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Chapter Four

Etterian Battleship Gladio

Common Room

“What is she doing here?” Cylo didn’t glance up from his drill—he was working through spear techniques. In a battle, he’d reach for his greatsword or a blaster, never a spear. But self-discipline required doing things he didn’t like.

“We are to escort her to Argaxx. A favor for Ambassador Barro,” Trav said, keeping his voice low enough for only those near to hear. “She is with us for one more day.”

The ‘she’ in question was the notorious Imarri ag Zennr, a Maloidian operative and the leader of the Serratu Kayarra or Silent Sirens. She’d ordered from the rehydrator in the common and now leaned her curvaceous backside against the bulkhead, ‘casually’ observing.

For a female not Etterian, she was beautiful.

Her pale-yellow skin glowed in the unforgiving lighting, catching her patterned markings fading into her swaying tentacles.

He swept the room, focusing on all his males with their thick braids touching their heels.

Etterian hair reacted to their moods, but Maloidian tentacles did not.

Somehow, her solid-black eyes seemed fathomless.

She caught him staring and smirked. “Careful, warrior,” she mumbled.

He fumbled, almost dropping the spear.

Trav ducked with a grunt.

She pushed off the bulkhead and sashayed across the common.

Silence gripped the room. Her garment exposed a little of her thigh—appearing smooth like the rest of her.

What rumors Cylo had heard of her skill couldn’t be true.

Something about the rotation of her hips at the right moment, the way she could curl her tongue around a male’s…

He tried not to focus on the details when an operative should, but as an Etterian, mating her or any Serratu Kayarra would lead to his death.

Too late. He straightened and gritted his teeth. To feel is to fail . Malo wouldn’t react as easily.

“Milady,” Cylo said, keeping his tone cool. He dipped his head as a show of respect then offered her his back, once more spinning and thrusting the spear.

A huff preceded her exit, but he didn’t allow the triumph surging through him to show.

One small victory after his dismal failure?

He threw down the spear and tackled Trav to the floor.

They grappled, each trying to best the other, but he and Trav had been battle-bonds since the day Malo had chosen them for his brand of training.

Afax’s voice breached the common. “Cylo and Trav to the Hallow.”

Cylo slumped only for Trav to flip him over and pin him to the mat. The male weighed more than a fattened kreso and stank worse.

“I am surprised you only ask now,” Trav said, leaping to his feet and offering Cylo a hand up. “She has been with us for a week or so.”

Cylo huffed at the implication that he was unobservant or lacked curiosity. Both were poor traits for an operative. “This is the first time I have been able to gaze upon her.”

“Indeed, she has been scarce. If I did not know of the wager among the Serratu Kayarra, I would almost believe she has spent the time finding her fulfillment.”

The wager pertained to Malo. Cylo bit his tongue.

What male would gamble his soul to lie with a female?

Although, ten minutes with the renowned Imarri would surely expand the void’s reach, especially in an elder, bringing them almost to the brink of death.

He glanced at Durok, the older male on the verge of becoming a lima kuu, a great teacher.

That he was reading from his tablet said much.

No doubt some boring text on ancient Hatimaye techniques that most had forgotten for a reason.

That thought sent Cylo’s mind into a spin. How had the Hatimaye, their fighting style, changed over the centuries? Perhaps there was validity in what Durok found fascinating.

“Hurry, Cylo. I wish to cleanse.”

Cylo chuckled at Trav. “And risk Malo’s wrath? Are you insane?”

Trav shrugged and jogged toward the barracks.

Cylo veered left, striding down the passage to the room he’d been in a day ago.

He slipped into a sweltering cell. Heat meant the prisoner was Yithian.

Etterian armor regulated their internal temperature no matter the environment, but Yithians preferred the cold of space.

A silver-skinned male sat at the steel table while Malo faced a display vid.

The splash of red hair confirmed the female on the comm as Princess Oriana.

“Just be confident, courteous, helpful but not generous with the information, and they will reveal their intentions. Your contact is Director Adam Reyes. I have known him for a while. He’s trustworthy.

” She peeked at her Eth, Prince Enyl, then flashed Malo a grin.

“Oh, and Malo, do enjoy this off-time.” The panel went black, but the sound continued.

“I do not like it when you talk to my males that way,” the prince grumbled.

“Why not? Everyone knows only you rock my boat.” There came a giggle, then a throaty moan before the sound cut out.

Malo chuckled, but when he faced the room, no emotion crossed his features.

Cylo stared at the blank vid behind him, marveling at the warmth and sweetness in Princess Oriana’s voice.

Earthians lacked control in all aspects of their lives.

Like damu. And for a warrior species such as Etterians, their disorderly conduct was an attraction he couldn’t explain.

He frowned at the Yithian, one of the Maloidian’s two companions.

Odd that they would unite. Cylo had always thought Yithians were hated by all.

Not that every one of them was evil. He didn’t believe that when he should.

As an operative, he only dealt with the soldiers.

Somewhere in the depths of Yithia’s green oceans were families, farmers, and who knew what else?

They couldn’t all want to corrupt the universe.

He stepped into the bright, white light which cast his face in darkness but spilled onto the prisoner, making him visible to the sec-vids. Malo taught that the battlefield was in the mind, and not fully seeing the interrogator added tension and fear.

The Yithian wasn’t cowed. His broad shoulders, wide neck, and big head formed their own shadow across the table.

His black eyes revealed no secrets, and as he sat there, dripping off a fang and onto his sleeveless tunic was a droplet of venom—cytotoxins, able to break down a body on a cellular level.

Few knew that Etterian operatives suffered for years to build an immunity to most poisons out there, including Yithian venom.

He made a mental note to check his virak, to refill all the vials, and perhaps sip a few.

He smothered a smirk. Malo’s conversation with Prince Enyl while the prisoner listened in meant the poor male wouldn’t leave the Hallow alive.

Malo caught Cylo’s gaze and gave him an almost imperceptible nod.

Cylo drew his blaster and pressed the barrel to the back of the Yithian’s head coated with sweat.

Yithians couldn’t abide extreme heat. The male would dehydrate with his skin cracking and bleeding, followed by asphyxiation.

For an average Yithian, from dehydration to death took twenty-two minutes.

“This is the last time I ask you, Smez.” Malo glared at the Yithian operative. “What is Yithia’s interest in Earthian females?”

“For the arena,” Smez panted, his shoulders dropping an inch.

When he shuffled on his seat, the movement cracked the skin on his arms and hands.

Silver scales flaked off. Gray blood seeped out.

The room filled with a salty tang along with the stench of raw kreso.

He moaned in agony. “The arena, I swear, Etterian.” He writhed, the smell of his sweat tainting the air further.

“I do not believe you, xemi,” Malo roared and slammed his hands on the table, rattling it.

Smez jerked away, widening his wounds.

Malo’s lip curled, a reaction Cylo hadn’t expected to witness. “Earthians are weak, tiny, and easily killed. Their deaths have no purpose.”

“Champion Ori served Yithia well,” Smez stuttered.

All knew who Ori was. Prince Enyl had rescued her from the Yithian arena, and in doing so, discovered that she was his Dar Eth.

The darkness known as the void within all Etterians would no longer expand for him, nor threaten to consume everything that made him Etterian: compassion, restraint, honor.

Smez slid out a thick and swollen dark gray tongue to lick his dry lips. “Water, please,” he croaked.

He had approximately four minutes until death.

When Malo stared at the male, his expression one of thought, Cylo withdrew a cannister from a hidden alcove.

Malo scowled and glanced at Cylo, who obediently sprayed a fine mist over the prisoner.

The Yithian sighed in bliss as a few of his wounds sealed themselves.

A healthy shimmer returned to his skin. It wouldn’t last.

“Let me understand you.” Malo narrowed his eyes. “Yithia kidnaps females looking for another champion? All this expense? We know you have more females than what we have rescued. We have not seen them in the arena. Where are they, Smez?”

The Yithian smirked.

“You do not take this seriously, xemi,” Malo growled then spoke to Cylo. “Your turn or mine?”

Cylo hesitated, the urge to kill the xemi or ‘scum’ pressing on his sense of justice. “Yours, Operations Commander.”

“Truth?” Malo grunted.

“Yes, I dealt with the Maloidian, if you recall.”

Malo retrieved the Maloidian throwing dagger he’d strapped to his upper arm. Cylo was in the process of crafting such a four-blade holster, the design ancient since it had been a gift from Malo’s father before he’d died on Gikaet.

The Yithian stiffened at the sight of the compact blade.

Malo paused to study the gleam off the blade. “I have been most lenient with you, Smez, due to our history. I see you would prefer to take advantage of our bond. This is not wise.”