Jaxar

Vanessa:

Van rushed to the front door, shrugging on her hoodie. Whoever was knocking on the door at—she glanced at the clock—nine in the morning had better have a damn good excuse. She had thirty minutes to get to class and couldn’t afford to be late again.

A man smiled brightly when she answered. “Miss Vanessa Acosta?”

“Van Acosta, actually,” she replied.

The man’s smile faltered. “I’m Chaz Gable with the Federal Bureau of Intergalactic Affairs.” He flashed a badge.

“You don’t look old enough to be a Fed,” she said bluntly. Mr. Too-damn-peppy-in-the-morning didn’t look old enough to have his driver’s license, honestly.

“I’m more of a contractor.”

“Uh-huh. Is there a reason you’re knocking on my door at this unholy hour?” She had her suspicions as to why a Fed would be darkening her door. Hopefully, she was wrong.

“It’s after nine.” He scanned her from head to toe, taking in her worn-out pink hoodie and ratty sneakers. Van pulled up the hood to cover her unbrushed, dark auburn hair, still damp from the shower. She knew she looked the part of the classic, sleep-deprived grad student, fueled entirely by sugar and caffeine.

“Can this wait? I need to get to class.” After guzzling a gallon of coffee, because clichés were clichés for a reason. Her stomach rumbled. “And grab some breakfast.”

“Ah, right. Women in your situation don’t normally—”

She gave him a flat stare, tired of strangers who thought they knew her and her situation. “Do go on. I’m dying to know.”

He visibly gulped. “I sent you information about volunteering for the Mahdfel Brides Program. Did you receive it?” He rummaged through the messenger bag and produced a flyer. He held it out to Van, but she made no move to take it.

“Can we speak inside?”

There was a lot to unpack in that statement and Van’s response depended entirely on how cranky she felt.

“What do you mean women in my situation?”

Super cranky. That was how Van felt.

“Women who have been matched are highly likely to be matched again,” Chaz said, like that was a good thing. “We wanted you to be aware of all the benefits of volunteering for a match again. The financial compensation is not insignificant.”

“Not interested.” Van knew she was likely to be matched again, if she so chose, and she chose not to go through that again.

His thin lips tightened disapprovingly. “Many consider it your duty to volunteer again, to help create a new generation of Mahdfel to protect Earth.”

“But it’s still voluntary.”

“As of today, yes.” He glanced over his shoulder in a completely obvious move. “That could change. Of course, volunteering willingly has more benefits than being mandated to volunteer.”

“That’s not what voluntary means.” At all.

His expression twisted into what she thought was supposed to be sympathy but looked more like he’d just stubbed his toe. “Look, it sucks. I know that. You know that. But, if you volunteer, you save another girl from going, one who still has her entire life ahead of her. Your neighbors are talking, after all, about how selfish you’re being by staying.”

Oh no, gossip.

She rolled her eyes. Her neighbors were college students, like her. Well, not as old as her, but students, nonetheless. Not a single one of them gave her a second thought unless they needed her to buy booze for them.

“You’re right. It sucks,” Van said. Chaz relaxed and a smarmy smile stretched across his face. “It sucks the way you think that you can intimidate me by implying that the law may change and force me to volunteer or shame me with gossiping neighbors.”

His smile vanished and that made Van grin. “You accepted a large sum of money when you were initially matched.”

The bride price. Compensation, the government called it. Usually, the money went to the family, as if credits in the bank could compensate for snatching a daughter away and sending her across the universe to parts unknown.

To an unknown alien.

The money probably did help lots of families pay bills, pay for educations, get medical care, or just get decent housing. The Invasion may have been sixteen-ish years ago, but most areas were still rebuilding and recovering, not to mention all the people who lived with their injuries. Millions of lives ended, but millions more had been forever changed.

Not that Van’s father used the money for a noble purpose. He gambled away the majority and spent the rest on booze.

“Right now, the policy is that money does not have to be reclaimed. But, some members of the bureau feel that money should be repaid, as you did not fulfill the terms of the contract you signed,” he said, pausing for effect. “Policy can change.”

For a moment, her chest tightened, and her heart raced, but the flicker of fear was quickly replaced with the burning irritation of annoyance.

Shame had not worked, so now he outright threatened her. The little twerp. She took a deep breath and said in her most calm, most level voice, “I suppose that those pesky rules and regulations don’t apply to you, Chaz, being a contractor, and you’re hoping I don’t know my rights.”

He let his fake smile fall away completely, giving her a look of haughty disdain. “Look, I was given a list of names who are eligible to be tested. No one cares how I get you in the door.”

“I have a medical exemption,” Van said flatly.

“Oh. I have irreconcilable differences listed.” He looked down at the tablet like that was some sort of authority.

Van clenched her teeth. “Yeah. Havik and I were irreconcilable over the fact that if I have another baby, I could die, and I don’t want to die.”

“But you are fertile? You can get pregnant?” he asked, like he didn’t just hear her say that she’d die if she tried to have another baby.

All her patience evaporated. “Let me see that.” Van snatched the tablet. In one swift move, she bashed it against the door frame, cracking the tablet down the middle. “Oops.”

“That’s government property!”

“No, it’s not, and my uterus isn't either, so how about you fuck off?” She slammed the door shut and threw the deadbolt with more force than necessary.

Fuck.

With her back pressed against the door, Van slid to the floor. She pressed a hand over her chest, her heart thudding loud enough to be audible. Was it beating too fast? Too frantic? No breakfast and no meds. She couldn’t remember the last time she checked her blood pressure or her heart rate. She’d been fine with no symptoms for so long.

Van closed her eyes and focused on breathing. Just breathing.

Was Chaz the petty, spiteful type? After the shock wore off from her breaking his tablet, he’d looked angry. Furious, even. Yeah, he was probably the kind of guy who got off on abusing power.

And he had significant power over her.

Van’s hands shook. Holding her breath, she let it out slowly and counted backwards. She wasn’t being paranoid, not when the planet’s government sold out half the population. One jerk with a chip on his shoulder could cause her serious problems.

Her brief marriage to Havik took little more than a year from her life but it continued to overshadow every day after. She had been twenty-two when she was matched, yanked out of her botany program at university just a few credits shy of graduating, and sent across the universe to make a baby with an alien.

It hadn’t been all bad. Havik had treated her well enough. They had little in common, but the sex was amazing. Then she got pregnant—because duh, sex was easier than talking to each other. It had been a difficult pregnancy from the beginning. Nauseous constantly, she lost too much weight. Her blood pressure was dangerously high. In the end, her body couldn’t keep her and the baby alive. The medics forbade another pregnancy. She was not strong enough.

So Havik sent her back to Earth, like a wrong-sized sweater, like she was defective. Van lost her baby, her husband, and her health all in one go.

And now some government contractor was sniffing around, trying to convince her to do it again.

It was voluntary. That’s what the FBIA agent told her when she returned to Earth.

Voluntary.

Repeating the word did not ease her panic. She should call someone, and a little voice in her head suggested that she call her father.

Van would have laughed if she weren’t hyperventilating. She’d spoken to her father once—once—since returning to Earth and he said, “So you’re back. I hope you’re not looking for a handout.”

No questions about what she was doing divorced from aliens that mated for life, not one question about her health or even where she planned on staying until she got back on her feet. Nope. Ricky Acosta just wanted her to know that he didn’t do charity, not even for his own flesh and blood.

Not that she expected anything different from him. Van had been on her own for a long time.

Class wasn’t happening today. Instead, she searched her desk for a business card. She remembered it clearly because who gave out paper business cards nowadays?

Agent P. Novak.

Her hand trembled as she contemplated contacting the agent and… She drew a blank. Do what, exactly? Report that a contractor lied and hurt her feelings? Tried to intimidate her into volunteering again? He might lose his job, but there were myriad other contractors like him in the industry.

How much longer before the military police knocked on her door, convinced she skipped her mandatory testing and dragged her in, all because of a computer glitch?

Her information would always be on some list and one day, either intentionally or accidentally, her status would change from “voluntary” to “mandatory.”

Van could only see one way forward. She couldn’t stay on Earth.

Jaxar:

Stanelle plopped down on the ground next to Jaxar, panting from the climb up the hill. Carrying two bottles of cold beer, he passed one over.

They sat in companionable silence, sipping beer while Jaxar hid his grimace. His metabolism burned the alcohol too quickly to achieve a buzz and he did not enjoy the sour malted flavor, but he drank to appease Stanelle. A warm summer breeze carried floral scents from the garden below.

“You just had to show off and climb the hill, didn’t ya?” Stanelle leaned back against the tree and stretched out his legs, rubbing his knee. It was a subtle reminder that while they were the same age, Jaxar was in the prime of his life and his cousin was well into his middle years.

“Your knees?”

“My knees, my hips, my entire being.” He sighed, shaking his head. “You know when you’re young and dumb and hurt yourself, they say you’ll feel it when you get older. They weren’t fucking kidding.”

Jaxar grunted a response but had nothing to add. Only a few years separated him from his Sangrin cousin, but they had reached the point in their lifespans when Stanelle would age rapidly and Jaxar would remain the same.

Happy noises from the engagement party drifted up. His niece, still a child in his mind, was with child and would be a mated female soon.

His entire family aged faster than him, leaving him behind as they carried on with their lives. At times, the longevity of the Mahdfel felt more like a curse than a gift.

“I cannot believe Dania is old enough to be mated,” Jaxar said.

“And has a young one on the way.” Stanelle gave his stomach an exaggerated pat.

They fell back into silence, listening to the music and laughter that filled the evening air.

His family had always slipped away from him. He had fuzzy memories of his Mahdfel father and Sangrin mother, more good than bad and, thankfully, very little of the events that took his parents’ lives. He knew the facts, having read the reports of how the Judgment’s hull had been compromised. The Suhlik boarded the ship, invaded the clan’s stronghold, and violated homes.

His mother stuffed him into the cramped space behind a wall panel. She had a blaster in hand and faced the door to their quarters. This he remembered with clarity. If the Suhlik came, she would take as many with her as possible. Pride at the memory of his mother’s courage filled him, made bittersweet because a targeted blast ripped through the shields and took a chunk out of the hull. In their family’s cabin, the tear in the wall had been barely bigger than his hand but it was enough to vent his mother into space.

The decompression pulled at him, knocking him into the paneling, but the wall held, rattling and straining. His mind grew fuzzy from the lack of oxygen and the extreme cold. His heart rate slowed, nearing death, but he survived long enough for the shielding to kick in and seal the breach. At some point, he had been retrieved, but both his parents were gone.

The universe could be cold and fickle. He survived only through luck.

The thought chilled him.

“Dania is still dancing?” he asked, breaking the quiet to herd his thoughts in a more pleasant direction.

“Youth. I can’t keep up with her,” Stanelle answered with a chuckle.

After his parents’ death, his mother’s sister took him in. Growing up a Mahdfel youth in a Sangrin household had its challenges. Jaxar was always bigger than the other children. He never fit in and the size difference was only one manifestation of those differences. He had more energy and limitless curiosity but no focus. Disassembling the engine to the family’s vehicle to see how it worked or climbing the tallest structure and jumping, just to see what would happen when he fell, were equally likely to happen. He was prone to fits of anger. His body needed to move, constantly.

He knew he tried the patience of his aunt and uncle, but they never threatened to send him away to his father’s clan. As odd and mismatched as he was to his family, he belonged to them.

Only a few years younger than Jaxar, Stanelle had been his constant companion. For every terrible idea Jaxar had, Stanelle was right by his side, usually with a bruise or a broken bone.

Jaxar frowned. His Mahdfel genes allowed him to heal quickly. Stanelle was Sangrin, just an ordinary male, and healed at a depressingly slow rate. He didn’t understand that difference when they were youths but now, he felt ashamed at how often he led his cousin into calamity.

Noticing Stanelle wince slightly and readjust his leg, he asked, “Is it bad?”

“Nah. I was on my feet too long, is all. What about you?” He jabbed Jaxar in the side with his elbow. “Tell me your bones are creaky in the morning, too.”

He couldn’t, but he could offer his cousin a different complaint. “I find that I require a…” Jaxar paused, searching for the correct word, “a ritual in order to fall asleep.” He used to be able to close his eyes anywhere—sitting upright, leaning against a wall, on a cold floor—grab a few minutes of sleep, and wake up refreshed. Now, if he did not follow a precise set of steps, his mind refused to slow down enough to sleep. He would lie in bed feeling incomplete as his mind ran on a loop. “It is frustrating.”

Stanelle nodded, taking a swig of his beer. Perspiration covered the bottle. “Dania wanted to know why her favorite uncle is hiding at her party.”

“I’m enjoying the view.” Jaxar finished his beer. The oppressive heat of the summer faded to a comfortable warmth as the sun disappeared over the horizon. Night-blooming flowers perfumed the air, creating a heady mix.

“You’re distancing yourself and being a moody bastard because you feel like you’re not part of the family anymore,” Stanelle said with far too much accuracy.

“You can piss off right out of an airlock,” he muttered.

Stanelle laughed softly. “I always thought Dania would be matched to one of your kind.”

He did too. Compatibility often ran in families. “I’m glad she was not.”

Stanelle plucked the empty bottle from Jaxar’s hand. “How many of these did you drink?”

“Just the one. My melancholy has nothing to do with alcohol consumption.” His family was down there, dancing and celebrating, and slipping away from him yet again.

“Melancholy. Digging out the fancy words.” Stanelle clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Come on.” He stiffly rose to his feet. “My daughter is engaged, and the celebration is not the same without her favorite uncle.”

Vanessa:

One Year Later…

A drop of water landing on her forehead woke Van.

She rolled to the side, into a damp patch on her mattress.

Fantastic. Another day in paradise.

Well, another day on the moon of Vel Mori, where it was always windy, the rain plentiful, and the atmosphere slightly corrosive.

Her alarm sounded and the shutters on the windows opened, flooding the room with orange-tinted sunlight. Rust ringed the window frame. Van pressed her fingers to the discolored spots, practically feeling a cold breeze from the outside. No building stayed airtight on the moon. The corrosive atmosphere accelerated the wear and tear on roofs, windows, and seals, shortening the average lifespan of a building to just under a decade.

The atmosphere itself wasn’t instant death, but long-term exposure had a nasty habit of breaking down lung tissue. Keeping the facilities airtight on the colony was too expensive. The Vel Mori Holdings found it more frugal to construct giant air purifiers to filter out the toxic elements of the atmosphere rather than deal with the cost of keeping their facilities sealed.

Sure, the company was cheap, and the moon lacked breathtaking vistas, but it wasn’t the worst place in the universe. She could still be on Earth.

Originally established as a mining colony, the environment proved too harsh to be profitable. Not even the high market value of hellstone could keep the mining operations from folding. Fortunately, several unique properties of the native flora sparked corporate interest and reusing existing structures—with almost no money put back into maintenance—turned the Vel Mori moon from a money pit to cost-effective. While they weren’t doing anything universe-changing like researching new biofuels, Van reasoned that the universe needed quality moisturizer too.

Eh. It was a job. Not like Van got to do the cool, interesting stuff in research. She never finished her Ph.D. in botany and had only an undergraduate degree, which qualified her to scrub algae tanks.

Living the dream.

Van rolled out of bed and hustled across the cold floor to the shower. With hot water pounding her back, she mentally went over her daily schedule.

Check algae tanks. Replace parts as needed. Empty filtration units. Replace filters. Go home. Eat. Sleep.

Do it again until her contract expired in another two years.

Super exciting stuff. Still better than being on Earth.

Van wanted to claim that while Vel Mori Holdings had several flaws, at least they paid decently, but that wasn’t true. They paid the average rate for the work she did. However, factoring in the harsh environment and the potential for everything to go tits up in an instant, it paid diddly squat. She could get a higher wage working on a hunk of rock in the ass-end of nowhere, live in a bungalow that was not falling apart, and actually breathe the air, but the company had one thing going for it. Just one little thing. The rep that signed her took a bribe and conveniently left off four little letters from her name. Vanessa Acosta became Van Acosta at the press of the button and she no longer had to worry about that damn Mahdfel draft.

Worth it.

She had been matched once and did her duty. She would never be matched against her will to an alien again, so the authorities claimed. She had a medical exemption. Van didn’t believe a word of it. They also said the Mahdfel cherished their mates. They mated for life. Once they claimed you, they would never let you go.

Bullshit.

Add to that the weaselly contractor who tried to intimidate Van into volunteering again? She wasn’t going to hang around Earth and hope that everyone played by the rules. Nope. She happily paid the bribe to have the wrong name and gender entered on her work visa. Off-planet, the computer systems had Van Acosta listed as a man and as long as she was listed as man, she never had to worry about being forced to marry an alien.

Totally. Worth. It.

She’d live with the bad air, shit hours, and the fact that the entire moon was covered in a weird fungus. Okay, not entirely true. There were a few other plants, but the landscape was mostly fungus. If you stood in place too long, you got coated in a bright orange scuzz, because everything was orange on that moon. At least she didn’t have an orange foot fungus. Van kept her shoes dry and scrubbed down after every shift because she refused to catch the miner's foot.

The aroma of coffee pulled her to the kitchen. Esme sat at the table with a cup, reading the day’s news on a tablet. “Morning, roomie. You coming to the show tonight?”

“My shift runs late. I might miss the first number,” Van said, pouring herself a cup of genuine Earth coffee. The company employed a good mix of human and Sangrin employees, so the company store kept plenty of Earth goods in stock.

“No worries.” Esme drained her cup. “Time to water the plants. See you tonight.”

Esme had the job Van dreamed about: doing research with the native plants. Okay, mostly fungus, but original research. No scrubbing algae tanks. Esme also had her Ph.D., played the violin and piano like some child prodigy, and never talked about her reasons for hiding on their lovely alien moon. Nearly every human woman who worked for Vel Mori Holdings stuck with the company for the same reasons as Van—to escape the Mahdfel draft—but Esme never uttered a word about her previous life back on Earth. Van only knew Esme played the violin because she performed with the company band.

As far as randomly selected roommates went, Esme was great. So much better than the girl Van got stuck with her freshman year of college. Esme had a job, obviously, was clean, never brought gentlemen callers around for a sleepover, made enough coffee for two in the morning, and kept the apartment full of greenery. The plants were all local specimens as no alien species were allowed on the moon. Esme had gathered an impressive collection. Most of it was fungi, but the variety in shape and size was staggering. Van’s favorites were the little ones that looked like terrestrial succulents. Or the one with the red-and-white-striped “egg” that bloomed into a mass of bright purple fungus tentacles. Or the green one with feathery tendrils. It was like living in a private botanical garden and it was a botanist nerd’s heaven.

All in all, Van wouldn’t change a thing.

* * *

Eight grueling hours later, Van scrubbed off the green algae staining her fingers. Her job wasn’t glamorous—so not glamorous—but the algae bioreactors provided fuel and nutritional supplements for the base. Solar panels degraded too quickly due to atmospheric conditions to be cost-efficient, and Val Mori Holdings was nothing if not cost-efficient.

Plus, with the protein patties dyed a flesh brown color, Van could trick her taste buds into overlooking any algae aftertaste. Meat was great and all but raising livestock on the moon was not feasible. It was either feast on lab-grown meat, fungus burgers, and algae protein blocks or shell out your cash for the expensive imported stuff from Sangrin.

Once clean, Van dressed in her favorite outfit of worn red corduroy pants and a super-soft ivory sweater. Cuddly and cozy, the layers kept her warm in the drafty buildings. Her orange work coveralls had zero breathability and trapped in body heat. Anything less than sweltering felt chilly to her now.

The original colony had been organized in a series of concentric circles, starting with municipal services in the center and expanding outward to include residential, retail, medical and entertainment. The mining operations had ceased, leaving behind a network of tunnels under the buildings and mine shafts dotting the surface of the moon. Now domes surrounded the original colonial site, each containing a different ecosystem and plants. Her favorite was the fungus forest. The “tree” trunks were massively thick and towered overhead, spreading into a vivid purple canopy. Oh, and it smelled like cotton candy. It was like walking into a trippy fairy tale and she loved wandering through the cotton candy forest.

The colony had a few watering holes. The bar Esme performed at was near the center of town and a brisk walk from their bungalow.

A decent crowd had gathered for the show. Entertainment was sparse out here in the ass-end of the Sangrin system. Network streams for films and shows were unreliable thanks to an asteroid field. You downloaded what you wanted when the network managed a connection, or you took your chances of being bored. Van spent more time reading than watching television, so it didn’t bother her, and it wasn’t like she had anyone to call back on Earth. Her father didn’t count. Had he even noticed she left the planet a year ago?

Probably not. He’d only call if he thought he could get some cash off her, but her phone hadn’t rung once while she had been on Earth. Even if he had her new contact details, Ricky wouldn’t pay for the interstellar connection fees.

Anyway, not going to waste her time on him.

Van spotted Trey sitting at a table front and center. His Sangrin boyfriend, Mateo, played an instrument that Van could only describe as a lap guitar. It was flat, boxy, had a lot of strings, and produced the most haunting sounds. Trey waved her over. “Hey, I didn’t think you’d make it. I heard there was trouble down on the old algae farm.”

She gave a sarcastic laugh. “Ha ha. The parts Requisition sent over were the wrong size, so I had to scrub out the old filters to make do. Hence this.” She held up her green-stained fingers.

“That sucks. You know what doesn’t suck? Beer.” He moved to pour her a cup from the pitcher on the table.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” she said quickly. The house brew was malty and bitter, and Van did not like it at all. “I’ll get something that I can actually drink.”

By the time she returned to the table, the band finished setting up and tuning their instruments. Esme approached the mic. A drum rolled and a guitar picked out a few chords. “Hello. We’re Indentured Servitude and we’d like to play a few songs for you.”

A cacophony of sound broke around her. Esme smiled and tucked her violin under her chin, bow working the strings. The noise coalesced into a swift rhythm and driving beat. They were good. They were always good, playing a mash of human and Sangrin folk music, the kind of tunes with an infectious melody that the audience couldn’t help but sing along with.

Late one night, after a few bottles of wine, Esme confessed that she trained at a music conservatory. It showed. She commanded her instrument with skill and flair. What she was doing playing folk songs in a bar and not performing symphonies, Van could only wonder.

The band fell silent. Esme turned to face Mateo, who sat with his instrument in his lap. They traded riffs back and forth, dueling. The crowd ate it up and the band exploded back into action.

Three songs later, the crowd sang along with a slower-paced ballad about a miner leaving his true love behind. It was the sort of gooey nonsense that irritated Van. People always romanticized how hard it was to leave a lover, like they were being noble and heroic, but no one sang about how much it sucked to be second place to stardust or gold or whatever the miner needed more than his true love.

Dumb fucker.

“I’m cutting you off,” Trey said, watching her drain her third glass of fruity wine.

“Nooo,” she protested. “I’m barely buzzed.”

“You’re a snarky drunk and I’d like to enjoy the show.”

“You like my snarky commentary.”

Trey opened his mouth to set the record straight, but he never finished what he intended to say. The lights flashed a sulfurous yellow.

The bar fell silent. Everyone knew what the lights meant. The company ran drills on a regular schedule, but this wasn’t a drill.

Trouble was coming and, in this sector of space, trouble meant the Suhlik.

“How much time do you think we have?” Trey asked as Mateo rushed toward him.

Van’s comm, an outdated model with a thick plastic casing, chimed with an incoming message, along with everyone else’s in the bar.

Suhlik warships have entered the system. All non-essential personnel, report to the nearest shelter.

The vague message could mean anything from the Suhlik cruising through the system and not bothering the colony or they would be under attack in a few minutes.

Van clenched her fist, short nails digging into her palm. The Mahdfel were supposed to prevent this. That was the point of them.

“Leave it,” Trey said, pulling Mateo away from the stage. “We don’t have time.”

“It’s a family heirloom. I’m not leaving it to be bombed into rubble.”

“Actually, the Suhlik prefer gas attacks, so it’d be smart to grab your respirator,” Van said. The two men stared at her. “I mean, that’s what the safety protocols say.”

Esme grabbed her by the wrist. “Let’s go. If we hurry, we can grab our respirators before catching a ride to the shelter.”

A natural cave system and parts of the old mine had been converted into a shelter. Tucked in the surrounding foothills, the caves were removed enough from the settlement to avoid any bombing. The Suhlik were, thankfully, very predictable in their attacks. Van was only eleven when the Invasion happened on Earth, but she remembered the pattern of bombing major population centers, then infrastructure, then the sickly yellow gas that rolled through the rubble, and then the door-to-door searches for survivors. What she did not witness firsthand, the media relentlessly played footage so everyone on Earth could be properly traumatized.

And grateful to our new alien overlords.

“I’m essential personnel,” Van said.

Esme snorted. “I know the algae tanks keep the lights on, but you’re not essential or security. What are you going to do, throw globs of gunk at the aliens?”

Van knew her roommate tried to be funny to alleviate the tension, but Esme’s words pricked at her pride. “I took some certifications on the trip out here. It bumped me up the pay scale.” That made her essential in a crisis, a possibility she had never considered because Val Mori was safely inside Mahdfel controlled territory, not on the fringe of some neutral zone.

Esme frowned, then pulled Van into a hug. She stiffened, surprised by the emotional display. “Be safe,” Esme said.

Nearly the whole moon was riddled with underground tunnels. Van could scurry from one end of the settlement to another without ever setting foot above ground if need be. She hoped the need would never be.

“I’ll be fine,” she said with her most convincing grin. “Enjoyed your paid vacation. Some of us have to work for a living.”

Jaxar:

The warlord wanted speed? The warlord would get speed, even if Jaxar had to steal it.

Darkness surrounded him and Fennec, a subordinate engineer.

Their footsteps echoed down the hall. The whirr of the ventilation filled the silence.

“I do not like this,” Fennec said, his voice gruff.

Jaxar swallowed his initial impulse to tease the younger male about fearing the dark. “These abandoned levels are disturbing,” he said, “but I remember when they were full of warriors and their mates.”

“Did they insist on living in the dark and the cold?”

“As it happens, yes. The Judgment was built to suit the needs of the Sotet,” Jaxar said. Fennec groaned, sensing a history lesson. Jaxar cared little about the male’s complaint. “The Judgment is a fantastically complex beast of a ship, with layer built upon layer, and a good engineer needs—”

“To respect her history if he wants to be part of her future,” Fennec said, his tone flat as he repeated an often-heard phrase.

“So, you do listen.” The Judgment, while a marvel of engineering, was a relic. No amount of retrofits or upgrades could change the fact that the battlecruiser had been built for different purposes. “Go on. Dazzle me with your knowledge,” he prompted.

“She’s from another era,” Fennec started. His habit of referring to the battlecruiser as female irritated Jaxar, but he remained silent on that point for the time being. “She was built for firepower, but she’s large and slow. Mahdfel territory was smaller and we did not have so many planets to protect. Speed did not matter.”

“True, but the Judgment was designed to be self-contained, to hold generations in one vessel and last for generations more.” And the ship had, outlasting the very people who built her.

Jaxar scrubbed a hand over his face to hide his frown. Now Fennec had him referring to the ship as female. Ridiculous. “There were a handful of Sotet females on board when I was a child,” he said. “The planet orbited a red dwarf sun that produced little light and even less heat. This is the environment that suited them.”

The now-empty corridors were once filled with children running to greet their Mahdfel fathers, and females calling after the children, imploring them not to run. As silent as the level was, it had once been a riot of noise and crowded with strange, glowing plants.

The Night Garden.

Jaxar’s father often brought him to the Night Garden to practice tracking in low light. Fragrant flowers that bloomed only in the darkness left a potent perfume. Plants that produced their own soft light crowded meticulously maintained beds. Orbs spun from a thin material hung in the air, the gas produced from the algae within the orbs kept them aloft. Glowing softly from bioluminescence, the orbs drifted through the air, like stars. The part of his mind that craved order and understanding recognized that the ventilation system manipulated the orbs, but that did not detract from the wonder of it.

“I don’t know why we keep life support functioning on this level,” Fennec said, dragging Jaxar abruptly away from his recollections.

The Night Garden had been abandoned long ago, the plants withered from neglect, and the orbs broken on the ground. Jaxar wanted to lay the blame on the previous warlord, Omas, who let so much of the ship fall into disrepair, but Jaxar knew the truth. The Suhlik raid that took his father and mother took many more lives from the Judgment. The Night Garden and this entire level had been abandoned because the inhabitants died.

Every last one of them.

The battle had been a disaster.

Jaxar paused and placed a hand on the wall. A discolored line marked where new materials had been patched in as a repair. The sirens echoed in his memory, followed by the rush of atmosphere venting into the vacuum of space, then silence. Endless silence.

He had been too young at the time to care for anything other than the immediate loss of his parents but now understood that the warlord had been challenged and executed, and the entire clan had been thrown into turmoil. The clan simply could not care for an orphaned child and sent him to his mother’s people on Sangrin.

Traversing the abandoned corridors was a walk back in time.

“What a remarkable observation,” Jaxar said and Fennec puffed up with pride. “Your short-sightedness has surprised me. Well done.” The younger male’s shoulders slumped. “You just told me how the Judgment is a relic from a previous age, built for a different purpose. Why do we maintain life support on an abandoned level? Think it through.”

“I do not appreciate you speaking to me as if I am a child,” Fennec grumbled.

“And I choose my team for their intellect, not their brawn. Do not embarrass me.” Jaxar did not look at the male. Instead, he focused on the corridor’s walls. His flashlight swept across the floor, from side to side, as he searched for a distinct panel.

“Equal distribution of heat is better for the engines,” Fennec said, reluctantly.

“And what else?”

“A youngling or mate may wander where they shouldn’t.”

“Access to the level can be restricted.”

“A person determined to make mischief will find a way.”

“How so?” Jaxar asked, knowing Fennec was close to the correct answer. He did value intellect when selecting warriors to serve in Engineering, but he considered their physical strength as well. Engineering was vital to the Judgment. If the battlecruiser were to be boarded, it was a prime target. He needed fierce warriors to defend the heart of the ship and demanded those same warriors not be dumb as a box of rocks.

Jaxar had a harder time training quality crew members than he wanted to admit. He selected warriors with aptitude in both brains and brawn and honed them into perfection. Fennec, as much as Jaxar acted as if the male were a stumbling fool, had proved himself to be adept at thinking quickly and finding multiple solutions to a problem. A warrior who could fix a busted injection chamber three different ways with the wrong parts was a warrior who kept his clan alive.

“Access from below,” Fennec said, his voice confident.

“Yes, exactly. The ship is old. Every system has been retrofitted or replaced. Access tubes are not always available where we require, or large enough.” Jaxar recalled crawling through the narrow shafts when he had only a handful of years, acting as the hands for the old chief of Engineering who talked him through basic repairs. The ship’s population did not currently have any youths old enough to shimmy through the maintenance shafts. The eldest were the twin sons of the warlord and he might frown upon Jaxar pressing his twin sons into service. Probably. Perhaps if he framed it as a learning experience for the youths—

A marking at the base of the walls caught his eye. “Here we are,” he said, crouching down.

He lifted the floor panels. The manual shut-off was corroded with age but turned after a liberal application of oil. He let the younger warrior expend his energy on that task.

“I know why the life support shut-off is manual, but I don’t appreciate it,” Fennec complained.

“You’ll appreciate it when an invading force hacks the computer systems and can’t take away our air. Sometimes the old ways are best. Come. There is one more valve.”

Their footsteps echoed down the empty corridors. Strange how the people in Jaxar’s life changed so rapidly, leaving him behind, but the ship remained timeless.

“Do you think about being matched to a mate?” Fennec asked when they reached the second shut-off valve. “Or worry?” The younger male reached to scratch the base of his horns but jerked his hand away.

“Not particularly. Explain to me why you asked.” Jaxar removed the floor paneling, finding the valve in worse condition than the previous one. He rolled his shoulders, determined not to be frustrated. The ship was massive and in disrepair. He did what he could, but without a major influx of resources and labor, he could only do so much. Patch, repair, and make do. The engineer’s motto.

“Many males are finding their mates now. Don’t you think about what female you will be matched to? What she likes?” Fennec said. Then, in a quiet voice, “If she’ll like you.”

“If I were going to be matched, it would have happened by now. Hand me the omnitool and oil.” He considered the valve. If he managed to turn the corroded valve, it might not turn again. “Mark this valve down as needing a replacement. We won’t be able to turn it back on without the handle snapping.”

“But if you were matched—”

Jaxar sat back on his heels and considered his assistant. The male was young, fresh out of the academy on Sangrin. “You are young. Do not cause yourself undue stress playing what-if.”

“But what if I am matched and she doesn’t like me?” Another touch to his horns. They were underdeveloped for a male his age but not unusually so.

“Liking your mate has nothing to do with being matched,” Jaxar said. Fennec’s shoulders drooped. Jaxar knew his statement had been true, but if he were mated—in seventy years it had not happened so he highly doubted it ever would—he would prefer a mate whose company he enjoyed. “A male is more than his horns. Look at the warlord.”

“He lost a horn in battle. That’s different.”

“And old Rohn. His mate loves him, even half-blind and with a defective horn.”

“They’re different. They were normal… before,” Fennec whispered.

Jaxar sighed. Fennec clearly had been working himself up to the subject, but why he felt that his commanding officer was the one to assuage his fears and doubts, Jaxar had no idea. “You should ask one of the mated warriors.”

“I do not wish to bother them, and they do not know me.”

“Ah.” The valve turned slowly. “I am not an expert on females, but I am an expert on Fennecs.” Jaxar gave his minion an assessing look. “A bit scrawny, true, but a useful quality in certain situations.”

“I’m still growing!”

“Interrupts frequently.” Jaxar paused, but Fennec kept his lips pressed together, as if struggling to refrain from adding his no doubt enlightening commentary. “Slow to learn but asks good questions. Hmm. You are not entirely unlikable,” he pronounced.

“Thanks.” Fennec made a sour face, then grinned. “More likable than you.”

“Impossible. I am immensely charming.”

“Pfft. Not according to Rohn. He says you do not have a serious bone in your body.”

“Which has nothing to do with my likeability.”

Jaxar allowed the younger male to list his flaws—a short list because he was basically flawless—while they finished their task.

That night, alone in his cabin, he wondered about the kind of female he would be matched to and if she even existed. If he had a match, it would have happened by now. If she did exist, where was she?