"Prep it."
"Sir, that's royal property. We'd need authorization from?—"
"You have my authorization." Kirr held the officer's gaze. "I'm a War-Commander of the Lathar Empire responding to an emergency situation. Prep the shuttle. Now."
The officer opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at his datapad like it might offer salvation from the seven-foot wall of barely leashed fury standing in front of him.
"That's an order." Kirr's tone made it clear the discussion had ended. "Not a request."
"Yes, War-Commander." The words came out fast. "Right away, sir."
The bay erupted into motion. Officers scattered to their stations, voices rising as they coordinated the prep sequence. Kirr watched them scramble for three seconds, then turned toward the berth where Prince Rohn's shuttle sat gleaming under the work lights.
Kellat fell into step beside him, medical pack slung over one shoulder. "Rohn's going to have words with you about this."
"Let him." Kirr's boots rang against the deck plates. "He'd do the same thing."
"True." Kellat's voice held quiet understanding. No judgment. Just the acceptance of someone who'd seen Kirr operate in crisis mode before and knew better than to suggest he delegate or slow down. "You know the crew is competent. They don't need you to personally verify every system."
Kirr's jaw tightened. He knew. Intellectually, he knew the transport officers were trained professionals who could prep a shuttle in their sleep. But his hands were already reaching for the external panel before conscious thought caught up, fingers moving over the diagnostic display with practiced efficiency.
Primary systems: green. Backup power: green. Life support: green. Navigation: green.
He moved to the next panel.
Kellat waited at the base of the boarding ramp, silent. Patient. The kind of patience that came from friendship and shared history—from knowing that telling Kirr to trust the crew's work would be as effective as telling him to stop breathing.
Fuel cells: optimal. Engine status: nominal. Hull integrity: verified.
Kirr circled the shuttle, checking every external system personally. His fingers left faint marks on the polished hull where he tested panel seals. The night shift crew had done good work. He'd known they would. But the knot in his chest wouldn't ease until he'd confirmed it himself, until every variable was accounted for, until he'd eliminated every possible point of failure.
He mounted the boarding ramp. The shuttle's interior smelled like leather and the expensive cleaning products reserved for royal vessels. Plush seating. Polished controls. Rohn's personal touch in every detail.
He slid into the pilot's seat and his hands moved over the control panel, running through pre-flight checks with the muscle memory of a thousand launches. Behind him, Kellat secured his medical equipment and strapped in without comment.
The transport officer's voice crackled through the comm. "War-Commander, shuttle is cleared for departure. Bay doors opening now."
"Acknowledged." Kirr's fingers danced over the controls, bringing engines online. The shuttle hummed to life around them, systems engaging with smooth precision. Eight minutes from arrival in the bay to launch clearance. Not ideal. But acceptable.
The bay doors slid open with a groan of massive hydraulics, revealing the star-scattered black beyond. Earth hung in the viewport—blue and white and deceptively peaceful from orbit.
Somewhere down there, females were dying.
Kirr's hands tightened on the controls and he pushed the shuttle through the opening, leaving Devan Station's artificial gravity behind. The transition to freefall lasted three seconds before he engaged the inertial dampeners and angled toward Earth's upper atmosphere.
"You want to review the transmission again?" Kellat's voice came quiet from behind him.
"Display it."
The holographic screen materialized between them, text scrolling past in the fragmentary mess that passed for emergency intelligence. Multiple females. Critical condition. Underground facility. The coordinates were there but imprecise—a general area covering several square kilometers of Earth's surface rather than an exact location.
Kirr committed every detail to memory even though he'd already read it four times. Unknown number of casualties. Unknown cause of injuries. Unknown if this was accident or attack. Too many unknowns. His hands wanted to clench on the controls, but he kept them steady, guiding the shuttle into Earth's atmosphere with the kind of precision that came from refusing to let anything be out of his control.
The hull temperature climbed as friction built against their descent. Red warnings flickered across the display—normal atmospheric entry parameters, nothing that required intervention. Kirr monitored them anyway, watching numbers scroll past while his mind ran tactical scenarios.
Best case: mechanical accident, injuries treatable, females stable enough for transport to station medical. Worst case: deliberate attack, multiple fatalities, hostiles still on scene.
His jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
