Chapter 21

Chapter 21

The moment the escape pod hatch opened, the outside air rushed in, and Yor couldn't help but cough twice—the atmosphere of this planet carried a dry, harsh scent, like the lingering residue of burning fuel, mixed with fine sand and dust, dry and scratchy against the throat.

He checked the star chart inside the pod repeatedly, confirming his bearings.

Warner Planet, a third-rate star under the Sixty-Fourth War Zone—correct.

This was a War Department affiliated planet, originally singled out and occupied because it was surrounded by numerous mining planets.

Whether developed as residential planets for miners or used as mid-route jump points for interstellar shipping lanes, it promised decent economic returns.

Per Dexter's instructions, Yor removed the remaining energy cells from the rear of the escape pod and packed a few usable spare parts into his bag before stepping out of the hatch.

Vast, sprawling, and yellow sand as far as the eye could see—that was Yor's first impression of Warner Planet.

Nearly all the structures in sight were low and earth-toned. For concealment and to weather the sandstorms, the bugs here built their homes as if they had sprouted from the ground itself—hugging the ground, dusty gray, blending almost seamlessly into the dunes unless you looked closely.

He'd landed right on target—this was a civilian spaceport.

The port was extremely busy. In the few minutes Yor stood there, dozens of ships took off or landed.

Not the massive starships he'd been on before, but simpler civilian vessels. They only supported short-range travel, couldn't cross wormholes, and typically shuttled between a few surrounding planets.

The war bugs getting off the ships mostly wore similar miner's gear—tan, brown, and gray-blue fabrics, worn thin, smudged with dirt and grease.

They walked arm-in-arm in one direction, chatting and laughing—a far less rigid atmosphere than aboard the starship.

Yor followed their gaze. Over there was probably an open-air market—a patchwork of colorful tarps, with noise carrying even from a distance.

He glanced down at his clean clothes, thought for a moment, then rubbed against a nearby dirt mound, smearing some yellow dust on his face too. That finally made him blend in a bit more.

Then he slung his bag over his shoulder and slowly melted into the crowd of bugs.

The market was decent-sized, simple but practical in layout.

Most stalls were just metal frames draped with tarps, with a sand-proof mat on the ground—that was it.

Most of the bugs passing through were war bugs, with the occasional odd alien—blue-skinned, eyes on antennae, slithering along... Yor didn't stand out much. His War Department-issue clothes weren't uncommon here—clearly not the first time outsiders tied to the War Department had passed through.

As for the war bugs stationed here, Dexter had said many were veterans who'd settled here after retiring. Yor glanced around and did notice a certain resemblance in temperament to the bugs on the starship.

It was strangely reassuring.

Yor walked, keeping an eye on his surroundings. The stalls had all kinds of stuff.

The stuff miners brought back was mostly the same—common ores, pretty sparkly stones, weird fossils. Probably anything interesting they dug up, hoping to get lucky.

The stalls also sold a mix of things: basic supplies, small tools for miners, and energy components.

Yor sat down at a food stall, ordered a pick-me-up drink, and rested while watching the area across the way.

Several stalls across the way were selling ship parts.

His gaze swept across a few stalls before finally landing on a quiet vendor.

The vendor was a war bug missing a leg, tucked behind his stall, not bothering to hawk his goods. But Yor watched for a while and noticed he made sales fast—most bugs just paid and took their stuff without haggling, clearly mostly regulars.

Finishing his drink, Yor crouched in front of the stall and set the remaining energy cells he'd stripped from the escape pod on the counter.

The vendor looked up, reached out, hefted them, and quoted a price.

Higher than Dexter had said.

Yor nodded, then pointed to a pile of old terminals nearby. "I'll take one of those."

The vendor didn't ask questions. He deducted the terminal's price and transferred the credits to Yor's account without fuss.

Smooth deal.

Yor let out a quiet sigh of relief. He'd spotted housing agency ads earlier, and after doing the math, he had enough left to rent a place.

The "safe and comfortable" nests underground were out of reach, but he could afford something above ground.

He was about to head to the agency when a ruckus broke out behind him.

Yor turned to look. At the stall where he'd just sold his energy cells, two clearly underage war bugs were arguing, faces red.

It seemed to be about a medal.

The shorter one clutched the medal, refusing to let go, while the taller one grabbed his wrist and yanked. They tugged back and forth like a tug-of-war, each accusing the other of jacking up the price.

Yor watched quietly from the crowd. When he got a clear look at the medal, he couldn't help but feel a little embarrassed.

It was a holographic image of Leonius.

Some battle scene had been captured—the lord was swinging a spear-like weapon in a wide arc. The craftsmanship was fine; even at palm size, it had real presence.

No wonder the kids liked it. To underage war bugs, this was probably like a hero trading card.

The two young war bugs escalated fast, claws nearly in each other's faces. The surrounding bugs didn't step in—instead, they cheered and egged them on.

"Fight!"

"Go for his face!"

"Don't chicken out!"

Yor: "..."

Just as things were about to blow up, the quiet vendor suddenly stood.

He was missing a leg, but when he stood, leaning on a metal cane, he was steady enough.

With one hand each, he grabbed the two young war bugs by the scruff of the neck. Once their feet left the ground, they took one look at his fierce face and went quiet.

"No markup," the vendor said, his voice not nearly as harsh as his face suggested—if anything, he sounded almost resigned.

"You named the price first. It's yours." He looked at the shorter one.

The taller one's mouth puckered, claws twitching. The vendor turned to him: "I've got another one. Come back in a couple days, same price."

The taller one blinked, and his mouth closed.

The two young bugs were set down. They exchanged a glance, the taller one snorted and ran off, while the shorter one beamed and paid happily.

Yor smiled slightly and quietly slipped out of the crowd.

Finding housing, as it turned out, went off without a hitch.

For what Yor could afford, the options were pretty slim—so slim the agent couldn't even be bothered to rip him off.

He looked at a few spots and found one he liked.

It was a rammed-earth house on a hillside, facing the sun. Even with thick walls and small windows, to the bugs it probably counted as "way too much sun."

But Yor loved it.

The sunny side had two narrow windows, the sills swept clean of sand by the wind. The yard was empty but big—big enough to plant stuff, or nothing at all, and just soak up the sun.

It was also quiet, with just one neighbor over on the hillside.

To his credit, the agent was straight with him: "Don't wanna check out any other places? This one's big, but the sun's brutal—it'll bake you. The yard's so empty, stray underage bugs might crash here, and if you don't keep it up, you'll get nests of low-born species moving in."

Low-born species... those were the ugly two-headed, baby-faced freaks Yor had seen by the road before.

Yor was quiet for a beat, then shook his head. "It's fine."

Still, stray underage bugs were a real worry—their mental energy was unstable, and one slip-up could trash the whole place.

Taking the advice to heart, Yor didn't blow off the agent's warning. He gritted his teeth and shelled out for a basic security system, nearly cleaning out his wallet.

But finally, he was settled in.

Once the agent finished installing it, Yor crashed.

He was beat.

While Yor slept, the neighbor whose door was always shut came home.

If Yor had been awake, he'd have recognized him right away—the one-legged vendor from the market.

He was hauling a big bundle, and when he saw the lights on behind the hillside, he slowed.

New neighbor.

He limped toward his door, but his eye caught the security system on Yor's wall, and he stopped.

The crippled bug hobbled over on his metal cane, stood outside the gate, hesitated, then raised a hand to knock.

Yor was jolted awake, his mental energy instinctively sweeping out, "seeing" a familiar figure. Alarm bells went off.

How'd he find this place? Something wrong with the energy blocks?

Yor threw on a coat, walked into the yard, and called from behind the gate: "Hey, can I help you?"

Picking up on Yor's wariness, Herman kept it short: "There's a sandstorm tonight. Your security system's wind shield isn't on."

He paused, stepped back a couple steps to show he wasn't trying to come in, "Just search your terminal and it'll show you how to turn it on."

Yor pulled up his terminal to check—sure enough, the local weather alert was a big red warning telling folks to stay inside.

"Thanks."

Seeing Yor loosen up a bit, he gestured to the house next door: "I live next door. Name's Herman. You new to Vorna? Watch out for the night sandstorms and the cold."

Yor nodded. "I'm Yor. Thanks a lot."

It was already pitch-black.

Herman didn't say anything else, just turned and hobbled back with his cane.

Yor fumbled around and got the wind shield on—a pale blue film flickered once, covering the whole yard and keeping the sand out.

Good thing the neighbor was decent; otherwise, he'd be digging himself out of a sand dune in the morning.

Maybe his luck was turning. Ever since he got to Vorna, everyone he'd met had been decent.

He looked up.

Vorna's night had no moon, but the stars were incredible.

Countless points of light covered the whole sky like a spilled handful of crushed diamonds. A nebula stretched overhead, its gray-white band drifting slow. Yor's eyes followed that band, sliding off into the distance.

He had no idea which direction he was looking.

Where was Leonius's starship? What were Dexter and Taste up to now? That male bug, sleeping so deep... what would happen when he woke up?

These thoughts floated up, then scattered, like dust in the evening wind.

Yor's mouth twitched, but he didn't dwell on it. He was about to head back to bed when two muffled thuds came from next door—something hitting the ground.

Startled, he looked over. Herman was face-down in the sand, his prosthetic leg knocked off and lying sideways.

Seeing Yor looking, he got embarrassed and held up the prosthetic: "Sorry to bother you. My mental sea's acting up—can't link to the prosthetic... still working on it."

It was a real problem. When Yor had swept his mental energy at the door, he'd noticed it—this war bug's mental sea was badly clogged, with a small hole that kept leaking mental energy.

It had to hurt like hell. This bug had some serious endurance.

Yor was new here and didn't want trouble. Besides, using mental energy to treat a male bug—the fallout...

He'd already paid that price once.

Yor nodded and went back inside, shutting the door.

No room to worry about anyone else. Whether he'd get a decent night's sleep was the real question.

He lay down, found the nutrient packs Dexter had stuffed in the escape pod, and downed two. His stomach warmed up, and his body felt a little lighter.

He closed his eyes, trying to clear his head.

His body was bone-tired and he slipped into sleep fast, but... the dream wouldn't let him go.

The med room, air thick as honey. Leonius was on top of him, tail tip coiled tight around his calf, face full of hurt and confusion. He seemed to want to ask something but couldn't get the words out, just driving hard into the source of his pain.

Yor tried to push him off, but his arms wouldn't move. He could only writhe through the agony...

After what felt like forever, Taste crouched in front of him, hands cupping his face, eyes all red: "You said we were family. Why'd you leave on your own?"

He tried to explain, but the words wouldn't come out. When he tried again, Taste's face blurred and dissolved into a crowd of faceless young bugs. They crowded around him, tugging at his clothes, calling him mother, mother, mother...

The voices piled up, sharp and thin, like they were coming from far away.

He stumbled back, his back slamming into cold metal—the lab table.

Above him, harsh white lights. Around him, glass walls. Worker bugs hauling the lifeless test subjects, back and forth, trip after trip.

They lay quietly on the transports, covered with white cloth, but as they passed his compartment, each one's bloodshot eyes snapped open, staring at him............

The next morning, Yor woke up with a splitting headache—he was more exhausted than if he hadn't slept at all.

He sat on the bed for a long time, until it was fully light outside, until the cold sweat on his forehead had dried, before slowly getting up.

The sound of machines rumbled from outside.

Yor pushed the door open and saw Herman running a weird-looking machine, shoving the yellow sand outside his yard to both sides to clear a path.

He worked fast, clearly used to it.

When he saw Yor, Herman paused and said, "You just got here, no sweeper... so I figured I'd just..."

It was clearly a favor, but he acted all embarrassed about it.

Yor stared at him for a moment, his chest feeling tight.

He wasn't about to owe another alpha anything.

Without a word, Yor turned and went back inside. When he came out again, he was holding a small vial of something.

It was his last drop of honey, diluted over a hundred times and mixed into a tonic.

He shoved the bottle at Herman. "It's good for your mental state. Drink it or not, your call."

Before Herman could say anything, Yor had already turned and headed back inside.

After the door closed, Herman muttered, "Th...thank you."

He stared at the bottle—the liquid inside was a very faint gold, swaying gently in the morning light.

He'd just done it on a whim, not expecting anything back... something this precious, he shouldn't accept it.

He thought about returning it, but remembering the look on Yor's face just now, he somehow didn't dare say anything.

As he hesitated, his terminal buzzed.

Herman glanced down—it was a mission notice: "Herman, report to the port, ready to depart."

Thinking of the mission ahead... he quit hesitating, opened the cap, and drank it all in one go.

At worst, he'd leave his death benefits to Yor—that would pay him back for this vial.

The golden liquid slid down his throat, warmth spreading from his stomach to his limbs... Herman froze. The stabbing pain that had persisted for months seemed to have eased a little, for real this time.

He tucked the empty bottle into his shirt and turned, hurrying away.

==============

Aboard the lord's flagship, more than ten days had passed since Yor left.

Dexter stood at the viewport, counting the days. Going by the lifeboat's course, Yor should have already arrived at Vorna.

He wondered if he'd settled in—the sandstorms there were so fierce, he hoped he'd found somewhere decent to stay...

"Brother." Taste's voice came from behind, sounding as wilted as a fish left out in the sun. "It's been more than ten days."

"Yeah."

"Can I go see him?"

Dexter was silent for a moment, then gave the same answer: "...No."

A conversation they'd had over a hundred times.

Taste leaned against the bulkhead, sand still caught in the gaps of his prosthetic limbs. He always picked desert environments for his recent sim training.

Just like Vorna was.

He picked sand out of the gaps, then looked up again. "Has he eaten?"

"...Do you think he's thinking about us right now?"

"Taste."

"I'm just asking." Taste's voice trailed off. "I know I can't bring it up... but can't I at least think about it..."

Dexter closed his eyes and didn't say anything else.

He missed him just as much.

He thought about him every day.

But he couldn't even voice it like Taste could... the lord...

His terminal buzzed suddenly.

Dexter looked down—it was a notice from the lord's personal guard: "The lord wants to see you. Come now."

Dexter's back tensed. He straightened his collar, trying to act normal.

The lights were off in Leonius's quarters.

When Dexter entered, he hesitated for a second.

The lord seemed even more on edge than Taste—dark circles under his eyes, a pallid complexion.

He didn't remember a thing, so how did it end up like this?

"...Have you been getting any sleep at all?" Dexter couldn't help but ask.

Leonius looked up, his iron-gray eyes bloodshot.

"I can't sleep." His voice was as low and steady as ever. "Dexter, do you know why?"

Dexter hung his head and said nothing.

Leonius stared down at him, his gaze heavy.

"I can't even figure out why I can't sleep."

He was perfectly aware something was wrong, but at the same time, his mind wouldn't let him look into it. Every time he so much as thought of Yor's name, his thoughts would inexplicably drift elsewhere.

Dexter dug his nails into his palms.

"If it were just that, it'd be bearable."

Leonius lowered his gaze back to the terminal screen. He didn't know what he was looking for, nor when he'd developed the habit of always checking the monitor feeds.

"I'm scared to sleep, Dexter."