The women rose en masse, save for Mari, who remained seated.
Titters escaped the tiny group as the lead man approached, bearing down on Mari. Melin gaped in objective appreciation. With his long, golden-brown hair, tawny skin, broad shoulders, and easy manner, this new man was a breathtaking specimen of masculinity. It didn’t hurt that his green eyes were shining with a love and affection that was painful to observe. He knelt beside the woman and greeted her with a long, passionate kiss that had several of the ladies swooning. Sunlight glinted off the iron circlet on his head.
“Da! Da!” Two of the children broke off from the group and rushed the man. Both were obviously offspring of the two lovebirds—each girl had a smattering of their parents’ good looks, handsomely combined. The brunette was slightly older than the redhead, their coloring different enough that they didn’t quite seem like siblings until they moved.
The king—prince? Damir?—bent and picked up each child in an arm, laughing and kissing them delightedly. The girls squirmed happily, and the group collapsed into a pile near their mother.
Their joy sent vicarious thrums of happiness through her, rooting her to the ground.
She nearly overlooked the blue-eyed man, who had trailed his leader but lurked in the background. He averted his eyes away from the couple, facing the children with a fond smile. With his black clothing and two swords, he was painfully out of place in this moment of family, love, and peace. The group of women sat down, although one or two cast nervous glances at the blue-eyed man, so obviously a specter of war.
Mari and her husband played with their children, reconnecting a moment before she gazed up at the blue-eyed man, pleasurable greeting in her eyes and her face. It was a stark difference from the hate and fear that had been there before in the dungeon, and the fear that overwhelmed them in that cold throne room.
“Sil, come sit with us,” she said. Her voice held a note of teasing and something else. “It’s been ages since I’ve last seen you.”
The scarred man—Sil—took a step forward and knelt. He kissed the queen’s knuckles. She rolled her eyes at the deference and pulled him down beside her. Sil remained kneeling, looking awkward but not uncomfortable. “My lady. I’ve been busy.”
The king snorted. “You’re always busy, sister.”
Melin stared. Sister? What? She had been so sure she had heard her referred to as he before. Her mind adjusted to the new pronouns.
“Take off your swords a minute and play with your nieces.”
The girls, breaking away from their parents, spotted the blue-eyed woman. They shrieked in delight and leapt upon her, bringing her down to sitting and then lying as they jumped about her. This cue released the spell, and the other children joined in, losing the reserve they had shown with the king.
Sil smiled and laughed—ignoring the king and queen as they held hands and whispered in besotted companionship—and played with the children, who weren’t intimidated by her at all. When she smiled, her scars and mien of tight rage dimmed, and she seemed happy.
Melin relaxed.
Everything was peaceful and idyllic and perfect. They were all healthy and beaming, and there were even children. She had followed them through war and suffering and captivity and struggle, appearing at disordered points of chaos in their lives, and this was the first glimpse of peace she had seen. From the look of it, they had been at peace a long while, to be so careful.
They all had their happy ending at last.
Then she noticed Sil had two arms.
Melin backed away and walked toward the fountain, her stomach coiling. Could ghosts vomit?
The prickle of eyes on her made her pause.
Sil stared at her, frozen in shock. She’d stopped playing with the children, who were still swarming, trying to tug her swords from their sheaths, pulling daggers from various bits of her uniform.
Melin kept backing away, wrapping her arms about her stomach. Two arms. Stone hit her back, stopping her retreat, but her gaze never left Sil’s. Two arms.
Mari saw Sil’s discomfort first. “What’s wrong, Sil?”
Sil dug a thumbnail into the webbing of her other hand, still staring at Melin, and pressed harder as if trying to release herself from a spell through physical pain.
Mari and her husband turned toward the fountain, frowned, and looked at Sil again.
Sil lowered her hand, blinking rapidly as she faced Mari. Blood welled in the crescent puncture.
There was no hint of a smile on her face now.
“Nothing. I thought I saw a ghost.”
A single red droplet fell to the lawn.
Melin screamed as she was wrenched backwards into the fountain.
*
Melin opened her eyes to the smell of peppermint and the taste of pond water in her mouth.
A dim room greeted her, and she blinked, disoriented from the memory of sunlight and warmth. She kept still, bringing herself back to this place, this reality. She was lying on her cot in the rear of the storeroom, a blanket draped over her body. Someone had taken her shoes off. A stool was propped next to her cot. It held a cup of tea—the source of the peppermint. The whispering scratch of a pen in the main room told her she wasn’t alone.
Melin pushed off the blankets and sat up, swinging her feet—she still had her socks on—onto the floor. The solidity of the ground felt so good. Feeling felt so good. “How long was I out?”
“About an hour.” Chair legs scraped against the floor, and Trudi’s head popped into view in the doorway as she leaned away from her desk. “Good, you’re you,” she said, with a mildly concerned expression that was utterly concerning.
“You thought I wouldn’t be me?” Her words lisped, caught by a too-huge tongue and too-dry mouth. Melin groped for the cup and brought it to her face, inhaling the wonderfully civilized scent. She was awake. She was here. This was real. She breathed deeper, erasing the smell of grass and pollen.
“I wasn’t sure.” Trudi remained in her seat, tapping her pen against her lip. “I spoke with Major Dar’Tan. The man can’t seem to understand why he set you off.”
Melin coughed as tea went down the wrong tube. “I can’t believe that happened.”
“Everyone has a trigger,” Trudi replied. “Yours just takes longer to manifest than most.”
“It didn’t take long at all. It was a suggestion, for fuck’s sake.” Her knuckles went white around the cup as she remembered. “Not even a reenactment. I almost killed that kid. Fuck. I won’t have to see the shrink, will I?”
“More than likely. I wouldn’t be worried though. Anastacia only comes down every other shuttle run, and I think she had a case of some head cold or other last week, so you’ve got a bit. Besides, you made it through the entire business in the marketplace just fine,” Trudi replied. “You were even left alone with people who would happily see you dead and nothing happened.” She bit her pen. “You know, I won’t have you be the language expert Dar’Tan is so desperately wishing for if it causes flashbacks.”
“Your support is noted and appreciated.” Melin rubbed her head. “The funny thing is, I’m not a language expert at all. I speak the wrong dialect.”
Trudi snickered. When Melin took her hands from her face and gave the older woman a glare, the snickers transformed into an uncontrolled chuckle.
Melin didn’t see what the hells was so funny. “What?”
Trudi pointed at her, unable to speak for a second for the laughter. She sucked in a breath, finger shaking, and said, “They’ve been hunting for someone who can speak the language for years, someone who’s fluent, and when someone arrives who can, it’s the wrong damn dialect.”
Melin frowned. “It’s not funny,” she insisted. “Besides, I’m a general assistant. Not an expert on anything besides—” She paused, reviewing her list of accomplishments. It wasn’t long. “Well, not much. I was a damn good machine gunner, but I wouldn’t consider myself an expert. And space armor.” She grinned in memory. She was practical
ly a surgeon with her X-15C. She sobered up, remembering she had to have an implant to operate space armor.
“Eh, we can’t be good at everything, and the past’s the past.” Trudi tapped her prosthetic foot on the floor, flexing and bending the ankle joint in a staccato beat. “You make a fair supply assistant.” Tap, tap, tap. Pause. “You’d be surprised how many of my other assistants were unable to count past ten without taking off a shoe.” They shared a wry glance. Maintaining a stockroom of clothing and equipment was an incredibly simple task and astonishingly easy to mess up.
Her friend’s face fell. “Unfortunately, while I can protect you from tonight’s business, I won’t be able to keep you from going with Dar’Tan on his expeditions to the outer provinces,” Trudi said. “He was pretty adamant about you coming along at least for one of those.”
“So long as I don’t—” Melin swallowed and hastily took a sip of tea to distract from the thought. It scorched going down, the pain bringing the present into focus. “I can do it. Once. Go with them I mean. Nothing else.”
“Very well. I think he plans on leaving on the first trip in a couple of days. Some place called Cor-whatever.”
“Corlay?” Melin asked.
Trudi snapped her fingers. “That’s the place.”
“It’s in Zakuska Province,” Melin said. “Governed by Damir Moricz Adorjan.”
“Someone’s been studying.”
“It was on the map in their office,” Melin admitted. “Adorjan means ‘Bear toes’ in Saturan.”
Trudi grinned. “See? You’ll be a language expert yet.”
“So long as I don’t have to question anyone,” Melin replied grimly.
“Eh, there is that.” Trudi shrugged, then wrinkled her nose. “Before you get all scholarly on me, do a spot count on the work boots on E27-D. I want to make sure the paperwork matches.”
“Copy, boss.” Melin heaved herself off the cot.
Chapter Fifteen
Melin tugged unhappily at her uniform’s collar. “Do I have to wear this?”
It had lurked in its corner until thirty minutes ago and, despite its mistreatment, was as crisp and fresh as the day it had been issued. The shoulders were tighter than when she’d first arrived on the planet, however, making it a struggle to raise her arms above her shoulders. At least everything else was still loose, although she wished whoever had designed it had gone for heat dispersing fabric instead of nonwrinkling.
“Appearances mean the world to these people,” Major Dar’Tan replied. He had swapped his usual gray suit for his fleet uniform, although he looked far more comfortable. She figured it was a combination of the higher quality officer uniforms and the fact he wasn’t being choked to death by two Silver Galaxies wrapped about his neck.
“The Saturans are a neobarbaric culture, unable to adjust to the realities of space travel,” Sorem added helpfully. Her pressed suit was perfectly tailored, and Melin wondered if it was made from cooling fabrics since she appeared perfectly at ease despite the early fall heat. “Besides, seeing a woman in uniform will be good for them. Their ideas of equality are practically nonexistent.”
Melin doubted that but didn’t argue. She didn’t want another lecture on Saturan gender equality, not after being met with the same one trip off-embassy doesn’t mean anything counterargument. At least that argument had been better than the one where they had questioned her knowledge source—and she had been left muttering about her great-grandmother’s stories because she sure as hell wasn’t mentioning dreams that didn’t mean anything.
“How long has it been since anyone has been out to Corlay?” she asked, changing the subject.
“Eight months. But the duke sent a delegation about four months ago to pay his taxes. Very prompt, that one is,” Sorem said.
“Apharom is better,” Major Dar’Tan argued. “They collaborate against the other dukes.”
“Hm.” Melin wondered how Zhoki tied into the IASS-Satura alliance. The tensions with the city had heightened in the past week since the roundup and interrogation of Saturan men, but the guerrilla activity had died down.
They paused, watching as a squad of soldiers walked up the shuttle ramp. None wore space armor, but there were three suits strapped down the center of the aisle, just in case. She suspected those suits would be full by the time they got to Corlay.
For added security, the shuttle was being loaded and launched right on the docking station at the embassy, which made it easier for latecomers to toddle on up the loading ramp and strap in. This particular shuttle was rated for space, but she didn’t trust its capabilities to make it to upper atmo. Something about it that made her uneasy. Maybe it was the lack of armor or anything but the most basic of shielding.
“Am I late?” Temir Asante hurried toward them, lugging a heavy case. He wore a bland gray suit that pulled at his shoulders. Large vanity eyeglasses and a sharp side part with slicked hair completed the ensemble along with reddened cheeks from the effort of lugging the case. Why he hadn’t loaded it on an airdolly or hoverchair was a mystery.
Apparently, the ambassador had ordered a personal representative to this meeting. Melin had gathered from previous meetings that Dar’Tan and his team handled most of the correspondence with the Saturans.
“Fuck,” Dar’Tan muttered so softly Melin wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. His lips turned down briefly before settling into a neutral expression as he motioned the aide aboard the shuttle.
A second man trailed behind him, wearing a similar suit and carrying a thin pamphlet with actual paper stuffed inside. Melin straightened. She’d seen him arrive on yesterday’s shuttle drop but hadn’t been introduced. From the embassy scuttlebutt, he was the new xenoanthropologist and linguist. He stared at her and Dar’Tan curiously, eyes roving up and down their black uniforms, before following Temir into the shuttle.
“Why am I here again?” she murmured so only Dar’Tan heard her.
She wasn’t quiet enough because Sorem leaned around Dar’Tan and replied, “One linguist is good, two are better.”
“And we know you work,” Dar’Tan added.
“You both suck.”
Dar’Tan smirked. “You’re just mad your uniform is the wrinkle-resistant stuffy one. The shuttle has climate control, and it looks like everyone is aboard. Let’s go.”
Melin followed him aboard, grumbling as she settled into one of the seats in the back, snapping the harness together with the practice of many, many drops. The major joined her, although Sorem chose a seat closer to the front where Temir and the linguist were standing, talking with the crew chief.
“Aren’t you going to sit up in the front with the important people?” she asked, repressing a shudder as Sorem buckled herself in.
Dar’Tan shook his head, eyeing the front with distaste. “No exit up there unless I want to crawl over the pilots.” He buckled himself in, also with ease. “Plus, I was hoping to get a nap.”
Melin grunted. As point, she always dropped first or second, so she normally sat in the back. Dropping point was the most dangerous part of the sequence, but she preferred getting out of the ratting death traps of the combat shuttles as soon as possible even if it meant heading straight into the arms of the enemy.
The linguist broke away from the huddle with Sorem and Temir, making his way around the space armor suits and the soldiers and settling into the seat across from her and Dar’Tan.
Melin stared at him, happy for the distraction since the soldiers were all staring at her.
Some of them were new, brought in on the shuttle run, but even those who had been around were confused the general assistant quartermaster—and a nube—was wearing a fleet uniform with so much dazzle. Apparently, they hadn’t connected her name with her fame or had forgotten. She was certain the slower ones were doing the math in their heads, tallying up all the major engagement in the past several years and coming up with zero added to zero equaling zero.
Then she wondered if they were staring not becaus
e she was wearing a fleet uniform but because they’d heard she’d had a flashback and nearly murdered one of their compatriots. She winced. Dar’Tan had very politely not mentioned that incident, and the others acted relatively normally, although Sorem took care to stay several arm’s lengths away from her at all times, and Elihu was overly joking as if to compensate for his unease.
The linguist fumbled with his five-point harness, seeming to be at a complete loss on how to strap in until one of the flight crew—finishing assisting Temir and looking increasingly irritated over the delay in the flight schedule—walked over and hooked him in with exaggerated efficiency.
When they finished, the fight crew walked over and checked Melin and Temir, giving a brief tug to their straps before checking the soldiers. They had to redo several harnesses, clicking their tongue over how one boot had tangled his hand into the webbing.
“So, introductions,” Dar’Tan said as the ramp lifted, sealing them into the shuttle. Cold air blasted down, providing a fresh relief. “Sera Grezzij, this is Professor Theodore Kubicek, IASS Central University’s leading xenoanthropologist and premier expert on Satura and its language. Doctor, this is Melin Grezzij, our local linguist.”
Kubicek didn’t meet her eyes, seeming frozen at a point on her chest. “How interesting.” He had an accent tinged with Central World intelligentsia. “I wasn’t aware the nonnative translator was military.”
“Former military,” Melin said, jumping in before Dar’Tan said otherwise. “He made me wear the uniform.”
“The ambassador said she didn’t speak the language very well,” Kubicek added, continuing to address Dar’Tan as though she hadn’t spoken.
Melin bristled but took the opening for what it was. “I speak a different dialect.” If she could dash Dar’Tan’s hopes and dreams of turning her into his puppet, she’d use anything—including this asshole—to do so.
“Hm.” The professor appeared unimpressed, but he made eye contact at last. “I did my doctoral dissertation onplanet fifteen years ago. Fascinatingly hard to pick up, even with an implant.” Melin’s muscles tightened, but neither he nor Dar’Tan noticed, and the professor rattled off something that sounded like Zhoki’s Saturan but too nasal, with the wrong emphasis on syllables and a verb-noun sequence that confounded her. She had no idea what he was saying, but he was the expert.
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