by Jamie Petit
At the least, he knew if Canthor did use a weapon against him, it would be out of passion and honor, not hate. That's how it seemed, anyway.
Perhaps a weapon would be little used. Hours passed. Merrick's' hunger and thirst grew. He thought back to his last mouthful of water. Not since he'd been back on his transport ship. He was probably going on thirty-six, maybe forty or so hours without water. Even longer since he'd had food.
Merrick smiled. It was smart. Canthor could just starve him. It was far easier to hurt an enemy you couldn't see. Especially with an ideology like his own to contend with.
He was just losing some of that hard-won hope when he heard a voice outside the door. Merrick pushed himself back up onto his feet. He wanted to give Canthor as much of his own dignity as he possibly could.
His heart beat fast. It wasn't fear. It was anticipation. Maybe even a touch of eagerness. He wanted to see him again. Even among the men of Wynmere, Canthor was unique. Merrick wanted to share in that.
He wanted to talk more. Even if their words were embattled. He wanted to look into those severe, violet eyes. He wanted to relish that vermilion skin pulsing with lean muscles unlike any he'd seen before. He wanted to taste him.
It was the sort of hungry desire that could only really, truly exist between two leaders like them. Two men who fought for their own kind, and led their own into death on a spoken order.
That was what had drawn him to his partner. Certainly, his partner had only been fresh out of basic, but he was a leader still, destined to rise the ranks. It was clear as day to anyone with eyes to see. He only needed men to lead and his true power would be revealed. Like a gem needing only polish and the right light to be fully appreciated.
There was also a part of Merrick that believed Canthor would hold off on the baton. There was compassion in those eyes. Anger and hurt, yes. But nothing Merrick could classify as hate. He thought that maybe Canthor himself didn't quite realize that he had much less hate in his heart than he believed.
Yes, Merrick believed that Canthor was good. And with that belief his hope in the situation went up. His hope for this whole damn war went up. And he gave himself over just a little bit more to that feeling of want.
In spite of everything, he wanted to see Canthor again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Canthor
Outside the cell, Canthor gathered his thoughts as he hefted the weighty wood baton in his hand. He'd let himself lose control last time. He lost control of his emotions, he lost control of the conversation... hell, he'd lost control of the torture. What sort of torture involves a conversation as civilized as the one they'd shared? What sort of torture involves sharing of any kind?
Absurd. The prisoner beyond that door was the enemy. And not just any enemy—an enemy of enormous worth to his purpose. His people's purpose.
He took deep breaths, closed his eyes, thought deeply. He would not get distracted this time. Whatever feelings that might flash in front of his mind were only that—flashes. Sparks of chemicals that betrayed him. Betrayed his people. Betrayed his purpose. They were impure thoughts and should be rooted out like all impurity.
No food, no water—Merrick would surely be a weakened wreck by now. The pathetic sight of him would surely make it easier for Canthor to attack. No matter how much he admired the man.
Canthor slipped the baton back into its holder on his waist and made for the door, pushing it open and turning on the light.
There was Merrick, standing before him. Chin raised. Eyes aflame. Just like he left him.
Canthor's lips curled spitefully as everything but rage burned away.
His fingers curled around the baton, pulling it out in a single, swift motion as he bounded across the cell, his arm pulling back wide and snapping forward, brutal wood cutting the air.
A sick elation joined the rage as Canthor relished the coming moment, wiping the pride from that smug human's face. He'd take everything from him—his pride, yes, but also his dignity, his comfort, his life. And then he'd take every victory from him. He'd slaughter his comrades-in-arms and let their blood warm him and stain his hair. He would not be defied.
Merrick's eyelids fluttered as the baton came forward. He flinched as it all but reached his face. But he didn't crumple. He didn't back away. He didn't try to shield himself. All he offered himself for safety was the barest, saddest turn of the chin downwards, a slight hunching of the shoulders. His brows knitted down and his mouth pressed tightly.
"WHY?!" Canthor screamed, his baton motionless before the flesh. He didn't know where the outburst had come from. At first he wasn't even sure what he meant by it.
He backed away, arms falling to his sides. He realized that he had directed that question less at Merrick than at himself. He wanted to know why he couldn't do it. Why couldn't he attack? Why did he feel... anything for this human? Compassion? Mercy? Affection? This human was at the very heart of the force that he hated coursing through his people's culture.
And yet, for some reason, he didn't want to hurt him. In fact—a fact he was loathe to let himself know—he wanted the very opposite. Somewhere deep down in him. In his gut. There was a part of him aching to find a way to get Merrick out of this situation. To save him.
And now Merrick felt something he'd never felt in all his life. Hatred for himself. He hated that his resolve could so falter. Rage boiled again.
"Who the hell do you think you are, Earthman?"
"Rear Admiral Merrick, of the United Nations Astronautical Corps."
"What right have you to defy me?"
"I've done no such thing."
"You... stand there."
"You've not asked me to sit."
"I swung a solid rod at your face! You should know enough to cower!"
"I'll get on my knees when you put me there."
Canthor hesitated, considering things. "Why won't you just accept your fate? There's no point in this pride. It'll amount to nothing. It's just you and me in here. And by the time another soul sees you, you won't have the strength to do much more than blink and breathe."
"I don't believe in fate."
"That won't change anything."
"Maybe so. But I don't believe that you want to be doing this either."
"Excuse me?"
"To be clear, I believe you may very well carry out whatever it is you're planning with that thing. But I don't believe for a second that it's what you want."
"How dare you."
"It's written all over your face. In your eyes."
Canthor was silent a long moment. His mind was blank. Not a single thought could make it through. Slowly, ideas populated his neurons. This damn human was unraveling him. Which meant humans were truly more dangerous than he'd ever considered.
Before this moment, the seductive powers of a well-matched human Beta to a Wynmere Alpha was all theoretical. He knew it was possible—certainly so, since that was the progenitor of all his efforts these past years—but he'd never considered that it was so... real, so visceral. He'd thought that Wynmerians were just a weak race. And perhaps there was still some weakness in himself to be rooted out, but this went beyond Wynmerian weakness. This was a human strength. A vile power that they carried.
He wished that they'd carried out their original mission and taken Andax as planned. Andax was pair-bonded to his mate Tanner which meant it'd be all but impossible for Canthor to feel any sort of attraction for him. Instead he'd accidentally locked himself in a room with a pheromonally powerful human whom he just happened to be compatible with.
He took another deep breath, closing his eyes as he did so and centering himself. He expunged emotion. He hardened his resolve. Yes, if even he could be incapacitated this easily, then humans were far, far more dangerous than he, or anyone had considered.
"You think I do not want to hurt you. How wrong you are. There is nothing I want more."
And yet his hand would not bring the baton down. He resolved to take some time to collect himself. Meditate. Fas
t, if necessary. Do anything to rid himself of this ridiculous sensation running out to the tips of his fingers, the ends of his toes. This desire to protect Merrick. To touch him gently. No, he would resolve himself to the love of his race, and he would destroy Merrick to the very marrow.
CHAPTER NINE
Merrick
Merrick gave up trying to guess how much time had passed since Canthor had left, knuckles white around the baton. Another visit survived unscathed.
The fury in Canthor's eyes troubled Merrick. The conflict in them kept the hope from going out completely. In a way, Merrick wished all his hope would go. Then he could focus simply on suffering.
It must have been hours. Maybe even over a day. The depths of exhaustion he felt just sitting on the floor, as well as the pounding headache and creeping joint pain, told him that his dehydration had reached a dangerously advanced state.
Perhaps this really was how Canthor planned to let the torture play out. It wouldn't look quite as grotesque as torn flesh and wet blood, but it would be a dreadful sight nonetheless.
It was hard to hold thoughts in his head at all. And when he tried to think, all he saw was his captor's face, though he regarded it in his mind's eye with no harshness. All he felt was affection for the angry, troubled Wynmerian Alpha.
Dreaming would have to wait. The real thing had shown up. Again, Merrick heard voices outside the door. A hand touched the door—he heard it through the steel. There was hesitation there. Perhaps Canthor was waiting for a guard to leave. A chance to rescue him? Maybe things had gone well after all. Was it reasonable to hope for such a thing?
Merrick struggled to reach his feet. Leaning against the cell wall was the only way to keep himself balanced. And even that sent waves of nausea and deep, dull pain through him.
After more hours or minutes or seconds the door finally swung inwards and Canthor's broad form filled the frame. He turned on the light and closed the door behind him. He had the baton. He was wearing a heavy cloak and a cowl was bunched around his neck. His face was terrible. Eyes empty, but lips drawn down in a frown. His skin was sallow and creased with a long night's agonizing. He blinked slowly at Merrick and then raised the cowl up over his face so that his violet eyes sunk into the dark.
As before, he stepped forward, baton drawn out smoothly. But this time there is no hesitation. As smoothly as the baton was drawn up, it swung down.
Merrick felt a blinding pain near the shoulder. A fracture, possibly. His legs went to give out beneath him. He stumbled. Digging his shoulder blades into the wall, he was able to keep himself upright. By a wild act of will, he kept his eyes open and pouring into the pool of darkness beneath the cowl.
Canthor's lips twitched as if to say something, but instead he made a sound like a howl and swung again, baton crashing into bone just below where he'd already struck.
There was no will to keep him on his feet any longer. Every nerve in his body screamed and his legs gave out and he crumpled. The baton came down on his legs, then into the meaty part of his belly. Again and again, the strikes fell. Enough to steal his breath, to create crimson blossoms of bruises. Merrick's mouth tasted of blood and he coughed into the dirt.
Canthor stepped back to take a breath. Merrick fought to stay conscious, keeping an eye on the feet in front of him. He needed to speak. He coughed again, clearing his throat. "Why...," he whispered. "Why do you cover your eyes?"
His head tilted lower, almost guiltily hiding his eyes further. "I don't have to answer to you."
"Are you afraid?" Merrick needed to provoke. He knew that. "Grieved at your behavior? What you're doing to a fellow living being?"
"How dare you presume to know anything about me!"
"I don't presume," said Merrick, his voice weak and faltering. "I'm asking."
"You presume," said Canthor with a huff. "In your heart you presume."
"So you are afraid to answer?"
Canthor seemed to take a moment to chew this over. "You would do anything to protect your family, would you not?"
Still not an answer, but the question cut at Merrick. "I have no family. I lost the only man I'd ever cared for years ago."
That statement seemed to do something to Canthor, who paused and swallowed. The hand around the wood seemed to soften a bit. "All Wynmere's true people are my family. I have a world to protect. And I would do anything to protect it."
"Anything?"
"Anything. Kill. Die. Anything."
"How about work with humanity? Would you do that?" Merrick listened to the low growl rumbling in Canthor's chest. He was getting through. And that gave even his half-dead self strength. His voice grew more solid. "Would you let your people live and love as they so choose? Would you work with me?"
"Work with you?"
"Or at least show enough respect to uncover your face while you beat me. Don't hide. If you be a monster, be it."
CHAPTER TEN
Canthor
With.
He felt he should be furious at the mere suggestion. His arms felt it, lifting the baton—but his spirit wasn't in it. His fingers felt weak all of a sudden. As if he didn't really want to even be holding the damn thing anymore. He looked down at the man on the ground. There he was. Merrick. Slightly hunched with the damage he'd suffered, but silent. Not a sob coming from him. Just a low, labored breathing.
This wasn't the scum he'd always pictured. Human scum. The kind he'd never lever let live past such a word as "with". No, this was some other breed of human. Something proud, brave. Strong. What Wynmerian could withstand such a brutal beating and still be conscious? Much less a human.
A thought flashed in his mind—could more humans be like this? Was this one some sort of crazy outlier? No. That couldn't possibly be it.
Still, this one at his feet was special, in his own way. Canthor felt drawn to him beyond the simple rational understanding that others could be like him.
Canthor was grateful for the cowl, even if Merrick would continue to deride him for it. It hid the facial tics flickering at the edges of his eyes. Too many Wynmerians had died for him to falter now. Yet, when he looked down at the ruined body at his feet, he felt sick. He had done that. And done it not just to any human, but to one he'd come to care about.
Any violence he’d committed before had been immediate, essential. Fight or die. And usually removed by a rifle’s distance or a sword’s length. This torture was too close, too visceral. This was a real living being—not someone at the end of a scope or blade.
Could he risk doing something as ill-advised as learning more about this being? Maybe even taking his words seriously?
He thought about it for a moment. Working together. Repairing the damage the Wildmeres had wrought. Changing minds. For certainly, if his mind could be changed on the matter, then anyone's could. But what of their purity? What of the great race of Wynmere?
"You don't understand," he said to Merrick. "Humanity can still create more humans. You still have your women. You are not at risk of losing your whole entire species, no matter how deeply you breed with us."
Canthor watched Merrick's eyes. They were watching his. Thinking. After a few wheezing breaths passed, he responded. "This is true."
"So you can't understand."
"I can. All humanity can."
Canthor stepped away, annoyed. "I don't want to hear any more."
"You're still afraid then," said Merrick. "Afraid to show your face. Afraid to listen. Afraid of humans. Everything you're about is fear. How weak. How terrible."
The human wasn't wrong, and that horrified Canthor most of all. He felt nausea in his stomach. He turned to Merrick and raised his hands to his cowl, wrapping his fingers into the edges and... pulling it further over his face.
He could face this Earthman no longer.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Merrick
However long Canthor had been gone, it was just enough for the blood to start to dry. When the door started to open this time, Merrick did his best
to stand again, but his body simply wouldn't—or couldn't—respond. He managed to use his one good arm to push himself to sit up.
Stepping through the door, Canthor sighed at the sight of Merrick sitting. "You don't give up do you?"
Merrick didn't bother to respond. He noticed that the cowl was gone. As was the baton. A shiver went through him as a feeling of utter relief filled him. There was water in a pitcher in Canthor's right hand, and, in his left, something that looked like a loaf of bread.
Canthor put the pitcher and bread down next to Merrick.
"Do you need help?" Canthor knelt down.
Merrick reached out the hand on his working arm, fingers trembling. As he touched the sweating metal of the pitcher another chill hit him. It was the first feeling of something other than the rocks and dust of his cell he'd felt in what felt like an age. He tried to close his fingers around it and lift, but all he managed to do was shift the pitcher a little, almost toppling it.
"Careful, you'll spill it." Canthor sighed and shuffled forward. He picked up the pitcher and brought it to Merrick's lips. "Here, drink."
Merrick would have cried if he'd had the moisture to manage it. With fluttering lips he sucked in a sip of water. What little will he had left went into not taking giant gulps. It'd only serve to make him vomit, besides causing him to look weak. Neither thing he could afford. Appearances were all he really had to trade on here.
"Some food now," Canthor said as he tipped the pitcher down and set it on the ground. He tore off some of the dark bread and pressed it to Merrick's lips.
Cautiously, Merrick pulled it into his mouth and chewed. It lit up his headache something awful, and under other circumstances it would probably have tasted rather bland. But at that moment, it was delicious and wonderful. Again, he ate slowly, trying to affect casualness, afraid of all the same things. He ate as if food were the last thing on his mind.