Alliance: An Intersolar Alien Romance, Book 6

10

If they didn’t want to be recorded moving through commercial space, it would take the Mummer a week or more to thread through the blind spots of the union’s eyes and ears. It was the ship’s usual mode of operation, reducing itself to a ghost that servicemembers whispered about on eerie assignments in deep space and patrols through abandoned cargo cruisers. The ship and its crew were the stuff of legend.

It also gave them the chance to print and prepare supplies based on the Mummer’s chosen drop point on Yaspur. The southern base of the Pahadthi Mountains was a glacial ice sheet on the dark side of the moon. The remote location was their best bet for landing undetected and was surprisingly close to the human colony according to Rosy’s memories. Roz claimed that they could see the mountains and snow from the tops of their home towers if the weather was clear. That had sealed the deal, even if the cold was too hostile for Safia and Misila.

“So if you’re inside when you wake up, there’s a manual release here on the left,” Fásach explained, showing the girls how their vital pods worked. They listened diligently, enthralled with the pristine tech that would keep them healthy, in a warm slumber that could last weeks. When Lugh, the yivenan arms master on the Mummer’s infamous Gamma team had brought them by, Fásach’s heart had clenched. Even for him, they were almost too good to be true.

Which just exacerbated his anxiety. There was no way this would be free. Each day weighed more and more heavily on his shoulders as the Mummer strafed closer to their destination without exacting its price. For the food, the beds, the new clothing, the custom thermotech survival gear, the fucking vanta weapons…

The last one was a real surprise. They were built right out of the ship’s hull. The cost of just one pistol could buy out half the merchants in the Pipes.

“What’s it like?” Safia asked, opening her pod again. Misila set her favorite stuffy in her harness, buckling and unbuckling it for practice. “Being in stasis.”

Fásach blinked his worries away and rubbed his palm over his ears. “I haven’t actually been in stasis before. It’s usually used for cross-galactic travel and medical comas.”

“Was our mara put in a vital pod then?”

Quiopha’s girls both stopped, waiting for the answer with carefully blank looks on their blue faces. Fásach thought back to his last comm with their mother before her music faded. She’d been sitting on the edge of a pod in her care gown, as boisterous as ever and excited to get back to her daughters. She’d wanted a raw, bloody steak, a beer, and two very long hugs.

“Yeah, she did. She said it wasn’t too bad. Like sleeping,” Fásach recalled.

Misila buckled her stuffy back into its harness. “Then I’ll use one too.”

“Me too.”

Their bravery struck a chord in him, the rare chime of his symphony caressing their words. Their conversations sometimes spurred harmony in him, an effect of the symphony that was full of adoration and comfort. This was one of those times when he felt things were right. It was counterintuitive, but he’d felt it more and more since they’d made the leap to head towards the human colony with only drop coordinates and cold weather gear.

Still, the anxiety was nearly overwhelming. Fásach didn’t want to admit to Safia and Misila just how hard the journey would be. He wasn’t prepared for it, not physically. In order to survive, he needed to transition to his predator-fluid state. He’d need the aggression for potential fights, the heightened speed for hunting, and increased strength for hauling their supplies.

There were other benefits too. Thicker fur for the cold and a wider diet. He’d be able to eat raw organ meat and a lot of the jungle’s flora without potentially falling ill.

But sitting idle on a ship for days on end wouldn’t help him achieve that, so when the door chimed, he greeted Lugh with a grim nod.

“Give me fifteen,” Fásach said.

“I’ll meet you in the gym then.”

The yivenan left with a tight-lipped smile at the girls when they waved, and Fásach closed their vital pods.

“Alright, you heathens. Bedtime.”

?

Born to a yiwreni father and a venandi mother, Lugh was a massive man. Silvery plaited tresses hung long down one side of his head, a neat pelt of white fur running through the spaces between gunmetal grey plates. Every inch of his exoskeleton was covered in venandi etchings and slender scars from knife fights. Though he didn’t have mandibles like his mother species, it only made his mouth that much more intimidating. The biting power of a yiwren paired with a mouthful of pointed fangs, slit open on the sides and guarded just at the nob of the jaw, where his mandibles would have grown.

He grinned as Fásach threw off his shirt, and his smile slit open like a monster. No wonder he hadn’t smiled at the girls.

“You’re filling out,” he said, slapping the front of his neck to signify Fásach’s dewlap.

“A bit,” he admitted, tugging at the wolfish amber scruff. He’d been eating more, and his shirts were tighter to his chest. They’d been sparring after the girls fell asleep for a handful of sols since boarding, trying to spur the transition.

“Not fast enough,” Lugh remarked, licking one side of his mouth.

Fásach was just as tall as Lugh but felt small as the arms master looked him up and down with an appraising eye. All yiwreni pups grew up brawling, and Fásach had been a good enforcer because of it, but he wasn’t a cold professional like the man before him.

“Trav’s obsessed with humans. I didn’t get it at first, but recently, I’ve developed an appreciation for them.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I’ll show you once you stop stalling and get to work, pup.”

Fásach stepped into the center of the rough floor, extended his claws, and took a deep breath. They circled each other slowly, Lugh upright but keeping his ankles from crossing his center of balance. They feigned a few times, getting their bodies warm, testing their pace.

Then Lugh had the guts to say, “So, have you talked to the doll about needing to fuck her yet?”

Fásach snarled, his hackles rising. He snapped his teeth louder than snapping bones, a clear sign that Lugh should shut up. Any concern he had about the other man’s superior fighting skill was quickly being replaced by an angry heat in his chest. It wasn’t the first time Lugh had riled Fásach up, but even if he knew it was coming, it still had the same effect.

“I’m not doing that, and you know it.”

“Why not? It’s what she was made for—”

Fásach took the chance to scramble forward, taking the low route while Lugh used up his precious air. Hitting him with one shoulder to the gut pushed the rest of the air from his lungs, and the arms master grunted, falling back two, three steps.

A sharp, white pain sliced across Fásach’s back. He yelped with a high-pitched whimper, sliding away on all fours by instinct. Wide-eyed, he pressed his palm to his back. It returned red with blood.

Lugh raised one brow plate and held a curved knife in his palm so it caught the bare overhead light. The burnished steel blade looked like a raptor’s talon, nestled in the crease of his palm. “This is called a karambit. It’s a human blade for close combat. Ingenious little thing. So small and natural to hold that your opponent doesn’t notice until you’ve severed an artery and several ligaments.”

Fásach’s heart skipped, his breath compressing. “You’re planning to do that to me?”

Their eyes met and Lugh grinned wider, resuming their dance. “Why do you look so worried, Fás? You know I’ll patch you up.”

Fásach grimaced, showing his impressive molars and canines. “Rolling in mediplasma then?”

“One of the perks of the job. So,” he flipped the knife casually in his hand. “I believe we were talking about fucking the doll.”

“Talk about her all you want,” Fásach growled, his hackles rising through the sting of the deep slash on his back. He knew exactly what Lugh was doing.

Provoking. Goading. Forcing Fás to be reckless.

It was a good strategy.

But stupid.

“Big tits. No one appreciates tits like a mammal,” Lugh teased, glancing out of the way as Fásach came for him. The sting of slicing flesh followed the yiwreni mover with every engagement. His forearms, cheek, one ear. Light cuts here and there as they got closer and further apart. He took the brunt of the damage, but they both knew as soon as his jaws found home, it’d be lights out.

“Don’t look at her,” Fásach snapped.

“Why not? Trav and I have similar tastes, you know. And it’s not like you’ve staked your claim. I hear dolls take direction well too.”

“She’s not a fucking doll.”

Fásach’s temper was starting to itch like something feral. He hadn’t staked his claim but something about Roz felt right. He liked how her scent lingered in his thermophobic hood, and how her symphony chimed, so new and pure. She was unconventional, but she was definitely a person.

When Fásach rushed Lugh again, the yivenan sank his talons into the back of his neck, holding him in place. There was no contest on strength. Lugh was half-venandi and weighed twice as much as Fásach did. When he leaned in with a grin, the karambit pressing into the space between two ribs, Lugh flashed his fangs.

“Hey, did you know,” he said conversationally, as much amusement in his tone as a snake, “that I go into rut just like you?”

The asshole had the audacity to rub his forehead against Fásach’s in challenge. Beneath the venandi plates of his forehead, two hard bumps had begun to form, right where a full-blooded yiwren’s antlers would come in. “Mine are blue. Do you think that’s Roz’s favorite color? Because the curtains match the sheets.”

Fásach let Lugh rip into his neck as he twisted in the bigger man’s hold, snapping his mouth with deadly force at the thick column of the arms master’s neck. In his haste to get away, Lugh plunged the karambit into his side out of instinct, hooking it on his lowest rib. Compared to the blood-thirsty violence Fásach wanted to commit, the pain was nothing. He took the knife out and tossed it across the gym as Lugh unsheathed another.

“Enough chatter.”

Fásach wasn’t playing anymore.

He bared his fangs, extended his jaw open to nearly one hundred eighty degrees and showed Lugh exactly what the inside of his mouth looked like. More teeth than should be possible rose up like a mountain range. And when his diaphragm echoed with the deep laughter of a yiwreni war cry, Lugh’s fur stood on end between his plates.

Rolling in mediplasma?

Good.

Because Fásach wasn’t the only sorry bastard that would need it.

While Lugh was focused on his mouth, Fásach slid forward, the pads of his feet grating across the rough floor. He grabbed Lugh’s wrist and heaved, every cut burning as he tossed the man across the room, the meat of his lower ribs howling with pain. Lugh’s back slammed into a transverse beam, and Fásach was on him before he hit the floor.

They both froze, Lugh’s karambit to Fásach’s neck, Fásach’s teeth wrapped around Lugh’s throat.

“Well-played,” Lugh admitted, his tone now cold and professional. His voice vibrated against Fásach’s tongue as he sampled the other man’s pulse. “Joking aside, you really should consider it.”

Fásach placed his claws on Lugh’s chest in a display of dominance. He wasn’t nearly strong enough to enforce it, but Lugh remained still.

“I know. But keep my pack business out of your fucking mouth.”

He groaned, sitting back on his haunches with a wince. Now that their match was over, the pain was working its way into his nerves. Lugh rolled to one side as they both caught their breath, and he withdrew two mediplasmas from his thigh bag. “Take them. Then go do what you need to do.”

Fásach glared at him, swore, then grabbed the two aero-syringes and plunged them into the short fur of his abdomen. The relief washed through him quickly, carried by his bloodstream to the corners of his pelt, relaxing his muscles and stitching his knife wounds closed. He’d need a shower soon, or else his fur would be a crusty, bloody mess.

He stared at the floor and his feet, covered in smears of garnet red as his temperature cooled.

Couldhe talk to Roz?

Dominant rutting was the fastest way to a predatory transition. Most ancient coming-of-age ceremonies involved a wedding specifically so warriors could rut into adulthood with their thuais. It was the safest, quickest way to build an army.

Would that be so bad? He’d had dreams that made his fur itch ever since they’d met, but he chalked it up to how she’d straddled his lap and offered to pay him with her body. She was a mammal, and he hadn’t seen another mammal that wasn”t being served for dinner in such a long time. Her skin was soft with the most delicate coat he’d ever felt. And the curls, the humid breath, the artery pumping against her throat…

Fásach swallowed hard.

“Roz, can I rut you?” he tested out, voice hoarse. Lugh raised a brow as they sat nursing their wounds, and Fásach snorted bitterly. He shook his head. “I can’t ask her that.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’ll say yes.”

They glared at each other, but Fásach looked away first. The truth in the other man’s eyes hurt. If he didn’t trust Roz to make her own decision, even if she did say yes, then Fásach still believed she was a doll.

He had to give her the benefit of the doubt if he believed in her humanity.

Just… after he took a shower.