “Go to sleep,” he said again. He didn’t want her gratitude. What he needed was distance. Detachment.

  “You saved my life. Twice.” The words were more breath than speech, but he caught them. Each one, a soft little touch inside his chest.

  “Well I guess we’re even, then, after your heroics on the traffickers’ ship. Now go to sleep.”

  She didn’t speak again.

  He couldn’t help himself. He crossed over to her prone form, and checked to make sure she was breathing. Her warm breath kissed his fingertips. She shifted, nuzzling into his touch. Errol froze. Her cheek lay against his palm, her lips pressed gently to the heel of his hand. Heat chased over his skin, burning a path from the touch of her lips straight to his groin.

  Carefully, very carefully, he eased away from her. He needed to get away. The electrofield would keep her safe while she slept. He grabbed the rumpled shipcoat and pulled it on.

  He immediately ripped it off—it smelled like her. He couldn’t wear his tactical jacket into the markets. It screamed I’M AN ENFORCER. Wearing only the fine tabinet shirt, he threw himself out of the room and into the bitter cold.

  The merchant city of Daalinalikiniri-din-kaal was an easy place to occupy one’s mind. A creature with funds could procure every possible commodity, any conceivable service, and all the information in the universe—both legal and deeply illegal. The city was the only inhabited space on the planet. There was no government, no leader, no administration of any kind. It was a mercantile anarchy, held together by the unspoken social contract of eye-for-eye, tooth-for-tooth.

  The city was laid out in a twisting, snarled mess of narrow, crooked, irregular streets that veered in random directions, doubled back on themselves, and came to abrupt dead ends. The buildings were constructed from the local rock, a pale silicate that could be polished to a beautiful sheen, if the care was taken. But here in the merchant city, the cold of the planet and the smoke and grease of the markets left the buildings looking haggard and crooked, stacked against each other like broken teeth in a rotted mouth.

  Travelers didn’t come to Daalinalikiniri-din-kaal for the view. They came for the goods.

  The first thing Errol did was purchase a coat that was neither expensive nor particularly technical. To look wealthy was to paint a target on your back. To look like any kind of law enforcement was to beg for death. Errol had only worn his tactical jacket into the city because he’d needed to give Hadiza the ship coat. He found a narrow shop that carried Scaeven-sized clothing and picked a drab black overcoat and a thick, slouching gray hat that would allow him to blend in with the dingy, overcast cityscape.

  His second stop was at a weapons vendor, where he bought a high-voltage electron gun and a sonic stunner. Discreet. Fast. Effective.

  His third stop was at a grimy, poorly-lit aerospace parts shop wedged between a comm shop and a Ljarken skin-peeler. The interior was only wide enough for a long counter backed by shelves stacked with hot-rigged ship parts. Errol stepped up to the counter.

  Another Scaeven ran the place. He was as light-skinned as Errol, with hair as white as snow. His skin stretched tight over sharp bones. The bridge of his nose had been broken at least twice. One eyelid drooped over an eye with a permanently dilated pupil. The other eye fixed on Errol’s face, suspicion writ keenly in its narrowed focus.

  “I need a gravitational differential for a military-grade light cruiser,” Errol said, not bothering to address the other Scaeven’s dubious regard.

  “Where you from?” the hot-rigger demanded.

  “I hit a debris field,” he said, ignoring the question. He purposely pitched his voice into his original accent—the rough, unpolished tones of a backwoods Rafir nobody. “My differential’s shot. Can you sell me a replacement, or not?”

  The other Scaeven eyed him for a long moment. Finally, he named a price that made Errol laugh aloud.

  “I’ll keep looking,” he said, walking away.

  “Alright, wait.”

  After some back and forth, they settled on a price that neither one of them was happy about. The seller needed a few days to assemble the differential, so Errol would have to come back for it. It was no more than he’d expected. Satisfied that it was at least taken care of, he stepped back into the narrow street.

  Dressed in his subdued, cheap clothing, weapons discreetly holstered, he wandered the narrow twisting streets, seeking distraction—any distraction, to take his mind off the beautiful, delicate, sweet-scented human woman laying in a bed he’d paid for.

  He wove through a riot of color and noise and scent. There were heaps of spices and beads and textiles and jewels. There was shining tech, questionable pharmaceuticals, musical instruments, caged animals, rare fruits, every conceivable kind of clothing. Hawkers shouted prices and boasted of quality. Buyers and sellers haggled fiercely in an uncountable multitude of languages. Partners and comrades planned and commiserated. Neighboring shops blasted their own music, which met in the street and mingled to form a sometimes beautiful, sometimes painful melange of competing notes. Sweetmeats and sticky dough and fried proteins popped and sizzled from tiny little stands, whose proprietors clattered and clacked with knives and spatulas and skewers and spoons.<
br />
  His mind immediately returned to the human—Hadiza Moreau. He tried to think of other things as he wound his way between stalls and shops. He tried to focus on the sounds and sights and smells. But every time he looked at something new, all he could think was—did humans have this? What would Hadiza think if he brought one back for her? Would she smile?

  He grimaced at himself. Weak. Foolish.

  He headed towards the eastern quarter, where the price of wares was steep, and the legality of those wares was worse than questionable. He passed deadly poisons, encrypted spyware, weapons that could decimate small planets, hallucinogens that killed as often as they thrilled. Biological chimeras abounded—unnatural genetic splices that defied nature and sense. Some were innocuous enough—a koriek flower crossed with a djeme toad created a living, breathing acid-pink flower that hopped and blinked and croaked.

  But then there were the sentient experiments. In small cages, Bijari crossed with Earth cats resulted in small, animal-like creatures who couldn’t speak, but who stared out at the market with terrified, self-aware eyes. Another black market bioengineer had spliced Ravanoth genes with Tentaurigh cephalopods, creating beautiful, water-bound creatures whose distressed cries sounded like the chimes of bells.

  Errol moved past them, fighting the rising tide of fury and disgust. He was a monster. He knew that. He’d known it for as long as he could remember having the capacity for self-reflection. His mother had made certain he never forgot the cruelty and the depravity he was capable of. But that awareness had instilled in him a fierce desire to be the opposite. When his nature pushed him to conquer, he chose to protect. When instinct compelled him to destroy, he became a shield instead. He’d spent years honing a finely developed sense of integrity. And if his mother had been the farthest thing from loving, at least he could thank her for his honor.

  So as he moved through cages of miserable creatures, unnatural and tortured, he had to build a cage around that sense of integrity and set it aside. The momentary victory of destroying their tormentors would mean nothing if that one act allowed the entire system to perpetuate. It was crucial that he keep a low profile, for the sake of his mission’s success. Once the head of the human trafficking cartel was obliterated, the markets could be taken on more directly. For now, they were an evil that had to be tolerated.

  Moving past the chimeras, he stopped in front of a Bijari conjugal temple. Two Bijari priestesses lounged against the doorway, eyeing him speculatively. The conjugal priests and priestesses devoted their lives to the service of pleasure. They offered their services to any creature who could afford their deity’s rates. Bijari females only went into heat under very specific conditions—but as a species, they reveled in the sensuous pleasure of touch at all times. For most Scaevens—for whom the idea of a human mate was a laughable fantasy—Bijari were the favored species to matebond, because of their love of touch and physical affection.

  Normally, Errol found Bijari females quite pretty. Their slim, elegant bodies were covered in the finest, softest fur, in lovely shades of cobalt, teal, azure. Their large, angular eyes ranged from stunning shades of acid green to sky blue to electric orange. And they were tall enough that the size of a Scaeven body didn’t intimidate or revolt them.

  He could find release with one of the Bijari priestesses. Take the edge off. Regain a little self control. But as he stared at the two females in the doorway, he could only see a woman of an entirely different race nuzzling sleepily against his hand. And he knew, with utter certainty, that fucking the priestesses would only offer a vague imitation of what he really wanted. It would only make the wanting worse.

  “Blessings, brother,” one of the females called out in the Bijari language. “Do you wish to worship with us?”

  Errol spoke enough of their language to respond politely. “Blessings, sisters, but the Spirit is not with me today.”

  The priestesses smiled at each other and looked back at him.

  “Oh, I think the Spirit is in you, Scaeven,” the nearest one said, still smiling. “But it pulls you to a different temple.”

  Errol let himself share in her amusement with a brief, self-incriminating smile, before moving on.

  He had nowhere to be, but he strode through the markets as if with a purpose.

  At the end of a crooked lane, he stopped in front of a dark, windowless storefront. Wedged between a smoke parlor and a cheap bilxong kitchen, was a place that catered to physical excess. Over the thick perfume of naptala smoke and the rich, greasy scent of bilxong meat cakes, the sounds of struggle emanated from the curtained doorway—the shuffle of feet, grunts of pain, the impact of flesh against flesh. A fight club. Here was a place where he could exorcise the restless, cagey energy coursing through him. So long as there was another Scaeven up for a fight. A Bijari warrior would suffice, if there were no Scaevens willing to take him on. And if the exertion of combat didn’t suitably exhaust his mind and body, there was always the lulling oblivion of the naptala pipes next door.

  He unbuttoned his coat and stepped inside.

  Chapter Six

  Hadiza woke to the sound of the exterior door sliding open. She’d slept like a stone—a dreamless, timeless death-like unconsciousness. She was grateful for the dreamlessness, but it felt like she’d only just blinked her eyes shut a second ago. But, judging by the light level, several hours had passed. Flexing her aching limbs, she shifted and turned over on the massive bed.

  Errol stood at the door with his back to her, engaging the locks. She could tell by the way he was standing that he was injured on his right side—slightly hunched, his right arm drawn up against his ribs.

  He turned around, wincing as he shimmied out of a new, bulky coat—revealing a wide bloodstain blooming through his shirt.

  Hadiza sat up. “You’re injured.”

  He glanced over at her, but said nothing. The mask covered the lower half of his face. Across the narrow room, Hadiza could smell the acrid burn of biocircuitry inhibitor. In his left hand, Errol held a small woven carrier with a sealed container inside. Steam wafted off of it. He stepped deeper into the room, slightly favoring his left foot, and set the carrier on a metal tabletop bolted the wall opposite of the beds.

  “Food,” he said. “Should be palatable for humans.”

  Hadiza slid off the bed and approached the massive alien. She looked up at him. “You’re bleeding. Let me see.” She touched his elbow gently, guiding him to lift it away from the spreading bloodstain on his side.

  He flinched away from her touch as if her hands were made of hot knives.

  “I’m fine,” he said gruffly.

  “That’s a lot of blood.” Hadiza edged closer.

  He stepped away again, keeping the distance between them. Soaking through the ultra-fine fibers of his shirt, the stain turned the lovely burgundy cloth to nearly black.

  “I’m a doctor,” she wheedled. “Just let me take a look.”

  He slanted a dubious, ochre-eyed gaze at her. “Humans still rely on other humans for medical treatment? No wonder you creatures die so young.”

  Hadiza was almost impressed. He’d managed to insult her species, her life’s work, and her capability at that work all in one breath. “What do Scaevens rely on, then?” she asked, inching closer.

  “AI for assessment and diagnostics. Robotics for treatment.” His scornful tone carried an implied, like civilized creatures.

  Humans relied mostly on AI for routine, everyday kinds of care. Primary care physicians were essentially data analysts who approved and implemented the AI’s recommended treatment plans. In a stable setting like a colonized planet, a space station, or a large ship, major treatments like surgery were conducted by laparoscopic robots. It was the kind of life Hadiza was trying to make for herself—quiet, peaceful, mundane.

  She’d never really known that life. Born into the underclass on oligarchic Kepler, her only option for escape bad been the military. Kepler was part of the Allied Planetary Union, so Hadiza had joined
the Alliance Defense Force. She’d enlisted as a hospital corpsman for her first tour, then earned an officer’s commission and free medical school for her second. Her medical training had been visceral, gory, and all too real. Robotic surgery wasn’t available to the Marines bleeding out on some backwater, barely colonized planet. They’d relied on the immediacy of human memory, and human hands. Hadiza’s hands.

  The Scaeven didn’t know how much of her life he was dismissing with his condescension. He didn’t understand how many years she’d spent watching her friends die in a pointless war. How many of them had died while her hands were still slicked with their blood. How she’d watched the light go out of their eyes while she fought desperately to save them. He didn’t know how the years of panic and trauma had hardened and deepened into a constant ache that she always carried with her.

  But she’d heard crueler things from Marines with less severe injuries. So she let it roll off her back with habitual detachment. If nothing else, he’d saved her from the traffickers. For that alone, she’d tolerate any amount of pain-induced assholery.

  “So,” Hadiza said evenly. “If you’re not aboardship, what do you do in a medical emergency?”

  “Use a portable medical kit.”

  She made a show of looking around the dingy, meagre room. “I don’t see one here.”

  He scowled at her. “These are unusual circumstances.”

  “Funny how medical emergencies always seem to coincide with those.”

  His scowl deepened. “I’ve been trained in basic emergency medicine.”

  Hadiza lifted her chin, leveling him with the unflinching pin of her gaze. “I’ve been trained in a lot more than that.”

  He held her gaze for a moment. His pupils dilated in a way that Hadiza might have mistaken for attraction, if it weren’t for the coldness in his expression. He disliked her. Considered her beneath him. His helplessness to the biological lure of human physiology must infuriate him.