Page 2 of Defiance (The Intersolar Union #7)

Huajile, Taixi System.

Expelling a sulfuric mist of early morning breath, Novak Gaul stood in line in the narrow Huajile alley behind HIXBS fertility clinic like any other advenan, though perhaps a little taller and prouder. His long ears skimmed the coolant mist leaking from the pipes of the neighboring bullpen, listening to the sleepy black market wake up. Sniffs, grunts, coughs, groans. Crates getting jostled, tossed, pried open. Door shutters rolling up with a clatter and shop awnings extending with a heavy snap… He felt bitter for the first time in a long while.

Even among the Union’s finest thieves, cut-throats, and swindlers, an advenan still had to check-in.

Novak blinked his bionic optics once, bringing up his citizen ID to double-check one more time that all of his biometrics were up-to-date. He blinked again to minimize his heads-up display, momentarily satisfied by the anxious habit. He’d gone his entire life without a delinquent mark on his record, and he planned to keep it that way.

Delinquency meant no travel. No travel meant no work. No work meant no freedom.

So he sighed away the bitterness, chanting that lifelong cause-and-effect in his mind, and settled into waiting, even if the bullpen next door made his plumage tingle and his scales itch for a fight. He squeezed his nostrils shut and pressed his tongue tight to the soft bed of his mouth, letting saliva cover its split tines and ease the violent twitch of being near other virile men.

It was a temporary relief since the bullpen’s stench would cling to his hardened feathers for hours. It reeked of advenan seed–both stale and fresh–but also blood and the burnt twang of aluminum. It was a combination that inspired competition of an unspeakable kind. The Hunt, advenan men might whisper to each other in longing.

But bullpens were a trap for desperate neolates with newly twisted cocks and unrealistic dreams. He remembered the wonder at seeing a woman’s hand on his helices for the first time. Scenting her lust and fear through a curtain with nothing to see but her trembling fingers and arm. A shilpakaari with lavender skin and two thumbs that squeezed his helices, bringing him to orgasm as his heart pounded like a war drum.

He also remembered the oil that coated his guts when she pulled the repository off his head and left him a tip. Well-meaning people that wanted to diversify and start an interspecies family chose their advenan donors at clinics, not at an interactive peep show.

He’d gone to the auctions not long after that. Better cache cut and more transparent, but arguably worse on the soul.

Novak caught the eye of a young advenan with his collar popped up around his features as he ducked into the bullpen, tail lashing behind him. The muscular gums that surrounded his venom-bearing fangs pulsed, squeezing the roof of his mouth as the aphrodisiac spiked his saliva. He swallowed it down and exhaled slowly to calm his temper. Despite the self-loathing that came with it, Novak missed being touched.

A nurse doll unlatched the sliding door to the clinic’s donor lounge with a bow of its crest. It was modeled after a hjarna with powdery blue skin and a smooth fan of bone above its head unlike the ridged and wavy look of the natural species. That crest was stamped with its serial number and a bold white stripe to indicate it was a care model.

“Welcome, donors. Maximum occupancy in the lounge is three adult male advenans. Please follow all safety procedures and have your biometrics ready.”

Novak raised his forearm to expand his holotab when the line shuffled back behind him. His tall black ear twitched.

Busted.

Despite wearing a cheap hypothermic shirt for the boiling temperatures and a set of standard tac pants, it was hard to miss that he was the master of the only advenan guild on Huajile.

“I was not first in line,”

he insisted with a smooth hiss. He could smell the pre-dawn on at least two of them, probably desperate to earn a day’s full wages at the docks unloading smuggled cargo. There weren’t many legitimate careers available to their kind and the docks were steady, decent work.

“Those with jobs go first.”

“Gaul for all,”

one of them muttered in a deep growl. He was a burly advenan doused in fuel vapors from the docks. His hands were meaty, and chunks of his ear were missing that might have been from delinquent geotags. The phrase–Gaul for all–echoed throughout the alleyway from the others and Novak slapped his tail against their ankles playfully.

“Can’t a kral waste time in an alley without all this peer pressure to act responsibly? Maybe I want a tag in my ear to incite some erotic thrill in the streets.”

The gruff longshoreman snapped the whip-end of his tail against the ground with a crack of dry amusement.

“Get your pristine butt inside, guild master. One of us needs to be an upstanding citizen and keep our plumes clean.”

Novak nodded his scaled jaw towards the lounge door.

“We’re all spinning into identical cups, old man. None of us are focused on being clean this morning,”

he reasoned with a snaggle-toothed grin. His joke earned him several chuckles and eased the tension. No doubt all of them felt that violent, possessive itch under their scales. Being in groups when their fangs were heavy with venom and their helices were wound tight wasn't natural, but a necessity of life under the watchful eye of the Union.

“I’ll play Hook-Line-Sinker for it.”

Novak’s eye fell on a young blood, his ears perked towards the bullpen, whip-like tail gripping his own ankle tight. The kral sampled the air and a familiar scent blistered through his colear?. The boy was practically a neolate and had slept in his guild hall more than once, but not for several satbits. This was likely his first donation after coming of age. Anxiety skittered through the boy’s scales and plumes like static energy.

“You, join the game,”

Novak insisted, nudging his shoulder with his tail. The boy startled, then shuffled over.

“Yes, kral.”

Seven men circled up, snapping at each other with their claws, tails, and elbows. It was a neolate’s game about unspoken coordination and eliminating their competition. Novak threw the odds, of course, ensuring the old man and the boy were in the top four.

That wizened longshoreman understood the rules better than anyone. He let the boy win with a flick of his ear towards the bullpen, then draped his heavy forearm over his shoulder.

“Been looking for another body in the cargo bay,”

he gruffed, eyes jumping to the kral in silent understanding. Novak leaned against the clinic’s wall, feigning disinterest.

“You’ve got a wide back to you. Strong spine. Up for it?”

The boy nodded, stunned by his luck. His scales rose around his shoulders and neck, exposing the electric blue plumage hiding underneath his hardened dark green feathers in an earnest display of gratitude that smelled like relief and sparklers.

Novak crossed his arms and savored that scent. He couldn’t stop the boy from trying out a bullpen at some point–perhaps he’d even grow into the sort of man that enjoyed it someday–but he could at least make sure he had options in his youth. Unlike Novak.

His thumb vibrated as he stared inside the clinic’s donor lounge. The boy was scrawny still, just a black smudge bouncing his leg nervously while he sat on a white bench waiting for his turn to be processed. The buzzing grew incessant, so he swiped the notification away without bothering to look. His guild duties could wait. His schedule was supposed to be clear and he was on a well-deserved shore leave after taking down Roka Lokurian.

Accidentally shooting a human might have had something to do with it too, of course.

Perhaps his shore leave was more of a probation. At least he hadn’t killed Vindilus’s new vira. If he had, he would have been too dead to be disciplined.

His notifications buzzed again and he flexed his gums with aggravation. When he blinked on his heads-up display to see who the caller was, he answered and pushed off the wall to wander away.

“Took your souls-damned time answering,”

Ferulis barked. His executive officer was the Union’s chairman of defense and not used to waiting.

“Apologies, sir,”

Novak hummed, his tail swaying lazily as he paced.

“I’m not in a secure location since I’m on shore leave.”

“Cut the shit,”

his XO said with an unamused glare. His bionic wasn’t visible or audible to anyone else, but the display looked like the old venandi’s ghost was hovering a few feet in front of him on a swing arm.

“I wanted to give you the good news myself. Dr Ahlberg is going into labor, and you’ve been cordially invited.”

Novak froze, eyes wide and ears as hot as torches.

Several satbits prior, Novak did something highly illegal and without the express permission of Chairman Ferulis. He’d let the very charismatic, very human Ambassador Olivia Atarian convince him to give a private donation. Dr Amelia Ahlberg and her clinical colleague Ezraji Zarabi wanted to start the first human-shilpakaari diversified family.

It had been a solid trade in his mind. He’d go under the pretense of helping them and be able to map the colony, search for evidence of Lokurian’s involvement in nefarious attempts to hack human genetic data, and ensure that the refugees were well-protected. He was more acquainted than most with the veneer that covered the Union’s open sores, and he didn’t trust anything but his own eyes.

But after that trip, he wasn’t going back. He couldn’t. He had a very good reason to stay away.

“I appreciate their invitation but–”

“I’ve arranged some gifts. Under the table, of course. You’ll escort them there with Xata. Ah, and the yiwreni… midwaif.”

Ferulis checked his notes and rolled his shoulder, stretching out the mandibles that covered a mouthful of fangs.

“She’ll need a protective detail for the journey.”

“The what?”

Novak’s tail smacked between building walls as his mind raced.

“Some kind of mammalian doctor that helps with birth.”

Ferulis smiled mirthlessly, the intensity of his one-eyed stare as sharp as a stiletto.

“This is a joyous occasion, and it is our duty to ensure the health and happiness of our people.”

Novak’s plume mail flexed slowly beneath his shirt, disturbing the fabric with a ting-ting-ting as they settled back into place. This wasn’t a social call. Something was happening that Ferulis couldn’t talk about openly, even on a secure line. He looked over his shoulder at the clinic, flexed his gums, and gave Ferulis a curt nod.

“I’ll arrange travel as soon as I’ve completed my donor check-in.”

Ferulis snapped his mandibles together and they cracked loud in Novak’s ears.

“Xata’s ship is already docked for other business. She’s waiting for you to disembark.”

“It’ll only take fifteen beats…”

Novak trailed to a stop, looking at that hawkish glare. He licked the venom from his fang and swallowed it down. They were full to bursting, but he’d played Hook-Line-Sinker his entire life. Maybe Ferulis had too.

“Actually, the line’s pretty long. If I delay, Xata might not get in the outbound queue until tomorrow morning.”

Ferulis’s mandibles vibrated with displeasure.

“Not an option. The midwaif needs to arrive as soon as possible. Besides, there are fruits onboard for Dr Ahlberg that will spoil.”

“Expensive ones, I’m guessing.”

“Very.”

“Can’t have that…”

Novak took one last look at the lounge. The boy was standing at the counter now, tail wound around his leg like a nervous vine.

Novak’s feet were moving before he knew it, carrying him out of the alley at a brisk pace.

“Have Xata warm up the engines. I’ll be there in ten.”