Bad Fate: A Science Fantasy

Notes on Isra

The Planet Isra is similar in size to Earth, under a Type K star. It has slightly lower gravity, and a thicker atmosphere.

A year on Isra is nearly the same length as a year on Earth, falling short by nine days. The Calendar used by the Empire is ten months, each three weeks long. The weeks are ten days, each day is thirty hours. It starts on the spring solstice.

A typical week in the Empire is seven days on, with three days off, called week’s end.

Chapter 1

Outpost Vero; 25th Day, 3rd Month, 1887th year AF

Seti Alpha 2345 sat on the empty bunk, holding his left arm close to his chest plate. It kept the tactile membrane from pulling, aching, while he waited for repair. The limb gave out a few hours ago, and he’d been ordered out of the way.

Captain Noril, in charge of Outpost Vero, hadn’t put in a request for repair yet. 2345 wasn’t surprised. The single Seti Alpha assigned to this outpost had never been one of the Captain’s priorities.

Reluctantly, 2345 had logged the malfunction with the Dragon, so something would be done. Still, the wait was tedious, and he didn’t like being alone.

Footsteps down the hall, three quick-paced individuals. Two were familiar, Ensign Feruk of Clan Sendar and Lieutenant Mulri of Clan Ruha. They always walked in unison, but Feruk dragged the claws on his right foot. The third was puzzling, no one on base had a stride that long or quiet.

The door swung open, recognition immediate.

Sir. 2345 moved to stand.

The tall figure in the white lab coat raised a grey-scaled hand, forestalling him. Messy black crest-feathers jutted out from his head, complexion the pale tan common to the capital. Tech goggles covered his eyes, irritation twisting his jaw. The lab coat’s edges brushed the floor, and fastened all the way to his neck.

Lieutenant Mulri’s orange eyes narrowed, noting the deference. Perhaps not all Clan Ruha were idiots.

How long has he been alone? The technician’s tone was bland, belied by his stiff back.

What’s it matter? snapped Feruk, dark brown crest-feathers flaring briefly. Just fix it so we can get back to work. He and Mulri moved to take up positions against the far wall.

I chose a location out of the way, 2345 said. I wasn’t expecting anyone so soon. For the technician to be here now, the man must have dropped everything and boarded a shuttle the moment the arm quit responding. Guilt stirred in his processor.

The technician shook his head, crossing to him and setting down his tool bag. What mess did you get into this time? he muttered, low enough only 2345 could hear. Are they always so unpleasant?

I’m not sure what went wrong, there was a snap and my arm wouldn’t work. 2345 dropped his voice. As for our company, what did you tell them, sir?

That I’m a licensed Seti Technician. An easy reply, accompanied by a small, smug smile. Which I am. The only one in the Empire.

2345’s sinking sensation had nothing to do with the plates being removed from his back. A sharp pain, then nothing as the technician disconnected the sensors. The tactile membrane was peeled back, gently pinned out of the way.

The supervising pair watched without interest. Feruk leaned in towards Mulri, addressing him in an old dialect only the Clans used. Can’t believe someone came so fast, he muttered, sneering. Couldn’t get service like that when the generator blew, or when the refrigeration system failed.

Mulri shrugged, glancing at the technician and frowning. Careful, he whispered. Keep your voice down.

2345 prayed Feruk would listen. This could only go badly otherwise.

Come on, he doesn’t know what I’m saying. Feruk waved a hand. What’s got you so worried?

The technician worked as though oblivious, using long-handled hemostats to pull wires out of the way.

Mulri’s eyes were still wary. Don’t be so sure, look at the size of him, did you see his talons? he muttered. They’re nearly seven inches, hooked, Clan cut.

There hadn’t been laws dictating talon cut for five hundred years, but few deviated from the standards even now. Civilians kept theirs below three inches, anything over four was Clan. Feruk’s barely made the four inch mark, while Mulri’s were nearly five.

I think it’s an old dueler’s cut. Mulri wasn’t wrong. They were in a particular style, never fashionable, and favored only by the serious.

Got it, the technician said, indifferent to the muttering across the room. Sheared bolt. I’ve a replacement, don’t worry. The offending metal bit was dropped onto the floor.

Thank you, sir. Worry ate at 2345, but it didn’t concern his arm. Hopefully, a simple fix would give Feruk less time to get himself in trouble.

Please, he’s a tech. Feruk couldn’t keep his mouth shut, dashing those hopes. Some pretentious civilian who lucked out with his height. Probably thinks taking a handful of classes makes him better than us, decided to make a statement. Bet those talons are half lacquer. Too bad we can’t cut them out, like in the old days.

Sure. Mulri rolled his eyes. The old days, full of rebelling civilians out to burn down your house with you inside. Just the time period to recapture, he muttered. Can’t wait.

Pessimist, said Feruk. Your Patron keeps talking about taking over the Empire, thought you would be more enthused.

Mulri stiffened, glancing with alarm at the technician. Still no reaction, and he tentatively answered. Dursk talks plenty, but even if he gets Ruha placed above Sendar before this fall, he would have to go through Delapore and Tarkas as well. Not likely in general, much less in time.

You don’t think he could get through two challenges? Feruk said, hissing derision. One an old man?

2345 felt the technician go completely still. Out of options, he sent a small message to the base commander’s data pad. Hopefully, the Captain would read it, quickly.

The Chancellor isn’t that old, Mulri corrected. Concerning Delapore, Dursk would have to get through the Lord Marshal before he got anywhere near the Emperor, and Lord 639’s beat him three times already.

The technician moved again, 2345 felt him putting everything back in place.

As for the Emperor, I wouldn’t want to fight him.

Why not? Feruk asked as the last back-plate was snapped into place. 2345’s arm would reset in a minute, maybe two. How much fight could he have?

Care to find out?

That dangerous question, addressed in Clan dialect, brought all attention to the technician. The goggles were pulled back from eyes the color of fresh blood. Gar of Clan Delapore, Emperor of the Kahlrani, gave the two a smile that was all teeth.

Tell me, he said, flexing his black talons. "How much fight do you think I have?"

Mulri’s knee hit the floor, bending over in the deepest bow he could manage. Feruk stood there, jaw working but no sound coming out.

Gar stalked closer, using his greater height to make Feruk back up.

I-I… Feruk stammered. I didn’t mean it. His eyes darted, seeking a way out. Why, why didn’t you say anything?

Gar pulled back, gazing down at him. Assumptions are tricky. You assumed I couldn’t understand you, couldn’t be an engineer and in the Clans. Unfortunately incorrect on both counts. As for my ability to hold the title of Emperor… There was a highly uncomfortable pause. Shall we fight for it?

Feruk shook his head rapidly.

Gar’s grin was dangerous, a light in his eyes. He leaned forward fractionally, causing a visible surge of panic in Feruk, the man’s feathers flattened and his breathing became rapid.

The door burst open, Captain Noril charging in, eyes wide and breathing heavily. Sir, he gasped. I wasn’t notified of your arrival.

Gar raised a silencing hand. You’re late, Captain. I was just leaving. He turned to 2345. Have any personal affects here?

No?

Good, you’re with me.

2345 stood, moving to grab the tool bag, but Gar shooed him away.

I don’t understand. The Captain glanced between the Emperor and his cowed men. Is the repair not done?

2345 is being reassigned, Gar said, glaring at Noril. That shoulder damage is from regularly exceeding carry capacity. I gave you the best marksman in the Empire, you obviously haven’t been utilizing those skills. Misuse of Imperial resources loses you the privilege of them. He pushed past the man into the hallway.

2345 followed close behind. Any other reasons for my reassignment, Sir? he asked as they left the building and approached the waiting shuttle.

Gar smiled, shrugging. Not wanting to see your talents wasted isn’t enough? The Emperor tossed his tool case on board. I would feel better with you at my back for a while. I’m only acting-Emperor until I receive the Mantle this fall. If anyone’s going to try something, such as Dursk keeps threatening, they have four months to do it. He climbed onto the shuttle, turning to offer 2345 a hand.

2345 hesitated, and didn’t miss the flash of hurt in Gar’s eyes, though it was quickly hidden. It was silly, the incident long past, and 2345 had forgiven it immediately. He took the hand.

Gar brightened. After that, I’ve got a cushy civilian job for you, assuming you still want a curator position.

You remembered? In his ten years as Gar’s bodyguard, he mentioned his preferred occupation once.

Gar laughed, falling haphazardly into a seat. Even if I hadn’t, I could find out fast enough, he said, leaning back into the seat cushion. Aunt Velia? What did 2345 want to do when we release him from tactical? He slid into the alien tongue of his aunt, pitching up his voice, sounding irritated. Art curator. Get him a gallery.

You’ll be in trouble if she catches you at that. 2345 wouldn’t comment on accuracy, one never knew when Velia was listening.

Gar waved carelessly. She’ll have me weeding the gardens until I’m thirty. I did remember, though, and if I can get everything moving, we’ll be fine.

2345 sat across from his Emperor, hoping the man was right.

Imperial Gardens

Gar panted. The early morning sun was behind him, and should be providing an advantage. So far, no luck. He lunged, swinging low with his right hand, deflecting a counter with his left. Barely touching his opponent, a swift kick sent him sprawling backwards. Rolling up into a crouch, he lunged again. He was fast, his opponent slow on the turn. Feinting, he dodged left to swipe up.

His talons sliced air, the other had moved.

A blow landed on his ribs, sending him back into the dirt. He gasped, struggling to understand the other’s address to him. Gar’s ears were pounding.

Haven’t you had enough? Lord Marshal Seti 639 gazed at his nephew with impassive red optics. The sun was dull on his tan plating, transmitter cables a mess from the work-out.

Gar shook his head, crest-feathers everywhere. Dragging himself up, he attempted to play off how his side ached. The sun was warm, the whole of the gardens in bloom, and he intended to be dead on his feet before giving up. It was too warm for his dull cream shirt, but going without would reveal the mess of bruises he had acquired, impeding the acquisition of more.

I’m just getting started. Gar smiled, leaning back, promptly wishing he hadn’t. His back was agony, he would be sore later. No, he was sore now, later he would be stiff and achy.

You said that an hour ago.

Gar hated hearing that concern, guilt bubbling in his chest. He needed this, needed his uncle to keep going. If the Lord Marshal had any idea how much he was hurting, these lessons would stop altogether.

Luckily, a voice in a nearby shrub interrupted them.

Ought to know his limits, called Aunt Velia. Only her long, white and blue tail was visible, hanging over the edge of a raised flower-bed. The sun on the blue hide was nearly iridescent, emphasizing the black ring-spot pattern running in a line from her nose to that slowly twitching tail. Let him try, and suffer for it. Learn from experience, or don’t learn.

Gar grinned, appreciating her letting him get into trouble. Come on then. He attempted to get his uncle’s attention, sliding into a stance. Let’s get on with it.

Lord 639 shook his head, protesting grind from his processor, and took position across from him.

Gar tensed, looking for an opening and knowing there wasn’t one.

A slight musical tone distracted them, Aunt Velia’s data pad, the ringer for off-world calls. She stood, smeared in dirt with bits of vegetation hanging off her black, back-swept horns. Sliding her hair out of her face, she pressed a muddy finger to her earpiece.

He winced, adding redesigning her tech to his mental schedule. Maybe one that was easier to clean, possibly water resistant. She went through an alarming number of them, possibly on purpose.

Yes? Her voice was all lazy politeness, quickly replaced with concern. Language I speak, please. Her green eyes widened, pupils narrowing to slits. Azrelkhan?

The Gharim never called.

"What? Slow down. Aunt Velia blinked, wheels turning in her eyes. Yes. Call Vic for coordinates. Call Targ. Send the paperwork to Mar’den Vash. I’ll be on the ground in eight hours. She huffed. No faster, not letting you send me directly. Get off the line. She ended the call with a swipe of her hand. 639? She looked at her husband with a pained expression. Borrow your ship, please?"

I suppose. The Lord Marshal walked over to the flowerbed, waiting. Uncle 639 wanted to offer Aunt Velia a hand, but that would start an irritated round of hissing centering on being able to do things herself. What’s the problem, that it needs the Storm?

Velia sighed and shook her head. Holding out her hand, Lord 639 immediately helped her out of the mud. The constant dance of his uncle’s care-taking and his aunt’s begrudging toleration didn’t make any sense. Especially as once she was on the ground his hands were all over her, without a sound of protest on her part.

Azrelkhan discovered an unexpected child. Another tone, her data pad receiving something. She dug it out of her pocket, scrolling through the information while leaning into 639’s chest. Sebastian, age twenty-three, arrested this morning in Chicago. Az wants him out. She glanced at Gar. Permission to speak for the Empire? A point of formality, she had no power unless he granted it.

Gar moved to the pile of breakable belongings he had set aside for sparring. I’ll have the forms taken to the Storm. He dug his data pad out, typing a few commands. The opportunity was perfect. Invite this Sebastian to come here, he suggested. He’s a cross, right? We’re equipped to handle Gharim and humans, can’t think of any other places that are.

Azrelkhan the Black and Zekalner the Blue were semi-regular guests. Velia got them to show up to at least one diplomatic event a year. This man’s misfortune could prove beneficial to the Empire, if Gar played his cards right.

Good idea, Velia said, tapping her chin, oblivious to the mud she was smearing there. Let you know. She stroked 639’s neck briefly, and took off for the spaceport. Her tail swayed, a distinct wave indicating interrupting her was unwise.

She’s covered in dirt, Gar said.

Lord 639 shrugged, brushing mud from his plates where she had leaned. There’s a set of formal wear on the Storm. She’ll be fine. You, however, have things to do. What’s your schedule?

Gar hissed irritably. He had been purposefully not thinking about it. Something for every hour. Paperwork, meetings, paperwork, research, paperwork; the list was unending. With Velia leaving, he would probably get saddled with her paperwork. Hopefully her task wouldn’t take more than a day or two, lest he drown in grass pulp. He dreamed of a paperless future, and knew that in the reality of government and bureaucracy there would always be hard-copy.

Don’t wear yourself out, Lord 639 said.

Gar waved off his concern. I’ll be fine. Aunt Velia manages. He suspected she had found a way to replace sleep with tea.

Lord 639 gave a resigned grind. Velia has more power than she knows what to do with, and the entirety of the Seti Alpha backing her. Besides, her workaholic ways are not something to aspire to.

Interruption in the form of a cleared throat. Done for the morning?

Gar sighed, turning to face his least favorite part of the day.

Lord Mesk of Clan Tarkas, Chancellor of the Empire, stood with a slight list. His white crest feathers were neat, long, and always in place. Uniform precise and spotless, he was a beacon of orderly inevitability.

Gar clawed at his own feathers, sighing when one flopped right back into his face. The rest settled into their usual mess, the shorter ones on top jutting out at odd angles.

Seti Alpha 1042 stood just behind the Chancellor in a crisp, civic-cream uniform, holding a data pad and a sheaf of papers. The paperwork had found him.

I suppose, Gar said, looking over at Lord 639. Did you need anything, before I go? He prayed his uncle has some glorious, not-boring job that needed doing. Unfortunately, the Lord Marshal shook his head, wished him luck, and took his leave. It was like being abandoned to wild predators.

Good, Lord Mesk said. We have a great deal of work to get through.

Gar’s heart sank with every word, following his Chancellor. A distinct, familiar limp drew his eye to Lord Mesk’s prosthetic leg. Something should be done about it, it was perfectly sound tech. Another task, needing time he didn’t have.

They headed inside, out of the warm sun, and toward the small back-room office Gar called his own. Aunt Velia had chosen it for him, and he had no luck getting it changed. Cramped and windowless, it discouraged procrastination. Effective that way, he spent every moment in it desperately trying to catch up so he could leave. Collapsing into his chair—the only comfortable thing in the room—he took a deep breath.

The papers hit the desk with a disheartening thunk.

What’s first? Gar asked, pulling out a pen. The top half of the stack just needed signatures. Lord Mesk had prepared them, and could have sent them off already. Yet here they were, taking up space and time.

Reassignments, Lord Mesk said.

Gar huffed and began signing them.

You should read those first, Mesk added.

Gar didn’t bother looking up. The morning’s work-out had the desired effect of leaving him too tired to give in, and too tired to be nasty about it. 1042 does reassignments.

The unit in question shifted his weight, still standing just off from the Chancellor, but made no comment.

He does. Mesk’s tone was not amused. Gar wasn’t sure when 1042 had migrated from being Lord 639’s second to being Lord Mesk’s aide, but the Chancellor had said more than once that he couldn’t do without the Seti Alpha.

He’s working off my Aunt’s databases, Gar continued. Which she keeps precise, organized, and thorough.

He is, and she does. Mesk’s disapproval with Gar’s attitude permeated every word. The Chancellor adored and despised those databases, sputtering over their usefulness, offended at their invasion of privacy.

You’ve signed off on the work crews, Gar said.

I have.

Gar paused to look at him. My uncle’s signed off on the troops. Lord 639 micromanaged the military with the same fervor that Velia did the gardens.

He has.

So why should I spend my morning second-guessing the four most competent individuals on this planet? Gar asked. If I can’t rely on you to know your jobs, my term as Emperor is doomed. He went back to signing the papers, skimming the hard numbers but still not reading.

We arrange, you officiate. It’s your job. Mesk’s voice was dry and even.

Gar sighed, and waved at the desk. If I read all these, we’ll never get out of here, he muttered. It was all so regular, this job completed, that job started, this job in progress and within budget. Anything that didn’t fall into those categories would be mentioned, so why didn’t they just skip to that part? Such as the note 1042 was giving right now. Say that again, he prompted, sure he had misheard.

1042’s processor whirred. The projected completion date for Channel Two has been extended by four weeks, and the Concert Hall has been put off for next year.

Why? It was an inordinate amount of delay.

For the Channel, half the crew is being reassigned to repair the Eastern Desert Outpost.

No, Gar said. Absolutely not. I’m not letting something as important as the Channel repair get pushed off for that sand bucket. He shook his head. I don’t give a damn about that whole stupid, deserted continent. There is nothing over there that needs attention right now. And probably wouldn’t for generations. The arid stretch of land was on the other side of Isra, and had never held more than a few outposts and mining operations.

The Chancellor cleared his throat. Clan Kero is insisting. Damn it. For all his sensibility, Mesk wouldn’t willingly make waves with the other Clan heads. Probably because as the lone survivor of Clan Tarkas, the Chancellor had no backup outside of Gar.

They can insist all they like. The Capital, and the Channel, have priority. It was ridiculous to divert their resources right now.

You cannot risk turning Kero against you, not before you have the Mantle, Mesk said.

The crux of the problem, his currently semi-official status. I’ll work around it. Get all of the work crew back on the Channel. I want it done next week, as promised. Three bridges down were already playing havoc with traffic, and the police were outraged it had taken this long. We’ve already had to delay it twice, I can’t afford more than a month. Not to mention the hell he would get from the Guild Masters if it wasn’t operational soon. A thousand times worse than what Kero’s Matron could deliver. What’s wrong with the Concert Hall?

Without an orchestra, and none likely to visit, there doesn’t seem to be much press to finish it, 1042 said.

Indeed, Mesk added. Those work crews would be better placed elsewhere.

I guaranteed the Musician’s Guild a place to perform. I promised it to them last year. If I don’t deliver, we’re going to have to start shucking out credits for their services. Credits he didn’t have, if he wanted other, more pertinent projects completed.

You also guaranteed Horali the washed-out portion of Road 696 would be repaired, 1042 said. And while we’re there we might as well fix the checkpoint post. It’s in a state, and the crew working on the Hall could take care of it quickly.

Fine, Gar said. But once the post is fixed I want them back on the Hall. I don’t need the plaza full of angry musicians. The sheer amount of attention they could draw, it didn’t bare thinking about. He refocused on the stack, hoping there was nothing else in it to stretch his resources.

Reaching the military forms, he winced. Another recovery?

Mesk nodded, solemn. His feathers were tight to his head, frown small. It’s not really surprising.

No, it wasn’t, and he read this form in its entirety. Outpost Vero’s third patrol had found the remains, surprisingly intact for a hundred and fifteen years dead. Two adults, three keets. Probably a family, fleeing the plague that was slaughtering their people by the millions. They couldn’t have known they were already infected, long before the first symptoms hit. The plague was engineered, tailored perfectly to them for maximum contagiousness and fatality. What should have been the final blow the Torga inflicted on them in their war. This family had run, tried to save themselves, their children. It wasn’t the first such family or group found, nor would they be the last.

While the Seti Alpha had spent years combing through the ruins of the Empire’s smaller towns, recovering and recording the dead, the patrols were responsible for finding those who had fled into the wilds. As the outposts filled in, the number of patrols climbed, they were venturing further and further into remote areas, and so those who had run in desperation were found, and brought home as best was possible.

Have samples sent to Velia’s office, he muttered. The rest should be burned with all rites. Are there any who knew them? Family, friends, or even neighbors who had wound up among the survivors were always a slim possibility.

No, 1042 said. At least, none we know of.

Post their names in the news feed, and give it a few days. If anyone did know them, he’d have to prepare a letter. An official acknowledgment was cold comfort, but he liked to think it was better than nothing.

That family, was it that they were so far removed that they were left? Or was it that they weren’t what was required for study? They couldn’t have known there was no escape, save those who were abducted.

Gar frowned. They still couldn’t be certain who the third party was, who had snatched up a few thousand plague-riddled Kahlrani and dragged them off to that remote, secret space station. The purpose, to study the bio-weapon plague, was fairly clear, but who the Pougren were working for was still a mystery. A mystery for another day, there was still work to do, and maybe it would chase this melancholy off.

Outpost Vero is still requesting a replacement for 2345, 1042 said, when Gar resumed mechanically signing the military forms.

Gar smiled, flipping through until he found the right form. A lovely change of mood, certainly. Tearing it in half, he stuffed it into the wastebasket next to his desk and returned to signing.

Do you really intend to ignore them? Mesk asked, sounding tired.

Gar glanced up, but Mesk looked no more worn than usual. He turned to 1042. Did you ever find out what they were using him for?

There was an unhappy whir from 1042’s processor. Receiving. Unloading shipments and hauling them to storage.

Gar burned inside, working hard to keep his face blank. Basic labor, the sort of thing those idiots should be managing between patrols. What exactly are they requesting?

2345 had been sent as a range instructor, to boost their awful performance numbers. 1042 did not answer, so that’s not what they were bitching about losing.

Request denied, Gar snapped, and turned to Mesk. I won’t let them use the Seti to shirk work. If I can carry my own crap, so can they. He ignored any other noises of protest and got back to work, lacking the energy to stay furious. He had made his decision. Mesk would just have to live with it.

Gar would have to add Noril to the private, ever-growing list of people who would not be getting Seti assigned under them. He relied heavily on Aunt Velia to keep him informed when units were unhappy with their supervisors, but it was very likely that there were many who never spoke up, going along out of misplaced sympathy and loyalty. Terribly co-dependent, all of them, but it wasn’t right to take advantage of it. Another thing that needed adjusting, but that would have to wait till fall, when he had the clout to push it through. Not that it would be easy, even then.

Signing the last of the forms he leaned back in the chair. What’s next? Gar paid no attention to the pointed look his Chancellor gave the completed stack. This would be a long day without giving in and re-reading. Mesk fixed him with an unhappy golden stare, but he would not back down. Not this time. He stared back, not so much as glancing at the papers. To do so would admit defeat, a lesson learned the hard way. The blissful exhaustion kept his emotions to a dull thrum, he had no anger to spare on a fight.

After a moment 1042 snaked in and snatched the pile, ending the stand-off.

We’ve staffing problems at Kepsi. Lord Mesk sounded incredibly uninterested. One of your pet projects, I know. One of dozens, but Gar wasn’t going to say anything. If you insist on pushing for Conclave recognition, we require a professor for recent galactic history, and a linguist.

Gar tapped a talon on his armrest. Two things that couldn’t be found on Isra, nor easily hired. He had no credits to spend, everything caught up in other projects. What sort of linguist?

Mesk shrugged, still unconvinced galactic recognition was worthwhile, but dutifully relaying the information. One that can teach an approved Conclave language, written and spoken, at beginner, intermediate, and advanced levels. They need to be able to cover history, dialect issues, and so on.

Gar narrowed his eyes, he might have something, but needed to check the particulars. Send me the details and put the classes up for this coming trimester. A week and a half, plenty of time if he was creative. Both Mesk and 1042 radiated disapproval, but he pushed ahead.

What else? He had meetings to get to, meetings that would go much smoother if he wasn’t delayed. Four Guild Masters and three Clan complaints were waiting for him. He looked forward to them like a crustacean might a pot of boiling water.

Lord Mesk smiled, and Gar’s heart plummeted to the vicinity of his feet. There’s the issue of the Golira Garden party.

Damn Soel, surely it was the misery the late Emperor caused that made Mesk so love tormenting him. That’s Velia’s party. He wasn’t whining, really. Let her deal with it.

Mesk didn’t quite laugh at him. Lady Velia worked very hard to restore the Garden Parks, he said. If she wishes to celebrate their completion, it’s her right.

Believe me, I know. Gar had a front-row seat to every dinner where she dragged herself home, covered in sand, exhausted and snappish. Golira was the last of the retaken cities’ parks, and had proven the most challenging. The sandy soil, pervasive humidity, and multitude of insects were nothing like what his aunt had dealt with on the northern continent. Even Horali, whose cold winds and rocky ground had brought weeks of bitter complaint, had nothing on the sweltering tropic that was Golira.

Upon making her breakthrough, it was like a long stretch of oppressive weather breaking. Velia wanted to open it with a full affair, music and food and formal wear. The party itself wasn’t the problem, his aunt had done all the planning and arranging, and Gar liked a party as much as the next person.

What do I need to do? She’s had everything set up for weeks.

Mesk put out a hand, and 1042 slid a data pad into it. Lady Velia has booked every musician she could get her claws on. Not as impressive as it sounded, there were less than a hundred trained musicians in the Empire. Still enough to cause trouble if he didn’t keep his promises, though. As such, you’ll need to approve space for them to practice in. Something that wouldn’t be a problem if he could get the damned Hall finished. Remember, this is a lead up for the Fall Festival.

That’s three months away, Gar sputtered. You can’t call this a lead up.

Mesk shrugged. The Fall Festival, and your receiving of the Mantle, will be the biggest events of the decade. You’ll need some practice getting ready for them. With Velia gone to Earth, this is a perfect opportunity.

Gar groaned. This would take a while.

Chapter 2

Earth, Chicago, June 2102 CE

Sebastian hunched in the corner of the interrogation room, head buried in his arms. The lights were blinding, the noise unbearable, and his whole body was in rebellion. The alien sensation of a tail, his tail, dragging across the tiles made him nauseated. What was happening? Thinking was nearly impossible with the pain and the noise and the awful light. Something was wrong with his shoulder blades, like they were sticking out through his back, and the smell of blood filled his nose. Each shift was accompanied by popping joints and stabbing pain in his back, and he couldn’t get his legs under him.

The door swung open. Sebastian flinched, expecting the shouting man again. Four or five times the officer had come in, but nothing sounded right and his head was pounding.

The door shut, the cacophony from the hallway dulling, and suddenly the light was gone. He glanced up.

A woman had her hand on the light-switch. She wasn’t human. Pale white skin smeared with blue and patterned in black, she had horns, tail, and stood on the balls of her bare, claw-tipped feet. Crocodile eyes looked at him, not with revulsion, but pity. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

Sebastian looked at his arm, almost wishing the oppressive light had remained. The skin was gone from his fingers up past his elbow, his arm a mess of black flesh, hands warped. Long fingers with an extra joint, ending in hooked claws. What was he? What in all the hells was going on?

The woman slapped the wall, drawing his gaze away from his ruined body. A crackle of red energy snaked out across the room, and the noise stopped. Her voice was crisp, eyes glowing green. Name’s Velia, I’m here to help. This room’s been cut off from outside sound. That shouldn’t be possible, but the lack of noise was hard to argue with. She walked to the metal table and set down a black briefcase, then crossed over to him, stopped, and sniffed. That blood yours?

"Er," was all Sebastian could get out. His mouth wasn’t shaped the same, his tongue either.

Let me help, she said, offered him her hand.

He blinked, took it. He didn’t know who she was, or why she would want to help him, but for the first time in hours he could string two thoughts together. She hauled him up, and got him balanced on his twisted feet.

You need sorting. Velia placed her hand in the center of his chest, more of that red light sparking. Breathe.

He inhaled automatically. An odd sensation crawled along his skin, and she made a sweeping motion away and behind her. He almost vomited at the pulling feeling in his middle, and flinched as a flood of dark fluid was flung along the floor and wall. It took him a moment to realize that red-tinted ichor was blood. His blood.

Velia turned, muttered something and stamped her foot. In a flash of red the blood was gone, slight chemical smell all that remained. She moved behind him, there was a sound of ripping fabric and the pain in his shoulders eased.

Long, grey, ribbon-like quills protruded from his back. He didn’t want to look at them, or think about them. Sebastian’s eyes fell to his feet, now more like a dog’s than a man’s, and he quickly glanced back up. He wanted nothing to do with any of this. If he didn’t look, he could pretend it wasn’t real.

Come, Velia prompted, Sit. Things to discuss, options and consequences to consider. She led him to the nearest chair at the interrogation table before sitting across from him. Not comfortable, but it’s what’s available.

He sat, something made more difficult by the tail now hanging behind him.

Now, introductions. You’re Sebastian Cranston, and I’m Lady Velia of Clan Delapore, the Dragon, but just Velia will suffice. I’m your representative, courtesy of the Conclave. You’ve questions, I’ve answers.

Sebastian wondered what the hell it all meant. Whu… The words were not coming easily. Whuhappened?

Velia leaned back, calm with a friendly smile. Take your time, she said. Do you know how you got here? When he shook his head she continued. Chicago PD found you in an ally, along with three men. They’ve been hospitalized, comas. She paused, tilting her head. The police think you’re responsible.

He shook his head, fear and uncertainty churning in his middle. That must have been what the man was yelling about, but Sebastian hadn’t responded. Surely that made him look extra guilty.

Velia waved it off. Take it easy. Bad handling on their part. They should have notified the Conclave reps immediately. For the rest… She sighed, and continued carefully. Are you aware your mother’s husband isn’t your biological father?

Sebastian snorted at the delicacy. He nodded, not wanting to slur his way through that conversation. The day Robert let that secret slip, his own subsequent rage. All the crap that asshole had put him through and he wasn’t even related.

Velia shifted in her seat, drawing his attention out of the past. Your sire, Azrelkhan the Black, contacted me. He was surprised to learn of your existence today.

Sebastian’s angry denial came out as sputtering coughing. He swallowed, and tried again. No, he snapped, bringing his hand down on the table, words slipping together. Who’ver he’s… What kind of name was Azrelkhan, anyway? "Wa, whal, walked out on Mom." She had told him, after Robert blew the secret. The man she had been involved with had left because she was pregnant, abandoning her and him in the process.

Velia arched a brow at him, reptilian eyes impassive. Az had no idea. Never heard him so panicked, lost, as today. She spread her hands. The Gharim aren’t easily shaken. Enraged yes, shaken no.

Sebastian looked away. Who was this woman, to call his mother a liar? Of course, if she were sent by this guy, she wouldn’t know anything. No reason to push, no point in getting angry at her. Better to take what help he could get, and sort the rest out later.

Velia continued. The particulars are unimportant. Azrelkhan is a Gharim, only known species able to naturally hybridize.

Sebastian was not comfortable with where this was going.

Resultant offspring begin identical to the mother’s species, changing with adulthood. Velia spread her hands. Stress triggers it, the façade breaks, the Gharim blood manifests. She fixed him with those green eyes. Tell me what triggered this.

Sebastian shuddered, not wanting to talk.

Hey, she said, drawing his gaze. You’ll be okay.

"How’ould you nah-, know? he demanded, harsher than intended. He paused, took a breath, focused on enunciating. What’s your stake in any of this?"

Velia smiled, though it twisted at the edge. Know the feeling, she said, raising her hand and flexing her claw-tipped fingers. Wasn’t born like this. Started human, like you. Came to it differently, but the feeling is similar.

He looked at her, taking in that alien visage and how it seemed wholly part of her. Eventually, he might get used to this warped body. Things couldn’t be any worse now than they were before.

It was late. It could have been called early, he had been out all night. I was heading for the train home. No need to dwell on why he still lived at his parent’s house, why he couldn’t hold a job or secure an apartment. These guys were going the other way. Guess they didn’t like how I looked. Surrounded, mocked for his height, his gaunt face, and his hair. He had been losing weight, and acquired a skin problem that left him less than attractive. What would happen now? Those not human weren’t popular around his home. Robert would be furious, always bitching about aliens and a loss of culture and identity. Here in the city they were more accepted, but here’s where he’d been attacked.

The boys started shoving him. I didn’t want a fight. He would have lost, he always did. They wouldn’t let me leave. He had panicked. It was getting easier to speak, he spoke faster. I just wanted them to leave me alone. One knocked me down, another had a knife. Sebastian stared at the table. There was a pull, and something snapped. I’m not sure what happened, but everything got loud and bright and hurt like hell. I don’t know when the cops got there, or how I got here. Everything’s really blurry. He looked at Velia, feeling lost.

She leaned forward on the table. Certainly stressful. The Gharim have innate magic that drains power from their surroundings. You lashed out instinctively, divesting them of energy. Good news, they’ll recover. Bad news, it could happen again. You need training. She narrowed her eyes. Can’t get it here, either. Reaching for her briefcase with one hand, she produced a slim data-pad from her jacket with the other. It was a slick model, looked new. After perusing the contents of her case she looked at him. Feelings on off-world travel?

Any response was interrupted by a bang at the door. Velia sighed, reached into the case and produced a pair of sunglasses. They were old, aviator style, and would probably cover a large portion of his face. She handed them to him.

Understanding clicked. They were sitting in the dark, the lights not dimmed but removed. Sebastian could see in the dark, and once the lights came back on it would be awful again. He shoved the sunglasses on, and there was a click of the door unlocking. Light poured in, but the sound remained low. A man strode in, he looked familiar but Seb couldn’t place him.

What do you think you’re doing? The man’s stiff address was to Velia.

Velia shrugged, looking utterly bored, and gestured at Sebastian. Slow to the scene, she said, pulling a sheet of paper out of the briefcase and scribbling on it. This will wake those boys, though Sebastian should press assault charges. She finished writing and held out the page without looking at the man.

The guy’s neck had turned a distinct shade of red. I’m ambassador to the Conclave and should be in charge of any negotiations. You’ve no right-

He was forestalled with a raised hand and a flourish of documents. Velia slapped one down on the table, covered in seals and flowing script. Documentation giving me precedence as the Dragon, she said. Another joined it, this in tight scratchy script but just as embossed. Documentation to speak for the Kahlrani Empire. Another paper. The Rejek. A fourth. The Gharim. The Captain’s seen my document for representing the Archmage. I’m currently representing a third of the Conclave. You’re entitled to, have right to, nothing. Complaints will be filed unless all charges are dropped. She held out the first paper again. Take it. Tell Mom I say hi.

The man, who Sebastian now recognized as Ambassador Jonson, stared at the page before snatching it and storming out.

Velia turned her attention back to him. Sorry, family feud. Gets ugly.

Yeah. He was a little dazed, and vaguely recalled some dust-up over the ambassador’s daughter. But that had been years ago, and he had been too young to care about politics. She must really have started as human, if that was her father.

Again, Velia said. Traveling off-world, not optional. You need a practitioner’s license. She lifted the tag on her lanyard. Declares I have magic, know how to use it. Required on most worlds.

Do I have any choices? Sebastian asked. He had no argument against licensing, if he really had put those guys in comas it was definitely something he wanted control over.

Velia checked her data pad. Yes and no, the training must come from the Gharim. Could go to the Far Rim, where they live.

Sebastian grimaced, no desire to deal with his biological father, or the man’s people, any more than necessary.

For alternates, Velia continued. Want to invite you to Isra. The Kahlrani Empire has hosted the Gharim before, and a sizable portion of the population’s familiar with English. A vacation, or chance to study abroad. We’ve a University, interested?

His heart twitched at the tempting offer. He had taken some classes, done all right, but ran out of time and funds to finish. His sister, Gwen, or half-sister as it were, was getting by on academic scholarships. Sebastian never managed to qualify for any, probably because he wasn’t a bubbly people-person like Gwen. The chance to see another world, when he had thought he would be lucky to visit the damn Mars Colony.

I don’t really have the credits for it, he said, wincing. He had almost no credits. He’d gotten to Chicago on the train’s weekend pass, having scored free admission to the Art Institute online.

Velia wafted a hand. Funds are no issue, you’ve an invite from the Emperor. She favored him with a fanged smile.

Sebastian wasn’t sure how to feel. Can I call my sister?

Golira, Olphira Swamp

Reski hobbled into the living room, trying not to wince as she put weight on her right leg. Mother? she called, bracing herself on the table between her bedroom door and the kitchen. Not the best plan, with how badly it wobbled, but it was better than no support at all. The rain pelting against the siding made it hard to tell where anyone was, and a crack of thunder further delayed her finding out. The weather was playing havoc with her bones, though at least her back hadn’t seized up. Her scalp itched and she scratched it absently. A single, broken feather came loose, and she sighed as it got caught on one of her split talons. If she wasn’t careful, it would rip to the quick again.

Yes, dear? Delus was in