Page 5 of Fated in A Time of War
She swings a fist. I catch it midair, twist. She gasps as I wrench her arm behind her back, drop my knee to the base of her spine, pinning her flat against the rubble.
“Don’t move,” I growl.
She tries anyway. Brave. Or stupid. I don’t care which.
I fish a polymer strap from my belt and lash her wrists behind her with practiced, brutal precision. She spits something—words in Ataxian, maybe. Doesn’t matter. I press her cheek harder into the rubble.
“Shut up.”
Another strap—across her ankles. Then a third for the gag. She bites down when I try to insert it, almost catches my glove with her teeth.
“Feisty.”
I backhand her—not hard, just enough to daze. She gasps. I shove the cloth between her lips and cinch it tight. Her eyes—so goddamn blue—glare at me like they’re trying to burn holes in my skull.
“Save the attitude,” I mutter. “You’re lucky I didn’t just shoot.”
I haul her up, slinging her over one shoulder like a sack of angry laundry. She thrashes weakly, but she’s light. Fragile. She might be a scout, might be a medic. Might be aplant.Doesn’t matter.
She’s Ataxian.
And the war’s not over.
I don’t know what the hell she was doing wandering this deep into contested space, but I’ll find out. There’s intel to be gathered. Base locations. Patrol movements.Names.
Besides… I’m not done yet.
The mission’s not over.
CHAPTER 2
ALICE
Iwasn’t supposed to be here. Not up on the surface. Not anywhere near the streets, much less outside the perimeter alarms.
Dr. Anderson made himself loud and clear this morning—no scavenging, no scouting,no leavingthe damn shelter. Not today. “Sky’s too hot, Alice,” he said, voice low and grim, that big hand of his closing around my shoulder like it could hold me in place. “Troop chatter’s off the charts. You leave now, you’re either a corpse or a hostage. No in-betweens.”
I nodded.
I smiled.
Then I lied.
Because it’s not about me. It never has been.
Darri’s tiny body convulsed twice before breakfast. His veins are lit up with that sick bioluminescent green that means something nasty, something probably Alliance-manufactured, is eating him alive. His mother won’t stop praying. Anderson’s team is out of options. Everyone’s saying their goodbyes.
But I know better.
Two floors above the sub-basement, near the west wing airlock, there’s a shuttered medtech office that used to distributeprivate pharmaceuticals to off-world traders. They stocked all sorts of things, back before Horus IV became a graveyard. I found a rusted-out directory in the rubble last week—saw the label:serophyline-91, stored on-site in secured refrigeration. It’s a long shot, but it’s the only shot. And someone has to take it.
My vows don't forbid courage. Just indulgence. I remind myself of that as I seal the breather over my face and power up the shielding on the patched-together scout harness. The boot seals hiss, faint and high-pitched, and the cracked screen of the old terminal next to the door flashes a final warning:SURFACE ACCESS: HAZARD ZONE.
“I know,” I whisper to no one.
And then I go.
The airlock groans open like it’s in pain, metal shrieking against metal. A gust of heat hits me square in the chest—dry, metallic, thick with the stench of chemical fires and ozone. The mask filters it, but not enough. I still gag behind it, blinking against the rush of smoke.
