“Sir, we’re two clicks out from the Hylan base.”

Gerrit grunted in reply. It was too hot for so much talking as he and his contingency of Vilkan guards trekked through the jungle. The air hung heavy with humidity and gelled in his lungs like thick mucus. He slapped a giant palm frond out of his face with a growl. He hated the jungle. If it wasn’t the heat trying to kill a Vilka, it was the fist-sized fleshnibblers or the hollow pits dug in the ground that liked to capture an ankle and snap it or the silent Katu clan members with their taste for fresh, raw meat.

And the Hylas. Those fucking bastards with their pretentious aversion to technology. It was an act of war to fly a ship within twenty miles of their base in either direction. So here Gerrit was, gasping and clawing and swatting his way to their front door to beg for help like a starved dog.

He growled.

“Alpha?” Thompson questioned.

“It’s fine,” Gerrit snapped with more force than he’d intended. He bit back the apology. Rayner was always telling him Alphas shouldn’t apologize so much. It was one of the many lessons Gerrit struggled to learn.

Gerrit could have moved faster through the jungle by himself. And profoundly faster if he shifted, but the Hylas wouldn’t be happy about a Vilka coming in his wolf form any more than they would be about a comm radio or navmap.

Plus, the ten-strong entourage of guards slowed him down. Did Rayner think Gerrit barely more capable than a pup? He certainly would have presented the right amount of pomp and circumstance with three. Five at most.

Perhaps that was another lesson Gerrit struggled to learn: protecting the Alpha at all costs.

But that was another point he just wasn’t willing to concede yet. He may be the Alpha, but he didn’t want to be; it wasn’t time yet. His father should have been the one negotiating with the Hyla. Gerrit’s heart constricted, remembering his uncle’s betrayal and his father’s murder.

He shoved the sentiment aside. Alphas weren’t soft, and they didn’t get misty-eyed when thinking about their dead fathers. And if he had to be the Alpha, he would prove he could be the best damn Alpha his pack had ever seen. Short of his father, of course.

“One and a half clicks, sir.”

“I don’t need an update every minute, Swanson.”

The young guard blushed, the tops of his too-large ears turning bright red. “Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again, sir. Sir.”

Gerrit shook his head, but he couldn’t help a grin. “Did you just use ‘sir’ three times in two sentences? That must be a new record, right, Thompson?”

Another guard farther back in the single-file line chuckled. “Got that right, sir,” Thompson called.

“I’m just trying to be respectful,” Swanson mumbled.

The rest of the guards laughed, most of them almost the same age as Gerrit. They had trained together in school and played as pups, but their respect came from pack pride, not age, and Gerrit did everything he could to make sure he earned it.

Their boots squelched over wet ferns and the warm detritus that lined the jungle floor. From the front of the line came the rhythmic thwacking of a machete belonging to the guard sent ahead to clear a path. A laser blade would have been more efficient, but even that was banned in the Hylan quadrant.

Bastards.

With the tension broken, the guards joked back and forth. Gerrit knew his men would take on whatever tone he set, and he was relieved to see them relax a little. Their banter mostly concerned Swanson and his mate’s new baby and whether he was the actual father since, in the last few minutes, his ability to procreate had been called into question given his penchant for respect.

Gerrit enjoyed listening to them laughing and joking. No one enjoyed a visit to the Hylan base, but they were here for a reason. He’d sensed Swanson’s worry when they’d left the mountain; it wafted off him like he’d bathed in bitters. It was likely the only reason Swanson had volunteered for the tedious escort job.

Rates of Vilkan young being stuck in their wolf forms after their first shift was higher than ever. In years past, only one or two babies had been trapped beneath the fur and cast out from the mountain. Gerrit had abolished the cast-out law, but he couldn’t stop the numbers from rising. And the number of pups roaming the hollowed-out mountain the Vilkas called home was a sad reminder of the children inside that their parents would never see again.

Rumor had it the Hylas had a cure in the form of medicine drawn from the deepest part of Kladuu, from the heart of the planet itself. If given to a mate during pregnancy, it was supposed to eliminate the chance of a trapped shift, but only the Hylas knew what the cure was. A plant? A mineral? Some concoction they whipped up themselves? Lore said it was the relics of the Originals, from whom all the clans were descended, but Gerrit had no reason to believe that any more than anything else. Whatever it was, his pack needed it, and Gerrit didn’t intend to leave without it.

Swanson lived in fear of his baby’s first shift. Gerrit couldn’t imagine what the young guard and his mate must be going through. But he would help them. After this trip and the medicine he’d negotiate with the Hyla for, young parents wouldn’t need to fear their child’s second form.

The machete’s thwacking ended abruptly. Gerrit looked up just as the guards before him stepped into a clearing. Thick moss covered the ground stretching out from their feet. All around them, massive trees with thick, red bark and purplish moss had trunks so wide all the guards and Gerrit put together couldn’t join hands and wrap their arms around them.

The trees stretched up into the drifting mist far above their heads. Vines and limbs tangled around each other, blocking the sun’s warmth and forming bridges for the smaller mammals to scamper across and swing about. Birds chittered, a nearly constant battering of noise that assaulted Gerrit’s keen ears.

They were deep in the jungle, with almost impenetrable foliage for miles in every direction. The Hylan base was located right at the edge, buttressing the largest ocean on Kladuu. The one with the water so dark it was nearly black because the bottom was rumored to never have been found, even by the best Hylan swimmers.

It was in those depths that the medicine Gerrit needed could be found.

“About half a click?” he called to Swanson, who stood at the far edge of the clearing.

The young guard’s head snapped up, his eyes as wide as one of the Kladian moons. “Ah,” he fumbled, thinking fast. “Yes. Yes, sir! Half a—”

He didn’t get to finish.

A screech built above their heads. It was the high, pained whine of an engine and the rushing crash of wind.

The sound grew. The guards closed ranks around Gerrit, knives drawn, their bodies partially shifting in preparation for a fight.

Through a tiny gap in the canopy, Gerrit caught a flash of silver and fire.

A crashing ship.

A crashing human ship.

A damn Falconer ship had finally made its way into their airspace. He could tell from the scent of metal and oil coming from the smoke trail. Only humans would be so arrogant as to fly in something that amounted to little more than a bomb.

A second later, the ship impacted about a mile away. The ground rumbled beneath their feet. And then, silence. Even the birds and smaller animals and fleshnibblers paused.

A beat later, the jungle’s noise resumed. But far off, deeper into the jungle and in the opposite direction of the Hylan base, he heard the mechanical whine of a running engine and smelled the smell of spilled fuel and smoke.

“Sir?” Swanson asked.

“What the hell was that?” Thompson grumbled. The others mimicked the sentiment.

Gerrit glanced back up. He only saw bright blue sky dotted with the faraway orbs of moons. His home. His planet.

His Kladuu.

And someone had just crash-landed on it.