by Cynthia Sax
“The target has stopped following us, Commander.” Her navigation officer said the words as though she was unable to believe them. “They’re cutting their engines.”
They weren’t cutting their engines. Carys gritted her teeth until her jaw ached. Two order-ignoring cyborgs had taken them offline.
“Their shields are lowering,” her weapons officer announced.
“Weapons, stop firing.” She wouldn’t blow up the enemy’s battle station until she knew her warriors were safe. “Space Traffic, have you heard from the mission ship?”
“Negative, Commander. They are still dark.”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Carys paced back and forth, her brain telling her to destroy the target, her heart telling her to wait, her professional duty as a commander at odds with her personal feelings as a female.
This was one of the many reasons why loving Ace and Thrasher was a bad idea. She knew it would be a possible conflict, had fought against caring for them.
But she had lost that fight. They had won her heart, her soul, her everything.
Her officers watched her as she silently debated with herself. Their foreheads were furrowed, their expressions bewildered.
In their minds, the decision was easy. Two lives would be lost, but they’d gain a victory over the enemy and that might save more lives in the long run.
Two lives was an acceptable loss.
If Ace and Thrasher were consulted, they’d likely agree. Her foolish brave warriors might volunteer to sacrifice their lives, and, as a commander, she should allow them to do that.
She should make the best decision for her crew, for the Rebel cause. That’s what a great commander would do. She’d order a full strike, blow up the enemy battle station, and perhaps contribute to the end of the war.
She couldn’t do it, couldn’t be the great commander others thought she was. Her love for Ace and Thrasher was greater than reason, greater than duty, greater than vengeance against the beings who’d killed her baby.
Pimmy wouldn’t have wanted that vengeance. Ace and Thrasher had reminded her of that. Her daughter was light and joy and love. She’d want Carys to save her males.
“Weapons, recalibrate the guns.” Carys returned to her seat. “I want debilitating but not structurally devastating damage. We’ll peel them apart one layer at a time.”
“Yes, Commander.”
“Their shields are down. Their guns aren’t working. They can’t retreat. All they can do is wait for death, wait for their miserable lifespans to end.” Her first officer’s eyes gleamed with approval. Like every other being on her battle station, he’d lost many of his loved ones to the Humanoid Alliance’s brutality. “The delay will be torturous.”
It was cruel, a harshness Carys wouldn’t normally engage in. When she had to kill, she preferred to do it quickly, as painlessly as possible.
As the Humanoid Alliance had killed her daughter. She winced. One shot directly to her little girl’s heart.
But Carys didn’t have the luxury of compassion this planet rotation. She had to give Ace and Thrasher as much time as she possibly could to exit the Humanoid Alliance vessel.
Carys leaned back in her captain’s chair, breathed in and out, in and out, sucking their scent into her lungs, trying to relax. There was no legitimate reason to worry. Ace and Thrasher’s unsanctioned activities on board the enemy battle station told her the warriors still lived.
“Space Traffic, inform me when the mission ship makes contact.”
As soon as they exited the enemy’s battle station, she’d blow it up, end the battle, secure their victory. Her crew could then celebrate.
Carys would march Ace and Thrasher back to their private chambers, command them to strip. She’d inspect them herself, surveying their naked forms from head to toe, reassuring herself that her two males were healthy and fit, that they had returned safely to her.
Then she’d reprimand them. Harshly.
No one disobeyed her orders and got away with it, not even the males she loved.
She would guarantee they never forgot that.
Chapter Sixteen
Thrasher sprinted through the Humanoid Alliance’s corridors, moving at cyborg speed, a pack strapped to his left hip.
Seventy percent complete, ass, he transmitted. He was responsible for rigging one half of the enemy battle station with explosives.
Seventy-two percent complete, Ace communicated from across the vessel. He was responsible for rigging the other half.
The mission was laughably easy, might have verged into the realm of boredom, if it hadn’t been for his constant competition with the warrior.
Being with Ace always made any task more enjoyable.
We shouldn’t have tampered with their systems. Correction. It was enjoyable when Ace wasn’t obsessing about past decisions. At the moment, the warrior was being a pain in the ass. Our female wanted us to plant explosives and that was it.
Thrasher rolled his eyes. How long was he going to fret about that? The decision had been made. They’d tampered with the systems. They wouldn’t undo that damage.
We had to disable the guns. Thrasher extracted an explosive from his pack and attached it to the wall. The detonator was on delay. It shouldn’t activate until they were back on their ship and had flown a safe distance from the battle station. They were shooting at our female.
The shields would have held.
They might not have. Thrasher ran. He wouldn’t take any risks with their female.
Ace might mutter but he held the same stance. He hadn’t pushed back on deactivating the guns, readily accepting that course of action.
If we hadn’t shut the engines down, they would have rammed our female’s battle station. Ace justified that decision. The engines were one hundred percent his idea.
I agree. That’s what Thrasher would have done if he’d been the Humanoid Alliance commander. He would have used the battle station as a weapon. Lowering the shields…
There was silence from Ace.
Neither of them had a safety-related reason for lowering the shields. They’d done it because they could. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
She’ll be angry, Thrasher admitted.
A door opened. Two human males, clad in Humanoid Alliance officer garments, stepped into the corridor. They looked toward him.
Thrasher slid along the floor, instinctively giving them a harder target to hit, lined them up in his gunsight and pressed the trigger.
The projectile blasted through the first male’s forehead and the second male’s eye socket, splattering blood and brains on the wall. They fell, their arms and legs twitching.
Did you see that? Thrasher projected the feed a second time to ensure Ace did see it. I got two of them with the same projectile.
It was a lucky shot.
That wasn’t luck. He frowned, attaching another explosive to the wall. That was skill.
Even with the two-for-one, I still have the higher kill rate. Ace didn’t dispute the skill comment.
Because the warrior knew he could shoot. Thrasher swaggered. You have the higher kill rate on this mission. You didn’t have it on the last mission.
The last mission was a search and recovery. Ace’s tone was dry. We weren’t authorized to have any kill rate.
The cyborg council had been unreasonable. If they ran across a Humanoid Alliance warrior, they were going to kill him. That was only logical.
Eighty percent complete, Ace reported.
Frag. Thrasher increased his speed, determined to catch up. Did you see our female’s face when we told her we loved her?
Finally saying the love words to their female had given him great satisfaction. The timing hadn’t been optimal. Their Commander preferred to restrict expressions of affection to their private chambers. But Thrasher had been unable to wait and, for once, Ace had felt the same way.
She was speechless. The warrior sounded as pleased as he was.
The Humanoi
d Alliance battle station shuddered. More humans entered the corridors. Thrasher blasted one, rolled, drew a second gun, shot two more.
Some humans cowered. Others returned fire. One of them got lucky. A projectile tore through a weak spot in Thrasher’s body armor. Pain radiated from his right hip. It was a flesh wound. The projectile was unable to penetrate his metal frame.
Irritated, Thrasher shot that male twice. He ended the other beings’ lives more efficiently. Bodies and guns fell to the floor. Blood puddled around them.
Warmth dripped down Thrasher’s leg. His wound didn’t slow his speed. He was a cyborg, accustomed to pain, to damage. His nanocybotics would heal him, eventually dissolving the projectile.
Ninety percent complete. Ace gave him an update.
I increased my kill rate by sixteen. That should offset his slower speed.
I don’t have as many beings to kill. I move quietly.
I move as quietly as you do. They were cyborgs, had been manufactured to run silently, their booted feet making no sound when they connected with the tiled floor. Our female’s bombardment is drawing the humans into the corridors.
Our female is fierce. Pride edged Ace’s transmission, an emotion Thrasher shared.
They chatted about their female, Thrasher doing most of the communicating.
He ran, set the explosives, killed any being he spotted, sprinted to the next location, navigating the maze of corridors, following the blueprint in his processors.
They’d optimized their plan for ease of distribution and impact. There shouldn’t be anything left of the battle station once the explosives detonated.
The Humanoid Alliance battle station rocked again.
More beings rushed into the corridors. Thrasher didn’t know where they were going. The entire vessel was being pummeled by missiles, the attack led by their Carys. There was no escaping it.
But he obligingly shot them, killing them quickly, efficiently. Ending lives was what he had been manufactured for and it gave him tremendous joy to fulfill his purpose.
He’d also been designed for breeding. That, he planned to do as soon as they returned to their female’s side. He’d feel her lips around his cock, Ace’s hands on his bare skin.
Ninety-five complete. Ace was relentless with the reports.
It kept Thrasher focused, not that he’d ever admit to that. The temptation to enter a chamber and kill every being within it was almost overwhelming.
That wasn’t their mission, however enjoyable that would be. They were to set the explosives and leave. The duration to detonation wasn’t long from now. They hadn’t much time to waste.
We should have set the timers for later, he grumbled.
Pick up the pace. Ace had no sympathy for his challenges.
The Humanoid Alliance battle station lurched upward. Part of the ceiling collapsed. Thrasher twisted his body, barely avoiding the rubble.
And we shouldn’t have lowered the shields, he added. Their female might blow the Humanoid Alliance battle station up with them in it.
I agree with that. Ace’s path, according to his visual transmission, was equally strewn with wreckage.
Frag. Thrasher moved faster. They had made an error. Errors got warriors killed.
They had to get off the battle station. Now.
He set the last explosive. Yes, I beat you, ass. Thrasher raised his hands in triumph. I’ve completed my side and am returning to the ship. The debris would slow their progress.
I’m already heading back—
A loud boom knocked out Thrasher’s auditory system. The battle station jolted downward. He was flung backward, slid along the floor tiles.
A huge metal beam sliced through the ceiling, slammed against both of his legs, pinning him to the floor, keeping him in place. Shrapnel blasted his face, neck, chest. Pain flooded his sensors. His visual system also malfunctioned, hurling him into darkness.
He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t move.
The time to detonation was approaching.
He had to get to the docking bay. A heavy weight rested on his chest.
Thrasher blindly felt along its edges, identified it as a block made from some sort of building material, pushed it off him.
He took a deep breath, inhaled dust and coughed. All of him hurt, but he couldn’t rest, couldn’t stop. He tried to claw his way forward, was unable to move. His legs remained trapped under the metal beam.
He surveyed the beam’s size and shape with his fingers. Sharp fragments slashed the flesh off his hands, that agony meshing with the hurt from his legs, his chest, his face, overwhelming his human brain. Thrasher transferred all operations to his processors.
His visual system rebooted, flickering, offering a dizzying flood of information, then stabilizing. His legs were lodged between two beams, the one that had fallen and the one under the floor, visible through the fractured tiles.
He couldn’t do anything about the floor beam. That was intact, fastened securely to the rest of the battle station.
He might be able to move the fallen beam. It was huge and heavy but manageable.
To give himself more mobility, Thrasher yanked some of the pieces of metal from his chest. Blood spurted through the tears in his body armor.
He folded his body in two, grasped the fallen beam and lifted, his muscles straining with the effort, the task taxing even his considerable cyborg strength.
The beam shifted upward enough to free himself. He pulled his legs out of danger and dropped the beam. The floor groaned, bending with its weight.
Where are you, genius? Ace asked. Communications must have come back online. We have to leave.
Where was he? He was at the far side of the battle station. Thrasher surveyed the damage.
From his thighs to his toes, he was a mess, the flesh torn down to the frame. That he could deal with. The bigger issue was his legs had popped out of their knee sockets, were being held together by only a mass of circuits. They wouldn’t fall off but he couldn’t stand, couldn’t walk.
And he was running out of time.
Thrasher did the calculations. Even at his top crawling speed, which was cyborg fast, the explosives would detonate before he reached the docking bay.
He’d die on this fraggin’ battle station.
Leave without me, ass. Unable to simply give up, to accept that death, he propelled himself forward, using his hands and arms, dragging his damaged body over the rubble, painting a trail of crimson upon the gray dust.
Repeat that. Ace’s transmission rang in Thrasher’s battered skull.
I won’t make it to the ship on time. He transmitted the extent of his damage. His logical male would realize that was impossible. Tell our female I love her and I’m sorry. I failed her. I failed you.
You didn’t fail us. Ace’s tone was gruff. I’m coming to get you.
I won’t allow that. Thrasher’s fingertips ached, the flesh worn to the metal. You’ll die too.
Not if I can help it.
That was his stubborn male. Thrasher laughed shakily. You’ve done the same calculations I have. You’ll reach me, but we won’t return to the ship before the battle station blows up.
The vessel rocked.
Thrasher slid to the right and thumped against the wall. A wave of pain swept over him.
He grimaced and continued crawling.
Our female might blow the battle station up in the next heartbeat. Ace pointed out, sounding unconcerned.
Return to the ship, ass. Thrasher tried once more to dissuade Ace. One of us has to live. You have to protect our female.
His female and his male would survive. After he was gone, they’d lean on each other, find solace, comfort, love in the other’s arms. To the rest of the universe, they’d look like a normal couple, complete, free of defect.
He’d die alone, having known a brief duration of happiness.
That was more than many warriors experienced.
Our female will be protected, Ace rumbled.
By Power? We can’t count on him. He’s an E model. The thought of another male touching their female drove Thrasher forward. E models can’t protect their own asses.
Power isn’t needed. Ace dismissed that possibility. We’ll both protect our female but not if you slack off. Crawl faster.
Sometimes he really hated Ace.
All of the other times, he loved the male more than his own life. I want you to live.
I’ll only live through this if you pick up the pace. A human can crawl faster than you.
There would be no sweet last words from Ace. Thrasher’s lips twisted. The warrior would push him with his final breath. I love you.
Use your energy to move faster.
He told Ace he loved him and that was the warrior’s response? They were cyborgs. They could transmit and move at their top speed. Ace was deliberately changing the subject.
Which was typical of him. Thrasher would shake his head except there was a huge shard of metal stuck in his neck.
A human entered the corridor, and stared at Thrasher, an expression of absolute horror on his face. Thrasher drew one of his still functional guns and put a projectile through the human’s gaping mouth. The male fell to the floor, the scent of blood flavoring the air.
That death wouldn’t save his life but it made Thrasher feel better. He returned the gun to his back holster and applied himself once again to the fruitless task of crawling halfway across a battle station.
Will our female add our boots to her collection, I wonder? Thrasher had watched as their Carys had caressed her daughter’s footwear, stroking it as though it were her Pimmy’s skin. Would she touch their boots the same way—with caring, with love?
She will add our boots to her collection…with us in them. Ace was close to his location. Thrasher sensed his presence. She’ll lock us in the chamber and never allow us to exit.
A huge form appeared at the end of the corridor. Thrasher’s heart temporarily malfunctioned, skipping a beat. He’d recognize Ace anywhere.
Is that why you insisted on this foolishness, ass? Thrasher continued to crawl toward him. You didn’t want to face our female alone?