Valmoran Republic, Planet Kronai, Temple of the Seven

  Callum Torion, Representative Arbiter for the Valmoran Republic

  Callum struggled to keep an impolite grimace off his face as Regla Dresh picked up her berry lancer, then used it to pierce the skin of the crimson fruit. The thick red syrup cascaded down the sides of her tart like a revolting waterfall.

  “I do love julee berries!”

  He had always found the delicacy somewhat nauseating, especially knowing how absurdly expensive they were. The air was thick with the intoxicating scent of the exotic fruits, their sweet-tart aroma mingling with the odors that lingered from dinner and the stale perfume of the wealthy.

  Glancing around, Callum realized he might be the only person not relishing the hedonistic dessert. The banquet hall hummed with gossip and laughter, a symphony of decadence that echoed off the stone walls.

  As if they needed additional mind-altering substances at this party. Though he was perversely curious how a mild empathogen would affect a sociopath like Vargus Trix.

  Callum gently removed the swollen red berry from his dessert and pushed it to the side of his plate, careful not to puncture the skin. He had no interest in partaking.

  Apparently, Vargus was watching.

  “What? You’re not going to eat that? Give it here, then.” Before Callum could protest, the mob boss loomed over the table, plate in hand, impatient.

  How unspeakably rude. Though it was probably easier to just give him the damn thing than argue about it.

  Callum stood, somewhat awkwardly, and carefully transferred the fruit to Vargus’s plate, his mind conjuring bizarre images of the thick juice spilling out over the table like blood. A moment later, he was comfortably seated again.

  Vargus sat down, like a king claiming his throne, looking—and feeling—smug.

  As if the entire episode had nothing to do with the berry.

  It was a struggle for Callum to stifle his groan. He had long since run out of patience for Vargus’s childish dominance games.

  By not making a fuss, Callum had just lost this one, and he was surprised by the flash of irritation he felt at the realization.

  Just a few more minutes.

  Once they started collecting the dessert plates, he could make his polite excuses and finally head home. He was thoroughly exhausted and couldn’t remember the last time his nerves had felt so fried.

  Vargus caught his gaze, stuck an oozing bite of julee berry tart into his mouth, then spoke around it. “So you’re one of them out-cyclers, I hear.” His voice held a hint of challenge, emotions laced with malice.

  Callum’s blood boiled.

  He never hid his out-cycler status, though these days he could have. He had been just entering puberty when the last generation entered the mating season, but now, especially since he took good care of himself, he didn’t look particularly old compared to the current generation.

  He could blend in if he wanted to.

  But he didn’t do that, because he refused to be ashamed of it. He owned it, was an outspoken advocate. A proud figurehead.

  It had been a long time since someone tried to publicly humiliate him over his birth status, and he was horrified at his own reaction.

  He could actually hear the blood rushing in his ears. For a moment, he froze, no longer the well-respected Arbiter Callum Torion. Instead, he was an orphan, unwanted and—in the eyes of others—unclean. He wanted to disappear.

  No!

  This was nothing new. A childhood fraught with bullies had taught Callum that the best response was nonchalance. He mastered his expression and outwardly recovered his composure.

  “Most certainly, I am.”

  He forced himself to take a small bite of his own dessert.

  Vargus used his spoon to point at the missionary from the Federation. “If you’d been born in his territory, they’d have sold you off to get rid of you. Me? I like out-cyclers. They’re cheap.” His face broke into a wide, nasty grin. Then he shoved another bite of tart into his filthy mouth.

  Before Callum could react, the Federation missionary lurched forward in his seat.

  Outwardly, the man was composed, but inside, he was furious. “You go too far, Master Trix. The Federation no longer tolerates the sale of Valmoran children, not from the brute species, nor out-cyclers. I have devoted my life to running orphanages to raise unwanted children, and I won’t sit here and listen to you—”

  “—ah, calm yourself. It was a joke. No need to get all tetchy.”

  That sneaky bastard. One insult, two targets.

  Regla’s biting tone rang out. “Vargus, I’ve had about enough of your games for the evening. Can we please enjoy our dessert in peace?”

  “Games? I’m just making conversation.” He flashed his eyebrows. “You’d know it if I were playing games.”

  Regla’s stare turned severe. “Oh, yes—my people have told me all about the games you like to play when you’re drunk, Vargus Trix.”

  Ignoring her ire, Vargus leaned closer to Regla. When he spoke, his voice had a seductive edge, ”What can I say? I do so love to play.”

  Callum watched in horrified fascination as the two squared off.

  Regla leaned in, mirroring Vargus’s body language, voice slow and breathy. “Imagine a scenario where Valmar Defensive Tech fulfills 63% of Ioria Prime’s yearly contracts, yet those same purchase orders account for a mere 2% of our sales.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  All hints of warmth dropped from Regla’s face as she fixed Vargus with a look that could freeze blood. “Try your little pain games on me, and we’ll play a game I like to call ‘Ioria Prime can’t maintain its planetary defense grid.’”

  Vargus lifted a hand to his heart, apparently affronted, though Callum read only amusement from him. Not one shred of intimidation. “I would never inflict pain on women—”

  “—I know exactly what you like to do to women, Vargus. Pain or pleasure, it’s a violation.” She leaned back, picked up her wineglass, and made a show of looking bored. “Try it. I dare you.”

  Regla held no fear of Vargus, only unmitigated contempt. Callum couldn’t help feeling impressed at her ability to go head to head with Vargus. He couldn’t say he exactly liked the woman—her emotions felt cold and uninviting, like metal left out in the rain—but her negotiation skills were formidable.

  Vargus stared at Regla for a moment longer, though she no longer paid him any attention. With a slight jerk of his head, he moved his focus back to his meal.

  Huh. Apparently, Vargus did have the ability to control his impulses.

  Unfortunately, Vargus Trix was no longer calm. The man clearly did not appreciate being ignored.

  Callum felt Vargus’s icy rage slithering through him. He suppressed a shiver as a smile crept across the crime lord’s face.

  Vargus’s eyes snapped to Callum.

  Zap.

  A shock of pain lanced down Callum’s left side, shoulder to wrist. Before he could contain it, he twitched in reflex.

  If not for the satisfaction emanating from Vargus, he might have written it off as a random twinge. A flurry of emotions sped through Callum at the unprovoked attack, but he pushed them all aside.

  This wasn’t the first time he’d been attacked for no reason. If Vargus planned to force Callum to react, he would be sorely disappointed. Physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional load an empath shouldered. Callum had a lifetime of practice concealing his empathic pain from others.

  Zap.

  This time, Callum didn’t react. Instead, he took a bite of his tart and hummed to himself as in delight, though the food tasted like ash in his mouth.

  If he was smart, he’d mind his business, get through dessert, and head home straight after. Vargus would tire of this soon.

  To his horror, words tumbled from Callum’s lips before he could bite them back. “I’m surprised a man such as you is a friend of the Temple, Vargus.”

  “A man such as me?”

  Zap.

  Callum ignored the pain and nodded.

  He cursed himself for losing control of his tongue. It was the exhaustion. It had been beyond stupid to provoke this asshole.

  “I’m not sure what you’re implying, Callum—that because we don’t believe in the draconian rule of governments, we’re somehow less pious than you Republic-types? I’m offended. Why, I believe in the Gods. How could I not, when they have seen fit to bless me with such power?”

  Zap.

  “Oh, the Gods blessed you with a power, then? I wasn’t aware you were God-touched.” Callum said, voice flippant. Now that he had started, he couldn’t seem to get his sharp tongue in check.

  Zap. Zap. Zap.

  Callum could feel Vargus’s irritation and confusion. It was driving him crazy that Callum wasn’t reacting to his torture. Who’s winning now, asshole?

  Zap. Zap.

  His tormentor let out a huff of breath. “We have a great many temples on Ioria Prime and provide generous financial support to the Temple. It’s only fitting that they would honor me with an invitation.”

  “How are things on Ioria Prime lately? If you listen to the news reports, the whole slave trade isn’t working out so well for you these days. Perhaps it’s time to adapt to the times.” Callum’s words came out before he could stop them. It was reckless, a product of an interminable day and too long in this asshole’s company.

  He was playing with fire, but part of him reveled in it.

  Zap.

  Vargus set down his spoon and wiped his face deliberately with his napkin before folding it and setting it on the table.

  “Is that so? Enlighten me, Representative Callum—what exactly are they saying about my planet?”

  Zap.

  Callum knew he should stop, but the pain only fueled him. “Oh, you never know how much you can believe from the news vids.” Callum gave a dismissive wave. “They’re making it sound like you’ve got a full-on uprising on your hands.”

  Vargus’s nostrils flared. “No uprising. We had some trouble a while back, but I’m taking care of it.”

  “Oh?” Callum feigned innocence, even as he recognized the dangerous game he was playing.

  “Yeah. One of my lords just doesn’t know how to control his property.”

  Arilla piped up, apparently oblivious to the tension at the table. “Oh—you’re talking about Braxtor the Liberator, aren’t you? I saw that story on the—”

  “—Braxtor the Terrible has been a pain in my ass for far too long.”

  Callum’s gut twisted at the name, a cold sweat breaking out along his spine. He forced his breathing to remain steady, his face impassive, even as his mind flashed to the Blood Pits of Ioria Prime.

  Arilla shrunk back in her chair at his chilling tone. There was something about the dead calm of it that set off alarm bells.

  The table had gone silent, and Vargus continued, “That brute should never have been allowed to escape. His fool of a master just never learned how to properly leash his dog. Back when his mother was in the next cell over, things were copacetic.”

  He looked at Regla and spoke to her as if sharing insider business secrets. “A woman like you understands leverage, I know you do. You wouldn’t be stupid enough to let that woman off herself.”

  Arilla gasped, and Callum felt Priest Ollem’s horror at the declaration. Callum forced himself to relax his jaw.

  Vargus shrugged and picked up his spoon again. “For a while, we had to make due with hostages—that simpering fool wasn’t about to disobey if we threatened poor, innocent children.” He rolled his eyes.

  Callum’s hands clenched involuntarily under the table, his knuckles turning white. Fourteen Children to be exact. The casual way Vargus spoke of threatening innocents made his blood boil, but he forced his face to remain neutral.

  “But here’s the thing—that sort of leverage isn’t sustainable. I mean, who goes to the trouble of kidnapping and training a god-touched Vraxai, making him into the most efficient killing machine the galaxy has ever seen, and doesn’t make sure he controls whatever that monster loves best?”

  He turned back to Arilla and smiled. “I’m telling you—get your hands on what a person loves most, and they’ll do whatever you want.”

  Callum’s gut clenched as Zalila’s face flashed across his mind. He kept his ward-sister’s relationship to him a secret for this exact reason. That someone would use her to get to him was unconscionable.

  Vargus shrugged, acting unaffected by everyone else’s discomfort, though Callum could feel him reveling in it.

  “Problem is, that wily bastard refused all our gifts. We just had to stick it out until mating season, see? Because a man like Braxtor, powerful as he is—is definitely mateable.”

  “But you can’t force a bond!” Arilla said.

  “Can’t I? Way I see it, we’ve got a lot of whores on Ioria Prime. I was all set to run the whole lot of them through his cell come mating season. See, once we held his mate, there would be no more of this ‘Braxtor the Liberator’ bullshit.”

  Callum could hardly believe what he was hearing. And Vargus had the nerve to call Braxtor a monster.

  He had witnessed Braxtor’s sorrow once, had seen him stealthily mercy-kill a man he was supposed to execute, before tearing the corpse apart in a bloody show for the spectators ... and the masters.

  But Callum hadn’t known the full extent of Braxtor’s suffering.

  Slavery was horrific—but what Vargus described was something out of a nightmare.

  “But there’s a problem, see? That worm didn’t liberate himself—he had help. We rounded up a whole gaggle of the slaves that got out that day, along with whatever they love best. But the guy they pointed to is just a merc—I want the bastard who caused this mess. The mastermind.”

  Callum’s heart raced, but he kept his face a mask of mild interest. His paranoia flared, even as he reminded himself that Vargus had no way of knowing he was involved. He silently cursed Captain Zephyr and his inability to stick to a damned plan.

  If the man had just followed instructions instead of inciting a full-blown rebellion ...

  “If your true target is the one who planned it, why put the bounty on Braxtor?” He knew he was treading dangerous ground, but he couldn’t stop himself.

  “Yeah, well—we need him back to quell the damn uprisings. Can’t let him go free, can’t kill him—need to shackle him up proper and let the others see no one escapes.”

  His voice turned steely. “The mastermind—I don’t want him to see me coming. But when I hunt down the prick with the nerve to steal my prize fighter?”

  Callum’s heart felt like it was beating loud enough for the entire table to hear, but he forced himself to sit impassively for Vargus’s final verdict.

  A fleeting recollection of fourteen out-cycler children, now safely tucked away in a Republic ward, flitted across his mind. Vargus’s earlier taunt about out-cyclers being “cheap” resurfaced, and Callum felt a surge of righteous anger.

  Those children deserved better than to be used as leverage in Vargus’s sick games.

  “When I find that man, I’m going celebrate by making Braxtor tear him to pieces in the Blood Pits. Because nobody fucks with my planet.”