“One hour,” Thek-Ka concludes. “Use it wisely.”
The transmission ends, leaving us with precious little time to prepare for a fight that will determine not just our survival, but our future together.
“Right,” Zola says, shifting into full professional mode with the kind of focus that makes my chest heat with pride. “We havesixty minutes to turn our bond into a combat advantage, analyze Thek-Ka’s weaknesses, and figure out how to coordinate during a fight without getting each other killed.”
She pauses, then looks at me with eyes that hold equal parts determination and love. “Any regrets about choosing a safety inspector as your bonded mate?”
“Only one,” I reply, pulling her close for what might be our last peaceful moment together. “I wish I’d met you sooner.”
Her kiss tastes like courage and determination, with an undertone of fear that she’s trying to hide for my sake. But through what bound us together, I feel her absolute conviction that we’ll face whatever comes next together—and for the first time since Thek-Ka appeared on our sensors, I begin to believe we might actually survive this.
After all, we’ve already accomplished the impossible once today. How hard could it be to do it again?
14
For Honor
Crash
Thechronometerhitszero.
The longest hour of my life—spent checking weapon seals, running system diagnostics, and trying not to feel Zola's fear bleeding through our bond—is finally over. No more preparation. No more delays. Just the cold certainty of combat and the question of whether I'm still the warrior I used to be.
Or if I want to be.
The quarantine zone stretches before us like an arena carved from starlight and death—twisted metal debris from the station's outer ring floating in perfect, deadly silence. Six Kallos Station Frontier Defense ships hold position at the perimeter, their weapons powered but holding fire. Even they understand: this is about honor now, not jurisdiction.
Thek-Ka's massive warship hangs in the void like a wounded apex predator. Hull plates hang loose where asteroid impacts found their mark, and atmospheric venting creates brief, crystalline clouds that catch the system's twin suns. But the ship still radiates menace, and somewhere inside that metal tomb, three years of obsession waits to be satisfied.
"Biometric readings show he's operating on combat stimulants," Zola's voice comes through our private comm channel, steady despite the pulse hammering through our shard thread. "Adrenaline enhancers, probably pain suppressors. His reaction time will be artificially accelerated, but his judgment—"
"Will be compromised," I finish, checking the seals on my combat environment suit one final time. The armor feels strange after years of courier jumpsuits, but my body remembers the weight, the way the servo-assists respond to thought rather than motion. "How compromised?"
"Difficult to quantify without knowing the specific compounds, but based on atmospheric analysis from his ship's venting..." I feel her mind working through the calculations, that brilliant analytical engine that never ceases to amaze me."Overconfidence. Reduced tactical flexibility. He'll favor direct assault over strategic maneuvering."
The familiar weight of combat knives settles against my thighs, plasma sidearm snug in its holster. My claws flex involuntarily, the retractable titanium-edged weapons that earned me the name Golden Viper sliding from their sheaths with barely a whisper. Three years of pretending to be harmless dulled nothing—if anything, the forced restraint sharpened my edge.
"Crash." Zola's voice carries a note I can't quite identify. Our connection lets me feel her emotional state—fear, yes, but also fierce pride and something that makes my chest tighten with warmth. "Promise me something."
"Anything, zihah'tel."
The Velogian word resonates through our bond, carrying meaning deeper than any standard translation could convey:my breath, my balance, the one who keeps me upright.Through our connection, I feel her sharp intake of air, the way the endearment wraps around her heart like a physical touch.
"Come back to me. Not because you have to, not because the bond compels it. Come back because you choose to."
The words hit me like a physical blow. In all my years in the fighting circuits, no one ever asked me to return for my own sake. Victory, credits, glory—but never just because someone wanted me to survive.
"I promise," I say, and mean it with every fiber of my being. "We do this together, then we go home together."
Together. The word tastes like starlight and possibility.
"Crash," she adds, her voice quieter, almost hesitant. "The distance. We haven't tested the range since... since the claiming."
I pause at the airlock, testing the bond. It feels different now—no longer a frantic, fragile tether that snaps if stretched too thin. Now it feels like a heavy steel cable. Solid. Enduring. The kind ofconnection that could stretch across star systems and still hold true.
"It holds," I assure her, feeling the truth of it in my bones. "It aches, but it holds. The claiming stabilized us. I can feel you perfectly, even through the hull."
Through our thread, I sense her relief mixing with residual worry. The memory of those early attempts—when separation meant agony, when ten feet felt like ten miles—still haunts both of us.
