EVIGAN KOIBAN STOPPED HIS TRANSPORT, lowered a window into the bright sunlight and squinted up at the looming Skreeling Port.
As the Warlord's personal physician, he was on call at all times.
"This is most unusual, Physiker Koiban," the dispatcher V'rahn apologized, "The Master commands you be present today."
"Though he did not say for what?"
"No, Physiker. Just that you were to arrive and wait transport."
"Very well."
Koiban raised the window and sat back in the seat. The luxurious interior helped calm him somewhat, a sign that his fortunes had risen once again, after so long. Fate, some mystical fortune or just plain good luck had brought him here, five cycles ago and his expertise had drawn the eye of the Warlord. From his medical hovel buried in the press of billions to a well-appointed spire high above it, trusted, secure, welcome, the personal Medican of one of the richest sentients alive.
It had been a daunting climb and he could not think on what had sent him on this path without some measure of reproach, a long-simmering anger deep inside him over what it had cost him personally to come this far.
Twenty-three cycles ago, sincere, wholeheartedly had been his love for her that he'd hardly balked at her proposal.
So they had wed.
On the day of Consummation, he had come home to find his bride gone - she'd betrayed him, stolen his claim and fled the planet - and left him unable to pursue any other meaningful relationships. As long as she stayed away, the law said, for he could not free himself of her without her present, he could pursue no other female for marriage or even cohabitation.
Her actions, because in an Interion marriage, a partner was considered as responsible for the actions of the other, he had been exiled from Dovanni Notia, bereft of funds, only a pitiful stipend - a token - given to have him gone.
He'd crawled back to the homeworld in ignominy and cast about for a life, finally joining the Interion military.
That had not gone well, as he had joined in the middle of the viciously bloody War of the Derhidon Lanes.
Since her reputation had tainted his, so his climb in the ranks of the medical corps had been slow, no matter how gifted he was, no matter how skilled. Her name was dead to him, and he refused to speak it, let alone think it. A great hot anger would begin to bubble when he did.
After a time, after the War, when he'd thought he'd learned all they would permit, he'd been sent to the Interion Special Recon Corp - wastrels and the tainted and criminals trying to reform, put on the front lines of any battle the Command deemed too savage to waste the volunteer troops on.
Yet, in spite of the ignominy, he had learned a lot there in that time, learned how truly savage war was, how bloody it could be when there was nothing to lose.
He had killed, far too much and too often. He was steeped in death.
Now refused to commit violence of any kind, ever - only to heal, never to harm.
It had taken a very long time to wash the stigma of his association with her name from him.
Evigan Koiban was considered… plain, by Interion standards, not particularly aesthetically pleasing, though he knew some Sebacean women considered him handsome. Tall, in reasonably good shape, his calm features belied the depth of his experiences, the breadth of his knowledge. Those who thought him meek did so at their own peril. He could and would defend himself or others if necessary. Koiban had an extensive list of methods on how to take lives - almost as many as how to save them.
Enough of this gloom, he chided himself, likely the Warlord wants me to check on his 'assets' make sure they are staying healthy. It wouldn't do to have sick hostages… excuse me, bargaining chips.
"Warning," his transport's computer said, startling him, "unauthorized incoming positional request."
"What? Someone is looking for me?" He leaned forward to check the console. As the Warlord's Physiker, only a few people knew where he was at all times, usually the administrative V'rahn, any patients of note he had. It was possible that someone could intrude into the search computers and find him, but that was supposed to be rather difficult.
The door to his transport was abruptly torn open and he was bodily pulled from the car, lifted into the air, too startled to react, especially when he saw the huge Luxan glaring at him.
"Is this the one?" the Luxan asked someone behind him. A Hynerian floated above the Luxan's left shoulder.
Behind him came a voice Koiban had not heard in twenty-three cycles.
"Yes, I think so."
A female Interion face peered around the Luxan and Koiban started and stared, the anger suddenly exploding in his chest.
"Joolushko Tunai Fenta Hovalis." He choked out, the forbidden name torn from him on a tide of rage.
She squeaked, as his face darkened, his eyes ablaze. Through her discomfort, Jool looked him over as D'Argo set him down. He was as she remembered, albeit older, taller than she, with short brown hair, straight features, dark eyes, a strong body. He was dressed conservatively in a short- collared dark suit. He looked, she thought, a little like Crichton – only Interion.
His hair was blazing red, almost incandescent. She took a few steps back instinctively.
He was enraged.
Koiban was shaking. Shaking, nearly consumed with hatred for the female before him, though he had often told himself that hatred was for children, the slow-witted, the religious, not for him. He was the essence of calm. He backed away, hands up, as if to ward her and her companions off.
"Wow," D'Argo rumbled, "he really doesn't like you."
"He has a right not to," Rygel agreed.
"No. I am Evigan Koiban. I am a Physiker. I am a gentleman of means, I am not this person," he intoned, struggling for control.
"Uh, I'm sorry," Jool tried quietly, "about the abruptness of all this." She stayed behind D'Argo.
"Yeah," D'Argo watched him warily, "we're kinda in a hurry. Sorry for just… y'know."
Koiban seemed to draw himself back with remarkable alacrity. He took a very deep breath and put is hands together at his forehead.
"What. Do. You. Want?" He directed at the Luxan from under those hands. "Before I signal the Pacifiers?"
"Yeah, look, entirely understandable." D'Argo said. "We just need information, some way to get ahold of this Warlord of yours."
"Are you her friends?" Koiban chopped the words out.
"Sort of," D'Argo conceded while Rygel simultaneously said, "no."
"She is a thief, a liar, and a whore." Koiban ground out.
"Aside from that," D'Argo asked, "we still need your help, like I said."
Jool just gaped at both of them.
"We were told to 'await further instructions." D'Argo continued. "Your frelling Warlord bought our Nebari and we want her back." D'Argo crossed his arms, allowing the Physiker before him to continue attempting to calm down. "We can't stay for very long."
"Send the whore away." Koiban rasped. Ever her shadow on the ground near him threatened to call the anger back.
"Go wait in our transport," D'Argo ordered her.
"But…"
"Jool."
Jool huffed and stomped away.
"She wants to make some kind of amends," D'Argo directed back to Koiban. "So she says."
"Then she can kill herself." Koiban harshed out, then took another deep breath, recoiled at himself, at his outburst. "No. I apologize. That was ungracious. I am better than that. I am better than she." He steadied himself. "D'Strand'm'tah is Warlord here, with a personal army of about fifty-five million and over four thousand starships at his command." He smoothed his suit, tried to compose himself, regain his dignity. He was doing better than he'd thought he might under the circumstances. "I cannot help you."
"You mean you won't," Rygel told him.
"'Await instructions', you said? Then do that. It should be simple." He gestured to his transport. "You, me, awaiting instructions. Simple." Koiban glared at the Luxan. "I am doing my level best to be civilized, am I not?"
"You're doing wonderfully," D'Argo agreed, a touch sardonic, "how do you know when he's going to collect you?"
"You'll see it coming," Koiban replied, "unmistakably."
"We don't have the time to wait," D'Argo reminded him, "All we need is to know where this D'Strand'm'tah is located." D'Argo told him. "Just give us an address - as it were and you can go your own way and forget you ever heard of us."
"That sounds reasonable. Unfortunately, D'Strand'm'tah's fortress is quiet private and few know its actual location. It is not worth my life to tell you so."
"Understandable," Rygel told him, "although you just did confirm that you actually know."
D'Argo sighed and a large Qualta Blade's rather sharp point was suddenly under Koiban's chin.
"Is it worth your life to refuse us?"
