Havik

Thalia:

Three Years Ago…

Lie down with dogs, you get fleas.

Never wound a snake, kill it.

Believe people when they show you who they are.

Thalia’s mother had a hundred old sayings for any situation, mostly for when the dumb things that Thalia did came back to bite her in the ass. Not that her mom did anything to stop said dumb things, but she sure did love cackling with glee about being right.

Yeah, Mom had been a real charmer. All that woman had ever done after dropping Thalia into the world was give less than a rat’s ass about her child’s wellbeing. There had been booze to drink, and men to fuck for rent money. Finding enough food to stay alive and enough clothing to not be naked had been Thalia’s responsibilities when she understood that none of the adults in her life would do anything.

Footsteps approached down the hall. Thalia held her breath. How much did it suck that she wanted her useless, drunk mom right now? Life hadn’t been great, but she felt that when it mattered, she could trust her mother. She raised Thalia with all the social niceties of a free-range gremlin, but she never actually tried to sell Thalia. That might have changed when Thalia got older, but aliens invaded and blew up the city and millions of people died in the attacks or from disease, and her mom had been one of them.

Thalia scraped by in the ruins of what had been a major East Coast city. People still lived there, but municipal services and the population had been scaled way back. Ports, roads, and railways still existed, which kept the battered city clinging to relevance. Half of the buildings weren’t fit for human habitation, but that didn’t stop anyone. Free rent was free rent. Water and power were nice to have, but not everyone could afford those luxuries.

The footsteps stopped outside her door. Thalia looked around the room for anything that could be used as a weapon, not that Nicky let her have anything that could be considered a weapon. No convenient vases or heavy bookends in her room, as if they would do her any good against a gun.

She grabbed her medical bag, dumped it out on the bed, and grabbed the pair of surgical scissors. Still not much use against a gun but it was sharp and very stabby. And if the goon lurking outside her bedroom door wasn’t there to put a bullet in her brain, they probably needed to be stitched up, so the upended medical kit gave the impression of preparing supplies and not plotting to stab a bitch in the eye.

If you play with fire, you’re going to get burned.

In the chaos of the Invasion, it had been easy for kids to disappear and fall through the cracks. No one came looking for Thalia, so she had to fend for herself, which wasn’t too different from her life before the Invasion, only now she did it with a group of likewise homeless kids. They begged and stole and damn near starved to death until Nicky took them in. He taught them the art of pickpocketing and general thieving. Being underfed and looking young for her age totally worked out in her favor. Scrawny, malnourished kids were bendy and slim enough to wiggle their way into most places.

The whole situation was downright Dickensian—yes, she knew stuff. Just because she never went to school regularly didn’t mean she failed to pay attention on the days she went—but you have to do what you have to do to survive. Nicky took care of his kids—food, a clean place to sleep, and, fuck, even a tutor now and then— if you pulled your weight and did the work.

Still, some had it worse.

Her mother never uttered those words, but had she survived the aliens, she would have embraced that bit of philosophical stoicism with zest. Orphaned and living on the streets? Some lost their legs, not just their parents. Some people needed more than a prosthetic leg; they had burns on the inside of their lungs. Breathing with an oxygen tank? Some weren’t breathing at all.

It was a crappy game of comparing hurts, but it was true. Life had been hard for Thalia, but she was able-bodied and clever enough to be useful, which let her survive. She kept her head down and did as Nicky said.

Some didn’t have food or a warm place to sleep. Some people didn’t have the little collection of books she scavenged from abandoned houses. Some people weren’t able to go to school at all, and she should be grateful for the days she could attend. Some people didn’t have a guardian—if you could call Nicky a guardian—even if he ranted about the government spying on them and poisoning the water.

Some people had no one.

Then one day, her skinny little kid body vanished, and she looked more adult, even though she so was not an adult, and Nicky thought of other ways she could be useful for the organization.

Thalia attached herself to Old Doc Mitchell, acting as the pair of steady hands and sharp eyes he needed, seeing as how he ruined his own with booze and out-of-control diabetes. Doc lost his medical license long ago, but he was a real doctor. No one cared about qualifications and credentials when he patched them up.

Trauma affected people differently. Basic, right? Some people were resilient, and they bounced back, stronger than ever. Other people had to learn to cope with stress, anxiety, and all those lovely acronyms that fancy doctors flung at you pre-Invasion. Probably still did, but it was a fact that everyone on the damn planet had some sort of trauma. That’s what happened when aliens invaded and blew shit up and millions of people died.

She was traumatized. Nicky was traumatized. Poor Doc was hella traumatized.

Some people coped by staying busy. Others meditated or some shit. Some developed a fanatic devotion to the aliens who allied with Earth, the Mahdfel. And plenty of people medicated themselves with the chemical of their choice. Thalia read old books and watched too many movies. Doc reached for alcohol.

Reeking of beer and sweat, busted capillaries turned his nose red, and his hands shook until he got his morning top-off. He never talked about what happened during the Invasion or who he lost, but that was fine. Thalia didn’t talk about her mom, either. He was a drunk and more likely to be passed out than awake to practice his version of frontier medicine, but he taught her everything he knew, or at least the bits of knowledge that clung to his surviving brain matter despite the years of pickling. He took care of her, in his own way.

When she turned eighteen, Doc told her to run away and volunteer to be an alien bride. She was surprised as hell, needless to say. In moments between maudlin and passing-out drunk, he spoke about the aliens, and not too kindly. Not the invaders, the other ones, the Mahdfel. He never said they ate babies or whatnot, but he hardly sounded like a fan.

Thalia didn’t run away—obviously—despite Doc looking disappointed when she turned up morning after morning, still firmly under Nicky’s thumb. He had been the closest thing Thalia had to a father figure and friend. She couldn’t run away from that.

Which was so fucking sad it wasn’t even worth mentioning.

So that’s how she got by. She learned to dig out bullets, stitch up knife wounds, and watch for infection. She knew her antibiotics from the pain pills and even which pills helped with common chronic ailments like high blood pressure. What she didn’t know she looked up in Doc’s old medical books, but that didn’t come up often. The people who ran with Nicky were more likely to waltz in with a stab wound than develop diabetes or hypertension.

A fist pounded on the door. “Tallie, get dressed. The boss wants you.”

Okay, then.

“It’s the middle of the night!” she shouted through the door, adding a dramatic yawn.

“No rest for the wicked,” the man said. Everyone had to have a maxim. Fuckers.

“Speak for yourself,” she grumbled. Already dressed, she cleaned the lenses of her eyeglasses and took her time getting her kit together. Nicky’s goons didn’t need to know that she heard them coming and had been prepared to fight. It was safer to let them think she had been fast asleep.

Nicky’s paranoia had been growing in recent months, not that she could blame him. His line of work wasn’t the safest of professions, so it was smart to be wary. Maybe if Doc had died from liver failure the way he anticipated instead of being gunned down in a hit, Nicky might have had a bit more chill nowadays.

Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you. Another one of her mother’s sayings.

Turf wars sucked, and not just from the constant vigilance required to keep from being stabbed in the back. The stress wore a person down. It wore Thalia down. Between being dragged out of bed at all hours to stitch together Nicky’s minions and listening to Nicky rant about aliens tracking people through implants, she needed a break. Or at least a few hours of decent sleep.

Thalia ran a brush through her hair for decency’s sake and pulled it back in a ponytail. Whatever Nicky needed, she figured it’d be gross and require her to keep her hair out of her face. She tugged on the ends, disappointed to see the green color already faded. Her normally dishwater blonde held color fairly well, but she tried a new brand the last time she colored her hair.

The pounding on the door resumed. “Get your ass out of bed, Tallie. They’re almost here. Nathan needs you.”

Ugh. That guy.

She swept the scattered supplies back into the bag and flung open the door. “I’m here. You can stop shouting.”

“Downstairs. Now,” the man said, his face pulled into a scowl. If she didn’t know him to be a heartless bastard, she’d say he looked worried.

In the kitchen, Thalia wiped down the counter to lay out her supplies and scrubbed her hands. The backdoor banged open as two men carried in a third. Nathan clutched his gut, blood staining his shirt.

Not good. He had no color and barely looked conscious.

“What happened?” she asked.

“He got shot,” the man with the buzz cut said, ever so helpfully.

“He needs to go to the hospital,” Thalia said. Gut wounds were more than just tricky, they were a fucking disaster. Too much could go wrong and too many vital organs to hit. Doc had been an actual doctor, albeit unlicensed. Thalia was, at best, an orderly and sometimes paramedic. “Seriously, a hospital.”

The men ignored her and hauled Nathan onto the table. He moaned in pain, the poor bastard.

“Hey! You, buzz cut, don’t put him on the table. I have to clean that,” she said as the men hoisted Nathan onto the kitchen table. Shit. Fine. Whatever. Nathan would be lucky if he survived long enough to worry about infection. “Remove his shirt.”

“I’m not your servant, and my name is Blade,” he said.

“Of course, it is,” she muttered, snapping on latex gloves. “How exceedingly original.”

“You think you’re hot shit, but you ain’t nothing Nicky can’t replace,” Blade said, stepping toward her.

“We’re all replaceable. You gonna hold Nathan down or am I going to tell Nicky that his best friend died because his minion had to front?” Thalia asked, suddenly tired. She took her scissors to the ruin of Nathan’s blood-soaked T-shirt. Gut wounds were the trickiest. Gunshot wound, dead center of the abdomen. Sloppy. Hits were normally a single shot to the head. Boom. No chance of survival. If Nathan had been the target, someone wanted him to suffer. “Roll him to one side. I need to check the exit wound.”

Nathan’s bulk moved enough to expose his smooth, unblemished back; sans exit wound.

Fuck.

The bullet was still in Nathan, which meant dying horribly on the kitchen table, and Nicky would blame her.

Thalia pressed the wadded-up ruins of the shirt against the wound, helpless to do anything else. Short of surgery, she could only alleviate the pain. She could pour whiskey down his throat and try to get him to swallow enough pain pills to make his last moments bearable.

“Get me some towels,” she ordered. “And a bottle of whiskey.”

“Drinking on the job? Must have learned that trick from Doc,” Blade said. He jerked his head to the door, and the other man went to fetch the towels.

“It ain’t for me,” she said. Not that she had to explain herself to anyone but Nicky.

The back door banged open, bringing in a draft of cold air.

Speak of the devil.

“He needs a hospital,” Thalia said, moving Nathan to rest on his back again.

“Not an option,” Nicky said, elbowing past her. He leaned over his wounded friend, his black wool coat falling open and the ends of his scarf brushing against the bleeding wound.

Thalia bit her lip to hold in her snarky comments about no one caring to keep the wound clean. “The bullet is still in there.”

“Then get it out.”

“With what? My fingers?” Thalia held up one bloody gloved hand. “He needs to go to the hospital.”

Towels arrived and she pressed one to the wound, leaning forward with all her weight.

Nicky frowned, his demeanor shifting from concerned to cold. “Mitchell would patch him up, no questions asked.”

Thalia shivered, afraid to anger Nicky. Somehow, she found her voice. “Doc went to medical school, but he wouldn’t be able to do much with the bullet somewhere in that mess. I’m not qualified here at all.”

“Didn’t I send you to him to learn? Are you telling me that I should have sent your stuck-up ass to walk the streets?”

Thalia shook her head. Blade snickered, no doubt loving Nicky putting her in her place. He just needed a bucket of popcorn to go with the look of utter glee on his big, dumb face. “He’s lost a lot of blood too. He needs a transfusion.”

“Do it. I’ll have one of the boys donate.”

“I need equipment, an IV, a PICC, and I don’t even know Nathan’s blood type. The wrong one will kill him. Please, Nicky, he has to go to the hospital.”

“If I get you the equipment?” He had out his phone, already typing orders. Brand new medical equipment would arrive in minutes if she asked for it.

“I don’t know how to use it. Doc never did anything like that. I’d have to read up and Nathan doesn’t have that kind of time.”

Nicky fixed her with his cold blue gaze. His eyes were empty. Soulless. She swallowed but did not flinch or look away. Tougher guys than her had caved to that heartless stare. “Tallie, Tallie, Tallie,” he said, drawing out her name. She hated that nickname. “Doc’s only been in the ground for three weeks and you’ve done nothing but tell me no.”

Her eyes fell to the floor, all submission, and she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“You tell me ‘I don’t know how to do this’ and ‘I don’t have the tools,’” he said, pitching his voice in a mockingly high tone. Blade and the other meathead snickered. “Did you learn anything from Mitchell, or did he just keep you around to suck his cock?”

She flinched. It hadn’t been like that with Doc. At all. Doc had been, if not a good man, a decent man. Decent in his own way, at least.

Thalia lifted her eyes. Doc taught her a lot, but he also taught her to know her limitations. “If I dig around in Nathan for that bullet, I’d be going in blind. He will die. If I pack the wound with the stuff the military uses to stop the bleeding so we can take him to the hospital, he could live.”

Nathan circled the table, his hands making a mess of his hair. Calmly, too calmly, he took off his well-tailored suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The leather of the shoulder holster contrasted sharply with the brilliant white of the shirt. There was no missing the matte black metal or the glowing green lights of the illegal blaster in the holster. “I want to believe you, Tallie, but if I take my friend to the hospital, they’ll put a chip in his head. The government will be able to track him. That’s how they found Doc, because of the damn translation chip the aliens put in his head.”

All the stuff she had heard before. During the Invasion, when Thalia had been scrounging for food, Doc had still been a licensed, respectable member of the medical community. He worked in a refugee camp and had been fitted up with a translation chip that allowed him to talk to the alien allies. Mahdfel. Whatever.

Nicky couldn’t seem to let the idea of an implanted chip go. She got it. Really. Having a piece of hardware shoved into your brain that altered the way you processed language seemed bizarre. Unhealthy.

Keeping pressure on the wound, she glanced at her bag. The expanding foam compound was in the front pocket. If she used it without permission, Nicky might take Nathan to the hospital.

Or he might punish her for defying him. She never knew if she would get Reasonable Nicky or Punisher Nicky.

That wasn’t completely true. Punisher Nicky had taken up permanent residence since Doc’s murder. He struggled to maintain his control over his business, but younger, hungrier rivals kept coming.

“A man should have privacy in his own home. In his mind.” Nicky’s delivery grew more hurried and more erratic. Blade and meathead shared a look.

“Tell me what you want to do,” Thalia said.

His head whipped around, his body tight with tension and all his attention focused on her.

Nicky stalked toward her and gripped her head, forcing her to look him in his icy, empty eyes. His fingers dug into her scalp to the point of pain. “Are you certain he won’t make it? Are you telling me that Nathan is as good as dead? Right now. Dead. Even though he’s still breathing?”

“Yes. If the bullet hit an organ, he needs surgery. Even if I dig it out, he needs blood to recover, and nothing in here is sterile. He’ll get an infection and go septic.” It was a terrible way to die, your body burning alive from fever. She had seen it once before, with a low-level flunky who waited too long to be stitched up by Doc. He didn’t respond to the antibiotics they had on hand. The really strong stuff was harder to get than gold.

Nicky’s gaze bore into hers, determining the veracity of her statement. This close, the stink of his cologne and stale cigarette smoke burned her sinuses. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Her shoulders slumped in relief.

“Okay.” Nicky turned to Nathan’s prone form on the kitchen table and leaned down, whispering in his friend’s ear. “I won’t let them have you. I won’t let them.”

He kissed Nathan’s forehead and drew himself up to his full height, pulling Nathan into a sitting position. With an arm wrapped around the unconscious man’s shoulders, the harsh overhead light was unforgiving on his lean frame, highlighting every brutal angle. Pulling out the blaster from his shoulder holster, the weapon hummed, and he shot Nathan once in the center of his forehead.

The back of his head exploded like a melon, spraying the wall and everyone in the vicinity.

Thalia screamed and jumped back; her bloody gloved hands clamped over her mouth. She bumped into the counter, the hard edge jabbing into her hip. The spray coated her eyeglasses. Everywhere she looked was an abattoir.

She could taste it, all salty and metallic. She could taste Nathan in her mouth.

Nicky holstered the blaster and calmly reached around Thalia to rinse his hands in the sink. Blood spattered his expensive white dress shirt and clung to his face. A car pulled into the driveway, the lights moving across the walls. He grabbed a towel for his hands and then used it on his face. The towel merely smeared the blood across his skin instead of removing it.

He grinned at her, the blood of his friend on his lips and in his mouth. “Now, I’ve got more men coming in with various workplace injuries. Are you going to be able to help them or should I save us all the trouble and put a bullet in their brains when they walk through that door?”

“No. No. I can do it,” she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper.

He smiled, all teeth and empty, cold eyes, and raised a hand as if to pat her on the side of her face. He hesitated. “Get cleaned up. We’re professionals.” He turned to others, “Take Nathan to the funeral home. Get him something nice. Lilies and roses, all that shit. You know how he was.”

The men shuffled their feet, unsure.

“Now!” Nicky barked and they sprang into action.

Thalia tore the gloves off her shaking hands and tried to scrub herself clean, to no avail.

Havik:

The elders say the sun could burn away most anything, and if the sun can’t scour it away, then the sand could.

Havik walked the sands for three months. He headed north because he had never seen the ocean. The idea of so much water seemed unfathomable. As a youth, he had wanted to see the sunlight glitter on the ocean’s surface like shattered glass and have the waves crash at his feet. Fathers often took their sons on the journey when they reached a certain age, venturing out into the sands for weeks.

Havik had dreamed of the journey, of sweating during the day as he and his father walked the endless miles, of the cold nights spent camping under the stars, just him and his father. No one to compete with for the warlord’s attention.

The journey never happened. Years passed. He told himself it was not that important if he missed a rite of passage with his father. Not everyone could survive the weeks in the extreme heat of the day and the freezing temperatures of the night with little water and only the food they could hunt. Many failed. Even more never made the attempt. His father’s lack of interest held no deeper meaning.

Havik had looked forward to standing on the ocean’s rough shore with his son.

It was not to be.

When Vanessa arrived, Havik had been overjoyed. He ignored the whispered concern from his father that the soft Terran female could not thrive on Rolusdreus or that he was barely old enough to avoid tripping over his tail. True, he was young, and the wind and sand would strip her delicate skin to the bone, but that did not matter. She could not tolerate the radiation levels and had to be kept indoors, shielded constantly.

Havik did not care. She was for him and him alone. Her differences, her softness, made her beautiful. Sequestered away to the shadows, the rest of the clan never set eyes on his uncommon mate. He already had to share his father with the clan, as Kaos was the warlord. Surely the universe would be kind enough to allow Havik this selfishness.

The universe was not kind. He had only to look out to the wastelands that stretch from east to west to know that little survived on Rolusdreus, especially kindness.

Ultimately, his father had been correct.

“You lost your mate and son,” Kaos said in that flat, brisk tone Havik heard so often before. His father offered to arrange the funeral fires for Vanessa and their unnamed, unborn child so Havik could walk the sands. The unusually generous offer surprised him. Finally, Kaos saw Havik. He saw that his son needed him, despite being a mature male. This tiny scrap of acknowledgment bolstered Havik, and he hoarded it close to his heart.

Havik walked to stay ahead of his grief. If he kept moving, he could outpace his traitorous thoughts that whispered he had not paid enough attention to his mate. He failed to notice how she struggled or how exhaustion took her after the simplest of tasks. In his selfishness for a son, he overlooked his mate, and now he had neither.

The flowing fabric of his hooded wrap and trousers kept his temperature regulated during the heat of the day and kept him warm in the freezing nights. He dug roots for water. He hunted the small creatures that burrow under the sand. The mechanics of keeping his body alive kept him too occupied to worry about the sharp pang of grief.

Eventually, he arrived at the north shore.

The light broke across the water like shards of glass.

His feet sank into the damp sand.

The cool water smelled of brine. Unusual creatures lived in the waters and the tide pools. The air was cooler than he liked, but he constructed a fire from driftwood to stave off the cold.

Days blended together. When he felt more like himself and less like a male hollowed out by disappointed fancies, he returned to the clan.

* * *

“A monster stalks the sands.” When Havik arrived at the village clustered around a desert oasis, the elders greeted him with their problem. He came to replenish his water but welcomed the opportunity to hunt.

Laying on his belly atop a sand dune, he lowered the binoculars. The creature was not a monster. Kumakre were normally docile, if territorial. They burrowed under the sands, as did many creatures on the planet, and hunted via vibrations. A young warrior is told to walk softly across the sands and to speak only with solid ground under their feet.

A kumakre only attacked a settlement for two reasons: a fungal infection that inflamed the brain or poachers. The infection made the creatures abnormally aggressive. They attacked everything from the smallest sand vermin to entire settlements and had to be put down to end the violence. Poachers, however, disturbed their nests. Unable to distinguish between one villain and an innocent, the kumakre killed indiscriminately until it felt the threat had been eradicated.

If Havik could not find the powdery white fungus in the crevices between the carapace, then the village harbored a poacher. Ancient tradition claimed the kumakre’s shell, when ground into a powder, could extend a person’s life. Such claims were false, but that did not stop the desperate and fearful.

Sleek dark red, nearly sanguine under the moonlight, the kumakre approached the oasis. It was a gorgeous creature, lethal with two front pincers, six legs, and a barbed tail that curled upward to strike.

Havik hated to end the kumakre’s life, but it had attacked vehicles traveling the main road to the village. Soon it would attack the village itself. Beings would be injured, possibly killed. Havik had spent his entire life training to protect the people of his home world, from Suhlik or any other threat. He would not let the village suffer.

He crouched down, his right hand holding a blade. Energy coursed along the cutting edge, glowing a faint blue. The blade itself, honed to a wicked sharpness, was not strong enough to pierce the carapace. The added boost of electrical charge would be enough if Havik aimed true. A badly placed blow would bounce off the kumakre’s shell and he’d be exposed to the barbed tail. The venom in the barb was potent enough to slow a Mahdfel’s heart, making him sluggish and vulnerable to attack by the pinchers.

A prepared warrior would wear a complete set of armor, but armor was heavy to carry and too hot to wear under the Rolusdreus sun. Havik had a reinforced jacket, hardly adequate coverage.

Best to avoid being jabbed.

Injuries only enraged the creature. Hormones flooded its body, giving it a boost in strength. An injured kumakre was a formidable opponent. The fastest way to end the battle was to pierce the creature’s brain.

The kumakre raised its head, mandibles flexing as it tasted the air.

“Turn back. Do not make me end you,” he whispered.

It moved toward the village.

Now.

Havik sprang into action, running along the crest of the dune. Sand gave way under his feet, but he had months of practice walking on the sand. He adjusted his posture with each step, moving swiftly and making no more noise than a whisper.

He leaped down, landing in a crouch, and barely pausing before running straight at the kumakre. At the last moment, he veered left, dodging the tail strike, and slashing with his blade.

Aiming for the joint in a leg, the blade sliced through the weak spot. The kumakre shrieked as the limb fell away.

Havik spun, dust floating in the air. Reduced to five legs, the creature still moved swiftly. The tail lashed out. He rolled away but did not escape unscathed. The barb pricked his right leg, near his ankle.

Rising to his feet, his right foot already felt sluggish and numb. He had little time.

Havik leaped onto the beast’s back. It bucked and thrashed, trying to dislodge him, but his legs wrapped around its torso tightly. The tail struck him again and again in his shoulders and back, each blow hitting his armor jacket.

The kumakre had a vulnerable point in the back of its head where two carapace plates joined. He noticed the deep black color of the joint with disappointment. No powdery white fungus.

Energy hummed along the edge of the blade, crackling blue, as he pushed it in. Meeting resistance, he threw his entire weight against the blade, driving it deeper.

The dying shrieks of the kumakre filled the desert air. The tail whipped about dangerously, hitting the back of his neck and his jaw.

Havik held tight, refusing to loosen his grip until the creature stilled. He slid off it, landing ungracefully on his back. The venom made him lethargic. He needed to reach shelter to protect him from the cold night air before his body shut down.

Stumbling to his feet, he retrieved his abandoned pack and returned to the creature to remove his blade. His hand fumbled around the handle, but it would not move. Frowning, he realized he had run out of time.

Once more, he tried for the blade, this time wiggling it out. Blood and fluid oozed out of the wound.

Grasping the tail, still warm to the touch, he said, “You were a worthy foe. I will wear your barb with pride.” Concentrating, he removed the barb and placed it in his pack. Warriors who defeated a kumakre alone often wore the barbs around their necks. He would do the same—if he survived the night.

Havik dumped half his pack onto the ground. He curled up next to the hulking body of the kumakre, letting it block the wind. His heart thudded slowly. The natural effects of the cold on his person combined with the venom threatened to drag him down into unconsciousness. Wrapped into a foil sheet designed to trap body heat, he would stay awake and endure the night.

* * *

The poacher had been apprehended in short order. In an outbuilding, Havik searched through documents and equipment for any other collaborators. He found evidence that the poacher worked for a wealthy individual in another settlement. They were also arrested.

Then, buried under heavy tarps and broken equipment, he found a trunk with a heavy, top-quality lock. Curious. The trunk was rickety and nearly falling apart. Why give it such an expensive lock?

Using the handle of his blade, he broke the rusted hinges and removed the top. Inside, three pink shelled eggs nestled in rough cloth.

Kumakre eggs.

* * *

Another three months. Wind and sand scour away the top layers of his epidermis. The sand worked its way into every joint in his tail. He tasted sand, constantly. He dreamed of sand.

Fucking sand.

Only one of the kumakre eggs had been viable. Using his pack as a harness, he kept the egg warm with his body heat. One day, it jostled and cracked, and an infant kumakre emerged.

With pieces of damp shell clinging to its bright red back, Havik offered it water and dried insect mill as a first feeding.

Havik wanted to leave it in the sands but it followed him, chirping, and tumbling on unsteady legs. It was too small to survive on its own. Reluctantly, he carried the tiny creature, telling himself that it was only until it was big enough to hunt for itself. He could barely care for himself, much less a companion.

Weary down to his bones, he approached the domed city. Perched on his shoulder, the kumakre rattled its segmented tail. Sand rippled across the pavement in the wind. The setting sun turned the sky red and the spire of the city appeared gray. Small points of light flared into existence.

Home.

He could already feel the pulse of the sonic shower surrounding him as it dissolved dirt and grime and tasted his mother’s sweet rolls. With each step, he created a menu, a feast of fruit soaked in rich syrups and covered in chopped nuts, bread still warm from the oven, slathered with a thick layer of butter, water so cold it made his teeth ache, and anything that did not involve him picking sand out of his teeth.

As much as he longed for the comforts of the city, Havik settled on a cluster of rocks near the road. He unscrewed the cap to the water container and filled it for the kumakre. While it drank its fill, he sipped. Thirst quenched, the kumakre returned to its perch on his shoulders. Watching the sky change from a placid blue to a vivid orange streaked with pink and gold, he fed the creature tiny pieces of dried meat and fruit. His companion hummed and chirped, blending with the wind.

The air grew cold as the sun vanished below the horizon and the lights of the city sparkled in the darkness. A dome contained the city, protecting the inhabitants from the elements and the worst of the radiation that still lingered in the sands. As a Mahdfel, his ancestors had once been genetically engineered to be the perfect soldiers and slaves. Since rebelling and winning their freedom, they were further altered to better fit the harsh environment of Rolusdreus.

The most recent addition to a long line of highly specialized warriors, Havik required less water and sustenance in the extreme heat. He was resistant to the high levels of radiation and lingering toxicity in the sands.

This was his home. He was made for it.

In the distance, a vehicle approached, kicking up a plume of dust. Havik felt no need to move from his current position on the rocky outcropping. Eventually, the vehicle stopped, and his father emerged.

Large and with a complexion as red as the dirt, Havik knew he appeared as a younger version of his father. Occasionally, a warrior looking to ingratiate himself with the warlord would comment on the strong resemblance. More fools them. If Kaos ever looked at his son with fondness or affection, Havik never noticed.

Kaos carried a silver canister.

“Is that…?” Havik took the canister with both hands, surprised at the lightness. The vessel containing the remains of his mate and son should be heavier.

Kaos lowered himself to the rock next to Havik. Their legs nearly touched. “You need to report to Observation Station Prime in two days.”

“Yes, wonderful to see you again, Father. My journey was long, but I found some measure of peace,” Havik said.

“Do not mock,” Kaos warned.

“I would not dare.” Perhaps he dared a little. With only his thoughts, the stars, and the wind for company, he forgot how to speak to his warlord. “Forgive me,” he added.

Kaos huffed, apparently mollified. “You are not ready to return, I see. Take the vehicle. Leave immediately.”

With the vehicle, it would be a hard two days’ journey to the mountains to reach the observation station by the deadline. “I can take a shuttle and be there in hours,” Havik said.

“The winds are too fierce. Take the vehicle.”

Havik bit back the retort that he was a skilled enough pilot to safely land a craft, but the winds at the observation station were notorious. "And what will I be doing at Observation Station Prime?”

“The communications array is out of alignment. When that is complete, I will have another task for you.”

Kaos offered a mission devoid of meaning but Havik accepted. Perhaps it was too soon for him to return to the clan.

“I will need supplies,” he said.

“The vehicle is stocked. You can resupply when you arrive at the station.”

Havik rose to his feet. Kaos did the same. Without thinking, Havik’s arms spread wide, as if inviting an embrace.

Kaos stood still, watching him with a scowl.

Havik retrieved his bag from the dusty ground, turning his face away to hide his momentary discomfort at the situation.

Nothing had changed. He did not know why he thought otherwise.

Thalia:

Thalia worked until the morning sun came through the kitchen windows. Fortunately, the worst injuries were a gunshot wound that grazed an arm and a dislocated shoulder. She had a half-dozen lacerations to clean and stitch, one broken nose, two busted lips, and a set of bruised ribs. She had treated worse but never in such volume. The heat was on Nicky’s entire organization, and everyone felt the burn.

She threw her bloody clothes in the garbage, rinsed off in a shower, and collapsed in her bed. When she woke after sunset, she found her door locked. She hadn’t been concerned about Nicky’s anger when she fell asleep, but she should have been. She wasn’t useful to him anymore.

Shit.

The acid in her stomach churned. Rummaging through her nightstand for the bottle of antacids, she swallowed the pill dry.

Not even Doc could have saved Nathan, but Nicky didn’t see it that way. All he saw was Thalia failing to do her only job.

Thalia had worked for Nicky in some capacity since she was thirteen and crawling through windows for basic burglary. She knew how he operated. People had jobs. If they didn’t do their job, they were relocated. Usually that meant they were moved into sex work because while some sex workers were amazingly skilled, Nicky didn’t service the type of clients who appreciated anything more than a warm hole to fuck.

He didn’t kill people that often, unless they fucked up majorly, so that was some cold comfort. If he wanted her dead, he would have fired her in the permanent sense last night after she patched up the last minion. She got to shower, she got to sleep, and she got to wake up, so that must mean he meant to keep her alive. Hooray.

Her stomach gurgled. It’d be great if she got to eat that day, but she wasn’t going to push her luck.

Best-case scenario, Nicky was pissed and would keep her locked up for a few days to teach her a lesson.

Thalia filled a cup at the sink in the bathroom and drank. Despite brushing her teeth twice, she could still taste blood. The taste isn’t real, she tried to tell herself. It was just her mind stuck in a stress-induced feedback loop, playing the same sensory information again and again.

Nicky had to put down his best friend last night. It was a mercy killing but Thalia had shown that her apprenticeship with Doc wasn’t good enough. She remained just an assistant. Nicky needed a real doctor, an unavoidable necessity as the violence of the turf war escalated.

The best-case scenario was not happening.

Okay. What’s the second-best scenario? Nicky finds a new doctor and keeps Thalia on as an assistant. Not having to waste time retraining a new pair of helping hands. Nothing changes. Life goes back to normal.

Except the smile Nicky gave her… his teeth stained pink and his eyes cold enough to freeze the blood in her veins. He wasn’t in a forgiving mood. Nothing was going back to normal.

Time to brainstorm worst-case scenarios.

Nicky would move her into sex work and call it poetic justice, as Nathan handled that side of the operation. Best worst-case would have her being sent to one of the brothels or clubs. The best brothels registered their members and screen for violent behavior and disease. They had security and kept the facilities top-notch. They sold an experience and treated the workers well. That was the case with the more exclusive houses. If she was willing to get into kink, that would slot her into an even more exclusive niche, but what she knew about kink came directly from her romance books. Brothels ranged in quality but even the shadiest brothel was better than walking the street.

Which brought her to the worst worst-case scenario: street walking. Out in all weather, fucking in cars or an alley. Sex work was dangerous, and she’d be exposed to the very worst in people with no way to protect herself. Forget about insisting her clients wear a condom. It was a hard life, and Thalia didn’t think she’d last long.

Both scenarios sucked. Nicky was mean and vindictive. Whatever punishment he chose, he would aim for maximum suffering. Her best option was to run away.

Damn Doc for being right about needing to run away. Damn him for leaving her.

Thalia glanced at the window, then inspected the room. Getting out wasn’t an issue. She’d snuck out plenty of times before. Cash was her biggest concern. Other than her electronic reader, she didn’t have much; certainly nothing to pawn.

At least that Nicky knew about.

Thalia kneeled at the opened closet, pulled back the corner of the carpeting, and lifted a loose floorboard. Carefully, she took out the pill bottles. Before stuffing them in a backpack, she wrapped them individually in clothing to muffle any pills rattling about. Doc failed to keep a close eye on the medicine stock, and Thalia had grabbed whatever purloined loot she could. Everything had a street value, especially pain meds. If she wasn’t picky about the buyer—and to be honest, she wasn’t picky at all—she could get enough to catch a bus out of town.

Her identity chip was the bracelet kind issued to kids. When she turned eighteen, she should have applied for an implanted chip, like every adult on the planet, but that never happened. She’d need a new one eventually, which meant more money.

She never finished school but got her graduation equivalency. That wasn’t so unusual. Lots of people never finished school, some because the school physically wasn’t there anymore and others because they had been displaced. Turning up in a new town with no identity and minimum education wasn’t the best way to start fresh, but it was better than whatever Nicky had planned.

Thalia stuffed the backpack with anything that could be sold: a few pieces of jewelry, her digital reader, a sluggish tablet computer, and even the pair of designer heels that Nicky bought her a few years ago. He went through a stage where he tried dressing her like a doll and it was creepy as fuck. Thank God he got distracted by something else.

Pulling up the hood of her sweatshirt, Thalia climbed out the window and into the night.

Havik:

Havik reclined back onto his elbows. Through the dome glass, the stars shimmered with distortion. Years of abrasions from sandstorms created imperfections in the material, giving the night sky a soft, muted appearance. The first time he had seen the true night sky as a youth, without the filter of the city’s dome, he had been stricken speechless. Ren had teased him mercilessly, but that was his duty as a friend, to keep the ego of the warlord’s son in check.

Water gurgled and splashed in a nearby fountain, sprinkling the ground with moisture.

A year had passed since he lost his mate. He had walked the sands and spent many a cold and brilliant night under the unfiltered stars. He had seen the heart of the desert, where past conflict melted the sands into a sea of glass, and nothing grew. He journeyed to the mountains in the west and crossed to the narrow swath of fertile land on the far side. He had spent time in the lush green lands of the south, uneasy with the effortless and comfortable life there.

None of those places were home, but every step helped distance himself from grief.

During his travels, when he found a spot that resonated with him, he spread the ashes of his lost mate and their son. He could not share the world with them in life, so he left pieces of them behind in incredibly beautiful places. What remained of the ashes, he kept in a cylindrical tube on a cord around his neck. He did not know where their final resting place would be, but he felt confident that he would know it when he discovered it.

He took a swig from the wine bottle. The sakeder, his year of mourning, was at an end. Traditionally, one marked the occasion with a celebration. Havik thought he might organize a small gathering, as he had passed too many hours with only himself for company, but when he mentioned it to his stepmother, he received an icy frown.

Not entirely unexpected, though.

“Here you are, hiding away and having your own celebration.”

With the bottle in hand, Havik gestured for Ren to join him, sloshing wine onto his hand.

“Sloppy.” Ren plucked the bottle from Havik and sniffed, then took a long pull. “Only stealing the finest wine, I see.”

“It’s a celebration, isn’t it?”

A long moment passed. Havik returned to watching the stars. He picked out constellations with ease and remembered the stories. Why had he never shared those stories with Vanessa? Regret tinted the thought, but it did not pain him. Time created distance and with distance came peace.

Ren made sputtering noises. “You disgust me,” he said.

Havik turned to his friend, confused. “Don’t be so judgmental. Pass it back.”

Ren looked at the bottle and his mouth twisted into a frown. He threw it hard, smashing it into the ground. Glass and wine exploded on impact.

“I’ll be as judgmental as I please. This display is disgusting,” Ren said, contempt in his voice. “I defended you for an entire year. I said there were things we did not know, did not understand, and you could not judge you when you were so obviously upset. But I find you here, drinking and celebrating. It is unforgivable.”

Havik did not understand.

“I did not think you could be so selfish.” Ren stood over Havik; fists clenched.

The wine left Havik pleasantly warm, but his metabolism burned off the alcohol far too fast for him to be drunk. “If you are going to strike, do it while I am prone,” he said.

“Stand up then. I won’t let others do my dirty work for me.” Ren’s tail violently lashed side to side, the barb carelessly exposed.

Now Havik was very confused. In the last year, no one offered him help or assistance. Every mile he traveled was on foot or in a vehicle he maintained. While he accepted food and water at his stops, he received the same hospitality as any other traveler and only supplemented what he gathered or hunted. He completed the missions the warlord gave him, on his own, without assistance, even for the missions that would have been easier with two. If Ren wanted a fight, Havik would give it to him.

Havik rose to his feet and stretched lazily. Standing taller and broader than Ren, he didn’t mind rubbing sand in the male’s nose and flexed his considerable bulk. “What is it you think others have done for me?”

Havik may have prodded Ren in the chest harder than necessary, but it made his point.

“Your mate! You send her away like a spoiled child and mope in the dark, feeling sorry for yourself.” His nostrils flared and the spiraling tattoo design that started on forearms glowed faintly.

“You have no control,” Havik said, giving his friend another shove.

“And you have no honor!” Ren pushed back, grunting with satisfaction when Havik’s foot slipped on the slick gravel.

“Ren, we have known each other since we were tripping over our tails, and I love you as a brother, but I will pull the tusks from your mouth for such slander.” He should not have returned. This place was no longer his home.

Ren lunged, his arms clamping around Havik’s waist. He had enough weight and momentum to knock Havik to the ground. The males grappled, fighting for dominance. Ren struck with a flurry of quick blows. Gravel and shards of broken glass dug into his back.

Havik grabbed Ren’s tail and pulled hard, causing the male to yelp. A dirty trick, but necessary. Using the distraction, Havik rolled Ren to his back and pinned him to the ground.

The smaller male thrashed but he could not dislodge Havik.

“Son of the warlord, always getting what he wants,” Ren snarled.

“When have I ever gotten anything I wanted? When I lost my mate and son? When I scattered my family’s ashes on the wind? Do I look like a male who got what he wanted?”

Havik’s arm pressed against Ren’s throat, not enough to cut his air but enough to make him pay attention. The males stared at each other.

“You had your father send away your mate,” Ren said, his voice thin and scratchy.

Havik eased back, relieving the pressure on Ren’s throat. “She died,” he said.

Understanding drilled itself way inside as solidly at the jab Ren landed on his throat.

He scrambled away, rubbing his injured throat, and needing to distance himself from the judgmental eyes of his oldest friend. Kaos had delivered the devastating news that Havik lost both his mate and their son.

“I assure you she did not.” Ren rubbed his own throat.

* * *

“The runt told you,” Kaos said, bent over his workbench. He wore a pair of spectacles designed for minuscule work. Without raising his eyes from the antique energy blaster, his tools manipulating the delicate components.

Havik swallowed his immediate impulse to defend Ren, who was not undersized. This is how his father operated, tossing out distractions to delay the inevitable confrontation and changing the conversation. It worked on a young, hot-headed Havik, but no longer.

“Did you imagine I would not find out?” he asked.

Some internal piece of the energy blaster clicked into place. “It was an interesting experiment to see how long I could keep you distracted,” his father said.

No. Not his father. Havik learned early that Kaos was the warlord first, and his father second, if at all, and at the moment Havik did not want to claim the male as his sire.

“And what conclusion did you draw?” Havik wished he could claw back the question. He fell for Kaos’ distractions once again.

His father looked up from the blaster and removed the spectacles. “You’re angry at me now, but you knew that Terran was a bad match for the clan, so you allowed yourself to be fooled. Perhaps even welcomed it.”

Allowed.

Welcomed?

His father’s arrogance disgusted him.

“Vanessa was not—” Again, he nearly stepped into the male’s trap. “I cannot remain here,” Havik said.

“No.” Kaos slotted the casing back on the blaster. It hummed to life, soft lights flashing as it powered up. “I went through too much work orchestrating events for you to run away now. You are my only son. You will take another mate—a suitable female—and give me strong grandsons.”

“What trouble? Deceiving my mate into thinking I rejected her? Deceiving me about her death? Taking away the only thing that has ever belonged to me?” Havik’s voice rose as he spoke, until he shouted the last words.

Kaos regarded him with a cool expression. “Terrans are unsuitable as a species. Have you ever wondered why there are so few Terran mates in the clan? Did the runt tell you that?”

He had not, but Havik said nothing.

Just as well, Kaos’ question was rhetorical as he continued to speak. “The males are given the choice to reject the female or leave the clan.”

“That is no choice at all.” When Havik learned of his match, he immediately felt possessive of the female, sight unseen. He could not imagine a male willingly giving up his mate when faced with such an ultimatum. “How many good warriors have you driven away?”

“Such judgment in your tone when you’re young enough to still be tripping over your tail.” Kaos shook his head and made a sympathetic clicking noise, but Havik sensed the insincerity.

His warlord—his father—was mocking him.

Havik growled with frustration. The blaster lay on the table between them. Kaos lifted one brow, curious to see what Havik would do.

“How many?”

“Enough. One warrior is much like another,” Kaos said, giving a dismissive wave of one hand. “Those who could not be replaced were allowed to keep their inferior mates.” Kaos gave Havik an appraising look. “And you.”

Havik huffed. “Stars forbid you imply that your son is irreplaceable.”

“I did you a service. That Terran was weak. Her sons would not be strong enough to thrive.”

“My sons,” Havik said quietly.

“You will not pollute our clan with inferior genes. Bad enough that your mother was weak and died birthing you, but I shouldn’t be surprised. You were always soft and slow, like her. I did everything for you, Havik. I should have left you out in the desert when you were an infant, but instead, I found you a new mother. Silly female. I told her not to coddle you.”

Havik reached for the blaster, his fingers gripping the handle tight. With his thumb, he ratcheted up the power to the maximum setting and the weapon hummed. His stepmother was not a perfect being, but she had been kind and caring to him as a child when his father had only ever been distant.

He leveled the weapon at Kaos.

The older male’s eyes sparked with amusement. “Will you pull the trigger? I wonder. I used to think you would be the warlord after me. Now can be your moment.”

Such vile words. Kaos had only contempt and bitterness for his son. Why should Havik show the male any respect? This bitter old male stole his mate and dishonored him in the eyes of the clan. His only family—the ones who cared for him—had been the clan, and now they regarded him with disdain.

He should end Kaos now. No one would mourn the male. Everyone would thank him if they knew what he did.

Havik gnashed his teeth, growling in frustration.

The blaster jerked to one side and fired, a bolt of light scorching the air and leaving a hole in the wall just over Kaos’ shoulder. The scent of burnt ozone filled the air.

Kaos turned on his stool to admire the smoldering hole, then twisted back with a smirk on his face.

Havik powered down the blaster and stuck it in the waistband of his trousers. “I did not spare you out of affection. You have never been a father to me, and I see you now for the traitorous warlord that you are. If I ended you, the clan would not follow me. They believe I have no honor.”

Kaos titled his head to one side. He had never considered the warrior before him as a threat, that much was obvious from his disdain and cruel words, but now he perhaps saw an opponent for the first time. “You made it easy to believe.”

“You lie. You twist words. One day you will be seen for the sand viper that you are, and someone will challenge you.”

“But not you.”

The temptation to take the clan from the older male enticed him. To show Kaos that he was wrong about his son, had always been wrong not to love him, tempted him with bittersweet promises. The satisfaction of standing over his old male’s body would be fleeting, Havik knew. Revenge never satisfied for long. It was a sugary, air-spun dream and dissolved the moment of consumption.

“A warrior may gain the power of a warlord through violence, but he must be capable and cunning to hold onto that responsibility. A clan will not follow an unworthy male,” Havik said. He would remain unworthy until he found his mate and made amends.

“Find a suitable mate. Make strong sons for the clan. Surely some female will have you,” Kaos said.

“No,” Havik said. “I have always known you were never a father to me. Now it is clear that you were never my warlord, either. There is no place for me here. I will be gone by morning.”

The knowing smirk vanished from Kaos’ face, replaced by fury. “If you leave, you can never return. Never! I will strike your name from the clan’s history and forbid anyone from ever mentioning you again!” Spit flew from his mouth as he shouted.

Havik paused in the door and turned to face the older male. He wanted to warn him that one day Kaos would learn that he could not control the hearts of his clan and Havik would regret not seeing him learn that lesson, but there was little point. Kaos only ever listened to himself.

“By morning’s light,” he said.

* * *

“I cannot remain here,” Havik said, certain what steps he needed to take next for the first time in ages.

“I’m coming with you,” Ren said.

“No.”

“Afraid I’ll ruin your self-loathing?”

“This is not your battle,” Havik said.

Ren placed a hand on Havik’s shoulder and held his gaze. “You are my brother. If not by blood, then in my heart. You failed your mate, as did I.”

“You did not—”

“Listen. I failed your mate. I saw how the warlord treated her with contempt and how the clan refused to accept her, but I did nothing. I could have made myself her friend. If she knew she had an ally, she would not have so readily believed the warlord’s lies.”

Havik nodded, accepting his friend’s truth but knowing that the blame rested on his shoulders. He failed his mate. He had been selfish and did not notice her isolation or loneliness. His thoughtless actions cost him his honor.

“I will regain my honor,” he said. “I will find my mate and beg for forgiveness. Reclaim her. Bring her home.” The scope of what he needed to accomplish unfurled before him.

He had many miles to travel.

“I’m leaving the clan,” Havik repeated, so Ren understood the implications.

“Agreed. I cannot remain with the warlord. Not now.”

“That means leaving your father.”

Ren skimmed his hand along the surface of the water in the fountain. “A male must wander the sands on his own eventually. He will understand. There are other clans.”

“We have to go to Earth. I cannot guarantee that we will return to Rolusdreus.”

“I know the risks.”

His heart swelled with affection for his friend. Ren owed him nothing but offered to leave his family, the clan, everything he knew, to assist Havik in correcting this injustice. “Thank you,” he said. “You’d give a thirsty male your last drop of water.”

Ren flicked water from the fountain at him. “Yes, I am remarkable. All the warriors envy me. We need a plan.”

“Leave at dawn. Steal a ship. Head to Earth.” Simple. Plan finalized.

“That is a terrible plan.”

“The lies my father spun, the way the clan looks at me since my return—I cannot stay.” Havik rubbed the back of his neck. He itched to leave immediately, but he could not walk to Earth. Their journey required resources and time to prepare, neither of which he had in abundance. “I do not want to use the warlord’s resources, but we need a ship.”

“I have an idea.”

* * *

“What do you think?” Ren planted his hands on his hips and stood with pride in front of the dilapidated ship.

The vessel, an Envoy model from a defunct manufacturer, had been popular a century ago. Small enough to enter the atmosphere and land almost anywhere, it was able to traverse long distances with minimal refueling. Able to be operated with a two-person crew, it could accommodate up to six passengers.

“It’s more rust than ship,” Havik said.

“It’s a classic!” Ren eagerly strode up the ramp.

“It’s not space worthy.”

“Not yet.” Ren tugged on the entry hatch, leaning in with his shoulder. Metal groaned. He kicked at the door, forcing it to open. A panel from further overhead dislodged and clattered to the ground. “I can fix that. Don’t look at that.”

Inside, the ship smelled of dust and neglect. Lights flickered and hummed, giving some proof of life. Ren rattled off an impressive list of facts about the Envoy model. “It’s old but popular in its day, which means replacement parts are cheap and easy to find. There’s a new generation of this style, which means I can upgrade the systems because I know how you love your modern comforts.”

Havik gave his friend a sharp look. He spent the last year sleeping on the ground or in a rover. Comfort was the least of his concerns. Ren seemed to understand this without a word and laughed, his tail swaying happily behind him.

“It’s big enough for a Mahdfel—watch your head,” Ren warned as Havik bumped his head on a doorway. “I can fix that. Or you can learn to duck.”

“You claimed this was large enough for a Mahdfel.”

“Well, it’s spacious. Look at all this space.” Ren stretched out his arms and waggled his hands.

“It lacks adequate clearance.” Havik stretched a hand in the air and easily touched the ceiling.

“Perhaps the problem is you are too tall. Have you tried being shorter?” Ren frowned and pushed on Havik’s shoulders, as if trying to scrunch him down.

“I doubt this rust bucket can even get off the ground,” Havik grumbled.

“She will fly. The engine’s in decent shape, and she was never gutted for parts. All the important bits are there,” Ren said. He ran an appreciative hand along the wall, smearing a path through the dust. Havik realized his protests did not matter. Ren was completely enamored with the dilapidated vessel.

“How much?”

Ren quoted a ridiculous amount. “Don’t make that face. Ships are not cheap.”

“This one should be.” Havik eased open the door to the helm. The instrument panel remained, thankfully, in one piece but had exposed wires and circuits. He lowered himself into the pilot’s seat, a cloud of dust enveloping him. The kumakre scrambled up into his lap, making for the back of the chair, and perching there like it was made for him.

“That includes the cost of repairs. I have most of the necessary credits,” Ren said. He perched on the edge of the navigator’s chair. The instrument panel already sat at the perfect height for him, no adjustment needed.

“If I provide the rest of the credits, we own it together,” Havik said.

“Of course. Partners.”

He ran a hand along the instrument panel, the ship’s computer slowly awakening with flashing lights and beeps. This ship would be the first thing truly his and not associated with his father in any way.

He liked that idea, the freedom of it.

“How long will the repairs take?”

“I’ll need a day to inspect all the systems. Some parts may need to be special-ordered.”

“If you had all you require?”

“A week, give or take a day.”

A week. That seemed impossible even for as talented an engineer as Ren.

“How hard are you planning to work me?” Havik asked.

“I have plenty of heavy things for you to carry. Don’t worry.”

“I have skills.”

“Shh.” Ren leaned forward, placing a finger over Havik’s lips. “You’re the pilot. I just need you to clean out the ship, buy all the supplies and fuel, carry all the heavy items, and fly.”

“And it may fall apart when we leave the atmosphere,” Havik said.

“I wouldn’t be surprised. You’re a terrible pilot.”

“We’ll probably die in this heap,” Havik said, unable to suppress his grin.

“Which would be no less than we deserve,” Ren said, returning the grin with one of his own.

Thalia:

Cold rain soaked through her hoodie as Thalia hustled down the street, avoiding the streetlights. She could get enough cash to get herself somewhere. Gut instinct told her to get on the first bus out of town and not to care where it headed. She wouldn’t stay long, just long enough to get another ticket and keep on moving. If she chose randomly, Nicky wouldn’t be able to track her. Right?

Unless he expected her to hop on the first available bus and he got a list of all the routes that night. It might be smarter to sit tight for a day and then leave.

Doc’s old suggestion rattled around her head. She should volunteer to be matched to a Mahdfel alien. Nicky thought he was a big fish in a pond. Terrifying from Thalia’s little fish perspective.

Maybe just get out of the pond.

Boom. Problem solved. She would have a big scary alien to protect and cherish her. The TV dramas and romance novels made it seem so nice. She could do with a bit of cherishing.

Nicky wouldn’t expect that. He mistrusted the aliens and stayed clear of them. He didn’t know about the romance books Thalia read about Mahdfel heroes or the shows she watched with hot alien actors. She kept all of that limited to the privacy of her room.

Yes. Get a Mahdfel. Solid plan.

Thalia cut through between narrow houses, the space just wide enough to wheel a trash can. Down the alley, she skirted puddles and found the spot. She pounded on the door, peeling paint crumbling under her fist. “Let me in. It’s freezing out here.”

The door inched open. “Go away.”

“Come on. I got stuff you like,” she cajoled.

“Stuff you stole?”

“Surplus. It’s good, too. Barely past the expiration date.” Probably. Thalia didn’t check the labels too carefully before she liberated the pills.

The door opened wider. The glow from an old-fashioned flat panel TV framed a short woman with iron-gray hair. “Does Nicky know you’re stealing from him?”

Thalia shrugged her shoulders. “He doesn’t pay me anything but room and board, so he’d be pretty dumb if he didn’t know.”

“He’s too controlling. He gets what he deserves.” Joyce, a retired pharmacist and current dealer in medical and recreational pharmaceuticals, stepped to one side, allowing Thalia to squeeze by.

Grateful for the warmth, Thalia stripped off her damp hoodie and draped it over a radiator. Her backpack rattled as it hit the floor. Joyce puttered about in the kitchen and brought out two cups of herbal tea. Thalia didn’t care for it, but she accepted the cup with a thin smile. Can’t be rude to your best buyer.

“Drink your tea. You look frozen through. Now, let’s see what you brought me,” Joyce said, emptying the contents of the bag onto the table. Her arthritic hands picked over the bottles, and she slipped on her glasses and read the labels closely. Occasionally she opened the cap to peer inside. “Oh, this is too much, girlie. What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything.” Technically correct, which was the best kind of correct.

“No. This isn’t your normal pocket money. This is your get-out-town stash.” Joyce peered at her over the rim of her glasses, her eyes a watery blue.

Fuck. She couldn’t lie to an old lady. It was simply wrong.

“Maybe?”

“Two hundred.”

Not enough. Not even close.

“This is worth a grand, and you can sell it for five times that. Don’t insult me,” Thalia said.

“Insult you? Don’t insult me by dragging trouble to my door. Nicky is going to be looking for you, and when he shows up, I don’t want him to catch me holding the goods.” Despite Joyce’s firm tone, she didn’t shove the bottles back into the bag, so that meant she intended to buy but wanted to make Thalia sweat first. “Is there something wrong with my tea?”

Thalia took a swallow of the bitter tea without thinking. How anyone liked the stuff she would never know as green tea always tasted a bit metallic to her. “Nicky doesn’t know about the pills. I was careful. Five hundred.”

“I’m an old woman living on a fixed income.”

Thalia nearly snorted tea out her nose. “Don’t screw me on the price.”

“If you want a better price, you’re free to try your luck with Dirty Donald.”

So not happening and Joyce knew it.

“Four hundred,” Thalia offered, the low price cutting into her wiggle margin. She’d have to make quick cash when she got to her destination, wherever that was. “You know it’s important. I wouldn’t haggle with you otherwise.”

Joyce’s gaze softened. “You’re a sweet girl. Dumb. I wish you never got mixed up with that Nicky.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice.” Get mixed up with a bad man or starve. Those were the options.

“Three-fifty and you can crash on my couch. Tomorrow night, you get on a bus and you never come back. Deal?”

Thalia nodded. That sounded like such a good idea. Sleep had been elusive the last few days, what with the worrying for her life and planning her escape. “You know where I’d like to go?”

“Don’t tell me that.”

She had never seen the ocean. Her entire life, she lived less than seventy miles from the ocean, and she had never been. Fuck, she never set foot outside her city. Tomorrow, she could be on a bus headed to the shore. That appealed to her so much. “I'll send you a postcard.”

Thalia stood up from the table and grabbed the edge, her legs no longer able to support her weight and her head swimming. “What did…the tea…”

“I’m sorry, sweetie, but Nicky is looking for you and I can’t afford to be on his bad side. Just go to sleep. It’ll be over when you wake up.”

Thalia struggled to keep her eyes open, but every part of her body felt heavy and sluggish. Sleep seemed like such a good idea.

She slipped under.

Havik:

Ren’s week stretched into two, then three, and ultimately lasted for two months. They lived and slept in the ship, despite it being less than suitable for habitation. The water had an alarming rust color, despite replacing the filtration system. From his bunk, Havik could hear rodents scurrying the ventilation overhead. Also, from his bunk, Havik could hear the discordant chimes and bells Ren used for meditation. Still, better to get used to close quarters while he had the opportunity to go outside when Ren wore his patience thin.

Not that being outside the ship offered much in the way of escape. They were still in the junkyard. The ship could barely lift off the ground, much less clear orbit, and they needed parts. Camping in the junkyard offered convenience if nothing else.

Problems plagued the ship from stem to stern. Rodents that disturbed Havik’s sleep had made a nest deep in the ventilation shaft. The kumakre proved useful in eliminating the rodents, but Havik worried the young beast would grow too rapidly. Since kumakre slept buried in the sand, he constructed a sand enclosure in the cargo hold. The creature would not outgrow the habitat. The power grid proved unreliable and had to be replaced before a surge fried all the delicate computer components. And the ship’s onboard AI had grown…eccentric in its old age.

While not a true AI, the operating system interface presented as an assistant. Typically, these systems were unobtrusive and nearly invisible unless triggered by keywords or actions. The computer constantly had corrections for Havik’s work, everything from the way he held a wrench to the distance he preferred the pilot’s seat from the console.

Ren found it amusing and refused to reinstall the AI.

With the last major repair completed, Havik took the ship out of the atmosphere and barely felt any turbulence as they left the atmosphere. They docked at an orbiting station because Ren had a craving for fried sea bugs, and they had some time while the ship refueled.

“Try one.” Ren pushed the plate forward.

Havik frowned at the breaded and fried sea bug. “No.”

“It’s a delicacy.”

“We have them on Rolusdreus.”

“Ah, those are wild. These are farmed in tanks right here on the station. They have no space to swim freely, so they’re full of fat, which means flavor. Try one. Unless you do not appreciate flavor?” Ren popped one in his mouth, grinning even as he chewed.

“Their captivity sounds cruel.”

“They are cheap and easy protein for confined spaces.”

“We have ration bars,” Havik said.

“Sand tastes better than those. We should set up a tank.”

The ship did not have enough space but Havik would let the logistics of it defeat Ren. If he protested, the male would devise an overly complex system out of spite.

Curious, Havik tried one. The creature’s flesh was tender and not entirely offensive. “We can leave for Earth when the ship is refueled,” he said.

“And when we arrive at Earth?”

“Find my mate. Bring her home.” He did not know where home would be, exactly, but he refused to go to his father’s clan. There were other Mahdfel clans on Rolusdreus that might accept Havik and Ren. Kaos was not universally beloved, and a warlord unafraid of Kaos’ fury might invite them to join. Politics aside, Rolusdreus remained a harsh environment for his mate. She would not flourish there. “We will find a clan on Earth.”

“And if she will not have you?”

“I am her mate.”

Ren narrowed his eyes. “You’re not the brightest star in the sky, but you are not dumb. Your ex-mate believes you rejected her when she was hurt and vulnerable. Her heart may be closed to you forever.”

Havik knew this. The last year gave him time to reflect on his mating with Vanessa. He cared for her, certainly, and he liked her as a friend. Perhaps his care would have grown into a deeper love with time. He could not say. He had burned for her once, but shouldn’t he be devastated at their separation? At the lies that broke apart their mating?

Absently, he stroked the tattoos on his forearm. They failed to burn. “She is the only thing that has ever been mine. I will find her and make her understand.”

Ren sighed, a troubled look on his face, but he held his tongue.