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Chapter Two

S irius

“We’ll be transporting you to the surface momentarily,” the first mate says. “You’ll have ten minimas before the hunting party arrives. No one will be monitoring the hunt. There are no rules. The only thing in your favor is they’ve paid a great deal of money for this opportunity. My hunch is they won’t use their long-range weapons at first. Why spend good credits and travel to this primitive planet at the end of the galaxy only to kill you in a minima ?” He shrugs.

“We’ll be taking our payment and going on about our business. Expect no help from us.” He walks away, then turns back. “May the Gods be with you,” he throws in as an afterthought.

In a few modicums, I’m on the surface of the planet. My brain kicks into high gear, my synapses firing at lightning speed. I instantly assess the environment. I believe it’s just after sunrise. The light is brilliant. The temperature is cool, but not cold. I smell no large predators nearby.

I’m on a savanna—flat rolling plains with tall grasses almost as far as the eye can see. In the distance are mountainous forestlands that will provide cover and perhaps natural weapons. I run in that direction.

My body is built for speed and stamina. I’ll need it—they’ll have long-range laser weapons. I don’t believe the first mate’s assertion that they won’t kill me immediately. They came a long way and paid a lot of money for a trophy. A picture of my mounted head—mismatched eyes lifeless, mouth open, sharp canines glistening with artificial saliva—pops into my mind.

I turn my attention to the task at hand—reaching the relative safety of the trees in the distance. It’s been perhaps three minimas , not the ten I was promised, when I hear the hunting party rustling in the tall grass behind me.

Dropping to all fours, I dart right and then left to make it harder for them to follow my movements. My canine DNA is an advantage. When I run on four legs, I’m low enough to be obscured from watchful eyes by the high grass. If they’re observant, they might see the green grass rustling around me, giving away my location.

My heart pumps rapidly. Even though I’m racing, clearly on defense mode, my mind is analyzing information like the swiftest computer, anticipating what I can do once I reach the cover of trees.

The whine and whoosh of laser fire assail my ears a moment before a volley bursts about twenty fiertos away. The ground trembles beneath my bare feet. I seize the energy deep inside me and put on more speed than I thought possible. I can’t poke my head up to determine my bearings or it will be blasted off. I keep aiming toward the mountains, hoping I haven’t accidentally changed course.

Their laser blasts are coming steadily now. The closest random explosion hits a mere ten fiertos away. The acrid smell of charred vegetation assails my nostrils. Their shouted curses carry on the air, then I hear the unmistakable deep hum of a hovercraft motor. My eyes flare in terror as I realize they’ll be on top of me in modicums .

My muscles quiver in pain. I’ve been running four-legged for over a mille . I’m panting, breathing in huge gulps of air. My heart is beating so fast and loud I wonder if the hunting party can hear it. All I can do is race to the imagined protection of the mountains.

The ground begins to slope upward, and the humidity increases because of the thick vegetation under the dense canopy of trees. I stand, still running, never missing a step, and enter a forest filled with towering trees. Their maroon bark and burgundy leaves lend an eerie cast to the sunlight.

I need to find a weapon and a hiding place. For the first moment since this started, I believe I might escape this alive. If I can pick them off one at a time using every skill I possess, I could kill them all.

Spying an ideal club on the ground, I snag it and keep running. It’s an old tree root—long and slim, with an uneven ball at the end. It’s weighty in my hand as I keep running, looking for the perfect tree to climb.

I find a tall tree with easy footholds and am thirty fiertos off the ground in modicums , the heavy club clenched between my molars.

When people see me, they’re aware of my canine DNA, but it’s my feline DNA that helps me climb and gives me almost-perfect night vision. I hope I don’t need my night vision today. One way or the other, I hope this is over long before dusk.

I peek through the thick foliage as a hovercraft carrying three of them lands near the tree line. The males are humanoid with fat faces, porcine snouts, and tusks thrusting up from their bottom jaws. They remind me of the slaver who slapped his pain-kill collar around my neck after my escape from the Feds. He was a brutal sadist who treated me so poorly I almost died of starvation.

The other seven Galerians are beating through the thick, green grasses of the savanna. They’re well-armed and organized, about ten fiertos apart, heads tilted downward. Do they think they might have shot me? Are they looking for my body?

A stroke of luck. The three from the hovercraft have spread out about twenty fiertos from each other and only occasionally glance into the trees. I’m so high up and so well concealed they’ll never see me.

My distance above the ground, although it keeps me well hidden, will make it hard to jump to the ground without detection. It will hurt like drack and I’ll rustle branches on my way down, alerting the Galerians below. However, there’s no other choice if I want to kill them before they kill me.

With perfect timing, I jump from my hidden limb through the branches below and land on top of one of them. He grunts as I crash down on him, possibly alerting his comrades. To kill him, I perform the quickest, quietest maneuver I can—twisting his neck, severing his spinal cord before he can sound an alarm.

I sling his laser rifle over my shoulder and scramble up another tree, not wanting to risk the time it will take to run farther into the forest. A few minimas later, I hear increasingly excited chatter drift upward from the dead male’s comm—his comrades must have noticed he’s gone silent.

It’s hard to believe these males paid good credits to hunt humanoid game—they don’t seem to be seasoned warriors. The dead male’s two companions come crashing to their fallen friend’s aid and stand under the very tree in which I’m hiding thirty fiertos above their heads.

I debate whether I should just use the laser rifle on them, but their seven friends would immediately find, surround, and kill me—after they finish torturing me.

I picture every move I’m about to perform, then launch into action as I jump down between and behind them. My enhanced nervous system takes over, almost bypassing conscious thought, utilizing my lightning-quick reflexes.

I slam their skulls together so hard they both lose consciousness. Sliding a knife out of one of their boots, I slit first one throat and then another. My adrenaline is pumping so fast and my strength is so prodigious I slice all the way through their necks to their spinal columns, creating a macabre, red “smile” four inces below their mouths.

It takes only modicums to remove one of their utility belts and fasten it around my waist. I run on silent feet farther into the forest and perch on a perfect limb in a tall tree before the seven males beating the tall grasses realize none of their three friends are responding to their comms.

I take swift inventory of my possessions: one fully charged laser rifle, one extra power pack, one twelve- ince hunting knife, one comm, and a pouch with nutrition bars and a canteen of water. I remove the pouch while shaking my head. It’s ridiculous to take food and water on a quick hunt like this when speed is more important than comfort.

My sharp gaze darts through the foliage, keeping track of all seven hunters. If I’m smart, I’ll use the butt of the rifle as a club for the next several kills. If I use my laser, they’ll know my location and start shooting. I’ll be reduced to ash along with this entire tree.

I throw the pouch about fifty fiertos further into the woods where it makes its noisy descent through the branches, then hits the ground with a soft thud.

Two Galerians lumber toward the source of the commotion, separating from their comrades. I leap and silently grab the limb above my head. It’s only as thick around as my bicep, but it holds my weight.

Climbing in the direction of the two isolated males, I move hand over hand toward them. Just before the thin, flexible end of the branch breaks from my weight, I leap to the neighboring tree.

Scrambling closer to my enemies, I climb from branch to branch until I’m hanging directly over one of them. I fall to the ground behind him, grab him by his hair and chin, and instantly snap his neck.

His friend thunders toward him, glances over and sees me. As our eyes meet, every iota of my animal DNA comes alive. I shove the fact that this is a sentient being into the back of my mind. It’s kill or be killed.

Gripping my knife handle, I throw it with precision into the male’s heart. His legs crumble beneath him and he noiselessly falls to the forest floor.

Every cell in my body, every thought in my mind, focuses on self-preservation.

The five remaining Galerians are spread out among the trees, systematically searching for me. It takes one modicum to visually play out my next ten moves, then I perform the macabre dance I just imagined in my mind.

I isolate one at a time, slicing or stabbing, then move to the next and the next until all of them are dead.

I climb a tree and wait long minimas to see if others come to their aid. I’ve never killed before. My training began at birth and continued until the day I escaped. I sparred and practiced, but until ten minimas ago, I’d never taken a life.

It’s good I have no emotions. Someone with a heart would experience remorse or sadness at a time like this.

Although an hoara ago I was ready to face my death, I place all my focus on remaining alive.

The Federation first mate told me they were speeding off toward more civilized planets—they aren’t coming to collect me. Between the Federation ship’s cloaking device and its immediate jolt into hyperspace after I was transported aboard, there’s no way the Lazy Slacker will be able to find me, even with the tracker the doctor inserted under my skin. No device has a range this far.

No help is coming for me. This is nothing new. I’ve been alone and on my own with no one to care whether I live or die since I was born—or hatched as the Federation guards used to taunt.

And the hunting party? The Galerians could have all beamed down and left their unmanned ship orbiting the planet. Or they could still have comrades up there who will come looking for them—and me—perhaps soon.

I need to hurry as far from this carnage as possible. Whatever the threat, whether it’s more Galerians, hostile aliens from Nativus, or carnivorous wildlife on this planet, I need to find shelter. There’s no refuge on the savanna. I’d be completely exposed. I need to seek cover in the woods.

I climb down and rummage through all ten males’ belongings. I pull on clothes, socks, and sturdy boots from one of the dead. After snapping my utility belt on, I add one of their comms, some lighters, nutrition bars, and fuel canisters.

The sun isn’t even high in the sky yet. Before nightfall, I need to put as much distance as possible between me and this killing site.

I ’ve alternated running and walking and have traveled maybe sixty milles from the dead Galerians. The terrain has changed from thick woods to tree-dotted mountain meadows. I saw a cave a few milles back that might have been an excellent place to make camp, but I wanted to travel farther from the dead bodies.

I’ve seen no sign of hovercraft, nor have I heard anything on the dead male’s comm.

There’s ample wildlife on this planet. I’ve spotted numerous small mammals that will provide a never-ending supply of food once I fashion a bow and arrows. I’ll survive nicely on nutrition bars until I settle in.

Leaving the cover of trees, I’m in a small, open mountain meadow. I slow down and tilt my head to the sun, soaking in the warmth and noticing the perfect blue of the sky.

This suicide mission might prove to be a stroke of luck. Nativus is beautiful, the game is plentiful, and there appear to be no large natural predators. If I can find a cave near a stream, I could thrive here.

I hear a growl behind me and whirl around to see a pack of four-leggeds traveling fast, loping toward me. Their wicked fangs flash white as they surround me.

I slip the laser rifle from my shoulder and spray as many of the threatening, brown-and-tan spotted beasts as I can. Ten more converge on me from a copse of trees to my right.

I laser the newcomers, only to see more taking their places. What kind of animals are these? They’re cunning and well organized. Powerful jaws flash wicked, snarling teeth. Their shoulders are so thickly muscled, their backs slope downward to their powerful hips. They’re natural killing machines.

Other humanoids’ hearts would hammer in their chests, fear would race along every nerve and synapse. I simply narrow my attention and focus on survival.

By the time I slam a new canister into the gun, I’m completely surrounded by about twenty snarling, jaw-snapping creatures.

Pivoting in a quick circle, I shoot a continuous burst of laser fire. After one complete rotation, there are about ten predators remaining. Without a moment’s hesitation, they pounce.

I press the trigger again, repeating my earlier maneuver, spraying deadly laser fire in an arc until I run out of ammo. Many are dead, but before I can reload, there are three hissing, spitting, ugly beasts bounding toward me.

Aliyah

The eerie hum of laser fire awakens memories from many winters ago and chills the marrow in my bones. Crouching low, I nock an arrow in my bow and creep toward the edge of the forest.

There’s a male in the meadow using a firestick. He’s killing a pride of mam’non beasts. The stranger must smell delicious to them. I’ve never seen so many attack at once.

He’s wearing clothes covering his chest and legs. His long, dark hair falls down his back in waves. He’s short, only six hands taller than me. He’s fierce and foreign and… beautiful.

His weapon is so powerful I press my back against a tree to ensure he doesn’t see me and mistake me for a threat. I’m not fearful for him—his weapon will kill all of the mangy mam’non in the work of a moment. I’m fearful for myself. He’s the enemy. If he sees me, he’ll certainly aim that firestick at me and shoot me dead. My heart thumps loudly in my chest, my hands tighten around my bow.

The situation shifts instantly when he stops firing his weapon, then turns it in his hands and uses it as a club, swinging it at the remaining mam’non . The largest of the three pounces and the male cracks it on the nose with the weapon. Yowling in pain, it continues its forward motion—fangs bared—aimed at the male’s throat.

As the male beats the animal with his weapon, I leap from my hiding place and let fly an arrow that pierces one of the two watching beasts in the throat. I let a second arrow loose, puncturing the other spectator in the flank. He staggers but isn’t mortally wounded. He turns to me, looking for the source of his pain, giving me better access to his throat. I shoot him again, felling him instantly.

I run toward the life-and-death struggle in the meadow. The one remaining mam’non is lunging at the male’s throat, while the stranger chokes the beast, his arms fully extended, keeping those sharp, snapping teeth a few fingers breadth from his face. The animal gives a high-pitched yip as the male squeezes the mam’non’s neck more tightly. The two are so close to each other, so tightly entwined, I don’t have a good shot at the beast.

As the mam’non’s powerful jaw eases closer to the male’s throat, the male ducks his head, pivots, and bites the mam’non’s throat. The beast yelps and scrambles to pull away, but the male’s jaw grips him firmly.

My arrow’s nocked and aimed. I’m waiting for an opening to let it fly. The mam’non is in pain and enraged. He twists and gains purchase with his back feet solidly on the ground. His front claws paw the male’s abdomen.

This gives me the perfect opportunity to shoot the beast. Three shots, one after the other—one to the flank, one to the shoulder, and a final perfect shot through its eye when it turns to see his attacker—me.

I run through the carnage in the tree-circled meadow, making certain every beast is dead, then reach the male’s side, not believing any two-legged being could live through such damage to his stomach.

His head is lolled at an odd angle, his eyes are closed, his skin is paler than when I observed him from the safety of the trees. But he still breathes!

The smell of the slaughter will attract every carnivore in the valley. It’s dusk. Nocturnal animals love to hunt this time of day. We have to leave immediately.

I pull my knife, squat at the beast’s side, and skin him quickly. Placing the bloody side of the hide on the grass, I pull the male on top of the spotted fur. Quickly cutting a chunk of meat from the animal’s haunch, I throw it on the male’s chest, grab the hide’s edges, and hurry toward my cave.

The male may be small, but he’s heavy and hard to pull, even using the hide as a skid. It will be even more difficult when we’re off the grass and traveling over dirt and root-knotted terrain in the forest. In order to move him, I’m bent over, pulling the edges of the hide, scurrying backward and dragging dead weight.

I stop from time to time, assessing the environment and our safety as well as gasping from exertion. I have time for few breaks—I need to reach the relative safety of the cave before full dark.

Every so often, the male moans, probably when I drag him over uneven rocks and his head thumps on something hard. At least those noises reveal he’s still alive.

For a while, the hide left a red trail behind us, but that was scraped off on the grass. Between the stranger’s exposed entrails, the chunk of meat, and the hide, I’m certain we still smell like blood. We can’t arrive at the cave soon enough. I fear we’ll attract the attention of brantin beasts who are larger and more deadly than mam’non .

Even if my eyes didn’t notice, the noises of the forest tell me it’s dusk. The small, scarlet ernock birds call to each other high in the trees. The light has almost disappeared. The shadows are long. The air is cooler and laced with humidity. Luckily, we’re almost there.

I breathe out in a huff through my lips and shake my head. I have no idea how I’m going to haul him the last bit of the way. I can’t bring the bloody hide so close to the safety of my cave.

“Stay strong, Aliyah,” I whisper. “You can do anything you put your mind to,” I repeat the words my Poppa has told me so many times.

The male’s clothes are saturated with blood—both his own and the mam’non’s . I cut them off and toss them on the hide. I’ll dispose of them in a few moments.

I know I should hurry. The sun is dropping like a rock, but I can’t tear my eyes from his tanned flesh. His powerful shoulders are wide and taper to a slim waist. His muscular thighs look strong enough to run all day. His body carries no extra fat, so I can see every sinew and tendon under his unusual skin. My fingers itch to touch the striped, furred patches on his flanks and back.

His face is peaceful. The nose, jaw, and cheekbones resemble mine, unlike the people of my tribe. His teeth were pointed and sharp—I saw that in the meadow. I shiver, thinking of this male’s powerful jaws as he engaged in a life and death struggle, biting the mam’non’s throat.

“Hurry,” I scold myself. I need to get him inside the cave. It’s more defensible than out here in the open.

Stepping behind his head, I lean down, slide my arms up to my elbows under his armpits, and heave him to a seated position. I scoot in front of him, lean down, and hoist him onto my shoulder. I grunt under his massive weight as I struggle to a standing position.

This is so physically taxing tears squeeze from my eyes, but I lumber to the mouth of the cave, teeth gritted against the pain. I make my way to the side wall where my bed of furs awaits, then ease him off my shoulder and onto the soft pile.

One quick check that he’s still breathing, and I run back to the ruined skin several hundred paces ahead. I grab the pelt and his dirty clothes, then hurry with the filthy bundle far from the mouth of my cave. I dump it, hoping it attracts every predator within sniffing distance—it will keep them away from us.

I quickly complete other necessary tasks: I gather fresh water, add wood to the embers I kept warm throughout the day, and throw the chunk of mam’non into a rawhide bag hanging over the fire. It will make a fine broth.

After using the gourd dipper to trickle water into the male’s mouth, I hurry to the nearby stream once more, with only moonlight to guide me. Nocturnal animals are enjoying their first drink of the day. We pose no threat to each other, so I take a quick dip in the chilly water.

Back on the bank, I pluck more of the huge, flexible leaves I use for clothes, and swiftly fashion my covering. I pick more so I can wash the male before I assess the extent of his injuries.

I was bent over him the entire journey from the meadow to my cave. I had the opportunity to see his injuries from a close distance. The mam’non claws cut deep and definitely tore open his stomach.

I’ve seen two tribesmen suffer grave wounds to the abdomen—both injuries far less severe than this male’s—and they quickly succumbed to their trauma. Attempting to heal this male is a fool’s errand.