Page 5 of Defiance
“Cut the shit,” his XO said with an unamused glare. His bionic wasn’t visible or audible to anyone else, but the display looked like the old venandi’s ghost was hovering a few feet in front of him on a swing arm. “I wanted to give you the good news myself. Dr Ahlberg is going into labor, and you’ve been cordially invited.”
Novak froze, eyes wide and ears as hot as torches.
Several satbits prior, Novak did something highly illegal and without the express permission of Chairman Ferulis. He’d let the very charismatic, very human Ambassador Olivia Atarian convince him to give a private donation. Dr Amelia Ahlberg and her clinical colleague Ezraji Zarabi wanted to start the first human-shilpakaari diversified family.
It had been a solid trade in his mind. He’d go under the pretense of helping them and be able to map the colony, search for evidence of Lokurian’s involvement in nefarious attempts to hack human genetic data, and ensure that the refugees were well-protected. He was more acquainted than most with the veneer that covered the Union’s open sores, and he didn’t trust anything but his own eyes.
But after that trip, he wasn’t going back. He couldn’t. He had averygood reason to stay away.
“I appreciate their invitation but–”
“I’ve arranged some gifts. Under the table, of course. You’ll escort them there with Xata. Ah, and the yiwreni…midwaif.”Ferulis checked his notes and rolled his shoulder, stretching out the mandibles that covered a mouthful of fangs. “She’ll need a protective detail for the journey.”
“The what?” Novak’s tail smacked between building walls as his mind raced.
“Some kind of mammalian doctor that helps with birth.” Ferulis smiled mirthlessly, the intensity of his one-eyed stare as sharp as a stiletto. “This is a joyous occasion, and it is our duty to ensure the health and happiness of our people.”
Novak’s plume mail flexed slowly beneath his shirt, disturbing the fabric with ating-ting-tingas they settled back into place. This wasn’t a social call. Something was happening that Ferulis couldn’t talk about openly, even on a secure line. He looked over his shoulder at the clinic, flexed his gums, and gave Ferulis a curt nod.
“I’ll arrange travel as soon as I’ve completed my donor check-in.”
Ferulis snapped his mandibles together and they cracked loud in Novak’s ears.
“Xata’s ship is already docked for other business. She’s waiting for you to disembark.”
“It’ll only take fifteen beats…” Novak trailed to a stop, looking at that hawkish glare. He licked the venom from his fang and swallowed it down. They were full to bursting, but he’d played Hook-Line-Sinker his entire life. Maybe Ferulis had too. “Actually, the line’s pretty long. If I delay, Xata might not get in the outbound queue until tomorrow morning.”
Ferulis’s mandibles vibrated with displeasure. “Not an option. Themidwaifneeds to arrive as soon as possible. Besides, there are fruits onboard for Dr Ahlberg that will spoil.”
“Expensive ones, I’m guessing.”
“Very.”
“Can’t have that…” Novak took one last look at the lounge. The boy was standing at the counter now, tail wound around his leg like a nervous vine.
Novak’s feet were moving before he knew it, carrying him out of the alley at a brisk pace.
“Have Xata warm up the engines. I’ll be there in ten.”
02
Renata, Yaspur, Mandaahl System.
The steaming heat of the jungle was always milder on the banks of the Saphed River.
It was the hardest part about acclimating to life outside of Ireland. Wouldn’t have mattered if I was in Miami, Florida or an alien jungle moon, which happened to be exactly where I’d been parked for the last… year? Hard to tell, and the humidity didn’t care either. It turned my sandy strawberry hair into a tangle worse than old fishing nets, and that tiny bastard sun called forth forty-three years of age spots and freckles like I’d fallen into a sack of cinnamon.
And it still rainedevery bloody day.The absolute cheek of it.
It was sunny now, though, so I reclined against the strappy back of the lounge chair I’d ordered off the holomarket last month with a satisfied sigh like a tom cat sunning on a rubbish bin. Made for the muddy banks and marshes of Dharatee, the chair was “sink-proof, rust-proof, and won’t singe your stripes after a long day in the sun!”
I’d been skeptical, but the adverts didn’t lie. I could leave it out in the sun, slide off my waders, and sit down on my bare butt without sizzling my bacon or sinking into the black clay. I rapt my knuckles against the lower armrest—it had four—and wondered again how it stayed cool and floating. But like ducttape, it was one of those masterful strokes of applied science (applied magic?) that you just accepted as superior to any alternative.
Anyway, I was an aquaculturist, not an alien engineer, so the answers would definitely soar over my head.
My holotab’s timer buzzed against my thumb, cutting my relaxing interlude short. I sighed and stood up with a rubbery creak. I’d left my waders on so that I wouldn’t get clay on the inside and have to hose them out later, but I’d turned into a sweaty mess as a result. I couldn’t get back out in the water fast enough.
I opened a new voice log and made sure the holographic blue spectrogram hovering above my forearm was capturing sound. The software would automatically cut out any embarrassing grunts, coughs, or sniffs, and shorten the time between speech while transcribing, so I could just let it run.
