Chapter Three
Elara
I wake up warm.
That is how I know something is wrong.
On the Mercy Ark, we slept in two pairs of socks while the climate regulators pretended eighty-seven humans generated enough body heat to count as infrastructure. Unexpected warmth meant trouble.
Get up.
Pain snaps through both wrists. My ribs pull tight. My throat burns. Every muscle in my body objects at once, filing a formal complaint with my skull.
A soft chime sounds above me.
“Do not sit up.”
I try to sit up.
A thin band of light flares across my chest and presses me gently but firmly back against the bed.
My heart leaps into my throat.
“No.” The word tears out of me raw. “No restraints.”
The light vanishes instantly.
I roll toward the edge of the bed, dragging something with me. Tubes? Wires? Gods, no. I rip at my arms until a pair of cool hands catches one of mine.
“Stop,” the voice says sharply. “Those are monitors, not restraints.”
I swing with my free hand.
She catches that one too.
The healer stands beside the bed, one brow lifted, both my wrists held in her long dark hands. Smaller than Rhazek, which means she is only terrifying instead of architecturally impossible.
Her skin is deep charcoal with a faint silver sheen under the medical chamber’s blue light. Short white hair skims her jaw. Two slim black horns curve back from her temples. Her eyes are pale gray, sharp as surgical blades.
“I’m Dr. Seryn Vahl. You are about to reopen both wrists and undo my work.”
I look down.
Clean white bandages wrap both wrists. Real bandages, not the thin disposable strips from our colony med kits.
Around the bed, black walls and dark glass form a chamber veined with low gold light. The ceiling curves like the inside of a shell. Instruments hover on thin mechanical arms, but none touch me.
Loose black pants and a long dark shirt cover me. The fabric is soft enough to feel expensive.
Seryn releases my hands slowly. “There. See? No restraints.”
I glare at her. “You had a light thing on my chest.”
“A pressure field.”
“That is a restraint with better manners.”
Her mouth twitches. “Fair.”
“Where am I?”
“Medical bay three aboard The Black Star. A Dravari warship.”
“Is the ship listening to this?” I ask.
“The ship is always listening,” Seryn says. A hum travels through the floor.
Seryn lifts one hand. “Slowly.”
I swing my legs over the bed and stand.
The room tilts violently.
Seryn catches my elbow. I hold on until the black dots clear from my vision.
When she lets go, I scan the room for exits.
One wide doorway. No visible door. A darker corridor beyond it. Two armed Dravari stand outside, their backs to the room.
Seryn follows my gaze. “They are stationed for external threat response.”
I laugh once. Dry and ugly. “That sounds expensive. Try again.”
“They are guards.”
“They are not permitted to enter unless you call for them, I call for them, or someone attempts to harm you.”
“What if I attempt to leave?”
“That depends where you go,” Seryn says. “Elara Quinn—”
“Don’t. My full name sounds like paperwork in your mouth.”
“Would you prefer I call you Human Who Attempted To Bite The Air Instead Of Resting?”
“Elara is fine,” I say. “For now.”
I press one hand against my abdomen.
“What did they do to me?”
Seryn gestures toward the bed. “Sit and I will explain what I know.” I lean against it instead.
Seryn picks up a slate of dark glass. Symbols move across it like fish beneath black water. “You were taken from a human colony vessel registered as the Mercy Ark. The enemy ship intercepted its distress signal and boarded under false rescue codes.”
My fingers dig into the bedding.
Captain Naylor said rescue had answered. I remember the announcement. Remember the cheer that moved through the lower decks like warmth. Remember old Mrs. Han crying into her hands while the kids in hydroponics started asking if real planets had grass you could roll in.
“How many survived?”
“We recovered six other living captives from the vessel.”
“From my ship?”
“We are still identifying everyone recovered from the containment chambers.”
Three babies under one year old. Twelve children. Dr. Menon with his bad knee. Captain Naylor. Grace, who was seven months pregnant and complained every day that her son had feet like engine pistons.
I sit. “Were any of them from hydroponics?”
“I do not know yet.”
“Find out.”
“I will,” Seryn says.
“Where are they?”
“Stabilization bays. Separate deck. I will take you when you are medically cleared.”
“They’re my people.”
“And you cannot help them unconscious on the floor.”
I turn away and take one careful breath.
“Tell me what they put in me.”
Seryn taps the slate. “Sedatives. Muscle suppressants. A fertility stabilizer. A cryo-counteragent. Several compounds I am still identifying.”
My skin goes cold despite the warm room.
“The fertility stabilizer was part of their preparation for transfer,” Seryn says.
“It is leaving your system. It may cause nausea, fever, mood volatility, and fatigue.”
“Great. So if I punch someone, blame chemistry.”
“I suspect chemistry will have an accomplice.”
“What happens now?”
“You recover.”
“After that.”
“You speak with the warlord.”
A pulse of heat answers. Rhazek’s body over mine, the ceiling falling.
“What?” I ask when Seryn looks down at her slate.
“Your pulse increased when I mentioned the warlord.”
“It increased because he’s a giant terrifying warlord who dragged me onto his ship.”
I point at the slate. “Stop measuring me like I’m a broken filter.”
“You are in medical care.”
“I am in alien medical care after being abducted for my reproductive organs.”
Seryn sets the slate down and steps back. “You’re right. I’ll explain before I touch you. You can refuse non-emergency treatment or have someone stay. You may also insult my bedside manner, though ideally with variety.”
“Is that your rule,” I ask, “or his?”
“He gave several orders regarding your care,” she says.
“Like what?”
“No restraints or locks. Clothing and food before questioning. Human-compatible temperature.”
“Why?”
“I imagine he would say because traumatized witnesses give poor testimony.”
“And what would you say?”
Seryn’s mouth flattens. “I would say Rhazek Vonn is currently lying to himself with impressive discipline.”
I look away. “I think I want food.”
The wall near the far side of the room opens without a sound.
I flinch so hard my ribs protest.
A young woman steps in carrying a tray.
She is small, maybe twenty or twenty-one, with warm brown skin, dark curls pulled into a messy knot, and bright amber eyes that are just slightly too reflective to be fully human. Pale markings run from one ear down her neck. But her face is human enough that I nearly stand.
She stops immediately when she sees me staring.
“Oh,” she says. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Seryn said you might be awake, but Seryn says many things with the emotional range of a cabinet, so I wasn’t sure.”
“I am in the room,” Seryn says.
“I know. That’s why I used cabinet instead of corpse.”
Seryn closes her eyes for one second.
The young woman lifts the tray a little. “I’m Nima. I brought food. Actual food, not nutrient paste. I had to argue with the kitchen system, but only a little.”
Her nervous smile fades. “I’m not from your ship.”
The hope collapses before it fully forms. “Right. Of course.”
Seryn gestures toward the tray. “Set it there.”
Nima places it on the floating table beside the bed. Steam rises from a bowl of something beige and thick, with pieces of something that might be grain if the universe has any mercy left.
Beside it sits clear water. No yellow recycler tint, no mineral grit. My mouth floods.
I reach for the cup and stop halfway.
Nima picks it up, drinks from it first, then holds it out to me.
“There. Not drugged. Unless they poisoned both of us, which would be rude, and honestly, Seryn hates waste.”
I take the cup.
The first swallow hurts. The second almost makes me cry, which is offensive. I refuse to be emotionally undone by hydration.
I drain the cup. Nima refills it without comment.
“So,” I say, my throat almost usable again, “what are you?”
Nima laughs and perches on the edge of a stool. “My mother was human. My father was Orvani. I was born on a trade station near the Rill Belt. Not exciting unless you enjoy cargo manifests and getting overcharged for vegetables.”
“Human enough for them?” I ask.
Her smile fades. “Yes. Human enough.”
“How did you get here?”
Nima picks at a seam on her sleeve. “Bad transport contract. Worse captain. Sold half the passengers to pay a debt. Rhazek’s ship intercepted the buyer.”
“And he rescued you?”
“He killed everyone responsible and gave us three options. Transfer to a refugee station, passage to a neutral colony, or paid work aboard The Black Star until we decided where to go.”
“Which did you choose?”
“This.” She gestures around at the warm black walls. “Turns out I’m terrible at neutral colonies and surprisingly good at arguing with alien kitchen systems.”
“Why would you stay on a warship?”
“Because out there, I was cargo someone hadn’t priced yet. Here, I am crew. It’s not soft. But it’s safer than most places I’ve been.”
“Is he kind?” I ask.
Seryn says, “No.”
Nima winces. “He is not kind the way humans usually mean it. He won’t hold your hand and tell you everything is going to be okay.”
“Good, because I’d bite him.”
“But he keeps his oaths,” Nima says. “He hates slavers. Here, he gave me a wage and a choice. Nobody else had offered either.”
I take a bite of the food. Bland, warm, and soft enough for my abused stomach.
“It’s human-safe,” Nima adds.
“Mostly grain, broth, protein mash, and a root vegetable that tastes like potato if you’re emotionally generous.”
“I am not.”
“Then it tastes like paste with ambition.”
Seryn steps closer, carefully visible. “May I check your wrists while you eat?”
I freeze.
“Fine.” I offer my wrist.
She unwraps one wrist with efficient gentleness. The skin beneath is ugly: red, swollen, cut deep where the restraint bit. Not infected. Not actively bleeding. Better than it feels.