Chapter 7: Scars, Old and New

"Nothing brings the family around like a good meat pie."

-Mama Fifi, of Mama Fifi's Boarding House, 175 U.E.

“What’s our status?” Taira asked, rubbing one side of her face with the palm of her hand.

“All systems nominal,” Eos answered. “I should specify. By [NOMINAL], I mean [FUNCTIONING ADEQUATELY GIVEN ERA-SPECIFIC STANDARDS]. In reality, the ship is functioning below optimal capacity due to inferior fuel and ammunition.”

“What does that mean for our chances?”

“It should still perform admirably compared to contemporary models. For munitions, you have several options at your disposal. The [TWIN SWIVEL GUNS] can harass warded ships from afar and finish off damaged targets. The [HEARTBEAT], roughly translated, produces a pulse that can knock out enemy wards at close range. Lastly, [RAM CONFIGURATION] sacrifices maneuverability for absolute speed and toughness as the thrusters are driven to peak effect and the ward is temporarily disabled. This allows the ship to ram straight through softer targets.”

“That ought to do it. Remind me to install a drain anchor on this thing at some point.”

“I am not familiar with this word. Please clarify.”

“I’ll explain another time. For now, just… keep running diagnostics, or whatever you were doing.”

“Yes, captain.”

Eos disappeared into the floor, and Taira let out a sharp breath of relief. It was finally, finally over. No more pretending. No more talking. No more planning. No more deciding. She could rest for a few hours and not worry about being someone else.

Taira flopped onto the bed in her cabin. She fumbled for the buckle on her gun belt and yanked it off, hanging it on the edge of her nightstand, then kicked off her boots. She needed a shower—her body stank of sweat, both from exertion and nerves—but that would need to wait. She was so heavy. Too heavy to move.

I did good, though, she thought with no small measure of satisfaction.

Her severed fingers throbbed with dull pain, keeping her from falling asleep. Oddly, she didn’t regret it much. Stephan was right. This—all this—was necessary, and she was the only one who could pull it off. If she didn’t do her all, who would?

Taira owed her sister that much, at least. A free Tumba. Quintilla would be rolling in her grave if it ever became occupied by the Concord.

“Tired?”

Taira started at the voice and scrambled to get upright. Stephan leaned against the doorframe, cleaning his glasses with a soft cloth.

“How did you get in here?” Taira asked.

“Eos let me in. Kazzul is waiting outside.”

She sighed. “You want something.”

“Not at all. In fact, we’re doing something for you.” Stephan put his glasses back on and pocketed the cloth.

“Which is?”

“A bit of a get-together at Sweet Devil. Couple old friends, couple new ones. We need to celebrate getting Kazzul back and you negotiating the ever-loving hell out of that council.”

“I suppose going to this get-together as myself isn’t good enough?”

Stephan came and sat on the foot of her bed. “Look, I know you’re fed up. How about this? My employees already know the truth, and so does Yin. Dryden doesn’t care either way, and I can speak to Kazzul to see if he thinks Jahwa would be able to keep her mouth shut.”

“What a gracious offer,” Taira said with more of a sarcastic twist than she had intended. She forced herself to take a breath and recenter herself. “I’m sorry. I’m just…”

Stephan put a hand on her leg. “I know, Tee. You’ve given so much, and you deserve to unwind. Let me show you a good time tonight.”

Taira slowly nodded. “Okay. Just don’t make me dance.”

Stephan winked and stood. “I shall reveal nothing. Oh, should I go see if we can drag Kurko along?”

“He’s out, actually.”

Stephan’s eyebrows shot up. “Out? I’m sorry, that almost makes it sound like he has a life outside this ship.”

“I was surprised, too.”

“What’s he doing?”

Taira shrugged. “He wouldn’t tell me.”

Stephan shook his head with an incredulous smile. “Looks like the old mouse is finally leaving the house. I’d never have thought.”

*****

Kurko waited for a long time, looking up at the facade of the building known as the Shirzuit.

This is an awful idea, he thought. I should go back to the ship.

But something kept him there. Whether it was the simple act of independence or some long-repressed desire, he couldn’t tell. His head was a tangle of thoughts, spinning out of control, as he stepped up to the front doors. Ducking inside, he was greeted by smoke and perfume and mood-tinted lighting.

Luckily, it wasn’t too packed. This brothel advertised to a classier—and wealthier—clientele, meaning that most of Tumba’s rabble could not afford entry. Kurko looked over his options. Voluptuous, perfectly made up women. Men with sculpted bodies and handsome faces, strategically clothed. Even a pleasure construct, laden with components that Kurko didn’t even want to guess at the purpose of.

A woman approached him. Her skin was a deep brown, accentuated by gold paint swirls across her arms, collarbone, exposed tummy, and toned legs. Though far shorter than him, she was tall for a human, made even more obvious by a pair of tall heels that flexed her calves. She was wide of hip and heavy of breast, wearing a single length of sky-blue fabric ties strategically in loose knots to cover the private areas. Her hair was short and wavy, her eyes large—full of mystery and mischief in equal measure.

“You will come with me,” the woman said. She stopped in front of him, uncomfortably close, and looked up into his eyes without turning away. Her scent, nutty and understatedly sweet, was distracting.

“I… am just browsing at the moment,” Kurko worked out.

“Come.” Half invitation, half command. She took his hand, pulled him along, brought him upstairs to a private room. Floating magelights of a soft pink hue gave it an intimate quality, the back portion stacked with pillows and rugs and blankets in a disordered pile.

The woman guided him inside, padding softly backwards, maintaining eye contact. “You look nervous,” she said. “Don’t worry. This is your fantasy for tonight. Enjoy.” A heavy door slid shut behind them, cutting them off from the world.

Kurko dug through his pocket for money. “I will pay you. How much? I apologize, I don’t…”

“Hush. Payment in the morning.” The woman let one hand slip beneath his tank top, softly trailing up the roundness of his stomach. “So cold. I’ve never had one of your kind. What are you?”

“Demi-giant,” Kurko grunted. He almost recoiled at the soft touch, which caused the fiery runes embedded in his flesh to flare up. “Three-fourths durok, one-fourth frost giant.”

“Mm. Exotic.”

The woman began to lift up his shirt, but Kurko stepped away. “Wait. What’s your name?”

She smiled. “You didn’t strike me as the romantic type. My name is Julia.”

“You’re very beautiful, Julia.”

“I know. I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I wasn’t.” She tilted her head at him, her gaze going over every part of his face. Measuring. “Would you like to talk for awhile before we get started?”

“That would be nice, yes.”

Julia pulled him into the pile of softness. She nestled herself up against him, one finger trailing his stomach while her head rested on his chest. “Would you like to play a guessing game?” she asked. “I guess something about you, you guess something about me. We can go on as long as you like.”

“Very well.” Somehow, her weight against his body was soothing. The neverending sting of demonic runes was somewhat lessened by the tingle of her soft touch.

“You were a soldier.”

“Close. I was a slave.”

Julia cocked an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound close to me.”

“I was a fighting slave.”

“Oh. And is that where you got these?” She traced one of his jagged scars with her finger, drawing a gasp of both pain and pleasure from him.

“No,” he said. “That was later.”

“I see. I like a man with scars.” She propped herself up on one elbow and looked into his eyes. Her full lips pouted, tantalizingly close. “Now you guess.”

“You dream of being a performer.”

“I am a performer.”

“Not that kind. On the scryer, or in a theater.”

“True enough. My turn.”