Chapter 2
Rickon
I stepped off the shuttle onto the dusty tarmac, breathing in the crisp desert air that carried that distinctive electric hum of Earth's energy—a frequency I'd learned of during my previous visits.
I felt drawn to it in ways I hadn't expected.
As War Chief, Xabat should be the one standing here, but he was newly mated, so I'd volunteered to take his place.
Two dozen armed soldiers stood in formation around the shuttle, their weapons held at the ready, faces a mixture of wariness and poorly concealed awe.
I almost snorted in amusement. No doubt they had expected aliens.
But the six of us—myself, Cristox, Ixaka, Kariosak, Pavo, and Bieste—flanked the Prime protectively, each carrying a small cuddwisg device that projected a human appearance over our true forms. If Hewes was watching through whatever surveillance network he'd built, he would see nothing more than a delegation of unremarkable humans stepping off an ordinary aircraft.
Hewes. Just thinking his name made my jaw tighten with barely suppressed rage.
He was a tech billionaire on the surface.
One of those smooth-talking Earth males who'd built an empire on innovation and charm.
But beneath that polished exterior lurked something far more sinister.
A criminal mastermind with tendrils reaching into the darkest corners of both this world and the stars beyond.
Thanks to Xabat's younger brother, Xytol, we'd uncovered the full scope of Hewes's depravity.
The bastard wasn't just connected to the human slave trade.
He was one of its architects, orchestrating the trafficking of innocent beings across multiple star systems.
When Hewes kidnapped Xabat's mate Harper, we'd come close to capturing the bastard, but he’d had slipped through our grasp like smoke. Now he was hiding somewhere on Earth, concealed among billions of humans.
The Prime believed the American President would help us capture him. According to her, Earth's governments—particularly the American one—had as much reason to want Hewes brought to justice as we did. His crimes had victimized his own people, after all.
I remained skeptical of Earth's governments. In my experience, planetary leaders rarely acted purely out of altruism, especially when dealing with off-world affairs. But I trusted the Prime's judgment, even when my own instincts screamed out in warning.
The contingent of soldiers escorted us deeper into the sprawling complex of Area 51, our footsteps echoing through sterile corridors. When we entered one of the massive hangars, I stopped dead in my tracks.
There, suspended in a web of support scaffolding, hung a Trogvyk ship. I'd recognize the sleek, predatory design anywhere. The curved hull, the distinctive propulsion arrays. This was the vessel that crashed on Earth nearly a century ago, the incident that had changed everything.
Glass display cases lined the walls, each one containing fragments of Alliance technology.
I spotted a Kelvorian navigation crystal, its inner light long since extinguished.
A partially disassembled plasma regulator.
The exposed circuitry of what looked like pieces of a communication relay labeled with human annotations.
Beside me, the Prime's golden gaze swept over the collection, and I caught the distinct shadow of regret that crossed her elegant features.
The weight of responsibility sat heavily on her shoulders.
I saw it in the tightness around her eyes, the way her jaw clenched almost imperceptibly.
She had overseen the revelation of the Alliance to humans.
Had been the one to allow humans insight into our technology.
She blamed herself for Declan Hewes. Or rather, for the man we now knew wasn't Declan at all.
His real name was Nigel Hewes, one of the human scientists recruited to study the Trogvyk ship after the crash in the 1940’s.
Somehow, the cunning bastard had ingratiated himself with the Trogvyk, a slaver species not known for their trust or mercy.
He'd learned from them, traded with them, and used them to bolster human slave trade.
Using a Garoot Healer—medical technology so advanced and rare that most Alliance members had never seen one—he'd kept himself healthy and young, playing the role of his own son and later his own grandson. Three generations of Hewes males, all the same monster wearing different masks.
His vast wealth, his reputation as an innovative genius, his empire of technology, none of it gained through his own brilliance. It was all stolen. Built on the bones of that crashed ship and the beings he'd helped enslave.
The metallic groan of a door opening echoed through the cavernous building, drawing my attention to the far end where three human males emerged.
The one in the lead immediately commanded my focus.
Older than his companions, with silver threading through his dark hair like frost on winter branches.
He moved with the unmistakable bearing of someone accustomed to authority, each step deliberate and measured.
"Lady Prime," he said, coming to a halt several feet away. His head dipped into a curt nod. "I am General Abernathy. It is a pleasure to meet you."
I studied him carefully, my senses attuned to any hint of deception, any flicker of malice in his words or bearing.
But I detected nothing. No subterfuge, no hidden agenda threading through his tone.
The tension that had coiled in my muscles loosened, though only slightly.
Around us, the contingent of soldiers remained far too alert, fingers hovering near weapons, their eyes tracking our every movement.
The type of twitchy readiness that set my nerves on edge.
"General," the Prime returned his nod with equal formality. "The pleasure is mine. I am grateful the President was able to meet with me on such short notice."
"Our working relationship is important to all of us," the General replied, his hand sweeping outward in a gesture that invited us to follow. The movement was smooth, practiced, a diplomat's flourish wrapped in a soldier's efficiency.
We fell into step behind his escort, our footfalls echoing through the sterile corridors as we passed through two more buildings.
The architecture shifted gradually, the harsh industrial lines and scientific equipment giving way to something softer, more refined.
An area clearly designed for administrative purposes.
The General paused at a security checkpoint, his posture straightening as he turned to face us.
"We would like to ask that you leave your weapons here.
" His tone was respectful but firm. The request was clearly non-negotiable.
"Your guard will accompany you into the meeting room, as the President's Secret Service team will accompany her. "
"Of course," the Prime acquiesced, the sweep of her hand graceful and unhurried. "We come in peace."
I watched as the others began unbuckling their blasters and unsheathing their blades, placing them on the gleaming metal table the guards indicated.
My blaster came off easily enough, as did the ceremonial sword I wore on my hip.
But when my fingers brushed the hilt of the blade strapped to my thigh, I hesitated.
The worn leather grip had molded itself to my father's hand first, then to mine over countless years.
Relinquishing it felt like severing a connection to him, to everything he'd taught me about honor and duty.
Still, I forced my fingers to work the buckles, laying the weapon down with care that bordered on reverence.
Once we stood disarmed, the General and his two companions led us deeper into the facility, leaving the other military guards behind.
The room he brought us to was surprisingly modest. A large conference table dominated the center, the polished surface reflecting the garish overhead lights.
Against the far wall sat a desk scattered with papers, and beside it, a small square device hummed quietly.
The unmistakable scent of fresh, cool water emanated from its vents.
The General cleared his throat, a nervous gesture that seemed at odds with his military bearing, though his eyes remained relaxed as they swept over our group. "It is safe here. You may divest yourselves of your disguises if you so choose."
The Prime gave another subtle nod, and my hand moved instinctively to the cuddwisg device at my belt.
The moment I switched it off, I felt the familiar sensation of my true form reasserting itself, the tickle of camouflage leaving my skin.
The General's expression remained perfectly neutral, utterly unfazed by the transformation, though I caught the way his comrades' eyes widened with poorly concealed shock.
Their reactions would have been amusing under different circumstances.
"The President has landed and will be here shortly." The General's voice cut through the settling quiet of the room, crisp and professional. Without waiting for acknowledgment, he pivoted on his heel and strode from the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
"Well, that went well," Cristox mumbled beside me, his thick fingers working through his mane with visible relief. The cuddwisg always made him itch. All that fur compressed beneath the holographic disguise left him irritable and uncomfortable.
The Prime's response came measured and calm as she lowered herself into one of the leather chairs. "We have a good relationship with the American government." Her tone suggested she believed it, though I detected the faintest thread of uncertainty woven beneath her words.
"Let's hope," Bieste murmured from across the table. The Elktonni's features would have passed for human if not for his deep crimson skin and those unsettling bright red eyes.