Willa's Way

by Reagan Woods

  Commander Karvik was in charge of the Warrior operations aboard the Hope. He left the research strictly to Balcar, as was proper. Dorit, a Doranos Liaison to the High Council, was not a Warrior, and obviously believed his political appointment afforded him influence over the Warriors.

  “I find the idea of parading a self-aware humanoid around as though she were a curiosity disgusting.” Balcar knew he sounded judgmental, he simply didn’t care.

  Dorit was a nuisance. By all rights, the large contingent of non-Warrior Doranos should not even be travelling with General Darvan’s Armada. The civilian males were a liability, they served no purpose other than to muck up the works and eat through supplies.

  As the airlock protecting the lab opened, Balcar couldn’t believe the scene before him. Every non-Warrior Doranos aboard the Hope was in his lab. They were slapping and beating on the partitions he’d constructed Willa’s quarters from, screaming for her to show herself.

  Balcar roared his displeasure. He felt his adrenaline spike as he surged out of the decontaminator. Flying into the crowd of fifty or so Doranos, he began grabbing the smaller, untrained males and pitching them toward Cyron who, by now, had no doubt called for his Security Force.

  He caught sight of Willa’s cell and saw that there was a good sized hole in it. By everything sacred, if they’d killed his specimen, he would have Dorit’s head.

  Things got a little hazy for Balcar. He seldom had cause to utilize his hand-to-hand combat skills outside of the training room, but, the next thing he knew, he was holding Dorit’s pale face against the floor. With his foot.

  The rest of the Doranos were gone from the lab. Cyron came forward hesitantly, empty hands palms up. “Balcar, let me take him to the Commander,” he urged. “Go see what’s become of your Earther.”

  Balcar heard a scrape from Willa’s little room. Resting more of his weight on Dorit’s head than was strictly needed, Balcar let the other male wonder what he was going to do before stepping back.

  “Willa, are you well?” He called, poking his head through the hole in her wall.

  “I’m fine,” she answered, though she looked anything but fine. Her hazel eyes were as wide as saucers, and her face was ashen.

  He watched her approach the hole slowly, noting her unsteady gait and her white-knuckled grip on her canes. “I’ll file a complaint after we get this mess cleaned up,” he assured her.

  “Think we can find something a little sturdier to build with this time?” She gave him a shaky smile after surveying the damage to her quarters.

  “I’ll amp up the security levels for the main lab, as well,” Balcar promised.

  Chapter Three

  Three Months Later

  Aboard CORANOS Warship Trident

  “Mother, how nice to hear from you.” Tiron faced the holoscreen at an angle, sparing her the worst of his scars.

  Liania smoothed an elegant hand over her intricately coiffed, shiny brown hair. She was a handsome female and took great pride in her personal appearance.

  The seasoned warrior had always fancied her radiance was a canny tactical distraction, for, unlike his high-born father, his mother was a political animal. Daniron Rion, employed his mate’s abilities often in his work as the Governor of Cor II.

  He saw his beautiful mother steel herself to meet his eyes. She claimed that his injuries reminded her too vividly of the awful days and nights he struggled to survive after the Crescent blew up, sending thousands of his fellow warriors to an early grave.

  Tiron tried to see his survival as a blessing but it wasn’t easy. He carried burns over nearly seventy percent of his dermis. His rehabilitation had been mental and physical torture.

  “Greetings, Tiron,” she said warmly. “I have discussed your wish to abdicate your position as heir with your father…”

  “And?” Tiron prompted after a few moments of silence.

  “I am sorry, my son. We cannot allow such a thing.” She paused dramatically. “Beandra has reopened negotiations.” Liania appeared almost smug as she imparted the news.

  As things stood, Tiron would retire from Warrior Service and take up the Governorship of Cor II. He knew that his mother saw Beandra as a worthy successor to her role as the Governor’s mate. And as a potential asset to their family.

  “Mother, once Beandra broke our contract,” he spoke bitterly of his former betrothed, “you searched for years to find a female willing to live with this.”

  Turning his head, he revealed the twisted and roped chemical burns that disfigured half of his face. The physicians had managed to save part of his nose and had made him a new eyelid, but his mouth was twisted and bent, the muscles beneath the skin barely functional. The rest of his musculature had survived intact, but his skin was a ruin. No amount of coaxing could convince a female to bond with him, he was that hideous.

  “What has changed?” He asked suspiciously.

  “She asked that we renegotiate the bonding contract. Her new terms are…nontraditional.” She looked slightly unsure for a moment, but the confident façade she’d perfected slid quickly back into place.

  Tiron’s heart pounded in his chest. For a moment, he had hope that things could return to the way they’d once been. He could continue his upward movement in the Warrior ranks, retire to a peaceful Governorship and raise a family. But the hard look on his mother’s face made it clear that he wouldn’t appreciate the proposal.

  “What are her terms?” he asked with a long-suffering sigh. What was one more knife wound to his ego?

  “The good news is that you can be bonded as soon as you like. Beandra is willing to take a transport to your ship for the bonding post-haste.”

  “The Trident is no place for a Corian female.” Tiron could see no reason to encourage any of the rare females to take such a risk. The Trident was a warship, after all.

  “More good news,” Liania encouraged, smiling brightly. “After you consummate the bond, Beandra wants to come to your father and me on Cor II until you are prepared to retire. She would actually prefer it if you completed the entirety of your contract to the warrior service.”

  “That is unorthodox,” he agreed. Normally, a female would remain under her male’s protection once they’d executed a bonding contract.

  “Yes, she has a few other, minor conditions, as well.” His mother cleared her throat in discomfort. “She would like a guarantee that she would be required to engage in the sex act for the purposes of procreation only.”

  “What else is sex for?” Tiron asked, confused.

  “Tiron, she is willing to have one child, not the usual five, and she would like to be left strictly alone if you aren’t trying to breed her. Once she’s birthed your heir, her…physical obligations to you would be at an end,” his mother said softly.

  Tiron was speechless. In the days before his catastrophic injuries, he would have scathingly dismissed such an insulting proposal. Now, though, everything had changed.

  “Mother, I’d like some time to consider this,” he said quietly, his words catching with a painful burn in his throat, injured pride warring with his desire to carry out his duties to his family.

  “Of course. Please don’t tarry. A chance like this isn’t likely to come along again.” He could see that it pained her to remind him, however delicately.

  Tiron headed for the soni-shower once the conversation was over. His mother clearly expected him to be elated that she’d managed to re-engage Beandra’s interest after all this time. He was anything but happy about this new development.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Aboard CORANOS Research Vessel Hope

  Willa struggled mightily to keep pace, fighting against the instinct to brace her arms against the horizontal bars that ran the length of either side of the moving platform. An ocean of perspiration washed down her forehead from the effort, making her stretchy black clothes cling uncomfortably to her skin.

  She had a love-hate relationship with the hologym. Willa hated that the programs const
antly challenged every facet of her mobility, but she loved that she could see marked improvement.

  “You’re doing very well today, Willa,” a cheerful voice called from behind her.

  She knew it was Balcar, the alien doctor had become a close friend, her first in a long time, over these grueling months. The sneak would wait until she maneuvered to face him before telling her what he wanted, forcing her to test the emerging functions of her leg.

  “Hello, Balcar,” she panted, trying to blink the perspiration from her eyes, not wanting to loosen her death-grip on the handrails to swipe it away. “Did you come to take more tissue readings or to inject me with one of your crazy cocktails?”

  Once Balcar had decoded her DNA, he’d found what he referred to as programming for her congenital weakness. The thick injections of serum into her long-bones and spine had hurt ridiculously but they were working.

  Her hip had slowly responded to the uncomfortable brace she wore most of the day and to sleep, growing stronger and straightening into functional proportions. Best of all, the nightly spasms she used to experience occurred far less frequently.

  Balcar stood just over seven-and-a-half feet tall, and twice-daily warrior training kept him in amazing shape. His stretchy white top and flowing white pants didn’t leave much to the imagination, or, more importantly, any place to hide the tools of his trade.

  “Why can’t I just stop to chat?” he held out empty hands as proof before fully entering her small, rebuilt room.

  “Those injections are not my favorite thing.”

  “Good news, then,” he smiled. “You’re finished with the injections. From here, we’ll focus on strengthening and stretching your muscles into place.”

  “That’s going to be an uphill battle. I’m as weak as a newborn lamb.” Legs shaking, she ended the program and snatched up the new canes he’d fitted for her.

  Balcar had told her it would take seven years for the DNA changes to manifest completely. Of course, there was an easier option; she could elect to have her hip surgically altered. If she went the surgical route, she would have to have more neural reconditioning to learn how to use her dramatically altered limb.

  Seven more years of hard work and aching muscles seemed like a small price to be able to walk on her own. Reconditioning was all well and good for cognitive learning, but learning something as complex as everyday movement would exhaust her.

  Between the draining effects of her required lessons in the reconditioner and sleeping off the initial, agonizing bone pain, Willa had barely registered the time passing. She felt mildly guilty for focusing on her own well-being, instead of concerning herself with the state of Earth, but her worry wouldn’t change anything. Improving herself both mentally and physically, rather than struggling to survive, was amazing. She dreaded going back to the surface.

  “You’ll get stronger,” he encouraged, oblivious to her thoughts. “You’re also advancing quite nicely through the reconditioner.”

  “I know I still have problems with grammar,” she replied, flushing in embarrassment.

  “No, Willa, your language skills have progressed at the prescribed rate. Everyone in the lab understands you. You should take meals in the commissary,” he urged gently. “You’d have more opportunity for interaction and practice. I promise it is safe.”

  Willa shifted her canes restlessly, searching for a graceful way to end the conversation. Banished to the surface weeks ago, Dorit and his ilk no longer posed a threat to her safety, but she still didn’t want to venture beyond the lab walls.

  “I’ll think about it.” She gave him the same answer she gave every time he prodded her to venture out.

  “You know everyone on this ship thinks I’ve locked you up in here, don’t you?” He gave her a woebegone look.

  “I appreciate that you keep them from coming in and staring at me like an animal in a zoo,” she chuckled at his pitiful expression, gently nudging him toward the door leading out to the pristine white lab.

  Balcar took the hint, grumbling good naturedly.

  She watched him walk away, shaking his head.

  Chapter Four

  Aboard CORANOS Warship Trident

  “She wants you to agree to what?” Vank spat the words across the small dining table, nearly choking on his rikke.

  “That’s not all. She doesn’t want to live with me. Beandra would prefer I complete my entire contract with the warriors. She’s happy to stay with my mother and father on Cor II.” Tiron felt his mouth twist bitterly, a burning lump in his throat. He quickly took a gulp of the dry, fermented alcohol his friend, Councilor Darkan, had smuggled to him with the last supply shipment.

  “What will you do?” Vank’s eyes met Tiron’s directly as he took a slow, deliberate sip from his glass.

  Vank and his brothers, Tiron’s cousins, hadn’t treated him any differently after the accident. But they knew Beandra had undone him when she refused to bond with him.

  Tiron and Vank had spoken at length about Tiron’s limited options. Vank was steadfastly against Tiron giving up his birthright, but, other than swallowing his pride and bonding with Beandra, there weren’t any other solutions for continuing his family line.

  “I don’t know.” Tiron looked around his bland, utilitarian cabin, not really seeing the beige and brown tones. Instead, he saw the faces of his brother warriors who’d perished in that fiery burst aboard the Crescent all those years ago.

  Should he, the only survivor of sound enough body and mind to return to his career, really hesitate at Beandra’s offer? True, the situation was less than ideal, but he was still the first-born of his line. He still had the right to pursue a mate while most Corians would never have that honor. After all, Corian females only made up one-fifth of their population.

  If nothing else, he would be able to take comfort in knowing he’d done his duty to his family. He would live to see his son grow and mature, continuing his name.

  “I’ll lead Track Team One on a surface deployment tomorrow,” Vank changed the subject, yanking Tiron from his brooding.

  “The general,” Tiron referred to Vank’s eldest brother, Darvan, “said that he was sending the Track Teams down now that the Collection Teams have completed their task.”

  “I think conducting the census was more work than collecting the Earthers,” Vank said with a sardonic laugh.

  They were all bored and antsy. Tiron envied Vank’s surface deployment and the reprieve from the confinements of ship life. Not to mention the fact that the other male was getting a working vacation from the barely contained aggression aboard the warships.

  “Who have you turned over command of the Horizon to?” Tiron asked.

  Tiron was Warrior in Command of the Trident while Vank commanded the Horizon. Vank, though he projected a good natured affability, was the epitome of the aggressive warrior. He thrived on field work and had a hand-picked team that he was leading up through the ranks of warriors. Tiron didn’t doubt that Vank would be next in line for the vaunted Galactic General promotion.

  “Ziroc,” Vank said easily. “He needs the experience of commanding a ship, even if it is a half-empty one.”

  “I think I know him,” Tiron nodded. “He was a few years behind us at the Academy? From III or IV, right?” He referred to the numbered planets in the Corian Galaxy.

  “That’s the one. I’ve added another motivated up-and-comer from III to my Track Team. His name is Calyx. The kid is green but he’s got drive.” Approval and satisfaction laced Vank’s voice.

  Vank loved a good battle, Tiron knew, but his comrade excelled at finding the right warrior for each position. General Darvan, the youngest Galactic General ever to hold the title, was known as a military strategist of unparalleled genius. Tiron agreed with that assessment but silently acknowledged that Darvan wouldn’t be free to strategize if it weren’t for his little brother’s knack with the enlisted warriors. The brothers were a good team.

  “I think you should wait until Earth is hande
d off to a CORANOS Governor before you make Beandra a counter-offer,” Vank said seriously, rising to leave.

  “What makes you think I have any bargaining power?” Tiron was surprised that the other male brought the matter up again.

  “I have the feeling that you will soon,” Vank said with an easy shrug, turning for the door. “Take my advice. Wait.”

  Tiron had always viewed himself as a male of action, not someone who sat around waiting on the universe to drop favors in his lap. So far, the universe had set him up only to knock him down.

  Now, his mother’s insistence on hasty action was pressurizing this possible bonding contract. Tiron hated to think what his life would be like with two high-handed females. At least, he knew his mother loved him, but Beandra had abandoned him in his time of need. She deserved to wait while he sorted his thoughts out.

  “Maybe I will, at that.” Tiron waved Vank off before pouring another drink.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Two Weeks Later

  Aboard CORANOS Research Vessel Hope

  The decontamination chamber cycled on. Willa double-checked the light-emitting crystals set in the wall to mimic the 28 hour Corian light cycle, afraid she’d fallen behind her self-imposed schedule. Balcar was very early this morning.

  “Willa?” his deep voice called.

  “I’m back here.” She waved from the doorway of the cozy staff break room where she was finishing her breakfast, or first meal, as she’d learned to call it.

  Willa was more comfortable exploring the evolving boundaries of her physical abilities when she had the lab to herself. Several nights ago, late during the ship’s sleep cycle, she’d made a new discovery. If she tightened her leg and hip braces just so, she could navigate straight lines without using her canes for balance.

  She was by no means fast and still required the canes for pivoting but she felt more confident and strong. It would be far into the future, if ever, before she was able to function without those mobility aides, but she was thrilled with her progress.