The Covlax Deception: Part 1
The twin Destyrian suns kissed the horizon as the Killer Qu’een touched down in the clearing. Matt cut the engine. Its reassuring rumble was replaced by the tense silence that had permeated the ship since our mid-trip route change. The gangway lowered onto a carpet of overgrown lavender grass, a welcome mat leading into the technicolor forest that encircled us.
Azo’lah raced off-board, one hand linked with her cousin’s. Fleetwood matched her skips to Azo’lah’s hurried pace, flowing skirt billowing around her legs. Since receiving the news that Azo’lah’s brother, Zerin, was missing, neither had strayed far from the other.
“Azo’lah, Fleetwood,” I called, chasing after them. My feet slipped on the dew-slick grass, slowing me down. “Wait up.”
Milyna easily overtook my shorter-legged strides. Noting the concern in my voice, she said, “Fret not, Gretchen. I will watch over them.”
“I—uh—thanks?” I said as Azo’lah and Fleetwood disappeared beyond the treeline, Mylina a shadow’s length behind them.
“You alright, Gretchen?” Matt knocked my elbow companionably as he and Chester caught up with me. Matt did something on his Ran’dyl and the Qu’een’s gangway rose, sealing off the ship. The remaining Myax fanned out at our backs. Although we were back on the Central continent, they were taking Azo’lah’s orders to keep an eye on us very seriously.
“I’m fine.” I shrugged my taut shoulders. “I just don’t know how to help.”
Chester looped his arm through mine as we entered the forest. A pleasant fruity-floral scent enveloped us. “We don’t have all of the information yet. Once we know more about the situation with Zerin, we’ll be able to help find him. Until then, all we can do is be there for Azo’lah and Fleetwood.”
“That’s not—” I began, cutting off with a yelp as I tripped over a fallen branch. Matt’s quick reflexes saved me from completely wiping out. We traversed the rest of the forest in silence, picking our way quickly and carefully across the root-infested and sometimes rocky terrain.
I was thankful for the excuse to stay quiet and work through my thoughts. Because yes, of course, I wanted to help Azo’lah find her brother as well as provide whatever emotional support I could throughout the process. But that wasn’t the only thing I was worried about. I had yet to confide in Matt and Chester that Azo’lah was considering no longer being Fleetwood’s—and by proximity our—Myax. They didn’t know her technopathic secret, nor the part she played in the fall of J’olpri Market. They didn’t know how close we were to losing her.
The secrets were really starting to pile up.
My stomach twisted in on itself as I thought that on top of all of that, not to mention the political conspiring we had just survived on the Eastern continent, that a missing brother would pull Azo’lah even further away from us. Possibly, irretrievably so.
We emerged from the shadows of the forest. Before us was a fenced-in field awash in the magenta hue of the setting suns. We trudged through the open gate, and I grinned as we passed flourishing vegetable patches. Yellow stalks bent beneath the weight of burgeoning pletsoc, whose taste reminded me of zucchini. Nearby, oblong aw’ter sprouted from the ground. In a gated paddock snow-white, six-legged animals grazed. They resembled tail-less horses.
I rushed to the gate to get a better look at them. “What are they?”
“Reunes.” Matt grinned wistfully at the animals. “Gorgeous.”
“Azo’lah’s Mom is what we would call a conservationist,” Chester leaned on the fence beside me. “Part of her work is rehabilitating injured or abandoned animals until they can be released back into the wild. Come on.” Chester gestured to the far corner of the field where a quaint, cranberry wood house sat. As was typical of historic Destyrian homes, it bore colorful, gemmed windows. At the front door, Azo’lah and Fleetwood were embracing two older women.
Azo’lah’s mothers.
Fresh nervousness gripped me. I hated meeting new people. It rarely went well for me. The fact that they were my friend’s parents, whom I desperately wanted to make a good impression on, did not help my anxiety.
Sensing my unease, Chester squeezed my elbow. “Don’t worry, Gretch. Aunties Do’naya and Fionrin are the coolest. I met them at my first Fertility Festival right after Fleetwood brought me up. They’re the least intimidating Destyrian royals of all time.”
I mustered a smile, hoping it wasn’t as shaky as I felt.
As we approached, Azo’lah’s mothers released Azo’lah and Fleetwood. They both had kind faces, and though they were clad for a day working in a forest, they carried themselves with the same quiet nobility as Azo’lah.
“You’re sure your eating, faa’le?” asked the taller of the two women, her emerald eyes narrowed in motherly concern. She gently cupped Azo’lah’s cheek.
“Mother,” Azo’lah complained, removing the hand from her face. She turned beseechingly to her other mother.
“Do’naya, leave her be. Azo’lah knows the importance of caring for oneself,” Fionrin said as she reeled Fleetwood in close again. The family resemblance was undeniable with their pointed chins and matching navy hair in such close proximity. Fionrin was surprisingly even shorter in stature than Fleetwood. “And don’t forget, Fleetwood would never let her skip a meal.”
“True that, double true,” Fleetwood agreed, leaning her head onto her aunt’s shoulder. “Eating is an important activity to our whole crew!”
At the mention of the crew, Azo’lah’s mothers’ eyes landed on Matt, Chester, and me. Their smiles widened. “Chester!” they both cried, reaching for him.
“Hey, Aunties,” he chuckled as he willingly entered a smothering, two-sided hug with Azo’lah’s mothers. They rapidly pressed their foreheads to Chester’s and released him. I was roped in next.
“And you must be Gretchen,” Do’naya stooped to touch my forehead with her own. Her excessive height was only eclipsed by Azo’lah’s. “It is an honor that the seven stars—”
Azo’lah’s hand shot out, grabbing Do’naya’s shoulder. “Mother! Humans do not greet each other in this way. They do not appreciate new beings so close to their faces upon first meeting.”
“Ah, yes,” Do’naya said, retracting from my personal bubble. She tucked the stray silver strands that had escaped from her braid behind her ear. I felt my heart sink a little as she held out her hand to me. “Apologies, Gretchen. I hope I did not offend you. I am Do’naya.”
“Do’naya. It is an honor that the seven stars lit our paths as one,” I replied. She beamed at me as I clasped her much larger palm. I pushed myself up onto my toes as she leaned down. Our foreheads met with a light touch. When I pulled back, Azo’lah was watching her mother, her gaze soft.
Pulling back from greeting Matt, Fionrin turned her navy eyes on me. Azo’lah’s eyes. I had thought the resemblance to Fleetwood had been obvious, but now, as I took in Fionrin’s keen gaze and the elegant lines of her face, it was like looking at Azo’lah thirty years from now. Except several inches shorter. I could only hope the passing years would be as kind to me. But I doubted it.
Fionrin stepped forward and pressed our foreheads together. “Gretchen of Earth. It is an honor that the seven stars lit our paths as one.”
I repeated the Destyrian greeting back to her quietly.
Fionrin tugged me forward, reaching for Azo’lah with her free arm. “Come inside, all of you. We have laid out food. You can eat while we talk.”
She led us into the surprisingly spacious home. The numerous multi-colored windows allowed the final dregs of sunset to cast a prismatic glow throughout the living space. The Destyrian equivalent of a wood-burning stove sat at the center of the room, providing warmth to the quickly chilling evening. There was a large rectangular dining table in one corner and a serviceable kitchen in another. Three closed doors along the back wall led to what I assumed were bedrooms and a washroom. But my eyes were drawn to what appeared to be an artist's studio. It was littered with half-finished pieces of wood, metal, and stone that took up half of the room.
A smile twisted my lips. One of Azo’lah’s mothers was an artist.
“May I?” I asked, intrigued by the sculpture closest to me. It was a tall but thin stone piece with rounded edges and intricate details adorning its center.
Fionrin gestured to the piece. “Of course. Do’naya loves when others interact with her work. She says art is meant to be experienced, not just looked at.” She rolled her eyes as though exasperated by the sentiment, but her voice overflowed with fondness.
Matt stepped up to my side. His fingers skated along the smooth edges of the sculpture while I inspected the central details—ancient Destyrian glyphs, which I recognized from my work in the Temple of Aluthua. “This is amazing,” Matt said.
“Well, thank you, faa’le,” Do’naya said as she ushered the rest of our party into the house.
I turned my creased brow to Chester. He shrugged. “There’s no direct translation, but it’s an endearment. Like the Destyrian version of dear or honey.”
“Mother,” Azo’lah’s voice was tight with frustration. “Are you not going to tell me about Zerin?”
“Yes, come,” Fionrin said as Do’naya crossed to her side. Their hands found each other immediately. Fionrin gestured to the spread of meats, vegetables, and drink pitchers laid out across the massive table. “Everyone, please. Help yourselves.”
Milyna and our other Myax guards filled their plates with militaristic speed and precision. They retreated to the walls, leaving the high-backed seats at the table open for Azo’lah’s mothers and our crew. Azo’lah sat at the foot of the table, Fleetwood on her left and me on her right.
Matt and Chester indiscriminately started filling plates and distributed them to us before sitting down. Though the food looked delicious, the disquiet churning my gut wouldn’t allow me to eat.
Azo’lah propped her elbows on the gem-lined edge of the table, rubbing her temples. “Mother. Zerin.”
Fionrin’s brow creased with exhaustion and worry as she slumped into the seat at the head of the table. “Two star-cycles ago, he went on holiday to Vown to visit Augus, his pen pal from his youth. You remember?”
Azo’lah nodded. “He never shut up about having a friend forty galaxies away. How could I forget?”
“You know Zerin,” Do’naya stood at her wife’s back, her hands settling on Fionrin’s tense shoulders. “As fiercely independent as you, though not quite as responsible–” Azo’lah snorted loudly. “We were not concerned that we had not heard from him while he was visiting Augus. He is an adult now, after all.”
I watched Azo’lah as her mothers spoke, the tension bleeding from her rigid spine with every word. Whatever awful thing she had anticipated hearing about Zerin’s disappearance, it was not this.
Fionrin said, “He was to return to Thal three days ago. He did not. He has not messaged us. And every time we attempt to communicate with his Ran’dyl, we are ignored. That is unusual for him.”
“How do you know he didn’t return to Thal and has been sleeping the last three days?” Azo’lah asked, pushing her untouched plate away. Matt snatched it up and began shoveling the food into his mouth. “That wouldn’t be unusual for Zerin.”
Do’naya shook her head. “When we hadn’t heard from him, we called the transportation company. They checked the ship’s manifest, he never boarded.”
Azo’lah hung her head back with a groan. “He probably just missed his ship.”
“Aunts, are you sure Zerin is not screening your attempts at communication?” Fleetwood inquired.
Fionrin’s frown deepened severely, a mien I had seen on Azo’lah’s face whenever Fleetwood used Earth slang. “Screening? What is screening?”
“Fleetwood’s asking if you’re sure that Zerin isn’t purposely ignoring your calls,” Chester translated.
Azo’lah sighed heavily and held up her Ran’dyl. “I will comm him.”
Fleetwood pushed Azo’lah’s wrist down. “Let me. Zerin screens your comms as well.”
Chester choked on a laugh as Azo’lah rolled her eyes. She asked, “How would you know that?”
“He told me,” Fleetwood replied, already pulling up Zerin’s contact information on her Ran’dyl. We waited for a long moment. He did not answer. Fleetwood frowned. “That is strange. Zerin always answers my communications. I’m his favorite cousin.”
“Have you been able to make contact with Zerin’s penpal? Augus?” I interjected.
“We have tried, “ Fionrin said, “but we have not received a reply.”
“Mothers,” Azo’lah said, rubbing at her temples again, “it sounds like Zerin isn’t missing. Most likely, he got sidetracked on Vown, missed his ship home, and is now avoiding returning to his limited responsibilities back home.”
“Sidetracked by what?” Fionrin asked.
Azo’lah said, “It is Zerin, so the possibilities are innumerable, all of them immature but ultimately harmless.”
Do’naya shook her head. “I have a bad feeling, faa’le.”
“I know you do, which is why you called me and made me think something terrible had happened to Zerin.” Azo’lah stood. She walked to her mothers and placed a hand on each of their shoulders.
“Something terrible has happened to Zerin,” Do’naya argued. “He is missing.”
“Your call had me thinking he had been kidnapped for a misplaced debt or that he had stuck his nose in business that wasn’t his.” Azo’lah pressed her forehead to Do’naya’s. “He’s probably inebriated on one of Vown’s many beaches and misplaced his Ran’dyl.” Fionrin opened her mouth to argue, but Azo’lah pressed on. “Regardless, I will go and find him.”
Fleetwood pushed back from the table, her eyes sparking with new-found purpose and adventure. “We will go find him!”
To my surprise, Azo’lah pulled back from her mothers. “No!” she barked. Then, more calmly, “I will go on my own.”
I jerked in my seat as though slapped. Chester stared up at Azo’lah, his mouth a thin line of disbelief. Matt had stopped eating, his attention now zeroed in on our Myax.
The tension, which had eased with Azo’lah’s reaction to her mothers’ tale, was back, like a bad movie sequel, bigger and more oppressive than before.
On her own? As in without us?
Fleetwood’s face, usually gently creased with congenial smile lines, hardened with frustration. “He is my cousin! I will assist in finding him!”
“Fulyiti,” Azo’lah moved away from her mothers, squaring her shoulders in a sickeningly familiar way. She was bracing for a fight. “I am going to retrieve my brother. I cannot do that and protect you at the same time.”
“I do not need you to protect me. I can protect myself,” Fleetwood asserted as she stood to meet Azo’lah. “I am coming to help you.”
I curved my fingers into fists as a new wave of discomfort flooded me. I had never seen Fleetwood and Azo’lah actually argue before–good-natured bickering and minor disagreements, certainly—but this was something entirely different.
Azo’lah’s nostrils flared. She folded her arms across her chest. “No. Not when I cannot guarantee any of your safety. You will all stay here.”
“You cannot stop us from coming,” Fleetwood pointed out.
“I can’t stop you, but the Auhtula can,” Azo’lah threatened.
Matt took a wide-eyed drink from his glass. Chester’s mouth fell open briefly before he murmured, “Oh, shit.”
Fleetwood squared her shoulders. “Zerin is the Auhtula’s only nephew. She will want him safely returned, which means she will want more people than just you looking for him. She’ll let us go. She’ll let me go. Especially if I am with my Myax.”
Azo’lah shut her eyes tightly as though fighting for control. There was a crackle of electricity through the air followed by the cacophony of all of our Ran’dyls ringing. I winced, then slapped my Ran’dyl to turn it off as everyone situated around the table did the same.
I furtively looked at Azo’ah and sent a message of text through our technopathic link. Azo’lah!
I have it under control, she sent back to me. She met my gaze for a brief moment before exaggeratedly studying her Ran’dyl.
“Hmm, how strange,” Fionrin said, her narrowed eyes tracking between Azo’lah and me. Shit, had she figured out that I knew Azo’lah’s secret? “A lightning storm must be approaching. These types of malfunctions are common during storm season.”
“I thought the lightning storm season didn’t start for another few star-cycles,” Chester said.
Do’naya said, “We get a few strong ones early.”
“Regardless,” Azo’lah grit out, redirecting the conversation back into even more uncomfortable territory, “as I have already told you, Fulyiti, I cannot be your Myax if I am focused on my brother.”
“Yes, you can!” Fleetwood said, a note of steel threaded through her voice.
“No, I can’t!” Azo’lah shouted. “I can’t! And you shouldn’t manipulate the Auhtula to—” She paused as her eyes landed on Milyna and her other Myax sisters. Her lips thinned into a devilish smirk. She changed course faster than Matt in the pilot’s seat of the Killer Qu’een. “Milyna, will you and the others accompany us in our mission to retrieve Zerin?”
Milyna refused to meet anyone’s eye as she replied, a little too evenly to be comfortable, “Of course, Azo’lah Myax. Protecting the royal House of Fuiq is one of our sacred duties. We would be honored to join you.”
Fleetwood’s eyes widened with horror. If more Myax accompanied us, her freedom as we searched for Zerin would be severely limited, if nonexistent. “No,” she said, her voice wavering at Azo’lah’s betrayal. Chester scrambled from his seat and folded himself against her side, his arms wrapping around her waist. “If they come, I’ll —my mother—”
“As you said,” Azo’lah interrupted, “Zerin is the Auhtula’s sole nephew. She will want more of us to look for him and return him safely. Who better than my Myax sisters.”
The cousins glared at each other for a long moment, their anger mounting. Fleetwood cleared her throat and said, “Fine, we will all go.” She turned to the Myax standing against the wall. “You are all most welcome to our crew.”
“Thank you, Fulyiti,” they replied stoically.
Azo’lah’s eyes flitted between the Myax and Fleetwood, clearly unsure why or how Fleetwood had capitulated relatively easily.
“So… we’re all going?” I clarified, my voice low and nervous. I didn’t want to agitate the tenuous truce. “To Vown. Wherever the hell that is?”
Matt threw his arm out far to the right. “Out there. Exceptionally out there. We’ll need to stop in Thal, swap out our bags, grab more clothes, and get the Gold Dust Wo’man. It’s too long of a trip for just the Qu’een.”
“And you will keep us updated?” Fionrin asked, eyeing Azo’lah.
“Of course, Mother,” Azo’lah promised.
“Good,” Do’naya said. She pointed to Azo’lah’s vacated chair. “Now, sit, faa’le. You hardly touched your meal, and you must have dessert before you go.”
I missed my cat, I thought, as the minutes continued to march by, and sleep remained ever elusive. The low vibrating hum of the Gold Dust Wo’man’s engines was comforting, but paled in comparison to Sebastian’s warm, fluffy, purring presence. There was too much to think about and all of it refused to be set aside for rest. Our crew was in conflict and, based on Fleetwood and Azo’lah’s argument earlier, it seemed the conflict had deeper roots than I had realized. I felt like I was missing part of the story...but what?
The tension between Fleetwood and Azo’lah was currently thicker than the latter’s arms and had made the flight distinctly uncomfortable for everyone involved since we left for Vown that morning. So far, everyone had stuck to their own quarters and corners of the ship. I missed our easy camaraderie as much as I missed Sebastian.
I threw off the covers, resigned to my anxiety-induced insomnia. I’d go to the galley, get something to drink, and sketch. Maybe work on translating some new passages from Vas Roya. I threw on a sweatshirt and padded through the gray hallways, nodding awkwardly at the Myax standing sentry outside Fleetwood’s room. The galley, when I arrived, was, surprisingly, occupied.
Azo’lah was sitting at the table dressed in loose-fitting linen pants and a very human-looking pullover sweatshirt bedazzled with the slogan Myax Do It With Weapons. She started when I entered. “Myaxi, why are you awake?”
For a long moment, I considered lying. “Anxiety spiral,” I admitted. I pressed my hand onto a small section of the wall. It slid out with a sound like a sigh, presenting two thin strips of metal humming in a charging field. It all felt a bit much to me, building a custom, hidden charging port in the wall for a hover stool that only one crew member used. But I hadn’t had the heart to tell Chester I could’ve just stood on a crate after he spent all the time secretly building and programming it for me. I pulled the stool out of its port and set it down. It automatically powered up as it connected to my Ran’dyl, producing a platform of the same mysterious amber light that Destyrians used for elevators and transportation systems. I stepped up on it, leaning forward slightly so that the stool moved closer to the cabinets.
The door on the cabinet dematerialized as I reached for a cup. “Can I get you something?” Azo’lah didn’t say anything as I selected a large glass and filled it with cool, filtered water from the dispenser. I turned back to find her gazing intently at me. “Nice shirt,” I said.
Azo’lah plucked at her sweatshirt and smiled ruefully. “It was a gift from the Fulyiti, as I assume, yours is.”
“Yeah,” I said. The back of my hoodie was emblazoned with My Career Is In Ruins in Destyrian.
I returned my hover stool to it’s port and situated myself in the chair across from Azo’lah. I took a long drink. The water from Destyr always tasted faintly like berries and was all the more refreshing for it. “So, why are you up so late?” I pushed the glass toward her, a silent offer.
She smiled ruefully but did not accept it. I had another one of those moments where I felt like I was missing something. “I was trying to contact my brother.”
“Still no answer?” I swirled my fingers in a nonsensical pattern on my glass.
She looked around the kitchen, checking to confirm we were alone. “I was attempting to use unconventional methods.”
I nodded, realizing that Azo’lah had been using her technopathy to try and locate Zerin. “Oh. Still no luck?”
Azo’lah’s eyes lowered to the ancient glyphs etched into the table’s surface. “I haven’t been able to focus long enough to succeed.”
The Azo’lah sitting before me in oversized pajamas, rumpled hair, and a somber expression was so very different from the pulled together, regal badass always armed with a wicked weapon and equally sharp-tipped joke. I realized that, even though she was right in front of me, I missed her. It was a hollowing thought.
“Azo’lah,” I said before I could convince myself not to, “what’s going on with you? Is this because of Zerin? J’olpri? Something else?”
“I am well, Myaxi.”
“You don’t seem like it,” I forced myself to continue against the warning klaxons in my head. “You’re acting really...not like yourself. I thought things were getting better at the wedding. But then the break-in happened, and suddenly you’re withdrawn, making decisions without us, trying to go off on your own, fighting with Fleetwood.”
Azo’lah was silent for an eternal moment before she reached across the table, palm extended. I placed my hand in hers. She squeezed mine, looking into my eyes. “I am...at a crossroads. There are choices laid out before me, choices that need to be made, but I don’t know what the right choice is. I just need time. Time in which I don’t have to worry about the Fulyiti’s safety to make that choice. But first, I must locate Zerin before the time I need can be found.”
I looked at our joined hands, entwined lilac and freckle-spattered cream. My fingers flexed against hers. “Okay. Just don’t push us away in the meantime. Please.”
“I will try not to,” Azo’lah acquiesced.
With my free hand, I grabbed my glass and gulped more water, the kitchen suddenly warm. Maybe I should take off my sweatshirt. Azo’lah took the glass from me when I set it down. Possibly the ship’s environmental controls were malfunctioning. I asked, “Is there anything I can do to help you with your search?”
Azo’lah’s eyes flicked to my forehead. “Yes, actually.”
I blinked, not expecting Azo’lah to answer in the affirmative. “Okay. Anything.”
Azo’lah’s brow arched, a teasing smile splitting her face. “You should be more careful with your words, Myaxi."
“Don’t be a troll. I was serious!” I leaned across the table to playfully smack her shoulder with my free hand, she blocked it easily.
“I know you were. Come here.” She tugged our still joined hands. I allowed her to guide me around the table until I was standing before her, looking down into her upturned face. It was hard not to smile when Azo’lah was already doing so. Especially when her smiles had been brief and infrequent since J’olpri—nonexistent since my room was ransacked at the wedding.
Azo’lah ducked her head, suddenly self-conscious in a way I’d never seen her. Was it because we were still holding hands? I doubted it since it was a typical behavior on Destyr, one that didn’t carry a romantic connotation like it did on Earth.
“When I use my powers as an Iz’waij,” she began, using the ancient Destyrian word for technopath, “it leaves behind a unique signature on the item.”
“Like a maker’s mark used by a craftsman?” I clarified.
She nodded. “Exactly. When I alter a piece of technology for a friend or family member, I purposefully leave an additional, low-grade signal. Should something happen to the user, I can more easily track the object and hopefully locate them.”
I stepped back, shocked. “Azo’lah, are you telling me you have specialized tracking beacons on all members of the crew?”
She shook her head, her gaze flicking to mine. “Your Ran’dyls already have a tracking feature installed, which anyone could use to look for the unit. My unique signal is always broadcasting, but I never actively look for the items. I only do it as a failsafe, a last resort, should someone close to me be in danger or missing.”
“Alright. So, this signal is what you’ve been searching for? What can I do?”
“It’s easier for me to locate it immediately after being in contact with an item I have altered that bears the same signal.”
“Like a bloodhound,” I surmised. Azo’lah face twisted in confusion. “Earth animal that’s good at tracking things by scent,” I explained, tapping my nose. I held up my left arm, offering my Ran’dyl for Azo’lah’s inspection. “It’s all yours.”
“If you do not mind,” Azo’lah said, her long fingers reaching for my face, “your translation implant was more heavily altered. If my brief interactions with it are correct, its functions were heightened by the interference of the Ancients’ technology at the temple. My signature and added signal were likewise heightened. It would be easier for me if I could…”
I bent down into an awkward half squat to offer her my forehead, at the same time, she pulled me closer. I lost my balance and tipped face-forward.
“Shit, sorry!” I scrambled to brace against Azo’lah’s shoulder so that I wouldn’t accidentally head-butt her. She laughed, did some fancy trick to kick my foot out from under me. I found myself suddenly burning red with mortification and sitting across Azo’lah’s lap.
“Perhaps it will be easier if you’re seated.” She patted the arm I had wrapped around her neck, the action as patronizing as her grin.
“You don’t have to be so smug that you’re so graceful, and I’m clumsiness personified,” I groused in the direction of the far wall, unable to look at her.
“You think I’m graceful?” Her breath fanned over my cheek and neck. I shivered. Christ. This had to be a side effect of having my first sexual encounter in months cockblocked by a break-in.
I grabbed her wrist, bringing a hand up to my temple. “Just do the thing already.”
Azo’lah’s long fingers swept aside the flyaway hairs on my forehead, coming to rest on the tiny, jeweled implant embedded there. Azo’lah closed her eyes, her lashes crescent moons against the twilight sky of her cheeks. There was a flashing spark at my temple, and then, I felt nothing. I didn’t know if I should move, but I was too scared to break Azo’lah’s concentration.
“Too strong...wait,” she murmured to herself. “There.”
Azo’lah opened her eyes as her Ran’dyl illuminated with a projection of an unfamiliar star system—not that I knew many by sight—a flashing beacon. Coordinates appeared alongside the beacon. Azo’lah hit the coordinates, an annoyed frown already replacing her serene concentration.
“Where’s Cassian?” I asked as the Ran’dyl zoomed into a space station, its name glowing in cheery, inviting gold across the hologram’s surface.
“Several galaxies in the opposite direction. That little zult’er,” Azo’lah stood, effortlessly lifting me with her and depositing me on my feet. “Come, we must wake Matt and ask him to change course.”
I followed Azo’lah out of the galley and toward the crew quarters corridor, very glad that I was not in Azo’lah’s brother’s shoes at the moment.
Fleetwood slammed her gold glittery boot against the floor of The Gold Dust Wo’man’s galley. “This is horseshit.”
I clapped my hand over my mouth to stop myself from spitting out my half-chewed energy bar. Matt met my gaze over the lip of his vy’tal mug, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
But as I swiveled toward Chester, any light-heartedness I found at the moment evaporated. He stood at Fleetwood’s side, his fingers entwined with hers, and though it appeared as though he were attempting to comfort her, his mouth was downturned in something akin to fury.
I couldn’t think of a single time since I first came to space when I had seen that emotion play across his face.
“I don’t care if you think it’s horseshit,” Azo’lah replied from where she stood on the other side of the table. Outfitted in a sleek all-black one-piece and boots, she looked like an incredibly sexy and dangerous space burglar. “You will stay aboard the ship where it is safe.”
Milyna and the other Myax, who were seated at the table with Matt and me, refused to even look up from where they shoveled their breakfast into their mouths. If it were not for their visible winces, every time Fleetwood’s voice rose, I would’ve thought they didn’t even know a fight was happening around them.
“But it’s Cassian!” Fleetwood near-shouted as she gestured in the general direction of Cassian’s dock, which we had pulled into an hour previous. “You can’t hold me sausage—”
“Hostage,” Chester corrected quietly.
“You are not a hostage. You are our Fulyiti,” Azo’lah said calmly. Her neutral tone of voice made the argument all the worse, as though she were not even a true participant. “Your safety is—”
“I will be safe,” Fleetwood cried. “I will be with you!”
Azo’lah pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger, releasing a deep sigh.
“Fulyiti,” Milyna intervened. She stood from the table and continued. “I apologize, but as the lead Myax on this mission, I have analyzed the variables of Cassian and deemed the situation too dangerous to ensure your safety. I deeply regret upsetting you, but even with four Myax—”
“Five Myax,” I interrupted, my voice harder than intended.
“Even with four Myax, plus Azo’lah,” Milyna amended, “Cassian is too much of a risk. The place is volatile on the best of days.”
“It’s a boring day on Cassian if there isn’t at least one death,” Matt added.
My grip on my energy bar fumbled. “I’m sorry, what?”
Matt shrugged as though potential death were nothing more irritating than a mosquito buzzing overhead. “Cassian is like if the party scenes of Las Vegas, Ibiza, and Berlin had a space baby.”
“That sounds insane,” I said.
“Now you see why I want to go!” Fleetwood declared.
Azo’lah shook her head. “Your Myax said no, Fulyiti.”
“I am sorry, Fulyiti,” Milyna said, “but my decision is final.”
Fleetwood’s jaw tightened. “I understand the reason for your decision, Milyna Myax, and appreciate your concern for my safety.” Fleetwood turned to Azo’lah, her eyes blazing. “Horseshit,” she seethed before storming from the galley.
Chester groaned into the tense silence Fleetwood left in her wake. “Alright,” he said, pushing up his beanie to scratch at his forehead. “I’ll stay back with FleetMerc, try and calm her down. Gretch, keep me updated on intel and progress, yeah?”
“Of course,” I replied.
“Thanks.” He tugged down his beanie and walked toward the hall. He stopped and turned to look Azo’lah directly in the eye. “You’re going to need to fix this,” he said sternly and disappeared after Fleetwood.
Azo’lah inhaled sharply, contrition etched into every line of her momentarily crestfallen face.
Milyna clapped her hand on Azo’lah’s shoulder. “Worry not, sister. Though stubborn, the Fulyiti understands you act only from love. We will protect her while you are off the ship.” Milyna and the other three Myax trooped out to their duty stations.
Matt raised his eyebrows as he nudged his chin toward the half-empty bowls left behind by the Myax. A fastidious group by nature, the Myax never left their used dishes lying about. As inconspicuously as possible, I nodded toward Azo’lah. Her sisters-in-arms were clearly trying to give Azo’lah some space.
Matt shrugged, and I wondered for a moment when we had become so familiar with one another that we could communicate silently and yet with complete understanding.
He stood, reaching for the abandoned bowls to clear the table. “So, just the three of us, eh?”
Azo’lah shook her head, clearly bringing herself out of a deep reverie. “No. I will go alone.”
Matt snorted indignantly in the back of his throat. “Nice try, but you can’t stop us from coming with you.”
“I could,” she threatened, “but I won’t.”
“Good,” I ground out angrily, “because Matt and I are fully functioning adults who can make our own decisions about where we go.”
Azo’lah rubbed at her temples as though warding off an impending migraine. “Fine. Yes. Come. Are you both prepared?”
I downed the rest of my drink and added my breakfast dishes to Matt’s pile. “I think so.” I pat down my pants pockets as I stood. “We don’t need anything special for this, do we? We’re just going to pop in, grab Zerin, and head home. Do we need weapons?” I eyed Azo’lah’s boot where her zali’thir was holstered and Matt’s bulky jacket where I knew at least two Destyrian issued guns hid. “Strike that: do we need any more weapons?”
“Want to bring your gun?” Matt asked.
“Hell no,” I replied. “I still don’t know how the damn thing works.”
Matt laughed uproariously. “Don’t worry about it. We should be fine.”
“Let’s go,” Azo’lah said, consulting the hologram hovering over her Ran’dyl. It was a 3D projection of Cassian that hovered over her wrist. “The faster we get to Zerin, the faster we can head back home.”
Cassian was not what I had been expecting after Matt’s description of the dangerous party palace. Instead, I was pleasantly surprised by its clean, sleek, and quiet atmosphere. Monochromatic crimson decor greeted us from our first step off The Gold Dust Wo’man. Red ceilings, floors, walls, and lighting fixtures covered every corridor, room, and even the glass-encased corkscrew escalators. We passed obviously intoxicated aliens of all shapes and sizes but encountered no outright debauchery or revelry. In fact, by the time we reached the tenth floor, I was disappointed by the tasteful gold lighting fixtures and utter lack of indecency I had witnessed thus far.
For an alleged space station den of sin, Cassian was seriously lacking.
“Tenth floor?” Matt whistled high and long as we stepped off the escalator onto the top floor of Cassian’s spherical build. “I didn’t realize your brother had such posh taste, Azo’lah.”
Azo’lah stopped in front of a set of etched double doors. A burgundy sign in a language I did not recognize was affixed above the entrance. The sign was framed by two crescents that looked suspiciously like pincers. “He doesn’t,” Azo’lah replied, glaring at the sign.
She pushed the door open into a magnificent quadruple-leveled space. My eyes were drawn upward. Like a wedding cake, each white-washed tier was smaller than the last and culminated in a spectacular chandelier twice the size of my room back aboard The Gold Dust Wo’man. The chandelier caught the light, casting rainbow prisms that flitted from one sumptuously set table to the next. Finely dressed aliens were seated around the tables, many of them staring at us. I felt embarrassingly underdressed.
I tugged at the hem of my button-down, trying to straighten it. “Wow. Uh...”
“Absolutely mad,” Matt agreed as Azo’lah strode toward the gold hostess stand that blocked our path into the restaurant. The hostess—a tall, orange alien with seven arms and three legs—blinked her eye at us. Her rigid eyelashes clapped together and apart like a clamshell. “How can I help you this evening?” she asked. Her smile was polite, but her tinny voice was condescending.
“I got this,” Matter muttered, approaching her. He leaned against the podium and winked at her. “Table for three, love.”
Another slow blink from her solitary eye. “The name for your reservation, sir?”
“I don’t think a reservation is necessary, do you?”
Azo’lah’s face scrunched in disbelief as our eyes met. I pressed my lips together tight to keep my chuckle at bay.
“A reservation is most certainly necessary, sir,” the hostess replied, bringing all of her hands to the podium and tapping her dozens of fingers rhythmically against it.
Matt slumped. He turned to Azo’lah. “Worth a shot.”
Azo’lah stooped, reaching for her boot where her zali’thir was stowed.
“Wait!” I grabbed her wrist. “Are we sure Zerin’s here?”
Azo’lah held up her Ran’dyl, displaying the hologram from before. She pointed to a swirl bisected by a J. “That’s the output from the tracker I put in Zerin’s Ran’dyl when we were kids,” she said. “It’s coming from the third floor of this restaurant.”
I released her. “Fine. Just don’t hurt her.”
Azo’lah unsheathed her weapon and spun it smoothly in her palm. “Who said anything about hurting her?” She stepped up to the podium. “Most respected hostess,” Azo’lah greeted the judgy orange alien. She craned her neck so her lone eye could meet Azo’lah’s gaze. “I am Azo’lah Myax, in service of Fulyiti Kezira of House Fuiq of Destyr. My deepest apologies for bothering you with such a trivial matter, but my younger brother went on a holiday weeks ago and has not returned our comms nor come home. My mothers are worried. I have great reason to believe he is inside your restaurant. I only wish to enter with my companions in order to retrieve him.” Azo’lah laid her zali’thir upon the podium. “I present to you my zali’thir in solemn promise to not cause trouble while within your establishment. I offer you this most sacred weapon of my sworn duty for safe-keeping until we have vacated the premises without incident.”
“Shit,” Matt murmured.
“Azo’lah,” I gasped, “that’s—”
The hostess giggled. “Brothers are the same no matter what the species.” She stowed the zali’thir in a hidden compartment on her podium. “You go in, grab him, and then you leave. You disturb any of my customers that you shouldn’t, and I keep the pretty knife.”
Azo’lah bowed her head. “You are most generous.” She stepped past the podium beckoning Matt and me to follow.
“Azo’lah,” I hissed upon catching up with her. “Really? Your zali’thir?”
Azo’lah waved a hand as though she could physically brush away my very valid concerns. “It will be fine. We will get Zerin and be back at that podium reclaiming my weapon in a few moments.”
The soles of our boots squealed against the polished floors. The aliens seated around the tables glared at us and our noisy shoes before returning their judgment to the abundance of food that filled their serving dishes.
“What the hell is that?” I asked as we bypassed a table of a dozen avian aliens who were pecking at what looked like neon purple lobsters with spiked shells.
“Urpa,” Matt replied, “a delicacy from the Gamma Quadrant. Never had it. I’ve heard it tastes like pork but has the consistency of jello once you break through the outer layer.”
We reached a spiral staircase. Azo’lah took the steps three at a time. “Keep up.”
Matt rolled his eyes at Azo’lah’s sharp tone.
“She’s just worried about her brother,” I whispered as we scurried to obey.
“No, it’s more than that.” Matt shook his head as we ascended to the third level. “She’s been like this since before we found out about Zerin.”
I winced at how observant he was. “Maybe,” I conceded.
“What do you know that I don’t?” he asked.
“A lot about archaeology,” I panted as we finally reached our destination floor. Azo’lah was already fifteen yards ahead of us, her silver-white braid lashing behind her like a whip as she surveyed the diners in search of Zerin.
Matt’s deep brown eyes narrowed as he studied me. I opened my mouth to head off a further inquisition, but instead, he said, “Come on, let’s catch up with our beloved Azo-zo before she rips her brother’s head off for scaring their moms.”
I inhaled sharply with relief. With any luck, Matt would forget about this exchange and never mention Azo’lah’s strange behavior ever again. Then again, when had I ever been lucky?
“You see him?” I stopped at Azo’lah’s side, searching the diners for a Destyrian man. I saw none.
“No,” Azo’lah lifted her Ran’dyl display to double-check the coordinates. “However, the tracker in his Ran’dyl says he’s at that table.” She pointed to a group of gaudily dressed aliens who were louder than the rest of the restaurant combined.
Matt said, “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”“The problem? Explain,” Azo’lah demanded.
“You tracked Zerin’s Ran’dyl,” Matt explained slowly. “Not Zerin himself.”
Realization hit me the same time it did Azo’lah. Her expression hardened, and she beelined for the table.
“Shit,” I whispered. I knew that look; it usually preceded someone getting punched in the face. Matt and I circumnavigated the tables and servers, skidding to a halt as Azo’lah was saying, “—looking for my brother, Zerin. Any assistance you can render would be most appreciated.”
All those seated at the table turned their beady eyes to the alien Azo’lah was speaking with. Like everyone at the table, he was waif-thin with sharp-edged limbs, his sky-blue skin punctuated with a smattering of green dots, like freckles. His small, black eyes sat above three noses and a mouth filled with piranha-like teeth.
The alien looked at his brethren then began laughing uproariously. The entire table joined him in his exaggerated mirth.
“Assist you,” the alien guffawed between gasps for air. He dabbed at his eyes with a gold-lined cloth napkin. “Thank you for that. I needed the laugh.”
“You are so bad, Kelmit,” one of the table members told him.
Kelmit winked at her. “You know it.”
“I did not realize I said anything amusing,” Azo’lah’s tone was low and even. Too much so. I shot Matt a warning look.
“Of course not, Myax,” Kelmit raised his glass in a mocking toast. “Such a boring order, the Myax of Destyr,” he informed his tablemates. “Always intimidating everyone with their stature and their weapons and,” his thin lips drooped into a melodramatic frown, “their serious dispositions.” I imagined I could hear Azo’lah grinding her teeth together. Kelmit raised an arm, beckoning a server with skeletal fingers. “Another round of urpa for the table.” His sleeve slipped to reveal a staggeringly familiar black band around his wrist.
I wasn’t the only one who noticed.
“Bingo,” Matt said.
Azo’lah’s eyes took on a more dangerous gleam. “Where did you get that Ran’dyl?”
Instead of answering her, Kelmit drank deeply from his glass and asked the man beside him, “You own a home on Paltro, yes? I’ve been looking into buying a holiday property there as well. I hear the days there are deliciously frigid—”
“Excuse me,” Azo’lah repeated, voice raised, “but I asked where—”
Kelmit’s guests glared at Azo’lah, but Kelmit himself merely talked over her, “I’ve been told maintaining a household staff costs next to—”
Azo’lah took a threatening step forward. I did not like Kelmit’s chances of living long enough to purchase his vacation home if Azo’lah reached his end of the table.
Matt and I grabbed her elbows, dragging her back.
“Azo’lah,” I said, both of my hands squeezing her forearm, “not here.”
“Let me get this one,” Matt suggested.
“This is my—” Azo’lah began to argue.
“I’ve dealt with this type of knobhead before,” Matt interrupted smoothly. “New money type. All bluster and flash trying to impress his posh old money friends by buying them everything on Cassian. I know just how to communicate with this type.”
Azo’lah met Matt’s gaze, her navy eyes boring into his. After a tense moment, she nodded. Matt grinned, “Back in a jiff.”
He rounded the table, stooping to whisper in Kelmit’s ear. Kelmit sneered. He turned, opening his mouth to tell Matt off, but before Kelmit could get a word out, he was flying forward, his forehead slamming against the tabletop. Plates and silverware rattled, emptied pieces of urpa shell jumped, and sauce splattered everywhere. The aliens seated around the table yelped in surprise. The hand Matt was using to grip the back of Kelmit’s neck yanked him upright.
The rest of the diners, so used to this kind of behavior aboard Cassian, paid us no mind.
Kelmit’s sky-blue skin, now covered in green sauce, paled to the color of ice as Matt, once again, whispered in his ear.
“What do you think he’s saying to him?” I whispered to Azo’lah.
“That he’s lucky that I’m not the one over there,” Azo’lah replied, her smile a dangerous flash of teeth.
“I bought it at a place called Maximo’s. On—on the eighth floor,” Kelmit stammered, all trace of his previous bravado gone.
“See? That wasn’t so hard,” Matt released Kelmit’s neck and grabbed his wrist, removing Zerin’s Ran’dyl. “And I’ll be taking this.” He held it up and waved it at Azo’lah and me. “Ladies, we’re done here.”
Azo’lah growled at Kelmit one last time before leading us back to the stairs. Matt silently passed over Zerin’s Ran’dyl. After a long moment, she said, “Thank you. For what you did back there. I don’t know if I could’ve maintained control when dealing with that--”
“Of course. What’s crew for anyway?” he replied quickly.
When we reached the bottom of the steps, I asked, “So Maximo’s on the eighth floor?”
Matt nodded. “To find out how they got in possession of Zerin’s Ran’dyl in the first place.”
The hostess held Azo’lah’s zali’thir high as we passed the podium. Azo’lah grabbed it and said, “Thank you.”
“No, thank you,” said the hostess, her mouth curling into a feral smile. “Next time, feel free to slam his face harder.”
Maximo’s Pawn Shop was a hole in the wall. Literally. The shop was only accessible through a man-hole-sized opening in a latticed, neon green security field that was almost as blinding as the giant holographic sign waving in front of it. The sign depicted a reedy, mustachioed alien with twin mouths sporting sleazy grins that put Earth car salespeople to shame. Once we jimmed through the fence, we came face to face with a rusty metal door. Azo’lah pressed the buzzer, and the door clanked upwards, like the world’s loudest, most secure garage. Aged stickers that my implant translated as “DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT” flashed past us in fifteen different languages.
I blinked against the glare. A large, semicircular counter took up the interior of the shop. It was made of thick but startlingly clear glass that showcased a variety of everyday objects and a whole bunch of oddities I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the use of, all lit from within by neon lights that continually changed colors like a ravers’ fever dream.
I looked up, expecting to find the smarmy, two-mouthed eponymous shop owner from the hologram. Instead, a rather bored-looking alien resembled a four and half-foot tall porcupine whose face had been forcibly flattened. He stared up at us with dark eyes that barely cleared the counter as we approached. “Welcome to Maximo’s. What are you in the market for today?” he drawled. His apathetic tone gave me the impression that he was teenaged, but I wasn’t about to ask him to confirm it.
Azo’lah placed the Ran’dyl we’d commandeered from Kelmit onto the counter. “It is my understanding that this piece was purchased from this shop.”
“If you’re trying to recover information, we scrub ‘em clean before they get put out for sale.” The porcu-person flicked at the device with a claw. “So I can’t help you there.”
“We’re looking for the Destyrian who sold it to you,” I explained.
Matt pulled up a detailed three-dimensional hologram of Zerin wearing a dark metal circlet on his brow. Zerin’s most recent royal portrait.
Excitement replaced all traces of boredom on the alien’s flat furry features, his quills bristling. “You after him, too?”
“What do you mean?” Azo’lah frowned. “Who else was after him?”
The alien huffed dramatically. “Who’s asking?”
Azo’lah leaned in close. “His Myax sister.”
“Sex me upside down,” the alien breathed, looking at Azo’lah. I assumed this was a swear in his native language that was being translated, quite literally, by my implant. Considering the way his eyes scanned Azo’lah, it may not have been. I couldn’t blame him. If Azo’lah came into the store where I worked as a teen, I probably would’ve said something equally stupid.
Matt rapped his knuckles on the counter, drawing the alien’s attention to the conversation. “Well?”
“Yeah, he came here on my last shift, caused a big kerfluffle.” The alien absentmindedly stroked a quill, staring intently at Azo’lah’s reactions. “Can you really kill someone in two hundred and nineteen different ways?”
I resisted the urge to plant my face against the countertop. “Two hundred and twenty-five,” I sighed, wondering if it was true. “But then again, I’ve never seen her kill someone of your species.”
The alien blinked, looking torn between awed, terrified, and turned on, which, honestly was fair. “He wanted to sell the Ran’dyl to pay off a debt. He looked kinda cagey. Like the people he owed might be following him, which isn’t unusual here. I thought the piece looked relatively new and in order, so why not? Until who he owed came nito the shop.” All the alien’s quills trembled as he paused dramatically. “It was...the Covlax,” he said into the expectant silence.
Matt, Azo’lah, and I looked at each other. “And then what happened?” Matt asked. It sounded like he maybe didn’t want to know the answer.
“He tried to pay off the debt with the money I gave him, but the lead guard said it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t just about the money. Someone in his family had insulted the honor of the Covlax Vic. Like, who would be that stupid?”
We could, apparently. And it might have just cost Azo’lah her brother.
“Do you know where they took him? Are they still on station?” Azo’lah asked stiffly.
The porcupine alien blinked at her. “I wasn’t going to ask where they were taking him. I’m not dumb enough to interfere with the Covlax.” Okay, really, this kid could stop rubbing it in. “Though I’m guessing he’s en route to their planet by now for interrogation and shit.”
I cringed. And shit, indeed.