Beyond the Next Star

by Melody Johnson

Stomach full and body clean—this time without Torek having to resort to brute force—Reshna bedded down in her cot, under the fur covers, still draped in the fur blankets she’d worn all day.

  He sighed warily. He still needed to prepare a private room for her with better heating. He still needed to have fur-lined coverings fitted for her, so she didn’t need to wear blankets around her shivering body when they left the estate. He still needed to do a lot of things, but he laid himself down instead, ordered the lights off, and closed his eyes, willing his mind to just let it go.

  Torek watched Daerana Weidnar exit the lift. In reality, he hadn’t known her name. He’d only noted her presence and the fact that a lorok he didn’t know had just entered the estate proper. He knew everyone in his command and nearly everyone who lived in Onik. Although visitor approvals didn’t go through him personally, he made it his business to know who’d been approved: one, it was rude not to welcome guests, and two, he preferred to know with whom he was sharing a roof. The fact that he hadn’t known her—that she wasn’t an approved guest—had been the forewarning that had saved Onik’s guard. His dream self saw her and knew her name, but still reacted the same as his real self.

  He stepped off the dais, circled around the back hallway, and unstrapped his Federation-issued RG-800.

  It was certainly possible that a visitor had accidentally arrived a day early. Dorai Nikiok may have made special provisions for a guest without consulting him or his administration. It was also certainly possible that this someone was unexpected.

  Onik’s estate didn’t do unexpected.

  He quickened his steps around the perimeter, looping back to the surveillance hall, and looked out the wall of windows to the courtyard below. The same in his dream as in reality, red streaks stained the snow. He couldn’t be sure what they were from this distance, but as he eased around the corner of the hallway to spy on the monitoring stations, he was more than close enough to recognize the red spattered on Daerana Weidnar’s fur as blood. She lifted her weapon and aimed between Dorai Nikiok’s wide, stricken eyes.

  Torek aimed his own weapon and squeezed the trigger.

  Tonight, like every night, his dream deviated from reality. His weapon locked. His dream self squeezed the trigger again and again, and as his weapon failed to fire, Daerana Weidnar slaughtered everyone, painting the surveillance hall a bright, shining red.

  Torek tore his gaze from the carnage to glare down at his weapon.

  His hands were matted with blood.

  Torek’s eyes wrenched open to pitch blackness.

  “Lights on,” he croaked.

  The beams clicked and then brightened, illuminating the room in a sudden wash of light.

  He wasn’t blind anymore. He wasn’t dreaming anymore. He wasn’t killing anyone anymore.

  Torek closed his eyes, then opened them and closed them again, just to prove that he could exist inside himself and still breathe. He lay on his back, stared at the vaulted ceiling overhead, and focused on that breath—in and out, rapid and harsh and grating on his raw throat. Rak, he must have been screaming again.

  In and out, he focused on the air passing through his lungs, inhaling and holding it, expelling it and inhaling again over and over, slower and more controlled with each repetition until it didn’t feel like every stone of Onik’s estate was crushing his chest.

  Something shifted in the room to his left.

  He clenched his fist, cocked his arm, and turned toward the movement.

  Reshna’s head, visible only from the nose up, was peeking over the bedcover.

  Torek let his fist relax. The remaining pressure constricting his chest eased.

  She blinked.

  He hesitated, but those eyes—so large and gray and seeming to see so much more than his physical self, seeming to pierce the weary tatters of his soul—stared at him. He was overcome. He patted the bedcover.

  She hesitated. Her fear was almost a tangible thing, thick and cloying.

  “Did I scare you, little one? I’m so sorry. I was scared too.” He patted the bed again. “Up. Up. I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  Her head lifted, revealing her mouth, chin, and neck. She placed one small, bare hand on the bedding.

  “Yes, come up,” he encouraged, still patting.

  She crept to her feet and then onto the bed. She lay next to him, her eyes darting around the room several times but refocusing back to him between each uncertain glance. She reminded him of a pinned insect on display. Something unwillingly being examined.

  Maybe the lights were too bright.

  Torek snorted to himself. Obviously, the lights were too bright—she’d been wakened from a dead sleep in the middle of the night by one of his fits.

  “Lights dim.”

  The light receded to a low glow. Torek reached between them with a slow, unsteady hand and stroked the tender underside of her forearm.

  She relaxed in increments. The tension around her pinched lips eased. Her strained shoulders melted into the cushions. Her arms became pliant, her head rested more deeply into the pillow, and her eyes drooped and eventually drifted shut.

  “Good girl, Reshna.” He slid his fingers down to rest against the smooth curve of her stomach. “Maybe miracles can happen. Maybe we can find courage together.”

  Eight

  Torek didn’t know why Neyra Aerai was putting him on edge. The tailor came highly recommended by his mother-in-law. She was gushing over Reshna affectionately—her hair, her eyes, her little mouth, her pert little nose, her skinny little fingers, her little everything—and she deferred to Torek with what should have been a pleasing amount of respect while still giving professional and helpful recommendations. Nothing about her attitude should set his teeth to grinding or his hackles to rising. But it was, and he couldn’t seem to shake it.

  Maybe this was residual restlessness from last night’s episode. He’d suffered that same nightmare every night for nearly half of Rorak, but for the first time, he hadn’t been alone. And how had he repaid Reshna’s offer of comfort? He’d been moments away from punching her before his thoughts had cleared. Torek closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his muzzle.

  He hadn’t punched her. He’d kept his head. He wasn’t losing it.

  “No more blankets for you, Reshna. You’ll have clothes of your own soon. How do you feel about that, hmmm?” Neyra adjusted the tape and measured her from inner thigh to heel. “She’ll need boots too?”

  No, I intend to give her mine. Torek opened his eyes and forced a smile. “Yes, thank you.”

  Maybe it was the shop. If the lorok was as proficient in her trade as Mairok claimed, shouldn’t she have sufficient funds to rent a larger space for her establishment?

  Torek swiped a hand down his face. He was being uncharitable. He turned at the end of the room—when had he begun pacing?—and his shoulders were just wide enough to jam between the narrow row of sample fabrics. The stack wobbled precariously.

  Neyra paused in her measuring to glance up.

  Torek’s face heated behind his fur. “My apologies.”

  She smiled and returned to her tape. How many measurements did one need to create protective coverings for one animal companion? Reshna only had four limbs, a neck, a chest, a waist, and hips: eight measurements. That couldn’t possibly take more than five minutes. But here they were a half hour later, having discussed styles and quantities, and Lorien knew what he’d agreed to in an attempt to speed this meeting.

  His daami buzzed again, vibrating his wrist for the third time in as many minutes.

  Rak, they were running late.

  Five strides, and he reached the other end of the shop. When he turned back, Neyra was measuring Reshna’s foot.

  Next, she’d be measuring each toe. Torek rubbed the bridge of his muzzle again, but not fast enough this time. The vein in his temple throbbed viciously.

  Someone laughed, sharp and guttural, almost pained.

  Torek snapped his eyes open.

&
nbsp; Neyra was tickling the bottom of Reshna’s left foot.

  He blinked. Reshna could laugh.

  Of course, the reaction was probably just an involuntary response to physical stimuli, but still. Torek was transfixed for a moment. Reshna was so often cold and shivering and shy. But she could laugh. She just hadn’t much in his care.

  He sighed. If it meant that Reshna laughed, maybe upending his schedule wasn’t quite the catastrophe it felt like.

  He supposed he could add tickling to his to-dos for her, between tonight’s training and washing. And he still needed to hire someone to build an addition onto his living quarters for her private chamber. He swiped a hand down his face, stretching the skin taut. His skull was splitting apart at the seams. Even the best contractor couldn’t build something from nothing, and finding an entire room within the current footprint of his apartment would be impossible. Then he’d need to heat it.

  He pressed his finger pads over his eyelids until stars burst across his vision. Just thinking about living in such heat was making his fur damp.

  Maybe he could requisition his neighbor’s living quarters and insulate that apartment for her. But evicting a fellow officer seemed excessive for one animal companion. He’d own two entire living quarters for his private use, one exclusively for Reshna. As if he wasn’t infamous enough. Then again, he had four titles to his name. He was already known for property excess. What was one extra apartment, really?

  Maybe he could expand his walk-in closet for her. He’d need to buy a new bureau to store his clothes and reread her manual’s chapter on living quarters to ensure that she could get by in such a small space. It wasn’t that small. Surely, she could make do. But he didn’t want her to just get by or make do. He wanted her to thrive.

  Maybe he could—

  Reshna’s squeals cut short.

  Torek glanced up, and his RG-800 was aimed between Neyra’s eyes before he’d even realized it was cradled in his hand.

  Neyra had a knife poised against Reshna’s throat.

  She cut a flapping care tag from the blanket around Reshna’s neck. “That’ll be more comfortable now, won’t it? Yes, it will, baby.”

  Neyra pitched the excised tag, set down the knife, and ruffled Reshna’s head hair with both hands.

  Torek holstered his weapon, shaking. He’d nearly murdered a tailor for trimming a care tag. By Lorien’s horn, he was a public safety hazard.

  His throat tightened. His breath shortened. His chest ached, and suddenly, he was seeing Daerana Weidnar’s face instead of the cramped rows of fabric racks. Her beautiful face: she’d had one, and then he’d pulled the trigger. The same trigger he’d nearly just pulled on Neyra.

  His heart seized. His vision darkened.

  Not now. Not in public. Not again.

  A fabric rack crashed to the floor, physically shaking the entire shop. Delaney and Neyra flinched in simultaneous surprise—who knew that fabric samples were so heavy?—and then gasped together as if choreographed. The fabric might be heavy, but by far, Torek’s limp body was heavier.

  He’d collapsed and must have attempted to steady himself on the fabric rack, because half the rack was crushed under his body. The other half buried him beneath a pile of fabrics and furs. They swelled and fluttered as he panted, like he’d run for miles. Except that Torek could carry 130 pounds on his hip one-handed without coming close to losing his breath.

  “Commander?” Neyra squeaked.

  His head jerked up and out of the fabric pile. His gaze was wild and darting from fabric rack to ceiling to floor and back to fabric rack. Delaney didn’t know what he was seeing, but it wasn’t rolls of furs and pattern templates. And by the terrified look widening his eyes, she didn’t want to know.

  The seed of suspicion that his session with Shemara Kore’Onik had planted sprouted into certainty. Why else would a man like Torek, so young and strong, have so many doctors’ appointments? Why else would he need an animal companion? He certainly didn’t seem to want one.

  Delaney dropped to her hands and knees so she’d be on his level instead of hovering over him when she approached. And despite the nerves screaming at her to do the opposite, she crawled to him.

  What am I doing? I’m not really a pet. And if I was, it’s not as if I’m a trained companion animal to deal with his issues. I’m an unqualified nobody from the backwoods of nowhere north Georgia.

  But she was here now, on Lorien, and no matter what she wasn’t, she was his animal companion.

  What did an animal companion do when her owner was having a panic attack?

  Delaney reached under the fabric and rubbed his back.

  Torek whipped his head toward her. The pointed tip of his ram horn sliced the air in front of her face, missing her cheek by inches.

  She froze under the steel of his dual-colored gaze, her heart pounding.

  He didn’t move either, except to suck ragged gasps of air through his bared, clenched teeth.

  She exhaled. Slow inhale. Her heart calmed enough that she could feel his beating through his jacket, as frantic as a hummingbird’s. Jesus.

  She resumed petting him in slow, small circles. A minute ticked by. Incrementally, the tension in his muscles loosened: his braced shoulders sagged, his hands unfisted, his jaw relaxed. He lifted a trembling arm and combed his fingers through her hair. Delaney flinched at the rough contact, but his claws, once against her skull, were gentle. She leaned in closer, and when his body remained relaxed and his touch remained tender, she pressed her cheek to his.

  She tried to mimic the comforting, rumbling purr of a viurr, but mostly, she just sounded congested. So she switched to a low hum instead and the first tune that came to mind: Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound. That saved a wretch like me.

  Delaney had a better chance of carrying Torek’s two hundred plus pounds up a mountain than she did of carrying a tune, but comfort didn’t come from perfect pitch. His breathing evened. His heart slowed to a healthy rhythm, and eventually, when she eased back to check his face, his eyes had lost their edge of panic.

  His gaze cut away from Delaney to the reality of his surroundings. His mouth pinched grimly.

  Delaney glanced over her shoulder. Neyra was still there. Still gaping.

  “Good girl, Reshna,” he murmured.

  He stood, avoiding the fabric racks even though he clearly needed something to steady himself. He swayed dangerously, just once, and then reclenched his fists, steeled his jaw, and cleared his throat. The swaying stilled.

  “My apologies.”

  “Of course, Commander. I’m so sorry.” Neyra gushed. “Was it the fabric?”

  Delaney stared. Yes, the fabric had obviously jumped from its roll and tackled Torek to the floor.

  Torek stared Neyra down with the dual ice and velvet of his unnerving gaze. Not one muscle in his face moved except to blink.

  “I’ll submit your order immediately and begin work on Reshna’s wardrobe. Again, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what—”

  Torek nodded, the sharp movement cutting Neyra off as effectively as if he’d sliced out her tongue. He pivoted on his heel and hustled Delaney from the shop.

  The stoic expression tightening his face was unyielding, but the hand at her back, propelling her from the shop, still trembled.

  “Stay. Staaaaay.”

  Delaney lost the battle against rolling her eyes just as Torek eased away from her, both his palms raised. He’d had a rough night followed by an embarrassing morning, so she’d tolerated his lessons all afternoon in good humor, but she was nearing the limit of her patience. He’d “taught” her sit and come already, and God help her, if she had to choke down one more treat—

  “Good girl!” Torek squeezed his clicker—the trick was complete!—rubbed her head vigorously, and as she was grimacing against his rough handling, popped another treat in her mouth.

  The treat was savory and light—her favorite, according to her manual (thank you, Keil)—and the first five had been a tasty lu
nch. The second set of five had been tolerable, but now, two hours and dozens of treats later, she might very well vomit.

  Saliva flooded her mouth. Maybe when he wasn’t looking, she could spit and hide it under the bed.

  “All right, Reshna. Now, let’s put this all together.”

  Would this training session never end?

  “Sit.”

  She dropped to the floor and crossed her legs.

  “Staaay.” Torek drew out the word as he backstepped, his stride proud and confident this time. He stopped and stood on the other side of the room. The metallic heels of his boots clinked together. “Come!”

  The treat still sitting on her tongue had begun to dissolve. She struggled not to gag.

  “Come, Reshna!”

  God help her, she couldn’t bring herself to move.

  “You want the treat, don’t you?” He waved said treat tauntingly. “Come!”

  She stared at him with sudden, simple realization. No, she didn’t want the treat, and she wouldn’t get it if she didn’t listen.

  She was so elated, she nearly broke character and laughed out loud. She’d been ignoring people her entire life: her foster parents, social workers, therapists, teachers—everyone who thought they knew best, having never lived her life. She was an expert at doing the opposite of what she’d been told to do. And now the very stubbornness that had damned her time and time again would save her.

  “Come!”

  Delaney continued sitting, and, for extra effect, let her gaze wander around the room, as if the blank wall was somehow fascinating.

  Torek’s hand dropped back to his side. He placed the treat into the pouch at his hip and stroked his long, pointed beard as he considered her. His stare was confused, not angry, so Delaney wasn’t prepared for his sudden lunge.

  She fell back, inadvertently inhaling the sludgy remains of the treat still on her tongue.

  His hand rose and crossed his chest, chin high. It didn’t matter that she was on an alien planet, interacting with a fur man who only spoke in growled consonants and guttural vowels. She knew his body language as fluently as she knew English: he was going to backhand the disobedience out of her.