Celene took the lead, and his attention wavered between studying the exotic jungle and watching her smooth, economical movement. It might’ve been decades since she last ventured into the wilderness, but she moved with confidence, her gaze never resting, her body always primed for action. Despite the hazards of their surroundings, desire formed a steady second pulse beneath his heartbeat.

There were some cultures and planets that kept their females in perpetual servitude, helpless and dependent on males. The Devanians, for example, blinded females caught learning to read.

Fools.

There were murmurs that the Devanian women were plotting a coup to overthrow the oppressive regime. Already, 8th Wing had committed several troop units to aid in the revolution, when it finally happened.

Several solar hours after Nils and Celene had commenced their trek, they stopped to rest and take refreshment. She sat down on a root, easing off the straps of her pack with a sigh.

He rummaged through his pack for their rations, and she groaned.

“When I was held captive, they fed me some kind of gruel that I’m fairly certain had viscera in it.” She eyed the sustenance-pak he held out to her with distaste. “That tasted better.”

He chuckled, thinking that even Stainless Jur had her limits. “A few of these plants bear fruit.”

He didn’t want to draw attention to their presence by firing his weapon, so he used a long stick to knock down a fleshy yellow pod the size of an infant. It landed with a muffled, heavy thump on the forest floor. After pulling on gloves, he took his sonic blade and cut the pod in half.

“Oh, Ten Hells,” Celene said, and gagged.

He reeled back, pushed away by the stench emanating from the fruit. “It’s like carrion, stagnant water and feet, all mixed together.”

“Maybe it tastes better than it smells.” She wiped at her watering eyes.

“Its juice is sizzling. I’d rather not take that chance.”

They edged away, finding a new place to rest that was not downwind. With little choice offered to them, he and Celene ate their rations, washing it all down with water treated by their solar hydroprocessor.

“Don’t think I’ll be collecting any samples on this planet,” she murmured between bites.

“With any luck, we won’t ever come here again.”

Both fell silent, and he had to wonder if her thoughts mirrored his. This harsh jungle might serve as their final resting place, even if they were successful in their mission. He didn’t want to entertain such thoughts. The idea of dying certainly held no appeal, but, as it did for all members of 8th Wing, the prospect of death always hovered close. PRAXIS was a formidable enemy. The roster of the fallen grew longer and longer every solar year.

Yet he couldn’t stand the thought of Celene laid out in her ceremonial uniform, the honorary wreath of white pala blossoms draped around her neck. And that was for the lucky few. Most had no bodies left to be adorned and burned, effigies taking their place. Thinking of this filled him with fury and gutting sorrow.

Don’t smear ash on my arms just yet. We’re both still alive. We will survive this mission. He had to believe this.

He started when she nudged his shoulder with hers. “Marek is the one who should worry, not us.”

“How’d you know what I was thinking?”

“If a person’s expression could be flammable, this whole jungle would be blazing.”

He glanced down at his boots, digging trenches in the soft forest floor. “Not sure I’m suited for a life of combat.”

“I’ve got no complaints about your fighting capability. Hells, you’re as good as any of the Wraith Squad.”

Her praise created a small burst of light within him, like a star being born. Words were not enough, however. “How do you tolerate it? Seeing your squad mates fall?”

“Two choices: collapse, or keep going.” She gave a fatalistic shrug. “So we fly forward. There are too many battles to fight—and I don’t want to do PRAXIS’s work for them. The only way I stop fighting is if they shoot me out of the sky.”

Understanding was a bolt of ferrium along his spine, shoring him up. He refused to fail. For the 8th Wing, for Celene. And for himself.

She saw the resolve in his gaze, and in response, her eyes shined deeply.

After finishing their meal, they continued on. The going was tough as they clambered over massive tree roots, forded swift rivers teeming with unknown life and edged carefully up and down steep ravines. He thanked the foresight that kept him consistently training on base. The bare minimum on base would’ve left him a liability now. Celene would have had to leave him behind, gasping and nursing a sprain or break. But he’d pushed himself then, and reaped the benefits now. Though it was hard to feel as though he’d emerged the victor, especially as he climbed, hand over hand, along a vine that dangled over a hundred meter-deep chasm.

His limbs ached with weariness and strain, and sweat coated his body. He wanted to pull off his boots and soak his throbbing feet in a basin of cool water. In his quarters on base, he’d rigged up a perfect iced-kahve brewing system and he thought of it with longing.

But when he scaled the side of a towering cliff and then caught Celene’s admiring gaze once he reached the top…energy surged through him. This dense jungle could go on for hundreds of thousands of geomiles, and it wouldn’t matter. Which was fortunate. It seemed that the jungle truly did stretch on for hundreds of thousands of geomiles.

They moved on further into the rainforest. As they entered a small glade pierced by sunlight, unease tightened along the back of his neck.

She must have felt a similar disquiet, for they both held still, heads tilted as they listened.

“Hear that?” she whispered.

“Complete silence.” None of the avian life squawked. The animals fell mute. Even the insects’ droning quieted.

Nils and Celene’s gazes met, pinned together by mutual understanding. Silence meant danger. Close by.

Her blaster found its way into her hand instantly. He also reached for his. As he did so, the underbrush exploded.

A massive animal leaped toward them. He had a fleeting impression of thickly muscled haunches, giant claws, and two snarling heads filled with black teeth. A huge canine-like beast, with a ruff of spikes surrounding each head, and more spikes on its lashing tail. It made a sound like a human scream, chilling his blood. But he couldn’t be frozen into inaction. The animal charged.

He and Celene leaped aside, narrowly missing the beast’s claws and double mouths. He rolled as the beast wheeled toward him to take another swipe. Ripples of air stirred as its claws struck out. He kept himself low, dodging the talons.

A plasma blast dug into the animal’s side. It snarled and spun around to face Celene, who stood with her plasma blaster aimed at the beast. She fired several more times at it, but its thick, leathery hide absorbed most of the impact, leaving only charred marks rather than deep wounds. Growling, the animal crouched, then bounded toward her.

She stood, caught between two huge tree roots too high to climb. There was nowhere for her to run. Instead of crumpling into a protective ball, she braced her legs wide and made ready to grapple with the beast.

Fierce warrior she might be, but Celene did not have claws or massive fangs. And her uniform provided minimal protection. She’d be ripped apart.

He acted without thought. He took off running after the creature, gaining momentum, and then, muscles coiling and releasing, jumped onto the animal’s back. He looped his arm around one of its necks, gripping his wrist with his other hand to lock himself tight.

The ruff of spikes tore through his uniform and pierced his skin. Bucking and writhing beneath him, the creature fought to shake him off. He wouldn’t let go. He tightened his hold on the neck, hoping it had a standard respiratory system that would suffer from having its air supply diminished.

Above the animal’s snarls, he heard Celene cursing. As he continued to press on the beast’s windpipe, he caught glimpses of her struggling to take aim with her blaster. Yet she didn’t fire.

“Take the shot,” he shouted. “Aim for one of the heads.”

“And maybe hit you? Pass!”

Yet if anyone could make a difficult shot, she would be the one. “Do it,” he yelled. “I trust you.”

As the beast grew weaker, its movements less powerful, Celene dropped to one knee. She braced her arm. Nils could sense her centering herself, drawing and holding a breath. And then she fired.

He didn’t wince. But the beast roared as plasma fire caught it just under one of its eyes. It gave its head a mighty shake, and his hold broke. He flew off the animal and landed with a thud in a stand of bracken. Celene appeared at his side immediately.

“Did I hit you?” she asked, pulling him up.

“Didn’t even damage my shave.” Though he tried to speak with bravado, his heart pounded and his head spun.

He and Celene watched as the beast staggered from the blast. It appeared stunned, wounded, but alive. For a moment, both heads stared at them balefully, though the head that had taken the plasma blast drooped lower. He tensed, and felt Celene do the same. Injured animals were almost as dangerous as those guarding their young.

After a few heartbeats, the creature let out twin howls, then loped off back into the underbrush.

He and Celene stood motionless, waiting. Neither of them spoke or moved. Not until the sounds of the jungle resumed, replacing eerie silence with welcome clamor. Slowly, he lowered himself back onto the ground, his legs stretching out in front of him. He let out a long breath.