Chapter One
SQUEEEEAAAAK!
The train squealed, whipping around the sharp curve.
Nyota Uhura clenched the safety bar about her head. She looked out the narrow window. Tall chimneys and rusty smoke pipes of the buildings below the raised track grazed the train's roof, a loud screeching of metal colliding with metal and concrete. She darted her gaze to the floor. The large buildings' cogs and springs twisted and clanked. She looked outside again. The old broken-down buildings emptied their waste into the Nataran River's watershed, a murky and sludgy liquid. A pungent fluid.
Nyota crinkled her nose.
Dahanna Station loomed over the tracks, just beyond the curve. It was massive. The largest building in all of Dahanna'Kahr. The pride of the sprawling capital. With its high arches, curving bell towers, and flying buttresses, she had been terrified of it when she was a child, clinging to her mother's skirts. It was going to swallow her up. Terrified until she saw the rose window—the largest in all of An'rak—gleaming in the gritty city lights.
Beautiful.
Magnificent.
Magical.
A gift from Shi'al, mother told her. For peace. For tranquility.
The window caught the glow of the setting sun. And the regal shapes of the gods wore their shining halos.
Below the window, the stationed opened its mouth, the large metal slats groaning in protest. She closed her eyes. And opened them. Took a deep breath. Her thesis advisor had been unhelpful today. Oh, you can do more, Miss Uhura. Don't you think useless Vulcan writing systems are bland and unexciting? You're a scientist of culture, of language. Vulcan metaphors and writing systems were a valid option. A worthy pursuit. Yes. A scientist of culture and language. And was it not important to preserve that which has been lost?
The train passed through the opening and a murky darkness engulfed it. The massive door closed, sealing away the remaining sunlight. A loud whistle and a rough slam of the brakes and the locomotive skittered to a stop, the cars swaying.
Nyota released her tight grip on the pole, pain shooting through her fingers. She winced. Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, she stepped forward. One step. Two steps. A large body pressed against her back, pushing her further, into the woman in front of her. She pushed back against the giant behind her. Everyone wanted off. But they had to wait. Another step forward. Another body off the train.
Another. And another.
And then it was her turn to step off the train. And into the cooling air. She shivered and slipped on her gloves, ensuring they fit properly, and brought her folded parasol to her chest. A growling thunder sounded from the west. The month of Re'T'Khuta was living up to its name. This would be the fifteenth consecutive rainy spring evening.
A man shoved against her, his shoulder smashing against hers as he pushed past her, muttering just under his breath. Nyota sighed, readjusting her shawl. Too many people were out now. And she was later than she would have liked returning home. But her thesis threatened to overwhelm her—and her useless advisor—demanding much of her time at the University on the other side of the city. She shouldn't be too upset. She was an exception to the rule, a rarity. Most of citizens of Dahanna'Kahr people would never attend the university—either money or lack of intelligence. And the industries and factories required many, many hands to run. For that was how Dahanna'Kahr prospered, how the Empire prospered. Her father, a well-respected professor and friend with many high officials, including the Prime Minister himself, pulled strings to get into the university. He kept her from the factories. And she was thankful for that, certainly.
Nyota looked up. The airships circled and docked. And one, it had the Ta'vistan banner, sword and quill. From the north. Oh, how she missed Ta'vistar. And its endless diversity and culture, and its defiance of Imperial rules and expectations. Unity and camaraderie ruled the colorful land. It was the place for a linguist. For her. The things she could learn. The things she could discover. And she did. For a time. Until her parents discovered her whereabouts and her father dragged her back home, threats of the brothels on his tongue. Did he truly dare? She had been too terrified to find out.
She had been enrolled the next day. A consolation, he told her. Just stay here.
Safe.
Protected.
Watched.
So, she did what she must.
And then she met him.
Another brute of a man shoved against her. "Move it!"
Nyota gasped. Shook her head. Walked. Where was he? Another aspect of her life. Gone. Missing.
She had followed him down the darkened alleys, excitable giggles behind closed hands. Because on those nights, danger lurked. And it was fun. Ta'vistar's peaceful gatherings—resolutions made with smiles and handshakes—were miles and miles away, a distant memory in Kafeh Alley. Where famed scientist, Doctor Leonard McCoy, lived. Helped. Used to. Where he used to live. Where he used to help. He was no longer in Dahhana'Kahr. He couldn't be.
No, of course, he wasn't in Dahhana'Kahr any longer. It's been five years. He was no longer here.
He was running. Or maybe he was dead.
How could she know?
Nyota shook her head. Five years. Time to forget him.
Turned out, her father had been right about keeping his eye on her. Dr. McCoy was a monster. And she had been I and stupid when she giggled in the darkened alleys and fell into his bed.
Her walk from the train led her to the bridge over Nataran River, where a steamboat blew its horn below. Looking down, she halted. Her body froze. She closed her eyes and let out a shaky breath, sending a silent prayer to the gods, whichever one deigned her worthy of attention. This bridge was rickety, swinging in the breeze. And just last week, across the Station, across the expanse on the other side, a train had come in from Gol Province, bringing with it several Klingon passengers. That bridge over there, it collapsed without warning, falling into the murky depths below. And with it, those Klingon passengers. No survivors were found. The Council of Qo'noS was furious, demanding to know why the bridge had been left in a state of disrepair. Inquiries were still being investigated; reports had yet to be completed and filed. Still, others believed it to be divine intervention on behalf of the lost royal Surakian line. Retribution for the loss of the gods' most beloved and favored children. If it wasn't divine intervention that took them away in the first place
Someone or something released the beast.
Or commanded Leonard to do it.
A betrayal. Was the gods' or the royals'?
Nyota took a breath and a step forward, her heel clicking against the wooden bridge.
It held.
She took another, landing firmly on the wooden planks. The wind shifted, blowing against her. She flailed, grabbing the rope barrier, clenching it in her hand.
Another step.
And another.
Until she stood on solid ground. And she breathed and released her hold on the rope.
One obstacle passed.
Now, another stood before her.
The Torvaya. A large metallic, whirring mechanical guard. A new creation. A creation that would not have been possible without the Vulcans. For only they had the ability to create and control these things. But they were now gone. And these beings had no master. She could not avoid them. Not when Leonard's actions demanded their placement throughout Dahhana'Kahr. The golden sentry held a two-pronged limb out.
Nyota reached into her clutch and retrieved her identification card.
The Torvaya took it and swiped it across the scanner attached to its front.
She held her breath. Her heart raced.
She knew Leonard. And everyone in Xial—in all of An'rak—was looking for him. When would they come for her? She'd already received letters at her door. Ominous letters with vile threats. All bearing the symbol of the Prime Minister. She told no one of these. Most certainly not her father. He'd only admonish her for that embarrassing affair. Lecture her on his prominence and how her inability to keep her legs shut led to whispers behind his back. I have an important duty, daughter. To our Prime Minister, to our growing Empire. I cannot have afford rumors of my whore of a daughter.
Leonard destroyed an entire riverside district of brothels and drug houses with his monster. A victory, according to some, to be sure. But all those lives lost. How could I have been so wrong about him?
The Torvaya was only a mere machine, governed by an extremely complex series of springs and cogs, twisting and turning in precise degrees. That had to be what it was. But the way they moved. The way they breathed. Alive. They were alive. Magic powered them. Gave life to those springs and cogs. The strange thaumaturgical powers were new, foreign to the Empire, barely older than herself. Rolling through the corridors of Dahhana Station on massive golden wheels, they lashed out at passing civilians, seizing them in their claws, sirens on their heads sounding. Were they just enforcing the law, somehow knowing this man was a rebel, that woman a spy? Or were they operating on their own agenda, freed from their former masters' control?
The machine's siren whirred once—Nyota's heart stopped—before it faltered. It collapsed on itself for a brief moment. Then righted itself and handed her the card back.
She snatched it from the claw and returned it to her clutch. She raced past it, swinging her folded parasol at her side.
The expansive interior of the Station soon gave way to a smaller hallway. Decorated with gilded golden pointed arches, stained glass, and an intricately designed hardwood floor, it led to the Thol District. Home to the rich and privileged. The home of nobles, government officials and anyone lucky enough to have impressed the Prime Minister and his people, like her father. And his close relationship with Prime Minister Nero was all the more reason Nyota sought to keep her letters quiet. Nero ordered them. He must have.
Did her father already know anyway? Regardless of her silence? Did he believe he was right about embarrassment of a daughter?
Nyota shook her head and pushed through the exit door, shoving past the small crowd assembled outside, waiting for taxis, watching the occupied old rust yellow vehicles crawl across the dirty road. She released the latch on her parasol and the little umbrella unfolded. She brought it to her shoulder and walked down the path.
She rounded the corner and onto the street that would lead her to her apartment, sidestepping several people.
"Who lives there?" A whisper on her left.
"I heard it's that professor's daughter. You know, the one who…" the reply trailed off.
Nyota glanced in the voice's direction. Yes. The one who fucked the mad scientist. The one who fucked her way to the prestigious Ph.D. Program. She'd heard it all.
She looked forward. And halted.
An armed Militia officer exited her apartment door. And behind him, several other officers. They all carried her belongings.
Her heart raced. Why were they here? Did they decide her obvious connection to Leonard meant she was guilty? Guilty by association?
She took a step back.
The Prime Minister had been quite vocal on his discontent regarding the incident. Leonard was a criminal, wanted by the Empire. Wanted: dead or alive. They searched for him haven't found him yet. Instead, they were looking at his contacts. And she, with her torrid affair with him, was top on the list.
But I haven't seen the bastard in years!
She knew what the newly formed Empire did to criminals. They walked the streets near Kafel Alley, limbs savagely torn from their bodies, replaced with others. Brutal punishment worse than death, technology magically intertwined with medicine. She saw those people. There were stories of others: men and women, who all spoke against the Prime Minister and his rule, snatched off the streets and turned into slaves, tongues removed, free will shattered. She'd heard all of this.
But dismissed it.
Nothing more than stories made up to scare people, to get people to listen to Nero. Or to get people to join up against him.
And those people whose bodies had been reshaped? They were criminals, not worth her time nor her concern. Murderers. Rapists. Thieves. They earned what they got. Her father told her that. Every since childhood, he'd instilled a sense of loyalty, of understanding. The Prime Minister wanted to protect her and everyone else. And these methods they employed, while stomach-turning, were necessary for the greater good. We must thank the Surakian line for this gift of safety.
But now, they were coming out of her home, seizing her property.
Why? She didn't know what he did when he went down in his lab. She didn't know what sort of experiments he conducted while she slept in his bed, sheets askew. She didn't know. So, why were they here? Why? Were the letters just a beginning? Did she do something wrong and didn't know it? Did the Prime Minister finally decide to bring her in? After five years? To question her, torture her, turn her into one of those pathetic souls that roamed Kafel Alley, if she didn't talk?
Did her father know?
She had no information. Nothing to give him. Nothing.
But they would not believe her, would they? But they would not punish her so cruelly? That was for murderers and rapists.
Right?
Nyota turned around, her pace quickening. She could not return home. Where could she go? She couldn't risk the lives of her friends and comrades. This was her battle to fight alone. Except she couldn't fight it. There were far too many of them and they were all much too powerful. Did they already contact her parents? Did they search their home? She didn't know and she couldn't risk contacting them to find out.
Rain fell on the city. Nyota clutched her parasol, and moved through the crowd. She didn't know where she would go, but she couldn't remain here. She brought a hand to her heaving chest. Breathe. She couldn't breathe.
She returned to Dahhana Station, walked back down that gilded hallway. Instead of returning to the trains, she took a turn to an elevator, heading for the upper deck. She needed to take an airship.
The elevator dinged and the doors opened onto the top floor. She stepped off and looked around the grand lobby. There were no Militia soldiers here.
She approached the ticket stand. She smiled at the clerk. "Hi. I need a ticket to the farthest place within the next thirty minutes."
The Andorian's antenna twitched. "Very well."
Nyota took a breath, struggling to contain her nerves. She was sure she would never be able to return home.
She took an airship from Dahhana'Kahr across the land, flying above mountains, deserts, rivers. She left. It was no longer home. The airship took her to Dzhaya'an'Kahr, the coastal home of the Denobulans. When she landed, she feared it wasn't far enough. Too many Militia soldiers roamed the streets of the coastal city, passing small buildings caked in salt from the sea.
She needed to run further.
*/*\*
The Bay of Dzhaya'an would have been beautiful. Should have been beautiful. If it wasn't for that ugly ship at the docks.
Nyota strode ahead, clinging to her clutch and parasol. Her only belongings. Everything else, gone. Left behind. She'd never be able to see them again. All that research, she lamented. Gone. And no way to retrieve or find it again. A lost civilization lost again.
A few hundred yards from the shore, that decrepit ship swayed, its anchor firmly in the silt, years of barnacles scabbing the chain. A large wooden structure built at the stern. Unsteady masts rose, the sails—patched in several places—fluttered. Would it even survive a night on the open sea? She looked further down the shore. There, a majestic beast of ship stood tall in the water, its metallic sides still brilliant, catching the sunlight. Steam billowed from its stacks. On the deck, seating, a croquet court, even a pool. It looked like safety. It was bound for Ta'vistar.
Nyota hesitated, looking from that ship back to the pathetic dying boat. The eyes of the sailors on board penetrated through her. Ta'vistar was as far as she'd gone on her own. But this wasn't Ta'vistar. This place wasn't home of the greatest minds the An'rakian Empire had to offer. It wasn't home to diplomats who sought to create peace and prosperity with their meetings in open town squares, smiles and handshakes. When her father had retrieved her, he grunted his frustration and hatred for the simpering idiots who dressed like mathra, strutting about in their colorful costumes and towering hairstyles. Oh, how he despised Ta'vistar.
But it would be the first place they'd look.
These men now, on that dinghy, stared at her. What did they see? A woman on the run, alone and vulnerable? A whore to take to their rooms and ravish?
The ship blew its horn.
Nyota startled. She boarded the boat, The Khosaar, clinging to what she had. Her hands shook. The deckhands looked at her, this small woman who carried nothing. Tired. Dirty. Her home, Dahhana'Kahr, was behind her. Now, it was nothing but a memory. She could never return. She was a fugitive, running from the Militia. Once it was determined she was missing, the alarm would be sounded. What would happen to her if they caught her?
But they won't. She was far, far away.
She was far away, but the details lingered. The crippling fear as she raced through dirty alleys. The pungent smell of the chemical-infused water of the Nataran River. The flock of xirahnah, massive birds with chrome-colored feathers, crying out eerily, as they flew alongside the airship as it crossed deserts below. How strange, she thought. The birds were known for their preference for water.
Nyota looked at the men and turned her back, approaching the edge of the boat. More passengers were coming. Denobulans, mostly. A Klingon. An Andorian. And—
No.
A line of criminals, chained and mutilated, pushed and prodded towards the ship.
"This is no place for a lady."
Nyota gasped, her hand to her chest, and spun around.
The man smiled, bright eyes and bright smile. A human. A rare sight in this province. "My apologies, Miss—"
"Uhura."
"Uhura. I didn't mean to startle you." he took a step forward. "I'm Captain Robau."
Nyota nodded. "Pleased to meet you." She returned her gaze to the criminals.
Robau moved to stand beside her. "So, why are you on board this ship? Much less, heading to Xir'tan?"
She took a breath. She couldn't tell him. She couldn't say that she was running away. Not when those Militia soldiers are so close by. He could yell at them. Bring them over. "I've been asked to lend my linguistic abilities to the N'Klan Militia." A lie, but it was the best she had. Xir'tan was dangerous territory, prone to earthquakes on an almost daily basis. And N'Klan? It was home to outcasts and criminals. The ones no one else wanted. It was safe. Well, safe from the Prime Minister.
"You're just in time. The Khosaar is the last passenger ship leaving this dock for quite a while—"
Nyota glanced at the large vessel further down. It blew its horn. The boarding dock was pulled up.
"—Most of the fleet in Dzhaya'an'Kahr have been deployed. This battle with Armada is taking quite the toll on our ships."
"Armada?" But it was just a tale. A giant floating city of stolen ships. It didn't exist. It couldn't. No one alive had seen it. Only letters claiming its existence survived. No proof.
Robau nodded. "Yea. Those damn pirates have been causing quite a stir lately. The Prime Minister is not too happy about it."
She nodded. Yes, of course, he wouldn't be. Pirates—whether they were from the fictional Armada or not—were a danger for everyone. They were ruthless. Deadly. There were stories of civilians being taken away, killed. Ships disappearing into the Voroth Sea.
"I'd be careful, if I were you. While on board." Robau pointed to the chain-linked men and women. "We've got ourselves a bit of unpleasant cargo this trip. Stay in your room. Or, if you need to come out, make sure you're accompanied by either myself or another member of my crew."
Nyota opened her mouth, shaking her head. No. She could take care of herself. She wasn't invalid. She wasn't—
"This is my ship. And those are my rules. If you want to remain onboard, then I suggest you follow them."
She sighed. "Fine." She took a deep breath. This was it. She was not going to turn back, regardless of the dangers at sea. The dangers of returning home were far greater.
*/*\*
The Khosaar floated across the water, slicing through the waves. Above, the sky was sodden and gray. The shoreline was rugged, lined with crabgrass and pale ferns. It looked worn and cold. Fishermen lined the shore, preparing their small dinghies for the day's work. They stopped and watched the derelict ship. They resembled the rocky hills in the distance: hard, dirty, unforgiving.
Nyota leaned against the porthole, pressing her forehead into the cold scratched glass. She'd been looking out the window for hours. She folded her arms under her breasts and sighed. She'd remained in this tiny room as she was instructed by Captain Robau. But she was so terribly bored. Her skin itched. A scream bubbled just inside her throat, demanding release.
It felt like a prison, looked like a prison. Bare, dank wooden planks, scratched and worn. Her bed shifted every time she lay in it, its frame uneven with the floor. The sheets were piled against the wall, their stench too unbearable. She was only allowed out once a day to visit the mess hall and only then, under the watchful gaze of either the captain or one of his most trusted men.
She hated this arrangement, no matter how temporary. Temporary, but still an eternity. Fear drove her. Drove her to this tiny room with its rank bedding and its sweat-infused heavy air. She was suffocating. Her hair, dirty and wet with salty heat, clung to her skull. She swiped it away. Her dress, once pristine with white and black stripes, hung heavy on her body, stained with sweat and grime. By the gods, she needed a bath.
She sighed, a light breath of air escaping her lips. Stepping away from the small porthole, she took a seat at the small desk at the foot of her bed. She was thankful that the captain supplied her with ink and paper when she requested it. When she didn't stare out of the porthole, longing to return to dry land, to return home, to the past where she wasn't fearing for her life because she fell in bed with a man who later proved to be unhinged. At least, she had this.
She'd been writing this letter since she arrived on board. The lines and sentences and paragraphs were arranged like diary entries, with dates in the corners. She used different languages: Klingon, Denobulan, Andorian, the extinct Vulcan. She knew no one would be able to read it, but she didn't care. It wasn't for anyone to read anyway. It was for her and her alone. She reached for the quill and opened the ink well. She dipped the quill into the ink.
Veh'gad, 26th of Re'T'Khuta, aboard the Khosaar
It's been nearly two weeks since we set sail from Dzhaya'an'Kahr and one week since we left the port of Kwil'inor. I was simultaneously enthralled by the city and repulsed. I've only ever been away from home once, you know. And oh, how I loved it. How I had longed for it when my father came and took me home. To explore the other cultures, to see their homes. It is a wonderful dream. I only wish I wasn't running for my life. But Kwil'inor is violent, dirty. I was not sad to leave it behind. Have you been there? I don't know if you have or not. There's so much about you I don't know.
Kwil'inor is a place of prostitution and piracy. Of shipyards and train yards. Railroads crisscrossed the streets, passed buildings barely standing. The captain allowed me to join him on shore, on the condition that I didn't leave his side. Kwil'inor isn't the place for a lady, he said. What does he know? He assumes I am a lady, but I'm not. I don't want to be this lady he feels the need to protect. I'm not weak.
But I digress.
Captain Robau took me with him as he negotiated with the pirates and the shipbuilders. And the prostitutes. He gained new passengers, new cargo. And we returned to the ship. It was a short trip.
I've stayed in my cabin as the captain ordered me. But it is so dreadfully boring. The walls feel as though they're closing in, as if I'm going to suffocate in this cabin. I want out. I want to explore the ship. But there are things and people the captain doesn't want me to see. He doesn't think a "lady" should see certain things. I want to punch him.
Where are you? Why did you release that terrible creation? Why? They came for me. Did you know that? Did you care what would happen to those who associated themselves with you when you did it? Did you care? I don't think you did. I should hate you for it. I haven't thought about you since the last time we saw each other. And now, you're seeping to the surface of my mind like the caustics of a septic pool. I want to be rid of you. I don't want to think of you anymore.
But trapped here, I have no other—
A hushed whisper interrupted her writing. Setting her quill down, Nyota looked across the tiny cabin, where her roommate sat, her legs tucked underneath her, her hands clasped together and held near her chest, knuckles white. She was a pickup from Kwil'inor. The young woman did not move from her spot at the foot of her bed, did not cease her prayers until she was retrieved for dinner. She did not speak to Nyota. Nyota didn't exist. Not to this woman.
The woman wore white robes, soft and fluttering, a long simple shawl draped across her left shoulder, pinned in place by a simple broach. Wrapped around her, just below her breasts, a delicate sash with red and white woolen ribbons. Upon her head, obscuring her hair and her ears, a white veil. Her garments identified where she hailed. She was a priestess. A Daughter of Valdena the Maiden from the Kul'Cha'Vir Temple, in the northern province of Tat'sahr. Northwest of Ta'vistar.
But the Daughters of Valdena were supposed to remain within the Temple walls and never venture passed them without the escort of a Temple guardian or monk. This woman had neither.
She was disgraced, exiled.
The gentle swell of her belly underneath her robes. Yes, it was easy to assume why The Daughters of Valdena were supposed to remain virgins, having taken a vow of chastity upon entering the service. And this priestess was pregnant. And everyone knew. She carried her humiliation on her front like a heavy weight.
Fallen from grace, succumbed to the sensual pleasures of the body, this woman clung to her religion, praying, as if prayer could save her from her sins. But did Nyota have a right to cast stones? To judge? She was running for the same indiscretion.
Nyota wasn't sure if she should be sad for the young woman or disappointed. To become a Daughter of Valdena was a great honor, bestowed only upon eighteen women at any given time. And this woman turned her back on her calling and spread her legs for a man.
The woman's hands dropped in her lap and her eyes closed. She took a deep breath and braced herself against her makeshift altar. She pushed herself to her feet, unbalanced by the baby inside her.
Nyota remained silent, watching the woman from behind her tiny desk. She was curious. The priestess had never removed herself from her prayers before.
She approached the small armoire against the wall between their beds and reached for the jug. She poured water into a small bowl and grabbed a washcloth from the drawer. She took the bowl and cloth back to her bed, setting the bowl on the floor by the foot of the bed. With her back turned to Nyota, the priestess reached for the pin securing her shawl and released it. The shawl tumbled down her shoulder into a heap on the lumpy mattress. She reached down and wet the cloth in the water. Sitting up, she loosened her robes and let them slide down her shoulder, catching on the crook of her arms.
She brought the cloth over her shoulder, reaching in vain. Angry, oozing, green gashes marred her back.
Nyota gasped, her hand coming to her mouth.
The priestess reacted quickly, dropping the damp cloth and pulling her robes over her shoulders. She turned her head to the side, her eyes searching for the source of the sound.
Nyota stood, pushing the chair back. It squealed against the wooden floor. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."
The woman turned her head forward, wrapping her arms around her chest.
Nyota approached her, stepping softly and slowly. The priestess was distressed, attempting to fold in on herself. Nyota sat on the bed beside her. "What happened to you?"
The priestess shook her head, refusing to look at her. "It is no concern of yours. My punishment is mine and mine alone to bear."
"Punishment?"
The woman turned her head away from Nyota.
"The guardians and monks of the Temple did this to you?" She was surprised, her eyes wide. Those of Kul'Cha'Vir Temple were supposed to be peaceful, serene. This act of violence against a priestess of their ranks didn't sit well with her. She looked at the priestess again. She was thin, much too thin for a pregnant woman. Her breathing was erratic. Perspiration dotted her face and wild eyes stared at the wall in front of her.
Nyota moved on the mattress, moving behind the woman, and pushed the robes down her shoulders. The priestess didn't fight her. Seeing the wounds up close—swollen, oozing, inflamed—Nyota fought to suppress a gag. "These are infected."
The priestess pulled her robes up once again. "It is none of your concern." She looked straight ahead, her face a careful mask of indifference.
"You'll die if you don't get these cleaned."
"Then that is the will of the gods."
Nyota sighed. Did she not understand that it was not just her life at stake? "Let me help you, Priestess."
"I am no longer a priestess of Valdena. It would be unwise of you to refer to me as such."
"Forgive me. What should I call you? We've been cabin mates for a week now and I still don't know your name."
The priestess was silent was a moment, then—"My family called me T'Pring."
"T'Pring." Nyota tested the name on her tongue. It was a unique name, one she hadn't heard before. "That's a lovely name."
"It's a name. Now, please let me be. I must return to my prayers."
"But you need help. You have a child to look after. You need to remain healthy for the baby."
The priestess' head dropped and her shaking hands hovered above the swell under her robes, but she dropped them to her sides. "Thank you for your offer, but your help is not needed." She looked away, her hand swiping at her face.
Nyota moved off the mattress and knelt in front of the woman. She was struck by the ethereal beauty of the woman, even in her weakened state. Flawless skin, gorgeous dark eyes. Alluring upswept eyebrows. "You'll die. And your baby will die."
"Then that is how it shall be." She turned her body so that she sat completely on the bed, her legs tucked underneath her, and brought her clasped hands to her chest, closing her eyes. A mantra of words tumbled from her lips.
Nyota released a slow breath and stood. She wasn't going to be able to reach the fallen priestess anymore. She looked around the small cabin, at the dirty walls. She needed out. She moved to the door and opened it.
A man stood on the other side, an officer of Robau's. He was one of the men assigned by Robau to protect Nyota's cabin, to ensure that no one dangerous neared the door. "Can I help you, Miss?"
"Can you take me to Captain Robau?"
He nodded.
*/*\*
Nyota inhaled deeply, breathing in the salty sea air. She stood on the deck of the Khosaar, gripping the iron railings with both hands and staring out at nothing but water for the first time in her life. The sun was high in the sky, warming the air around her, dousing her in a delightful warmth.
"You wanted to see me?"
She turned around and saw Captain Robau standing before her, hands clasped behind his back. He smiled kindly at her.
She nodded. "Do you have any medical supplies on board?" She was going to help T'Pring whether the priestess wanted it or not.
An eyebrow rose. "Are you injured?"
She shook her head. "No. It's not for me. It's for—"
A man yelled from the crow's nest, shouting to the captain below. Robau and Nyota looked up. The man pointed off the starboard bow. There was a dirigible, a former seaworthy ship tethered to a massive patched balloon with countless ropes.
"Shit!" Robau yelled. He turned to Nyota. "You need to get back to your cabin."
Nyota's eyes moved from the dirigible to the captain, her heart racing. "Why? Who are those people?"
"Armada."
The dirigible floated above the Khosaar and a rope was dropped to the deck of the sea vessel. Robau shouted orders to his men, telling them defend the ship, to fire if needed.
Armada? But it was a legend. A myth. A horror story told on the open seas to keep sailors in line. And she told Robau as much.
"Then stay here. And hope it's all a nightmare. Maybe you'll wake up in your bed if you count to three," he yelled, reaching for the pistol at his side.
A svelte man, his waist fused with powerful hind legs of an antelope, sailed down the rope above. He landed behind them, graceful and composed. Robau and Nyota spun around to look at him. Nyota gasped.
The pirate held a pistol out. Above him, his comrades began their descent onto the ship. "You the captain?" he asked Robau.
The captain stepped forward, placing himself in front of Nyota. "What the hell are you doing on my ship?!"
The antelopian pirate fired the pistol—Nyota screamed—and Robau flew back, falling to the deck. Bullet wound to his head.