World Warden, page 63
Elias swallowed the lump of powerful emotion in his throat. For wurl queens to put aside their pride in this manner would have been unthinkable before. It spoke of their deep love for all existence that they were willing to ask for help when before they had relied only on their own strength.
“I will,” Elias answered firmly. “I swear.”
We thank you, Elias, Ferze replied with a mental smile. Until we meet again.
The connection ended. Elias opened his eyes and bowed to Zyra.
“Thank you for trusting me,” he said to her.
Zyra dipped her head ever so slightly. Then she turned her back on him in clear dismissal. She would wait there for her males, and then she would order them to spread out over the continent to claim territories of their own.
Elias left the way he had come. He was giddy with energy from the shared connection, and he couldn’t stop grinning as he descended. He knew he had accepted a serious responsibility, but it felt right. He wouldn’t stand idly by if something threatened any of the Flowers. He was part of the world now, more so than any other human being, and he was glad to do his part to preserve its boundless beauty.
Tristan was waiting for him at the cave that had been their home once before. He was hunched over a fire, cooking something that smelled delicious. The light of the setting sun illuminated his handsome features, his powerful shoulders, and his strong but gentle hands. When Tristan saw Elias approaching, he stood up and waved. His features broke into a smile that melted Elias’s heart anew.
Vanor and Siv were relaxing by the warmth of the fire, eyeing a fish that was about halfway cooked. Narev jumped upright and greeted Elias with a friendly bop of his snout.
“How did it go?” Tristan asked.
“Everything’s okay, though I’m sort of protector of the world now.”
“Okay. Wow.”
“Yeah. I promised to watch over the Flowers while the new queens grow.”
“Well, if anyone is going to watch over this planet, Eli, it should be you. I’m glad the new Spine queen….”
“Zyra.”
“I’m glad Zyra thinks so too.”
The fire crackled invitingly nearby. Elias put his hands around Tristan’s waist and drew him close.
“Hey, Tristan?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
Elias smiled. “For being here. For sharing all of this with me.”
Tristan kissed him on the lips. He wrapped strong arms around Elias and hugged him tight. “I love you. This, right here, is what happiness looks like for me.”
Elias looked deep into Tristan’s eyes. “For me too. I can’t wait to discover the wonders of this world. With you.”
Keep Reading for an Excerpt from
Potential Energy
by Kim Fielding
Coming Soon
Chapter 1
EVEN IN civvies, she obviously didn’t belong in this dump. She was too clean, clear-eyed, and straight-backed. Too glowing with purpose and determination. She marched across the floor of the bar as if she owned the place—except if she did own it, the bar would be well lit and orderly, and the patrons would be a hell of a lot classier.
Haz wouldn’t have guessed she would show up, but he somehow wasn’t surprised. Maybe he’d unconsciously expected this for a long time. The only question was whether she’d arrest him or simply blast him where he sat.
When she reached his table at the back of the room, she pulled out a chair, settled in, and stared at him, stone-faced. She’d aged since he’d seen her last: a few new lines around her narrow mouth, hair steel-gray now and worn in a practical buzz cut.
Haz drained his glass in one swallow and waved to the barkeep for another. He turned back to his companion.
“To what do I owe the honor, Colonel Kasabian?”
“In fact, it’s Brigadier General Kasabian.”
The same clipped tones he remembered, as if she were rationing oxygen.
“Gratulálok!” He raised his empty glass in a mock toast.
The bartender squelched over, their plantar suction cups noisy on the tile floor. They set down Haz’s refill and looked expectantly at Kasabian. At least Haz assumed the look might be expectant; it was hard to read a craqir’s face, especially when some of the eight eyes were staring in other directions. Craqirs were unable to speak Comlang due to their beaks and lack of tongue, and this one rarely bothered to use the translator on their biotab.
“I don’t suppose you have any true gin.” Even when she spoke, Kasabian’s mouth remained slightly pursed.
The craqir shook their head, and Haz provided a more complete answer.
“They have a synth version that makes a decent paint stripper. Order the yinex vodka instead, cut fifty-fifty with water. Still tastes like shit, but it won’t eat away your stomach lining.”
She gave his glass—synth whiskey straight up—a significant look and nodded at the craqir, who returned to the bar.
“Major Taylor—”
“Uh-uh. They busted me all the way down to staff sergeant, remember? But don’t call me that either because I’m a civilian—have been for a long time now.”
She narrowed her eyes. “All right. Captain Taylor, then.”
“Nope. I don’t have a ship. No ship, no captain. I’m just plain old Mister Taylor nowadays. But you can call me Haz. You’ve called me that once or twice before.”
He shifted in his seat and straightened his quasar-cursed leg, but the ache didn’t dissipate, so he drank a slug of synth whiskey instead. It didn’t help with the pain, but when he was drunk enough, he stopped caring.
“I was told you do have a ship.”
He didn’t ask for her source. She had hundreds of rats and moles stashed all over the galaxy, which had probably contributed to her promotion.
“Outdated info. My ship got banged up on my last run, and I can’t afford to fix her. She’s rotting in dry dock. Unless they’ve already stripped her for parts.”
He couldn’t help a sigh. The Dancing Molly had served him well and deserved a better fate.
The craqir returned quickly with Kasabian’s drink and one for Haz. It was why he came to this particular dump: the barkeep never kept him waiting. He drained his current glass and started on the next, impressed that Kasabian managed a decent swig of hers without making a face.
“How are you making a living without a ship?”
Haz grinned and shrugged.
She watched him for the several minutes it took for him to finish off the latest drink, try to find a less uncomfortable position for his leg, and wait for her to either tell her story or walk away. Or arrest him, if that was her goal. Maybe she’d just shoot him, ending his troubles and hers. Finally she started tapping a rhythm on the metal table with her fingernail, making it ring hollowly. He remembered that she liked music. She used to plan battles while playing Earth songs from a few hundred years ago, a genre that was, for reasons unclear to Haz, called heavy metal. Maybe she was thinking of one of those tunes while she tapped.
At least she hadn’t drawn a weapon and didn’t seem inclined to. If she had intended to shoot him, she would have done it by now; she wasn’t the type to mess around. But if she didn’t want him dead, what did she want?
“I have a contract to offer you,” she said at last. Well, that answered his question.
He raised his eyebrows. “A contract? Not a jail cell?”
“I’m willing to overlook some past… indiscretions. If you accept the mission.”
“I have no sh—”
“It pays enough for you to lease one.”
He crossed his arms. “I don’t borrow.”
He didn’t trust anyone else’s ship. Besides, who the hell would be stupid enough to put their equipment into his hands?
“Then fix yours.”
His heart skipped a few beats at that option. Losing Molly had been like having a limb hacked off. Worse, maybe. He’d have happily traded his bad leg for his ship.
As if sensing Haz’s thoughts, Kasabian gestured in the general direction of his lower body.
“Why haven’t you seen a doctor about that?”
“Believe me, those bastards have had their way with me plenty of times.” He shook his head. “They’ve reached the limits of flesh and bone.”
“Then replace it,” she said. As if getting a new leg was as easy as getting a fresh drink.
“I don’t have that kind of money. And the szotting navy won’t give me a single credit.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his tone.
She nodded briskly. “This contract will give you enough to cover your medical costs as well as repair your ship. You’ll have enough for running expenses too. And a salary for your crew.”
Kasabian leaned back in her chair, apparently pleased with her offer.
“Since when does the navy go throwing that kind of money around? And while we’re on the subject, what the fuck’s up with this contract shit? Whatever it is that needs doing, you’ve got plenty of your own ships and more than enough people to fly them. And furthermore, why me?”
He knew the answer to that: the job was too dangerous or too sticky to risk their own people. But he wanted to hear her say it.
“This mission is… sensitive. And it involves travel through Kappa Sector.”
Haz snorted. So it was both dangerous and sticky.
“Got it. Don’t want to endanger any of your delicate flowers on this one.”
“You know better than that, Taylor. Delicate flowers don’t last long in the navy. They didn’t when you joined, and they still don’t today.” She allowed herself a tight smile. “But we do appreciate some of your specific talents.”
That made him snort again. He knew he should simply walk away, but he couldn’t help thinking of Molly and how much he missed her. How much he hated being stuck on the ground like a szotting mushroom. And then there was his leg. He would sell his soul—assuming he still had one—for a decent night’s sleep, for not waking up with shooting pains every time he shifted position. Besides, curiosity had always been one of his weak spots, and he wondered what was such a big deal that Kasabian had come after him.
“What the hell do you need in Kappa? There’s nothing there but pirates and a bunch of planets too stubborn or too stupid to join the Coalition.”
“We need something delivered to a planet on the other side.”
He sneered. “I’m not a cargo runner, General.”
He couldn’t imagine a more joyless existence than that: stodgy assholes with their bloated, sluggish ships and their precious delivery schedules. He’d rather rot here, planetside, than become an intragalactic mailman.
“It’s not exactly cargo. It’s a single item, in fact. A religious artifact of great importance to the people of Chov X8. The artifact was stolen, we recovered it, and they very much want it back.”
Haz’s stomach had clenched as soon as she said religious. He wished he had more booze, but he kept his voice steady as he spoke.
“And the Coalition’s returning the whatsit out of the goodness of their hearts.”
“We’re returning it because Chov X8 has certain strategic value to us. Which is all you need to know. Well, and the fact that we’ll pay handsomely for you to return the item safely to its rightful owners.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Safely being the operative word?”
There was that smile again, but larger and more predatory. “The parties responsible for the theft may try to steal it again. If that happens, you’ll need to stop them.”
“Then why not send it with a phalanx of gunships? The navy’s got plenty of those.”
“Because the Coalition wishes to keep its involvement… unobtrusive.”
Haz sighed. He never paid much attention to politics and wasn’t the kind of guy who enjoyed innuendos and hidden agendas. He’d been called blunt more than once, and he didn’t consider it an insult. Whatever the Coalition’s interest in that little planet, and whatever their reasons for returning the whatsit on the down-low, he didn’t know—and, he realized, he didn’t care.
He thumbed at the biotab embedded in his left wrist, paying for his drinks. While he was at it, he paid for Kasabian’s too. Why not? It’d only get him to flat broke a little faster. Trying not to grimace too much, he stood.
“No,” he said.
“No what?”
“No contract. No religious thingamajig. No handsome pay. Find someone else.”
“Why are you refusing?”
“I’ve had enough of the Coalition, and it has damned well had enough of me.”
She caught his wrist in a hard grip before he could step away.
“You could have your ship back, your leg repaired. I know exactly how many credits you have, Taylor, and it’s not many. I’d bet my commission that you have no plan once they run out. Refusing this contract is stupid.”
“Never claimed to be smart.” He jerked his arm free. “Good luck, Sona. With everything.”
Of course he had no chance of outrunning her, but he hoped she might simply let him go. No such luck. He made it almost to the door before she caught up with him. This time she seized his lower arm. In danger of losing his balance, he gripped an unoccupied table to steady himself.
Because her presence was so substantial, he had forgotten how short she was; her head didn’t even reach his shoulder. The three or four times they’d tumbled into bed together, long before either of them wore officers’ insignia, she’d been tiny against his long body. Tiny but strong.
Now she pressed her biotab against his, causing both to emit a tinny ding.
“I’m shipping out in two days. You have that long to reconsider. Ping me when you do.”
He shook his head and pulled away for the second time.
“No.”
“That’s a bad limp. Why don’t you at least use a cane?”
“Fuck you, Sona.”
She was smiling as he lurched away.
IN A best-case scenario, he wouldn’t be stranded on Kepler. Most of the small planet was uninhabitable for humans, covered in toxic swamps and regularly reaching temperatures hot enough to kill. But when Molly was crippled during his last mission, he hadn’t had much choice. He’d needed to make a beeline for the nearest settlement, and he was lucky to have survived.
Kepler had only two cities—one on each pole, where the temperatures were bearable—and he’d chosen the north only because it happened to be in daylight as he approached. The city was named North, and that lack of imagination was emblematic of the planet as a whole. Nobody came to Kepler because they wanted to. They came because they had no option. Most people worked on the vast structures that roved the noxious swamps, harvesting and processing barbcress leaves. The planet’s few wealthy citizens traded the barbcress to off-world merchants in exchange for all the things Keplerians needed to survive, amassing profits until their greed was satisfied and they fled to a better place. The remainder of the population worked in run-down shops or restaurants or bars, or they repaired buildings or ships, or they provided sundry other services that residents required.
It was a dreary planet with perpetually overcast skies and few entertainments, the type of place that everyone dreamed of escaping.
But here he was, here he’d been for over a stanyear, and here he’d remain.
The bar where Kasabian had found him had no name, and it was more or less indistinguishable from most of North’s other dives. One of the other regulars, an Earther with a fondness for ancient entertainment, always called it the Pit of Despair, then laughed and had another synth whiskey. Haz and the Earther had fucked once, but both decided the act wasn’t worth repeating. They later engaged in an implicit contest to see who would drink himself to death first. The Earther had won. Haz hadn’t thought about him in some time, and during his slow walk home, he wondered why the Earther had now come to mind.
The streets in this part of North were unpaved, which meant they alternated between dusty enough to clog your lungs and so muddy they’d suck the shoes off your feet. People with a little money traveled on hoverscoots, uncaring of the street conditions; people without much money walked and swore. Haz was in the latter group, his swearing especially fluent on a night like this, as mist wetted his hair and dripped down his face and the muck pulled viciously at his leg.
He’d paused against a ramshackle building, steeling himself for the final three blocks, when a shadow took shape out of the darkness and stalked toward him. Haz couldn’t make out much detail, but by the way the figure moved, Haz recognized its intent.
“I’ve got nothing on me worth stealing.” Haz’s voice was cheery; he was in the mood for a fight. “And you might think you’re handy with that pigsticker you’re clutching, but I assure you, I’m handier.”
The person continued to approach. Haz undoubtedly looked like an easy mark with his heavy limp, and some of North’s residents were desperate enough to kill for a few credits. They’d spend it on the narcos they had become addicted to while working the barbcress processors—the narcos their bosses so generously handed out to keep them docile and then took away the moment an employee fucked up bad enough to get fired. Haz almost felt sorry for them, when they weren’t trying to rob him.
“I’m telling you, pal. You’re gonna regret this.”
“Gimme your credits.” The man’s voice, deep and raspy, had a Kepler accent. Poor bastard had been born on this shitty planet; no wonder he needed narcos to bury his woes.
“I told you. I’m just about flat broke. I can’t—”
The man lunged.
Haz, with the wall behind him, didn’t have much room to maneuver and didn’t have enough trust in his leg or the ground to dance away. He carried a knife of his own, of course, but hadn’t drawn it. That would take all the fun out of this encounter. He stayed put, braced himself against the building, and grabbed the attacker’s wrist. The edge of the blade nicked Haz’s hand—a misjudgment attributable to booze and darkness—but he only tightened his grip, using his opponent’s momentum to guide the knife away from his body and into the softened wood of the wall. It stuck there, and as the man tried to pull it out, Haz kneed him in the balls using his bad leg. It fucking hurt, but not as much as getting a patella in the gonads. Haz had learned the hard way to keep his good leg on the ground when fighting.
