Page 6

Zandrel

Roslyn is already off the beach when I clock in for my afternoon shift.

I kept tabs on her all morning through the holoprojector in my watch. She was holed up in her bungalow while her producer and her Volbherran friend darted in and out, getting her ready for her big date.

There are no camera or audio feeds in the bungalows themselves—some uproar and a cast strike addressed those privacy concerns a couple seasons back—but production still gets creative with how they position cameras to film through windows and near doors to capture contestants coming and going. Sensors on the doors and windows also trip with motion, and so far there’s been nothing.

No suspicious activity from her accommodation. No attempts to escape or otherwise break the rules.

At least, not yet.

Beyond that, she’s been at sea all afternoon with the Vas-Greshiran— Rhevar , I keep reminding myself, the name I looked up on the cast roster this morning—out on a hover designed specifically for leisurely travel over Eritin’s tranquil ocean.

Basking in the sun, I’m sure. Getting the sort of sparkling, dreamy footage Mate Match’s audience loves to live vicariously through.

She’s not likely to get herself into much trouble out in the middle of the ocean with a small army of hovers capturing every moment of her interaction with the Vas-Greshiran, so I spend the time pretending to do my job while conducting research on my comms band. I queue up a few different feeds on the holo and flip through article after article about the human species.

For having such a new and relatively tiny cosmic footprint, there’s a surprising amount of information about them available on the universal comms databases.

Much of it comes as no surprise, or merely confirmation of what I’ve already known or suspected.

Few physical defenses. Short stature and lack of notable musculature. A homeworld driven to near complete environmental ruin before the Seventh Sector Council intervened and assisted the species with resettlement on more than a hundred planets scattered far and wide across the sector.

Not a wholly altruistic venture, it seems. A few of the more scathing reports indicate the Council demanded unfettered access to the dying planet as payment for their assistance, no doubt to strip it for every resource it still contained.

Humans have a small military force run by their near-powerless, cobbled-together governing body—known as the Sol Alliance—though it seems their main purpose is supporting the military ventures of other species in an effort of building intergalactic goodwill and new friends in the sector.

None of the information shows any connection between humanity and Eritin II. No military missions or trade with the planet’s small population. Nothing at all that would explain Roslyn being here for any reason but to compete on Mate Match.

A few brief articles about human biology and social interaction and mating habits provide a bit of distracting fodder during the late afternoon, but by the time the hover carrying Roslyn and Rhevar makes it back to the beach, I’m ready to continue my own investigation.

I’m ready to speak to the little human again.

Last night was just an opening salvo, and butting right up against all her defenses has given me far more questions than answers.

She’s hiding something, and I’m going to find out what it is.

Roslyn and Rhevar return from their date just as the sun is beginning to dip behind the rolling green mountains that frame the Mate Match production area.

She’s pink-cheeked from the sun, her hair wavy and rumpled from the sea breeze.

A mess, I tell myself.

She looks like a mess, disheveled, and there’s no reason at all I should wonder how warm her reddened skin would feel beneath my fingers, or what the salt spray might have done to the texture of her soft brown hair.

The two of them part briefly, off to their respective dwellings, before reappearing for the evening festivities. Like last night, there’s not much order to the proceedings other than drinks and socializing, furtive glances and murmured conversations, the machinations of producers as they move contestants around like pieces on a gameboard.

Including Roslyn and Rhevar.

Sella, the producer who I learned has been assigned to Roslyn, touches her ear for a moment as she receives a message over comms, and then she’s moving. Focused, determined, with a calculating spark in her expression as her eyes find Roslyn, then Rhevar, then catch the gaze of another producer who heads for the Vas-Greshiran.

There’s something mildly fascinating about watching it all happen in real-time. The two producers find their marks, whisper instructions, then fade away into the background as their plan springs into motion.

A wide grin spreads across Rhevar’s face as he finds Roslyn in the crowd, and though she’s wearing what I might consider more of a wince after whatever Sella told her, she recovers quickly. Her lips curve less enthusiastically than his, but she meets him near the edge of the gathering before taking the hand he offers and letting him lead her away into the night, trailed by half a dozen hovercams.

Keeping to the shadows just like last time, aware of my every step and breath, I tail the pair down a narrowing stretch of beach edged by thick jungle. The sugar-soft sand of the main beach transitions into rockier ground, leading to a secluded, scenic point. As the two of them pick their way over the stones, I slow my steps, too.

I’m close enough to hear a few threads of their conversation, mostly inane chatter about the date they went on earlier.

They pause to take in the view of the ocean on a small patch of beach amidst the rocks, and hovercams circle close and low to capture them from every angle.

Roslyn might be made of glass with how stiff and careful she’s holding herself, eyes fixed determinedly on Rhevar like she’s trying very, very hard not to look at the cameras. She nods and smiles and murmurs her replies to whatever banality he’s spewing, though the tightness in her expression is unmistakable.

He hovers close to her, more animated, and with a bright smile on his face that means he’s either an excellent actor or genuinely finds the little human appealing.

I want to convince myself it’s the former, but as I watch Roslyn—with her cheeks still pink from the sun and the wind, her hair falling in wild waves that catch the golden sunset light—I can almost admit…

Almost.

If she weren’t a criminal hiding in plain sight with a stubborn, belligerent attitude and…

No.

It’s just a trick of the light. A flattering angle that brings out copper strands in her hair and makes her eyes shine a brighter shade of emerald.

I give my head a hard shake and make myself tune back into the conversation. Adjusting my earpiece—which I modified earlier today to pick up ambient sound in addition to comms from the rest of the crew—I focus on the task at hand.

“I had a wonderful time today,” Rhevar says, leaning even closer. “I hope you did, too.”

Is that another grimace on Roslyn’s face? I barely catch her expression before she covers it with a bland smile.

“I did. It was great to have the chance to—”

She doesn’t get to finish her sentence before he leans in and presses his mouth to hers, one of his hands cradling the back of her head to pull her close.

I can’t contain the curl of disgust on my lip.

Kissing, the research called it.

A revolting mash of mouths, apparently meant to communicate desire and affection. It’s something humans seem to be quite fond of, a part of their mating ritual meant to stoke passion.

Only… Roslyn does not seem to enjoy it.

She braces both her hands on Rhevar’s shoulders, attempting to dislodge his amorous attentions, but has no success in getting him off her.

I move without thinking.

One moment, I’m surrounded by the jungle’s darkness, and the next I have my hand on the back of the male’s tunic, jerking him away from her. He goes sprawling onto the rocky ground, landing flat on his ass.

“What the fuck is—”

His words die in his throat when he gets a look at me.

“Is it Vas-Greshiran custom to force yourself on an unwilling female, or are you just a particularly unctuous representation of your species?”

“What the hell?” Roslyn steadies herself, and there are indignant flames burning in her eyes as she takes in the two males before her. “What are you doing?”

I scoff.

What am I doing?

Did she want him plastered to her like an over-eager, fumbling youth?

“It’s my job to keep order amongst the contestants. Which includes preventing assault.”

“It wasn’t assault,” she spits back. “We were kissing.”

“And were you enjoying it?”

More flames in those emerald eyes, and though she seethes at the question, she doesn’t answer.

Rhevar gets himself back on his feet and sucks in a sharp breath. “Gods, I’m sorry, Roslyn. I didn’t know that you weren’t—”

“Don’t apologize,” she snaps, then softens at his flinch. “I mean, sorry… It was fine. I just… I wasn’t expecting it and I was… it was fine.”

I’d almost feel pity for the dejected look on the male’s face if I weren’t still barely keeping a leash on my anger over his treatment of Roslyn. Any idiot could tell she wanted him off her.

“Is there a problem here?”

All three of us turn.

The show’s executive producer herself, Marva, strides out of the jungle with a few lower-ranking producers trailing behind her. Sella is among them, and she makes straight for Roslyn, bracing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Our cameras picked up interference by a guard,” Marva continues, topaz brow furrowed and eyes narrowing as they land on me. “Care to explain?”

“This male was assaulting Roslyn.”

“He was not!” Roslyn bursts out, more silent daggers thrown my way in her fiercely displeased glare before she addresses Marva. “It was just… a misunderstanding. Nothing that needed any intervention.”

I huff a skeptical breath and she glares at me again.

Fates, those eyes.

Maybe I was wrong about her not possessing any natural weapons.

Glinting like shards of broken sea glass, they strip me bare and guilty.

Which, on its face, is nonsensical. I’ve got nothing to feel guilty about, but I’d never know it from the way she looks at me. Like I’ve crawled out from some stinking cesspit to ruin her day, specifically.

Infuriating human.

Marva gives Roslyn a long, assessing look—one Roslyn bears with an admirable amount of calm, given how intimidating the older Nexxan female can be.

“Fine,” Marva says, albeit skeptically. “Rhevar, you stay here to walk production through exactly what happened. Sella, please see Roslyn back to her bungalow.”

The Vas-Greshiran gives Roslyn another dejected, longing look.

Roslyn misses it entirely.

She’s still too busy staring murder at me, at least until Sella brushes another concerned touch over her shoulder, which seems to snap Roslyn out of it.

Giving Marva a curt nod, she turns to leave with Sella trailing right behind.

“And you,” Marva says, jerking her chin at me. “Check in with your supervisor. He’ll want an explanation of what happened here.”

A wave of bitter irritation settles over me, souring my gut.

“Fine.”

With that, production springs into action.

Marva pulls Rhevar aside for a chat, a handful of junior producers redirect the cameras, and the rest of the night’s show goes on like nothing has happened at all.

I’m forgotten in the lurch, standing rooted in the sand for a few long moments before I begrudgingly trudge off to whatever bureaucratic bullshit waits for me in the Security Director’s office.

I’m never more acutely aware of how far I’ve fallen than when I stand in the small, pathetic office that serves as the headquarters for Mate Match security.

Once, I took my orders from the Auxiliary Grand Council itself.

Delivered in the Command Hall on the massive space station that serves as the Aux’s center of operations, those orders took me to distant galaxies and planets on some of the sector’s most sensitive missions.

The assignments I carried out with the unit I commanded turned the tides of wars, returned hostage diplomats to their home planets, ended roiling conflicts before they could erupt into all-out violence. I traveled from one side of the Seventh Sector to the other, and my name meant something.

I meant something.

But now, standing in the low, perpetually flickering yellow light of Director Brivik’s office, spine straight and hands clasped behind me because I haven’t lost all sense of propriety and personal pride, disgust churns my gut.

Disgust for this assignment, disgust with myself, disgust for all the mistakes that brought me here.

“So what,” Brivik says in an unpleasant, nasally voice, “you thought you’d decide to play hero? Big warrior stepping in to save the day?”

I clear my throat, barely swallowing back the wave of bitter bile that wells up at being forced to answer to him.

“No, sir. I was patrolling and happened to see the altercation. Roslyn—the human female—seemed like she was in trouble, so I intervened.”

“Patrolling?” He raises a sardonic brow. “And paying special attention to her?”

I don’t answer, but Brivik seems particularly fond of listening to himself talk, so it doesn’t bother him.

He chuckles, and the sound of it is like slime and oil against my skin. “Believe me, I know how much of a fascination she is amongst the cast and crew.”

I keep my face carefully blank, ignoring the lascivious tilt of his smile and the suggestion in his tone.

It’s the same look that’s been on more than a few of the crew members’ faces these past two days. A fascination, he calls it, a novelty, a challenge, an interest in Roslyn because she’s new and different, or because she’s small and soft and holds some sort of appeal.

Not because of who she is, of course, or what threat she might pose, for that they couldn’t care less.

“Unless there’s another reason you were watching her, or saw fit to intervene? Some misbehavior on her part that would warrant—”

“There wasn’t. I saw her interaction with the Vas-Greshiran and stepped in. That’s all.”

The lie is easy, as is the decision to keep my suspicions about Roslyn to myself.

Whatever her purpose for being here, it’s not to be fodder for louts like Brivik, or any of the other guards who look at her the same way. If she’s here to commit some crime, she’ll answer for it, but until then she doesn’t need to be the focus of any more scrutiny from this lot.

Brivik frowns at the interruption, but his expression quickly falls back into the indolent smirk he favors.

“Fine. Then as you were, soldier. Back to putting all those legendary Aux skills to use keeping the contestants in line.”

His smile this time is all mocking insincerity, a disrespect that would see the breath knocked from his lungs and the light from his eyes if we were on my turf instead of his.

But we’re not, and I let the slight graze off the rough plates of my armor as I stand and stare and watch him shift uncomfortably in the silence.

I’m well acquainted with males like this.

Inflated with their own sense of importance, drunk on the power they’ve done nothing to deserve.

Cowards. Always cowards, at their core.

No matter how far they’ve risen or what kind of authority and influence they wield, they’ve got spines made of jelly and less honor than the scum on a rock at the bottom of a fetid pond.

I don’t want him anywhere near Roslyn.

The vehemence of the conviction almost surprises me as it settles itself squarely in the back of my mind.

Brivik, the rest of the guards, I don’t want them near her.

No matter what she’s up to, I’m going to handle it.

Though I might be an obsessive bastard for tailing her, I’ll give her a fair enough chance. She’ll play her hand, or she won’t, and I’ll do what I can in the meantime to run interference and keep them away from her.

The little human with her spine of steel and all those flames in her eyes deserves a worthy adversary. She doesn’t deserve to be an oddity or a spectacle, and she certainly doesn’t deserve to be leered at by the likes of Brivik and his ilk.

Leaving the security building, the cool night air is barely a balm for my frayed temper, for my disgust, for the roiling frustration that tenses every muscle and sets my teeth on edge, vibrating with unspent energy as I make my way down the jungle path leading to staff accommodations.

A sparring session might take the edge off—with Brivik, preferably, if only for the satisfaction of knocking him flat on his arrogant ass—but neither he nor any of the guards seem concerned in the slightest with training.

Besides, it’s late, and I’ve got a full day tomorrow, one I’ll likely spend making sure Roslyn doesn’t get herself into any more trouble.

Back in the barracks, I don’t speak to any of my fellow guards. I hardly even bother to look at them as I fling myself down on my bunk and stare up at the ceiling, trying not to let all my racing thoughts get the better of me.

It’s what got me demoted in the first place, caring about things that were none of my concern and inserting myself where I had no business to.

Not that I regret it. Not for a single moment.

In hindsight, I would have changed the way I went about it, and I’ll absolutely be more careful when I earn back my rank and take another shot, but I don’t regret my decision to call out the Aux’s abhorrent recruiting practices.

I roll over in my bunk, eyes fixed unseeing at the wall, breath rasped from my lungs in a long, tight exhale.

Most nights, I don’t think about it.

Most nights, the trouble I got myself into on an Aux cruiser bound for headquarters, the cell they threw me in before I faced the tribunal, the way everything fell apart so quickly and so spectacularly stays right there. Light-years away. Too far away to touch me.

But tonight, I can’t keep it away.

Tonight, I see the faces. I’m sucked back into dark pools of memory. I speak out, but I can’t stop it.

But it wasn’t a mistake.

Then, and now, it wasn’t a mistake.

My mistake was in trusting my commander.

A male I’ve known more than half my life. An honorable one, I had thought.

But it turns out the credits Veren earns by feeding into the recruiting apparatus that scours the Seventh Sector for cadets—searching for the orphaned, the poor, the younglings who don’t have enough sense to see through the pretty tales recruiters weave of glory and prestige—mean more than his paltry honor.

In exchange for helping to identify the most likely sources of those young recruits, he lines his own pockets and blithely disregards the collateral damage.

It’s damage I know well, because I’ve lived it.

I met my own recruiter in a group shelter for younglings orphaned after Revexor’s fall. With no one to speak sense to me, with nothing to my name, with a bleak future before me and delusions of heroic grandeur in my head, I signed my life away.

But tonight’s not the time to dwell on the black well of those thoughts. It’s not the time to be distracted.

I’ll do my penance, serve my time, take any and every opportunity to work my way back into my prior rank.

And the next time I move against the bastards snapping up orphaned younglings and recruiting them into the Aux, I won’t fail.

As long as I don’t do anything else monumentally stupid and screw it all up again.

Like protecting a little human criminal for no good fatesdamned reason.

I’m already playing a dangerous game with the way I’m choosing to handle this situation with Roslyn. Perhaps I’d be better served by turning over what I know to Brivik and washing my hands of it.

Only…

She hasn’t actually done anything. Not yet. Despite her questionable behavior and my suspicions, she’s broken no rules. Giving voice to those suspicions would only make her more of a target, and maybe it’s just the same fatesforsaken noble streak that got me into all this trouble in the first place, but I can’t do that to her.

No, Roslyn is my problem for the time being.

A small problem, all things considered, and nothing compared to what I’ll have waiting for me when I finally earn my way back into the upper echelons of the Aux, but my problem all the same.

Which just means I need to solve it quickly.

I need to get to the bottom of it, find out what she’s up to, crack that obstinate shell of hers and learn what morsel she’s hiding.

Those thoughts are a welcome distraction as I drift off.

Flipping through my mental file, adding a few new pages, replaying the scene between Roslyn and Rhevar as if it might give me some clue what she’s up to. It all eases the tension still lingering in my muscles.

It gives me something else to focus on.

Something real. Something immediate. Something that doesn’t make me feel as if the dark well in the center of my chest will swallow me whole while I have my guard down.

I imagine what tomorrow will bring. I imagine the ire Roslyn will throw my way over what happened tonight. I imagine the way her emerald eyes will cut me and the way her cheeks will redden with emotion.

In the midst of all that imagining, I might almost be able to convince myself a bit of the darkness lingering in my chest lightens. If I were a more sentimental creature, I might believe it was a small, unlikely smile tugging at the corners of my lips as sleep finally claims me.