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I grit my teeth.
I’m not willing to let it go.
The walk has done nothing to lift my sullen mood, and I arrive at the council room with a thousand thoughts twisting me up. The council has yet to assemble, but my secretary is waiting at the table, bent over a tablet with furrowed brows.
“Ah, welcome,” he murmurs, bowing his head.
There’s a model of the ship on display on the table. When I was a boy, and my father brought me along to his meetings, I would take the decorative carving and play with it like a toy. If only I could shrink this metal beast to that size and pack it up with the rest of my belongings.
What I need is leverage over the Zaledian king, or at least leverage over one of his more powerful lords… leverage over his heir, the crown prince—anyone important enough that he would handwave The Rightful Heir to take the problem off his lap. Until I have that, I will keep our nest hidden from the world.
It won’t be easy. The Zaledians rule over the Rathe System, a wealthy empire that keeps out of most conflicts to place priority on their capitalistic drive. It’s a nation of sharp businessmen and sharper warriors. They’ve expressed interest in retaining cordial bonds with me and my people, even going so far as to secretly funnel us weaponry for our recent battles with the Azza. The squids must’ve pissed them off. Now, they’ve been floating flatterers and ambassadors my way, curious to see whether they’ll have more business opportunities with our new leadership. The Deadhead war council that ruled the planet previously quashed their every effort to make money in Sector 5, but their curiosity and greed aren’t leverage enough, not when they already contributed to our military success.
Some matters were simpler when I was a king in name only, ruling naught but my people and treated as an exiled upstart by the intergalactic powers-that-be. I could act like a pirate, operating on the fringes and avoiding these diplomatic machinations.
“I’d like a report on how many are needed to stay aboard the Heir to keep it running well,” I tell my secretary. “It must remain as is for the time being. Unfortunately, that means some will have to wait longer to relocate. I’m sure there’s some people that would be content with that?”
“Some, yes,” Havi says, wrinkling his nose. “But, my liege, some will take it as a bad omen if you retain our sanctuary. It will suggest we still need a hideaway to run to.”
“Rumors will be rumors,” I sigh. “But patience is needed here. Patience to secure the Heir in Kar’Kali hands. We’ll organize a council meeting to discuss which families will move and which sworn captains are available to move them. Naturally, some can be assigned to move via Makiva’s Revenge…”
I pluck the model ship off the table and fiddle with it while we continue discussing the details. Councilmembers trickle in, greeting me and settling into their seats for what’s to come. A cordial smile warms my face like a reflex, and my troubles must be pushed to the side. Time can’t stop for me to nurse my broken heart and my neglected bond.
I know how to wait.
My mother once preached to me that patience was the best tool for an ambitious warrior. I can still hear her laughter clearly as she needled my father for having none. She told me that the cleverer male waits for ideal opportunities, like a hunter that prowls through the dark.
It’s not difficult to sell the council on my plans to hide The Rightful Heir for a touch longer than we had originally planned.
“We can wait for the right moment to move our home without losing it to a more powerful empire,” I reason, and the majority of gathered advisors nod their head in agreement. “Better to leave it behind for now, rather than risk never seeing it again.”
I waited for my planet to fall into my hands.
I will put my trust in the spirit and wait for my mate.
CHAPTER THREE
FRANKIE
There’s only one picture left hanging under the ‘MISSING’ banner in the sheriff’s waiting area downtown. I never met that colonist, but I stare at her. It says her name is Ilya Yildiz. She speaks three languages, and apparently, she had a cat. The dark-haired girl in the picture they’ve posted is holding a little gray kitten. She has brown eyes like I do. Is she suffering like I did? Or is she dead? And which would be better, I wonder? I’d like to imagine that she’s finding her way home somehow, like we did. But I can’t bring myself to believe it.
Outside, the EC-12 downtown strip buzzes with the dull energy of a market day. Skimmers touch down as vendors set up tents and unload the goods they’ve brought for sale. It’s all the same as the market day that doomed me, but I still appreciate the hustle and bustle. It’s surprisingly soothing to realize that time has marched on in my absence.
I turn my attention back to the missing girl. She was supposed to have the bot repair skills we desperately needed around here. Did they find someone else to fill the role?
“You know her?” DJ Newton emerges from his office with a folder in hand. “She’s a small bot specialist engineer.”
The sheriff has a warm disposition, but he keeps his distance. Someone told him about my fun new affliction, then.
“No,” I reply. “She was new in town, right?”
“It was her fourth day here,” he tells me. “I only met her once, when I did the whole greeting party thing…”
“No leads on where she is?” I ask.
He shifts his weight. “You sure you’re comfortable talking about all this?”
“That’s what I came down here for, isn’t it? You wanted to interview me.”
