Lorran

Wyn:

She’d do it today. She’d volunteer.

Better to just get it over with and know than sit and worry for weeks. Volunteers had control. If they were matched to an alien mate, they had time to prepare, pack, and say goodbye.

Plus, there was the money to consider. Wyn had to admit the money would be nice. It would cover her portion of the rent for the next year—hell, the next three years. Her roommate and bestie, Sonia, could bitch and moan about the oppression of the patriarchy and the systematic injustice that offered up half the Earth’s population as human chattel to pay for the protection of alien warlords, but she’d take Wyn’s money. Sonia had principles, but she was also realistic.

Principles were nice, but they didn’t pay the bills.

But would Sonia speak to her if she knew Wyn was considering volunteering to be matched to a Mahdfel warrior?

Her friend’s opinion did not matter. If Wyn did it now, she took control of her fate and would have agency. Sonia could choke on those words if she didn’t like it. Sonia might be her bestie, but Wyn needed to do what was right for her.

She could do it.

She would do it.

“Is that all for you today?”

The cashier’s voice yanked Wyn from her pep talk and back to the reality of tightly clutching a bouquet to the point of damaging the flowers. She set the bouquet of pink daisies, creamy peonies, and pink tea bud roses on the counter. “That’s all.”

“Is this for someone or just because? Do you need a card?”

“Just because. Mondays are hard enough. It’s nice to have fresh flowers,” Wyn said. Her job at an insurance company call center was gray and miserable; flowers helped.

For the last eight months, when she realized that she’d have to take the test to be matched to an alien, Wyn had been purchasing flowers every Sunday at the florist next door to the volunteer center. She liked flowers well enough, but she had been trying to work up the courage to volunteer for the test and be the master of her own destiny. The flowers were innocent bystanders in her scheme.

So far, the only thing to come of it was fresh flowers for her desk at work. Not that the call center was her work—it was her day job. Wyn was an artist—mostly painting but also mixed media, thanks for asking—but freelancing as an artist didn’t come with health insurance.

“The owner wants to know if you can make another dozen of those cute little Mahdfel figurines. Maybe with candy canes for the holiday?”

Wyn nodded. She got a better price for the polymer clay figurines online, but the florist paid cash and she had the electric bill due soon. “I can bring them by next Sunday. Any particular color?”

“The purple ones with the horns are always popular,” the cashier said.

Good. She had a decent stash of purple clay ready to go. She’d toss in a few red and blue guys for variety. The green guys, unfortunately, blended too well with the bouquets. They weren’t as popular.

Having paid, Wyn hesitated outside on the sidewalk. She could hop into her car and try again next week, but she was running out of “next weeks.” She’d turn thirty in three weeks, and then she’d have to take the test whether she liked it or not.

She did a lot of research on the likelihood of being matched to an alien warrior, which was a normal reaction to a person in her situation. It wasn’t weird or obsessive, no matter what Sonia said.

Do it. Don’t be a wuss.

Statistically, women over thirty were not matched. She’d take the test, get rejected, and then she’d know. Worry over. No more searching the network for articles about statistics and half-assed claims about tricking the test.

10 Simple Tricks to Fool the Test: What the Mahdfel Don’t Want You to Know!

None of the clickbait titles ever had any real substance, and Wyn didn’t want to trick the test. She just wanted to know.

The worst that could happen is that she’d be matched, which would have happened eventually. If she did it now, she’d have the time to get ready for her new life with an alien. Plus, the bonus money for volunteering. And she’d have a smoking hot alien warrior mate, so double plus.

She didn’t believe the online conspiracies about mandatory testing for the Mahdfel bride program, and she did not agree with Sonia about being under the boot of the patriarchy. Several articles on the network claimed that love matches, and volunteer matches were more common than a genetic match, and therefore mandatory genetic testing should be phased out. The invasion had been nearly two decades ago, Earth had fulfilled its side of the treaty with the Mahdfel, and so on. The arguments ran from reasonable to banana pants-ridiculous.

The Mahdfel were a fact of life. Wyn had been a little kid during the invasion, but she hadn’t forgotten the sharp delineation between Before Aliens and After Aliens. Her family made it through, despite having to relocate to a refugee camp. They survived the raid and gas attack. Everyone survived. So what if Wyn had to drag around an oxygen tank until she was eighteen and then used oxygen at night for a few more years? She would have died if a Mahdfel warrior hadn’t slapped a mask over her face and tossed her in the back of a vehicle.

She might have developed an awkward preteen crush on the heroic aliens. Who could blame her? They were brave, built like they got a double helping of the jacked gene, and handsome. All of them. If a person could look past the alien features of horns and fangs and tails and sometimes scales. Nothing on that list sounded bad to a young Wyn.

Still didn’t. All that sounded amazing.

The Mahdfel continued to star in her fantasies. She knew she wasn’t the only person drawn to the aliens. Handsome, heroic, dedicated to their mates.

Stop. Her ovaries could only explode so much.

Alien romance books were a guilty pleasure, and she might have purchased a special edition battery-operated toy, but what was in her nightstand drawer was her business.

Okay, being matched had a lot of benefits. Sexy alien benefits.

Sure, being away from her parents would suck, and Sonia would be upset. She had lectured Wyn enough about the yoke of the oppressor, blah blah blah. She would appreciate Wyn seizing control over her own damn body. Right?

Eh, she’d give it 50-50 odds.

And it was going to happen, anyway.

Just do it.

Do it.

Wyn opened the door.

The woman behind the reception desk smiled. “You finally made it! Good for you. You’ve been dilly-dallying for ages now.”

“What?” Mortified, Wyn wanted to rush back out.

“The flower lady. Every Sunday.” The woman glanced pointedly at the half-crushed bouquet. “Don’t worry. It takes plenty of people a few attempts before they actually volunteer. That is why you’re here? Unless you already have a mate?”

“No. No mate. It’s my birthday soon,” Wyn blurted. Her cheeks burned. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Lots of people volunteer, and it’s normal to come in and ask questions, then think about it. There’s a lot to consider.” The woman produced glossy pamphlets.

“No, I mean I’ve never been tested. Ever.”

“Not once?”

“Never.” Wyn had been a kid during the invasion. While her family, Mom, Dad, big brother Reese, and herself, made it through mostly unscathed, they had been caught in a gas attack. Wyn knew they only survived because a Mahdfel warrior slapped a gas mask on them and took them to a medic. Even then, she had scarring on her lungs, which required supplemental oxygen for years after. She knew about the devil’s bargain Earth made with the Mahdfel, but it didn’t apply to her. She had an exemption.

Until she didn’t.

When she turned eighteen, the authorities decided that people with her condition or other injuries sustained during the invasion could be managed with medication and were no more serious than any other chronic medical condition. But that was the year she developed pneumonia and got a medical exemption from mandatory genetic testing. She still had a serious pulmonary condition, even if the authorities were convinced that it didn’t affect her uterus.

After that, her parents paid the neighbor’s grandson for a fake engagement. She figured it was down to losing Reese in a car accident—talk about irony, surviving an alien invasion only to die because of a drunk driver—and they were desperate to keep their only baby close. Wyn didn’t argue. That arrangement lasted throughout college until she fell in love with Oscar and got engaged for real. They were together for five years until Oscar left to follow his muse—his muse. What kind of artsy-fartsy bullshit was that? The next year, her appendix had decided it had seen enough of the world and burst, which was another medical exemption. So here she was, on the cusp of thirty and never having been tested.

“It just worked out that way.” She shrugged.

The receptionist patiently explained the process, but Wyn just wanted it done. “Please, can we just get it over with? I’ll sign all the things. I don’t care.”

“Sure, okay.” In a few moments, Wyn signed what felt like a dozen documents, had her ID chip scanned, and a tech brought her to the back to swish a swab around her mouth.

Now all she had to do was wait.

* * *

The call came later that night. Wyn saw the ID info on the screen and went into her bedroom to answer.

“Miss Davies?”

“Yes?” She shut the door and switched on the box fan to cover the conversation. The walls in the apartment were thin. Lots of natural light but crappy cardboard walls.

“Good news! Your sample was successfully matched to a Mahdfel warrior.”

“Oh, but that’s statistically improbable.” She knew the stats were too good to be true. All those articles talked about the declining number of genetic matches and how women over thirty were so unlikely to be matched that they should be removed from testing and they were wrong.

The internet lied.

The floor sort of fell out from underneath her. Not literally. Well, maybe a little. Wyn sat on the edge of her bed but slid down to the floor. With her voice sounding impossibly small, she asked, “What’s his name?”

“Lorran Rhew.”

“Lauren?”

“Lore-ran,” the person on the other said, stressing each syllable.

“Oh. That’s a nice name,” she said without thinking. Digging through her bag, she fished out the pamphlets from the volunteer center and a pen. She wrote down the information the caller rattled off and added doodles to the margins.

The caller scheduled Wyn’s pickup—on her birthday—and said that shipping containers would be delivered to her address tomorrow. Whatever she packed in the containers would be shipped to her new home, but they advised against shipping furniture or other large items. “I’d recommend packing any food items you’re going to miss. Chocolate is a popular choice. Supplies can be inconsistent off-planet.”

Off-planet. Wyn’s pen paused mid-doodle.

A shopping list sprang into her head of chocolate, tea, coffee—the good kind in the yellow vacuum-sealed bricks, those shortbread cookies with the jam centers, and not just snacks. Art supplies. Surely the tubes of watercolor paints she liked to work with could be replicated, but she wanted to try other media. Aliens had to have amazing art supplies. She remembered reading an article about luminescent, lighter-than-air pottery. The clay had been sourced from some moon. The photos of the pieces looked amazing.

It had to feel amazing to dig your fingers into the clay from another world and shape it into something never seen. Her fingers itched at the thought.

“Thank you. I’ll get on that right away,” Wyn said, ending the call.

A light knock on the door was all the warning Wyn had before Sonia barged in, holding up a sheet of paper covered in brown squares. “Which one looks like Mummy Brown to you?”

“What?”

“I know. Weird, right? You’d think it was a name picked by the marketing department, but Mummy Brown paint was made from actual mummies. Isn’t that ghastly? So,” she tapped the page, “which color best represents the dehumanization and commercializing of human flesh?”

Wyn searched the paper for dehumanized commerce but found only brown swatches. “What is it supposed to look like?”

“Not as red as burnt umber.”

That helped her not at all.

Sonia’s hair was a vivid red today. Colored wax tinted her curls a new color every few days.

Both art students in college, they met in drawing class their first semester and immediately hit it off. Wyn liked Sonia’s brash attitude. She held nothing back, good or bad, and provided balance to Wyn’s quiet nature.

Sonia worked with her in the same insurance company call center. It wasn’t the most inspiring place for two artists, but it paid the bills and gave Wyn plenty of time to let her mind wander to daydream. After Oscar left, they shared an apartment for budget reasons but also because Wyn didn’t want to rattle around an empty apartment on her own. It was a good match. Despite Sonia’s biting sarcasm, innate grumpiness, and absolutism that clashed with Wyn’s organic chaos, she had never let her down.

Sonia tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “You’re thinking.”

“Admiring your hair. It really goes well with your sweatshirt.” Faded to the point of being no specific color, the sweatshirt hung off Sonia’s slim shoulders. The color worked with Sonia’s coppery complexion. Wyn had to pick her colors carefully or she looked washed out. She always felt a little envious of the way Sonia could just wear anything, even ratty old sweatshirts, and make it look like a fashion statement.

Finding clothes that fit Wyn’s boobs and butt was a struggle. Button-up shirts were a no-go. Too many buttons had failed to hold the straining fabric together. Making a fashion statement was too much to ask when all Wyn wanted was a pair of damn pants that fit over her hips and didn’t gap at the waist.

Sonia glanced at the phone on the bed.

Wyn casually placed her hand over the phone and the pamphlet.

“Who called?” Sonia asked.

For a moment, Wyn considered lying, which would be a shitty thing to do considering Sonia would eventually find out.

Wyn took a deep breath, ready to rip off the proverbial bandage. “I finally got myself tested. I’ve been stressing about it for months and I just had to know, so I thought I’d get it over with and know, you know? I just got the call that I’ve been matched. His name is Lorran Rhew, and I forgot to ask what planet he’s from or where I’m going, and I have to be ready to go by my birthday. They gave me some bonus money, and I want to give you half for the rent, so you won’t have to work for at least a year and just focus on your painting.” She sucked in a huge breath, holding it while she waited for her friend’s response.

Sonia nodded slowly. “Okay…that’s a lot to unpack. You volunteered for the test?”

Wyn let out a sigh. “I’ve been trying to work up the courage to do it for ages now.”

“Sunday flowers?”

“Sunday flowers,” she agreed.

Sonia tossed herself down on the bed next to Wyn. She stretched out, arms behind her head, and stared at the ceiling. Then she giggled. An uncontrollable giggle. The more she struggled to not laugh, the harder it became to stop laughing.

“It’s not funny,” Wyn said.

“You’ve been…buying flowers…for months…” She wiped tears from her eyes. “I thought you just liked fresh flowers, but you’ve been too chicken to do the test. That’s classic Wyn.”

“Yeah, well—” Wyn struggled for the correct words. “I know it’s not a big deal to you, but I’m freaking out.”

“There are loopholes. We’ll get you out of it.”

“I’m not sure I want to get out of it.” There. Her big secret—the tween crush that never went away—out in the light.

Sonia sat up. “You want to go?”

“Maybe? Fine, yes. I want to go. And they’re giving me a stupid amount of money.”

“Blood money, Wyn. They’re buying you.”

“It’s compensation for lost economic performance, that’s what the brochure said, and there’s enough money for you not to work for at least a year and just paint. You can tell the call center to suck it.”

Sonia’s brow wrinkled. “I do enjoy telling people to suck it,” she said, sounding unconvinced.

“Enough money to help pay for my parents’ meds. Since I volunteered, I have extra time to get ready. And I prefer to think of it as alien booty money.”

“Everyone wins, huh? Wow, that is some internalized oppression. You totally bought what they were selling.” Her words were cynical, but Sonia almost smiled at the mention of alien booty money.

“It’s the best outcome. I’m making lemonade here,” Wyn said.

Sonia pushed her hair off her brow and made a frustrated noise. “This isn’t a make-lemonade-out-of-lemons situation. You’re the lemon. The patriarchy is making lemonade out of you.”

Wyn sprung up from the bed. “This is why I didn’t want to tell you. I’ve been trying to work up my courage for months, months, and all I kept thinking about was the little lecture you’d give me if you found out.”

“You didn’t want to tell me?”

“It sucks. Obviously. I’m being given—like a puppy—to a stranger, and I barely know his name. Fuck. I think the application to adopt a puppy asks more questions than the volunteer center asked me today. Okay, forget the puppy. That was a bad analogy, but the point is this is happening and it’s happening on my terms. You can respect that and help me, or you can keep your opinions to yourself.”

Wyn paused, waiting to apologize for her harsh words but needing to be firm.

“But I’d really like my friend to support me because it’s fucking terrifying,” she concluded.

Sonia’s eyes went wide. “Oh. Wow.” Then a grin spread across her face. “You found your spine. About damn time, Winnie. I was beginning to suspect that Oscar took that with him when his sorry ass took off.”

“I have a spine.” Wyn crossed her arms over her chest, all keyed up for an argument.

“I’m trying to tell you that I’m glad you’re pushing back. Since he left, you’ve been down. Not as bright. Like your spark was gone.”

“We were together for five years. That’s a hell of a long time. Of course, I felt depressed.” The fucker broke her heart. Okay, maybe not, but Oscar was comfortable, and she honestly could see them together forever.

Then he got bored and the insult to her pride hurt worse than her heart because Wyn was anything but boring. Oscar tagging her in social media posts about his latest inspiration or gallery showing didn’t help. Leaving prompted a burst of creativity for him, and Wyn hadn’t picked up a brush in nearly two years. She made cute little figurines to sell because chasing her muse didn’t pay the bills.

“It’s called grief, and it’s normal,” Wyn said.

“And grieving Wyn got pushed around by people. You just existed. I can’t even remember the last time you worked on a painting,” Sonia said.

“I got pushed around by you,” she retorted, because focusing on that was easier than poking at her lack of creative mojo.

“And I’m a dick. I know. I go on my tangents—”

“Rants.”

“But this isn’t about me. It’s about you doing the things you want to do, the way you want to do them. I’m so damn proud!” Sonia positively radiated happiness, sitting cross-legged on the bed. “So, what do we need to do? Oh my God, have you told your mom?”

“I literally just found out, so no.”

“You have to call Alana right now.” Wyn rolled her eyes, but Sonia said, “Don’t. Your momma is scary when she’s upset, and this will upset her.”

She had a point. The first Thanksgiving in college, Wyn brought Sonia home, since she had no place to go. Her parents welcomed Sonia without reservation and considered her to be another daughter. This covered all the good stuff like hugs and unconditional support, but also the bad stuff like judging life choices and speaking their minds.

“Fine, but let’s do dinner first. Mom will not let this go with a quick, ‘Hey, guess what? I married an alien and I’m moving. See ya.’ It’ll take hours.”

And Alana would insist on helping Wyn with the arrangements. She wished the arrangements didn’t sound so much like planning a funeral, but she had no idea what they would entail. Packing, certainly. Selling unneeded stuff like her vehicle. Transferring the utilities to Sonia’s name. Banking was supposed to work off-planet, but she needed to double-check.

Okay, there was a fair amount to be done.

“Let’s splurge my alien booty money on pizza,” Wyn said.

“We are not calling it that.”

“Booty. Money.” Wyn reached for her comm and pulled up the food delivery app. “The usual? BBQ Chicken with red onions for me. Sausage and mushroom for you. Done. Are we done talking?”

Sonia frowned. “You weren’t going to tell me.”

Wyn shrugged. “Eventually.”

“That’s really shitty.”

“I know. I was working myself up to it.” Never mind that it took her months to work up the nerve to volunteer for testing. “I was definitely going to tell you before the military showed up on my birthday and hauled my butt off-planet.”

“Yeah, probably five minutes before the knock on the door,” Sonia muttered. “Fuck, I’m going to miss you.”

“Hard same. You’re my best friend. I can’t imagine not talking to you every day or arguing about who used the last of the coffee creamer.”

“I can’t believe you’re smiling. How can you be happy? You don’t know this alien or what he’s like, just that he’s willing to pump you full of alien babies.” Sonia sounded incredulous.

Wyn touched her face and discovered that she was, indeed, smiling. “It’s just…look, I’m glad the will-it-happen-or-won’t-it is over. And it’s scary, and this Lorran Rhew is a stranger—”

“Who might be a giant dick bag.”

“Who might be amazing,” Wyn said in a gracious tone, “or a giant dick bag. I can’t control that. You know those year-long galaxy cruises? Travel the stars on a luxury star liner. See the best sights in the universe. Be pampered like a rich fuck and never have to do your own laundry? I feel like I’m about to go on that trip. It’ll be a year of inspiration and plenty of time to work on my art.” Her stomach fluttered from excitement and nerves. It was amazing and terrifying.

“If you want to travel, those ships hire all the time. And the cabins are way too small for a studio. And it’s not a year, it’s for life.”

“Drawing or watercolors, and I know that.” Wyn liked the messy spontaneity of watercolor, but she loved drawing with charcoal and how it got under her nails.

“What if this alien is a giant dick bag? They’re bigger than us. Stronger. And you’ll be all alone.”

“Then I’ll get a divorce. I’m not without my rights.” Wyn grabbed the much-scrawled upon pamphlet and waved it at Sonia. The counselor at the volunteer center made sure Wyn understood her options if her match turned out to be less than amazing. But Wyn refused to believe that her Lorran Rhew was anything short of perfect. He was her alien, and he would cherish her. That’s what they said about the Mahdfel. Okay, on the network they said a lot of nasty things about the aliens, but there were just as many people singing their praises. “The divorce rate is really low too.”

“You know why that is, don’t you?” Sonia asked.

“Because everyone is blissed out on alien wang and living happily ever after?”

Sonia’s cheeks flushed, which might have been a blush or might have been frustration. Wyn had no way of telling. “Just don’t build him up in your imagination too much,” Sonia said.

“Fine, fine. I’ll set my expectations low.” Lies. Her expectations were already sky-high. Orbiting the planet, even.

Wyn picked up the discarded page of color swatches. She held the back of her hand to the paper and compared. “Oh my stars! Am I Mummy Brown? Maybe more of a walnut.”

Sonia huffed and rolled her eyes. She spoke to the ceiling, “Lord help me, I’m going to miss your sunshine so damn much.”

Lorran:

“Uncle Lorran! Look how high I can jump.” Gavran squatted down and hopped.

“Very impressive. Show me again.”

Lorran crouched to better admire the young warrior’s demonstration. The comm unit chimed with incoming messages. The communication array had sustained damage in a recent skirmish. Back online, messages from the past few days continued to arrive.

Gavran hopped around the room, crashing into the chair by the dining table. He and the chairs landed in a heap on the floor. He blinked, as if uncertain of his injuries, and looked to his uncle.

Lorran studied the comm unit’s screen as if he missed the collision. He scrolled through the unread messages, most from his mother.

“Pretty good, huh?” Gavran sprang to his feet, resilient only the way a child could be.

“I am impressed by your speed, but your control requires practice.”

The child pulled a face, scrunching up his nose. It was a look Lorran had often seen on Gavran’s father’s face. Gavran looked remarkably like his Terran mother, beige skin, light brown hair, and brown eyes, but there was no mistaking the Mahdfel in his build. Gavran was nearly three, already tall and strong.

No doubt Seeran would want his son to begin training as soon as possible. Today, Gavran jumped around their cabin and crashed into furniture. Soon he would be breaking bones if he did not have an outlet.

It was a shame. Lorran wanted the child to enjoy what he could before being burdened with lectures on duty and responsibility.

The youngest of three sons, Lorran felt as if his entire life had been a long lecture on his family’s expectations and how he disappointed them. He did not have as prestigious a position as his brother Mene. He did not have the responsibilities his brother Seeran did. He did not have a mate and a child, unlike both his brothers.

The list varied from day to day, depending on his mother’s moods, but those were the core complaints.

Lorran might not be the oldest or the son with the most honors, but no one loved his nephews more than him. He was the favorite uncle. Mene and Seeran were no competition.

“Your mother asked me to feed you. What sustenance do you require?” Lorran righted the chair and entered the food preparation area.

“Ice cream!”

“Tempting, but I question the nutritional value.”

His brother’s mate, Hazel, deposited Gavran at Lorran’s cabin an hour ago, begging for time to pack. They planned a family trip to Sangrin for the holiday. He did not understand the need to pack more than a single change of clothing but agreed when she promised cookies for his labors.

“Uncle Mene would let me have ice cream.” Gavran hauled himself onto the chair, grinning wildly.

“It is dishonorable to lie,” he said, because he was a responsible adult. After a pause, he then added, “And to lie so poorly is an insult. You need to strengthen your creativity,” because he was the fun uncle.

Lorran opened the cooling unit and withdrew the containers he selected from the cafeteria the previous night. As a single male, he did not prepare his own food. On good nights, he had an invitation from his brother’s mate to dine with them. Other nights, he dined with his fellow warriors in the cafeteria.

“Gross.” Gavran flicked a chunk of green vegetable off the plate.

“Apologies. I have misunderstood. I thought you desired ice cream?”

Gavran’s eyes went wide. “Yes! Ice cream.”

“Eat your protein and vegetables, then you may have ice cream.”

Gavran looked skeptically at the greenery on the plate. “With whipped cream and sprinkles?”

Lorran leaned in, as if to disclose a secret. “Better. We will go to the training arena.”

Gavran’s eyes went wide, and he shoved a piece of breaded protein in his mouth. “Can we shoot? I want to shoot.”

“Negative. You are too small yet for such weapons. There are other activities suitable for a young warrior.” Despite Gavran’s moaning about everyone saying he was too little, Lorran was pleased that his nephew took an interest in weaponry. He could not wait until the day he could introduce Gavran to his favorite weapon, an antique plasma rifle.

Yes, it was wrong to have a favorite weapon—all weapons were useful and had their place—but this plasma rifle belonged to his father’s father. Lorran felt a connection to the relic.

Being a responsible adult was easy. He did not understand why his brother constantly complained that Lorran lacked focus.

* * *

“I can carry it. I’m not little,” Gavran insisted. He dragged the equipment bag along the floor.

Lorran resisted the urge to snatch the bag from the child, but the look of utter joy on Gavran’s face made him pause. A few more scuffs would not impair the functionality. Instead, he stooped to carry one end.

The training arena was a series of specialized rooms. Some were nothing more than a sandy floor and benches for spectators. Others had equipment for building muscles, drones for sparring, and targets for shooting.

Lorran particularly enjoyed spending his time in the training arena because of the facility’s solitary nature. He only competed with himself and his physical limits. No one compared him to his brothers. When he sparred with a drone or ran under simulated heavy gravity, his achievements and failures were his and his alone.

He loved his brothers, but his entire life had been a competition for his parents’ attention. Whenever it fell on him, it was only to compare his accomplishments to those of his brothers, Seeran and Mene.

Lorran dropped the equipment at the base of a rock-climbing wall. Gavran tilted his head back to get an eyeful. “It’s so tall.”

The rock wall stretched far overhead, the handholds growing progressively smaller and farther apart. Some sections were smooth with no means for grip at all. Other sections had simulated rockslides or trap doors which released drones that attacked like avian predators. Panels shifted and changed texture. Occasionally, handholds vanished into the rock face. The wall was never the same challenge twice.

Lorran pointed to a cluster of boulders and a wall with a wide ledge designed for youths. “We will start there.”

“That’s for babies,” Gavran said.

“Then you will demonstrate your mastery and we will move on to the next level. A warrior does not skip steps in his training.”

Gavran’s lower lip stuck out in a near pout, but he nodded. Lorran suited up the youth in protective gear.

“Ugh, I can’t breathe,” he complained.

“Your mother will be displeased if I return you damaged.”

“I can’t move. I’ll fall and damage myself and then Mommy won’t let you have cookies.” Gavran stuck out his arms and flailed them about, demonstrating how his range of motion was impaired.

“Your range of motion is acceptable. Now, tell me more about your mother making cookies.”

Gavran’s eyes went wide. “It is a surprise.”

“I will not tell.” Lorran adjusted the straps to the helmet, but no matter how he tugged, the helmet was too large for Gavran’s head.

“I don’t need it. I promise. I’ll be careful.”

Lorran doubted that the youth could keep such a promise, but he acquiesced. “We will be cautious. Now, allow me to demonstrate.”

He stood at the foot of the wall. “Start easy. You will use your feet, thighs, and back, as well as your shoulders and arms. Be aware of where you put your feet and how you balance.”

Lorran climbed onto the first ledge, hauling himself up with exaggerated care. He reached a flat platform and crouched down to peer over the edge. “Now you. Join me.”

“I wanna do it.” Gavran bounced in place. “I’m gonna climb to the top!”

Lorran doubted the youth could reach more than the summit of the beginner’s wall, but he felt compelled to indulge his nephew’s ego. “That would be most impressive. Come on up. Mind your horns,” he called down.

Gavran giggled. “Silly Uncle Lorran. I don’t have horns.”

The youth pulled himself up to the first ledge, huffing with the effort. Lorran called down with words of encouragement.

Gavran grasped a handhold, his foot kicking at the wall for purchase, and he pulled himself up. Pride surged in Lorran’s chest. His nephew was tall for his age and strong. Lorran had heard cautionary tales about males who damaged their horns and walked in circles for hours, unable to orient themselves.

What nonsense. Gavran had never had horns, so the lack of horn would not hinder his balance. He did worry about the lack of protection for Gavran’s skull; his precious head seemed so vulnerable without horns to take the force of a blow.

Gavran reached for the second ledge, rather than the handhold.

“Do not overreach,” Lorran cautioned.

“I can reach.” He stretched, and his foot slipped. For a heart-wrenching moment, he clung to the handhold.

Lorran threw himself down, the uneven simulated stone digging into his stomach. Too slow. His hand brushed Gavran’s tiny fingers, and the youth fell.

The fall took forever, as if time broke and gravity reversed. Gavran hung in the air, his eyes wide with fear. Lorran’s name tore from his lips.

Time and gravity resumed their proper function. Lorran jumped down, landing roughly and scraping his hands.

Gavran lay there, unmoving and staring blankly up. The force of the fall had knocked the protective vest open. Supine, Gavran looked so human and fragile.

No helmet. Why hadn’t he insisted on a helmet?

Lorran broke the child.

Had Gavran been blinded? Had the equipment failed to absorb the fall? Cracked his skull on the floor? The flooring had absorption for such events. Clearly this was a design flaw. He would seek retribution from the engineer responsible for this vile contraption.

Worse, the situation proved Lorran failed at being a good uncle. He behaved irresponsibly. His brother’s mate had been wrong to entrust him with the care of someone so precious and irreplaceable.

“Gavran, speak,” he croaked.

Seeran was going to kill him.

Gavran clutched his belly and laughed. His little legs kicked, and his head rolled from side to side. “I wanna do it again!”

“Perhaps not.” He breathed a sigh of relief.

“I went whoosh! Did you see?”

“I witnessed it.”

“Again! Oh, please, Uncle Lorran.” Gavran bounced to his feet, the vest askew on his slim frame but otherwise in place. A quick check ensured that the equipment had absorbed the impact. The child was undamaged.

Lorran breathed a sigh of relief. “We must re-secure our protective gear.”

Caught up in refastening and checking all the buckles, Lorran did not sense the presence standing over him.

“What are you doing?”

Wyn:

“Oh, goody. The patriarchy.” Sonia stood in the front door, her arm braced against the doorframe. A profoundly serious soldier stood on the other side, not impressed with Sonia’s attitude. “It must be someone’s birthday,” she said dryly.

“It’s my birthday!” Wyn threw her hands in the air and nearly fell over. She grabbed at the counter’s edge and hauled herself upright. She barely slept last night from nerves. Exhaustion made her slap-happy, but never off-balance. “Hey, what’s in this coffee?”

“Miss Davies?” The soldier stared down at Sonia. Wyn sort of wished she could see Sonia’s face because it had to be epic, but she wanted to finish her breakfast before the patriarchy took her away for testing.

“No, you want the birthday girl.” Sonia hooked a finger over her shoulder.

“That’s me,” Wyn said. She drained the cup and shoved half a donut in her mouth, the epitome of elegance and adulthood.

“Careful now,” her mother cautioned. Alana arrived a week ago to help with the preparation and to spend as much mother-daughter time together as possible. Wyn smiled warmly because her mom was the best. Her mother had also been baking cookies nonstop for the last week and packaging them for Wyn’s trip.

Wyn slid off the bar stool and staggered through the boxes in the apartment. This was it. Over the last three weeks, they’d been packing up what she wanted to take, selling what could be sold, and giving away the rest.

Alana was at the door, discussing the details of shipping all Wyn’s boxes. Blue nylon boxes arrived a few days after her match. Everything Wyn wanted to take went into them, and two uniformed men were hauling them into the vehicle.

Sonia watched from the porch while Alana gave directions.

“Thanks for the birthday donuts and, you know, being amazing,” Wyn said. She wasn’t going to cry. This was an exciting new chapter in her life, and there was an alien hottie waiting for her and she was not going to cry.

“Shut up, I know.” Sonia tossed Wyn her favorite cardigan, messenger bag, and the suitcase.

“If I come back, but that’s unspoken. Oh,” Wyn said, her words trickling through the warm and cozy glow of Sonia’s special birthday coffee, “I said the quiet part out loud.”

“Are you drunk, Miss Davies?” the soldier asked.

“Am I?” She spun to face Sonia, but she must have turned too quickly because the room refused to stop moving. She clutched the door frame for support. “Sonia, what was in the coffee?”

“Just a bit of whiskey.”

Wyn gasped dramatically. “You got me schnookered! I knew birthday going-away breakfast was too good to be true.”

“You know how you get when you’re nervous,” Sonia said.

“Barfy. My baby is so barfy,” Alana said.

“Yeah, and you know how I get when I’m tipsy. Chatty,” Wyn added, for the guard’s benefit. “I’m not a morning drinker or much of a drinker. At all.”

“A total lightweight,” Sonia agreed.

“Being impaired will not delay your departure,” the soldier said, sounding unimpressed.

And looking unimpressed, too. All frowny and serious.

He was such a baby, all pink cheeks and smooth skin. He never had panic attacks the night before his birthday and had to be trotted off to a government facility to be teleported across the galaxy to be married to a stranger. An alien.

Nope. He had a wiener, so he got to be master of his own destiny.

“I’m thirty, ma’am,” he said.

Oh. She said the quiet part out loud again. “I’m thirty too. Also. I mean also, not thirty-two. Apparently, I’ve had a little whiskey in my coffee this morning because I might have been freaking out because I’m excited but also terrified.”

“You volunteered.” He checked his tablet computer. “You have no reason to be nervous.”

“You’d think, but I only volunteered because waiting was killing my soul. My soul,” she stressed, suddenly filled with the urgent need to make Soldier Baby Face understand. “I was engaged for ages and ages, but Oscar ditched me to follow his muse. His muse.” She made a dismissive noise. “Boys are dumb. Sorry, you’re probably a boy. Do you ever smile? All that frowning isn’t good for your heart.”

“Sorry you insulted me or sorry I’m a man?”

She reached out and patted him on the arm. “Your choice.”

He grabbed her bag and headed to the waiting vehicle.

Wyn hugged her mother, soaking up the strength from that embrace. “Watch yourself, baby.”

“I’m fine, Mom. It’ll be fine.”

“I know it’s too late to tell you to keep those expectations realistic—”

“Mom.” Wyn felt herself blush. She had been practical and realistic with so much in her life. She got a day job to pay the bills because being a starving artist was bullshit, even if the day job left her drained. She could be realistic, but she knew the Mahdfel were great, and no one could tell her otherwise.

“If he doesn’t treat you right, you come on home.”

“Yes. Promise.”

Alana released Wyn with a kiss on the forehead like she was still a little girl. Sonia immediately hugged Wyn with everything in her being.

“I’m so mad at you right now, and there’s nothing I can do,” Sonia said, her voice muffled by Wyn’s hair.

“Everything will work out,” Wyn said. “This was going to happen. Better for it to happen on my terms.”

“Good on you for taking back your power, but this still sucks. I miss you already. You’re still here and I miss you.”

Her heart couldn’t take it. “Go spend all my alien booty money on something silly or don’t. Quit your job and make art. Make me some kick-ass art.”

Sonia pulled back, wiping at her eyes. “I’m going to art so hard. It’s gonna be like pow!”

Wyn smiled, because if she hadn’t mustered up the courage, they wouldn’t have had this moment. Wyn would have rushed out the door, nervous and slightly tipsy, without so much as a wave to her best friend.

It was better this way. Still sucked, though. There was no one in the whole universe like Sonia Redford, and Wyn would miss her friend. Plus, she made coffee and brought donuts, so an all-around good person to have. Well, unless the coffee and donuts were a trick, which they were.

“I’ll call when I get there,” Wyn said.

Sonia made a skeptical noise. “Please, you’ll be too busy choking on alien dick to call.”

“From your lips to God’s ears.”

“Bronwyn Davies, how dare you speak that way in front of your mother,” Sonia said, but Alana was right there laughing.

“Call us when you get there, baby,” her mother said.

Wyn gave a final wave. “Everything is going to be okay. It’s going to be like a luxury star cruise. I’m totally getting vibes from a muse. Maybe not mine, because the idea of a muse is so out there, but inspiration, which hasn’t happened in too damn long.” Was she smiling? Her face hurt from smiling.

“Ma’am, please sit. You don’t have to explain,” the soldier said.

“Sorry. I’m a nervous talker. You probably get that a lot. And crying.” She could totally picture the vehicle packed with wailing women. Fortunately, she had the back all to herself.

“Just so you know, they still teleport you even if you’ve been drinking.”

“Just nerves. Not looking to bend the rules.” But Sonia had. She pored over the network, sending Wyn article after article about how to cheat the test.

The whiskey wore off by the time they arrived at the testing facility. The soldier transferred Wyn into the custody of a massive red alien who looked physically incapable of smiling. He stayed by her side as her ID chip was scanned at the entry point and escorted her to a waiting room.

Wyn spotted a water cooler with teeny-tiny paper cups. She downed two easily, because the cups barely held enough for a mouthful.

“Bronwyn Davies?” A woman in medical scrubs and holding a tablet computer scanned the room. Wyn raised her hand.

Escorted into a back room, the red alien stayed as the nurse verified her information and instructed Wyn to sign the tablet.

“Alcohol does not delay your teleportation,” she said. “That gum doesn’t work on the test either, no matter what the packaging says.”

“I’m not normally a drinker. I’m nervous.”

“The contract says you have to give consent, but between you and me, they don’t give a rat’s tuchus if you’re drunk or tripping balls. They want you breathing and awake. That’s the legally mandated minimum.”

“I’m not trying to get out of going! I want to go.”

The nurse gave her a dubious look and approached with a wicked-looking needle.

“Wait, no. I pass.” Wyn scrambled backward, slamming into the red alien’s massive chest. She ached, like she hit a brick wall.

“You already signed the consent.”

“Not for the jabby-pokey!” Wyn flinched away from the needle.

“It’s the translator chip, and you need it to talk to your match. It will only take a moment if you stop squirming.” The nurse grabbed Wyn roughly by the ear and yanked her head down.

Honestly, the ear grab hurt worse than the pinch of the implant. Well, not as bad as the bitter betrayal of misinformation, but that wasn’t personal. The nurse manhandling her felt personal, though.

“There. You may experience vertigo and a headache while the interface activates,” the nurse waved a dismissive hand. She then shoved a tablet toward Wyn. “Sign this. And this. And here. Congratulations. Step this way and you’ll be whisked away to meet your mate.”

The nurse grabbed her by the elbow, and there was no arguing while they marched down the hall.

“But—” Wyn’s mind swam, muddled with the new information and the interfacing. That couldn’t be healthy.

The nurse administered a second injection in her arm. The sting barely registered. “Inoculations,” she explained. “You may experience lethargy and nausea.”

“Fantastic. My favorite things.”

“You shouldn’t let what people say about the aliens scare you,” the nurse said, misreading the look on Wyn’s face. “They’re not all bad, the Mahdfel.”

Wyn nodded. She wanted to explain that an alien had saved her life when she was a kid, but she just wanted to get this over with. “I hope he’s nice. He looks nice.”

The volunteer center had sent over a one-page brief on her match, consisting of little more than a photo and his name. Wyn may have stared at that photo every night before bed, trying to suss out her alien’s personality.

His complexion was a vivid purple, almost magenta. Two tall horns curled back from his brow. His features were a bit too broad, the jaw a touch too blunt, to be human, but his eyes sparkled. He looked as if he liked to laugh.

Wyn tried not to build him up too much in her mind because the reality would only disappoint her, but she felt she could fall for someone who laughed easily.

The nurse ushered her into a joining room dominated by very impressive and expensive-looking equipment.

“So this is why there’s no funding for the arts?” Wyn wanted to touch all the buttons.

“Stand on the x. There. Don’t move. It helps if you breathe in,” the tech said, barely looking up from the screens.

“Is this safe? For me? Will my medication affect—” Wyn ached from the double punishment of the implant and the inoculations. She clutched the inhaler, still in her cardigan pocket.

The lights in the room went dark.

“I wouldn’t worry. Side effects are rare,” the nurse said, her voice barely audible over the electric hum of the machinery.

The lights embedded in the floor glowed, luminosity increasing until the point of blindness.

“Wait, what side effects?” Wyn asked.

Reality stretched and dissolved.

Lorran:

The warlord stood over Lorran, lips pressed tight and an unreadable expression on his face.

“Sir.” Lorran scrambled to his feet.

Gavran followed his example. “You’re Drake and Axil’s father.”

“I am,” the warlord said.

“They won’t let me play with them. They say I’m too little.” Gavran planted his hands on his hips in a move so like Hazel that Lorran committed the image to his memory and vowed to horribly embarrass Gavran about sassing the warlord when he was old enough to be embarrassed by such things.

Lorran knew the warlord’s twin sons were little more than a year older than Gavran, but Mahdfel children grew quickly. In terms of physical development, a year was several inches of growth and increased mass. Lorran remembered his own frustration with being the youngest brother, always too small to join his brothers when they did anything interesting.

“Do they?” Paax took in the rock wall, his gaze lingering at the spot from which Gavran fell. “I believe the warrior is too young for such activities.”

“I’m not little,” Gavran protested.

“Apologies, young warrior, but perhaps you should start with a more suitable training exercise,” Paax suggested.

Yes. Lorran should have suggested that, rather than drag Gavran up a rock wall when his reach had insufficient span and he lacked the arm strength to keep himself from plummeting to the ground.

“Training is hard work. Fetch water for us all, warrior. We will need three. You must be mindful and not drop the water.” Paax pointed to a stall at the far end of the shooting range that provided hydration and nutritional supplements. “Can you complete this mission?”

Gavran’s chest puffed up. “Yes! I know how many three is.” He held up three fingers, then took off at a run. He tripped over his feet, picked himself up as if he had not stumbled, and continued to run.

Paax turned his attention to Lorran, an easy smile on his face. He blinked, and a hard expression settled over his face. Lorran stood up straighter. “We received a distress signal from a small Mahdfel vessel, the SRV-P11. I’m sending you out with Mylomon, immediately,” the warlord said.

Immediately. That meant he’d have to cancel his plans to spend the holiday with his family.

The warlord nodded, as if sensing his thoughts, and repeated, “Immediately. Seeran claims you will be ideal.”

Ah.

Lorran had often been deployed on information-gathering missions, but never to answer a distress signal and never directly assigned by the warlord. Usually, Seeran or another officer handed out mission assignments. “Sir, would a medic be better to send?”

“Ideally, but I haven’t the medics to spare, and half of my crew is on the Sangrin surface. We must be creative, and you are good with creative problem solving,” the warlord said.

Lorran’s chest puffed up with pride. He possessed many skills that his brothers lacked and felt gratified that the warlord noticed. Still, there was a reason the warlord sought him out rather than deliver the orders via the comm. He awaited further information.

“I am unsure what you will discover. The signal did not specify, but I know the crew. The vessel was tasked with conducting a survey on the fringe of Sangrin space. The vessel likely suffered a mechanical failure,” Paax said.

“But only Mylomon and myself? If we encounter anything beyond mechanical difficulties—”

“With the disruption in communications, it is unknown when the message was first sent. It is being broadcast on repeat.”

A repeating distress signal from the deep reaches, playing on loop for who knew how long.

Lorran nodded. The crew most likely had perished. This was not a rescue mission, but recovery.

“The warrior who sent the signal is known to me. If he still lives—” Paax scrubbed a hand over his face. “Ulrik is a friend. Do not leave him alone in the deep black.”

Definitely a recovery mission. No medics necessary.

Paax continued, “There may be another on board. He is also known to me. A slippery creature with a unique skill set, much like you.”

Lorran did not know what to make of that statement. He had some surface knowledge of several skills, but he excelled in gathering intel from people who might not realize they parted with said information. He teased out information from casual conversations and let the intelligence officers make of that what they would.

Some warriors did not regard his skills as honorable. They only saw lies and deception and did not consider that situations were complex with gray areas.

If anyone understood gray areas, it was the warlord. His second-in-command had served as assassin and continued to act as the warlord’s hand in many ways.

“Caldar has his uses, but he has been too long without a clan, I think,” Paax said.

“Do you have use for him here?” Did the warlord select Lorran to recruit another intelligence officer?

“If he is not too slippery to catch, yes.”

Well, that was ambiguous.

“When is departure?” Lorran asked, already mentally preparing what to bring for the mission. Too slippery? Did that mean bring this Caldar back by force? Or bribery? He doubted a straightforward offer of a place on the Judgment would be enough.

“Now. You are already late.”

Gavran reappeared with a handful of water cubes. The warlord praised his efforts and declared him a fine young warrior.

Lorran slung the equipment bag over his shoulder. He had little time to prepare and much to accomplish.