Excerpt:
Raveno Hoviir
didn’t suffer incompetence. He didn’t suffer anything without consequence, a
policy his crew was testing time and again lately and without any perceivable
sign of becoming more competent. His reputation, carefully cultivated over a
long and brutal career, was usually incentive enough to inspire obedience. He
couldn’t let that reputation crack, not for anything: not for his morals as he
punished decent soldiers for mistakes that didn’t warrant such severity; not
for his soul as he led abominable missions to maintain alliances with Bazail,
Iroan, and Fray; not for his body as he’d gone to unmatched extremes to prove
his loyalty to Cilvril s’Hvri Josairo.
He played the villain in service to his people, a role as necessary as it was
revolting.
During Josairo’s
early reign as Cilvril s’Hvri, the killing hand of Havar, he’d been the
strength and armor their planet had needed to survive what historians now
referred to as the War of Wrath’s Will. After bolstering their military forces
and gaining the autonomy to wield them as he deemed necessary, Josairo achieved
what four previous Cilvrili s’Hvri had died failing to accomplish: He’d secured
Havar’s independence from her sister planet, Haven, and ended years of
oppression and tyranny.
Or so the
historians claimed and the schools taught. Based on Raveno’s first-hand
experience, he often wondered if Josairo hadn’t simply murdered historians
until he’d found one willing rewrite the war to his liking.
Nevertheless,
however he’d managed to wrest unilateral control of their military and judicial
systems, Josairo’s unmatched combat skills ensured he kept it, even as he
modified their fleet of luxury destination ships into prison transport vessels.
Even as he ordered the abduction and trafficking of innocent, sentient people.
Even as the peace and prosperity he’d supposedly achieved following their
victory against Haven soured into fear-filled obedience. In earning their
independence, the havari had traded a foreign tyrant for a domestic one, and every
warrior brave enough to challenge Josairo to a frisaes and legally end his rule
had thus far lost.
When Raveno
ended his rule, it wouldn’t be legal. But he would win.
Until then, the
weight of Raveno’s sins were his to bear or be crushed by. Which made
confronting the horrific results of his own undercover operation insufferable,
knowing his reputation would demand he deliver swift and harsh punishment when
faced with his crew’s greatest incompetence to date: a human outside her room
and tampering with the equipment in their control room, of all places.
Dellao and
Tironan were asleep in their seats, and the woman, cry mercy, the woman was
fierce as only a mother could be, all snapping eyes and straining muscles. Some
people withered from the poison of oppression, but not her. She seemed fueled
by it. She gritted her square teeth with determination. Her soft cheeks flushed
a deep crimson from her efforts, and her scent—Raveno sealed shut his nostrils,
cutting short that disturbing thought before it could fully form.
“Who do you work
for?” Thev sa shek, a traitor on board Sa Vivsheth was the last thing he
needed.
Her jaw fell slack.
“Y-y-you speak English?”
“Obviously.” His
English was rusty and not quite as good as his Mandarin, but still good enough
for interrogation. “Who sent you?”
“I think we got
off on the wrong foot.” She licked her lips, and deep indents on the corners of
her mouth dipped into her cheeks. “My name is Kinsley Morales, but my friends
call me Switch.”
He stared at her
a moment. Had she just introduced herself? Didn’t she realize she was being
interrogated? To death, if she didn’t cooperate.
Please, just
cooperate.
“My mother named
me after my paternal grandmother. An ‘apology’ name, I always said, because
she’d named my sister in honor of her mother, which caused quite a stir on my
father’s side of the family. But everyone’s ruffled feathers settled after she
named me. The only time my presence had settled anyone’s feathers.” She ran out
of air and inhaled a deep, trembling breath.
“What’s your
name?”
Ah, he might
have believed her composure if not for that tremble. She knew her predicament
precisely and was attempting to save herself by appealing to his compassion.
The man he’d
become to overthrow Josairo couldn’t afford compassion. “Did my brother recruit
you with the promise of freedom? What are your orders?”
The woman
flinched. A pained whine escaped her clenched teeth.
Svik, was he
hurting her? Raveno loosened his hold, just in case. It might come to that, but
not now and certainly not by mistake.
Yet, even beaten
down, in pain, and defeated, the gleam of calculation sharpened the woman’s
gaze.
Strong in mind
if not in body, he thought warily, knowing the terrible efforts it took to
break the strong of will. His own physical wound had long since healed, but the
muscles of his residual limb often pained him as if his left calf still remained,
twisted foot and all.
“Must I repeat
the question?” he asked. If not Tironan, someone on board had released her.
The furry tuft
above her right eye lifted. “How should I know if I know your brother if I
don’t even know you?”
Ha! Fine. He
spoke his full name and rank for her in traditional Hvrsil, just for the
pleasure of matching her obstinacy with his.
“I…I’m not sure
I can pronounce that,” she admitted.
“Considering the
deficiencies in the form and function of your tongue, I expect not.”
She narrowed her
eyes, clearly unsure if she should be insulted. “Do you have a nickname too?
Something less, er, taxing on the vocal cords?”
“No.”
“What do your
friends call you?” she tried.
“I have no
friends.”
“Something I can
call you while I beg for mercy, then,” she snapped.
A laugh overtook
him at that, as swift, unwanted, and jarring as a seizure. Oh, this woman was a
little firework: all sparks and fierce light wedging lethally beneath his
scales.
“When you beg
for mercy, you may call me by the modern Haveo version of my name,” he
relented. “Raveno Hoviir.”
“A pleasure to
meet you, Raveno Hoviir.”
He was certain it wasn’t.
