Alien Paladin's Redemption - Mina Carter Page 0,5

doubt so that if the flyer did suffer a malfunction, he couldn’t call for help. Problem solved.

The approach path took him under the belly of the huge, armored beast in front of him. Cannon arrays sat in their mountings, inactive for the moment, as he passed by. A shiver stole up his spine. They were ketar class, capable of tearing another capital ship apart. His tiny flyer with its puny shields wouldn’t stand a chance.

Sweat slid down his back as the journey under the Izal’vias stretched out to an eternity. Any moment he expected the arrays to activate, swivel in their mounts and target him. His world would end in a blaze to rival a supernova and it would all be over. He would be at peace, in the halls of the goddess herself.

But the arrays didn’t move, and he emerged from the shadows under the ship like the sun breaking over the horizon of a new day. Squinting against the sudden glare, he turned the flyer, heading toward the shuttlebay doors that stood open in welcome.

The Izal’vias grew larger and larger as he approached until it swallowed up everything else in his viewscreen. Finally, he passed through the massive bay doors and into the hangar beyond. It was huge and cavernous. Flyers and troop shuttles far more advanced than his lined up row on row until he lost count.

The console flashed again, giving him a bay number. Carefully, he maneuvered himself into place, landing his flyer gently between two transports. Both were shiny and brand-spanking new. He felt like the poor cousin visiting from out of town as he cranked the lid on his flyer and climbed out.

Two mechanics approached, their expressions terse as they nodded to him. Professionalism broke, though, when one of them blurted out, “Draanth’s sake, where did you find this? A gods-damn scrapyard?”

“Something like that,” Nyek deadpanned as he strode toward the main deck where a welcoming party awaited.

He tensed, fists closing at his sides as he walked. He might have arrived on board safely, the ketar cannons not creating a brief and shining star of him and his ship, but that didn’t mean he was out of the woods yet.

He didn’t expect anyone would want to roll out the red carpet for him, so a welcoming party was not good. His keen gaze studied them as he approached. They didn’t appear to be heavily armed, no more than was usual for Latharian warriors, and none of them had drawn their weapons yet. That was good, but then again, not really an indicator of their intentions. They were imperial warriors, far above the caliber of those in the Tev’tolath garrison. He likely wouldn’t know their intentions until a second before he was fighting for his life. And the number of them? His life would then become very, very short.

Nyek was no idiot, nor was he vain. He knew he was a good... no, he was an excellent warrior, but no one could take on large numbers and survive. Not without dumb luck or divine intervention. For a second his scars pulled again, but he dismissed the feeling. The lady goddess sparing his life during the Vesh did not mean he was blessed by the gods. It could just mean she’d ruled he had yet to atone for his mistakes in life before granting him the blessing of the afterlife.

None of the males waiting for him pulled their weapons as he approached. The warrior in the center, a senior warrior by the notches on his leathers, gave him a salute in greeting, which almost froze him in his tracks. Sure, aboard the garrison he’d been sub-commander, which meant they had to salute him, but not one of them had done it willingly.

This male’s expression was neutral, though, maybe even a little respectful as his gaze flicked to the multitude of braids in Nyek’s hair. “Welcome aboard the Izal’vias, Warrior S’Vaan,” he said, hand still bunched in a fist over his heart in the rest pose of the traditional salute.

“Thank you,” Nyek replied as he returned it. For the first time in a long time, he meant it. Hope began to unfurl like the petals of a shy flower. Perhaps this would be the start of a new phase in his life—a posting where he was not reviled for simply breathing. A place his existence was not at the expense of another’s life.

“If you would follow me, the war commander is expecting you,” the warrior said, turning