VOX PROTOCOL: Chapter Nine

Dhan-mot

Aug 01, 2026

Content Warning: This chapter contains violence and allusions to violence.

Dhan-mot

The train continued at breakneck speed, and as they reached the edges of the yellow zone, the storm slackened... as if it knew not to cross the border out of the exclusion area. The Zehyrian government setting up in P’aetre-zhae now made a great deal of sense to Andri, and their desire that the Cetians and humans land and set up camp there also made more sense, and she said so aloud.

The Vox patiently explained that they used the proximity of P’aetre-zhae to Aedani Province to study its contamination and deploy experts and supplies into the heart of the province, attempting to get agriculture fully back up and running there. Andri hadn’t understood the mammoth importance of the province to kh’shae production, but she had a better sense of it now. More than that, the cultural and almost spiritual connection between the province, kh’shae, and the Abni-S’zaelyn perception of fertility, of the productive life on their planet, all held obvious and great importance. Just telling them to move to hydroponics plainly wouldn’t work; they’d have done it already if the problem were that simple.

Darkness fell, pressing against the windows, no civilization in sight. Andri sensed movement outside the train, flickers of fey light. She heard, and felt, several deep booms, large flashes of pink and gold in the dark like dawn light—then a commotion in the passenger car outside the screen. The train’s brake engines whirred, and it began to slow well before P’aetre-zhae’s borders. The Vox straightened and stood, on high alert, and the screen moved aside to reveal Vox-Lance and Little Scribe, both alarmed. Vox-Lance spoke.

“Voice—the Dhan-shar Brotherhood are following the train, dogging the tracks ahead of us with remote vehicles. They’re threatening the tracks with explosives if we don’t slow. Big Wing’s already tried shooting at them from the freight cars, but visibility’s low.”

The Vox showed no reaction, but Andri saw Lance then, the blaster in his hands, already looking like he’d been drafted outside to fire on the Brotherhood (whoever they were); he dripped steadily, wiping his face with a towel, and the exposed skin of his cheeks and arms had grown blotchy red from chemical burns.

“Who’s the Dhan-shar Brotherhood?” Andri asked. The Vox waved a hand at her for silence.

“Have they sent a message with their demands? They must know we’re returning from Aedani; the freight cars contain little more than a couple lost animals and empty fertilizer barrels. We have nothing for them.”

The Vox-Lance’s eyes flickered to Andri quickly, and she received the message loud and clear. Nothing but me.

“No demands, Voice, other than their typical request to inspect the train.”

The Vox also glanced at Andri, face unreadable, body still lines and eyes unblinking. “We made the decision this morning and left soon thereafter. How could they possibly know about the attaché? And what reason would they have to stop her from helpi—”

“The ransom, most likely,” Lance said from behind the Vox’s team, checking and reloading his blaster. His voice had a terse snap to it, which Andri detected even when he spoke security-accented Zehyrian. He sounded downright furious. “Do you commonly stop the arrow train for warlords to ‘inspect’ these days, Honored Voice? Or is that a new development since I’ve been away?”

“They’re the closest thing to a constant authority in the outskirts now,” the Vox responded without acrimony or recrimination, barely seeming to register Lance’s anger—or maybe he felt it justified. He reached down and clasped Andri’s hand for a moment. “Consular Lance, protect your charge; you needn’t worry about authority or assisting my team. Vox-Lance, tell them to stop the train before someone’s killed or the track’s damaged. I’ll speak to the Dhan-mot myself.”

Andri’s cochlear translator didn’t help her with the term Dhan-mot, and the Vox dropped his hand with another squeeze, waving Lance over brusquely to protect her. He left to join his people, huddling close to the Vox-Lance for a conference.

Andri met Lance’s eyes with a searching expression, wishing she could read his mind... or that he would scowl, or shout at her, or do anything she might find legible. All he did was touch her shoulder.

“Attaché, I’d like to move you into the corner, so no one can get at you around me. Is that tolerable?”

“Of course... whatever you think is best.” She could barely speak, could barely get the words out. I love you. I love you.... Please shout at me. Please show me that kiss matters to you.

“I made the Vow of S’zae to you, to place my body between yours and all harm, and I will continue to fulfill that vow today,” Lance said, instead of shouting at her. He gazed at her solemnly, unblinking, voice soft. “Please do not attempt to interfere out of concern for my safety, and know that if I die in your defense, I go to rest in the home of greatest honor and valor among my ancestors, to be celebrated by generations of the dead. You understand?”

It sounded ceremonial, and all the while he backed her into the corner, but Andri finally saw something inside the opacity of his steel-blue eyes: unshakeable love and devotion, unafraid of the Vox or Masadi or their machinations. He looked at her like he didn’t think of any of it, barely saw the kiss, saw only her and her life, the fulfillment of his vow.

Her stomach unclenched suddenly, and her heart stopped fluttering; even with warlords bearing down on them meant little next to his love... and fear vanished from her mind.

“I understand. Thank you for fulfilling your vow.”

Lance smiled at her once, and the walls at the corner met her back. His eyes twinkled for a moment, and Andri experienced it as a profound gift. She wanted to kiss him, even knowing that she couldn’t. not here and now.

“If I die, know that this time has been the greatest pleasure and adventure of my life.”

~*~

The train slowed to a halt over several kilometers. The Vox-Lance warned that they didn’t want to appear as though they wished to hide Andri, so the screen remained open, and beyond it, the Vox and his team strategized in quiet tones.

Before the train had entirely come to a stop, the Vox opened the passenger car door and loudly hailed the warlord and their people in some rough Zehyrian, waving them inside out of the weakening rain.

Shockingly, the warlord was a war-lady: a woman of incredible size, even larger than Big Shield. She towered over Little Scribe and even dwarfed Lance, a veritable Amazon in Zehyrian leathers, all rendered from cured beast hides. The smell, strong and animal, entered the train car in a wave; Andri judged the acid rain broke down the fabric of her leather armor, making the smell hit them like a heady smack the moment she entered.

“Where’s your Dhan-mot?” the Vox asked, revealing that this large woman wasn’t the person he expected. “You’re his Dhan-zher, if I remember correctly.”

“Challenged and defeated; I now carry his weapons,” the new Dhan-mot said, eyes scanning the interior of the car. “You’re carrying a consular official from the thrice-cursed yumei diplomatic mission? Those who defended the wretched Priests who attempted to destroy our world?”

The Vox made a sound in his throat. “I take it the former Dhan-mot didn’t agree with this plan? Did you challenge him to the death, or simple maiming?”

“I would never insult my own brother with a maiming, nor allow him to linger in pain and uselessness in the wilds for all his days. We fought to the blood, and he agreed to exile.” The Dhan-mot fixed her eyes on the Vox’s. “He liked you; you’re a friend of Aedani. Give us the consular official. She’ll remain unharmed until we receive supplies and armaments from the government.”

Andri felt and heard Lance inhale sharply through his nose; he’d pressed her into the corner, his back against her, placing his body entirely between Andri and danger. He was tall and muscular enough that he hid Andri from view, making him look like a member of the Vox’s team readying for a fight in the corner. He held his blaster in one hand and his mir-s’zaek in the other.

The Vox spoke, his confidence and strength tempered with gentleness. “You know it goes against my duties to allow you to take an official from a foreign consulate. Why don’t we avoid the trouble, and I’ll pledge to send you a consignment of food—”

“We want armaments. You know that,” the Dhan-mot told him, sounding far too reasonable. “We realize you’ll need to make excuses to the governments of Zehyr and the Earth Republic, so we’ll take her by force. That will cover you politically.”

“You could do that,” the Vox said calmly, though Andri could see a muscle jumping in his jaw each time he clenched his teeth. “Or you could leave the train now with my pledge to send clean food to your camp for the next year. Isn’t that a better ransom, with no threat of governmental violence or recriminations? This move could get the attention of wartime and defense officials... and they might move to wipe you out in retaliation.”

“She’s too valuable to lose the opportunity, and the Dhan-mot doesn’t back down in the face of pretty politicians… not even to you.” The Dhan-mot’s eyes grew dark. “The Voice of all Zehyr? Absurd. You’re nothing more than a potter’s son with idiotic aspirations.”

Andri spoke to Lance through her teeth. “For god’s sake, are they negotiating out the exchange of violence?”

He chuffed, almost inaudible, and reached behind him to grasp her hand, hidden within the folds of her hakama.

The Vox offered a thin, tight smile to the Dhan-mot. “You have five seconds to leave the train as a courtesy, due to the respect I bore your brother. One...”

The Vox didn’t make it to two before all hell broke loose. One of the Dhan-mot’s deputies took a shot at Big Wing, looking to take the huge man down first in a surprise attack. Big Shield, however, threw her massive armor-plate shield in front of his face without a nanosecond to spare, using nanite-assisted speed and strength; the plasma charge arched off Big Wing uselessly, scorching the white ceiling.

The Vox-Lance shoved his politician ward behind his broad back, and they stood in turn behind Little Shield, as Big Wing and Big Shield rushed the brotherhood in a solid, coordinated movement. Shouts and blasters and light filled the still air, deafening and blinding. Andri looked around for her fellow non-warrior types; she had no idea where the Scribes, Big or Little, had hidden themselves, or if they’d escaped forward into the automated engine and battery car.

The Dhan-mot ducked a swing from Big Shield, then avoided a blaster shot deftly as her deputies moved in to meet the Vox’s people in a stream—more and more of them entering the car in a shocking wave. Her eyes landed on Lance, seeing he hadn’t joined the fight; she grabbed a member of her gang roughly by the armored vest, jerked her head in Lance’s direction, and started barrelling toward them.

The Wings and Big Shield focused their attention on protecting the Vox, and rightly so, as they very rapidly had their hands full with more members of the gang entering the passenger car every minute. Chaos descended, blasters firing, cries of pain, the schick of daggers drawn, the tang of blades meeting snicker-snak—the Vox shouting to his people, pleading that they hold their shots in close quarters—

The Dhan-mot got to Lance first. Andri heard his blaster detonate, low and deep, shearing off the entire left side of the Dhan-mot’s face. She arced away, screaming, holding her blackened face. The stench of burning meat seared Andri’s nostrils, and she clapped her hand to her mouth.

“It’s the consulate’s Lance!” she shouted to her people, voice warbling and gritty with pain. “They’ve kept the attaché h—”

Lance braced his back and arms against Andri and the walls at either side of him, sending a powerful kick into the Dhan’mot’s body armor. A crunching blow interrupted her mid-shout, sending her sprawling away—and just a quickly, her deputies came leaping over her in a charge.

A huge man, far larger than Lance, didn’t dare fire with Andri right behind her bodyguard—but Lance had no such compunctions. Andri heard shouts and grunts of pain, another terse, deep command from the Vox she didn’t understand, her cochlear translator going haywire from all the different sources of input—

Zwee! Dzwee, zwee!

Blaster fire again, bright and blinding—the train car growing hot and close with acrid smoke. Charred meat stung the back of Andri’s mouth; she nearly hurled. The Dhan-mot’s deputy kept coming like a boulder, a scorched and smoking hole in his side, his face like a thundercloud. He bore down on Lance, and Andri heard her partner shudder and grunt as though holding back a great mass, felt his body quake with impact, as the attacker brought both hands down into his chest in one clenched fist.

He made a terrible sound, inside and out, a sudden agonized exhalation of breath, a wet crunching sound inside his ribcage. His knees trembled under his weight.

“Lance!” Andri alarmed herself at the pitch of her own voice, high and uncontrolled, almost unrecognizable.

Another of the Dhan-mot’s people swerved into the small space, elbowing around the screen, and made to grab Andri. Lance pushed back against her, only the press of body standing in the way and foiling the attempt. He got the blaster into the man’s stomach, managing to detonate into armor, eliciting howls of pain and a scramble of wild struggle between arms and bodies—

And still they kept coming, one then the other. Maneuvering, dodging, pushing in on them, hands grabbing and tearing at Andri’s arms. Someone tried to pull her out and away from Lance, but he hit them across the temple with his blaster’s handle with a massive, sickening thwack.

That attacked fell down, inert, eyes wide and unseeing… lifeless on the spot.

Then another crack, and Lance’s face snapped suddenly, leftward—blood flying in a spigot.

“Give her up now,” the deputy grunted at Lance, hoarse pain threading his voice. From the spitting roughness of his Zehyrian, every word sounded like a curse. “You miserable, slinking, low-crouching human pet, begging and scraping at their door instead of serving your world—”

“You will not have her, not by threat or by force.” Lance trembled, bracing himself against the walls and held himself up by the arms. Andri worried for him, hearing the new wheeze and crackle in his lungs each time he took a breath. His ribs might be broken, or his clavicle, or something worse. “You might as well leave—else you die. Then you’ll serve nothing. But you must be used to that? You think you serve Aedani or Zehyr out here?”

The deputy came down on him again, lips tight and pale with rage. Another blow, causing Lance’s blaster to clatter to the floor. He didn’t allow the impact to transfer, still bracing hard against the walls with his arms shaking, but Andri could see his knees buckle when the attacker delivered the third blow.

Andri dropped with him, fueled by panic. She began feeling around for his fallen blaster, finding slicked with blood and sweat on the ground nearby. She straightened in time to see the deputy look up from Lance to her, glare suspended on hers, rife with a look of murder and rage—frozen as she shot him dead between the eyes.

The man threw himself aside just in time, the blow glancing off his forehead and burning his hair clean off. White and boiling red skin remained to form a runway across his scalp, and he howled in maddened agony.

Like a rabbit, Lance sprang back into action, burying his mir-s’zaek to the hilt under the man’s protruding lowest rib. As the deputy’s eyes darkened in death, Andri knew Lance had struck him to the heart.

The Dhan-mot staggered to her feet with the help of two of her people, and they bore down on Lance with blasters drawn and tear bared in threat, both shouting incomprehensible Zehyrian. The sounds of activity had lessened in the passenger car—and the screen, having fallen sideways, now partially occluded Andri’s view of the others.

“Attaché,” the Dhan-mot said, eyes on hers. The woman’s calm and fortitude with half her face burned away struck Andri as incredible discipline. “Have some sense for your Lance. He’s outnumbered and bound to give his life in your defense. Order him aside and come with us, and you’ll do him no dishonor while preserving his life.”

Lance pulled his mir-s’zaek from the man’s body and allowed the blood to drip in steady menace as he stared down the Dhan-mot.

“Andromeda, pay no heed to these people. They have no honor remaining and no spirit to house it in. Little more than a feral band of thugs on the Aedanian plain, playing at warlords like children while there’s no one here to stop or chide them.”

Andri saw the change in the Dhan-mot, from reasonable and business-like—even with half her face burnt to cinders—transforming into white-hot rage. She drew her own mir-s’zaek, a deadly cunning thing with a curved blade, like a mini falcata.

“I’ll eat your heart for that with my supper, you upstart little yumei grubber.”

The world exploded into noise and movement. The screen smashed sideways into the Dhan-mot, crushing her under the combined weight of the Vox-Lance and Big Wing, with the rest of the gang felled and arrayed in a bloody mural across the passenger car behind them.

More fighting, shouts of alarm and pain, shots ringing out, before the Vox-Lance stood over the Dhan-mot with his blaster aimed at her heart.

The Vox approached, his own mir-s’zaek drawn and bloody; he had Little Shield beside him. The young man sported a scorch across his right pauldron and cheek, and his shield was worse for wear, but he had a victorious glow about him.

The Vox now employed a clear, commanding voice. “No quarter. Leave her body for the other gangs’ pedagogical advantage. An object lesson, as the yumei call it.”

Vox-Lance looked at his consular counterpart, who still wheezed and crackled, but crucially remained standing. “Well defended, F’heja. Would you like her heart?”

“K’ha,” the Vox said under his breath, sounding distasteful. “I respect the traditions, Lance… but must you?”

Vox-Lance shot him a hard look, saying nothing for a time. When he spoke, he sounded cold and deadly.

“This Dhan-mot attacked a government train car out of the yellow zone to take a foreign consular official hostage for ransom. If anyone is deserving of the s’zae-kash, it’s her.”

The Vox blanched slightly, but he protested no further. “Very well. Just… perhaps perform the later half of the ritual upon return to P’aetre-zhae. You have a cooling vessel, perhaps? Something that will fit a heart or two?”

Andri heard a small, horrified sound escape her throat unwillingly, and Lance dodged his eyes at her. The Vox watched them closely, and Andri could see a dark entertainment shadowing his eyes and tugging at his lips.

“S’zae-kash belongs rightly to the Vox-Lance for felling her, I believe,” Lance said with soft strength. “But I thank you to my spirit for your offer.”

Andri sagged with relief, then tugged at Lance’s jerkin. She felt sick to death of all this, and she wanted to get eyes on his injuries.

“You don’t need a heart to eat. What you need is a damn medical kit.” She looked at the Vox. “I think we need to tape his ribs and check his sternum and clavicle. He took some large blows.”

Lance colored to his neck, and she knew he felt embarrassed—but at the moment, she didn’t care. Vox-Lance yanked the half-conscious Dhan-mot to her feet with the help of Big Wing, and they escorted her, limping and bleeding, outside.

There, Andri heard a blaster shot. No ceremony. Then the sounds of quiet, business-like butchery, of blades hacking through meat and cartilage, slicing down lines of bone. Her stomach churned, and she focused on Lance.

The Vox smiled at her, and she could see a splash of blood across his cheek. “Of course. All our people need seeing to. My scribes took shelter in the engine car; meet with them and bring the medical kit from there. It’s the largest one on the train. You have some field medical training?”

“Yes.” Andri didn’t elaborate; she pressed gently at Lance’s clavicle, finding the telltale wobble and heat of a break; she saw him wince. “I’ll be right back.”

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