by Auryn Hadley
The direct contact made his thoughts clear in her head rather than sounding like he screamed across a vast distance. She didn't break the touch. Instead, she sent him a scrap of her past.
She showed her life as an aid in an office, applying time after time for a promotion to the field, always being denied because her kind "would go feral." Another flash of working out on the pells. Her off hours were the only time she could train for combat, and cadets amused themselves by throwing trash at her while she practiced. A scrap of her before the military, as a girl of twelve, knees raw and fingers bleeding from the caustic chemicals she scrubbed with, cleaning ground-in dirt from the expensive engravings on the entryway tiles.
I am enjoying myself, Zep, but I worked too hard to get here to take it for granted.
He patted her hand in understanding. We've all been there, believe it or not. LT, too. But girl, you kicked my ass today. All that work paid off. Everything from here on out is going to take your brains, not your training, to get through. Finish your drink, I'll get another.
She swallowed what was left, clenching her teeth at the warmth when it slid down her throat. Zep stood, grabbed her wrist once more to judge her mind before smirking and heading to the bar. He returned quickly, this time empty handed.
"I have a waitress bringing a selection over. I plan to get you drunk and make you to admit how you managed to get inside my guard."
The waitress arrived with a tray full of shots and left them on the table. Zep tipped the girl and slid a tiny glass at Sal.
"Bottoms up," he said, matching action to words.
She tipped the glass to her lips, swallowing and blinking. Another took its place. By the third, Sal couldn't deny the effects. A comfortable warmth embraced her and the smile refused to leave her lips, her edged teeth flashing. When Zep invited her to dance, she couldn't find a reason not to. Gyrating to the hypnotic music, she whirled and tipped, not always intentionally. Eventually, another black-clad man cut in, and Sal recognized Razor through the haze in her head. They, too, spun and writhed, Sal laughing at the seriousness of his efforts. At the break in each song, she found Zep's hand, filled with another tiny glass, and his encouragement to swallow the liquid inside.
A whisper of a thought alerted her to a third Blade joining their crowd on the dance floor. His pleasant scent drifted to her clearly, even in the packed room. The sharp edge of his mind cut through her haze when his calloused hand gently caressed the back of her neck. She turned to face him, and found herself standing with Cyno, his thumb resting against the pulse in her throat.
Care ta dance, kitten? he asked.
She nodded, and he gently took her hand as a slower and more intimate song played. Cyno's shoulder was even with her eyes, and in her intoxicated state she couldn't see a reason not to rest her head on it. He smelled like home should, and she inhaled deeply, trying to take it in.
He slipped one hand around her waist to the small of her back, gently pulling her closer. Together they wove patterns on the floor, their bodies touching. His heart beat fast against her body and a strange look crossed his face each time he met her eyes. He couldn't hold her gaze, though, and kept looking at the ground. When the music ended he pulled himself away. Like a perfect gentleman, he offered to escort her from the dance floor, a shy smile tugging at the corner of his lip.
My turn, she heard. They paused when yet another dance partner stepped from the crowd. This time it was Risk.
Sal hadn't been formally introduced to the iliri crossbred, but she recognized the similarities he shared with her own features. With her inhibitions lowered, she sent a thought his way. I hear you easily. I heard a few others easily, but some I have to touch before I can get in their mind. Why?
Ah, it's the iliri in us, he replied as he led her back to the dance floor. The more blood we share with you, the easier we can hear each other. That's why poor Zep is always screaming in our heads but still so very quiet.
You too? I thought maybe it was just because I'd been so angry with him, or he was closing me out.
No, no. Nothing like that. It's an iliri trick. We need a catalyst, you see, and for us, that's Arctic. While the music played, he guided her with a sinuous grace she hadn't expected, dancing languidly, using his entire body to move with the sounds.
Arctic is the linker, and to share thoughts like this, we need a link, he explained. Without him keeping a "channel" open, we'd be as silent in your head as any human. Even Zep, who has no iliri blood as far as we can tell, can be heard with Arctic's help, but he has to work harder.
Does Arctic have to concentrate to do it? I mean... Words failed her, so she sent a jumble of worry over Arctic meditating in a room so the Black Blades could use his mind for their own entertainment.
No, nothing like that, Risk assured her, his tone filled with amusement. For him it's natural. He's here, and we get the benefits of it. Did your pack teach you none of this?
I never knew my parents, Sal admitted, besides a story told by my former owner. They bought me at a young age. I only managed to get myself conscripted when I refused to become entertainment for an officer visiting my master. In her drunken state, Sal decided the obviously strange Risk would understand her better than the others. When I said I'd rather die than become the plaything of some human, the officer agreed. He enlisted me right then and there, and it's the best thing that ever happened to me.
Took me over three years, she continued, but I got a promotion and managed to get permission to apply to the elite forces. The Black Blades are the only ones to ever consider me, though.
Oh, I think we might do more than consider, Risk assured her, but you're very drunk. With that he broke the physical contact and led her back to the table where the squad of Blades had gathered.
"Oh damn, Sal," Arctic said, seeing her for the first time out of uniform, "I think we owe Zep a drink for that outfit. Wow!"
They raised their glasses to Zep, who grinned and lifted his own before tossing back the shot.
Chapter 6
On the balcony above, LT looked down with pride. The girl seemed to be working out. Since the loss of Circus, the Blades had been operating short-staffed. His men deserved nothing but the best, but the last trial left them empty-handed. As their reputation increased, so did the applications, and weeding through the bland questions Command permitted was anything but easy.
And now, here, mingling as though already a part of the group, was a pure iliri woman. She had no idea what she was capable of. And it wasn't just her breeding that made her such an appealing applicant. She worked hard, like he expected of his men. She fought like a "demon possessed," as Shift called it, and she begged to learn more. She was everything he could hope for, even if a part of him worried about adding a female into his delicately balanced group.
The men were already making it clear they found her attractive and weren't opposed to her alien features. They snuck trinkets into her room, stole dances, and stared at her with open lust when she moved. Blaec didn't know how she felt about the attention, or if she understood the implications. Each time he touched her mind, he only got a sense of her hatred for being so different – most iliri despised their non-human traits.
She'd probably never been told how the iliri were created. Their race had been bred to serve and protect humanity, but Sal seemed unaware of the pull of her iliran nature. She hid her beastly desires behind a wall of human conditioning, and Blaec wondered what would happen when she finally embraced her instincts.
The scrape of a chair pulled Blaec's mind back to the present. General Sturmgren dropped his aging body into it with a sigh and a strained smile.
"Good evening, Lieutenant," the General said. "How are your tryouts going so far?"
Blaec nodded. "It looks promising, sir. I have two that might do, and one I seem to prefer."
"Good. Then how long will it take you to get back into fighting shape?"
"A month, maybe two, depending upon which recruit makes it to the end."
"And then? Do you think you'll have the unit ready?"
"Yes, sir. We should be able to remove at least three officials and probably four Warlords along the border, leaving the Empire weak enough for you to get the army across."
"Good, very good." The General signaled for a waitress.
Their conversation paused while the woman brought another round and pocketed the generous tip the General handed her. Reaching for his drink, the old man watched the girl sashay away before resuming.
"They're pushing us hard, Blaec," he said. "We've lost a few hundred men just trying to halt their advance, and the Emperor just keeps sending more. He refuses to deal with us diplomatically, and we can't match him militarily."
"Which is why you need us."
"I know the Black Blades prefer less restrictive jobs, but without this push, we'll be trading in our blue and gold for the black and purple of the Empire. You get the army across the border, and I'll give you an assignment to be proud of."
Blaec nodded. General Sturmgren was an honest man, and his word was as good as any contract. While Blaec hated to ask his Blades to do the military's dirty work, they could, with their eyes closed. This war had waged on far too long. A decade ago, maybe more, the Empire had appeared from nowhere, scattered provinces coming together under a new banner. Their leader, calling himself simply the Emperor, gathered his citizens into armies and began to take over territories surrounding them. The Conglomerate hadn't paid attention until Unav fell. The peaceful nation shared their border for centuries with little more than trade disagreements, and never a military conflict.
Intelligence said the Emperor was intent on conquering the continent. His rhetoric centered around his hate for the iliri. An abomination, he called them, proclaiming he had the right to exterminate the species from the face of the planet. That was why he hit Unav so hard – because of the large numbers of iliri and iliri crossbreds living there – and killed everyone with iliri ancestry he came across.
Blaec remembered it well. He'd been a young boy, thinking he was a man, when he heard the news. His family was from Unav, his mother and kin presumed dead. He tried to join the CFC military that very day, but they turned him away due to his age. On his eighteenth birthday he returned and worked his way through the ranks. If a few assassinations would help the Conglomerate break this siege, then he'd order his men to do them.
Unfortunately, the Conglomerate only cared about protecting their borders. The extermination of an entire species held little concern for politicians, but the loss of their political districts compelled them to fight back.
"I just need a few more weeks, Ran," Blaec said. "With only eight of us, being a man down would be a death sentence. I won't send my men into that. I'm sorry, but I won't."
"And I wouldn't ask you to. It'll take us a month or more to prepare. Pick the right recruit, Blaec, and train him up. An army of this size doesn't move quickly, and a month is just the blink of an eye. Knowing you'll do it is all I needed."
The General pushed his chair back and made to stand. Blaec climbed to his feet in a sign of respect. "Sir?" he asked before the General could leave. "I may need a favor."
General Sturmgren looked at the Lieutenant curiously. Blaec rarely asked for anything. "Go on."
"One of my potentials is pure iliri."
"Ah," the General said, understanding. "Document the trials well. If he obviously out performs the others based upon your recruitment needs, I'll back you on this. Is he really that good, or do you think you might be biased?"
"She's that good." Blaec smiled at the General's reaction. "I'd take her if she was human, sir. She beat Zep in a fair spar."
General Sturmgren chuckled. "Ok, you win. Send me her file and I'll start laying the ground work. How'd you find a female iliri?"
Blaec shrugged. "She applied. She's a conscript."
The old man's eyes narrowed. "Private Luxx?"
"Yes, sir," Blaec replied, shocked the man knew her name.
"Good. I already have her file. Seems the little bitch has applied for every elite opening in the last year."
With a nod, the General extended his hand and Blaec grasped it firmly, returning to his seat once the old man left. Glancing back at his Blades, a cluster of black in the sea of blue and gold, Blaec hoped that this time one of his recruits would pass the tests. He didn't dare choose a favorite, but a brilliant red flash among them let him know that his men already had.
She bested Zep in combat. Only Blaec could do that consistently, but she didn't need to know that. Zep was the weapons specialist of the unit. He had an affinity for fighting that no other human – and few iliri – possessed. Not only were her combat skills impressive, she presented herself professionally and kept her iliran instincts under control. Above all else, she'd stumbled into their minds, tapping into Arctic's ability naturally. She easily heard all of them, and his men preferred to speak to her mentally, feeling at ease with the touch of her thoughts. Having experienced it himself, Blaec knew why. Her mind was sharp but gentle, a pleasant caress he found himself wanting to embrace.
He pushed that thought away as quickly as it came.
Most novices shoved their thoughts around without any elegance. Sal never barged into his head, but glided in when invited, a rare talent. Plus, according to Arctic, some of his men intended to keep in contact with her even if she didn't pass the trials. Iliran men were drawn to dominant women, and Sal might pretend to be a quiet and willing servant, but as easily as she'd held his gaze, Blaec knew better. He knew what she really was and longed to submit to a woman like her. If only that wouldn't cause problems in the unit.
Blaec had been raised by his iliran mother and two fathers. It took him nearly a decade to learn to act like a human in Conglomerate society, but once he had, they accepted him without question. His mind still longed for the comforts of his mother's people, but he wasn't willing to give up all that his human position offered his men. They were the only family he had, and only as a human could he protect them.
Sal seemed to understand that. She hadn't made him spell it out in her interview, but she seemed to accept that they had to play by the military's rules. The only problem was that she still had to learn to ride. A Blade without a mount was like an arrow without a bow. The other possibility, a young man with experience on the street, could ride. He'd served a year with the light cavalry, but he couldn't fight any better than a common solider, hadn't been invited into their minds, and Blaec had not seen him befriend a single Blade. The bond just wasn't there. No matter how hard he tried to stay impartial, the facts were clear.
Sal was his best bet, even if her presence would result in a few squabbles. Blaec told himself that his men had settled worse and come out stronger for it. They could handle a pretty girl in their midst. He refused to think about the effect a Kaisae had on her men. The girl had submitted to him, he reminded himself. If she passed the trials, she should work out, no matter how nice she smelled. He was only a half breed, so it wasn't like his instincts would take over.
Below him, the party was breaking up. The Black Blades left in a group, one shining red spot the only color in their cluster of black. Looking at them from above, Blaec saw nothing but smiles and true camaraderie. Sal took Zep's arm on one side, Cyno's on the other, with the rest closing ranks around them. The girl staggered, obviously drunk, and laughter reached his ears. She'd feel it in the morning, he thought, but if she could still pass the tests, it wouldn't matter.
He decided to send her medication, just to be sure.
Chapter 7
The powder helped. Sal's head no longer throbbed. She had no idea who'd been thoughtful enough to send her the meds, but wished she could thank him. Now, if only her mouth would be as cooperative. She took another pull on the flask – nothing more than water for her dehydrated body – and stared up at the pair of moons in the too-blue sky, hoping to ease the nervous tension in her neck.
She was early, thinking the fresh air would wipe the la
st of the cobwebs from her head. Last night, Zep told her their next trial would require her brain. Sal needed an advantage. Instead, she just watched stablehands catching horses. Once haltered, the animals were passed to a groom who cleaned, tacked, and tied them along the rail inside the arena.
Four war horses stood quietly, heads bowed, dozing in the afternoon sun. Two more were being brushed, and a handler led in a third. Sal counted on her fingers, her head still not clear enough for calculations, and arrived at seven total.
What would the test be? Zep's hint tugged at the back of her mind. Riding wasn't exactly a mental skill, but it was Sal's weakness. She spent months tallying the inventory for the stable in her time with the military, but none in the saddle. Through necessity, she learned the basics of working around horses and the care each required, but few Privates were awarded the luxury of riding lessons unless their families had wealth enough to supply it. Sitting on the sidelines, she'd listened to the basics over and over: heels down, hands soft, eyes up, don't balance on the reins, but that was different from putting it into practice. Maybe this test would be to analyze the mechanics of riding?
Looking over her shoulder across the pastures, her eyes kept returning to a lone horse in the field. Covered in mud, contained in a small paddock away from the rest of the impressive stock, it kept calling into the wind, prancing around the perimeter of the paddock, tail flagged. She wondered if the horse called for a foal recently weaned, or if she was a new addition, quarantined to prevent spreading disease.
Sal's dehydrated mouth begged for another drink. She sucked at her flask, wishing she hadn't gotten so drunk. Behind her, the mare continued her protest against the confinement unabated.
Turning to the seven horses tied along the fence, she focused on the differences in each and analyzed them. The axe-headed beast near the end had the traits to make a good battle steed, but only barely. The rest were more suited for parades. A high headed palomino spooked at recruits walking up, pulling hard against its tether, digging its heels into the soft arena sand until stablehands shooed it back onto its feet. The chestnut, a brilliant, deep red with high white socks and a near perfect blaze, showed signs of age in his joints and posture. From the animals before her, he suited her abilities the best. His age and attitude were that of a veteran. His experience could cover for what Sal's lacked.