“...one forty seven…one forty eight…one forty nine…one fifty.” Tor’laen grunted, finishing the last of his pushups. He was purposefully counting up in Hylec, the trading language of his people, rather than using Zakkili.
That night, after he had returned to his cabin, he had spent a while trying to find any trace of his former native tongue. He hadn’t been successful. There were times when he could almost grasp a word or two, the shape of the syllables on his tongue, only for their Zakkili equivalent to come out instead. It was…frustrating.
However, Tor’laen had made a discovery. While whatever the Queen did to him had shattered his knowledge of Ydanic, he had retained the words of both Hylec and also Tali’nev, the old religious tongue of his people. The phrases he knew in them sometimes wavered and slithered around, conforming to his newly ingrained Zakkili grammar structures, but they were usable enough. He wasn’t fluent in either, knowing only enough to communicate, but he could at least get by.
They weren’t his native tongue though. They didn’t feel like home.
Tor’laen banished the melancholy thoughts, heaving himself to his feet. They weren’t useful, and no amount of moping would bring back his language. He took a seat on the chair in his cabin, no longer having to slouch down.
After he had returned to his cell, he had been surprised by a visit from the Crown Daughter’s second in command. Vessa, he had learned her name was, and she held the rank of “Admiral” on the Citadel. Even more surprising, she had him relocate to a larger, nicer cabin, closer to the rear of the ship’s Mid Deck. Then, the next morning, a group of Zakkili crew members had showed up at his door, carrying a set of furniture large enough for him.
The result was a relatively spacious, comfortably furnished cabin. The Ydani didn’t quite know how to process that. Did all Zakkili ships carry facilities to create furniture and other items on a whim? The idea felt almost preposterous.
The women had told him it was by the order of the Royal Hand. Crown Daughter Nalyra. He chewed on the thought for a mark.
Objectively speaking, she was now his superior. His commander, as the Queen had put it. Tor’laen couldn’t stop a rueful grin from tugging at his mouth. It had been almost forty years since he had last had a direct superior. Back when his people had still been at war with the Cal’raz. It would take some adjustment.
But he would obey. He would follow her orders. The future of his people depended on it.
As for how he personally felt about her…well, that was a little more complicated. The way he saw it, Nalyra was proud. Haughty. Regal. Self-assured. A miniature avatar of the Zakkili Monarchy as a whole, from his reckoning. However, he still remembered her last intrusion into his mind. Gentle. Not as a show of compassion, he was sure. It was the care of a commander who treated their troops and weapons with the proper respect and attention to be sure they would last through the campaign.
And she wore his dagger at her side like it was made for her.
Sighing, he stood up, and moved to the entrance of his cabin. Hesitating for just a moment, he pressed the small button labeled “open” next to the doorway, the tiny runes of Zakkili now perfectly legible to him. The door slid open, and Tor’laen glanced out into the well-lit corridor. Not a guard in sight. Interesting. Or maybe concerning. Well, he already knew how effective the psychic restrictions in his head were, but just leaving him able to wander the ship? It felt sloppy.
Scowling slightly, he returned to the cabin, finding the communicator he had been given. The device was far more complex than the personal communicators his Outrunner Fleet had used, but after a few moments he found out how to start a call.
After a moment, a calm voice came from the device.
“Civic Liaison. State your inquiry.”
“This is Cap-uh, Tor’laen. The Ydani…envoy.” The phrase still felt a little strange, and he had to catch himself before he used his old rank.
“Ah! Um…wait one moment. I need to transfer you.”
The communicator gave a few soft chimes, then a cheerful voice rang out from the device.
“Theeerrrreee he is. What do you need, Ydani?”
“Uh. Yes. This is Tor’laen, I had an inquiry, um…?”
“Lieutenant Commander Mikka. But you ain’t one of my soldiers, so you can just call me Mikka.”
Tor’laen blinked down at the device. From his intel, Lieutenant Commander was a notably high rank for a Zakkili soldier. This was one of the ranking officers on the Citadel?
“Well, Mikka, I would like to ask about my duty schedule. I haven’t been sent anything or given any orders yet.”
“‘Duty schedule’? What, are you looking for work or something, man?”
“Affirmative.”
A peal of laughter rang out from the device, and Tor’laen frowned down at it. Was she seriously on duty and acting this way?
“Right, okay.” He could hear the grin in her voice. “I’ll tell you what. Your ‘work’ is to take a look around the ship. Get used to your new home. Think you can handle that, Ydani?”
Tor’laen’s jaw clenched, and he had to fight to keep his temper in check. Yes, it had been a very long time since he had had to follow direct orders.
“I believe I can.”
“Good boy. Sit tight for a mark, and I’ll send one of my girls to your cabin to give you the grand tour. How’s that sound?”
“It is acceptable. I will wait for your subordinate here.”
“Great. And remember Ydani, behave.” She gave a snicker and cut the call.
Behave. He glared down at the now-silent communicator. Of course he would ‘behave’. There was a figurative knife at his people’s throat and he was the one holding it back.
He sat down on his cot, waiting for his guide. It didn’t take long. After only a couple marks, his door gave a pinging noise, one that he had come to learn was the equivalent of a personal hail on his vessels.
Tor’laen opened the door to find a Zakkili soldier waiting for him.
She was dressed in the uniform he had become familiar with, the uniform of the Star Citadel’s forces, but lacking the chest rig or extra plating the Armswomen wore in combat situations. A single sidearm sat on the woman’s hip, her only visible weapon.
The woman had auburn hair, tied up into a bun on the back of her head. Curiously, a few of those fine tendrils that all Zakkili had were hanging free, only reaching her shoulders. She had the same black sclera as the rest of her kind, and blue-gray irises, which stared suspiciously up at him.
“I’m Corporal Saia, Ydani, and I’m in charge of you for today.”
“Understood. My name is Tor’laen.”
She cocked her head, as if waiting for more.
“No rank? I was told you’re Ydani navy.”
Unconsciously, his fingers went to his collar, to his insignia, pulling at the small patch slightly.
“I’m fairly certain that being made a subject of your Monarchy and living aboard a Citadel means I’ve been decommissioned. No rank.”
“Huh. I see.”
She put her hands on her wide hips.
“Anyways, I’ve been informed that if you cause any trouble, it becomes my problem. So let’s not make it my problem, alright?”
“I understand, Corporal. I don’t think it’s even possible for me to cause trouble.” He tapped the side of his head, his thoughts going back to Nalyra’s restrictions.
“Right. Well…this way. We’ll move towards the Under Deck.”
Tor’laen followed the diminutive soldier down the halls of the ship. After a little while, the Corporal glanced back at him.
“Did the Crown Daughter really Press you personally? That’s what everyone is saying.” The woman almost sounded awed by the idea.
“‘Press’ me?” Tor’laen frowned at the unfamiliar word.
“Yeah, you know, Pressing. Pushing her will into your mind.” She glanced back at him again, one eyebrow raised.
“Ah. Actually, I didn’t know. I’ve only been speaking Zakkili since, uh, yesterday. But yes, she did.” He tried to say it casually, but the words came out much more dour-sounding than he wanted.
“Oh, damn. Did our Royal Hand change that too?”
“No, it was the Queen Matriarch.”
That got a reaction from her. Saia stumbled the slightest bit, her eyes wide, staring at him.
“Holy crap. How in the Maker’s name did she-” The woman stopped herself. “Actually, no. Don’t answer that. Pretty sure there’s something in the regs that says asking about royal secrets is treason.”
Tor’laen nodded, staying silent. They walked the hall for another mark before the corporal spoke up again.
“I wasn’t on duty when you Ydani boarded us,” she said shortly. “But my cousin was. She was guarding the bridge. One of you broke her wrist.”
There was a moment’s pause, and Tor’laen wasn’t sure if he should apologize. At the time, that woman had just been an enemy combatant, but it was hard to keep it that way in his head after chatting with her cousin.
“She said you could have killed her, easily,” Saia continued. “So, uh, thanks. For not doing that.”
“We…we had no intention of killing anyone.” Tor’laen said slowly. It was the truth – High Command had simply decided that doing so would give the Ydani the best possible position to negotiate with the Monarchy. But here, talking with a soldier who could have very easily been in his path that day, a little guilt and relief trickled through him.
The pair had now entered a busier part of the ship. Zakkili soldiers and crew members passed by them, most of them staring at the Ydani. A few glared at him with suspicion or wariness, but most of the women seemed more curious, or just surprised by his stature. Tor’laen felt a bit like a giant, towering over all of them by at least two feet.
“Around here are the living quarters and dormitories for on-duty crew and Armswomen.” Saia said, gesturing around them. “You should probably get used to coming here, Ydani. You gotta pass by if you want to access the chapel or Under Deck.”
The woman stopped by a double doorway.
“This is the mess hall. I imagine you know what that is. The food here is free, but it doesn’t really measure up to the stuff you can get down below.”
Tor’laen peered inside. Dozens of tables sat in rows, bench seating on either side of them. The entire left wall was a set of counters, opening up to a massive kitchen beyond it. Both Armswomen and crew were lined up, grabbing plates of food as they moved along the counters. The kitchens were impressive, with at least fifty Zakkili working hard at prepping, cooking and serving food.
He wasn’t really sure what the corporal meant by the food “not measuring up”. The smells coming from the room were good enough to make his mouth water.
“C’mon, let’s get to the lifts.” Saia said, beckoning to him.
They continued down the hall. Tor’laen reckoned that they were probably getting close to the rear of the ship. Possibly near the massive reactors that must be needed to power such a behemoth. The hallways continued to get busier, until the pair came to a large open room. The entire opposite wall of the room was home to numerous lifts, both unloading and loading Zakkili, then vanishing downwards.
“This is one of the few places you’ll see civilians on the Mid Deck.” His escort explained. She pointed at a large staircase to their right. “That leads to the onboard chapel, so civvies come up here for the church services, or just to pray sometimes. You can visit it later, if you’re interested.”
Here, Tor’laen got his first look at Zakkili casual clothes. There were simple dresses, sarongs, plain shirts, and other different garments that he couldn’t even name. It felt so chaotic to the Ydani. The civilian dress of his people was basically just a simpler, more comfortable uniform. So even public gatherings or social events felt cohesive, homogenous. But here were clashing colors, styles, and cuts. As if each Zakkili simply wore what they thought looked good.
“Hey, come on Ydani.” Saia’s voice pulled him from his observations. “You’re lagging behind.”
“My apologies, Corporal.”
She raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing, turning back to move towards the lifts.
Tor’laen was attracting a ton of attention now – the civilians especially seemed interested in this tall, horned alien suddenly in their midst. They were careful not to jostle him though, a small pocket of space opening around him as he moved through the crowd. He and Saia moved onto one of the lifts, a few Armswomen and a dozen or so civilians getting on with them. Tor’laen could almost feel the curiosity seeping from the women.
Or wait, maybe he actually could feel it.
It was faint, wispy even, compared to Nalyra or her mother’s mental touch, but there was still that faint sensation of another person’s emotions brushing against his mind. He wasn’t sure how to feel about it, if he should do anything.
Before he could decide, the lift gently came to a stop, the gate in front of them opening once more. Around him and Saia, the rest of the passengers filtered out.
“Here we are.” Saia glanced up at him. “Welcome to the Under Deck.”