Daystrom Prime was a long way from anywhere. Initial terraforming efforts before the war had given the desert world a breathable atmosphere, but even made habitable, it was still far from hospitable. This was a world too far off the major starlanes to attract much trade, its natural resources were too scarce or difficult to extract to warrant significant development, and a place where a single cup of water was worth ten times its weight in gold.

And right now, Lady Katrina Prydwen struggled with the urge to offer something far more valuable in exchange for the slightest sip. The Hegemony had taken no chances in securing the Resistance’s infamous ace Warstrider pilot, and she’d awoken in her cell to find she’d been bound as well as imprisoned, leather straps securing her wrists behind her back and frog-tying her long, supple legs so she was forced to kneel. Another strap bound her upper body beneath her breasts, keeping her upper arms pinned to her sides and straining with every breath she took. The form-fitting royal blue Neural Interface suit she was wearing wasn’t helping matters. In the climate-controlled environment of her Warstrider’s interface pod, it was comfortable enough, but the tight, stifling air of the fortress was pushing forty degrees at least, further sapping her strength. A few minutes spent flexing against her bonds was all it took to exhaust her, and the dark-haired beauty leant back against the wall, chest heaving beneath the flattering contours of her suit, rivulets of sweat trickling down her pale, beautiful features. At least the others got away, she tried to console herself, licking dry lips. The Hegemony had planned their ambush well, at least a full regiment of battle-hardened troops falling upon the Resistance base like a thunderbolt from a clear sky, and only her desperate last stand had enabled the bulk of the freedom fighters to escape and live another day. Before Stormwolf’s reactor went critical, forcing her interface pod to eject, she reckoned the better part of two companies had fallen at her hand, and she seized that thought for all it was worth, praying it would give her the strength to endure whatever the Hegemony interrogators had in store for her. If there’s any strength at all left in me…

The clank of metal signalled the cell door opening, and green eyes narrowed dangerously at the all-too familiar figure in his black NI suit. “Knight-Captain Veradon. And here I was having a nice, pleasant day.”

“It is good to see you as well, Lady Prydwen,” the handsome blonde declared, the implied insult sliding off his usual perfect poise like rainwater. There was no greater Warstrider pilot in the entire Hegemony Militia than Sebastian Veradon, and the rivalry between them had lasted for as long as the war itself, each of their half-dozen clashes ending inconclusively… at least, until now. He was a dangerous, capable enemy, yet for all his willing devotion to the Hegemony she’d sworn to bring down, he was not a man she could hate, as much as she tried. He was too reasonable, too sincere, and far too good a pilot to truly despise, and she forced herself to maintain a disinterested expression as he brandished a metal canteen. “Care for some water?”

Half a second longer, and she would have forgotten everything: the loss of her family, the dream of a free galaxy, her beloved Stormwolf turned into a smoking crater, her friends in the Resistance, every reason she had to fight discarded for the chance to quench her thirst. “No… no, thank you,” she forced herself to answer, ashamed of her moment of weakness. “So, come to gloat, have you?”

“No, quite the contrary. You conducted an admirable defense, Lady Prydwen, given the odds against you. I cannot approve of your cause, but I can recognize the strength with which you champion it. You have my respect.”

From another man, this might be mere condescension, but though he served the enemy, she’d always known Sebastian to speak with honesty. “Then why are you here?”

“To give you a chance to save yourself. You’re an incredible pilot, Lady Prydwen, and I have no desire to see your life or your skill squandered fighting for a meaningless cause. Pledge yourself to the Hegemony. I will vouch for you, and you will not come to harm.”

“And if I do not?”

A flicker of unease passed over his rugged features. “General Praxis has insisted that you be turned over to our interrogators. I do not agree; you are a prisoner-of-war, worthy of good treatment, not a common thief to be strung up without trial. Please, work with me. I can save your life, but only if you cooperate.”

“I am afraid I must disappoint you, sir,” Katrina answered, dredging up the last vestiges of her courage. “I am a soldier of the Resistance, and I will never bend the knee to the Hegemony. Not even for someone like you.”

“Of course,” Veradon said, visibly crestfallen at her refusal. “I suppose I should have expected nothing else from a woman of your high character. Are you certain you will not accept some water?”

Body screaming in protest, Katrina nevertheless shook her head, pride winning out once more. I’ll not give in now, no matter what! “I’m certain.”

“Very well then.” From a satchel at his side, Veradon pulled out a panel gag of rigid black leather, and Katrina gave a small moan as it filled her mouth, offering no resistance to his gentle hands buckling it behind her head. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry it had to end this way.”

I’m sorry too, Katrina mused, feeling oddly wistful as her rival departed. He was a decent man, despite the flag he followed, and she had to admit, a tall drink of water besides…