by Viki Storm
He’s not the only one who thinks that way. My own father was disappointed when I returned from my Proving carrying Dark Chalice instead of a particle blaster or spiked cudgel. I’m used to other males not being able to understand my work. Warriors aren’t supposed to use a scrap of paper and a worn-down nub of a pencil to take down an enemy.
Distilling poisons is only one of my skills. The right chemicals, the right proportions—why, you can do anything. It’s like magic, except it’s not. It’s just science.
To be fair though, I do my fair share of bonking with big sticks. I’m a named warrior of Virix. I didn’t sit in the laboratory while my brothers were sparring—I was out there with them, training my body to be the ultimate weapon.
I set my calculations aside, eyes blurry from the work. I’ve been at the hangar all day; it’s time to go home. I stand up and stretch, working the stiffness out of my shoulders. On my forearm there’s a smudge of something red that I almost mistake for blood. Then I remember it’s mashed berries.
Vela roped me into watching the baby for a little while today—though, honestly, she didn’t have to do much pleading. It was fun to tote the little bastard around. He hates being carried though. All he wanted to do was crawl around and pick stuff up and cram it into his mouth. I thought he was hungry so I tried to feed him some berries that I smashed up with a spoon. He wrenched the spoon out of my hand, flinging the red puree all over the place, then dropped it on the floor.
When Vela and Auvok came back to get him, they were laughing and giving each other deep, meaningful looks. Probably just got done making Baby Number Two. She’s beautiful, despite the grotesque scar on her head. She could get it repaired, but chooses not to. Females are hard to understand. I’m happy for Auvok, I really am. Who would have thought that any of us exiled warriors would find his fated mate?
I scrape off the dried smudge of berries and think again of the baby. Babies are weird, that’s for sure. It’s hard to believe that everyone walking around was once a baby, shitting in their pants and trying to eat clumps of dust off of the floor.
I’m at the door, ready to arm the security system, when a figure strides inside so fast he’s nothing but a grey blur.
Then I see that he’s actually a Grey blur. He’s a Grey. Tall, lank, with a big head and oily black eyes. Don’t see too many of them around this galaxy.
“Can I help you?” I say. It’s a great effort to repress my first instinct which is to ask what the fuck he’s doing here.
“I was told that this is a mercenary guild,” he says. Void I hate the way these Greys talk. Their necks are long, the vocal folds pulled taut, and every word is a high-pitched keen, like the wailing of a grief-stricken female.
“Of sorts,” I say. “You need a job done?” I ask.
A skinny arm reaches towards me, long fingers grab my forehead. A quick zap pulses inside my head, then it’s gone.
“For the love of the Black,” I say, “Do that again and I’ll snap off those creepy fingers of yours.”
“Yav,” he says. “Exiled for the last ten orbits. A competent chemist. Son of Xeos, the Virixian—”
“You got my whole life story,” I say. The fucking Greys. They have telepathy powers, but they have to touch you. I don't even try to repress a shudder. I can still feel tingly heat where his fingertips pressed against my forehead. “You do realize that everyone else in the damned Universe gets pissed off when you intrude like that.”
He just looks at me. “You are the one.”
“I can’t take a job right now,” I say. The Greys are so damned cocky. I guess that’s to be expected when you’re the smartest race in the Universe, but it’s still annoying.
“Yes you will,” he says. He reaches into his waist-pouch and takes out a photograph. A real photo, not just a pic on his comm-panel. He hands it to me.
I look at it for a long time, unable to believe what I’m seeing.
Shit. He’s right.
I am going to take this job.
The End
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