"Spike," Buffy snarled, striding over to the Neitzschean. "What have you done now?"
"Excuse me." Bolivar said disdainfully, quirking that eyebrow.
"Don't give me that innocent act. Okay spill, how did you get here? Can you get me back home?"
"Madame, I fear you have mistaken me for someone else. Though I wouldn't mind…assisting you in any way that I can," he says smoothly, giving her a thorough once over.
Wrong move.
Dylan senses that things are about to get bad. "Buffy, I don't think…" He never got the chance to finish his sentence.
Buffy reached out and thrust her thumb at Bolivar's scar, putting a little extra Slayer 'oomf' behind it.
"Ow! What in the hell is wrong with you woman!"
Harper winces. Shit, he thinks, wrong thing to say. Do not pass go, do not collect a hundred dollars…do be prepared to get your ass kicked. Even I know never to say that. Dylan and Tyr brace themselves. Beka and Trance frown in disgust.
Buffy merely grins and exerts more pressure, forcing Bolivar to his knees. She gives him a thorough once over. Her large, hazel green eyes boring into electric blue. "Right. You're not Spike," she said sarcastically. "And this," giving an extra vicious twist, "isn't a scar. Now get this straight, I don't know what game your playing but embracing colored leather does not a new vamp make. And just what is with your hair? Did you decide to go from Billy Idol to early Madonna…" she abruptly stops. What the hell? She tilts her head, hearing the faintest of noises coming from the vamp. Focus Buffy, you can do this… She gives herself over to her knew senses and hears…a heartbeat?
"Spike," she says tremulously.
"What? No, I am not Spike. I am Charlemange Bolivar. Alpha of the Sabra-Jaguar Pride. Duke of…" he began through clenched teeth, shoving away Buffy's hand. Seriously contemplating the merits of hitting her as he meticulously adjust his cuffs.
"I think that we all need to calm down and talk about this," Dylan interjects. He really didn't feel up to defending the Andromeda from the Sabra-Jaguar fleet for the rest of eternity.
A very long while later, after endless discussions and explanations, sprinkled with frequent interruptions by Harper. Beka and Charlemange are finally caught up to speed and Buffy learns more about the Andromeda and her crew. Dylan manages to avert a universal incident, much to his relief.
At the moment, Harper, Tyr, and Beka are back on the Sabra-Jaguar fleet to help with repairs; guided by a still livid Charlemange Bolivar.
Back on the Andromeda, Dylan and Trance prepare to board the Orcas' primary vessel to care for the wounded, accompanied by Buffy, who seems to be taking her current situation rather well…
Andromeda's Hanger Deck…
"This," instructed Dylan, holding out a metal pole about a foot long, "is a high guard force-lance. I want you to carry one, just in case, while we are on the Orca's ship. I doubt that they'll try anything since we have an alliance with the Sabra-Jaguar…but you never know."
He continued on. "The force-lance can be used to administer high voltages of electricity or plasma blasts. It is also equipped for illumination, cutting, and effectors." Seeing Buffy's blank look, "Effectors are minute attack drones, that target your opponents and intercept retaliatory fire." Dylan presses a button and the force-lance lengthens to about two meters in length. "It can also be utilized for physical combat when extended." He attempted to hand Buffy the weapon.
"Oh, no thank you," Buffy said, vehemently shaking her hands and head. "Buffy and gu-um blasters are absolutely un-mixy things. Hand me a stake or an ax, and I'll wail on a monster like there's no tomorrow. But hand me one of those… I can throw a knife, I just can't point and shoot…unless it's a cross-bow. I don't suppose you've got one of those on board?" Dylan shakes his head doubtfully, straining to remember what exactly a cross bow was. "I didn't think so."
"Oh, I've got just the thing," Trance enthused, "wait here."
Trance runs out of the room and makes her way toward Harper's workshop. Dylan ruefully shakes his head at Trance's interminable eagerness.
"Here," he said, "I still think that it can be of some use to you." Seeing Buffy's fresh protestations, he added, "I'll just disable the blasters and you can use it as a quarter staff."
He retracted the force-lance and handed it to Buffy who reluctantly accepted. She felt a slight tingle in her palm. Dylan hastily explained, "A force-lance is acclimated to one and only one user…it's scanning and memorizing your DNA, so that it cannot be utilized against you during a fight. If anyone else attempts to operate it, a high powered current of electrical energy will incapacitate them." He considered her seriously, "To disable the safety, press these buttons in sequence." He demonstrated how to operate the various settings with his own force-lance and had Buffy try them out for herself on hers, before he was assured of her dexterity with the weapon. He handed her a leather thigh holster for the lance.
Buffy looked at it in confusion. "Is this some kind of new age garter or something," she said, holding it up to her face, "because I really don't think that I need more leather."
A barely perceptible flush spread across the captain's cheeks. "Uh, no, it's a thigh holster for the force lance."
"Oh," Buffy blushed and handed Dylan the holster. "That's okay. It's really just like a metal stake…I'm used to hiding them on me…" she trails off, hurriedly tucking the force-lance into her boot. "So…" she said, looking everywhere but at him, desperate to change the subject.
"So," Dylan responded, smiling awkwardly.
"So…you were trapped in a black hole for a couple of hundred years. I sent one of by boyfriends to hell for a couple hundred years…actually, it was a couple of months…but in hell it was much longer…" Buffy offered weakly. Dylan raises his brows.
Oh, god, she thinks, Trance, hurry up before I say something even more stupid.
Rummaging around in Harper's trunk, Trance triumphantly lifts up a bundled object.
Perfect, she thought with satisfaction.
On her way back, she makes a detour into the storage area. Jubilantly bearing her prizes, she breathlessly rushes back onto the Hanger Deck. Only to find Dylan and Buffy frozen in uncomfortable silence.
Trance smiles, handing Buffy a short, black leather jacket. "Here, you might get cold."
Buffy returns her smile, touched.
Trance proceeds to unwrap the last item, revealing a bokken and scabbard. "Harper kept these after that group of assassins was on board." She divulged to Dylan. "I don't think he'll mind; it was just gathering dust in his workshop."
Buffy grasps the hilt, unsheathing the sword with a barely perceptible snickt. She backed away and executed a short kata. "This is more like it. Thank you." She said, smiling brilliantly at Trance and a bemused Dylan.
"If we're ready," Dylan strangled out.
Dylan escorted them to the Orca's main ship.
On a viewing screen in the opulent quarters of the Sabra-Jaguar Alpha…Locked in his private quarters, Charlemange blindly observes the tableau unfolding before him.
In the main engine room, Harper works on a control panel; Beka checking on a monitor and occasionally passing him a tool. All the while, Tyr and several other Neitzscheans remove debris from the surrounding area. From the screen, Harper's bitching is clearly heard.
"Damn it, why do I get stuck with you three stooges while Dylan gets the girl. By the time we get back on board, she'll be all over him just like every other good looking woman who comes on Andromeda."
"Poor you," Beka responds absently. A shower of sparks zaps her from the monitor. "Ow," she yelled, "fuck! Harper, pay attention!"
Their argument goes on unheard by Bolivar as Tyr and company taunt the combatants from the sidelines.
Bolivar's mind is elsewhere. He shuts off the screen and closes his eyes
Damn the woman…who does she think she is to exert her will upon ME. To think that I could ever be intimidated by her…dubious skills. He silently fumes. That uppity, no account…human!
He quiets, thinking of the girl. Of her silky long hair and clear eyes. The vulnerability of her mouth and the exquisite perfection of her body. He ruefully shakes his head, taken in by a rude, whisp of a girl. I am deeply disappointed. I can't decide whether or not to strangle or bed her. He looks to his bed, a large, round and sumptuous concoction. What I wouldn't give to… Damn it Bolivar! You have too many problems to add the complication of a tryst with a human.
He sobers, the burden of his problems suddenly crashing onto his shoulders. The momentary respite induced by his own contradictory feelings for one human girl evaporating. Reality finally catches up with him.
My family, my Pride is in danger. Charlemange rises from his seat and makes his way to a wide window.
My wives…Elsbet, Iman, Lorel, Sena…he turns from the window in anger. Each name and face blurring into the other.
Neitzscheans do not bond out of love; rather, they come together out of need. Creating a genetically superior line requires…logic. Feelings are secondary. Yet…although he did not necessarily love them, he respected them, enjoyed their unique attributes. They became his friends, his companions, and his partners in life. They were his family, and he grieves for them. For what he has lost, for what they will never…
A feeling of sorrow encompasses his soul. The children…Irel, Zaor, Menoly… He clenches his fist and strikes out at the wall. Bruising knuckles, grinding bone, tearing skin, and feeling…nothing.
Children are precious to Neitzscheans. Each and every new life is embraced with joy by the whole. It doesn't matter if one has a girl or a boy, it only matters that they live, that the child exists and grows and thrives.
The greatest wish of all Neitzscheans is to have "hundreds of grandchildren, utter domination of known space, and the pleasure of hearing that all of their enemies have died in terrible, highly improbable acts that cannot be connected to them."
The Magog, he mentally snarls. The one word filled with so much anger and pain, that it is a wonder that it does not burn as it explodes upon his senses. He begins to pace, burning a path before the window. They're on the attack, but why? What is their agenda? They've always killed for their own pleasures, their own needs…but only when someone gets in their path of destruction. We were nowhere near any of their territories; there was no warning at all of their plans. They deliberately sought us out, destroyed before even trying to harvest the bodies.
"Arrrrrrrrrrrrrr," he erupts, without words, just pure feeling.
"We'll have to stay together…on the alert…I'll inform Hunt…" The Alpha shakes in wordless rage. He stills, deliberately slowing his breath, calming his senses. He does not have the luxury to mourn.
He is Charlemange Bolivar. Alpha and Field marshal. ArchDuke of the Unified Sabra-Jaguar Pride. Regent of the Twin Moon of Avox and Evox. Commander of the third largest fleet in the known galaxy. And father to a motherless son.
He sets his attention back to the immediate, more pressing problems plaguing his Pride, pushing past the pain. There is no time for him to indulge in his feelings…there is never any time.
And a man grieves alone.
GlossaryBokken: a type of sword…do ya know ninjas…do ya know the type of sword they carry…then ya know the bokken…it's sleek without the ornate…thing that separates the handle from the blade
Kata: a sword exercise…a sequence of thrusts, parries, and blocks…there are many different patterns for katas