Alien, Mine (22 page)

“Good. One thing you have to remember about us human females,” she said, stumbling along in Kulluk’s rapid wake, “we don’t let
anyone
mess with our Boy Toys.”

In the enclosed dimness of an implement shed on the outskirts of T’Hargen’s holding, Mhartak paced. Agitation scraped along his nerves as he awaited the arrival of his soldiers and, most of all, Sandrea. The constant terror for her safety since their departure from the destroyer carved through his gut.

He reached the far wall, turned, stalked back. Concern over their relationship raged within him, desperate to be addressed. His heart craved the lost closeness of their physical union.

Where the hells are they? They should be here by now.

A wicker lamp cast his shadow before him as he pivoted and marched back over the same line he’d been grinding for the last hour. Temptation to break the restrictions he’d placed on long-range radio silence gnawed at his control.

“Pacing won’t get them here any quicker,” T’Hargen murmured.

He cast a glance to his brother and the brutalized Magran he tended. “How is he?”

T’Hargen smiled down at the bruised and swollen face of the man he treated.

“He may not think it, but he’ll live.”

Mhartak stared at his brother.

Ten years. Ten years we’ve been apart and I know nothing of you.

“How long have you been an agent for the Alliance Council?”

T’Hargen glanced up. “Long enough.”

“I searched for you.”

T’Hargen grunted. “I’m sure you did.”

Silence joined them like a waiting presence.

“I’m sorry,” Mhartak said.

Regret filled his brother’s gaze. “It’s old and long over. Nothing you or I can ever do will bring those people back. Innocent people died. Yes, the Bluthen murdered them. Whether that occurred because the Alliance Army moved precipitously or not is something we’ve been over too many times. You thought they were right, I thought their decision an appalling example of callous indifference. Our opposing views will not change anything.”

Mhartak nodded. He had long ago recognized that in their angry, bitter frustration over the loss of so many innocent lives they’d foolishly turned on each other.

“All we accomplished was to alienate each other,” he said.

T’Hargen’s eye-ridges twisted in rueful acknowledgment. “You were so angry with me for resigning from the military. And I was disgusted with your defence of their position. All I wanted was to get away from the whole bloody mess.”

Mhartak ran his gaze over the hand tools lined neatly in the shed. “And you fetched up here. A farmer.”

A small, warm smile softened T’Hargen’s lips. “Believe it or not, I enjoy raising crops.”

“When you’re not flying into Bluthen territory and spying on them.” Anger clenched Mhartak’s jaw that the Alliance Council had kept him in the dark with regards to his brother’s whereabouts and occupation. They
knew
he’d been searching for him. And where the hell did the Council get off not informing him of agents operating in his sector? How many other Sector Generals were ignorant of covert operations in their command?

“How many operatives do you have?”

“Does it matter?”

No, I suppose not.
“Was it you who warned the Council of the Bluthen image concealer?”

T’Hargen turned his attention back to his agent. With gentle care he dabbed a bleeding eye.

“I warned them, yes. I did not discover it.”

“One of your team?”

“Yes.”

“The Bluthen used it.”

“The attack on Kintista?”

“Yes.” Speculation hardened Mhartak’s gaze as he stared at his brother. “What do you know of Sandrea and her kind?”

“Her kind? Nothing. Of the woman herself, she’s mentally strong, physically stronger than she appears, brave as only a very determined soul can be and”—he grinned—“fiery as all hells.”

Mhartak stiffened at the admiration in his brother’s voice.
She’s not yours.

“Where’s my ion wave emission gun?” T’Hargen demanded.

“Lieutenant Graegen has adopted it. You’ll be lucky to see it again.”

“He’d better be putting it to good use.”

“He is. I received an ‘all secure’ broadcast from Private Kiresel at Dandanelle township not long ago.”

“What happened to radio silence?”

“I’m sure if there are Bluthen in the lieutenant’s vicinity they know exactly where he and the private are.”

Savagery lent a hard edge to T’Hargen’s smile. “With that gun, only briefly.”

“Most likely.”

Mhartak scrubbed the back of his neck in a futile attempt to ease the tension condensing there. What he wouldn’t give for a massage from Sandrea. Ah, what he wouldn’t give for her to just touch him. Unfortunately, the odds of her laying her hands on him ever again looked grim. Her surprised and furious face on the
Vega
, seconds before general quarters sounded, floated in his mind’s eye. A wave of disquiet lanced like flesh-penetrating needles through his body.

Had my lovemaking been that repulsive? Would repulsion make her angry?

He just didn’t know. A human man would, he felt sure. She’d been upset with him on quite a profound level—that much was certain. Gloom twisted through his gut. Would he ever compare favourably to a human male in her eyes? Would he ever breach this cultural barrier between them? Understand her every look and gesture? He’d pounce on the chance to spend a lifetime exploring that possibility. It shone before him like a priceless treasure, just out of reach, taunting him with a glorious joy he may never experience.

A discrete
bip
penetrated the silence.

“Sounds like someone’s here,” T’Hargen murmured.

Mhartak glanced at the visual security panel occupying a corner and observed Sergeant Kulluk shepherding Sandrea through the copse behind the shed. A deep rush of burning relief flooded his mind and soul. He held his ground against the driving urge to rush to her side and sweep her close in a crushing embrace. His general’s eye noted the calm, contained disposition of Corporal Shrenkner and the battle-weathered appearance of Privates Dovzshak and Ragnon. A moment later Kulluk thrust open the shed door and marched in.

“General.”

Mhartak sent his hungry gaze over Sandrea. Possessive fury blindsided him as he stared at the mass of thin scratches, defined by dry blood, covering her face.

Someone had dared assault her?

Concern drove him forward, but as he lifted a hand toward her she flinched. He let his hand fall to his side.

Is she injured or
—his stomach clenched—
just does not appreciate my touch?

Sheer, resolute discipline forced an expression of detached courtesy to his features. “Are you well?” he asked.

“Fine, thank you.”

Her expressionless tone told him nothing, but at least the blank sheen of unresponsiveness in her eyes was better than repugnance.

“Corporal,” he growled, unable to contain the cold rage vibrating through his voice, “you will explain why Miss Fairbairn has not received medical attention.
After
you have seen to her.”

“Yes, sir.”

The joy in Sandrea’s heart at the sight of Eugen solidified to cold lead at his aloof greeting. She followed Kendril to the far side of the shed, sending a strained smile toward T’Hargen.
Her cheek muscles ached from the neutral position she clamped them into for fear of betraying her longing for Eugen. Exasperation growled through her mind; love pulled her one way, hurt and anger another. And this was no place to demand from him an explanation for his words on the
Vega
. She’d nearly pulled something when he reached for her. The lure of his touch drew her toward him; the fear of him discovering Dexter wrenched her back.

“Why do I need cleaning up?” She halted behind Kendril in a corner of the lamp-lit shed. An unusual scent slipped past her nostrils.

“Because”—Kendril ran a moist swab over her face and pulled it away smeared with blood—“you have a few scratches.” Her friend peered closely as her skin. “And splinters.”

Behind her, Eugen demanded reports from the soldiers.

Kendril tweezered her face free of excess wood then anointed the scrapes with cool, soothing cream.

“And this?” Eugen asked.

She turned and eyed a small, flat device in Dovzshak’s hands.

“Took it from the camp,” Kendril murmured.

“I believe the Bluthen were experimenting on the hide of the rasque,” Dovzshak replied. “With your permission, General, I’ll download their research then dispose of this computer.”

Eugen nodded. “Do it.”

Sandrea turned back to Kendril. “Are we done?”

Her friend took a moment to examine her hands. “Yes.”

“General,” Sandrea said, “I need to speak to you.”

He turned toward her, his impassive face so remote.

“Yes, Miss Fairbairn, what can I do for you?”

You can stop calling me Miss bloody Fairbairn in that damn polite manner.

She cleared her throat. “I’ve had recall of my time of Bluthen capture.”

A sudden, intense silence almost blanketed the soft gasp from the injured Magran lying on the floor at T’Hargen’s feet.

Compassion rushed through Mhartak and he turned a scowl on the room. “I’m sure Miss Fairbairn does not require an audience,” he growled.

“No, it doesn’t bother me,” she demurred.

His soldiers turned away and busied themselves in the far corners of the shed. T’Hargen snagged a grey abracorn box, set it by Sandrea’s side, and palmed a hand toward it.

“Make yourself comfortable,” his brother murmured.

Mhartak growled at himself.

I should have considered her needs.

The small smile Sandrea sent T’Hargen annoyed him. As she lowered herself to the box, her eyes sought his, then skated away, settling on the ground by his feet. Her chest rose to a slow, deep breath.

“They strapped me to a metal bench. There was . . .” She frowned. “. . . pain, at the base of my neck and all through my body.”

One of her thumbs kneaded the palm of a hand. The hard pressure left a harsh, white mark across her skin. He burned to hold her tight. To comfort her within a warm embrace and assure her no such thing would
ever
befall her again.

“Sharp, sharp pain,” she murmured. “I think it was a kind of interface—between me and . . .” She swallowed, moisture glistened in her eyes. “They controlled my mind. Forced my body to obey their commands.” She dragged in another breath and her head turned slowly from side-to-side.

Horrified disgust sidled through his gut.

“They made me . . . operate . . . things—remotely. Forced a thought into my mind to which my body responded.” A fine tremor rippled through her body and didn’t cease. A tear dropped from her eyelash and ran unchecked down her cheek. “I fought so hard . . .”

Murderous outrage scorched Mhartak’s blood. His fists clenched in all-consuming fury and in the gloomy silence, dark revenge billowed in his heart. The lover in him warred with the general. He did not want to do this, to inflict further harm on this one woman. But his office demanded he uncover any intelligence on the Bluthen. Alliance lives could well depend on it. He ground his jaws together and his voice came out rough and clipped.

“Can you describe these ‘things’ you were forced to operate? Was it machinery?”

She glanced up, angry defeat clouding her eyes.

“Equipment.” A shoulder lifted. “Sorry, General, I don’t know what it was.” Her eyes narrowed, flicked sideways and down to her right. “I remember . . .” Her mouth pursed. “I remember . . . orders for . . . ignition. Often some piece of equipment would then activate or light up.” Her top lip curled. “They seemed quite excited at that.”

Gut-wrenching revulsion bled every last civilized feeling from Mhartak. He turned his glare from Sandrea lest she misconstrue the violent emotions raging behind his eyes.

“And that’s about it,” she said.

Boots rustled and disturbed silence thickened the air.

“You are human?”

He frowned and turned at the Magran’s soft query.

“Why do you ask?”

“I . . . heard them, the Bluthen, speak of humans.”

“Who
are
you?” Sandrea’s husky, searching voice levelled the query at the Magran.

“He’s one of my operatives,” T’Hargen replied.

“Operatives?” she asked. “You command a ring of spies?”

T’Hargen’s amiable smile toward her did not improve Mhartak’s ill humour. “I do.”

“You’ve been collecting intelligence on the Bluthen? Do you know if any humans survive?”

“I’m sorry, Sandrea, I don’t.”

Her eagerness and acute disappointment bit at Mhartak and he berated his shallow emotion. Of course she would want to know of the survival of any of her race.

Her chest rose to a deep breath and a confused frown drifted onto her brow. “Forgive me,” she said, gazing with puzzled speculation toward T’Hargen’s operative, “but what race are you?”

The safety switch of four assault rifles clicked off in synchronous harmony. A hunted look flitted through the Magran’s eyes.

“I . . . don’t know what you mean,” he said. “I’m a Magran. Ask T’Hargen.”

“If Miss Fairbairn cannot identify you as Magran,” Mhartak growled, “then you are not Magran.”

“Now hold on.” Anger vibrated through his brother’s words. “This man has been beaten almost beyond recognition by the Bluthen, but he
is
my operative.”

“I agree he’s been severely beaten, T’Hargen,” Sandrea said in a placating tone. “But unless your operative is from a race outside the Alliance, he’s not yours.”

Mhartak glared at the intruder. “Explain yourself.”

T’Hargen scowled at him, then braced himself in front of the impostor and folded his arms across his chest.

“That’s where you know humans, isn’t it?” Sandrea’s gentle question slipped through the tense atmosphere. “You’ve been with some. Please, won’t you tell me where they are?”