Fragile Bond (14 page)

Dehna rummaged in the satchel slung across her body, tucking her injured arm under the strap, and produced a palm-sized leather pouch that she lobbed at Reccin. “I was out of line. I’ll accept whatever disciplinary action you deem suitable. But that human is out of place.” She glanced at the shuttle and the humans. “By at least ten paces, Commander.”

He belongs with his own kind, not cuddling up to you.

Chief Reccin watched his littermate retreat from the meadow before turning back, brow furrowed. “She makes some valid points.” He kept his voice soft and his tone respectful, but he added the weight of his position to his sister’s reservations all the same.

“Do you agree with her, then?” Hamm kept his expression carefully neutral. He regretted it, though, when he noticed that Marc had come back over. Probably to ask which one of them would install the translators. The sniper backpedaled a step and flexed his left hand a few times, the knife no longer in sight.

Reccin plowed on. “I think it bears consideration. Others will feel similarly, and express it, if you’re seen with—”

“With a foul human? And what then, when he’s seen with four?” Marc’s words were acidic, bitten off. Reccin stared at him, hackling at the interruption. “What will they think of you, when you’re charged with defending us against them?” He glanced at Hamm as though challenging him to back down from his previous words, and motioned his fellow humans to join them. “A measure of it is understandable; we’re not native to this place. I get that. If you want diplomacy to work, though, the furrs—your people—will need to acclimate to us.”

“And cooperate, too. Yes, I’m aware of this. I need you to ensure that your fellow humans are as well.” Hamm watched as the team approached, observing the captain’s demeanor closely. They’d witnessed a battle of wills in which one of their own was caught up, witnessed open dissent. He had little clue how the humans dealt with such matters. He glanced at Marc.

“Point taken, Commander Orsonna. I’ll do my best.”

“To do what?” Andruski stepped up next to Marc and glanced around at the three of them, frowning.

“To keep a level playing field, sir.” Marc didn’t wait for them to respond. He just eased into the role of ambassador. Just as he’d drawn his blade and defended himself against Dehna instead of allowing Hamm to protect him, as was his responsibility. As his prisoner, Marc’s life was in his hands. To preserve or take as he saw fit. Not for someone else to, though. Not for anyone else.

His responsibility. That made Marc his human more than anything else possibly could’ve. Except perhaps the irreversible pheromone shift. But that wasn’t some forced bond. Hamm could still walk away from that. It wouldn’t be very fun, and it wouldn’t be the least bit comfortable. But it could be done.

On the other hand, Marc had raised claw in defense of Hamm.

The soldier might not be furr or
fefa
, but he was clan now. Hamm’s clan. At least in his eyes. And that was really all that mattered.

His blood still boiled at Dehna’s words, vision threatening to trip over into thermal. There was truth to them, and yet they were twisted around and full of hate and there was no way he could accept them.

Sometimes there just was no right answer, was there?

Something in Marc’s voice had triggered the lieutenant major, judging from the scowl the officer wore. Andruski glared at him, mouth twisted down in disapproval. He suspected it wasn’t caused by his attempts to take all this shit seriously. No, Marc suspected Andruski took greater offense to the respectful tone Marc used when addressing Hamm. Reccin stepped closer to Hamm and leaned in, engaging him in a private conversation. Marc only caught a bit of it before pivoting to focus on the landing party.

“The rest of the clan is not going to respond well to their presence in general, Commander. Never mind what they’ll think should they see you giving this one special treatment.”

Marc took a deep breath and shook his head at Andruski’s raised brows. They didn't need to borrow trouble, or amplify drama. “The linguist—you saw her for a few moments earlier—has provided three modified processors. The translator program in them will permit you to understand furr dialect just as theirs permit them to understand us. You have to consciously agree to have the implant inserted, otherwise it will interface poorly.”

“Like yours?” Cortannas motioned to his head. “Is that why it looks the way it does?”

“I imagine so, yes. Sergeant Dehna altered the processor dimensions as well. Something more likely to be compatible.” Hamm had trusted her. Respected her ability to perform the duties of her rank with competence. Marc respected that without hesitation. And he wouldn’t disrespect her to the team, not when her friction had less to do with what he was, and everything to do with who he was and where he stood.

Cortannas shook her head. “I’m the linguist here. I can’t learn their language if I have a translation program interfering with authenticity.” She glanced at Makko, then Andruski. “I’d recommend both of you go ahead and take them, though.”

“You’ll need one of us to translate for you then, Captain.” Makko’s demure manner baffled Marc. So quick to defer to the captain, coddling her superior through this unprecedented situation. No question who the stronger soldier was there.

“If Sergeant Staille is staying planetside, we can make good use of him. He can tag along and serve as my translator with the . . . furrs.” She smiled at him. “You seem to have developed a rapport with them pretty fast, so that shouldn’t be an issue. Right?”

“Of course not, Captain. I’ve a nonrefundable translator embedded in my skull. May as well make good use of it.” His deadpan caught the captain off guard. Her smile, widening at his agreement, flattened into a blank expression. She stared at him as though attempting to process his intended meaning.

Makko had no qualms with calling him out, though. She stepped forward, brow furrowed, diverting his gaze from the captain. “What do you mean, nonrefundable? Are you saying once we have these things in our skulls, they won’t come out? If that’s the case, I sure as antimatter ain’t doing this.”

He could sympathize with that reaction. “You’ll be fine, as long as you accept the device. Any resistance triggers viral subroutines or something. That’s what happened with mine—they didn’t have my cooperation. This biotechnology goes beyond anything we have. That alone should make this diplomatic endeavor a high-value target for Mother. But you need to be all-in, Sergeant. You copy?”

“Yeah, I gotcha.” Makko craned her neck to stare at the side of his head with the sort of morbidly fascinated expression only a scientist could wear. “So it’s like . . . attacking you? Is that what you mean? That can’t be healthy. I’ll have to do a deep scan, see if I can find some way to disengage it that they’re unaware of. If it can adversely mutate based on host resistance, who knows what else might change, right?”

He’d become a lab rat. “Right. Sure.” Marc glared at the biologist, but she didn’t notice. The furrs didn’t offer up a source of distraction to help him out, either. Chief Reccin still had his commander fully engaged.

Hamm’s gaze slid his way for half a heartbeat. His grim expression offered no reassurance.

Marc stared at the line of the furr’s heavily maned neck. Hair tapering off over shoulder blades to trail down the crevice of his spine in a river of faint sun-bleached hair. The sensation of being out of place, of not belonging, slammed into Marc, hard. The air whooshed out of him beneath the onslaught of crushing emotion. He didn’t belong here. He knew that, but didn’t understand why that knowledge was suddenly so painful. How it could be so painful. He wasn’t sure why the air felt denser than water, but drawing breath was the most difficult task he’d ever performed. Somehow, he sucked in enough air to speak.

“Chief Reccin? Staff Sergeant Makko and Lieutenant Major Andruski have both agreed to accept the interface.” He motioned to the biologist and ambassador in turn, tracking the furr’s gaze to ensure his communication translated properly. He’d do whatever it took to avoid any miscommunication about which two of the team were willing. They didn’t need more misunderstandings right now. When Reccin nodded and stepped forward with the satchel, Marc eased away to let him work.

A perfect opportunity for a few desperately needed drags from his nicotine vaporizer. The moist air in his lungs soothed his nerves as he slowed each inhale and exhale to a careful three-count. Regulated breathing helped him regain control. A firm rein on emotional reactions that he didn’t have time for in the here and now. The other four members of Foxtrot-Sierra, unaccounted for in that valley back there. The innumerable furrs he’d reduced to pink mist since his boots had hit the dusty soil of Horace Deuce-Niner. No space to deal with any of it. Not if he was going to hold his shit together. And this.

Hamm’s second made quick work of asking permission without saying a word. Makko canted her head, baring the side of her neck almost eagerly. Judging from Reccin’s quickly squelched expression, the biologist’s behavior communicated something rather wholly removed from what she’d intended. Marc couldn’t resist laughing at that. He’d been lying almost where they stood now when he’d bared his neck the same way.

And the wet-warm chafe of the commander’s tongue up his neck had made his muscles go liquid.

He needed to think. Greater space between himself and Hamm contributed to mental clarity. But as mental clarity returned, the hypervigilance increased. Trying to reprocess everything that had happened, parse motivations. Events had different perspective and meaning without pheromones blurring the edges of logic. He didn’t trust the furrs not to launch an ambush, take advantage of a ripe opportunity to grab the shuttle. Though to what end, he couldn’t begin to imagine. Additional prisoners? Bargaining leverage?

He wasn’t in his element like this, out in the open. He had the training to make crucial decisions in hostile environments, but none of that had included encounters with Sierra-Indias. That defaulted to C-C teams. To the command staff on Mother Diaspora. Ground-pounders couldn’t be trusted to possess the necessary finesse.

But as his soldier awareness monitored the situation and surroundings, the other half of him replayed the events since he’d pulled Mat’s trigger the first time that morning. It ran through his head in vivid detail, and he assessed every move, action, and reaction from a detached perspective.

Self-debrief. A little technique taught to all long-range forward scouts. At some point, they’d need to objectively assess the situation. And they wouldn’t have an unbiased party to assist in decisions.

With every passing moment, his chagrin increased.

As did his disbelief.

If he’d possessed hackles, he would have bristled worse than Reccin, snarled enough to make Dehna look amenable. He’d been manipulated quite neatly.

Props to the furrs for that one. Hamm had influenced his decisions, his loyalty, his priorities, by keeping up a steady stream of pheromones. He felt weak, controlled, abused. Those emotions fueled his indignation.

He tried to relax, to disengage from the tension coiling in him. But the emotions wouldn’t budge. They just continued to build up. They wouldn’t diffuse without an outlet. He needed to vent.

No, scratch that, he needed to grieve.

He’d gone into that valley as the fifth of a five-person team. Foxtrot-Sierra-Red had been his squad for the past two years. They’d survived the vampire bunnies together. He wanted a few hours of peace to retrace his steps, to try and find them at least. To mourn, if it was called for. The lack of the space and time to express those emotions fueled his rage.

His jaw ached, pain shooting up through his temples. The spot behind his left ear throbbed, matching time with his adrenaline and blood pressure.

Reccin seemed to be managing the team of humans well enough. Though Hamm maintained a distance, he observed every movement in an attempt to pick up the nonverbal cues. He hoped context would help him understand their meaning. Their gestures differed enough that natural translations made little sense when they made any at all.