by Viki Storm
“A rodentoid,” I say. “Yes, that is quite possible.” That would be the way for Noxu to do it—find a well-positioned Fendan—someone with lots of coin. Someone with everything to lose by a bloody invasion. Someone who listens eagerly to Noxu’s promises.
When the invaders land, Noxu would say: “Tell your men to lay down their arms. No one needs to get hurt. If you fight, we’ll destroy your planet, defile your women, dash the brains of your children on the nearest rock—and we’ll take the mines anyway. Do the smart thing: just hand over the mines. Your reward will be coin. It will be a high position in the new administration. Maybe your reward will simply be knowing that your family members will still have all their limbs attached.
“Be on the lookout,” Xalax says. “If there’s such a person in the Fendan government or the Royal Court. He will be a warrior—someone with the power to control his men and command them to lay down arms at the crucial moment. Or he’ll be someone with enough money to pay each Fendan warrior to lay down his arms.”
“My thoughts exactly,” I say. “If I can get the bastard, we can use him to find out the details of the attack.”
“Find this traitor,” Xalax says, “and the mines need not depend on your physical defenses.”
“Void make it so,” I say. Xalax ends the transmission and I stare up at the palace, wondering who this traitor could be.
- - -
After the Fendan warriors finish their training for the day, we’re all summoned to the Imperator’s Hall. It’s a great place for feasting and I imagine many a drunken revelry has transpired within these walls.
All of the warriors assemble at the long tables. There are about a thousand of them, all told. I’ve been training the officers this last week, working them hard in the mornings so that they might train their own regiments in the afternoons. Now that I see the foot-soldiers—what will amount to the Fendan infantry—I’m feeling a little more hopeful.
The officers that I’ve been training are, by and large, soft and effete. Dandies and fops, most of them—except a few like Vhorwig, with a stupid, cruel streak. But the common soldiers that sit in the great hall have the look of… potential. They don’t seem as if they’re born for fighting—some races, like the Zalaryns or the Kraxx, are born for it. But the soldiers look leaner and more quick-witted than their officer counterparts.
Holy void—we just might protect these damned minerals after all. I have a plan.
“Noble Fendans!” the Imperator cries. I didn’t notice, but he’s addressing us from a perch high above, on a third or fourth story landing that overlooks the great hall.
Jula is standing next to him and my heart skips a beat, clamping painfully in my chest before resuming its pace. I try to tell myself that it’s because I didn’t expect to see her, but that’s not entirely it. She’s resplendent in a long gown of fine silk. There are small beaded embellishments at the chest and the cuffs of the sleeves. Her long, elegant neck is poised and her red hair has been combed and oiled, creating a sleek silhouette.
Damn, I think. I’d never have guessed she’s the same woman who was spitting and cursing at her Zalaryn captors. She looks regal now, like a queen. I know that she’s nothing but a ragged human, existing on the scraps of a decimated civilization, but she cleaned up nicely.
Maybe you could clean up nicely too, a little voice inside my own head speaks up. Maybe everyone cleans up nicely—if they want to, that is.
“Our Leader!” the Fendans respond. “Our Guiding Light!” Their voices are rote, flat—and I know that this is the canned response.
“I’ve been watching your training and,” the Imperator says, pausing until every voice in the hall is stilled, “I’m certain that the Kraxx shall run in fear when they find our planet defended by a force of such fearsome, formidable soldiers!”
Roars of approval vibrate through the hall. The plates and silverware rattle on the tabletop. Nice words, I think—but the Zalaryns have an expression for this: Falling asleep at the party, we call it—to feel so proud of your minor achievements that you cease to expend any further effort.
I look around and see nothing but pride on their faces. As if we’ve already beaten the Kraxx. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a familiar face get up and leave the hall. It’s Vhorwig, looking at his comm-panel, fumbling with the antenna needed for long-range audio-visual transmissions. What’s so important he’s got to leave in the middle of the Imperator’s speech? I remember Xalax’s warning: someone who could get the soldiers to lay down their arms. Does Vhorwig wield that much influence with the infantry soldiers? Vhorwig does have a lot of coin—if the rumors are true, his father was quite wealthy and left his son a substantial inheritance. I’m going to have to keep my eye on him even more than usual.
“We’ve posted sentries, sent reconnaissance drones into orbit, and we will know very soon when these cowards will stage their attack. It matters not—we’ll roust them the second they step foot on our soil!”
More cheers. More bloodthirsty sentiments. The Imperator should be saving this rousing speech for after the Kraxx ships start to arrive.
“To reward you for your hard work thus far,” he says, “I have prepared a feast for all warriors! You have earned a brief respite from the rigors of training. Relax. Enjoy yourselves. For tomorrow it is back to the sword!”
Right on cue, a veritable army of Snarlaqs enter the great hall holding steaming trays of food and drink. There are little cakes and pies, candied fruits, meats from every animal on the planet—plus probably a few more. They even eat little cubes of fermented dairy.
The sights and smells are a little much for me, so I excuse myself and try to find the Imperator. If he hasn’t started his merrymaking and isn’t too drunk, I might be able to get him to listen to my revised plan.
I see him at the head table, a bone in his hands. He’s tearing the meat and tendons off with his teeth, like he’s some sort of skilled hunter when nothing could be further from the truth. Any of these Fendans, if forced to spend a week in the wilds, would starve to death. They wouldn’t have the first clue how to catch wild game, yet they take to their meals like a half-starved leonoid who just fell on a limping deer.
Jula is sitting at his side, politely nibbling at her food, but I can see the look of disgust in her eye. I know that Earth is a planet with scarce resources—a feast of this magnitude would be unheard of, even in their equivalent of a royal court. The amount of food on the Imperator’s plate right now is probably the amount of food Jula would have eaten in a week… Maybe longer, depending on the poorness of her luck.
“Imperator,” I say. I’m not sure how to approach him. I have no experience consorting with royalty or the upper classes. In my world, he’d be a crime boss and I’d get his attention by unsheathing my weapon and slamming it down on the table. At the very least, I’d have to knock out a few of his henchmen and insult him three or four times before he’d pay me any attention.
“Yes, Ayvinx,” he says magnanimously. And why not? When you have this much, it’s not putting you out to share a little. “This feast is as much in your honor as anyone else! The work you’ve done. We might actually have a chance of defeating those bloody Kraxx!”
Not at this rate, I think.
“Perhaps,” I say. “This is what I wish to speak to you about. Pardon me for interrupting your revel, but might I have your ear for a moment?”
“The impending attack is of paramount importance,” he says, taking another lusty bite from his bone. I can hear the tendons snap in half. I’m powerless to look away while he works his lips to suck the dangling viscera into his mouth.
“It is,” I say. “I wonder, might you let me train the soldiers directly? The officers…” I trail off, thinking of the diplomatic way to phrase it. “They are genteel—not particularly suited to the horrors of warfare. Especially hand-to-hand combat.”
“Ah yes,” he says. “I see what you mean. It’s a shame that the invasion will be on land. We’d have a bet
ter chance to defend ourselves with the missile system.”
“Until one stray missile shoots off into a mine and blows up the entire planet,” I say. We discussed this before I left, Droka and Xalax and I. Mostly, I was trying to get out of this task. Wasn’t there any other way? Ambush the invading Kraxxoid ships in the air? Set up a force-field? Shoot them down with sat-nav guided projectiles? The answers were no, no and no. No air combat. All it would take would be one of the aforementioned stray missiles to find its way inside a qizo mine and the entire planet would go up in smoke. An explosion of that size would throw off the orbits of every other planet in the solar system, as well as many other planets in the sector. The accumulation of dust and debris—not to mention the toxic qizo—would drift until it was pulled into a nearby orbit. The shockwaves would cause massive wobbles in the planetary orbits, changing their degree of eccentricity—maybe even skewing some planets’ axial tilts. No, it would have to be ground combat—hand to hand.
The exact combat in which the Kraxx and the Zalaryns excel.
“You want to train the soldiers?” the Imperator asks thoughtfully, as if to himself. “It could work.”
“I could work with small groups,” I say.
“We could figure something out,” he says. “But what of the officers?”
“They would participate too,” I say, though in truth I’d rather that the extent of their involvement was to pay someone with talent to sharpen the swords.
“Work out a schedule,” he tells me. “I will distribute it to the officers in the morning.” I glance through the window. The sun is still high, many hours of daylight left. But I know it’s no use trying to assemble a group of Fendans to train right now. They’re full of meat and alcohol. “Come, sit down.” The Imperator gestures at an empty seat next to Jula. “You can get reacquainted with my lovely little pet.”
“Indeed,” I say.
“And indeed, you want to be the one who slays the most enemies on the battlefield—that was a sly trick,” he says, elbowing me, “But I admit, the promise of deflowering this exotic little bloom has worked wonders for the morale and motivation of the soldiers.” He tips me a knowing wink.
I can feel the daggers that Jula is shooting at me with her stare. This is the last thing I want her to think. When I told the Imperator to offer her virginity as a prize, it was the only thing I could think of to stall. He was about to drag her off to his chambers and take the honor himself. And that image was too much for me to bear. I admit, it was not my best fast-thinking—but in my defense, my wits were slowed down considerably by images of his flabby haunches thrusting.
“That’s good,” I say and reach for a small pastry to cram into my mouth. It’s far too sweet, but I gag it down anyway.
“I’m heartened to hear that morale has improved,” Jula says to me. The Imperator has lumbered off to have a heated conversation with one of his underlings, no doubt about something important, like the selection of sauces.
“I only meant to buy you some time,” I whisper to her. “I meant it when I said I can get you out of here—after the battle. Just don’t spit on anyone or threaten to castrate anyone.”
“After the battle—if we’re still alive,” she scoffs. “And if we are, then half the oafs in this hall will be drooling and waiting for their earned reward in my bedchamber.” She gestures at the room and the thought is staggering. To have to receive one of these creatures every single night for… A year? Longer? I don’t even know how long a year is on this planet. But she’s right about one thing—there’s a lot of these oafs, and even if only ten percent of them manage to get a kill, the prospect of having to lie with all of them is a vile supposition indeed.
But it’s okay. I know that she won’t have to do that.
I won’t let it happen.
“After the battle we will all still be alive,” I say, “and all these oafs will just have to content themselves with their hands. Because I will get first night with you—that’s when we can leave.”
“I knew it,” she says. She sets down the little cake she’s been nibbling on. Her fingers are shiny from the oily layers and she wipes them on a napkin. “You’ll only help me after you claim your prize? Is that it?”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” I snap at her. For once I’m trying to do something right and she still doesn’t trust me. Maybe I don’t deserve it. Maybe a lifetime of screwing around in taverns, scrounging for work, has cast a taint on me so strong that even Jula can sense it.
“All I know,” she says, pointing her napkin at me, “is that you took me, put me on a ship, handed me over to the Imperator so he can have a nice new toy for his harem. But in all this, you somehow figured out a way to ensure that you’d be the one to…” She can’t say the last words. Her cheeks are flushing, almost as deep red as her hair.
“That I’d be the one to what?” I say, leaning in close so I can whisper the words in her ear. My anger has subsided and I suddenly feel myself starting to grow hard underneath my breeches. “You think I planned all this out in advance? That I arranged it so that I could be the one to strip off your clothes, and make you submit to my wild desires? So I could bend you over the bed and slide into you? So I could be the first male to feel you from the inside?” I’ve inched closer to her, and as I speak the last words, my lips are brushing the delicate cup of her ear. I see gooseflesh raised on her chest.
“Do not speak to me like that,” she says—but she does not back away from me.
“Your voice lacks conviction,” I say and I put my hand on her arm. Her skin is soft, even if it’s covered in gooseflesh. I’m having a hard time restraining myself. I want to pull her in and kiss the lips that speak those tough words, kiss her and caress her until she’s melted in my arms. “If I’d really wanted to be your first, I would have claimed you on my ship. You were naked. You were bound. I could have taken you. I could have dominated you in every single hole in your rebellious little body. But I didn’t. I didn’t take you against your will then, and I’m not going to do it now. And neither are any of these Fendans. You have my word—I’m not going to let that happen to you.”
“And what do you want in return?” she asks. Though the hall is raucous, her voice is little more than a whisper catching in her throat. Her nipples have tightened into little knots. That thin, silky fabric of her dress outlines them perfectly. I can imagine every little wrinkle and bump of those pink little peaks. What do I want in return? I want to run my fingers over them, feeling the sleek fabric glide over them. I want to pinch them, pull on them, suck on them through the silk.
“Nothing,” I say again. “I gave you my word. I’ll get you off this planet.”
“We’ll see about it,” she says. “Excuse me.” She pushes away from the table and says something to the Imperator, then walks out of the hall.
How did I manage to screw that up? Oh well—there were at least three knives on the table within Jula’s grasp—and she didn’t try to stab me.
That’s a start.
I almost forgot what it was like to sit in the sun. It’s nice. I’m with the princesses—the Queen’s daughters and nieces—trying to teach them how to make some clothes for their dolls. Then they told me they didn’t have dolls, so now I’m teaching them how to sew a doll.
Worra, the eldest princess, has aptitude and can take instruction. Her little ragdoll looks like a reasonable facsimile of a Fendan. At first, I didn’t realize it, and thought that she was making a mess of her stitches—her doll was ill-shapen and the limbs were too short. Then I realized she wasn’t making her doll in the likeness of a human (why would she?) but in the likeness of a Fendan. Once I figured that out, I realized that it wasn’t half-bad.
“How do we do the buttons?” one of the other girls asks. It was hard getting some buttons that weren’t made of gemstone or precious metal. Most Fendan garments are decorated quite extravagantly with such baubles. But I asked my maid, a Snarlaq named Loh’ree, and she was able to give me a f
ew that were made of glass.
“Tie that off and get a new piece of thread in your needle,” I instruct the princess. She nods and I watch as she tries to knot the thread as I showed her. Her fingers fumble a little and I feel an odd, almost bright, growing sensation in my chest.
It takes me a moment to realize that it’s hope.
I want her to do it—to get the knot nice and tight and hidden inside the seam. I like passing on my knowledge to someone else. On Earth, I never trusted anyone to take them back to my little dwelling (my lair is probably a more apt term for it). I sure could have used an assistant or two, but I didn’t want to seek one out.
The last time I had to ask someone for help, I had to kill him.
I release my breath as I see that Worra has gotten it. Not only that, but she’s threaded her needle and tied that one off too, the way I showed her.
What would it be like to have a daughter, I wonder—suddenly, out of nowhere. Not only someone to teach my trade, but someone to instruct on all facets of life. To watch as she grows, and learns things, and has accomplishments of her own.
Where the hell is all this coming from? A daughter? Am I out of my fucking mind? Why would I want to bring a child into this screwed-up universe? And a daughter, no less! Not that I could, even if I wanted to. Females mated to Zalaryns only birth males—their healers give the women some special potions or tinctures or whatever passes as medicine in their barbaric culture.
And that’s beyond the point now. No Zalaryn male will take me as his mate anyway—I belong to the Fendan Imperator.
I show Worra how to sew the buttons, but I don’t really need to at this point; she’s got it down.
The clang of a sword as it tumbles to the ground catches my attention. I look across the courtyard at the training square. Ayvinx is standing over one of his Fendan pupils, his boot on the poor Fendan’s chest and his sword at the poor Fendan’s neck. It’s a very masculine pose—triumph and strength all rolled into one. To have such an excellent fighter on your side—it would have been nice to have had someone like Ayvinx with me after my parents died. My mother had always told me that my father died when I was a baby, but it’s just as likely that he wasn’t particularly committed to her. There’s a lot of that in the city—lone males preying on lone females. Not like in the countryside, where families and villages have to band together to survive. My mother died when I was ten and I’d lived on my own for a while, in the same squalid building ruin. Then I was rousted by the constables during a sweep of the building. “No squatters,” they’d said. “You can’t live here,” they’d said. As if we had anywhere else to go.
