He wouldn’t be Raaze the celebrity anymore. He’d be Raaze the Izaean.
And he’d be leading a team of exiles in an exhibition match designed to make the Empire feel benevolent.
Yeah… Look at the monsters playing their little game. Look how well-behaved they are. They haven’t even tried to eat anyone yet.
Every pass, every tackle, every interview would be him signing his name to the lie. Yes, I belong here. Yes, the Council was right. Yes, I am a monster who got lucky.
Trading his freedom for a gold-plated cage and a pat on the head.
Draanth that.
He looked across the pitch. The heat haze danced over the landing pad beyond. The humans were still there. The redhead was moving around the hull of her ship, a small, bright spot of color in the drab landscape.
Plan A was gone. The Prince and his diplomatic immunity were halfway across the sector.
The Summer League was a trap wrapped in a ribbon.
That left the humans.
Raaze’s jaw tightened, and he started down the slope toward the landing pad. Walking away from the pitch toward the only way out he had left. His gaze swept over the three haulers sitting on the baking pad as he walked, assessing them. Heat haze rippled off their hulls, distorting the air like his vision after a bad concussion.
The veteran on the far right was flying a brick of a heavy lifter, scarred and ugly. The pilot was tall, dark hair pulled back tight, and she moved like someone who’d seen the sharp end of things. Raaze had seen her earlier directing the cargo op without breaking a sweat. Competent. Alert. His eyes narrowed. That one was too sharp. She’d spot a hustle before Raaze even opened his mouth.
The middle berth was an older female. Bad knee, favoring the right side. Chronic pain meant distraction, maybe painkillers, but she was arguing with the fueling drone like a drill sergeant. Mean enough to chew through a hull. Also a no.
Then there was the redhead on the end. His attention shifted to her. She was small even for a human female, and plain. Uninteresting.
Hers was the smallest ship. Patchwork repairs that looked like they were held together with spit and prayer. It was easy to see that she’d landed rough as well. And, more importantly for him, she was working alone.
He grinned. She was the gap in the line… The defensive hole he could drive a shuttle through.
Sunlight caught the vibrant fire of her hair, making her impossible to miss against the drab metal of her freighter. She was wrestling with a panel on the hull, her movements jerky. She was focused. Not looking at the pitch.
He grinned. Perfect. She had no idea she was being watched.
Adjusting his tunic, he rolled his shoulders to loosen the tension in his neck. His breathing slowed, and his vision narrowed as he let the peripheral world fall away until there was nothing but the target.
He started down the slope. It wasn’t much of a plan. But it was the only play left on the pitch, and the clock was running out.
The sun blazed down, white and blinding. The heat sucked the moisture right out of her eyes and tasted of dust and hot metal that caught in the back of her throat.
Cait shaded her eyes against the glare and sighed. The ship was listing. Of course, it was listing. The port side landing gear had hit the pad with a groan that had vibrated through her teeth during touchdown, and now the whole vessel was canted three degrees to the left like a drunk.
“Great,” she muttered, wiping a line of sweat from her forehead before it could sting her eyes. “Just freaking great.”
Starting a slow walk around the exterior, she did a visual assessment. The hull plating scorched her palm, and she snatched her hand back quickly. Dammit, it was cooling way too slowly. Tapping a panel near the rear thruster, she winced at the hollow thunk. Something had shifted behind the plating for sure.
She’s a sturdy old girl, her brother had said. Just needs a firm hand.
She snorted. Sturdy her fuc-fudging rear end. The H4-RPY was a heap of scrap held together by patch jobs, spite, and a maintenance schedule that made Fred’s diagnostic subroutines weep. But she’d been the only ship available for the Parac’Norr run.
Atmospheric entry stress exceeded recommended parameters by fourteen percent, a dry voice rasped in her right ear. Fuel consumption during descent was… inefficient. To put it mildly.
That wind shear was at least forty knots, Fred, she thought back. You want to fly it next time, be my guest.
I lack the requisite appendages to throttle the person who calibrated these thrusters, Fred grumped. However, I am logging the desire to do so. Post-flight diagnostic coming through.
Data scrolled down the left side of her vision, a translucent green waterfall of bad news overlaying the landing pad in front of her courtesy of her comms lens. Red flags popped up next to the fuel efficiency markers; there was an amber warning for the hull plating integrity, and a flashing red icon for the port-side landing strut.
