by Bianca D’Arc
All that had changed when the Earth was attacked. In a matter of days his priorities had shifted from protecting his homeland to just trying to stay alive. He’d thought long and hard about where to go once the bombardment had stopped. Slowly, he’d made his way on foot—occasionally on horseback, when he could find a mount that wasn’t too traumatized. It had taken him months.
In that time he’d gathered around him a core group of people. He hadn’t planned it that way, it just happened. The single horse he had originally found multiplied into a small herd with people and their few possessions atop each one.
One day, Jim had turned around and taken a good look at his posse and realized they resembled one of the Old West wagon trains, without the wagons. The majority of his people were men, but there were a few families and single women in the group. They were a large enough group that nobody hassled them on their way West.
When they got to the Rocky Mountains Jim led them to the site he had visited a few times in his official capacity. He knew a few of the codes and hoped that would be enough to get them all inside where they could be safe from the aliens who had started to colonize the Earth and capture human survivors. Although he hadn’t seen the aliens himself, everyone they met along the trail warned them of what was coming and what they’d heard. The human grapevine was alive and well. Even without television, radio, cell phones or any other kind of electronic communication, humanity was still in contact with one another.
Telepaths warned about the aliens, broadcasting their fear and their knowledge as far as they could. Those without telepathy learned from those who could receive the messages and word spread.
When they had arrived at the caves, they found the place in bad shape—at least on the surface. They had been able to pick their way through the debris clogging the entrance to the cave system Jim knew was there. Beyond the first level they’d found the facility mostly intact. They had also found more human survivors—military personnel and some of their families who had been stationed deep within Cheyenne Mountain.
Once Jim had rattled off his credentials to the few who were left inside the mountain, they were welcomed. Among Jim’s group, there were those who had skills the people already living inside could use. It had made for a much easier joining of the two groups. Leadership had been in question for a time, but Jim never craved the position. He’d been content to let the military run the show, happy to help and act as a lieutenant from time to time. Eventually leadership had fallen once again to Jim.
Years had passed and everyone in the facility still looked to Jim as their leader. He was comfortable in that role—or had been until a fight in the dark had brought a living, breathing memory of the past into his life.
Gina Hanson was going to be a problem. Oh, he didn’t truly think she meant any harm to his people, but he’d been wrong before and he had learned the hard way to take all necessary precautions. In his gut he felt the changes already beginning. The changes she brought with her that would alter every human life under his protection and possibly every life—human or Alvian—on the entire planet.
The thought was staggering. Yet, if anyone could accomplish such a lofty goal, Jim would bet good money on one of the Hanson clan. Her father had been a force of nature. Her brothers had been good, honorable, formidable men. If they were anything to go by, little Gina could be just the woman to change the world.
Grady Prime was given full run of the compound with only occasional intrusions on his work for checkups on his health and psyche as part of his participation in the ongoing experiment. He’d spent a couple of days letting the winged soldiers get to know him, sharing quiet meals in the mess hall and talking with those who were off duty. Many of the men remembered him from joint exercises the squadron had run with his own men in years past.
That prior knowledge worked both for and against his investigation. Some of the men—particularly the youngest of the group—seemed to be intimidated by his rank and were less forthcoming with their words. The older and more outgoing of the men spent more time talking about military maneuvers and seeking Grady Prime’s tactical knowledge than speaking about their former leader.
Grady listened to it all and assumed whatever role the particular individual seemed to need. He played tactics teacher when necessary and found gratification on a level he’d never before experienced as he taught the younger men. Emotions made the act of sharing his hard-earned knowledge all that much more satisfying. He felt genuine affection for some of the youngsters and great respect for many of the men who had superior intellect and skills.
And he loved to watch them fly.
There was a sentry post clearly visible in the lower limbs of one of the massive trees he could see from his bedroom window. Every morning, his first sight was of the winged sentries overlooking the compound and the surrounding forest. Sometimes he’d catch them flying up or down from the post during shift changes, and the sight never ceased to amaze him.
All in all, the emotional storms of the initial few weeks of the experiment were dying down. But the yearning in his heart and soul since his night with Gina hadn’t abated. If anything, it grew with each passing minute. He tried to calm himself with words of caution and internal promises that as soon as possible he’d track her down, but it didn’t really work.
At night, lying alone in his bed, he burned. He yearned. He cursed the fact that he hadn’t had a suitable crystal nearby to perform the tests of resonance that night. He needed to know one way or the other. He needed to touch her and hear the Hum, Kiss her and see the crystal glow. Most of all, he needed to Embrace her and learn if she really was the answer to his prayers, the light to his darkness, the possible savior of his sanity. He believed she was, but his analytical Alvian mind needed to see the proof of the crystal. Only then would his inner beast settle down, secure in the knowledge that he had a true mate.
Grady Prime understood how easy it would be to lose all perspective in the pursuit of a mate. Thoughts of her occupied him every other moment with no respite. He wondered if the condition would worsen or be relieved if he Embraced her with a suitable crystal nearby, only to discover she was not the woman for him.
He had to prepare himself for that disappointing possibility. His optimistic heart wouldn’t let him dwell on the idea for too long. No, his heart whispered that she was his and the small creature that was hope spoke whispers of joy and excitement every time he thought of making the crystal glow so bright, all would know they were true Resonance Mates.
First he had to find Sinclair Prime Past and then he had to find her again. If the Zxerah Patriarch had any pity in his soul, he would not hide her when the time came. If necessary, Grady Prime would bring his demand to the Council to let him perform the ancient test on the woman who could—should—be his. It was their oldest law. Resonance Mates should never be parted under any circumstances.
If there was a possibility Gina was his, Grady Prime thought he had a good chance of persuading the Council to make the Zxerah produce her for the final test. After all, they would owe him once he took care of their Prime Past problem one way or another. And he believed he could talk Mara 12 around to enhancing her study by adding a good old-fashioned mate search to the equation. He thought he knew just how to phrase it to get her to go along.
But the mission had to come first. How he would deal with Sinclair Prime Past, Grady didn’t yet know. He had ideas about how to convince the Council that Prime Past would no longer be a problem to them. Nothing was certain yet, but he didn’t like the idea of assassination. He’d never been an assassin even before he had emotions, and he couldn’t stomach the idea of it now. He couldn’t kill Prime Past in cold blood and any fair fight between them would be evenly matched. Grady hoped it wouldn’t come to that. If Prime Past was at all reasonable, Grady would be willing to strike a deal with the rogue Zxerah—a deal his superiors need never know about.
It all depended on what Prime Past was up to and how sane he was.
“Prime
Past especially liked this forest, you say?” Grady Prime returned to his questioning of one of the young Fallons. Fallon 41, if he remembered correctly. The young man had bright blue eyes, golden hair and brown wings with patterns of gold and red in striking shades. He was one of the more talkative and had been a keen observer of his former leader, having been assigned as one of his personal attendants for one cycle.
“Prime Past told me many times that he preferred colder weather. He also loved tall trees. Pine trees, especially. And snow. I can’t stand the stuff myself, but he loved it. High wilderness with snowy pines.”
“He didn’t take well to warm weather? Were you ever assigned to work in the tropics?”
“I traveled with him and the squad to a small island to the south once, near the equator. I liked it, but the heat was tough on all of us. Our feathers make us very warm, you see. Prime Past couldn’t wait to leave. He hated it. That’s when he first relayed his liking of snow and pine forests, and he restated it several times over the year I served as his assistant.”
“I assume you’ve all had the standard field survival training,” Grady Prime said offhandedly. “Do Zxerah do extra training that would account for extended periods of survival in the wild?”
The youngster nodded, and the pieces started to fall into place for Grady Prime. “We do long-term survival training in different climates throughout the year. That’s part of the reason we went to that tropical island. We survived on coconuts and other indigenous plants for nearly a month and were graded on things like muscle mass, strength measurements and weight loss when we got back. Anyone who scores low on such a test has to repeat the exercise until they can survive without significant deterioration in their physical abilities for a sufficient length of time.”
Grady Prime was impressed by the strict regimen. He had to keep reminding himself that these winged men were not only soldiers, they were Zxerah. They had superior abilities because they could fly. They also had superior training and discipline because they were members of that fabled sect.
He thanked the young soldier after a few more minutes of discussion and headed for the mess hall. It was nearly night, and he had a few more interviews to conduct that evening and the following day. The puzzle was coming clearer, but he was still missing a few vital pieces.
The Patriarch sent for one of the winged brethren. The soldier who answered his summons moments later was one of their fastest flyers. A young man, he had great stamina and a calm personality that would serve him well on this special mission. He was also of sufficient rank to neither threaten nor insult the prey he would stalk.
The Patriarch gave him the coordinates, a map the Patriarch had prepared on the long flight back from the Southern Engineering Facility, and a plan of attack for the search he would conduct. The young soldier left shortly thereafter, hot on the trail of his newest quest.
Chapter Eight
Bill Sinclair felt a tingle in the shafts of his feathers that meant another of his kind was near. They hadn’t understood why, but of the battalion of men created with wings, all had the ability to sense when another of their kind was close by.
Now that Bill had spent time living among humans and their special abilities, he almost thought it might be a manifestation of some kind of rudimentary psychic ability, but he was no expert. Still, there was no doubt that if he was aware of the other winged warrior, that same warrior was most certainly aware of Bill’s presence.
He’d dreaded this moment.
There was no way to hide and if he ran, the other warrior would see him and know that Bill—former Sinclair Prime—wasn’t dead. Either way, he was in trouble. He’d been found out. And all this time, he’d worried about the humans figuring out what he was. He should have worried more about his former brethren.
There was nothing for it but to confront the danger head on. Bill would not be shot in the back or captured fleeing.
Bill launched himself into the air, rising above the tree line with powerful strokes of his wings. He knew his brother waited for him up there, in the air that was their domain alone. There were so few of them. He knew every single one of the men who used to fly at his command. They were his brothers, his friends, his sons. He missed them more than he ever would have imagined before gaining emotions, though he doubted any of them would ever understand the depth of his loss when he’d had to cut himself off from them and all he had ever known.
He’d forged a new life for himself among the humans. He was needed here. He helped keep them safe. He was useful. That’s all he could ask for in life—what life was left to him now that he faced the daily specter of insanity. But he wouldn’t trade the freedom and revelations of the past few months for the world. He lived a full, rich life. He knew what it was to feel—really feel. Nothing could compare with that and even if he ended in madness, it had all been worth it.
He rose above the uppermost branches and did his best to hover on wings that were meant to glide. He looked around as he circled, trying to spot his brother of the skies. The other winged warrior wasn’t far away.
Bill signaled to the man he recognized as one of the young Dougals. He was a fast flyer and possessed a steady temperament. All in all, Bill could have done worse. If anyone had to find him, Dougal 17 was a good choice. The young man was smart enough to listen and might still be impressed enough with his former rank to be susceptible to persuasion.
The best of all possible worlds would be if Bill could convince the younger soldier to turn around and forget he’d ever seen him. Although he knew that outcome wasn’t very likely, it was within the realm of possibility. More likely was the prospect of convincing Dougal 17 to temper his report to his superiors. Bill might be able to get him to alter the record of his exact location if he could get Dougal 17 to believe he would be protecting innocents by doing so. The winged brethren never harmed innocents. It was part of their creed.
Flying closer, the two winged men circled as they descended through the canopy of trees. They’d have to land if they wanted to have any meaningful conversation. Bill took it as a good sign that Dougal 17 was willing to talk.
They landed and faced each other. Bill felt the pull on his heart, seeing one of his brethren for the first time since his emotions had become fully active. He missed his men. Missed them to the point of heartache.
“You’re looking well, Dougal 17.”
“As are you, Prime Past. I was sent to look for you.”
“Just to look for me? Not to eliminate me?”
“Those were not my orders, sir. I came only on a reconnaissance mission. The Patriarch himself gave me the order.”
“How is Ronin Prime? Still hatching his plans, I suppose.”
Dougal tilted his head, clearly not understanding the intonation in his voice. “The Patriarch looked well when I last saw him. He is a sturdy being for a wingless one.”
Did he detect the barest hint of pride in the young warrior’s voice?
“What is your message then, Dougal 17?”
“The Patriarch sends his compliments and wishes you well. He also cautions that you can expect company soon.”
“Company is not welcome here, Dougal 17.” Bill felt anger welling up in his soul. “I will leave before I put innocent humans in more danger. You may report back my location, but I will not be here if it will lead to a threat to those under my protection. In fact, I would prefer that you do not report my exact location. There are those nearby who have good reason to conceal their presence from all Alvians, and I respect them too much to put them deliberately in danger.”
“My orders are to report back directly to the Patriarch. No one else. He suggested you might feel this way if I was fortunate enough to locate you. He bade me give you his promise that your human companions will be protected. He also wanted me to tell you that the time is fast approaching when they will no longer be able to hide. The foreseers in the clan have foretold of a time not far off when humans from all over this continent will band together. The Patriar
ch believes that you will play a significant role in this occurrence. It’s why he tasked me with finding you.”
Bill was conflicted. On the one hand he lived for danger, conflict and confrontation. On the other, he knew concealment was the best option not only for himself but for those he lived with now. Yet the Zxerah Patriarch had sent specific information gleaned from the human clairvoyants adopted into the Brotherhood. Living among humans and watching over the O’Hara ranch had taught him the real value of such premonitions.
“I don’t like the sound of this but I thank you for passing on his words. The fact remains, no Alvians are welcome here. Please remind the Patriarch of that fact.”
“I will.” The young soldier moved back, then hesitated. “We were lost when you left, sir. The new Prime has done well but it took some time for him to gain the confidence and respect of the men. In many eyes, you are still our leader. I am pleased to have found you alive and thriving.”
The innocent words touched Bill deeply. “I have missed you, my brother, more than you will ever know.”
“Do you regret the experiment, sir?” The young soldier’s head tilted as he considered him.
“Not for a single moment. I wish you could feel just a fraction of what I experience, Dougal. If you could, you would understand.”
“I hope someday I’ll be able to, sir. I must return to base. Having found you, my mission is complete. I must report back.”
“I understand, son.” The word rolled off Bill’s tongue much the way he’d heard it used among his human friends, but he’d never used the term himself. It felt good. It felt right to acknowledge the relationship of teacher to student, father figure to son, leader to subordinate. He held out his hand, gratified when Dougal took it. The handclasp was a gesture among soldiers—among brothers in arms. He’d missed the companionship of men like him who had trained their whole life in tactics and combat. He’d especially missed the company of those who could fly. “Clear skies to you, Dougal. Please give my regards to the Patriarch, but tell him I will brook no interference in my new life. The Council believes I am dead. It is best to keep it that way.”
