IV. VERY EARLY MORNING THE NEXT DAY: COLE
Nestov stuffed his wool-gloved hands deep into the warmth of his armpits, stomping his feet to hurry circulation. It wasn't really all that terribly cold, mainly chill-damp from the blustery winds off the Lake. Rather balmy weather for a Nodulian perhaps, but not for him. The thing of it was, he was overly tired and he had to remain stationary for too much of the time, so he was feeling the weather's affects more keenly than usual. And it was very late. Or very early, depending upon how one looked at it. 3:00 in the morning. The Tracker might not need to sleep, he ruefully thought, but he did. About three or four out of every twenty-four or so would do him. But he hadn't dared allow himself more than four or five hours sleep over the past five days, and those had been taken in snatches standing up. "Guard duty really, really sucks. Big time," he mumbled to himself. Especially guarding someone who might try to Collect him in a heartbeat if she even laid eyes on him. He began to think that maybe he should just do another quick circuit around the block, counter-clockwise this time. Movement would certainly help.
Leaving his primary post, he first crossed the street to check out the Watchfire's entrance and peer in the front windows, then he cautiously circled around toward the back to survey the service area, all the while using his keen Dessarian sixth sense to feel for the presence of any other Migarians in the vicinity. Fortunately, he didn't sense anyone. He really didn't know what he might do if he did. But with cold certainty he was absolutely positive that, if he screwed up this last-chance-to-redeem-himself assignment, he'd be as good as dead. Or sincerely wish he were.
For the thousandth time he wondered how he ever managed to get himself into this situation in the first place. If it had been any other Tracker on the case but Daggon ... Well, it was Daggon. Of course it was. Who else would it be? Who the hell else could it be? Although Zin using Rhee as the guinea pig had been the equivalent of throwing out live bait, Daggon was the one Tracker the Hierarchy would've called in to handle this mass prison break anyway, even if he hadn't already been on the scene. It wouldn't have mattered if he'd been as far away as the distant side of the Outermost Clusters, they would've immediately upgraded his status from on indefinite leave' to active' and sent for him.
And that, Nestov reminded himself, was exactly why he was in this situation. Like all Dessarians, he had exceptionally strong survival instincts. He was determined to come out on the winning side of this, no matter which side that might be. If it had been any other Tracker there would've been little or no question. No other Tracker, as an individual, would stand a ghost of a chance against so many. Only Daggon did. And he had no wish to personally discover how much of this Tracker's considerable reputation might only be myth, legend or hear-say. Or how much of it might be the unvarnished truth.
Satisfying himself that all was peaceful and secure, Nestov retraced his steps to the front. Even at this hour a few lone cars were still cruising the streets, their occupants either headed for home or on their way to an early morning job. Some lost and bleary souls were probably even searching for an afterhours club still pulsing with an electronic imitation of life. Like he should be. A garbage truck rumbled past as he looked around, but at this early morning hour Chicago was as quiet as any major city ever really gets. In the background droned a just barely audible thrum of unrest, no different from the heartbeat of any city anywhere as it not quite sleeps.
"Nestov."
Nestov nearly jumped out of his skin at hearing his name uttered from just behind him so close to his ear, but he quickly processed exactly who it was. "Oh, man! Scare the freakin' crap out of me, why don't you!"
"Sorry," the Tracker replied, although there was no hint of apology in his tone.
"Hey! It's okay!" Nestov hastened. "I just had no idea you were even there. How do you ever do that, anyway? Nobody's supposed to be able to sneak up on a Dessarian! We got these early warning-like senses, you know? We're ultra-aware! But you! You could give a cat prowling lessons! How come I can't ever sense you?"
The Tracker ignored both the rant and the questions. "Any problems?"
"Well, naw, not really. I've been up on the job, see. Dependable! Reliable! That's me! I've ..."
"Let me decide if it's really not really'!" the Tracker snapped, cutting him off.
"Okay, okay. See, a pair of Vardians seemed to be checking out the place day before yesterday, about 2:30 in the pm. Standing about here, where we are. I was doing lookout on the Watchfire's roof. Doing a great job of it, too! Kept both eyes on them and laid low, blending in. Made real sure they didn't see me. They hung around maybe ten minutes tops, then left. Haven't seen them since. I don't know who they were, didn't recognize them at all. Otherwise, all's been super quiet. Zip! Nada."
"Too quiet ..." the Tracker muttered under his breath.
"You kidding, my man? With Zin locked away they've all gone splitsville. Headed for the hills! Woooo! You've got them running for ..." The strong hand suddenly gripping the vulnerable back of his neck none too gently quickly shut him up. Nestov could recognize an irritable mood when he saw one, even when it was masked by the typically calm and placid outward aspect of a Cirronian. And he was in enough serious trouble with the Tracker that he wasn't about to risk adding to it. He considered himself damn lucky that he hadn't been Collected already.
"Anything else?"
"Ah, well ... Look, my man, this really ain't any of my business, you know? And I really don't ..." the hand's grip tightened "... Ouch! Okay! Okay! Just don't mutilate the messenger! Please?"
The hand suddenly relented and dropped away. "Look, Nestov. I'm very fatigued. I've been traveling for over twenty hours in those miserable human excuses for air transport. I'm hungry and my bones are so cold they ache. So don't try my patience and just say it. With as little extra vocabulary as possible."
Nestov nodded his understanding of the request but closed his eyes before saying anything, almost expecting a blow. "It's about your lady. Nothing exactly wrong," he hastily added, "It's just she's ... Well, she's been spending a lot of her time with that detective. You know the one? Bruno? Four nights ago she stayed overnight at his place. Last night he was here. All night. Know what I'm saying here?" When the half-expected blow he was bracing for didn't come, he stole a sidelong glance up at the much taller man to gauge his reaction, but didn't see what he thought he would. "It ... It doesn't bother you? You're okay with that?"
"It's her choice. Such things are always the female's choice. My feelings about it are irrelevant."
The Tracker's quiet acceptance of the matter was too much for Nestov. "Man, you Cirronians are just plain nuts! Loose in all the wrong places! You guys just let your females push you around too much, you know that? We take control! We simply pounce on the female we want and ..."
"Ever pounce on a female who hasn't been displaying to you?"
"Well, no, but ..."
"Then all you're doing is pouncing on a female who's invited you to pounce on her. Now, if that's all you have to tell me, you may go."
"Yeah. Sure." Nestov said, edging away, hardly believing his good luck at still being enough in the Tracker's good graces to remain alive and unCollected. "If it don't bother you then it sure don't bother me. What else can I say? Been a pleasure. See you. Bye now. And you're welcome."
The Tracker turned from his intense scrutiny of the darkened windows of the apartment above the Watchfire. "Nestov!" The smaller man instantly froze in place and hesitantly peered back over an almost cringing shoulder at the darkling-eyed Cirronian. "You've done a good job this time, Nestov. And I thank you for it. You've spared me a great deal of worry. Now go home and get some sleep. You look like you need it."
Nestov flashed him a broad grin and gave a jaunty thumbs up. "Anytime, my man. Anytime at all. We're partners!" And he hurried away with a spring in his step, blithely ignoring the Tracker's usual You aren't my partner' response.
Although anxious to get upstairs, Cole stood rooted to the spot for nearly five full minutes, carefully scanning the entire surrounding area as far as his acutely attuned senses could reach in two long, slow, 360-degree sweeps. Although nearly vibrating from the effort (and giving himself a pounding headache in the process), the only Migarian he could detect anywhere was the rapidly moving away Nestov. That didn't mean there weren't any others around, of course. Too many were mentally disciplined enough to mask their lifeforce signatures and slip in under his radar and some, like most Dessarians, were extremely difficult to detect in any case – but this was the best he could do under the circumstances. It would have to be enough. He hoped it was enough. As satisfied as he could make himself, he went around the back and let himself into the Watchfire's service entrance.
Once inside he still didn't head upstairs immediately. Security had to come first. What Nestov had told him was perfectly true: many of the fugitives viewed Zin's incarceration as their second escape, this time from a ruthlessly driving master who wouldn't hesitate to sacrifice the lot of them to his own ends. But Zin did have his hard-core inner circle, his elite, and they would stop at nothing to free him. And the members of this elite inner-circle were by far the most dangerous and cunning of all the felons. The Watchfire was ground zero for their attentions and he had to be more vigilant than ever.
Setting down his dufflebag he soundlessly made his way down to the basement and carefully checked the wine cellar, the freezers, the storage areas and Zin's prison, the vault. As far as he could tell, Zin was still in there (probably estivating by now) and all was exactly as it should be. Back up on the main floor he went through the kitchen, the pantry, the bar and the restrooms, double-checking all doors, windows and locks. Only when he was positive that nothing had been tampered with or compromised did he allow himself to unlock the door to the stairwell and ascend up to the apartment.
For a long moment Cole just stood in the hallway, eyes closed and breathing deeply, savoring the flood of scents and warm, familiar sensations of being home, soaking himself in the sense of comfort and rightness. Lemon furniture polish, pine cleanser, potpourri carpet deodorizer – Mel's been housecleaning, he noted – laundry detergent, bleach, fabric softener. From the kitchen on his left came the aromas of garlic and what had to be Lela's amazing lasagna (his stomach growled at that, reminding him just how very unsatisfying airliner food is), chocolate, pastries and coffee. Good coffee. On his right, Mel's wonderful herbal shampoo, soap and bubblebath, her skin cream. A faint, lingering whiff of Vic's favorite aftershave in the air made him wrinkle his nose in annoyance.
But most of all he heeded the vibrant siren call of Mel's lifeforce which he could feel coming from behind her bedroom door – which he'd actually been able to clearly sense from a distance of many blocks away. From the first, her lifeforce had been unique to him, so different from that of all other humans, that it enabled him to easily Track her to the Watchfire from the trainyard she'd left him at the very first day he'd been on this world. He shrugged out of his heavy coat and let it drop to the floor, moved to her door and quietly opened it. He listened to the soft rhythm of her slow breathing and knew she was deeply asleep. Even from the doorway he was acutely aware of her, of the radiant warmth of her body, of the special fragrances of her skin and hair which overlaid her own unique female scent.
Cole moved over to the bed, gliding silent as a shadow so as not to awaken her, and looked down at her as she slept, dazzled by the dance of moonlight in her hair and the curve of the blanket over her hip. He felt as though he was frozen at some unknowable point in space and time, unable to go forward, unwilling to go back. He took a deep breath, letting it out on the wings of a sigh. "I've missed you," he said. Although barely above a whisper, his voice cracked under the sudden weight of the sentiment. He hadn't meant to say that, but the unexpected upswelling of emotion had blindsided him.
He hesitantly reached a hand towards her sleeping form, his fingertips lightly brushing the loose strands of hair spilling across her pillow. They were as liquid silk, soft and lush to his touch as they curled around and slid through his fingers. As always, ever since his early lesson on human personal hygiene, a part of him wondered what it would be like to feel every naked inch of her pressed against his own bare skin with nothing between them but their own unchecked heat, wondered what her intimate touch on him would be like. He felt his body start to respond as human male was meant to respond to human female.and bit his lower lip against the by now too familiar urges, reluctantly drawing his hand back. For the umpteenth time he reminded himself: there was no point in yearning for what would likely never be. With another deep breath to internalize the regret, he turned away and left the room, silently easing the door closed behind him.
Once in the shower, Cole finally stopped pretending. Stopped pretending his life was fine exactly the way it was and everything was well under control, stopped pretending his head didn't hurt, stopped pretending that the scalding hot water pounding at hard pulse on his neck and between his shoulder blades was all he really needed to get back to feeling normal. The zeal and purpose, the focus, that had driven him for days had leached away, and he felt tired, listless, weary to the very marrow of his bones, so tired his muscles were like jellied glue, so tired that he could very likely fall into a trance standing up. More, he was exhausted from the constant tension, the constant vigilance, the constant worry, the constant uncertainty.
For one of the very few times in his existence he could honestly say that he was sick to death of the Track. For him that was a harsh admission. Never mind the status that came with his high rank, he'd always loved being a Tracker – the uncovering and solving of the Track's puzzle and pattern, the planning for and anticipation of the hunt, the wild adrenaline rush of the chase that sometimes carried him across dozens of worlds and solar systems, the instantaneous life-and-death decisions during confrontation that had to be made on the fly. He rarely felt quite as keenly alive, quite as real, as when he was at the point of concluding a particularly dangerous Collection.
But not lately.
Not any more.
Not, in fact, since Rhee.
Not that he'd ever had a choice in the matter. Now, then or ever. Like all those of his line, he had never been able to escape the bonds of his heritage. He was what he was. The High Prime knew it, and she took full advantage. As all the High Primes before her had.
His resignation had been summarily rejected by direct decree from the High Prime, and his assignment as a Prison Guard was only considered a temporary, if indefinite, term of service. He'd been ordered out on several high-priority Tracks during those ten years – again by mandate of the High Prime – as his partial payment to her for even being permitted to serve in the same prison holding the one who had butchered his own family.
He'd traded his soul for the chance to be in the right place. Just in case. It had been what he'd wanted. So why, then, did he have the nagging impression that he'd been manipulated?
He flexed and stretched his arms and shoulders with a joint-popping grunt, letting some of the tensions begin to sluice down the drain along with the shampoo and soap lather, as the pounding pulse of the water worked what magic it could soothing his muscles and heating his chilled blood and marrow. The deep-seated ache of cellular memory in his abdomen, however, still yammered at him of the massive, recently healed body damage that had nearly ended his life.
Wounds and other physical injuries definitely came and went, he reflected, but the memories, the mental scars, they remained with him always. And he had far too many of those to even begin to count. Much of them he didn't want to remember. Much more he'd deliberately chosen to forget. He'd known more brutality, more wasted life, more degradation, more horror than any could ever possibly imagine. Among them were things he'd never talked about with anyone and never would, things that would never really go away. These things forever lurked in the darkness in his soul, watching and waiting for him.
None would ever be able to fathom some of the things he'd done, or been forced to do, either out of necessity or desire or circumstance or whatever in the course of it. And the only way any could even presume to judge him for many of the life and death choices he'd made is if they'd been there, if they themselves had lived through it.
He often thought it had to be something of a miracle that, after all this time, he was still sane. Usually sane, he silently amended. At least, he thought he was usually sane. But then again, how could he know for sure? Certainly he wasn't after his family had been murdered. He'd been the one to find the mutilated bodies of his mate and daughter, so horribly mangled and brutalized they were all but unrecognizable. He'd snapped, gone over the edge into complete psychosis ...
Enough! he sternly told himself. He impatiently shut off that entire long-running, long-playing loop of thought along with the hot water tap. It led him nowhere.
Toweling off and then tieing it around his waist, Cole made his way through the thick cloud of steam filling the room to the sink and wiped a forearm across the mirrored bathroom cabinet.to clear it. You still in there somewhere, Dag? he silently asked his human-appearing refection as he usually did, not expecting an answer.
It had taken him quite some time to become accustomed to the image he saw in the mirror. Humans were a very strange-looking species, not unpleasant to look at by any means (not that any species ever considered its appearance to be unpleasant), merely transitional, incomplete and under-developed, a primitive interim form with too many vestigial parts and a number of oddities.
The human foot, for example, had to be a cosmic joke. It was essentially flat to the ground and the body's weight and center of gravity were centered over an arch, making movement slow, awkward and clumsy. Better, the heel should be well elevated so that the center of gravity would be over the ball of the foot. That would allow for speed, grace and agility, as well as make for much better balance. As for the vertebrae and their support musculature, they were a mess. It came as no surprise to him that back pain and spinal problems were common aliments among humans: their evolution hadn't yet perfected the structural nuances of upright bipedal posture. And what were these useless flattened pads of fragile keratin atop all the digits? Claws, at least, would be functional, especially if they were retractable. Then there were these swellings – lips – around the oral opening. He couldn't recall ever meeting another species anywhere that had such a thing. The ear flaps – earlobes they were called – were another useless thing, incapable of movement and thereby making it difficult for humans to accurately pinpoint sound. Not that humans were capable of discerning much in the range of sounds, anyway. Their visual acuity was also entirely unremarkable, well below average, in fact. Their visible spectrum was restricted to a narrow field. Their sense of smell was poor to virtually non-existent. Their numerous higher senses were only barely functional, if at all, and that only in a rare few ... Only their senses of taste and touch were well developed. Level Three sentience without much in the way of sensory awareness. That was very odd indeed.
Even odder, humans had the reproductive biology and psychology one usually associates with a species very low on the food chain, not with a planet's dominant lifeform: obsessive sexuality coupled with year-round fertility leading to a staggering birthrate. And with the clear potential for that birthrate to be even more staggering than it already was. Six billion plus strong and still counting. Astonishing. There were more humans on their one planet than there were beings on all five Cirrons, Varda and Enix combined – including all their respective inhabited satellites. Humans were certainly an interesting entry in the Chronicles. And would bear continued close observation and monitoring.
And don't even get him started on human fur patterning, he thought as he combed back his damp hair. Obviously the full pelt was on its evolutionary way out, but this remaining patchwork of heavy here, sparse there with areas ranging from soft to wiry was so very strange it bordered on the bizarre. Especially since some of it had to be scraped off on a daily basis. Well, it didn't exactly have to be scraped off, but Mel insisted upon him doing so and it was not for him to oppose her in the matter. Thinking of which, it was still very early. Should he shave now or wait until later in the day?
So why was it he now found this morphed alien form so comfortable to be in? That he simply couldn't figure at all. It had none of the graces or freedoms of his natural Cirronian body – indeed, it had the oppressive weight of skin and bone and the wearing of garments was a requirement as well – yet these things had only come to bother him on an abstract, intellectual level, not in day to day living. Certainly it had taken him quite a while to properly adjust the body and finesse himself into the fit, and he'd made a number of alterations and improvements to the internal structure as a result, but still ...
He opened the bathroom cabinet and took out his razor and the shaving cream. May as well scrape his face now, while the bristles were well-softened from all the steam and hot water. With any luck, he wouldn't have to repeat the tiresome grooming chore until tomorrow, although that would depend on any plans Mel might have for him. Maybe tending bar tonight or escorting her somewhere, as she was sometimes wont to have him do. He gladly placed himself at her beck and call for anything and everything she wished, whenever, wherever and however she wished, but please! Not another opera! His hearing was too sensitive for all that loud screeching.
Cole critically examined his reflection as he lathered on the shaving cream. What did Mel see when she looked at him? He'd come to understand that he was considered reasonably attractive for a human male. (Which in itself was rather amusing when he thought about it: he wasn't at all attractive for a Cirronian male. He was far too big and tall, even taller than most of the females, and much too broad and heavy through his upper body. Although by no means fat, he simply didn't have the elegant, slender, delicately gracile quality typical of the species. His features were much too strong as well and his eyes were ... Well, they were color they were). But knowing this human form was considered attractive by other humans couldn't tell him what Mel saw. Or what she felt about what she saw. Did he appeal to her at all? Oftentimes in the past he had the impression that she thought of him as she would a child, although he had to admit that didn't seem to be so much the case anymore. He'd probably never be sure what she was thinking.
He shook his head. Mel. His vibrant, excitable, brave, feisty, stubborn, caring, totally incomprehensible and utterly maddening Mel. He even thought of her as being beautiful and graceful, although he couldn't say either of those things about her species. She sometimes seemed far too good to be true, especially when she looked at him with that bemused, bright-eyed expression that told him the joke was on him (again), or laughed so easily over some of life's little absurdities (he loved the sound of her laughter almost as much as he loved her big blue-green eyes), or fussed, fretted and worried over him, always looking out for him, or talked so passionately about the people and things she cared about, about life in general. Sometimes she would talk all afternoon and on into the evening on an endless variety of subjects and he was content just looking at her, watching the way she used her hands, the way her fingers moved with delicate, precise grace as she talked, the way her softly curled hair constantly defied her every attempt to tie it up or back, invariable coming loose and bobbing in gentle tendrils around her face. The way her mouth could crook in a half-smile or how she would nibble on her lower lip when considering something. Just being with her, even just knowing she was nearby, made him ridiculously happy. It was completely irrational, and he well knew it, but it was the truth.
Everything about her manner gave him the impression that she could be any kind of woman that she wanted to be, or needed to be, and still remain true to herself. She could likely match or beat any Prime or High Prime he'd ever known in that regard, and that was saying a great deal. And his heart continued to discover more and more beauty in her, in her mind, in her body and in her spirit, more for him to want and need. With Mel by his side, he didn't feel quite so alone, quite so disconnected.
Mel had become his addiction, his one true anchor, his lifeline, his bond, someone he couldn't walk away from, couldn't seem to leave alone. It had been a long, long time since he had felt young, but Mel somehow made him see life through fresh eyes, making everything seem new to him.
She'd acted aghast that he hadn't known what ice cream was. Or coffee. Or chocolate. Or Chinese food. Or Chicago deep dish pizza. Or Belgian waffles. Or Italian ices. Or a hotdog. Or hundreds of other things major and minor and even absurd:
"What!?! You mean to tell me you've never been to an American shopping mall or seen a Hollywood movie? You've never been to an amusement park? Or a Chicago Cubs baseball game? You've never gone bird watching? Or sailing? How can you possibly think of yourself as being an advanced species?"
"But I've piloted star cruisers, Mel. I've even sometimes captained them on deep space ..."
"And what makes you think that has any relevance, hmmm?" She laughed and took his arm. "You're now in the toddlin' town of Chicago, nicknamed the Windy City', located on the southern shores of Lake Michigan in the great State of Illinois, in the good old red, white and blue U. S. of A., on the continent of North America, on the blue planet Earth, the third planet from OUR star, which we happen to call the Sun.. You're not anywhere NEAR Migar anymore, Toto. So, come on! Let's get you properly civilized!"
"Okay, Mel."
Mel then proceeded to drag him in willing confusion all over Chicago to sample her strange corner of this even stranger Earth. His first few weeks here had been such a massive overload of data input and sensory experiences that he'd spent most of it spinning in a daze, just trying to process the information. The sensations of taste and touch had especially thrown him. Humans love to eat, and taste was still quite an experience for a species that can obtain all it's energy requirements by absorption, directly from the heat and light of a red star, without ever having to process solid food unless they want to. As for touch, that sensation had nearly paralyzed him. To be able to feel over every square inch of himself what could once only be sensed on his throat and chest was almost painful, almost beyond endurance. That he'd been able to function at all during that whirlwind introduction was still something of a wonder to him.
From the very beginning, Mel had somehow drawn out the rage and guilt that had held him captive and alienated him from life. She had freed him from the tight little cell of his own pain, freed his soul from the over-burdening loss and grief, the spiritual and emotional exhaustion of loneliness and isolation, freed him from suffering the ticking minutes of his life slowly driving him mad. Being with her had somehow filled the empty void in his heart and made him able to face each new day with renewed purpose and hope. Why all this was so, he didn't know. Maybe it was all the vitality she had. Maybe it was her astonishingly innocent capacity to believe that goodness and right would always prevail. Maybe it was because, no matter how down she was, she was always able to reach into herself to help or give solice or offer guidance to another. Maybe it was simply because Mel cared so deeply about so many things that it drove her to forge ahead to do what whatever she felt she had to do, even when she was terrified about it. Maybe it was because she so believed in and trusted him for no other reason than he'd asked her to. And he, in turn, came to honor such belief by trusting her with his life. Maybe it was all of it.
Just the sound of her name echoing in his mind could send his heart skipping into double-time. How had one mere human female make his life so worth living again? Make him care again? When and how had she gained such total power over him? She'd become his friend, his companion, his assistant, his partner, his life. He'd be completely lost without her. She was the reason why he'd survived this long, why he hadn't allowed himself to just give up. With Mel he finally felt at peace. Home.
Home', Cole silently echoed to his strange reflection as he rinsed the residue of shaving cream off his face. Anywhere Mel was, he would probably always think of as his home.
Initially, his behaviors with Mel were simply those of comforting and soothing to put her at ease about him being in her House to begin with, to help her accept him as a friend. Although he had thought that he'd have to groom her to be the helper he needed, she stepped into the role without any urging from him at all (even though she had no clear idea what he was doing), and soon made herself indispensable – so much so that he all too often found himself doing things her way. He had planned, for example, to follow the Enixian fek-maln drug dealers home one by one and Collect them, but that wasn't good enough for Mel. As far as she was concerned, they had to be taken down immediately, their drug-dealing stopped cold because the drug kills humans, and the only way to do that was to take Kaden. Never mind that he would have gotten Kaden his way, he altered his plans for her. She insisted upon being the bait for Tev and she did it – against his better judgement – and nearly paid the price for it. She was a superb researcher, showed him where and how to find all manner of what, to him, was obscure information; she knew basic laws and Chicago police procedures; taught him how to correctly drive a car; arranged his legal defense when he was in jail; helped him gather discarded appliances and computers set out on the curbs on trash days ... Mel was a very resourceful female.
Somewhere along this winding way, their relationship evolved into something more, almost a cautious courtship. Inasmuch as it's Cirronian females who court the males, it was extremely awkward for him to behave contrary to all instinct, upbringing and conditioning to function as a human male would in this regard. But he sincerely tried, often fumbling, and all too often falling back on the Cirronian way of doing these things simply because he didn't know what else to do.
Although he was certain Mel had detected the change in quality he'd given to her throat caresses, as well as their duration, being (mostly) human she lacked the capacity to detect the many subtleties and nuances of it that any full-blooded Cirronian female would recognize immediately. And because the signals he was getting from her were so mixed, he was sure that he was missing many of them, even wildly misinterpreting many others. After all, communication is far more than just a spoken language, even among humans. It involves intonations, eye contact, facial expressions, gestures, body and head angles, movements and postures – a whole host of things that are always species specific and were all completely new to him. Many still were.
He thought that the idea of having Mel teach him how to slow dance was inspired but he was never quite clear just how he should proceed from there. And drove him to utter distraction. If she would just, for once, do it the Cirronian way and make that first move, show him unequivocally what she felt and what, if anything, she wanted of him and how ... But she never did. She only knew the human way.
He would hold her close in his arms and she would snuggle up against him, her head cradled on his shoulder, the two of them fitting together so perfectly in the undeniably intimate embrace it was as if they were meant to be. Often, her hand would seem to find a home on his chest, circling in gentle abstract patterns over his heart until spirals of need slowly began coiling and uncoiling unbidden within him. Did she have any idea what effect that simple action had on him? He could never bring himself to still those wonderfully teasing fingers of hers by covering her hand with his own when she did that, and would allow himself to just relax into her touch, sliding his hands down to the small of her back and pulling her closer, close enough for her to know his own stirrings.
The last time they'd danced like that the music ended and they stood that way in silence for a solid minute, just gazing at each other, a minute that seemed to stretch out for all eternity. Neither of them moved, until a police cruiser whooped and screamed by outside and they both jumped at the sound. With a sigh of what he could've sworn was regret, Mel simply let her hand drop and bid him good-night, as she eventually always did. And like so many times before, he so wanted to say to her, "take me with you", but such would be much too forward a request for any Cirronian male to ever dare make, and he was never quite able to get those four little words out, no matter how often he practiced them.
It had taken him a long time to realize that it wasn't just his inexperience or misreading, that Mel's signals really were quite mixed, that she actually was ambivalent – not just about him, about whether she should have a relationship with him or not, but about her own emotions. She'd allowed herself to be used too often, had allowed herself to be manipulated too often, by men who she'd thought had cared for her, and she no longer trusted her own judgement.
When the Marital Bliss Seminars unexpectedly came up in his Tracking, it seemed like the perfect opportunity. Not only would the pair of Orsians he was hunting be there for easy Collecting, he would have the opportunity to learn more about the complications of human relationships, plus he and Mel would have time alone together and they'd be able to obtain some guidance as a couple.
Nothing worked out as he thought it would.
From the start, Mel had been nervous and fretful about going undercover with him on that Track, yet she'd been far more game about it than not, even insisting that she'd be alright with it and that they not only should do it, they had to do it. Together. He almost felt like a child again when they first set off, a child on an exciting adventure, at one and the same time absurdly happy and anxious, each emotion feeding off the other until he really wasn't focusing at all.
He tried very hard to put Mel and, admittedly, himself ease, joking (lamely) about the mirrors on the ceilings and reminding her that she knew what she was doing but he didn't, so it would have to be she who taught him. (This last was a mistake. He'd thought it would allow her to fully realize that she was the one in control, but that wasn't the way she'd taken it). Mel, however, didn't even start to relax until he playfully set that kissing head's monitor into the red zone and smoking. (For an energy being like a Cirronian, that was easy! He could've even carried it further if he'd wanted to and just blown the monitor up!). Later, he kissed her. For the first time. And for real.
He'd been completely lost ever since.
Even before the Seminars, he'd been trying to imagine what their first time together might be like. The kiss they'd shared, and the seminars they'd attended, drew enough of it together for him to finally conjure a vivid picture. But all he felt from that image was an almost overwhelming sense of terror. Terror that Mel might somehow be repelled by him, terror that he wouldn't be anything she wanted or needed, terror that he would be so agonizingly self-conscious that he wouldn't be able to satisfy her, terror that he would be awkward and clumsy because he had no experience at all with the complexities of human sexuality and because humans took that sexuality so seriously. It did no good to tell himself that these terrors might be irrational. They had seized him, and they made him back away.
If only he could locate that lost book ...
And she didn't know any of it. He hadn't allowed her to know.
What would be the point?
As he pulled on his sweatpants Cole suddenly clutched at his abdomen and hissed in a harsh sharp breath from between clenched teeth. Within a few moments, however, the ghostly stab of pain subsided and then vanished. He softly swore in Cirronian. This phantom pain would probably be with him for a few more days yet.
Sydrax nearly gutting him had not been a fun experience. And it had been his own clumsy fault. He'd lost his footing on the ice and Sydrax took quick and near-lethal advantage with a six inch blade, slicing him open from right hip to left lung, cutting through everything in between, then kicking him down a sewer. The oblivion of emergency systemic stasis was claiming him even as he fell the thirty-some-odd feet to the bottom. Most of his nervous system abruptly switched off, respiration ceased, heart rate plummeted to near nothing, metabolism stopped. He was so far gone so quickly that it barely registered when his pelvis and lower back fractured as he hit. For all intents and purposes, he'd been as good as dead. Fortunately, the temperature was just low enough, and there was just barely enough oxygen remaining in his system, to allow for the nearly three-and-a-half hours it took for the extensive damage to heal.
Then to revive, not only having to go through all the loathsome but expected after-effects of a deep healing stasis – plus the debilitating effects of being near frozen – but to also be facing an army of hungry sewer rats intent on devouring the 200-pounds of fresh meat that had dropped into their midst ... He shuddered in revulsion, remembering.
No, not fun at all.
He could very well have died in the dank blackened depths of that sewer. Very nearly did, in fact. If Sydrax had finished the job and actually disemboweled him instead of just cutting him wide open ... If the temperature had been much higher ... Or lower ... If his body hadn't had enough stored oxygen in it to see him through ... If he hadn't revived when he did, before the rats launched from quick nipping tastes into a full-fledged feeding frenzy ... If ...
Mel would've never known what had become of him.
And that was the most frightening thing of all.
He stared at his reflection, as if he could somehow find a solution in the mirror.
He well knew that, in the scheme of things, the Hierarchy wouldn't think that the remaining felons running around loose on a Class One Quarantined world as brutally violent as Earth was particularly significant, certainly not significant enough to justify the continued involvement of a Tracker of his rank and caliber. Sooner or later he would have to return to Cirron and Sar-Top – probably sooner and likely before he was done. Moreover, he knew with certainty that his years languishing as a Prison Guard were over. Once the prisoners he'd caught were turned in and the interminable debriefings were finished, he'd be pressed into service again, more than likely be given a new assignment almost immediately. Or be placed on ready call for one. Or perhaps one was already waiting for him. And if that disgusting reproductive mandate had been passed ...
No. It was useless. He would never be granted release to return to Earth. Not even if he lowered himself to beg for it. It simply wasn't an important enough world. And since when has any of Cirron's High Primes released a Traaquore?
Only once, his reflection soberly reminded him. 232.7 million years ago.
As Jess would've put it, no way in bloody hell!'
But how could he bring himself to leave her?
