Warlord's Return - Cynthia Sax Page 0,1

eyes at the young warrior, forcing himself to be tough on him. Rinchinbal wouldn’t respond to soft words. “Are you calling Head of Ship and Weapons Design a fool?”

“No, sir.” The boy straightened, almost poking himself in the hips while doing so.

“Then stop worrying about nonsense.” Ariq shook his head. “Patch the holes and continue your training.”

He walked away from the boy and the bots.

There was no one currently occupying the training chambers. That was unfortunate for him. Ariq rolled his shoulders back. He would have liked to spar with someone, to burn off his excess energy.

But it was fortunate for another being on board the warship.

“Zondoo.” He uttered that curse loudly, seeking to get Lysagh’s attention. The bounty hunter-in-training was likely hidden in the ceiling space somewhere. “According to the schedule.” He moved to the control panel by the door and accessed that information. “No one will be using this training chamber for an entire shift.”

He blocked that duration, ensuring that would be its reality. A shift should be sufficient time for the girl to use the chamber’s facilities, perhaps have a short rest.

Ariq reached upward, removed a panel from the ceiling. There was a scurrying noise, as though the warship was infested with massive rodents…or with one young human girl.

“I’ll store these excess supplies here.” He placed the cleaning cloths, container of beverage, and nourishment bars in the space.

Lysagh had hidden aboard the warship during takeoff. Her presence had been detected immediately. His Warlord, his Second, and their gerels had decided to grant the girl the trip she so desperately wanted.

Ariq had convinced them to ignore her presence, to act as though they weren’t aware she was on board. Lysagh wanted to be a stealth occupant.

He would honor her wish.

“I’ll return in one shift.” He stressed that duration as he replaced the ceiling tile. “There might be warriors to battle here at that time.”

He exited the training chamber. The doors slid closed behind him.

Ariq’s next stop was the medic bay.

Seven-One, a Chamele clone, was its only occupant. He stared into a device.

“Lead Medic located the DNA of my source’s source’s source.” The clone’s voice was tinged with awe, with reverence. “I’m looking at it, at the start of it all.”

The male was young also. There were few scars on his form.

“That’s…good?” Ariq guessed at that response. Science wasn’t his skill set.

“It’s a miracle.” Seven-One looked at him. His eyes glowed. “We might be able to track the degradation.” Every generation of the youth’s kind—Chamele clones—had more and more genetic weakness. “We could also separate the added enhancements from the original DNA.”

The clones on Carinae E had fixed the degradation issue. That was the reason Seven-One was joining them on the trip.

Everyone on board the warship had a purpose for visiting the planet…except for Ariq.

Ariq had no purpose at the moment. Anywhere.

And he had no place in any group. He was too seasoned a warrior to spend excessive time with the youths and, unlike the other males with his number of solar cycles, he had no gerel for companionship.

All he had was a burning desire to fight, and that wasn’t needed. Not on the ship. Not in the Chamele sector.

“I’ll leave you to your task.” He nodded at Seven-One, left the medic bay, continued on his route to the bridge.

His pace was slow. Second and Qulpa were currently situated on the bridge.

He had trained with Second since they first held swords. Qulpa had been their pilot for many solar cycles, many skirmishes. They were his brothers-in-arms, and he would kill for them, die for them.

Normally, he would also rush to see them, to exchange battle stories, to talk fighting strategy. In the past, that had alleviated some of his os khonzon, his need for vengeance.

But since the warriors had obtained gerels, his relationship with them had changed, as had the focus of their discussions.

Their Warlord had found his gerel, now had a baby son. Second and Qulpa were venturing along the same route.

And Chameles were at peace. Talk of killing, of battle, of death, was no longer appropriate.

The males were focused on their females, on children, on homes and families. They tried to include him in their chatter.

Ariq tolerated that conversation. He sighed. Debates over the ideal number of chambers in domiciles didn’t ease his need to kill.

It increased that urge.

And he was achingly conscious he no longer fit into the group. He was the exception, the different one, would be that way forever.

His yearning for battle had always