Chapter 4 #2
Airik retrieved his combat suit from where it lay in the power stream.
Beside him, Torren hummed an illicit tune, in no apparent hurry to pull his own suit, which would’ve been further down the row.
“What are you waiting for?” Airik slung the heavy suit over his shoulder, heading toward the doors. “With the portals down, we’ll already be delayed.” He paused, then turned back. “You’re not to be branded again, are you?”
“That was yesterday,” Torren said proudly, pulling down the collar of his shirt.
Etched into the skin under his collarbone was the word Untaken in the Veynari common language.
What was meant to be a permanent scar, inked with toxin resistant to even the regeneration chambers, was already fading against Torren’s skin.
Airik sighed, relieved that it was just a single brand—usually Torren earned them in multiples.
“I have a new mission. Perhaps…the best mission.” Torren held up a communication chip for Airik to read. “I’ve been selected for leave. To perform the most honorable duty as a Veynari citizen.”
He read the message, then scoffed. “This isn’t a leave from duty. This is a breed match.” Airik turned, rushing out of the hall to get to his designated bay.
“Congratulate me, brother.” Torren kept pace with Airik, who walked faster down the main launch way, past crowds of star fleet soldiers and lanes and lanes of various space-faring craft. “It’s barely a hardship to breed for the grand cause. Have you checked your status? Maybe you’ve been called—”
“I haven’t,” Airik said with a rare burst of gratitude. He shot Torren a sidelong look. “You do know this won’t be like the off-world pleasure dens. A civil worker will be observing you, monitoring your words. There won’t be any pleasure in it for anyone involved.”
Torren laughed, tying his long white hair back—his own nervous habit. “How much would you like to wager I can get the civil worker to join in? There can be pleasure in it for everyone if I have anything to do with it.”
Ignoring what must’ve been Torren’s attempt to earn another brand, Airik checked his orders once at the correct launch path, confused.
There were no drozekar here—the only craft morazir were dispatched and the one listed on his order.
Nowhere along this lane was the circular, flat craft, the peak of Veynari technology, equipped with a gravity engine that could crush entire planets.
The skin on the back of his neck prickled.
“Maybe there’s an error,” Torren said, surveying the lane of offensive craft. “Or maybe your drozekar is still in stealth.”
“Maybe,” Airik said, walking briskly down the launch way toward the correct dock.
The neural engines that commanded drozekar did not allow for stealth within Veynari territories.
But if it were a preflight check specific to him, who had nearly botched his previous mission, he supposed it was possible.
Torren matched Airik’s increasing pace.
“Do you think I’ll be as fortunate as them?” he heard Torren say. “With the matching, I mean.”
Airik froze mid-step in the launchway. Others scrambled around them, choosing to trip over themselves rather than to risk touching a morazir.
Don’t say it, Torren. You, of all people, should know not to say it.
But Torren said it. “Do you think I’ll find something more with this match? That she’ll be perfect for me, like your progenitors were—”
Gasps from others erupted as Airik pushed Torren to the wall of a docked freighter craft with an arm under his jaw. “Fortunate like who?”
Torren didn’t resist, his eyes turning down to the wide, jagged scar on Airik’s forearm. “You’ve only just had the stitches removed—you’ll reopen the artery.”
Pressing harder, a haze overcame Airik’s vision. “I want to know. Who do you think was so fortunate?” All morning, he had been forced to fight this, and now…he just couldn’t.
Around them, the hustle of the launch way ground to a halt.
“Is that…is that the wild prince?”
“Hush. Don’t say that word. Not in front of them. Not if you want to keep your tongue.”
“But he’s got a prime against the wall.”
“I told you to be quiet—the wild can’t be controlled. What a shame that they’re allowed to walk among the masses, bearing the Sword of Ulliel, no less.”
It felt like Airik’s eardrums would split from the ringing echo within them. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the memories rising.
“I’m sorry,” Torren said, jamming a hand between his throat and Airik’s arm. “I only meant—”
“I know what you meant.” Though Torren was larger and, by design, stronger than Airik, he had never needed to be exceptional to survive. Airik had always had to be better, to earn the right to live a life he hadn’t asked for.
“You think what my progenitors had was love. You think they were fortunate to find it.” The noise—inside or outside his head—was too loud.
He pressed harder against Torren. “But do you think it’s fortunate to be struck through the heart with a kudra spike by a reaper?
A morazir—or a morazir who had been fortunate enough to earn his rest, I should say—forced to watch his love die.
For their progeny—their son, they liked to say—witness them die? ”
“I’m sorry,” Torren harshly whispered. “Don’t earn your first brand for this. You won’t survive it. I barely survive them. Fates know what it’ll do to you—”
A chime rang through the launch way, vibrating Airik’s skull. A general had entered the building. His body tensed, all control nearly lost.
He was certain Aelior had found him now. She’d stop him.
A blue sheen formed over Torren’s purple eyes—tears. “I’m sorry, Airik,” he said once more. “You’re right. I don’t know what I’m saying. I didn’t mean it like that. You’re my brother—”
With a warning squeeze, Airik pushed away, his hand flying to his sword’s handle, seeking its weight.
Untouched. Untaken. Unconquered.
“Stop calling me that,” he said, willing his heart to beat slower and the heat in his body to cool. “It’s not even the right word.”
The crowd around them had thickened, but Torren shook himself out and with one sharp glare, dispersed onlookers.
“Are you sure?” Torren asked, smiling again. “Then why did you teach me that word?”
“I didn’t. You stole my module, thinking it would play music—” Airik cut himself off, stopping in front of the correct dock listed in the orders.
But before he could process anything, a gentle voice, only just beginning to soften with age, interrupted him. “Who is playing music?”