The Iriduan’s Mate by Susan Trombley

One

Shulgi stared down at the emaciated body of a deceased Iriduan male, a heavy sigh escaping him. The corpse’s wings curled against his bony spine, shriveled from dehydration, though the healers had tried their best to pump fluids into him before he passed. His dulled teal blue skin clung to light and delicate bones, shadowed by deep hollows beneath his high cheekbones. Bright red eyes stared lifelessly from their sockets. Bedraggled green hair tangled around his head, the knots and snarls of the dry and broken strands so matted they concealed most of his long, pointed blue ears.

“Red eyes.” Shulgi shook his head. “An ill-favored color in combination with his skin and hair. I’m surprised he made no effort to have them changed.”

“Red is an ill-favored color even when it coordinates,” Professor Namerian said as he stood on the other side of the exam table. “It’s a true shame. His queen tortured him as a parlor pet for years before his creche-kin brought him here. His condition had already advanced too far for us to cure him of the affliction. His body couldn’t survive the process.”

Shulgi turned his focus to Namerian. The former Iriduan professor and medical researcher now worked on the secret project that kept Shulgi and his team hidden below the suspended streets of an Iriduan male “dreg,” an out-caste district beyond imperial space where males hid from—and flouted—the laws of the Iriduan Empire, engaging in various criminal activities that put Shulgi on edge and increased his cynicism about his own people.

“Red is a favorable color for war-class.” It was an idle comment, more an aside as he studied the teal flesh of the corpse. “Pity he didn’t have that choice, given his build.”

“Choice?” Namerian laughed bitterly. “He went through meta in a creche. The empire chose for him.” He lifted a hand to touch the ports on the back of his neck reflexively. “Still, leisure-class seems a harsh fate for one such as him. The least they could have done was fix his eye color before exposure.”

“It’s clear he was ill-favored from the moment he crawled out of his egg,” Shulgi said in a dour tone. “His creche probably decided re-engineering him wasn’t worth the investment.”

Shulgi flicked his wings, the fluorescent lighting of the lab streaking over the viridescent veins flush with fluid that kept his wings ready for flight. He shot another glance at the body, shaking his head as a deep sadness gripped him. “This process is frustratingly slow. There are so many others like him, and so few of them know about this clinic.”

Namerian met Shulgi’s eyes, plucking a scalpel from the cart beside him. “There’s another complication. I was hoping to speak to you about it later this evening, during our daily debriefing, but now that you’re here….”

The muscles in Shulgi’s shoulders and back tightened, his heartrate speeding up at the warning tone in the other male’s voice. A trickle of combat stimulants pumped from his glands into his bloodstream. “I take it this is news you would prefer not to give me.”

Namerian adjusted the corpse so it lay flat on its back, then made the incision to begin his autopsy. He would study this corpse to find out what level of damage had been sustained that even the nanites couldn’t repair in time to save the male. “We had a case of re-imprinting.”

Shulgi’s wings vibrated with the knotting of his back muscles. “What? That’s…. that can’t be!” He growled, unwilling to accept this news. “The cure is supposed to be permanent.”

Namerian continued the motions of his work as he explained, the sounds of him cutting into the corpse warring with the low hum of lighting and equipment in the stark lab. “Our chimeric genome is creating an issue with the persistence of the cure. The imprinting and compulsory exposure genes inherited from the Menops occur in both gene clusters and tandem arrays in our genome, and which type and how many are in an individual’s DNA varies wildly across all subjects. That’s why it was impossible to find a cure before the creation of the nanites that can mutate from within by tracking biochemical responses to their associated genes. If we could reprogram the nanites to allow them to persist inside the subject instead of self-destructing after only the active relevant genes are rewritten, they will find each additional cluster or array when it activates and rework it to cure the new affliction.”

“Absolutely not!” Shulgi slashed the air in front of him with one hand. “The risks of allowing the nanites to persist and continue to modify the patient’s genome remain too high. We must stick to the current program to avoid the chance of them reactivating latent memory code and reawakening one of the high lords.” He clenched his fists as he turned away from the sight of the corpse being autopsied. “The last thing the Iriduans need right now is the return of a creature like Ninhursag.”

“This puts our plans for phase two on hold,” Namerian said, his tone laden with disapproval.

Not all the healers and researchers in the clinic agreed with Shulgi’s insistence that the nanites shut down after rewriting the genes involved in the patient’s affliction. Fortunately, none of them had been able to reprogram those nanites, and the only people who could were out of their reach.

Shulgi had no intention of changing the plan he’d agreed to several years ago when Nemon had given him the cure and the override code to keep the nanites from automatically shutting down after executing their primary function. The Lusian captain, Roz, had warned him of the potential dangers if he ever used that override. At the time, he’d wondered why they’d allowed him to have the code considering the potential outcome of using it. Now, he suspected that the Lusian had foreseen this possibility, and—like disseminating the cure itself—Roz was leaving the decision of what to do about this new complication up to Shulgi.

“This complication will only temporarily affect phase two,” Shulgi insisted, keeping his tone and expression neutral, despite his roiling thoughts. “We will re-inoculate any patients who present new imprintings, and study the data provided by the nanites to see if we can isolate patterns in the chromosomes that will allow us to target all inactive imprinting genes as well as the active ones before shutdown.”

“I know you want to implement phase two as badly as the rest of us.” Namerian’s gaze fixed intently on Shulgi rather than the body on the slab.

Shulgi shifted his eyes to the dead Iriduan male, his chest now spread open to reveal his ravaged internal organs. “I do. More than anything, I want to see this affliction ended for all our people, but I won’t do whatever it takes to reach that goal. There are some outcomes that will end up worse for us than the affliction itself—worse for this entire galaxy. ‘For the greater good’ is no longer an excuse I will tolerate.”

Namerian regarded him through violet eyes that coordinated well with his medium purple iridescent skin. Silvery hair framed his face, which would have been well-favored by an Iriduan female, but the empire had decided his mind was too useful to waste on the leisure-class.

“Shulgi, you and I are both from the bloodline Amanat. Creche-kin. You trusted me with this mission. Now you must trust me to do what’s necessary to complete it!”

Shulgi sighed, running a hand through his hair, his body humming with combat stimulants that seemed to pump into his bloodstream more often now than ever before. “The worst crimes Iriduans ever committed were carried out to complete missions we justified by claiming virtuous intentions. I don’t want to see my own kin go down that path, Namerian. If you intended our familial relationship to sway me, you chose the wrong argument.”

Namerian straightened from his work, slamming down a bloodstained tool whose purpose Shulgi didn’t bother to guess. “Curse the web! Your blighted ‘honor’ is driven by fear rather than altruism. I know that silkless egg-blighter Ninhursag forced you to do things you’ll always regret, but you’re allowing her memory to inhibit our efforts to save our Iriduan brothers from suffering a similar fate!”

He pointed at his chest with a bloodstained hand covered in a skin-coat glove. “My focus is on saving our people!” He stabbed his finger towards Shulgi. “What is your focus really on? Will you condemn our project to this criminal hole forever, saving just a handful of Iriduans at a time—those lucky enough to have heard about the cure through inconsistent channels? Or will you allow us to alter the program, and save the entire male population before our enemies find a way to stop us?”

As Shulgi glared at Namerian, both frustrated and angry at his dismissal of the danger posed by the nanites, Namerian gestured with a hand to the corpse. “Look at this poor male. He suffered for years before his kin found out about us. Do you really think the high lords are the only creatures capable of destroying us? Our civilization is dying, and the carrion eaters are already circling the empire, just waiting to pick apart the remains. If we can’t regain our former glory with a cure for this affliction that eternally weakens us, then the light of the Iriduans will disappear forever from this galaxy.”

Shulgi did look down at the fallen male, shaking his head sadly. “You know my final word on this. Even if I wanted to change it, the choice isn’t entirely my own. Our benefactors do not want the return of the high lords any more than we do. We will delay deployment of phase two for now to see if we can modify the existing program to seek out and rewrite inactive genes before shutting down. That’s all that I can offer.”

He turned his back on Namerian as the other male muttered under his breath, returning his focus to the corpse.

Without another word, Shulgi left the lab. His jaw ached from his gritted teeth, a jaw muscle ticking beneath his breather mask as he stalked away from Namerian and yet another failure to save an afflicted male.

That sense of failure followed him up the narrow stairway to the basement of the algae production and packaging plant, Ma’Nah, that served as a front for their clinic. Only his team had the code to the “Management Only” section of the basement, though many of the employees were aware of the existence of the lab since they had come to this world in search of the cure.

At least Shulgi’s team had found marked success, and rarely lost a male to the ravages of deprivation. The tormented, red-eyed male in the lab below was an exception, rather than the rule.

The need for secrecy had driven Shulgi’s team deep into the underground of the dreg, which was itself an underground of sorts in column 212 of the city of Za’Kluth. The basaltic behemoth of a city was formed by columnar jointing in the wake of lava flows that still pooled in lakes and moved sluggishly in rivers even on the dark side of Igoth, a planet tidally locked to the red dwarf star Zik.

Zik’s system skirted the very outer edge of the CivilRim, though there was nothing civil about the star system or the city of Za’Kluth. In fact, the inhospitable environs beyond the massive black columns of the city still offered more safety than some of the neighborhoods inside those columns.

Many pirates and slavers made their home on this world, along with outcasts from every species capable of space flight. Some of the columns contained special environments created specifically for species unable to live within the “Ubaid Standard Band” of life support parameters that most of the members of the Cosmic Syndicate could endure.

Generally, Iriduans had little need to travel to those parts of the city, but Shulgi had visited some of them on occasion in the process of doing business. Despite being out-castes, the Iriduans of the dreg possessed some of the most advanced environmental suit and combat armor technology in the entire city, not to mention a devastating array of imperial weaponry the out-castes smuggled into the city and sold for high profit.

Even on this world, where brute strength often ruled supreme, the Iriduans had gained a certain degree of dominance among the many other species. Their numbers alone made them a threat to other factions that might be intent on taking over their territory and mechanized and Iriduan security provided heavy guard for the dreg itself.

Nothing got into the dreg without passing through that security. The out-caste neighborhood was as tightly guarded as any male district in the empire, so that even the air filtration systems were extensively regulated to keep potential exposures from afflicting the unmated males that lived there.

Shulgi’s passage through the utilitarian factory offices garnered a few greetings and friendly gestures, but most of the males kept their heads down, focusing on their work. The factory did a booming legitimate business throughout Za’Kluth and neighboring CivilRim systems, and Ma’Nah paid its extremely high fees to the city bosses in full every quarter without complaint.

The smell of the algae pools drifting up to the offices from the production floor made Shulgi’s stomach turn, and he adjusted his mask’s filter to cut out all external odors. The appearance of his mask wasn’t out of place in the factory, though many males went without masks inside the dreg, feeling as safe as they would ever be from exposure to female scent signatures that could afflict them. No female of any species was permitted beyond the imposing gates of the dreg and the guards always scanned visitors to keep them from smuggling in a scent bomb.

Outside the factory, pungent steam curled misty fingers around his boots as he strode over granite paved streets flanked by massive, boxy warehouses devoid of any of the architectural beauty usually so ubiquitous in imperial colonies. Neon lights reflected off the wet pavement as he passed through the factory sector and into the entertainment district.

Automated advertisements emanated from every business he passed, promising every manner or form of entertainment or pleasure that an Iriduan could enjoy in the galaxy. In this sector of the dreg, more effort had been made to improve the appearance of the buildings, though most of the architectural elements were simple facades concealing far less visually appealing colonial pop-ups.

The only uniquely beautiful and imposing structure in the entire dreg was the ziggurat at the center that held the temple to the Grand Spinner. No expense had been spared in that building’s construction, but not out of any zealotry for religious beliefs mostly abandoned by the hopeless population of the dreg. Though the temple had been built at exorbitant cost, most of those reported funds had been embezzled under the noses of the city bosses who decreased levies on religious constructions.

From this sector, the outline of the ziggurat against the hologram of a false-starred sky projected above and around the entire dreg dome looked distant and insignificant.

His stomach growled in hunger as he stalked past a variety of eateries and food stalls, but his frustration at the latest news about the cure had combat stimulants boiling through his blood. He needed an outlet rather than a meal, though he couldn’t recall the last time he’d eaten. Time seemed to flow away from him since he’d come to this world, focused as he was on the cure and getting it out to as many Iriduan males as possible without gaining the attention of the empire or its enemies.

Roz had warned him of many possible futures in the flux for the Iriduans. If he wasn’t careful, his mistakes—his poor decisions—could doom his people instead of saving them.

Beyond the stimulant lounges, arcades, theaters, and bars sat the final structure designated for the entertainment sector, built right up against the rough-finished internal wall of the basaltic column itself. Bright exterior lights illuminated the combat arena, turning false columns and the domed roof into gaudy displays of flashing color.

Despite the exterior display, no customers occupied the spacious lobby at this hour, and a sole attendant manned the sign-in counter, his gaze lifting as the entry doors slid closed behind Shulgi, whose wings flicking out of the way reflexively.

When the attendant spotted him, he shook his head with a rueful smile of greeting. “There’s no one signed in right now who will fight you, Shulgi Amanat.”

Shulgi smirked beneath his mask as he approached the counter while the attendant muted a comedy play he’d been watching on a screen below the countertop. “I never expected a dreg to be filled with so many cowards.”

The attendant chuckled. “It wasn’t, before you came here. Your undefeated record has many questioning why you waste your time hiding from the empire instead of fighting in the resistance.”

Shulgi unhooked his mask and removed it, inhaling deeply. The air smelled of sweat and male pheromones laden with aggression. His already heightened senses sharpened even more as his glands pumped out additional combat stimulants. He felt eagerness for battle—and victory.

He set the mask on the counter and then displayed his wrist implant for the attendant’s scan to debit his account. He usually paid a premium to the arena for live battles, but often had to settle for the simulated ones due to a lack of willing opponents.

“I see no point in the resistance,” he muttered as the attendant handed him the disposable skin-coats for use in the combat rig. “They have no chance of defeating the empire and changing anything. Not as long as the imprinting affliction remains.”

The attendant snorted. “That and the fact that a bunch of males can’t continue the species alone.” He leaned on the counter, lowering his voice. “I heard some resistance males are eyeing the humans now that more are flooding into Syndicate space. It turns out that Iriduan-human half-breeds are live born and don’t need a meta to progress from juvenile to adult. That means no need for Spinners.” He straightened, shrugging. “Of course, that also means diluting our bloodline with the ape-bloods, but I suppose it’s better than having our offspring trapped forever in juvenile form.”

“You forget the affliction,” Shulgi growled, collecting the skin-coats and his mask from the counter, “what difference does it make to be mated to an Iriduan female or a human one? Both would still have control over you for the rest of your life.”

He pushed away the memory of a particular human female who had proven to him that not all women would take advantage of their mates—and that some females could love their mates as fiercely and loyally as they were loved in return. Sometimes, he wasn’t sure if he still admired Paisley as he had after she’d saved his life—or despised her for forcing him to carry on living when she could have put him out of his misery with a quick shot to the head. She had made him understand what true loneliness and a yearning for a mate of his own felt like, and he hated it. He hated the false hope she had given him that had quickly died in the reality of the bleak dreg and the filthy criminal city beyond it.

“I think there are worse fates than being mated and having sex all day, even with a naked-ape female,” the attendant said in a defiant tone. “They loaded some holos of the most beautiful ones from Earth in the stimulant lounge, and I have to say, they’re not that bad.”

Then he gestured to a rig room to the left of the lobby. “You know the drill. Stow your weapons in the locker before going in. The equipment is all in standby. I take it you don’t need assistance hooking up.” He grinned, looking painfully young, though he had probably gone through meta decades ago. His face lacked the lines of strain that many of the older males in the dreg couldn’t hide any longer.

Though if he continued to use stimulants to spur an arousal in defiance of unmated impotency, the signs of addiction would carve deep hollows in his cheeks and darken the skin around his eyes, aging him far more than stress did—and the sexual stimulants could end up killing him.

Shulgi didn’t bother warning him against such behavior. The use of drugs and illegal stimulants was so prevalent in the dreg that there was no escaping it if one was so inclined.

He made his way to one of the lockers outside the combat chamber and placed the half-dozen knives and the small military pistol he usually concealed in various sheaths and a holster under his robe inside it before using his wrist implant to pay for it and lock it. Then he entered the combat chamber, locking it behind him.

As he stripped out of his robe and applied the skin-coats before hooking himself into the combat rig, he had to acknowledge that he was also addicted, only his addiction was to the combat stimulants that filtered into his blood in response to excess stress and anger. He could use meditation to soothe his mind and body while the stimulants dissipated, but he always chose the arena instead, punishing his body—and often the bodies of others—to chase a satisfying victory with as much determination as some males chased the illusive climax offered by artificial means in the stimulant lounges.

He lost track of time as the virtual system threw a variety of enemies at him, with a randomized level of intensity and difficulty. His focus remained entirely on the battles, allowing him freedom from the problems that plagued him beyond the confines of this VR combat room. He’d set the rig to cause the same degree of pain as he would feel in a real battle, even though he wouldn’t sustain permanent damage. This setting ensured he remained careful not to make foolish or avoidable errors during battle.

His combat ability had only improved since he’d arrived on this planet. Even before coming here, he’d been an elite operative for most of his adult life, and his training and modifications were extensive. He maintained proficiency with every Iriduan weapon in active use by the empire, not to mention a vast array of alien weapons, and had even grown interested in ancient melee weapons in the past year after coming across a collection of smuggled artifacts from a long-dead culture on Iridu.

Before Ninhursag had trapped him and some of his squad mates with her scent, his skill level had put him on the fast track through the ranks and Command had once had him pegged for a leadership role. It hadn’t been the affliction itself that had screwed him out of that role, but rather his own resistance to some of the less justifiable missions they’d been sent on.

Insubordination had been his setback on multiple occasions as he’d refused to perform tasks that he felt were dishonorable and unnecessary. He’d been written up and even detained more than once because of his disobedience. Still, his team had been his family, despite how often he’d failed them by defying his orders.

Their ghosts now haunted him, chasing him through his nightmares and hovering in the corners of the labs or the alleys of the dreg, demanding he finally cure the affliction that had led him and his fellow squad mates to commit so many atrocities at the will of a manipulative female.

Certain mind healers lived within the dreg who might have been able to help him banish those imaginary spirits back to the Grand Spinner’s web, but he didn’t feel that he deserved that kind of assistance, and he never wanted to confess to the crimes he’d committed to any other male. Instead, he used his focus on the cure and his daily trips to the combat arena to dispel the ghosts to the darkest shadows of his memory, at least temporarily.

After multiple victories that felt far less satisfying than a single victory against a real opponent but had certainly challenged him, he unhooked himself from the rig and peeled off the skin-coats. Though he knew the attendants would clean the rig itself before another combatant used it, he still cleaned off all the surfaces in practiced and efficient movements, simply from long habit, before dressing once again in his robe.

When he unlocked the door and left the VR chamber, he entered the lobby to find a small crowd had formed and the counter now had a line in front of it. After retrieving his weapons from the locker and quickly rearming himself, he responded to several greetings as his gaze scanned the lobby, always on alert for threats. Even for Iriduan males, the dreg could sometimes prove a hazardous place, though most of the predators that made their home in this criminal underground weren’t foolish enough to choose the regular patrons of the combat arena as targets. Usually, it was the males who had escaped the leisure-class life who fell prey to the worst of the monsters in this dreg.

That reality was another thorn in Shulgi’s side since he couldn’t interfere in the black-market trade of slaves and body parts without jeopardizing his whole purpose here. As much as he wanted to hunt down and kill the leaders of the gangs that committed such atrocities against their own people, he had to remain focused on what he’d come to this merciless pit to do.

He only intervened when the males targeted by the gangs had come to this world for his cure. Then, his retribution was brutal, but he had to remain anonymous in those instances, leading to a rumor around the dreg of a shadow killer exacting vengeance and leaving behind an indisputable message to others.

Because he always remained alert, he spotted the young Iriduan male who entered the lobby before the other male saw him, so he was ready when Alad approached him, his blue eyes wide with worry that made Shulgi’s already exhausted muscles tighten.

He recognized the male as one of Namerian’s newest lackeys. One that the professor apparently trusted enough to bring him in on the secret project. Shulgi had objected to any additions to the team he’d originally selected, but Namerian had convinced him that he needed an assistant, and that the young male could be trusted.

“We… uh… have a bit of a problem, sir,” Alad said in a low voice as soon as he was close enough to Shulgi to speak in a volume unlikely to be overheard in the swelling conversation now filling the lobby.

“Of course we do,” Shulgi ground out, his now gnawing hunger giving bite to his tone that had the younger male flinching. “I don’t suppose it is a problem any of the others can handle?”

Alad wrung his hands. “I brought the issue to Professor Namerian first, and he told me that this was something you would prefer to deal with.”

In that case, the problem likely involved the probability of combat rather than some scientific endeavor. Shulgi wasn’t ignorant of scientific matters, but he’d been selected for war-class rather than knowledge-class for a reason. He had little interest in the more cerebral pursuits of the professors.

“Tell me.” His tone made it clear he had little patience at the moment.

Despite hours of training in the VR chamber, his body already prepared for another fight, and glands that should have been tapped pumped fresh stimulants into his bloodstream.

The young male looked far too nervous to be a long-time resident of the dreg. Shulgi figured him to be just out of meta, which probably meant someone had helped him escape whatever fate the empire had in store for him. That someone had not done enough in Shulgi’s opinion to protect Alad, but at least Namerian and the others had taken him under their wings and given him a place to stay and work.

Because of the skittishness of the youth, Shulgi tried to moderate his tone and demeanor, since both clearly intimidated Alad. “Tell me what the problem is, and I’ll take care of it.”

The other male’s gaze flicked from side to side as he took in their surroundings, scanning the occupants of the lobby in way that told Shulgi he wasn’t completely naïve. “Perhaps we could step outside,” he whispered.

Shulgi gestured to the double doors and Alad rushed from the lobby with Shulgi stalking behind him, his wings flicking in irritation and tension. The youth had stowed his wings beneath his robe.

Shulgi sighed at that evidence that the young male wasn’t prepared enough for this place. In the dreg, one’s wings should always remain hydrated and ready for flight. The ability to outfly your opponent could mean the difference between life and death, and the more fragile and lean males often had an advantage in the air against stronger opponents.

Shulgi’s harsh tone froze the younger male when he made to duck down an alley. “Stop here. You must not have been in the dreg long if you think an alley in the entertainment district is a good place for passing on information.”

Still wringing his hands, Alad spun around to face Shulgi. “I… I had only just arrived when I joined the team. My sire smuggled me off Iridu when he heard that I was destined for leisure-class, and he set me up with a job at Ma’Nah. He was one of the first to receive the cure from Professor Namerian and he returned to Iridu to free me and some of the others of the harem from the same fate he’d escaped.”

Shulgi put a hand on the youth’s shoulder. “You should stick closer to the factory when you’re alone, Alad. This district isn’t safe during the best of times.”

Alad nodded, swallowing. “I know, sir. But this news… Professor Namerian felt that it was urgent, and you weren’t answering your com.”

Shulgi cursed, lifting his hand from Alad’s shoulder to tap his wrist, reactivating the communications implant beneath the skin. He’d deactivated his communicator during his time in the rig because it interfered with the combat experience. The fact that he’d failed to reactivate it as soon as he finished unhooking from the rig was an oversight that could have led to harm for this young Iriduan.

“What news is so urgent that Namerian risks one of our newest employees to pass it on?”

“H-he and the others of the team were busy, and I was the first one avai—”

Shulgi held up a staying hand. “Just tell me the news. You don’t need to defend my creche-kin to me.” After all, the failure was Shulgi’s own. Namerian had to work with what he had, and he could have sent the message to Shulgi’s com if he’d had it activated.

“The supply shipment the professor has been waiting for was sent to the wrong dock.” Alad’s words tumbled out in a rush, no doubt because he sensed Shulgi’s growing ire and mistakenly believed it was directed at him.

“Which dock?” Shulgi growled, his spine prickling, causing his wings to extend erratically.

“Base-level,” Alad said quickly. “The under-tier docking station.”

“Blighted silk!” Shulgi hissed, running a hand through his hair as he turned to regard the sulfurous steam that rose out of ground vents from lower tiers. “What ship captain would be so foolish as to dock in the under-tier?”

“I believe it was an okihan cargo hauler, sir,” Alad said, his robe shifting as his stowed wings began to fill with fluid.

He clearly felt agitated enough by Shulgi’s reaction that his flight instinct was kicking in.

Shulgi snorted, shaking his head in aggravation. “Okihans. So, we’ve fallen to this. Relying upon pirates to bring our supplies.”

“Sir, why is it so bad that the cargo was delivered to a different dock? Our tier’s dock is usually crowded, leaving ships on hover-time. Doesn’t that increase costs for us?”

“The under-tier docks are Sha Zaska’s territory.” Shulgi withdrew a tie from the inner pocket of his robe and caught up his hair with one hand, then twisted it into a knot to secure it at the base of his skull. “Do you know what a thida naf is, Alad?”

The youth shook his head, his eyes fixed on Shulgi’s bound hair. It was rare for a male to tie up their hair, and even Shulgi wouldn’t deny that it was due mostly to sheer vanity that they liked to leave it loose and flowing, even when they weren’t trying to attract mates.

“No, sir.”

Shulgi regarded the younger male, unsurprised that he hadn’t learned much about some of the worst denizens of Za’Kluth yet. “Let’s hope you never have to find out.” He caught the younger male by the arm and drew him along in his wake. “I’ll return you to Ma’Nah, then go speak with the dockmaster in the under-tier. If I’m lucky, I won’t have to deal with Sha Zaska or his minions.”

He escorted Alad back to the relative safety of the factory, where the sentries atop the building could watch over the young male. Stopping at the gatehouse, he traded his mask for a set of combat armor, opening the vents in the back of the suit for his wings to slide free. He didn’t need a complete environmental seal and had no intention of being grounded in a place like the under-tier.

Once armored up, helmet included, with his knives sheathed in hidden compartments on his armor and his pistol openly worn on his hip, he made his way to the shipping elevator—the only other egress from the dreg besides the main gate. Like that gate, it was heavily guarded, and Ma’Nah paid high fees to have regular access to it.

The sentries let him through without comment, but when he told them his destination, they raised eyebrows in surprise above sealed heavy filtration masks. The mask Shulgi usually wore was unnecessary—or at least he’d believed that until Namerian told him of a re-afflicted patient—but he still used it to maintain the necessary illusion that he was an unmated male vulnerable to affliction. It also helped to conceal his expressions, though he had trained to remain stoic at any rate so he wouldn’t give himself away even with the eyes, as these guards did.

As the elevator took him downwards towards the most depraved and bleakest tier in all of column 212, he reflected upon his words to Alad about Sha Zaska and his minions. He also reflected upon the fact that he wasn’t usually lucky.