“It is not excellent.”
“It is excellent for me. I am dying of boredom. This might be the most fun I have had since we arrived. Watching a mate take you down.”
I press two fingers against the bridge of my nose. The gesture is too human, so I lower my hand. “Why are you in this channel?”
“Emergency alert. Brotherly concern. But now that I've heard mate sickness, I am here for the entertainment. What did I miss so far?”
“Nothing,” I say.
Zymlor speaks over me. “He found his mate. She works for Layn. He thought he could resist by getting vaccinated. There, you are all up to date. Oh, and he is going to try to fight it.”
“Fight it.” Bryklor grins wider. “Come on, big brother. You can’t fight it. Impossible. Even for the heir to the throne.”
He squints at me through the projection. His skin is darker than mine from weeks under the Brazilian sun, the blue undertone warmed almost violet. “You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“Not human terrible.Ourterrible. Skin pale, eyes more orange than gold, ears doing that butterfly flutter they do when you don’t feel well.”
“My eyes are fine. And my ears don’t flutter.”
“They are winging so hard I'm worried they’ll take flight.”
“Bryk,” Zymlor warns.
“What? He is the one who finally found a mate and tried to stab himself out of it with a pen.”
“I did not stab myself out of anything.”
“No, because it failed.” Bryklor’s grin widens. “Which is funnier.”
I switch the projection window to corporate logistics because if my brothers are determined to make this humiliating, I will drag them into useful work while they do it. “How is Brazil?”
Bryklor’s grin fades into suspicion. “It’s fine. Why?”
“Any trouble?”
“No. Everything is perfect. South America may be the only good thing about this blasted cold planet.” He shifts, and sunlight strikes the side of his face. Behind him, huge leaves blur past the transport window, wet and bright and alive in a way New York’s streets cannot compete with. “The air actually touches skin here instead of biting it. These people complain about humidity as if warmth could ruin them. I may stay forever and let New York freeze without me.”
“You are not staying forever,” Zymlor says.
“I said may.”
“You threatened to abandon the entire operation last week because an insect looked at you.”
“It had knives on its legs.”
“It was a grasshopper.”
“It wanted blood.”
Despite myself, my mouth twitches. Bryklor has fought smugglers, pirates, trade ministers, one assassination attempt, and Father before breakfast. Earth insects remain his truest enemy.
“How are the shipments?” I ask.
“Moving. Slowly, because every human document needs three signatures. The expanded Amazon sites are producing a higher yield than expected. Zymlor’s preliminary numbers were right.”
“They usually are,” Zymlor mutters.
