by Rhonda Mason
Kayla suddenly didn’t know how to reach her il’haar. Their bond felt broken, unrepairable, and that could be fatal for both of them. Should she push? He’d only barely been freed from capture. Maybe his mental state was exactly where it should be. Or maybe his imprisonment had been so brutal, he’d never come back to himself. The thought left her cold. The only thing she knew to do in this moment was handle the task ahead of her.
She hefted the torch in her left hand, careful to keep the strain off of her still sore right arm. “Do you want to start at this end and I’ll begin at the other?”
Vayne glanced from her to the torch, to the length of corridor stretching out behind her. He shook his head. “It’ll go faster together.”
It seemed to her it would go about the same, or slower, even, if they got in each other’s way. But she would prefer to keep her il’haar in sight, and his determined expression said he felt the same. They fell in step without another word, footfalls synched as they strode down the corridor to the far end. The effortless pairing beat back some of her fears. Perhaps things were not as strained as they seemed. Maybe she—
“This way I can protect you.” Vayne’s words cut through her. Not, ‘so we can protect each other.’ No. So he could protect her.
Again her disability separated them.
“I can take care of myself.” But she couldn’t. Not against a psionic with enough sanity left—or pure instincts—to attack telekinetically.
Vayne didn’t voice anything further. He didn’t have to. She was handicapped in the eyes of her people. It was only that she’d lived so long among imperials, she’d forgotten how damaged she was.
They arrived at the corridor’s end and inspected the vents there. The one on her side remained sealed, all sixteen bolts firmly tightened. Vayne’s, though… A single bolt remained in the upper left corner as a pivot point.
Her brothers had been sleeping unsecured for how long? Blood rage surged, fueled by fear. They could have been killed, both of them. They had left Falanar supposedly safe with the Ilmenans and instead she could have lost them forever.
Vayne laid a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll fix it.” The heavy glove grounded her, bringing her back to the moment. Her il’haars were safe, or would be, once they secured this level. Still, it took an effort to release her anger—anger at the captain for allowing the stepa at es to run free, at the stepa for existing in the first place, at the circumstances that endangered her brothers. She gripped her torch tight and began counting her breathing, timing it to slow her down.
She was here now, and she would keep them safe.
Vayne knelt in front of the compromised vent, fired up his torch, and began welding the grate to the corridor wall. Kayla, emotions under control again, did the same on her side. The torch had its own light spectrum filter built in, and the gloves shielded her from any residual heat. Acrid gases escaping from the molten molychromium penetrated the corridor as they worked.
::Are you almost done, Kay?:: Corinth asked. He brushed against her mind, asking for entrance. Kayla took a second to lock away all her fears about his safety, the reality of their situation, the extent of the dangers they faced, and the heartbreaking rift between her and Vayne. When her mind was serene, at least on the surface, she lowered her outer mental shields and allowed Corinth to slip into her mind so that he could hear her thought voice.
::I need to get back to the engine room.::
You’re supposed to be resting, she answered.
::With all that’s going on?::
At least try.
::Did you really have to lock me in here? After you decided I was safe?::
You’re safe because I locked you in there.
::I don’t want to sleep, I can help.:: His restlessness bled through the link to her. He was excited by the danger, wanted to be part of it.
Kids.
::I am not a kid!::
You most certainly are. You might as well resign yourself to sleeping. Securing these few levels is going to take most of the night, and you’re not going anywhere until it’s finished.
::But—::
Il’haars do not argue with their ro’haars when it comes to safety, mister.
He was quiet a moment. She felt the subtle shift in him, a vague mix of disappointment, disgruntlement, and dismay.
::You’re not my ro’haar anymore, are you? You’re Vayne’s now.::
Her heart broke for the loss in his psi voice, the loneliness.
No one will ever take me away from you. I am your ro’haar for life. But she knew her twin needed her so much more right now. All her energies were focused on Vayne, and it was a challenge to shield that truth from Corinth.
Plus you have the octet. You know they all love you. He was still so young, so in need of a place to belong. Sleep now and let me work. I’ll wake you when it’s safe to go back to the engine room.
His mental sigh came through loud and clear. ::All right, Kay. And… Be careful.::
He slipped away, but not before she felt his frustration at being locked in, at the weak state of his psi powers. He wanted to be the one protecting her, instead of Vayne, and it chafed him to admit, even to himself, that he couldn’t.
He was growing up too quickly.
Kayla finished with her grate and thumbed off the torch. Corinth had passed the awareness on to her of Vayne holding a psi shield around them. “You’re going to wear yourself out if you keep the shield up all night,” she said to Vayne.
He finished welding his grate shut, and then stood. “Just a precaution.” Despite the “just,” it was clear he was in deadly earnest.
“Save it for when the trouble starts.” She might not have her psionic sense, but she knew her il’haar well enough to know he’d been shielding her the entire time—probably since Fengrathen was first sighted. “When I’ll really need it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She also knew Vayne well enough to know that he wouldn’t risk her safety, despite her orders. The shielding was his way of expressing love. She could only hope that he understood the plasma bullpup she had slung over her shoulder was her answer in kind.
Vayne’s expression changed, something dark clouding his features as he withdrew inside himself.
“Hey,” she said. “Where are you going?”
“We’ve more vents to seal,” he answered. He started walking down the corridor and she automatically fell into step beside him.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” He didn’t deny it—admission enough that he had pulled away from her mentally. These things between them, the losses and experiences of five years apart, ate her up.
They stopped in front of the next vent, she staring at him, he avoiding eye contact. She took it as a good sign that he at least hadn’t turned away.
“Talk to me, Vayne.” She pushed her protective glasses up on her head, and after a moment he did the same.
Still he refused to look at her. She held her ground, unrelenting, demanding a response.
“What is there to say?” he finally asked.
“Besides the obvious?”
He shook his head once, hard—a sharp refusal.
“We’re going to have to talk about it some time.”
“I said no,” he snapped, turning to face her. His free hand clenched until his knuckles turned white, as if he could physically force the subject away.
“If you won’t talk about what you went through, at least tell me how you’re feeling.” Based on his current expression, “tortured” came to mind. She’d seen caged animals looking less confrontational.
She left the subject of his imprisonment behind for the moment. “Why is Noar handling Corinth’s psionic training?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“And Noar hasn’t, with his work on the engines?”
Vayne set his torch down, then crossed his arms in front of his chest, bulky gloves making an excellent shield.
“I gather that Noar is a strong psionic, b
ut there’s no way he compares to your power or finesse.”
Kayla set her own torch down. He knew it had been her express wish that he handle Corinth’s training. She’d said as much in the safehouse after they’d killed Dolan. “He hero worships you, Vayne.”
“Not anymore. Now he hero worships you. I think the kid wants to be a ro’haar when he grows up.”
The kid. Years ago, Corinth had been Vayne’s shadow whenever his twin was busy training with the other ro’haars. He’d spent hours of every day in silent awe of his older brother, so close he apparently made Vayne claustrophobic at times, and now Corinth was just “the kid” to Vayne?
“Is five years such an eternity?”
Vayne’s aqua gaze, so intense, so chaotic, pinned her in place. “Those five years are a void beyond your imaginings.” His voice was pure emotion.
She wanted to reach out, to bridge the chasm between them in any way possible. “I’m trying to understand.”
“You never will.” Such finality. Would those years forever separate them?
He held himself stiffly but vibrated energy, as if his experiences were trying to burst through his skin and it was all he could do to lock them inside.
“Vayne…”
“Don’t.” His arms tightened around his chest.
Everything was so frutted up.
It wasn’t in her to give up, though. She would fight her way back, she would fight him to regain their connection. She wasn’t sure she could live without it.
“What about you?” Vayne challenged. “You haven’t said a word about your years in hiding, your life as an imperial citizen.”
Because it is too painful to tell you I moved on without you. That I lived free while you died a little more each day.
Still, it was a fair accusation. “What do you want to know?”
“The octet leader.” The words came too quickly—this had clearly been on his mind.
Her face flashed hot. “Malkor? What about him?” And why did she already feel defensive?
“Your relationship. Do you really care for him?” It was clear from his tone that he thought such a thing impossible.
“I—I love him,” she forced herself to say, the words awkward in the face of Vayne’s obvious disapproval. “I do.” And she did, more than she ever thought herself capable of. So why did she feel almost embarrassed at the admission?
Vayne turned away. “They’re going to need help securing the path from the commissary to the engine room. Most of that section isn’t powered and the lifts are down.” He knelt by the grate and took up his torch. “Let’s get this done.”
Kayla knelt beside him and started welding from the opposite corner.
She’d meet him in the middle.
5
VANKIR CITY, ORDOCH—UNDER IMPERIAL CONTROL
Midnight in Ordoch’s capital. Mishe lay on his side, body aching, wrapped in the embrace of Symina Aretes, major general of the Imperial Army and division leader of the imperial troops stationed in Vankir. She slept hard, but even in sleep she gathered him close as if he were precious to her.
And why not? He was hers. Her kept man, though she preferred to call him her boy. Compared to a strong imperial military woman, his size was diminutive. His features were finer, more delicately wrought then those of the average imperial male, and he looked younger than his age—a fact that made whoring himself to the imperials that much easier.
All for the sake of the rebellion, he thought cynically. At least he’d slept his way to the top of the occupation forces. And over the years, he’d gathered valuable intel from soldiers who had no idea how to shield their thoughts from him. The number of secrets he could glean from a well-sated man or woman in the afterglow was staggering.
Now he was Major General Aretes’s “boy”—part frutt toy, part cherished confidant. One of those parts was valuable; one eroded his soul. Prostituting himself night after night to one anonymous face after the other he could handle—barely. But this permanent arrangement, pretending to form an attachment…
Is this how you felt, Cinni, once you executed your mother? Did it eat at you night after night, until you thought you would go mad from it, until the scream building inside you threatened to burst free and never stop?
No way to know, now. Cinni—his best friend—had been dead for weeks. She’d taken her own life in a drug-infused storm of self-loathing and despair. She hadn’t been pressured into executing her mother. She’d volunteered for the job, knowing that with her knowledge and skillset she had the highest chance of success. In the same way no one had asked Mishe to whore for the rebellion. He had simply known that while he wasn’t soldier material, his youth, diminutive size, and exquisite Wyrd looks made him the perfect sex worker for the imperials. The problem wasn’t the whoring—sex work was a valued and protected vocation on Ordoch. No one really gave a damn who slept with who, and society recognized that sex drove everyone. The shame came from servicing his enemy.
It was his price for freedom. Now all he had to do was survive paying it.
Symina finally relinquished her hold on him and rolled over, still asleep. It wouldn’t last long. Her softer side came out once her lust had been exhausted. Even unconscious, she would want to snuggle close.
Time to move.
His aching body protested as he rose from the bed and dressed. The muscles of his shoulders stung from the extreme extension she’d employed in her bondage play. He had rope burns on his wrists and ankles—she loved to watch him struggle futilely to free himself—and welts on his thighs and buttocks from her work with a paddle and her beloved riding crop.
If pain got him off, if games of submission and domination fueled his fire, Symina would be the perfect lover. She was generous, inventive, and tireless, always demanding more from him, and giving more in return. They’d passed out after their last round of sex, but if Mishe stuck around, Symina would care for him in the morning. She’d rub salve into his welts, use a medstick on his tender, rope-burned skin, and draw a hot bath for his aching body to soak in.
Somewhere out there a submissive was missing the time of their life.
Staring down at her sleep-softened features, Mishe felt only one thing: the need to shove a stylus through her eye and straight into her brain. He didn’t give a damn about her sexual proclivities, and it wasn’t her fault he faked his way through it all. But he sure as frutt hated the living shit out of her for her continuing role in the subjugation of his planet. Her death couldn’t come soon enough.
And it was going to come by his hands.
Mishe pushed tantalizing thoughts of revenge out of his mind, grabbed his credentials, and left the sleeping quarters. The credentials were his right as Symina’s kept boy. He’d convinced her of his need to visit his “family” beyond the fortifications that ringed the capital city, and she’d gifted him with an ID that allowed him to come and go freely from Vankir.
The fact that his “family” was a band of rebels who plotted her demise didn’t need to be mentioned.
It was an arduous trip to the main rebel base, located in the defunct manufacturing subcity of Estraden. The imperials had destroyed public and industrial transportation systems throughout the heavily populated northern and central regions of the planet’s main continent. The airbus routes were closed. Summoning stations for the autopilot cab network were no longer connected to the linkhub. Magrails. Freighters. Public waterway craft—all grounded.
Once he passed through the gate in the wall that shielded Vankir City proper, Mishe started with a good old-fashioned run through the remnants of Vankir’s suburban areas, his muscles loosening as he went. Eventually he made it to the dilapidated shed where he hid his two-cycle, and ghosted through the abandoned populace subcity, across the environmentally unrecoverable flats—destroyed by a now outlawed fuel refinement process—and into the bombed-out manufacturing subcity.
The guards on duty at the Factory, as the rebels affectionately called the base, recognized him on sigh
t and gave the all-clear for him to enter. All the soldiers on guard duty knew him. In fact, everyone in the base knew of him and the few other whores working the imperials. No one had given him shit about it, since his work as a spy was so valuable, but no one bothered to befriend him, either. People who accidentally met his gaze looked away. The only peace he found, now that Cinni was gone, was with his direct superior, Aarush.
Aarush understood what Mishe went through, understood why he had chosen whoring as his way to fight the war. Aarush valued his efforts. He’d named Mishe and the other sex workers in the rebellion “intelligence agents.”
A title that did little to appease Mishe’s demons.
Thankfully, tonight he had information to report.
* * *
There just aren’t enough hours in the night, Wetham Inia, de facto head of the Ordochian rebellion, thought to himself. The time lurked somewhere near the o-two-hundred hour, and silence reigned in the bowels of the Factory.
There were pros and cons to being the leader of the entire freedom movement. On one hand, it allowed him to organize and orchestrate the rebellion in the most efficient and effective manner for the greatest chance of success. On the other, it meant the only time he had to himself was when his lieutenants and soldiers slept. Even then, this current uninterrupted two-hour stretch was a luxury.
Time he probably should have spent sleeping.
Instead, he sat in a storage locker on the lowest underground level of the manufactory-turned-rebel base. He’d affectionately dubbed the storage locker his “study.” It was large, ten meters on each side, and had been mostly emptied of the crates of manufacturing chemicals it had held at one time. Two large crates formed a table on the right side of the room, and a stack remained in the far corner, atop which extra lamps had been placed. The last random one sat beside his armchair as an end table. Richly woven rugs, heirlooms from his family’s estate, covered the poured concrete floor. Unmatching chairs of varying degrees of comfort stood here and there, and shelving had been dragged in from other storage lockers to create a bookshelf that dominated the rear and left walls. Row after row after row of books rested on the shelves in their canvas pouches, tightly tucked against one another. Wetham had left the overhead utility lighting off, leaving the room in a cozy glow from the assorted lamps.