Her lips curved, showing small white teeth. Her eyes glowed dark orange again. “I enjoy drinking fear. It tastes almost as good as pleasure.”
This isn’t human, Hegen reminded himself again. It’s not even Sonta. “Traffic will clog the aerials and the atmosphere, Sera Aksenna. People will run or hide, and may injure or kill themselves and many others. The communications networks may shatter. Fear will prevent us from finding and talking to people who could help us find Moro—maybe in time to save his life.” He did not look away from her eyes.
They shimmered lighter for a moment before returning to a deep, sullen glow. She nodded. “My people will withdraw, save those who attend me as we search.” At the ambassador’s sudden movement, Aksenna spun, snake quick, to grab the dark woman’s wrist. “I will accompany you, Camali Vessel, whether you like it or not. Tell your Cama to stop pissing herself. For the moment, she and I are allies.”
The ambassador looked down at the white hand gripping her. “Do your kind even understand the concept?” she asked in a low, vibrant voice. Hegen realized it wasn’t the ambassador speaking at all but her elemental symbiont.
Aksenna reached up and patted the ambassador’s cheek. “Little girl, you know my siblings and I understand alliances. We may be the only Ksaloni who do. Alliances have made us prisoners in cages we now adore, so I abide by the treaty Tena swore with you. No Ksala shall approach your nest on Camonde. Here is another promise. You say one of yours has wed one of mine? When they are returned to us, we shall discuss the fate of that union. But until then I work with you to find them. Do you comprehend, Cama?”
“Yes,” the ambassador sighed, holding her hand tightly to her chest when Aksenna released it.
“Good,” said the Ksala, reaching up with both arms to gather the black mist above her head. Her hands snapped apart. The tentacle separated from her with a flurry of pink-orange sparks and withdrew upward as quickly as it had arrived.
The black portal and its occupant vanished. Sunlight washed back over Cedar. Three vast ships lifted away, their rippled shadows following.
“They will wait on this system’s outer edges,” said Aksenna, looking upward. “And here are my jailors, come to shout at me for leaving them behind.”
“Clear the grass!” shouted the ambassador.
A black speck dropped straight down from the upper atmosphere, air searing around its leading edges. It dodged easily through the sudden increase in air and ship traffic, leaving startled pilots and drivers behind before they even really comprehended the near accident hurtling in front of them.
“That pilot is insane,” began the ambassador.
Aksenna said, “He is Odasu, who fears nothing he understands and seeks to understand everything. He is a skilled pilot. I wonder who he brought with him?”
Five hundred feet over the embassy, the tiny black craft slowed. A slight wash of heat and a small shock wave carried forward, ruffling the grass and everyone’s clothes. The thirty-foot-long ship’s undercarriage didn’t even glow as it settled the final few feet onto the grass. Hegen noted the craft’s short nose, bulbous fuselage, big engine ports swung on mobile mounts, and wide black wings. A good vehicle for atmosphere, as well as near-space. Possibly long jumps if those engines were also capable of M-space access. It had one gun port below and above. Given that it was Sonta, there were almost certainly weapons he couldn’t see.
“You’ll want to put a guard on your ship, Sera Aksenna,” said Hegen. “You’ve landed Sonta technology on a League world.”
“Odasu’s ship can defend itself,” she said. “Or I can, since much of its structure is crafted from my substance and is linked to my awareness.”
“Ah,” said Shannon for the first time in minutes. “Then it’s probably time for a public service announcement. Do not tease the Sonta ship. Do not feed the Sonta ship.”
A door opened in the craft’s side, and a black gangplank extruded down to the grass. A reddish-brown face peered out, scanning the crowd. Its intense blue gaze settled on Aksenna. The onlookers heard a shout and then a yelp as the figure vanished.
“He brought Savinilan,” Aksenna said. “They really don’t trust me today!”
A tall, vast figure swathed in a gray mantle and black armor appeared in the door, holding back a shorter, cloaked figure by the upper arm. The giant’s free arm cradled a black gun over a yard long. Hegen had a sense of being noted, assessed, and dismissed. Then the giant twisted, holstered the weapon on his back, and released the shorter figure.
The smaller Sonta ran to Aksenna, his gray mantle spilling back as he grabbed her, spun her around, lifted her, and held her tightly to his chest. A foot taller than Aksenna, he wore black, formfitting garb over broad shoulders and a narrow waist. The mantle hid his hips and legs. The Sonta man’s elegant oval face looked almost carved in dark, reddish-brown stone. His pointed ears were tall, fringed with glossy black whiskers down their back edges.
Hegen caught rapid whispers of a language mingling gutturals and sibilants, but the man’s displayed sentiment was universal: I was afraid for you. Are you all right? Don’t leave me again!
How could I leave you for long? her body language replied.
The Sonta man kissed Aksenna. She trailed her white fingers in his short black hair. When she brushed his ear fringes, he groaned into her mouth.
Shannon’s team shamelessly recorded everything, and Hegen couldn’t really blame them. It was a spectacular kiss, broken only by the shrouded giant’s booming laughter as he walked toward them.
“Stop, or I’ll send you to your room,” said the giant in slightly accented Standard. “Ksala Aksenna, don’t leave us behind again. We can’t protect your Vessel if you do. Is Imraithi worth nothing to you? At the least, you could have remembered a cloak to shield your skin.” He produced a small black packet from inside his mantle, dragged a finger along its seal, and tossed it to Aksenna.
In midair, the packet unfolded into a billow of silky black fabric. The smaller Sonta man caught it and draped it over Aksenna’s head.
“I’m sorry, Odasu,” she addressed the giant. She spoke in Standard, while her pink-orange eyes glanced at Hegen and the ambassador.
So, thought Hegen, this is a display for us. On many levels. They know our language. They’ve been watching us. Merrick can’t have been the only Terran to visit the worldships.
Fifty-Eight
DANIL’S CURRENT DISTRACTION was a golden-skinned, redheaded Tena Sonta courtesan, shameless, creative, and a familiar presence for over a hundred years. She knelt between his legs. Her mouth and slender hands worked wondrous sensations on his Vessel’s phallus and testicles. Danil fought the urge to slap her lush body across the throne room.
“Enough,” he said, gently pushing her forehead away. Cool air hit his member in place of her warmth. In only a moment, he was limp again. “I cannot do your gift justice today, Mirrulani.”
She caressed him before she gathered her turquoise robe around her and stalked away barefoot, regal as any queen. By tonight, she’d have her pick of twenty Sonta aristocrats offering to host her. She might not bother coming back to Danil unless he ordered her, and coercion had lost its charms a thousand years ago.
The Ksala Danil rubbed his forehead, a headache only one symptom of the tumult within him. A temper tantrum would only result in him being banished from his Vessel, his awareness sent back into his massive, near-dormant true body. “Aksenna did what?” he asked the newest messenger.
A furred, long-tailed, four-footed general of the Singer clan whistled mournfully, his chorded voice expressing reluctance, startled amusement, and confusion. “The Ksala Aksenna has not attacked Cedar-Saba. She has instead eaten an explosive device planted by anti-Camali Terrani. She has ingested Terrani and Camali food. She has struck an alliance with the Camali and Terrani to find a lost Camali heir.”
“The heir has wed in the manner of Camali Royals,” said a bipedal female general, nearly as tall as Danil’s Vessel. The woman’s bar
ely controlled fury reached Danil before her words did. “Liatana’s son has taken Aksenna’s Abomination to mate. Both have been stolen by a Terrani lord, the one who has been hunting Sonta scraps across this galaxy.”
Danil nodded. “Tell our agent to let Aksenna continue her odd alliance. She will track the Terrani lord, and we must move before she can. Our hunter ships must stop those Terrani fools before they bring disaster upon us all!”
“The man Lyton Sardis is old for a human. His rejuvenation attempts will soon fail,” said the Singer general.
“How could such a dawnfly harm us?” asked the other general.
Danil stared down at the Singer. “He has been hunting for the White Storm.”
Danil’s people drew back and hissed in shock. The name alone made them tremble, and Danil privately scorned them for it. The older Ksala—Aiyon, Aksenna, and Tena—were just as superstitious. It was the name of a ghost long since faded from the universe, but invoking it could summon more real and terrible dangers. “Lyton Sardis must not be allowed to regain the Abomination. Both of them must die, and quickly.”
Later, when his guards were preoccupied or absent, Danil tested one of his gold-washed wrist shackles. The metal gave way a fraction from the subtle and careful pressures he’d placed on it over many years. Because he’d been tractable, his jailors had not examined it recently. He regretted embroiling them in a conspiracy to hide his deeper plans.
Soon enough, Aksenna and Tena would not be the only Bound Ksaloni running free in this galaxy.
Fifty-Nine
INSIDE THE ISOLATION chamber, Cama’s larger consciousness could not reach Moro. He was utterly alone, as alone as in the arena. But in the arena he hadn’t known he was Sonta. He remembered that as he stared back at Lyton’s eager face.
“No more Kott, no more howling crowds. No more confusing, terrifying freedom. I am your master, as I have always been. Your only choice is how you will give in to me, Moro,” said Lyton. “Fight me and you will only be endangering this priceless young man.” His fingers trailed over Val’s isolation bubble. “Submit and keep him safe. Decide quickly.”
In the arena, Bazo had let his guard down, thinking Moro defeated. Bazo had died for his mistake, as had Karl Vance.
Moro lowered his head.
“Very good, Moro,” said Lyton. “Now that I have your attention, we need to run some feedback tests on Terise’s new collar. Lean back and raise your knees.”
But when Moro hesitated, Lyton gave him no time, triggering the collar in a full-body shudder ending with Moro barely able to control his own breathing. Without his direction, his hands slid from his thighs to his groin, fingers curling around his cock and balls.
An itch. Just a physical response, Moro thought, forced to watch his erection swell. Lyton moved Moro’s fingers. Lyton stroked, tugged, pulled at unresisting flesh. Less clumsily than ever before, but still awkward compared to Moro’s last session with Val.
This means nothing to me, Moro thought. It means more to his vanity. Lyton’s afraid he’ll be this bad when he takes over completely.
Lyton was very, very vain about this particular skill.
Suddenly Moro wanted to laugh.
Open-eyed, he tried to remember Val doing the same thing to him in their bland little auto-room. Or that stunning bit of dominance and fire play Val had given him in the embassy bedroom. Though the steel clip was gone, Moro’s cock still stung from Val’s pinch mark. Moro imagined clever golden-brown hands driving him insane, a warm tenor voice coaxing and commanding. The same voice piercing Moro’s pain and despair, driving them both into a climax like a benediction.
Remembering it, Moro felt it approach again. Ecstasy slammed through him, a moment of pure glory. Within its blind throes, he felt a whisper of personality, the faintest possible touch of warmth.
Cama! Gone almost instantly, but it had been her!
Released from the collar’s control, Moro watched his cock soften. His release slimed his thighs and belly. He kept his face blank, his eyes lowered. He did not dare look at Lyton, not while his own thoughts leaped toward a plan.
“Well,” said Lyton. “That was fast. And much, much easier. I must compliment Terise on her improvements.”
“Master,” Moro said. “You win. I won’t resist. But I have conditions too.”
“Why should I grant them?”
“Because they cost you nothing.” Moro wiped himself off on one cushion and threw it into a far corner. “Because I’ll make them worth your while. They’ll help you with Val, later.” Moro glanced at Val. “Put him in here until we reach our destination. With no restraints on either of us. No drugs. And don’t activate the collar.”
“So you can kill him and yourself? No.”
“Master, you’ve won. I’m yours. You can stop me anytime you want. Val will be yours eventually. I know how you twist human beings into tools. If I kill us both, I’m dooming the League and the Camalians.” Moro shook his loose hair seductively from his face, finally confident enough to turn and look sidelong at Lyton. He lowered his voice into the register Val had responded to this morning. “Master, let me have a proper wedding night with my husband before he loses me forever. Then I’ll submit to whatever you and Dr. Volker do to me. Please?”
“Didn’t you already fuck him?”
“No, Master. There was no time. And thanks to Michol, I wasn’t at my best last night. Val and I did what we had to do. Not what we wanted. Cama healed me after breakthrough.” Moro stretched out one pale leg and arched his foot downward. From mirrors in Kott’s stable, he was familiar with the graceful result. The move had always been good for riveting any fighter or client with a shred of libido. “I want Val, Master.”
Even the impassive male guard standing beside Val’s bubble reacted. The man’s eyes went wide. He stepped slightly behind the small, upright bubble, with it between him and his employer.
Moro looked back at Lyton—whose gaze traveled up the length of Moro’s leg, to his relaxed cock, and finally to his face.
“You know I’d watch, Moro. And listen.”
“Then do so, Master. I’m tired of fighting you. I give in. But this is my price. Just turn off the exterior microphones so we can’t hear you rutting as you watch us,” said Moro. “It won’t bother me, Master, but it will make Val wither in shame.”
“And if I don’t agree? Why shouldn’t I activate the collar when you’re both in extremis?”
Moro grinned at him, discarding the servile honorific. “You’re still not a very good puppeteer.”
The man’s hands became fists. “I made you come fast and hard just now.”
Moro didn’t allow himself to cringe. “No, you didn’t. I was thinking of Val the whole time.”
Lyton looked shocked. “He’s that good?”
“He’s that sweet,” Moro said, looking at the sleeping prince. “You have no idea what his mix of innocence and ferocity is like. And you won’t if you try to use the collar. Val would know the difference between us. He’ll hate you all the more and probably fight you harder. You might even lose him and the Camalians. And all for a few hours you know you’ll enjoy more as a spectator. When you wear my body, court Val yourself. You’ll be well rewarded then.”
Leaning casually back into the divan, Lyton stared at him for almost a minute.
Moro noted the director’s arousal, the man’s discomfort and abortive movements to ease his sudden hunger without masturbating in front of his captive and his employee. Moro knew he’d won this round even before Lyton sighed and admitted, “Terise warned me to silence you again, Moro. Your voice is as dangerous as the rest of you.”
“It will be your voice soon enough,” said Moro.
“It will,” said Lyton, nodding. “I agree to your conditions.” He punched more numbers on the screen by the divan. “Sergeant Acton, Sergeant Dumont, bring in Sera Basrali.”
Two more burly Rio Sardis bodyguards walked into the cargo bay, escorting between them a leggy blonde woman
also in the Rio Sardis charcoal uniform. She carried a black canvas carryall bag dragging heavily at her arm. She glanced once at Moro in the big isolation chamber, then at Lyton, and looked away. Moro saw the blush darkening her cheeks, even in the dimmed light.
“Sera Basrali,” said Lyton. “You’ve brought your security gear?”
“Yes, Sero Sardis. How may I be of service?”
Moro didn’t like the way Lyton considered her.
The director said, “Help Sergeant Acton remove Valier from the transport bubble. You will have three minutes to strip the youth of all clothing and gear, especially his belt. If he actually reprogrammed a vehicle registration uplink on the fly, he could do a lot of damage inside this ship. Check him for hidden tools. Everywhere. When I open the main isolation chamber, place him inside.”
“Sero Sardis, the containment fields—” she began, looking at Val’s bubble.
“Their effects will linger long enough for the exchange. Valier will remain unconscious for at least another ten minutes after he’s out of the transport bubble. Moro, get up.”
Moro stood. At least Lyton had told him to move instead of forcing him.
“Now walk over and stand against the bulkhead to your right.”
When Moro was against the bulkhead, he turned his face toward the right to keep Val in his sight. He was ready when Lyton triggered the collar and froze him in place.
“I trust your word, Moro,” said Lyton, his voice whispering from the speaker over Moro’s head. “But I don’t want to tempt you into any stupidity. Kott trained you to fight and kill.”
You ordered it, Moro thought. He’d seen Lyton fight hand to hand eight and a half years ago, as mere exercise. The man was skilled in that art too, but not at Moro’s current level. Why did the director of Rio Sardis need an arena-honed Sonta body?
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