by Rhonda Mason
It was so far down from his existence as a son of one of Vankir’s greatest families that his previous life felt like a fantasy. Some days, he mused, he liked his new life better, despite living in hiding and poverty while waging a near impossible war.
Wetham glanced at the chronometer again, fighting the urge to sleep because he was greedy for more research time. He had a complink and stacks of datapads in the room, but with the planet-wide linkhub first destroyed and then rebuilt—and controlled—entirely by the imperials, it was incredibly hard to get access to information these days. Luckily for him, he much preferred researching from books directly. As a professor, he had a long history with them. Some of the books he had brought with him from his university library in Vankir City; some from his private collection. Most, though, had been stolen one by one from the now defunct city libraries.
Time to get back to it, while I still have time.
Wetham selected a faded crimson book sleeve from the stack atop the end table—his latest acquisition. The tied cord gave way as he undid the knot, and he upended the bag to slide the book out. Thoreson’s Winning the Unwinnable War: How Separatists Turned the Tide of Ordoch’s Final Civil Conflict; the life’s work of an obscure, self-taught military historian largely ignored by the academic community. Wetham had been trying to get his hands on a printing of it even before the occupation.
As he used his thumbnail to pry the first paper-thin organoplastic sheet from the rest, someone knocked. Of course. His schedule was almost as full now as it had been as an overworked professor.
No use in ignoring it, someone else would just come in their place. “Enter.”
Aarush, Wetham’s favorite lieutenant, hobbled in, awkward on what had to be a stolen set of crutches. The medics would never have released him. Clearly, Wetham was looking at a fugitive.
Aarush wore an oversized set of pajamas, and the right pant leg trailed empty on the ground. That foot was long gone, thanks to an explosion on their last raid—a raid based on bad intel that had turned into a trap. Aarush had escaped with his life, but the blast had burned through the skin of his arm and obliterated the right half of his face. Bandages still swathed him, each showing fluid stains from wound weeping.
Wetham shot to his feet, his treasured book falling to the floor. “What the stars are you doing out of bed?”
Aarush ignored him, brow furrowed as he hobbled farther into the room, angling for a chair. His face was a mix of pain and determination.
Wetham swore under his breath and rushed to move a seat closer to him. Aarush dropped into it with a huffed “Thanks.” “What an idiotic move.” Wetham glowered at him. “The medic insisted on bed rest for at least another month, as you well know. Which imbecile gave you clothing—he’s going on latrine duty.”
Aarush managed a weak smile. “I stole them. It is o-two-thirty, you know.”
“Do I need to put a guard on one of my own officers in the infirmary?”
“I’d still be up and about and you know it.” Aarush held the crutches in his good hand and lowered them to the rug beside his chair. Even that small effort seemed to pain him.
Wetham narrowed his gaze. “You aren’t taking the pain blockers, are you.” It wasn’t even a question.
“They make me foggy. I can barely see or hear anyone speaking to me, never mind trying to hold multiple details in my head.” He brushed his blue-black hair off his forehead with his unbandaged hand. “And that’s only when I manage to stay conscious.”
Wetham opened his mouth, ready to blast Aarush for the insane health risks, but from the way Aarush tensed, he knew the subject had closed. Damn idiot! But the curse came with concern for one of his closest friends since the rebellion began.
“So, what do you have for me?” he asked instead.
Aarush shifted in his chair, easing this way and that in what appeared to be a futile attempt at comfort. He finally gave up. “Mishe, the intelligence agent who managed to gain the trust of Major General Aretes, returned with intel.”
That was certainly worth being disturbed for. Any insight from the woman on the second tier of command of the entire occupation was worth good credits. It wasn’t worth rousing Aarush from his infirmary bed, however…
“What has he learned?”
Aarush shifted slightly, but froze on a wince. “It seems the imperials are still unaware of the survival of the remaining Reinumon family. As of right now, they believe Kayla to be the only Reinumon in existence, thanks to Empress-Apparent Isonde’s revelation of her identity. Current imperial intel assumes she has gone to ground on an imperial outworld, along with her IDC traitors.”
“So they’ve no notion the Reinumon heirs are headed here?”
Aarush held himself too stiffly to shake his head, but there was a gleam of satisfaction in his remaining working eye. “They believe Kayla doesn’t even have the capabilities to return to Wyrd Space. They think she’ll limit her efforts at freeing Ordoch to working on the empire from the inside.”
“And meanwhile, we have the exiled family coming home. As rallying points, Kayla, Vayne, and especially Natali will be immeasurably helpful to us.” Citizens would flock to the rebellion, bolstered by the return of the royal family. The imperials would soon find themselves facing a much larger opposition than they’d prepared for.
“As the rightful rulers, you mean,” Aarush said, breaking into the plans Wetham was already making.
“Pardon?”
“You said ‘rallying points.’” Aarush could only frown with the left side of his face, but frown he definitely did. “You mean the exiled rulers are going to take their rightful place at the head of the rebellion, right?”
The wording made Wetham’s skin crawl. Rightful? By what right, exactly? As members of the strongest psionic family, ruling by dint of an outdated political system defunct these last five years? And what of his right, as the current leader of their fractured populace?
“Something like that,” he murmured, unwilling to argue about it now. The time for that would come later. “The imperials’ continued ignorance will help us immensely.”
Aarush left that alone.
“And what of the empire’s so-called Operation Redouble? Are the occupation leaders here still keeping that info to themselves?”
It took Aarush a moment to reply, the furrow of his remaining brow hinting at the struggle to withstand the pain he must be in. He was slightly short of breath when he finally spoke. “Apparently yes, at least until they know exactly what reinforcements they’ll be getting. No sense in reporting one thing and then having the troops’ hopes crushed if the numbers don’t come through.”
Especially since Mishe’s last report confirmed that morale among the occupation troops was continuing to fall to new lows. A blow like that could have real consequences for the continued occupation. All rebel intelligence agents reported the same: imperial soldiers hadn’t expected to be here this long. They missed their homes and loved ones desperately. Being the oppressive force on a populace whose only crime was indifference about the TNV spread was taking a heavy toll on the soldiers’ mental health.
Grumbling had started in the dark corners of taverns.
Wetham used every available intelligence asset he had to fan sparks of mutiny within the imperial army.
“There’s more, though,” Aarush said, “and I’m not sure if it’s good or bad news.” He caught his breath, wincing as though trying to ride out a new wave of pain. Wetham could only wait and watch helplessly as Aarush struggled.
“You need to be back in the infirmary.” Fury welled in Wetham’s chest. The imperials had done this. This and so much more. I will drive those dogs from Ordoch, and slaughter as many as I have to to make that happen.
For tonight, though, his friend needed him. “You are going back to the infirmary now.”
Aarush managed a nod. “I’m not quite as ready as I thought I was.”
“Nicely understated.” When Aarush tried to reach for the crutches,
Wetham stopped him. “Don’t even think about it.”
He reached to the infirmary with his psi powers, shouting in the mind of the sleeping medic on duty until the woman woke and jumped from her chair. She was out the door with a stretcher and an aide in under a minute.
Looking at the sheen of sweat on Aarush’s face and the tightness to his lips, Wetham hesitated to push his energy any farther. But… he had to know.
“What was the rest of the news?” He hated himself for pushing, but damnit, they were at war.
“The empire’s named a new head of the occupation, an IDC agent, and—” Aarush paused, taking another tight breath before continuing. “And Major General Aretes is apparently uneasy about the agents’ plans for us. Very uneasy.”
Definitely not good news.
6
As was his custom, Vayne hit the communal showers on their resecured level in the dead of night to avoid running into anyone. That small freedom—the choice to shower when he wished—still felt like a luxury. Dolan hadn’t controlled their every move in captivity, but he could control any move he wanted, at any time, and that threat had hung over every choice Vayne made while a prisoner. Now, he sometimes felt like showering five times in a row just to prove that he could.
He leaned hard on his arm, palm against the wall in the tiny shower slot, head bowed as water sluiced down. The water’s burn on his skin and the glory of regained freedoms eased the stiffness inside him. He put both palms on the wall and surrendered to the feeling.
Steam. The scent of soap. And blessed, blessed privacy.
All too soon the shower beeped and began to cool by rapid degrees—the ship’s warning that he approached the end of his water allotment. Vayne soaped up, rinsed, and called it quits before things got unpleasant.
Towel wrapped around his waist, he padded barefoot to the sink where his toothbrush and clothes waited. He rubbed one gritty eye, lack of sleep catching up. At least he and Kayla had secured this level. He would crash for a few hours after this. A long day of investigating the extent of the latest stepa threat lay before them all in the morning.
Vayne brushed his teeth, spat, and rinsed his mouth. He gave his hair—overgrown now and well past his chin—a cursory finger combing. His reflection in the mirror looked every bit as rough as he felt. Just as he was gathering up his hair and securing it away from his face, someone entered.
An image appeared beyond his shoulder in the mirror and he froze. His mind took the details in even as his instincts triggered an irrational fight or flight response.
Long legs. Barely there shorts. Tank top. Lavender hair.
Tia’tan.
Fantastic. The only person he’d rather see less was Natali, and at least he could count on his sister leaving without a word.
He dropped his hands to grip the sink’s edge. Tia’tan remained poised on the threshold. She had a towel in one hand, clearly having come for a shower herself. She could have nodded politely and moved on. Instead her gaze held his in the glass. Could she see the adrenaline spike, the drive to flee from her? Did she see the man he pretended to be, or the wounded animal he so clearly still was?
“Don’t do that,” she said, taking a step into the room while holding his gaze. The word trapped him in place as she took another step.
Don’t what, Tia’tan? Hallucinate and attack you again?
“That,” she said, as if she’d heard his thoughts. She pointed at him in the reflection. “That right there. I know what you’re thinking—don’t put that on me.”
“Excuse me?”
“That shame I see screaming across your face.” She continued to advance, her voice as determined as her steps. “I don’t judge you. Condemn you. Yet when you look at me, that’s what you’re seeing.”
He turned to face her, expecting her to stop. She kept coming.
“You’re imagining things,” he said.
Three paces away. Two. He resisted the urge to push her back telekinetically.
“You’re the one seeing things that aren’t there,” she countered. “What do you imagine? That I think you’re a monster? That I fear you?” She hit the truth head on, a blow that split a crack in the shield he surrounded himself with. “Does it seem like I fear you?”
She stepped inside the circle of his reach and demanded, “Look at me.”
He could do nothing else. He followed the lines of her body with his eyes. Her tone was serious but her posture was easy. Her strong, sculpted shoulders were down, her arms loose at her sides. The tank top revealed that her core was relaxed: she wasn’t coiled, ready to spring an attack, and, more importantly, she wasn’t braced for a blow.
“I am your friend, Vayne. Stop imagining I think the worst of you.”
How could he, when he thought the worst of himself? “The other day…”
“You had a bad moment.”
“I attacked you,” he bit out. It burned to say it out loud. Damn her for cornering him like this. And where the frutt were his clothes? He was entirely too vulnerable to her wearing nothing but a towel.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have barged in to your room without permission.”
He spied his clothes on the bench to his right, out of reach. And he didn’t dare move, not pinned as he was with the sink at his back and Tia’tan so near that he might touch her if he did.
“Then don’t, next time,” he said.
One of her lavender brows arched, as if gauging his seriousness.
“Why did you?” Don’t answer. Why had he even asked?
She seemed surprised by the question. “I was concerned when you didn’t answer.”
Concerned. The word irked him. A woman he admired thought him a child that needed tending. “Concerned that I had done something?” he asked, his tone bitter.
“Concerned for you. This ship isn’t exactly a safe haven.” Her lips quirked in a brief smile. “I probably will do it again.”
“And what happens next time?” Dolan’s ghost hadn’t bothered him since Kayla had arrived, but he didn’t feel confident that was the end of things.
She shrugged. “I’ll handle it.”
“You’ll handle it?” he growled, leaning in. So close he could feel her body heat, smell the residual fumes from the welding she’d done tonight. Too close. “This conversation is over.”
She didn’t give a centimeter. “No, it isn’t. You don’t have to pretend your captivity didn’t happen, not with me.”
That was exactly what he planned to do.
“I know terrible things happened to you, Vayne. It’s okay to acknowledge it.”
He stared her down. She was the only person to mention his torture since he’d been freed, and he couldn’t tell if he hated or admired her for daring to.
Tia’tan lifted her hand and pressed two fingers firmly against a twisted scar just below his left collar bone. “ This happened.”
Her fingers contacted like the shock of ice, staying there, burning him. He hissed at the contact, going rigid in surprise.
“This happened,” she said again, softly this time. She held him prisoner with two fingers and an intense gaze.
Gods, she was touching him. Actually touching him. Skin to bare skin.
Because she wants to. No mind control, no compulsion. She chose to touch me.
Frutt. He was making more of this than it was. What was her point, again?
He cleared his throat. “How do you know this wound happened… then?”
“The skin isn’t weathered.” Her touch became more gentle, the rest of her fingers joining the first two as she traced the ridge of scar tissue. “Plus, it looks like it was healed with shitty imperial medical tech.” She grinned.
His mind whirled—so many chaotic thoughts—and his psi powers roared up in response. Their strength was unbelievable.
He reached out and sensed her latent psi ability—moderate, nothing compared to the force he had since last regrowing the connection. Even if she prepared for it, fought him, he could fling her acro
ss the room. Slam her into the far wall. Drive her and her disturbing words away from him.
How could she grin at him like he wasn’t dangerous?
Gods, those fingers. So delicate. He wanted to crush every bone in her hand, force her to understand.
He wanted to…
She turned serious again, seemingly oblivious to the war raging within him. Her fingers stilled.
He wanted to…
… gently flatten her palm to his skin, increase their contact and the exquisite pain of it. Slide her hand downward. Would she let him?
Why force her when you can convince her she wants to? a voice whispered in his mind.
He could, too. Her shields were loose tonight, and thinning with each silent moment passing between them. With his skill he could slip in undetected, gently plant a seed…
I’ve taught you so much in the last five years, my dear Vayne.
He was frutting sick. I have to get out of here. He wrapped one hand around her wrist as gently as he could, tightly controlling himself to keep from pushing away and alerting her to his struggle. If she ever knew what he had thought…
“Tia—” he began, but laughter and the guttural accents of Imperial Common interrupted the words he couldn’t even say.
She pulled away and he let go just as the hulking figures of the two largest octet members came into view. Vid and Trinan—maybe?—entered with fingers intertwined and shared smiles, still laughing over whatever joke one of them had made. If they thought it odd to see Tia’tan less than a meter from him when he wore nothing but a towel, they didn’t indicate it. The agents merely nodded politely and headed toward the bank of showers.
Vayne felt dirty in a way a shower could never fix.
He gathered up his clothes, then forced himself to meet Tia’tan’s gaze. If he stormed out the way he longed to, she’d only be more concerned, and that would lead to another painful confrontation like this one.