>Okay, I know we're not supposed to preface our stuff, but this needs some explaining:
For those of you reading In Thrall (which I really am working on), this story takes place several years afterwards, but in the same universe. For those of you who have read some of my original Born of the Stars posts, this is, in essence, the same story, but (I hope) significantly improved. Thank you, please enjoy<
Chapter One
Kivan Shra-matt looked out the shuttle viewport at the world that was the center of the civilized universe, and was not impressed. Locus Nova loomed closer and closer, the green continents bordered in pale blue shores that gave way to expanses of darker blue ocean. Kivan had never before seen the planet that was supposed to be the new home of her species, and now she found it very much like all the other worlds she had visited. The shuttle docked with a bump, and she rose with the other passengers to disembark. They were all human, of course, just like her. At least there was some advantage to belonging to that race—any non-humans trying to enter LN found it very difficult indeed.
The custom’s man eyed her homespun tunic and slacks with distaste, and gave an extra sniff of disgust for her dark green cloak and travel-worn boots. He shuffled through her pack as if glad of his protective rubber gloves, and every time he looked at her, she saw the words alien lover behind his eyes. Kivan smiled warmly at him, her blue eyes beaming, and took her passport back with the greatest courtesy.
Then she stepped out onto Locus Nova—and got a shock. She wasn’t standing on the ground. The custom office had led her out onto a skyway, suspended over the never-ending reaches of the capitol city. The buildings—so big, she had never seen anything like them—towered above her, even here.
Kivan closed her eyes and took a few very deep breaths.
“Get a move on, there!” She jumped back, out of the way, as two burly men manhandled crates past her to a waiting skycar. They were everywhere—the skycars, whizzing by in orderly rows and patterns, as if someone had painted lines for them to follow on the open air. But watching them made her dizzy, so she focused instead on where she put her feet.
Moving into the pattern of the ebb and flow of the crowd was easy, even comforting. It was always a thrill to assimilate into a new world: this would be no different. The skyways were swarming and progress was slow, but she was adept at moving through crowds and made decent time.
After a few kilometers, a tempting smell brought her to a halt near a clogged intersection. A cafe to her left radiated the scents of warm baked bread and fine wine, and she hadn’t eaten since the night before. Common sense tried to keep her moving; she didn’t carry near enough money to pay for a good meal.
A voice harangued her from one of the outdoor tables, “Buy you a drink, love?”
She turned to face the source of the call. A man was sitting alone at the table nearest her. He was some years older than she, with unkempt black hair and dark, almost olive skin. His posture was relaxed, his gaze appraising and intrigued. She hesitated for only a moment, and then joined him, keeping her pack close at hand. “Thank you,” she said.
He smiled, flashing white teeth against his dark skin. “No trouble. What’re you drinking?”
Kivan leaned back, making herself comfortable in the sturdy wicker chair that smelled of sweet hay. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer something more substantial.”
The man signaled a waiter, a thin, wan man with graying hair. “Bring the lady a loaf of your best, and some candied fruit. And I’ll take a refill.” He set his empty wine glass on the waiter’s tray, and then returned to examining her across the round, glass-topped table. His eyes were dark and soft, and something in them was not quite human. She had lived among aliens long enough to know what it was that stared back at her, even though she had never before seen one herself.
She lowered her voice slightly. “I didn’t think the Realmers would take kindly to Changelings on their homeworld.”
His posture tensed just noticeably, but he kept his voice smooth. “No idea what you’re talking about, love. Besides, you don’t sound like a ringing endorsement for human superiority yourself, not with that accent.”
Kivan gave a broad, genuine smile. “What does it matter where one comes from?” she quipped. “The important thing is where you’re going.”
He laughed. “Well answered, love. How very human of you.” He only laughed again when Kivan grimaced involuntarily at the description.
“My blood doesn’t make me human any more than my voice makes me Subryn.”
“So what are you then?”
It was then that the waiter arrived with the bread, fruit, and drink. Kivan took a bite of the delicious, still-warm loaf, chewed and swallowed before replying. “I’m on a quest.”
The man laughed. “A quest? And what’s the point of your little quest, love? Wealth, adventure, fame? Or is it something more noble?” he stressed the word sarcastically, and seemed to abandon all pretense at humanity. “Your race seems to be always doing splendid, terrible things with the idea you know what’s best.”
Kivan didn't answer right away. She knew all to well what her race could do with the idea they were right. Smiling half to herself, Kivan wrapped the loaf and sweets in a length of cloth from her pack and then placed the bundle in one of its inside pockets. She stood and smiled at the man. “Nothing of the kind,” she said.
“What then?”
“Family.” And with that, she moved back into the flowing crowd.
* * *
The sunlight shafted through the large windows, making Mitra Danne squint as she looked out over the never-ending movement of Locus Nova’s capitol. The light, though strong, seemed to vanish the moment it touched her coal-black skin and ebony clothes. She looked like a living shadow, thin and very tall, her arms crossed across a chest that betrayed none of her seventeen years. The light falling through the window-bars bisected her with shadows and warmed the thin, beige carpet beneath her feet and those pieces of worn furniture it touched. There was movement behind her, the creak of the apartment door opening and shutting with the shuffle of footsteps in between. She did not turn around.
“Mitra,” came the clipped, commanding voice she had expected.
Still she didn’t turn. Let him wait, as she had.
“Won’t you even look at your father when he comes home from a five month tour of duty?” he demanded.
A five month tour of duty that was supposed to last only three, she thought. Nevertheless, she turned, slowly, just to show she didn’t care. Just to show she wasn’t fighting back tears, even now. He looked as if he had aged in years rather than months—there was more gray creeping into his short-cropped black hair and a new scar under his right eye.
Mitra looked at him, Kane Danne, lieutenant in the Interstellar Navy of the Realm—no, captain; his shiny new rank cylinders told her he had been promoted once again. So, the Gladiator was his now, and at thirty-eight he would be one of the youngest captains in the Realm. The man who had given her life. But not her father. He had forfeited that right long ago.
“Congratulations,” she said, gesturing coolly to his new cylinders.
He stiffened. “I thought I told you to get rid of that thing before I got back.”
Mitra stroked the long, thin scar that ran from the tip of her right eye, down across her cheek to her chin. “I presume you mean this?” she said, enjoying a cold little shiver inside. He could never make her lose this. And he knew it.
Her large, chocolate-colored eyes bored into his, and before very long he looked away, as she had known he would. Mitra’s eyes were too much like her mother’s for Kane to face them for any length of time. “Someone’s been scything into my accounts,” he said, focusing on the window behind her, the late afternoon sun making him squint as it had her. The shadowy window bars falling across his face gave him the look of a prisoner.
Mitra shrugged fluidly. “You left me hardly any money. Would you have preferred I scythe the general’s accounts from your computer?”
He scowled. “And I hear you haven’t been to school once since I’ve been gone. Truancy does not reflect well on me, Mitra.”
Again, she shrugged. “What’s the point? I can already make more money than the High Sovereign himself with hardly any effort. Besides, you’re planning to marry me off to some old politician’s son once I’m of age, aren’t you?” Her thin lips pulled back in a smile as freezing as artic night. “What use is an education to a Realmer’s chattel?”
He took a threatening step forward, but so did she, and Mitra’s threat was backed up by all 2.3 meters of her wiry body. “You insolent brat,” he spat at her.
“You gutless Realmer,” she returned coolly. “You believe I care a neuron what you think of me? I’m leaving.” The last words startled her as much as they did him. She hadn’t known the truth of them until she said them, but they were true. There was nothing for her here, not now. Perhaps not even since mom had died.
Kane recovered quickly. He scoffed. “You’re not going anywhere, not until you’re eighteen, and then it’ll be to Mayor Allman’s son, as you said, and once you’ve given the old dust-man some grandchildren and he’s gotten weary of office, I’ll be there to step in.”
Mitra uncrossed her arms and headed for her room, as if she hadn’t heard him. She left the door open behind her so he could see her pulling her old backsack down from the top shelf of her closet. “What are you doing?” he demanded, coming as far as the door but no farther. This had been her mother’s office; after her death, Mitra hadn’t left it for three days and Kane had refused to set foot in it ever again. It had seemed almost natural to Mitra that this become her room now. Her mother’s desk was still there, sitting in its corner as it always had. Aside from dusting it periodically, Mitra never touched it—it was the only thing in the apartment that still smelled of her. This was, she reflected, probably the main reason her father no longer entered it.
Mitra began to fill the unearthed sack with clothes, all of them black, of course. She slipped her feet out of the house shoes she had been wearing and into an old pair of high boots. She even pulled the heavy blaster out from its secret case in her dresser, enjoying Kane’s gasp when he saw it. Mitra had owned it for four years without his knowledge, and she was as good a shot as she was a scyther. Yet one more thing he would never know about her.
“What do you intend to do with that thing?” he said, “Shoot rats?” But she could see he was uneasy with the casual way she handled the weapon.
“I’m leaving,” she said again, threading the holster onto her belt. While the hidden case was open, she grabbed the dozen or so fake I.D.s she had purchased or forged, and the twelve datachips that held all the codes she had written, scythed, broken, or discovered over the years.
“And where do you intend to go?” he asked, incredulous.
Mitra put all the d-chips and half the IDs in her pack, sliding the others into various pockets hidden about her person. “Away,” was all she said. Let him try to stop her. Oh, please, let him try to stop her.
Kane snorted. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but stopped. “Fine,” he said. “Fine, go on, have your little rebellious episode. You’ll be crawling back within a week or, failing that, you’ll end up, dead, arrested, broke, or drunk in the lower levels. Don’t think I’ll ride to your rescue if any of the latter happens, either.”
Mitra slung her pack over her shoulder so that it hung by her right hand, opposite her blaster. She looked Kane Danne square in the face. “When have you ever rescued me?” she said, and left.
* * *
Pran watched Latrichia fight, her hands and feet moving in a blur of speed. He had set up the five automatons for her about two years ago—by now they were almost redundant. His adopted daughter moved through the human-shaped machines like a cross between a dancer and a whirlwind, her small body moving into every blow with all the force she possessed and her long black hair—braided to keep it out of the way—followed her like a whip.
There were five of the ‘tons, each built to different human body types and behaviors. Pran changed their programming regularly, so she never grew complacent with the abilities of her sparring partners. Two of them she had downed already, and a third was tiring, as he had programmed them to do. She put that one out of the fight with a well-placed jab to what would have been the solar plexus.
He allowed himself a slight smile, and stroked his trim brown beard approvingly. He had taught his adopted daughter everything he knew, and soon she would surpass even his talents. As the last ‘ton came clanking down, he clapped enthusiastically.
Latrichia whirled, startled to have been observed. A frown tugged at the corners of her mouth. “You were watching?” she asked as she peeled off the fingerless gloves she had been wearing. “How did I do?”
Though she kept her voice light, Pran saw her desire for approval burning in her almond-shaped black eyes. “You were flawless,” he told her truthfully.
He could see her fight to keep the pleased smile off her face—Latrichia was not one to show her emotions openly. It had taken even him their entire thirteen years together—since she was no more than a scrawny four-year old orphan—to learn how to read her. She was strong, which was good. She would need that strength sooner than she knew.
“I guess I’ll turn in, then,” she said, her voice maintaining its usual monotone despite her satisfaction with herself. “You’ll want me to go out again tomorrow?”
“If you don’t mind.”
This time she couldn’t hold back the smile. “It’s never been the outings I minded…” she said.
“Just the fact that I won’t tell you why, I know.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “You’ll know all soon, Latrichia, I promise.”
She looked up at him, her face the picture of absolute trust. “I know.”
* * *
Sharr Koran woke up to three warmths: her family’s cozy apartment, the thick blue blanket draped over her where she had fallen asleep on the couch, and the fire that crackled in the hearth before her. It was only holographic, of course, but it looked, sounded, smelled, and most of all felt like a real one. Not that she had ever actual seen a real fire that big.
Her mother, Latir, saw that she had awoken and walked over from where she was cleaning up the dinner dishes. At nearly five months pregnant, the slim, red-haired woman was only beginning to show signs that she would soon bring a second child—and a son this time—into the world. Sharr smiled at the face that looked like a twenty-years-older mirror of her own. Red hair, green eyes, and a petite figure distinguished both the Koran women.
Sharr’s father, Dr. Jenom Koran, had fallen asleep in his armchair with a book half-open on his chest. A real, pages-and-ink book; Sharr’s family was one of the few who still owned more than a couple. He looked very little like his daughter, with dark hair, blue eyes, and fine, broad shoulders. He snored a little and shifted, the movement sending the book sliding to the thickly-carpeted floor.
Latir bent, with some difficulty, to pick it up before she sat down next to Sharr. The older woman read the title aloud, “A Collection of Ancient Human Myths: Fairytales for All Ages.” She laughed. “Forty-one years old, a top doctor in the capitol city, and still he loves these old tales.” She passed the book to Sharr, who ran her hands lovingly over the well-known linen binding.
“They’re the kind you can’t stop loving,” Sharr protested, smiling.
Her mother lifted the data-pad that had been lying atop Sharr when she fell asleep, and scanned the first few lines. “Another medical journal?” she asked, and there was a note of concern in the gentle voice.
“Why not? I still work part-time at Dad’s office, don’t I?” Sharr asked, her nonchalance ringing hollow. Only two days ago, she had been denied admission to the medical university her father had attended. True, she was only sixteen, but all her teachers knew she was gifted, and the academic training alone would take long enough for her to reach a proper age for real-life experience.
“Of course, Sharr,” said Latir, wrapping an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “Don’t worry about those old dust-men, just wait another year or so and take the tests again.”
“You know I did brilliantly on them, Mom, that’s not why I didn’t get in,” said Sharr. She really wasn’t angry at her mother, but she had to vent to someone.
Latir stroked her hair. “I now it’s hard, sweetie. But what your father does is important. Someone has to show the Realmers that we don’t all think aliens are less than us, and your dad has the right to set his own prices.”
“I know,” said Sharr, and she did. Some of her best friends were non-humans she’d met in her father’s office; she’d never been able to understand why so many people despised them. “But it’s not just that.”
Her mother sighed. “Being a girl is just hard right now, that’s all. Everyone’s wary because of the mess Regent Eserci made while her nephew was too young to rule.”
“That was thirty years ago, before I was even born!” Sharr protested, “and it’s not like her nephew’s doing much better.”
Latir shushed her hurriedly. “That’s enough of that. Come on now, help me wake your father. An early bedtime would do you both some good.”
Sharr stood and helped her mother shake, poke, and tickle Jenom Koran awake. He consented, yawning, to be put to bed, tousling his daughter’s hair as he went and giving his wife an absent kiss on the side of her nose.
Sharr retreated to her own small room, filled as it was with her stuffed animals, shaped as nearly every sentient race the humans had discovered in the past hundreds of years. They made for a very packed room. She grabbed her first and favorite—the brown-furred Chullbar she had named Ko-Kan. She changed into her nightclothes automatically, then tossed Ko-Kan and her datapad down on the bed only to pick them up once again once she had settled herself, cross-legged, atop the covers. She hugged the two-foot tall toy to her chest, and began to read the article again.
Before long, her mom came in to say good-night, and laughed when she found her daughter still reading. “Time to put that up, school tomorrow,” she said.
“Just a little bit longer?” Sharr pleaded.
But Latir took the pad and switched it off, pulling out the data-chip that held the journal. “Lights off, little one.”
Sharr smiled. “Not so little,” she said, as she had every night for as long as she could remember.
After tucking her in and turning off the light, Latir lingered in the doorway a moment before going out. “What is it, mom?” asked Sharr as she sleepily hugged Ko-Kan.
“Nothing, sweetie,” replied Latir, and she closed the door.
