Alien, Mine

by Sandra Harris

  “What are you doing?” T’Hargen demanded.

  “I will not be a Bluthen prisoner again,” she growled. “And we are getting us out of here.”

  She stripped off her vest and threw it to the floor. Dark fear billowed and threatened to consume her. She screwed it down.

  “You were captured by the Bluthen and survived?”

  “Yes, and let me assure you that once is at least twice too many times. Give me a lift.”

  T’Hargen gazed at her blankly.

  She shot out an agitated sigh.

  “Look, the controls to the door are outside, yes?”

  He nodded.

  “You’re going to throw me onto the causeway and I’m going to open the door. Got it?”

  “Providing the controls still work,” he said, pointing out a flaw.

  “You’re a proverbial little ray of sunshine, aren’t you? Anyway, that’ll be your problem if they don’t.”

  T’Hargen flicked a glance out the window. “You really don’t want to be captured again, do you?”

  She didn’t bother to answer his rhetorical question. He pressed his fingers firmly into her waist. Her feet left the floor, and then he tilted her sideways. She raised her arms and threaded them between the bar furthest from the door and the rock frame of the window. Her head followed and she ratcheted her chin this way, then that, to manoeuvre through the narrow opening.

  Her scapula scraped painfully against unyielding stone, then her hips slid out and she gripped the bars with white-knuckled fervour. T’Hargen’s hold on her thighs tightened. Gravity dragged at her body. Her heart felt like it might throw up. She argued with her hands, forcing them to move from bar-to-bar until they gripped the post nearest the door and her legs almost slipped clear of the window.

  “Brace your feet against the sill,” T’Hargen ordered.

  She tried to bury her boots into the rock. One hand at a time, T’Hargen transferred his hold from her ankles to her wrists.

  “I’ve got you,” he said.

  She clenched her stomach muscles, begged her biceps to support her weight, and lowered her body down the outside stone face. Fear wrapped cold fingers around her throat and squeezed. The chill breeze coiled around her like a wraith eager for her corpse.

  “Are you ready?” T’Hargen asked.

  She forced a reply. “Yes.”

  “How far?”

  “About two meters.”

  “Very well.”

  “T’Hargen?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s a long way down.”

  Her ears desperately strained to hear an ‘I won’t let you fall’ tone in his reply.

  “Acknowledged.”

  “I’m letting go now,” she warned. Her brain issued the order, but her fingers out and out refused it.

  “I don’t want to rush you . . .” T’Hargen encouraged.

  “I’m working on it.”

  “You want me to?”

  “You might have to.”

  T’Hargen’s grasp tightened on her right forearm while his other hand pried the fingers of both hands from their death grip. She couldn’t quite suppress a whimper. He took her weight and then slowly swung her one way and then the other.

  “Oh God, I can hear Bluthen.” She hated the sound of panic in her voice.

  “No, you can’t. This swing—” He released his grip.

  Fuck! Desperation focused her attention. A scream fled from her throat. Her boots hit rock, her fingers scrabbled for purchase, then slipped. The chasm below sucked at her. Horrifying memories bobbed with nauseating clarity on a flood of recollection.

  Her toes found an anchor and her hands gripped and held. Survival instinct poured hot energy through her limbs. She lunged up, made the causeway, then slumped against the cold rock beside the metal door. Her lungs gulped chill air, and she hoped her heart would soon slow to a pace where it was less likely to start fibrillating. She fisted a hand and thumped the entrance symbol on the keypad. With a hiss and a soft metallic hum, the door slid up.

  Half a dozen laser bolts flashed past. T’Hargen leapt over the threshold, bent, and punched the pad closed. The door slammed shut and shouts of alarm echoed from the other side.

  He grinned down at her. “Guess they thought the security would be disabled, too.”

  Her hackles rose. How dare he enjoy himself!

  “Come on, my Ssileela,” he said. “Not far now.”

  She braced her back against the rock and struggled to her feet. Something heavy slammed into the door. She was so spent she didn’t even flinch.

  “You look done in,” T’Hargen murmured.

  She summoned the strength to narrow her eyes at him. Really, what gave me away?

  The door rang to another blow. T’Hargen turned his back to her.

  “Up you get,” he ordered.

  She eyed his crouched form then clambered onto his back, wrapping her thighs around his waist and winding her arms around his neck. She crossed her mental fingers that the Bluthen still preferred not to shoot her.

  T’Hargen’s bounding stride took them across the causeway. She bowed her shoulders, half-expecting to feel the burning pain of a laser strike. They made the safety of the far side then scurried behind a tumble of boulders. The cries of their enemy barely penetrated her consciousness as awareness floated away. She rested her cheek on the expanse of one of T’Hargen’s broad shoulders and let her worries go, placing her trust in this big Angrigan to keep her safe.

  T’Hargen crouched and threw another log on the fire blazing in the hearth. The flickering yellow flames imprisoned his gaze.

  He hated this croft now, bereft of laughter and love. Even though he’d only been on the fringes, like a solitary person in snow admiring a cheery home through a window, he’d enjoyed the warmth this family had radiated.

  g’Nel, he’d thought he abhorred the Bluthen with an unsurpassable passion from the incident so long ago. Now he knew that was not true.

  The loathing that now scorched his soul threatened to drive him into an abyss where only demons lurked. He pushed out a heavy sigh. That was why Mhartak had always been the better soldier. He knew how to deal with the demons as ruthlessly as he did the Bluthen. His glance skated from the fire and settled on Sandrea where he’d laid her on the couch. The Bluthen were hunting her. Was she the cause of this family’s death? No, they had died because the Bluthen chose to murder them over of a piece of interstellar communication equipment.

  And what of this woman? What had she endured in the hands of those bastards? What monsters stalked her memories?

  Her body jerked and then flinched again. His eyes ran swiftly to her face. Her eyelids flickered as she slept on.

  Have those monsters invaded her dreams?

  He rose, grabbed a blanket from the pile he’d gathered from the bedrooms, and draped the thick cloth over her. A frown slipped to his forehead. She had been in water today. Her clothes had dried, but . . .

  She twitched again and drew her knees closer to her chest. He knelt, unsnapped the clasps of her boots, and drew them off, careful not to wake or startle her. Her soaked, icy socks chilled his fingers.

  g’Nel’s bountiful body, it must have been like having her bare feet stuck in snow.

  He peeled the foot coverings off and she moaned, pushing dainty feet into his palms.

  Seeking warmth?

  Against his skin, her flesh felt bloodless-cold. He grabbed another blanket and sponged the dampness from her feet and ankles. Something sharp unfurled in his gut. Chill, dead feelings stirred. Long forgotten warmth stole through his limbs. He dropped the blanket and rose in a rush, staring down at the woman.

  He wanted to run. He wanted to stay.

  He bent and gent
ly pulled the blanket over her exposed feet, then turned to check the closed shutters.

  They should be safe here tonight. He doubted the Bluthen would be able to break through the prison door. Doubted even more that any of them had the courage to follow in Sandrea’s footsteps, even if they could squeeze through the bars of the windows.

  For sure, the soldiers who’d pursued them had radioed their position, but this place was far from anywhere. Searching this mountainous region without local knowledge would prove a deadly proposition.

  If the sporadic flights of Bluthen fighters scanned for infrared signatures created by fire and body heat, what was one more heat source in an agricultural valley? It was unlikely their attention would turn this way again.

  Vicious anger bladed through his gut.

  Once was more than enough.

  And Mhartak thought this was no longer his fight. How wrong he was. He sucked in a huge breath and pressed down rising bile. Tonight he’d keep watch and in the morning they’d move on.

  He couldn’t wait.

  “I’m sure Miss Sandrea is safe, Sir.” Sergeant Kulluk’s voice interrupted Mhartak’s sombre contemplation of his moon-speckled boots.

  He shifted his back against the rock he leaned against and stretched his legs before him. Trying to get comfortable while wearing body armour was still an art he had yet to master, even after all these years. The subdued murmurs of Corporal Shrenkner and Privates Ragnon and Dovzshak drifted from the dark behind him. Their quiet discussion on the aptitude of the Magran villagers and their resolve to defend their settlement with the weapons reaped from the fallen Bluthen heartened him.

  Pride in his team warmed him as no fire could. They’d routed the Bluthen despite being outnumbered five to one. Cold and weary, with nothing but combat rations to satisfy hunger, they nevertheless followed covert procedure without murmur. He hadn’t even had to issue an order to prohibit fires. They were no keener to advertise their position than he.

  “Your brother is a good man,” Kulluk continued. “He’ll ensure nothing harmful befalls our little human.”

  A bristling sense of possessive anger flared through Mhartak’s gut. The only ‘our’ Sandrea belonged to was him and her, even if he was yet to convince her of that.

  “He’ll protect her,” Kulluk offered.

  Yes, T’Hargen’s protective instincts ran deep—too deep for his own good.

  “And she’ll feel safe. He always was a charming . . . person.”

  That, Sergeant, is what concerns me.

  Loneliness wailed through Sandrea’s mind. She wandered through misty darkness searching for the source of distress. A splash of copper flashed before her. A tiny heart beat with sorrow.

  Sandrea bolted upright from sleep. A gasp hissed through her lips as her muscles vehemently protested movement. It would be a while before they forgave her the recent abuse. She speared her gaze around a dim, unfamiliar room.

  Smoke rose from embers in a fireplace. Socks, she wriggled her toes, her socks hung over a beautiful, intricate wrought-iron hearth screen. Grey light peeped around the edges of closed shutters. Her vest lay over an arm of the couch on which she’d slept. She snatched it up and frisked the pockets. Anxiety fled as her fingers identified her comb. Ridiculous that that was the first thing she’d grabbed when Kendril told her they were evacuating from the Vega.

  Dear Lord, please keep Eugen safe.

  A shiver ran across her skin, and she cocked her head.

  What was that?

  A lonely, keening, barely heard cry feathered down her spine. She jumped to her feet, snatched her dry—thank you, T’Hargen—socks and yanked on her—thank you again, T’Hargen—dry boots.

  Where the devil was he?

  She listened again. No sound but the fluting wail pierced the quiet. The now-silent cry tugged on her heartstrings and drew her forward. She pulled on her vest and, alert for any sound, tread quietly across the stone floor to a door. After a moment of intent listening, and hearing nothing untoward, she wrapped her fingers around a cold, metallic doorknob and opened the wooden door.

  Cool dawn air flowed across her face. She inhaled the crisp, morning-new freshness and gazed around an enclosed garden. Frost sparkled like scattered diamonds on leaf and fence. Her breath misted in pixie-like splendour.

  The soft, wretched cry plucked her senses again and she followed a stone-paved path around the garden, then passed a hedge glittering with rime to a green lawn behind the house.

  She faltered to a halt.

  Butting up against a copse of young trees, three long, dark mounds of freshly turned soil blighted the lush grass. Grim sadness crushed her chest as her gaze locked on the smallest one.

  Dear God, what had happened here? Were Bluthen responsible for this?

  It seemed all too plausible.

  Why? Sweet Jesus, why?

  A flash of bright colour at the head of the child-sized grave snatched her gaze. Perched on strong back legs, nose lifted to the sky, a copper-scaled lizard keened a lament. His torment tore at her heart, and she stepped forward. The song quit to silence. The lizard’s head swung to her and a montage of gold, silver, and bronze skin fanned open to frame his triangular face.

  He scampered down the length of the grave toward her, halted, then lifted a front paw. His head turned slowly as though scanning her with the expanded membrane of his exquisite frill. She crouched and stared into soulful emerald eyes that mourned a loss she could all too well comprehend.

  “The bastards killed my special friend, too,” she murmured.

  He burbled a soft, sympathetic bark and she extended a hand to him.

  “Would you like to come with me?”

  A wave rippled around his frill, the tips curved gently toward her. Hopeful joy, tinged with loss, washed in a profound swell through her mind. She knelt at the foot of the grave and placed her fingertips on the bare earth.

  Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him.

  A sudden hollow, popping crack wrenched her nerves. She spun and stared aghast at a gaping, crumbling hole in the rock wall of the house. Blackened, jagged beams stabbed like broken fingers from the roof. It looked like a bomb had torn the room apart. A fragment of stone tumbled from the wall and dropped to the grass with a thud.

  Desolate silence hung in the air. She turned her gaze to the graves.

  Had they been in there?

  She wasn’t religious. Her belief in God was more hopeful than faithful, but some observances just seemed right. She ran a glance over the surrounding vegetation, then rose and snapped some beautiful purple and yellow flowers from a vine and laid them at the head of each grave.

  She bowed her head, moisture swelling in her throat and her eyes.

  “May the Universe keep and hold you safe,” she whispered.

  She lifted her head, drew in a deep, melancholy breath and gazed at the lizard.

  “I don’t suppose you know where T’Hargen is?” she asked.

  He lowered glistening, sapphire lids over his teardrop eyes, then raised them and stared back at her. Then he leapt.

  His small body plunged onto her stomach with surprising force. He scuttled up her torso and burrowed into the long sleeve of her shirt. Smooth, supple scales wound across the soft skin of her upper arm and his diminutive feet suctioned, anchoring him under the concealing cloth. His warm body trembled against her skin and a tiny heart pulsed in rapid exertion.

  Branches rattled.

  “What are you doing?” T’Hargen demanded.

  Her heart jumped with the same ferocity as her body. She looked up at him as he emerged through the leafy branches of the trees.

  “I’m-I’m, ah, laying wreaths. It’s-it’s a custom where I come from. These are graves?”

  She swept a hand over the neat mo
unds of dirt between them. His gaze searched her face.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know what happened?”

  “Airstrike.”

  “Bluthen?”

  He gave a slight shrug. “I’m unaware of any other possible cause.”

  “Why? Why would they do this?”

  “I assume the family was trying to use a long-range communication device—the remains of it are in that room—probably to warn the Alliance of the Bluthen presence.”

  She turned and gazed at the destruction of the house. A horrified sense of guilt crept over her.

  “Is this because of me?”

  T’Hargen failed to answer.

  Her chin sank to her chest and her eyes closed. Fuck, it is, isn’t it?

  “Sandrea, look at me.”

  She stiffened her spine, Dexter—I’ve named the lizard already?—rubbed his head against the flesh of her inner arm. Compassion tripped through her. She turned and faced T’Hargen.

  “Whatever events were set in motion here,” he said, “you are not to blame. The Bluthen could have blocked the communication, evacuated the family before destroying the equipment. They chose not to.”

  A corner of her lips compressed. “In other words, it was easier to murder them.”

  “Yes.”

  T’Hargen’s cold, dispassionate voice could not disguise the deep loathing in his eyes.

  “I see.”

  “Have you eaten?” he asked.

  “Oh, um, no.”

  “Then we will partake of this family’s hospitality one last time, and move on.”

  She followed his lead back into the dim interior of the house. Dexter seemed to cling with almost desperate strength to her arm, his tail wrapping a resolute hold around her bicep. She slipped a hand inside her shirt and stroked the soft, polished smoothness of his back.

  “It’s alright.” She bent her head to her shoulder and murmured, “I won’t leave you.”

  “Did you say something?”