Page 5 of Shadows of Stardust

They’re not an impressive lot.

Vas-Greshirans and Nexxans, Jurvians, a Sendahlan and a Volbherran or two. A beaked Aventri with wings plumed in vibrant ruby and even a Szenak with jet-black scales and a wickedly spiked tail. All ostensibly good-looking, by whateverstandard Mate Match’s audience uses to judge such things, and swaggering as they take their place center stage.

When the second cruiser opens, it’s much of the same. Enough polished beauty to bore me to tears, though the rest of the beach seems to hold its breath as the second set of contestants step onto the stage.

Only to let it out in a collective exhale when the human exits the cruiser.

She’s impossible to miss. The smallest of the bunch, her stature is short and slight, with barely any visible musculature and no notable defenses. No claws, no protective plating, and though she doesn’t smile, the way her lips sit over her mouth does not suggest it contains anything but blunt, useless teeth.

Her eyes are big and round—with excitement, possibly, or nerves. It’s hard to judge the expression on her pale, plain face. Though I can’t quite make out the color from this distance, her eyes have defined irises framed by stark white that make them look even wider.

Her face, too, is rounded, with full cheeks, a narrow nose turned up at the tip, and a small indent in the middle of a softly defined chin. A few strands of dark brown hair frame that round face, with the rest of it tied in a plait that hangs forward over her shoulder.

She stands with her hands clasped behind her back, her chin held high despite whatever nerves or fright are coursing through her, and takes her place next to the other contestants.

A murmur runs up and down the beach, and I almost think I can see her flinch when six of the crew’s hovercams focus squarely on her, drifting in slow arcs to capture her from a few different angles.

Strange, for a contestant to voluntarily sign up for this show, only to shy away from the cameras.

I may have just imagined it, though, as she recovers almost immediately. Straightening her spine, tilting up her chin, squaring her shoulders, falling into a more confident posture as the cameras continue their study of her.

The clothes she’s wearing are… also strange. A fitted tunic top made of plain gray fabric. A pair of shapeless, dull green pants cinched at the waist with a utilitarian belt and tucked into a pair of sturdy black boots. The whole outfit looks like it came from some sort of prison.

Or, I mentally amend as I study it a few moments more, a military.

My interest is unwillingly piqued.

The rest of the cast members are dressed in vibrant colors and ostentatious fashions from a dozen different galaxies, all doing their damndest to stand out and catch as much camera time as possible. Perhaps this little human simply missed the memo on wardrobe, or perhaps she didn’t have the funds to purchase anything else to wear.

It would hardly be a surprise, given the bits and pieces I’ve picked up about her species.

No homeworld, their people scattered through a hundred star systems, placed on whatever planet the Seventh Sector Council could find a place for them. In the pecking order of the universe, they’re near the bottom.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a mental file opens without my bidding it to.

The deeply ingrained result of almost two decades’ worth of training, I compile details and questions, a list that might help me figure out what kind of threat she poses, how I might best keep tabs on her.

Madness, another small, deep-brain voice cautions.

Whether born out of sheer boredom or my need to exercise the skills that have been languishing since my demotion six cycles ago, some sane part of me knows it’s madness.

This human poses no threat.

A curiosity. That’s all she is.

Small and defenseless. Only here for the same reason anyone comes on this show—fame and exposure and the chance to capitalize on both those boons through sponsorships and appearances after filming wraps, to make a name for herself in the sector.

Not a bad reason to compete, all things considered, for one small human adrift in the vast cosmic shuffle.

“Gods,” the first moronic guard breathes, shaking me from those thoughts. “Look at her. The perfect size to take a ride on my—”

“If you can’t improve the silence, I would suggest you refrain from speaking.”

Both guards look over at me, and I try not to let the flash of fear in their eyes inflate my ego any more than strictly necessary.

I’m sure I’ve heard their names at some point, but remembering them is just one more thing on the long list I care nothing about here on Eritin II.

The smaller of the two recovers first, snorting a laugh. “Big Aux cadet over here, eh? We’ll certainly sleep better at night knowing you’re keeping us safe from the big, bad human.”

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