by C. Gockel
Erelah’s teammates pressed closer, all talking at once. It was a victory for them.
She held up her hands, beseeching their attention, having to raise her voice to be heard over them.
“I know this is exciting. But we can’t get ahead of ourselves here,” Erelah cautioned.
Adan groaned. “Spoil it, why don’t you?”
This encouraged a few chuckles.
She grinned. “You know as well as I do, Mr. Titus, that we have much data to analyze before we call today an absolute success.”
There was still the very significant issue of the subspace instability for creating an artificial flex point near active velo drives, the design still employed by the vast majority of Fleet’s carriers.
As the small group broke up, returning to their consoles, the excited murmur continued. Adan remained at her elbow.
“There seems to be the small matter of a wager that needs collecting,” he said, leaning closer still.
It was a risk on his part, his open fraternizing in front of his crew. He was like no other Erelah had met before. Adan was refreshing, alive with an irreverence that, at times, flirted with dangerousness. He was a very rare commodity in this environment.
“No clue what you’re talking about,” Erelah sighed dramatically, switching to High Eugenes, playing into his performance.
She affected a haughty lift to her chin. It was a game they sometimes enjoyed. Erelah as the Kindred lady and he the ardent courtier. Like something from the old holo-vids of courtly life during the times of the great Expanse. They continued this performance in unspoken agreement, each attempting to outdo the other.
“I believe, my lady, I owe you dinner,” Adan answered in the same stilted language. He stooped into a low bow. Before she could pull away, he kissed the back of her hand.
Erelah laughed, pulling her hand free of his before any of the others noticed. Not that it would matter. Even if they were not preoccupied with today’s success, they had long turned a blind eye to the game Adan and she played.
Not long ago Adan had made her a wager that the Jocosta would not be successful with new alignment to the resonators. Something he knew was improbable. He chose the losing end of a bet on purpose. And now he expected Erelah to collect on it.
“All right.” She sighed, feigning resignation. “If I must, Mr. Titus. But on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“Stop calling me ‘Lady’.”
Adan burst out laughing. “Agreed, your worship.”
“How does a Last Daughter find her way all the way to NeuTech, of all places?”
Adan grinned at her across the empty plates and half-full glasses of very dull wine. Twice he had poured a clear amber liquid into his glass from a flask he secreted from an inside pocket of his neat black tunic. Each time, Erelah turned down the proffered anonymous drink, so he drank it himself. As a consequence, Adan’s grin broadened more and more on his flushed face. One of them should be able to walk a straight line after dinner, she reasoned.
“How indeed, Adan,” Erelah replied. “I was too old for Fleet school, so I petitioned to be a civilian consultant instead.”
“A surprising choice,” he observed. “I would have thought certainly a political course would have suited one of your pedigree.”
“Not much of a choice, really. I am the Last Daughter of a Kindred with nothing left to offer but a name, a marred one at that. As you might imagine, it would limit one’s options.”
“A pity. But our gain, then…”
“Mine as well. Or so I tell myself.” She flashed a thin smile. “When I was little I wanted to study conduit travel at one of the Fleet training facilities in Origin. Of course, my uncle would not allow it.”
“Helio Veradin,” he nodded. “He was quite the figure…or so I’ve read.”
Erelah sat taller in her chair, puffing out her chest in an imitation of her uncle. She pulled her mouth into a frown and furrowed her brows. Her voice deepened with a rolling High Eugenes accent.
“‘Erelah, a young woman of your position does not have the luxury of choice. You are a gift of Miri. One that should not be wasted on their machines of war and subjugation.’”
“He called you that: a gift of Miri?” Adan chuckled.
Erelah ducked her head, feeling her face grow hot. Perhaps the weak wine had been too much for her. She was unused to it.
“Uncle wanted me to be a Temple priestess, join the Order of Miri. And he always got his way, but he did permit me to study my other interests in private.”
“A priestess?” Adan raised an eyebrow.
She nodded.
What other choice did she have in the end, when Uncle passed? This, or the cloister school at Acryia and being joined to the Order of Miri. Jonvenlish was an officer of the Regime; he was off on the fringes of the Known Worlds, commanding troops and living on a carrier. He had no means to support or shelter her. Even the Kindred who had once called her family an ally had seemed to evaporate the moment Helio Veradin died.
Even before she and Jonvenlish became his wards, Helio’s outspoken political views were considered unpopular and controversial. He routinely decried the exploitation of breeders for combat use and dangerous labor and rallied for their equal treatment. Ultimately, he and other like-minded Kindred were sanctioned by the Council of First, stripped of territories and titles that were not protected by inheritance laws.
Intended for a life in the temples, Erelah had been left very little as inheritance. There was nothing to present her as a lucrative match for a mate, even if there had been another Kindred willing to wed her, a peasant member of the elite, to one of their offspring. Erelah was, then, the Last Daughter of Veradin. When she was younger and taken by the romantic, it was a title she thought of as sad and poetic, like a lost cause. Only now, she realized how apt that notion was.
With Helio Veradin’s death, Erelah had become a ward of the Council of First, which readily reclaimed the estates on Argos, her home for as long as she could remember. And now, she existed at the whim of First.
Although she did not possess the might and prowess of her brother, she did hold some value. Her intellect was recognized immediately at the intake center. And, after a laughably short period of training, Fleet had slapped an honorary consultancy title on her and trundled her off to tech division. Within two years, she had been shipped again, like cargo—important cargo, but a possession nonetheless—to NeuTech.
“Perhaps you can offer a benediction for the next test flight,” Adan offered.
Erelah rolled her eyes.
“I notice that you have not had your eye color corrected. Daring choice.”
She stiffened slightly.
“I’ve embarrassed you. Apologies.”
“It’s nothing.”
In her childhood, the light green hue of her eyes was the subject of despair, as she suffered the taunts of the few other Kindred children she encountered. Erelah and Jonvenlish were born of favored servants that had died when the hard fevers struck Argos. Although they were raised in a life of modest privilege, to Erelah her green eyes were a reminder that she did not fit in. Sometimes she would pray to Miri for her eyes to be the rich, deep brown that was considered “correct” among the high-born Eugenes. Her brother had been lucky in that regard. It meant you came from good stock. A pure bloodline. It meant you belonged.
“Certainly your family would have had this remedied,” Adan said. “I understand the capital cities in Origin have some of the best genetics designers.”
“Genetic manipulation is forbidden. ‘To alter one’s body for vanity is an affront to the Fates,’” Erelah recited, defensively. She winced, suddenly realizing how much a zealot it made her sound when she saw the odd expression on Adan’s face.
“My uncle raised us in the beliefs of the Order of Miri,” Erelah added, apologetically.
“I see.” Adan sobered. He cleared his throat and pulled another too-wide smile at her. “Let’s talk about more
cheerful things then. Shall we?”
“Yes, let’s.” She grinned. Forgiving him was easy. The giddy high from the success with the Jocosta that morning still had her head spinning deliciously. The awkwardness of the exchange did little to deflate it.
The vox device affixed to Erelah’s lapel chimed, then:
“Consultant Veradin, you must come to the flight lab at once.”
“For the love of the Fates, this had better be good,” Adan groused, gulping the last of his wine.
Erelah recognized the voice of Tilley, her assistant. The girl sounded rattled. Impressive, as techs were seldom prone to displays of emotion.
“What is it?” Erelah replied.
“They’re taking everything, ma’am.”
Erelah locked eyes with Adan across the table.
“Tilley, who are they ?
“Ravstar.”
Chapter Ten
Erelah rounded the corner to the flight lab, Adan a half-step behind. What chaos she had imagined on the brief walk over did little to prepare her for the all-out cannibalization that greeted her. Myrna, one of the team’s two other civilian consultants, stood off to the side, her arms crossed. There was no sign of the remaining four team members.
Tilley’s small pale face was pinched with distress beneath her tightly clipped hair. The waif-like girl rushed up to Erelah, speaking quickly. “I am not authorized to stop them, Consultant Veradin. My apologies.”
Erelah glanced at the young tech’s frightened expression and turned to regard the lab. “It’s alright. I’ll find out what’s happening.”
A flock of technicians, jumpsuits emblazoned with the unmistakable bright red Ravstar icon high on their sleeves, had infested the lab. As one pulled dataclips from a compbank, another physically removed the circuit boards. One unceremoniously dumped highly sensitive calibration equipment into a crate.
“What in Miri’s name are you doing?” Erelah called out.
When none of the techs acknowledged her, she glanced at Adan. His buoyant personality was now gone. Any giddiness from dinner evaporated. His face pinched with anger. But, oddly, he said nothing.
“I’m talking to you.”
Erelah grabbed the elbow of the closest tech. The young man frowned down at her hand and then up at her as if she bore some type of contaminant. She realized she had never seen this technician before.
“Orders. All project materials are to be removed.”
He pulled his arm from her grasp and returned to his task.
“What order? This wasn’t cleared by me. Who gave it?” she demanded, pursuing him as closely as she dared. This tech did not resemble the meek, subservient variety that she often encountered on the NeuTech base. He was tall, firmly built and vaguely hostile.
“Erelah. Leave it alone.” Adan put a hand on her elbow. There was an odd caution to his voice.
Leave it alone? How could he say that?
They were ripping apart two years of careful, intense work after their team’s undeniable success this morning. How could he not be furious as well? It made no sense. She turned back to the tech, anger refreshed.
“Who gave the order?” Erelah asked, barring the nameless tech’s way, a move she would not ordinarily consider, but at least he stopped.
“You know who. Defensor Tristic.”
The tech sidestepped her and returned to his task without a second glance.
“Defensor Tristic?”
There was no reply.
Adan tugged her back to the door. He leaned in against her. “It’s not worth it. Not when she’s involved.”
Adan’s features pulled into pensive, worried lines.
“You can’t be serious.”
Not Adan, too. He couldn’t possibly buy into the tall tales about the seldom-seen commander of Ravstar, the overseeing division of NeuTech. As far as Erelah was concerned, Defensor Tristic was a rubber-stamped name on reports and communications. For all she cared or knew, she was some detached bureaucrat that seldom took an interest in under-resourced projects at the frayed edges of nowhere—like their installation.
She had heard the stories when she first came to the station: Tristic was a Sceeloid half-breed, functioning with seeming impunity on behalf of the Council of First. But she had always thought they were just that, stories. Now, something in Adan’s expression told her otherwise.
“This is ridiculous,” Erelah said. “Tristic has no right to come in and just take what’s ours.”
“She does. And she can.” He shook his head. “It never belonged to us, Erelah. This all belongs to NeuTech. NeuTech belongs to Ravstar. Ravstar has the final word.”
“Truly? And I’m also to believe children’s tales about some Sceeloid mongrel—”
“Quiet!” Adan pushed her into the corridor. Surprised, she stumbled against the wall.
He shut the door to the lab. “Be careful, Erelah!”
“Careful?”
“Tristic has eyes and ears everywhere,” he hissed.
“You’re serious?”
Adan leaned against the jamb, arms folded as he focused on a point on the wall.
“This has to be a mistake. We just had a breakthrough.” Erelah planted her hands on her hips. Her brain worked through options and scenarios as she paced. There had to be some logical explanation behind this.
“There is no mistake when Tristic is involved. The whole reason they’re here is because of the Jocosta ’s success today,” he replied, flatly.
She stopped, mid-pace. “How’d she even find out?”
Adan squirmed, turning the motion into a shrug. He sounded as if he were reading a contract:
“All project records are subject to review.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Erelah stared at him. The tiny hairs stood up on her arms.
“This wasn’t meant to happen like this. Myrna wasn’t even supposed to be in the bloody lab. They would have seized the records and equipment. And we would have moved on to the next project.”
“You told Tristic! Why? You knew we still had more work to do. There’s the velo field instability, the possibility of chrono-slip. Any one of a thousand things could still go wrong—”
“Ravstar expects results. That’s how this works, Erelah,” said Adan. “This isn’t one of your damned Kindred society functions. There are no polite rules. Defensor Tristic isn’t some functionary with an empty title.”
“Someone has to go to the Defensor. This is ridiculous. She has to understand that this is a mistake. That we need more time.”
Adan gave a curt laugh. “A novel idea.”
“I’ll go. Tonight, before they destroy the whole lab,” Erelah said. “Come with me.”
“You don’t get how this works.” He gaped at her. “Your uncle really did lock you away from the Worlds, didn’t he? This is no place for a naive girl. You should have gone off to the convent, little priestess. It would have been far safer for you to stay on Argos.”
Erelah glared at him. Oh, Uncle. How right you were about these people.
“Perhaps you are right, Adan,” she replied, lifting her chin. “This is not my place, but it’s the life I have chosen. And this is the right thing to do.”
Drawing her shoulders back, she turned on her heel. Despite her movements, a vague tremor began in her knees. It was as if Adan’s apprehension were contagious.
She was already striding to the level riser when Adan rushed to catch up.
“Erelah, stop! You don’t know what you’re doing. Don’t confront Tristic.”
“I’m simply going to talk to her. Try to make her understand.”
She held his gaze. As if on a dare, she pressed the button, calling for the command tier. The doors opened promptly.
“Erelah. I’m begging you. Don’t.” He put a hand inside the closing door, trying to bar the lift from leaving.
“I’ll come right back.” Gently, but firmly, she removed his hand from the doorframe. “Promise.”
The doors closed.
Erelah never saw Adan Titus again.
“Wait here.”
That was all the pinched-faced attendant said before disappearing into the darker recesses of the command tier. The entire level apparently belonged to Tristic. An opulent allowance for anyone with the rank of Defensor.
As she stood there, Erelah resisted the urge to tug at the cuffs of her jacket. The high collar pinched at the neck. The material was too new. Smelling of synthetic materials and esters, it itched fiercely.
She was awful at waiting. Even as a child she would fidget and sway on her feet and think of the endless tick of seconds that she could be using elsewhere.
Count to ten. Breathe. Just like Uncle used to teach us.
Uncle had warned us, hadn’t he?
She had been unprepared for the bureaucracy of NeuTech, but not entirely surprised, considering Uncle’s long-winded rants during supper in the great echoing hall of their home. His tirades had worsened when Jon ran away to join the Regime. Her brother’s departure seemed to weaken the towering Helio Veradin. His ensuing illness was little surprise to Erelah or to the servants that remained.
That was long ago. And Tristic was not Uncle, although probably just as aloof and secluded.
The stories claimed Tristic was the product of experimentation from a time before genetics tampering was commonplace. To further understand and control the enemy Sceeloid, hybridization experiments were sanctioned with Eugenes subjects. And as the only success, Tristic had been permitted to live. However, seeing a hybrid rise to the title of Defensor was impressive and a clear testament to this odd being’s talents. The gossip claimed she was nearly preternaturally intelligent and, understandably, fixated in her hatred of the Sceeloid.
They say she can read your mind. See the color of your emotions. She knows truth from lies by just gazing upon you…
