Page 9 of Ashes & Aether

The Ghorvek are a scourge, and I will remove them from this system by any means necessary.

I breathe out through my nose and climb up the ramp. The Veil awakes around me, systems coming to life with a thought. I settle in the command chair.

Margaret Elmsleigh may be interesting, but she is not the reason I came to Earth. The Ghorvek are, and I have worlds to avenge.

2

MAGGIE

The communication buoys Jethro Besson and I seeded across the Atlantic finally do their job. I was beginning to think they’re only there so that he can boast long distance.

A sleek, matte-black alien fighter ship descends through the London drizzle. It parts the gray mist without a sound, a piece of impossible technology settling onto the damp grass of the Hampton Court outer gardens.

Along the perimeter wall, two dozen of my guards bring their rifles up. The steel clatter of weapons being leveled echoes across the lawn.

“Lower them.”

I don’t turn my head, my eyes fixed on the ship’s hull. The men lower their barrels a few inches. Not all the way. It’s a testament to their terror; usually, my orders are followed down to the millimeter. I let the infraction slide. Today is not the day to enforce this.

A seam appears in the alien metal, and the hatch opens, hissing as it lowers to form a ramp.

An alien steps out first.

He’s very tall, dressed in an outfit that’s both futuristic and practical, and he walks onto the wet grass with his hands empty and visible. It’s a calculated gesture. He doesn’t look at the weapons trained on him—his dark eyes sweep the grounds, moving over my guards, the reinforced walls, the sightlines. He catalogs the kill box in a fraction of a second.

A soldier, then.

A second figure emerges behind him. Human. A woman, much shorter, her brown hair sticking to her cheeks in the damp air. Her brown eyes are red and swollen. A small, mostly white mechanical unit scuttles down the ramp beside her on digitigrade legs.

The alien pauses, his hand hovering an inch behind the woman’s back. He doesn’t touch her. I watch the empty space between his palm and her spine, then track the tension in the woman’s shoulders. She has been crying, and she’s currently putting a great deal of effort into pretending she hasn’t.

I step forward. My heels sink slightly into the mud, but my posture remains rigid. I ignore the massive extraterrestrial entirely and offer the woman my hand.

“Margaret Elmsleigh.”

She takes it. Her grip is tight, her palm rough with calluses.

“Tara Novak,” she replies, her voice catching. She attempts a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Sorry. It’s been a long⁠—”

“You’ve flown across an ocean with an alien commander,” I interrupt, letting my tone drop into something resembling comfort. “I’d be more worried if you looked rested.”

A shaky laugh escapes her throat, and the tension in her shoulders drops a fraction.

I release her hand and finally turn my attention to the alien.

He inclines his head. When he speaks, the sound is low, melodic, and entirely inhuman. It vibrates in the damp air, a frequency that makes the hair on my arms stand up.

Behind me, the guards tense, rifles twitching higher.

The little white machine beside Tara chirps with a bright synthetic voice.

“Hello! I am an S-class autonomous assistive unit, now known as Kiko. His Highness, Commander Kairen Veyrath, Crown Prince of Avaris, greets you, Margaret Elmsleigh, and thanks you for your welcome.”

My mouth tightens as I process the information.

“Crown Prince.” I stare at the alien and let a beat of silence stretch over the lawn as the rain falls between us. Warlords I can manage. I have killed five of them. Royalty implies a level of entitlement that always complicates negotiations.

“Jethro Besson’s buoys told me to expect an alien commander,” I add, keeping my voice deadpan. “He left out the crown.”