by Mira Maxwell
Table of Contents
Prologue
Epilogue
Her Alien Commander
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
About the Author
Newsletter Signup
Her Alien Commander
The Guards of Attala: Book Three
Mira Maxwell
Copyright © 2017 by Mira Maxwell.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodies in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Cover Designer: Natasha Snow Designs
Contents
Her Alien Commander
Prologue
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
Epilogue
About the Author
Newsletter Signup
Her Alien Commander
Sparks fly when brains and brawn collide…
Dr. Mina Carter is laser focused on finishing her work and getting off the ice planet Attala as fast as possible. Until she’s assigned a tough alien bodyguard who awakens feelings she never knew she had. Suddenly, the woman who thinks everything worth learning can be found in books discovers what she’s been missing out on.
Cardyk, a battle hardened veteran and former leader of the Guard, was sidelined by brutal battle injuries that refused to heal. Now he’s back, and he’s eager to regain his former status. Everything goes according to plan, until he’s bewitched by Mina and discovers there’s more to life than being the boss. Will he be able to convince her there’s more to life than science?
Prologue
CARDYK
The cold tightens around my chest like a rope of ice as I sink to the bottom of the snow-fed pool. I shouldn’t be afraid. I can hold my breath for at least ten minutes. And the cold itself can’t physically hurt me; I’m immune to frostbite and hypothermia – courtesy of genetic tinkering by our scientists – but I sure feel it more than I used to.
I guess that’s to be expected at the ripe old age of thirty-five.
It doesn’t really matter, because it’s going to take a lot more than physical discomfort to get me out of this pool. I pull my limbs in close, to conserve warmth, and sit quietly on the bottom, to conserve breath. I’ll need the element of surprise for what’s to come next, along with every bit of strength I have.
These trials date back hundreds of years, though they have grown more harrowing in recent decades, once our physical abilities were enhanced beyond all expectations. It used to be considered taxing to cross the Winter Valley in the space of a morning. Now, recruits must sprint across the length of our entire territory in the same amount of time.
New recruits, and injured old warriors who want to rejoin their men, must complete an entire set of trials to be inducted as full members of the guard. Tests of the skills that will keep them alive out in the winter wilds: navigation in whiteout conditions, hand-to-hand combat, tracking an enemy, evading detection, and surviving off the barren landscape.
The final test, the one I’m in the thick of now, is meant to evaluate the most essential skill of all: keeping panic at bay. Because, as members of the Attalan guard have long understood, physical toughness means nothing unless it is paired with mental toughness.
It’s a difficult test to design, because when you come right down to it, there aren’t many ways to kill members of the guard. Not once we’ve gone through the alteration. Our rapid-heal ability was one of the first genetic modifications the scientists designed for us.
Beheading will do the trick. A catastrophic injury, such as the loss of a limb, will do so as well, especially if medical treatment isn’t readily available. Blood loss, in general, is something we have to watch out for. It’s not a problem with newly-transitioned guards; Attalans in their twenties who have just gone through the enhancement heal in the blink of an eye. Older warriors heal more slowly. They’re in danger of bleeding out as their wounds slowly heal. Our scientists and doctors don’t have an explanation for it. Or a way to fix it.
I would know. It happened to me. And it’s why I’m hiding in this ungodly cold water, trying to fight my way back to the top where I belong.
I was the youngest leader of the guard. The warriors respected me and looked up to me, even the older ones who initially felt slighted by my selection. In time, they took my word as gospel and followed my every order without hesitation. For the first time in my life, I felt the measure of my worth. I was content.
Everything changed when I fell in the battle against the Vhyla raiders who had crossed into our territory. I remember the thick metal blades piercing my skin, slicing through it like air. They were so sharp I hardly felt it. The pain came later, when my injuries failed to heal and my men carried me from the field.
The next morning, I was still weak from blood loss and my wounds refused to mend. A friend crudely stitched me back together, but the pain of that was nothing like the agony I felt as Mallyk was named the next leader, while I was carried away on a makeshift stretcher. The sting of that went straight to my heart.
Four of my most loyal warriors raced me across the barren icescape, determined to deliver me to the skilled healers at the city’s wall.
I survived, and the healers did what they could, but I remain a shadow of my former self. Any new scratch or bruise takes days to heal. They warn that another fight will be the end of me. I long to rejoin the warriors, but those in charge want me to remain at the wall, with the other guards too old or injured or ill-suited for combat. They want me to put aside my former glory and focus on training the next generation.
I’d rather die.
I entered the trials against the advice of the healers and against the wishes of the Minister himself. It’s been ten years since I first ran the trial course, and it’s usually only required of new recruits. But the minister insisted I participate and pass if I wanted to be reinstated, so I’m plotting my strategy deep underwater and praying I make it through this final obstacle.
If things go wrong, I may die after all, for drowning is one of the other reliable ways to kill a member of the Attalan guard. It’s why the test of submersion and water fighting is saved for last. It’s why it can induce panic in the strongest of recruits.
I should know. I designed it when I led the guards. Maybe it’s not fair that I understand the purpose behind this final trial, but I don’t care. I’ll use whatever advantage I can to join my brothers in the winter wilds and reclaim my former glory.
Five Attalans have gone before me today. Five recruits fresh from training, eager to claim their posts as warriors. They look like children to my eyes, and I’m
sure I appear ancient to them. I know the thick ropes of scar tissue that cross my body disgust them; I feel their prying eyes on me when they think my attention is elsewhere. Only two of the recruits were successful, but they all crowd around the icy pond, curious to see how the old man fares.
My lungs are starting to burn and I see black spots at the periphery of my vision. I don’t have long to make it to the top. A minute or two at most. Hopefully, my time spent lurking on the bottom, evading the “enemy” swimmers in the water, has thrown them off.
The rules of this obstacle are simple. I have a set amount of time to make it out of the water. Four other warriors will try to stop me at all costs. I don’t plan on giving them the chance.
I push off against the bottom and rocket towards the surface like a starship tearing across the sky. I pin my arms to my side and fight the urge to kick, wary of any disturbance in the water that will give away my position.
The light from above filters down and grows brighter as I near the surface. My lungs are screaming for air and I fight the urge to expel my breath as I ready myself to break through. I can’t believe my good fortune and, of course, that’s when a strong hand grasps my ankle and pulls me back under.
I kick furiously, but his grip is unyielding. I struggle for the surface with all my strength, but my best days are behind me and he easily pulls me deeper.
A slab of ice has been displaced in our struggle and it bumps against my shoulder. I know an opportunity when I see one. I wrap my fingers around it, digging my nails into the slick surface. It’s the only weapon I have down here and I’m not about to let it float away.
I turn to face my attacker as I swing with all the force I can muster. The water creates drag and slows me, but my ice club still connects with a satisfying crunch. The grip on my ankle relaxes and I kick free, releasing my weapon and racing for the surface before I pass out or attract the notice of another warrior in the water.
I emerge from the icy depths and burst through the water, gulping fresh air. The infusion of oxygen invigorates me. I power towards the edge, slicing through the water with all the strength I have left. Others burst to the surface behind me. I can hear the splash, but I don’t turn around to look.
I don’t have the time to spare.
My hand digs into the ice ridge at the edge of the pool and I drag myself from the water in one clean movement. A smile creeps across my face as the enormity of what I’ve just accomplished hits home for the first time.
I collapse on the snow, not even feeling the cold as I savor my victory.
I’m finally back where I belong.
I drift off to sleep easily when night falls. I’m exhausted from the trials, both physically and mentally, and I need to recharge. And bask in the warmth of my success. But, my dreams of reclaimed glory are interrupted by a firm knock on my door. It’s far too late for it to be polite company, and I know immediately that something must be wrong.
I rise from my simple wooden bed and stumble for the door, struggling to clear the veil of sleep wrapped tightly around me.
I pull back the heavy door and find myself face-to-face with one of the Minister’s stewards. They aren’t difficult to recognize; there’s only one group of people in the city who wear blood red robes and more golden adornment than a wealthy woman. I try to maintain a neutral expression, but it’s a struggle when I realize the cloaked form behind the red-robed steward is the Minister himself.
“Your Grace.” I dip my head in an informal bow. “To what do I owe this honor?” I’ve never seen him outside the city and I’m unsure of the protocol. Do I invite him into my room? Or step outside to join him, even though I’m only wearing my leather breechcloth?
“I wanted to personally congratulate you on your success today.” He moves towards me. I step to the side of my doorway and motion for him to join me inside, protocol be damned. He steps cautiously across my threshold, as if he’s concerned about what he’ll find inside. “I’ll be honest. I wasn’t sure you still had it in you.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence.” There’s only one chair in my room, a simple wooden one that sits at my side table. I motion for the Minister to sit. “I’m just honored to be able to rejoin my men.”
He raises a brow at my use of “my men.” Not what I was hoping for.
“They’re Mallyk’s warriors now, Cardyk. There’s nothing I can do about that.” He sits back and tries to look comfortable, but I’ve never seen him so ill at ease. He looks spectacularly out of place in such a dingy place, with all his finery. Like a brilliant jewel-colored bird scratching around in a patch of dirt.
I light a candle and set it on the table next to a small basin of cold water, before sitting on my narrow bed. “You can’t or you won’t?” I look him straight in the eye. He won’t return the favor.
“I won’t. And you’d be wise to remember who you’re talking to.” He examines his nails as he admonishes me. My frustration threatens to boil over, so I push it down even deeper. “Mallyk has proven a capable leader. No better or worse than you were, but the disruption your return and his demotion would cause is not something we can weather right now. Not with everything we face.”
I stand up and start to pace, but there’s not much room in my small quarters. At least they’re sparsely furnished, which affords me a little more foot room. “I’m guessing you’re referring to additional information I’m not privy to.”
“Yes.” He pauses and looks at me for the first time. His eyes are as dark as the night sky and I see something there I don’t entirely trust. “But I’m going to share it with you. Because I trust you, and I need your help.”
I stop my pacing and again bow to demonstrate my respect and obedience. “I’ve always been loyal to you. You only need ask.”
He clasps his hands in his lap and searches for something safe to rest his eyes on. If my room had a window, I’m pretty sure he’d be staring out it right now. But my room is carved from the mountainous wall, designed for practicality and not comfort. “I need to know what kind of progress the Earth women are making. I want to know if they’ve found the Eclaydian and if they’re having any luck synthesizing it into a useable compound. Perhaps a sample, if they’ve had any success.”
His request startles me. “I’m sure they would gladly share that information with you themselves, your Grace, in light of your generosity in allowing them to harvest it.”
“I’m sure they would as well. But, as you know, sometimes a flanking maneuver is more effective than a direct attack.“ The Minister hasn’t seen a day of battle in his entire life, but I’m not surprised by his shrewd strategy. You don’t rule for years unless you know how to quickly read a situation. And sometimes politics is as much a battle as war. I feel a twinge of dismay at his use of battle tactics in reference to our guests from Earth, but I tamp it down and focus instead on how I can be most useful to him.
“Very well. I’ll depart for the mountain outpost in the morning and join the warriors there.” I grab my pack and start gathering supplies. The Minister rises from his chair and hovers nearby.
“There’s one more thing,” he says as he rests the tips of his fingertips together in a bridge. “I’ve received word that one of the warriors, Lodyn, has taken an Earth woman as his lover.” He pauses to gauge my reaction.
I fashion my face into a mask of disappointment and shake my head. “A most troubling development.”
“I’m glad you’re as concerned as I am.” He crosses the room, reaching for the door. He needs me, and he’s trying to be polite, but he can’t get out of here fast enough. “I need you to verify it. And I want to know what Mallyk plans to do about it. If he plans to honor the sacred warrior’s oath.”
He doesn’t say it, but I know the subtext. I know why he’s asking me. He knows I want my position back and figures I’ll evaluate Mallyk with a critical eye. Push him down in my quest to reach the top. But my plan is to reclaim leadership based on my merits, not trickery or backstabbing. His
request rubs me the wrong way; spying on fellow warriors leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
“I don’t care for spying on my own men.” My voice rises more than I intended. He pauses at the door with his hand on the latch. “Perhaps you could just ask him about it.”
“Communications are down. You know how unstable they are out there.” He unlatches the door but leaves it closed. He doesn’t want anyone overhearing this conversation. “Besides, as I said, sometimes, it’s best to approach a problem from the side, instead of head on.”
I choose my words carefully. “You can trust me to do what’s right. But I need to know the truth. Are any other warriors at the outpost your men?” My implication is clear. I want to know if anyone else is on his special payroll.
“The other warrior I trusted in the camp has returned to the wall.” He drums his fingers against the latch, impatient to leave and tired of being questioned by a nobody like me. “Things with Lodyn and the Earth woman reached a point of conflict, and he felt the need to return to inform me personally.“
He issues me a final decree. “It’s all up to you now. You’re my eyes and ears.” And then, he’s gone.
One
MINA
“Don’t eat that!” I pluck the small red berry from Margo’s fingertips with my gloved hand. “It’s probably poisonous.” Her mouth hangs open, like she can’t believe my rudeness, but she’s lucky I was here to intervene. “Don’t you get it? Everything here is trying to kill us,” I explain. “It’s like Australia, but with snow.”
