Defying Death (3 page)

“No, we won’t.” Death turned, pulled his guns, slid
the levers to stun. “Back away from the ship, Menace. This isn’t
your mission.”

“You’d assist me.” The warrior lifted his chin,
undaunted by the threat. “I’m assisting you.”

Frag the cyborg. He’d force him to do this. “You’re
staying here.”

Death pressed the trigger.

Light zapped around Menace. He jerked, his eyes
widening.
You stunned me
, he transmitted, disbelief wrapped
around the words.

And now I’m pushing you over.
Death proceeded
to do exactly that, shoving the warrior off the ramp. Menace landed
on his face, cursing him through the line.
Tell Crash I forgive
him for any action he has to take. I regret nothing.

You’re a stubborn ass.

Death grunted and closed the door, aware that he’d
likely never see the warrior, the closest being he had for a
friend, again. He was leaving his brethren and any possibility of
reaching the Homeland behind him.

His Tifara was worth the sacrifice.

He hurried to the bridge, smacking his palms on the
control pads. Engines purred to life, the floor vibrating under his
boots. There was no time to waste. Menace could prevent his escape
with one command to the docking bay doors.

Death guided the ship out of freighter.

His exit remained open.

He gritted his teeth as he was shot into the open
blackness of space.

No guns fired upon him.

The coordinates for the battle station had already
been entered into the system. The ship headed in the direction of
his female. Anticipation pulsed through his circuits.

It was edged with gratitude. Menace hadn’t raised
the alarm. Death listened to the warrior grumble, over the
transmission lines, about obstinate males and missing all the
excitement.

It didn’t take long for Crash to find Menace. The E
model interrogated him. Menace stubbornly said nothing.

His assumption had been correct. Crash believed
Death’s processors had malfunctioned. There was chatter of
retrieving him, of informing the council.

They hailed him.

Death switched off all transmissions, severing that
constant connection with his brethren, ensuring they couldn’t track
him through the link.

To combat the eerie silence, he played the footage
he’d collected of Tifara on his main viewscreen. Her beautiful face
shone down on him, surrounded by the darkness of space. Her light,
bubbly laughter filled his auditory system.

Death removed the scarf he’d taken. His female’s
scent filled his nostrils. He wrapped the cloth around the right
armrest of his chair, placed his palm on top of it.

All of his precautions to hide his presence would
merely delay his fate, earning him more time but not forever. The
cyborgs would catch him and, when they did that, they’d end his
lifespan.

Before that happened, he’d touch his female, kiss
her, might even breed with her. She’d smile at him, her eyes soft
with caring, with love, and for one wonderful moment, he’d be
happy.

His lips curled upward.

He was a fortunate warrior.

Tifara swayed
on her feet, bleary-eyed with exhaustion. She hadn’t taken a full
rest cycle in two planet rotations.

After the Humanoid Alliance blew up Tau Ceti,
destroying the planet and killing millions of beings, many species
had joined the resistance movement. The fighting had intensified.
The wounded had flowed into the battle station.

At first, she had welcomed the influx. Safyre and
Nymphia, her two closest friends, had been on Tau Ceti when it
exploded. Healing the wounded had distracted her from her own pain,
from the grief clouding her battered heart.

Safyre asked her to join that ill-fated rescue
mission. Tifara had said no. Had that been the right decision?

She doubted she could have saved her friends. She
knew nothing about escaping from underground tunnels or
deactivating planet-destroying devices. Her sole skill set was
healing and patients had needed her on the battle station.

Her friends had died and she lived.

It hadn’t been the first time she’d dodged death.
When Tifara had ten solar cycles, she’d been the sole survivor of a
planet-wide outbreak, a virus that killed her mother, three
brothers, extended family, friends.

She’d been spared for a reason. Stopping another
outbreak must be her destiny.

Determined to be prepared when that happened, to not
fail more loved ones, she’d dedicated every unfilled moment to
researching pathogens, virions, genetic material.

Currently, every moment was being utilized. More and
more wounded arrived. Her small team of medics was overwhelmed. She
had an endless stream of patients to heal and no time for
research.

“Let me clean the area, ensuring there’s no
infection.” Tifara wiped a cleaning cloth over her Palavian
patient’s grubby skin. “Then I’ll patch you up and send you on your
way. You’ll be back to the battlefield in no time.” She paused.
“But try to negotiate with the enemy in the future. Killing should
be a last resort.”

Life was precious. Tifara had seen how one tiny
virion, unable to be detected by the human eye, could kill a being.
She told the Palavian all of this as she worked.

Normally an assistant medic would complete the task
of preparing the patient, allowing her to focus on suturing the
hip-to-collarbone gash, but she had assigned all members of her
team to their own patients.

She was alone in the small operating room.

Not completely alone.

The patient cursed at her in his native language,
straining at his arm and leg restraints, trying to free himself
from the horizontal support. He was a huge brute and his agony had
been lessened with the pain inhibitors. The straps whined in
protest, threatening to break.

“Hush, hush, now,” Tifara cooed. She realized that
seeing his own intestines was a shock many patients couldn’t
handle. “Surely you’ve witnessed worse. You’re a big strong…” She
glanced at the Palavian’s homely face, red from exertion. Calling
him handsome might cause him to question her honesty. “...striking
warrior.”

She babbled nonsense, maintaining a low soothing
tone, trying to calm him.

Palavians were notoriously bad tempered and
extremely strong. If even one of his six arms escaped the bindings,
he would end her lifespan.

He wasn’t the being she was most concerned
about.

“Are you still there, my mysterious observer?”
Tifara turned her head and peered into the dimly lit corners of the
medical bay’s operating chamber. The battle station was on constant
power conservation mode. Any space that wasn’t utilized wasn’t
illuminated.

She saw nothing except darkness, yet she knew some
being was there, watching her.

“No, don’t rush to answer,” she joked, the being
having not replied to any of her previous questions. “I know you’re
lurking in the shadows.”

She’d felt the presence since she entered the small
space; sexual awareness shimmering over her, tightening her nipples
and wetting her pussy.

“Don’t leave this chamber until I examine you.”
Tifara snapped her hand coverings, refreshing the thin material.
“Whatever you have could be contagious.” She paused, considering
other less interesting causes. “Or you could simply be exuding
pheromones at an exceedingly high rate. That’s another
possibility.”

If his form had enough energy to do that, he
couldn’t be as injured as the Palavian was. His examination would
have to wait.

“If you’re feeling poorly, sit down.” She waved her
right hand at the single ass support in the corner. “I’ll get to
you when I’m done with this patient.”

The mysterious male didn’t move.

“Or don’t sit down.” Tifara shrugged. “It’s your
decision.” She gripped a suture gun. Her hands shook with need.

It had to be pheromones. What virus made its victims
aroused?

An exciting new virus she had trained her entire
lifespan to combat.

Age and experience told Tifara that was unlikely.
That hadn’t always been her conclusion. When she graduated from the
Academy, she’d seen every symptom as a sign of an outbreak, only to
be proven wrong again and again.

Her watcher wasn’t contagious. The Palavian twisting
on the horizontal support was her higher priority.

She grabbed the torn edges of skin, pulled them
close, and pressed the trigger.

Her patient howled and lunged forward. His straps
snapped.

“Oh, no.” Tifara stepped backward, trying to get out
of range of his arms.

She wasn’t fast enough. His fingers wrapped around
her neck. He lifted her off the floor, pressing her shoulders
against the wall.

She dropped the suture gun and pulled at his hands,
unable to breathe. He yelled at her, his words undecipherable, his
face close to hers. Spittle splattered against her cheeks.

Tifara reached for his wound, his weakness. He
grabbed her wrists, her bones bending under his palms. She kicked.
He absorbed the strikes, not releasing her.

Her lungs ached. Blackness closed around her vision.
Tifara pushed back her fear. She wouldn’t die. She hadn’t survived
the virus on her home planet to lose her life now.

Her destiny was different, greater. She—

There was a tug on her throat and wrists. The
pressure vanished, the Palavian sucked into the shadows. She
dropped to the floor, crumpling into a heap, gasping, drawing
much-needed oxygen into her body.

Fabric rustled. A throat gurgled. There were six
juicy pops. Then a scary silence followed, her breathing the only
sound in the chamber.

She rubbed her neck, her arms and legs trembling.
“Did you restrain him?” she rasped, each word an agony to form.

“He’s dead.” A deep voice rumbled, rolling over her
skin like a caress.

“He can’t be dead.” She pushed her body upward.
“That wound shouldn’t have been fatal.” Her legs folded under her.
She fell with an oomph, her ass smacking against the floor tiles.
“Bring him to me.”

The Palavian was a big male. The newcomer tossed the
body at her as though he weighed nothing. Her patient’s throat had
been slit from ear to ear, severed to the bone. Blood coated his
neck and shoulders.

That wasn’t the only injury inflicted upon him.

“Where are his arms?” All six of them appeared to
have been torn from their sockets.

Thud. Flesh hit the wall by her head. An arm slid
down the surface, leaving a trail of blood. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
The mystery male flung five of the Palavian’s arms against the
wall.

Tifara collected the limbs. “I’m missing one.”

The sixth arm hit the wall.

“Thank you.” She struggled with the arms, not
knowing what to do with them. The Palavian was clearly dead. She
set his limbs in front of his corpse. “No. Forget I said that. I’m
not grateful to you in any way. You killed my patient.”

The newcomer was a dangerous being, violent and
scarily strong, but she was too tired to care. “This is a medical
bay, not the battlefield.” Exhaustion made her reckless. “We heal
patients here. We don’t cut their throats and pull their arms
off.”

“The Palavian touched you.” His voice, a low
baritone, curled her toes.

Her response to him increased her irritation.

“He didn’t know what he was doing.” She defended her
dead patient. “You did.” She attempted to stand. Her legs wouldn’t
stop shaking. Tifara slumped on the floor, feeling vulnerable and
small, and she wrapped her white coat closer to her, drawing
strength from the garment. She was a medic. She couldn’t forget
that. “You could have subdued my patient without causing him any
harm.”

“I could have,” the male admitted. “I didn’t.”

She leaned against the bloodstained wall. Why would
he kill a being if that weren’t necessary? His thinking wasn’t
rational.

Because he was ill, she realized. She must be ill
also. That was the only explanation for her attraction to him.
“You’re contagious. What are your symptoms?”

“My kind doesn’t become ill.”

Every species was susceptible to some sort of
illness. “You know you’re ill. This is a medical bay. That’s why
you’re here.”

“I’m here for you.” Light reflected off sharp metal
blades.

He was here for her. She was a medic. That was the
only expertise she had. He must desire treatment, though he clearly
couldn’t grasp that.

“You’re irrational.” Tifara listed his symptoms.
“Violent, highly contagious, yet you’re continuing to exude
pheromones.” She pushed herself upward, standing. “Come here.” She
beckoned toward the sleeping support. “I have to examine you.”

“You believe I’m violent, irrational and contagious
and you wish to examine me?” Incredulity colored his voice. “Did
you learn nothing from the Palavian?”

“I learned the virus you have makes you violent.”
Tifara smiled reassuringly and patted the surface of the sleeping
support. “Sit here.”

“I don’t have a virus.” The male stepped
forward.

Her jaw dropped. She’d expected a feverish,
wild-eyed, flush-skinned being suffering from welts and boils,
visibly ill, on the precipice of dying.

This male was the image of a warrior in his prime,
devastatingly handsome, overwhelmingly virile, and extremely
grim.

He was taller than any human she’d ever met;
broad-shouldered, slender-hipped, encased in black body armor. His
hair was dark brown, his eyes an even darker shade, his skin
golden, his lips firm and flat. There were numbers inked high on
his right cheek—J052154.

She stared at him with awe. “You’re a cyborg.”

“I’m a cyborg.” He dipped his head, his expression
deadly serious.

“I can’t believe it.” Tifara hurried toward him.
“I’ve always wanted to examine one of your kind.” She tilted her
head back to gaze up at him. “You look so human.”