Sergeant Dehna frowned at the satchel of devices cradled in her grip. “I didn’t consider that.”
Hamm shifted his attention to the humans, still wary and suspicious. He didn’t trust them, and wasn’t sure why he trusted Marc more than he did soldiers outranking the sniper.
Except he sensed the male’s ethos, the solidity and honor ingrained in him. Sure, he crooned to his death stick. Hamm doubted that was the strangest thing about him. He understood the soldier’s mind despite the differences between them. It seemed as though some things remained universally constant.
“The feather version might interface better,” Dehna mused. “I should’ve considered that in the first place, actually. Their physiology is more fragile. Much like yours,” she added, eyeing Marc up and down with a less than complimentary expression. “It’ll take me a few minutes to alter the interface coding.”
Hamm nodded. “That’s a great solution, Sergeant.”
Dehna wandered off toward the tree line, digging into the satchel hanging at her side. She gave an odd little rumble of amusement as she went, and the sound caught him off guard. Even Marc took note of it with a curious expression and a cant of his head that made Hamm want to purr.
“What was that about?” Hamm asked his second.
“Her good mood, you mean?”
Hamm just stared at Reccin.
The chief shrugged. “She was ’nipping when I found her in the rec.”
He huffed and chafed his thumb over the center of his chest. “Oh well. High and happy is an improvement. I’ll take it.”
“Agreed,” Reccin deadpanned, glancing between Hamm and Marc.
“Do I want to know?” Marc gave Reccin a cautious glance, the fingers of his left hand sliding up and down the side of his neck below the bio-processor’s interface site.
“Probably not. Everyone’s got their psychotropics, right? Feathers go crazy for gink seeds. For us fefa clan, it’s ’nip.” Reccin dismissed it with a poorly feigned casual air, and Hamm tried not to growl. No doubt Marc would pepper him with questions about it later.
“It shouldn’t be bothering you so much.” Hamm motioned toward Marc’s neck, and the male immediately snatched his hand away. Any coincidence he was doing it after being licked? There hadn’t been any sign of sensitivity or awareness before.
Marc clenched his hands into fists, the skin over his knuckles paling. The same way his face had when he’d gone limp after the initial interfacing. “It isn’t bothering me. It’s fine.”
Well, obviously there wasn’t any need for alarm, because even though his hands were pale, there was a good flush of healthy color showing in his neck and face now.
Strange creatures, humans. Under other circumstances, he’d wonder if it were a camouflaging technique. But at the moment? No way.
Damn the furr, anyway, for licking his neck like that. The sensation had seared into his skin, Hamm’s saliva branding every last nerve. He wanted to run his fingers up the side of his neck again, just to remember how it felt.
He clenched his hands repeatedly until his forearms ached with the effort. And then he squeezed a little harder, the lack of Mat’s solid grip and barrel acute and bordering on painful. Hamm looked at him with a curious expression, which just annoyed him further.
He just wanted his fucking rifle. Mat was a part of him. He didn’t know what to do with himself when he wasn’t roosting somewhere, scoping for a target. Lost in the Zen of silence.
Marc shifted, watched Dehna’s barely visible form off in the hazy shadows of the tree line. Now and then the breeze kicked up for a second, and every time it gusted, he swore she was talking to herself. But the translator ignored her words. Was it designed with a fail-safe against eavesdropping? Or had it just not interfaced fully enough to be sensitive to everything he could hear?
Either way, it was damned inconvenient. Proving more annoyance than assistance.
He gave up trying to figure out what the linguist was up to. Hamm had his gaze trained on the landing party still, but appeared more relaxed. Reccin, on the other hand, was studying him. Did it have something to do with his proximity to Hamm? That when Marc had stepped closer, Hamm had folded his arms? If it had been a human, he’d say it signaled a defensive stance. But Hamm wasn’t human. And he couldn’t see furrs being defensive. He’d seen their aggressive body language communicated more than once—arms down, muscles flexed and tense as the claws unsheathed. With his arms folded, Hamm’s fingers curled around his own flesh. It conveyed quiescence. An invitation to invade his personal space? He didn’t know how furrs even defined such a concept—if they did at all.
It didn’t make any sense for Reccin to be upset. But then, neither did the fact that Marc was standing this close and Hamm’s scent was faint. Sure, he felt something, but he wasn’t sure what it was, and couldn’t say if it had anything to do with the commander.
Thinking about it gave him an ache behind his eyes, the birthing of a migraine no doubt, so he stopped. Marc didn’t need to try to figure it all out. He wasn’t here to be an inter-species diplomat like the C-C team. He was here to be a ground-pounder, a grunt with a gun. And at present, he wasn’t doing a very good job of it. So thoroughly distracted that he wasn’t noticing the important stuff. Like why the shuttle hadn’t taken off and retreated back into orbit. He’d never heard of them hanging around planetside for longer than it took to disgorge their passengers. Granted, they were sturdy and designed for atmospheric flight and turbulence, but the longer the time away from Mother Diaspora, the greater the probability of irreparable damage. He’d seen the stats. They had no armaments, no gunship accoutrements.
This one had been grounded for much too long, considering this sector of Horace Deuce-Niner was still classified UH—an unsecured hostile zone.
He reached up and keyed his radio. “Mike-Tango Seven, come back.”
“Go ahead for Mike-Tango Seven.” The response had zero lag.
“This is Red One. Why’s your belly still in the dirt?” Marc pivoted to study the craft. He hadn’t seen any interference on entry and touchdown, but the possibility existed that he’d missed something damaging it.
“Mother’s orders. Lag ninety minutes from touchdown to liftoff. In the event that swift extraction is required.”
Marc laughed and scrubbed a hand over his face before massaging the bridge of his nose. “Copy that. Be advised, in the event swift extraction is required, there will be fuck-all you can do about it and we’ll all be dead before you can cycle the engines for liftoff.”
“Copy that, Red One. I’ll take it under advisement. I’m also providing Mother with live-stream audio and video feed for documentation of first contact.”
Marc dropped his hand from the radio control on his lapel and grinned his best cheesy, toothy grin at the shuttle’s cockpit. The pilot was a barely visible shape in the relative darkness, waving a hand at him.
“Fucking awesome,” he muttered under his breath, not moving his lips. “Hi mom, look at me, the unarmed sniper scout. Playing tea party with the mad scientists and the cute furry creatures. My ass is so screwed.”
“You’ve become tense. Is something wrong?” Hamm shifted closer, so close that when the furr leaned in to rumble quietly, the warmth of his breath whispered over the skin on Marc’s neck. Where he’d licked him. The moisture was gone, but just that huff of Hamm-warmed air, thick with his musk, was enough titillation. And arrowed straight to his groin.
“Oh, fuck.” It made his muscles go weak. He cleared his throat and shifted away half a step. “Nothing is wrong. Shuttle’s hanging around so the softies up on the mothership can see what’s going on, that’s all. Wave to the birdie, eh?”
Major issue, though. Marc had intel, firsthand verification, of an aggressive attack/defense mechanism for which they had no counter-strategy. Did he keep it to himself and protect Hamm’s seemingly precarious control of the furrs? It would ensure a receptive atmosphere for the Contact-and-Communications team.
&n
bsp; Or did he report it in detail to the xenobiologist and rest assured that—as slim as Hamm claimed the probability of repetition was—should another furr attempt influence of a human, there’d be some awareness and preparation?
Even if it meant the furr forces here replaced Hamm with another commander who wasn’t so receptive to finding a peaceful resolution to this clusterfuck?
And what the bloody boots was taking Dehna so long, anyway? He was running desperately short of distractions.
“Dehna mentioned voluntary interfacing?” Marc motioned at the device in his neck without touching it. Hamm needed some distraction or they’d get snagged in another downward spiral of pheromones. “Mine sure wasn’t. Is that going to cause problems?”
“I don’t know what she meant to suggest with that. We’ve never interfaced one without the subject’s permission.”
Great. He was officially an alien R&D experiment. The captain’s previous alarm threaded through his brain. He fingered the protrusion behind his left ear, a chunk of smooth stone crammed into his head. Only it was warm, like his skin, and echoed his pulse. That could be his suddenly amped blood pressure pounding against the damned thing.
Not all of it fed by that delayed residue of alarm, either.
Hamm smelled . . . well. It was that same scent of dark, rich wet soil he recalled from the minutes before the furr had flushed him from his roost and pounced. Did he always smell that way? Or was the scent unnatural for him, a result of the pheromone shift allowing him to influence Marc?
After all, his fellow furrs claimed his pheromones were foul.
Which, in Marc’s experience, just indicated incompatibility.
What did that mean? That Hamm wouldn’t be able to have a relationship or a family or whatever if he couldn’t get Marc’s pheromones out of his brain? Lovely.
For all he knew, Hamm had a litter of kits. A pregnant female somewhere, waiting on him. Or whatever the furr equivalent of family was. Hell, maybe they had communal families with multiple males and females and litters of kits whose genetic parentage was undetermined—and of no consequence.
One big, happy family.
He was so distracted. Too much so.
He only heard the soft padding of Dehna’s footfalls a half a breath before she started talking.
Damn pheromones had him all over the place and fucked five ways. How’d she get so close?
How had Hamm, for that matter, when he’d flushed Marc from his roost?
No scrape of claw on stone, not even the crackle of dry grass. He desperately wanted to know how they did it.
It took him a moment to focus on the words she was addressing to her commander.
“. . . the bio-processor has to shift to a more aggressive subroutine. It’s basically a viral interface. It’s the only way to override subliminal resistance and interface successfully. Most of the time, the viral relationship backfires.”
“Nice to know.” He had a ticking time bomb embedded in his skull. The day just kept getting better.
The linguist spared him a glance. “It didn’t matter with you.”
He couldn’t have stopped his juvenile facial expression if he’d tried.
“Well, it didn’t. The commander wanted answers. That required linguistic compatibility.”
“And?”
“And what?” She snuffled. “Show you mercy where you’d shown none? How would you have even understood? Would you have cooperated, if you hadn’t? Misunderstanding would’ve been more likely. And then—you would’ve resisted anyway.”
Marc opened his mouth to object but stopped at the feel of Hamm’s hand on his shoulder.
“No, Sergeant Staille. The linguist’s arguments are valid. Let it rest.” Hamm only pulled him away from Dehna a fraction. Enough to disengage and defuse the conversation.
Marc studied Dehna, met Hamm’s gaze. Licked his lips to find some moisture. “Not arguing her logic, it’s sound.” He could concede that. Even if it stung his pride a bit. He would’ve done much the same thing had their roles been reversed. “I just want to know how to get the thing out, and what effects a viral, organic technology is going to have.”
“On you?” She canted her head. “No telling.”
Hamm rumbled. Marc’s translator didn’t bother.
“What?” Dehna lacked much mane to hackle, but he could read her flare of anger in every inch. “You want me to lie to him, Commander?” She looked at Marc, scanning him quickly with something resembling disdain. “It’ll make your dick shrivel up and your hair fall out. All things considered, Sergeant, I’d conclude you’ve nothing to worry about.”
Marc threw his head back and roared with laughter.
Startled, Dehna flinched and bristled. She flexed her hands, unsheathing claws. Marc waved his hand and tried to contain himself, but ended up doubled over, tears streaming down his face.
As he scrubbed the moisture from his cheeks with the cuff of his uniform, Marc noticed Reccin and Hamm both mirroring the linguist’s confusion. Which only made him laugh harder.
He’d thought she was funny when it had all the signs of sarcasm.
But it was becoming apparent that furrs had no sense of humor—not that translated directly—which meant she’d been serious.
She had no idea, so she’d made a guess. A malicious one, he’d wager—in his two weeks ground-pounding he hadn’t seen a single furr without a healthy, vigorous mane on the head and shoulders. Dehna’s was sparse in comparison, but it was still there.
Hamm bristled and bared a fang at Dehna, then focused on Marc. With his head canted a fraction, the furr commander rumbled gently. The sound vibrated along his skin, and even though the translator remained silent, Marc could feel the male’s concern.
“I’m fine. Need to get out more.” He pulled himself back together, scrubbed at his face with the cuff of a sleeve. The C-C team stood watching him near the shuttle entry. Or rather, Makko and Andruski were. Captain Cortannas reemerged from the craft, and he made eye contact with her. No doubt about it, she’d been watching up close on the shuttle’s screens.
Dehna relaxed, more a result of Marc’s tone of voice than a cultural reference she couldn’t possibly understand. “You should ask them to accept the translators now.”
“Yeah. And explain the dangers.” Marc nodded, fingered his again as he turned toward the C-C team, then hesitated. “You didn’t say. How do I get it out?”
The linguist canted her head and purred. “You might have to cut it out.”
“As in surgical removal?” Bothersome, but doable. Mother had good medical facilities.
“No.” She bared fangs in a smile and reached out with a single finger to point at his neck, drawing a line from ear to ear. “Cut here.”
“You bitch.” Anger flooded through Marc, triggering adrenaline. No idea how his scent changed, what he threw off, but Hamm looped an arm around his chest and hauled him back. Rough, slamming him into the solid wall of the furr’s chest. Hamm felt like warm steel, vibrating with a low-register growl. Like the hull of an extraction gunship bristling with defensive weaponry whose engine-thrum could be felt through the boot soles.
Marc wanted to lash out, make Dehna bleed. Craved the counterpressure of Mat’s trigger mechanism. Eight pounds of force from his finger. Wanted a glimpse of gratifying pink mist through the scope.
Dehna was just being herself, really. Most furrs tolerated—or even encouraged—her hostility as assertion. Fundamental to their natures, despite what physical or cultural evolution made of it.
Though Hamm usually redirected her focus elsewhere, that tactic wouldn’t work here. She’d deliberately overstepped, even by furr standards.
If she had said those things to any of them, she’d have been on the ground in a pool of her own blood. And justifiably so.
Part of him knew how Marc would fight her and wanted to let him go. He tightened his arm around Marc as he surged forward. The desire to fight coiled in him, a familiar beast lurking beneath strange
skin.
Should let him fight, defend himself—and his honor, dignity, respect—
His grip on Marc relaxed, slipped a fraction.
Reccin swatted Dehna alongside the back of her head. It was a casual swipe with his claws only half unsheathed. The way one would slap at an unruly kit who’d failed to heed less severe warnings.
He did it so offhandedly that she recoiled and stared at him in shock, but not from any physical harm.
Her retaliation, though, focused on Staille. She swung at him, claws fully unsheathed, fangs bared, rumbling a half-roar.
Reccin’s gaze widened. He couldn’t catch her, not this time.
Hamm felt Marc shift his weight, leaning into him as he took a step, shoulder dropping as he moved his arm. He made to move, to twist, get Marc away. Block the female’s attack with his own body in hopes that the sight of her commander’s back would halt her midstride.
Dehna gave a sharp cry, high and shocked, and recoiled. Cradling her arm against her chest.
He scented fresh blood before the burst of deep crimson-purple became visible.
“He’s got a blade.” Reccin recovered more quickly than Hamm, folding his arms. His stance casual, his position neutral once again. “Looks serrated.” Mild tone, unconcerned.
“Release him and move away, all of you!” The sharp squawking voice made Hamm glance over his shoulder.
Captain Cortannas had her death stick out again, brandishing it in a double-fisted grip pointing at the ground as she all but ran toward them. The members of her team followed more slowly, both wide-eyed, weapons at shoulder height and trained on them.
Reccin bristled, dropped his arms, and tensed. And despite her injury, Dehna did the same.
This was getting bothersome.
“Marc, now would be a good time to demonstrate how committed you are to finding a peaceful outcome.” Hamm didn’t have to lower his arm, though; Marc pushed out of his loose embrace and shoved against his stomach with one hand. Trying to push him backward.
It amused him that the human male sought to protect him, from furrs as well as his own kind.
Fragile Bond Page 9
