by Mina Carter
“I see you’re making friends,” Madison commented with a smile.
Indra sauntered over with a grin.
“I see you’re still taking the Latharian fashion world by storm,” she threw back, nodding to Madison’s dress. Like the rest of her wardrobe, it was made of Latharian fabric, but unlike a “normal” Latharian gown with flowing skirts and draped lines, it was tailored like a Terran power suit—the kind Madison had been wearing in every promo image of her Indra had ever seen.
Mads shrugged. “If you know what works for you, why reinvent the wheel?”
“Good point.”
The former vice president looked down at Indra’s clothing as they turned and made their way out of the hall. “I don’t suppose I could get you to change? We have an important arrival today, and Danaar would like us on hand to greet him.”
Indra looked down at her clothing. It was nothing special, a ship suit she’d acquired from the mercenary ship that had rescued them from the prison planet of Mirax Ruas, knotted around her waist, a skinny-fit wifebeater vest, and heavy boots. Practical. Comfortable. She felt like herself, not some primped-up popinjay, which she would if they tried to force her into a getup like Madison’s. Hell, she mused, eyeing the instruments of torture strapped to her friend’s feet. She’d break her neck if she ever tried to walk in anything like that.
“Yeah... no,” she replied, amused as Mads rolled her eyes. “You already knew the answer, so why’d you ask?”
“Because I live in hope, obviously.” The taller woman chuckled as she led the way down the corridor.
Indra recognized the route. They were headed toward the command sector of the ship, which made sense if they were about to have an important guest.
Why she was invited, she had no idea, but since Madison could have left her high and dry back on Mirax Ruas and hadn’t, she didn’t argue. She’d be forever grateful to have such a friend. Not that anyone would ever have thought they’d become friends. In what reality would a high-ranking politician and a ganger ever have met, never mind form such a bond?
“So, who’s the bigwig?” she asked, the two women drawing to the side as a group of warriors marched by in formation. The corridor was large enough that no one had to stop and wait for anyone else to pass, something that still amazed her.
But then, this was only Indra’s second alien spaceship. She’d seen murderous rock worms and survived a death sentence, so alien spaceships? No big deal. The first one she’d been on, the Sprite, had been a little more like human ships, all cramped corridors and exposed pipework. But the Izal’vias was something else entirely. It was more like a huge futuristic cathedral with its sparkling white corridors and high-vaulted ceilings… if the priests wore leather and were as hot as hell.
“His name is Nyek S’Vaan,” Madison replied as they reached the command deck. The two guards at the door nodded and stepped aside to let them through. “He’s going to be Danaar’s second in command. And believe me, my husband is pissed about it.”
2
The Izal’vias was a war cruiser. Not the biggest in the imperial fleet’s line but plenty bigger than the garrison aboard a civilian freighter. Nyek’s eyes widened as he approached, hands confidently perched on the console of the aged flyer that was all D’Rek would offer him to report to his next assignment.
The thing was hardly space-worthy but then his former CO wouldn’t lose sleep over it if the flyer suffered a catastrophic systems failure and he died en route to his new ship. He was just glad to get Nyek off his ship and for him to become someone else’s problem.
Besides, from their last conversation, it was obvious he was assuming Nyek had been recalled to face punishment for something. His wrists tensed, the scars there pulling slightly. He’d paid for his past sins, real and imagined, publicly. Liaanas herself had granted him mercy and the right to live.
But... this was an empire. If the emperor himself decided he was no longer worthy, for whatever reason, his braids would be stripped from him and he would be dishonored. Was that what this was? Was he being dishonored even after undertaking the trial of Vesh? The unholy glee in D’Rek’s eyes as he gave Nyek his new orders indicated he thought it was. Or he hoped it was. Probably the only regret the male had was that he was not the one to perform it. Not for want of trying either. In the two years Nyek had been assigned to the Tev’tolath, D’Rek had studied his behavior and actions like a Kinerys hawk, looking for any reason he could dishonor him.
Nyek had made sure never to give him one. His conduct had always been exemplary, as if he served in the imperial court itself.
The console in front of him flashed with an incoming communication. Long fingers swift, he acknowledged the message and approach vector, adding a small message back that his audio systems were nonoperational. Another parting gift from D’Rek. No doubt so that if the flyer did suffer a malfunction, he couldn’t call for help. Problem solved.
The approach path took him under the belly of the huge, armored beast in front of him. Cannon arrays sat in their mountings, inactive for the moment, as he passed by. A shiver stole up his spine. They were ketar class, capable of tearing another capital ship apart. His tiny flyer with its puny shields wouldn’t stand a chance.
Sweat slid down his back as the journey under the Izal’vias stretched out to an eternity. Any moment he expected the arrays to activate, swivel in their mounts and target him. His world would end in a blaze to rival a supernova and it would all be over. He would be at peace, in the halls of the goddess herself.
But the arrays didn’t move, and he emerged from the shadows under the ship like the sun breaking over the horizon of a new day. Squinting against the sudden glare, he turned the flyer, heading toward the shuttlebay doors that stood open in welcome.
The Izal’vias grew larger and larger as he approached until it swallowed up everything else in his viewscreen. Finally, he passed through the massive bay doors and into the hangar beyond. It was huge and cavernous. Flyers and troop shuttles far more advanced than his lined up row on row until he lost count.
The console flashed again, giving him a bay number. Carefully, he maneuvered himself into place, landing his flyer gently between two transports. Both were shiny and brand-spanking new. He felt like the poor cousin visiting from out of town as he cranked the lid on his flyer and climbed out.
Two mechanics approached, their expressions terse as they nodded to him. Professionalism broke, though, when one of them blurted out, “Draanth’s sake, where did you find this? A gods-damn scrapyard?”
“Something like that,” Nyek deadpanned as he strode toward the main deck where a welcoming party awaited.
He tensed, fists closing at his sides as he walked. He might have arrived on board safely, the ketar cannons not creating a brief and shining star of him and his ship, but that didn’t mean he was out of the woods yet.
He didn’t expect anyone would want to roll out the red carpet for him, so a welcoming party was not good. His keen gaze studied them as he approached. They didn’t appear to be heavily armed, no more than was usual for Latharian warriors, and none of them had drawn their weapons yet. That was good, but then again, not really an indicator of their intentions. They were imperial warriors, far above the caliber of those in the Tev’tolath garrison. He likely wouldn’t know their intentions until a second before he was fighting for his life. And the number of them? His life would then become very, very short.
Nyek was no idiot, nor was he vain. He knew he was a good... no, he was an excellent warrior, but no one could take on large numbers and survive. Not without dumb luck or divine intervention. For a second his scars pulled again, but he dismissed the feeling. The lady goddess sparing his life during the Vesh did not mean he was blessed by the gods. It could just mean she’d ruled he had yet to atone for his mistakes in life before granting him the blessing of the afterlife.
None of the males waiting for him pulled their weapons as he approached. The warrior in the center, a senior warrior by the
notches on his leathers, gave him a salute in greeting, which almost froze him in his tracks. Sure, aboard the garrison he’d been sub-commander, which meant they had to salute him, but not one of them had done it willingly.
This male’s expression was neutral, though, maybe even a little respectful as his gaze flicked to the multitude of braids in Nyek’s hair. “Welcome aboard the Izal’vias, Warrior S’Vaan,” he said, hand still bunched in a fist over his heart in the rest pose of the traditional salute.
“Thank you,” Nyek replied as he returned it. For the first time in a long time, he meant it. Hope began to unfurl like the petals of a shy flower. Perhaps this would be the start of a new phase in his life—a posting where he was not reviled for simply breathing. A place his existence was not at the expense of another’s life.
“If you would follow me, the war commander is expecting you,” the warrior said, turning and indicating that Nyek should follow.
He almost faltered as he fell into step. He’d expected to be ordered to report to a sub-commander somewhere, maybe a commander in charge of a department—he was rated for engineering, operations and science, so he could have been assigned to any of them—not the war commander himself.
“The war commander? Which commander holds this ship?” he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral, as though he’d expected to be escorted up to the bridge on arrival.
At least it wasn’t in chains, but he could think of no reason why a war commander would want to see him.
“War Commander Danaar K’Vass.”
The reply was short, sweet and sent surprise rolling down Nyek’s spine. The K’Vass were an old and venerable clan, so entwined with the imperial line it was hard to differentiate the two. Both the emperor’s current heirs were K’Vass and rumor said a new prince had been found with K’Vass blood as well. Or Izaean. Scuttlebutt was a little hazy on the details.
Nyek nodded like it was the news he had expected. Internally, though, his thoughts raced. Why would Danaar K’Vass want to see him? He didn’t ask. To do so would have revealed his ignorance and no wise warrior gave away information another could use against them—a lesson he’d learned long before the Tev’tolath.
They passed warriors in the corridors, all of them pausing to salute. There was no mockery in their movements. The warrior escorting him must be a big deal, Nyek mused, a lot of his attention taken up admiring the ship. She was a newer S’kei class, newer than anything he’d ever served on. What would it be like to command a ship like this? And to have other warriors respect him as they appeared to now? He was under no illusions... as soon as someone saw his scars and realized he was Vesh, that respect would disappear. It always did.
They reached the bridge, the rest of the honor guard peeling away to allow Nyek and his escort to walk through the double doors onto the command deck unaccompanied.
For a moment, Nyek was struck dumb. He’d never been on the command deck of a ship this size before, only dreamed of it. For a moment, he allowed his gaze to sweep over the expansive deck, noting the warriors at their stations, their faces lit by the ghostly glow from their consoles. They didn’t look up, intent on their duties.
The view screen was large, filling the entire front wall of the deck, and currently showed the system outside. The full glory of the Olistaas triple suns was laid out before him, the delicate interplay between the gas giants beyond tracing swirls of pink and purple gases through the space between. It was a stunning spectacle, one of the wonders of the empire… but it didn’t hold Nyek’s attention for long. Turning, he looked across the assembled officers toward the commander’s chair.
It sat alone in glorious solitude in the middle of the deck, imposing in its stark lines and simplicity. Unlike the thrones of a Krynassis clutch queen or the fancy ornamentation of the Navarr, the Lathar saw no need in excessively showing off. Even the imperial crown was a plain band, un-decorated by jewels or other fripperies.
At the moment the chair was unoccupied, and a small group of people stood to the side. At the sight of them, Nyek couldn’t help the surprise that flowed over his features. There was a tall warrior, his short hair proclaiming his status as the war commander even though his manner and bearing would have done that for him. However, the commander didn’t hold Nyek’s attention but rather the two beings standing either side of him.
Nyek had seen females before, of course. As an imperial warrior, he’d been assigned to many ships where he’d come into contact with other species, so the curvy forms were nothing new. He’d seen rare Krynassis females—Oonat, Covashian and Lerexta—but while they were all undeniably female and beautiful in their own way, not one of them pole-axed him like the females in front of him.
All the other females he’d seen weren’t like him. Something had defined them as other—be it scales, the hint of a forked tongue, more breasts than he had hands, or a build only a heavy-worlder could find attractive. Things had marked them as not Lathar, and his interest in them had never progressed beyond academic.
But these females had none of that. They had skin clear of scales and no horns or other non-Lathar features he could see. And he didn’t need to see... every instinct he had told him what his heart and soul knew instantly. Impossibly, somehow, they were Lathar. He breathed the same air as rare and prized females.
“Nyek S’Vaan?” the war commander spoke, his deep voice demanding all Nyek’s attention. He nodded, unwillingly tearing his gaze away from the two females.
“I am indeed. It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, War Commander K’Vass,” he said, thumping his clenched fist against the center of his chest when he reached them.
Had Danaar K’Vass been more highly ranked, he would have added a small bow. The S’Vaan had always been a much lower-ranked clan, his father’s constant source of pride the elevation from J’Vaan to S’Vaan, but even he had never once lifted his ambitions to become K’Vaan. To do that required an honor from the emperor himself, or for a mainline S’Vaan to gain a mate from the imperial line.
“Likewise.” Danaar’s expression didn’t change as he swept an assessing glance over Nyek. In that one look, he knew the big war commander, easily twice his mass, had taken in everything about him from the well-worn leathers to the equally well-worn weapons about his person.
“It’s nice to see a warrior holding to the old ways,” Danaar said, nodding toward the blades sheathed at Nyek’s hips.
“The S’Vaan have always been traditionalists,” he replied.
It was a polite way to say his weapons were old, forged in a style not seen for at least a century. They had been his grandfather’s blades, begrudgingly gifted by his father when he’d reached adulthood. No Lathar clan could send a son out into the world unarmed, but Ravel S’Vaan hadn’t been prepared to spend script on a son he couldn’t bear to look at, so old weaponry it was.
“May I present my mate, Lady Madison K’Vass.” Danaar turned slightly to the taller female.
She was dressed in a way Nyek had never seen before, in a form-fitting sheath that left her legs bare but covered her shoulders. Her hair, a glorious dark gold, tumbled over her shoulders. Bright blue eyes considered him with a hint of a smile.
“My lady,” he murmured, and this time he did add a bow. As far as he was concerned, all females were highly ranked, no matter the circumstances of their birth or what clan they’d been born into. “You must forgive me, but I do not recognize your clan of origin and thus cannot give the correct greeting.”
He straightened up and looked at Danaar. “I was not aware any females had been found. Which clan was harboring them?”
A peal of laughter from the second female rang across the deck. “He thinks we’re Lathar. Oh, honey, what rock have you been hiding under?”
He narrowed his gaze as he focused on the second female. Unlike the first, whose appearance and smile was welcoming and gentle despite its hint of steel, this female was all spikes and aggression.
Not as tall as the first, against him she would
appear petite. She had hair shorn closer to the scalp than a war commander, the longer dark curls on the top clinging to her like a jealous lover. Her eyes were almost as dark as his and sparkled with amusement and intelligence. His gaze swept down her. Lithe curves showed under the vest top and the ship suit knotted at her waist. Heavy boots encased what had to be tiny feet.
Heat surged through him, as did anger. That he had been caught out in a lack of knowledge frustrated him, and to have it pointed out for everyone on the command deck was embarrassing as well as impolite.
“No rock, I assure you, my lady,” he said, gritting his teeth so he didn’t say anything... unwise… as he offered her the same bow of respect as he had Lady K’Vass.
Perhaps this one was mated to one of the war commander’s senior warriors. He wished the male luck; he would definitely need it with this female’s sharp tongue. “Merely duty on the outer edges of the galaxy. Places news is somewhat... slow to reach.”
Her words registered and he took a step closer. “You are not Lathar?”
Every instinct he had said she was Lathar, but the closer he got he realized the differences. She was built on a much smaller scale than the average Lathar. While he might not have seen a female of his own kind for many years, he didn’t remember them being quite so tiny and delicate.
Ignoring the shiver that wanted to roll down his spine at the idea of cradling such a fragile creature close to him, he focused on her features. In keeping with the rest of her, they were small and finely boned, but her eyes captured his attention.
Dark like his own, where his had varying rings of color—almost black through blue to golden at the center—hers had just the one color. A warm, rich brown that was utterly fascinating but not as much as her pupils. They were round. Not vertical like his.
“You are not Lathar,” he murmured in surprise.
“By god, I think he finally figured it out.” Her eyebrow winged up and then she winked. “Someone get this man a prize!”