I'm heading there now, but if he won't let me dock…well, I'll conquer that problem as I get there.
I walk the halls of my ship again, restless. I should work out, except I've already done that twice today and it isn't calming my mind. I head instead to my office and check the time. It's late back on Homeworld, but early on Risda III. I run a hand over my black robes, then flick an imaginary bit of dust off my sleeve before sending a vid-call request to my uncle's estate.
There's no answer.
Jaw clenched, I try again. When no one picks up—not even a lowly secretary—it's clear I'm being ignored. "Computer," I bark. "Check the communications connections. Are we in working order?"
There's a pause. "All signals are at full strength, Lord Straik. Shall I—"
"No," I snarl. "Call Homeworld. Lady Naasi sa'Rin."
"Attempting," the computer says in a cheerful voice. "Please wait patiently."
It takes a few moments, and then the vid-call is accepted. The screen is devoid of people, and I see nothing but a chair at the desk. Not surprising. I've probably caught her when she was heading to bed. I wait, and eventually a figure slides into the chair. The woman who stares back at me is disheveled, her long hair slightly mussed and the jewels removed. Her mouth is flushed, and the silky, embroidered robe she clutches closed between her breasts looks as if it's about to fall off her shoulders. She looks as if she just left a lover.
Knowing Lady Naasi, she probably did.
She narrows her eyes, studying me. "You look dreadful."
"Thank you, Mother." My jaw works in frustration.
"What do you want? Do you need credits?" She gives me a curious look. "Finally begging for funds now that this little adventure of yours has run dry?"
I scowl at her. I have never—and will never—beg my family for credits. It's insulting for her to insinuate that, but my mother loves to tear others down just so she can elevate herself. "That's not why I called. Are you alone?"
Her mouth curls slightly. "Do I look like I'm alone?"
"I don't have time for games, Mother." I lean over my desk, frustrated with all of this. "Lord Varrik won't accept my calls. Is there a reason why?"
My mother tenses slightly. "Why are you calling Varrik?"
"I've found something." I don't dare say what it is—not on a comm line that can be intercepted by anyone. Not when she has someone in her rooms with her. "Something that could have ramifications for our family name. I'm curious if that's why Lord Varrik won't accept my calls."
Lady Naasi looks uneasy. She glances around and then leans in. "Whatever you think you've found, my son, stay out of it. All of it."
Stay out? Impossible. I'm already knee-deep. "Mother—"
"I'm not going to speak about this right now, Straik. Nor am I going to speak about it in the future." She gives me a practiced smile, one that I've seen her give to others a million times. It's the smile that says she is done with the situation. "Stay out of all of it, and leave Varrik alone. The less we communicate with the polluted end of the family, the better." Her smile grows tight. "Now, did you have anything else? No?" She doesn't give me a chance to answer and just keeps smiling sweetly. "It was lovely of you to call, my son. I'll talk to you soon."
And she terminates the connection.
I sigh in frustration. I am irritated, but unsurprised. It's not as if I can casually ask, Mother, are we heading a slave ring? over a vid call. Even so, I got the impression she knew exactly what I was referring to. The thought makes my stomach churn.
Has everyone known about this except me?
I straighten. Stare at my reflection in the vid-screen. For a moment, I think I look just like my mother—long, perfectly groomed hair. An ear crusted with jewelry. Horns exquisitely etched with house symbols and capped with the finest metal. Expensive, heavily embroidered robes.
I look like just another spoiled lordling. Just another sa'Rin brat-lord who cares about nothing and calls his mother for credits. I scowl at my reflection…and reach into my desk, pulling out a small knife I keep there. It's razor-sharp, which means it's perfect for my needs. I grab one handful of hair and just…slice. I cut away large hanks of hair that goes all the way to my waist, watching as it drops to the surface of my desk. When I'm done carving away at my appearance, I look like a keffing mess. My hair sticks up everywhere in ugly spikes of all different lengths, but…I don't look like the old me.
Which is something, at least.
"Computer," I snarl. "I'm heading to my quarters. Draw me a bath."
"Shall I drain the water in the tub right now, Lord Straik?"