The Warlord's Daughter

by Susan Grant

  He tugged on the hem of his uniform jacket. The plush carpet muffled the sound of his polished boots. Old boots. New uniform. The disparity brought home just how much he’d changed the galaxy. He served in the Triad Alliance Forces now. On his chest was an emblem depicting a silver triangle, each side edged with a different color—blue, black and red. The Triad, an alliance of three civilizations. Blue represented Planet Earth, the birthplace of Prince Jared, Queen Keira’s consort and the passenger on the ship he’d allowed through the perimeter. Earth was a newcomer to this once two-sided game. When it came to tech, Earthlings made the Drakken look downright advanced, but it had been kept safe from attack in the months before the end of the war, protected under its status as a Holy Shrine, thanks to it being the birthplace of Queen Keira’s consort. It was quite an achievement for such a far-flung, water-covered little rock. Few Drakken had heard of Earth until their prince killed the warlord. The black side of the triangle represented the former Coalition, and the red the former Drakken Empire. Red, for blood, he thought. The warlord’s legacy would not soon be forgotten, even in this new Triad.

  For now, the Coalition provided most of the resources and infrastructure in these early stages of reorganization. Earth was too small and backward, of course, and the former Drakken Empire was in disarray. Simply put, the Coalition was still in charge. They had, after all, won the war.

  Aral, on the other hand, had not yet won his. His battle was, and would always be, intensely personal.

  “Please have a drink.”

  Aral halted at the artificial voice. A glass of untouched Menarian whiskey sat on the smart-table next to Kaz. It registered his proximity and predicted his intent. “Please have a drink,” the table intoned a second time. It was a ludicrously expensive piece of furniture his father had stolen from a Coalition vessel. The Empire lagged woefully behind their enemy in non-battlefield technology. The Hordish fleet had made up for it in sheer, primitive firepower.

  “Please have a drink—”

  “Blast it. If I wanted a drink, I’d have taken it.” He pressed two fingers to his forehead. “Fates, I’m arguing with tables now.” Maybe he was as mad as his father. He drove a hand through his hair.

  Kaz was far more serene as she sipped from a crystal glass of hideously expensive Menarian whiskey. “Perhaps the table has a point, Lord Vantos.” Her voice held the faintest hint of concern. “Join me here while I finish my whiskey, at least.” She patted the snowy cushions.

  Aral fought the desire to sink down, close his eyes and fall asleep, if only so he could awaken and find out that Awrenkka was already here and he wasn’t having to slay monsters across the reaches of space to claim her. “I will rest when I have her.”

  Kaz studied him over her glass. “Have you considered the possibility that she won’t see your crusade to protect her the same way you do?”

  “No.”

  Her eyes, black like his but with a brown tint compared to his gray, glinted with amusement. “And if she is as stubborn as you?”

  “Kaz,” he warned.

  She reacted with a very female sigh and proceeded to brief him as she did each and every day. “‘You are a selfish, violent race of religious zealots responsible for eons of war,’” she said, quoting data from the latest news stream beamed in from the central galaxy. “‘The Coalition may succeed in silencing me, but the bad blood between my people and yours will live on.’” She glanced up, appearing rather smug. “Apparently, Battlelord Arkkane was unrepentant until the very end.”

  Once, many years ago, there had been talk of marrying her to Arkkane. That ended as soon as she began serving in the military. For a female to do so was considered a disgusting aberration. Males didn’t take orders from females.

  The daughter of a senior officer who lived on the Mawndarr estate, Kaz had been a friend of his and Bolivarr’s since childhood. Later, she and his brother became lovers. Aral was still captaining a battle-frigate and training Bolivarr when Kaz started coming along on a few raids off the record to be with him. She proved to be a master tactician. When Aral rose to the rank of battlelord, he chose her as his second. Every Drakken commander knew a strong arm was necessary to keep a Hordish crew in line. The punishment for defying a battlelord was death, and not in a particularly merciful fashion, either. He made it clear that to disobey Kaz was to disobey him. It took only one insubordinate space-hand to get his point across. After that, Kaz was accepted in her position and, eventually, respected in it.

  As for Arkkane, he deserved what he got. So did they all. Yet, Karbon continued to elude capture even after Aral had given the data necessary to track him down.

  Aral was fast losing patience with them. Karbon should have been cornered by now. At least he’d been able to keep Awrenkka protected behind a blockade the Triad had erected at his suggestion to prevent pirates, loyalists and looters from harassing the people in that sector. They never guessed the real reason for their efforts was to keep his bride safe.

  “Allow yourself a bit of pleasure, at least, for this latest execution, Lord Mawndarr. Arkkane was one of the worst. He was responsible for the massacre of millions.”

  He did feel a trace of satisfaction, but without Karbon in custody, it was hollow.

  Eeep…eeep…eeep.

  Aral’s personal communicator device rang. He and Kaz exchanged a hopeful glance as he inserted the PCD into his right ear. The hardware had been given to him by the Coalition for his use in this postwar joint effort in espionage. The Empire hadn’t anything as small and convenient—or secure—for communications. “M here.”

  Several tones indicated that his voice required authentication before the call could commence. The procedure was typical for high-priority, classified calls. Due to his distance from the Ring, it took some time for the signal to go through. Finally, an artificial voice announced, “Authentication verified.”

  A real voice came on next. A familiar one. “Greetings, M.”

  “Z,” Aral acknowledged. During the war, he hadn’t yet met the individual he’d come to know as Z, but his bets had been on Prime-Admiral Zaafran himself. It pleased him when after the war ended he’d learned he was right. For old times’ sake—and perhaps out of respect for the enormity of what they’d accomplished in secret—they kept up the act, but it was no longer necessary.

  “We’ve got Mawndarr.”

  Aral closed his eyes for the briefest of moments. He noted that the admiral didn’t say “your father.” That would have personalized things. No one really wanted to think too hard on a son selling out his sire.

  “We’ll delay the execution until you arrive. You’ve worked hard for this, M. We all have. I look forward to meeting you in person.”

  Karbon was in Coalition hands and about to be executed as a common war criminal. He’d waited a lifetime for this moment. It would seem the perfect climax to all his efforts to be able to stand in front of Karbon and take credit for his downfall, to savor the singular, exquisite pleasure of seeing the man realize that his own son had betrayed him. Betrayed them all. Yet Aral didn’t want to watch the spectacle, even to gloat. All his life his father had twisted his thoughts and actions to use against him. The man would no doubt do the same if Aral were to have any personal role in his execution. Let him die alone and without the satisfaction of last words directed at his son. Yes, let him die as so many had suffered and died at his hands.

  “That’s all right, Z. I’ll pass.”

  “No last words for the battlelord?”

  “No. My presence isn’t necessary.”

  Zaafran’s pause revealed his shock that Aral would skip the execution. “Certainly your identity can be kept secret, if you so desire it.”

  Aral had already taken steps to ensure exactly that. Of course he wouldn’t embark on a mission to rescue the warlord’s daughter in the persona of Battlelord—former Battlelord—Aral Mawndarr. He’d assume the identity of a Borderlands Patrol agent posing undercover as independent trader with Kaz as his loyal
mate. The ruse gave him the authority to move freely in the camp, as well as make arrests if need be. Nevermore had been retrofitted with a Triad transponder code to mimic a typical cargo ship and allow passage through checkpoints. He’d obtained fake identification in the form of data squares. It helped to be a spy; he’d made connections over the years. Helpful connections, Zaafran tops amongst them. In fact, it was Zaafran’s help in this matter that allowed him to obtain everything he needed for this one last mission. The prime-admiral was all too happy to assist Aral in tracking battlelords. Through the top officer, Aral had assembled everything he needed for his raid on Zorabeta.

  “Go forward with the execution without me. I have a bit of a schedule conflict, you see. It turns out I must take care of some unfinished business. It’s a personal matter.” Deeply so.

  He could tell Zaafran was anxious to know more, but gave him the respect of not asking questions about his “personal matter.” They would not, of course, have been answered.

  “I have one last request, then, M.”

  Aral stifled an impatient sigh. This is what he feared. His service to the Triad would be never-ending. Little did they know he’d disappear soon enough, never to be heard from again. He’d live out his days with his wife far from prying eyes and assassins’ reach—on both sides of the freepin’ war. “Tell me what you require, Z.”

  “Find the warlord’s daughter. Deliver her to me, dead or alive. I’ve got my people looking in every conceivable nook and cranny, but so far there’s been no sign of her—or what happened to her.”

  Aral stopped in his tracks, his blood going cold. He knew her existence was no secret to the Coalition. Hearing Zaafran voice his desire to see her imprisoned and executed for her father’s crimes was another matter.

  Aral kept his voice smooth. “I’ll find her, Z. You have my word.” It was, after all, the truth.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “The existence of a surviving child of the warlord, if in fact true, looms as a grave threat to continued galactic peace. Our first responsibility must be to eliminate such a menace.”

  —Prime-Admiral Kemp Zaafran, Commander-in-Chief of the Triad Alliance

  “WHAT A HELLS HOLE.” Keir Vantos didn’t find himself staring very often. He’d seen too much in his twenty-eight cycles for much of anything to surprise, horrify, or intrigue him. But this, he had to say, was stare-worthy.

  Horde, Drakken Horde, everywhere. For a thousand years his people, the Coalition, had warred with the Drakken Horde. Now here were hundreds of them, displaced, confused and even frightened, milling about in a hastily set-up refugee camp. There were similar camps all over the Borderlands, the disputed space between the worlds of the Horde and the Coalition.

  Not disputed any longer, he thought, twirling a nanopick between his lips as he lounged in the shade of Borrowed Time’s wing. He could escape the sun, but not the odors of too many bodies, strange perfumes and other scents that defied description, not that he cared to try. How the hells were they going to blend into Coalition society, or civilized life period, the grand plan of the overly optimistic reunification politicos? Tattoos covered the men as well as the women. They wore jewelry in places any sane human wouldn’t dream of piercing. And their hair—name it, he saw it. Blending Drakken into mainstream society would be like mixing oil and water.

  That was the reunification panel’s problem. One man’s headache was another man’s profit, Keir always said. The past few months he’d carved out quite a nice little niche supplying the ships that supplied the camps. But why be the middle man when he could bring in cargo directly? Now he was a direct supplier. He might have to work a little harder, but it was worth it for entertainment value alone, being able to sightsee in the camps.

  The odors of unwashed bodies and fear drifted in the weak breeze. He wrinkled his nose. It smelled as if the Triad would need more cleansing supplies, and soon. He took out his datapad and typed in the information.

  Keir Vantos, provider of shower soap and scum swipers, he thought. Gods. The very idea sucked the last vestiges of his good mood away—not that hauling toilets across the light years had done much for his spirits or his pride lately anyway. He needed a shower and a nap. Hells, he needed a lot of things he wasn’t going to be able to do much about right now, like a real bed and maybe even a woman who wouldn’t mind joining him there for a few hours’ playtime. His lips curved. Maybe if this gig of supply running to the camps worked out, he’d be able to swing a little R and R next month. Tropics, playful ladies, tall drinks. He couldn’t remember the last time he took a vacation. The reason used to be that the money he was making was too good to pass up. Now it was because the money he was making wasn’t enough.

  He went back to supervising the unloading of his ship. He’d been at it all morning, and the workers weren’t done unloading yet, ensuring a paycheck at the end of the day. No, it wasn’t the kind of money he used to make running the blockade. Then again, no one was shooting at him, either. Least of all Drakken. They were crammed into these camps now, awaiting transition into mainstream Coalition life, whatever the hell that was. Good luck to them. Keir hadn’t yet found anything close to mainstream that suited him—and he doubted he ever would. Mainstream, domestic contentment, mom, pop and kids—it was tied too closely with every bad memory he had.

  Dust tickled his nose and made him sneeze. When were they going to get the roads around here paved? Maybe he ought to suggest hauling in asphalt. Every refugee’s boot hitting the dirt churned up fine dust. It burned his nose and eyes. The blistering heat only doubled the pleasure, he thought with sarcasm, swiping a hand across his face. Add a cold drink to his list that began with a nap and ended with getting laid. Except it looked like an icy beverage was as elusive as everything else he’d like. If there was a bar in this hell hole, it sure ain’t anywhere where he could see.

  “Well, well, look at this. The former blockade runner is now a chem-toilet runner.”

  Keir swung a dark stare in the direction of laughter. Two ensigns stood, chuckling at the chem-toilets being carried off his ship. Mardem and Zarren had been fighter pilots assigned to the last outpost he’d served before the war ended. They’d toasted cheating death many times in the bar there. It had been months since he’d last seen them. Seemed like an eternity.

  He jumped down from the gangway. “Hell, yeah, I’m running chem-toilets. Guns or butt-catchers—what difference does it make? It’s all good money.” That last part was a partial lie, but no need to come clean about it, not with those grins on their faces. There was money in supplying the camps, but it wasn’t good. Peace had changed everything. He now had to worry about making a living when before he’d turn down offers. He peered at the docks and the long rows of cargo craft. In and out they’d roared all day. “I don’t see any fighters. Just cargo-freighters docked from here to tomorrow. Don’t tell me you’re trash-hauling, too?”

  The pilots swore, looking sheepish. “Not much action these days,” Mardem admitted. “People are being RIFed left and right. It’s the biggest reduction in force in history. We’re lucky we’re still in the service let alone bitching about what we get to fly.”

  “I told you rocket-jockeys about the benefits of being civilian. You wouldn’t listen.”

  Mardem shrugged. “I wouldn’t know how to be civilian. I never expected I ever would be civilian. I wanted to be a fighter pilot all my life. I don’t want to do anything else. Who dreamed this damn war would end—” he snapped his fingers “—like that, overnight, with no warning? Blast it all, Vantos. I’m not done killing Drakken.”

  Keir’s parents weren’t either when the Drakken killed them. No one was ever done killing. That’s why the war went on for over a thousand years. That’s why he’d pulled out of it. He’d quit. Not because he was a coward. Because if anyone ever put a weapon in his hands and dropped him in front of a Drakken, he couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t pull the trigger. He didn’t like being spring-loaded to kill. Innocents got killed that way.
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  Keir pulled a fresh nanopick out of his pocket. “Look, when the time comes, and it will, and you get booted out of the service on your ass, come talk to me. I’ll give you rocket-jocks civvie lessons. Set you up in the business.”

  “And we can be chem-toilet haulers like you.”

  Smirking, Keir swore. “What’s taking up space in your cargo hold, rock-jock? Troops? Plasma bombs?”

  Mardem cleared his throat. “Dehydrated vegetables.”

  Keir cracked up. The ensigns joined him after a moment or two of feeling sorry for themselves.

  They glanced back at the Drakken flowing by, an unending influx arriving from worlds beyond. Zarren shook his head. “At least a third of them are suffering from diseases we eradicated generations ago. The average citizen hasn’t a single nanomed in their blood.”

  “Hells, even pets have nanomeds,” Keir said.

  “You can’t help but think of them as animals. They treated each other worse than they treated us. The warlord made sure he and his imperial officers were protected by nanos. Screw the rest of the population.”

  Keir pulled the pic from between his lips. “Seems they already did. Is this a surprise to anyone?”

  “Broken limbs, colds…” Zarren took an accounting of the refugees as they trudged past. “Tumors…scars…”

  Those things humanized them. Turned the enemy into people.

  Vantos, is this you talking? These refugees’ compatriots had tried to shorten his lifespan so many times over the past dozen years that he wondered if he’d ever be able to live and work with Drakken like they were regular people. Now he was thinking they were. Underdogs, even. The Drakken race was tied to every bad thing that had ever happened in his life. It wasn’t something a man shook off overnight.