With practiced ease she slipped her shoes from her feet, preferring to trust her hard soles on the wet concrete. As he reached the sidewalk on her side of the street, only a half dozen meters separated them; she rushed forward, low, hands out to balance against any move she would make.

At the last possible second the Elemental moved with blinding speed, spinning to the right and following through with a sweep of his left leg, placing himself in a crouch, with right hand firmly planted on the curb.

Snow moved with the sweep, doing a backward flip that briefly touched hands to sidewalk just after his trunk of a leg swept through, before launching herself into a twist, landing facing him, feet already carrying her backward, bleeding off speed. She stopped in her own crouch.

Damn. Hadn’t the drugs taken effect yet? He should’ve been moving at half his current speed, if not less. Chagrined, Snow realized she had not thought to check whether Elementals were naturally resistant to drugs. Still, the dose she’d used could’ve put a horse to sleep. Almost. Had to have affected him somewhat, right? Enough for her to make it out of this with minimal damage, she hoped.

In the space between two light posts, with the darkness and rain, she could barely make out his face even at two meters; she felt confident he wouldn’t know her from a wallflower.

“You have no idea what you have done, surat.” That deep voice. Even now, she felt a shiver slide up her spine. Something in the timbre. The tone. She chuckled softly. Even now she still wanted him. Still wanted to see what such a mountain of flesh could do.

You’re a silly girl. Daydreaming of a romp with a man who insulted you and is about to try to pound you back to the Star League.

She saw him stiffen slightly at her laugh. Snow laughed again, this time with more hilarity at her own fickleness as much as to try to disarm Corin.

“You will soon not have the teeth, much less the jaw, for such laughter, surat.” Now he talked? Now he couldn’t shut up? She smiled and laughed even louder. Could it be this easy to goad him?

He bellowed and rushed forward, low and hands out to try to grab her regardless of which direction she might move.

With a return bark of laughter (a dismissal of his own anger), Snow dove forward in a roll that placed her into a springing crouch as he swept into her. She pounded forward with a triple fist to his crotch as he scrambled to stop his forward movement. Some would be horrified at such an attack, but she’d been taught long ago to set aside such niceties. If she won, who cared how she got there? She didn’t and her opponents certainly never did.

Supernova-strength pain blossomed in both shoulders as his ’Mech-sized fists hammered down; she grunted, giving him kudos for sloughing off the pain she had just delivered to his manhood.

“Stravag. Time to die.”

She flopped backward—marveling he would waste breath right now—and used the momentum to roll herself up and to the side. She planted her left hand and scissored her legs back toward his right leg as he leaned over farther to reach her with those flesh hammers. Though he landed another blow, which momentarily lit off the mother of all bells in her ears, he put himself far enough off center that her blow knocked him to the side and down before he could adjust.

She rolled left several times—felt a jolt as she rolled off the curb and into the street; tasted copper as she bit her tongue—and came up into a crouch, facing him again. She knew he would expect her to pause and assess the damage: such inaction was for the weak. She attacked again, sweeping left toward his blind spot as Corin regained his feet and tried to turn as well.

Planting her left foot firmly (her flesh giving her purchase her shoes would’ve denied), she swung once again directly into his line of attack. Caught him off guard.

A frenzy of strokes and counterstrokes exploded as she pushed him back by the simple expediency of never letting up. Kept him reacting to her moves. With a feint at her head, Corin backed up against the wall. She moved forward left, slid slightly to the right and took a calculated blow directly to her right chest; she compartmentalized the pain and washed it away like the rain carried away the blood from cuts on her face and her knuckles. In return, she stabbed a flat knife hand directly into his throat.

Years of training allowed her to land the blow with a precision few could match. She felt the crunch of cartilage and knew he now felt the stunning pain of a trachea on the verge of partial collapse; a hairbreadth more pressure would’ve crushed it, ending his life in gasping, horrified pain. Pain lit his face like fire through old parchment. He grabbed at his throat as he wrenched his head backward in an attempt to ease the pressure… and smashed his head into the building wall behind him.

He dropped like a puppet with cut strings.

She breathed shallowly, aware too deep a breath would painfully stretch her right breast; she’d have a ’Mech-sized bruise there come morning. Stretched her right shoulder, surprised the old wound didn’t hurt more. She sucked at her knuckles for a moment, then bent to reposition his head to lessen the strain on his trachea—keep it bent too long and it would collapse.

She couldn’t believe how much he weighed; it took her longer than she could have guessed to move him to his new residence.

Now, with him restrained on the table, she flicked the needle several times to push out the last of the air bubbles and expertly added the drug to the IV line.

Then, with the languid grace of a Holt prairie cat nestling up to its kill to feed, she climbed up on the table, straddled his massive chest (the warmth still blossomed; she laughed at her own folly) and placed her face only centimeters from his. She’d not even taken time to dry off, and droplets of water slowly fell from her hair, splashing onto his face, pooling in the corners of his eyes and running down his chiseled features.

Blurry eyes slowly opened. Blank. Not understanding his change of status. She didn’t say a word as he struggled to come fully awake—or as awake as she’d allow him to be. Took account of his situation. She smiled slowly, as confusion warred with anger. He couldn’t place her.

He tried to speak, but the drugs wouldn’t let that happen; she’d upped the dosage after her first mistake. Not yet. Another dozen seconds trickled by before understanding slinked in like a dawn to gray skies. He knew her. She warmed further as something moved behind those vacant eyes.

He’d been so talkative with his fellow Clansmen, and he would be again. She just knew he had so much to talk about, after all.

Now the real fun would begin.

Clan Sea Fox DropShip Ocean of Stars

Nadir Jump Point, Tania Borealis

Prefecture VII, The Republic

10 August 3134

“What are you hoping to accomplish, oh supreme ovKhan?” Jesup asked, walking onto the observation deck of the Ocean of Stars moments before the scheduled termination of deceleration.

Did we not have this conversation a half dozen times since leaving Adhafera? Jesup’s sarcasm didn’t reduce the irritation this time around. Petr ran his hand over his scarred scalp. Felt the twisted flesh, which would never change. Which would only grow more wrinkled with age. Grimaced at the idea of aging. Felt the twinge in his shoulder—a ghost of remembered pain. He did not answer. Did not feel the question—or Jesup, right about now—worthy of a response.

Just then, the captain cut the drive flare, having bled off most of the velocity in the short trip between the Voidswimmer and the ArcShip Poseidon. With the loss of the actinic glare of the fusion drive, the Poseidon, or at least a portion of her, hove into view. Both men fell silent, marveling at the construct before them.