Page 9

Chapter nine

Cruising

T he Star Whisper was unlike anything Rowen had ever seen. It was gargantuan, a mobile, interstellar holiday resort the size of a small city. Fifty levels, over a hundred zones, it had every microclimate known to sentient life and boasted that there wasn’t a species in the galaxy it couldn’t accommodate.

Tens of thousands of staff scurried in its massive hallways, looking after nearly a hundred thousand guests.

They had been assigned a family apartment on a lower deck, one of the few cabins available. It was cozy, a small sitting area with a sofa, table, and chairs, and three small bedrooms off it. MakenRoy was less than impressed at having to squeeze his bulk into the tiny room for the two days it would take them to reach IntGal1.

He had shot off a brief message to the Frost Pearl informing them of the change in plans and as expected, Bylelle was beyond furious.

“How dare you go ahead without us!” she hissed.

MakenRoy had simply shrugged. “I am a DuSin of the Malurien Empire, and mate of the Governor of Dalat. You have no authority over me, and I am in command of these negotiations.”

“Maman Frei has instructed me to—”

MakenRoy folded his arms and cut her off. “You are transport, Maman Bylelle. An escort, that’s all. You have no part in this mission, nor say in how we undertake it.” Rowen winced at the brutality of shutdown, and Bylelle blanched in fury at the affront. “We will see you on IntGalOne when you arrive. We should be finished by the time you get there, and you can collect us and return home.”

Bylelle was not inclined to suffer insults gladly. “If you are so eager to reject our hospitality, perhaps you should arrange your own passage home, then.”

MakenRoy was unmoved. “Perhaps we will.” He leaned into the viewscreen. “I can have a Malurien royal transport here within two days, Maman. If the Verit Matriarchy does not want to support this endeavor, just say so. But make no mistake, I will inform my mate and Frei about your refusal to collect us.”

She glared at him through the viewscreen for another minute, and Rowen half-expected MakenRoy to combust on the spot from the venom and fury burning in her gaze. “Fine. We’ll see you there in five days.” The screen went dark.

Rowen whistled low. “She’s pissed.”

MakenRoy was looking at the screen with a considering glance. “Better be careful. She doesn’t seem like she forgets or forgives easily.” He fixed Petre and Broken with a sharp, penetrating look. “Why is she so upset by this? This is rash, even for a junior Maman. They’re spoiled and vicious, but rarely stupid.”

Petre shrugged nonchalantly. “I don’t know. Bylelle has been hard work since the start.”

MakenRoy grunted, clearly not buying it. Broken gave Petre a sharp look but refrained from comment.

The first day, they mostly stayed in their respective cabins, catching up on sleep or work that had been neglected. Rowen threw herself into designs for The Garden, a beautiful lattice of interconnected domes and open planting areas, paths and hidden spaces evolving. She was so lost in her work that she almost didn’t hear it when Petre knocked on her door.

He knocked twice before her brain registered the noise. “Come in!”

Petre entered, looking more relaxed than she'd ever seen him, having changed from his formal uniform into casual clothing, light pants and a loose shirt. “MakenRoy's gone to dinner with some Malurien noble he discovered was aboard, and Broken has gone to bed early. I thought perhaps you'd like to explore the ship? You must be hungry, maybe we could find some food?”

Rowen glanced at her work, then back at him, stretching the kinks in her back. “I could use a break. Lead on.”

The massive corridors of the Star Whisper contained entire street recreations, with architecture from a hundred worlds mixed in a dizzying blend of styles. Holographic signs floated in the air, advertising everything from traditional theater to zero-gravity dance clubs.

“It's like someone took every entertainment district in the galaxy and squeezed them into one place,” Rowen marveled, watching a group of fat, fluffy Bi’yu float past on their anti-grav platforms.

“Overwhelming, isn't it?” Petre's voice carried a hint of amusement. “Though I’ve heard that the food section is worth navigating the chaos.”

He led her down a narrower corridor, away from the main thoroughfares. The crowd thinned out, replaced by what seemed to be more local traffic; crew members and regular passengers who knew their way around. The restaurants here were smaller, more authentic-looking.

Rowen inhaled deeply, the mingling scents of spices and roasting meat stirring a deep nostalgia. Her stomach clenched with anticipation, and her heart squeezed when she realized what they were standing outside.

“How did you find this place?” she asked, her voice softer than usual.

“I may have done some research,” he admitted. “The ship's database is quite comprehensive.”

The tiny storefront was tucked between a Malurien tea shop and what appeared to be a Tritau bakery. The sign was written in Falosian, and the scents wafting out made Rowen's mouth water.

“Is this…?” Her throat tightened.

“Traditional Falosian street food,” he confirmed.

The female behind the counter brightened when she heard Rowen's accent, and they ended up with far more food than she’d planned, a bounty of spiced flatbreads wrapped around roasted vegetables and sauce that made her eyes water, crispy fritters filled with melted cheese, and sweet pastries dusted with spices.

She cradled the warm bundle of food in her arms and turned to Petre, her voice thick with emotion. “I can't believe you found this. It smells just like the night markets in the old quarter.”

“The reviews mentioned authenticity,” Petre said, but she caught the pleased note in his voice. “Though I have to admit, I'm a bit concerned about the warning label on that sauce.”

Rowen laughed. “Falosian spice tolerance is legendary for a reason. Are you sure you're up for it, warrior?”

His eyes sparkled with challenge. “I suppose we'll find out.” He paused, then added with deliberate casualness, “I know somewhere we could eat these, if you're interested in continuing the adventure?”

The hint of mischief in his voice made her pulse skip. “Oh? And where might that be?”

“You'll have to trust me,” he said, giving her a mysterious smile.

“Alright,” she replied, “surprise me.”

The simulated beach was incredibly realistic, black volcanic sand stretching into artificial waves under a dark blue sky. The sight sent a tight pang through Rowen’s chest—it wasn’t exactly the black beaches of Falosia, but it was close enough to trigger a rush of memories.

They settled on the sand to eat, Petre watching with poorly concealed amusement as Rowen demonstrated the proper way to layer the sauces on the flatbread. His eyes widened at the first bite.

“That's… intense,” he wheezed, after his coughing fit. Though, to his credit, he tentatively took another bite, eyes watering.

She huffed a laugh, adding more sauce to her own wrap. “I thought Verit warriors were supposed to be brave.”

“Brave yes, given to foolhardy feats of stupidity, no.” He cleared his throat, trying to rid himself of the fire still burning on his tongue. “I’m merely allowing my senses to fully appreciate the complexity of the flavors,” he said with mock dignity.

The waves crashed rhythmically against the shore, and Rowen found herself drawn to their hypnotic motion. Without really thinking about it, she started unlacing her boots.

Petre frowned. “What are you doing?”

“Going swimming, obviously.” She shimmied out of her trousers, leaving her in just her singlet and underwear. “You can't go to the beach without getting in the water. It’s practically a universal law.”

Her senses prickled, and she turned to find him staring in admiration. She preened a little, warmth curling through her. Fair was fair—she’d ogled him half naked during the sparring bout on the Frost Pearl . Why shouldn’t he do the same?

“Come on, warrior,” she called, backing toward the water. “Afraid of getting wet?”

He muttered what sounded suspiciously like a prayer to the Goddess before starting to remove his own boots. She dove into the waves with a delighted laugh.

The water was flawless, exactly the right temperature, with just enough salt to make her float easily. She surfaced to find Petre cautiously wading into the shallows, his trousers rolled up to his knees. He eyed the water warily, like it might betray him at any moment.

“You’re doing it wrong,” she informed him and sent a wave of water in his direction.

He spluttered in surprise, silver hair plastered to his face, before his eyes narrowed dangerously. “That,” he said with deadly precision, “was a mistake.”

What followed was nothing short of all-out aquatic warfare. Rowen had speed and maneuverability on her side, but Petre had an edge in tactical planning. She dodged his first counterattack, but his second caught her square in the face, drenching her.

“Ha!” he crowed, then yelped as she dove under the surface and yanked his legs out from under him.

They battled through the shallows until they were both breathless and laughing. Eventually, exhaustion claimed them both, and they collapsed side by side on the warm black sand, watching the simulated sunset paint the dome in shades of violet and gold.

“I like you like this, Petre,” Rowen said, propping herself up on her elbows. “You’re much more fun.”

“I live to serve, Lady.” He grinned.

Droplets clung to his eyelashes, and for a moment, Rowen allowed herself to appreciate the rare sight of Petre completely at ease.

“You seem much happier here than on the colony,” she observed, drawing idle patterns in the sand between them.

He shrugged, his gaze following the artificial birds soaring across the projected sky. “Maybe I just needed a break.” He turned to her and smiled. “Or maybe it’s the company.”

She stretched, contented like a cat, and lay down on the sand.

“Thank you for this,” she said instead, watching the simulated sky. “I haven't had this much fun in ages.”

“Neither have I.” He sounded surprised at the admission.

They sat in companionable silence as the artificial dusk settled around them, neither feeling the need to fill the space with words.

***

Rowen pressed her forehead against the viewport, watching IntGal1 grow larger as they approached. The past two days aboard the Star Whisper had been surprisingly pleasant. That evening at the beach had changed things between them. Nothing dramatic, just continuing the shift that had started on the Pearl from colleagues to something that actually felt like real friendship.

She smiled, remembering how he'd plunked himself down across from her at breakfast this morning with a datapad and a snarky comment about the ship's temperamental water controls that had made her nearly choke on her coffee, and his annoying smug smile, so pleased with himself. She liked this Petre. Oh, he was still smart, still too arrogant, and far too handsome for his own good. But he was also unexpectedly, wickedly funny, and caring, and open in a way that she’d never seen him on Dalat.

It was dangerous. She could easily fall for this Petre, and that, she could never risk. Who knew what version of him would reappear back on the colony? Who was the real Petre?

"Quite the sight, isn't it?" Broken's deep voice startled her musing as he settled beside her. He gestured toward the sprawling station. "They say you can find anything here, legal or otherwise. Every race, every culture, all crammed together."

The station was a total hodgepodge—a Frankenstein of engineering if she'd ever seen one. The original Alliance core was still visible, but centuries of additions had transformed it into something resembling a massive coral reef floating in space, with lights twinkling like captured stars in its countless nooks and crannies.

"It's incredible," she agreed, watching a swarm of maintenance bots zip between the station's extending arms.

"The Frost Pearl should arrive in two days. Plenty of time for our meetings."

"I'm actually kind of excited about the negotiations," she admitted. "After staring at specs for weeks, it'll be great to see the real thing."

"MakenRoy's arranged for us to stay in an apartment on the station. Apparently, the Malurien empire keeps one here for their trade people."

"Beats these tiny ship cabins," she said, genuinely thrilled at the prospect of a real shower and a room bigger than a closet.

She heard footsteps and turned to find Petre heading their way, datapad in hand, and he smiled when he caught her eye. It wasn’t much by normal person standards, but compared to the ice sculpture she'd first met, it was practically beaming.

"The BMA people confirmed for tomorrow," he said, settling in beside her at the viewport, close enough that she could smell that subtle cedar scent that clung to him. "They're eager to show off their atmospheric toys."

"Perfect," Rowen replied, unable to hide her enthusiasm. "Their preliminary designs look promising; they should meet Casti's specs."

The ship's computer announced their final approach. Through the viewport, they watched the docking arms extend like giant mechanical hands. Rowen felt a buzz of anticipation. The project was coming together, and somehow, against all odds, she'd managed to make friends with the galaxy's most uptight engineer.

***

Petre lingered in the shadows of IntGal1's transport station, watching the stream of workers and traders pass through the gates like a living river. His comm with Luken burned in his mind.

“Brother, I've finally heard from them. Our 'friends' are ready to meet with you.”

“Where?”

“I'm sending you the coordinates now. Be there at twenty hundred hours, your time, tonight.”

“It's been a long time since I've seen our 'friends.' How will I recognize them?”

“I'm sending you the password as well.”

The coordinates and password had arrived with a subtle beep.

“Are you sure about this?”

Luken's hesitation had spoken volumes. “No. But it's the only option I could find.”

All the fear, all the pressure he'd walked away from these past few days, roared back, shredding the comfortable illusion he'd allowed himself to inhabit. The morning's meeting with the BMA trade representatives had been almost normal; touring facilities, discussing specifications, engaging with alien technology. He'd let himself sink into it, pretend for a while that this was who he was. Just another colonial engineer living a normal life.

But normal wasn't an option anymore. Not with his father's life hanging in the balance.

And Rowen… he closed his eyes, trying to block out the memory of her in the artificial waves, her hair darkened by water, her smile bright and wicked. He'd been so tempted to kiss her, nearly given in to the attraction that had been simmering between them for weeks. He had to finally admit to himself that he cared about her. Rowen. Brilliant, fierce, beautiful Rowen who saw through him with terrifying ease and noticed everything. Fool. Dangerous, selfish idiot.

He firmly closed the door on the image in his mind; he had to focus. He was in one of the most dangerous parts of the station, mooning like a lovesick idiot, a good way to be robbed or killed. Petre checked his surroundings again. His contact was due any minute.

As if responding to his thoughts, the merchant materialized from the shadows. “I am Mulat,” he said.

Petre nodded. He did not volunteer his name. “Do you have it?”

The merchant's smile didn't reach his eyes. “Ah, yes.” He produced a small case from his voluminous cloak. “Latest nano mesh technology. Completely undetectable, even to enhanced scanners. Perfect for someone who might need to adjust their appearance temporarily.”

Petre examined the supplies. Grenades, pulse rifle, emergency field med kit, and the most important piece of equipment, the mask. He checked the quality of the neural interface nodes. Not black-market knockoffs, military grade. Which meant it was most likely stolen. Great, well, it was one more thing to add to his list of sins. It wasn’t like he wasn’t already stealing state secrets. He pushed the thought aside. “The target is at the location?”

“Third booth from the back, just as arranged.” The merchant's gaze sharpened with professional interest. “Though I should warn you. He's not alone. Brought quite the little entourage with him.”

“Thank you.” He handed over the bag of credit chips.

“Pleasure.” The merchant turned around and merged into the crowd.

The bar was tucked into one of the station's older sections, where IntGal1's patchwork nature was most apparent. Exposed pipes ran along ceilings, and the deck plates bore the marks of a dozen different manufacturers. Exactly the type of place rebels would want for a clandestine meeting. Or an ambush.

Petre scanned the dimly lit interior, on high alert. He touched the nano mesh mask he wore, reassuring himself that his features were obscured. He desperately wanted this to work, but he wasn’t an idiot and there was no need to expose his identity unnecessarily. The contact had been specific about the location. Third booth from the back, order the Malurien fire whiskey. He settled into the booth, his back to the wall, maintaining clear sightlines to the exits, and ordered the drink.

The half-Verit was easy to spot when he arrived with his companion, the slight points to his ears and the silver-streaked hair marking his heritage. But his movements were relaxed, lacking the rigid control of clan training. He walked with a loose-limbed gait, almost casual.

“The night is cold on Verit,” Petre murmured as two males approached.

“But the heart burns warm,” replied the half-Verit. The strangers slid into the booth. “Call me Kaine.”

Up close, the differences were more apparent. Kaine's features showed clear traces of Verit genetics, but his expressions were more open, unguarded. His coloring was warmer than any male Verit he’d ever seen. “Your father was clan?” Petre hazarded a guess.

“Tothas,” Kaine confirmed. “Though that was a long time ago. He escaped during the first wave, helped establish the underground network.” His eyes were hooded. “Your brother said that you need our help, but wouldn’t go into specifics over the comm. What do you want from us?

Petre's fingers tightened on his glass. “My father is being held captive. He’s being used to blackmail me. I—”

Movement at the bar's entrance caught Petre's attention, and his blood ran cold. He scented the air, and his blood chilled when he captured the familiar scents. How were they here?

Petre grabbed Kaine’s arm. “Run!” he hissed. “It's an ambush. Maman!”

The rebel cast him one slashing glance before he was up and moving. Other rebels materialized, standing up from the tables around them, and they ran for the back. They weren't fast enough.

The first shot caught one of Kaine's companions in the chest; a clean kill. A third rebel tried to return fire, but Varian was faster. He grabbed the male by the shoulder, spun him around and onto his knees. He gripped the male’s head and snapped his neck in a single sharp twist.

Petre rolled under the table as plasma fire scorched the wall where he'd been sitting. After his initial panic, he realized it wasn't aimed at him; they were methodically executing the rebels.

Bylelle's laughter carried over the chaos like bells, horrifying in its delicacy.

“Find them all,” she commanded, her voice rough with blood lust. “I want no survivors.”

Kaine made another break for the back exit. Bylelle's shot caught him in the spine, and Petre had to bite back a snarl as the half-Verit collapsed. He watched in horror as his hopes for his father’s rescue fell with the rebel. Bylelle stalked to Kaine, bent down and whispered words that made Kaine's eyes go wide with horror before she entwined her fingers in his hair, a tender mockery of a lover’s touch, and hauled his head back to slit his throat.

Petre frantically looked around and caught sight of a ventilation shaft behind the bar. He examined the warriors between him and each exit and hardened his resolve. It was his only option. He judged the distance; the time required to get up and over the bar, and up into the shaft. Petre waited until Bylelle turned to give orders to her guards, then moved.

He grabbed a plasma rifle from a dead rebel and shot the grate out. When Bylelle’s warriors instinctively turned to look at the grate, he shot them from behind with methodical precision. By the time they realized someone was behind them, he was up and on top of the bar. He sprinted along it and hauled himself up into the damaged grate, the hot, serrated metal shredding his palms and forearms. He was almost there when plasma fire seared across his ribs. The pain nearly made him fall, but he gritted his teeth and dragged himself into the shaft as more shots peppered the wall behind him.

He cursed when he saw the blood smeared on the edges. If his blood was found, they’d find him with a DNA trace in hours. He reached to his waistband and pulled out a grenade, about the size of an egg. He ran a thumb over its plain surface, and five orange lights lit up. He waited for a breath, and one of them went out. He tossed the grenade back into the bar and scrambled as fast as he could. The explosion was deafening, the fireball behind him searing his feet and lower legs, but it couldn’t be helped.

He stopped and grabbed the emergency field kit. He fished through it until he found the sealant and sprayed it over his palms, lacerated arms, and anywhere else he felt himself leaking. It wouldn’t last long, only an hour, but it would stop him from spreading more DNA everywhere that could lead back to him.

Lastly, he took the sanitizer from the kit and sloshed as much as he could back into the shaft behind him, praying that it would be enough to contaminate whatever blood might remain.

He heaved a ragged sigh, his wounds screaming, and crawled further into the station's guts, mind racing. Finally, when he was sure he wasn't being followed, he let himself collapse against a junction wall, pressing his hand against the wound in his side.

They hadn't been hunting him. They’d been after Kaine and his males. Holy shit. THAT was Bylelle’s errand. She was hunting rebels. Which meant… a network of rebels really did exist. And were a dangerous enough threat that a Maman had been tasked to hunt them down.

There was a chance that they knew about Luken. He had no idea how his brother had gone about contacting the rebels, but Luken was prone to big risks and gambles. They were usually well calculated…but neither of them was thinking all that clearly right now. His thoughts sharpened. He had to warn Luken, he had to scrub his comms of any trace of their contact.

But right now, he had a more pressing problem. Beneath the sealant, he was bleeding out. If he didn’t get medical help soon, even his genetically advanced healing wouldn’t save him. He thought about who he could go to, who wouldn’t turn him in, and cursed.

He couldn’t go to a public healing center. Unaccompanied Verit males were rare, and their genetic adaptions were unusual enough to be commented on. Bylelle knew that someone had escaped, so it was a reasonable assumption that she’d keep an eye on the medical bays. Right now, Bylelle didn’t know the unnamed rebel was him; his mask had protected him. If he let himself be scanned in a medbay, he’d leave a digital trail that would lead right back to him and his brother.

He could go to Broken…but Broken was closer than brothers with his father. When he found out that Bylelle had captured him, he would erupt like a supernova. Bylelle would retaliate, and more people would die.

He could try MakenRoy, but he really didn’t know him well enough to know if he could trust him.

There was only one option, and he really, really hated it.

***

Rowen was deeply asleep when something woke her. She lay unmoving, trying to identify what had disturbed her when it came again. A soft rasping, coming from the wall near the viewport that looked out into space.

Her heart nearly stopped when a dark figure slipped through the maintenance access panel beside it.

Before she could scream, she caught his scent—cedar and blood.

“Petre?” she whispered, sitting up. “What in the Goddess's name—”

“Please…” The raw pain in his voice made her heart stutter. He staggered, catching himself against the dresser. “I need help. And I need you not to ask questions.”

She was already moving, catching him as his legs gave out. “You're hurt—”

“Medical regenerator,” he gasped. “There’s one in the emergency med kit in the kitchen.”

She tried to help him to her bed, but he pushed at her, redirecting them to the bathroom. “Can’t leave the room covered in blood.” She turned the light on and gasped at the dark, sticky patches that seemed to soak into his skin everywhere, the emergency sealant bulging dark red with absorbed blood, how his hands trembled as she eased him down to sit on the floor. “This needs more than a first aid kit. You need a proper healer—”

“No.” He caught her wrist with surprising strength. “No healers. No questions. Please, Rowen.”

“Fine,” she said. She bolted for the kitchen, retrieving the regenerator from the kit, and was back in a flash, terrified that he might have died in the seconds it took. He helped her peel back the remnants of his blood-soaked shirt to reveal the plasma burn across his ribs. The wound was ugly, but the regenerator would handle it. Still…

“This is from a Verit weapon,” she hissed. “Someone shot you. Someone from your own people. What happened?”

“Rowen.” Her name emerged as half warning, half plea.

“No.” She pushed him to rollover with her free hand and pressed the regenerator against his back. “This is ridiculous. You're half dead, covered in blood, sneaking into my room in the middle of the night, and I'm just supposed help you and not ask anything? What’s going on?”

His jaw clenched. “I can't—”

“I think you mean ‘won’t’?” she clipped.

“It's not safe for you to know,” he said finally, his voice rough. “Please. Just… trust me.”

The regenerator beeped, indicating the worst of the damage was repaired. She moved onto his hands and arms, wincing at the raw, hacked edges.

“Rowen, I need you to promise me something.”

“What?” she asked.

He reached out and grabbed her, smearing her chin with his blood. “This is important. This… knowing this will put your life in danger. I beg you. Don’t say anything to anyone about this. Anyone.”

“Why?” she hissed. “You want my help; you need to tell me what’s going on.”

“No. I…” his eyes fluttered, and for a moment she thought he would pass out. His eyes opened again. “I am not a good male, Rowen. I’ve done things I shouldn’t have. But this, you…I will not draw you any further into this mess. I have that much honor left, at least. Please.”

She refused to respond, her eyes bright with tears.

“I know you have no reason to trust me.” He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers. “I…I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry. I just had nowhere else to go.”

She let him stay there for a moment, just resting against her, before she gently took his other hand, finishing the regeneration. “I don’t know what this is,” she said softly. “But Petre, I’m your friend. Please let me help you.”

He laughed bitterly. “No one can help me.”

“They definitely can’t if you won’t ask for it.”

He remained mutinously silent, and they just sat there, on the floor, in a pool of blood. The little regenerator beeped, almost out of power. She set it aside, suddenly exhausted. “You’re done. The skin will be fragile for a couple of days.”

He reached for her, then seemed to think better of it. “Rowen—”

She turned to look at him. She extended her senses to him, feeling to the limit of her strength. She still couldn’t get much through his weird smoke screen, but it was enough. She felt his fear, his helplessness, his anger, his desperation…and his care for her. All at once, she wanted to cry again. For him, for whatever mess he had got himself into.

She reached up to touch his cheek, and he allowed himself to press into her palm. Right then, he reminded her of nothing so much as a starving pup, desperate for any scrap of kindness.

“It’s alright, Petre. If that’s what you need,” she whispered. “I’ll be a friend. I’ll keep your secrets.”