Chapter One
“How long before the Xeno Consortium fighter closes in?” Tigre’s tail whipped from side to side, and he rubbed the pigmented bands slashing his cheeks. In moments of stress, the stripes darkened and swelled, becoming more prominent.
Wingman peered at his screen. “They’ll be close enough to fire again in thirty minutes.”
“How much time before we reach jump space?”
“Thirty-four minutes.”
“I don’t like those numbers,” Tigre said grimly.
Neither did Chameleon. If the consortium caught up with them, they would fire on the Castaway to disable it, arrest the entire crew, and…well, death would be preferable. They’d all wish they were back on ’Topia.
“We have to increase the distance between us and them. If we activate hyperdrive”—Chameleon glanced at his console—“we can reach jump space in four minutes, six seconds.”
“With our stabilizer core already damaged, entering jump space could be risky, and doing it in hyperdrive?” Shadow, their acting engineer, shook his head.
“Give us some numbers. Say we shift into hyperdrive and enter the jump, what’s the risk to the ship?” Tigre asked. Chameleon respected the calm way the Saberian sought information and figured the others did also since they’d chosen him to captain the Castaway. Chameleon hadn’t been in a position to disagree, but Tigre had proven to be a competent commander. Besides, who captained the vessel didn’t really matter as long as they got as far away from ’Topia as they could.
“Sixty-five percent, give or take five,” Shadow replied.
“That the ship will remain intact?”
“No, that it will break apart. If we enter jump space at hyperspeed, I estimate our chance of survival at 35 percent—at best. If we do pass through with the hull intact, there’s still a good chance the engines could be irreparably damaged, leaving us to drift.”
“Which means we get captured by the Xenos anyway,” Wingman said.
“Not necessarily,” Chameleon disagreed. “In jump space you can’t predict with finite accuracy where you’ll end up. At best, you can get close to your coordinates in time and space. Assuming the consortium fighter follows us in, most likely they’ll end up in a different section of the galaxy.”
“Unless they’re tracking us,” Wingman said. “They’ve dogged us since we escaped ’Topia.”
“They’re picking up our exhaust signature,” Tigre said. “If we put enough distance between us, the signature will dissipate.”
“The prisoner could be tagged. I’ll bet that’s how they’re keeping up with us. I had recommended we keep him to use as leverage in case we were captured, but I’ve changed my mind. We should eject him into space.” Wingman flexed his soot-covered wings, many feathers curled and blackened. They must have caught fire during the bombardment.
“I hesitate to kill a man who might be innocent,” Tigre said. “He was searched and scanned. We detected no tracking device.”
“He mimicked a Saberian to gain our trust. We only discovered he was a Xeno when the ship scanned everyone as we boarded,” Wingman persisted.
Checking that his personification was still holding, Chameleon listened to the interchange between their appointed captain and the Avian with rising alarm. The conversation headed into dangerous territory. Tigre provided a voice of reason, but Wingman argued a strong case.
“Technically, we boarded his ship,” Tigre pointed out. “He said he came to warn ’Topians of the attack and get as many of our people off the planet as he could.”
“What else would he say?”
“Why risk his own life by being on the planet during the bombardment?”
Wingman shook his head. “He’s a spy.”
“A spy who helped us to escape? None of us would be alive if he hadn’t led us to the Castaway. We would have died with everyone else.”
They’d watched from space as an armada bombarded ’Topia, scorching the land and turning lavender oceans to steam.
“He did it to save his own ass.”
“His ass was already safe. He could have taken the ship and left. He didn’t need us.”
“Why are you defending him?” Wingman scowled. “I say we airlock him now. The longer we keep him, the more we’re all at risk.”
Chameleon surreptitiously inspected his hands again. Still red. Good.
“He hasn’t done anything. At least, not yet,” Tigre said. “Since we’re in this together, this needs to be a group decision. Wingman, I know your vote is for airlocking. I’m a no unless we get hard evidence he’s a threat. Shadow?” He looked at their Vaporian engineer.
“I’m with you, Tigre. No for now.”
Tigre turned to Chameleon. “What do you say, Inferno?”
“I concur with you and Shadow. The prisoner should not be airlocked,” said Chameleon, the Xeno prisoner in question. He’d escaped the brig and gained access to the bridge by personifying a crew member. So, no. He opposed ejecting the prisoner into outer space. “I believe his intentions were sincere or he wouldn’t have led us to the Castaway. He had a thorough scan, so I’m confident he isn’t wearing a tracking device. Besides”—he glanced at the readings on his screen—“we now have twenty-two minutes until the fighter will fire on us again.”
“We’d never win a firefight,” Tigre said. “Our chance of survival in a jump may only be 35 percent, but I say we take it. Who’s in for a jump?”
“Jump,” Wingman agreed.
Shadow nodded. “Jump.”
“Jump,” Chameleon said.
“Psy should vote, but there’s no time. We have our consensus. Put us into hyperdrive,” Tigre ordered.
Shadow nodded and turned to his console. The teamwork impressed Chameleon. ’Topians were genetic hybrids, their mishmash of DNA bestowing them with different abilities and aptitudes, which they’d used to their advantage. If the goal of the ’Topian project had been cooperation, the consortium would have lauded the experiment as a huge success. Instead, they’d deemed it a failure and ordered its destruction.
Shadow counted down: “Hyperdrive commencing in five seconds, four, three, two, one…” Lights blinked causing the vessel to go dark for an instant, and the ship shot through space. The stars blurred, but there was no sensation of movement.
Until the Castaway entered jump space. Then the ship seized and shuddered as if a giant hand grabbed the vessel in its fist and shook it. The hull groaned and swayed. The engine growl swelled to a roar. Chameleon clung to his personification and the chair, bracing himself as the vessel shuddered and rocked.
Thirty-five percent. That’s all they had. We’ll make it. We have to make it.
The ship began to spin. Chameleon lost his grip, flew from his seat, and crashed into a panel.
“Can you control the spin?” Tigre shouted, hanging on to his own seat.
“I’m trying!” Shadow yelled, clinging to his console while punching in a command.
Finally, the ship stopped tossing and turning and went silent and still. Lights flickered but remained on.