Page 43 of Stars in Nova

‘You need a favor.’ The man’s drawl was emphatic.

‘I might,’ the Rider grunted. ‘If I call on you in a few days, will you answer? Will you come?’

‘Always. How are you?’

Kisan huffed. The man onscreen was the only bleeding individual in Pegasi with whom he could be frank.

Yet also the one man who loathed all knowledge of himself made public. Who’d disavowed all his past connections and now eked out an existence on the fringes of the farthest quadrant in Pegasi.

‘I thought I was dealing with my present reality, but I’ve had a setback.’

The man tilted his head, his features hidden beneath the hood of his robe. ‘Your friends any help?’

‘They’re yours too, you know.’

‘Nada,’ the man scoffed. ‘Never.’

The Rider shrugged off the man’s disdain. ‘They always try their best but don’t quite understand our pain.’

‘Who’da thought it with all their powers, influence, and wealth,’ the other man mocked. ‘I don’t even grasp how you live and work with them.’

‘You still hate them.’

The man onscreen studied Kisan for a long moment. ‘Hate is too strong a word. I have severe reservations.’

‘They didn’t do it to us.’

‘Nada, but they never came to look for us. What was our motto - none left among the stars? Yet they still abandoned us.’

The echoes of his bitter laugh rippled the airwaves between the men.

‘They’d good reason, brother,’ Kisan countered. ‘They thought us dead.’

‘They should havefokkin’ verified it!’ the shrouded man growled.

The man sighed, simmering down, his fingers brushing the edge of the worn totem hanging around his throat. ‘Hell, apologies, my anger sometimes gets the best of me. Tis why I’m here,’ he growled, gesturing behind him without explaining his exact location.

‘It burns for me too,’ Kisan rasped.

They remained in silent solidarity for a few more moments.

The Guardian leaned forward in his chair, the cool leather creaking as he shifted. ‘Brother, I need information. Something’s stirring in your neck of the woods. Have you heard of Orilia XIV?’

The man tilted his head, arms folded over his chest.

The glow from the holo illuminated his sinewed, muscled limbs and hands, lined with veins, shifting meta ink, and the glint of weathered rings.

‘I’ve caught some chatter,’ he growled, his tone contemplative. ‘Whispers. A quiet world, or it was. Remote, isolated. A sanctuary for the Vaelorii.’

‘From all accounts, a peaceful people,’ Kisan said. ‘Why would shit be stirring?’

The man leaned back with a slight twist of his lips. ‘Why else does shit stir? Because that’s its nature.’

‘Language, padre.’

‘I’m no padre,’ the man clipped. ‘I’m a Saraba-.’

‘I know who you are, what you are,’ Kisan shot back. ‘I need more intel, brother. Tell me everything you know.’

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