Page 37 of Fractured Souls

As the guards came and took him away, as the neural immobilizer closed around his neck, he saw Zharek lying on the floor, blood pooling around him.

Impossibly, a faint smile curved the medic’s lips. “Welcome to the First Division, soldier,” he whispered, and then everything went black.

Now the tables were turned. Zharek knew… they all knew that Nythian could kill the medic in an instant if he made a wrong move.

Zharek reappeared, an equipment-platform hovering beside him. Nythian recognized the dark machines at once.

Nano-surgery equipment.

Zharek pointedly ignored his glare, issuing orders to Mareth in Kordolian.

“Oh, no you don’t.” Nythian moved up behind the medic, placing one large hand on the back of Zharek’s neck. “You explain everything to Alexis right now, and be honest about it. The risks, the effects, the fucking micro-anatomy. Don’t gloss over anything, don’t fudge the statistics, don’t play down the side-effects. I’ll know if you’re lying. You’ve never been any good at it, Sirian.”

“Yes, yes.” Zharek tried to back away, but Nythian kept applying pressure, a not-so-subtle reminder that he could snap Zharek’s neck at any time if he wanted. “Look, it won’t be pretty, but it’s such a simple and elegant solution that I think she’ll be rather satisfied with the outcome.”

“Explain,” Nythian growled, as Alexis’s eyes grew wide. Of course, she wouldn’t understand why he was threatening Zharek.

“Nythian, I am not going to screw this up,” Zharek snapped, becoming angry. “Get it into your thick skull that I divested myself of the Imperial ways a long time ago... long before you people figured it out.” He uttered a few choice curse-words in High Kordolian, but their meaning was lost on Nythian.

Why in the Nine Hells would an orphan from the Flatedge like him know High Kordolian anyway?

Didn’t matter. He called the shots now.

Alexis waved her hand through the stasis liquid, trying to draw their attention. She was restless and uncomfortable. Hundreds of tiny bumps appeared on her smooth skin, a typically human response to cold.

She was trembling.

Nythian was overcome with the sudden urge to jump in there with her.

“If you two are done,” she said, her eyes crinkling behind the clear shield of her visor, “can we please get on with this? I’ll turn into a popsicle if I stay in here much longer.”

Nythian didn’t know what a popsicle was, but it sounded unpleasant.

“I’ll start with the bad news,” Zharek said as he multitasked, handing various pieces of equipment to Mareth. “Because of the risk of further transformation, we can’t sedate you, not even partially. Neural immobilizers are out of the question. I can perhaps give you a light analgesic, but that’s about it. I’m afraid, as you humans say, that it’s going to hurt like a bitch.”

“What’s going to hurt like a bitch?” Nythian snarled.

“This.” Zharek held up a sleek transparent container. It was filled with black liquid metal. “You should know. I’m going to encase her arm in flexible biotic Callidum and stabilize the DNA. It will make it impossible for the transformation to spread any further.”

Nythian contained the volatile anger that flared up inside him—but only barely. Zharek stiffened, and Nythian could almost sense his fear.

No, the medic wouldn’t do anything stupid.

Alexis’s eyes narrowed behind her clear visor. She didn’t like what she was seeing.

A sound from outside made him turn.

Footsteps.

He knew that particular gait.

Shit.

“Abbey, what are you doing here?” He turned as Tarak’s mate strode into the room, her green eyes blazing. Kaiin’s Hells, and the boss had just been on the comm with him! “No, no, no. You can’t be in here. Go, now.”

“You didn’t tell me she was hurt. Tarak didn’t tell me that—”

“Abbey,” Nythian warned, his voice dropping to a low growl. “Do not make me use force on you. Zharek’s in the middle of something critical.”

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