Chapter 3
The lower service corridors were black as night, and the stink of old machine oil and damp stone was thick enough to chew on. Raaze rounded the corner, his hands buried deep in his pockets and his stride loose. He was just a male with nowhere to be and nothing urgent to do.
He’d mapped this window a week ago, because he’d had draanth all else to do with his evenings. He was used to parties and the high life of a celebrity, and now he was dumped on a rock in the ass-end of nowhere. Sucked to be him. Absolute draanthing waste of a career.
The hour before night watch was the garrison’s dead zone.
The day guard were already in their bunks, no doubt dreaming of something better than this trallhole.
The night shift would be on their second caff-stim, complaining about whoever put them on roster.
And for ten minutes, the corridors down here between the machine bays and the stores were empty.
Usually.
He reached the junction where the service tunnel met the main storage access, and a sudden prickle at the base of his neck made him slow down.
He didn’t stop. Instead, he drifted into the darkness behind a support pillar and put his back to the cold stone.
Instantly, the damp seeped through the back of his jacket.
He held still, extending all his senses as far as he could into the corridor ahead.
A heel scuffed stone, followed by a heavy exhale and the sound of fabric shifting.
Draanth it all to hell.
Because, of course, nothing on this miserable rock could ever go to plan.
Someone had picked up an extra shift. Or the rotation had changed.
Or the universe was keeping up its long personal campaign against him.
He sighed. Probably the latter. Recently, the universe had had a real thing for him.
Like it hadn’t draanthed him enough already.
Edging forward, he peeked around the corner.
A guard leaned against the far wall. Dark hair, wiry build. His whole posture said he’d rather be anywhere else, which they had in common.
A hard knot pulled tight behind Raaze’s sternum.
Vaath.
He knew the kid. Liked him, actually. He listened when Raaze spoke, which already put him ahead of half the arrogant trall-heads Raaze’d ever coached. But that didn’t matter tonight. Tonight, Vaath wasn’t a player.
He was an obstacle.
The kid stood in the traditional guard slump, weight on the right leg, and his attention drifting all over the damn place. He wasn’t asleep, but he wasn’t sharp either.
Raaze tracked the pattern.
One second… two. On three, Vaath scanned left. Four. Five. There we go, on six, his eyes went up to the ceiling. Seven… Eight, head right, and his gaze hit the wall. Rinse and repeat.
Eight seconds and as predictable as a rookie defensive line. Pathetic, really.
Raaze drew back into the shadows, a frown creasing his brows. He couldn’t charge straight in, that would be suicide. Vaath was feral. The second his body registered a threat, biology would take over—claws, armor—the whole ugly package. And Raaze had… precisely none of that.
Which meant he needed timing and surprise instead.
He ran through his memories of Vaath training, every little move the kid made with the sphere in his hand. Just like he would a player on an opposing team.
There, two days ago… the memory was sharp and clear. Vaath turning to catch… pivoting to block.
Raaze’s lips curled upward in the darkness.
Every time the kid turned right, his right shoulder dropped half a beat before the feet moved. A tell. It had been there since day one of training. Raaze had nearly corrected it yesterday, almost opened his mouth to tell him he looked like a malfunctioning bot, and then—nothing.
Now he knew why.
One, two… Centering himself, he waited. Five. Six.
Vaath scanned left, his attention sliding down the corridor.
Low and silent, Raaze exploded out of the darkness, eating the distance between them as Vaath looked away.
Seven.
His weight shifted, and he dropped his right shoulder.
Eight.
Raaze hit the young feral as he started to turn back. His forearm drove hard into the base of Vaath’s skull, right where spine met the skull. He’d taken that same shot in the semi-finals three years ago and spent thirty minutes out cold on the pitch.
Vaath’s knees folded under him, and he dropped like a stone.
Raaze stepped in and caught him halfway down.
One hand grabbed the back of his vest as the other cupped the back of Vaath’s head, keeping his skull from smashing into the stone floor.
The kid was out cold. No claws. No armour. Not even a twitch.
For three seconds, he just stood there holding up the male he’d knocked cold.
Possibly the strangest thing he’d done since landing on this planet. And that included the time he’d tried to find a decent drink in the mess hall.
Easing Vaath down against the wall, he looked at him for a moment. Gods, the kid was so young. Slack-faced in unconsciousness. But he’d forgotten that ferals were never down and out as the kid’s nervous system fired and his hand jerked.
Claws snapped out and raked down Raaze’s forearm before the rest of him went limp. He reacted on automatic, pinning Vaath against the stone with his good arm as blood rushed in his ears.
Too slow, draanthic.
Pain tore through him, a line of acid shooting from elbow to wrist that made him grit his teeth so hard he thought he’d break them off.
Draanth it all to hell. Another inch to the right and he’d be bleeding out on the corridor floor, ready to explain to whatever waited after death that he’d died stealing scrap for a human female he’d met six hours ago.
What a way to go. Draanthing embarrassing.
He remained frozen, listening out in case anybody had heard the scuffle.
But there was nothing. All he could hear was the ventilation humming and the drip of condensation somewhere in the darkness. There were no alarms, no boots pounding against the stone, and no shouting that somebody was trying to steal from the stores.
There was just him and an unconscious guard, and the fresh stink of blood slicing through the stale air of the corridor.
Trall, he looked down to find his sleeve had already darkened, the torn fabric wet with blood. Plumping a hand over the wound, he counted slowly to ten, waiting for his physiology to start the clotting.
Below him, Vaath let out a soft snore, totally out of place for a male who’d just been assaulted. The little trall.
After he counted another ten, just to be sure, he lifted his hand cautiously. Yes, the bleeding had all but stopped now, which was good. The last thing he needed was to leave a trail of blood from the scene of the crime all the way to the female’s ship.
Shifting his grip, he checked Vaath’s pulse at the neck. It was strong and steady. Good. The kid would wake with a headache that would make a hangover feel like a gentle hug, but at least he’d wake up.
Raaze settled him against the wall. Chin on chest, legs splayed, the look of a guard stealing a nap. Then he stepped back.
He’d planned defensive drills for the team for tomorrow. Footwork and shoulder discipline. But now there wasn’t going to be a tomorrow.
Not for him. Not here. Not with these males—
He cut the thought off and headed off down the corridor. He had places to be and trall to steal.
The store’s door wasn’t locked. He shook his head. Why would it be? Who the hells stole spare parts on a prison planet where there was nowhere to go? The sheer laziness of the administration was the only thing he actually respected.
Slipping inside, he let the door shut softly behind him.
The smell hit him as he extended his senses to make sure that he was alone in here. Machine oil and stale, recycled air and the sharp tang of mineral from the cold rock beneath his feet.
Draanth, would it kill them to get some heating down here to get rid of the mustiness? You’re gonna get a lung infection or something. There’s probably mould spores down here.
His eyesight adjusted, and all he could see was rows and rows of metal shelving, stacked high with components.
Before every match he’d ever played, he’d made sure to walk the pitch and analyze footage of his opponents, read how they moved and assessed what their weak points were.
He was almost obsessive until he’d figured out the slow pivoter and the lazy defender, or the draantic who telegraphed left before he cut right.
Then, when he was on the pitch, in seconds, he could tell exactly where a play would break.
But this time, there had been no walk of the pitch and nothing to analyze. He was in a place he’d never seen before, and suddenly he realized he had no draanthing idea what he was supposed to be looking for.
Everything on the nearest shelf was round. Or rectangular. Or round and rectangular with extra tubular bits attached to it. Some cylinders looked important. Some looked decorative. Some looked like they existed purely to make him feel stupid. Which, given his current situation, they probably were.
Draanth. He’d promised the pretty little female the part.
Worse than that… He’d staked his dignity on the part.
And now he stared at a wall of industrial nonsense and froze.
Well, this lot might as well be labeled in ancient Grakaanian for all the good it does you.
He shook his head and sighed. Fine.
If precision was out, then it would have to be brute force.
Stripping off his jacket, he winced as the movement tugged the cut on his arm. Blood seeped from the edges of the wound. Annoying, but not a big problem. He was spreading the jacket on the floor. He studied the shelves again and then got to work.
If he didn’t know which one was right, he’d have to take anything that looked even possibly like it might be what he needed.