by Cynthia Sax
It took everything he had to stand motionless, to show none of his feelings.
Crash looked at Safyre. Safyre dipped her head. “There’s no need for that sacrifice, warriors. Ace and Thrasher have already agreed to retrieve Tifara.” She waved her hands at the two K model cyborgs, their images projected onto the wall.
They grinned, smug with the honor bestowed upon them.
These two warriors would touch his female. Death’s anger escalated. They’d be responsible for retrieving her, for protecting her.
They were more open with their emotion, more human. She might form an attachment to them. They could steal his happiness, his future from him.
He wouldn’t allow that.
“No.” Death lifted his chin. “I will retrieve her.”
Crash frowned.
The other cyborgs shuffled backward.
Death stood his ground. Tifara was more important to him than his honor, than any perceived debt or allegiance to Crash.
“Why do you want to retrieve her?” Safyre asked. “Is she your female?”
Death’s jaw jutted. She was, but admitting that would put Tifara at risk.
Cyborgs couldn’t lie. If any of them were captured by the Humanoid Alliance and questioned, they would tell the humans about Tifara, about his weakness for her. The Humanoid Alliance would use her as bait. Once they apprehended him, they’d kill her.
Death chose to remain silent. He’d earn the right to retrieve Tifara based on his worth. He’d helped orchestrate the escape from the Humanoid Alliance. He’d protected Safyre when Crash couldn’t. He deserved the mission.
“Of course, she isn’t your female.” Safyre shook her head, the tuft of orange hair on top of her head bobbing. “What am I thinking? If she was, you would have stolen the fuckin’ scarf she gave me. You’d be talking my ear off about how good she smells and the names you’ll give your offspring and other shit like that.”
Death gazed at her. He didn’t chatter unnecessarily. Ever.
“Or maybe you wouldn’t.” Safyre grinned, reaching that same conclusion. “You’re as grim as fuck.” The cyborgs around them laughed. “You’re a worthy male, Death, and I do love you, but I can’t think of a warrior any less suited for my soft-hearted, always-laughing friend than you. She would try to heal all of the beings you killed and—”
“Female.” Crash stopped her chattering. Death, the J models look to you for leadership, he transmitted on a private line. I depend on you to communicate with them.
Mayhem will take over that role. Death had thought of that already. He’ll communicate with the J models.
Why is that transfer of responsibility required? Why do you want this mission?
He wanted Tifara. She might, as Crash’s female stated, find his personality too grim, his manner too violent, but she was his and he would have her. Does it matter why I want this mission? I’m free, as you often state. I can do what I wish and I wish to be the warrior to retrieve her. I have earned that right.
Crash’s face hardened. You can’t do what you wish with Tifara. I don’t know what you’re planning but it won’t involve my female’s friend. She’s not yours, Death. You can’t force a link where there is none.
There was a link. Death felt the connection. Give me this mission. Have I not proved my worth over and over again?
You have. That’s why I chose other warriors for this mission. You’re too valuable to utilize.
Anger rolled inside Death. And Tifara isn’t valuable? She was everything to him yet merely a secondary consideration to the E model.
You’re required elsewhere. Your brethren need you. I need you. Crash played upon his sense of responsibility.
Death was tired of putting others first. You don’t need me. Killing was his strength. There would be no killing in the Homeland.
I do, Crash insisted. I need you to lead the J Models, to represent them with the cyborg council. The J Models trust you. Allow Ace and Thrasher to retrieve Tifara. They’re capable warriors.
Capable isn’t skilled enough. I’m retrieving Tifara.
My friend—
Don’t call me that. Death wouldn’t be manipulated by emotion. This is my mission. I’m taking it. With or without Crash’s approval.
The E model gazed at him. Death gazed back, determined to win the standoff.
You’re not taking this mission. You will accompany us to the Homeland. That decision has been made. Crash’s tone signaled that the discussion was closed.
Tension stretched across Death’s shoulders. So much for being free.
“Ace and Thrasher will retrieve Tifara,” Crash announced to the group. “The rest of us will voyage to the Homeland.”
The cyborgs looked toward Death.
Death showed none of his rage, none of his frustration. His disagreement was between Crash and himself. He wouldn’t undermine the E model’s authority by making it public.
Mayhem’s eyes narrowed, the warrior not fooled by Death’s lack of expression.
Crash ignored the discontented murmurings and talked about administrative issues. Death drifted farther and farther into the crowd, edging his way toward the doors. The E model tried to include him in the decisions. He didn’t answer Crash’s queries.
A youngster asked about obtaining body armor. Death slipped out of the chamber and accelerated, moving through the hallways at cyborg speed, faster than any human male could.
His first stop was Safyre’s ship.
The small vessel was the female’s home. She had formed an emotional attachment to it and he would never take it from her, would never cause her that pain.
Safyre was a precious female, to be treasured, protected.
But he would take Tifara’s scarf. Death unwound the white fabric and stuffed it between his body armor and his chest. A wave of scent wafted upward, hardening his cock.
He ignored his reaction and exited.
Fraggin’ hole. He stifled a groan.
Menace, that irritatingly observant cyborg, waited in front of the ramp to the second ship, a vessel Death had privately claimed for himself. “Crash has access to the auditory system of the council. If you rebel against his orders, they could block you from reaching the Homeland.”
When he rebelled, they would do more than that. The council couldn’t risk cyborgs operating on their own, mixing unmonitored with other species. The humans could realize cyborgs weren’t as easily controlled as they believed. Humans would decommission, kill, millions of his not-yet-freed brethren.
To prevent that from happening, the council would send warriors after him. If caught, he’d be executed, his death discouraging other warriors from rebelling.
One moment of happiness with Tifara was worth that fate.
“Step aside, Menace.”
“I know why you’re doing this.” The warrior didn’t move. “Crash doesn’t, and he also doesn’t have our history. He doesn’t trust you as I do. He’ll assume your processors have gone offline.”
That might be the truth. Desperation to reach Tifara welled up inside Death.
“Let me speak to the E model.”
“It’s too late for that.” And he didn’t want another warrior to plead his case. “Crash made the announcement.” Even E model cyborgs had pride. Crash wouldn’t change his decision.
“Then I’ll go with you. Mayhem will distract Crash and then catch up with us.” Menace moved to the side and grasped his pack. It was ready, waiting. The warrior had obviously decided on that action before Death arrived. “One warrior rebelling looks like a processor malfunction. Two, eventually three, warriors rebelling will have a logical cause.”
Menace and Mayhem would risk exile and death to assist him.
Death couldn’t allow the males to make that sacrifice. “You’re not coming with me.” He stomped up the ramp.
“I am.” Menace followed him closely, too closely for the door to close between them. “We’ll retrieve her together.”
“No, we won’t.�
�� Death turned, pulled his guns, slid the levers to stun. “Back away from the ship, Menace. This isn’t your mission.”
“You’d assist me.” The warrior lifted his chin, undaunted by the threat. “I’m assisting you.”
Frag the cyborg. He’d force him to do this. “You’re staying here.”
Death pressed the trigger.
Light zapped around Menace. He jerked, his eyes widening. You stunned me, he transmitted, disbelief wrapped around the words.
And now I’m pushing you over. Death proceeded to do exactly that, shoving the warrior off the ramp. Menace landed on his face, cursing him through the line. Tell Crash I forgive him for any action he has to take. I regret nothing.
You’re a stubborn ass.
Death grunted and closed the door, aware that he’d likely never see the warrior, the closest being he had for a friend, again. He was leaving his brethren and any possibility of reaching the Homeland behind him.
His Tifara was worth the sacrifice.
He hurried to the bridge, smacking his palms on the control pads. Engines purred to life, the floor vibrating under his boots. There was no time to waste. Menace could prevent his escape with one command to the docking bay doors.
Death guided the ship out of freighter.
His exit remained open.
He gritted his teeth as he was shot into the open blackness of space.
No guns fired upon him.
The coordinates for the battle station had already been entered into the system. The ship headed in the direction of his female. Anticipation pulsed through his circuits.
It was edged with gratitude. Menace hadn’t raised the alarm. Death listened to the warrior grumble, over the transmission lines, about obstinate males and missing all the excitement.
It didn’t take long for Crash to find Menace. The E model interrogated him. Menace stubbornly said nothing.
His assumption had been correct. Crash believed Death’s processors had malfunctioned. There was chatter of retrieving him, of informing the council.
They hailed him.
Death switched off all transmissions, severing that constant connection with his brethren, ensuring they couldn’t track him through the link.
To combat the eerie silence, he played the footage he’d collected of Tifara on his main viewscreen. Her beautiful face shone down on him, surrounded by the darkness of space. Her light, bubbly laughter filled his auditory system.
Death removed the scarf he’d taken. His female’s scent filled his nostrils. He wrapped the cloth around the right armrest of his chair, placed his palm on top of it.
All of his precautions to hide his presence would merely delay his fate, earning him more time but not forever. The cyborgs would catch him and, when they did that, they’d end his lifespan.
Before that happened, he’d touch his female, kiss her, might even breed with her. She’d smile at him, her eyes soft with caring, with love, and for one wonderful moment, he’d be happy.
His lips curled upward.
He was a fortunate warrior.
Chapter Two
Tifara swayed on her feet, bleary-eyed with exhaustion. She hadn’t taken a full rest cycle in two planet rotations.
After the Humanoid Alliance blew up Tau Ceti, destroying the planet and killing millions of beings, many species had joined the resistance movement. The fighting had intensified. The wounded had flowed into the battle station.
At first, she had welcomed the influx. Safyre and Nymphia, her two closest friends, had been on Tau Ceti when it exploded. Healing the wounded had distracted her from her own pain, from the grief clouding her battered heart.
Safyre asked her to join that ill-fated rescue mission. Tifara had said no. Had that been the right decision?
She doubted she could have saved her friends. She knew nothing about escaping from underground tunnels or deactivating planet-destroying devices. Her sole skill set was healing and patients had needed her on the battle station.
Her friends had died and she lived.
It hadn’t been the first time she’d dodged death. When Tifara had ten solar cycles, she’d been the sole survivor of a planet-wide outbreak, a virus that killed her mother, three brothers, extended family, friends.
She’d been spared for a reason. Stopping another outbreak must be her destiny.
Determined to be prepared when that happened, to not fail more loved ones, she’d dedicated every unfilled moment to researching pathogens, virions, genetic material.
Currently, every moment was being utilized. More and more wounded arrived. Her small team of medics was overwhelmed. She had an endless stream of patients to heal and no time for research.
“Let me clean the area, ensuring there’s no infection.” Tifara wiped a cleaning cloth over her Palavian patient’s grubby skin. “Then I’ll patch you up and send you on your way. You’ll be back to the battlefield in no time.” She paused. “But try to negotiate with the enemy in the future. Killing should be a last resort.”
Life was precious. Tifara had seen how one tiny virion, unable to be detected by the human eye, could kill a being. She told the Palavian all of this as she worked.
Normally an assistant medic would complete the task of preparing the patient, allowing her to focus on suturing the hip-to-collarbone gash, but she had assigned all members of her team to their own patients.
She was alone in the small operating room.
Not completely alone.
The patient cursed at her in his native language, straining at his arm and leg restraints, trying to free himself from the horizontal support. He was a huge brute and his agony had been lessened with the pain inhibitors. The straps whined in protest, threatening to break.
“Hush, hush, now,” Tifara cooed. She realized that seeing his own intestines was a shock many patients couldn’t handle. “Surely you’ve witnessed worse. You’re a big strong…” She glanced at the Palavian’s homely face, red from exertion. Calling him handsome might cause him to question her honesty. “...striking warrior.”
She babbled nonsense, maintaining a low soothing tone, trying to calm him.
Palavians were notoriously bad tempered and extremely strong. If even one of his six arms escaped the bindings, he would end her lifespan.
He wasn’t the being she was most concerned about.
“Are you still there, my mysterious observer?” Tifara turned her head and peered into the dimly lit corners of the medical bay’s operating chamber. The battle station was on constant power conservation mode. Any space that wasn’t utilized wasn’t illuminated.
She saw nothing except darkness, yet she knew some being was there, watching her.
“No, don’t rush to answer,” she joked, the being having not replied to any of her previous questions. “I know you’re lurking in the shadows.”
She’d felt the presence since she entered the small space; sexual awareness shimmering over her, tightening her nipples and wetting her pussy.
“Don’t leave this chamber until I examine you.” Tifara snapped her hand coverings, refreshing the thin material. “Whatever you have could be contagious.” She paused, considering other less interesting causes. “Or you could simply be exuding pheromones at an exceedingly high rate. That’s another possibility.”
If his form had enough energy to do that, he couldn’t be as injured as the Palavian was. His examination would have to wait.
“If you’re feeling poorly, sit down.” She waved her right hand at the single ass support in the corner. “I’ll get to you when I’m done with this patient.”
The mysterious male didn’t move.
“Or don’t sit down.” Tifara shrugged. “It’s your decision.” She gripped a suture gun. Her hands shook with need.
It had to be pheromones. What virus made its victims aroused?
An exciting new virus she had trained her entire lifespan to combat.
Age and experience told Tifara that was unlikely. That hadn’t always been her conclusio
n. When she graduated from the Academy, she’d seen every symptom as a sign of an outbreak, only to be proven wrong again and again.
Her watcher wasn’t contagious. The Palavian twisting on the horizontal support was her higher priority.
She grabbed the torn edges of skin, pulled them close, and pressed the trigger.
Her patient howled and lunged forward. His straps snapped.
“Oh, no.” Tifara stepped backward, trying to get out of range of his arms.
She wasn’t fast enough. His fingers wrapped around her neck. He lifted her off the floor, pressing her shoulders against the wall.
She dropped the suture gun and pulled at his hands, unable to breathe. He yelled at her, his words undecipherable, his face close to hers. Spittle splattered against her cheeks.
Tifara reached for his wound, his weakness. He grabbed her wrists, her bones bending under his palms. She kicked. He absorbed the strikes, not releasing her.
Her lungs ached. Blackness closed around her vision. Tifara pushed back her fear. She wouldn’t die. She hadn’t survived the virus on her home planet to lose her life now.
Her destiny was different, greater. She—
There was a tug on her throat and wrists. The pressure vanished, the Palavian sucked into the shadows. She dropped to the floor, crumpling into a heap, gasping, drawing much-needed oxygen into her body.
Fabric rustled. A throat gurgled. There were six juicy pops. Then a scary silence followed, her breathing the only sound in the chamber.
She rubbed her neck, her arms and legs trembling. “Did you restrain him?” she rasped, each word an agony to form.
“He’s dead.” A deep voice rumbled, rolling over her skin like a caress.
“He can’t be dead.” She pushed her body upward. “That wound shouldn’t have been fatal.” Her legs folded under her. She fell with an oomph, her ass smacking against the floor tiles. “Bring him to me.”
The Palavian was a big male. The newcomer tossed the body at her as though he weighed nothing. Her patient’s throat had been slit from ear to ear, severed to the bone. Blood coated his neck and shoulders.
That wasn’t the only injury inflicted upon him.
“Where are his arms?” All six of them appeared to have been torn from their sockets.