Chapter 1 #2
"War-Commander." The lead transport officer stepped forward, datapad in hand. Young. Too young to understand that protocol killed people when you let it slow you down. "I'm afraid there's been a complication with—"
"Status." Kirr didn't break stride, moving past the officer toward the ship. He cataloged the problem before the explanation finished—hydraulic fluid pooling beneath the port landing gear, access panels open, tools scattered. Mechanical failure. Draanth.
"Hydraulic system malfunction, sir. The tech crew estimates forty minutes for—"
"Forty minutes." Kirr's voice came out flat. Cold. He turned to face the officer and watched the younger male's posture shift, shoulders straightening. "You're telling me we have females in critical condition on Earth and you want me to wait forty minutes while you follow proper repair protocols?"
The officer's throat worked. "Sir, safety regulations require—"
"I'm aware of safety regulations." Kirr's hands stayed loose at his sides, but his voice dropped lower. Command tone. The one that made warriors who'd faced combat freeze in their tracks. "What ship is ready for immediate launch?"
“My lord, with respect, proper authorization channels need to be—"
"What. Ship."
Silence filled the bay. Even the maintenance crew had stopped working, attention drawn by the shift in atmospheric pressure that happened when Kirr M'Aab ran out of patience.
The officer's fingers moved over his datapad, each tap echoing in the quiet. "Sir, we'd need to pull crew from off-shift rotation, reassign personnel, file emergency override paperwork—"
Kirr moved. Three strides brought him into the officer's space, close enough that the younger male had to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. Close enough that every warrior in the bay saw exactly who held authority here.
"I'll ask one more time." Kirr's voice stayed level. Controlled. The kind of calm that preceded violence. "What ship is ready for immediate launch?"
The datapad trembled slightly in the officer's hands. "Prince Rohn's personal shuttle, sir. It completed routine maintenance this morning and is fully fueled, but—"
"Prep it."
"Sir, that's royal property. We'd need authorization from—"
"You have my authorization." Kirr held the officer's gaze. "I'm a War-Commander of the Lathar Empire responding to an emergency situation. Prep the shuttle. Now."
The officer opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at his datapad like it might offer salvation from the seven-foot wall of barely leashed fury standing in front of him.
"That's an order." Kirr's tone made it clear the discussion had ended. "Not a request."
"Yes, War-Commander." The words came out fast. "Right away, sir."
The bay erupted into motion. Officers scattered to their stations, voices rising as they coordinated the prep sequence. Kirr watched them scramble for three seconds, then turned toward the berth where Prince Rohn's shuttle sat gleaming under the work lights.
Kellat fell into step beside him, medical pack slung over one shoulder. "Rohn's going to have words with you about this."
"Let him." Kirr's boots rang against the deck plates. "He'd do the same thing."
"True." Kellat's voice held quiet understanding. No judgment. Just the acceptance of someone who'd seen Kirr operate in crisis mode before and knew better than to suggest he delegate or slow down. "You know the crew is competent. They don't need you to personally verify every system."
Kirr's jaw tightened. He knew. Intellectually, he knew the transport officers were trained professionals who could prep a shuttle in their sleep.
But his hands were already reaching for the external panel before conscious thought caught up, fingers moving over the diagnostic display with practiced efficiency.
Primary systems: green. Backup power: green. Life support: green. Navigation: green.
He moved to the next panel.
Kellat waited at the base of the boarding ramp, silent. Patient. The kind of patience that came from friendship and shared history—from knowing that telling Kirr to trust the crew's work would be as effective as telling him to stop breathing.
Fuel cells: optimal. Engine status: nominal. Hull integrity: verified.
Kirr circled the shuttle, checking every external system personally.
His fingers left faint marks on the polished hull where he tested panel seals.
The night shift crew had done good work.
He'd known they would. But the knot in his chest wouldn't ease until he'd confirmed it himself, until every variable was accounted for, until he'd eliminated every possible point of failure.
He mounted the boarding ramp. The shuttle's interior smelled like leather and the expensive cleaning products reserved for royal vessels. Plush seating. Polished controls. Rohn's personal touch in every detail.
He slid into the pilot's seat and his hands moved over the control panel, running through pre-flight checks with the muscle memory of a thousand launches. Behind him, Kellat secured his medical equipment and strapped in without comment.
The transport officer's voice crackled through the comm. "War-Commander, shuttle is cleared for departure. Bay doors opening now."
"Acknowledged." Kirr's fingers danced over the controls, bringing engines online. The shuttle hummed to life around them, systems engaging with smooth precision. Eight minutes from arrival in the bay to launch clearance. Not ideal. But acceptable.
The bay doors slid open with a groan of massive hydraulics, revealing the star-scattered black beyond. Earth hung in the viewport—blue and white and deceptively peaceful from orbit.
Somewhere down there, females were dying.
Kirr's hands tightened on the controls and he pushed the shuttle through the opening, leaving Devan Station's artificial gravity behind. The transition to freefall lasted three seconds before he engaged the inertial dampeners and angled toward Earth's upper atmosphere.
"You want to review the transmission again?" Kellat's voice came quiet from behind him.
"Display it."
The holographic screen materialized between them, text scrolling past in the fragmentary mess that passed for emergency intelligence.
Multiple females. Critical condition. Underground facility.
The coordinates were there but imprecise—a general area covering several square kilometers of Earth's surface rather than an exact location.
Kirr committed every detail to memory even though he'd already read it four times.
Unknown number of casualties. Unknown cause of injuries.
Unknown if this was accident or attack. Too many unknowns.
His hands wanted to clench on the controls, but he kept them steady, guiding the shuttle into Earth's atmosphere with the kind of precision that came from refusing to let anything be out of his control.
The hull temperature climbed as friction built against their descent. Red warnings flickered across the display—normal atmospheric entry parameters, nothing that required intervention. Kirr monitored them anyway, watching numbers scroll past while his mind ran tactical scenarios.
Best case: mechanical accident, injuries treatable, females stable enough for transport to station medical. Worst case: deliberate attack, multiple fatalities, hostiles still on scene.
His jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
If someone had harmed these females deliberately, if this was abuse or negligence or an attack, they'd answer to him personally.
Females were precious. Rare. The Lathar had none of their own, and the humans who'd come to them through the mate program were treasured beyond measure.
Harming one wasn't just a crime—it was an abomination.
"We're getting close to the coordinates." Kellat leaned forward, studying the terrain display. "Looks like an underground bypass system. Heavy traffic area."
Kirr pulled up the detailed scan, his eyes narrowing at the tangle of tunnels and passages beneath Earth's surface. The transmission had come from somewhere in that mess. Finding the exact location would take time they might not have.
"I'll get us as close to the scene as possible." His voice came out rougher than intended. "Be ready to move the second we land."
"Always am."
The shuttle dropped through cloud cover, city lights spreading out below them in familiar patterns.
Kirr had been to Earth dozens of times—training missions, diplomatic escorts, emergency responses.
He knew the underground bypass system, knew how the tunnels twisted beneath the city's surface, knew that "multiple females in critical condition" could mean anything from a transport collision to something far worse.
His hands moved over the controls, adjusting their descent trajectory. The coordinates put them near the northern entrance to the main bypass. He'd set down there, use the shuttle's scanners to pinpoint the emergency location, then—
The comm crackled. "This is KTA emergency services requesting urgent medical assistance at underground bypass sector seven. Multiple casualties from vehicle collision. Repeat, multiple casualties—"
Sector seven. Kirr's fingers flew over the navigation panel, pulling up the precise location. There. A tangle of wreckage showing on the thermal scan, heat signatures indicating recent impact, emergency responders already on scene.
His hands adjusted course before he'd finished processing the coordinates, angling the shuttle toward the closest landing zone. The transmission coordinates matched. This was it.
"Kellat."
"I see it." His friend was already moving, checking his medical supplies with the calm efficiency of a healer who'd treated combat wounds in the field. "I'll need portable equipment. If they're trapped in wreckage—"
"We'll get them out." Kirr brought the shuttle down fast, harder than Rohn would appreciate, but within safety parameters. The landing struts kissed pavement with a jolt that rattled his teeth. "Move."
They hit the ground running, Kirr's longer stride eating distance while Kellat kept pace with his medical pack. The entrance to the underground bypass yawned ahead—artificial light spilling up from below, the wail of emergency sirens echoing off concrete walls.
Kirr descended into the tunnel system, his eyes adjusting to the harsh artificial glare.
Smoke hazed the air. The acrid bite of burned metal and something chemical—fuel, maybe, or coolant from a ruptured system.
His boots crunched on scattered debris as he rounded the corner and the crash site came into view.
Holy trall… How had anyone survived that?