by Alix Nichols
Another corridor to cover, a few more staffers to brow-and-bow to, and then he was greeting Xeba Rihisabi, the superintendent’s personal assistant.
“Colonel Yaggar, it’s lovely to see you!” Xeba glanced at a screen on her desk. “It doesn’t look like you have an appointment.”
“I don’t.”
She furrowed her brow. “An emergency?”
“You could say that.”
She reached for her commlet. “Let me announce you—”
Before she could finish her sentence, he was already pushing open the door to the superintendent’s office.
Behind a massive desk strewn with folders, binders, commlets, and more folders sat Her Grace Lady Olinnie Tann-Lo. The superintendent of the League of Realms. One of the most powerful individuals in Xereill. Quite possibly, the galaxy’s most gifted rich-blood. The woman he craved.
The woman he couldn’t have.
Massaging her scalp with her fingers and ruining her elaborate hairdo, the superintendent pored over some report or other, oblivious to her surroundings.
Xeba rushed in. “Your Grace, I’m sorry to interrupt. The head of the enforcer corps seems to—”
“Colonel.” Olinnie’s gaze was unfocused, her mind still in her papers, until her eyes landed on his pectorals. “Why are you here?”
“Your Grace.” He touched his fingers to his brow and hung his head. “May I speak to you in private?”
“Xeba, will you bring us some kawa, please?”
When her assistant walked out and closed the door behind her, Olinnie turned to Keiron with a deep crease between her brows. “How bad is it? Where? Nekkior?”
He shook his head.
“Tastassi?”
“No.”
She stood and bounded around her desk. “Is it truly an emergency? Or is it something that can wait until tomorrow’s executive briefing?”
“It can’t wait.”
She was now only a few inches from him, close enough that his bionic sense of smell could pick up every individual note in her perfume. He could also hear her heart ratchet up.
Being a bionic—or cyborg, as everyone called them—had its uses beyond the superior strength, endurance, and wings. Wings that the enforcers kept demurely retracted and folded tight against their back when not in training or intervention.
“All right.” She gazed up into his eyes. “Brief me now. Which planet?”
“Not a planet. The trouble is here at LORSS. More specifically on the enforcer base.”
Her eyes widened. “What kind of trouble? Who?”
“Me.”
She gasped. “What’s wrong?”
“My lust for you.” Keiron smoothed the back of his fingers across her cheek. “It’s out of control.”
“I see.”
There was relief in her voice. And something else… Giddiness?
He stared at her lips. “When a hunger is assuaged, it’s supposed to go away, right?”
“Yes.”
“I was counting on it.” His thumb trailed to the corner of her lips. “Except it hasn’t. Not for me. If anything, it’s only gotten stronger.”
Her eyelids drifted shut, and she pressed her lips to the pad of his thumb.
That was all the encouragement he needed to grip the back of her head with his other hand and draw her closer.
“Linni…” He stroked her hair. “I’m so used to your salt-and-pepper camouflage I’ve started liking it. I find it hot.”
“Even the crow’s feet and the lines on my forehead?” She arched a brow. “And by the way, that particular ability is called ‘appearance shifting’, which is a form of shape-shifting. So, you should say ‘your salt-and-pepper shape’ not camouflage.”
“Shape it is, then,” he said. “And yes, I like all of it. I’d fuck you in this shape. Anytime.”
Her lips twitched with suppressed mirth. “Should I assume you’d fuck me in any shape, any time?”
He answered with one firm nod.
The tip of her tongue flicked between her lips. “Kiss me first?”
Goddess help me.
He angled his head preparing to do just that…
And woke up.
Alone. In the cabin that doubled as his office on the command deck of the enforcer base. His body, conditioned to arise from sleep at five thirty in the morning every day, had cut his glorious dream short.
Shit!
Keiron swung his legs over the side of his bunk and reached for his joggers. If he was being honest with himself, he’d known throughout his beautiful dream that something was off.
He stood up and pulled his pants over his still-hard member. Then he adjusted his wings and put a sweatshirt on.
In fact, several things had been off. Barging into the restricted top management area had been too easy, too smooth. Xeba’s interference—too half-assed. There’d been no security detail, no other staffers outside or inside Olinnie’s office. His come-on had been much too brash. And Olinnie’s surrender, too swift and eager. Not even remotely realistic.
Rolling his eyes at his lack of self-control—especially, compared to Olinnie who seemed to be coping just fine—he put his sneakers on and headed to the gym.
Three hours later, Keiron’s transport deployed its landing gear and touched down in the LORSS docking bay.
“How do you greet a staffer?” he asked, giving his newest recruit a quick protocol quiz.
“Brow-and-bow,” Elreido Ryne said.
“Does rank make a difference?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Elreido shook his head.
“Correct.” Keiron pointed out the purple sheen and slight vibration in the bay’s mouth. “Know what that is?”
“A force field, sir. Keeps the air inside to avoid the entire bay depressurizing but lets ships pass through.”
“I see you’ve done your homework.” Keiron nodded with satisfaction. “How would you greet a technician?”
“Er…”
“Same way as a staffer or anyone else at LORSS except for automatons and ambassadors.”
“Understood, sir.”
They stepped off the transport.
“How should I greet an ambassador, sir, if we run into one?” Elreido asked as they passed through an autodoor.
“You brow-and-bow, and while your head is still down, say, ‘your grace.’ ”
“Easy enough.” Elreido grinned. “And the automatons?”
“They don’t expect a greeting.”
“Right. What about the superintendent?”
“She’s the ambassadors’ equal in rank.” And their better in intelligence, abilities, ethics—
Elreido halted. “Brow-and-bow, followed by ‘your grace.’ Correct, sir?”
“Correct.”
They headed down a pristine corridor lit by bright saucer-like discs floating near the ceiling.
“Shouldn’t someone scan us before we go in?” Elreido asked.
“We’re being scanned as we walk. The fist fifty or so paces past the docking bay have sensors in the walls, floor, and ceiling.”
“Oh.” The probie lifted his right foot and peered at the floor as if trying to locate a sensor.
“By now, LORSS security has all your biometrics. They know exactly who you are and where you come from. They also know if you’re carrying any weapons, pathogens, or contaminants. I’d even wager they can see what you had for breakfast.”
Elreido touched his belly. “What happens if the sensors detect, say, that my morning eggs were rotten? Or radioactive?”
“See that slit?” Keiron pointed at the ceiling few paces ahead of them. “A door will drop down, and another one behind us, both airtight and blast proof.”
“Ah—they’ll seal us in.”
“The official term is ‘quarantine.’ ”
They reached the green elevators.
“Medical is that way,” Keiron said, pointing to their right, “at the very end of the admin sector. Report to the senior medic
al officer, and she’ll take it from there.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When you’re done, wait for me in the top deck viewing hub. I won’t be long.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Keiron patted the probie’s shoulder before sending him on his way. “When the other recruit arrives, I’ll bring both of you here for a proper tour of the Flying City.”
Elreido’s eyes were bright as he spun around and marched in the direction of the admin sector.
Until recently, it had been Lieutenant Unie Thraton’s job to welcome the new recruits and supervise their training and adaptation. Dependable, experienced and almost maternal around probies, Unie enjoyed her additional task.
But then… things changed.
Keiron lost six enforcers within the space of one year. These days, the young cyborgs he recruited to become Xereill’s elite peacekeepers looked at a very real possibility of getting killed in the line of duty.
The least he could do was to spend more time with them during their training period.
So, a couple of months ago, Keiron had asked Unie if she minded if he accompanied the probies to their first trip to LORSS whenever his schedule allowed.
She’d given him a long, compassionate look and had said, “No, sir, I don’t mind in the least. They’ll feel honored.”
Unie is one perceptive bionic, Keiron thought as he took a green elevator up to the third-level deck.
“I have an appointment with Her Grace,” he said to Xeba.
The assistant checked her screen, sent a message from her commlet, and smiled at Keiron. “She’s expecting you.”
When he stepped into Olinnie’s office, two of her closest aides—Vetil and Misaha—were with her, as usual. And as usual, Keiron wondered if Olinnie always kept them around or if she summoned them every time he requested an audience. Regardless, the result was the same. He hadn’t had a minute alone with her since their memorable visit to Tastassi.
“I suppose you’re here about Hente,” she said after their greetings.
“Yes.”
“It’s a no-go.”
He hadn’t exactly expected a green light or blessings, but her response had been too brusque.
“I sounded out the council members.” She paused, holding his gaze. “Not one of them would vote to approve a LOR sanction, much less an enforcer intervention.”
He clenched his jaw. “So, you won’t even put in a formal request.”
“Her Grace had encouraged the ambassadors to send a delegation to Hente, which they did just a week ago,” Vetil said. “They petitioned Caretaker Governor Boggond to grant clemency to Areg Sebi. Lord Boggond said he’d consider it.”
Keiron fought back an eye-roll.
“The delegation did observe some flaws and irregularities in the way Eia is run,” Vetil continued. “But let’s not forget it’s a realm emerging from an invasion and a four-year war.”
“A war Areg Sebi helped win.” Keiron leveled his gaze with Vetil’s. “I have a reliable source in Eia. That source has been transmitting that Boggond and Ultek’s shenanigans are way past what you call an ‘irregularity.’ ”
Misaha tucked a loose strand behind her ear. “With all due respect to your sources, Colonel, the delegation found no signs of tyranny in Eia. Nothing that could justify the League sticking its nose into the internal affairs of one of its members.”
“What about the ridiculous charges against Lord Sebi, the fabricated evidence, and a verdict worthy of Mother Terra’s barbaric ways?”
Misaha pursed her mouth and looked away.
Keiron’s nostrils flared. “Boggond won’t change his mind. Tomorrow morning, Lord Sebi will be decapitated. No trial, no chance to appeal. How’s that for a sign of tyranny?”
“Colonel.” Olinnie took a step toward him. “I know how much you revered the late Ambassador Sebi. By all accounts, he was a remarkable statesman. And a good man. I truly wish I’d met him.”
Keiron squared his shoulders, waiting for a “but.”
“But I can’t help his son.”
“You can. You just won’t.”
Vetil’s and Misaha’s eyebrows shot up at his harsh comment.
“You could authorize a covert emergency intervention to extract him on his way to the scaffold,” Keiron plowed on, too exasperated to care.
Olinnie shook her head, an apologetic expression on her face.
“That’s within your purview, as superintendent.” Keiron’s eyes bore into hers. “Your Grace.”
As if weighing her words, she didn’t reply immediately.
“Molm Boggond may be corrupt,” Vetil jumped in, “and Areg Sebi may be innocent, but we have no proof of either.”
Keiron opened his mouth to suggest he could bring them proof, but Olinnie spoke first. “Have your sources reported anything about Nekkior, Colonel?”
He shook his head.
“I thought so.” She gave him a sad smile. “Half of its population has been reduced to slavery, yet no one at LORSS seems to realize.”
Keiron drew his brows together. “Slavery? I would’ve heard—”
“I’m sure you would have”—Olinnie smirked—“if it was about enslaving men for their labor.”
His frown deepened. “What is it about then?”
“Enslaving women for… everything.” Olinnie tilted her head to the side. “They’re denied elementary freedoms, yet no one here rushes to sound the alarm. It’s as if servitude is a natural part of the female condition.”
Keiron pulled up a mental map of the League’s member realms and scanned it for Nekkior.
Ah. One of the Silver Path planets.
The messiest region of Xereill where men were keen on shutting out their Ra side—everything poised and considerate—in favor of their more primal human side. Based off what Olinnie had just revealed, when men chose to do that, it was women who paid the price.
It was always women who bore the brunt of men’s folly.
“Is that what’s happening on Nekkior?” he asked. “Has the planet turned its women into slaves?”
Olinnie nodded. “Pretty much, yes. But when I raise the matter with LOR ambassadors, they just tut-tut and deplore ‘the challenges women face in certain parts of Xereill.’ They won’t use the S word.”
“What makes mounting an intervention even harder,” Misaha said, “is that a LORSS official, Senior Expert Cemaluria Cronk just published an ERIGAT report.”
This time, Keiron was unable to suppress an eye-roll. “Those reports are useless when they aren’t outright damaging.”
“I don’t get Cemaluria.” Misaha shook her head. “She’s a woman herself, a career woman. She has a daughter… Does she believe the Silver Path populations are fundamentally different? That the Nekkior women don’t need or deserve what she has?”
“Her report qualifies the Nekkior set up as a ‘local tradition’ and ‘cultural specificity.’ ” Vetil gave a lopsided smile. “I’ve read it three times. The word ‘slavery’ isn’t mentioned anywhere. No ‘oppression,’ either. Not even ‘plight.’ ”
“And yet,” Olinnie said, “being female on Nekkior has become so grim, more and more women resort to desperate acts.”
He noticed her clenched fists.
“Want an example?” Olinnie pressed her lips into a hard line. “They strangle their baby girls to spare them a life of suffering.”
The white-hot rage in her eyes told Keiron she had traveled to Nekkior recently, no doubt camouflaged… er, shaped as someone else. She must have seen those horrors with her own eyes.
Olinnie took another step toward him. “Can I expect your full cooperation, Colonel?”
“Of course, Your Grace.” He searched her face, trying to gauge if she truly doubted his respect for the chain of command. “Always.”
She touched his arm, the contact so fleeting he might’ve imagined it.
“It’s my duty, as superintendent,” she said, echoing his earlier words, “to determin
e where in Xereill larger groups of people are at a greater risk. I have to choose my battles.”
She paused.
Her next words sounded in Keiron’s head before she even uttered them. “I’m choosing Nekkior.”
11
Etana and Rhori got to Town Hall Square before dawn on the cusp of the fifth hour past midnight.
Like last week, Etana wanted to stand as close to the scaffold as possible. Except this time, it wasn’t so that her voice would be heard when she made her move. It was to give Areg a better chance to spot her, and perhaps draw a bit of solace from her eyes before he died.
Rhori had insisted on accompanying her to the execution. “It’ll be quick if he’s lucky,” he’d said to her earlier when she cried.
The two of them had spent the entire night talking on the bench outside their parents’ cottage. Etana had been trying to prepare herself for the next morning. Rhori had been doing his best to comfort her.
“If the executioner is well-trained and his axe sharp,” Rhori had said to her, “the head will be severed with one swift stroke. Lord Sebi won’t suffer.”
Except, Etana wasn’t too hopeful.
Nor did she believe it was a matter of luck. With Ultek calling the shots in Iltaqa, she was convinced he’d arrange for a newbie—or worse, a sicko—to do the job. Oh, and he’d make sure to give him a blunt axe. He’d do anything to make Areg suffer more. He’d want to make it as close as he could to an impalement.
“Do you think the headsman will hold Areg’s severed head up by the hair?” she’d asked.
Rhori hadn’t responded immediately.
She voiced another fear. “Do you think they’ll have his head displayed on a spike over the town gate?”
He said nothing.
She knew Rhori didn’t have answers to those questions.
The last public beheading in Eia had been conducted many decades ago, before their parents were born. All the governors before Boggond had opted for either firing squads or lethal injections, both carried out in the privacy of prison walls. Because even on a planet whose surviving population idealized the pre-Cataclysm antiquity and refused to move forward, public executions had come to be seen as too barbaric.