Chapter 31
Mason helped the First Commander into his uniform. Vochem insisted no strain be placed on the newly replicated thigh bone. Someone located an old wheelchair, something the Godan had no use for, and Roark was wheeled to an awaiting skitt and driven to Command Headquarters. Once there, he was carefully transferred to the chair again and entered to the cheers of his men.
Only those closest to him knew the truth about his battle with the cyborgs and the rescue of the children, but all knew the story Ahnyis, Mason, and Mira had spread.
Field Marshal Zoares, the only Field Marshal of the original group who’d appeared to show any competency, was at the root of the traitorous conspiracy. He was rumored to have gone down with a transport the silver eagles had shot from the sky. Harm argued against it. He and his men had witnessed the loading of that transport and none of them had seen Zoares. A pilot’s parachute was spotted floating away from the wreckage, but landed squarely in Hahnshin territory, not a good way to go. All testimony was sent to Supreme Command Headquarters. Captain Artley, who’d worked side by side with Roark during the first disastrous campaign, wasn’t nearly so lucky. He neither died nor avoided arrest. Petrark had compiled enough evidence to hang them both, but they weren’t working alone. More than twenty others were also arrested. They would all be tried and convicted of crimes against the Galactic Confederation.
The search would go on for the laboratory where the cyborgs were created.
None of that mattered once the battle began. Outgunned and out maneuvered, the Hahnshin were handed a devastating defeat. For the first time in six years, Sector Three gained territory and would gain more under Roark’s command. Plans were already underway for the building of outposts and the search for any human survivors who may have found refuge beyond the town.
Roark was back in business as First Commander of Sector Three and business was booming.
On the homefront, business was bankrupt as far as Mira was concerned. Her bed was as empty as the vacant storefronts down on Main.
She didn’t press it at first. After the battle, Roark refused to return to the hospital. He went back each day for successive repairs. When she touched him, he flinched. Mira was hopeful when he returned home each night to sleep in their bed.
Because of Mohawk, she knew Roark suffered pain, and because his injuries were greater, she assumed his pain would be greater, too. She left him alone for a week, and then two, and then three.
At the end of the third week, she rolled over to his side of the bed willing to accept affection if he wasn’t ready for more. She laid her head against his undamaged shoulder, spread her fingers over his chest, and waited for his arm to wrap around her. It didn’t happen. When he thought she was asleep, he eased from under her and left the bed. He never returned.
Something had broken inside of him that Vochem couldn’t fix. She tried to talk to the healer about it, but Vochem said he’d been ordered not to. The way he frowned said he didn’t agree with the order, but was bound by it. Mason and Ahnyis wouldn’t be much help either. They were now part of Roark’s medical team and couldn’t speak specifically about his case.
“Vochem said that was the only reason he let Mason into the operating theater. It was the only way to ensure Mason would keep his big mouth shut,” Ahnyis informed her.
Mason winked at Mira. “And here I thought it was because I was banging his sister.”
“Mason!” the sister squealed and then giggled.
Mira resented their happiness, but it was momentary and followed by guilt. To make up for it, she passed on her own bit of gossip. “That’s funny, he told me Mason had gifted hands.”
Mason gave the tip of Ahnyis’s tail a tweak. “Have you been talking about my magic hands again, Sweetcheeks.” Which brought on more giggling.
Ahnyis’s giggling would drive most men right out of their tree. Mason’s constant jokes and innuendo would drive most women to distraction. And yet, they were made for each other. They were two of the best people Mira had ever met.
“Vochem also knows about you two. Everything,” she added in case they missed her point. “He’s turning a blind eye so he doesn’t have to do anything about it. He doesn’t want to do anything about it.”
“Come on, doll face, lemme buy ya a beer,” Mason said to Mira in an awful imitation of the old gangster movies. He brought three out, but Mira refused.
“I’m afraid if I start drinking, I won’t stop.” Her chin quivered and she closed her eyes. “He’s broken and I don’t know how to fix him.”
Neither had to ask who he was. They didn’t look surprised when it all came pouring out.
“Look, even if I knew what was going on with him, I couldn’t talk about it and frankly, I don’t know a damn thing about Godan psychology.” Mason sipped his beer and sighed. “Good stuff. We get it from a guy in town. So, I’m talking about humans here, and I do know a bit about that. Humans. Got it?”
He told her about body image and how difficult it was for some people to adjust to the loss of even the smallest body part. It didn’t matter what type of prosthetic device was used or their physical adjustment to it. It affected how they saw themselves and how other people saw them. That led to a lesson on self-image and sex.
“But those parts were missing before,” Mira argued, “And everything was fine.”
“Except he was living a lie and the lie was exposed to the person most important to him,” Ahnyis said gently and then quickly added, “For the human I mean. Just suppose those parts weren’t regular replicated parts. Prostheses, that’s what you call them, right? Suppose that human had crystal chips in their brain that controlled those prostheses and what if someone other than the wearer had control of those crystals for years? What if the wearer had no control at all and spent years and years trying to develop it? And then the human had to give up that control for a very good reason.” She shook her head sadly. “It would still feel like a loss of control.”
“Yikes, Ahnyis,” Mason cried in artificial surprise, “If that were true, the human would probably be scared shitless they’d lose it again someday and hurt someone they love.” His grin said this was devilish fun. “Particularly if the human had been exercising strict control of his body for oh, I don’t know, ten years maybe? And then wham!” He clapped his hands together so loud and fast, both Ahnyis and Mira jumped. “He loses it. Doesn’t remember it or worse, sees the horror of it in his head. Man,” he shook his head sadly, “poor human. That’s enough to deflate anyone’s Wee Willy.” He shrugged. “Just a thought since we’re talking human and not Godan.”
“What’s a Wee Willy?”
“Wee Willy is not your concern, Sweetcheeks. I’ll introduce you to William the Conqueror later.”
“I just want things to go back to the way they were,” Mira told them before she left.
“Give it time,” Mason advised.
But Mira felt that time would only give Roark the opportunity to harden his resolve. Time wasn’t on her side.
Chapter 32
When Roark came in and saw the table set for two, he almost turned around and left. He wasn’t sure he could withstand the assault.
The large family table was gone and in its place was the small one he’d used the first time Mira came to dinner. The table was covered in the same snowy white cloth, candles were lit, and wine was cooling. She’d even found rose petals.
He’d hoped against hope that the woman would give up and leave. His recent behavior should have given her a reasonable excuse.
As close as the sisters were, he was sure they’d discussed it. He’d been informed that Wynne was making enquiries about the apartments that were being refurbished along the road that led to the town. Technically, Wynne didn’t qualify. The apartments were for civilian personnel who worked on the base. Mira would qualify, though. He had hopes the two would leave together to resume their lives as they had been before.
Before he had come along with his impossible dreams and fuck
ed things up.
He knew he could make her leave. He only had to tell her that he’d thrown her heart away. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. He, who had fought in wars all over the galaxy, faced warlords and the Hahnshin, was a coward when it came to Mira Donazetto.
He’d watched the light die in soldier’s eyes as their spirit was carried to the Great Hall. If he gave her heart back, or took his from her, he knew he would see the same look in her eyes. He’d not only touched her heart, she’d given it to him, whole and still beating, reserving nothing for herself. He couldn’t bear to see that look. He would die watching it.
So, Mira must be the one to throw his heart away. He would go on as he had these last ten years, constantly testing and exercising control over the chips in his head and now, his heart. He was used to it. She was not.
One look at the woman walking into the room wearing that damned black dress and Roark knew he’d made a mistake. Her breasts were on display and though he’d seen them in all their naked glory, he wanted to see and feel them again, soft and responsive to his hands. Her hair was pinned up on her head and already he felt the need to pull the pins out and watch as the honeyed curls fell about her shoulders. Those shoes, with their high and dangerously narrow heels, emphasized her shapely legs and made it impossible not to imagine what they would feel like wrapped around his body as he drove himself into her. By the Goddess he worshipped, she was the loveliest thing he’d ever seen.
He knew he was in trouble. Mira was dressed for war.
She smiled and he had to close his eyes against the brightness that lit him from within. Her voice was deep and warm, sultry in the way it became when she was aroused. She’d sharpened her weaponry.
“You’re home.”
Home. It was another weapon in her arsenal. He wanted to hate that word, because it had come to mean so much. Roark hadn’t had one since he left his mother’s house as a very young man and when he returned to it for the occasional visit, the feeling wasn’t the same. He saw the difference now. After all those years of wandering the galaxy, it was only a house. It couldn’t be a home if Mira wasn’t in it.
She made her first move. Attacking from his flank, she took his hand in hers. He wasn’t fooled by her size and apparent vulnerability. He knew her to be strong and capable. She conquered fear the way he conquered enemies.
“Come, dinner’s ready.”
“Mira, don’t.” He used her given name with purpose in a counter attack to her first move.
“What? You have to eat, don’t you?” she asked and then she laughed, “Surely big, brave warriors have to eat. It’s only dinner.” There was a dare behind her words.
“It’s not, and you know it. You’re asking for something I can’t give.” It was hard to look into those soft, grey eyes.
She laughed again and it was low and sultry, too. “It’s seems to me, First Commander, it’s your mind that’s wandering elsewhere. I’m not asking for anything more than dinner and a little conversation.” She spread her hands. “No etchings.”
Roark still didn’t know what the damned things were.
She asked about his day, how the new troops were settling in, were the men excited about finally being let out into the town. She spoke of the gossip she’d heard and wondered if he’d give permission for a City Council to form with neighborhood representatives.
At first, his answers were short and polite. As the courses were served, he found himself answering in more depth, and listening to what she had to say. In spite of that cock hardening dress with the knot of pearls calling his eyes to her breasts, the woman across from him had a mind worth paying attention to, too. She saw to the core of a problem and was practical, sensible in her offered solutions.
“Wynne’s been hired to work at the Children’s Home. Will that make her a base employee or is that considered private employment? We’ve been looking at those new apartments?”
He was so relaxed, he didn’t see the sneak attack coming. If this had been a battlefield, it would have been the equivalent of turning his ammunition over to the enemy. His question was like shooting himself in the foot.
“Why? Aren’t you happy here?”
He’d expected Mira to grin at his tactical stupidity. Instead her eyes were overcome with sadness.
“No one’s happy here, Roark. You, least of all.”
He couldn’t look into those eyes and say what must be said. He picked up his knife and studied its movement as he twirled it in the fingers of a hand that wasn’t his. “Perhaps it’s time to end it then.”
“Not until you tell me why. I’m not leaving until you do. You owe me that.”
“You were there. You saw. There is nothing more to say.”
“Yes, I was there. I saw,” she said patiently. “We’ve been over that, time and again. You aren’t listening to me, so it’s time I listen to you. I will stay in this house, in that bed, or at this table until I get what I’m owed.”
The silence between them extended to minutes. Roark grew impatient with it. He was a warrior of action. Inactivity drove him crazy.
There was a stubborn streak in this woman that could be aggravating. Once she had something in her head, she wouldn’t be deterred. She had an unhealthy patience, too. Both would be an asset in a siege. She would sit and wait for months, never growing bored, never feeling the need to poke and prod the enemy into a response. He had a vision of her now, sitting in that damned dress, the string of pearls rising and falling with her breath, sipping coffee, and staring at him while the planet made a full circle around its central star.
She would wait him out. He was under siege and his walls were crumbling with inactivity.
“I don’t know what you want,” he said tersely.
She was ready with her return volley. “How did it begin?”
He dropped the knife and looked at the hand that held it. This was easy enough. It happened so long ago. He held it up for her to see.
“First blood. My first mission. My first time in the field. I was terrified and because of my terror, I was moving too fast. I tried to keep up with a directional explosives vehicle, using it as a shield, rather than face the enemy.” He laughed a little at his own stupidity. “I slipped in the mud and the DEV’s track caught my arm.”
Mira winced, but she didn’t look away. “I think I would have licked my wounds and gone home. I would have found some other way to do battle, something that involved paper and pen.”
Her response made him laugh. “That’s exactly what my father recommended.”
“Which is why you couldn’t do it.” After so short a time, she knew him so well.
“Things got better. I had a need to prove myself. To myself as well as my father,” he admitted. “I watched, I learned, I listened, and what I didn’t learn on my own, Harm beat into me.” He tried not to let his pride show. “I excelled, and rose through the ranks. I earned each commission.”
There, he’d given her what she asked. He’d let her win her little skirmish, thinking she’d be satisfied. He should have known better. One small victory always brought with it a taste for another.
“That’s one. What about the others? And don’t give me a litany of the smaller ones hoping to bore me to death. I don’t get bored when the subject is you. I can listen all night.”
She would, too.
He gave her what she wanted. Her look of shocked horror would be gratifying. A massive full frontal attack often took out a smaller, less experience force in a matter of minutes.
“I lost those all at once. Land mine.”
“Holy God, you stepped on a land mine?” She seemed more surprised than horrified.
“No. A blooded warrior named Bukax did. I’d just been promoted to Field Marshal and I chose to join in the assault. I wanted my men to see me in action.”
“You couldn’t think of something a little less dramatic as a demonstration?” she asked and then slapped her hand over her mouth.
Roark barked a laugh. It was his
first laugh ever about that fateful day. “I can assure you, getting blown up wasn’t my idea of showing off. Bukax stepped on it. He knew it. To lift his foot was to die. I couldn’t let him stand there.”
“There was no other way?”
“Harm offered to shoot him,” he said with a wry smile.
“Have you ever wished you let him?”
“Every damn fucking day.” Roark refrained from slapping his hand over his mouth, but now understood the need to do it.
He hadn’t meant to say it, had never said it aloud, had barely let himself say admit it in his head. To get away from it, he told her the rest.
He could still picture the look on Harm’s face when, after walking with him to a safe distance away, Roark turned and took off running. He hit Bukax at full throttle. They flew through the air, the mine went off, and that was the last Roark knew until he woke as a monster.
“Bukax lost his lower leg. I wasn’t so fortunate. Harm called Vochem and then my father. I was stabilized and flown out. Vochem was working on an experimental project that looked promising. They were looking for test subjects whose brain and spinal column were still intact. Then came two years of training.” He shrugged to say the rest didn’t matter.
“And?” she prompted.
“And nothing. The experiment was a disaster. We were deemed unsalvageable. Vochem had developed a neurotransmitter he thought would work, but funding and interest had run out. He used me as one of his subjects.” He touched the dragon at his ear. “It took another year to learn how to use it.”
“Does the military know?”
“We were numbers, not names. When I had completed my final test mission, Vochem marked Subject 6472 terminated. No one bothered to check. They just wanted it over and erased. My father placed the necessary information under Military Intelligence to account for my missing years. I went back to active duty, retaining my previous rank. Vochem and Harm are always with me. My father makes sure my watchdogs are always near.”
Roark (Women Of Earth Book 1) Page 28