Jaxar

by Nancey Cummings

  Even if it was her patriotic duty.

  Van turned her head down, playing with the fringe edge of the blanket to hide her smirk. Now was not the time to be snarky, even in her own internal monologue.

  “Then he is a fool. Come with me. Be my mate.” He stretched out a hand. A tattooed glyph on his palm glowed like he held moonlight.

  “I’m not hung up on him. I mean, I liked him, and we got along okay, but he wasn’t the love of my life and he didn’t break my heart.” As she spoke the words, she knew them to be true. She had spent so long being hurt and angry that those two emotions obfuscated the depths of her feelings. She had been devastated at the loss of their child, frustrated at herself that her body failed, and shattered by Havik’s rejection of her because she could not bear him a son. “I was pregnant. It did not go well.”

  Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself for a second rejection.

  “I almost died. My heart is weak. I can’t have children. Not safely. I won’t do it,” she said, her words picking up speed. “I won’t risk my life for a baby. Call me selfish. I don’t care. I’m selfish that I don’t want to die and that’s why Havik sent me back to Earth.”

  Her words hung in the air between them.

  Jaxar’s face drained of color. Perhaps it was the silvery moonlight or perhaps it was the realization that Van was broken and unfit to be his mate.

  Absently, she rubbed her chest. Rejection shouldn’t hurt the way it did. She did not want to be his, or anyone’s mate. Not again. So why did her chest ache at Jaxar’s forlorn expression?

  “The medics—” he started.

  “I’ve had several examinations and they all gave me the same answer. My body will not support another pregnancy.”

  “And there is no hope? Advances are made every day—”

  “No,” she said curtly. “Don’t do that. Don’t play that game. This isn’t something to be negotiated. I will never give you a son.”

  Her pronouncement rang in the cold night air. He ran a hand up the back of his head, knocking loose what remained of the sloppy top knot, and looked down at the ground. The longer hair fell forward, obscuring his face.

  This was it, Vanessa realized. This was the moment that Jaxar would apologize and leave. She’d never see him again and it shouldn’t hurt, but it hurt so badly.

  Raising his head, he leveled intense green eyes on her. “I do not care. Come with me,” he said, repeating his request for the third time.

  Her breath caught in her throat. A thrice-asked question, that was a thing in fairy tales, right? Some angry pixie or elf would curse her now, but Van was positive she was already cursed.

  “You don’t mean that. I don’t even know why you want me,” she said. Other than raw physical attraction, she did not understand his interest. Now that she put a stop to the idea of babies, he needed to move on and find another breeder. The Mahdfel instinct to procreate would demand nothing less.

  He tilted his head to one side and the corner of his mouth lifted. “I know my own mind,” he said, tossing her own words back at her. She flinched. “You are clever and resilient. I want to spend the rest of my days with you as I am sure they will be very interesting. There is no one else for me.”

  Van shook her head. “No. Please stop asking. My answer is not going to change.”

  He stared at her for a long, hard moment. Van squared her shoulders, readying herself for another round of bargaining or telling her how she must be mistaken. He nodded and she breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, slipping inside the bungalow. She rested her head against the door, waiting until she heard the retreat of his footsteps.

  This was for the best. Better to take away any misguided notions of maybe and someday and the false hope that brought. Her position wouldn’t change. He would want a son. All Mahdfel do. The drive to reproduce had been hardwired into their genes.

  This was for the best.

  Jaxar

  He needed more time. It had been wrong of him to assume that his mate could be wooed with a single romantic gesture. She had done a fast courtship before—with Havik, whose name curdled in his stomach—and said she would not do that again. She demanded his time and attention and he believed her to be worth every request.

  Theirs would be a mating without sons. That information caught him by surprise, but he found it mattered little to him. He had spoken truthfully when he said he wanted to spend the rest of his days with her. No one else would do.

  Vanessa had not believed him. A small sniff and the way her fingers clutched the edge of that blanket betrayed her thoughts. He just needed time to convince her.

  With the Judgment set to leave the Vel Mori system in a matter of hours, his choices were limited. He could sabotage the shield generator, but that would only buy a day or two. Ideally, the inhabitants of the moon could suffer another outbreak and require medical assistance but Jaxar did not have the skill to make an epidemic happen other than wishful thinking, not to mention that it would be dishonorable and violate every tenant he believed in.

  No. He was coming at the problem wrong. Anything he did to remain on the Vel Mori moon with Vanessa would not give him enough time to win his mate’s affections and banish her doubts. How much time did he need to convince a stubborn female? While Jaxar considered himself charming, his mate seemed adamant in her position. A handful of days would not suffice. He required weeks, possibly months.

  Decided, Jaxar approached the training arena. On most days, Paax seemed to be in three places at once. At that moment, according to the computer, he was training with Mylomon.

  He gathered up his hair and twisted it into a knot, ignoring the unease rolling in the pit of his stomach. He had no reason to be nervous. He had known Paax for years, long before the scientist ascended to the rank of warlord and found the male to be reasonable. Mostly.

  Paax would understand his request. He defeated the previous warlord to guarantee the safety of his mate. In contrast, Jaxar’s proposal appeared modest. Insignificant, even.

  The warlord sparred with his second-in-command. The two males danced across the sandy floor, swords clashing and their bodies moving with elegant precision. No step was misplaced, and no movement wasted. The two males sparred often. Mylomon’s hand-to-hand and melee skills were extraordinary and Paax had improved steadily with Mylomon’s tutelage. Either male would trounce Jaxar in a fight, and he was happy with that. His brains served the warlord, not just his muscles.

  “You are favoring your right side.” Mylomon whacked Paax with the flat of a sword.

  The warlord gritted his teeth and growled a warning as he swept low, knocking the darker male off his feet. Jaxar did not witness the confrontation between Paax and the rival warlord, Antomas. Paax sustained injuries. If he still suffered, he showed no signs other than favoring a side.

  “A necessary sacrifice,” Paax said.

  “And if I ran you through with my sword?” Mylomon picked himself up, brushing off sand.

  “Know your opponent. You have a favorite weapon and only stab with daggers. You prefer blunt force trauma with a sword,” Paax said. “Which is not the point of a sword,” he added.

  Mylomon pointed to Jaxar. “Try your tricks with that one.”

  Paax considered Jaxar, giving a calculated look. “He wants something.” Paax shrugged. “He can work for it.”

  He accepted the blade. The edge gleamed under the lights. This was no practice blade with a dulled edge. This was a weapon meant to inflict damage. The blade was far superior to any weapon that Jaxar possessed.

  Testing the balance, he adjusted his grip. As much as he teased Rohn for being old and slow, Jaxar did not spend as much time training as he should and mentally prepared to be trounced.

  “I do not suppose you would accept a written request,” Jaxar said, giving his best winning smile.

  An inscrutable mask fell over the warlord’s face and the previous good-natured amusement vanished. The effect sent chills d
own Jaxar’s spine, his memories of the quiet scientist he had known for years disappearing entirely into the warlord’s stern demeanor.

  Paax surged forward, faster than the older male had any right to move. Relentless training had honed and sharpened the warlord into a weapon as formidable as the blade he wielded.

  The sharp sting of the first cut across his bicep made Jaxar focus. His worries and his schemes fell away as he blocked and redirected the warlord’s blows. Paax had forward momentum, driving Jaxar back. He found the loss of ground acceptable as he used the time to study how the warlord moved and detect his patterns. Mylomon had been correct, the warlord did favor his right side.

  Jaxar went on the offensive, setting the pace and no longer reacting. He moved quickly, his arms and thighs burning with exertion, setting an untenable pace. The burst of speed would drain all his energy and leave him vulnerable. He needed to end the bout soon if he wanted a victory. If the match dragged on, the Warlord would have his surrender. His efforts landed a blow on the Warlord’s upper arm, red blood beaded in a thin line.

  Paax grinned, unphased by the injury. The two males moved rapidly, swords ringing in a flurry of blows. The warlord moved with confidence, never taking a misstep. Jaxar scrambled to anticipate the warlord’s blows. He was no longer on the offensive but purely reacting and the fight was essentially over. He could not regain his lost momentum and land another blow, only defend himself as best he could. Before long, Jaxar found the warlord’s sword at his throat.

  The warlord breathed heavily, Jaxar noted with some pride. At least the warlord did not defeat him so easily. The sword never wavered.

  “Accept my surrender,” Jaxar said, dropping his weapon.

  The warlord nodded. “Is that how you defend my engines?”

  He shrugged. “I have younger warriors to soften the enemy.”

  Paax huffed, amused, before tossing him a cleansing cloth and container of water. “And are all my engineers pleased to know they function as your meat shields?”

  “They are terribly honored,” Jaxar said, affecting a lofty tone. He splashed the laceration on his arm to rinse away the sand. The injury had already begun to close. Draining the container and more than a little pleased with his performance, he spoke. “I need to requisition a specialist for the rehabilitation of the original Sotet levels.”

  The warlord did not pause while drying his sweat-soaked hair. “Find the warrior with the appropriate skills you need. If they are not in the clan, that is not an issue.”

  “I have located such a person.” Jaxar paused, knowing his next words could doom his scheme as easily as launch it into success. “They are not Mahdfel.”

  The warlord paused, trying his sharp gaze to Jaxar. “And what is it that you require that no warrior is qualified to perform.”

  Not a question.

  “The algae tanks are running at half-capacity. We can and should increase their efficiency.”

  “Algae tanks,” Paax said slowly.

  “They provide a significant portion of the ship’s energy. Before, inefficiency was not an issue with our low population. As you know, more mates arrive every day and our population has doubled. The system is strained. I had to divert power back to the engines for our speedy arrival, but that would not have been necessary if the tanks were at full efficiency and—”

  “Enough. And there is no warrior capable of this task?”

  “They would require training, preferably by this expert I have located.” Jaxar held the warlord’s gaze, refusing to break contact. His request was so transparent, so obvious, that he expected Paax to pick the sword back up and add to his growing collection of lacerations.

  “Does this expert happen to be the female you dragged into Medical?”

  Ah. Found out.

  “Yes. She is.”

  “If you want to claim the female as your mate, ask her or wait until you are matched. I do not hand out job assignments to every female that catches my warrior’s fancy,” the warlord said briskly. Then he gave Jaxar another curious look. “You did. She declined.”

  “She needs time,” Jaxar said.

  “Then wait.”

  Jaxar swallowed the impulse to say that if he did nothing but wait, he would never be matched. “The situation is complicated. The moon is not safe.”

  “You convinced me that a shield generator was necessary, and we delayed our departure for your project. Did I waste our time and resources?”

  Jaxar ran a hand up the back of his head. The sparring match had knocked most of his knot loose and sweat plastered the long hair to his neck. The delay had come from treating the outbreak in the population, not his project, but it seemed imprudent to argue that point.

  “Not a waste,” Jaxar began, “but I have learned more about the company that operates the facilities. They do not properly maintain their equipment. The entire base is in shambles. Restoring the power grid took twice as long as necessary because of the poor conditions of, well, everything. The moon is a tragedy waiting to happen.”

  Perhaps he oversold that point, but every building and piece of equipment he saw suffered neglect.

  “Dealing with the bacterial outbreak would not have been necessary if the emergency water supplies had been maintained,” Paax said, conceding Jaxar’s point. “If the female made such an impression on you, there is still time to return to the surface and ask her to join you. There is no reason to pretend you require an expert.”

  “She is under contract for another two years,” Jaxar said. “Considering the safety violations I found, it would be more prudent for her to serve those two years aboard the Judgment as a contractor.”

  “No. I am not interested in hosting females for your entertainment. Find a warrior for the task,” the warlord said.

  Disappointment weighed heavily on Jaxar. “Sir—”

  He felt the blade pressed against his throat before he realized the warlord had moved. He knew his mistake, refusing to accept the warlord’s answer.

  “The only reason I stay my hand is that I respect your skills,” Paax said. “I understand that females can make a male foolish and ask for ridiculous concessions.”

  “The Night Garden,” he blurted out. “Your mate wants more green spaces.”

  The pressure of the blade against his throat eased. “Explain.”

  “There was a garden, when I was a youth, on the Sotet level. It was truly unique but has been neglected.”

  The warlord removed the blade. “We have males to tend the gardens.”

  True. Often older males who were no longer best suited for battle but still valued members of the clan. “It’s in the abandoned levels. It may have fallen into decay before you joined the clan, so you never had the chance to experience the Night Garden. Truly remarkable with bioluminescent specimens. Spheres of glowing lichen that produced a lighter-than-air gas.” He remembered how the softly glowing spheres bobbed and drifted over the garden. “Your mate would want such a place to be restored.”

  “Any male could perform such a task,” Paax said, giving him a curious look. Jaxar knew that several of the Judgment’s derelict garden and green spaces had been restored since Paax took a mate, but nothing on the abandoned levels had been touched.

  “It was a delicate ecosystem. A person familiar with a variety of fungi and their needs would be best suited. My female… The female in question had her abode filled with specimens, each in remarkable condition. Her skills would be ideal for the Night Garden.”

  “You entered the female’s abode?”

  “Yes,” Jaxar said, sensing a trap.

  “By invitation, or did you meander in through the door like a pest?”

  “She sustained a concussion and required monitoring. Medical was at capacity dealing with the outbreak.”

  Paax and Mylomon shared a look. The dark male shrugged his shoulder as if answering some unspoken question. “I find it remarkable that this male believes that telling us he neglected his duties to chase after a female w
ill help his argument.”

  “It does seem short-sighted of him,” the warlord agreed.

  “I followed Medical’s orders,” Jaxar said.

  “Yes, and perhaps I should have a conversation with my chief medical officer about releasing female patients to strange males.” Paax rubbed the base of his broken horn. “Does the female return your regard?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “I believe so. She has been mated before and desires a slow courtship, but the idea of her alone on the moon is too much.”

  “A two-year contract? I am not convinced that is enough time for your charms to take effect.”

  A surprised laugh escaped from Mylomon. “Um, disregard me. I am not listening.” He gathered the training weapons and cleaned the blades.

  “If I allow this, she is not your mate. She can reject you if she chooses.”

  “Understood,” Jaxar said, the tension easing in his chest.

  The warlord fixed him with his hard gaze. Every instinct in Jaxar snapped to attention. “And you will accept her decision,” Paax said.

  “Yes, Warlord.”

  Paax turned his attention to Mylomon. “Speak. I can see you’re full of opinions.”

  “This is an appallingly bad idea,” the second-in-command said. “Our clan does not employ civilians and we do not let other warriors move their paramours into their quarters.”

  “A joint effort with civilians is not unheard of,” Jaxar said. “Earth’s moon base is a mix of Mahdfel and Terrans.”

  Another scrutinizing gaze. “Separate quarters. You will provide supervision for the female, but you will behave honorably. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Warlord.” Triumph surged through him as he pressed his lips together to fight a grin.

  This was a good idea. Van would be so pleased to receive the slow courtship she desired.