Stolen by the Zandian - Renee Rose Page 0,32

other is one of the best.”

“Words solve nothing.” I’m clenched up again.

“Won’t hurt you to try.” She’s patient.

The urge for comfort—strangely new—overpowers me. The words tumble out. “This was several solar cycles ago. I was a commander in the army, newly promoted. I trained a troop of Zandians in battle and led them when we took back our planet. But we—failed.”

The feeling rises up again, the panic and helplessness. “My brother was one of them.”

“I’m so sorry.” Her hand is impossibly soft on my arm.

“I think if I had only trained them harder. Pushed faster. Did more. Maybe my brother would’ve been ready for the attack. Survived.”

“Is that what your superiors said?”

I shake my head. “It’s what I say to myself. Sometimes the battle plays in my head, over and over. Like a holo that won’t stop.” I push my temples.

“It sounds tragic. And distracting.”

“Perhaps.” I consider it. “You know how your body had that instantaneous reaction to the sight of the needle?”

She nods, her blue eyes on the side of my face.

“It’s almost like that. Triggers remind me of the battle. I…” I swallow. “I’m a trainer. All of the warriors I train put their lives in my hands—same as my brother. Every mistake I make puts their lives at risk.”

“But you make mistakes?”

I nod. “I freeze up—like you did with the needle. Instead of giving the orders I should be giving, I’m suddenly back at the battle, watching my brother die over and over again. And that’s when accidents happen.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs.

“That’s what happened a few planet rotations ago when I—made my most recent error. I was actually demoted.” I give her a side-glance, waiting for scorn or disgust, but it never comes from her; instead, it wells up in my gut. “And it was the right thing for the king to do. I failed at my task.”

“You’re a great captain, Khrys.” Her voice is soft. “I’ve seen that first hand. You’re a clever adversary and a strong warrior. I have no doubt you serve your king well.”

“You’ve not known me enough to make those statements.” But I feel unaccustomed pride at her compliments.

“It sounds like the ruminations take you away from your tasks. Can you stop thinking of that event quite so often?”

“I deserve to think about him every day and suffer for what happened.”

She squeezes my hand. “We humans, the ones the Kraa worked on, we had a technique. We said we’d reserved a certain period of time each solar rotation for worrying about things we can’t change. The rest of the time we’d try to focus on living as well as we could despite our circumstances.”

“Did that work?” I frown. She said we, and I want to follow up on that later, but for now all I can think about is my brother and the memories.

“Not for everything. But even a little bit helps.” She strokes my arm.

“And that applies to me how?” My voice is still stiff.

“Do you really think you are honoring his memory by continuing to suffer and doing subpar work? Would he wish this for you or your planet?” She pauses. “Maybe you don’t need to punish yourself constantly, especially if it puts others at risk. Think of him each rotation once, and the rest of the time, allow yourself to put the memories aside. At least the part where you castigate yourself.”

The idea is like a bolt of lightning. Never once have I considered allowing myself not to suffer at these memories. The concept that I could put down the pain of my brother and move forward is so novel and exhilarating that I blink.

“Perhaps,” is all I say to her, though.

She sighs.

“You mentioned...other humans?” I’m eager to change the topic, and I do want to learn about her life and experiences.

“Oh, they made more than one of me. They wanted an army.” Now she’s the one stiffening up. “Many of their so-called prototypes failed and were eliminated.” She looks up at me. “That means killed.” Her voice is heavy with anger and pain.

“I assumed as much.” My voice is somber.

“They’d bunk several of us together and have us train together.” Her voice is contemplative. “Sometimes we’d compete to see who was best at tasks. They didn’t want us to join forces, but they learned that humans die faster if they’re too isolated.” She laughs, a sound with no humor. “Their allowances for us were based solely on monetary value and survival.”

“Where are the others?” I stroke her arm.

She