by Lili Zander
“Kashrn,” I swear. “What in the name of Caeron were those idiot scientists thinking? The long-term effects of stasis on humans hasn’t been studied. Even putting them in stasis for their trip to Zoraht was dodgy.”
“I’d ask them what they were thinking, but alas, Sixth killed them.” Ruhan doesn’t sound the slightest bit sorry. His eyes swing to the joint I’m in the process of inspecting. “Run the balancer again.”
I don’t ask him why. When it comes to technology, Ruhan is preternaturally gifted. He probably won’t even be able to explain what’s made him uneasy.
He stares at the balancer readings as I run it down the metal strip. “There,” he says, when I’m about halfway through. “That spot.”
I look at the display. Fuck me, that’s impressive. Looking at the joint, through the comm projection, the image blurry because of both distance and atmospheric debris, he was able to spot that something was wrong. “It’s less than one percent off.”
“Yeah. It didn’t look right. You have a patch?”
“I do, yes.” I apply it under his careful eyes, and then move on, jumping to the next joint. Thank you, antigrav cuffs. It’s only when I pull out the balancer that I realize I forgot to turn the sensors back on.
That’s when the klaxons begin to blare.
Naomi is alone at home.
Fuck.
21
Naomi
Yes, I’m terrified that at any moment, Danek is going to succumb to the effects of the resonance. Yes, I’m frustrated that he hasn’t found any indication that there’s a secret prison on this planet, and it’s not from lack of searching.
But can I confess something? Against all odds, I’m loving my time on Noturn.
I’ve been reading up on mining operations. (Yeah, yeah, I know. Scintillating choice of reading material.) Miners are rare; mostly, minerals are extracted by giant diggers and other automated equipment, especially on planets where the atmosphere isn’t conducive to breathing.
But rihim is delicate and though Cindifin has tried repeatedly to extract it by machine, the losses are staggering.
Noturn is an anomaly in more ways than one. Cindifin really does seem to care about the wellbeing of its employees. Miners work six hour shifts for four consecutive days and they get the fifth day off.
And then there are the three relentlessly cheerful social activity coordinators, Praki, Claive, and Hessila, there for the express purpose of making sure we’re having a good time. The social calendar they’ve planned would not be out of place on a cruise ship, I kid you not. Every evening, there’s an activity. Movie screenings in the park. Cookouts and picnics. Potlucks, where we all make our favorite dish, syn-made or natural, and bring it to share.
It’s kind of awesome.
The people who were here before us must have been gardeners, because our small yard is filled with nilari bushes. Nilari berries are bright red in color, about the size of a grape, and they taste citrusy, a less-tart, sweeter version of a grapefruit. I snack on them incessantly.
In my apartment on Bestea, I defaulted to syn-made meals; I didn’t have energy for anything else. But on Noturn, I rediscover a long-forgotten love for cooking. I go to the store almost every day, buy new-to-me ingredients and experiment with reckless abandon. I make a nilari berry chutney, sweet and spicy and delicious. I bake a custard tart and decorate the top with the bright red fruit. I even toss a handful into a pot of curry, where they add just enough sweetness to cut the heat. It’s a ton of fun.
And then there’s Danek.
We’re sleeping together. We eat meals together. We sit in the park and watch movies together. We talk, sometimes about nothing in particular—when I’m not reading up on mining operations, I’m binge-reading a cozy mystery series, and Danek is confused about the fictional town of Hallowtown. “This makes no sense. Someone dies in every book, and you’ve read how many books?”
I’d bitten back my smile. “There are fifty-four books so far.”
“Fifty-four deaths in a town of two-thousand people.” He’d rolled his eyes. “That is, using your human measure, a homicide rate of twenty-seven-hundred.”
“And?”
He’d pulled up an entry on his tablet. “The most dangerous places on your home planet of Earth have a homicide rate of fifty-six. Your peaceful small town is fifty times more violent than that.”
I’d laughed. “You can’t bring logic into this,” I’d told him. “It’s fiction. It involves a certain suspension of belief.”
We don’t just talk about books. Sometimes, late at night, when the darkness hides our faces, we talk about more serious things. Intimate things. One night, I tell him about Will, about receiving the worst phone call of my life that January morning. “Were you in love with him?” he asks quietly.
I wish I could see his face. “Very much. Does that bother you?”
He holds me in silence as I talk, his touch comforting. “Are you still in love with him?”
“No.” I’m not in love with Will. I’ve mourned him for years, but I’ve let him go. The truth is far more disconcerting.
I’m falling in love with Danek.
And I’m too scared to tell him.
I’m contemplating the idea of a post-lunch nap when the door rings. Pumpkin, Plague, and Pestilence are at the door immediately, their noses pressed into the solid surface. “Give me room to open the door,” I tell them.
Obviously, that doesn’t work. “Coming,” I call out to the person on the other side. I scoop up one wriggling floof—Plague—and the other two scatter with shrill hoots of indignation. Grinning at their antics, I wave my wrist at the sensor, and the barrier slides open.
It's Rannzar, the local administrator. “Greetings, Naomi Knoll,” he says, dipping his head in a short bow.
So much for my nap. I return his bow. “Greetings, Administrator Rannzar,” I respond. The Zorahns are a weird mix of formal and casual, but one thing I’ve learned is that if someone has a title, they want to be called by it. “What a pleasant surprise. Were you looking for Danek? He’s out doing an inspection today. His rest day isn’t until—”
“Tomorrow. Yes, I know.” He holds out a red envelope to me. “I’m having a small dinner party tonight at my house. Nothing special, just syn-food.” He gives me a warm smile. “Nothing as delicious as curry, from what I hear.”
I’d taken a bowl of my bastardized part-syn, part-natural Thai curry to the last potluck, and evidently, word has spread. “You are too kind,” I murmur, glancing at the envelope. The lettering is in Zor, and I have no idea what it says, but from the context, I’m assuming it’s a written invitation. “Is there a special occasion?”
“No, none at all. I just enjoy meeting people from all around the galaxy. It’s like traveling, but without the discomfort of stasis. It’ll be a small gathering. Just twenty people.” He reels off a string of names, most of who I don’t recognize.
Twenty people. That’s hardly a small party. The wheels begin to turn in my head. Danek isn’t getting anywhere with his search for the prison. Rannzar is the local administrator. If the High Empire is planning to imprison people here, he might know. There might even be something in his office—some document, some piece of information—that would give him away.
Maybe this is the break we’ve been waiting for.
“We’d love to,” I reply brightly. “Thank you.”
I shut the door, set down a wriggling Plague, and do a gleeful dance. I’m about to call Danek to tell him what just happened when…
The klaxons erupt.
Noise. So much noise. It’s probably just an alarm, I tell myself. My heart races. My palms are damp with sweat. I move to the back blindly, almost tripping over one of the floofs. The piercing sound bores into my brain and I stumble, my vision blurring.
Then the world goes dark.
Something wet is licking my nose.
I crack open an eye. Pumpkin wags his three tails in excitement, jumps into my lap, stands on h
is back feet, and licks my nose again, chittering anxiously.
The klaxons are gone; the house is blessedly quiet. On the floor, Plague and Pestilence run around in anxious circles.
“Where am I?” I groan. My head is throbbing. Classic signs of a stress headache. I could use a cool glass of water and a two-hour nap.
Pestilence jumps up on the ledge. Hang on, am I in the bathtub? I am. Shit. How did I get here? I have no memory of this happening. None at all.
How long have I been out? I get to my feet, wincing as I move. A fresh wave of pain batters my temples. My comm is on the living room floor where I must have dropped it. Don’t remember that either. It’s all a complete blank.
I talked to the administrator. That much I remember. That was just after lunch. He invited us to dinner tonight. The red envelope he handed me is on the floor. I pick that up, along with my comm. I glance at the time. To my relief, I’ve only lost track of ten or fifteen minutes. I definitely blacked out, but not for long.
Is that what you consider progress?
I sink down on the couch. This morning, if you’d asked me how I was doing, I would have sworn that I was fine. That I was doing great. The last ten days have been incident free. I’ve been thriving on Noturn. I’ve been talking to strangers, picnicking in the park, embracing new experiences. Having a boatload of amazing sex. I would have sworn that I had put what the scientists had done behind me.
Reality is one hell of a shock.
The door bursts open, and Danek rushes in, out of breath. “Are you okay?” he gasps, his face etched with fear. “You didn’t answer your comm. Did the klaxons—”
I’ve been fooling myself. I’ve been sleeping with Danek as if I were whole and not a broken, fucked-up mess, and it’s all a lie. And I’m too ashamed to tell him the truth.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear it. I was in the bathroom.”
“Are you okay?” he repeats, his gaze on my face. “When the alarms went off—”
“I was fine,” I lie. “Really. Perfectly fine. You have nothing to be concerned about.” I give him my sunniest smile. “Forget about that. Rannzar invited us to dinner.”
It feels wrong to lie to Danek. But it’s worse to tell him the truth. Because he’s been right from the start.
I’m nothing but a liability.
22
Danek
Naomi is a terrible liar.
The klaxons have obviously affected her. Her face is pale, her hands are trembling, and there’s a nilari-sized bruise on her forehead.
The floofs are on high alert. They're skittering around, their tails quivering, their eyes wild, bursting with frantic energy. Naomi doesn't realize it, but they’ve bonded with her, and they respond to her moods, holding up a mirror to her emotions. When she's happy, they're happy. When she's anxious and stressed, as she is now, they run around in blind circles, almost tripping me in the process.
My heart pounds in my chest, the after-effects of running flat out from the maintenance tunnel to our house. It wasn’t a lengthy run, and I shouldn’t be out of breath. But I am. Sixth warned me about this, and he was right. He usually is.
Not that I care about that right now. I sit next to Naomi, taking her cold hands in mine. What the hell am I doing, sleeping with her? She should be focusing on getting better. I am a distraction from what truly matters.
Stupid, stupid Danek. I curse myself for my moment of inattention. Had I not been distracted by my conversation with Ruhan, I would have never forgotten to reset the sensors. The alarm tripped because of me, and now, Naomi faces a setback in her recovery.
My fault. I’m doing a terrible job protecting my mate.
She is getting better. She’s been affected by the klaxons, but she’s up again. Last time, she’d been catatonic for hours. This time, she’s shrugged off their effects in minutes.
Or maybe I’m just fooling myself. Maybe I want it to be true so much that I’m just seeing what I want to believe.
“Did you hear me, Danek?” Naomi’s voice tugs me back to our conversation. “Rannzar invited us to dinner tonight.” She holds out a red envelope. “He handed me this. He must have forgotten I can’t read Zor. Or maybe he figured you’d read it to me.” She quirks an eyebrow. “According to Rannzar, this is a small, casual dinner. Just syn-made food, he said. A written invitation seems overkill, doesn’t it?”
I take the note from her and open it. The envelope bears the Cindifin seal on it, the green almost glowing against the red paper. “Rannzar is a ranked member of a High House,” I reply. “They wouldn’t know true informality if it hits them in the face. The gathering is casual, by High Empire standards.” I look up. “Did he mention how many people he’d invited?”
“Twenty.” Her expression brightens. “That's good, right? I figured you could sneak away at some point and see if there's anything in his office about a secret prison.”
Excitement is good. It banishes the dark shadows from her eyes.
“I doubt there's going to be anything in his office,” I tell her, smiling to rob the sting out of my words. “But you’re right, I should look anyway. It's not like I'm getting anywhere with my search.” I can’t keep the frustration from my voice. “The skimmers have a two-hour range. I’ve covered every bit of ground in a two-hour radius, and nothing.”
Plague chirps encouragingly, brushes against my legs, transferring most of her fur onto my pants in the process, and jumps into my lap. Naomi giggles at my expression. “Aww, look at that. She’s comforting you.”
I roll my eyes. “She’s showering me with affection so that I’ll give her sugar.”
Giggling is good too. Thank Caeron for the pets. Pumpkin, Plague, and Pestilence are a handful, leaving behind a trail of destruction in their wake, but there’s no doubt that their antics are good for Naomi. In the Rebellion, she was somber and quiet, weighed down by the ghosts of the past. Here, she laughs often.
Until you screwed it up with the klaxons.
“What time are we supposed to be there?”
I glance again at the invitation. “Six.”
“And it’s almost three now. How should I dress?”
“Formally.”
“Of course,” she comments wryly. “Will one of the dresses I bought at Xeni’s boutique work?”
She’d twirled when she tried on her dress, and the skirt had flared out in a circle around her. It had been the first time I’d seen her eyes dance with merriment. The first time I’d heard her laugh. It’s not the clothes I remember from that day. It’s the memory of her happiness I carry with me.
A lifetime of training comes to the fore. “Any of the floor length dresses you bought would work.”
She’d bought three. I’d hated one of them on sight. It had been a deep red, the color of human blood. It reminded me of how fragile and broken she’d been when I found her. There had been an open wound on her arm, blood clotted around it. It’s not a memory I wish to revisit. Especially not now. “Don’t wear the red one?”
I phrase it as a request. She gives me a curious look—it’s the first time I’m expressing an opinion about what she should or shouldn’t wear, and she has to be wondering why—and then she nods. “Okay. Do I have to do anything fancy with my hair?”
“No. This isn’t that formal an event.”
“If you say so. Okay, it’ll take me an hour to shower, change, and get ready, which means I have almost two hours to kill. That’s great. I can finish my book.” She smiles at me, but the shadows are back. “I’m not going to be able to go to dinner until I know how it ends.”
I would do anything to eradicate the shadows forever. “I can tell you how it ends,” I quip. “The same way the other fifty-three books have ended. Your protagonist will solve the murder, making the professional detectives look like fools. They’ll thank her for her help and threaten her at the same time, and Hallowtown will have a peaceful month before the next homicide shatters the calm.”
She laughs again. “For someone who refus
es to read them, you certainly know a lot about the plot.” She settles on the couch, tucking her legs under her, and pulls out her tablet. “I know what is going to happen. But how? That’s what I want to find out.”
I hand her the blanket before she can ask for it. Plague jumps off my lap in a huff, but as soon as Naomi tucks the blanket around her, she’s back up on the couch. Pumpkin claims her lap along with Pestilence, and Plague nestles right next to her, curls up in a bright pink ball of fluff, and promptly falls asleep.
She wants you to leave her alone, Danek. Take the damn hint.
I’ve attended formal dinners before. Not often. The Supreme Mother usually took First whenever one of us needed to make an appearance, thank Caeron. First enjoyed the dinners; he loved the politics and the backstabbing and the machinations of the Saaric.
Back in those days, when my presence was expected at one of these affairs, I would wear my uniform. A safety inspector, on the other hand, isn’t military, and would dress with more imagination. I survey the contents of my wardrobe, and reach for the only thing that’s ornate enough, a dark blue shirt with silver embroidery on the collar and the cuffs. It’s not exactly the height of fashion, but it’s the sort of thing that a safety inspector with a beautiful new bondmate might wear.
Then I wait for Naomi.
She emerges from the bedroom exactly on time, wearing the dress that had made her twirl. The long skirt is as dark as the night sky, shimmering with starlight. The top hugs her curves, pushing her breasts up and together, and leaving her shoulders bare. Her hair, which she typically wears in a braid, hangs in soft waves down her back. Her face is glowing, and her lips are the color of summer wine.
“You look glorious.” I rise to my feet, moving involuntarily toward her. “I’m not going to keep my hands off you tonight. Fuck the dinner, let's stay home instead. I want to peel that dress off you, bit by bit, exposing your skin—”
