Chapter One
Qulpa and the rest of the team were on their way home.
Their mission had been to retrieve Hulagu, Second’s brother, from Carinae E. The young warrior had decided to stay on the remote planet. Instead, they were returning to Chamele 2 with Lead Medic, Second’s human gerel.
Locating a gerel was a cause of celebration. As was any mission that didn’t end in the death of any of their brethren.
Happiness flowed through the bridge of the ship, a vessel Qulpa privately considered to be his. Everyone on board was gathered in this space.
His warrior brothers gazed at the image of their planet on the main viewscreen and mused about friends and family members. Yesun, the youngest male on the team, dominated the chatter, speaking loudly of birthing planet celebrations and lovingly prepared nourishment. He assumed his mother, father, three sisters would be waiting for him.
Qulpa, having lost every being he loved in the Chamele Succession Wars, had no such illusions. He was acutely aware one could go from having parents, siblings, nieces, nephews, to having no one in too short a time period. There were no beings waiting for him on Chamele 2.
He glanced at the occupants of the captain’s chair. Second and Lead Medic, Second’s newly located gerel, were twined around each other. Love warmed their gazes and provoked envy within him.
Second’s female, being human, was physically weaker than a Chamele. She didn’t have claws, the ability to blend into the background, to sense other Chameles. But she was strong in will and she was skilled with the tiny gun she hid in the pocket of her white jacket.
If she was parted from Second, ever found herself in a settlement during an assault, she could defend herself. She would survive.
Second was a lucky warrior.
Qulpa was older than his superior. He had given up all hope of finding his gerel, the one being genetically meant for him. The duration for love, for that type of companionship, had passed for him.
The team was his sole family, and flying was his primary source of joy. He skimmed his hands over the private viewscreen embedded in the console, every nuance of the ship conveyed through his fingertips.
Nothing could touch him in flight, not the loneliness, not the pain of his loss. There was only freedom and control and the challenge of making a huge machine dance under his palms.
He was one with the ship, connected in a way few other beings understood. Flying was more than skill. It was an art. And he treasured every moment of it.
Thanks to the Lead Medic, he would have more flying time. Upon her request, they were completing an orbit of the planet, traveling low to the ground to allow her to see the tall grasses, towering mountains, clear water of their home.
He had plotted a course that passed over each warrior’s settlement, the challenge of that navigation appealing to him. The skies were clear, the weather suited for flying.
A blip appeared on the screen. The skies had been clear. A vessel now appeared behind them. The newcomer was traveling faster than they were, would eventually collide with them if no action was taken.
“I’m detecting another ship, Second.” He informed their leader.
Second straightened in his seat. “Hail them.”
“Hailing them.” Ariq, one of their top warriors, tapped on his embedded viewscreen. “They’re not answering our hails, Second.”
“We have a visual,” another warrior informed them. The image appeared on the main viewscreen.
Qulpa recognized the design immediately. He hadn’t yet flown the AXT594. It was the newest model and he hadn’t been given that opportunity. But he’d studied the specs on the vessel. It matched theirs for speed…if their ship had been fully functional.
Which it wasn’t.
His lips twisted. He should have insisted they repair the damaged engine en route. They were facing the AXT594 while they were at a disadvantage, and he disliked that.
“That’s one of ours.” Second confirmed that fact. “Their weapons systems are online.”
“They’re attacking us?” Second’s gerel appeared shaken. She might have the spirit of a warrior but she must not have seen much combat in space.
“It isn’t unusual for Chameles to have weapons systems online.” Second explained to her. “We’re always ready to fight.” They were also always ready to defend themselves. No one on the bridge relaxed. “Deviate from their path.”
“Deviating, Second.” Qulpa shifted their path to the north.
The incoming ship immediately mirrored that course correction.
Zondoo. The impending collision had been intentional.
“They’ve changed their route also.” He pressed his lips together. “They’re pursuing us.”
“Son of a Gechii.” Second’s curse echoed his feelings. “Can we outrun them?”
“With our malfunctioning engine, outrunning them isn’t feasible, Second.” Qulpa veered the ship abruptly to the west. “We can outfly them, however.”
To do that, he required obstacles. He flew their ship into a narrow canyon, followed the weaving stream. High cliff faces loomed to their left and to their right.
That didn’t discourage the other pilot. The enemy ship was sitting right behind their thrusters, tracking them with an alarming persistence.
That was a clear sign of aggression, something no pilot would do to an ally. Qulpa would have shot them out of the sky.
But he wasn’t in charge.
“Ariq, continue hailing the ship.” Second, the being able to give that command, must have been unconvinced that the ship belonged to the enemy. “Contact command. Inform them of the situation. Ask if they have any vessels in the area.”
Sensors screamed warnings. “Incoming missiles.” Qulpa swerved the ship to the east.
The rock face in front of them exploded.
That was too close for his comfort. He gunned the engines still functional, flew in unpredictable patterns, trying to shake the other ship.
“That was a warning shot.” Second remained calm. “They didn’t mean to hit us. Scan the databases. Are we in restricted airspace?”
No one issued warning shots without a communication. “This wasn’t restricted airspace when we left.” Qulpa flew like he’d never flown.
Moisture beaded on his face. The safety of everyone on board depended on his actions. He had to lose the enemy ship.
“We’ve been gone for almost half a solar cycle.” Second had an explanation for everything. “Changes could have—”
Qulpa saw the missile mere heartbeats before impact. Zondoo. He frantically yanked the ship as far to the east as possible and braced for contact, unable to completely avoid it.
The vessel violently jerked forward as the missile carved through its right side. He tapped on his private viewscreen as quickly as he could, instructing the system to seal the punctured chambers.
All of the main thrusters were dead on one side. The ship spun. Red lights flashed and sirens wailed. Only a miracle kept them from bashing into the rock.
“We’ve been hit.” Sweat dripped off his chin as he struggled to regain control, fighting to right their path. “We’re going down.”
He couldn’t keep the ship in the air. It was too damaged for that option. They would crash. The only question was how hard.
“Prepare for a possible hard landing, team.” Second strapped a harness around both himself and his gerel.
Qulpa, as the pilot, had already secured his form to his chair. The controls were sensitive. Acting as one with the ship was essential.
“The canyon opens up around this bend.” Second’s voice was flat. Past experience had taught Qulpa the less emotional his leader became, the deeper in unee shit they were. “If those bastards don’t finish us off first, we might be able to land there.”
“The bend will be tricky.” Qulpa had stopped the spinning, but he didn’t have full control of their ship. They veered dangerously close to one of the cliffs.
The vessel shuddered as it ground against the rock. Metal whined, panels peeling away.
He gritted his teeth, battling to compensate for the failed engines. They should make it. They should. Sweat trickled down his spine.
The high-pitched noise stopped and the space to navigate increased. The stream widened. Pebble beaches bracketed the water.
“They’re no longer shooting at us.” Lead Medic pointed that out, her voice small.
“They know we can’t recover from this.” Second assisted Qulpa. The goal was to maintain as level, as horizontal a descent as possible.
Keeping it airborne was beyond even their combined capabilities. The vessel dropped, falling out of the sky.
Qulpa lowered the emergency landing gear. They were plummeting too quickly for it to be properly utilized. It would be crushed under their weight. But it would serve as another buffer between them and the ground.
Every layer counted, could mean the difference between living and dying.
“Brace for impact.” Second’s instruction wasn’t directed to Qulpa.
He was the pilot. His duty was to do whatever he could to minimize the effects of the crash, try to save as many of the beings on board as he could.
His fingertips whitened against the console, his hands aching.
The ground rushed up to meet them. The nose of the ship tilted slightly upward. Qulpa clenched his jaw. That might prevent some deaths.
There was a boom. He was thrown forward, against the console. The viewscreen shattered. Pain burst in his right hand, sharp and severe.
Blackness engulfed him.
* * *
When Qulpa regained consciousness, the pain in his right hand hadn’t subsided. It pulsed through him, unsettling his stomach.
He opened his eyes, saw the damage to his hand and bile burned the back of his throat. Three of his fingers were missing, had been sliced completely off. Blood gushed from the small stumps.
He would never fly again.
It was a delicate dance to keep a ship in the air. Pilots required both of their hands, all of their fingers. He was missing three of those ten precious contact points. His hands were now useless for flying.
He would be grounded for life, couldn’t serve his primary role on Second’s team, would be ejected from it. His shoulders slumped, that realization, more horrific than any injury, crushing him.
He’d lost the family he’d been born into, had endured the passing of many of his friends. Now, the few connections he had left and the sole task he truly loved would be taken from him.
His lifespan wasn’t useless. He could wield a sword, fire a gun. His claws were intact.
He could fight. He merely didn’t have anything left to fight for.
Voices murmured. That sound dragged him back to reality.
Qulpa looked around him. He sat in his chair amongst the remains of the ship. Debris covered the ground. Wires snapped. The scent of fuel hung heavily in the air.
He extended his claws, sliced the harness holding him to the seat. Shallow wounds decorated his legs. He retracted his claws, touched his forehead with his left hand. His skin was sticky. He must be bleeding.
That wasn’t a new occurrence. This wasn’t his first crash.
Though it might be his last.
He shoved that thought aside and pushed himself to his feet. The world spun around him. He gritted his teeth, forced himself to trek toward the voices.
Second stood facing Lead Medic. They both looked unharmed.
Their heads turned toward him. Their lips moved.
Lead Medic hurried toward him, her white jacket flapping behind her. Second followed her. She tugged on one sleeve of her garment.
“The fabric is designed to also bind wounds.” Her words pierced the buzzing in his ears. “The gauze won’t be enough to stop the bleeding.”
She must be referring to his hand. He was spraying everything he passed with crimson, the blood loss making him light-headed.
“Only my fingers are missing,” he mumbled. “I’ll be fine.” It wasn’t a life-threatening injury.
“You won’t be fine.” Lead Medic rolled her eyes. “My gun survived the crash better than you did, so you might wish to be quiet.” She glanced at Second. “Oghul?”
“I’m removing it.” Second tugged on her sleeve. Fabric ripped.
They’d destroyed her jacket…for him. Qulpa gazed at them, unable to find words in his pain-strained brain to express his gratitude.
Second’s gerel turned the sleeve inside out and wrapped the double layer of cloth tightly around Qulpa’s hand. It took all of his strength to remain upright. The pain was excruciating, a thousand daggers slicing through the stubs of what were once his fingers.
“You should be wearing your hand coverings.” Second frowned at his gerel.
“You can find them when you’re looking for Qulpa’s fingers.” She removed the fastener from her hair, used it to secure the fabric. “Search for a medic pack also.” She extracted a mini-pack from her pocket. “I have limited pain inhibitors and—”
“Lead Medic,” Ariq yelled.
“That’s Ariq.” Second glanced in the direction of the warrior’s voice.
Qulpa looked that way also, squinting, trying to focus his eyes. His vision was blurry. His surroundings continued to spin around him
“Qulpa, look at me.” Lead Medic’s curt tone snagged his attention.
He met her gaze. What did she want?
She reached up and touched his forehead. Zondoo. That hurt.
“Are you injured anywhere else?” Her gaze lowered.
“No.” He shook his head. That action was a mistake. Pain coursed through him. He winced. “Go. Treat Ariq.” There was nothing more she could do for him.
“I have to give you pain inhibitors first.” She unwrapped the medic pack. “You—”
“Lead Medic.” Ariq shouted for her again.
“Give me pain inhibitors later.” Qulpa stumbled away from her.
She said to find his fingers. Maybe if he did that, she could reattach them. Maybe he could fly again. Maybe he wouldn’t lose everything that was important to him…again.
Maybe.
“We’re warriors.” That reminder was both for himself and for her. “He wouldn’t call for you unless it was life or death.”
Lead Medic, thankfully, didn’t argue with him. He didn’t have the energy or the clarity of mind for a long discussion.
His fingers, hand coverings, and a medic pack—that was what he was looking for. That was all he could keep in his brain.
Agony flowed through him in waves, breathtakingly severe. It threatened to steal his thoughts. It was an effort to concentrate.
But he had to do that. His future depended on him finding his fingers.
Qulpa rummaged through the wreckage, kicking aside pieces of consoles and fragments of walls. The sun beat down on his bare shoulders.
He located some containers of beverage, set those aside for whoever needed them. The fabric he picked up was soaked with fuel. He discarded it. Lead Medic couldn’t use that to wrap her hands, others’ wounds. It was too soiled.
He drifted by the warriors. They were gathered around Lead Medic and Yesun. According to their chatter, the youth was badly injured.
That was his fault. He’d been the pilot. It was his responsibility to ensure his passengers arrived safely.
But he wouldn’t help Yesun by hovering over him. A medic pack might tip the youth’s odds toward survival. Qulpa continued his search.
There wasn’t much to find. He tripped over a wire, caught himself before he fell. Parts of the bridge were visible. The rest of the ship, where most of the supplies were stored, was missing.
Yesun was hurt, but all of them were fortunate to be alive. Qulpa lifted his right hand, white fabric where his fingers once were. He had to concentrate on that and not on what he had lost or whom he had harmed.
He searched until he couldn’t walk any longer. Then he joined Second and his gerel. Lead Medic’s hands were blistered and bloody.
He sat beside them. “Her fingers almost look as bad as mine.” He held up his right hand.
“Did you find your fingers?” Lead Medic murmured, her voice drowsy.
“No.” He shook his head, having failed in that task.
Pain jabbed into his skull.
“Fuck.” Lead Medic cursed under her breath.
“Yes, fuck.” He met Second’s gaze and his fate directly. “It will be hard to fly a ship with three fingers missing.”
He was a good warrior but he had been a great pilot. That had been his place on his team.
Now, he didn’t know what his role was, whether or not he had a role…anywhere.
“Mechanical fingers.” Lead Medic broke the silence. “They are damn close to the real thing, are as agile but stronger.”
“You’d give me mechanical fingers?” Qulpa lifted his head, a flicker of hope reigniting inside him. Could he fly with those artificial fingers? “You’d do that for me?”
“It’s easy to do.” She sighed. “One of your Chamele medics can do it…if they ever arrive.”
They could do it…or they might decide an older warrior like him wasn’t worth the effort of the operation. “I prefer that you do it.” He knew she’d tackle the procedure, do her best. “You’re the medic I trust.”
Second looked sharply at him.
He’d overstepped his role. “If that is okay with your warrior, of course.” Qulpa hastily corrected his mistake.
“You don’t need anyone else’s permission.” Lead Medic scowled at him. “I take on the patients I want to take on and I want to take you on.”
“Once we replace your lost hand coverings.” Second added that requirement.
“I’ll need the mechanical fingers also.” She tilted her head back and gazed up at the clear blue sky. “Don’t your medics realize response time is critical?”
“It might not yet be safe.” Second defended their medics.
“I’ve seen multiple ships fly by us.” Lead Medic was unimpressed with them. “It’s safe for those beings.”
“They’re warriors,” Second retorted.
“I’m a medic.”
The two of them nattered back and forth. Qulpa looked up at the sky and touched his injured hand. He’d never heard of a pilot with mechanical fingers.
If that was at all possible, he would be the first.
He would fly again.
He had to do that. His jaw jutted. The alternative, to lose his role on the team, to be denied the only task left that he loved, was unthinkable.