Chapter 13: Aisha & Quinton

QUINTON

After many hours, Quinton finally stood from his console and removed his headset. It was over. The Wrilings were defeated.

The captain had commanded Quinton and the others to remain at their posts in case of a second attack, but it hadn’t come. More than one nest of Wrilings was sometimes known to trespass space together, but it was very rare.

~Fortunately.~

He yawned and stretched. He was in desperate need of food and sleep.

As he turned to leave, his tired mind briefly forgot that there was something more waiting for him back in his room. Something wonderful.

~Aisha.~

His heart lifted.

He’d received her call hours before. It had been a total surprise—and a little horrifying. How ~had~ she gotten out of the shuttle?

What would have happened if the Wrilings had overrun the ship? He winced at the thought of her small body being consumed by one of those…things.

Quinton looked down at his shirt, remembering how she’d clung to him with her skinny fingers. ~Don’t go!~

He bid his colleagues goodbye. No longer feeling nearly so hungry or so tired, he hurried back to his room.

The corridors were filling again. The lights were back on. There would need to be repairs done to the ship—but they should only be minor.

As for the wounded—he was yet to discover the cost.

But that could wait.

Everything could wait.

He approached their door, his heart pounding in his throat. He pressed it open.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, gazing through the window into space, her long dark hair cascading down her back. Then she turned.

And for the first time, her face lit up. She grinned, and it was almost as if there was nothing unusual about her face. Nothing at all.

She looked beautiful and young and full of life. Quinton’s heart lurched.

She pulled herself across the bed. By the time she reached the opposite edge, Quinton was with her, close—where he belonged.

He didn’t even think, pulling her into his arms. She was clinging onto him again, like she had before, her fingers digging into his sides as if she didn’t want to let go.

“You’re all right,” she gasped.

He squeezed her tight. “And so are you.”

He brushed the hair out of her face. “What happened? I told you not to leave the shuttle.”

He sat beside her on the bed, his arm around her waist. She was resting her hand upon his forearm. It was unexpectedly intimate.

He wanted to lift her hand to his mouth and kiss it. But he didn’t.

Not yet.

Her cheeks flushed. “I d-don’t know.”

She released his arm and pulled her hair across her face like she always did.

“You need to stop doing that,” he told her. “You’re beautiful.”

He could see her cheeks blushing brighter behind her hair. She lowered her eyes to her lap.

She stiffened, as though only now realizing that he was touching her in such a way.

Pulling back, he cleared his throat. “Like I said, you should not have left. You could have been in danger.”

He paused. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

She nodded.

He got up and went over to the meal bench.

“W-what happened to the Wrilings?”

He turned in surprise. “How do you know about them?”

“One of the others told me.”

He felt a stab of annoyance. “They shouldn’t have told you. There’s no point in worrying about something you can do nothing about. Here.”

He returned to the bed and handed her a drink.

“Y—you look tired.”

“I ~am~ tired,” he said. He smiled. “But not so tired now that I’m here with you.”

She gave a small smile back, turning her face as she drank.

Quinton took a deep drink, then patted his pants at the feel of his I-Spy announcing a call. He sighed as he pulled it out. It was Drake.

“Yes?”

“Quinton, we need you in the infirmary. There have been some extraordinary developments.”

“Can’t it wait?” He glanced over at Aisha. He felt the exhaustion starting to weigh down upon him again.

“Roco was infiltrated by a Wriling. He’s awake now.”

The I-Spy slid from Quinton’s grasp. He scrambled to get it back to his ear. “What?”

“You need to come. We need your expertise to help us understand—to help save the others.”

Quinton looked at Aisha again. Her face was etched with concern.

Quinton’s heart pounded in his chest. “I’ll be there.”

He switched off the I-Spy and slipped it back into his pocket.

“W-what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong,” he said, his breath coming in short gasps. “Something amazing has happened, in fact.”

His hands trembled. This couldn’t be real. They had to be mistaken. He rose to his feet. “I’ll return as soon as I can. You know how to order food. Eat and rest.”

She furrowed her brow. “You are safe?”

“I am safe.”

In his excitement, he leaned in and kissed her lightly on her soft lips. He pulled back, startled, worried that he’d moved too fast.

She didn’t move, frozen in shock, her eyes wide.

“I’ll return,” he promised her, and he turned and hurried through the door.

His mind was so focused on the infirmary as he raced through the corridors that once he arrived at the door, he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there.

He stepped inside. The long line of capsules made his heart lurch. Several people were gathered around one of them.

“Quinton!”

Quinton turned. A dark-haired Zibon he didn’t recognize was grinning back at him.

Then it hit him like a slap in the face. “Drake?”

“That’s me,” he said. He clapped Quinton on the shoulder. “I know, I’m bonded, but that’s not important right now.”

Feeling like a rock had lodged somewhere deep in his throat, Quinton followed him over to the popular capsule.

He looked down at the sound of a crunch to discover the remains of a Wriling. The small crowd parted to let him through.

The first thing his eyes fixed on was Drake’s mate. Her white braids made her stand out like a star. Her yellow Zibon eyes were glittering. She was extraordinary—and it made his heart jump at the hope of his own forthcoming union.

He pulled his eyes away. Inside the capsule was Roco and his female.

“As you can see, beta waves,” Drake said, tapping the medical screen.

But he didn’t need to see. Roco’s eyes were cracked open, his heavy body pinned down by the little Rictorian curled around him, her long dark hair flowing across his chest. His face was filled with exhaustion, but he was gazing at her in adoration, like he couldn’t believe his eyes.

There was no sign of Wriling membrane.

“There must be some kind of mistake,” Quinton said.

“No mistake,” Drake said. “We all witnessed it.” He told Quinton what had happened.

“You think it has something to do with the bond?” Quinton said, tapping away at the medical screen to examine the history of Roco’s vitals.

“Definitely. But there’s more to it than that. It’s specifically to do with the Rictorians. The Wrilings don’t like them for reasons as yet unknown.”

They looked at each other. Drake’s dark eyes were going to need some getting used to.

“You’re suggesting that the Rictorians have some kind of immunity and that it’s carried through the bond,” Quinton said.

There was no need for Drake to respond. Instead, he looked over toward another capsule further down the end. Quinton immediately recognized the male Rictorian hovering over it.

“Clint,” Quinton said.

“Yes.”

“But he’s bonded.”

“But before infiltration.”

Quinton rubbed his chin.

“But we have great hope,” Drake finished. “His vitals remain static. No consumption.”

Quinton raised his eyebrows. “Have you tried anything?”

“We’re preparing ourselves for numerous options.”

Quinton looked over the remaining thirteen capsules. “If this has worked…”

“I know.”

“What does the captain have to say?”

“Miktar is informing him now,” Drake said. Drake’s dark eyes were shining as he gazed at his startling female across the room. “Rictor 5 is much closer than Zibon 8. Close enough to save them. Nobody needs to die.”

Quinton studied Clint’s mate. His face was tear-streaked, but his eyes were hard and filled with determination. It would be easy to employ his assistance.

“I will need blood, skin, and mucosal samples from both the bonded and the unbonded,” Quinton said. “I will need cellular workups, synaptic studies, doppled mediation. Do not stop monitoring their vitals. We need uninterrupted records. If we could only catch one of these Wrilings alive…”