Page 2

Zandrel

Never in any of my thirty-two revols did I imagine myself in a place like this, on a mission like this, fallen this far from what I once was.

The air is warm, thick with afternoon humidity. The sky above is piercingly blue and a salt-kissed breeze rolls in from the beach just a few dozen meters away through the curtain of palms which ring the production zone’s landing strip.

A beautiful day, but my mind barely registers it.

I don’t register much of anything but a low static hum in the back of my brain, an insistent, cloying shame as my new assignment is about to begin.

I shouldn’t be here.

Stuck on some fatesforsaken planet playing child-minder to a few dozen horny, drunken idiots doing their best to preen and fight and fawn in front of the cameras.

And with a crew like this? The disgust of it clings to my skin like an oily, unpleasant film.

The two other guards on this side of the landing strip pay no mind to their surroundings. They’re too busy puffing on the ends of verroot cigarettes and chortling over the same bit of idle gossip that’s been going around the beach since we reported for training a few days ago.

“What do you think she looks like?” the first asks, letting out a puff of putrid smoke.

“Small, I hear,” says the second. “These humans are apparently a tiny lot. Barely able to defend themselves, let alone the homeworld they wrecked.”

I try to close my ears to whatever else they’re saying, my interest in some backwater species who destroyed their own planet and made themselves galactic castoffs less than zero.

Annoyingly, the human contestant is all anyone’s been able to talk about.

They’re apparently a curiosity, these small, defenseless creatures. Finding their way out into the universe from the Sol System in some fatesdamned galaxy they call the Milky Way , of all the asinine things they could have named it. And now that one of them has found their way onto Mate Match, speculation has run rampant over seeing a human in person for the first time.

Overhead, the two contestant cruisers begin their final descent, preparing to touch down on the clear-cut section of jungle where the show has made its landing strip. Arms braced over my chest, I make a half-hearted attempt at surveillance and scan the gathered crowd—poised and ready to kick off this oh-so-thrilling new season.

Putting aside the pathetic state of the security team, the rest of the show’s production staff seems to have at least a modicum of professionalism.

They move around the filming area like a well-coordinated battle unit, with eyes and ears and a small army of hovercameras all over the landing strip as the cruisers come in for landing.

At the center of it all, the show’s lead producer—a truly intimidating Nexxan female named Marva—holds command over the entire operation. Three floating hoverscreens pan out in front of her, each showing a dozen different camera angles. She keeps her voice low, eyes narrowed in focus as she speaks into her headset, orchestrating the video feeds that will be edited and amalgamated down to the most salacious of storylines to keep the show’s massive audience enthralled.

What precisely that audience finds so entertaining about watching a beach full of fame-hungry fools flirt and fight and fuck, I have no idea, but it’s not my job to provide commentary on the show.

No, it’s my job to keep those fools from doing any actual damage to one another while they fight over a pretty female. Or to keep them from drunkenly wandering into the planet’s strictly off-limits territory outside the Mate Match production zone.

It’s my job to mind them like children.

Fates above, the depths of my failure, to have landed me here. Nearly two decades of training and fighting and proving my worth, up in flames. A ruin of my own making.

I’m saved from the spiral of self-recrimination by a roar of engines and a hot blast of wind and sand as the two ships touch down on the landing strip and the twenty-fourth season of Mate Match officially kicks off.

The cruiser carrying the males opens its doors first, its long landing bridge unfurling onto the raised stage that serves as the show’s opening scene. A pedestal for the latest crop of mate-seekers to pose and preen and get their faces on camera for the first time.

They’re not an impressive lot.

Vas-Greshirans and Nexxans, Jurvians, a Sendahlan and a Volbherran or two. A beaked Aventri with wings plumed in vibrant ruby and even a Szenak with jet-black scales and a wickedly spiked tail. All ostensibly good-looking, by whatever standard Mate Match’s audience uses to judge such things, and swaggering as they take their place center stage.

When the second cruiser opens, it’s much of the same. Enough polished beauty to bore me to tears, though the rest of the beach seems to hold its breath as the second set of contestants step onto the stage.

Only to let it out in a collective exhale when the human exits the cruiser.

She’s impossible to miss. The smallest of the bunch, her stature is short and slight, with barely any visible musculature and no notable defenses. No claws, no protective plating, and though she doesn’t smile, the way her lips sit over her mouth does not suggest it contains anything but blunt, useless teeth.

Her eyes are big and round—with excitement, possibly, or nerves. It’s hard to judge the expression on her pale, plain face. Though I can’t quite make out the color from this distance, her eyes have defined irises framed by stark white that make them look even wider.

Her face, too, is rounded, with full cheeks, a narrow nose turned up at the tip, and a small indent in the middle of a softly defined chin. A few strands of dark brown hair frame that round face, with the rest of it tied in a plait that hangs forward over her shoulder.

She stands with her hands clasped behind her back, her chin held high despite whatever nerves or fright are coursing through her, and takes her place next to the other contestants.

A murmur runs up and down the beach, and I almost think I can see her flinch when six of the crew’s hovercams focus squarely on her, drifting in slow arcs to capture her from a few different angles.

Strange, for a contestant to voluntarily sign up for this show, only to shy away from the cameras.

I may have just imagined it, though, as she recovers almost immediately. Straightening her spine, tilting up her chin, squaring her shoulders, falling into a more confident posture as the cameras continue their study of her.

The clothes she’s wearing are… also strange. A fitted tunic top made of plain gray fabric. A pair of shapeless, dull green pants cinched at the waist with a utilitarian belt and tucked into a pair of sturdy black boots. The whole outfit looks like it came from some sort of prison.

Or, I mentally amend as I study it a few moments more, a military.

My interest is unwillingly piqued.

The rest of the cast members are dressed in vibrant colors and ostentatious fashions from a dozen different galaxies, all doing their damndest to stand out and catch as much camera time as possible. Perhaps this little human simply missed the memo on wardrobe, or perhaps she didn’t have the funds to purchase anything else to wear.

It would hardly be a surprise, given the bits and pieces I’ve picked up about her species.

No homeworld, their people scattered through a hundred star systems, placed on whatever planet the Seventh Sector Council could find a place for them. In the pecking order of the universe, they’re near the bottom.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a mental file opens without my bidding it to.

The deeply ingrained result of almost two decades’ worth of training, I compile details and questions, a list that might help me figure out what kind of threat she poses, how I might best keep tabs on her.

Madness , another small, deep-brain voice cautions.

Whether born out of sheer boredom or my need to exercise the skills that have been languishing since my demotion six cycles ago, some sane part of me knows it’s madness.

This human poses no threat.

A curiosity. That’s all she is.

Small and defenseless. Only here for the same reason anyone comes on this show—fame and exposure and the chance to capitalize on both those boons through sponsorships and appearances after filming wraps, to make a name for herself in the sector.

Not a bad reason to compete, all things considered, for one small human adrift in the vast cosmic shuffle.

“Gods,” the first moronic guard breathes, shaking me from those thoughts. “Look at her. The perfect size to take a ride on my—”

“If you can’t improve the silence, I would suggest you refrain from speaking.”

Both guards look over at me, and I try not to let the flash of fear in their eyes inflate my ego any more than strictly necessary.

I’m sure I’ve heard their names at some point, but remembering them is just one more thing on the long list I care nothing about here on Eritin II.

The smaller of the two recovers first, snorting a laugh. “Big Aux cadet over here, eh? We’ll certainly sleep better at night knowing you’re keeping us safe from the big, bad human.”

The second guard joins in his laughter, and a brief list of all the ways I could make it so neither of them would ever laugh again flits through my mind.

But they’re not worth it.

None of this is worth it.

There’s nothing on this beach, nothing on this entire planet, worth the energy of caring enough to react. Instead, I turn my attention back to the contestants, back to the human and her nervous gaze.

Only… not so nervous this time.

The human’s brow is lowered, her eyes focused, her lips set into a slight frown. I track her gaze, watching it move from the guard nearest the foot of the stage, to the assembled crew, and then to the line of the high metal fence ringing the space.

No panic in that gaze, no nerves. Nothing but a slow, careful, methodical study of her surroundings.

Until her study leads her to me.

A stutter, in all of that focus. A widening of her eyes and a parting of her lips as she looks me up and down.

When she averts her gaze to contemplate her own feet, there are little patches of color on her pale skin. Even from as far away as I’m standing, I can see the rise and fall of her shoulders grow more rapid with increased respiration.

Fear?

I add another line item to my growing list. Tonight, when my shift ends, I’ll comb the comms networks for any available research on her species. Perhaps there might be some information on the biologic tells of human emotion.

Bounding up onto the stage, Mate Match’s esteemed host—Geeno—begins his opening monologue about the cast, the beach, the quest for finding a mate.

Geeno’s a tall, distinguished Jurvian in his later years. His faintly iridescent skin is tanned to a deep golden color, and he has silver threaded through his thick black hair. A showman through and through, I do my best to shut out his grandstanding and dramatics as I turn my focus back to the human.

She’s got her own stare squarely fixed on Geeno, and I almost write off her earlier behavior as simple disorientation at being in a new environment, when she looks at me again.

She flinches to find me staring right back.

I still don’t know how to read her soft, rounded features, but if I was a betting male, I would wager it’s guilt I see there. Guilt and discomfort over being caught doing something she shouldn’t, for whatever reason compels her to make a study of the show’s crew and defenses.

The file expands.

More notes, more questions, the undeniable prick of excitement at having a mystery to unravel, and the simultaneous hesitation of knowing I’m likely inventing a problem where there isn’t one.

The two halves of my psyche battle one another.

The more reasonable half would have me drop this, abandon whatever madness kicked up at the sight of this little human soldier and her wide, nervous eyes.

The deeper, darker half knows there’s something here. Something my instincts won’t let me ignore. Something that’s already filling all those mental ledger lines with observances and theories.

And I know which half is going to win.

A compulsion, this need to investigate, to compile and analyze, to assess and act, and yet I can’t stop myself.

This human is a mystery to unravel, a puzzle to solve, and I intend to be the one to learn all her secrets.

Geeno finishes his speech, and the crew starts to move. Our morning briefing noted the contestants are slated to go from the opening scene staging to their accommodations on the beach.

I start moving as well.

The cast has to access the beach through a small break in the jungle surrounding the landing strip, and I position myself right at the mouth of that gap.

Standing sentry, arms folded, looking for all the world that I’m doing no more than what I’m being paid for, I wait.

Already, contestants are pairing off. Flirtatious sidelong glances turn into introductions and murmured conversations as the group heads to their bungalows.

But the human remains alone.

Eyes fixed forward, she determinedly does not look at me as she approaches.

My muscles tense, my eyes hone in on her strange, alien face, and I’m so focused on her I almost miss the female Nexxan contestant who comes up behind her and throws a subtle elbow just as they’re about to pass me.

The Nexxan walks quickly on, but the human loses her footing. She stumbles in the loose, shifting sand, and as she starts to fall, I move without thinking.

The human is warm.

Scorching, even, as my hand closes around her small upper arm to keep her from toppling into the pathway.

My own skin runs cool unless I’m fighting or fucking, and the little human is a living flame against my hand as I pull her up and come face-to-face with sparkling emerald green.

It’s not the only thing I notice about her, those remarkable eyes. She’s got little flecks of reddish-brown on the bridge of her nose and the high crests of her cheeks. Her lips are full and pink, with a small bow-shaped indent just above them.

And despite my earlier assessment that she lacked musculature, there’s a definition to the arm I’m holding, a soft strength beneath even softer skin.

I help get her steady on her feet as the stream of contestants and producers moves around us, two hovercams breaking from their flight pattern to zero in and capture every second.

The human meets my gaze and sucks in a sharp breath. Her eyes flare wide and a fluttering at the base of her throat draws my attention down the slim column of her neck.

Her heart, racing.

So fast, I can feel it where my fingers rest against her skin.

So fast, it can’t be anything but fear.

I study her face again.

Strange, this human. New and unfamiliar, so hard to decipher, though I’ve spent the better part of my life learning to read tells, to know each detail of an enemy’s face so I can predict their next move.

There’s no reading her, though. Not yet. Not fully.

But if I had to make a guess, I would guess those emerald eyes are filled with guilt, with suspicion, with secrets that the obsessive, deranged part of me can’t wait to figure out.