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An odd sensation washed over him as the craft shuddered slightly, then faded away into nothingness. A faint whine echoed through the cabin — he looked towards the far bulkhead and noted the hatch there, which he assumed led to the cockpit — but there was no other sound. In some ways, it was better than any of the transport aircraft he’d endured in his long military career. But the whining sound might prove to be more irritating, in the long run, than the roar of an aircraft’s engines.

“No acceleration,” Mongo muttered, through clenched teeth. “Are we actually moving?”

Steve thought back to all the science-fiction books he’d read. Logically, if the craft was flying back out into space, there should be some sense of acceleration. But they weren’t being pushed down to the ground by an irresistible force. It suggested the aliens had some form of internal compensation protecting the craft’s passengers, which made a certain kind of sense. The interior of the craft certainly didn’t look as though it was designed for spaceflight without a compensator.

“I think so,” he said. Any doubts he might have had about the experience being real had faded with Vincent’s death. No TV producer would kill someone just to add extra realism to a TV show. The very thought was sickening. “We must be going up to the mothership.”

“Or maybe this is their starship,” Kevin suggested. “For all we know, this is their version of a Hercules.”

Steve shrugged, then looked back at the aliens. They looked oddly uncomfortable — he had to remind himself, again, not to read anything human into their movements — as the craft powered away from Earth. Their legs moved and twitched constantly, their eyes blinking rapidly; he couldn’t help wondering if they were used to flying. There were strong men who whimpered when their transport aircraft hit a particularly nasty patch of turbulence, yet surely the aliens had plenty of experience with their spacecraft. Or was he misreading them completely. It wasn’t as if most humans could remain still indefinitely.

The craft shuddered slightly, the gravity field — something else they had that humans lacked — growing weaker. Steve looked at the aliens, noted how they seemed more comfortable and wondered if they had evolved on a low-gravity world. Their spider-like appearance probably couldn’t have evolved on Earth, where there were very real limits to the size of spiders and crabs. Or maybe the aliens were the products of genetic engineering and splicing. Someone with the right science and not enough scruples might manage to create their very own warrior race. It was the theme of a dozen SF television shows he’d watched.

A dull thump ran through the craft, then the faint whine faded away to nothingness. They had arrived at their destination, Steve realised, but where were they? A mothership? The moon? Another star system entirely? If he’d been invited to come with the aliens, he knew he would have accepted without a second thought. The chance to see another star system was not something he could have let pass. But instead they were prisoners.

The hatch opened and, for a moment, the aliens were distracted. Steve moved without thinking, all of the tension in his soul unleashing itself in one smooth moment. His brothers and Charles followed as he lunged into the aliens. One alien weapon fired, scorching the bulkhead, but the others were unable to fire before the humans were on top of them. Steve lashed out with all his strength, aiming for the thin alien necks. One by one, the aliens were overwhelmed and killed. The unarmed alien was the last to die.

“Interesting,” Mongo said. “Look.”

Steve followed his gaze. The silver band on the alien’s head had detached itself and fallen to the deck. There was something about it that called to him; he found himself reaching for the band without being quite aware of what he was doing. It tingled when he touched it, as if it carried a faint electric charge…

“Grab their weapons,” Charles snapped. His voice brought Steve back to reality, back to the fact that they were trapped in an unknown location. In hindsight, they might have picked the wrong time and place to fight back. “Come on!”

He led the way through the hatch. Steve followed, one hand still gripping the silver band. Outside, there was a large shuttlebay, crammed with a dozen craft identical to the one that had taken them from Earth. A handful of aliens milled about, staring at the humans in disbelief. Some of them started to reach for their weapons, others ran for the hatches or dived into their smaller shuttlecraft. Steve couldn’t help noticing, as they fired on the armed aliens, that there was something odd about the hatches, as if they hadn’t been designed for their alien enemies. They were too narrow for the aliens to move through comfortably. Coming to think of it, he realised as he opened fire, the hatches were tall enough for a creature twice as tall as the average human.

“So,” Mongo said. “Where now?”

Steve laughed. “Fucked if I know,” he said. There was another electric tingle from the band, which had wrapped itself around his wrist. “I…”

“So we go onwards,” Charles said. He led them towards the largest hatch, weapon in hand. “We’ll find a way out of here somehow.”

There was a third tingle from the band. Steve stopped, staring at it, then felt an irresistible compulsion to put the band on his head. Slowly, not quite aware of what he was doing, he followed the compulsion. A stab of pain flashed through his head, then…

“Connection established,” a cold voice said.

* * *

“They broke free!”

“Yes,” Cn!lss said. It never failed to amuse him just how many of his superiors felt the urge to point out the obvious. But then, most of their subordinates were so stupid it probably needed to be pointed out, time and time again. “They are currently expanding out of the shuttlebay into the lower levels of the ship.”

The Subhorde Commander slammed his claws against his carapace, a gesture of fury — and maybe just a little fear. “Send two hordes to intercept and exterminate them,” he ordered. “We can take other subjects from their homeworld afterwards.”

Cn!lss understood the fear. The Varnar cyborgs were devilishly effective on the battlefield, striking fear into the hearts of their enemies. Everyone had assumed that the cyborgs were programmed to be so effective — primitive races were not protected against the meddling of their superiors — but what if such fighting prowess was natural to the human race? If that was the case, the Subhorde Commander was in real trouble. He’d taken a group of deadly warriors onto his starship!

And if he lost the ship, all of his family connections wouldn’t save him from savage punishment.

“You’ll have to send the orders,” he reminded his superior. “They don’t listen to me.”

* * *

“Connection established,” the voice repeated. “Species 8472; designate human. Direct neural link activated. Awaiting orders.”

“Awaiting orders?” Steve repeated. “What orders?”

Kevin turned to face him. “Steve? What’s happening?”

“I can hear a voice,” Steve said. He reached up to touch the headband and discovered that it seemed to have merged permanently against his skin. It felt weird, yet somehow natural to the touch. “Can’t you hear it?”

Kevin shook his head. Further down the corridor, Charles took up a defensive position, backed up by Mongo, and prepared to hold their position against a charging line of enemy warriors. They didn’t seem very experienced, part of Steve’s mind noted; they were charging towards the humans as if they were unaware that the humans were armed with their own weapons. Even the Taliban had eventually leant the folly of mass human wave attacks. But it added yet another piece of the puzzle concerning the aliens. Steve just wished he understood what it meant.