I turn my face to the side again, needing to breathe. From underneath Kyon’s arm, I spy an Alameeda Striker rise from the level below our catwalk. His head lolls forward, arterial blood pumping down from his slit throat. I recognize Trey, latched onto the Striker; he’s piggybacking the dead Alameeda soldier. A navigation helmet covers Trey’s head; the mirrored visor denies me a glimpse of his beautiful eyes. With one hand, he aims the confiscated Alameeda gun at Kyon and pulls the trigger.
A blue bubble-shield activates as the laser strikes nears Kyon’s head; the bubble-shield repels the shot, causing it to bounce off. Kyon turns so that I have to move my head again to see Trey. With a gesture, Kyon orders his escorts to move on Trey.
In the very next instant, my hair slicks back from my face as Kyon and I launch straight up from the catwalk. Passing thousands of empty cells on our way to the surface of the ship, they become a blur as I struggle to focus. Casting my eyes downward, Trey and the Strikers become smaller and smaller until we pass through a connecting tunnel, leaving them behind.
I must have lost consciousness, because the next thing I know I’m being jostled from the jet pack harness and caught up in Kyon’s arms. He holds me to the black Kevlar-like armor that covers his chest. He calls out, “Curer! I need a curer!”
He lays me down on a cool floor. The sound of running feet and the buzz of voices sway around me. Kyon takes off the jet pack from his back; he bends again to pick me up in his arms. Someone leans near my face, shining light into my eye. “She has violet eyes,” a male voice murmurs above me. I try focusing on him, but I just see flares of light.
Kyon ignores his observation. “Where’s the med-station? She’s ill.”
“This way—I’m a curer,” he says. We move at a clipped pace, my head lolling against Kyon’s broad chest. I open my eyes, trying to regain my wits; I can’t keep them open. Shapes and colors move around me until I feel myself being lowered onto a soft cushion. My cheek lies close to the edge; I’m on some kind of hover cot in a partitioned area. Next to me, a bandaged Alameeda soldier lies unconscious and still on his floating bullet-shaped bed.
“Who is she?” the male voice asks.
“She’s why we’re here. Find out what’s wrong with her and fix it.”
“Yes, Brother Kyon,” the male responds with a military tone, knowing exactly who Kyon is. I feel a dull pain stick my arm. The blond male hovering over me says, “I’ve injected her with nanobots. They’ll circulate in her bloodstream. I should know what ails her momentarily.”
“I’ve cut her hair twice in the span of less than a few parts. Nothing should be ailing her,” Kyon says, and he sounds worried. About me?
“Is she the rogue priestess? The one we’ve come to rescue?”
“She is. She’s also my intended consort,” Kyon says between his teeth. “If she dies, I will make sure you follow not far behind her.”
All business now, the curer responds with a clinical tone, “We can’t assume her physiology is exactly like that of other priestesses. She deviates from the norm with her impure Rafian DNA. She needs to be studied.”
“Your only concern should be in keeping her alive. As I said before, your life depends upon it.”
There’s a pause while the curer scrutinizes a handheld gadget as it makes sporadic blips and beeps in his hands. He exhales a breath. “She’s dehydrated. Cutting her hair wouldn’t solve that. Her electrolytes are depleted and she’s anemic—when was the last time she has eaten?”
“I don’t know,” Kyon says sullenly.
The curer clucks his tongue in a shaming way. “As her intended consort, it’s your job to know. She has an abnormal amount of adrenaline in her bloodstream. Has she suffered a shock of some kind?”
Kyon grabs him by the throat. In a sinister voice, he says, “Rehydrate her and give her a nutrition supplement.”
“Right away,” the curer rasps. When Kyon releases him, the Alameeda medic gets up from his knees next to me and hurries away.
Kyon sits beside me on the floating cot; the fingers of his hand brush mine once, but he doesn’t move to entwine them. His touch is feather-light, almost wistful. “We’ll be home soon. It’s peaceful there—on the Loch of Cerulean. You’ll be safe. I’ll train you to obey me so this never happens again.”
I bite my tongue. He moves his hand away from mine when the curer returns.