The emergency exit releases with a hiss, and humid air floods in, thick with moisture and the smell of growing things underlaid with something rank and predatory. Ursuris Prime in all its hostile glory.
The trees tower overhead, bark pulsing with bioluminescence that casts shifting patterns across the undergrowth. The leaves track my movement, turning to follow me with an awareness that plants should not have. Purple rain stings where it hits bare skin; not enough to burn, but enough to warn that prolonged exposure would be a problem.
And the sounds. Screams in the distance, high and terrible. Roars that vibrate through the ground. Chittering from too many directions at once, like the jungle itself is deciding whether I look edible.
The emergency beacon comes out of the kit. Activation stud pressed. Nothing. Pressed again. The display flickers once, spits an error, dies.
No. No, no, no. My fingers work the housing, checking connections, checking power cells, doing the thing I've done since I was old enough to hold a circuit tester on the mining station where keeping equipment alive was all that stood between us and vacuum. The beacon is dead. The connections are fried. Not a loose wire, not a bad cell. Crash damage, deep and structural.
Something crashes through the undergrowth to my left. Something big.
The beacon drops from my fingers. My boots are already moving, carrying me into the jungle with no plan beyond away. Branches whip at my face. Roots grab at my ankles. The purple rain makes everything slick, and within minutes I'm panting and completely turned around.
Behind me, the crashing gets closer. Not one source. Multiple, moving in coordination, herding from different angles. Pack hunters. Efficient ones.
A glance over my shoulder, trying to gauge distance, and my body slams into something solid, warm, and taller than any tree.
Large hands catch my shoulders before I hit the ground. My gaze travels up. And up.
Gold eyes. Vertical pupils. A face all sharp angles and emerald skin, darker jade markings shifting beneath the surface in patterns that pulse with dim bioluminescent light. But cutting across those natural markings are harsh electric blue lines, circuit traceries that glow cold and artificial against his skin. Two swept-back black horns curve from his temples. The hands on my shoulders are careful, controlled, claws retracted but visible at the tips of his fingers.
Seven feet of something that looks built to kill, holding me upright with the kind of restraint that costs effort.
"Varkaani," I breathe.
His gold eyes narrow. No greeting, no introduction. He listens to the jungle behind me for half a second, then lifts me clean off my feet and moves.
Fast. Inhumanly fast, toward a massive root system that creates a natural cave in the jungle floor. Protests die in my throat because the crashing behind us is close now, close enough to hear individual footfalls, and whatever instinct overrides my dignity is screaming that this stranger is currently the better option.
The root cave is barely large enough for his frame. With both of us inside, his body presses against mine, solid muscle radiating heat that cuts through the jungle's damp chill. One hand settles over my mouth. Not pressure. Readiness.
"Silence." The word vibrates through his chest and into mine, bass with harmonic undertones. "They hunt."
His heartbeat thuds steady and strong against my back. Mine hammers so hard I'm sure it's audible. Through gaps in the roots, massive shapes circle our position; scales gleaming purple-black in the rain, claws gouging the earth. The predators that were herding me. They know we're here.
One pauses directly outside the shelter, close enough that the rows of teeth are visible when it opens its maw to taste the air. Its head swings toward the root cave.
The Varkaani's hand tightens fractionally over my mouth. A reminder.
Above us, a new sound cuts through the rain. The whine of engines. Drones, moving in systematic search patterns, scanning beams slicing through the canopy in precise geometric sweeps.
Every muscle in the Varkaani's body goes rigid. His markings pulse from dim jade to near-black beneath those blue circuit traceries, and a growl builds in his chest before he kills it.
"Patrol," he whispers. Barely audible over my own heartbeat. "Searching."
The drones pass overhead. One, two, three, moving in coordinated patterns that speak of practice and persistence. The predators outside shift nervously, caught between the prey they've cornered and the threat from above.
The drones circle back. Tighter sweep.
"Thermal scanners," the Varkaani breathes. "They'll detect us."
"Can we run?" Against his palm, the words come out muffled.
Those gold eyes meet mine in the dim light filtering through the roots. Up close, faint scars cut through the jade markings on his face, pale disruptions in the emerald skin. "The hunters outside will hear us before three steps. The drones will track us before ten."
Trapped. Predators below, corporate retrieval drones above, and the escaped gladiator Mother warned me about pressed against me in a space too small for breathing.
One of the predators releases a hunting call, high and keening. The others answer.
