The one with the long white hair asked in a deep, resonating voice, “Do you know who we are, Human?”
“No,” I stated respectfully, making sure I spoke the correct words of their language. “I do not.”
The one with the golden hair brushed a stray strand aside, stating in a bored tone, “We are the Pluma of the east and the west.” They were the leaders of the Mian. He pointed vaguely to himself. “I’m Pluma Leo Kreob.” He gestured to the black haired man next to him. “This is Pluma Malik Wazra.” He flicked his wrist in an annoyed gesture to the long white haired man, and then the choppy white haired man. “That is Pluma Phila Moir and Pluma Killeg Creo.”
I blinked…and tried not to piss my spacesuit. “It’s lovely to meet the four of you.”
Pluma Kreob’s lips twitched, but he continued casually, “Why did you disobey?”
I could lie. I could say the orders had not been clear. Though I did not think that was what would keep me alive with these four men. “I am more than trained for combat.” I inhaled and exhaled slowly. “I also didn’t want my friend to die.”
“Ah, yes,” Pluma Creo spoke from the couch. He flipped through a halo-pad, then stated, “Number 43. Jax Waterston.” He punched the halo-pad off, not missing how I had tensed. “Yes, we do know a little about the male slaves who fought. But you,” he leaned forward, “we know nothing of, since you are female.”
I stayed quiet. He had not asked a question, so I was not going to babble.
Pluma Wazra chuckled softly, the sound rolling through the air. “How many marks do you wear on your wrists?”
I swallowed, but told the truth. “All ten.”
The four men seemed to find this interesting, each eyeing me a little closer.
The same Pluma spoke. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
Their shock was palpable, even though the four men’s expressions did not change.
“And your…friend, how old is he? How many marks does he have?”
“Jax is the same age as me. He also has all ten.”
“And yet you still believed you needed to help him?”
“I did.” I scratched my shoulder, feeling uncomfortable under their regard. “I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if he had died like that.” I snapped my mouth shut, but it was too late.
Pluma Kreob cocked his head, his golden hair brushing over his shoulder. I tried not to gaze at the pointed top of his ear I could now see. His quiet and sinister tone sent a small quake down my frame. “Do you think the arrival ritual was cruel?”
I did not answer. There was no safe response for that question. I did however clear my throat, knowing my oxygen was becoming dangerously low. “Will one of you please remove my helmet?”
With dark as ebony hair gliding over his shoulders, Pluma Wazra rested his elbows on his knees, asking gently, “First, what is your name?”
“Braita Valorn.” I pointed at my helmet, peering at each of them. I tried to be respectful, but anxiety was etching up my spine. “Please? The helmet.”
Pluma Moir grunted, and then moved forward. As he stalked toward me, he pulled his long white hair back into a ponytail, fully exposing the pointed tops of his ears. He bent, placing his bronzed face in front of mine.
My breath caught. With him so close, his eyes were hypnotic in their very darkness.
I wanted to lean forward just to see them better, not sure if I had ever witnessed a vision so delicate, yet punishing. His eyes held a ruthlessness that alarmed me, but it was a view I could stare at for days. I was not sure if even an advanced halo-image would do his eyes justice. There were just too many mixing complexities hiding within the glimmer of his ominous scrutiny to be duplicated.
That gaze raked up and down my frame ever so slowly. When he finally spoke, his tone made my heart beat in a wild cadence. “What you did today was foolish.” His glowing eyes narrowed, but he raised his left hand and pressed his thumb to the side of my helmet.
Instantly, it released with a loud pop to my ears. I sucked in the clean oxygen that raced underneath the edge of the helmet, my lungs heaving in great gulps, no longer having to regulate my breathing for fear of death. “Thank you.”
But, I stumbled to the side. I grabbed my helmet and jerked it off, suddenly feeling dizzy as the Cold Mark on the back of my neck began to itch. I dropped my helmet as the room grew silent, and clutched my forehead as my hair fanned down around my face. Instinct had me grab the nearest sturdy structure to regain my balance, and that ended up being the shirt sleeve of Pluma Moir. I instantly jerked my hand away, slurring, “Sorry…sorry.” I slammed back against the glass door, and used the heel of my palm to thump my forehead a few times. “I don’t know what’s wrong. Please give me a second.”
There was a pause, then Pluma Moir mumbled, “Did the Human just call me a…’cow’?”
Mother Joyal, how did I keep doing that?
“No,” I grumbled, shaking my head again. I scratched the Cold Mark where I could feel it branded my skin, the black barcode there slightly raised on my flesh. “I didn’t.”
The room went completely silent as I continued to scratch the possibly infected mark.
“Oh, my.” Pluma Moir chuckled softly. “That…is interesting.”
My fingers stalled in mid-scratch and I blinked a few times as I lifted my head, trying to focus on the deadly Mian inside this room. What I saw froze me in place, my vision not settling.
All four men were also staring directly at me. Where my hand rested on the Cold Mark.
Pluma Moir lifted a white brow, and stepped closer. His right hand rose, which sported three black rings between his thumb, pointer, and middle fingers. Surprised, my head thumped back against the door when I tried to evade his touch, but his hand moved in an action my eyes could not register. His thumb brushed my cheek in a gentle, almost affectionate, stroke.
I flinched at the coldness of his skin.
Just as swiftly, he retracted his hand. With his immense muscled frame now blocking my view from the rest of the room’s occupants, his shining, black gaze continued to roam my face in the hushed silence, appearing to be assessing each of my features in slow turn. His sophisticated facade was so void of any emotion that there was no way to determine his thoughts.
But even in my sickness, I was lost in his gaze. My vision was still blurred, though it did not matter. I could not peer away from his intricate eyes. Just as his body tensed to step away, I beseeched on the faintest breath, “Wait.”