Chapter 1

1

T here were humans everywhere.

Traax clenched his jaw as a group spilled out into the corridor in front of him in an unruly bunch, chattering and laughing among themselves. They were like a group of travsitis birds and just as draanthing irritating. Biting back a sigh of frustration, he cut across the corridor to walk on the other side. It was that or cut through them like a fighter through a dust cloud, and goddess forbid if any of the emperor's precious little pets got harmed. He'd end up with another damn lecture on "interspecies relations" or some trall . Like he had time for that.

Sliding the humans a sideways glance, he passed them quickly. He had no idea what the emperor saw in them anyway. They looked odd. Like small, weak copies of the Lathar. Yeah, sure, even he could admit it was nice to see females who looked like him again, without fur or scales or anything else… extra. And he knew—he'd been told, repeatedly—that humans were capable of procreation with the Lathar, and they needed the alliance with Earth.

But… did they really need to keep the creatures around? Couldn't the females be housed on some out-of-the-way colony? Somewhere that warriors could visit, secure their bloodlines and then get back to their duty. That option would be far more efficient than this damn Mating Program and—he sighed as he had to sidestep another human who had just stopped in the middle of the corridor—whatever the hell this program was that had human "engineers" crawling all over his flight deck.

He snorted and strode on, his long legs eating up the distance between him and the flight deck quickly. Human engineers, indeed. Just the idea was absurd. As if any human could grasp the perplexity of Latharian technology. They'd achieved space travel, but their technology was crude. Certainly nowhere near the sheer elegance of Latharian tech.

As much as they patted themselves on the back about what they'd achieved, in the galactic scheme of things, they might as well have strapped rockets to rocks and hurled themselves into space. Actually, from what he'd read on their technology, that was literally what they had done. Now… they were little more than children who had made it to the end of their garden and found rocks. And they wouldn't have gotten even that far without an injection of Latharian DNA hundreds of thousands of years ago.

He shook his head, rolling his shoulders to put the thoughts from his mind. These humans weren't worth his time. He would pay them no more mind and get on with more important things. Taking a deep breath, he allowed the familiar sights and sounds of the station to wrap around him as he continued walking. Even though Devan Station had originally been a B'Kaar battlecruiser, its construction was the same as that of any Latharian warship or facility. With high arched ceilings, matte metal walls, and corridors wide enough to march a battle troop down, he could have been anywhere in the empire.

The softer glow of the ambient lighting washing over the walls, rendering them shades of soft gold, told him it was afternoon sliding into evening on Lathar Prime. Nothing was so crude as the clocks adorning the walls he'd seen in the human records, ugly things showing some sequence of numbers that meant something to the humans… Instead every Latharian child learned to read the lights—going from the hard, blue-tinged light of morning through to the sunset of the evening—to order their day.

He also saw evidence of the station's B'Kaar origins. The polished metal floors showed signs of wear, and not just the normal evidence of warriors' feet. Here and there he spotted the slightly heavier dents caused by the B'Kaar in their kasivar suits and even marks from the sharp feet of avatarbots and the heavier drakeen .

Just before he reached the flight deck, a group of pilots walked out into the corridor. With their flight suits still zipped up and their helmets under their arms, they were obviously fresh from patrol and looked tired but still sharp.

"My lord," several murmured in greeting as he passed.

"Flight." He inclined his chin as he headed through the wide-open arch and strode onto the flight control deck, his amber eyes scanning the bustling space.

Latharian techs in sleek black uniforms manned the consoles beneath the huge windows overlooking the flight deck below. The air was filled with the soft murmur of conversation and the occasional beep from the equipment panels that lined the walls of the large space.

Turning, he walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows and stood, his hands behind his back as he looked down. Rows of deadly V'Pirus starfighters gleamed under the bright lights, their sharp angles promising lethal speed and agility. They were glorious, deadly, and they were all under his command.

"Lord Starfighter! I'm sorry, Your Grace, I wasn't expecting you today."

Traax turned to find Kaaz, the deck chief looking at him in surprise. The male was from the T'Saar clan, from the furthest frontiers of the empire, but he hadn't let that hold him back. The wing beads woven into the front braids of his silver-streaked teal hair told the tale of an illustrious career in the cockpit of a fighter, one bead for each unit he'd been a part of. There were seventeen in total. Five less than in Traax's hair.

Kaaz had been Traax's deck chief for years now, and Traax himself… the lord starfighter of the empire did not belong to a mere wing. The wings all belonged to him.

Traax clasped his hands behind his back, the gesture as natural as breathing.

"I've decided to join Obsidian Wing on their patrol," he said, nodding toward the pilots climbing into their cockpits on the deck below.

Kaaz's eyes widened slightly but he quickly schooled his features. He knew better than to argue with Traax's decision, no matter how unexpected.

"Of course, Your Grace. They're on route Juxar-three-bravox." He consulted his control flex, the device's glow casting his angular features in pale blue light. "Which will take them to the edges of the system and then a short hop to the Binaat system. It should be a standard sweep-op. Nothing too demanding."

Below them, the fighters of the wing in question began to taxi toward the launch tubes that would catapult them into space in the human solar system. The pilots were barely visible through the fighters' tinted canopies, each intent and focused on their preflight checks.

"Good." The corners of Traax's lips quirked upward in a small smile. "I could use a little excitement."

Kaaz chuckled, a little uncertainly, but Traax wasn't joking. He needed something, especially after the morning he'd had, stuck in endless meetings listening to his cousin blathering on about the humans and all the projects he had planned with his new pets. Draanth… he had no idea why Daaynal didn't just claim one and rut on her to get this obsession out of his system. Whatever, he knew better than to ask the ruler of the entire Latharian empire that, though. Cousin or not.

Kaaz chuckled. "Don't think Obsidian will provide much of that. They're a solid wing, tight and disciplined."

"As they should be."

Pride filled him. Every pilot and wing under his command met his exacting standards. He made draanthing sure of it.

Turning on his heel, he headed toward the door leading to the flight deck, long strides eating up the short distance. His pulse quickened with anticipation, eager to feel the thrum of a fighter around him again. Flying was in his blood, as much a part of him as the hair that brushed his shoulders was filled with the braids and beads of his accomplishments.

"Your Grace!" Kaaz called out, and he slowed his steps to listen. Kaaz was not one for idle conversation, which he appreciated. "Should I let the wing commander know you're joining them?"

He paused in the doorway and glanced back, allowing a glint of mischief to fill his eyes. "Don't bother," he drawled. "I'll surprise them."

Kaaz's soft laughter followed him as he stepped through the door, letting it slide shut behind him. His booted feet rang out on the metal stairs as he descended to the flight deck.

Reaching the bottom, he breathed in, allowing the familiar scents of lubricant and fuel to wrap around him. This was where he belonged. This was where he had always belonged… in a fighter. In space. He might have been born in a royal palace… might be a duke of the empire… but he was a pilot right through to his soul.

The deck master at the bottom of the stairs snapped to attention as he spotted Traax approaching. Traax wasn't fooled; no doubt Kaaz had given all the personnel on duty the heads-up that their lord was in their midst.

"Lord Starfighter," the master said, his voice pitched to be heard over the rising whine of the fighters' engines. "Your fighter is prepped and ready."

"My thanks, Master." Traax clapped the male on the shoulder as he passed, and headed across the deck to where his personal V'Pirus waited.

Unlike the solid black of the other fighters, his bore a single crimson stripe down its flank. It was an ancient and recognizable mark, and only one fighter in the empire bore it. It marked the craft of the lord starfighter, and to see it on the battlefield struck fear in the heart of the empire's enemies. Seeing it, they knew death had come for them.

He ran a gloved hand along the smooth hull as he circled to the cockpit, a gesture part reverence and part affection. His V'Pirus had saved his life on more than one occasion.

"Been too long, old friend," he murmured.

Swinging himself up into the cockpit with the ease of long practice, he settled into the form-fitting seat. The familiar embrace of the harness across his chest was a comfort as his hands moved over the controls automatically, flicking switches and checking readouts with precision as he prepped the fighter for launch.

He flipped the final switch, and the engines roared to life, the fighter vibrating with barely leashed power around him. He couldn't suppress his grin as, with a touch of the thrusters, he sent the fighter gliding forward, aligning himself with the launch tube.

"Scarlet One, you are go for launch," Kaaz's voice crackled over the comm.

"Copy that, control. Scarlet One, launching."

Traax tightened his grip on the controls as the launch tube's magnetic field seized his fighter. There was a beat, a breath, then…

The force slammed him back into his seat as he surged forward, the launch tube blurring past in a smear of light. Then he was free, shot from the station into the vast star-strewn black of space.

He laughed with the pure fierce joy of it.

"Control, this is Scarlet One. I am free of the station and proceeding on Obsidian's trail."

"Copy that, Scarlet One. Happy hunting."

With a final check of his readouts, Traax opened the throttle and smiled fiercely as the acceleration pressed him back into his seat. He didn't stop smiling as he streaked away from Devan Station, chasing the promise of the endless black ahead of him.

This was where he belonged… in the cockpit of a fighter, commanding a wing and defending the empire he served. It was his duty, his privilege, his life.

And stars help anything that got in his way.

Later that evening, Traax stepped into the Nebula Lounge, the heavy beat of music washing over him as the door slid shut behind him. On the deck above the flight deck, the bar was within stumbling distance for pilots at the end of a long patrol and was a very welcome respite after the adrenaline high of flying with Obsidian Wing.

Sighing, he rolled his neck as he stepped forward into the dimly lit interior, easing the tension from an old injury and making it click. The familiar scents of polished metal, aged liquor, and the crisp metallic of ionized air from the flight deck below wrapped around him like a second skin, settling over him as comfortably as the flight suit he still wore. Like every other pilot's, it was an adaption of the standard warrior's combat uniform with an extra zipper between the pants and the jacket to form a suit. Unlike every other pilot's, his was worked with the design of the K'Saan clan across the shoulders, and red piping separated the shoulders from the body of the jacket, marking his position as lord starfighter.

His booted footsteps echoed on the metal floor as he strode forward, his gaze sweeping the room in automatic assessment. Pilots and engineers straightened when they noticed his attention, their chins lifting in the unconscious posture of those who had faced death in the cold vacuum of space and emerged victorious. A few raised their glasses in salute, the amber liquid within catching the light like captured starfire. Qiv'thal brandy… commonly known as rot-gut.

He inclined his head in acknowledgment, the beads in his braids clinking softly as he moved through the close-packed tables toward the bar.

"Hey! Traax! Over here!"

The shout got his attention, and he turned. Very few people on the station would dare to use his name… actually, just one at the moment, or so he thought. The emperor wasn't a pilot, so the chances of him being in this bar were slim to none. And that voice most definitely wasn't Daaynal's.

A hand waved from the back corner of the room as the voice, rich and warm as aged whiskey, called out over the hum of conversation. "I sure as draanth hope you're not this slow in combat."

Traax chuckled as he wove his way through the tables.

"Zhain! How the devil are you?" he demanded as he reached his target. "Don't tell me they actually let you escape from Starfighter Hall? I could swear I told them to chain you to your desk."

"Ah, you know. I escape every now and then. Keeps them on their toes when the staff realize they've lost me, only to realize I'm in their vapor trail with a weapons lock."

Zhain Roic, his pale hair and bright blue eyes striking even in the dim neon glow of the bar signs, grinned at him as he shoved a chair out with a booted foot. Once Traax's wingman, now the commandant of Starfighter Hall back in the Lathar system, Zhain was one of the few males he trusted implicitly. He didn't need to wear a mask or be "His Grace, Lord Starfighter." He could be just Traax, the male who had once flown wing to wing with Zhain as they trusted each other with their lives.

"True that. Just did that with a wing here. They about tralled themselves when they realized. Good times."

He reached down to clasp his friend's forearm in a warrior's grip and then slapped him on the shoulder before he dropped into the chair opposite. "It's been too long."

"That it has. For sure."

Zhain lifted a hand to signal the server, a junior pilot who watched them with wide, star-struck eyes as he hurried over with a bottle of amber liquid and two glasses. "Was that Obsidian wing? I heard they ran into a little… unexpected trouble today."

Traax chuckled, the sound deep and low, as the server poured two generous measures. Before he could retreat, Traax motioned at the table. "Leave the bottle. Put it on my tab." He turned back and nodded to Zhain. "Indeed. They're a solid wing. Took me a while to wear them down. They're a real credit to your training."

"They were some of my best. That's why I sent them here to you." Zhain picked up a glass, turning it in long fingers. The crystal caught the light and fractured it into a kaleidoscope of color. "To absent friends and present company."

Traax smiled as he raised his glass, the clink of crystal against crystal a musical chime in the muted cacophony of the bar around them. "To duty and honor."

The first sip hit his tastebuds, and he savored the smoky flavor, letting it roll across his tongue before swallowing. It burned pleasantly down his throat, warming his blood and easing the ever-present tension in his shoulders.

"So, how have things been at Starfighter Hall?"

"I'm surprised I'm not bald?" Zhain shot back with a snort. "I swear kids these days… more balls than brains. Just last week I nearly lost an entire wing."

Traax leaned back in his chair, nursing his drink as he listened to Zhain recounting a harrowing training exercise. "I swear, the kid nearly took out half the hangar with that maneuver." Zhain chuckled, shaking his head. "I thought my deck master was going to have a heart attack right there on the flight deck."

"Reminds me of a certain hotshot pilot I used to know." Traax smirked, arching a brow at his friend. "As I recall, you had a… talent for leaving scorch marks on the landing deck."

Zhain's laughter rang out, deep and genuine, causing several people at nearby tables to turn their way. "I don't know what you're on about. I'm perfect, just perfect."

Traax snorted, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "Perfect? Hardly. I seem to remember a certain incident involving a misaligned thruster and a very unfortunate comms satellite."

"That was one time!" Zhain protested, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "And in my defense, the satellite was clearly in the wrong orbit."

They traded more stories back and forth, each trying to outdo the other with tales of near-misses and narrow escapes. Traax found himself recounting a particularly daring maneuver during a skirmish with the krynassis, his hands slicing through the air to mimic the path of his fighter.

"And then, just as I thought I was done for, Kaaz comes screaming in from above and takes out the two clutch fighters on my tail with a single shot." Traax shook his head. "I swear, that male has a sixth sense when it comes to timing."

Zhain nodded. "He's pulled my ass out of the fire more times than I can count. Remember that time on Zyntavos when we got separated from the rest of the wing?"

"How could I forget?" he asked, the memory still vivid in his mind. "Outnumbered three to one, low on fuel, and with no backup in sight? Draanth , I thought we were going to end up as stardust for sure."

"But then Kaaz shows up with half the damn fleet behind him, guns blazing." Zhain shook his head. "I've never been so happy to see that ugly mug."

Traax laughed, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "Don't let him hear you call him ugly. You know how vain he is about those eyes of his."

Zhain snorted, emptying his glass and reaching out for the bottle to pour himself another. "Oh, don't I just. Never got a look in the mirror in the barracks all the time I was under his command."

Traax hooked his ankle over his knee and leaned his head back to look up at the ceiling. His body ached down to the bone from the dogfight with Obsidian earlier, but it was a good ache. One he'd missed. Frowning, he lifted his head and fixed Zhain with a look.

"Why are you really here, Zhain?" He balanced his glass on the wide arm of his chair as he watched his friend's expression. "Last I checked, the commandant of Starfighter Hall had no reason to visit Devan Station."

Zhain met his gaze squarely, letting the noise of the bar fill the space between them.

"Honestly? I came to register for the mate program." A moment of silence engulfed them. "I want one of those human females."

Traax snorted, leaning back in his chair. The metal creaked under his weight. "A human? Why bother with the program? We should just conquer their planet and take what we want."

"Oh, come on… you know it's not that simple." Zhain chuckled from behind his glass. "Or did you take one too many hits recently?"

He waved a dismissive hand. "Those draanthing human engineers are always underfoot. I nearly crushed one when I dropped out of my cockpit earlier. They're so fragile. It's a wonder they made it into space at all."

"Yet some find them captivating." Zhain's lips quirked, a hint of humor softening the sharp angles of his face. "Have you seen the females? They're... striking."

He shook his head, growling deep in his chest. "They're inferior, Zhain. Hardly worth our time. If I take a female, it will be for one purpose only—to secure my bloodline."

"Is that so?" Zhain arched his eyebrow. "Perhaps you should sign up for the program yourself then."

"Already did." The words tasted bitter on his tongue. "Even His Grace, Lord Starfighter cannot escape the emperor's decrees."

"In that case." Zhain smiled broadly and lifted his glass to clink it against his. "May the goddess smile on us and grant us beautiful human mates quickly."

Traax grunted as he downed his drink, hissing as it burned all the way to his stomach.

A human mate? He couldn't think of anything worse.