“That should work out well. Reccin and I should be able to keep them out of trouble.”
“You don’t think my second can handle a few humans on his own?” Hamm bumped Marc with his shoulder, jostling him. Marc staggered over the edge of a half-buried boulder and caught up against a tree trunk, barely suppressing a grunt of surprise.
The furr had untapped strength. Something he’d let himself forget after the violent moments of that first encounter, after that earlier wrestling match when Hamm had leapt halfway across the room and pinned him to the wall. Only the Kevlar had protected him from a few dozen broken bones. Talk about a rock and a hard place, being sandwiched between a furr and a wall wasn’t conducive to relaxation. Or goodwill. Why, then, did he continuously find himself experiencing both?
Horace Deuce-Niner was turning out to be a study of contrasts in more ways than he ever imagined.
“Come on, then. Let’s find out.” He pushed away from the tree and smirked at Hamm’s wide expression of concern. He still wasn’t sure why he hadn’t freaked out. How had any of them managed to keep a level head and see the path to a peaceful, logical solution in this debacle? He doubted many in SFI would’ve been able to do the same.
The shuttle’s door stood open and his radio crackled again, demanding a response. Apparently he’d missed the team’s initial hail.
“Red One, please respond.” There was a frantic edge in the radio controller’s voice.
Did they suspect an ambush?
Marc keyed his mike. “Stand by to disembark. On approach from northwest quadrant. The leader of indigene faction is accompanying. Secure all weapons.” Last thing he wanted was a chair force jockey getting trigger-happy.
“Roger that, Red One. Got your signatures on the infrared. Registering a third?”
“That would be the commander’s second.” Marc worked his way around a boulder, reaching back to steady Mat’s barrel, only to get mentally smacked with a reminder that the rifle wasn’t there. The ghost-sensation of Mat’s form and weight when he moved created a sense of wrongness as he strode toward the shuttle’s entry.
“Roger. Passenger disembark in progress. Out.”
The three members of the Contact & Communication team stepped out into the open to stand in a loose semicircle as though guarding the door of the shuttle. A middle-aged man and two women, one whose hair was in danger of teetering past salt-and-pepper into pure white.
The younger woman stared at the nearest flora as though she’d discovered religion for the first time. The other two team members stared at Hamm, flanking his left side as they approached. Marc had only seen expressions like theirs in close quarters combat. When an opponent saw defeat, their own death, staring them in the eye.
He’d worn that expression before. More often today than any other time that he could recall.
Most recently, when he’d looked down to see those fangs baring inches from his groin.
Long, curved enamel slick with saliva.
The line between violence and benevolence was sometimes so thin as to be invisible.
Hamm watched as Marc stopped a few strides from the group of new arrivals. He couldn’t suppress the sensation of foreboding that crawled along just under his skin. Something felt askew, like a single off-key note creating dissonance in a song.
He grated his molars together, resisting the urge to strain his senses in search of the flaw. He needed to maintain his focus. But when the elder female addressed Marc, a low-register screech of dissonance began sawing at Hamm’s senses.
“Sergeant Staille. I’m Captain Cortannas, linguist and team leader.” She introduced the others with a flick of her hand at the male and then the younger female, but her gaze didn’t falter from studying Marc. And his position beside Hamm. “Lieutenant Major Andruski is our situational assessment officer and contact diplomat. Staff Sergeant Makko is our xenobiologist.”
The female’s bearing and scent reinforced her position as leader. Her team members stayed close, but with enough of a gap between them that it was more protection than challenge.
Hamm felt an increasing surge of relief that Marc had chosen to maintain some distance. These humans had too much white in their eyes as it was, but the captain was startled. He could tell in the way she scanned up his body, slowly, until she met his gaze. It was there in the sharp tang wafting on the breeze, coming from all three. Soma help him, it was so strong he would’ve halted in his tracks much earlier if Marc hadn’t kept moving, if his human hadn’t been right there at his side.
Captive. His human captive.
Hamm nodded a fraction, using an angle appropriate for visiting dignitaries, and rumbled a greeting.
The female named Cortannas stumbled back until her teammates flanked her on either side. She said nothing, but her communication of fear was clear.
“Commander Hamm Orsonna bids you welcome.” Marc rested a hand on his forearm. An act that felt as though he meant to protect him.
From what? His mane began bristling, a prickling quiver crawling over his skin. Maybe that tang of sour-wrong meant something other than what he thought. They were aliens, after all. Why did he keep forgetting that? Although when he looked at Marc, he didn’t see his human as other, or different. He saw a comrade; at worst, a worthy opponent. When had that happened?
“That’s your Sierra-India?” Cortannas spluttered sounds his translator ignored. “It looks like a—” the translation device paused, stuttered “—fefa version of a . . .” Hamm flinched as the translator stalled out. Impossible. He could think of no logical way any of these aliens would know his clan name. So much of what the captain said lacked a cultural equivalent that Hamm found he distrusted the few pieces that translated. All the same, he was itching with curiosity to have that train of thought explained in context.
Andruski glanced at her with an odd expression. “I rather thought the male resembled Narasimha.”
“Who?”
The lieutenant major shrugged and took greater liberty in his study of Hamm, seemed to drag both out long enough to come up with a suitable explanation. “Old World religion. A demi-god incarnation of Vishnu.” He curled his lips, pressed his palms together at chest height, and offered Hamm a very neatly executed bow. “Our thanks, Commander. We are pleased to be here to assist.”
Whatever or whomever they thought he resembled, Hamm had no idea what they meant, nor whether it was intended as insult or compliment. The male’s generous bow made up for any indiscretion though, communicating a wealth of respect.
“Despite his appearance, Captain, I assure you that Commander Orsonna—and the rest of his clan—are every bit as intelligent as you.” Marc glanced up at him, his fingers tightening fractionally. Hamm took a few breaths, trying to relax his bristling mane. “They fitted me with a device that lets me understand their language.” He turned his head away, baring the spot behind his left ear where the bio-processor still struggled to acquire full integration. It shouldn’t protrude that way. It was the first attempt on an alien, though, so error had been inevitable.
Captain Cortannas stepped forward, lips tensed into a flat line. She eyed Hamm as though she expected to be mauled by a feral predator. A quick glance at Marc’s insertion site and she moved away, scowling. “Blood and bullets, Sergeant. That’s one huge-ass thorn you managed to get embedded there. Makko should inspect it, looks inflamed. You run the risk of contracting infection and this place has some really nasty ones.”
A thorn? Hamm bared his fangs before he even paused to think about it. The bio-processor did kind of look like a thorn.
“What do you mean, infection?” When the captain stared like a wild thing seeing its imminent death, he turned to Marc. “Is it hurting you?” Without waiting for the soldier to answer, Hamm grabbed him and hauled him up against his chest for a closer inspection.
“It’s a little uncomfortable.” Marc’s voice was muffled, his body tense in his grip. Resisting his inspection. Or making a valiant attempt, at least.
Hamm buried his nose against the interface site and inhaled. Just sweat and musk. He laved over it with his tongue, tasting for that tang of sour that would indicate sickness, but again—nothing. Soma help him, just more pheromones . . .
Marc relaxed into him, neck loose, head resting heavily against Hamm’s palm and fingers. When he spoke, his voice was low and thick as though he were attempting to emulate a furr. In order to communicate more clearly? Did he think it necessary? “You really need to not do this right now.”
The staccato click of weaponry engaging made Hamm raise his head.
“Release the sergeant! He’s not your dinner.” Captain Cortannas leveled a small weapon in a stiff-armed pose, miniature death stick trained directly at his face. She made her intentions clear, radiating intensity much like he recalled rolling off Staille before he’d flushed him. He also didn’t much care for the combination of scents she was emitting. He stood still, but felt a perverse need to not release Marc, either. As though Marc’s acceptance declared him Hamm’s territory.
Judging from the faint shifts in the captain’s demeanor—the furrow between her brow deepened, one corner of her mouth turned downward, eyes narrowing a fraction more—they were communicating just fine despite the language barrier.
“Captain, he doesn’t appear to be interested in munching.” Makko sidled up beside the team leader. With a hand on the elder female’s shoulder, she reached out and eased the weapon down and away.
“The site is clean.” Hamm relaxed his grip on Marc.
Marc put a hand on his chest and pushed away, palm lingering against his breastbone. “Hamm, ah, Commander Orsonna, has no intentions of eating me, Captain.”
“Not like she thinks, anyway.” He rumbled a low-register growl and flexed his hands, unsheathing his claws just a fraction.
“You’re not helping.” Marc glanced back, leaning his weight into the palm resting against his chest. Hamm held his gaze and pushed back into the contact.
He’d readily agree his comment didn’t help, but only because these strange aliens had no familiar culture. Here, he was commander; his responsibilities were to fefa clan and the interests of the furrs and their allies. Mauling the prisoner didn’t convey a very professional appearance.
Not to mention, it had distracted him from the scent of rage coming from Reccin, who’d finally managed to close the distance from the tree line. He caught a whiff of the male’s anger and intent while his chief was only moments from bearing down on his target.
The captain.
The meadow grass had covered his approach well, and the humans’ distraction, focus on Hamm, meant none of them noticed their own deaths’ swift approach.
He shoved Marc away more roughly than he’d intended, knocking him to the ground as alarm spiked through his body. Triggering the need to protect, to meet a direct challenge. He spread his arms, claws unsheathing as he stepped into Reccin’s path. Reccin’s focus was so sharp that the male uncoiled and launched at Cortannas before Hamm blocking his path even registered.
This wasn’t Dehna, though, half his weight if not less.
Reccin was a different story entirely, and the impact of the male’s weight felt like being thrown against a tree trunk. He couldn’t check that kind of momentum without hurting himself or his chief. Reccin’s arm slipped past his shoulder, and he heard the rending of cloth. He braced his hind claws into the ground and deflected Reccin instead, slamming him off to the left. He could feel the impact through the soil, and it forced the air from Reccin’s chest in something like a growl.
At least he was away from the human entourage.
Hamm knew the chief would feel betrayed, with Hamm standing between the furr and the foreigners. The silence disturbed him. He twitched his ears, wondering why it felt like his hearing had gone dead. Reccin hadn’t acted out in a display of dominance or sought to force the humans into submission. If so, he wouldn’t have escalated to physical violence, to direct attack.
Hamm shook his mane, fluffing his hair as he hackled to get the full effect of his size. He rolled his shoulders, spread his arms wide, and curled forward in a roar. He took care not to drop his jaw too wide; he didn’t perceive his second as a threat to his leadership, not directly. But his behavior was not acceptable.
Reccin rolled easily into a crouch, shook his head once as though clearing it, and bared fangs at Hamm. The snarl rolling up his throat from deep in his chest sounded like a rockslide.
The sound of ripping cloth froze the blood in Marc’s veins. Adrenaline pumped into his bloodstream as he struggled to recover from his abrupt reintroduction to the ground. He hadn’t realized the C-C team wasn’t kitted out in standard ground-pounder full-body armor.
“Tell them to stand down and retreat, now!” Hamm looked back at him, features twisted into that feral expression he’d not seen since the male had flushed him from his roost and pinned him to the ground. The barked command bled into a snarl as he turned back to bare fangs at Reccin.
The scent of Hamm’s musk blanketed the air; the assault of pheromones slapped Marc like a flashbang. The world went blurry; focusing demanded too much effort. Effort that he couldn’t give because all that adrenaline-thick blood had migrated south. Fuck.
The captain had her sidearm raised again, trained on the furrs in an arm-locked stance. At least her finger wasn’t curled around the trigger just yet. Her discipline reassured him a bit; they were a first-contact team, after all. Not specialized scouts. The other members of the landing party had drawn their weapons as well, following her lead. Small consolation that they kept them aimed at the ground. He wanted to scream at them, all of them, to stop. Just fucking stop before they ruined everything.
Trembling, struggling to find his breath—Hamm hadn’t pulled his strike that time—Marc pushed up off the ground and swayed as he found his footing. He’d thought breathing Hamm’s scent had affected him before, but he was swimming in it now. He couldn’t decide if it was more like being light-headed from lack of oxygen or tripping on a psychotropic substance. Inhaling deep just dragged in another lungful of the commander’s scent. A warm wave of arousal and anticipation spread through him. He swore he could feel the rough pain-pleasure caress of Hamm’s tongue on his cock.
Bloody rut in a back alley, he intended to give Hamm a verbal reaming the moment he had some privacy with the furr.
“Stand down!” His vision blurred around the edges as he bellowed.
Cortannas flinched, but her attention didn’t waver from the wrestling pair. Marc felt as though his awareness was floating outside his body, while every inch of his skin tingled and hummed with life. He tried to breathe more shallowly, but the scent was so thick it didn’t matter.
“Move back. Get your hands in the air so they can see you’re unarmed.” He tried to keep his voice even, but it came out a husky snarl. Hamm had lost an entire squad for this. Or at least, Marc assumed as much given how many furrs he’d shot before the commander had flushed him out. He’d left all his own squad mates back there in that valley, too, with no idea whether they were alive or not. He would do whatever it took to make this work. Let them court-martial his ass for all he cared.
“We won’t permit them to attack us—or take us prisoner, Sergeant.” Props to the lieutenant major for a visible effort to remain calm. His voice betrayed him.
Reccin threw his full weight at his commander and made a garbled series of snarls punctuated by a roar.
The sound chilled the lust from Marc’s blood, but his translator remained silent. He glared at the lieutenant major, then addressed Cortannas. “You haven’t done anything like this before, I get that, but you’ve got some nerve. Sir.”
“Watch yourself, Sergeant. I can pull rank on you.”
Andruski rolled his eyes and slapped at her shoulder. “So can I. He’s been planetside for two weeks; maybe we should listen to him.”
“Did you see its claws? No wonder the orders have been ‘shoot on sight.’ Thing could’ve taken
my arm off.”
“So could I.” Were they really standing here arguing just a few feet away while Hamm barely managed to keep his second restrained from bathing in their blood?
His comment earned him the attention of all three. “Good. Now you listen. We’ve invaded their lands. And you,” he pointed at the captain, “threatened their leader with lethal harm. Did you expect zero retaliation?”
Reccin stilled and watched him. With his fangs still bared, he looked far from approachable, but he’d stopped fighting. “Turn off your happy juice, Commander,” he growled, shoving at his superior. “It’s only affecting your human, not me.”
Hamm shoved right back, rough enough to send him staggering backward a step. Reccin concealed his fangs and sank into a crouch, raking furrows in the turf with his claws.
The landing party had edged away from the furrs. About time they offered some respect. He was done giving reassurances.
“Did your pilot execute a deep-penetration infrared of the area before landing?”
Staff Sergeant Makko shook her head. Her gaze slid toward Hamm and Reccin momentarily. “He did a surface scan and found the three of you, Sergeant. That was it. Why?”
“If he had, you would’ve seen something disturbing.” And in all likelihood wouldn’t have landed in the first place. “Directly below us is their headquarters. Which means this area is crawling with tawnies.” Just uttering that word made his throat tighten. His trigger hand twitch. It felt disrespectful, as though reducing them to the simple predatory threat he’d originally assumed they were. Still, it didn’t feel prudent to confuse matters in an already tense situation by throwing new terms at them. “If any one of us twitches the wrong way, we’re all dead. So either execute an about-face and board that shuttle, or start acting like the diplomatic envoys you’re supposed to be.” He aimed that at Cortannas and Andruski, since neither bothered looking ashamed. “Instead of green recruits on a training mission.”
Fragile Bond Page 7
