Alien, Mine

by Sandra Harris

Great, that’s the extent of my appeal, an excuse to get away from work.

  “Glad I could be of help,” she muttered.

  Chapter 4

  Crystal Mines

  At the knock on the open door of his office, Lieutenant Graegen looked up.

  “Yes, Sergeant?” The veteran soldier strode in with his usual confident manner and stood at rigid attention before the desk. “What is it, Kulluk?”

  “It’s the medal, Sir.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s one of the highest honours an Angrigan can achieve, military or civilian, Sir.”

  “I presume you’re speaking of the Star of Angria that our guest is wearing? I am aware of its significance, Sergeant. What is your problem?”

  “The human wearing it, Sir.”

  “I see.” He need not explain General Mhartak’s position or reasons for his actions. What the General did with his medals was his concern. However, if Kulluk had a problem, Graegen could be sure the entire command had it. Therefore, if the Sergeant had more background information and understanding on Sandrea, he could deal with the troops. That was, after all, what a sergeant was for.

  “You respect the medal on sight, Sergeant?”

  “Of course, Sir.”

  “Then what would you give a being who is not only captured by the Bluthen, but that event is probably their first experience with aliens? Who not only eludes them after capture, but finds a refuge in their own stronghold. Who manages to survive on g’Nel knows what and retains a semblance of sanity. Who witnesses all sorts of atrocities. Who finds themselves halfway to the other side of the Galaxy without a familiar face in sight. Who actually befriends and aids another alien because she thought it was the right thing to do. And, I might add, did all this with skin softer than you were born with. What would you give that person?”

  The sergeant remained silent for a moment staring fixedly at the wall then replied, “A ride home, Sir.”

  Graegen smiled. “Unfortunately, that is beyond our means.”

  “Very well, Sir.” Kulluk acknowledged an understanding of the information received, said and unsaid, punctuated his statement with a salute then executed a smart turn-about and left the room.

  Sandrea responded to the chimes in her quarters that indicated a visitor to find an Angrigan solider at her door. She patted herself mentally on the back when she recognized that the bluish tinge to the visitor’s eyelids denoted a female and the leaf insignia a medic. Something about the soldier’s face hinted at recognition.

  “Good morning, Ssileela. I am Private Kendril Shrenkner.”

  She eyed a posture that seemed a complex combination of rigid military stance and compassion.

  “Would you like to come in?”

  The soldier shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m due on duty soon. I just wondered if you’d like to see the mines? After this full rotation.”

  Mines? Graegen mentioned mines worth a look.

  “That would be lovely, Private. Could you arrange for a confirmation? I still haven’t quite gotten the hang of telling time here.”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  “Private, please forgive me, but have we met?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I delivered you a meal.”

  Ah, that was you.

  The private lobbed a brisk nod at her and strode away.

  Right, well, I’ll see you later.

  Sergeant Kulluk sat in the mess hall and considered the information Lieutenant Graegen had imparted on the human.

  Courage was a quality he could respect, no matter in what form it came. He’d reamed out the troops grumbling about the honour she wore and let them know they’d incur his displeasure if the disgruntlement continued to fester.

  He noted the rise of anticipatory tension when she entered the mess and wondered if the new recruits in Gamma squad had not taken him at his word. When the woman jumped in her chair and stared at her meal, he knew it was time for him to do some sergeanting.

  As he strolled toward her a long, bluish, worm-like appendage slithered over the side of her bowl and dropped to the table. His mouth tightened. Drilling spike-worm. Nasty pieces of work if they got inside you. Where the devils’ balls had they gotten hold of that? If General Mhartak were here to witness this kind of juvenile intimidation amongst his own troops his reaction would no doubt be . . . effective.

  A diabolical glee spread through his soul. Luckily, he was here to administer punishment and he relished the opportunity to enhance his reputation amongst the troops as a total bastard.

  “Excuse me, Miss?”

  The woman peered up into his scarred and not terribly approachable face and answered with wary composure. “Yes?”

  “Sergeant Kulluk,” he identified. “I hope you don’t mind, but I believe you have someone else’s meal.”

  “Sorry?”

  “That meal, it belongs to”—he turned and speared a glare at a soldier—“Mr Stekit.”

  Stekit shook his head. “Not me Serg’, I’ve eaten.”

  He eyed the private and long years of experience identified all the signs of assumed innocence. Yes, he was the main culprit.

  “On the contrary, you are still hungry.” With patient zeal he picked up the container, its contents flicking and jerking, and held it out. “Here you are.” Stekit failed to move. “You want me to feed you?” he asked with solicitous consideration.

  “Sorry, Serg’.”

  Kulluk raised an eye ridge. “For what?”

  Stekit swallowed and a rather nasty shade of bog-green shaded his face. “For forgetting my meal.”

  “Off you go then. Enjoy.”

  He flicked his attention to Stekit’s companions. “I’m sure you won’t find it necessary, as I know you would never commit a malicious act against a guest, but just in case Mr Stekit finds his meal . . . disagreeable, you might want to take him to medical when he’s done.”

  He turned back to the human.

  “Now then, perhaps I can get you something to replace that.”

  He strode to the serving counter and collected a tray of something a great deal more palatable than what the human had originally been offered. The cook cowered under his glare and then he returned to the female with a board game.

  “Sergeant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it just me they don’t like or have I done something offensive?”

  He shrugged her comment away. “They’re not overly fond of me either.”

  “Perhaps, but they’re not shit scared of me.”

  A smirk kicked up one side of his mouth.

  “You have the most unusual idioms.”

  “It’s not original, just a saying from”—her mouth compressed—“Earth. Are you going to answer my question?”

  He used his teeth to juggle his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “It’s not you.” He let his eyes drift to the decoration on her shirt.

  “This?” She lifted her fingers to the medal. “What is it?”

  “The Star of Angria, a medal of Honour.”

  “I see. And these soldiers find me wearing it offensive because I haven’t earned it.” She nodded. “I can understand that.”

  “Possibly. However Gamma squad overstepped the lines.”

  She removed the medal from her clothing and pocketed it.

  “Can I interest you in a game of Cube?” he asked.

  Wariness shifted in her scrutiny. “As I don’t know what Cube is, you’ll have to explain it to me.”

  He did, and she accepted his offer. He grinned and just so she didn’t get the impression he was in any way nice, he would instruct her in the rules of the game, then give no quarter. It should be over in record time.

  It was, though not q
uite the result he expected.

  Despite the human eating during the contest, she defeated him, to his utter disbelief, with quick efficiency. He narrowed his eyes on her. “Once more.”

  The distant objectivity with which the human regarded the split-level, 3D, transparent projection board and all the pieces as she played, disturbed him. He’d seen professional gamblers reveal more, but at least appear as though they were present. She almost seemed to view the proceedings from another dimension.

  The game took marginally longer than the previous one, but the result was the same.

  He drummed his fingers on the table. “You’ve played before.”

  The human shook her head. “No.”

  “Then how did you do that?”

  One of her shoulders lifted with casual ease. “I see patterns.”

  He pursed his lips as an intriguing thought took root, then he gathered his internal resources and made an inexperienced attempt at ingenuousness. “You wouldn’t be interested in becoming our challenger to other units would you?”

  He kept his features innocent in the face of her speculative regard.

  “Just what are you proposing, Sergeant?”

  A hint of reproof tinged her voice. He spread his hands wide. “Nothing, just some inter-company gamesmanship.”

  She levelled an unblinking gaze at him. “You think I am good enough to win?”

  “I do.”

  “And how much do you imagine you could make?”

  He took his time to withdraw a cigar from his top pocket and light it. “I reckon I could take the lot of them for a month’s pay in one game.”

  “No subterfuge? Just me representing your unit?”

  “Correct.”

  The human let out a disappointed breath and regarded him with deep disapproval.

  “Sergeant, just what do you see when you look at me?”

  She sounded affronted. He inhaled on his stogie and gazed at her for a moment.

  “Face value?”

  She nodded.

  “A soft-skinned, weak insignificant.”

  “In other words, you don’t perceive me as a threat.”

  He stared at her through a pall of purple leaf-smoke. Understanding dawned. He gripped his cigar between his teeth and grinned. “I like the way you think, human.”

  Sandrea strode into the nearest turbo-tunnel lobby and selected her destination as Eugen’s office. She nodded to a couple of waiting soldiers and endured their blatant examination as par for course in her new life. The quarter’s area on the site map flashed and the doors opened. Without acknowledging her, the soldiers walked past and entered the car.

  Whatever.

  The doors shut and the cubicle echoed to the muffled hum of the departing car. A moment later the site-map indicated her transport arriving. The doors slid open. She stepped forward, and faltered. A carriage full of half-naked males hit her senses full on. She blinked.

  Hell, is staring as inappropriate as touching?

  Her ambushed eyes skipped across acres of bare, muscled flesh then fell into Eugen Mhartak’s piercing gaze. The breath burst from her lungs like she’d been sucker punched.

  She fought the urge to scan down his body, but her eyes could not refuse temptation. They wandered over the strong column of his neck and clung to the swell of shoulders big enough to make her swoon. Bronzed pectoral and abdominal muscles bulged. Her rapt gaze traversed the low-slung waist of exercise shorts then dropped to the corded strength of thighs that made her want to weep.

  Oh, fuck me!

  Her eyes widened in consternation.

  I didn’t say that aloud, did I? But, Lord, he’s magnificent!

  And beautiful.

  Her body responded to the memory of his skin against hers. Thought vanished as her brain dissolved into a wanton fugue.

  A voice scraped at the edges of her enchantment.

  “Sandrea! Hello. Don’t mind us, we’ve just been trying to beat General Mhartak at goundash.”

  Her eyes remained glued to Eugen’s torso.

  Nguh.

  Instinct tried to drive her wits together.

  Nguh-huh.

  “Sandrea?”

  Sensibility staged a comeback and she dragged her dazed gaze to Graegen.

  “Oh, um, I’ll, uh, take the next one.”

  “No need, there’s plenty of room.”

  You’re kidding me. It’s wall-to-wall semi-naked male in there.

  “Come on,” Graegen urged.

  Hell, she was going to have to board the damn car or appear ill-mannered. Not something she wanted to do, given that she was going to live amongst these people.

  “Good afternoon, Sandrea.” Eugen’s voice sounded ocean deep. “Please join us.”

  Ah, what the hell? How long can it take to get to the junction nearest his office?

  She stepped forward and pain drove into her ankle. “Ow!”

  Eugen clasped her upper arm and held her steady. “Are you injured?”

  She peered down at a hard, spiked ball attached to the end of a long shank. A number of them littered the carriage.

  Holy crap, is that what they use to play this goundash, whatever that is?

  Above her head Eugen growled, “Keep your goundar secure, Private.”

  “Sorry, Sir,” someone rumbled.

  “Sandrea, are you injured?”

  She flexed her leg then looked up at him.

  Are his ridges half-engorged as a consequence of the game, or the insult of me practically drooling over him?

  “No, I’m fine.”

  He nodded. “Very well. Continue, Lieutenant.”

  About eight inches from her nose, the wall of Eugen’s naked chest beckoned. Her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. An erotic shiver tingled over her breasts and her abdomen quivered. A yearning to thrust her thighs forward and rub them across the dense masculinity of his almost overcame her.

  God help me.

  She struggled to resist the way his woodsy scent stormed her senses, the virile allure of him filling her vision. Keeping her limbs close to her body, she shuffled around and put her back to him as the doors closed.

  Some imperative command nagged at her mind, but Eugen’s close semi-naked presence overwhelmed her ability to process thought. The car accelerated. High-speed movement threw her off balance.

  Shit! That was it.

  She made a desperate grab for a brace bar, missed and slammed backwards into Eugen’s chest. His arms whipped around to support her, his big hands landed square on her breasts.

  Her knees buckled and he hauled her against him as though she weighed nothing. His hands flexed and desire spiralled in a driving shaft of heat from her breasts to her sex. Hot rapture poured into her nipples, making them proud as they strained towards his touch.

  Oh, God, please don’t let hardened nipples be a sign of arousal in Alliance females.

  She fought the abandoned response of her body, while her back savoured the hard thrust of muscle clamped to her. His fresh, tangy scent infiltrated her reserves of self-control. Waves of pleasure swamped the niggling voice of reason screaming to get her legs under her, take her own weight.

  Every sensual part of Mhartak’s body came close to exploding. The exotic, erotic feel of Sandrea’s long hair cascading across his chest and the heavy weight of her full, soft breasts in his hands lay siege to his composure. A primal snarl of possession tried to rip past his restraint. He had to get her out of his arms or he’d end up tearing these soldiers apart for simply being here, near her. He bent his head to her ear.

  “Open your legs, Sandrea.”

  Ah, g’Nel, had he really said that?

  An image blazed into his mind of h
er naked, eager, willing, spread below him, ready to accept his aching, hungry flesh. Heat speared into a hardening arousal and a groan of passion almost escaped his control. A last survivor of sanity moved his hands to her arms and he tried again to get the right message across.

  “Sandrea, widen your stance.”

  Her weight shifted, moved an inch or so forward. His body snarled at the separation, tried to countermand his brain and order his arms to drag her back.

  The car decelerated.

  His unfocused mind could not halt the sway of the full length of his torso into her back. The firm cushion of her buttocks cradled his thighs. Pulsing waves of heat pounded through his cranial ridges.

  The car came to a halt and the doors slid open.

  Through the clouding mist of sensual overload and embarrassment, Sandrea recognized an opportunity to escape. She stumbled from the turbo-tunnel car while her lust-befuddled mind focused on one thing.

  Had that really been a hard, thrusting erection nuzzling into her lower back?

  “You were coming to see me?”

  A shiver rippled down her spine at Eugen’s usually smooth voice, roughened with a gravelly undertone. Her legs wobbled and she leaned into the corridor wall.

  “Are you alright?” He sounded concerned.

  She gathered her strength and turned to him.

  Do you think I’m attractive?

  “Yes,” she squeaked, cleared her throat and demanded compliance of her recalcitrant body. She almost managed to stand straight. “Yes, thank you. I, um”—she waved a hand toward the turbo-tunnel—“I’m not . . . used to them.”

  “Come into my office. Sit down for a moment.”

  “Oh, er, thank you.”

  She pushed off the wall then stared at the arm he offered. Her glance flicked to his face. An expression of warm politeness covered . . . what? Distaste? Irritation? Arousal?

  Yeah, right.

  “You appear as though you could use the support,” he said.