Alien, Mine

by Sandra Harris

  “Did you know them?”

  T’Hargen halted and peered back at her. “We were . . . acquaintances.”

  The pain in his eyes moved her to offer comfort. They may have regarded him as an acquaintance, but his feelings for them ran deeper than that word implied. She took a step forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  His sea-green eyes gazed down into hers as though seeking hope. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, bring his head to her shoulder, and just hold him. Confusion skittered through her. T’Hargen’s edgy good looks, occasional charming manner, and the scars she suspected marred his soul made her want to . . . what? Nurture him?

  She choked a snort. The man was six and a half feet tall and two pickaxe handles across the shoulders. Nurture probably didn’t even enter his vocabulary. Besides, being demonstrative wasn’t in her nature, unless it was with someone she loved. How could she even remotely think of touching a man? She loved Eugen.

  Holy fuck!

  She loved Eugen. Bright wonder coursed through her soul.

  “Sandrea?”

  She blinked. T’Hargen’s gaze drilled into her. The urge to hug him, to share her wondrous joy, bloomed through her.

  “Yes?”

  “You seemed preoccupied. I hope . . . you are not discomforted by memories from your time of capture?”

  Her eyebrows rose.

  “No.” That happened at the detention centre. I’m just doin’ an internal Snoopy dance because I’ve just discovered I’M IN LOVE!

  “Good. Our hosts can offer us smoked fish, dried beef, and a variety of vegetables.”

  I’m in love! I mean really in love! Nothing has ever felt this . . . profound, this glorious.

  She gathered her love-happy wits and tried to match T’Hargen’s composure.

  “Sounds good.”

  She followed him into a cosy kitchen where a murmured word from T’Hargen bathed the room in soft illumination. Wooden bench tops and cupboards gleamed with silver speckled, dark grey elegance.

  “What, no food replicators?” she asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She flapped a hand at him. “Never mind. Long story.”

  A quizzical frown crossed his brow. “This planet is recognized as an agricultural haven. People come here to pursue a simple life.”

  “Is that what you did?”

  He opened cupboards and drawers and pulled out plates and cutlery. Long strides took him to a refrigeration unit where he withdrew an assortment of food. A couple of minutes later, he placed a loaded plate on the table.

  “Yes. Sit,” he ordered.

  Okay, I won’t pry, not my business.

  She stared down at the repast and an image of three fresh graves sucker-punched her vision. Her appetite fled.

  “They would have been disappointed had we refused their hospitality,” T’Hargen murmured, “should they have been here to receive us.”

  And that’s supposed to make it easier?

  Oddly enough, it did. She would not disrespect this last generosity of the unknown family. She sat and speared a piece of fish with a two-pronged forked. A warm, strong, moist tongue flicked against the inner crook of her elbow.

  Don’t get anxious, I’ll feed you.

  T’Hargen seated himself across the table from her with his own plate.

  “Do you know . . . Did they have any pets?” she asked.

  T’Hargen stared at her as though she’d suggested the family indulged in the kind of activities that took place only when the planets aligned, under cover of darkness and involving naked skin, prosthetics, and oil. Possibly feathers.

  Or goat leggings.

  “Such as?” he asked.

  She lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. What sorts of pets are kept on this planet?”

  His lids lowered then rose with his eyebrows. “Pets are not useful on a farm.”

  “Ah, I see.” Got news for you, T’Hargen, pets are always useful.

  She picked up a piece of fish in her fingers, placed it in her mouth, and bit off a portion.

  “Some of the locals have not objected to caped lizards taking up residence in their external storage sheds. They keep the vermin down,” he said. “If you see one, though, keep away from it. They’re extremely dangerous.”

  Yeah, they’ll steal your heart with just one emerald-eyed glance.

  She casually dropped her hand below the table and wove it into her shirt. A gentle tug slipped the remains of the fishy morsel from her fingers.

  “Dangerous, how?” she asked.

  “Just take my word for it,” he replied. “Come along, we’d better get moving.”

  She finished up her and Dexter’s meal, rinsed the dishes, and placed them on the bench.

  “Goodbye,” she murmured in the direction of the backyard and followed T’Hargen outside.

  A rush of sad farewell streamed through her mind as Dexter trilled a muffled croon.

  “Did you say something?” T’Hargen asked over his shoulder.

  “Nope,” she replied. “Must have been a bird.”

  He sent her a queer look. She offered round-eyed innocence.

  Warmth expanded through her and stretched her lips in utter delight.

  I’m in love!

  Chapter 11

  Drop What?

  Sandrea followed T’Hargen from the farmhouse, across a well-tended track and into the pebbled bed of a dry creek. In soft grey light they scrambled for an hour or so through the hush of the early morning forest. A chorus of bird song accompanied them as they left the rocky path and wove between dark green, low-slung boughs into dense shade. Some hours later, shafts of sunlight streamed into the gloom through gaps in the closely twined branches of the canopy. T’Hargen slowed their brisk walk to a halt.

  Dexter, still clinging to Sandrea’s upper arm, prodded the side of her breast. An impression of alertness drifted into her mind. She cast her gaze through the thick woods, wondering what the little beast tried to communicate. T’Hargen folded his big body into a crouch and peered through fir needles and twigs into a large clearing. She squatted behind him and contained the words of query that sprang to her lips.

  Long, silent minutes ticked past. She riveted her gaze on T’Hargen. He did not seem to move a muscle. Then with quiet, lithe strength he swivelled toward her, speared a look of warning into her eyes and pressed two fingers to his mouth.

  She nodded. He rose, gripped her shoulder in silent command to remain where she was, then disappeared into the trees. Dexter scampered from beneath her shirt to cling to the stretch fabric covering her breasts, then bobbed his head and clambered onto her shoulder. The quiet buzzing of insects wafted through the trees.

  She lifted her nose and tested the air.

  A thunderous, trumpeting roar ripped through the forest. Alarm twanged across her nerves. She straightened and thrust aside branches. T’Hargen burst from a belt of trees on the far side of the clearing, an enormous snarling beast hot on his tail.

  Dexter squawked. She bolted.

  Pine branches lashed her body and stung the exposed skin of her arms. Then she heard something large bulldozing through the woods behind her. Dexter screeched.

  “Keep still, Sandrea!” T’Hargen’s voice drifted from somewhere in the distant rear.

  The air she need for running robbed her derisive laugh that scoffed his suggestion.

  “It can sense your movement and that of the branches.”

  What?

  She hit the ground, crawled, then wriggled with furious speed under branches and then halted, her back huddled against the trunk of a tree. How she heard the creature approach above the pounding of her heart she had no idea. Its thudding steps slowed, passed her positio
n, then stilled. She squeezed her eyes shut and a prayer leapt from her heart. A few sporadic, heavy thumps rolled through the silent forest accompanied by the swish of branches.

  Was that sniffing?

  Fear screamed at her not to look. The terrible need for knowledge forced her eyelids up. Shadowed forest lay empty before her. The hairs on her nape supplied the sure and certain knowledge of the creature’s exact position.

  Fuck.

  Limbs shaking, dread widening her eyes, she peered over her shoulder. From six feet away a creature that appeared to be a cross between a sabre-toothed Bunyip and a cow regarded her with blood-red eyes. A really, really big cow, like a Brahman on steroids, and maybe the disposition of something from Dr Moreau’s collection.

  A second went by. Her heart thudded in her throat. Two seconds, and she remained un-savaged. Three. Her stomach pleaded for a rapid coordination with the creature’s mint-needy breath.

  Dexter warbled right under her ear and her heart caved in. He crawled up to perch on her shoulder, flicked out his frill, and sang louder.

  She threw an anxious glance at the creature. Its ears pricked, a huge breath burbled from its mouth, and the aggression seemed to leech from its posture. Without breaking cadence, Dexter’s nose nudged her jaw. A moment later her jugular received the same treatment.

  She turned to him and went almost cross-eyed in an attempt to bring him into focus.

  “What? No way,” she hissed, then misquoted Shakespeare. “Your music might have charms to soothe the savage beast, but mine would probably incite it to slaughter.”

  Apparently unimpressed by her argument he gave her another prod.

  “Fine,” she muttered. “Don’t blame me if the damn thing attacks.”

  She returned her attention to the huge animal. It stood almost motionless, regarding her with the eyes of most wild predators that said the lights are on, but nobody’s home who gives a damn. The vigorous wheeze and whoosh of its exhalations puffed air against her face and twirled her hair about her neck.

  She turned with slow, careful movements. Tiny pinpricks plucked her skin as Dexter adjusted his position in concert with her shifting. She swallowed, inhaled, and began “Brahms’ Lullaby”, while Dexter trilled in harmony. After a couple of verses the creature flopped its hindquarters to the ground. The lurch of her heart matched the force of the impact. She hoped it wasn’t settling in for a concert. The beast raised its head and crooned.

  Oh great, creature karaoke.

  The ground started shaking with the force of stampeding animals. She tried to become one with the trunk of the tree. Moving from Brahms to Sondheim, she offered a silent apology to the composer for her less than perfect rendition. The lyrics to “Memories” struggled into recall and she supplemented with a few “dah-dahs” where necessary. Branches cracked, heavy footfalls neared, and the creature soon turned and nuzzled two young.

  Fuck in a bucket, how many more of them are there?

  Half a dozen or so later, the group of beasts nestled into one another. She sang a few more versus and as the creatures’ breathing slowed, relief took the edge off her tense muscles. Dexter stopped piping with a suddenness that left a loud hollow in the audio world then slid back into her shirt. She twisted onto her hands and knees, hummed the tune to “Jessica’s Theme” and, feeling backwards with her booted toes, made a slow, crawling withdrawal. Loud snores accompanied her retreat.

  Something warm and solid touched her rump. Her every muscle froze. She peered over her shoulder to see T’Hargen standing by her hip. A rush of relief deflated her lungs and her head sank between her shoulders. She pushed back onto her heels and with T’Hargen’s hand under her elbow rose to her feet. The sharp points of fir needles prodded her body. He put a finger to his lips, wrapped a hand around hers, and led her away.

  “How did you know singing would soothe them?” he asked in a low voice when they were some distance from the creatures.

  Ooh, shit, how do I answer that?

  “Um, sorry?”

  T’Hargen shouldered branches aside and looked back at her.

  “I’ve lived here for six years,” he said, “and I’ve never seen anything like that. Have you experience with wild beasts?”

  “Oh, um, no, it’s just, ah, something I picked up from back home.”

  “Well, you sing most charmingly,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “And the warbling?”

  Oh fuck. “What warbling?”

  He frowned. “You didn’t hear warbling?”

  She crinkled her brow in her best imitation of honest surprise. “Wasn’t me, must have been a bird.”

  Speculation shadowed his gaze for a moment then his head snapped to the right. His hand tightened over hers. He drew his weapon and scanned the woods.

  Alarm pattered in her heart.

  Kendril’s voice whispered from her comm-pod. “Sandrea?”

  Sandrea silently questioned T’Hargen with her eyes. He nodded and she withdrew the communications device from her vest pocket.

  “Shrenk’?”

  “Yes. I’ll be with you shortly. Tell T’Hargen Mhartak not to shoot me.”

  Who? T’Hargen who? Mhartak? “Will do.”

  She studied T’Hargen’s features. “Corporal Shrenkner will be here momentarily.”

  “Very well.”

  ‘Very well’. That’s just the sort of thing Eugen would say. “Your name is Mhartak?”

  “It is.”

  “Any relation to General Eugen Mhartak?”

  T’Hargen nodded. “My brother.”

  His brother! Why the hell hadn’t Eugen said so?

  “Sandrea, Mhartak.”

  Sandrea’s strung out nerves jumped at the sudden intrusion and she turned to Kendril who brushed through supple branches toward them, rifle slung across her chest. She ran anxious eyes over her friend and relief swelled at Kendril’s apparently uninjured state.

  “Shrenk’, I’m so glad to see you.”

  “Ditto.” Kendril nodded at T’Hargen. “General Mhartak sent Dovzshak and me as extra escort.”

  Sandrea peered passed her friend into the absent-of-any-sign-of-Dovzshak forest. “You lose him?”

  Kendril smiled at her. “No. We came across a Bluthen encampment and I left him there to observe their movements.”

  “Coordinates?” T’Hargen demanded.

  Kendril spouted a set of numbers.

  “How’d you find us?” Sandrea asked.

  “No doubt that bio-signature inhibitor,” T’Hargen said. “I’m sure the good corporal has the frequency on which it operates.”

  “Correct,” Kendril confirmed. “As do the rest of the team.”

  “That’s how Mhartak and I found you,” T’Hargen said. “Well then, ladies, if you’ll follow me?” He strode off into the thick growth of gold-tipped, blue fir.

  Kendril gestured for Sandrea to precede her and the two women trailed in his wake. They traipsed through the cool, shadowed, gently sloping land for a while before coming to a sharp-sided gully. Sandrea slithered on her backside down the steep, leaf- and mould-covered embankment. The rich smell of decaying forest matter filled her senses and she delighted in the earthy scent.

  She stood, then swiped brown and yellow debris from her clothing and scrambled up the other side. At the crest, she lifted her nose and inhaled. Kendril, T’Hargen, alpine vegetation, and the exotic spiced scent of Dexter seasoned the air.

  Homogenous forest shadow produced a constant twilight and the heavy quiet of the woods almost absorbed the soft background noise of insects and the occasional raucous birdcall. Gradually the forest opened from close, thick-branched conifers to tall lean firs, their bare lower trunks extending visibility to thirty feet or so.

 
Sandrea was just beginning to think food would be a welcome diversion when a whining roar screeched through the atmosphere. Her gaze shot up to stare at blue sky patterned by green branches. “What is it?”

  “Scout ship,” T’Hargen replied, scanning skyward. “Badly damaged by the sound of things.”

  “Is it a threat?”

  He turned his focus to her. “Not to us. It’s Angrigan.” A frown drifted through his eyes and he lifted his gaze back to the sky though no sign of the craft was visible. A contemplative air tightened his stance. “I need to investigate this. Corporal, see Sandrea to the rendezvous.” He nodded to them both. “Ladies,” he said then strode away and soon disappeared into the forest.

  “He gives orders like he’s used to doing it,” Sandrea muttered. “How’s he know where to go?”

  Kendril shrugged. “I suspect he was expecting them.” She consulted an instrument on her arm. “Come on, it’s not far to where I left Dovzshak.”

  Sandrea gnawed at her lower lip and frowned at the implications of Eugen’s silence regarding his brother. Why hadn’t he told her who T’Hargen was? Was he ashamed of her? Their lovemaking? Did he think she would impose on T’Hargen if she knew he was family?

  She still hadn’t figured out what Eugen meant by, ‘Your position with us will not be affected’. Damn, she was so angry with him. When she got him alone she would give him a dressing down he wouldn’t forget. An image of her ripping Eugen’s clothes from his body sprang with embarrassing readiness to her mind.

  Okay, wrong choice of words.

  Or Freudian slip.

  She let out a sigh. At least her response to T’Hargen made sense now. On a subconscious level he reminded her so much of Eugen.

  “We’re being hunted.”

  Kendril’s soft words snapped her from contemplating the complicated state of her love life. She sniffed. Wind funnelled up the hill and carried no trace of Bluthen.

  “Behind us? Toward the crest?”

  Kendril nodded. “Come on.”