Fragile Bond (16 page)

“Where did all that come from?”

Hamm paused and lowered his chin, meeting the human’s gaze. “Am I correct?”

Marc chafed a hand over his stubbled scalp and nodded.

“Good.” He scrambled down over the lip of boulders and back underground.

Hamm only meant to make sure his prisoner followed along and didn’t get lost. Instead, he stood there staring as Marc dropped down off the rocks into a crouch and jogged a few strides to catch up. Hamm felt his ear twitching in mild irritation at his own behavior and turned away with a huff. Marc walked alongside him through the broad tunnels.

“Why it is that nine times out of ten I can’t form a single coherent thought when I stand too close to you?”

“Then don’t stand so close to me.” A few of the furrs they passed along the way paused to give them strange glances, but Marc’s presence at his side didn’t bother him and that was all that mattered. He met each look with steady calm, and didn’t comment on their curiosity. They could stare if they wished. They needed to acclimate to the alien presence just as much as the aliens needed to acclimate to them. A positive diplomatic outcome depended on that. “You’re a strange creature. You smell and act more alpha than any clan leader I’ve ever encountered. And then . . . you demand to be dominated. There is nothing submissive about you, not even in that. Your vulnerability coexists with your strength.”

He had no control over the series of rumbling purrs punctuating his words as he finished that thought. Only when Marc stepped away, giving Hamm a wider berth, did he realize his own scent had shifted, pheromones thickening again.

“And then what? I missed the rest of that.”

Hamm glanced again at the nearby furrs, then over his shoulder at the few still staring. His redirected attention proved enough to reassert discipline. Leadership structure had to be maintained. Or chaos—and war—would ensue. Resume. Whichever. Marc had mentioned the humans hadn’t come in search of war. Didn’t seek to invade. Which made communication crucial. Not to mention the role that cultural understanding would play.

Granted, it would be equally important for the furrs—especially those present here, who would have the most exposure—to begin seeing the humans as something more than nameless, faceless aggressors bent on domination.

The soldier’s scent was strong enough already to give the wrong idea. That Hamm had submitted to him.

Had the alien somehow manipulated him into doing just that? Hamm waited until he’d led the way into his office space and the relative privacy it afforded. Then he made a long perusal of Marc, who stood there entirely focused on him. Waiting—though not entirely patient, from the tension in his features—for what he was willing to share.

“What I said was that you go from exuding the scent of an extremely dominant alpha, to baring your neck for me to lick.” That was the succinct version, at least. Since his previous wording hadn’t translated. Such contradictory behaviors fascinated him, and the alien presented a study of contrasts in more ways than one.

Marc raised his brows. “Your translation device really sucks.”

He only chuffed in response. “That wasn’t exactly what I said. What I said was more . . . encompassing.” He studied the nuances of body language, the unspoken communication. A thousand little things whispered of similarity, the quality of movement, bearing, posture that reminded him so strongly of his own squad. Kail moved that way. Erri held his jaw like that, too low to be scenting the air, too high to be natural carriage. As though straining for a fraction more height than Soma had given.

A warrior, this one. A soldier through and through. Like recognizing like? Was it as simple as that? If it wasn’t, he wasn’t willing to admit it.

“This isn’t something we consciously use as a weapon against your kind. That’s what you’re worried about? I think I understand why you feel that way. You don’t have that kind of control over your pheromones. Isn’t that what you said?”

Odd that they wouldn’t. Especially given how strong the scent had rolled off Marc—to think he couldn’t suppress it when he wanted—Hamm couldn’t begin to imagine what that would be like.

“Yes. You understand the unfair edge it gives you?”

“We use this as a communication tool among ourselves, when words won’t suffice or don’t come quickly enough. A weapon against one other, as a show of dominance. In territorial disputes and disagreements—though that’s increasingly less common since we’ve become more civilized, more likely to discuss and debate than declare a victor based on the fecundity of pheromones. Is that what you wanted to know? That we won’t go manipulating every one of you we encounter?”

“Yes, Commander.” Marc kept his tone level, his body tense and straight.

“Your team is safe. For the immediate future—and from that concern, as far as I’m aware. The issue is . . .” He trailed off into silence, easing away, lowering his voice. “The issue is just how long they will permit me to retain my position once they discover I am no longer able to influence others.”

He glanced around, unable to disguise just how uncomfortable it made him to admit that, to utter those words. He could feel the frailty in himself, and the same quality in the air. A brittle tension. The mutual trust forged between them, based on solidarity. A kinship far from genetic, so thin and insubstantial—as though it would shatter if he breathed too heavily, if the alien moved too quickly, spoke too harshly.

The way a whisper could be drowned out by a sigh.

It shouldn’t be that way. He was made of sterner stuff, by far. And yet.

He could feel that moment between one breath and the next, when everything seemed suspended in weightlessness. Possibility and reality all jumbled together, tossed up into the air.

“May I have my rifle?” Marc’s hands twitched. “I get the impression we should have this conversation somewhere we can’t be overheard.”

“The walls are dense here.” He tried to sound reassuring as he clawed the wall to disengage the lock. “But you’re correct. I’d rather be out in the open air. It’s a sensitive subject for me.”

“I can leave, you know. The shuttle will depart shortly.” Marc glanced at his wrist, the flat surface of a device strapped there. He cleared his throat, but when he continued speaking, there was a harsh burr to his voice that hadn’t been there before. “Very soon. If I leave, your people will never know this wasn’t just something more than you controlling a prisoner.”

Hamm reached into the cavity of the wall, retrieving Marc’s death stick with more respect than he’d intended. The steel shape was cool and strangely lifeless, separated from its wielder.

“You are the only one who has shown any consideration for the plight we face. Any understanding.” Hamm could lift the weapon easily in one hand, but he carried it balanced in both and walked back toward Marc. That schooled expression and those strange sky eyes assessed his every move. Did he doubt it would be returned, or was he concerned about it being damaged?

“The others haven’t been here long enough to grasp the situation fully, Commander. Once they—”

“And you have?” Hamm gave a sharp purr, fascinated by the soldier’s words. “Your death stick, soldier.”

“No. I won’t pretend I have. But I’m trying. And I want to.” Marc reached out as though restraining himself, and eased the death stick from Hamm. “Thanks.”

“I know. And I respect that, but this is so much more than that. And it’s not about knowing I have the crutch of being able to manipulate you if need be. It isn’t that.” He folded his arms and watched as the soldier performed a meticulous inspection of his weapon. “This will go very poorly if you leave now. If that is what you wish to do, I will not stop you.”

It took all his willpower to say that, and still the words came out nothing more than a burred whisper, the grating of something heavy pushed against gravity.

He wanted, needed, this male to stay here. But more than that, a selfish part of him needed him to stay because he saw reason to. Duty, honor, trust, solidarity—all that, and something more, something fragile and unhoped-for. He didn’t dare.

But a glimmer of possibility. That much he would dare.

The furr called it a death stick.

The name seemed fitting.

It felt strange to have Mat back in his grasp. He hefted the rifle. The weight of it pulled at his wrists and elbows and shoulders. And with that heavy steel in his fingers, he could take a deep breath. Focus.

The familiarity of a burden. This was his. Each bullet that had passed from its chamber, his responsibility. Images of furrs in his scope flashed through his mind, one after another, crowding together. The odd flavor of his ignorance, the sound of his crooning as he communed with Mat.

The shock and horror at the lives he’d ended—
murdered
—slammed back into him with all the raw immediacy he’d pushed away.

He almost dropped the rifle then. Had to clench his fists, lock his knees for a second while he regained composure and control of his muscles. Tensing his entire body in an effort to remain upright. The gray tunnel crowding out his sight would not win.

Blood and bullets, what have I done?

Deep, steady inhale. Guilt would get him nowhere. Focus on the target, nothing else existed. Slow exhale, hold, squeeze.

I am not a murderer, I am a soldier. I will make this right. No matter the cost.

“Lead the way then, sir.” He had such low inherent respect for SFI officers—he wasn’t sure why he afforded Commander Orsonna more. Maybe the pheromones created an unintentional bias. Maybe he didn’t much give a fuck, either. It wasn’t more than Hamm deserved.

Hamm’s uneasiness wasn’t just palpable energy. He could smell it, a sharp tang of onion grass blending into the dense scent of soil and minerals. Hamm’s state concerned him. So did his ability to distinguish all that on a single inhale as the furr commander led the way out into the corridor. Marc wasn’t certain if it should weird him out, or what.

It was every bit as disconcerting that the furr reciprocated his respect. Hamm didn’t hesitate a moment to step past Marc and leave him armed at his back.

Marc flanked him as they exited the warren of tunnels, stepping out into the sun and breeze.

“You asked me to stay.”

He didn’t know why. Or rather, he didn’t fully understand Hamm’s reasoning.

Marc had offered to walk away despite the sense of responsibility he felt. Not just guilt, though he wouldn’t deny that feeling. It had gnawed at him since that moment the huge tawny crouching over him hadn’t delivered a killing stroke. The suspicion of intellect had crept into his psyche. Only to be confirmed beyond a shadow of doubt.

“I recall.”

“And I said I would. You remember that?”

“Yes, of course I do. It wasn’t so long ago.” The sour scent wafting from Hamm didn’t dissipate.

“If you need to revoke that request, I will not be offended.”

“I did not ask lightly.” Hamm stopped, claws flicking out with each flexing of his hands. And though he held them at his sides, the cording of tension in his arms betrayed the restraint it took. “Selfishly, perhaps. But not lightly. I cannot change what I am. I cannot change what you are. I cannot change what has happened. I can only try to find a solution that offers everyone the opportunity to be satisfied. Including you. And myself.”

Marc nodded, lowering his chin in acknowledgment. He understood what Hamm meant. The greater good, the communal consideration, held the greatest weight. And at the same time, a mild selfish indulging. This time they aligned.

At least, Marc intended to do everything in his power to ensure they did.

“You think I have something of value to contribute?”

Hamm inhaled, gaze dragging up and down Marc as though weighing and considering.

Perhaps he was doing just that. Reassessing.

“My opinion is that without your presence, the situation will be much worse than it currently is.”

Marc canted his head, drawing the amber-gold gaze to meet his. “Dare I ask you to clarify that?”

“I am their battlemonger, leading them where they cannot walk alone. I doubt the upheaval of replacing me before my tenure expires would make a receptive atmosphere for your team.”

“You need to remain their leader. I get that. I’ve no desire to witness your deposing.”

“You have no idea.” The sour tang strengthened, and his frustration swelled in response. He was trying to reassure Hamm—somehow—that he had Marc’s support. His efforts didn’t have the desired effect, though.

“Enlighten me. You can’t lead if you can’t manipulate your detractors into following? Is that it? Rather old-school, from what you just said about . . . an increasing preference for proving a point with words instead of pheromones.”

Hamm relaxed, muscles in his arms and torso, the corded abdominals, loosening as he rumbled. Folded his arms slowly. “Traditionally, that’s the core of it. Though our culture is evolving, it is best if it happens slowly. Intellectual discussion can’t fully trump instincts. It’s not acceptable, the instinct’s too strong. Part of it is that when one loses the ability to manipulate, it’s because they have formed a bond. If they’re in the middle of their tenure when it happens, they’re expected to step down and begin a family unit. If they’ve not yet served, they’re exempted from doing so. Their loyalties are perceived as divided, no longer focused on the good of the clan. A biased leader is not a good leader.”