Coriolis: Intergalactic Dating Agency: Big Sky Alien Mail Order Brides (Mermaids of Montana Book 2)

by Elsa Jade

  A nonsensical pang of pride made him smile. The planet had suffered in the war, but some beauty remained, unchanged. “And we’re still at the beginning of the tempest season.”

  “I know you’re going after immigration to show Tritona’s potential, but have you thought about tourism?”

  He frowned. “With the war, no one came here.”

  “But the war is over,” Lana said.

  He didn’t want to remind them of the attack. And the council rep couldn’t ever learn about it, or Tritona’s insistence that it was ready to move on from their violent history would be revealed as a lie.

  As the Bathyal zoomed toward shore, the waves swelled. Huge rolling breakers pummeled the rocky beaches and towering headlands. In places, the waves disappeared into the rock…only to burst upward in spumes that reached almost to the skimming ship.

  Lana gasped. “Okay, maybe dying to ride here would be literally dying.”

  Marisol shook her head. “Any tourism board would need emergency responders on retainer and probably legal staff too.”

  Avoiding the pounding waves, they passed over a series of barrier islands and spits. Here, the land thwarted the power of the ocean, at least somewhat, where the water subsided into lagoons and bays.

  But here too, the consequences of the war became clear where the relentless pound of waves couldn’t hide it. Runoff and trash had accumulated in the quieter water. As they continued farther inland toward the spaceport, the devastation was even more obvious. Plastcrete roads were pockmarked, and some buildings were damaged, a few reduced to rubble. Two anti-aircraft cannons sat idle, and he made a mental note to schedule training sessions.

  The Earthers quieted at the sight, and he felt compelled to explain. “In the final years, we knew we were running out of time, resources, and options. We’d perfected depth charges and moored mines to keep the Cretarni out of our waters. We modified our explosives, stole a few of their aircraft, and took the battle to a new level.”

  “I usually try to not look at this sort of thing on TV or whatever,” Lana said quietly. “It hurts to see.”

  “Hurts more to do,” he said. “Hurt most when it’s done to you.”

  She nodded. “I won’t turn away again.”

  At the large complex of the spaceport, a sluggish, blackened river crawled past the cratered plascrete. A few figures hauling rubble from the water onto the nearest runway straightened to watch them pass overhead. One waved.

  Another little pang of fondness and embarrassment ached like his lingering bruises. “Spaceships are still a new thing for some of us.”

  “Us too,” Lana reminded him.

  “We were hoping to have at least the spaceport cleared and repaired before bringing anyone on-planet.” He frowned. “If anything, they seem to be further behind than when I left.”

  “Restoration can be like that,” Marisol said. “Every loose thread you pull reveals another weak spot.”

  He’d been taught to fight, not to fix. But how many broken threads would unravel a planet?

  Despite the shattered spaceport, landing was easy enough considering there were so few ships. The AI set them down neatly near the central building that was still half standing.

  Or was it half fallen?

  He authorized the shutdown sequence and was out of his chair while the Earthers were still unfastening their harnesses. He forced himself to slow down. Of course they were hesitant.

  “The Tritonesse will be thrilled to meet you,” he reassured them. “You are our future.”

  “No pressure,” Lana muttered.

  He smiled at her, but his gaze slid to Marisol, gauging her reaction. But her expression was still and serene. Too still. As a merman, he knew how still waters ran.

  The Cretarni had targeted her with their fake Intergenetic Data Agency, tricking her into tracking down other descendants of the Atlantyri. Had they chosen her because she had the most resources, or had she been special in some other way?

  Hopefully the Tritonesse had received his messages and been working on the problem, and hopefully Maelstrom and Ridley were tracking down the base of the Cretarni attackers, and hopefully…

  No, though the Tritonyri were painfully familiar with the tricks of building on sand, this was too much hoping even for him.

  As he ushered them toward the hatch, a small part of him rebelled. He should fire up the engines and take them back to the ignorant shelter of their little Earth, not embroil them in these dangers they hadn’t asked for.

  Except of course it was already too late. Even before his dispatch to claim a bride, they’d been suffering the effects of a past they hadn’t known—a tidal wave coming toward them from a deep-sea displacement they never even saw.

  He could only try to offer them some safe harbor now.

  “Leave your belongings here,” he said. “I’ll send someone to fetch everything once I know where you’ll be.”

  Marisol nodded. “We each have a small bag we’ll be taking with us.”

  Lana hustled toward their quarters and returned with two satchels, one of which she handed to Marisol who murmured her thanks. “Just in case,” she murmured, with a glance at the taller Earther.

  They’d been talking, he realized, deciding how to keep themselves safe in this new place. Because they weren’t sure if they could trust him.

  The realization stung more than it should have considering such self-sufficiency was something he would’ve instilled in all his fighters. Just because they weren’t supposed to be fighting…

  Pulling himself up straight with the same composure that Marisol showed, he gave them a solemn nod. “Thank you for coming. And welcome to Tritona.”

  Releasing the hatch, he opened his world to them.

  The rush of wind that swirled in, redolent with the rich tang of brackish water but tinged too with the stink of burning hydrocarbons both at once achingly familiar and yet unexpected. He’d never been away from his home before, and coming back now let him experience the moment through them. In a small way. From down here, the clouds seemed higher, the gray underbellies like a school of winter-heavy surf-hoppers bunched together for safety against a marauding hai-aku. Their sun, not so different than Earth’s small, warm yellow star, prowled above the clouds, occasionally flashing through in hazy beams. A soft mist softened the air, though he was not relaxed enough to let his gills breathe.

  From the building emerged a small welcoming party. As they marched across the cracked plascrete in a swish of ceremonial mantles, his mood lightened, like one of those flashes of sunlight. He’d fought and sacrificed for his people and his world. And as hard as it had been, they were still here. He took a long step down the gangplank toward them.

  Behind him, Marisol murmured to Lana, “Wait here a moment.”

  He glanced back at them, wanting to urge them forward to meet his people as friends. They didn’t need to be shy, or wait for him to take the lead. They were all relatives here—distant, perhaps, but this was home to all of them.

  Then he focused on Marisol’s expression and realized she did not need his reassurance. Her dark gaze was steady on the approaching group, her hands rested light and loose alongside the narrow, fitted folds of her long coat. Though the colors were more subdued than his people usually chose, the cut was very similar to what they wore when they weren’t submerged. She’d been doing her studies, he realized.

  And she was deliberately holding high ground, as if this was a battle and she was its general.

  He might not know the ways of the Tritonesse—women, as Marisol insisted—but he knew all about the strategies of intimidation and misdirection when confronted by a larger force.

  To give her the moment she wanted, he continued down the gangway to meet the oncoming party. Although one of his long-time sub-fleet chiefs was providing honor guard along with another Tritonyri he didn’t know, he focused on the tall, robust Tritonesse at the fore. Her dark red hair was braided high on her head, making her even taller, and her
strong arms with the elaborate skinshine markings of a Tritonesse-ra were on full display in the sleeveless mantle. Her scales were flushed bright and hard, and her brilliant green eyes were brighter and harder yet, like faceted emeraltine.

  She stopped short of the Bathyal’s landing zone, the long hem of her mantle wafting around her feet, an echo of swirling fins, and waited for him to approach. “Commander Kelyre. Welcome back.” Her green eyes glittered as she gazed past him. “The Helassia Abyssa thanks you, once again, for your service to Tritona.”

  Despite his tension with the silence still at his back, he forced his gills to flare, a signal of exposure acknowledging her higher status. “I rise to serve, as always, at the Abyssa’s decree, Tritonesse-ra.”

  Her green eyes shifted back to him. “Ah, you called me Damiara once.”

  He stiffened in surprise. “That…was a long time ago. I meant no insolence.”

  “Of course you didn’t. Even when we were spawnling, you followed every commandment—followed out of the depths, into the air, and into battle.”

  Despite locking every muscle, he blinked and his protective eyelids flickered over his vision. “As I was told.”

  She hissed out a little laugh. “My point. I told you to take me with you.”

  He’d been so eager to join the fighting, and she’d been much smaller then. “You were not yet Tritonesse-ra to order me then,” he reminded her.

  After one last, indecipherable look, she returned her focus to the Earthers. “And now you return with the Intergalactic Dating Agency’s alien mail order bride.”

  His taut muscles jerked inadvertently. “As I was told,” he repeated. When she didn’t answer, he prodded, “Did you receive my messages about the IDA deception? They signed no IDA contracts. The Cretarni—”

  She waved one hand. “We received your messages, and the Abyssa has been made aware.”

  He waited, but she only tilted her head, studying the Earthers. “They perch like half-starved iriwyl. Why do they not come down?”

  Because obviously Marisol had anticipated some of this strange reaction that was leaving him floundering. “Perhaps they await an official greeting from you,” he suggested.

  She released an infrasonic jolt that hit him like a punch to the gut even though it was aimed past him. “Of course. Their Tritonan blood is too diluted to grasp our signals.” Her eyes narrowed like a green laser, and she snorted again—this time only through her gills. “They don’t even display the lesser Tritonesse-na insignia. What a pity.”

  He flicked one glance at her companions. Only vaguely he remembered them from their spawnling years together, safe in the trenches—Estar and Ari-something. They had schooled close around her even before her ra insignia had manifested. But it had always been clear as spring flow that Damiara Altares would one day dive as Abyssa.

  As for grasping Tritonesse signals… He suspected Marisol was comprehending Damiara’s stares just fine.

  “They are here to help us meet the council rep’s list of demands,” he reminded her quietly. “Even without the necessary contracts.”

  Another low-frequency acoustic pang went by him. Among Tritonyri, such a frequency would be considered a challenge, answerable by force. He glanced uncertainly between the females. Maybe it was different among Tritonesse?

  As if responding to his look, Marisol started down the gangplank, Lana a step behind. He hadn’t spent that long with the Earther heiress, but now… He almost didn’t recognize her. She’d always had a spare grace of motion, but now she moved smooth and flowing, like…

  Like a Tritonesse.

  A faint chill rippled down his spine. Her renewed strength was apparent in every step. Probably part of it was being able to drink and eat again without fear of dying. But part of it, he knew, was what she’d seen from her lookout. She knew how to walk into battle, at least this sort of battle. She didn’t need his protection.

  As she paced toward them, the subtle flare of her coat took up more space than the fitted mantles of the Tritonesse trio. From the corner of his eye, he noted their assessing gazes, and Ari-something subtly twitched her own skirt as if comparing its volume.

  He bit back a smile. Maybe a fashion exchange would count with the council rep as a sign of Tritona’s resurgence.

  Marisol stopped an arm’s length from him, making the third point of a triangle across from Damiara with Lana at her elbow. “A hiey shah-wy.”

  Strong currents to you all. Her pronunciation was just short of perfect, almost as if she’d deliberately left room for correction.

  And Ari-something provided it. “A hie-ayyy shaaaah-wy,” she said with a touch of condescension. “Shaaaaaaaah.”

  “Like the sound of a strong wave rushing,” Estar added with a genuine smile, obviously mistaking her Tritonesse sister’s implied contempt for helpfulness. “You almost had it.”

  “Thank you for telling me,” Marisol murmured. And from the glint in her dark eyes, the Tritonesse-na had told her more than they probably guessed.

  Damiara made an impatient noise. “Your translators should be good enough for simple exchanges. The council rep won’t be expecting more.”

  “Also good to know,” Marisol said.

  Coriolis cleared his throat where a horrified laugh was caught. If he didn’t stop this, there’d be blood on the plascrete. Green blood, probably, “Tritonesse-ra, these are Tritona’s first two settlers, lately of Earth, but first of Tritona from centuries ago. Marisol Wavercrest”—he gestured—“and Lana Wavercrest”—who gave a little wave. “Marisol, Lana, this is Damiara Altares, Tritonesse-ra, which is a Tritonesse still undergoing guidance from the Helassia Abyssa.” He added that last as a reminder of her station.

  “I have my own ra cadre now,” she informed him with a flick of her fingers. “Three other Tritonesse-ra plus a dozen Tritonesse-na, including Ariab and Estar here. When the Abyssa realized we couldn’t recall Tritronyri without endangering our efforts topside, she allowed us to organize like a proper fleet.”

  He gave her an impressed nod. “It’s what you said you wanted. She wouldn’t let you fight with the Tritonyri, so you found another way. You always did bend the rivers, Dami.”

  She lifted her chin. “The Abyssa would’ve listen to you, if you’d asked me to join you.”

  Aware of the eavesdropping Earthers and Tritonesse-na, Coriolis looked away. “The Helassia Abyssa does not take command from a Tritonyri.” Before Damiara could argue—she’d always wanted to do that too—he added, “Perhaps we should go inside, away from the rain.”

  “Rain?” Damiara cocked one eye toward the sky. “Since when is rain a problem? Anyway, the building still stinks of those grak soilers, even with the hole blown in the…” She gestured irritably.

  “Roof,” Estar provided helpfully.

  “The halls of the Tritonesse need no roofs,” Damiara said. “But if these imported soilers of yours are too delicate for falling drops of water, then by all means, let’s go inside.” She spun on her heel and stalked toward the spaceport control tower—or what remained of it.

  Her Tritonesse-na hurried after her, although Estar gestured at Lana. “I like your hair. How do you get it to…?” She made fluffing gestures around her own tight braids.

  With a quick glance at Marisol, Lana followed the other females. “We call it 3B hair and a lot of anti-frizz humidity control product, which I can already tell is going to be a serious problem here.”

  Without looking at anyone, Marisol stepped off to one side of the group. She was almost as tall as Damiara, but her stride was longer and she paced them easily. Compared to the others, the unbound waterfall of her hair down her back shimmered with life though it was the color of ice. His hands tightened into fists at the memory of those silky strands between his fingers, her mouth under his, not icy at all…

  Coriolis let out a sharp breath before falling into step in the usual Tritonyri rear guard formation.

  The sound was furtively echoed by the other Tritonyri.
“The only clashes more terrifying than the Cretarni—a Tritonesse-ra in a squall.”

  Coriolis glanced coolly at the other male, one he’d not served with. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t squall with Tritonesse.”

  His former chief, walking on the male’s other side, snorted. “Kadyn, fair warning. Commander Kelyre doesn’t rise to bait, not from anyone.”

  The younger male ducked his head, but Coriolis caught the clumsy scanning ping that Kadyn tried to bounce off the hard surface of the plascrete. “Gayo’s told me everything of your deeds during the war.”

  As if it was ancient history. As if some of the scars the other male might visualize didn’t still ache. “Where were you stationed?”

  “Off the Orinic Shelf.”

  The note of apology in the young male’s voice made sense considering that had been a defensive position, at best, attended only by the wounded and underage.

  There were no old Tritonyri left.

  “We all rose to serve as the Abyssa’s commanded,” he said quietly. “And where she commanded, we were needed.”

  Gayo chuckled. “And that, my young spawnling, is why he is a commander while you and I flop in the shallows.”

  “The western fleet is disbanded,” Coriolis reminded him. “And the shallows have always been our front line.”

  Kadyn cut a suspicious glance at him, as if he suspected mockery, but Coriolis met his stare without blinking. His fighters had all been older than this, but not by much. How disconcerting to realize that in just the few turns of seasons since the Cretarni had abandoned Tritona, already there were spawnling emerging from the safe trenches with little direct experience of their ancient enemy.

  There was still work to do, too much restoration to actually rest, but this was what he had fought for.

  He dredged up a smile for the youngster. “Here in the rear guard I am just Coriolis.”

  With another snort, Gayo countered, “Likely we will call you Triton-roy come the mating storms, if the downwelling gyre is strong enough.”

  “That is definitely bait,” Coriolis said as mildly as he could.