Lorran Page 4
“With the disruption in communications, it is unknown when the message was first sent. It is being broadcast on repeat.”
A repeating distress signal from the deep reaches, playing on loop for who knew how long.
Lorran nodded. The crew most likely had perished. This was not a rescue mission, but recovery.
“The warrior who sent the signal is known to me. If he still lives—” Paax scrubbed a hand over his face. “Ulrik is a friend. Do not leave him alone in the deep black.”
Definitely a recovery mission. No medics necessary.
Paax continued, “There may be another on board. He is also known to me. A slippery creature with a unique skill set, much like you.”
Lorran did not know what to make of that statement. He had some surface knowledge of several skills, but he excelled in gathering intel from people who might not realize they parted with said information. He teased out information from casual conversations and let the intelligence officers make of that what they would.
Some warriors did not regard his skills as honorable. They only saw lies and deception and did not consider that situations were complex with gray areas.
If anyone understood gray areas, it was the warlord. His second-in-command had served as assassin and continued to act as the warlord’s hand in many ways.
“Caldar has his uses, but he has been too long without a clan, I think,” Paax said.
“Do you have use for him here?” Did the warlord select Lorran to recruit another intelligence officer?
“If he is not too slippery to catch, yes.”
Well, that was ambiguous.
“When is departure?” Lorran asked, already mentally preparing what to bring for the mission. Too slippery? Did that mean bring this Caldar back by force? Or bribery? He doubted a straightforward offer of a place on the Judgment would be enough.
“Now. You are already late.”
Gavran reappeared with a handful of water cubes. The warlord praised his efforts and declared him a fine young warrior.
Lorran slung the equipment bag over his shoulder. He had little time to prepare and much to accomplish.
Chapter 3
Wyn
Those side effects, though. No joke.
Reality swam back into focus, tingling and filling her head with static. Two aliens stood at the edge of the pad, looking serious and determined. Neither was Lorran. Disappointment rolled through her the same moment an invisible force squeezed her lungs.
This couldn’t be right.
She gasped again, breath rattling but not seeming to fill her lungs. She sucked in another breath. Everything felt tight and her vision darkened. One hand went to her throat, and the other fumbled for the inhaler in her bag’s front pocket.
Was an asthma attack a side effect of teleportation? She did not have that on her bingo card of unhappiness.
She administered a dose and breathed in. Clutching the inhaler in one hand, she counted slowly to thirty. She had gone without using her rescue inhaler in so long.
As soon as the tightness in her chest eased, nausea and painful stomach cramps slammed into Wyn. She fell to the floor and her birthday breakfast went everywhere. The inhaler clattered to the ground and rolled away.
Worst birthday ever.
Someone sighed dramatically and spoke, but the words were garbled.
“Sorry. I think there’s something wrong with the translator,” Wyn said. Her head pounded, and her stomach was super unhappy. The muscles heaved until she gagged, but nothing came out.
A purple man with horns crouched down. He spoke, the words sounding more like a bark of annoyance than concern for her wellbeing. He pressed a cube of water into her mouth. She bit down and most of the water gushed down her chin, but it washed away the bitter taste. She accepted a second cube, biting with care and not spilling it down her front.
The man handed back her inhaler. “Medical?”
“I understood that!” She perked, clutching the inhaler to her chest like a favorite stuffed animal.
“Delay…Adverse…” Those were the only words she understood between a garbled noise in her head.
Stupid translator chip. It’d be just her luck to get a defective chip.
She tugged on her ear, like that would help. Pressure inside her ear eased. “Sorry. It’s mostly just noise. Does this thing have a warranty?”
Another big purple alien—was everyone big and purple? —arrived, this one wearing a white uniform and carrying a kit. “Not again.”
The new guy helped her off the floor and onto a chair. Her inhaler was handed back to her. “I need to scan you. Hold still.”
Wyn did her best, but the room tilted. She blinked, her head pounding and eyes ready to melt out of their sockets. “Eyes don’t melt, right?”
“For Terrans, no. That is not a common malady.”
A medic with a sense of humor. Somehow, laughter didn’t seem like the best medicine at the moment. “Mild teleportation sickness,” he announced, then produced a hypodermic needle.
Wyn flinched away. “Oh no, the last pokey-jab gave me a splitting headache. No more needles.”
“It will help with the nausea and headache.”
“Give me a pill or something.”
He glanced up at the ceiling, as if beseeching a higher power. Moving faster than she expected, he jabbed her in the upper arm. She shouted, despite feeling barely a pinprick.
“Not cool! Not cool at all.” She rubbed her arm.
“Better?” He did not wait for her to answer. Instead, the medic asked, “Female, who is your mate?”
“Lorran Rhew,” Wyn answered. “Where is he? He’s supposed to meet me here.”
For a moment, she thought the medic looked sad. Despite the horns, the dark purple complexion, and seriousness woven into the very fiber of his being, his eyes were surprisingly expressive. Human almost.
Wow. The teleporter must have scrambled her brains.
“Where is her match?” The medic turned to the male behind the control panel.
“Lorran Rhew is currently in shuttle bay five, sir.”
Lorran. That still sounded like such a nice name. She smiled because her brains were a little scrambled from teleporting and maybe she wasn’t getting enough oxygen. Was the atmosphere fit for humans? Had to be.
“Contact him immediately. I do not understand this failure,” the medic demanded.
“He is scheduled for departure to Sangrin.”
“Ah.” The medic nodded. “He goes to celebrate the holiday with his family. We should put her on the shuttle.”
“Sir, standard procedure is to escort her to Security, then Medical.”
“And the head of Security is on the same shuttle as his brother.”
“And Medical—”
Wyn ignored the two aliens discussing her like a piece of luggage. Her head felt better, if tender, and the static from the translation chip had subsided. It flawlessly interfaced and replaced the alien sound with good old English.
The medic lightly touched her shoulder, snagging her attention. “I will escort you to your mate. Are you well enough to walk?”
Wyn stood, her body exhausted, but no longer nauseated or dizzy. Food soon would be a good idea, but her stomach lurched at the idea. Okay, maybe still a little queasy.
“I’m fine,” she said.
The medic grabbed her suitcase and bag. They made their way through a series of corridors that all looked the same: well-lit, wide, and glossy white. While functional and without frill, the echoing hallways gave the impression that they were meant to impress. Or intimidate.
It must have been working because no scuffs dared mar the glossy finish; not even a speck of dust or a smear of grime interrupted the relentless monotony of the ship. The lighting hurt her eyes, or maybe the lack of design hurt her eyes. Hard to tell.
“Is this a spaceship or a station? They didn’t tell me,
” Wyn said. She thought space would be more impressive. Or at least have some color.
“This is Judgment, the largest battlecruiser in the Sangrin fleet,” the medic said, sounding almost offended.
Right, right; don’t besmirch an alien’s starship. “It’s very clean,” she said.
“The Judgment requires several hundred bots for basic cleanliness and maintenance,” he said, almost sounding house proud.
They passed several other alien warriors. Well, not aliens. She was an alien here. The majority were of the horned, purple-complected variety, but she saw some in other hues. The red ones looked nasty, with tusks and a scorpion-like tail. Green guys came in two varieties: with tail or without. They were all so interesting. She couldn’t wait to grab a few sketches.
The corridor branched off, growing narrow and less populated. This area looked more lived-in, with scuffed paint and wear at the corners. Black rings embedded into the walls and floors punctuated the corridor. Gates? Partitions? Wyn could envision partitions used to seal off sections for…
Okay, to be honest, she could only imagine that the reason to seal off sections of the ship had to be bad. So much could go wrong on a ship and her imagination helpfully supplied a list including catastrophic loss of atmosphere and being boarded by space pirates.
So, scary emergency partitions for safety. Check. Still, a touch of color wouldn’t be amiss.
They passed an open window. Well, not open obviously because space, but a window, nonetheless. Pinpoints of light flickered against a velvety black. Until that moment, all she had seen were rooms and corridors. She could have easily been in another facility, still on Earth.
Wyn pressed her fingers to the window, expecting to find it cold, and was surprised when it wasn’t.
She really was in space.
“This is amazing,” she whispered.
The medic brought her to a busy hangar. The Mahdfel were there, obviously, doing serious things with serious expressions while flexing their muscles. Women and children mixed in the crowd. The number of human women surprised Wyn, but the Mahdfel had a treaty with Earth for nearly two decades. Plenty of women had been matched.
The hangar, despite being just as gray and bland as the corridors, had a holiday atmosphere. People seemed excited, especially the children, who bounced around with endless energy. The adults standing nearby, presumably parents or guardians, had tired but fond expressions on their faces.
Everyone spoke loudly, to be heard over the constant rumble of ship engines, adding to the excited atmosphere. Warning bells rang as small crafts hovered above the floor and moved toward the far end of the hangar.
“It is Golau. Many travel to Sangrin to celebrate,” the medic said, preemptively answering Wyn’s question.
So it was a holiday. Good to have that clarified. The translator had garbled the conversation she heard between the medic and the tech when she arrived.
“Where’s Lorran?” She followed the medic as he weaved between shuttles and people. This was exhausting.
“Here.” The medic paused at a boxy gray shuttle. Seriously, the Mahdfel needed to talk with someone about design and color. The ramp was lowered, and the door opened.
The medic carried her bags inside, ducking through the doorway to avoid hitting his horns. He frowned at the empty shuttle.
Soft blue lighting illuminated the interior of the shuttle. Again, more gray and uninspired design. Obviously the Mahdfel prized functionality over aesthetics. The interior felt more lived-in and well used, with worn spots in the fabric of the seats and discoloration on the floor from countless footsteps.
“Lorran will be here soon. Wait here,” the medic said. “Does your head continue to pain you?”
Wyn pulled her hand away from her face, as if she could hide that she had been rubbing her eyes. “A bit. It’s better than it was. The lighting doesn’t help.”
The medic made a humming noise and produced a hypo from his kit. He pressed it to her arm. “This will ease the pain. Now, rest. Your mate is on his way.”
“Do you know him? Is he nice?” Wyn rubbed her arm and sat on the nearest seat. Tall and wide, the seat had been built to Mahdfel proportions. Her toes brushed against the floor as if she were child sized.
“I do not know him well. Remain here,” the medic warned one last time before departing.
So cheery.
Wyn’s eyes grew heavy. The throbbing in her head ceased but staying awake required effort. She’d traveled across countless light-years and then horked up her meager breakfast. Taking a nap seemed like a brilliant idea.
She stretched out on the rows of seats. Yeah, no. Not to be a Goldilocks about it, but the seat cushions weren’t designed with a comfortable cat nap in mind.
A partly opened door separated the seating area from the rest of the ship. She pushed it opened, expecting to find cargo and storage space. Four bunks were built into a wall, stacked on top of another two by two. The other wall had various boxes strapped onto shelves and drawers built into the shelving. At the far end were two large cylinders. Made of a frosted glass, blue light glowed from the bottom, they were large enough for a person. Scratch that, large enough for a Mahdfel.
Were these stasis chambers? She peered into the glass but could see nothing to suggest a person or body inside.
Wyn wandered back to the bunks. The thin foam mattress promised no more comfort than the chairs up front, but she was too tired to be picky. She climbed into the bottom bunk and found it to be just right. Goldilocks indeed.
Lorran had three weeks to prepare for her arrival. She couldn’t wait to see what he had planned.
Lorran
“Daddy! I fell and hit my head so hard my eyeballs burst! And the warlord was there, and he said I was big enough for a mission, so I did the mission,” Gavran babbled as he rushed through the door, launching himself at his father.
“What happened?” Seeran caught him and lifted him high enough for Gavran to grab his horns.
“Uncle Lorran let me climb all the way to the top! Then I fell. I bleeded. It’s gross.” Gavran twisted to show Seeran the back of his head.
The little traitor.
“He did not bleed. No blood was involved,” Lorran said.
Seeran set the child down. “Seek your mother. She requires your assistance.”
Once Gavran ran off, Seeran turned his fierce gaze to his younger brother. “He is three! He is too little—”
“I’m not little!” Gavran shouted from the depths of the apartment.
“He wore protective coverings. I am not so foolish.”
Seeran huffed, his nostrils flaring, then pointed a finger at the rifle hanging behind Lorran’s back. “But no helmet? What were you thinking? He has no horns.”
“He is Mahdfel with a thick head like his father, horns or no horns,” Lorran said.
“That is not the point,” Seeran growled. “You endangered my son. You are irresponsible and require focus.”
Focus.
He could focus. He had focus. All he did was focus. He felt so focused, so finely tuned to a sharp edge that he might burst from the intensity of it all.
He held his tongue while his elder brother lectured him about responsibility and priorities. Amid the reprimand, Gavran trotted up carrying a small container. The serious frown of concentration was reminiscent of his father. Fortunately, it was much cuter on the youth. “Mommy says these are for you.”
Lorran could smell the sugar and butter. Lifting the lid confirmed the contents to be the Terran delicacies of chocolate amaretti, a favorite of his brother’s mate. “Give your mother my gratitude.”
“You are meant to be on a ship, answering a distress call,” Seeran said.
“Yes, that is important and a priority, but I assumed you would want me to return your son. And he brought me cookies. Is it not my responsibility to enjoy the chocolate amaretti gifted to me by your son? When does your flight leave?”
Seeran turned an interesting shade of mage
nta.
Bad enough that Lorran had to miss the family gathering to celebrate Golau, but he would not miss out on the sweet treats. Or spending a few more moments with his nephew.
“And now you are late,” Seeran said.
Because his brother loved to lecture.
Amazingly, he held his tongue.
“Be nice. Gavran wanted to give his uncle his present. Thank you for entertaining him,” Hazel said, as she came up behind her mate. She hugged one arm around Seeran’s waist and smiled up at his stern face, patting him on the arm.
Lorran’s stomach did not twist with envy. Both of his elder siblings were mated. He had learned to swallow his envy long ago. A Mahdfel warrior lived for the fight and his family—to put it politely—and he had more family than most.
“Go! Do not shame me,” Seeran snapped.
Lorran gave a crisp salute. “Festive Golau to you. May the year bring you luck and good fortune.” He kept his tone light and carefree, just to bring out that wonderful magenta in Seeran’s cheeks, and sauntered away for spite.
Once he turned a corner in the corridor, he broke into a run. He would not fail this mission. He had focus. He could be responsible.
“Lorran, status update.” Mylomon’s voice came through the comm.
“On my way. I’ll be there before the seat warmers get toasty.”
“I will leave with or without you on board,” Mylomon warned, and Lorran believed him.
“I’ll be there. Can’t have you go off on a mission without my smiling face.” Lorran ended the connection. Pushing himself even harder, he weaved his way through the corridor and finally into the crowded hangar.
It seemed as if the entire clan planned to celebrate the holiday on Sangrin, and Lorran could not blame them. A tense atmosphere lingered in the clan. The increase of Suhlik aggression with raids on outlying settlements, paired with the growing boldness of smugglers in Sangrin territory and deliberate damage to communication systems meant the decades of peace enjoyed by civilians would soon be at an end. Trouble was coming. No wonder mated warriors scrambled to enjoy time with their families. The future was uncertain.