Laila scowled at the empty doorway. Her trembling fingers curled into tight fists. She closed her eyes tightly, steadying her breath. This was what she got for letting her guard down. This was what she got. She swallowed hard. She swallowed it back down. The desperation and frustration swelling up and threatening to overflow. This was hardly the time to lose it. This was hardly the time to be weak.
Still trembling, she shoved the covers aside. She dressed and reached for her gun holster.
“Tsanza?” She called out. “Tsanza!”
No answer came.
Her boots had been left by the bed. She hauled them on then hurried down winding metal staircase leading to the lower level of Tsanza’s abode. A hastily scribbled note and bowl of fruit had been left on the counter of the tiny kitchen. Only two words were scrawled across the piece of paper.
Eat. Shop.
Laila chuckled, her tension starting to dissipate. Tsanza’d missed out on Daz Nestor's little visit. Thank the stars.
“Bikki!” She called up to the bedroom. “Come eat!”
A sleek, bird-like thing swooped down from the ceiling. It was a young teruun, blue and leathery with beady, black eyes and stingray wings.
“Where were you while I was in trouble just now?” Laila demanded crinkling her brow at the teruun before reaching over to grab a round, red fruit from the bowl.
Bikki ignored the question.
More fruit? The drowsy complaint speared into Laila’s mind. Worms are better.
“Fine,” Laila mumbled, mouth full of tart succulence. “I’ll get you some worms later.”
The metal door leading outside creaked open. Laila stepped out into the harsh morning light. The sun burned bright and hot. The streets were slick with the steamy wetness of recent rain. She could still hear gutter water rushing through the drainage pipes below ground.
Metropol Arat. This massive island-city was the heart and soul of the planet Tilaat Amat. The alien metropolis was a melting pot of species all jostling for space and surviving side by side. The air was blanketed by a chaotic mixed of odors. Petrichor. Mechanic’s oil. A multitude of strong spices. Laila liked Metropol Arat. It smelled like Hegira. It smelled like home.
Unlike Tsanza’s humpty-dumpty little house that kotched on the outer rim of the slums, the inner-city buildings were all sleek and shaped liked knives. They were ridiculously tall, pointy roofs piercing the clouds. Laila preferred sticking closer to ground level, mingling with the so-called dregs of Tilaat Amat society. If felt safer here. It was easier to disappear here.
Music wound through the alleyways; a strangely beautiful but agitating melody that made Laila want to clamp her hands over her ears to keep from hearing any more. Instead of taking the shortcut filled with the clashing stenches of refuse and burning meat, she ducked into the into the marketplace.
The pungent scents of spice and incense clouded the air. She almost bumped into a pair of veiled Toskans bearing baskets laden with bioluminescent herbs on their heads. They flitted through the crowds like gray ghosts, hawking their wares, faces never shown. As she ran, Laila caught a glimpse of a four-armed Malaui, who sat guarding brass pots filled with writhing water serpents.
She made a mental note. Worms.
Mehndi-gloved humans selling intricately painted ceramic shilled their wares next to carnivorous Whelks offering pelts of every skinnable species imaginable. One particularly bold fellow touted caged, live specimens for food and other unspeakable purposes.
Laila tossed a brief wave to the Idran weapons and ship parts dealer she’d done business with two days earlier. Idrans were a fearsome lot. They had fierce big teeth, red eyes, and horns. They stood two feet taller than the average human adult and tended to growl at the slightest provocation. Still, they were sticklers when it came to doing honest business, and an Idran could always be trusted to deliver quality products at a fair price.
The starchaser zig-zagged through the crush of bodies, instinctively avoiding two humans wearing the uniform of Metropol Arat’s military police. She swerved to avoid crashing into a gaggle of children running around. She didn’t stop running until she caught sight of the docks dominating the polluted canal just past the marketplace. She was out of breath and dripping with sweat by the time she got to the mechanic’s workshop just beyond the docks.
Red ochre skin, deep green eyes, and hair twisted into long black locks, Tsanza was a rare animal. Although he blended in well enough with the wildly diverse populace of Metropol Arat, he was like no other on the entire planet of Tilaat Amat.
The very moment she first laid eyes on him, Laila had pegged Tsanza for exactly what he was. It was his differentness that made her hairs stand on end. A differentness that had nothing to do with the color of his skin or the strange clothes he wore. He and Laila, they were wildly different but in a singular respect, they were the same. Tsanza had that peculiar air about him. The manner of someone who didn't belong planet-side. A starchaser.
Tsanza glanced up as Laila entered the workshop.
While working, he wore a gray tunic and dark utility pants. Whenever he was out of the workshop, he’d wear one of those woven ponchos that were popular among the denizens of Tilaat Amat.
His manner was always somber. Half the time, Laila could only hazard a guess at what he was thinking.
“You missed a bit of fun." She announced. "The military police paid me a little visit. An officer named Daz Nestor. Corrupt. Power starved. You know the type?"
His head came up again, he seemed on the verge of saying something but in the end, he just nodded and went back to working on the old gun. Laila was used to his mannerisms, so she didn't think much of his reaction.
“It’s almost here,” she murmured. “Hegira.”
Hegira. It was a word that filled Laila both with bubbles of elation and nervous knots. The ship of wonder. Hegira was heaven and hell wrapped in metal, hurtling through the universe at a billion parsecs per second. It was a behemoth, a massive monster of a ship and home to Winny, Bex, and Sumida. The three people Laila loved most in the ‘verse. It was also home to Lucian, who she feared most in the ‘verse. It was home to Hegira’s dying pilot, Sesili, who held Laila and Sumida’s fates in the palms of her hands. Hegira was past, present, and future. Hegira was everything.
“I need to use the comms,” she told Tsanza, who nodded, pointing in the direction of the console.
She keyed in two messages. One to Sesily. The other to Lucian. In her message to Sesily, she detailed the things she’d seen and done while away from Hegira. She’d been to the planet of the rerun. She’d braved the Wilds of Bentokal. She’d found the nest and swallowed the pale snail. It was still alive inside her stomach, the psychic parasite that would save Hegira somehow. Whoever became Hegira’s new pilot would need it, was all Sesili had said. Sesili, who had reached the end of her days and was hanging by a very thin thread. Sesili, who was going to choose whether it was Laila or Sumida who became Hegira’s new pilot.
Laila’s minds shifted to Sumida. She’d told Sumida to leave Hegira, to run. Had Sumida listened? Sumida was tougher than anyone realizes but she was also more stubborn than anyone else knew. She might have stayed on Hegira out of pure spite. In that case, she’d already be dead. There’s no way Brother would let Laila’s rival live. Laila’s heart clenched at that thought. Laila loved Sumida, lived in awe of Sumida. She didn’t want Sumida to be dead.
She sent her messages, a short and seemingly meaningless burst of chatter that would be picked up by anyone scanning for transmissions from Tilaat Amat. In her message to Lucian, Laila included just enough information to keep him from being suspicious. Laila knew what would happen if her brother found out that she was secretly reporting back to Sesili and Dornvold. Thankfully, he didn’t believe she had it in her to do anything other than what he commanded. Absolute obedience was what he expected. He’d thoroughly beat that into her, or so he thought.
Lucian didn’t know what Laila was planning. He didn’t know that all she needed was a chance, that one moment when he’d let his guard down. She was going to make him pay for all the things he’d done to her. Make him sorry for every scar. In the meantime, she played the part of the obedient puppet, bending to his savage will. She was dancing, dancing—she knew—on the sharp edge of a knife, but she was used to doing that.