Tyr: Warriors of Firosa Book 2 (Warrior of Firosa)

by Thanika Hearth

  Tyr

  Warriors of Firosa

  Starr Huntress

  Thanika Hearth

  An Alien Sci-Fi Romance

  Starr Huntress

  Thanika Hearth

  Copyright © 2017 Thanika Hearth

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  The following contains adult themes. All characters are aged 18 or over.

  Read these books in order for the best experience. Light spoilers for past books in later books!

  Wrax

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Alyssa

  One last look around confirms I am alone in the dim, sterile laboratory. I have never been here after hours before; the gentle hum of machinery is the only company I have. It’s the only company I need right now.

  Because what I am about to do is so illegal I wouldn’t just get the NYPD on my ass. I wouldn’t even get the FBI. The goddamn Federation of Intergalactic Affairs would be all up in and around me.

  I disabled all the cameras. I discreetly handed over a slice of pizza to Phil, the guard downstairs, and told him to stay put and be extra vigilant. I even turned off all the lights so nosy Mary from across the street won’t be able to see me even if she cranes her neck and squints her hardest.

  I sit on the floor, push my dark hair away from my forehead, and blow out my cheeks, staring at the sterile white and silver surroundings. I’m ready.

  I tighten the strap around my upper arm, bite my lower lip, and slide the needle into my vein just like I was trained to.

  It starts in my fingers. In my arms. The tingling hits my toes and then, weirdly, my lips and tongue feel numb. I have to squeeze my eyes shut because it feels like the world around me is shaking so violently that I’m going to throw up, but I know deep down that it isn’t.

  And then it stops. And my body feels charged with electricity, simultaneously bigger and smaller than it was before, and impossibly different and yet precisely the same. I pull out a mint from my pocket and unwrap it with greedy, shaking hands, and pop it onto my tongue. Quickly, the nausea fades.

  My DNA is shifting. This was the third of four treatments of this new chemical I have named Mahdnium.

  If it all goes well, I will be called for retesting soon, and I will be a match for the alien warrior race, the Mahdfel. All thanks to this handy little treatment I invented here at work, when I was supposed to be tinkering with helpful human pharmaceuticals.

  When I am a match, I will feign surprise, horror, dread, as I am sent up to an active warzone seemingly against my will. I have my speech all ready.

  “I’m not going. You can’t make me. I have so much left here on Earth!”

  I have been practising enough so that a single tear wells up in my eye when I scream it. It’ll be damn convincing.

  When I arrive at their space station or spacecraft, I will inform people of my status as an ex-doctor, current chemist, and I will probably be allowed to help out in their med bay.

  From there, I will make my move. My plan will come together. I know that for a fact.

  Because it has to.

  Chapter Two

  Tyr

  “You must stop pronouncing my name wrong,” I growl, yanking my arm away from the scrawny, baby-faced engineer who keeps trying to grab onto my wrist. “Nothing irks me more.”

  He blinks up at me. “S-sorry,” he says. “But Mr. General, sir, you’ve got to keep still.”

  The engineer is not wrong — if my hand were to so much as twitch right now, as it lays across the metal tray between myself and this lesser man, his scalpel would slip and could do me permanent damage. And I need these hands to pilot my ship.

  “I am keeping still,” I grunt, but we both know that as a trained warrior it isn’t easy for me to stay still and take pain without instinctively punching him right in his purple jaw. I will do my best, though.

  He gulps and presses the tip of the blade to the lowest point on my palm. Blinking rapidly to get the sweat from his eyes — not a good sign at all — the engineer presses the cold metal through my tough skin and drags it upwards in a straight line before pulling it up to inspect his handiwork.

  “Very good,” he says, and dares to look up to catch my gaze, which is unmoving. “I just have to implant the chip now. Are you ready?”

  I don’t want to admit this to him, but I am not ready. I have a deep distaste for all things cybernetic — for all things technological — but this is different. This is the only way I can be reunited with my spacecraft, and for that I would do almost anything. Truly.

  I lean forward, over the metal table between us, and tighten my brow as I look at him. He swallows visibly again. “For every extra minute you drag this out, I will see that you get one year less on this planet.”

  His nervous eyes dart to the ships, and I wonder if he believes I mean I will banish him. I don’t have the jurisdiction to do that at all. My lips turn upwards into a smirk and with a short laugh I lean back in my seat again.

  I was only teasing anyway.

  I am a particularly large and imposing figure among my people, having chosen to work hard on my physique above almost all else since I came of age, and ever since the Firosans died I have very much enjoyed making the other men on Paxia squirm from time to time.

  A man has to have hobbies, after all.

  I used to fly. That was what I would eat, sleep and breathe — my ship. I was a pilot for the Firosan system’s military, and a damn good one, too. Some would say the best. And they would be correct. Thanks to some damn fine evasive manoeuvring techniques during the war for Earth, I single-handedly destroyed an entire mini fleet of our greatest enemies, the Suhlik, and I was awarded the title of General swiftly afterwards.

  Of course … then the war ended, we were stranded on our planet, and my title never meant a damn thing since that day. But that’s the way life seems to go.

  Every day I would get up, stretch, work out, shower, and then fly. Just fly, until I couldn’t fly anymore.

  Then when the Firosans died, we lost access to their advanced technology, which included the cybernetic implants they fitted into themselves, and allowed us access to our spacecrafts.

  Yes, the logic there is difficult to understand, and I will be the first one to say so. The Mahdfel are a fighting species, and made up the bulk of the military that protected the dainty and intelligent all-female Firosan species. We can fight like a pack of rabid tchakara and some of us are respected galaxy-wide for our flying skills … but we were never able to access the damn keys. Only the Firosans could open up their spaceships. For that reason, we always had a Firosan First Mate aboard the ship with us, so it did not really feel like the end of the world.

  Until they died protecting us from the Suhlik, and the Firosan Mahdfel became stranded here on Paxia. Seemingly forever.

  Luckily, the planet goddess Paxia has granted my
King’s new mate the gift of speaking to her, and with access to her knowledge again the Mahdfel are beginning to rebuild after five years.

  For the first time in five years, I can board my ship. My baby. My everything. The only woman I’ll ever need.

  I stand in front of her now, with a brand new chip inside my stinging, sewn-up palm, and I look up at her. A rusted once-greenish body, with her outdated last-century look of huge round studs dotting her sides. Her flanks widen out into sharp, folded back fins, and her nose is long, sharp, and distinguished.

  I make sure that nobody else in the military hangar is looking — it had long since been abandoned, but now that we have access to cybernetic keys, more and more Mahdfel are returning to their crafts — and then I solemnly press my painful hand to my forehead, palm out. The traditional greeting of great respect on Paxia.

  To other people, usually, it’s true. But I’ve never much cared about what others think.

  “General Tyr,” an older voice snaps, and I hear the echoing of footsteps approach me from the right. I allow my hand to fall back to my side and my eyes dart to the source of the voice.

  Admiral Alko. The only man in the system of Firosa apart from King Wrax who I am willing, or obligated, to bow and take orders from.

  “I see you went through with it. The others believed you would balk at the opportunity.” He grins, flashing bright white teeth set against a rich purple face. The admiral is a tall man, his muscles long since dissolved into something far softer, hidden by deep robes in a traditional red color for a high-ranking military man on business. I wonder what business he has here. Now that Kivak is taken care of, there is no war to fight. Not on Paxia, not in the system of Firosa, and as far as I know … not anywhere in the known universe that actually concerns us. Not until the Suhlik regroup and come back to try to take our planet again...

  Which means that he is probably here to do some other work. But I don’t have time for this — I ache from head to toe to step once again onto my beautiful ship.

  “Of course,” I reply curtly.

  “This is it, isn’t it?” Alko turns to his right to cock a brow at her. “This is the famed Eclipse, who navigated that meteor shower without so much as a hiccup.” My chest swells with pride. “Time has not been kind. It looks like garbage, General.” He clicks his fingers and turns, gesturing for me to follow him to the other end of the hangar.

  Grinding my teeth, but resolving myself to silence, I follow behind him, shooting a glance to my ship by way of apology as I go.

  When we reach the other end of the enormous room, Alko turns to me, eyes flashing with something akin to the look I get when talking about my Eclipse, and robes kicking up dust from the floor.

  “This is a ship!” he announces, and his deep voice echoes throughout the hangar. I stand and eye the craft behind him with unreserved bitterness.

  Sure, it is a little bigger, a lot shinier, and much sleeker-looking. It has a whole array of blinking lights that I can see through the windows, and I appreciate that this means it probably has a lot more tech than my girl, but that means nothing to me. In fact, I distrust any machine that claims to be able to do my job — a job dependent on intuition, emotion and pure dexterity. A job all about prediction, tactics and innovation. Being a military pilot requires skill and thought that a machine can never possess. I refuse to put my life, or the life of my crew, in the hands of a blinking light or a collection of impassive numerals. I refuse.

  “That is a ship, yes,” I say dryly, because it is clear Alko wants a response.

  “This is the FMS Prototype,” he says, patting the shining body like one might a family pet. On anyone but me, behaviour like this seems odd, and I don’t like it. “It was a working title, but we are keeping it. It seems fitting. I want you to test it out today during your errands.”

  “Errands?” I growl; I can’t help it. I have a mission today from the King himself! “Checking on the Mahdfel and Merrel villages on Aeo is not an errand, Admiral, it is a question of life or death!”

  Alko lets out a small sigh. “Yes, yes. Of course it is. I’m sure our moon constituency is aching for some news of the world outside their minuscule homestead.”

  He doesn’t seem to understand the weight of what I am supposed to do today, so I feel I have to explain. “Sir … they ran out of juice for their last communicator over a year ago. We each have no idea whether the other is alive. I must go and check on them. The King commands it. He needs to know whether the Mahdfel living on our moon are still alive.”

  “If they are, they will surely make powerful allies,” Alko points out, as if he hasn’t really heard.

  This is why I have an issue with authority. In part because they want me to do incredibly stupid things, like undertake a critical mission from the King himself in a brand new untested heap of glittering noise and color instead of my sturdy craft … and also because once they hit a certain level of authority, they seem to me to stop caring about everybody too far below them.

  That irks me, deeply.

  I take pride in knowing that by the end of the day today I will reopen communications with the Mahdfel living on our moon. I have not visited the beautiful blue satellite since I was a small boy, and I would be interested in seeing how it looks. I hope with all I have that everything is alright up there.

  I will bring them back if they wish to come back, and I will bring them supplies for whoever wishes to stay. There are perfectly functional settlements up there, but with a communication blackout, who’s to say what’s happened during the last year?

  I intend to find out.

  “So? General? Don’t just stand there. Board your new ship!” Alko grins again, his teeth now seeming to me to be annoyingly white.

  “General Tyr.”

  Another voice causes me to swivel, and a familiar face ducks from the side door of the Prototype, smiles, and then hops gracefully to the floor. He is decades younger than Alko, and a fair few years younger than myself, too. He reaches me and punches me in the upper arm before pulling back and awkwardly pressing his hand to his forehead. I return the gesture.

  “How long has it been since we last met?” Axion asks, dropping his salute and allowing the lazy smile to drift across his face again. My old crewmate. Third in command after a Firosan, Soraya — who I dearly miss — Axion is one of the few men on this planet I would trust with my life. I do not take things like that lightly.

  “Five years,” I answer swiftly. “Are you to return to my crew?”

  He nods. “And Vyken and Ashok. Soraya will be difficult to replace.”

  “Impossible,” I counter. He nods again, looking wounded at the memory.

  “Touching,” Alko says snidely, glancing from Axion to me and back. “Onto the ship, please, we are wasting time. There are many features I have yet to show you.”

  I look up at the monstrosity of science in front of me and I wrinkle my nose. Axion gives a bark of a laugh, which draws a glare from the admiral.

  “General Tyr will not board such a vessel, with all due respect, Admiral,” he says. “I have checked it thoroughly from top to bottom. It is everything he disagrees in and more. Or has that changed in a half-decade, General?”

  I eye him, and then I look over at the seething admiral. “Nothing has changed in that time except this,” I state, and hold up my palm. He squints at the stitches, and then a whole spectrum of emotion rolls across his astonishingly malleable face. He is very expressive for a Mahdfel; I always did think he inherited more from his Firosan mother than the rest of us did. “This is the key to the Eclipse. I will be boarding her, and nothing else.”

  “Tyr!” Alko roars suddenly, making Axion jump. I only sigh. “The Prototype is the first in a long line of brand new military vessels, and you will learn how to fly her, and you will learn today, or I will have your title!”

  I fold my arms across my chest. “Have my title,” I say. “It has done nothing for me anyway. Not so much as a queue jump. But since the King se
nt me on this mission, it would be high treason for you to get in the way of it — whether I am General or not.”

  He has no idea what to say to this … and neither does Axion, whose jaw drops open. I turn around and stroll over to Eclipse, the key to her heart burning in my palm.

  I knew that I would do anything to get her back, but I didn’t understand that I would be tested on that quite so soon.

  I place my hand on her reader, my chest surging with the adrenaline of speaking up like that to my superior officer. He was pissing me off, yes, but Wrax will surely be even more pissed when he finds out what I did. Alko actually does have the power to strip me of my rank, and if he felt particularly vengeful he could lock me to the planet, and theb announce me a fugitive for leaving Paxia anyway.

  But he is a jaded bureaucrat and an elderly grump; he is not evil.

  So I ascend the old metal steps to my ship, the metal on the toes of my shoes clanking against each stair, and then I stand in the cool interior of my Eclipse again, my hands on my hips, and a smile on my face. Behind me is Axion, and soon Vyken and Ashok — two other hardy and loyal Mahdfel I recruited over the last few years I was able to fly, and have not seen since the spacecraft lockout five years ago — bring up the rear and respectfully greet me also.

  There is not much to say about either of them. I know Vyken has a ‘darker’ side and has done unpleasant things for money that we never speak of. And Ashok has a five or six-year-old child, born merely days before the Firosans all died. It was almost impossible for him to raise the child by himself, but he managed. If I cared enough to be truly proud of somebody, I certainly would be proud of Ashok.