I don’t know why I used that word. And I don’t have time to ponder it, because I have to leap into action. “Course adjust to X-7.” My hands dance as I maneuver us around and through the shifting streams of flux. “Adjust to X-8. X012.”
Mirelle ends the comm with Kianna, and I sense the space lessen, as if she was actually here with me, in my arms like before. But there’s no time to think about this, either.
It’s a dance to make this craft move, and all of us work it hard all through the airspace, until the planet looms in front of us, glowing in our viewing glass, with all of its moons and satellites dancing in obit.
We’re here. And it’s time to do this.
Mykl
* * *
“Veck, where are they?” I glance at my wristband comm, over and over, but it remains blank. Silent.
I’m on our craft—still masked, parked in an isolated patch of desert several miles from the auction dome. I’m on sentry duty with Hektor.
But I’m dying inside.
There is a Zandian female here, and I’m not helping rescue her.
“They should have been back by now.” I snarl the words.
Hektor watches the screens for action. “Patience. We don’t know what obstacles they have.”
“You know the protocols. If a team takes more than 1.5X the allotted expected time, we send a backup.”
Hektor looks at his wrist comm. “They’re still within time.”
“It’s not right. Something doesn’t feel good about this.”
I pace the craft, and glance out the windows. “I think they’re in trouble.”
“Commander Lanz specifically told us not to follow unless they maxed out on time.”
I make a decision. “I’m going.” I grab my vest and weapons gear.
Hektor frowns. “We’re both supposed to stay here.”
“They need me. And only one person is necessary as guard.”
I put on the facial mask that has disguising tech so we’re not recognized as Zandians, and the headgear that hides our horns.
I still train hard, fighter or not, and it’s an easy run to the dome.
As I approach, I slow my pace and blend into the crowd of random beings on the small airfield, keeping my eyes down and my pace firm. This is a place where beings don’t ask questions, and nobody wants to interact more than necessary. It’s not hard to act like I belong.
The auction domes always stink—unwashed bodies, fear, and sex. And not in a good way. I haven’t been in one of these in many cycles, and it’s hard to maintain my composure as I push through the door into the vast, dim crowded space.
The cries and abject misery of the slaves, tied up, begging, fills me with an impotent rage so strong that I clench my fists and have to take a deep breath so I don’t start randomly killing slavers left and right.
I have a mission. I mutter an apology to the one true star and scan the area, looking for my partners. For the Zandian female.
I push past a crowd of buyers gathered around a slender green creature shackled inside a rough iron cage. Her owner prods her with a shock stick and she screams; the crowd laughs and jostles, calling out numbers. Stein.
Her eyes are luminous and wet and I look away because if I keep looking, I—veck this place. Veck our galaxy, and the way beings treat each other.
I growl and stride faster, ducking my head down because I think the anger in my eyes will burn like a laser and make it clear that I’m here for one reason only—rescue.
It’s then that I see them. My horns go on alert at the sight of the purple Zandian female.