Fragile Bond

by Rhi Etzweiler

  “As long as you’re aware I’m handicapped to some degree. Reccin is safe. I want to keep things that way. But I need an alternate explanation for why I’ve been manipulated, Commander. My superiors will require a debrief. At the moment, the conclusions they’ll draw from the intel I share . . . won’t reflect well on the furrs. Assuming you wish to perpetuate goodwill as opposed to sparking hostilities all over again?”

  Sparking hostilities all over again. Interesting choice of words, and they gave him pause. He leaned in a fraction, more of a faint swaying forward as he inhaled, heeding Marc’s body language as much as his words. “Are you threatening me, human? You think I haven’t been watching you since that team disembarked?”

  Marc’s posture stiffened. Hamm turned away, shaking his mane in an effort to collect his frayed nerves. Reccin’s scent carried no sign of distress or discomfort. In fact, he couldn’t recall why he’d been concerned about leaving his second to his own devices. Not caring if his manner was construed as rough, he reached out to grab Marc’s arm and moved toward the path in the tree line. It was cooperate or lose an appendage. The alien really didn’t want to start another dominance display with him, regardless of the scent Marc exuded. Hamm had no qualms about reminding him who’d won the first time Marc had tried that.

  “You’re correct. Reccin can hold his own with three humans. And the sentries on the far side of the meadow are trustworthy. They won’t let things get out of hand.”

  He felt Marc twist in his grip, but kept moving. Probably trying to ascertain the sentry locations, but Hamm wasn’t feeling terribly indulgent just now, not with everything the sniper was throwing at him.

  “Sergeant? Stand fast!” The captain’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

  Hamm tightened his grip a fraction when Marc stilled and pivoted. His hand just clenched. It was that or flex his claws out, which wasn’t the friendliest alternative. He glared at the landing team’s captain when she leaned around Reccin. She saw him, too. And jerked her gaze away from him to focus on Marc with a finesse reminiscent of Dehna. He bared a fang, unamused. Marc drew himself up taller under that gaze. Cortannas trained a strange glance at Reccin as she tried to sidestep him, but the chief abandoned Andruski in favor of blocking her path.

  “Commander Orsonna is escorting me to retrieve my rifle, Captain. I’ll return momentarily.”

  “At which time your weapons will be secured in the shuttle until further notice.” Reccin addressed Marc, but shared his gaze among the captain and the rest of the human team as well.

  Hamm waited while Makko translated for the captain, and gave a rumble-growl when the captain drew breath to object. “You want to be here, to make peace with us and repay your wrongs.” Marc shifted, pulling against the hold on his arm, and Hamm glanced down, including him as target of the conversation. “You do so unarmed. That is my demand. We furrs—clan fefa especially—have sacrificed too much. Now it is time you trust. Sacrifice your capacity for violence as a measure of reparation for the damage you’ve caused.”

  Captain Cortannas, to her credit, listened carefully. Her entire being seemed focused on his every sound, despite her inability to understand what he was saying.

  Makko stood at her side, murmuring translation in her ear. As the biologist continued, the captain’s skin lost its color, much the same way Marc’s had before. She nodded, though, and didn’t show any sign of going limp like the sniper had, which Hamm assumed was good. “Agreed, Commander Orsonna. We will disarm ourselves. Upon Sergeant Staille’s return with his rifle, demonstrating good faith and trust.”

  Good faith and trust?

  Hamm swallowed a snarl. If it hadn’t been for the sentries, he wouldn’t have agreed to it.

  “Tell the captain her stipulation is acceptable. The prisoner and I will retrieve his weapon and return shortly.” He addressed his response to Reccin, because despite his efforts at feigning benevolence, he couldn’t manage to maintain that demure attitude for even a second longer.

  Reccin furrowed his brow, ear twitching. Nostrils flared on an inhale, catching Hamm’s scent. And then he nodded. Understanding. This would present a win-win with only marginal risk on their part. He liked that. They’d risked enough thus far.

  Though Hamm tugged on his arm, Marc didn’t need much encouragement to get moving again toward the meadow’s edge. He wasn’t certain why he’d mentioned the sentries. No, that wasn’t true—he did know, whether he was ready to admit it to himself or not. He trusted Marc. Who still had that blade hidden on him somewhere. He hadn’t used it, though. He recalled him twisting and flailing as he struggled, back when Hamm had first flushed him from his perch and pounced on him.

  Always place the mission first.

  It helped to have a mutually agreed-upon definition of what the mission entailed.

  “Commander?”

  He almost stumbled over his own feet at the edge of respect infused into his rank. Caught his balance on a nearby tree trunk and stopped to face Marc after traversing a jagged boulder jutting up almost waist-high from the center of the path. And though he tried to catch a scent of what he had going on in his head, the soldier gave nothing away. He was devoid of tells. “You may speak freely, Sergeant.”

  “Any chance you’d take me back to that valley? I left the other four members of my squad behind. I’d like to check on them.” He paused to grunt while clambering over the stone, skidding carelessly down to land in a crouch on the ground at Hamm’s feet. “The captain might be able to check on whether they were successfully extracted, but—”

  “They were not.” Beneath the firm edge, the concern and foreboding in Marc’s voice turned Hamm’s stomach. He understood what the soldier was asking, and couldn’t see a lick of sense in making him continue to wonder. “We took them all out.”

  The line of Marc’s mouth relaxed as his face slackened. His skin flushed darker, and he shook his head. Slowly at first, but then with more vigor. Lips moving, though he didn’t speak. Or if that “nonononono” sound meant something the translator didn’t understand. It rather sounded like some of the feather dialects.

  When Marc eased sideways and sat down on the ground as though his legs had stopped working, and still had yet to blink, Hamm realized what was wrong. He dropped into a crouch and shifted so his gaze intercepted Marc’s.

  Marc blinked, once. His eyes looked odd, the pupils so blown there was hardly any of their sky color left. “I need to go back and retrieve their remains. Take them home.”

  Hamm understood not wanting to leave them lying on unfamiliar soil, their last embrace that of a stranger. Soma would welcome them, but that wasn’t the point. “They were your friends?”

  Marc studied him, still breathing raggedly. The white parts of his eyes were filled with red lines, and moisture leaked down his face in a slow trail, making streaks through the dirt and grit on his skin. “They were my squad. My family for the past two years. Yes, they were my friends.”

  More than friends, then. More like clan.

  “They died swiftly and without pain. We gave them that much, as you gave mine.” He hadn’t thought to tackle the pain of that loss so soon, and certainly not like this, crouching in the dirt with the one responsible for killing them.

  It went both ways, though.

  He and the alien weren’t so different, after all. They’d both lost comrades back there in that valley. They’d both killed without hesitation. For different reasons and different motivations, but at the core of it, they had a great deal in common.

  They sat in silence, staring at each other. The wind gusted, the branches rustling high above their heads as though Soma were rattling the bones of the dead.

  Marc scrubbed the tracks of moisture from his cheeks with his forearm. He smelled of guilt, regret, and salt.

  “I can take you back there. We will go together, gather our comrades, and build a memorial for them.”

  “You don’t hate me for what I did?”

  “You care whether or no
t I do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hate is . . . a very intense emotion. Our culture has little use for it. I am sad that things didn’t happen differently. I hate that any of this was even necessary. But no, I don’t hate you.”

  “But I killed your entire squad.”

  “And we killed yours. Do you hate me?”

  Marc shook his head. “Where’s the difference? Do you want me to hate you? Or do you simply hate yourself?” He made a hissing sound, rolled his shoulders, body stiffening.

  “Have you never killed before? You are shockingly adept with your death stick, for one who has not.”

  “I have killed many creatures. Never another sapient being.”

  “How do you know? Did you interview each threat before taking the shot? Are you somehow less because you acted without that awareness?”

  Marc hesitated, frowned at him, and then stared intently, focus flicking back and forth between his eyes. When he took breath to respond, Hamm silenced him with a growl.

  “We knew it was a suicide mission. They sacrificed willingly. Because the chance to end this madness was more valuable to them than their lives.”

  Hamm straightened, reaching down to haul him to his feet. Marc seemed willing to continue moving, so he propelled him forward with his grip. Marc walked beside him, took a few exaggerated breaths. Shoulders lifting, mouth gaping a fraction—to maximize air intake, perhaps. With each exhale, the soldier’s scent shifted. The bitter salt-tang faded, moisture wicked away on the breeze when the dry air gusted. The nip-scent was faint, mixed with something smelling of sun-warmed stone.

  One glance confirmed his expression was about as malleable. He had his hunter face back on. Hamm wasn’t surprised by the shift. He certainly wouldn’t air the grief of losing his squad with just anyone. Everyone handled loss differently, but nobody wanted pity. Especially not from someone who’d only feign understanding.

  When he finally found the words to continue speaking, he kept his voice to a deep-register rumble of sound. This wasn’t a conversation for anyone’s ears but theirs. “Death is a part of life. You perceived a threat and eliminated it. Your actions have consequences, just as mine do. You aren’t lesser; you have a responsibility, a debt to repay. They knew it was a suicide mission.”

  “Where did all that come from?”

  Hamm paused and lowered his chin, meeting the human’s gaze. “Am I correct?”

  Marc chafed a hand over his stubbled scalp and nodded.

  “Good.” He scrambled down over the lip of boulders and back underground.

  Hamm only meant to make sure his prisoner followed along and didn’t get lost. Instead, he stood there staring as Marc dropped down off the rocks into a crouch and jogged a few strides to catch up. Hamm felt his ear twitching in mild irritation at his own behavior and turned away with a huff. Marc walked alongside him through the broad tunnels.

  “Why it is that nine times out of ten I can’t form a single coherent thought when I stand too close to you?”

  “Then don’t stand so close to me.” A few of the furrs they passed along the way paused to give them strange glances, but Marc’s presence at his side didn’t bother him and that was all that mattered. He met each look with steady calm, and didn’t comment on their curiosity. They could stare if they wished. They needed to acclimate to the alien presence just as much as the aliens needed to acclimate to them. A positive diplomatic outcome depended on that. “You’re a strange creature. You smell and act more alpha than any clan leader I’ve ever encountered. And then . . . you demand to be dominated. There is nothing submissive about you, not even in that. Your vulnerability coexists with your strength.”

  He had no control over the series of rumbling purrs punctuating his words as he finished that thought. Only when Marc stepped away, giving Hamm a wider berth, did he realize his own scent had shifted, pheromones thickening again.

  “And then what? I missed the rest of that.”

  Hamm glanced again at the nearby furrs, then over his shoulder at the few still staring. His redirected attention proved enough to reassert discipline. Leadership structure had to be maintained. Or chaos—and war—would ensue. Resume. Whichever. Marc had mentioned the humans hadn’t come in search of war. Didn’t seek to invade. Which made communication crucial. Not to mention the role that cultural understanding would play.

  Granted, it would be equally important for the furrs—especially those present here, who would have the most exposure—to begin seeing the humans as something more than nameless, faceless aggressors bent on domination.

  The soldier’s scent was strong enough already to give the wrong idea. That Hamm had submitted to him.

  Had the alien somehow manipulated him into doing just that? Hamm waited until he’d led the way into his office space and the relative privacy it afforded. Then he made a long perusal of Marc, who stood there entirely focused on him. Waiting—though not entirely patient, from the tension in his features—for what he was willing to share.

  “What I said was that you go from exuding the scent of an extremely dominant alpha, to baring your neck for me to lick.” That was the succinct version, at least. Since his previous wording hadn’t translated. Such contradictory behaviors fascinated him, and the alien presented a study of contrasts in more ways than one.

  Marc raised his brows. “Your translation device really sucks.”

  He only chuffed in response. “That wasn’t exactly what I said. What I said was more . . . encompassing.” He studied the nuances of body language, the unspoken communication. A thousand little things whispered of similarity, the quality of movement, bearing, posture that reminded him so strongly of his own squad. Kail moved that way. Erri held his jaw like that, too low to be scenting the air, too high to be natural carriage. As though straining for a fraction more height than Soma had given.

  A warrior, this one. A soldier through and through. Like recognizing like? Was it as simple as that? If it wasn’t, he wasn’t willing to admit it.

  “This isn’t something we consciously use as a weapon against your kind. That’s what you’re worried about? I think I understand why you feel that way. You don’t have that kind of control over your pheromones. Isn’t that what you said?”

  Odd that they wouldn’t. Especially given how strong the scent had rolled off Marc—to think he couldn’t suppress it when he wanted—Hamm couldn’t begin to imagine what that would be like.

  “Yes. You understand the unfair edge it gives you?”

  “We use this as a communication tool among ourselves, when words won’t suffice or don’t come quickly enough. A weapon against one other, as a show of dominance. In territorial disputes and disagreements—though that’s increasingly less common since we’ve become more civilized, more likely to discuss and debate than declare a victor based on the fecundity of pheromones. Is that what you wanted to know? That we won’t go manipulating every one of you we encounter?”

  “Yes, Commander.” Marc kept his tone level, his body tense and straight.

  “Your team is safe. For the immediate future—and from that concern, as far as I’m aware. The issue is . . .” He trailed off into silence, easing away, lowering his voice. “The issue is just how long they will permit me to retain my position once they discover I am no longer able to influence others.”

  He glanced around, unable to disguise just how uncomfortable it made him to admit that, to utter those words. He could feel the frailty in himself, and the same quality in the air. A brittle tension. The mutual trust forged between them, based on solidarity. A kinship far from genetic, so thin and insubstantial—as though it would shatter if he breathed too heavily, if the alien moved too quickly, spoke too harshly.

  The way a whisper could be drowned out by a sigh.

  It shouldn’t be that way. He was made of sterner stuff, by far. And yet.

  He could feel that moment between one breath and the next, when everything seemed suspended in weightlessness. Possibility and reality a
ll jumbled together, tossed up into the air.

  “May I have my rifle?” Marc’s hands twitched. “I get the impression we should have this conversation somewhere we can’t be overheard.”

  “The walls are dense here.” He tried to sound reassuring as he clawed the wall to disengage the lock. “But you’re correct. I’d rather be out in the open air. It’s a sensitive subject for me.”

  “I can leave, you know. The shuttle will depart shortly.” Marc glanced at his wrist, the flat surface of a device strapped there. He cleared his throat, but when he continued speaking, there was a harsh burr to his voice that hadn’t been there before. “Very soon. If I leave, your people will never know this wasn’t just something more than you controlling a prisoner.”

  Hamm reached into the cavity of the wall, retrieving Marc’s death stick with more respect than he’d intended. The steel shape was cool and strangely lifeless, separated from its wielder.

  “You are the only one who has shown any consideration for the plight we face. Any understanding.” Hamm could lift the weapon easily in one hand, but he carried it balanced in both and walked back toward Marc. That schooled expression and those strange sky eyes assessed his every move. Did he doubt it would be returned, or was he concerned about it being damaged?

  “The others haven’t been here long enough to grasp the situation fully, Commander. Once they—”

  “And you have?” Hamm gave a sharp purr, fascinated by the soldier’s words. “Your death stick, soldier.”

  “No. I won’t pretend I have. But I’m trying. And I want to.” Marc reached out as though restraining himself, and eased the death stick from Hamm. “Thanks.”

  “I know. And I respect that, but this is so much more than that. And it’s not about knowing I have the crutch of being able to manipulate you if need be. It isn’t that.” He folded his arms and watched as the soldier performed a meticulous inspection of his weapon. “This will go very poorly if you leave now. If that is what you wish to do, I will not stop you.”