{Gait}

Vanilla and darker things. This scent… what did it remind her of? Old iron. Blood-soaked eons.

Sagan Sterling bolted awake and almost walked into the Seam on instinct. Everything felt wrong. Her body craved for something. She patted herself down and checked her mental inventory. Purple Lyriki armored coat? On her body. Twin battle axes? Holstered on her belt in the corner. Chain necklace? With Matt. Boots? No boots. Where were her thigh-high boots? And—

She patted a hard metal plate on her chest over her nacre. Round and about the size of a golf ball. The nacre port. She allowed the surgery for the implant that enhanced her interactions in Razor’s Emporium of Exotic Experiences. As promised, she awoke in a small infirmary space with only a cot and a door. If they kept all their promises, the Progeny Seamswalker’s human friend and fellow covert operative, Matt, guarded her beyond that door. Guarded her from—

A knock sounded, followed by Razor’s muffled voice, rich and eerily soothing. “The monitor alerted me you regained consciousness. How do you feel, Seamswalker?”

“Where’s Matt?” Sagan not only croaked as if dehydrated, she also failed to conceal the suspicion in her voice. Waking up smelling like the man on the other side of that door elicited that kind of response.

Muffled exchange. Then, “Hey, Sagan. I’m right here. Never took my eyes off you with video proof and everything.” The auburn-haired twenty-year-old’s assurances soothed her.

She sighed and let her head fall back against the wall. Eyes closed and everything. Working this mission took more out of her than usual. Her stomach growled hard enough to cramp. “Ugh…”

As if he heard it, Razor called, “I can have food and water brought to you. But I came with news from Earth.”

That got her attention. “Come in.” Before he entered, she straightened and haphazardly reseated her axes while searching for her—

The tall man with bright red, spiky hair, tanned skin, and no fingernails entered holding her boots. The friendly smile on his face freaked her out a little. And he grinned wider, as if he knew it. “I had them shined for you.”

“Thank you.” Sagan accepted them with no creepy handsy attempts. Razor always subverted her expectations, leaving her feeling bitchy for her initial mistrust. Sliding them on, she asked, “Did the surgery go well? Anything I should know?”

He hitched his gray slacks at the knees before sitting in a chair positioned in the corner. “It went splendidly. No post-treatment instructions aside from hydration.” He pointed to the cot. “I hope you don’t mind. I brought my own pillows up.” He held up a pitiful excuse for a hospital pancake—formerly a pillow—before tossing it to the opposite corner.

That explained the smell. It irked Sagan how much she considered whether that gesture bothered her. Eventually, she allowed, “Thank you. You’re more thoughtful than I first assumed.” That craving hit her again.

“No, I’m not. But I like you. You challenge this old alien, and that comes once every three lifetimes.”

Sagan leaned forward, careful for the two axes on her hips, and stared into his eyes. Vertically split with green in the outer half of the iris and orange in the inner half. Softly, she asked a question she wondered a few years ago before she ever met him, “How old are you, Razor?”

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He mirrored her, leaning forward and putting those strange eyes dangerously close to her own. He whispered in a voice gone deep, “Guess.”

The colors of his eyes swirled like a pinwheel the longer she stared. Hypnotic. Dizzying. Headache-inducing. Sagan winced and looked away first, fingers pressed to her temples.

Razor shifted in the seat without touching her. “We need to hydrate you before you leave.”

Okay. Yes, she planned to leave. But… “Why am I leaving?”

“Sagan.”

He rarely used her name. Concerned, she looked back into his eyes with a question on her lips.

“There were several attacks on Earth. Enki declared war on Imminent in defense of your worlds.”

“Several? Where?” No panic. Just pure resolve. She already survived one interplanetary war. Depending on the locations, she trusted the other Progeny to manage a few terrorist attacks—

“The Brethren’s chateau and the quantum communicator.”

The Seamswalker jumped to her feet with her hand cupped to her mouth before she realized it.

He stared up at her and continued, “There are rumors they targeted other Progeny-specific locations. Although, nothing confirmed—”

Sagan looked down at the man with infinity in his eyes and coldly articulated, “If you had anything to do with these attacks while I was unconscious—unable to help them—I will rip your world apart.”

Razor stilled into a statue. No outward response. Only the irises of his eyes moved with the orange and the green dancing synchronously. After a tense moment, he suddenly stood, standing over her even in heels. He kept the scant distance between them, but managed a sense of encroaching on her personal space. In that soothing tenor, he assured, “I want to establish a friendly business relationship with you. Perhaps, even a liaison partnership for the potential market on Cinder and Earth. Angering you risks my ambitions. Afford me more credit than that. All that aside, I am curious.”

He scanned her muscular build from her short blond hair, over the swell of her substantial curves hidden beneath her armored coat, to the four-inch heels of her boots. Not sexually appraising, but something else. When he returned to her violet gaze, he asked in a voice so deep it resonated in her chest, “How would you fulfill your threat, Seamswalker? Quick and professional? Or would you take your time and draw out the pain? You’ll want to know the answer before you make good on your offer.”

The tiny room shrank. Suffocated Sagan. Without another word, she stepped into the Seam between conduits and walked to the other side of the door. Matt leaned against the wall beside the door he guarded into the tiny infirmary cell. He waved a greeting as she appeared out of thin air. “Hey. Did he tell you the news?”

“Yea. I—Do you know how bad it is?” Sagan wanted so badly to scrunch her hair in frustration, but displays of weakness fed the people on Gait. “The casualties?”

He waved her down. “No reports of casualties yet. The last attack took place barely an hour ago.”

“Imminent—”

“May not be responsible.”

At the sound of his voice behind her, Sagan spun on Razor. He stepped out of the infirmary looking much looser and friendlier than a moment ago.

“How so?” She kept the suspicion from her voice that time.

“T.a.o. supposedly perpetuated the attacks,” Matt filled her in. “She’s not a known player in the cell, is she?”

Sagan frowned. The last time she saw her ancestor, The Afflicted One—T.a.o. for short—Celindria stole the small black woman away. Along with the rest of the First Wave Progeny. Created by Xelan in 6,000BCE Egypt, the Icarean-Human hybrid experiment launched with Celindria. They learned from Nox’s Verse that the First Progeny convinced her maker to develop four more like her based on specific ancient Icarean lines. They theorized that’s what led to the special abilities gifted to the Progeny—ancestor and descendant alike.

T.a.o. and Sagan were the only known Seamswalkers. If Celindria corrupted or even controlled T.a.o.—

“I’ll save her,” she announced.

Razor chuckled, annoyingly warm and charming. “I’m impressed with how much sentiment the Progeny assign their enemies. Although, it proved fortunate for Cinder and the Icari.”

Sagan withheld any reaction to his toothless barbs. He enjoyed testing her. To watch her craving grow stronger. She cut her violet eyes to Matt’s dark brown ones, conveying a message.

He gave a single nod.

The scenery changed from the Emporium’s mezzanine with its corrugated steel floor and glass shelving. But not to the Iona Medical Ecology where her friends no doubt needed her.

No.

Sagan wanted five minutes alone with the one person she loved most in the Vast Collective before she broke down and begged for an experience.