Chapter Text
Keith licked salt and dust from his lips and wondered if this was the worst assignment he’d ever been given.
The air in the coliseum was thick and caustic. It tasted like iron on his tongue and reeked of unwashed bodies and excrement and fear. The heat in the massive room was oppressive, made worse by the heavy air and the sheer number of screaming spectators packed into tiered stands that rose steadily towards the high ceiling on every side of the recessed gladiator’s pit. The roar of the near-rabid crowd was deafening, an almost living entity in the enclosed space.
Keith adjusted his stance and checked that both his sword and rifle were in easy reach. His ears ached from several varga spent folded beneath his helmet, the long hair under them matted with sweat. He could feel it dripping down the back of his neck.
Posted at one edge of the rectangular arena where he could look down on the skirmishes, it was Keith’s job to make sure none of the gladiators made any ill-advised attempts at freedom. Most of them saw Keith and the other galra soldiers around the pit and knew better than to attempt to scale the walls, but he’d had to put particle burns in the limbs of a few desperate would-be escapees. The ones he crippled never survived their matches, but the assembled horde of onlookers didn’t generally care who spilled the blood that saturated the coliseum as long as it didn’t run dry.
He’d barely finished shifting positions when a scream rent the air, clear even over the thunder of the crowd’s response. A tick, and then it cut off in a spray of blood. Arterial - Keith could tell from the bright vividness of the color and the way, for a brief moment, the fount of it seemed endless. It was one reaction nearly every species shared, one of the very few that seemed to be universal.
A phoeb ago, he hadn’t known that.
He settled the stock of his rifle against his shoulder and curled his finger over the trigger guard. In his sights, the four-armed vanquisher retched down the front of their purple prisoner’s rags, offering no resistance as a pair of sentry-bots tugged the bloodied blades from their hands and shackled their thick wrists together. Keith watched as the gate in the far wall of the arena clanked upwards so the victor could be led away and replaced by the next pair of combatants.
A phoeb ago he hadn’t known to train his gun on the winner, to watch for the animal panic that sometimes overtook someone after they’d been forced to slaughter a friend to save themselves. Sometimes they looked down at the fresh corpse on the dirty floor, the splatter of blood and gore and wasted life across unforgiving grey steel, and decided galra weapons were a kinder fate than another round in the gladiator’s ring.
A phoeb ago, Keith hadn’t noticed the heat or the smell, too caught up in the horror evoked by the barbaric spectacle, the terror on the combatant’s faces.
The onlookers began to chant in anticipation, their bloodthirst only exacerbated by the previous displays, and Keith knew this was the worst assignment he’d ever been given.
XX
Located on the fringes of the Galra Empire, the entire surface of the planet Torpar VII was covered in a vast, barren desert. Sparkling pink sand spread out as far as the eye could see, interrupted by enormous violet crystalline structures that broke through the ground from deep beneath the earth and stretched towards the pale yellow sky like clawing, skeletal fingers. The heat was intense at all hours but most dangerous during the day, when the rays from the local star would reflect and refract off of the shining grains of sand, superheating them to hazardously high temperatures. When the sun reached its highest point in the sky, the light brightened to such an extreme degree that the sand glowed like brilliant pink neon, capable of damaging the eyes of anyone who looked upon it for too long.
Constructed in this unwelcoming environment and under the command of the exiled Prince Lotor, the coliseum of Xorekar Station didn’t draw the number of spectators that the gladiator arena at Galra Central Command did. It boasted a handful of fighters who had won often enough - had survived long enough - to have a semi-loyal following, but nobody on the scale of the Grand Champion Myzax who, last Keith had heard, remained undefeated. The base was first and foremost a military installation, and most of Keith’s time was spent running drills or patrolling the station. Lotor preferred living galra soldiers to the sentries his father favored, which made Xorekar one of the most heavily populated garrisons of its size in the empire.
Keith eyed the bowl of clumpy gray nutrient goo an apathetic server had handed him with distaste, tipping the dish slightly and watching the viscous almost-liquid slide down the inside curve to pool in a jiggling pile on the other side. After a long shift spent pacing the base’s corridors, alert for anything out of place, the stuff the dining hall tried to pass off as a meal was especially unappealing. Patrol assignments were boring beyond belief and required constant focus, emphasizing just how long each dobash dragged before tipping over into the next. Keith had once considered them the worst kind of chore, but after his first night spent standing guard in the arena he’d stopped mentally complaining about the tedious duty. Keith would gladly spend entire movements patrolling the barren, scorching desert outside the base’s walls if it kept him out of the coliseum for even one bout manning the gladiator’s ring.
Regardless, he didn’t think a decent supper was too much to expect.
Keith made his way to his usual table at the far corner of the large room, hooking his ankle around one of the uncomfortable purple chairs and dragging it into position so that when he sat he was boxed safely in on either side by dark, solid walls. This arrangement left him with a clear view of the hall’s entrance, the serving line, and the room’s other occupants. He propped his leg up on one of the free seats pushed in at his otherwise empty table and dug his spoon into his goo, which slid away as if actively attempting to escape being eaten and splashed against the bowl’s edge.
A flash of memory hit him, a sobbing figure scrambling desperately up the arena’s walls, and his stomach turned. Resolutely, Keith tried again and forced himself to swallow the unappetizing mouthful.
It was later than most of the soldiers on base preferred to eat and there were only a dozen or so diners scattered around the rest of the room. The middle table was the most crowded; a handful of galra in the unarmored uniforms of non-combatants were clustered around two almost comically large officers currently engaged in what was, from what Keith could make out, an inappropriately loud bitch-fest about Prince Lotor and all he stood for. Keith had never personally met the exiled prince, but from what he’d been told and everything he’d overheard he’d gathered that the emperor’s son was a gifted and charismatic leader who inspired a surprising amount of loyalty among the soldiers under his command.
The details of Lotor’s exile were not widely known, but Emperor Zarkon was evidently content to allow him control over troops that officially belonged to the empire’s forces. By all accounts, Lotor followed the Galra Empire’s prime directive of conquering as much of the universe as could be reached, and he was known to bring entire planets to heel with impressive effectiveness.
It was the prince’s status as a half-breed and his preference for giving other mixed-blood galra command positions over his forces that most pure-blooded galra took exception to.
In his time stationed on Xorekar, Keith had learned that the soldiers in Lotor’s charge could be sorted into three distinct classifications: half-breeds like Keith, who were largely looked down on by a race that favored purity amongst their bloodlines; unambitious soldiers and officers who were content with positions that offered little chance of advancement and didn’t care too much about blood status; and pure-blood supremacists sent to serve under half-breeds as punishment.
The noisy group at the center table very obviously fell into the third category. Keith ate his dinner and kept an ear on the pair of ringleaders as they listed everything wrong with the way Xorekar was run and boasted loudly about what would be different if they were the ones calling the shots. The primary changes seemed centered around shipping all the half-breed galra off to work slave’s positions in the empire’s mines and replacing them with sentry-bots.
Keith was impressed by the sheer lack of creativity the officers displayed and wondered idly how they’d ever managed to get promoted above floor scrubbers. He scraped the last of his nutrient goo off of the edge of his bowl with genuine relief and stood to deposit his used dishes in the large bin next to the serving station.
Keith was careful to turn his face away from the central table as he drew near but kept a watchful eye on its occupants; he was aware of the exact moment they noticed him. He watched them take in the messy black hair on top of his head, the slightly too-high position of his fluffy ears, and the red lines that bisected his cheeks. He kept his body loose and ready as the loud-mouthed pair stood, pushing their chairs back with jarring scrapes that seemed to echo in the suddenly silent hall. At their full height, they each had at least a head and shoulders over him, and the larger of the two was nearly twice as broad in the chest as he was. Fortunately Keith, unusually small for someone with galra blood, was no stranger to going toe-to-toe with bigger and stronger opponents.
“You there, mongrel.”
There was a growl in that rumbling voice, and Keith drew in a deliberate, deep breath. The officer was clearly itching for a fight and Keith wanted to give it to him, eager to see blood spilling out of someone that deserved to bleed for once. He forcefully reminded himself that a disciplinary strike in his file would do him no favors towards achieving his mission’s objective.
He took another step and congratulated himself silently on his self-control. If his body shifted its weight in preparation to attack or parry a blow, well, he’d been trained for and actually engaged in combat his entire life. Some responses were ingrained. A second voice followed the first, the smaller officer speaking up.
“Throzt is talking to you, half-breed. Or are your misplaced ears as useless as they are ugly?”
‘Is this guy serious?' a part of Keith’s mind asked incredulously, and then he mentally shrugged and tossed his admittedly weak restraint out the airlock. At least in his report he could say he’d tried. In one swift movement, Keith spun, hurling his dirty dishes at the bigger of the two - Throzt’s - face and driving a vicious kick into the belly of the other, forcing the air from him and knocking him backwards over his chair.
Keith settled easily onto the balls of his feet as Throzt recovered from the unexpected bowl-spoon attack and snarled, lashing out with a fist as big as Keith’s head. His movements were powerful but slow and clearly telegraphed; Keith sidestepped the blow easily, bringing his own fist down sharply on his opponent’s extended elbow. The galra howled in rage as the joint folded, and Keith’s second punch caught the base of his exposed throat. He staggered but didn’t go down, and Keith had to throw himself backwards to avoid an unexpected jab towards his own head. The second galra had re-joined the fray, and his fist clipped Keith’s chin when he didn’t dodge quickly enough, disrupting his balance so that he tripped over a chair and nearly fell.
Regaining himself with the swiftness of a lifetime of practice, Keith kicked the chair towards the unnamed aggressor and grinned ferally when he again ended up on the floor. He turned his attention back to Throzt and lunged forward, intending to take advantage of the big galra’s injured arm, when a hand closed unexpectedly around his elbow and yanked, sending Keith hurtling forwards and down just in time to catch Throzt’s fist with his face. The upwards force of the blow sent Keith flying head-first over the table behind him.
Stupid mistake, expecting the onlookers to stay out of the fight. Keith allowed his momentum to carry him all the way over, ending crouched on his feet facing Throzt. Warmth dripped down from his nose, and Keith could taste blood in his mouth. He brought his hands up, preparing to fight despite the ringing in his ears as his smaller opponent climbed back to his feet and took a position next to Throzt. Keith eyed the other galra surrounding them, unsure which had interfered, and growled a warning. He was very much outnumbered, and kicked himself for not taking the lackeys into account when he’d decided to rise to the pair’s bait.
“What in Zarkon’s name is going on here?”
The sharp words sliced through the air with the sudden violence of a whip crack and Keith’s body straightened immediately to attention as Lieutenant Commander Aiphos stalked into the dining hall. The crowd of onlookers parted for her as easily as flesh under a torturer’s knife, hurriedly raising their fists to their chests in salute. Aiphos ignored them, her gaze fixed on Keith. A pair of aides clutching glowing datapads flanked her on either side.
Keith swallowed the blood in his mouth and consciously refrained from folding his ears to his skull in a show of nerves. A half-blood galra, the commanding officer of Xorekar Station stood only a hands-breadth taller than Keith himself. Her features were all characteristically galran with the exceptions of the inky black eye staring blankly out from the center of her forehead and the three limber tails that curled from the base of her spine.
Keith had only seen her a handful of times, almost exclusively from a distance as she observed the soldiers’ training and drills. She hadn’t attended any events at the coliseum since he’d arrived and on the one occasion he’d encountered her in the halls of the base she’d swept past him so quickly he’d barely had time to snap out a salute before she was gone, the click of her heels echoing in her wake.
Even such limited contact was enough to make Keith certain that Lieutenant Commander Aiphos was not a woman he wanted to tangle with if he could at all avoid it. Her penchant for cruelty was almost legendary; quite a feat amongst the officers of the Galra Empire, who were not known for their kindness. Her preference for corporal punishment was a recorded fact.
Aiphos came to a stop at the head of the short table separating Keith from Throzt and his companion. Her face was coolly impassive as she regarded the three of them, assessing. No one seemed to know for certain what that eerie third eye was capable of, but Keith could feel its appraisal like a physical touch, slimy and cold over his exposed skin.
“When I ask a question, soldier, I expect an answer.” Directing her statement towards Keith, Aiphos tilted her head, a predator determining if the creature in her sights was worthy of being prey. The hair down Keith’s spine rose beneath his uniform and he hurried to respond.
“Yes, sir. A disagreement, sir.”
The corner of Aiphos’ mouth curled upwards. Even her smile was razor-edged. “A disagreement,” she repeated, sounding amused.
“The half-breed got uppity,” the smaller and, Keith mentally noted, obviously less intelligent of the two officers spoke up. “Throzt and me, we had to put him in his place.”
Aiphos tipped her head the other way and some of the tightness in Keith’s shoulders eased as she directed her attention away from him. “In his place.” The levity was immediately gone from her voice. Golden eyes blinked slowly. The black one did not. “Who, again, are you?”
In his first display of common sense, the dumber galra shivered. “Corporal Lethox. I transferred here a movement ago from a cruiser under the command of Commander Movoth.”
Aiphos hummed. “I remember now. And this makes you the one who came with him, I suppose?” Her gaze flicked to Throzt.
“Sergeant Throzt, also previously under Commander Movoth’s command.” The massive galra’s fist remained pressed to his chest in a salute. Keith was maliciously pleased to note that he had to support his injured elbow with his other hand to keep his arm raised.
“That fool Movoth is so fond of sending me his refuse,” Aiphos said coolly. “Usually I don’t mind tearing it apart and sending it back to him but I don’t have the time right now. The three of you will report to your direct superiors for additional training time. It is clear to me that you lack discipline.”
Keith let out a quiet, shaky breath. Training drills were a blessing in comparison to the whispers of the horrors inflicted on those the Lieutenant Commander took the time to punish personally, and he wasn’t the only one who knew it. Lethox actually slumped in relief.
Aiphos sneered at the pure-blood’s response but continued, “There is no place for such displays on Xorekar Station. Everything must be orderly. Disciplined. Perfect.” A strange fervency was creeping into her voice and her tails writhed in the air behind her, coiling in on themselves and sliding over one another. “Prince Lotor has sent word. He will be arriving within the movement.”
Anticipation zipped down Keith’s spine like an energy beam, and he fought to keep his expression neutral. Lotor was finally returning to his primary base! Keith had been waiting for the prince to make an appearance eagerly, unable to begin his mission in earnest while Lotor was absent.
It was clear Aiphos was anxious for him to return as well. The stories of her cruelty were surpassed only by those of her zealous, borderline fanatical devotion to Lotor. Keith had heard once that she’d gained her position as commander of the prince’s primary base by slaughtering everyone Lotor promoted to it until he’d had no choice but to grant it to her.
Seeing the manic gleam in her eyes - all of them - as she spoke of his impending arrival, Keith could almost believe it.
“Should any disagreements of this nature take place while Prince Lotor is on this base, I will personally see to it that all parties involved are incapable of disagreeing with anything or anyone again.” There was ice in her voice, cold and sharp enough to tear skin and freeze blood. The seriousness of her threat was very clear.
Chilling ultimatum delivered, Aiphos turned on her heel and stalked from the room without another word, the aides scurrying after her.
Silence hung in her wake for several long ticks and then, slowly, the diners returned to their seats. Keith kept his eyes on Throzt as he made his way to where his dirty bowl rested, upended, beneath an empty table.
“This isn’t over, Mongrel,” the big galra rumbled when Keith passed him, and Keith growled but nodded in acknowledgement as he finally disposed of his dishes and exited the dining hall.
It wasn’t until much later, when he was tucked into his bunk in the darkened barracks, that Keith allowed his bloodied lips to twist into a ferocious smile. His orders were to get close to Prince Lotor, and soon he’d finally - finally - be able to begin actively working towards that objective.
XX
Keith stared down the rifle’s sights at his target, his eyes flicking over weak spots and vulnerabilities. The weapon hummed in his hands like a living thing, responding to him immediately when he curled his finger around the trigger. The gun fired, three violet beams, one after the other; they buzzed as they tore down the training center’s firing range to blast in quick succession into the simulated target at the end.
A readout flickered to life on the waist-high console in front of Keith, red characters detailing the results of his shots. Only the first blast, intended for the holographic enemy’s soft belly, had found its mark. The second had inflicted a superficial graze on the target’s shoulder that the heat from the beam would have immediately cauterized; painful, but unlikely to slow an experienced fighter down. The third had been a kill shot, as it was meant to be, but only because it had burned through his target’s throat, half a head lower than the space between the eyes he’d been aiming for.
Keith slammed the rifle onto the console, snarling in frustration, and raked a clawed hand through his hair. He glanced at the console’s display, where a line graph illustrated his results over the last few varga of practice. His expression soured at what he saw there, but there were signs of gradual improvement. At least all three rounds had landed on the target in his latest attempt.
Just over four full quintets had passed since his encounter with the idiot twins and Lieutenant Commander Aiphos in the dining hall, but Keith was no closer to figuring out how to go about completing his objective than he’d been the entire phoeb since he’d been given his orders.
“Get close to Prince Lotor. What does that even mean?” he muttered under his breath, entering a series of commands into the firing lane’s control console to reset his target and picking the rifle back up.
Keith drew a slow breath, letting his mind clear of everything but the flickering image at the far end of the range. He sighted down the gun, finding his marks once again: gut, heart, eyes. He fired. Three squeezes of the trigger, three violet beams - one kill shot. Keith groaned. His fingers itched for his sword; he didn’t much care for guns.
‘Get close to Prince Lotor.’ The order itself was fairly vague, but Keith knew his ultimate goal was information, knowledge. His mixed heritage had made him ideal for the assignment despite his temperament, his commander had told him as much with what Keith considered to be insulting emphasis on the second part. He didn’t think he needed to be friendly to spy on someone.
But then, how?
Keith stared blankly at the console’s suggestions for improvement, lost in thought. He wasn’t a member of the custodial crew, and asking to be reassigned would be more than suspicious. He doubted scrubbing floors and emptying waste would give him much opportunity for information gathering anway. Keith could admit that he lacked the skills to charm the prince into viewing him as a confidante, and creeping around after him, listening through doorways and from dark corners, was unlikely to yield much result beyond Keith’s getting caught, tortured, and summarily executed.
There was a solution, Keith knew that there was. He just couldn’t see it. Not yet.
The sound of hurried footsteps approaching his position - the last lane in the range, furthest from the entrance and well away from the heavy traffic area in front of the weapons’ lockers - yanked Keith from his thoughts. He spun, ears perked and rifle raised, to meet the wide yellow eyes of one of the Lieutenant Commander’s aides. Keith recognized him, and the datapad he clutched to his chest like a shield, from the incident in the dining hall.
“Keith?” the aide asked. He had to clear his throat twice to get the word out, and looked oddly relieved when Keith nodded. “I’m Aide Virek. The Lieutenant Commander asked me to find you?” His voice, a little high and breathy, turned the statement into a question, and he still held his datapad like it could protect him. Virek shifted on his feet, clearly uncomfortable, and his gaze jumped back and forth between Keith’s face and the barrel of the gun still aimed at his chest.
Keith started and lowered his weapon, a little sheepish. Aide Virek was jittery, whip-thin, and always looked one bad startle away from crawling out of his own skin. Keith felt a little bad for scaring him, though the suspicious part of him wondered how much of the other half-blood’s demeanor was an act. He spent every day scurrying after Aiphos, after all; he’d likely witnessed more nightmare material than even the coliseum could produce.
“The Lieutenant Commander wishes to speak to you, in her office,” the aide said. A chill crawled down Keith’s spine. Had Aiphos decided he’d gotten off too easily for his fighting the other night? He was in the range well past dinner time as part of the additional training his captain had assigned to him, but the punishment was little more than a slap on the wrist by anyone’s standards, much less someone with a reputation like the Lieutenant Commander’s.
His ears flattened into his hair in response to his discomfort and some of the concern he was feeling must have shown on his face, because Virek offered him a small, encouraging smile. It was an odd gesture that did little to reassure Keith, but he schooled his features into a neutral mask and nodded again.
“I need to put this away,” he said, indicating the beam rifle he was still holding.
“Of course,” Virek agreed. “I’ll wait for you by the door.” He hustled off, clearly not expecting an answer. Keith watched him rush across the large room to the door’s access controls, where he came to a sudden stop and began rapidly tapping at his pad.
Keith kept one eye on the strange galra as he signed out of the firing lane’s console and made his way to the weapons’ lockers along the wall to return his practice gun. Aide Virek ceased his typing abruptly when Keith joined him and cleared his throat again.
“I’ll escort you to her office, shall I?”
Keith fell into step beside him as the aide led him swiftly out of the training compound and down the long hallway towards central command. Unease curled, icy, in his gut, and he was grateful the other half-blood didn’t seem interested in talking as they moved through the mostly empty corridors of the station.
Almost too soon, they rounded a corner and came to the door barring access to the offices of the senior command staff. Aide Virek pressed his palm to the blinking red panel set into the wall beside it and the heavy steel door slid aside with a pneumatic hiss. The hallway beyond seemed more menacing, somehow, than the ones they’d just passed through; the familiar purple lighting had a blue cast to it and the air was unnaturally cold and still, a stark contrast to the rest of the desert base.
Keith’s heart beat anxiously against his ribcage and his palms itched. He wished he could draw his knife; the idea of facing Aiphos unarmed made his insides squirm unpleasantly.
Oblivious to his companion’s discomfort, Virek set off down the dimly lit corridor at a brisk stride and Keith steeled himself to follow. He had never been in this part of Xorekar Station, and made a mental note to detail it in his next report.
There were four doors leading off of the hallway they were in: two for each side, and all of them protected by palm scanners. Past the doors, the hall intersected another that ran perpendicular to it, and Virek and Keith took the right corridor, which traveled a short way before terminating in a heavy steel door similar to the one they’d passed through before. There were no identifying marks or labels that he could see, but Keith was certain that Aiphos’ office was just beyond.
Virek pressed his palm to the security panel then stepped aside so Keith could enter first. The office was cold and sparsely furnished. Several large screens lined one brushed-steel wall, blinking through various live feeds of the station, and a pair of glowing violet consoles hummed in a corner. Lieutenant Commander Aiphos was seated behind a large, curved desk, its surface lit with holographic controls, reports, and readouts. The red light of the interface highlighted her face from beneath, warping her features into a menacing mask and reflecting in the oily pit of her third eye.
She didn’t look up at Keith as he entered, or as Virek took up a post in the far corner of the office and became immediately absorbed in his datapad once more. Keith kept his face carefully blank as he came to attention in front of the desk, fist pressed to his chest in salute.
Aiphos made him wait like that for several long dobashes, and the apprehension he’d been feeling was joined by a hot spark of irritation he was forced to suppress. Eventually, the Lieutenant Commander drew one clawed finger over her desktop, dragging a file from the outside edge until it came up directly in front of her. She scrolled quickly through it, tapping at a few relevant sections, then leaned back in her chair and fixed her eyes on Keith. Like the first time, Keith could practically feel that third eye’s assessment like a physical touch, but he was prepared for the creeping, slimy sensation and stubbornly repressed the shiver that attempted to crawl down his back.
Without warning, the door behind Keith hissed shut, trapping him in the small room. His ears flicked towards the sound and his shoulders tightened. The corner of Aiphos’ mouth curled up, pleased with his response, and the unease curling in his gut thickened into the beginnings of dread.
“You are a half-breed galra, Keith?” she finally asked him.
Caught off guard by the unexpected question, Keith nodded. “I am sir.”
He’d always considered his mixed heritage to be fairly obvious; though his small stature wasn’t unheard of for galra, his messy black hair and exceptionally mobile ears were generally a dead giveaway. His coloring was also unusual: the standard dark purple fur lightened to pale lavender closer to the midline of his body, and thin lines of red sliced down his forehead and cheeks from his hairline. Beneath his uniform, similar lines curved from the hollow of his throat down either side of his chest and carved a short track down from a small dimple low on the center of his belly. His facial features were unusual for a galra, the bones in his cheeks softer and his nose not quite as flat as most tended to be.
“Your sire’s species is unknown to you.” It wasn’t phrased as a question, but Keith nodded again anyway.
“That’s correct, sir.”
Aiphos hummed and the smile ticking in the corner of her mouth grew, twisting her lips into a fang-baring grin. “It has been my experience that such a mystery can offer invaluable advantage. Neither allies nor foes will know exactly what you are capable of.”
Without conscious decision, Keith’s gaze tracked to the center of her forehead. The eye there glistened wetly, still reflecting the red light of the desk’s interface. Aiphos’ grin widened even further.
“I am not the only one who sees the worth in our kind’s unique traits. Prince Lotor knows the value of our people: the danger we can present, the power we can bring to bear. He is one of us, after all.” Her voice had taken on that fervent note of worship Keith remembered from the dining hall. He shifted uncomfortably, wondering again why he’d been summoned. Aiphos seemed far from displeased with him, her posture non-threatening, almost relaxed.
“Your direct superiors report to me that you’re an exceptional fighter. You favor the sword?” The abrupt change of topic threw Keith, but he nodded cautiously.
“I prefer a sword to a gun, sir.” Aiphos snorted, tapping at the file on her desk.
“So I see from your range scores.” Keith’s cheeks warmed. “And apart from the incident I interrupted in the dining hall, your disciplinary record remains clear.” He tensed at the mention of the fight but Aiphos was already moving on. “Your file reports that you’re assigned to guard the pit during gladiator events. What are your feelings on the coliseum’s entertainment?”
Keith’s ears twitched and his stomach rolled in confusion. He didn’t understand, couldn’t see where Aiphos’ line of questioning was going. Why the sudden interest in him? Had she somehow found out who he was? Was this a trap? He glanced at her third eye again, wondered if she could somehow sense if he lied.
In the face of fear and uncertainty, Keith’s temper flared to life. “The spectacle in the coliseum every movement is a waste of time, manpower, and able-bodied slaves,” he started, voice hard. “It’s also a security risk. Letting several thousand civilians onto the base on a predictable schedule is practically an open invitation for attack. We may like to believe Zarkon’s rule is unquestioned but rebel factions exist and we are at the far reaches of civilized space.”
It was more than he’d meant to say and he snapped down on his tongue with enough force to draw blood. His superiors had warned him that his temper was the biggest threat to the success of his mission and he hadn’t heeded them.
But Aiphos was smiling. “A realist,” she murmured, her tails coiling around the arms of her chair. She tipped her head in that familiar, predatory motion she seemed to favor. “And remarkably well informed. I quite like you, Keith.”
Keith froze, unsure how to respond. This was not at all what he’d expected when Virek had approached him with orders to report immediately to the Lieutenant Commander’s office. He snuck a glance at the aide, who was staring at his superior over the top of his datapad in blatant surprise.
His eyes snapped back to Aiphos when she leaned forward in her seat, watching him, her gaze intent.
“As we speak, Prince Lotor’s cruiser is approaching the docking station above Torpar VII. He will arrive in the primary landing bay via shuttle shortly after dawn tomorrow. I am assigning you to his personal guard.”
Keith was certain he’d misheard. Something about his demeanor - probably his shell-shocked expression - must have conveyed his confusion because Aiphos frowned.
“This base is crawling with guards, armed with guns and more than capable of protecting our prince from a distance, but your skill with a sword makes you uniquely suited to guarding his person from closer threats. Two of his royal guard will be accompanying him, as always, but a representative of Xorekar Station would not go amiss.”
Keith found his voice. “Of course, Lieutenant Commander. I’m humbled to be chosen for and entrusted with such a task.”
It was the right response. Aiphos smiled, the expression indulgent. “It is an honor,” she agreed. “Have you met our prince?” At the shake of Keith’s head, she continued, “He is a being without peer. Your time spent in his presence will likely alter the course of your entire life.”
A strange feeling came over Keith. There was something powerful about the words, as if by speaking them she’d somehow guaranteed that they would come to pass. The fine hairs along his spine stood on end and his right hand curled into a fist, aching for the familiar weight of his blade.
Ignorant of his reaction to her statement, Aiphos straightened in her chair. For the first time since Keith had entered her office, her demeanor shifted into something truly dangerous. The first hint of a threat entered her voice, lending her words a razor’s edge.
“Do not disappoint me in this, Keith. Should Prince Lotor report to me that your performance was anything less than exemplary, I will make you wish your mother had never laid eyes upon your sire. I’ll cut away the parts of you that are not galra and leave whatever is left to the gladiator’s ring.”
It was more promise than threat, Keith knew, and fear seized his gut with frigid claws, but it was also the first thing Aiphos had said that was entirely in line with what he expected of her. It was a strange comfort; if she hadn’t threatened him with some horrific fate Keith would worry she had somehow suspected his true motives and was trying to trick him.
“Yes Lieutenant Commander,” he stated, letting his nerves show in his voice and the flattening of his ears to his head.
Aiphos bent again to her desk, satisfied her message had been received. “Virek will escort you back to your barracks and give you your new orders. You are dismissed.” She didn’t look up again as her aide scrambled forward and opened the door with a swipe of his hand but Keith was certain he could feel the weight of her third eye’s regard on his back until he and Virek rounded the corner, leaving the way they’d come.
The journey back to the barracks passed in a blur as Keith processed the events that had occured in Aiphos’ office. He’d been assigned to Lotor’s personal guard. It was the opening he’d been looking for, the answer to his question that he hadn’t been able to find - how to get close to Prince Lotor. As a bodyguard he would be spending most of his time in the prince’s presence, closer to him than he could have ever hoped he would get.
‘All thanks to my hot-headedness,’ he thought, smug and almost giddy. ‘No one will ever believe a fight in the dining hall landed me a job as the prince’s bodyguard.’
He came to a halt when Virek did, just outside the soldier’s barracks. “A new suit of armor will be delivered to you in the morning,” the aide informed him. “You are to report to the primary hangar by the fifth varga to prepare for the prince’s arrival.”
Keith nodded to show he understood and the thin aide offered him a tiny smile. “Congratulations,” he said, his voice quieter. “The Lieutenant Commander is difficult to impress.”
“Thank you,” Keith replied, uncertain how else to respond. The aide dipped his head and hurried off and Keith watched him go, resolving to keep an eye on him. His motives were a mystery and that made him a potential threat.
Keith’s quarters were quiet when he entered them; most of the soldiers who shared the space were still out about the base, working or enjoying what little free time they could find. He gathered his sleep clothes and made his way to the sonic showers. They, too, were empty, and Keith stripped off his uniform and wiped the accumulated sweat and pink desert sand from his thin fur without giving the actions much thought.
His mind replayed the events in the dining hall, shooting range, and Aiphos’ office, carefully looking for connections he may have missed. He reviewed what he knew about Lotor, and Aiphos, and how recent events fit into that information. He thought of Aiphos’ face when she spoke of the potential of half-breeds, her use of words like ‘we’ and ’our’, her disgust with Lethox and the way she had called the blood purity elitists sent to Xorekar ‘refuse.’
Apparently, Aiphos had appreciated a scrappy half-blood willing to take on a crowd of pure-blood bigots, and had felt Lotor would as well.
He scrubbed the grit from his long hair, careful to clean out the sensitive shells of his ears, then pulled his clothing on and returned to his bunk. Keith had been trained to take advantage of any sleep he could get, regardless of circumstances, and though anxiety and anticipation warred in his gut he was out as soon as he pulled the scratchy gray blanket to his chin.
XX
The next morning, the screen built into the headboard of his bed lit on a timer a few ticks before the fourth varga. It began to blare a quiet alarm a moment later, rousing Keith instantly. He reached up, slapping it into silence before it could disturb the others in the room, and sat up, stretching his back as much as he could in the small, enclosed space of his bottom bunk. He glanced at the time displayed on the little interface and jolted when he remembered why he was up so early.
Prince Lotor would arrive in a few varga. Keith was to act as his personal guard.
He rolled out of bed and stretched properly, the diamond plate floor already warm beneath his feet; the day would likely be scorching hot. Keith grumpily questioned the wisdom of building a military garrison on a desert planet as he fished an undersuit out of a drawer built into his bunk and tucked his feet into his boots.
The hallway to the communal washroom was lit only by the violet emergency lights that lined the walls on either side and Keith didn’t encounter any of his fellow soldiers as he prepared for the day. The stillness was a little eerie, and though he knew there were guards patrolling the halls and a hundred other workers going about their daily tasks throughout the base, Keith felt like the only person in the entire station.
It struck him then, for maybe the first time, that if anything went wrong, if he were somehow discovered, there would be nobody to have his back. That he was truly alone.
Keith growled and shook his head roughly, frustrated by his own train of thought. He had known long before he’d accepted his mission what it entailed. What the risks were, what it all meant. What it was for.
He passed a pair of armored galra on patrol outside the dining hall and willed the signs of life to quell the lonely feeling that was making his chest ache.
The morning nutrient goo was pale blue and clumpier than the usual dinner fare, and somehow it managed to taste even worse. The anxiety and anticipation of the night before were back with a vengeance, twisting his stomach into tight knots. Keith managed half a bowl of his breakfast before giving up and heading for the armory. There was half a varga before he was expected in the primary hangar.
True to Aide Virek’s word, there was a new set of armor waiting in Keith’s gear locker. The soldiers under Lotor’s command wore suits that were closer to black than the dusky purple of the standard army, the emblems on them a bright blue. Keith’s new outfit sported additional orange accents at the throat and joints.
Keith fit the pieces over his slate gray bodysuit, appreciating how light they felt. It was armor he could move easily in, and there were smooth grooves built into the backpiece that were designed to hold his sword. The armor was clearly custom and crafted from higher quality materials than the standard soldiers’ gear.
A glance at the time told Keith he needed to report to the landing bay and he armed himself quickly, slotting his sword into place and holstering a pistol on the outside of his thigh. He knelt to conceal his knife in his boot. He straightened, adjusting the fit of his left gauntlet so it sat more comfortably over his knuckles, then left the armory.
Aide Virek scurried over to Keith as soon as he entered the enormous hangar, already brandishing his signature datapad.
“Good morning,” he greeted, sounding flustered. “The armor looks good. Does everything fit alright?” The words spilled out in a jumbled rush and Keith stared blankly for a moment before his mind deciphered their meaning.
“Yeah. It’s fine,” he said, curling his hand into a fist to demonstrate. The fingers folded neatly, his movements unimpeded.
Virek nodded distractedly, eyes on Keith’s hand. “Excellent. Lotor is expected halfway through the sixth varga. You’re to report directly to Aiphos once she arrives. She’ll formally introduce you to the prince and from that point onward you will answer directly to His Highness. He may wish to have your quarters moved closer to his own for convenience, in which case someone will be sent to gather your personal items for you.”
Keith nodded. He was glad his knife was on his person. The blade was the only thing of value he owned and something nobody could know he possessed. It would mean a painful end for him if it were seen.
“It will make my job protecting the prince easier,” was all he said.
Virek surprised him by snorting. “Prince Lotor is not someone who needs a bodyguard.” His tone was unusually frank and Keith blinked at him, startled. The aide flushed under his dark fur and when he continued, he stuttered a little, sounding more like the nervous creature Keith knew him as. “I only mean that he’s a very skilled fighter. You should probably be uh. Expect to be bored, I mean.”
Keith nodded slowly, thrown off more by Virek’s behavior and confession than by the warning that Lotor could take care of himself. He’d already been briefed on the fact that Lotor was, in fact, an exceptional swordsman and that the half-blood females who made up his royal guard were formidable in their own right. He was here for information, not entertainment.
The silence stretched awkwardly between them. Keith really wasn’t sure what to say and the other half-blood wouldn’t even look at him, fiddling nervously with his datapad. Keith shifted his weight between his feet and curled his fingers as if he were gripping his knife, uncomfortable.
He had never imagined he would be grateful to see Lieutenant Commander Aiphos before, but there was a first time for everything. He blew out a relieved exhale as she entered the hangar, moving towards Keith and Virek with purposeful strides. Her second aide, a towering half-galra with bands of shockingly green scales around their serpentine neck, kept easy pace behind her, datapad tucked under one long arm.
Keith snapped to attention as Aiphos drew near, and she surprised him with a nod of acknowledgement.
“You’re prepared to begin your new posting?” she asked him. Maybe he was getting used to her third eye, because when she flicked her gaze over his new armor the expected feeling of icy slime on his skin never came.
He answered her question with a quick, “Yes, sir,” and she turned her attention to Virek.
“Is everything in order?” When he responded in the affirmative, she turned sharply on her heel. “Come.” She motioned to them to follow and set off to speak with the main officer of the flight deck.
Keith accompanied Aiphos as she finished overseeing the final preparations for Prince Lotor’s arrival with an exceptional attention to detail. By the time the sixth varga rolled around, the front half of the landing hangar had been cleared of vehicles and filled instead with blocks of soldiers. There were nearly five thousand full- and mixed-blood galra based at Xorekar Station and Aiphos had summoned nearly half of them to greet the prince.
Keith had to admit it was an impressive show of force. If her aim was to display to Lotor his army’s might, she had chosen an effective means of doing so. With the enormous hangar doors opened, the first rays of the sun shone on the soldiers’ polished armor, making the lines of them gleam like the edges of blades. The ranks seemed to stretch back forever, framed by the handfuls of fighter ships parked on either side of the bay.
It was a stark reminder that, exile or no, Prince Lotor commanded a force to be reckoned with.
One of the aide’s datapads dinged with an incoming notification and Aiphos motioned her captains to bring their soldiers to attention. Keith, standing a few paces behind her, placed his fist over the center of his chest and lifted his ears, settling his body into a position of parade rest.
As the sun rose, the heat increased rapidly. Beyond the stretch of paved land just outside the hangar doors the pink desert sand was already gleaming, reflecting the early rays of the sun’s light and magnifying their intensity.
The silence in the bay was broken when various flight officers began calling to one another, following protocol for an approaching vessel. If he squinted into the light Keith could just make out a dark shape high in the sky, growing rapidly larger.
Within a few dobashes it had landed, the pilot skillfully setting down so that when the access hatch at the back slid apart and the boarding ramp lowered, the first thing the disembarking passengers would see was the standing army, laid out and gleaming, waiting to greet their prince.
In front of Keith, Aiphos had gone utterly still. For what felt like a lifetime there was no movement, the primary landing bay entirely silent. Keith wasn’t sure anyone was so much as breathing. Finally, two female half-galra emerged from the shuttle and took up positions on either side of the access ramp, facing the assembled troops. A slim figure stepped from the craft.
Keith’s first thought upon seeing Lotor, Prince of the Galra Empire, was, ‘Holy hell, he’s naked.’
The prince was wearing armor, of course, in a style similar to Keith’s new set, but the purple skin of his exposed face and neck was smooth and nearly completely hairless. Long white strands grew from the top of his head, similar to Keith’s own, and thin lines of hair arced over his blue and yellow eyes, but he was entirely without fur.
Keith had expected Lotor to be a lot of things, but never had he imagined him naked.
Lotor paused at the top of the ramp and raked his gaze over the assembled ranks of his soldiers. A pleased smile curled his thin lips, revealing pointed fangs. “Most impressive,” he declared, his voice strangely accented and unexpectedly warm.
Even from his place behind Aiphos, Keith could practically see the charm dripping from the prince’s elegant form. The reports and rumors hadn’t done the power of his personality justice. Something about it put Keith immediately on edge; he resisted the urge to tap his heel to feel the comforting shift of his knife beneath his boot.
The prince finally descended the few strides to the floor of the hangar and Aiphos stepped forward to greet him, Keith following dutifully behind her.
“My prince,” Aiphos breathed, kneeling at Lotor’s feet. Keith bent into a respectful bow and held the position for a tick before the prince bid both half-galra to rise.
“Lieutenant Commander Aiphos!” Lotor greeted her, still smiling. “This is a truly inspiring welcome. You do not cease to impress me.”
Keith watched with a sort of unnerved fascination as the fearsome commander of Xorekar Station shivered with glee at the prince’s praise.
“You honor me with your words, my prince. I have prepared a full report of Xorekar’s status for you, and will of course be available to aid you in any matters that may arise.”
“I’d like to tour the base, I think,” Lotor said, his sharp eyes taking in the assembled troops, the fighter ships in the back of the bay. “Have my things moved to my quarters and allow these soldiers to return to their duties. Then you may accompany me on my inspection.”
Aiphos gave a dignified nod but the restless writhing of her tails betrayed her excitement at the prospect of personally guiding Lotor through the station. Keith thought he could see amusement in the prince’s narrow blue eyes as he watched his officer.
Those eyes flicked abruptly to Keith and Lotor raised one thin brow in question. Aiphos immediately motioned Keith to step forward.
“Prince Lotor. There is no question that the Generals Zethrid and Acxa are fierce and capable protectors, but I felt I would be remiss in my duties if I did not offer you one of Xorekar’s own to guard your safety while you reside on the station. Keith is skilled with the sword and has a keen eye.”
The larger of the generals - as massive as Sergeant Throzt and infinitely more intimidating - eyed Keith and snorted rudely, crossing her arms over her broad chest. Her companion silenced her with a cutting look, but Keith could sense the smaller general sizing him up as well.
Keith's temper sparked, too accustomed to being underestimated, but he reminded himself that it would serve as an advantage in his current situation if they did not suspect what he was capable of.
Lotor ignored his guards’ responses. “Keith, was it?”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Keith’s hand itched for his knife. The prince’s attention made his skin crawl with an intensity that even Aiphos’ third eye didn’t achieve, and the hair along his spine stood on end. Keith’s instincts recognized a predator, and he did not trust Lotor’s charming facade.
“You’re of mixed blood,” Lotor stated confidently. “And you’ve somehow earned Aiphos’ approval. I judge this more than enough recommendation of your worth. I have need of a third set of eyes to watch out for my interests.”
Something about the phrasing was off to Keith, but it was neither the time nor place to question it. Keith bowed again. “You honor me, Prince Lotor.”
The prince nodded solemnly. “And you honor me with your service.” He turned his attention back to the Lieutenant Commander. “Thank you, Aiphos. I can find my quarters on my own. I will send for you shortly.”
Aiphos snapped a quick salute, acknowledging the dismissal, and moved to her waiting command staff. Within a dobash, the gathered soldiers began to systematically disperse, returning to their assigned duties throughout the base.
“Most impressive,” Lotor repeated, before he addressed his guards. “Acxa, if you would take Keith to retrieve the Chamber, Zethrid and I will go ahead to my quarters. There is much to prepare.” The smaller of the generals nodded, a serious expression on her delicate features.
“Where would you like the Chamber stored?”
Lotor paused in thought. “There are unused suites in the hallway off of my rooms. Select from those.”
Acxa nodded and turned on her heel, marching purposefully back to the shuttle they'd arrived in. Keith had to hurry to catch up with her as she stepped up onto the boarding ramp.
The interior of the craft was nothing exceptional. Empty harnesses hung from the shuttle’s curved walls above benches that lined either side of the small space, and the display on the front view screen had been dimmed, the pilot’s seat unoccupied. Keith hadn’t seen anyone else exit the shuttle and wondered if it had been Lotor or one of the generals that had steered the ship into such a masterful landing.
The doors to the small cargo area were protected by the usual palm scanner, so he was surprised when Acxa was prompted to enter a six digit code as well before they slid aside. The added security was unusual enough to peak Keith's curiosity.
“This is the Chamber,” Acxa informed him. He couldn’t decipher her tone, sharp and a little dry. “It is currently among our prince’s most prized possessions. Its safety is paramount.”
Keith stepped forward, eager to discover what someone like Lotor would value so highly. Taller than Keith and slightly wider, the Chamber resembled nothing so much as an elaborate coffin. It appeared to be made from indigo-tinted glass, carved into facets that captured the soft violet lights of the shuttle’s interior and refracted them again and again so that the entire thing seemed to be sparkling. Behind the surface, opaque purple fog swirled slowly, teasing Keith with flashes of an incandescent aqua glow and a dark, vaguely galra-shaped figure.
The air around the Chamber was shockingly cold on his face when he leaned in closer, straining to make out the features of the figure within through the undulating mist. He caught a glimpse of a long, straight nose and the sweep of dark eyelashes over a blue-tinted cheekbone before whatever was inside was obscured again.
No, not whatever. Whoever. The Chamber housed an alien, unlike any he’d encountered. His ears folded against his head, uncomfortably cold. It was a cryopod, he realized, more advanced than Keith had ever seen or heard of before.
Acxa stepped around him and Keith moved out of her way, watching with interest as she called up a holographic interface on the Chamber’s right side and entered a quick command. The cryopod rose into the air with a quiet hum of propulsors.
“Stand on the other side and help me guide it,” Acxa ordered. “The glass is delicate, we musn’t allow it to run into any walls. Lotor would likely have our heads if we caused any damage.”
Keith moved to do as he was told, struggling to resist the powerful urge to gaze into the fog again. Another flash of brilliant blue caught his attention before vanishing. Keith grit his teeth and forced himself to focus as he followed Acxa to the shuttle’s loading doors and down the ramp.
Something about the figure behind the glass called to Keith; he could feel the draw like a gentle tug inside his chest. Almost without thought, he laid his gloved fingers on the Chamber’s chilled surface. He sensed that whoever was contained within was vitally important, and every instinct he had was screaming at him.
“What’s inside?” He decided, after much internal debate, that it was worth the risk to ask. Acxa turned her head to look at him as they entered the housing section of the station. She held his gaze briefly, considering.
“I suppose you’ll meet him soon enough,” she said, her dark lips pursed in what could almost be disapproval. Keith found himself wondering if General Acxa was the type to question her prince’s orders. “This is Prince Lotor’s newest...” She paused, searching for an appropriate word. “Prisoner,” she settled on after a tick.
Keith frowned. What sort of prisoner needed to be kept on ice? Absently, his fingers stroked the glass of the Chamber’s smooth surface.
Acxa didn’t catch the movement, already facing ahead as together they guided the unwieldy cryopod around a sharp turn. “He is called Lance.”
Keith looked down in time to glimpse a whorl of aqua-colored light, the line of an angular jaw. The persistent tugging in his chest still hadn't relented.
Lance.