The familiar outline of Kythia comes into view as we approach. From this distance, the Dark Planet is nothing more than a giant shadow, forbidding and mysterious.

It’s been this way for millions of orbits, ever since the nearest star began to die.

The surface of the planet is imprinted with a network of glittering lights, the only sign of life on its cold exterior.

As a species, we have adapted to suit the environment. We see well in the dark and tolerate below-freezing temperatures. And we have mined the precious metal Callidum from the planet’s core, using it to fashion weapons that have no match in the Nine Galaxies.

But our race is dying, much like Ithra, the faded star.

As I guide Silence towards our destination, the comm screen lights up.

“This is Fleet Station One, flight control. Requesting identification.” The Kordolian voice that reaches me over the connection is young and eager.

“Fleet Station One,” I reply, slightly amused at the flight controller’s enthusiasm, “since when do you not recognize your own?”

“We do not have any entries scheduled over the next cycle.” The controller’s response comes back terse and mechanical. He’s sticking to the book. “State your identification code.”

“Fleet Station, this is General Akkadian, and I am not requesting but ordering you to prepare the dock for landing. And have a medical team on standby. I have one injured on board.”

There’s a pause, and I catch frantic murmuring in the background.

“Right away, Sir. And, uh, apologies for not recognizing you.”

“Identification is part of your job, controller. You’re technically correct in not relying on the visual alone, so a verbal ID is appropriate.”

His relief seems to filter through the comm. “Understood, Sir.”

I guide Silence between a dense array of orbiting defense posts, past stationed freighters and towards the giant Fleet Station. It’s a huge floating mass, suspended in permanent orbit around Kythia, and it’s part of my command.

As we approach, the docking station opens, revealing the outer airlock.

A red warning signal flashes, telling me our oxygen supply is about to run out. Ignoring it, I guide Silence into the dock. It lists to one side slightly as I land, unbalanced as a result of the hasty Human repairs that were done on Fortuna Tau. Because of the damage sustained, she’s going to need a major overhaul.

I thank the Goddess that the Human repairs held long enough to get us back to Kythia, especially after we navigated the disintegrating wormhole.

As the airlock depressurizes, I make my way to the medical bay, where Zyara is staring intently at a series of monitors.

“How is our patient doing?”

Zyara spins, a startled expression crossing her face. She obviously hadn’t noticed me behind her. But as ever, she regains her composure quickly. “Vitals are stable, although I had to increase the dose of Sylerian to keep her asleep. For some reason, her Human physiology means she metabolizes it faster.”

I watch Abbey as she bobs gently up and down, suspended in the stasis chamber. The cold liquid of the chamber was proving to be uncomfortable for her, so she opted for sedation for the rest of the journey.

One thing I’ve learnt about Humans is that they don’t like the cold.

In sleep, her delicate face is peaceful. Humans are an interesting species. The intel we have on them isn’t much, but from what I’ve read, they’re still a young race. Primitive in their technology, self-destructive in their ideology. Soft-bodied, able to survive only in gentle climates.

The Kordolian Empire has always dismissed them under the label of ‘non-threatening.’

I stare at Abbey, taking in her pale, damaged skin, which is marred by hundreds of tiny cuts. Her lower body has suffered the most; her legs have been deformed and crushed by the impact of falling from a dizzying height. Purple bruises have spread across her legs and stomach.

The only things keeping her alive right now are the stasis chamber and the lines Zyara’s stuck into her, providing her with vital liquids.

Engulfed in blue liquid, she looks so small, so fragile. How do these humans cling so stubbornly to life when they can be crushed so easily?

She’s vulnerable and imperfect, and yet I find myself drawn to her in a way I can’t explain.

Maybe it’s this so-called ‘Mating Fever’ Zyara has diagnosed me with. Perhaps I’m conditioned to react to the presence of a suitable female.

But a Human, of all creatures?

I’m now questioning why I was so intent on saving her from that poorly resourced Human mining station in the first place. I didn’t trust the Human medics to save her and restore her back to normal. Their technology is still primitive. And she’d been hurt because of me; because of us.

In ordinary circumstances, I would have left her to her own kind. But my only instinct had been to bring her back. She was, and is, my responsibility.

At the height of her helplessness, I’d been compelled to touch her, to be near her. To take her in my arms. She’d looked so alone, so afraid. I’d jumped in the tank with her.

I’d been aroused. Hard. Filled with almost uncontrollable lust. The only thing stopping me from taking her then and there was the fact that she was injured.

Never before have I given in to emotion like this. Control is a virtue I live by.

Perhaps I took this ‘Mating Fever’ business too lightly. Zyara warned me I would need to do something about it. Otherwise, the effects will become stronger. The headaches are already close to unbearable.

I need to be rational and clear-headed. I can’t afford this sort of shit on the battlefield.

Perhaps this Human is the answer to this sickness. Maybe I am no better than Rykal after all, unable to control my attraction to this so-called ‘exotic fruit’.

But first, she needs treatment.

A soft voice snaps me out of my thoughts. “General?” Zyara is standing by, awaiting orders. She tries to keep the emotion from her features, but one slightly raised lilac eyebrow gives her away.

“Is there a problem, Zyara?” I can’t help the menace that creeps into my voice. I’m not in the mood for questions, and Zyara knows me too well.

She holds up a placating hand. “I need to prepare her for transfer to the military hospital, but I don’t know how to explain the situation to the Chief Surgeon. They’re not expecting a Human.”

“I’ll talk to Mirkel.” I glance at the Human again, observing the way her body sways, gently buffered by the stasis liquid. “Apart from the obvious resemblance, you say they share some biological similarities with us?”

“I’ve done a DNA analysis,” Zyara replies, returning to her businesslike tone. “Our genetic code is remarkably similar. In fact, I’d say Humans resemble the Early Kordolians most closely. Before the death of our planet’s star billions of years ago, our environments were probably similar. And as you know, the basic building blocks of life are the same, all across the universe.”

I study Abbey closely, noting the similarities, and the differences. “They resemble our ancestors, before we evolved?”

“You could say that.”

“Hm.” I allow the silence to stretch between us. We’re both very aware of the potential implications of Zyara’s discovery. “Will she tolerate a nanograft?” I ask finally.

“Well, theoretically, yes, but medical nanites have been in short supply lately. I doubt they’d authorize their use on a Human.”

“They? This is my Fleet Station, Zyara. When have you ever known me to blindly follow protocol?” A flare of anger courses through me, fury at the thought that anyone would question my authority. Of course, there will be questions, rumors, perhaps even reports to the Kaiin-cursed High Council. But I would like to think that after loyally serving the Empire for so long, I might be granted a little autonomy on the Fleet Station that is under my fucking command.

Zyara looks at me for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, she sighs. “A nanograft is the best way to restore her to her original state. She’s entirely compatible. Physiologically, she’ll probably be even stronger after the graft. But you need to talk to Chief Surgeon Mirkel. He won’t listen to me, but he’s scared shitless of you.”

“Hm.” Mirkel will never, ever forget the day I almost killed him. I was a young recruit then, and he was a junior medic. Of course, the experiments they carried out on me in those days were obscene.

Mirkel nearly killed me, and I simply returned the favor.

He still does his best to avoid me after all this time, sending the necessary communications through subordinates. I have no issue with that. As long as he follows my orders and remains loyal to the military, I couldn’t give a shit if he thinks I’m Kaiin, the lord of the Netherworld, himself.

But now, I decide it’s time for Mirkel’s avoidance to end. It’s about time I paid the Chief Surgeon a visit.

Zyara stares at her holoscreen. “The medical team’s here,” she announces.

“Then organize the transfer,” I snap. “And let it be known that she’s my property. If anything happens to her, whoever’s responsible will answer to me directly. I’ll deal with Mirkel.”

“I’d love to be a witness to that conversation,” Zyara remarks dryly as I take one last look at Abbey. In sleep, she reminds me of a delicate sculpture; a mythical creature. Even with her injuries, she’s ethereally beautiful.

Otherworldly. So similar to us, and yet so different.

I’ve developed an unhealthy, irrational obsession with this female. I let out a derisive snort. A Human, of all beings.

Perhaps this so-called ‘Mating Fever’ is affecting me more than I thought.

* * *

When I wake up, all I see is dim light and shadows. The first thing I notice is that it’s warm. The liquid’s gone, and to my intense relief, the horrible, freezing cold is gone too.

Wait. That means I’m not in that awful stasis tank anymore. I sit up, startled, then I lie back down again as the memories return.

Both of my legs were broken, right? I shouldn’t be moving.

But there’s no pain.

Tentatively, I try to move one foot. Yep, it seems to be fine, and it doesn’t hurt at all. I wiggle the toes on my other foot, and then, slowly, gingerly, I move my legs.

They don’t hurt either. Everything’s intact. Am I dreaming?

I glance around and see that I’m in a small spartan room. I’m in a bed, or at least I think it’s a bed. It’s a person-shaped pod, made out of a dark, organic looking substance. It’s not wood or metal or anything I recognize. It’s warm inside, and it’s covered in soft black sheets.

I sit up, my bare feet touching the floor. I’ve been dressed in dark flowing robes that are about five sizes too big for me. The fabric is softer than silk, impossibly luxurious and voluminous.

I’m drowning in mysterious fabric that carries a faint spicy scent. Like cinnamon, but different.

I know that smell. It tickles the back of my foggy memory. It reminds me of him.

I shudder, remembering the feel of his warm skin against mine and the sensation of his big rough hands on my body.

Idiot. I should stop thinking about that. I was probably affected by all the drugs they were pumping through me.

I glance around, trying to get my bearings. Where the hell am I? The last thing I remember was being stuck in a freezing cold stasis tank against my will. The General was so damn blasé about taking me away from Fortuna Tau, but when it came to everything else, he seemed deadly serious.

Doesn’t he get that you don’t just take people away from their home planets? That you don’t just separate people from their own species?

Obviously, he doesn’t. It’s something to do with that weird sense of honor he has. Something about keeping his word. About being responsible for everything.

Stubborn, domineering, irritating male.

He’s got control freak written all over him.

It must come with the territory.

But if the current state of my legs is anything to go by, he’s been true to his word and had them healed.

Amazing. I flex them experimentally, watching as they peek out underneath swathes of black fabric. There’s not a single break in the skin or trace of a healing wound to be seen.

It’s as if the accident and my encounter with that disgusting vomit-inducing creature never happened.

I drop to my feet, allowing my legs to take my full weight. There’s no pain at all.

I take a few experimental steps. Everything seems to be working fine.

What the hell did they do to me? And at what cost?

I pad across the dark floor. It’s like ice underneath my bare feet. There’s a closed door to one side. It’s made of that same black wood-but-not-wood material that the whole room is constructed of. I push on it, but nothing happens.

A shot of panic rips through me. Am I locked in? Trapped like a prisoner?

I’m a bit claustrophobic. I don’t like tiny, confined spaces. The thought of being stuck in this dim, warm, creepy little room makes me go a bit funny. My pulse goes up, and I start to feel nauseous. I’m trapped in the confines of some dark, organic thing, and it’s all rather embryonic, as if I’ve been placed back inside the womb.

I push again, harder this time. Still, the stupid thing won’t budge. I look around for a control panel of some sort, but the way the door joins the wall is seamless.

I’m breaking out in a cold sweat now, and starting to feel short of breath. My arms are tingling. I can’t think straight.

I’m having a panic attack. I can’t believe it. I haven’t had one of these in years.

Calm down, Abbey!

I start pounding at the door, and when that doesn’t work, I run my fingers along the edges, looking for a gap, a seam, anything, hopping to find a weakness I can use to wrench it apart.

Nothing.

Damn these Kordolians and their weird technology. I step back, forcing myself to breathe more slowly, trying to calm my racing pulse. I study the door in more detail. It’s made of hundreds of horizontal interlocking dark strands, like a woven basket.

Does it swing, or slide, or retract?

I need to get out of here. I need to escape from this dark, windowless, tiny room. I take a few steps back, thinking I’ll give the stupid thing one last solid kick. Even if it doesn’t open, it will feel good just to kick something.

To vent some of my fear and frustration.

So I take two big strides forward, hiking up my ridiculous, tent-like garment. Going with the momentum, I execute a solid high kick, just like I’ve seen them do in those ridiculous twentieth-century action flicks.

It’s true, I have a secret obsession with everything twentieth-century. There has never been an era of Human creativity quite like it.

Van Damme, eat your heart out.

There’s a dull thud as my foot connects, and I’m surprised that it doesn’t hurt one bit. And is it just me, or is there a little indent right there, where I’ve kicked it?

Still, the door doesn’t open. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing thoughts. But just as I’m about to step back, the weird little fibers come apart, disappearing into a cavity in the wall.

I stumble forward in shock, losing my balance.

“What the?” I yelp, as I crash into something hard and solid and warm. I look up to find the General staring down at me, a frown creasing his hard features. He raises an eyebrow as he grabs me by the shoulders, steadying me. An electric tingle courses through me. Through the thin fabric of my oversized robes, his fingers feel oh-so warm.

“You should be resting,” he growls. “Not trying to damage my sleeping pod.”

“Your what?” I look around wildly, taking in my surroundings. We’re in what looks like a living space. It has the same cold dark floors and oddly curved walls as the rest of this craft, reminding me of the Kordolian medical bay I was stuck in when I was injured. To my left, soaring windows provide a view of the endless starry sky. But amongst the glittering backdrop, there’s a giant black planet swallowing up most of the view. It’s dotted with millions of glowing blue lights, reminding me of Earth at night.

Whoa. That’s Kythia?

In front of the window is a low seating area made of dark cushions. The rest of the space is quite boring and uncluttered. There’s a desk surrounded by an array of complex looking holoscreens, but not much else. There’s no kitchen, no eating area. There’s nothing to identify the owner of the place, no pictures on the walls or trinkets or cozy rugs on the floor.

This place could really use a woven rug or two. Some colorful vases and maybe a terrarium would spruce the place up. Right now, it’s a total man-cave. Quite fitting for a dour, humorless military General.

“Where the hell am I, General?” I ask, backpedalling out of his grasp. Oh, no. I’m not ready for that quite yet. I need to get my bearings first, without being distracted by his warm, roving hands. “Wh- what have you done to me?”

“You’re in my quarters,” he replies, looking me up and down. “And it appears you have responded quite well to the treatment.”

“What treatment?” Suspicion clouds my tone as I glance down at my bare legs, which peek out of the loose robes. Surely miracles don’t come without a hefty price. There has to be a catch.

“A nanograft,” he shrugs. “You will understand the implications with time.”

As usual, he’s not the most forthcoming character. My gaze returns to rest on him. Something’s different. He’s no longer decked out in his crazy nano-armor. Instead, he wears dark robes similar to mine, which are loosely belted at the waist. Whereas the ones I wear are huge on me, swamping my small frame, his fit perfectly, hanging off his large body and revealing his smooth, sculpted chest.

He notices the direction of my gaze and for just a split-second, something like a smug look crosses his face. I grit my teeth, annoyed that he’s just caught me checking him out. But then, he’s back to his usual form, glaring at me with a serious expression.

“You need to eat,” he growls, as he walks over to a panel in the wall that I hadn’t noticed before. “Tissue healing requires energy.” The General taps a code on some kind of sleek silver device that’s set into the wall. It lights up and emits a low hum. After a brief wait, it opens, and he fishes out a dark rectangular object.

He offers it to me. “Eat.”

“Huh?” I eye the lump in his hand with confusion. “What’s that?”

“Food. Eat.” He thrusts it in front of my face. Okay, so we’re down to one-word commands. Why does this all suddenly feel a bit neolithic? Gingerly, I take the, er, thing.

It looks like an energy bar of some sort. I hope it’s chocolate? Ha. What are the chances? Looking at its dark, semi-transparent color and slightly gooey consistency, like hard, compacted gelatin, I’m not convinced. I sniff it cautiously. It smells like a combination of dried seaweed and beef jerky.

Not unpleasant, but not mind-blowing either.

“It’s not to your taste?” He’s watching me closely, curiously.

“I could murder a bowl of nachos right about now,” I reply. “You guys don’t do nachos? Or fries with chicken salt? Is ramen off the menu?”

Tarak glares at me, irritation making his lips curve downwards in a disapproving frown. My sarcasm is totally lost on him. “We don’t have Human food here.”

“I figured.” A sly smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “You have no idea what you’re missing out on.” I take an experimental bite of the bar. It melts in my mouth, all salty and meaty and thick. I chew a bit more, realizing that I’m actually starving.

Okay, so I’ll admit, it’s edible. I munch down on the rest of the bar as the General watches me. It’s all slightly awkward. I feel like a kid who’s being forced by their parents to eat their brussels sprouts, or else.

When I’m done, the stuff settles in my belly like a lead weight, making me feel instantly full. “So, General,” I begin tentatively, not really sure how to bring this up, especially when he’s gone and had my body magically fixed. “When do we set off for Fortuna Tau?”

He responds with a cryptic look. There’s something in his eyes that tells me this isn’t going to be straightforward. “In time,” he says.

I’m about to demand that he organize for me to go back straight away, but our attention is diverted as one of the holoscreens lights up, and a stone-faced Kordolian guy appears. He rattles something off in rapid-fire Kordolian. Tarak stiffens, his jaw set in a rigid line. He doesn’t like whatever the guy is telling him.

The General snaps back at him and ends the communication. He mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like swearing. That little bulging vein at the side of his head is back. I’m starting to figure out his little tells. Right now, he’s irritated.

“I have to go,” he announces. “Do not leave my quarters. The troops will not tolerate a Human roaming about on this station.”

“Wait,” I protest. “You can’t just leave me. What am I supposed to do here?”

“Rest.” He disappears into his dark sleeping chamber and returns a moment later, decked out in a uniform of sorts. It’s all black, of course. There’s a high-necked jacket with long tails and a pair of sleek trousers. There’s some sort of insignia embroidered at the neck in red, the first hint of color I’ve seen on any of his attire.

I try not to gape. It’s a severe, intimidating uniform, but it compliments his broad frame, and it all looks quite dapper in an Evil Empire sort of way.

“Stay here,” he growls threateningly, before disappearing through his front door, the thing sliding shut with the same interlocking mechanism, effectively trapping me inside.

Great. I’m stuck in an alien General’s personal quarters on a floating station in an entirely different sector of the universe.

What’s a girl to do? For starters, I guess I could try to figure out this body of mine, and see exactly what’s changed.

And then? Plot an escape plan? Yeah. That sounds like a rather good way to pass the time.

* * *

I leave Abbey in my quarters, the Qualum door fusing shut behind me. The entrance is keyed to my biological signature, and no-one else can enter or exit. Even on this orbiting fortress, where my word is absolute, I spare no precaution when it comes to security.

The fucking dress uniform I’m wearing is stiff and uncomfortable. I find it ridiculous, but when one is summoned to stand before the High Council, this is the customary attire.

More formality and nonsense. It’s an annoyance. A complete waste of my time.

I’d rather be mobilizing a retrieval team for my First Division. Without the wormhole, it will take at least six cycles for Silence to reach the Human mining station. First Division won’t be happy with the wait, but they’ll adapt. In the meantime, I can send a backup crew from one of the outer sectors.

And then there’s the matter of my exotic female guest. She doesn’t know that I watched her when she was asleep. I sat on the floor of my sleeping chamber, cross-legged, observing her pale face and her soft, fragile body. For the most part, she appeared peaceful, except for when she tossed and turned. Every now and then a flicker of pain would cross her features. Her skin would become moist, and I would lay a hand on her forehead, waiting for her to fall back into a deep sleep.

I only left her side once I was certain the nanograft had taken, once I was sure that she was in the clear. I hadn’t trusted any of the medics to watch her, not even Zyara.

I hadn’t trusted them to take care of a Human. That idiot Mirkel had been hesitant to treat her at first, but he had quickly changed his mind after our little ‘discussion.’

As I stride down the corridor, an officer comes up beside me, anxiously taking in my appearance. Dress uniform means only one thing. That I’ve been summoned. “Shall I arrange an escort for you, General?”

“Not necessary,” I snap, glancing at the soldier. The face is familiar. “Keron, isn’t it?” His face lights up as I mention his name. So this one isn’t worn and jaded yet. I doubt Officer Keron has seen much off-planet action. “I’ll be using my own transport. A guard isn’t necessary. I’m only going landside, for fuck’s sake.”

“Understood, Sir.” He starts to carry out that irritating formal bow, but I cut him off with a slice of my hand. “There’s none of that onboard my Fleet Station, Officer. Keep your formalities for the landside folk.” That infernal bow was introduced by the Empress after Emperor Ilhan died. It never fails to get under my skin. In contrast, the High Council live for such things.

Bunch of ostentatious pricks.

Keron blinks in surprise, but wisely decides not to argue.

“While you’re here, Keron, you can arrange something for me.”

“Sir?”

“Get an order of Veronian food from landside. Those sweet things they make. Have it sent to my quarters by internal delivery.”

“Veronian food. Got it.” Curiosity burns in Keron’s eyes, but he doesn’t dare probe the issue. For all he knows, I’ve just developed a craving for sweet things.

We reach a docking station reserved for smaller craft. Keron starts to bow reflexively, but as I narrow my eyes he catches himself, straightening to his full height.

“Dismissed, Officer,” I say, a trace of irony creeping into my voice. As he disappears, I enter one of the solo transports, a sleek, unarmed cruiser designed for speed and little else. A dull throb begins at the back of my eyes, and I resist the urge to groan.

The headaches are coming back.

Strangely, when I’m with her, there are no symptoms at all. No headaches. No stabbing pain behind my eyes. No burning irritability that threatens to explode into anger at any given moment.

Just her scent is enough to calm me. It reminds me of that Human garden, all green stems and fruits and wildflowers. Things that are entirely alien to Kythia. Our planet does not support that kind of life.

I activate the flyer and ease it out of the dock, navigating it through the airlock. Once I’ve passed the outer lock, I communicate with flight control.

“Cleared for departure, General.”

I gun the thrusters and speed towards Kythia, wondering what in Kaiin’s name the High Council want with me this time. Whatever it is, it won’t be anything good. It never is.