Khizara: Book 1 in the Tokorel Series

By Drew Bankston

Can a 200-year-old prophecy and a non-believer save two worlds from destruction?

Linsora Anselm is a Khizaran archeologist. She "hears" voices from the past, making her perfect for the job, but she's stuck in prison after sticking up for her principles-that is, until a mysterious individual pays the guards to help her escape. H

• Language: English
• Publisher: OldStache Publishing
• Release date: Sep 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9780997554724

Drew Bankston

Drew Bankston lives in the Rocky Mountains with his wife, two amazingly perfect dogs, and a garden. Before he started writing science fiction, Drew received his bachelor's degree in Bio-Ag Sciences from Colorado State University. After that, just to shake things up, he never really used that degree but worked various jobs in retail and Asset Protection with some really important people who are way too dignified to be named here. He's still working but would eventually like to write full-time and stop working for other people. He likes pie and chocolate, as everyone should. If you want to know when Drew's next book will come out, please visit his website at http://www.drewbankston.com, where you can sign up to receive an email when he has his next release.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Carratian Prison

Linsora

 Dingbat Diamonds Dingbat Diamonds

Carratia is the fourth planet from the sun in the Samish system. The nights are too cold. The days from when the sun rises until it sets are too hot. The atmosphere is too thin. And the population of people raised and stuck here are too cranky, dishonest, and overbearing. As with many worlds, this one has prisons.

One particular Carratian prison is much like a medieval Earth dungeon but without the pleasant company of the king’s guards, the fine food offered by the dungeon keepers, and the shackles. The complex is damp, with stone floors and stone walls built by the indebted and incarcerated at the hand of the empirical government. It has 267 cells, each with a 10-foot-high ceiling and a small opening at the top of the outside cell wall. For half an hour each day, it allows a sliver of light to taunt each occupant of each cell. 

On her first night there, Linsora discovered a hole in the floor connected to an underground river where a monstrous creature lives. It consumes biological waste—and prisoners, should they become desperate enough to attempt an escape. Fortunately, a heavy metal grate separates her cell from the water a short way down the shaft. 

It’s not the sort of place one would prefer to spend their time.

And to think—Linsora had arrived there approximately one year, seven months, twelve days, and—if her math was correct—seventeen agonizing hours prior. Her cot is hard, but at least it’s a raised cot and not directly on the bug-infested floor that many other inmates have to endure. Tonight, she wanted to sleep, but the wails of several distant inmates echoed through the hallways and ricocheted off the walls of her cell. One would think she’d be used to it by now, but no one ever gets used to inhumanity—unless they’re born with the IXY gene.

Linsora did not have that gene. 

So, instead of sleeping, she thought. 

If she could survive three more months, then she’d be free. At least, that was the hope. In the meantime, she thought about the man who had put her there—and turned her head to spit on the floor at the very thought of that devil. The floor bugs scurried to consume the liquid expelled from her mouth. 

She wanted out, and she wanted revenge. 

There was truth to everything she had heard about the devil who had put her there—truth about his race, including his demonic powers of emotional control. She hated him with every fiber of her being. Three more months. She only needed to survive three more months. 

Thoughts continued to envelop her until her ears gave a warning, and a surge of adrenaline flooded her body. She heard a noise; it wasn’t the wailing or the pounding of fists against the stone walls by her fellow inmates but quiet footsteps and the crunching of dirt. She strained to see in the dark and thought she could see the outline of a figure. No, not one figure, but two silhouettes slightly darker than the shadow of the dank hallway. 

She froze, instinctively reaching for a knife—the weapon of choice on her home world, Khizara. Her subconscious mind reminded her she was still in prison, and correctional officers deprived her of the luxury of carrying a knife upon entry. The dark figures loomed ominously at her cell door, unmoving. There was the faintest jangle of keys. 

It was unbelievable that a prison this old hadn’t been updated to have modern, electronic locks instead of skeleton keys. However, the Carratians were notoriously parsimonious and most likely refused to spend more time or resources on prisons than they had to. Inmates weren’t even issued uniforms, remaining in their original clothes from arrival. They had the luxury of washing them once every two weeks if they chose to do so. Most didn’t bother.

The distinct click of a key being inserted into a lock echoed across her cell, followed by the squeal of the rusted tumblers as the key turned. Linsora prepared her body to fight. She had heard rumors of prisoners who would mysteriously vanish in the night. Most of them were troublemakers. If she was honest with herself, she knew she wasn’t a model inmate—but surely she wasn’t rebellious enough to warrant such a violent midnight visit. 

The rusty hinges moaned as the door slowly swung open. Almost inaudible whispers floated past Linsora’s ears as slight hisses. Curse these unlit hallways! It was hard to tell, but the dark figures appeared to be expanding. Were they growing wings? 

In an instant, a cloth enveloped her, and claustrophobia hit, causing the adrenaline to surge through her even more. She gasped for air and screamed, Let go of me!

Calm down, a gruff voice replied. You want to get out of here, don’t you? The cloth fell from her face. Still, in the dark, she couldn’t make out any details of her assailants.

It was often difficult for Linsora to understand Carratian. The language was as harsh as the planet’s environment, laced with hard consonants and few vowels. She recognized the voice as one of the day guards. She wasn’t sure why he would be here this early but knew it wasn’t right. She struggled more as they lifted her from the cot.

Where are you taking me?

Away from here. Stop struggling. It will be much easier if you cooperate.

When her feet hit the floor, she lashed out with wild kicks, hoping to connect with any portion of a body. Her hope became a reality when her foot collided with something solid, and she heard a muffled Carratian curse.

Secure her! a voice said in a tone strong enough to be authoritative but quiet enough not to draw attention.

Linsora felt her arms pulled behind her and restraints placed on her wrists. She started to yell Khizaran curses when a guard shoved something soft into her mouth, followed by a cloth bag quickly pulled down over her head. If she were going to die today, it would be with her fighting back. She wanted her ancestors to be proud of her efforts.

A moment later, she was tilted back and picked up by her legs. She continued to thrash about until finally, and not unexpectedly, her legs were bound at the ankles by one of the strong guards. Her mind raced as she was carried away to someplace unknown. She tried to imagine the layout of the prison. She’d walked the hallways daily for over a year, but never at this angle. It seemed they were heading toward the infirmary. 

They came to an abrupt halt, waiting as another door opened with a rumbling groan before launching forward again. Moments later, she felt the cool breeze of the night air and smelled the fresh scent of the outside. 

Should I be worried or grateful?

Either way, she could tell her captors were getting tired. Their pace slowed, and the sounds of their labored breathing made her believe they were either getting close to the final destination or approaching a transport.

With a whooshing sound another door opened shortly after, and she was thrown into a compartment. The door immediately closed, followed by two other doors opening and closing again. Someone yanked the hood from her head, and she could see her abductors in the dim light. The two officers sat in the front seats of the authority transport. The guard who had pulled off her hood stared down at Linsora and asked, If I take the silencer out of your mouth, do you think you can be quiet? 

Linsora glared at the guard and nodded. With that, the guard pulled the silencer from her mouth, barely moving his fingers in time to avoid her biting them off. A low growl followed as Linsora breathed out. 

After a deep, cleansing breath, she calmly asked, May I at least ask a few questions quietly?

The transport started to move, and the guard who had removed her silencer replied, You can ask whatever questions you want. Quietly and calmly is preferred. What do you want to ask?

Where are you taking me? It was all she could do to keep her volume at a civilized level—and it must’ve shown in her eyes because the guard’s response was prompt and clear.

We’re taking you to your benefactor.

What do you mean, my benefactor? She thought they were taking her somewhere to disappear. Perhaps she misunderstood the Carratian accent.

Your benefactor is the person interested in getting you out of that Carratian prison, the guard replied, and her brows bolted toward her hairline. Was somebody rescuing her? He wants you brought to him. He has an interest in your well-being. Why anyone would want that is beyond me, but you can ask him about that yourself when we bring you to him. Once we drop you off, he is welcome to you. The guard reached down and rubbed his shin where Linsora had kicked him in her cell.

And what if I refuse to go to this benefactor? What if I run away when you release me?

You’ll be shot and reduced to ashes, he answered bluntly, stating the consequences with such level-headed certainty that she knew he wasn’t lying. Your benefactor compensates us to bring you to a certain release point, not harbor an escapee. If you want to live out the rest of your life, I would say your best choice is to be grateful, keep your mouth shut, and accept the sanction that will come with your release to the benefactor. 

Does this benefactor have a name?

The guard sighed heavily, visibly growing weary of the unending questions, and turned to look back at Linsora. All I know is I’m taking you somewhere to drop you off. What happens after that is up to you. The two of you can kill each other for all I care. Now be quiet. We’re almost there.

I don’t care for your tone of voice, she replied, and the guard ignored her. She quietly tried to slip out of the wrist restraints, but the bonds adjusted to her movements. Her mind raced. It seemed like they were telling her the truth, but if they were going to kill her, why would they drive all this way? 

The transport began to slow and come to a stop.

We’re here, announced the guard. I’m going to get you out, but don’t do something stupid and start a fight. Linsora had to force her facial expression into one of neutrality. If you think I won’t fight, you strongly underestimate me, idiot. I need to explain where we are and what you should do next.

Not fighting was the last thing Linsora had on her mind. She wanted to fight, run, and get as far away from this place as possible, but she tried to go completely limp, making it more difficult for the guards to maneuver her out of the vehicle. They laid her on the ground and attempted to sit her up, but she collapsed and remained stretched out, not moving. The guards looked at her and sighed.

I guess we could leave you here in shackles and hope that the sun comes up before the creatures of the night smell you. Now sit up so that I can remove your restraints!

Linsora did as she was told, watching as the guard held her ankles to the ground while the other started removing her wrist restraints. She could see a dwelling not too far from where they were—but it was hard to make out the details in the dark of night. It was small, that much she could tell, though it was impossible to know whether it was lavish or drab. She just knew that it was there, and that was enough.

Her restraints fell to the ground. It felt nice to move her legs and arms freely again. 

What am I supposed to do now? she asked.

The guard behind her reached into his pocket, and Linsora immediately started thrashing about, hitting the guard behind her in the face with a closed fist. He threw his body—much larger than her small frame—on top of her and growled, Will you just stop? Take this!

He slowly sat up and gave her a small black box.

What is this? 

Go to the front door. You can either knock or use this to defeat the door lock. Just flip the switch.

Their job complete, the guards backed away rapidly, running to the transport, which rose and hurried away.

Linsora stood in the dark, looking at the structure before her. She quietly approached the front door and listened for any sounds coming from within. It was quiet. She flipped the switch on the small box and held it to the door. There was a slight click. As the door opened, she saw a dim light coming from inside and a candle on a wooden table. Opening the door further, she saw two legs stretched out and a figure sleeping in a chair. 

She squinted to make out the figure’s details. She knew this man. 

Linsora muttered a Khizaran swear word under her breath, shaking her head. I can’t believe it . . . As she approached, she noticed a knife lying fortuitously on the table.

And it was as though the knife was waiting just for her.

CHAPTER 2

The Dwelling in the Dark

Permac

 Dingbat Diamonds Dingbat Diamonds

You had me arrested! Linsora’s hot breath riffled through Permac Sudé’s dark, full beard. Does the cold metal of this blade makes your blood run cold? You couldn’t have been more stupid leaving a knife out in the open for me to use on you—but then again, you probably expected me to knock or even ring your door announcer. Guess you underestimated me after all this time. 

Linsora, I have survived for thirty-four years of life without being perilously injured, and I have no desire to find out what that feels like now, Permac said. 

Shut up, she snarled, and don’t move, Tokorellan! She pressed the knife into his flesh. It tugged dangerously at his throat, a fraction of an inch away from his carotid artery—which really should’ve been his primary concern, and yet he found himself more discomforted by the position she’d craned his neck in. He could already feel a muscle spasm coming on.

How— he croaked. 

Quiet! And if you use your demonic powers of emotional control over me, I’ll know. I doubt that very much, Linsora. Then, believe me, you’ll never sleep peacefully again.

Surely Linsora could tell she’d forced him into a seriously uncomfortable position. Who knew the neck could crane this far back without snapping? As she’d put it, he didn’t even have to use his demonic powers of emotional control to realize she wanted him to feel the same misery she’d likely felt in that Carratian prison. That was just plain obvious. The key now was talking her out of it. 

I can expl—

I said do not speak.

The knife blade was no longer cold; the heat of Permac’s body had warmed it. Linsora shifted the knife again, not tighter, but she turned so that the edge would slice his flesh if either of them hiccuped. He could hear his racing heart and wondered if his blood pressure would increase to the point of a critical artery expanding into the blade against his throat. His breathing was shallow and fast. He hoped he wouldn’t pass out and fall forward onto the knife. 

 Permac closed his eyes and concentrated on the woman. Had she wanted to, she would have killed him already. Although he felt no immediate murderous intent, the fury was apparent, and so was something else. Amid the boiling wrath, he sensed a curiosity, maybe even a twinge of desperation—but any of that could be gone instantly and replaced by a desire for this woman to end his life. By no means was he reassured. A bead of sweat slowly ran down and tickled his face. The tips of her clawed fingernails bit into his neck.

I’ve spent an entire year thinking about this, she said, pressing the knife harder against his throat. He stifled a groan as a muscle contracted. Her voice was directly above his ear. He hoped she was bending over and as uncomfortable as he was. "Sometimes I wanted to kill you. Usually, I just wanted to hurt you. Never, never did I think of you fondly, Tokorellan. Do you know what a Carratian prison is like? I’m sure you do. I’m sure that’s why I was in one and you weren’t. What the hell are you still doing here, anyway? Are you suicidal or just stupid?"

Her anger was clearly rising to a new plateau. Permac sensed this and decided speaking was worth the risk. In a whisper, he said, Linsora, neither of us was supposed to be there.

And what was I supposed to do? Turn you in? 

Yes, damn it, you were! 

Capitalizing on her surprise, he reached up, grabbed her hand, and pulled it away from his neck. She yelped in shock as he put pressure on the dorsal side of her hand, forcing her palm inward—and like magic, as her wrist flexed, her fingers opened, and the knife fell into his lap.

No tricks, Linsora, he said with a cheeky grin, and her eyes lit up with rage. Just skill and patience.

She scoffed, giving him enough time to pull her forward and take ahold of her arms—his lean, tan frame rising before her. Maybe now we can talk in a civilized manner.

The only way you’ll ever be civilized is when you’ve gone to whatever serves as hell in your afterworld!

He sidestepped a kick intended for his shin.

Do you expect me to believe you wanted me to turn you in?

Yes! he snarled back at her. You were supposed to turn me in. Anyone else would have! He looked down at this short but powerful woman. At six feet tall, he stood at least a head taller than her, and over the past year, he had honed his Tokorellan frame into a sleek, muscular shape that he was proud of. 

Leaning, as he did, toward the burly end of the physical build scale, he should have been able to hold her effortlessly, but she was like a wild creature, wriggling and unpredictable. 

One thing I remember about you, Tokorellan, is that your mother taught you never to hurt a woman, Linsora went so far as to say, cocking a brow tauntingly. Is that why we stand here in a stalemate of power?

Permac stifled a laugh. My mother never met you, he said. Then, with a sigh, he returned to their earlier topic. Linsora, I expected you to tell them all about me. I figured they would have released you, come after me, and found nothing. Then we’d both have gone about our lives. But oh, no! You and your principles wouldn’t have that. You had to tell them the truth—you admitted you had the artifacts. And to make it worse, you refused to tell them where they were.

At least I have principles. You, Tokorellan, have none. Linsora spat the name of Permac’s race like poison in her mouth. You and your mutant race are more despicable—than anything I can think of at the moment. I should have killed you a long time ago. 

She relaxed the muscles in her arms—which he suspected was to lull him into loosening his grip. He wouldn’t fall for it.

I know what you’re doing, he said, tightening his grip even more. I know you can use a knife, but don’t flatter yourself into thinking you could actually kill me.

Really? Because of your skill and patience or your little mind games?

Her next kick connected. With a muffled ooof, he flung her across the room, wincing in reaction to the sharp pain. She landed hard on the floor. By the time she regained her breath, he stood over her with the knife in hand.

I doubt that you’ve ever been in a fight, Tokorellan. I can see the indecision in your eyes, she snarled. 

And I can sense the trickery in your voice. Let’s call this a draw. You stay seated, and I won’t have to use the knife. Agreed? They both knew very well that she wouldn’t overpower him—but his ego wasn’t as fragile as hers, so he gave her a way out.

Of course, you want a draw, she said with a sniff, brushing off her hands. I accept—but only because killing you would be like killing a helpless child. It just isn’t right.  

Good, he said, trying not to laugh. Then we can talk.

For the first time since their reunion, Permac really looked at the woman seated before him. Her eyes blazed a brilliant green. People of his race —the Tokorellan race—didn’t have green eyes. Then again, neither did people of hers. Both Tokorellans and Khizarans were blue-eyed races. Her father, a green-eyed Terran, had given her both eyes and a stature shorter than most Khizarans—but no one who spent time with Linsora thought of her as small. She extended her height with the sheer force of her temper. Still, the genetic combination had been kind to her, softening the angular Khizaran lines and—Permac never failed to note—somehow packed Khizaran proportions into a shorter body, making her, well, just curvier than most. 

If you weren’t so irritable and irritating, I might . . . Was he really about to voice that thought out loud? He shook his head, sealing his lips shut. 

What might you do? she inquired.

Nothing. He wiped the sweat off his forehead, but it didn’t stop his dark shoulder-length hair from sticking to the sides of his face. 

Stabs of pain shot from his lower back and neck—an unfortunate result of the position she’d kept him in earlier. And perhaps age, he thought with a grimace. Thirty-four hasn’t been as kind as twenty-four, that’s for sure.

 All of that, plus his shin hurt. He could almost feel the outlines of a boot-shaped bruise forming. 

Linsora’s heavy auburn hair was purely Khizaran and in great disarray. The single braid she usually wore was partly unraveled, and stray threads framed her tanned face. He reached down to brush a strand from her forehead, and she slapped him away with the same vehemence and disgust as she might a buzzing insect. 

You’re bleeding, she said. Good thing the knife isn’t as rusty as your skill and patience.

Permac’s hand was sticky. He touched his neck and found it tacky, too. He hadn’t noticed his neck cut with all the other aches.

Damn it, Linsora!

She shrugged and offered a tiny smile. 

Without taking his eyes off her, he fumbled for some cloth on the table behind him. He yanked the entire tablecloth off, sending an assortment of cups and plates clattering to the floor.

You won’t die, she said. The cut’s already sealing. Better to leave it alone than stick that cloth on it. When’s the last time you washed the thing?

I don’t need your medical advice. Permac stuffed the tablecloth under his chin. He pulled a chair from the table and sat with a thump. Linsora remained seated, on the floor, with her back against the wall. Look, neither of us should have been in that prison. You knew I had the artifacts. There was no reason for you not to tell them that.

No? You honestly believe they’d have released both of us? 

So you were protecting me? Permac dabbed the tablecloth at his neck. Now that he was thinking about it, he couldn’t quite remember when he’d last washed it . . . The cut had stopped bleeding, so he tossed the cloth back toward the table, annoyed that she was right about the cut and his housekeeping skills.

I was protecting the artifacts, not you! she emphasized. How was I supposed to know that telling the Carratians you had them wasn’t the same as handing the artifacts over on a silver platter?

Because I risked as much as you did to collect them, Permac said. Did you let me help you just because I was convenient?

You offered to help. Why? I don’t know. I’d have done it on my own.

But you didn’t send me away, did you? Permac stared at her, unable to read her expression. Are you exasperated or amused? 

You think you’re easy to send away? It wasn’t my first time holding a knife to your miserable throat. That’s usually enough of a hint for anyone to leave. But you were always there. And you’re still doing it. She breathed heavily. I hoped there’d be a trial. They accused me of theft. I figured they’d have to specify just what it was I stole. Then there’d be a chance for publicity, and I’d have accomplished my purpose. But Carratian justice is convenient. I was charged and sentenced in a private court.

They don’t want the artifacts, but they also don’t want anyone to know about them.

And that makes your argument pointless. Even if the Carratians had the artifacts, they’d still have to eliminate me. And if I told them about you, they’d be after your head, too.

Maybe not. We can say anything we want. Nobody has much good to say about Carratians. Without proof, we’d be just a couple more people griping about their business practices.

So, where are the artifacts now?

Sold.

Linsora seemed ready to spring to her feet, and a wave of pure venom assaulted Permac. He kicked her boot lightly with his foot, Your turn to listen and not move. Yes, I sold them. I needed the money to carry out my plan to get you out. Why do you suppose I’m still here? Why do you suppose you’re still alive? He didn’t wait for an answer. "When I realized you would insist on upholding your principles, and they placed you in that prison, I contacted parties there. I do have friends in low but useful places. For a price, they agreed to look after you."

He leaned toward Linsora. I do know what a Carratian prison is like, and believe me, you didn’t begin to see the worst of it. Trust me on that. I felt stupidly responsible for you, but right now, I’m not quite sure why. I stayed here, sold the artifacts quietly, and paid off the guards.

He felt her emotions softening—

Only to be immediately replaced with a renewal of ire. 

"You did this for over a year? If you’d let me serve another two or three months, I’d have been released in good standing! I wouldn’t be a fugitive like I am now and would have a future. Instead, I’m dragged out of prison and brought here. To you!"

Permac exploded in frustration. You would not have been released in good standing, Linsora! You’d have disappeared! He added softly, I had another plan in mind closer to your release date, but the guards I paid were about to be transferred. I had to arrange your escape now. 

I’m afraid those guards will have some bruises to explain. I don’t react well to being kidnapped in the middle of the night. They just gave me this and left when we got to this building. As she reached into a pocket on the sleeve of her jacket, Permac knelt and grabbed her ankle. Permac knew that Linsora had numerous pockets to conceal weapons, and even though he still had the knife she tried to use on him, he wasn’t sure that she didn’t have another weapon she was reaching for. He leaned forward, bringing his knife close before she had time to react. 

She stuck her tongue out at him, daring him to use it, and knew inside that he couldn’t. But she was raised in a knife-wielding culture, where anyone with a knife was someone to be respected. He didn’t blink. 

Linsora cautiously retrieved a small box with a blinking green light, which Permac recognized it as a field modifier. 

That’s how she had gotten into his apartment. One swipe and the flimsy Carratian locks and security systems were disabled. 

Now that he was convinced she had no weapon, Permac let go of her ankle and returned to the chair. 

They said they had done enough and that you were more than welcome to me. After what I said when I learned where they were taking me, I don’t think they wanted to witness our loving reunion. Linsora took a deep breath. You could have let me know what you were doing.

No, I couldn’t. I didn’t think you’d have welcomed the help. Right now, though, we have to get out of here. You’re a fugitive, and I haven’t exactly felt secure. I’ve heard of a Terran exploration ship looking for crew and going so far out they’ll take anyone they can get without many questions.

Linsora looked down and shook her head. Permac Sudé, you have ruined my life, she muttered.

And you haven’t brightened mine any, he replied with a hint of a smile.

CHAPTER 3

The Escape

Permac

 Dingbat Diamonds Dingbat Diamonds

That’s all you have? Linsora asked, gesturing to the modest heap of personal supplies Permac had packed for their trip. Everything he had that was worth bringing could fit easily into a small backpack.

I don’t need a lot, he replied stiffly. The pair stared at the heap momentarily as though it would defend itself against them. Lips pursed, Permac stuffed a few snacks, a water canteen, and a single change of clothes into the small canvas backpack he’d had for twenty years. Lastly—and most importantly, from his perspective—he pocketed a deck of playing cards he won in a poker game with the best poker player on Carratia for safekeeping. 

What about weapons? Linsora asked, scandalized. Oh, Khizarans and their obsession with violence. The Carratian markets are full of—

Full of things I don’t need and full of things that might attract attention. Don’t think I’ve had a lot of fun this past year myself. Permac threw his pack over his shoulder and handed an empty one to Linsora. The markets are always open, and we can find some things for you along the way. Let’s go.

Before closing the door behind them, he cast one last glance around the tiny apartment. Bare essentials furnished two rooms. A path on the dusty floor showed his usual pacing route. 

Funny, he said, his hand still on the doorknob, I hated this place, but I feel odd leaving it. It’s the first time in twelve years that I’ve been in one place for so long.

Me too, but I’m not inclined toward nostalgia, Linsora replied, and he knew that was true, as it was another Khizaran attribute that he found brutish and short-sighted. How’s your neck?

Fine. The cut’s small.

Told you! Linsora sniffed. Then, waving at his hand, still clutching the doorknob, she barked, You said let’s go, so let’s go!

With that, he shut the apartment door and didn’t bother locking it.

Permac shivered in the chill of the night air. Carratia, the capital and major port city of the Carratian planetary system, was in a temperate latitude but consistently damp with the wilted look of a four-day-old floral arrangement: still colorful but showing definite wear. 

Foolishly, he placed his arm around Linsora’s shoulders to keep her warm.

What the hell are you doing? she snapped, pulling away.

I thought maybe you’d like an arm or a cloak around you. Was I mistaken?

Do you remember when we first met, Sudé?

I remember you pulled a knife on me and threatened to remove a portion of my anatomy that I value and cherish, as it’s for the creation of future generations . . . 

"And yet, you still think that putting your arm around me without invitation is warranted because of what you think I need?"

So, are you warm enough? he asked with a grin that he was happy she couldn’t see in the dark. He knew Carratians didn’t provide prisoners with clothing. Linsora had taken only what she had on: a black mid-calf-length skirt with a matching shirt and a light jacket made from a sturdy Khizaran plant fiber—all of which was shabby from a year of wear and washing.

I’m fine, she said. Actually, no. Let’s get to the shops. We should still have a couple of hours before the Carratians realize I’m gone, and you should still have plenty of credit to buy me whatever I want. Yes?

 Yes, he grumbled, I have enough for whatever you want to purchase. Go crazy.

Like most port cities, Carratia was bright, loud, and expensive if you didn’t know your way around. More than most, though, Carratia was noted for its commercial and moral ease. The Mercantile Board that regulated all interplanetary commerce regarded Carratia as no more than marginally reputable. They followed the rules closely enough to retain their membership since not having Mercantile credentials made inter-system trade nearly impossible on a large scale. They also skittered past the rules whenever they thought they could get away with it. Carratian markets offered items not seen in strictly regulated ports, such as artifacts that more appropriately belonged in a museum, weapons that belonged only on military installations, and substances that appealed to various races’ idea of intoxicants. All were available. 

The Mercantile authorities knew but looked the other way. Carratia was willing to establish mining operations on far-flung planets no one else would consider, as those endeavors were often dangerous at best and life-threatening at worst. Not to mention the small fact that Carratian funds always seemed to find willing pockets among those involved with the Mercantile establishment.

Anybody who dared to grumble about Mercantile corruption didn’t know which pockets were open to favors and which weren’t, making the situation nearly impervious to challenge.

Permac trailed behind Linsora, who plunged into the bright lights of the Carratian markets like a child in a candy shop. He cringed at the noise of vehement bargaining between vendors and consumers, the uncivilized effort of shouldering one’s way through throngs of unmoving, cattle-like herds of people, and worst of all, the scent of Carratian street food, which he’d come to despise. 

Perhaps leaving his tiny apartment wasn’t that bad after all, he mused to himself.

This is wonderful! Linsora exclaimed, running from shop to shop, wide-eyed and filled with the wonder of someone who hadn’t been free to roam in almost two years.

He wondered what time it was, though it didn’t matter. The city was never closed. The port operated at all hours, and the shops and market stalls accommodated the steady stream of customers. Transports from orbiting ships arrived and left, each on their own clocks—commercial vessels operating on the schedule preferred by their captain. Even in the nighttime darkness of the city, some ships hummed with noontime lights and activity; some were dimming for the evening, some warming in lazy preparation for the day. 

Permac guided Linsora through the bustle and noise. Vendors called out to passersby, each offering the best, the strongest, the newest, and the cheapest. Raucous singing filtered out of several taverns, each off-note accompanied by the pungent reek of strong ale. People bumped into them with no offer of apology. Shrill voices argued, laughed, and called out to acquaintances. Even the beggars asking for a few coins were loud. 

So many people! Linsora exclaimed. So many different races.

They all stop here, Permac said with disgust. All have different customs, and most have no sense of decorum. They do whatever they do with no apologies or sense of others.

Linsora sniffed. Don’t be so stuffy.

Permac followed her line of vision to where she was staring boldly at a Carratian Peace Officer looking her way. He felt the sharp jab of her elbowing his ribs as she muttered, Do you think they know who I am?

Her slight paranoia made Permac smile. He pulled the hood of his cloak up. People had remarked that his blue eyes sparkled when he was entertained, and right now, for the first time in his two years of enduring these streets, he was highly amused. He pursed his lips, hoping his bushy beard would hide his erupting smile. 

Hiding? Linsora asked as she guided him toward a nearby shop.

I feel like a parent taking his child out on a shopping spree. You’re having so much fun that it’s making me smile!

Linsora stared at him. Are you saying I’m a child?

Permac could feel her rising anger and said, No, I’m just enjoying watching you being more relaxed, having fun, and not focusing on being angry at me.

Don’t think I’m feeling any pleasant feelings toward you. You have money, and I need things. 

Linsora flitted from shop to shop, stopping only to sniff the aromas of food wafting from stalls and cafés. With each excited turn of her head, her loose auburn braid whipped from side to side, slowly unraveling.

Permac continued to trail in the wake of Linsora’s sporadic shopping spree for several minutes, watching in awe at her excitement. If he didn’t know her better, the behavior might have seemed out of character for such a knife-wielding and violence-prone Khizaran. But the truth was, despite his better judgment, he had come to know her just enough to realize this wasn’t out of character—it was the most authentic expression of it, despite how much Linsora pretended otherwise.

He and Linsora were opposites like that. She was hard on the outside and soft on the inside, and while he maintained the pliable demeanor of somebody who thought carefully before speaking, he knew— 

A sharp tap on his shoulder interrupted his thought. 

In all of the chaos of the Carratian markets, Permac failed to notice another Peace Officer approach him. 

Excuse me, sir, he said. Permac turned and was startled to see the officer in front of him. Reflexively, he looked down and used what Linsora liked to call his demonic powers of emotional control to send a wave of trust toward the officer.

How can I help you? he asked.

I haven’t seen you here this late at night. Almost sunrise, the officer said. You’re usually at the markets during the day. It’s just unusual . . . and I watch for unusual things.

At that moment, Linsora bounded out of the shop and ran up to Permac. Look what I bought— She stopped mid-sentence, giving the Peace Officer a panicked sort of incriminating look.  

And who is this? the officer asked.

This is my sister, Permac replied. He turned toward Linsora to hide his eyes, sending another wave of trust to the officer. The officer stretched out a finger and pointed, expecting her to point back and touch fingertips together, as was the Carratian custom for greeting.

A pleasure to meet you, he said, smiling vacantly.

Linsora pointed back and said, Nice to meet you as well.

Have a nice night—and be careful, the Peace Officer added with a bland grin. Many criminals in the marketplace tonight. We were informed that an inmate has escaped the prison.

Permac felt a tidal wave of Linsora’s panic wash over him.

The Peace Officer cocked a brow, looking at Linsora. In fact, that inmate looks a bit like you. Permac sent a strong wave of confusion to the officer. He blinked a few times, then smiled and said, Best to be careful.

Thank you for the insight, Officer, Linsora replied as he drifted back into the ebb and flow of the Carratian shoppers. 

Linsora exhaled and hit Permac in the arm.

Ow! he yelled. What was that for? I just saved your skin. Again!

You and your damn abilities, she said and pranced away.

He reached out and steered Linsora into a less frequented side street. As they turned the corner, the glitz and glamor of the Carratian market was replaced by the dull monochrome of regular life. This was where the locals did all their shopping in peace—away from the strip of frenzied bargaining, drunken debauchery, and sensory overload.

Permac expelled a sigh of relief. He preferred it here. 

He expected their first stop to be a clothing shop. Instead, Linsora went straight to several food vendors. They sat on low stools outside an ale shop, the table between them stacked with half-empty baskets of bread and meat.

Didn’t they feed you in there? He knew, of course, that they had most likely only fed her the minimum necessary to keep her alive, but he felt like teasing her anyway, now that she was safely rescued and the subject wasn’t so raw. 

Linsora pulled the last bit of meat from a skewer, Mmmm . . . Not like this. Her nose—aquiline like her father’s, with a squarish tip from her mother—crinkled with satisfaction.

So, what did you do for a year?

"Ah-ha! So you don’t know what a Carratian prison is like. Linsora jabbed the skewer toward his face, making him flinch. Didn’t think so. You’re not the type who ends up in jail."

Well, no . . . and other than arranging for your escape, I’ve lived a pretty law-abiding life. It might not be sexy, but it’s kept me out of dirty, foreign prisons, so I feel the exchange is worth it.

Did you say you’ve lived a law a-boring life? 

I imagine that your time there wasn’t necessarily filled with exciting moments or times of relaxation, though, was it? The wave of shame emanating from Linsora indicated he’d hit a nerve. I’m sure, he went on, tone much softer now, that there was hard work and times of humiliation. And I’m sorry you were there.

Carratians don’t let convenient manpower go to waste. They had us working in a factory, producing parts for their ships. Next time you serve on a Carratian ship, think about who had a hand building it. Amazing that they don’t all fall out of the sky, she said with a dour laugh. And they were asses. The factory people only spoke to us in Carratian.

Not Merc?

Nope. So, now I can proudly proclaim that I’m fairly fluent in four languages: Khizaran, Merc, Terran, and Carratian. How about you?

Permac thought momentarily before saying, Um, five fluently and a little of three more. Her whistle of respect was not the expression of withering scorn for Tokorellans’ educational standards he was expecting from her. Tokorel, more than most cultures, places a high emphasis on languages. Generally, societies teach their own planetary language, possibly an ethnic language, and Mercantile Standard, or Merc, the universal language of commerce and travel. No matter where you are from, you can understand it and speak it, although I wonder if any real standard exists since Merc is spoken with a wide variety of accents.

Must be useful. She reached for another skewer of meat from the plate. Any Carratian?

Only a little. Not much Khizaran, either, but enough to get by in a pinch.

Really? That’s surprising.

Why? You think we’re taught to speak Khizaran so that when we go back to conquer your people, we’ll be able to communicate? He was only half kidding. Isn’t that what Khizaran’s think about my people?

Possibly. But you won’t have to communicate if you try to conquer Khizara. Either you’ll fail, or we Khizarans will die trying to stop you.

Nice vision of the future.

Isn’t that what Tokor wanted? she asked. The founder of your race wanted to conquer his brothers on his home planet before he was exiled and ran away.

That was 200 years ago. No one knows what happened then.

What were you taught in school? What do your historians say about your humble beginnings?

We’re taught that Tokor was a great man who had learned some amazing talents and was feared and exiled from Khizara, he said simply, aware that he was treading into dangerous territory. This was a subject that had inspired wars for centuries. My people revere him. Thus the reason we are named for him.

Cult, Linsora said and pulled more meat from the skewer.

What?

Yours is like any other cult, she said. For 200 years, you’ve been brainwashed.

Have you considered that maybe it’s you and your people who have been brainwashed? Permac countered. Could be your fantasy.

It’s reality. Want this? She pointed to the last skewer of meat. Permac shook his head. This and more of that ale, and I’ll be all set. I saw a cloak back there that would be useful.

That’s not all you saw.

Linsora grinned. True, I could use a weapon . . . or two. She thumped the mug on the table and rose. "Don’t look so gloomy, Permac. Did you think a year in prison would reform me? The people of my home world and yours might be related, but mine don’t have your little talents."

You carry knives instead, Permac grumbled. And what do you think is better? At least I don’t make a mess. He reached into his jacket and handed her a knife. Here. Since you’ll be getting more anyway, you may as well have this back—one of the few things the Carratians didn’t confiscate when you were arrested.

Linsora examined the knife, flipped it, and caught it by the blade between her fingers. Thought it felt familiar. Keep it. You never know when you might find it useful. Besides, I cut you and didn’t clean off the blood, so it’s yours.

Linsora strode off toward the shops, leaving Permac to catch up with her. By the time he had, she’d chosen a long black cloak made of the soft skin of some giant creature, a pair of boots, several matching skirts and shirts, two plain jackets, and four knives of various sizes. 

Thankfully, she’d had the sense to purchase nondescript, utilitarian clothing that wouldn’t draw too much attention. 

"That