by Audrey Grey
Lips twisted to the side, he paused, but before he could say more, his secretary—a male mock with thinning brown hair and a full beard cropped close to his face—interrupted to whisper something in Father’s ear. He straightened as his face transformed back into the Sovereign’s cool mask. “I must leave.”
“Leave?” She wanted to scream, beg him to stay, be near her and not leave, don’t ever leave. “The cere—” Talia cleared the fear from her throat. “Ceremony?”
But his attention had returned to the senators, and he gave a subtle nod without meeting her gaze. “There’s been a development.”
She opened her mouth to ask—
“Nothing to worry about. I should be back in time for your oath.”
Swallowing down every childish protest hovering on the tip of her tongue, she forced her expression into a look of understanding. “Promise on the moon?”
Normally, he would have said both of them with a wink and a grin, because that had been their thing since she was four. But today—today he strode away, hands in his pockets and face dark with whatever hidden worries he carried around.
Soon those worries would be hers: the rebellion, the constant stream of ships and soldiers who never returned. The empty bank accounts.
Ailat touched Talia’s shoulder, breaking apart the concerns clouding her mind. “He’ll come back.”
“I know,” she said, proud how her voice sounded almost believable. Squaring back her shoulders, she and Ailat crossed the floor to their table near the podium, navigating the maze of senators and envoys, Talia ever-aware of all the eyes now on her, eyes that could belong to Cassius.
As soon as she touched the curved back of the golden velvet chair, someone swept in beside her and pulled the seat out for her. “Allow me, Princess.”
Technically, her title was now Junior Sovereign. But the correction died in her throat as she took in the man who pulled out her chair. Not man. His hulking size and demeanor made him seem older, but the thin smattering of dark stubble on his jaw hinted he didn’t yet use an electro-razer. His close-cropped black hair and sharp blue eyes struck a chord of recognition inside her, and she went still.
“Cassius.”
She hadn’t meant to say his name aloud. Stars, she’d never met the Thoros prince, but just like the rest of the Seven Planets, his visage had stuck with her. He was somehow even bigger in person, his broad hand nearly spanning the entire length of the chair back.
A slick smile revealed painstakingly white teeth. “That’s me.”
Although the arrogant timbre of his voice annoyed her, she felt drawn to his strength. He was like a planet, mock attendants and envoys from the Seven caught in his orbit. His smile broadened, and he nodded to the chair. Almost a command.
Almost.
Beside Talia, Ailat cleared her throat, reminding Talia to sit. As she slid into the plush seat, she felt Cassius’s thumb glide over her bare shoulder. A shudder rippled through her chest, and she bit back the urge to swat his hand away. This is your future husband. The thought was a vice constricting her chest.
Then he slid into the chair at her right with a grace most big men couldn’t master and snapped his fingers, once. “Champagne.”
Talia hadn’t noticed any attendants, but one appeared and set two bubbling glasses in front of them. She ran a finger over the condensation fogging the outside of the chilled glasses, every single word she ever thought about uttering to her future husband drying up in her throat. Silence reverberated across the room as everyone studied the pair. Their eyes felt like miniature daggers picking apart her skin. From this moment forward, every interaction between them would be monitored.
Talia swallowed, painfully aware that her neck was once again damp with sweat. A table over, she felt her mother’s focus boring into her. They needed this union.
Behave, Talia, she reminded herself, forcing the muscles of her face and back to relax. If she looked even the least bit revolted by the ore prince, it would be plastered all over the intergalactic news.
Ailat shifted on her heels, her quick glances to the attendants barely veiling her impatience as she waited for her chair to be pulled out. Talia cringed as Ailat found the closest attendant, a middle-aged-looking mock male, and raked him with her gaze.
“My chair, please.” The confidence in Ailat’s voice sent a twinge of jealousy surging through Talia. If only she could be that self-assured.
The attendant frowned and glanced at Cassius.
Cassius scratched his neck as he turned to Talia. “You let your mocks sit with you? I heard that your family was sympathetic to them, but that’s going too far, even for the revered Starchaser Dynasty.”
“She’s not just any mock,” Talia shot back, the smugness in his voice lighting fire in her veins. “She’s my junior mock. My friend.”
Cassius’s dark eyes blinked at her. “A mock is a mock. Your parents should have taught you better, Princess.”
Talia could have sworn the room grew bloated with silence, and her heart slammed against her sternum. All the curse words she’d ever been taught weighed down her tongue, but a tiny shred of decorum remained, allowing her to bite back her retort and force a toothless smile.
“I assure you, Lord Cassius, my education is impeccable. And so is Ailat’s. If you would allow her to sit, you will see her knowledge of intergalactic politics far outweighs even most advisors.”
With an oily smile, Cassius reached over, covering Talia’s small hand beneath his huge one. Pain shot up her wrist as he squeezed; it took all her willpower not to cry out. “We are at war with mocks, Princess. Have you forgotten? Because Thoros hasn’t.”
“Not all the models. Ailat is a—”
“I don’t care which model she is,” Cassius interrupted in a quiet, terrifying voice. “Your family’s lax rules are what got us into this war in the first place. That’s why they tried to downplay the rebellion, claiming it was only the Outer Fringes. Why do you think your crone grandmother begged me to marry you?”
Her throat tightened. Begged? Starchasers didn’t beg anyone. And where was this hostility coming from? Sure, public sentiment had grown critical of their more civil policies toward mocks recently, but that would change once the rebellions were crushed. And why did he presume he could touch her? She tried to twist from his grip, but he tightened his fingers around her hand.
She looked to her mother for help—but Talia knew as soon as she took in her mother’s clenched jaw and steely expression that she wouldn’t do anything to stop this.
Which meant that the Starchasers needed this alliance more than Talia realized.
Frustration twisted her belly. She wanted to deck him and slap the smugness from his fat face. But their need for this union prevented her from such behavior. So she switched tactics.
“Please,” she said, her voice even despite the pain. “You’re hurting me.”
He released her hand, and the pain eased. Thankfully the serving mocks appeared, drawing attention away from her table as they flitted around the diners, dropping gold-gilded china steaming with the best food the royal kitchens had to offer. And all the while, the humans they served watched them, barely veiled anger and suspicion brimming the surface. Had Talia just never noticed their anger before? Or were relations worse since the last round of mock attacks?
The virus that had allowed certain mock models to override their loyalty and obey functions had barely touched the mocks in Palesia—their technological defenses against viruses were better than most—but still. After the non-stop footage of mocks on other planets rebelling against their owners, people were wary.
Ailat stood with her arms crossed, waiting for Talia to do something, but she tore her gaze away, helpless.
Ailat would have to stand while they ate.
Every bite that slunk down Talia’s throat was drier than the last, until she could hardly swallow. Silverware clinking against delicate china scraped down her spine. Finally, the plates were taken away, but before Tal
ia could talk to her friend, the time to perform Sovereign duties had arrived.
Talia suffered through it all with quiet grace. She spoke with senators, rubbed elbows with statesmen, listened to complaints from ambassadors of lesser off-world planets, and smiled for pictures with a hundred sweaty courtiers and the press. And all the while, her mind was on her friend.
Although the dining tables had been removed for dancing, Ailat still stood where their table had been, dancers skirting nervously around her like she was a piece of furniture, to be avoided and ignored. The same appalled expression twisted her face. Almost like her hard drives were stuck in a glitch cycle.
Almost—but Talia knew the difference between glitch and hurt.
Before she could go to Ailat, one of Cassius’s mocks took Talia’s elbow, hard, and escorted her to dance with her betrothed.
Her heels clacked against a parquet floor of blue-and-gold tiles as she strolled to meet her future husband. The crowd closed around them on all sides, fencing her in. Trapped. That was the feeling gnawing at her ribcage and edging down her spine. But how could she be trapped in her own capitol? Her own palace?
Blue starlight streamed in from the skylight above, painting Cassius’s face a pale, sickly color. Sweat beaded along his nose and neck, darkening his stiff white collar. He took her hand and spun her around, sending her world crashing. She couldn’t help but feel he was also sending her a message: I’m in charge, not you.
The dance was over as quickly as it started, and her nerves relaxed as other courtiers collected her for their turn to dance. Her feet ached, her ribs groaned beneath her corset, but at least the hands that held her were gentle and kind, her own people.
She could hardly catch her breath when the music stopped, and a Palesian mock, thank the stars, guided her to the podium in the center of the room. Their first moon was already bright in the sky, and her silver light trickled onto the stage. Talia’s dress lit up with the delicate glow as she ascended the dais, going over the speech she and Ailat had perfected months ago.
And yet, as soon as Talia stepped forward to speak into the hidden microphone situated along her bodice, Cassius loped up onto the stage. Despite herself, she cringed from his towering frame, a whole foot taller than her.
When he grinned at her, his teeth bared almost like a snarl, her gut clenched into knots.
“Bring her up,” he commanded, the natural acoustics of the room mixed with the nearness of her microphone sending his voice echoing all the way to the back.
Talia knew who the “her” would be before she even saw the figure being dragged forward by Cassius’s guards. And yet, as her eyes locked with Ailat’s wide blue ones, a ragged gasp slipped from Talia’s lips.
Everything inside her screamed that something horrible was about to happen—and that she was going to be powerless to stop it.
Chapter 5
3731 AD
Will
The docking bay of Andromeda had five sections, a craft’s location dependent upon its status. The Odysseus took its place among the other clunker scavenger vessels near the end, and as soon as the old girl settled and Will exited, he saw her. Athena, his former ship. Down twenty rows from theirs, in the restricted military bay. Even after being estranged for six months, she still set his heart aflutter. He could almost feel the smooth metal yoke in his palms, the way she purred when he pulled back for takeoff. Dark and sleek, Athena was shaped like a teardrop, the station’s harsh green lights dancing across her skin.
“Now that’s a ship,” he murmured. That bastard better be taking care of her.
Leo clapped Will on the shoulder. “Stop staring, Captain. Odysseus is a jealous old girl.”
“Who’s jealous?” Lux asked as she rounded the side. Her eyes narrowed as she spied his former ship. “Oh. Stars. We gonna have a problem, Captain?”
“As you were.” Will took one last, long glace at Athena and then returned to checking over the Odysseus’s manifest, intentionally absent of any mention of the thing, while also ignoring Lux as she grumbled under her breath about him needing better manners.
“We can’t afford another infraction.” Leo stacked another crate onto the loader before heading back inside for more. He stopped on the ramp, checking over his shoulder as if Will were about to run off and do something stupid. “Captain?”
The feel of his knuckles breaking Xander’s jaw was about the only thing that helped Will sleep at night, but he knew costing his crew three weeks’ wages wasn’t fair. “I won’t touch him.”
“Jesus, Will, don’t sound so down about staying out of trouble. Xander’s a goon, but he’s also Athena’s new captain, and three ranks above you. Last time we barely escaped with our lives. So we need you to mean it when you say you won’t touch him.”
Will’s nostrils flared as he turned away from Leo and handed the manifest to the docking station attendant, a man covered in grime, about as dirty as the outside of all these clunker ships. “I’ll be at Mel’s. Make sure Odysseus has enough fuel, and wash her down. Inside and out.”
The Andromeda was a system of interlocking circles that made a globe of sorts. Along with mercantile shops and apothecaries, there were over fifteen bars inside. Most intergalactic trade around this section of the solar system was negotiated in one of those fifteen smoky rooms—but Mel’s was where the real action took place.
The two-story bar was also where the high-ranking soldiers and the wealthier crews gathered. Besides the best whisky imported straight from Titan, they used real flesher waitresses—with all their real teeth—instead of holos, and they stocked ice cubes made of water. Not that cheap synthetic crap that made all the drinks taste like piss after the first sip.
Smoke hung in sheets over Mel’s, the air choked with the heady scent of cloves and beer and greasy food. Private rooms stocked with waiters overlooked the common area, a grimy dance floor and a handful of mismatched tables. In the center, a circular metal island with glass shelves brimming with liquor sat, manned by two fleshers. Will approached the bar, even though he knew when the crew arrived, they’d find a table near the back and hope no one noticed.
The male bartender was tall and reedy, with a red, jagged scar above his left eye. Will had been served by the flesher a few times, though he couldn’t recall his name. Whisky-brown eyes regarded Will and then the metal cuff at his wrist. “Sorry, we don’t serve Enders. Try Veronica’s.”
Veronica’s was a scavenger joint that served cheap liquor and even cheaper flesher escorts.
“That so?” Will scratched his neck. “Mel here?”
The bartender’s gaze flicked over Will’s shoulder toward the dark, smoke-heady room in the back. “Not today, okay?”
Will followed the flesher’s gaze. Shit. That drink would be perfect about now. The bright-red suits of Athena’s crew were hard to miss, even through the haze of smoke. He owned a suit just like that, now ironed and folded and packed away for what felt like eternity. Though Will could still feel the way it fit snug on his shoulders, the way he seemed to stand taller when embraced by the starched cottons.
He turned back toward the bartender and sighed, praying Xander wouldn’t come this way. “You know who I am, right?”
“I know who you used to be.” The bartender took a defensive step back and swallowed hard. “Look, I can’t serve you with them here. You know that. Any other time . . .”
“Flesher, get this captain a drink.”
Will’s mouth went dry at the deep, familiar voice. General Andrius Crayburn was slight of build, with a rough, leathered face, dark hair shot through with gray, and deep-set, pale-blue eyes. Once, those eyes had looked down on Will in a hospital bed. The day after Crayburn saved Will’s life nine years ago.
Now, they held a different look. One that sat like a brick in Will’s gut—Pity. “Father.”
“Son.”
The bartender pulled out two shot glasses and filled them with whisky. Crayburn slid one to Will, and he wasted no time knocking it bac
k. As the flesher refilled the glass, a hush fell over the bar, and Will knew, he just knew, his current crew had walked in. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed his suspicion, and he wanted to throttle everyone daring to look down on them.
“Send them a round too,” Will said, nodding toward the booth sunk so far into the shadows and smoke he could barely make out their faces.
Crayburn’s lips twisted to the side. “Still with those Enders? Thought you would have bounced to a better crew by now.”
“They’re all right.” Will took a slow sip of his whisky this time, allowing the sting of the liquor to ease the pain tightening his chest. Raucous laughter filtered in from the other room. That used to be him in there, telling jokes and making his crew laugh. They’d adored him. Right up until the moment he screwed it all up.
“Must be hard for you, Will.” Crayburn tilted his chin toward the private room. “They miss you.”
Will scoffed. “I can tell. Bunch of traitors. Xander has them in stitches.”
Xander. Crayburn’s other son, and technically Will’s brother—though he’d never considered him as anything but a goon. Mocks could have children, just the same as fleshers. But usually children were created. Will’s case was special.
“Xander’s not the captain you were.” Crayburn ran a finger over the lip of his glass and ignored Will’s snort. “They’re wondering why you haven’t worked hard enough to return.”
“Worked hard enough? I’m busting my ship and my crew to find a score that will make the queen take me back.”
“She has to be sure of your loyalty, Will. I mean, I know you’re not a flesher anymore. But she . . . Well, after you missed that shot and let the Alliance ship escape, she wonders.”
Will raked his hand through his hair, fisting the ends. “That was a glitch. You know me. I’m your son. You know how I feel about fleshers. And you know how they feel about me.”
The bartender wiped at an invisible spot on the bar, longer than he should. The marking along the underside of his wrist was the exact same as the one Will used to wear. One wrong move, one smart remark, one threatening gesture, and the mocks could push a button and have the flesher’s hand severed. He’d bleed to death, slowly, and no Mock Specialists, no Healers, no one could help save him.