Authors: Sandra Harris
Below her the vast, dull grey complex of the barracks sprawled over several red, stony acres. She made herself comfortable on a flat rock and drank in the wonder of the sunset. Her gaze drifted back to the water and she wondered if it was deep enough to swim in. Back home, parts of the Australian land were so flat, shallow water could spread for miles.
An enormous wave of homesickness crashed into her. Heat pricked her eyes and her vision blurred to a stream of tears. Smothering despair and bone-deep isolation left her floundering. She dropped her head into her hands. Pain squeezed her eyes closed and her world shrank to the sickening turmoil within her mind and body. Her courage and determination rose, fought to gain some equilibrium of spirit.
She forced her ragged breathing into a deep, even tempo and when her body no longer shook to the extremes of emotional vulnerability she turned to her new world.
A soft breeze on absolute silence drifted by her ears. She lifted her eyelids. By her feet a small, symmetrical rock formation protruded from the grainy soil. It had the shape of a crystalline structure her mother called a “desert rose”. Bleakness twitched the muscles beneath her eyes at the reminder of her unreachable family.
She gathered her raw emotions, knelt, and with a gentle hand brushed the gravel and sand aside from the base of the rock then eased the amber beauty from the ground.
A sense of connection, of significance infused her soul.
“Sandrea?”
Sweet Jesus!
Her heart clenched. She leapt upright and swung defensively to the unexpected intrusion. Her brain recognized the voice, flagged a name, and she eased out a sigh.
“Over here, Lieutenant.”
Graegen strolled into view. “Are you well?”
Apart from the fright you just gave me?
She paused for a moment then answered in all seriousness. “Yes, I am.”
His smile seemed pleased. “Call me Graegen.”
“What’s up?”
A small frown flickered across his brow. “Up? Ah! I came to tell you the General has assigned you quarters.”
He’s here?
She ordered the blooming delight in her chest to behave itself. “Quarters of my own?”
“Correct. The General has asked that I provide whatever aid you require until he returns.”
Her delight deflated like a pricked balloon.
“You admire the rock-flower?” Graegen asked.
What?
She pushed aside her disappointment. “Yes, we have something similar on Earth.”
“There are many such about. We excavate a particular crystal on this moon that is adapted into much of our technology. The mine shafts and tunnels can be very beautiful in artificial light.”
“That sounds . . . nice.”
Graegen nodded. “Well, if you’ll excuse me I have tasks to accomplish before dinner.”
He moved off a couple of strides.
“Thanks for caring enough to come looking,” she called after him.
He turned back, nodding gravely. “Least I could do.”
A smile with a touch of sorrow softened her lips as she watched him walk away. He was so much like her eldest brother.
“Hey, Graegen, wait up!” She scrambled after him. “Have you got time now? To show me my room?”
“Of course.”
She followed him down the hill then toward a squat building with huge metal-like tubes connected either side.
“What is this?” she asked. “I saw from the hill they run all through the barracks.”
“Turbo-Tunnels. As you no doubt noticed, the barracks is quite large. This is a fast means of transport.”
They entered the structure and he drew her to an electronic display panel. “This is the site map.” He pointed to a collection of labelled, dark green rectangles. “Quarters are here. You are in 3C. To navigate your way around simply press your destination”—his finger touched the quarters motif—“and get in that car when it arrives.”
A moment later the pair of copper-coloured doors guarding the turbo tunnel entrance
whooshed
open and he guided her into a carriage.
“You might want to hold on to the supports.”
Acceleration jerked her toward the rear of the car. One hand snatched at and clenched around a vertical metal bar while the other desperately clutched her fragile rock flower. A few seconds later, massive reduction in momentum tried to hurl her forward. Graegen, she noted ruefully, didn’t look as though he’d moved a muscle.
“Here we are.” He led her out into a short corridor. “The room is programmed for your thumbprint. Press your thumb to the panel and you’re in.” He smiled. “I hope you’ll be comfortable.”
“Thanks, Graegen.” She stepped the few feet to her door.
“I’ll see you later,” he said.
She smiled over her shoulder. “Bye.”
She pressed her thumb to the pad and the door slid open so fast it appeared to vanish. Warm comfort stole across her limbs and she entered.
She had a home.
Okay, a temporary one, but hers, nonetheless. A sense of having taken the first step in a long, healing journey infused her heart. She placed her treasured rock flower on a nearby ledge and wrapped her arms around her body. Her eyes alighted on the bed and mischief erupted. She took a running jump and landed on the firm cushioning, feeling it give a little. A laugh rose.
How many times had she and her brothers gotten into trouble for doing just that? Well, that and swinging off the rotary clothes line. Her mouth firmed and she pressed a bittersweet tremble from her lips.
I
will not
remember them with sorrow, no matter how much I miss them.
A doorway beckoned and hopeful curiosity urged investigation.
An en-suite!
Her excitement dimmed when she discovered that ablutions for Angrigans consisted of scented wipes—and she’d thought that had just been hospital procedure.
Ah, well, at least she had her own lavatory.
She busied herself that afternoon furthering her education into the society willing to embrace her, using the computer audio interface in her room to study the Angrigan culture and language. A knock on her door mid-afternoon heralded the arrival of a package and she opened it with curiosity and enthusiasm.
From the box she pulled a snowflake-shaped piece of gold-coloured metal about half the size of her palm and a small data-recording device. It began to play when she lifted it and Mhartak’s voice fanned a dizzy flame over her heart.
“Sandrea, as you have been discharged from medical and free to roam the base’s unrestricted areas, please wear this . . . decoration. It will identify you as a guest at Kintista base.”
Really? You don’t think my altogether human appearance will tell me apart?
The next day she pinned the brooch to the lapel of her shirt and took a solitary wander about the base. An energetic stroll up a couple of knolls collected her three more desert roses, but her attempts to strike up a conversation in Angrigan failed miserably. Maybe it was her Australian accent mangling her Angrigan. A lot of the soldiers ignored her, shooting her a contemptuous look after staring at the brooch she wore. She wondered what about the decoration could incite so much hostility. Or was the cause simply her wearing it?
“I thought I might find you here.”
Delight blazed through Sandrea at Mhartak’s voice. She spun from her ritual of admiring the sunset to drink in the sight of him climbing the last rise of the knoll.
“Hello, General.” Despite her heart hammering like a blacksmith who’d downed one too many shots of espresso, she managed to greet him with composure.
He came to a halt by her side and gazed at the sky. “A beautiful sight, is it not?”
“Certainly is.”
“Does it remind you of your home?”
His perception cheered a forlorn part of her.
“Yes, kind of, these just last longer.” She forced her eyes from him and focused on the psychedelic horizon. “I guess we’ll have perpetual night for a while soon.”
“That is correct. The temperature will drop quite dramatically. You have been issued cold-weather gear?”
She nodded. “Yes, thank you.” She abandoned the magnificent, atmospheric display and rested her eyes on him with pleasure.
“You look tired, General. Hard day?”
“A slight headache, that’s all.”
“Sit.” She pointed to a boulder-sized red rock.
He turned and peered down on her. For a moment his green eyes lingered on her face, then he lowered himself to the rock surface. She moved to stand behind him, lifted her hands, and pressed a light touch to his temples. A buzz tingled across her finger pads. Warm pleasure danced over her arms to her breasts. She gritted her jaw and resisted the impulse to lean into him and feel the hard strength of his broad back against her softness.
What
is
it with me? Christ, that’d go over so well, molesting the general of this base.
Mhartak sat straighter
.
Unease or military posture? Had he sensed her wanton attraction?
She took a deep breath, steadied her wayward body, and traced slow circles over the smooth skin at the edges of his eyes, alert for any sign of distaste. He seemed to relax, so she continued, enjoying the flares of sensual heat licking at her skin. After a few moments, she walked her fingers up over his brow-ridges. Tiny blasts of exquisite sensation exploded into her fingertips. She suppressed a gasp and pressed into a brow-scale. The texture softened and heated, pulsing beneath her touch like sensuality incarnate. Desire stirred and rippled through her sex.
The pressure against her fingers increased. Had he leaned into her hands? Perhaps massaging that area gave him relief. She pushed down her burgeoning lust and kneaded fingers eager to savour the erogenous sizzle into his brow-ridges.
Are his other scales like this?
She smoothed her hands up and back over his head. The warm, firm texture of resilient skin pleasured her senses. Slanting sunlight glimmered on the streaks of gold adorning his head ridges. She brushed an exploratory hand over them.
He jerked.
“Sorry.”
Hell, the golden ridges were swelling. Had she done something to anger him?
“Perhaps I should stop.”
“No! Er, however, would you be so good as to avoid the . . . ” He cleared his throat. “Ridge area?”
“Sure.”
Why? Can’t be that sensitive. Not if it’s used in battle.
She moved her hands to massage his scalp, enjoying the sensuous pleasure of touching and providing relief. Her fingertips skimmed the base of his cranial ridge. A blaze of molten fire stormed through her body. Her ears caught a smothered groan.
“Sorry.” She pulled her hands back then centred her attention on his neck and probed her thumbs beneath the collar of his shirt. Electricity zapped up her arms. Her knees buckled. She desperately locked them and managed to remain upright.
Dear Lord, the scales lining his spine spark with more vitality than those on his brow-ridges.
She kneaded the joints of his neck with her thumbs. Erotic sensation fluttered through her belly then curled into her breasts. Her sex throbbed in time with the heat thrumming through her blood. She turned her attention to his broad shoulders and damn near collapsed in a puddle.
Lord, he’s built!
She longed to discover just how well. A scent, the freshness of pine underlain with the tang of lemon and something intrinsically male,
entranced her
.
An image of his bulging, burnished-bronze chest seduced her mind.
Not a good idea . . .
But her hands were already smoothing across the line of his muscular shoulders. Her eager fingers speared over his collarbones and danced along the edge of his pectoral plates.
C
hrist, Sandrea you’re grop— Oh-My-God!
Sensual hunger jammed in her throat. Her eyes closed. Heat bloomed along every nerve and pooled at her thighs. Never had she felt anything so vibrant, so
alive
. She ran her fingers back and forth across warm solidity, drowning in the rapture torching her blood.
Strong hands gripped her forearms and stilled them. Her eyes snapped open.
Oh, crap!
She’d leaned forward so far her bandaged breasts cradled his head. His ridges, swollen to an even greater extent, must feel her every breath. She jerked back, but the grip on her captured arms held her fast. Fear snaked through her gut, all the more powerful for she knew she was in the wrong.
His head rocked from side-to-side then rolled a loose circle. His swollen ridges brushed slowly across the upper slopes of her breasts. The hurried breath she gasped to apologize caught in her throat. Exquisite fire speared to her nipples, and her body shuddered with need.
She swallowed, closed her eyes, and did her damnedest to control the wild response of her body. Warm sensation danced over her flesh where his breath puffed against her neck.
He must have turned toward her.
She opened her eyes and stared into his. Slowly, awareness sank in. Her hands were still buried in his shirt, her fingers splayed over his warm chest.
And she was no longer restrained.
She whipped her hands from him like they’d been scorched. Trembling with trepidation and arousal, she stepped back, battling to bring her too-fast breathing under control. Mhartak turned away. The straight line of his spine screamed rigid self-control.
His shoulders rose and fell to huge breaths.
She stared at the back of his head and wondered if she should be running like hell. If the amount of swelling in those cranial ridges was any indication of his anger, he was furious. Hell and damnation, she’d get herself killed arousing him to that level of high emotion. Why did her mind and body respond like this to him, leading to a regrettable lack of control?