Page 12 of Retribution
Alone. He would spend the rest of his days alone. No wife. No children.
He ran a hand through his hair and paced faster.
He’d never held faith with old superstitions, but perhaps he really was cursed.
And now he had a human prisoner he was supposed to be torturing, but for a reason he couldn’t yet understand, he hadn’t actually hurt her yet. After three moon cycles of planning and imagining the moment of Layla’s death in the courtroom, he’d been unable to carry it out.
It was those damn soulful eyes of hers—so dark and full of pain—that had stopped him. She’d looked so innocent kneeling on the tarp in the courtroom, so innocent and frightened.
He’d spent the three moon cycles before the court date sharpening his weapons, preparing himself for the act of retribution.
Though he’d announced to the whole courtroom that he was keeping her in order to prolong her suffering, the words had tasted bitter, and he’d experienced a brief surge of sickness as he’d spoken them.
Why? Why couldn’t he march straight to the brig and exact his revenge?
He strode to the wall where he kept his weapons when he wasn’t wearing them. Knives, swords, axes, and hatchets gleamed underneath the overhead lights. Moving from weapon to weapon, he traced the blades.
Why couldn’t he will himself into a frenzy of excitement over the prospect of spilling Layla’s blood?
He backed away from the wall and returned to his bedroom, where he found a thick leather strap stowed away in a drawer beneath some clothing. He picked up the implement and turned it over in his hands, a plan forming in his mind.
His wrist comm buzzed, distracting him from his thoughts of revenge. He returned the strap to the drawer. Later. Perhaps later he would use it on his little human prisoner. Maybe once he saw her in pain, he would find he actually enjoyed her suffering and then he could bring himself to finish her off, as was his right, as was his duty. Her life belonged to him.
“Yes?” he spoke into the comm.
“General Zamek,” came Commander Vavvis’s voice, “we’ve discovered a field of wreckage approximately twentylignasaway. We estimate it contains the remnants of fifteen Verrsuan trading vessels.”
“Any idea what happened?” Zamek asked, already on his way to the bridge. His people had a close relationship with the Verrsuans and were obligated to investigate such a tragedy, as well as help any survivors.
“Our scans show a Bexxanian warbird recently passed through the area and fired weapons.”
Zamek cursed under his breath. “Set course for the wreckage field and immediately start scanning for any sign of survivors. I am on my way.”
He reached the bridge and found his crew working fast to gather more information about the situation. A screen showed three blinking dots amidst the floating wreckage, evidence of three surviving Verrsuans.
No Bexxanian warbirds could be found within theTammusha’sscanning range, but Zamek ordered his crew to continually scan for the aliens. Any enemy of the Verrsuans was an enemy of the Kall, and any Bexxanian ship they came across would be destroyed on sight, no questions asked.
It was well known the Bexxanians had attacked several Verrsuan trading vessels recently. If the Bexxanians didn’t cease the attacks, war would likely break out.
At the prospect of war, a rush of anticipation and power spread through Zamek. He’d been born to fight. As soon as he was old enough to walk, he’d begun sparring with his cousins and training to become a warrior. He’d become a Kall warrior at a young age, before he was even considered an adult among his people, and he had fought—and won—more battles than most warriors.
He’d always been driven by the fierce need to protect the Kall homeworld and his people’s trusted allies. Hand-to-hand combat was his preferred method of fighting. On the battlefield, he’d killed thousands of alien enemies, including humans. But in deep space, far from any habitable planet, any battle waged would be mostly fought with his warship’s advanced weaponry.
He frowned at the thought, but his spirits rose at the prospect of boarding a Bexxanian warbird. His muscles tensed at the promise of an impending battle.
Once they reached the debris field, the three surviving Verrsuans were rescued and brought to theTammusha’smedical bay. Zamek hurried to the medical bay to greet them and to his relief found they hadn’t sustained life-threatening injuries.
“What can you tell us about the attack?” he asked the highest ranking among them, a Verrsuan male named Amorrga.
“We were on our way to Xernnal,” the male replied, referring to a well-known tourist planet, “when a Bexxanian warbird chased us down and began firing on our trading vessels. We surrendered—our ships, even fifteen of them, are no match for a Bexxanian warbird—and they boarded our vessels and stole our cargo.”
“And even though you surrendered, they still destroyed all your ships after they took your cargo?”
“Yes,” Amorrga said with a sorrowful look. He glanced around the medical bay. “I can’t believe they killed all but three of us. I’d heard the Bexxanians were deadly, but I never imagined they might level such a brutal attack against us.” He shook his bloodied head, and the doctor treating him paused for a moment until the Verrsuan once again grew still. “I thought if we surrendered…” His voice trailed off.
“The Bexxanians are without honor,” Zamek said. “I promise your crew will be avenged. We will find this warbird and destroy it. If you’ll excuse me, I must contact the High Council on my homeworld. They must be made aware of the escalating situation with the Bexxanians.”
Amorrga caught Zamek’s arm. “Will there be a war?”
