“I’m afraid I must refer him to
Social Intervention,” the school counselor said.

Zoriah stared at Ms. Beckett,
employing the only useful technique she’d learned during her teenage years from
the government parenting programs.

One breath, two. Three breaths,
four. Think before you speak. Acts of aggression equaled weeks of
remediation—more time under the watchful eye of an overburdened case worker.
More opportunities for them to tear her family apart like children pulling wings
from a trapped butterfly.

“This would be the third
referral,” Zoriah said in her most pleasant, appropriately humble Low Tier
voice.

Her precious teenage son said
nothing, arms folded, staring out the window with every appearance of boredom.
What was he looking at, besides his future dribbling down a drain?

She wanted to smack him.

“Yes,” the counselor agreed.

“If he’s taken from my care, will
my housing allotment be reduced?”

“That’s possible.”

Zoriah knew what a third
intervention meant. They all did. Focusing on practical matters helped prevent
her from breaking down—or lunging across the desk to throttle the counselor,
who was really only the messenger. Such a display of violence would get her
slammed in a windowless facility in a heartbeat.

They’d lucked out with the
neighborhood they lived in now, one of the few remaining family sections where
four-bedroom homes were still relatively new, the parks updated. With one less
minor in her custody, she and the girls would be moved to a three-bedroom, and
those available in the Low Tier sections of Omaha were. . .infamous.

Khalid stirred. “Ma. It’s all
right, I’m not going to get referred.”

She struggled to remember the
self-soothing visualization techniques. Ocean waves, the sun beating on her
neck, the scent of brine and grilling fish. Peace and tranquility.

“Do you know something we don’t,
Khalid?” Ms. Beckett asked politely.

They had to teach Low Tier women
visualization techniques because the government wouldn’t ever allow them the
opportunity to improve their lives. Once a Low Tier, always a Low Tier. Someone
had to do the cooking and cleaning for the rich—real human staff being a sign
of their wealth. Everyone could afford a bot these days.

“I did it on purpose.”

Ocean waves morphed into a
tsunami. “You what?”

He turned in the seat, faced her
fully. “Look. I’m sixteen. Technically, I can drop out if I register for either
a—”

“What have I told you about
government-sponsored trade school programs! It’s indentured servitude.”

His mouth tightened. “Stop
yelling, Ma. Just listen, all right? I haven’t been skipping school to jack
off.”

Zoriah winced. Did her son
understand the. . .alternative. . .meanings of that phrase? She’d taken away
his internet devices years ago to prevent learning such things, but children
had access to information everywhere.

“I’ve been training with the
Yadeshi. At YETI.” He paused. “Yadeshi Earth Training—”

“I’m not stupid, I know what it
means.”

He shrugged, snapping his mouth
closed. She’d thought registering for a state-run trade school was the worst
thing he could do, besides run afoul of a street organization.

“The damn Yadeshi. Are you out of
your mind? The Yadeshi are. . .” words failed her. Socially correct ones,
anyway.

Irritation flashed in his dark
eyes. “They’re warriors,” he snapped. “They have discipline, and they’re smart.
And loyal. Like a family.”

Zoriah couldn’t speak. She’d done
her best. Maybe she could do better. Sixteen was young to have a baby, and to
be forced to wed the father, who hadn’t wanted to settle down so young. . .the
state didn’t care. They just wanted two financially responsible parents in the
home. There were no such things as single parent homes anymore unless the
mother was widowed. Like all policies the government had put in place during
the last two centuries, this one was also a single edged sword—because the edge
usually cut the woman and children, while the government got to pretend it was
promoting family values and community stability.

She'd had her first child while a
minor, and was now widowed. Which meant living under the radar of SIA until
Khalid was a legal adult because they never retracted their hooks once sunk
into a family. Which meant that with this third referral for misconduct, SIA
would stick their nose back into her home life and evaluate not only her
parenting of him, but of her two daughters. Which meant Zoriah needed to figure
out something, and fast.

The counselor pursed her lips.
“If your plan was to enter the training program with the Yadeshi, I would have
good cause to hold off on that referral. I don’t approve of you skipping school
to force us to allow you to train, but under the circumstances, what is done is
done.”

“What?” Zoriah stared at her.
“How can you condone a child turning himself over to those blue-skinned—”

“Don’t be speciest, Ma.”

“Is that even a word?”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Ms.
Beckett interjected. “Human students who graduate are offered opportunities for
travel, employment—”

“As mechanics and mail-order
brides.” Did she really have any choice but to allow it? They knew what the
alternative was, damn her too-clever son.

“They accept humans in their tech
and ground soldier units,” Khalid said. "There's upward mobility in tech,
and they teach you a second language. That’s a supernova marketable skill."

“Have you turned in your
paperwork?” Ms. Beckett asked. “You’ll need a mentor to sign off. It can take
awhile.”

He smiled, crossing his ankles.
“I started as a scrub—”

The woman cleared her throat.
“Prospect.”

“Whatever. I started training as
a prospect already. With Adekhan
Benyon Obe’shan.”

Ms. Beckett’s eyes widened. “An Adekhan? Khalid, that’s wonderful news!”

Zoriah rubbed her head. “What is
an Adekhan?”

She’d ignored all talk of the
alien warriors, even though they’d been on Earth a good ten years, an
embassy/training/recruitment facility in most major cities by now. Zoriah
didn’t approve of violence, and their whole culture was based on martial
prowess. Once the reasons for their alliance with Earth became known—access to
fertile human women for marriage, and humans to train as skilled tech laborers,
since the men of their society all wanted to run around with lightswords—she’d
decided to write them off.

“An honored warrior,” Khalid
said. “One who proved his willingness in battle to die for his unit.”

Perfect. Just. . .perfect. “How
long has this been going on?”

He stopped staring her down then,
eyes sliding back towards the window. “A few months.”

“When? You haven’t been skipping
school for a few months.”

“I’ve been going on the
weekends.”

“What about the enrichment
program?” She worked the weekends and wasn’t home to monitor him.

“There was no program, Ma.”

Zoriah closed her eyes. “And your
sisters?” He'd been in charge of monitoring them, and she'd considered the lack
of any major or minor emergencies while under his authority to be a sign of his
maturity.

He paused.

“And your sisters?”

“They’ve been training with me.”

* * *

Benyon watched Ladasha sit in a
chair across from him. He inclined his head, acknowledging her presence and
giving her, a warrior not-yet-ranked Adekhan,
permission to speak.

“Did you consider my
co-habitation request?” she asked.

After several years among the
humans, Benyon learned the Yadeshi were considered direct. It hadn’t bothered
him before—but he’d come to enjoy the small meaningless conversations when
walking among their shopkeepers and service people.

“It’s hot today,” he said
experimentally, in English.

Her brow furrowed. “It has been
hot for the last five years.”

So much for human little talk.
“Nevermind. I considered your request. I’ve chosen to decline.”

She didn’t look surprised. He’d
never shown interest in her as a cohab partner, though they fought well
together and they’d run several successful joint training simulations with the
prospects. Ladasha was competent, even-tempered and physically attractive, the
epitome of a Yadeshi woman. Well-toned musculature didn’t detract from slender
curves.

“I thought so,” she said. “Can
you tell me why?”

A reasonable request.

“You are a fine warrior, and an
attractive woman. I don’t think we would suit. I am honored by the request.”

“We’re both warriors. I will make Adekhan in the next battle.”

He didn’t doubt it. Benyon wasn’t
accustomed to explaining himself, but there was nothing challenging in her
demeanor. “My mother would not approve.”

Ladasha paused. “Your mother is
dead.”

Yes. Defending him from invaders.
His mother, who’d rejected the Yadeshi warrior way of life to live simply, by
the effort of her hands. A warm woman, and hardworking, with a soft body and
broad smile. But in the end, she’d been Yadeshi to the core, dispatching enough
of the enemy for him to find safety before her death.

“She would have wanted my marks
to merge with a woman like her,” he said. “She was not a warrior.”

She nodded and rose, leaving the
table with a brief, perfunctory salute. Watching her, Benyon sighed. His
assignment on Earth ended in a few months, but he hadn’t considered leave
taking. The thought of merging with a human woman lured him—they were a tantalizing
combination of softness and warrior spirit. But even though he’d spoken to many
who intrigued, none yet had sparked his markings.

“Adekhan!”

The yadoana called him, the female Earth children under his tutelage.
Another reason to delay his leave—who could he choose to take over their
training? There was no one he trusted to handle them properly.

“Aja’eko,” he greeted as their brother approached, checking his
amusement behind gravity when the boy executed a flawless obeisance.

Khalid’s sisters were not quite
so perfect. Little Ashe grinned while attempting to emulate her brother,
shooting him looks from merry dark eyes. The eldest sister, Reign, performed
her obeisance with the banked defiance he’d realized was not directed at him,
but a part of her nature.

That one would be a Warlord’s
consort, human or no.

“Adekhan, I need your help,” Khalid said.

“We’re not supposed to be here,”
Reign said, sitting in Benyon’s presence without permission.

He ignored the lapse, watching
the almost man formulate words. “My help,
aja’eko?”

“Do you know what SIA is?”

An interesting question. He was
familiar with the humans’ agency, the one tasked with providing for their
people who had no families to look after them.

“I’m familiar. What does that
place have to do with you?”

“I provoked them.”

Benyon’s brows rose and again he
hid his amusement. “What did you do?”

“I’ve been skipping school. This
is my third infraction.”

Amusement vanished. There were
human cadets in the facility who’d fled SIA, and their barbaric system of
remediation for individuals they deemed potential drains on social resources.

“If you knew you had two
infractions, why risk a third?”  Disapproval colored his voice.
"There is no strategy in that."

Khalid straightened his
shoulders, gaze direct. “If I enlist as a prospect, SIA will leave me alone.
But my mother doesn’t want me here.”

Ahhh. . . “Your strategy is to
force her hand then.” Benyon frowned. “Your mother is unaware of your training
here?”

Reign snorted. “Well, now she knows. Good going, genius.”

Even three months ago, she would
have smacked her brother upside the head in accompaniment to the comment. Her
discipline was improving. He noted it, pleased. Benyon held up a hand. “You
lied.”

Khalid’s teeth ground as he
glanced at his sister. “Yes, Adekhan.”

Benyon turned his attention to
the girls. Ashe, uncharacteristically silent and Reign, staring up at the
ceiling, arms folded.

“And your actions affect your
sisters?”

“. . .yes. If my mom won’t sign
off on the paperwork, then I’ll be placed in remediation and our housing
allowance will be reduced. I don’t think my mom will sign. She doesn’t like
fighting.”

“A mother would like the loss of
her son even less.”

His aja’eko sighed. “Can you talk to her? So she doesn’t make my life
miserable until I’m eighteen? Maybe if she sees—”

“I will speak with
her.”