by Jamie Petit
Ten years ago, in his thirty-third year, he failed. That failure haunted him—swelled his brain, buckled his knees. When he thought about his lover’s face—young, proud, hopeful—the face of a newly minted officer ready to see the stars—he sometimes grew sick. Sometimes he just went numb. Even after all these years. His thumb rubbed against the ring he wore on his middle finger, the ring his lover had given him before he died. It was a memento of a love and a mistake he’d made once upon a foolish youth.
Now he was staring down the barrel of enemy guns that shouldn’t be in enemy hands, and all he could think was that he’d failed. He was de facto head of the Navy’s intelligence branch, and the Navy had exclusive cover of Wynmere. If he’d sent even a small spy detachment down this could have been avoided. Now the lives of thousands—perhaps millions—could hang on this mistake.
There was only one way to fix his error. Stay alive.
Merrick leveled his pistol with the broad bodies of the Wildmeres and began to unload on them. Tanner followed his lead.
The bullets had little effect against the armor, but the assault was enough to stop the Wildmeres’ advance and force them to find cover.
He handed his pistol to Andax. “Cover me.”
Merrick flattened his body against the wall, behind a a shallow pillar and pulled a thin, black rectangle from behind his belt buckle.
He lifted it to his face and slashed one of the corners of the rectangle at his cheek, drawing blood. A blue display appeared on the black. He spoke quickly into the device. “UNAC Rear Admiral Merrick Orielles, charge code five-oh-eight-Bravo-nine, alert code Alpha-one. Full approval of UNAC offensive request, effective Prime Immediate. Code End Code End.”
He snatched the gun out of Andax’s hand and passed the rectangle to Tanner. “Get this to a UNAC transmitter. At all costs.”
Then he took off down the hall, into a storm of bullets.
CHAPTER FOUR
Canthor
Canthor knew that Earthlings were damn idiots, but this was something special. The shock of the insanity distracted him for a moment from the fact that Andax and Tanner were getting away. The shock gave way to fury as he realized the fool human's tactic was working.
A bullet cracked the stone column Canthor had taken cover behind and he followed out right after into the dust as he heard the suicide assailant swing his fire to the other side of the hallway. Canthor pivoted out and leveled his rifle with the man's chest and... hesitated.
Gleaming iconography stood out on the man's shoulder's. Canthor recognized it and immediately the night's plans changed. As much as he wanted revenge on Andax, his hate was subservient to his loyalty to Wynmere. Taking one of UNAC's highest ranking officers hostage would be even more valuable than taking Andax and Tanner.
There were only a few moments to act, but even as the Admiral took notice and began to swing back, Canthor dropping low and dashing at an angle, a mix of frightening emotion played out in his mind. There was admiration—it was a hell of a commanding officer who put their life on the life for their comrades. There was kinship—that leader's wildness reminded him of his own willingness to die for his cause. There was a moment of that primal Alpha attraction for the human—the Admiral's eyes were blue, and almost as crystalline as a Wynmerians, his hair shockingly blonde, and the line cut into his face showed clear, confident age and experience.
There was, at last, disgust—that even he, Canthor of the Wildmeres, could fall to a filthy human's deceptive appearances.
The thoughts didn't last long, good or bad as they were. He squeezed out a shot, pulverizing the human's gun. "Hold fire!" he shouted to his teammates.
The Admiral dropped the now-useless metal scrap and squared up a fighting pose against Canthor. Again, that flutter of admiration. That was a difference between Wynmerians and humans. Neither would give up a fight, but only a human fought as if he believed he could win even when the odds was non-existent.
He almost hated to do it. Almost. Canthor’s fist cocked back and and met with the grim determination of the Admiral's jaw.
Canthor knelt down next to the groaning man and looked slowly around the corridor as he pulled a small tazer-like device from his belt. It was a shame they’d had to cause so much destruction. If only the human whore-scum hadn’t forced their hand, made them turn against their own, these great halls, astounding achievements of Wynmerians engineering and architecture, would stand unmarked. "I'm going to enjoy the next few days, you know," said Canthor as he pressed an electric barb into the man's neck, knocking him out.
Canthor swung his prize up onto his shoulders as his men came out from their cover positions. He swirled his finger in the air. "Let's pack it up. We've got something better than Andax and his broodmare."
"Better than Andax?" asked one of the squad-mates. “Revenge must be taken.”
"Tell me the one thing greater than getting your fill of vengeance."
"The taste of your enemy's fear."
Canthor nodded, a smile pricking at his lips. "Indeed. And that is what we have here."
"How do you figure?"
"This is one of our enemy's biggest leaders. We carve him up, place him before the cameras, and part his head from his shoulders, and our enemies shall learn there's nowhere safe for them from us."
CHAPTER FIVE
Merrick
Merrick was surprised that he was alive and able to open his eyes. He wasn't sure exactly how grateful he should be yet. If at all. His left eye didn't want to open all the way—a painful swelling on his cheekbone must be where he got clocked. He tried to reach up to feel it, but realized his hands were bound behind his back.
In fact, he started to notice lots of little things. He tasted some kind of ionization on his tongue. There was a dull throbbing in his head. His whole spine was caught somewhere between totally numb and tingling like mad. He was thirsty.
The ground he was sitting on was dirt. There was a door on the other side of the room. He could just make out a tiny bit of light shining through the cracks. The light was cast along uneven edges. That meant he was somewhere makeshift. A cave perhaps. Outside the city. How far from the city was an important part of the equation if he was going to try to escape. Not that escape was likely, but he wasn't one to give in without a fight.
What were his options for escape anyway? Hope his captors were careless, for one. That was always a good option, but not one to rely on. He couldn't fight his way out. If he could hold out , the UNAC fleet would arrive on his command and begin a proper invasion. Of course, it could still be days more before they found him. And he wasn't exactly sure they planned to keep him more than a few hours, much less over a week. This was going to take some improvising. Perhaps his best option right now was to call for someone and try to see what sort of bastards he was dealing with. Who knows, perhaps he could talk himself out of the situation. Always worth a shot.
He pulled a dusty breath into his lungs and tried to call out, but only managed to let out a rough cough.
It was enough. He heard the guard call to someone and soon the bits of light peeking past the door frame flickered as the giant form of this captor moved by the door. "Weapons stay outside," he heard the Wynmerian say.
The door opened slowly inwards. A giant silhouette stood against the sunlight. He pressed something into a hole in the wall and an overhead lamp came alive.
The Wynmerian stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
A breath caught in Merrick's dry throat. The Wynmerian was the most striking he'd ever seen. His skin was vermilion and underlined with the leanest run of muscles he'd ever seen on one of his kind. It made him look at once more slight and more powerful. It was a strange and imposing look for one such as him. His eyes were large, violet, and crystalline. His uniquely thick Wynmerian hair was a shade of umber.
Merrick felt his head swimming. Was this the Wynmere effect he'd heard about? Some as-yet-undiscovered pheromone that interacted between the species causing humans and Wynme
rians to fall for each other? At least, that was the theory he was now beginning to consider. It must be alien pheromones. It couldn't be the size of him, the unrivaled beauty. It couldn't be the seriousness in his eyes. Eyes filled with curiosity, cunning, compassion, confidence, conviction. He saw it not just now, but in the few moments they'd shared, squaring off in the palace.
No, it couldn't be anything like that. He hadn't felt such a thickness in his mind—a weight in his chest, a swimming in his belly—since he'd first met his partner all those years ago. He couldn't bear the thought of ever feeling that for anyone ever again, much less off of some bio-chemicals pouring off some bastard Alpha.
"Good morning," said Merrick. No response. "I'm guessing you took the liberty of reading the name off my uniform, so you know who I am. Do I get the same pleasure of making your acquaintance?"
The Wynmerian blinked slowly. "You use a lot of words for a beta whore."
Merrick pushed himself up so he could rest on his knees. "That's an unusual name, even for a Wildmere shitstain like yourself."
If the Wynmerian reacted, he didn't show it. "Canthor."
"Canthor." Merrick paused, wondering what all this talking meant. "Not sure yet if it's a pleasure to meet you, but I'm willing to take a leap on it. A pleasure. I'd shake your hand, but I seem to have something caught on my wrists."
The newly introduced Canthor took a few steps towards the prisoner, and for a moment Merrick thought perhaps things were going to be easy. Experience should have convinced him otherwise, but against life's best efforts he was a reflexive optimist.
He was also a decided realist. The realist won out when Canthor lifted a thick, wood baton to begin their time together.
CHAPTER SIX
Canthor
Canthor had yet to speak again. He didn't care for whatever this Merrick had to say. It could only serve to cloud his judgment. Punishment would be meted out summarily.
He needed to put a bag over the human's face. He was too much to behold. Already without him saying anything, his expression spoke volumes. Canthor couldn't stop himself from thinking about what he was punishing the man for anyway. He beat back the uncertainty in his head, reminding himself that the punishment was for the self alone. For the crime of being a human.
He could only just push the though back in his head, not fully extinguishing it. It stuck like a thorn.
Merrick made to fill the silence. "You're one of the educated ones here. I can tell. You know what these marks on my jacket mean. You know I'm no good to you dead." He eyed the wood baton carefully. "And worth less to you harmed."
Canthor leapt at the chance to divest himself of the power of this human's charms. "Cowardice. You'd sell your people out for a bit of safety?"
Merrick shook his head. "Not in the least. I just know that we both want the same thing, and neither of us gets it when you go a’swingin’."
Canthor squinted, trying to make something of this human. That charm was fading rapidly. How stupid could he be? "We do not want the same thing."
"Peace," countered Merrick. "We all want peace."
"Yes. And money, and food, and good theater, a loyal Beta, a new pair of shoes. We want thing. But some things are more important that others."
"What's more important than peace? Can you eat without peace? Or love? Or even enjoy theater?"
"Honor. Justice. Legacy. One blood."
"One blood, eh?"
"In Wynmerian we say Hyat'ehr, Oort'ehr, Bvent'ehr."
"Live pure. Love pure. Die pure."
"You're well read."
"Did my thesis on your people."
"And you think that makes you qualified to speak on on our behalf?"
"Some aspects. Some. For one, I feel comfortable saying that not all Wynmerians use that slogan."
"Enough do."
"Few do. And fewer every day."
"That's just what you and your news like to tell yourselves to make yourselves feel like you're winning. You think that every Wynmerian is afraid of a little war just like you Earthmen. No, even when their city walls crumble and we pour in and spill their filthy blood into the soil, we gain more adherents all the time. They see conviction."
"Zealotry."
"I don't presume to know a thing about you. Only that I know I—and my brothers—want your blood from out our sons."
"And if that means the death of Wynmere?"
"We have another saying. Peh'rr'to. Then so be it!"
"Then why not die yourselves, and let the rest of the planet get on with it?"
"You forget your place."
"And where's that?"
"On your knees, bound."
"It's been my place before, and I've enjoyed it."
"Humans are disgusting."
"Not even you believe that."
"I'll believe whatever I have to to achieve my purpose."
"Well, here's something to believe—the full military force of Earth's astronautical navy is currently bearing down through warp space to land in orbit here. Another detail—your people are not practiced at Earth-style war. You learned it from us, and we are still the masters. Earthmen love peace so much we will annihilate entire nations, millions of souls, whole races, in order to move towards that peace. And we are vengeful."
"We are—"
"Oh, you think you know vengeance. But you do not know such cold, unforgiving, exacting vengeance as we are capable of. And by the time it comes around to us cooling off, you won't be around."
"You dare threaten the man who holds your life in his hands?"
"You hold my life, sure. But I hold yours as well. And the lives of your brothers'."
"Would you care to test your wrists again?"
"I can feel them fine. Why don't you tell me what you plan to do with me?"
"I'm going to beat you. Terribly. Until your face is only just recognizable. Until your body is so ruined that even if we stayed your execution, you'd beg us to kill you. Then we will place your neck upon the stump of of a cursed tree that grows outside this city's walls. And there I will carry Tyllrn, a sword made for execution, and I will face the tip to your ships in the skies and I will bring the broad side down upon you will such swiftness you will feel your face fall from your shoulders. And we will broadcast it. A wide channel. So everyone—every whore Alpha Wynmerian and every broodmare earthling—knows that there is no power that will escape our wrath."
"Oh, is that all?"
Canthor betrayed himself with a breathy laugh. "Yes. That is all."
"Now I'll tell you what happens after you take my life before the fleets of Earth. You die. Our ships will descend with rockets and bombs that will overwhelm your encampments. If we find your bodies after the first round, so be it. But if you succeed in running, we will lay down such fire on this planet that you will believe in Man's Lucifer. We will rend the crust of this planet to end your lives. You will know no peace—nor purity—before you are driven into the abyss."
"The abyss is purity itself. I welcome it."
Merrick struggled to his feet. "I have done all I can. I do not wish you ill. Even if I die. I would not wish my people to do what they will do. I can only warn you. Because I love Wynmere. I love your people. I want to see it peaceful and beautiful again. And I want to be around to see it. But I have been honest and told you everything. So, I have done my part. I have done my duty. My honor—purely. Do as you will."
The Earthman raised his chin towards Canthor. Like so much of what Merrick did, Canthor read many things into it. It was an act of defiance, yes, but also submission. Acceptance. Apology. Regret. Pleading.
Canthor felt just one thing in that moment—respect.
That was followed again by that strange rush of emotions that was unbridled attraction—a force of desire that threatened to sweep him away like a river's current where it beats the rocks—and despair.
He lowered the baton, turned abruptly, and shut the door behind him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Merrick
The door shut so forcefully that Merrick could see a cloud of dust kicked up and illuminated in the slight beams of slight streaming through the cracks. He held off on thinking about his encounter for a moment to focus on the dust.
He had a feeling that Canthor wouldn't be back for a while, so he was going to be stuck here, and when the dust settled, there'd be nothing to occupy his attention for god knows how long. So, Merrick enjoyed the dust.
At last, Merrick settled himself back onto the ground, resting his back against the cool stone wall. He was beginning to feel a little more hopeful about the situation. Canthor was clearly conflicted. He clearly wanted to be somewhere else—it was only a misguided sense of morality that had led him down this bloody path.
For as twisted as Canthor's view of purity was, Merrick found himself feeling something like admiration for the level of pride and protectiveness that Canthor expressed towards Wynmere. Merrick could understand a thing like that. He felt the same for Earth. And, to be fair, he knew lots of anti-Wynmere types on Earth.
There were millions on Earth who demanded a sort of special purity of their own. In fact, they'd been moved to kill over it too. The difference was that Earth didn't have a population issue. Even stretching into the millions, those who hated the mixed human/Wynmerians were just a drop in the bucket against the double-digit billions currently spreading over the planet. Wynmere had the population of a single city spread across the entire planet. Besides, most humans who decided to mate as Betas chose to emigrate to Wynmere. Merrick could imagine that a whole new level of backlash—on par with the Wildmere response—would be seen on Earth if the roles had been even slightly reversed.
He wished Canthor hadn't left. He wanted to talk more. So many of the UNAC fleet was dispassionate about their work. So many humans, period, were without the outward vigor that he himself had, and which he'd seen expressed in Canthor's verve. He wanted to have someone, even his would-be executioner, to share that with.