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CHAPTER ONE
Beings assumed Drift gravitated toward his pilot role because he loved flying above all else.
That projection wasn’t 100.0000 percent accurate.
He became a pilot because he had an overwhelming need for speed. And he could go faster when he was at the helm of a ship in space.
Especially if he was flying a battle station equipped with systems he’d spent solar cycles fine-tuning. The Dauntless was now an extension of him, like an arm or a leg.
The prospect of severing that connection and allowing another being to sit in his chair was…unsettling. Especially as that being was Grid, a warrior who delighted in causing chaos.
But Drift would make that sacrifice. Because his flying skills were needed for a dangerous mission. And because his captain, Intrepid, ordered him to do that.
Intrepid had been instrumental in freeing him and many other cyborgs from the Humanoid Alliance, their cruel manufacturers. Drift would follow any command the male issued.
Don’t modify anything. He sent that clear message to Grid over the officer-transmission lines.
Save the settings, because I’m modifying everything. The navigator cackled as he accessed the Dauntless’s flying-critical systems.
That isn’t logical. Choice, one of their engineers and the newest addition to their crew, attempted to reason with the male. Drift has optimized his controls. The Dauntless has broken every speed record in the battle-station categories due to his modifications.
They had broken every speed record in the battle-station categories. That truth repeated in Drift’s processors. It would be fraggin’ difficult to go faster.
In the same type of vessel.
Drift isn’t the pilot now. Grid was already modifying the settings.
You’re correct. There was nothing Drift could do to stop the male. You have the pilot’s chair.
He stood.
You’re giving up so easily? Grid sounded disappointed.
I trust our captain. Drift processed their captain would never endanger the battle station or the crew. Both would be safe with Grid as their pilot.
He had to focus on the upcoming mission.
And the different type of ship he’d be flying.
Fast.
His lips curled upward. New records would soon be broken.
He walked with Cure, his mission partner, toward the docking bay.
The lead medic’s countenance showed 0.0000 emotion.
Many of them had worn similar blank masks when they were under the Humanoid Alliance’s control. But 99.5869 percent of them, including Drift, had discarded those impenetrable expressions once they reached freedom. They often allowed their organic sides to emerge and their emotions to be visible.
Cure was part of the remaining 0.4131 percent. The male rarely showed emotion.
Drift projected his organic side wasn’t fully functional.
But the male was a fraggin’ skilled medic. And he was an asset to any team.
They didn’t feel a need to speak to each other as they moved through the battle station. Yet the hallways weren’t navigated in silence.
The warriors they passed pelted them with taunts and gibes and comments through the transmission lines.
