by Shae Mills
"Hey! Where are you going?" she shouted.
Fremma glanced at her as he removed his jacket. "To have a shower," he grinned. "Care to join me?"
Chelan blushed deeply, wondering what, if anything, Dar had said to him. "No, I don't," she mumbled. "And no, you're not," she asserted. "Not until you get me out of this thing," and she yanked at the shroud.
Fremma dropped his gloves and jacket and returned to her. He chuckled to himself as he thought of asking her about the shower he now knew she had taken with Dar, but decided not to aggravate her any further. Expertly, he released the shroud from her ankles and wrists. Chelan nodded her thanks, and he turned to leave.
She sat down on the bed and began removing her boots. Then she became quiet, the gaiety she had just enjoyed with Fremma dissipating. Korba was lost to her, and for reasons she could not pinpoint, she felt robbed of Dar. Maybe it was because of her constant refusal of him, or maybe it was because she knew how busy he would be in the future with the mission underway.
But now, on top of everything else, she felt doubly bad about Fremma. She had encroached upon him and displaced him once again. Korba had already transposed him earlier for her sake, relieving him of his duties to babysit her. And because of his unfortunate assignment, he had been forced to reside on RIBUS 8 for the duration of her stay, working under Dar's command rather than Korba's.
Chelan drew a deep breath. She was beginning to dislike herself again. She had inconvenienced Fremma in so many ways, and now she had forced herself on him again. Chelan could not pin her feelings down, but to her he was special somehow, very special, and he did not deserve to be saddled with her.
She had come to love the warrior in a deep and meaningful way. He was everything to her because of his constant dedication and the endless hours he had put into helping her. He had always been there when Dar and Korba were not. He was kind and compassionate, and he had weathered all her storms and had shared most of her good times.
Suddenly, and unexpectedly, a sense of profound sadness overshadowed her as her thoughts diverted to her family. Chelan began to rock herself gently as she thought of their futile search for her. They would have to live with the pain they felt for the duration of their lives, for there would never be a body to find, no body to bury, and no answers. Chelan's depression deepened further. She wanted so badly to call out to them, to tell them that she was fine, to hold them, and to ease their suffering.
Fremma slipped on his pants and boots and stepped out into the bedroom. His face became solemn as he saw her gentle swaying motion, knowing immediately that she was once again stricken with grief. He approached her slowly, not sure if he should interfere with her thoughts.
Chelan caught his movement and looked up at him, giving him a small nod. She spoke, her voice soft and low. "I feel bad for my family. They will never know what has happened to me." She stood, turning her back to him. "Their burden must be so great, and it will never go away."
Fremma walked up to her and placed his hands on her shoulders, rubbing them gently. "I'm sorry, Chelan."
She turned toward him and hugged him tightly, pressing the side of her face into his warm chest. It was the first time in a long time she had touched the gentle warrior, and now she realized just how much she had missed his loving embrace.
Fremma encompassed her with his strong arms, stroking her long hair as he leaned his cheek on her head. He held her gently for a time as he contemplated how he would feel if he had been plucked from his people, his movements restricted, his freedom stripped. He wondered about being forcefully cast into a strange, alien culture, where nothing was familiar, not the language, not the laws or rules, and not the customs... a world where time itself was different, and where there was no hope of ever retrieving the past and possibly no hope for the future. Fremma squeezed his eyes tight, and for the first time he felt he fully understood the torment that plagued her.
"I feel so helpless," she whispered, her voice breaking the somber silence.
Fremma hugged her closer. "I'm sorry, Chelan," he whispered softly. Then he looked down into her beautiful alien eyes. Fremma took in a deep breath. He was not sure if the pain he felt in his chest was his own or a pain born out of hers. Either way, he sought to quell it with the only act he knew would bring him relief. He hesitated and then moved his lips to hers. She responded to him immediately, and he felt a deep warmth overtake him. Her lips were soft and sensual, and he parted them with his tongue, caressing her mouth tenderly.
Chelan finally separated from him. She was confused over her sexual feelings for Fremma, when the same feelings were so strong for Dar. But she knew that turning Fremma away would be a mistake she would live to regret. She looked up into his azure blue eyes. "I don't want to displace you from your bed," she said softly.
"It's okay, Chelan. I don't—"
She raised her fingers to his lips, interrupting him, her skin flushing. "I want to sleep with you," she clarified. "I want to be next to your warm body at night. I don't want to be alone any more." She lowered her voice to barely a whisper, "I understand how busy you are, but when time permits..."
Fremma clutched her to him. "You won't be alone, Chelan. I promise. I will stay with you as often as I can." She nodded at him, and he smiled. "Why don't you go have a nice warm shower? I think you will feel better."
"I think you're right." And silently, she left him and disappeared into the en suite.
Fremma sat down heavily on the bed and rubbed at his brow. He wondered what Dar was going to say about this new turn of events. For the moment, at least, he would divulge nothing. If Chelan wished to say anything to Dar, then he would deal with the consequences. But Fremma knew that it would only be a matter of time before the situation revealed itself, as no doubt Dar could read her as well as he could. Chelan would inadvertently let the fact that she had a bedmate slip out one way or the other.
Fremma removed his knives and laid them on the bed. He then took out a small pen-like laser from some supplies he had moved into the room before he had left for RIBUS 8. Slowly, he flashed it accurately along the edge of each blade. The laser flawlessly honed the metal, sharpening it to within a molecules width. Fremma knew the blades would slice through flesh just by their weight alone, and he handled them carefully, his dexterous hands trained by decades of disciplined tutelage and practice.
Fremma was working on his last blade as Chelan emerged from the shower, her white dress caressing her legs as she flowed across the room to the bed. She sat down next to the knives and delicately picked one up.
Fremma stopped his work and watched her handle the knife, his concern evident on his face. "Why knives when you have much more sophisticated weapons?" she asked.
Fremma kept a wary eye on her as she studied the blade. "There are many situations where there is no better-suited implement. It is sometimes difficult to swing a large weapon in close quarters, and flashes from lazguns give away your position. Knives can be thrown, they are brutally effective when used properly, and they do their job silently. Some of the cultures we end up dealing with are extremely primitive. They do not understand, and therefore do not always fear, the more sophisticated weaponry. Knives speak a universal language throughout the galaxy. Besides, sometimes you cannot improve on the effectiveness and sheer beauty of simplicity."
Chelan sat quietly for a moment. "Which can be thrown?"
"These two," he said pointing to the two knives with rounded tips and black blades.
Chelan furrowed her brow. "They don't look like any throwing knife I have ever seen."
Fremma chuckled. "And how many have you seen?"
She smiled and shrugged. "Well, actually, my dad has quite a collection of knives. He has a set of throwing knives, but they are a lot smaller and lighter. They also have very sharp tips."
Fremma picked up one of the blades. "A throwing knife has to be just the right weight. Too light, and though it can be thrown further, it will not be as accurate. Heavier knives fly truer but requ
ire more strength to throw. These are appropriate for us."
"And you have to watch the distance from the target, right, so you can put just the right spin on it?"
"You would if you threw it that way, but we throw them straight, like a spear, no spin. It's bad enough tossing your weapon away even when it does what it's intended to, but it's worse yet to toss it away and have it simply clunk your opponent with the butt end. Unharmed and raging mad, your adversary now has your knife."
Chelan chuckled. "I see your point. What about the blade shape? It's very different from the ones I have seen."
Fremma nodded. "What do your people use them for?"
"Well, sport I guess, at least my dad. He entered target competitions. I've seen them used in spectacles where people throw them at other people to show how close they can get."
"Well, as you can imagine, our use is a little different. We don't want to get close. We want dead center." Fremma saw Chelan wince, but he continued. "We actually round the tip and dull it slightly. We are throwing at soft bodies, so we don't need it to stick. In fact, we don't want it to. We want it to penetrate. So the end is shaped so that it will glance off bone, ribs in particular, and continue inward."
Chelan suppressed a shudder. Then she looked from the throwing knives to the others. "What about these?" she asked.
"They're weighted differently," he explained. "Balance in your hand and in the air are two different properties. For throwing, we want a balance centered between the blade and the hilt, we don't want it tumbling, and we want it heavy for penetration. The blades used for close battle are made to slice and are much lighter. Balance or feel in the hand is what is important, and it is different for every warrior. They are pointed, and these particular ones are sharpened on both sides. Some warriors prefer different styles, but all have guards to protect the user's hand when thrusting."
Chelan felt her stomach turn. Fremma was talking about killing people as if he were talking about peeling an orange. She looked apprehensively at the knife that she held, and cautiously, she set it down.
Fremma smiled to himself, acutely aware of the fact that she had never experienced death firsthand; it was an extremely common experience to him.
Chelan pointed at the knives. "The throwing ones are black; the others are a strange bluish color."
"Different metals for different functions. A throwing blade is lancing through the air for a considerable distance, so you don't want it reflecting light and giving the intended recipient time to react. For our personal blades, the metal is a composite developed by the Telesians, and it cannot be matted. But for close-in fighting, the flash of a blade is of less concern."
"Are you good?"
He nodded. "I have to be. I'm Korba's primary bodyguard and head of all security. I am also sometimes his wingman in battle. If he goes down, I follow. I need to be proficient."
Chelan had forgotten this somewhere along the way, and all of a sudden, she felt closer to Fremma. She grinned. "So what target size can you hit, and at what distance?"
Fremma shrugged. "About two centimeters at fifty meters or more."
Chelan raised her brows skeptically and looked around the room. She walked to one of the nightstands and searched it for anything that would do as a target. She found what appeared to a pad of paper, and she took a sheet. She then carefully reached for one of the blue blades and sliced into the paper. It cut through the material like butter. Chelan made another slice until she had a little square of about three centimeters. She smiled at her improvised target and then at Fremma. She turned from him after laying the knife down, and she traversed the full length of the room toward the entrance doors.
Fremma watched her walk away. He knew that she did not believe fully in his competency, but she soon would. He reached for one of his throwing blades and then backed against the wall by the bed. This was going to be an easy demonstration, and a convincing one at that.
Chelan went to the side of the doors and licked the small piece of paper. Sticking the white parchment on the taupe wall, she wondered if he would be able to see it, let alone hit it. She held it momentarily, releasing it slowly while hoping that it would stay put.
She withdrew her hand, relieved that the small swatch of paper remained in place. Suddenly, a knife sizzled past her and slammed into the wall. Chelan shrieked in terror and slumped to the ground, covering her head. She heard Fremma laugh, and she glared back at him as she clutched at her pounding heart. "That wasn't funny!" she yelled.
"It wasn't meant to be," he returned lightly. He trotted across the room to her and extended his hand, easing her to her feet. Chelan was speechless as she struggled for control of her breathing. She looked from Fremma to the wall where the twenty-four-centimeter blade had sunk its entire shaft. Chelan peered at the paper, the knife having sliced it dead center. Her eyes lit. "Can you teach me to do that?"
"I don't know if I want to teach you to do that," Fremma countered buoyantly. "You may see fit to use it against me some day."
Chelan smiled back at him and watched his powerful arm muscles work as he pried the blade from the wall. "Please," she said, "I mean it. Can you teach me to throw?"
"You're serious, aren't you?"
"I am. It's a fine art combining meticulous hand-eye coordination, speed, strength, and a highly developed degree of perception and judgment. I would love to learn if I could."
Fremma was pleasantly surprised. "Well then, Chelan, I would love to teach you."
Chelan bubbled as she followed him back to the bed, and they both sat down. "I would also like to learn how to use the exercise equipment in the workout area," she ventured as she watched him sharpen the throwing blade. "Korba had said that he would show me how to use things once my back healed, but then I fell ill."
Fremma glanced over at her, his smile leaving. "What happened to your back?"
Chelan squirmed. "I fell," she replied sheepishly.
"Did Korba hurt you?"
"It was a mistake," she whispered nervously.
"Korba doesn't make mistakes," Fremma commented coolly.
"It was an accident, believe me," she implored. "And I really don't wish to talk about it, if you don't mind."
Fremma complied and continued working on the blade. He questioned his earlier assessment of Korba, saying that the Warlord had never made a mistake. But now Fremma wondered about his Commander. After all, he had seemingly cast Chelan aside, and that had been definitely a mistake. Fremma shook off his troublesome thoughts and changed the subject. "How about tomorrow?" he offered.
"How about tomorrow, what?"
Fremma smiled at her. "How about tomorrow I teach you how to use the weight equipment?"
Chelan was elated. Fremma continued working on the blade and then commented. "I see that you have already been using the free weights."
"How did you know that?" she asked guardedly. "I only use them when I'm alone... or assume I'm alone."
Fremma chuckled, knowing that she had never fully forgiven him for watching her secretly that one day so long ago. He laid the knife down and glanced at her. "Actually, I've noticed a fairly significant change in your muscle definition over the past weeks. Your body responds quickly to the weights." Fremma stood up and picked up the knives, flicking them down into their sheaths as she had seen Dar do. He then knelt and placed the laser under the bed. "They have toned you nicely."
She shrugged. "Well, no matter how hard I work, I'll never look like your women."
Fremma grinned mischievously. "That's good. I was getting tired of sleeping with women who felt like men."
Chelan thought she was going to die of embarrassment. Her entire body went warm, and she turned bright red. She became suddenly and hopelessly self-conscious, and she wanted out from under his scrutiny.
But before she could react, Fremma took her hand, raising her off the bed. "I'm sorry, Chelan," he said, laughing lightly. "I was only playing with you. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." He squeezed her hand tig
htly, but he did not feel her relax. He tipped her head up to him and looked deep into her troubled eyes. "What's the matter? Was it what I said?"
"Have you been with other women while you have been taking care of me?" she asked quietly.
Fremma felt the knot in his stomach return. "Yes, a few," he answered warily. He saw her recoil, and she snatched her hand away from him.
Chelan felt herself reeling again. She had asked him to stay with her, and she had felt good about his acceptance. But suddenly, she felt betrayed and once again alone. "I'd like to go work on the computers for a while," she stated curtly.
She turned quickly and began to walk away, but Fremma grabbed her arm and swung her around forcefully. "Why do you ask such questions when you know that the answers will only hurt you?" he demanded.
Chelan grimaced as his fingers bit into her arm. "I don't know why!" she shouted in exasperation. "I guess I know that I don't belong here, and whenever something right happens, I have to remind myself that I don't fit in and that my happiness is only temporary."
Chelan tried to yank her arm away. but Fremma's grip was firm. "You're not running away from this. You're going to talk it out. And what do you mean that your happiness is only temporary?"
Chelan lowered her voice. "I know that deep down, no matter what happens to me, and no matter how long I live in your world, I will always be isolated, a social pariah. I've read about your culture. No man of your world will ever take me because I am not strong enough, my genetics are weak, and because I am an alien. I may be tolerated, and your men may take me to their beds, but they will not keep me, and your answers to my questions remind me of that. And someday, when I've come to deal with all that, I will no longer ask the questions of you or anyone else. I will have learned to stand on my own, apart from you or any other man. I am not one of you, and your ways hurt." Chelan straightened herself and tried to stand strong.
Fremma struggled to control himself. The thought that she was deliberately denying herself happiness and inflicting pain to isolate and to harden herself to their ways stabbed at him viciously. Without hesitation, he wrenched her forward into his arms and squeezed her tight. He buried his face in her sweet neck. "No, Chelan. All that you say is not true. You've got to believe me. You will not be abandoned."