Endgame (Sirantha Jax 6)

It’s been days since I’ve seen Vel for more than a few moments, and we’re always surrounded by other squad-mates. I go looking for him through the village, which is in much better repair than when we arrived. Lots of supplies have made their way down the mountain, appropriated by people who no longer fear Imperial reprisal. They trust us enough to keep the boot off their necks at least.

I stop Zeeka, and ask, “Have you seen Vel?”

“He’s up at the mining station.”

A walk won’t hurt me. I don my helmet and start off at a jog, but soon the altitude forces me to slow my steps. The air is thinner. I’m mostly used to it now, except during vigorous activity. When I reach the top, the gate stands open, and some of the metal has been scavenged for use down below. It makes me happy to see this place being repurposed.

I find Vel in the office where the fight took place. The bloodstains remain on the floor, but it’s been long enough that the smell has faded. He’s listening to logs and making notes on his handheld when I walk in; I remove my helmet so he can see my face.

He glances up with a welcoming cant of his head and greets me in Ithtorian. “Sirantha. Did you finish?”

Mentally, I tell my chip to switch, and when I speak, it’s with my vocalizer. The clicks and chitters make it easier to confide, “We had a casualty.”

She won’t be the last, but seeing Deven, hearing his raw anguish, well, I feel pretty shaken. I need…I need Vel.

And he knows. Before I take a step, he’s out of his chair and has taken four. Then he’s right there with me, chitin to armor. He rubs his face against the side of mine, such a comforting gesture. My chip processes the Ithtorian, and I know he’s murmuring to me, Shh, brown bird. Still your wings. From anyone else, brown bird as an endearment would insult me, but with him, it’s perfect.

“I do not care for your armor,” he says eventually.

I gaze up at him in surprise. That’s the first time he’s commented on how I feel: good, bad, or otherwise. It seems so personal. Our connection has always been more about kindred spirits than the state of our bodies. Things are complicated between us already, and the comment startles me.

Apparently, he reads my confusion, explaining, “It makes you feel Ithtorian. Combined with hearing you speak so, it is…disconcerting.”

Yeah, I can see how it would be. “Do you want me to take it off?”

CHAPTER 22

The question comes out more suggestive than it sounded in my head. For a moment, I freeze, but this is Vel. He’s never going to assume a meaning I don’t intend or look for the lascivious angle. That’s outside his nature. With a human male, I’d have to worry about stupid jokes. His sense of humor doesn’t extend to the ribald, at least not so far as I’ve seen.

“Yes,” he replies. “You do not feel like yourself.”

So I strip out of my armor to the uniform beneath. I’m wrinkled, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not here to win any prizes for my appearance. Since it’s my only set, I pile the gear carefully on a chair, then Vel reaches for me. His arms are long, oddly jointed, and they end in razor-sharp talons. I should be afraid of his solace as it can rip me to shreds, but his natural weapons make his care all the more remarkable.

The shards of pain and regret in my chest settle somewhat when he draws me against him. I lean my head against his thorax, marveling that this seems so natural. When I first saw him out of his camouflage, he was hunting me…and I was terrified. So many turns have passed between then and now. Everything has changed.

“Tell me about the woman we lost,” he invites.

As I speak, he moves us toward the small sofa the centurions spent most of their lives sprawled on. It’s ratty and threadbare, but at least we have some privacy here. I’m tired of being quartered in the church, surrounded by snoring soldiers. Vel guides me to a seat as I relate meeting her, how it came to pass, her husband’s reaction, and the way I feel about being the one who gave her the shot that led to her death. Speaking of it leaves my throat raw from the tears I can’t let go because I don’t have the right. I didn’t know her. I only hurt her. Sometimes, good intentions don’t matter at all.

“Everyone chooses, Sirantha. I doubt she regrets her decision.”

“Do you ever wonder where people go? If there’s anything to Mary, the Iglogth, or whatever people call their gods?”

“So many things remind me of Adele that…” Here, he hesitates, studying me with his side-set eyes as if gauging my reaction. “…I feel that she is with me still. So perhaps I want it to be true more than I believe it must be.”

I smile. “I hope you’re right.”

“I miss her.” The chip translates his meaning simply, yet there comes a more literal echo in my head, as if he’s said, My home is gone from me. Ithtorian is a beautiful language, full of poetry and nuance.

“I do, too.”

He draws me against his side then because he will offer me comfort where he can’t ask for it himself. Because I know he grieves for longer than some species live, I curl into his side. His claws find my hair, surprisingly soothing when he draws them through in long strokes. It’s an absent caress like you’d give a pet, but I don’t mind.

“Did I ever tell you she asked me to marry her?” he asks.

Surprise rockets through me. “No.”

He told me a lovely story about how they met, how she came to find the truth about him, and, eventually, why he left. But I’ve not heard this.

I have to ask, “Was this before or after she found out—”

“Before.”

“Ah. Do you want to tell me about it?”

“If you like.”

“Only if it doesn’t hurt to talk about her.”

“Remembering feels better,” he says. “Because you knew her, too.”

“Then go for it.” I love the way Vel tells stories.

“Adele came to my residence for a meal, that night. And she asked, ‘Vel, do you love me?’ I had heard the word before, but I had no reference for its meaning. I was new to the idea of feeling anything but pride, ambition, duty, obligation…those are Ithtorian precepts.”

“What did you say?”

“I said yes because I could see the answer she wanted. She kissed me. Then she said, ‘Marry me.’”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I could not marry her without telling her the truth. And I feared honesty would cost me her companionship.”

“So you thought about it.”

“Yes,” he says softly. “I wanted a tangible bond. But it did not seem fair to her.”

“How did you get out of it without hurting her?”

“I said I did not believe in the custom.”

“She was all right with that?”

He nods. “She never mentioned it again after that. And a few turns later, she discovered the truth.”

“Thank you for telling me.”

“I have shared with you things that no one else knows, Sirantha.”

That prompts a smile, lessening the ache in my chest. I only mean to close my eyes for a few seconds, but the next thing I know, it’s morning. We haven’t slept together since we came back from the other world, through the gate, where we lost five turns. You’d think it would be uncomfortable, but as I shift, I notice the pillow he tucked beneath my head. He’s still out, with an arm curved about me, his talons in my hair. There are weapons on the floor beside him on the other side within easy reach. If anything tripped his perimeter alarms, he’d have been up and shooting before I could unstick my eyes.

I watch him for a while, knowing Loras must be wondering why the hell we spent the night at the mining station. Zeeka probably told him I was looking for Vel, so hopefully, he thinks we were working. Which we should’ve been. There’s still the matter of the shipments to sort out. Maybe Vel can hack a warehouse to show the cargo received, then diverted elsewhere. It’d be funny if this phantom ore was just constantly bouncing around the planet.

As I ponder the problem, feeling a little stronger than yesterday, he stirs. I can’t remember ever watching Vel wake up before. Through the gate, I relied on him and vice versa, but I sprang up tense as a knife blade. There was no opportunity for stillness and intimate observation. That’s the word. “Intimate.” I shy away from it a little, but not from Vel.

His eyes flicker open. I consider how many Jaxes are there, greeting the day.

“I did not mean to sleep,” he clicks. Irritation colors the glottal stop at the end.

I lift a shoulder. “We needed a break. I’m not a good soldier. I hate the makeshift accommodations and the uncertainty and—”

“Precisely so.” His irritation with himself melts into amusement.

In response to that display of humor, I touch the spot just above the curve of his mandible. I know he can feel it. Before, he told me about places where there are gaps in the chitin, spots Adele touched because she knew he enjoyed the contact.

He stills, startled. It’s not something I’ve done often, and never after a night like this one. “Sirantha.”

But that’s all, just my name. I don’t know what to make of that, so I take refuge in a joke, ignoring the complexities. “Do you think we’ve been reported AWOL?”

Vel cants his head, mandible flaring in silent laughter. “An excellent question. How do you suppose Loras punishes deserters?”

“By making them plant a victory garden for the villagers,” I mutter.

“I would agree with you, but it is not the season. And we have no seeds.”

“Be thankful for small blessings.”

“We should move, Sirantha. Don your armor.” Though he doesn’t intend it unkindly, it means the barriers need to come up between us, so we can do our jobs.

I slide out from under his arm, but I must have revealed a flicker of reluctance because he catches my shoulder gently. His claws prick but don’t break the skin. “It is not my desire, you understand, but my duty that beckons.”

“Yes,” I say softly. “Mine, too.”

“I am glad you looked for me, Sirantha.”

So am I. But it’s time to get back to business. Since he’s been analyzing the shipment patterns, I hope he’s sorted out how we can screw with the Nicuan nobles as well as keep them out of the village.

“Have you figured out a solution to the shipment yet?”

For obvious reasons, we don’t want the Imperials to get the ore. Anything we can do to disrupt their society will benefit the resistance down the line. I put on my armor while he does the same. The weapons go on last thing, with him contemplating the problem.

“I might have, but it is risky.”

“That seems to be our mantra these days. Tell me what you have in mind?”

“The La’hengrin simply turn the ore over to us. Then Leviter seeds the Imperial bounce with stories about shipments being stolen.”

“Are there any drawbacks?”

“The possibility that additional centurions will be sent to secure the mines.”