Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
From foot to head, Illan was as stiff as a fossil.
His thoughts, normally ordered and calm, zinged through his mind, making demands he didn’t have the time to deal with.
But only he was to blame for the state he was in.
The way Ziamee had looked at him had sparked an answering fire in his belly.
He’d been determined to remain firm, aware time was of the essence.
But when he’d caught glimpses of her sex as he helped her don her suit, his resistance had crumpled.
When they returned from the station, he’d find his pleasure. For now, he had to focus.
Illan drew in a breath and nodded at Brac.
The male headed into the tube, his boots thunking on the metal plating that appeared to be Maloidian steel slats, locked together to form a solid surface.
Illan led Ziamee along the path, Coll trailing her with his blaster drawn.
Once they’d disembarked from the scimitar, the bay door sealed, forming an airlock.
They were, in fact, suspended between two structures with nothing separating them from outer space but these thin nano-polymer walls.
Lights flickered, marking the depressurization process. Weightlessness came next, summoning a squeak from Ziamee.
“Quick, tap your heels like this.” Illan demonstrated, then caught her floating arms to pull her feet down to the floor.
She did as instructed, and her boots locked onto the metal slats. “That’s…incredible.” She made to take a step but tilted, instead.
“It is like moving through your sinking sand. Try sliding a foot forward until your legs learn the strength needed.”
She inched forward, and when they arrived at the station’s door, the light in the tube was flashing green in warning.
Brac activated a seamless panel to the right of the entrance, a spark leaping to his fingers while he navigated the Maloidian holographics.
The metal door slid aside, a little slow, but it proved power was still available to the station.
He scanned the panel with his O.D.I., then marched into the minimally lit sphere, his focus on his arm as he issued commands.
Blinding lights flickered into life, revealing a…
home in disrepair. Wires dangled from below consoles.
A tiny beep came from the replicator, announcing its lack of sludge.
In critical failure, all access to the sludge stores was assigned to a working rehydrator.
“The situation must have been dire,” Illan mused.
“Indeed,” Coll said from where he leaned over a…body.
A male Maloidian lay ‘asleep’ on a bunk nestled on the opposite side of the room. His body hadn’t decayed, locked in an airtight tomb.
“He died a while ago. I cannot determine when by his physical state.” Coll ran his O.D.I. over the male. “With no external wounds, I must assume it happened while asleep.”
“That’s so sad,” Ziamee said, sliding closer to Coll. “Alone, nameless, forgotten…”
“A comm console is beside you, Illan.” Brac glanced at the barely lit buttons on the wall. “Perhaps it will reveal his last moments. I will access the station’s diagnostics protocol. That might reveal what killed him.”
“And when,” Coll added, resting his hand on the body’s sternum. “Death is a path one must walk, as in life. For beyond the darkness and silence lies the hope of Cinniur’s eternal blessings.”
Part of Illan admired Coll for speaking the Maloidian death rite over the male. But the angry side of Illan wanted to hate the dead male who’d played a pivotal role in his planet’s demise. He tapped the closest display vid, and text appeared.
“Eight years,” he said, skimming through the logs. “The last entry he sent out was almost a decade ago.”
Choosing one at random, dated seven decades ago, the image of a vibrant male formed, his tentacles swaying with serenity. His skin glowed a healthy yellow against the dark markings on his brow to his crown. And his solid-black eyes held warmth.
“Greetings. All has gone as planned. I have stated as such in my previous comms. I am uncertain if they have reached you. I have checked the station for any technical issues. It would be most unfortunate if the problem lies on your side. I will attempt to send a wider comm, but my concern is revealing my presence in the light of my last mission.” His chuckle was self-deprecating.
“It has been too long since I received a response.” His shoulders slumped, but he caught himself. “I will try again in a month.”
Illan flicked down, searching for a more recent log. The male was almost white, his marking too stark, and his eyes becoming gray.
“I have lost hope. I am alone, my nightmares now reality.” He rubbed his face, then yanked in his tentacles with trembling hands.
“My distress signals targeted at everything not Durn or Etterian have been ignored. If the problem is in this Cinnuir-forsaken station, I cannot find it. I have rewired everything without relief. Curse this mission. I wish I had never agreed to this…abomination, no matter how it would benefit future generations of Maloidians. We are…monsters.”
Illan skimmed ahead, glancing at Ziamee when she slid to his side.
“I am no more. I hate my own thoughts, my company. I cannot bear it anymore. Please…I beg you… Save me.”
“The air filtration system failed,” Brac said, swiveling a 3D hologram of the station’s ventilation. A section flashed in green.
“He did not feel a thing.” Coll sighed, glancing around the dull gray metallic space, every surface covered in buttons, dials, or inert display vids. Only a short counter was clear, housing the replicator and rehydrator.
“It will take a few minutes to download the station’s data,” Brac called from a console, in front of which was the only available chair. “Sec cams are dead,” he mumbled. “He would not be able to view the stars, passing ships, or oncoming danger.”
“Poor male,” Ziamee whispered, squeezing Illan’s arm.
He glanced at her and caught the light shimmering off a teardrop hovering inside her visor. With a gentle tug, he pulled her against him, offering her what solace he could.
“Done.” Brac marched past them to the tube.
Coll did, too, but he’d hoisted the stiff corpse over a shoulder.
Illan grunted. The male had every intention of returning the body to its family. If Illan had a say, he’d blast this station, destroying its very existence.
Thankfully, despite the chaos of his thoughts, he could rely on the Etterians to do the honorable thing. Besides, they might need this station intact as evidence. This…catastrophic tragedy had to be brought to the council’s attention.
He grimaced as he imagined several such sessions in his future.
Clasping Ziamee’s hand, he led her down the tube to the scimitar’s door.
There, they waited for the depressurization.
The lights changed from green to blue—the return of gravity—to red—full restoration of life support.
Ziamee clung to his hand, her eyes wide despite the paleness of her face.
A tap of his heels deactivated the magnetics, and a rush of noise slammed into him when he flipped up his visor. Ziamee didn’t say a word, just gripped her helmet under her arm and headed to the barracks.
“Returning to Vora,” Ulta announced via the comm system.
Coll carried the corpse to the med-E.D., no doubt to run full scans, including his DNA, to best locate his family.
Brac headed to the comm room.
Illan stood at the center of the common, his mind reeling. An hour ago, he’d been drowning in Ziamee’s cries of pleasure. Now, a cold certainty had dampened his ardor and solidified his purpose. With her beside him, the last of their race, he could fight for justice.
Xeus would back him, which added influence. The truth would pierce the veil of control the Global Council thought they had.
Though what could Illan ask as recompense? What could the Maloidians ever give him and the remnants of his people that could make up for this? Their deaths? Then he’d be no better. Innocent females and their offspring killed for the deeds of their fathers?
And cutting off the only supply of Maloidian steel would have an economic impact on the galaxy. So stripping them of their tech and isolating them for a thousand years wasn’t an option, either.
He pinched his brow, massaging it in the hopes of finding a solution and canceling the impending headache. What he could do is check on Ziamee. In a burst of energy, he jogged to her quarters, opened the door, and froze.
She knelt in the cleanser, her sobs filling the room. Tossing aside his helmet, he crossed to her and engulfed her in an embrace, uncaring that the water drenched him. Her sorrow was overwhelming, tainting the air with a bitter note.
“I shouldn’t care. The ass helped kill my people, but…” She met Illan’s gaze. “I do. That poor male.”
“Let us hope his soul found the light.” What else could Illan say? His heart ached at her suffering, for he, too, had a lingering pain in his chest.
He helped her to her feet and stepped back to strip off his boots and sodden armor. While the air dryer went to work, he cradled her close, dusting her temple with gentle kisses. His kok came to life, and even though he craved her, comforting her mattered more.
He guided her to the bed. Together, they sprawled, limbs entwined, facing each other.
Gazing into her eyes, he evened his breathing, willing her to do the same.
And the stroking of her braids calmed her.
At last, her eyelids fluttered, and she drifted off.
Had he made her his dhutya, she wouldn’t have drifted off.
Every contradictory thought would be hers to sift through.
Each swing of his emotions she’d endure.
She’d discover that he was far from calm.
Brac and Coll would keep Xeus informed, for they were excellent warriors. Illan need only comm the king to strategize.
“Illan?” Ulta’s voice via the O.D.I. jerked Illan awake.