The Reforged Trilogy: Book 1 — Crucible of Stars
Chapter 20
Aerie
“I have seen other worlds of the Alliance, with all their blessings and gifts. And I can only say that I love Prianus all the more for what we have given ourselves.”
– Marcus Vera, Prian Consul (35 PA)
There was little in the way of conversation in the Raptor. Superluminal speed shift turned each star into a streak of dazzling rainbow, scattered spars of color with violet tips tapering off into invisible spectra. Vyron didn’t seem inclined to talk anymore and the Dailon man spent most of the four-day journey staring out of the canopy, chewing miserably on the tasteless nutrition rations that his captor provided.
When he was tired or simply too bored to stay awake, Vyron slept. He shifted uncomfortably in his sleep, sitting upright in the small, cramped seat in the back of the Raptor’s cockpit. By the third day, all sense of time had been erased by endless hours of star-striped monotony. Vyron’s neat black braid had long since come undone and with no external ears to tuck the loose strands behind, his hair hung over his face.
Now he was asleep again, leaning his blue forehead against the inside of the canopy and leaving Coldhand alone with his thoughts. Memories, really, that so often came unbidden in the darkness, either behind closed eyes or between the stars. Waking or sleeping, they would not leave him be.
“Sorry I’m late, dove,” Logan said.
He kissed Jess on the head as he came into the room. Her hair was still damp from the shower and smelled of her shampoo. Jess sat in the worn old armchair that dominated an entire corner of their tiny apartment, wearing her favorite red robe. Their battered copy of The Still Wind lay open in her lap. She frowned at Logan with mock seriousness, but her eyes sparkled mischievously in the lamplight.
“You’re always late. Comes with the territory,” Jess said.
But she smiled as she closed the book and set it aside, then stood and put her arms around his waist. Logan hadn’t taken the time to change out of his police uniform and his badge reflected the light from its scratched, worn surface. He brushed the fingers of his left hand over it, feeling the cold, scarred metal.
“Prianus needs us, dove,” Logan said. “Illius died yesterday and we all have to take turns covering his beat.”
“Not that territory, hawk. Being engaged to a musician,” Jess told him. She pointed at the guitar case in his right hand. “You stayed late playing, didn’t you?”
“A little,” Logan confessed. “They wanted to hear Bristler’s Call… It was Illius’ favorite. Reginald made me play it three times before he would let me go.”
Jess kissed Logan soundly, letting her hands roam over parts of him that made the young police officer blush. “I don’t think I believe you, my hawk. I’m not sure you even know Stickler’s Call…”
“Bristler’s,” he corrected mildly.
“…So I better make certain that’s what you were really doing. For all I know, you might have been picking up some tail trying to get her talons into a cop. Prove it and play the song for me.”
Logan chuckled as he took the chair Jess had vacated and opened the guitar case. She sat at his feet, resting her cheek against Logan’s knee as he laid the instrument across his lap and began to strum softly. Jess smiled as he sang.
“Caught in the lowlands in the dry season
Flying on fire’s wings
Found what I’m looking for
For years gone, I searched beyond reasonAfter climbing for days a score
Gambling for my quest a life, a love, and a treason
Searching in stone’s clasp and under sea’s shadow
At long last, to seek never moreOn his mountain, Bristler waited with unblinking eye
Waited until, by wind’s tempest
I came to the old one’s claim
‘For a summer, I have searched,’ cried I‘To find through soul’s desire
‘A sire to match my true-blood dame…’”
Logan didn’t even get through the second verse before Jess was pulling the guitar out of his hands. She yanked him to his feet and toward the bedroom, fingers already working at the fastenings of his faded uniform. Logan fell into Jess’ ready embrace and returned her youthful passion in kind.
Vyron mumbled unhappily in his sleep. Coldhand ignored him until whatever nightmare that chased Vyron seemed to catch up to him and the Dailon cried out. The bounty hunter ducked a flailing fist and Vyron’s sleepy punch bounced harmlessly off the pilot’s chair.
“Wake up. You’re dreaming,” Coldhand said.
He spoke loud enough to rouse the other man, but not angrily. Coldhand didn’t care about his mark’s comfort or peace of mind, but neither did he bear the Dailon any particular malice for disrupting the quiet journey. Vyron was a prisoner. A certain level of disquiet was to be expected.
Vyron woke with a start, cracking his head against the rear wall of the cockpit.
“And now I’m having a nightmare,” he groaned. Vyron rubbed his face with his cuffed hands and looked around the Raptor with bemusement. “I’m dying of thirst.”
Wordlessly, Coldhand tossed a sealed packet of tepid water over into Vyron’s lap and the Dailon tore the corner off the envelope. He sucked down the contents gratefully and then handed the empty package back to Coldhand, who pushed it into a small waste receptacle.
“Do you ever have nightmares?” Vyron asked after a moment.
“No,” Coldhand lied.
“I do,” Vyron said. “I dreamed that I was back with the Sisters. The other Steels just laughed at me when I told them about what those women did to me. They said it sounded like a free trip up to the entertainment district. They were wrong.”
“You’re male. You were bound to be mistreated.”
Vyron shuddered and combed trembling blue fingers through his hair. “It was horrible. It made me feel so dirty, you know? No, I guess you don’t. I can’t even imagine anyone trying to rape a man like you.”
Coldhand thought back to the Level Seven alleyway, pressed up against the filthy wall with Maeve pointing his own weapon at him. It seemed so long ago now, but only a few weeks had passed. That had been a ruse and nothing more… No man or woman or anyone else had been able to stir his interest since Jess, when he had still been Logan Centra.
Coldhand’s first bounty after leaving Prianus had been an Ixthian surgeon with the unsavory habit of stealing organs from his patients while they were under anesthesia. Bringing the man down had earned Coldhand enough money to visit the entertainment districts of Level Three. A few high-marked chips of color bought him two women for the entire night. Less than an hour later, the striped Mirran had stormed out in frustration at Coldhand’s lack of response. She had kept his money in her plastihide purse as she stalked out of the rented room.
Coldhand had been so certain that the second woman would be able to seduce him. She had been a stunning Arcadian — bought significantly cheaper than the human prostitute — with golden hair that fell in perfect ringlets nearly to her waist and wide green eyes that reminded him of Jess. And surely her wings would catch his Prian fancy. Coldhand didn’t ask the fairy her name, but she had tried all night to please him, never complaining at his unresponsiveness. She even sang a few bedroom charms in a sweet voice, but nothing could rouse Coldhand’s unfeeling body. At dawn, the Arcadian woman finally departed, leaving Coldhand lying naked on a cheap bed and wondering why he couldn’t even feel ashamed of his failure.
Twenty percent.
“Whoever you’re taking me to must be better than the Sisterhood,” Vyron said. “That makes me feel a little less awful, but not by much. I wouldn’t go back to the Sisters for anything, even if they would protect me from whoever is waiting for me on Stray.”
He paused looking out at the elongated stars.
“I guess that’s not true, really,” he added, voice softening.
“Why?”
“It was horrible, don’t misunderstand, but I did get one thing out of the hells with the Sisterhood. When I was there, I met this girl. I don’t know what she was doing running with the Sisters. She was sweet and kind to me. I wouldn’t have survived without her, and I don’t just mean the food and water she brought. She was the only thing that reminded me that people could touch each other without violence or violation. I wonder what happened to her.”
“You don’t know?” Coldhand asked with sterile curiosity.
“No,” Vyron said. He shook his head and immediately looked ill. Artificial gravity played havoc with the equilibrium of those unaccustomed to it. Vyron swallowed and went on. “The Steelskins broke me out of the warehouse where the Sisterhood had been holding me. I wanted to bring her with me, but the Steels didn’t really have anything more to offer and there was a damned good chance she would’ve gotten shot or stabbed for being from a rival gang. I wanted her to be safe. But I miss her sometimes. I hope she’s alright.”
Coldhand said nothing.
Duaal paced back and forth through the hold of the Blue Phoenix. It was the middle of the night, but no one on the ship slept.
Tiberius sat on top of an empty cargo canister and stared up at the hydroponic garden suspended from the ceiling with a stunned expression. Gripper wasn’t far away, hanging off a planter and distractedly eating a red-skinned somato. Another moaning shriek echoed from deeper inside the ship and made the Arboran flinch. Juice dripped down Gripper’s rough-boned, brutal-looking face and he looked like he might faint.
Why was this happening now? Kessa wasn’t supposed to go into labor for at least another three days. Not until whatever bounty hunter had finally found Maeve’s listing returned Vyron to Stray and the fairy herself came back to make her report on the Church of Nihil.
And where the hells was Maeve? Passed out in a dusty alleyway from one drug or another…?
The charms dangling from the hem of Duaal’s vest chimed as he paced back across the cargo hold. Over dinner, the Dailon girl’s face had gone a pale sky blue as her water broke. Gripper panicked, of course, overturning chairs and nearly the table in his terrified haste. Tiberius had been even more bloodless than Kessa — Duaal didn’t know if he had ever seen the old Prian looks so terrified. With an effort, Xia restored order, banishing the men to wait in the hold while she led Kessa to the medical bay. Duaal didn’t have to be told twice.
That had been at least five hours ago. Tiberius still hadn’t said a word, but Gripper wouldn’t shut up. He jumped at every wail from the medbay, wringing his claws — huge enough to crush a human skull to splinters — like a fretting grandparent.
“Do you think everything is alright?” Gripper asked the other men. Again. “Maybe I should go find out.”
“Xia told us to stay out of her way,” Duaal answered. “And we’re going to do just that.”
“I know, I know… But what if Silver needs some help? Maybe I should ask. I mean, she doesn’t have anyone to fetch us, right? I can go check.”
“Xia will call us if she needs something,” Duaal said, pointing to his com.
“Oh, right.”
Gripper seemed more worried about Xia than he was about the Dailon actually giving birth. Duaal didn’t wonder at that. Gripper was not skilled at subtlety and his infatuation with the Ixthian doctor was no secret aboard the Blue Phoenix. The only one who never noticed was Xia herself.
While interspecies romances weren’t expressly forbidden, they were quite rare among her race. The Ixthians prized genetic purity and pursued it with a society-wide zeal. They couldn’t fruitfully breed with any of the other known species and couplings that could not produce offspring were generally considered a waste of time.
As a result, Ixthians were largely unconcerned with the mating rituals of other races and ignored romantic overtures by anyone with less than six fingers on each hand.
The Arboran engineer swung to the next planter on his long arms. He looked down at Tiberius and opened his mouth to ask a question, but was interrupted by a tone from the airlock. All three men jumped as the seal indicator cycled and the door hissed open. Duaal chanted up some elemental lightning between his fingers. What if it was Coldhand? They were expecting a bounty hunter, after all. Duaal would prove his effectiveness against him…
But Duaal was disappointed to see Maeve stepping through the door. She stared around the hold and blinked her gray eyes in surprise at finding everyone awake and apparently waiting for her. Maeve looked like hells. The Arcadian’s bleached hair was even filthier than usual — despite being washed only two days ago — and her expensive gown was stained darkly.
The airlock slid shut behind her and sealed. Duaal waved away the crackling lightning and put his hand over his nose and mouth. Maeve reeked of something unclean.
“By God, did you come back through a sewer?” Duaal asked.
Tiberius was up on his feet in an instant, striding in a few long steps to Maeve. The fairy ignored Duaal’s question and saluted the captain with her right wing swept across her chest.
“Report,” Tiberius ordered.
“This planet is unsafe,” she replied promptly in a crisp voice. “The Church of Nihil killed the Sisterhood here on Stray, as well as many others.”
“Damn it. Are you sure?”
Tiberius seemed a little more comfortable now, but there was another cry from the medical bay and Maeve’s head snapped in the direction of the sound.
“What is happening?” she asked.
“Kessa’s gone into labour,” Tiberius answered.
“Silver’s with her and told everyone to stay out,” Gripper said.
But Maeve was already in the air. She ignored the stairs entirely and vaulted up onto the catwalk that led to the rest of the ship. The Arcadian vanished down the hall toward the medical bay.
Duaal leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. It was hot in his brocade and velvet — the cold Stray night was sealed safely away on the other side of the airlock — but what else was new? Nothing. Duaal was uncomfortable and Maeve was taking off on her own personal errand while he sat idle. Tiberius looked frustrated and Duaal couldn’t blame him.
“Maeve should’ve finished her report,” Duaal said. “She might have misinterpreted something. She could be wrong.”
“I trust Maeve’s judgment,” said Tiberius, then added: “On this.”
Gripper dropped to the floor with a resounding clang. “Smoke has her problems — not that she ever talks much about them, really, though that’s beside the point — but she doesn’t let them interfere with work. You know, most of the time…”
“Have you already forgotten that she brought Kessa in the first place?” Duaal asked. “And when she did, she dragged Coldhand along for the ride!”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Tiberius answered. “Do you really think we should have left Kessa to the Sisterhood?”
“Of course not, but…”
“Maeve made the right choice bringing her here,” Tiberius said. “Coldhand followed and that wasn’t her fault. He wouldn’t have let her leave him behind without a fight and that would put Kessa at risk. Maeve may have made some questionable choices in the past and she’s just as unpredictable as the rest of you, but I’ve never regretted making her my first mate.”
How could Tiberius actually defend Maeve even now? Even if he was right about Kessa — which Duaal had to admit inwardly that he probably was — how did that excuse Maeve’s many past sins? The Blue Phoenix had to flee a lucrative salvage operation in the Hadra system only weeks ago because Maeve’s pet bounty hunter found them again. Before that, a shipment to Jormaan was days late because they had to detour into a nebula to shake Coldhand’s tail.
Aside from the many dangers of being constantly chased by a bounty hunter, Maeve was often too drunk or low to perform her duties on the ship. She barely bothered to show up for meals, much less report for duty each day. Duaal balled his fists at his side, so tight his brown knuckles were turning white.
“Tiberius, that woman…” Duaal’s eyes stung, but he refused to cry. He was a man now, not a frightened little boy to run away and hide. “Maeve is the worst thing that ever happened to this ship. She’s going to get us all hurt or killed!”
“Are you questioning me?” Tiberius asked.
“No, sir,” Duaal mumbled.
“Still…” Gripper said. “It might have been nice of Smoke to tell us more before she took off. I guess we could follow her and pry the rest of the story out of her.”
Another loud cry echoed through the bay. The men looked at each other.
“It can wait,” Tiberius said.
Gripper whimpered.
