~ OFFICIAL DOCUMENT ~
Galactic Strike Wing
Discharge Record #12234-P1
Subject: Commander Zayn Phoenix
Following the recommendation of the Medical Corps, it is my disappointing task to grant Commander Zayn Phoenix discharge at his request. He has been an invaluable member of the Strike Wing under my command. I have watched his natural talent for piloting develop since his days in the Academy. If there was ever a man born to be in the Wing and pilot the TH47 Talon, it is Phoenix.
There is no doubting his skill at the cockpit controls or his bravery in battle, but he has not recovered since the regrettable incidents on Lucifa in the Devil’s Nebula. I sincerely hope that civilian life grants him the peace he seeks.
Admiral M.N. Corvin
~ END DOCUMENT ~
CHAPTER ONE
One wrong touch of the controls and he’d be dead.
Zayn Phoenix handled the flight-pod’s controls with the lightest touch. It was experience—years of it—but also gut instinct and nerves. For him, flying had never been about pushing button A, or pulling lever B. It was a passion.
Watching the map on the tiny viewscreen, he saw a turn coming up. He didn’t tense, stayed relaxed, but his concentration was fierce. Maneuvering a pod barely big enough for his body through the tight twists and turns of a space station’s ventilation system wasn’t something he did every day.
He waited, watching the small red blip that showed his pod’s location on the screen, and when it reached the right spot, he tilted the tiny joystick. The pod responded, turned hard to the left, and sped down another vent shaft. His end goal, marked on the map with a giant blue cross, wasn’t far ahead.
“Hey, flyboy. You there yet?”
The voice came through his nano-earpiece loud and clear. Like his brother was seated right next to him. Except there wasn’t an inch of space in the pod for Dathan to squeeze his muscled body in.
“Remember I said I needed complete concentration while flying this thing?” Zayn muttered.
“Yeah. So, are you there yet?”
Zayn rolled his eyes. “Nearly.”
“I want that crown, Zayn.” The new voice was a shade deeper than Dathan’s and held its usual serious edge. “Darc’s been after it for months. I want it.”
“I’ll get your bloody crown. Now, shut up.” Zayn frowned. His oldest brother Niklas’ obsession with their rival treasure hunter left him worried. They’d all had their asses handed to them by the lethal woman numerous times. Nera Darc was emotionless and deadly. Nik and Darc had a dangerous relationship of one-upping each other, which was going to get one of them killed before long. Zayn just wanted to make sure it was Darc, and not Nik who got hurt.
He turned his focus back to the controls. They’d been planning this hunt for weeks. Vand Braxx had spent more than a few nights boasting about his purchase of the Crown of the Consorts. The Old Earth treasure was coveted and valuable. Braxx, on the other hand, was scum. His private space station was a haven for thieves, thugs, and anyone interested in shady activity of the less-than-legal variety.
The Phoenix brothers, therefore, didn’t feel an ounce of remorse of relieving him of his latest treasure.
Not that they’d sell it for full price. Since Dathan had up and married an upstanding astro-archeologist, they were suddenly donating a lot of the treasure they hunted to museums. Zayn grinned. They still gladly accepted the finder’s fees, though. And he quite liked having Eos around. She’d smoothed out some of Dathan’s ragged edges—he’d had quite a few—and her insane smarts and knowledge made planning their hunts a hell of a lot easier.
Zayn palmed the controls and the pod dipped, flying downward through yet another vent. He enjoyed the sensation of falling.
And going fast.
He’d always loved speed, but in the last few years, he’d developed an addiction for it.
Going fast meant the bad memories couldn’t catch you.
All too soon, he brought the pod to a gut-churning stop. “I’m at the location. Exiting pod. Radio silence ’til I’m back.”
“Good luck, Zayn. Be careful.” Eos’ softer, cultured voice whispered in his ear.
The door opened with a hiss. “Thanks, babe.” Zayn pulled himself out of the pod and stepped onto the metal grate of a maintenance platform. He glanced upward. The hatch into the station was eight meters above his head. His boots were made of synth-leather, silky soft and great for sneaking around. The magnetic soles were also pretty damn useful.
