I want to argue. Want to tell her that accepting Thek-Ka’s terms would keep her safe, would mean she could walk away from this with her life intact even if I fall in combat. But through our bond, I feel her absolute conviction—trying to convince her to abandon me now would be like trying to convince a star to stop burning.
“Look at him,” she continues, her engineer’s mind already analyzing our opponent even as her heart rejects any possibility of separation. “His ship’s damaged. He’s exhausted. He pushed through that asteroid field on sheer determination, which means he’s operating on pride, stimulants, and possibly prayer.”
She’s right. My enhanced vision picks out the details she’s cataloging—emergency repairs visible as patches of different-colored hull plating, the way his ship moved with subtle asymmetry suggesting thruster damage, the stress fractures running along his primary hull that speak of catastrophic decompression events survived through luck and stubbornness.
“Which means he’s not at full strength,” Zola concludes, her engineer’s mind already calculating the implications. “But he’s too proud to admit it, which is why he’s pushing for immediate confrontation rather than taking time to repair and recover.”
The tactical picture becomes clearer by the moment. This isn’t just about honor anymore—it’s about Thek-Ka’s need to end this before his injuries become a decisive disadvantage. He’s gambling everything on one final confrontation, hoping his reputation and experience will overcome the damage he’s sustained.
“We can do this,” she says, turning in my arms to face me fully, her green eyes blazing with determination that takes my breath away. “Not you alone—us together. The way we flew through the asteroid field, the way we coordinate naturally. You fight him, I provide tactical support through the bond.”
The plan has merit, but there’s a problem. “If he detects outside interference,” I say carefully, thinking through the honor implications, “he could declare the challenge void. Single combat means exactly that—one warrior against another. If he realizes I’m getting tactical support...”
“He won’t detect it,” Zola interrupts, her engineer’s mind already three steps ahead of my concern. “Think about it, Crash. It’s not radio chatter. It’s not external communication. It’s us. It’s the bond. Unless he can scan telepathy—and Exoscarabs can’t—it’s just you fighting with better instincts.”
She’s right. The bond isn’t external interference; it’s part of what we are now. It’s no different than fighting with enhanced reflexes or superior training. The pheromones that changed us are permanent, biological, internal. From Thek-Ka’s perspective, I’ll simply be fighting at peak efficiency.
“It’s a gray area,” I admit, feeling slightly better about the ethical implications.
“It’s smart tactics,” she corrects. “And if he’s taking combat stimulants like KiKi suspects, we’re just leveling the playing field.”
She has a point. But the plan also means putting her at risk. If the bond feedback overwhelms her during combat, if something goes wrong, if Thek-Ka somehow does detect our coordination and decides to target her instead of me...
“If something goes wrong,” I begin, but she cuts me off with a kiss that tastes like courage and determination.
“Then we figure it out together,” she says against my lips. “I’m not going anywhere, Crash. We’re partners, which means we face everything together. Including homicidal alien honor duels with vengeful Exoscarab warriors.”
Despite the desperate situation, I find myself smiling at her matter-of-fact tone. “You realize you’re volunteering to be my corner woman in a gladiatorial death match?”
“I’ve had worse assignments,” she replies with a grin that doesn’t quite hide her worry. “At least this time I won’t have to file paperwork afterward. Though KiKi will probably want a full tactical analysis for her databases.”
From the ventilation system comes a nervous warbling sound that manages to convey both anxiety and determination—Jitters expressing his feelings about our conversation. A moment later, his opalescent form drops from a ceiling grate, landing on the console in a quivering mass of rapidly shifting colors.
The little shapeshifter cycles through his entire emotional spectrum—deep red anxiety, orange distress, muddy brown fear—before finally settling on a determined shade of gold that I recognize as his version of courage. He forms himself into something approximating a salute, then bounces once before retreating to what he apparently considers a safe distance.
“Even Jitters agrees,” Zola says fondly, reaching out to touch the blob creature’s surface with gentle fingers. “We do this together.”
“Actually,” KiKi’s voice interjects cheerfully, “I’ve been analyzing the tactical situation and I have several observations that might prove useful. First, Thek-Ka’s ship shows signs of atmospheric recycling stress that suggests reduced oxygen efficiency—his combat endurance will be compromised. Second, his weapons systems appear to be operating at seventy-three percent capacity due to power grid damage from asteroid impacts. Third, there’s a forty-seven percent chance he’s operating under the influence of combat stimulants, which will affect his judgment but increase his aggression and pain tolerance.”
“Compile a full threat assessment,” I reply, feeling hope kindle in my chest for the first time since Thek-Ka appeared on our sensors. “And calculate optimal engagement ranges based on his current condition versus my enhanced reflexes.”
“Delighted to help! I should also mention that bonded pair combat coordination is theoretically possible but has never been successfully documented in actual gladiatorial records. You’ll be pioneering an entirely new field of combat science! How exciting! I’ve already begun drafting research papers for submission to seventy different military journals!”
The communication array crackles to life again, this time carrying Thek-Ka’s voice with renewed formality and what might be grudging respect for our decision to face him together rather than accept his offer of mercy.
“Have you reached a decision, Golden Viper?”
I look at Zola, taking in her fierce determination, her absolute conviction that we’re stronger together than apart, her brilliant mind already working on tactical solutions to problems I haven’t even considered yet. The bond carries her love, her trust, herunshakeable belief that we can overcome anything as long as we face it together.
“Yes,” I reply, triggering the transmission while pulling her closer against my chest. “I accept your challenge, Thek-Ka. Single combat in open space, with terms as stated.”
“Excellent.” There’s satisfaction in the Exoscarab’s voice, but also something that might be respect for our decision to face him as partners rather than accept the safety he offered. “The quarantine zone extends to ten thousand kilometers from the station. We will meet at the boundary, where space is clear and the contest will be witnessed by all.”
“Understood.” I pause, then add something that’s been bothering me since this chase began. “Thek-Ka. Why this? Why three years of pursuit for a match that was interrupted by forces beyond our control?”
The alien warrior is silent for a long moment, and when he responds, his voice carries the weight of cultural traditions that stretch back millennia. “Because, Golden Viper, some battles must be finished. Not for glory, not for victory, but because the honor of two warriors demands completion. You understand this, or you would not have survived the fighting pits long enough to earn your reputation.”
He’s right, and we both know it. This was never about anger or revenge—it was about two fighters who were denied the chance to test themselves against each other, to find out who was truly superior when stripped of everything but skill and determination.
