by Bex McLynn
Rannik continued, "Your eyes are a rare color."
Actually, they were just plain old brown, like her mother's. But Rannik had a point. Almost all Teras had greenish, goldish eyes. The colors were too bold to be compared to human hazel eyes.
"And your hair is coiled like a spring, with so many colors."
Her springy brown curls matched her plain brown eyes. Perhaps he referred to her copper highlights, hints of red inherited from her father. Rannik's hair was a glossy, monochrome black, thick and dense like a horsehair shoe brush.
He shrugged as if at a loss for words. "And small. You're tiny, just like a sefura would be."
Seph laughed and jokingly asked, "Do you think sefura might be another word for human?"
He shook his head. "The sefura are folklores. We tell stories about them. And they're popular CuneGame avatars."
Her brother used to play video games that had busty she-elves wearing bikini armor. She hoped sefura proved to be similar to that, rather than the Teras version of Keebler Elves. Pointy shoes and pointy hats. Rosy cheeks and button noses. In her mind, that was the exact opposite of who she was. She sure as hell wasn't Tinker Bell. If the Teras treated her like Santa's little helper, then no one would take her seriously.
She laughed. "That's too bad."
"Why is that?"
"That sefura are mythical. Then there wouldn't be all this fuss." Not quite what she meant to say, but her gut response—that she wasn't alone—sounded too despondent. She didn't want to burden Rannik with her worries and desperation to get home.
Rannik gaped. "Seph, finding you has changed everything."
"Ah." That was the only reply she could muster, considering she had been joking. "Let's get back to cleaning. Hand me the vacuum, please?"
"[Particle ejector,]" Prykimis said.
Seph rolled her eyes. "I stand corrected. Please hand me the particle ejector."
Rannik laughed and what he handed her did resemble a vacuum cleaner, but with far less bulk.
She flipped a switch—rather relieved nothing unexpected happened—then went about sucking up dust. Rannik, with a cloth and canister in hand, started on the wooden furniture. He even tackled the horrid-looking chair in the corner—a cross between a mid-century electric chair and medieval monarch's throne—sturdy wood, plush cushioning, and thick leather straps. The contraption felt devious, and Seph felt grateful that she wasn't the one cleaning it.
"[House Brace,]" Prykimis said, labeling the chair.
Seph hacked a cough, waving dust away from her face and blinking grit from her watery eyes. "Why is this place so damn dirty?"
"Thane Jahat prohibits anyone from using the Athel Hall," Rannik readily said. "I think it only gets cleaned when he's aboard."
"Which is never?"
Rannik just shrugged his shoulders. So, pretty much never.
They resumed their silent cleaning, only talking when Seph asked about some oddity in the room or during their ten-second debate about cleaning under the furniture, which they'd do later. Although the silence didn't grate on her, moving about in tandem didn't sit well with Seph, either. She disliked the imbalance between them and wanted to put things right.
She waited until they both reached at the cart, standing on opposite sides, getting new supplies.
"Rannik, I want to pay you back."
She braced for his reply.
His face wrinkled in confusion. "What?"
She reached out and touched his big hand, subconsciously spreading her fingertips so they didn't cover any of his praal. "I want to find some way to return the money you spent on me."
Rannik's face remained locked in confusion, and she waited, rather nervously, for her offer to register. Instead of morphing into enlightened understanding, he frowned.
"I don't want creds from you, Seph." His tone sounded heated and indigent. "No. Absolutely not."
On some level she expected him to decline her offer, but she'd thought he'd do so in his typical good-natured manner. She hadn't expected her offer to insult him.
"But Rannik." She tried to soothe and convince him at the same time. "It's not right. You gave that Lassie trader your money and now you're empty-handed. Left with nothing."
"Nothing?" he choked out. "I'm not left with nothing. You chose me."
"Chose? You mean when I accepted your offer of protection?"
"No, Seph. In the hangar. You have me. And I have you."
Suddenly, clutch became a very charged, very uncomfortable concept. But she couldn't ask a teenager if clutch meant the same thing as sex.
Dammit, the thane should have explained this better. She needed a way to search the AthNet for more information about Athelasans, technopathy, and especially about clutch. All Prykimis—formerly known as TAI—would do is spout terms, never providing definitions or summaries. God, her kingdom for a Teras-Athelasan wiki.
"What I said in the hangar, Rannik, it was because I was so damn happy to see you."
The second she said it, she knew she said the wrong thing.
Rannik's anger gave way to dejectedness. He yanked new supplies from the cart, turned his back on her, and resumed cleaning. His entire body seemed to swell with his mood, his swipes on the walls bunched and furious.
"Rannik, please—"
"Let me clean," he rumbled hard and low.
Not 'I can finish this on my own.' Not 'go away.' He said 'let me clean' like he had no other option. Like his purpose served as his only offering to her.
"I can still help," she said.
He turned and faced her, cheeks flooded blue and his breath barely contained fumes. She understood his warning. If she said anything further, she'd only make it worse. Didn't matter that she was right, he didn't want to hear it.
Earlier, the thane had chastised her over something she had experienced before—intent means crap if the consequences are dire. She shouldn't breeze her way through Teras society. Why? Because she had a cold suspicion that she already did something to Rannik that couldn't easily be undone. She bound him with a string that couldn't be cut. It twisted her gut that Rannik could bear the brunt of her mistakes. That she had just hurt him.
"Okay, then," she said. "I'll see you in the morning."
She retreated to the uncleaned berth, still full of dust and mildew-scented sheets. But she couldn't go back out there.
Zver entered Prykimis's general berth, a TerTac rucksack tossed over his shoulder like a newly stationed grunt.
No one appeared fooled.
Zver noted the resentful looks. They harshly grumbled 'Thanemonger.' His Teras Ero reputation proceded him. Good. These grunts knew him. Could anticipate what he would do. Would know what he had already done.
With roughly a quarter of Prykimis's crew stretched out on medicots and another quarter teetering on the cusp and moved to Deleo's berths, Zver grimly faced the remaining crew of pallid, coughing men. Since almost all of the ship's stations were either manned or under repair by someone from House Borac, Furiero confined off-duty and relieved-from-duty crew to designated areas. The galley was mostly deserted because the food onboard was shit. The training arena was likewise avoided, since most men displayed symptoms of scrubber's lung. Berthing became the displaced crew's refuge.
Three-hundred sickening men, who had nothing but endless time to lie on their backs and gripe about the regime, were crammed into the space.
Zver chose to bunk in the thick of it. Here in Prykimis's berth, Zver, along with his senior staff, would be sleeping four by four. Four bunks for four men for four hours. Guards rotated through by Chief Ochrona would secure the area and sleeping men.
Zver dropped to his cot, fully intending to leave his boots on and surrender to his four allotted hours of sleep. The Trine traveled nonstop, his officers needed to hasten repairs, and he had to unravel his son from a clutch. He stretched out, fighting the impulse to skip sleep altogether.
A particularly jovial voice, cutting through the acidic camaraderie of the berth, h
ad him throwing his arm over his eyes and moaning.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Therion trilled as if they met by happenstance at a bar. "I would've set you up with the Thane's Chamber had I'd known you'd jump ship." He paused. "Course, you'd be the one to boot Grondin. Not me."
Zver kept his eyes closed and covered. "What do you want, Therion?"
"Nothing."
Therion's careless response hovered over him, cocooning him inside another strained conversation with his brother.
If he spoke with Therion, he may as well mine the idiot for information.
"We've been picking up marauder scrum codes," he said.
The codes his men intercepted originated from Prykimis. Conspirators flagrantly communicated with the marauders, without any encryption, baring messages for anyone to receive.
"Some of the crew jabber back and forth," Therion said. "They got brothers in a clade or something."
Zver gave his brother a moment to say something else—anything else. Nothing.
Stunned, he said, "They're organizing raiding parties."
Therion scratched at his hair and coughed. "At least we know about it ahead of time."
He swept his gaze over the tired men. He would never just lie down as marauders announced plans to attack. Sure, he was lying down now because his squadron of spires—constantly patrolling—broke up pockets of marauder ships before they could raid. Plus, he had over one-hundred armed fleetmen to repel boarders. His flotilla provided a layer of protection that Prykimis hadn't had in years.
"Brittle men should never be tightly strung." He grumbled a well-worn military proverb, hoping his brother would take in the weary state of his crew.
His brother said, "And bitter ale goes down better than bitter women. They bite."
Fucking Therion.
Zver sat up, planted his boots on the deck, and kept his ass on the cot. "What do you want, Therion?"
His brother just stared and shrugged. "Nothing. Why do you keep asking?"
"So this is what you do with your time? Hang out in the berth?"
"Sure," he said with another careless shrug. "We're about to start another hand of krope. You want in?"
"No,” he bit out. "What about your duties as Cachemaster?"
"Acting Cachemaster. What about 'em?"
"I assume you have some. Duties, that is." The cachemaster placed second-in-command of the ship. His brother should have had something to do other than pestering him.
Therion smirked. "Course I have duties. They're all done for the day. Now it's krope time."
Zver tried to remember a time when he actually liked his brother. Perhaps when they were younger?
Suddenly he remembered Therion's 'Dodge Parties,' where he'd gather a group of men and drunkenly cavort around the estate with a two-part plan: raise a ruckus and elude Zver's wrath.
Well, perhaps when they were much younger.
"This is my bunk time, Therion," he said without heat or heart. "Go away."
His brother just nodded. "Wanna rub yourself off to dreamland. Got it."
"No, you don't."
"Don't let the grunts bother you." Therion waved carelessly to the eavesdropping men behind them. "At any given time we got someone blowing off. Or if you want, you can use the Lassie."
Zver's spine snapped straight. Gods, Seph. "What Lassie?"
Using his technopathy, he accessed the surveillance bug that he'd stuck under the massive hrast desk in the Athel Chamber. The proximity sensor positioned a body in the main area and one in the small berth. He Cuned Wies for a status update anyway. He also amended his armor order to include a WristCune. He'd be able to pinpoint Seph's exact location with the device.
"The Lassie in the closet." Therion jammed a thumb over his shoulder. Indeed, a cluster of men did surround a closet door. "BTN's got a line, but I can get you to the front."
He assumed the first thing out of his mouth would be adamant refusal; however, he said, "BTN?"
"Better Than Nothing. But I prefer to see the flip side of sorry, and call her Bump ‘Til Numb."
"That's..." He sighed, not bothering to finish.
"So you want in the queue?"
"No." Zver's eyes flicked over the line of dirty, shaking men waiting for a turn with an overused sexbot.
The dejected men of Prykimis's crew even looked like marauders. Then it hit him. These men were here because they'd been deemed a blight on their house—sent to Prykimis to rot.
All of these men, abandoned and hopeless, were just one terrible decision away from crossing into lawlessness. Unsworn Teras. Would-be marauders surrounded him. He bet Jahat knew, too. That Jahat planned this. Lekar was right. Prykimis was an unsprung trap.
By Direis, his son had been here, amongst such men.
Therion had been speaking, but the words didn't register, not until Zver heard his son's name. "What did you say?"
Therion sank down onto the cot next to him, something no fleetman would have done, yet the breach in decorum remained lost on Therion.
"Said you never had to worry about Rannik's Lassie."
"You mean Seph."
Seph, who was safe in the Athel Chamber with a guard unit. Seph, who would soon have her own TacArmor kit. Seph, who had shaken in his arms when surrounded by a pack of aggressive, growling Teras men.
"Course I mean Seph." Therion huffed. "The second Rannik brought her aboard I kept her away from all this." He gestured toward his crewmates. "Told him to smuggle her off the ship when you came. Why, on all of Ero, did you bring her back?"
Zver latched onto his brother's admission, outraged. "You knew she wasn't a Lassie?"
"What? No!" Therion gave him a horrified look. "But that still doesn't change the fact that I took initiative and helped Rannik smuggle a technopath outta this hell hole and dropped her in your lap. Then you fucking bring her back under armed guard."
Zver just shook his head, in a way shaking off his brother's criticism. He made the right call, bringing Seph back to Prykimis. Her being here helped him secure the ship for House Borac. Plus he got to keep her close.
"Why did you even bother to smuggle her off if you thought she was just a Lassie?" he asked.
"Why? Because these grunts are stubby cock savages." Therion's declaration prompted a few unabashed jeers. "And yer all filthy!" he called out to the men, and they rejoined with rowdy cheers and snarky replies about Therion's degraded hygiene habits. Some were rather explicit. His brother just laughed at them. "That's why I wanted Rannik to sanitize between usages. It was just a matter of time before someone found her and fucked her."
Zver couldn't contain his growl. "She's not a damn sexbot. She's Athela."
His brother better treat her like one.
"I know that now," Therion said, rolling his eyes. "So yes, on my honor, I'll keep her safe in these halls. But before I knew that, I was just trying to keep my nephew venereal disease free. These guys go to Radost brothels. A lot." He leaned in, and of all the things to keep between them, he whispered. "'Cause I take them to Radost brothels. A lot."
Zver moaned and scrubbed at his face. "Get out. Now."
"I'm getting. Now."
Therion slapped him heartily as he stood, but the blow barely rocked him at all. Then again, Therion's walloper was always his mouth, never his fists.
Chapter Eight
Seph flopped onto the bed, ready to wallow in misery, when a mushroom cloud of grime engulfed her. To add self-effacing insult to self-imposed injury, she smashed her face into the disgusting pillow to smother her coughing fit. She didn't want Rannik to hear her because he'd come check on her, and would see this sty of a room, and then would proceed to clean it while maintaining his stony silence of rebuke. She'd insulted him too much already. The room would wait.
God, it sucked to be back on Prykimis. When she had stepped off the transport, the ship had greeted her with unpleasant odors, shuddering engines, and an endless stream of chatter directly into her mind. She had wanted to crumble
right there in the hangar, but her awareness of the thane kept her on her feet.
Earlier, when she saw Grondin and Therion, it felt so damn good to know that she had the thane at her back. As a single mom, she became used to going it alone. She alone bought the groceries, cleaned the toilets, made doctor's appointments, and oversaw homework. She had no one to tag-team those duties with her. If something didn't get done, well, it was all on her. So it had been nice, for that brief moment, to feel like she had a partner.
But it didn't last long. The flipside of being a single mom meant she never had to go toe-to-toe with someone regarding the raising of a child. The thane appeared to be serious about his position as head of his house, even taking personal responsibility for a cadet who had been kidnapped by a rival house.
Teras society had astonished her when no authorities stepped forward on Rannik's behalf. Rather, from what she could gather, the thane had followed a code of conduct to enact his own justice. The thane could board another house's battleship, collect his stolen member, and pummel a Fleet commander. He seemed unconcerned about punishment. He only concerned himself with House Jahat's retaliation. The man was confident and calculating. He didn't fear House Jahat, at all.
She'd fallen asleep to a tumult of thoughts and wasn't surprised that she spent the night tossing and turning. A single sharp rap on the hatch startled her, launching a new dust storm.
Part of her wanted to hide in the dark cloud, and the other part of her wanted to kick that first part's ass. Rannik had become the one good thing to have happened to her thus far. She needed to be an adult and fix what she ruined.
Dazed, she hurried to the hatch and barely missed having her nose crunched as the heavy metal door swung open.
"Shit!" She stumbled backward, missed the bed, and landed hard on the floor.
She glared at the figure looming in the open hatch. Of course it was him, barging in like he owned the place. God, he even looked like a battering ram. Broad chest, thick thighs. His massive hands resembled sledgehammers when he curled them into fists.