Chapter 7
Niki
This wasn't the plan. This wasn't supposed to happen. We were supposed to have a clear run to the ship.
My implants kicked into tactical mode automatically.
I saw them before my brain could fully process what I was seeing. Twenty-three heat signatures scattered across the scrub brush, closing in from every direction. My implants painted them in thermal orange and red, but what mattered was the simple, terrible fact that we were boxed in.
The guards moved with military precision, not the chaotic rush of panicked soldiers but coordinated and disciplined. They knew what they were doing. They'd done this before.
One of them stepped forward, a tall Ulkommenian with scarred skin and cold eyes. He smiled like he'd already won.
"You cannot escape," he called out, his voice carrying absolute certainty. "We have you surrounded. Your options are surrender or death. Choose quickly."
The guards around him chuckled, a sound like grinding metal.
My stomach dropped. This was already over. They were just waiting for us to realize it.
"Enslak," I said, my voice steady despite the terror flooding through me and the tactical data screaming that we had maybe a thirty percent survival chance. "We need to—"
The only option was retreat. Back into the sewers, back into the darkness with those creatures, back into—
Enslak moved.
One second he stood beside me. The next he was a blur.
The gentle creature who'd carried me through the sewers vanished entirely.
In his place stood something else, a weapon, pure lethal grace moving with the kind of efficiency that made my combat training look like a children's game.
He didn't charge forward. He moved back, positioning himself between me and the guards with his body a living shield.
His eyes tracked every weapon, every threat, calculating angles and distances with predatory precision.
His gold eyes flicked back to me with an expression that needed no translation.
Down.
I hit the dirt.
The first guard fired. Enslak was already moving, and the bolt passed through empty air where he'd been a heartbeat before. He closed the distance in two strides, claws flashing. The guard's throat opened in a spray of arterial blood, the scream dying before it could fully form.
Two more guards fired simultaneously. Enslak twisted, his body moving with impossible fluidity, and both bolts hit the ground where he'd just been standing.
His hand shot out, claws extended, and caught the first guard across the face.
The man's head snapped back, jaw hanging at an unnatural angle.
The second guard tried to adjust his aim.
Enslak's other hand closed around the man's wrist, crushing bone with a sound like breaking branches.
The guard screamed.
Enslak's teeth found his throat, tearing through flesh and cartilage with savage efficiency.
"Enslak," I screamed.
But he was already moving.
A blaster bolt caught him in the shoulder. The impact spun him slightly, smoke rising from burned fur and flesh. He stumbled, pain flashing across his face.
But he didn't stop.
I yanked the small blaster from my pocket and fired at the nearest standing guard. The bolt hit him square in the chest plate and dissipated across the armor in a brief flash of light. The guard didn't even flinch. He turned toward me, raising his weapon.
I fired again and again, the bolts splashing uselessly against reinforced plating designed to withstand far more powerful weapons than my pathetic little sidearm.
"Fuck!" I squeezed the trigger desperately, the blaster whining as it cycled through shots that did absolutely nothing.
The guard's weapon swung toward me, the barrel a dark eye promising death.
Then Enslak was there. He launched himself at the guard, covering the distance in a single bound, his claws opening the man from sternum to groin and spilling intestines onto the ground in a wet rush. The guard was dead before he hit the dirt.
Another guard, another kill. Enslak's movements were economical and efficient, beautiful in their brutality. Every strike was precise, targeting vital areas with surgical accuracy: throat, heart, arteries. He knew exactly where to hit for maximum damage.
But there were too many.
A bolt hit him in the thigh, then another in his side. The burns spread, his leg buckling slightly. Blood, his blood, soaked into the sand.
Enslak killed three more in rapid succession.
His teeth flashed as he tore into a guard's throat, blood painting his face red.
His claws opened another guard's chest, ribs cracking like kindling.
A bolt caught him in the chest and the impact drove him back a step, smoke rising from the wound, the smell of burned flesh mixing with the copper tang of blood.
He turned his head slightly, his gold eyes finding mine for just a moment.
In that brief glance I saw everything. He knew he was hurt. Knew he was bleeding. Knew that every bolt brought him closer to death.
And he didn't care.
All that mattered was keeping me safe.
He turned back to the guards, positioning himself between me and every weapon, every threat.
A bolt meant for me struck his shoulder instead.
Another aimed at my head caught him in the arm.
He was using his body as a shield, deliberately and consciously, taking every shot that should have been mine.
"No," I screamed. "No, don't—"
But he was already moving again, launching himself at the nearest cluster of guards. His claws became a blur, opening throats and chests with terrifying efficiency. Blood sprayed. Bodies fell.
A guard tried to circle around, looking for a clear shot at me. Enslak saw it and intercepted, his hand closing around the man's head and twisting. The crack of breaking vertebrae echoed sickeningly loud.
Another bolt hit him, this one in the side just below his ribs. I saw him flinch, saw the way his breathing changed, becoming labored and wet.
"Enslak." I tried to move toward him, tried to help somehow.
But he pushed me back with one massive hand, his eyes never leaving the remaining guards.
There were still at least eight of them left, maybe ten.
They'd spread out, trying to flank us, searching for openings.
Enslak moved to intercept every attempt, his body a constant barrier between me and them, absorbing bolt after bolt meant for me.
He killed two more guards, his movements starting to slow as the injuries mounted. His breathing grew ragged, blood soaking through his fur and dripping onto the ground in a steady stream.
But he didn't stop. Didn't hesitate.
A bolt caught him in the leg. His knee buckled and he went down, catching himself on one hand. A guard saw the opening, raised his weapon, aimed directly at me.
Enslak lunged from his knees, covering the distance in a desperate leap. His claws caught the guard's weapon arm, tearing it from the socket in a spray of blood. His teeth found the man's throat, ending him.
Another bolt caught his back, then his shoulder.
"Stop!" The scream tore from my throat, raw and desperate. "Enslak, stop. Just run."
He didn't even look at me.
Another guard went down, throat torn open.
"Please." I was screaming now, the words barely coherent. "You're going to die. Just run."
His ears twitched, the only sign he'd heard me.
But he didn't run. Didn't even slow down. He positioned himself between me and the remaining guards, his massive body swaying, blood pooling beneath him.
"Enslak, please." My voice cracked. "Just go."
For a fraction of a second, his golden eyes met mine. There was no confusion in them. No hesitation. Just absolute, unwavering certainty.
He turned back to the guards.
He wasn't going to run. Would never run, not while I was in danger, not while there was still breath in his body.
He killed the last three guards in a flurry of violence too fast to follow: claws and teeth and raw, brutal strength.
When it was over, he stood among the bodies, chest heaving. Blood, his and theirs, covered every inch of him. His eyes found mine, still gold, still aware, still protecting me.
The whine of engines cut through the air. I glanced up, catching Binwee's ship descending fast with the hatch already open.
"Come on." I grabbed Enslak's hand and pulled him toward the ship. "We're almost there. Just a little further."
He followed, his steps unsteady now. I could see the damage clearly: multiple blaster wounds, blood soaking through his fur, breathing labored and wet. One leg barely supported his weight. His left arm hung at an odd angle.
But he kept moving. Kept following me.
We reached the ship and I practically shoved him up the ramp. He stumbled and caught himself against the wall, leaving a bloody handprint on the metal.
Binwee sat in the pilot's seat, her small hands flying over the controls.
"Get him secured," she shouted. "We need to go now."
I turned to help Enslak into one of the seats.
But he was already collapsing. His legs gave out and he went down hard, his massive body hitting the deck with a sound that made my heart stop.
"No, no, no." I dropped beside him, hands hovering over his wounds, not knowing where to start. There were so many. Too many.
"Enslak, stay with me. Please stay with me."
Blood pooled beneath him, spreading across the deck in a dark, widening stain. His breathing turned shallow and wet, each breath a desperate struggle.
My hands shook as I pressed them against the worst of the wounds, trying to stem the bleeding. But the blood just kept coming, hot and slick between my fingers.
"You can't die," I said, my voice cracking. "Not now. Not after everything."
He'd survived the pits. Survived torture and starvation and whatever hell they'd put him through in that cell. He'd survived a century of it. And now, now that he was finally free, now that we'd actually made it out.
My chest constricted so tight I couldn't breathe.
This wasn't fair. This wasn't right.