Escape from heavalun, p.25
Escape From Heavalun, page 25
Conor was born in Heavalun and was quickly swept up in crime. While he did not know the details of his early life, no one was expected to remember his birth and baby years; what he did was horrifying.
Conor could recall vivid memories that made him shudder against Eivaley, his mother and father fighting over drugs, yelling and screaming at one another, his father beating him, and the ultimate betrayal of him as their kin.
They sold Conor to Voodal. His parents were in debt to the croaker and used him for collateral.
While Conor could not recall everything Voodal made him do to pay off his parent’s debt, he did remember being tossed into a ring to battle animals to death at the ripe age of five.
His descriptions of the battles were traumatic, to say the least. It was as if the memories were bound to his soul and burned into his mind. Conor could recall each creature’s screams, roars, and cries, and they fought before an adoring crowd.
The aliens would hoop and holler, cheering on the Human and his bloodlust. Conor would use everything he could to rip the creatures to shreds.
Conor would gouge out eyes, bite their throats just to have some food in his stomach, and use their own claws to gore the beasts.
He did not understand anything but violence at the time; Conor might as well have been feral for several years of his life. Until Brakul arrived.
Brakul, though just being a young stud of a ganger, through some means, managed to get Conor out of his parent’s debt and freed him.
That was just the beginning of their lives as street rats, slummers, gangers, and contract killers, hand in hand as friends, allies, brothers, and an odd father-son duo.
The rest was history. Everything else was something Conor knew Eivaley knew and did not recount. Instead, he sighed and looked up into the stars as if he were looking for Urla to forgive him for his youth.
“I’m sorry you went through that,” Eivaley said as Conor slowed their dance.
“I’m not. Without all that—” Conor paused and tilted Eivaley’s chin up, contemplating for several seconds before sinking down and kissing her.
She did not have the means to kiss as a Human did and instead just clung to him as his soft lips enraptured her presence. Eivaley made no attempt to change what her Human was doing. It meant something to him, that to her was beyond alien, but that he cared enough to show her affection was a plentiful bounty.
“I never would have found you,” Conor finished, breaking the kiss.
Eivaley melted hearing Conor’s words of assurance. She knew a sentiment that intimate was only reserved for her. No one would ever know the details of his past like she now knew, and Eivaley adored that reality.
“Come on, it is getting late,” Conor stepped back, leaving Eivaley feeling colder and more alone than ever.
It was as if the only warmth she had ever known had been ripped away. Not having Conor hold her made it feel like she had been given a chair for the first time and now must stand.
“Will you take me to bed?” Eivaley asked, nearly begging Conor to not leave her alone.
The look he gave her said a million words in a picosecond. Conor wanted beyond everything to say yes, to snuggle with her and hold her close for eternity. Still, the pain in his eyes also communicated the limitations of them being able to be together publicly—for now.
“I will take you to your room,” her Human replied, hating that he could not publicly say he wished to be hers forever.
Eivaley nodded, removed her tail from Conor’s neck, and secured it around his waist, understanding his position and hers. Even though removing her tail from his neck felt like she was ripping her tail off.
Conor escorted Eivaley back to her room. They were silent as they drifted through the halls of the palace. Would some of the nobles have wondered where they went? Sure, but most were too drunk to care this late in the night. As such, they only had to wave at a few servants throughout their half-hour march to Eivaley’s room.
“Are—are you sure you won’t come in?” Eivaley pleaded, wishing for nothing more than Conor to warm her bed.
She genuinely meant that statement of nothing more. Eivaley did not wish to impose more strife or issues on Conor than he did. If he simply wanted to join her in the divot that was her traditional Kurlatra resting place—so be it. Even if she felt flushed and ready for him now, she could endure that if he stayed.
Conor meekly smiled at Eivaley, understanding what she meant but unwilling to damage her reputation or cause her issues. It was a shame she was a princess. Otherwise, Conor would gladly join her.
Very much like her, Conor yearned for a warm embrace, someone to be there for him. But now, with all the nobles drunkenly stumbling about the halls, was not the time to breach that step in their relationship.
“Maybe tomorrow,” Conor nuzzled her, enjoying the soft perfume rolling off her scales.
He could not tell her a firm no because of his desires but did not want to assure her of a time when it would happen. He knew it would be soon; an exact time frame was something he just could not imagine at this point.
“Very well—my Champ—” Eivaley started, planning on calling Conor her Champion. A title she had always assumed she wanted him to be, but now she was unsure.
Conor had spewed his guts to her and told her things no one should ever know about him. Eivaley felt a closeness to the man she never thought possible. Calling Conor a Champion was not right; it felt vapid, lesser and not encompassing of what he was. He was Conor—her Conor, as she was his ruby.
“I will see you in the morning, Conor,” Eivaley smiled, stepping inside and closing the door, finding calling him by his name to be far more intimate than the title he had to use.
“Yeah, Eivaley,” Conor smiled back as the door closed, leaving him alone in the hall.
Section Twenty
A Late Night Surprise
The night had been going so well for Conor. He and Eivaley had a wonderful dance under the moonlight, and he had gotten off the hook for ditching the party early.
Getting away from that shithole was something he was thrilled to have done because even here, through nearly half a kilometer of halls and rooms, the sounds of drunken revelry were still plain as day.
Before arriving here, Conor would have never assumed royalty could party hard. But with how much booze they were drinking and how many of them there were, that party would get out of hand soon.
Conor would not be surprised if several members of the nobility were sprawled out in the hall or the central garden in the morning. He could picture it now. They would be splayed out, a bottle of hooch in one hand and the ass of whoever they ended up trying to take back to their room in the other.
Without a doubt, that would be a comedic thing for Conor to see and would make his week; it would also pose the most sublime opportunity for him to take a few pictures to keep in his back pocket. You never know when you will need some blackmail—that statement goes at least twice as far regarding aggravating nobility.
The Human hoped the rowdy nobility would not wake Eivaley or disturb her sleep, as his room was only a few dozen meters from here. She was incredibly clingy whenever she was tired; something about him being warm and comforting.
Until tonight, Conor did not yearn for the contact, but with tonight’s small development in their relationship, Conor did not mind the idea of snuggling up with her.
On the other hand, her father merely tolerated it—a notably thin tolerance, especially when she crawled onto his lap while Vuraley was feeding Conor intelligence about the other nobles. The older warriors’ glare subsided once the fifth princess quickly fell asleep, and the lesson could continue without her colorful commentary.
Once the old softy saw his daughter happy, he held his tongue. Vuraley was just that kind of guy; he put his wife and daughters’ happiness over his feelings ten out of ten times.
Considering how the Kurlatra culture had cut down swaths of his daughters, the old man’s tolerance and care for the few remaining daughters he had was to be expected.
The night could not have gone better. Other than finally ditching the last weights of his former life on Heavalun, the day was perfect for Conor. He got to humiliate a noble, hold someone closer and more intimately than he knew possible, and admitted to himself that being with Eivaley was more than just a job. Then Conor reached for the doorknob to his room.
It was not that the door was unlocked or anything cliche like that; the door was still locked; what skeeved him out was the item on the floor.
A small piece of reflective paper was barely visible from under the door. The small piece of litter meant nothing to almost anyone who saw it; it was just innocuous garbage to them. But to Conor, it was an alarm louder than an air raid siren.
In his paranoid yet constant vigilant meticulousness, the Human had placed the piece of paper in a spot on the door where it would not fall unless the door was breached. That the paper had fallen was a problem for Conor because all the maids and other servants had been clearly instructed not to enter his room without him present.
Eivaley and Vuraley believed Conor’s request was being overly wary of the staff. They called him skeptical and borderline insane about his need for personal security, but he wore them down. Now, it was well known to all staff that his door should never be touched without his express supervision.
Not even Eivaley would touch the door without his permission, not because she was afraid of him but because she understood his needs and would do everything possible to make him feel secure.
Conor unlocked the door and clasped the handle, his heart steady and calm. The Human had faced thousands of enemies and thrice as many breaches. He knew what to do when entering the unknown—this was just another day at the office.
When the door parted, a familiar scent rolled across Conor’s nose. It pushed deep into his mind, body, and soul, causing his hair to stand on end in waves. Under almost any other circumstance, Conor would enjoy the smell of Neriumbay; its warmth and pleasant aroma reminded him of a spring day while operating amidst blooming flower fields.
Conor last experienced a spring day filled with Neriumbay’s delectable scent on a reconnaissance operation for the Skorkow organization almost ten years ago.
He and Brakul were on Gunaria Five to destroy a drug lab at Voodals request. The location they were lazing for a nuclear payload was centered in a bustling and growing city; its name was lost to time and Conor’s memory.
The only spot they could get a clear line of sight while at a safe distance was covered in pink bell-like flowers. Neriumbay flowers flowed gently around them in the spring breeze, keeping time with their heartbeats.
Calling in that bomb was the most surreal experience Conor had ever had. Trillions of sapients would give their left nut to sit high in the mountains on a warm spring day, which Conor was well aware of. However, he was out there for work and snuffed out millions of sentients in an instant, the only remnants of their and the city’s existence going up in a flash brighter than sunlight.
While they waited for the heavy morning fog around the city to clear enough to allow them to designate the target, Brakul had decided to lecture Conor on something yet again.
At the time, the Human did not care that Neriumbay was a beautiful poison. He did not care if it was used galaxy-wide as an assassination tool or if it smelled so fresh that it almost drew sentients into its dangerous pollen.
No, at the time, all Conor cared about was the measly payment from Voodal and that his and Brakuls filtration systems kept them safe from the deadly flowers.
In retrospect, Conor wished he had paid more attention at those times. If he had, maybe he could have remembered more about Brakul, his teachings, laughter, and stupid puns. But that was in the past now. All that mattered now was learning why he smelled that poisonous flower in his room.
Conor sniffed deeply, analyzing the aroma. It was the same, save for a revolting detail. Along with the floral aroma were the faint hints of long-since dried blood—the same scent that followed anyone with hundreds of bodies under their belt, not unlike him, Brakul, Vuraley, and many other warriors around the palace.
Drawing Brakuls hand cannon, Conor stepped forward into the room, boldly moving in to face the threat as he had done for years.
Conor switched over to his thermal vision and passed the light switch by, not wanting to alert whoever was in the room of his presence. At least he did not want to give more of a warning than opening the door and his ghostly silent footsteps.
Dull blues and purples filled his vision, outlining the short L-shaped room. Conor instantly knew there were no threats ahead of him toward the blind corner where his bed and dresser lay before the window.
When Conor first had thermals installed in his eyes, he was skeptical about their usefulness. But now, he cannot imagine his life without them.
The tactical edge they offered him was invaluable. Conor did not need white light during CQB, was immune to the concealing effects of smoke, and could track people like no other. Brakul’s nose still beat him out, but the Jurintik’s sense of smell was just cheating.
Without thinking, Conor twisted and aimed his pistol over the portal he had just passed, ensuring no one or thing was clinging to the wall, ready to ambush him. There was nothing.
Typically, most soldiers did not clear above them in a flat room, at least to this degree, but Conor had been ambushed from there before, so he and Brakul had worked it into their room-clearing procedures. The last thing you wanted was a viscous Richula jumping down or someone with augments shooting you.
“Clear,” Conor subvocally whispered to the nonexistent Brakul.
It was only once he spoke that he realized his error and that he had just made a deadly mistake, not because he had spoken; no subvocal communication was essentially silent. Out of sheer habit, Conor had given his back to the area of the room he had not cleared yet.
Typically, Brakul would have covered the corner to make sure an opportunistic squirter did not pop out and vape him, but Conor was alone now—and always would be.
The Human made a mental note to readjust his room-clearing habits and returned to the task at hand; without an adjustment, that habit would get him killed. Sure, nothing happened this time, but that was just because he was lucky. Whoever was in his room must have been an amateur who could not exploit everything going on in a battle.
Slowly, Conor spied the corner toward his bed, leading with his weapon to the front. He meticulously checked from floor to ceiling and then back down before taking another half step and repeating the process.
No one was visible until Conor began to see the bed. With each step, a feminine figure slowly came into view. She clearly could not see him in the darkness as she seemed to lay there eagerly waiting for him.
Conor holstered the pistol and sighed. The person in his room was not an assassin or anyone out to directly harm him. Conor was unsure whether to thank Urla for that or damn the God for what he saw.
Turning around and stepping toward the light, Conor flicked it on and switched over to normal-colored vision. The moment the room was lit, the eager Kurlatra woman started her show.
Therulay, Eivaley’s youngest sister, was lying on his bed, her pink scales complimented by the tight, lacey lingerie she wore. The silk draped along her lissom curves; one of her hands playfully pulled at her coverings, giving Conor a clear view of her womanhood. A diamond-encrusted jewel dangled from a piercing in her clit, eagerness dripping off the iridescent surface.
At the same time, she slowly licked at the tip of her tail, moaning slightly. To have given the youngest princess the credit she was due, Conor had to admit he did not know a tongue could writhe around like that; it looked like she was tying knots in her tail.
Before Conor had time to ask if she was in the wrong room, she played her first card of the awkward and equally annoying conversation they were about to have. Therulay moved, propping up her leg, and let out a long throaty moan, one that would not sound out of place on a cheap c rate holo-porno.
Whatever she was doing was in no way seduction in Conor’s mind. Go figure, a man raised by a predatory species like the Jurintik did not enjoy easy women. The hunt, fight, and desire to have what you cannot have are what drew him in.
Hell, Fae and Eivaley were prime examples of that. Fae for her bulk, strength, and, of course, gravitic personality. Eivaley because she was, in a way, a forbidden fruit. He had to give up something to get at her.
When it came to the fifth princess, it was like Conor was a fox in a trap, with a little rabbit taunting him. All he had to do to get that rabbit was to gnaw off his foot.
“So, Mr. Warrior, do you like what you see?” Therulay purred, sounding like she was performing for a camera that did not exist.
“Not really,” Conor replied with complete uninterest. “Why the fuck are you in my room?”
Conor did not need to ask that question; he knew why. Thuraley’s attempt to seduce him was evident. He just wanted to mess with her royal sensibilities and see how the princess would squirm when denied.
Conor especially wished to see this sister’s reaction because Therulay, Last Daughter, the Saintess of Relamora, Guiding Light to the Jerulate Clan, and Healer of the Nuerala Plague, was a fucking brat; Enough so that Eivaley looked like an angel in comparison.
From what Conor could dig up on Therulay, she always got what she wanted—and knew it. For Urla’s sake, even Vuraley, as solid of a man as he is, admitted that other than Eivaley, he babied Therulay the most.
The High Champion was attentive to her, bought everything she wanted, and was the first man she went to, other than her current assigned Champion.
Why, in all of Urla’s grace, did Vuraley have to cave to this little pink bitch? All that man had done was enable Therulay to genuinely believe that she was above reproach.
