He stared at it blankly. “How am I supposed to drink?”
“You suck on the straw! The tube sticking out?”
“Oh.” He lifted his head and closed his lips around the straw. Blue eyes widened slightly, and his throat moved as he swallowed. He drank for a long time.He really was thirsty.She noticed his chest wound looked a little pink but otherwise had healed up.Damn, he heals fast.Something to keep in mind.
He drank half a mugful before he pulled away. “Thank you.”
She blinked in surprise. So, the Progg practiced social courtesies.
Or maybe he thanked her because he knew she would expect it, in which case his faux gratitude amounted to manipulation. Why else would he concern himself with social conventions? The aliens hadn’t bothered to introduce themselves before attacking. There’d been no attempt at diplomacy, no formal declaration of war.
If not for the cryptic message, PROGG COMING, received from the Federation of Alien Beings weeks before the invasion, Earth wouldn’t even have known what the invaders were called.
Of course, social etiquette would be antithetical to the goal, wouldn’t it? You might developempathyand not victimize people at all.
She did not respond with the perfunctory “you’re welcome” to his faux thanks. She wouldn’t lie. He was not welcome. Nor could she say, “No worries,” or “No problem.” He’d become a very big, worrisome problem.
Tomorrow, she’d figure out how to let him eat. She didn’t dare release his wrists, and she damn sure wasn’t going to play nursemaid and spoon-feed him. For now, she’d get herself something to eat. Maybe a solution would come to her.
She plunked the half-empty travel mug onto the little table. Maybe she’d give him another drink later. The more he drank, the more he’d need to urinate—if, in fact, he urinated. Maybe he secreted waste through his skin.Ugh. Another reason not to touch him.
“My name is Grav,” he said as she reached the passage.
She didn’t answer. She didn’t desire to know his name. It was bad enough she’d begun thinking of him as “he,” rather than “it.”
Chapter Five
Grav eyed the container of water and licked his dry lips. He was thirsty again, but it was just as well he couldn’t get to the water because the urge to urinate had become painful.
From the tenor of her breathing, the woman had fallen asleep after tossing for hours. His own slumber had been fitful due to his uncomfortable spread-eagled position, hunger gnawing at his belly and a painful urge to urinate. The healed chest wound itched.
Light from the lamp spilled over his bed, but hers,across the room, remained in shadow. But there’d been enough light for him to see her slip her weapon under the pillow and slide into bed fully dressed. She’d kept her shoes on, as if she needed to be prepared to flee at a moment’s notice.
Her smell disturbed him. She exuded an odor he’d come to associate with Earth’s inhabitants. Until her, he’d never met a human face-to-face, but their habitats were marked with their stench. But the human odor mingled with the woman’s unique botanical signature into a scent that was…not unpleasant.
He’d offered his name to elicit hers. Not because it mattered what she was called—although hewasa tad curious—but to gain a concession. Little capitulations would lead to bigger concessions toward the ultimate aim of getting her to release him or at least lower her guard and give him an opportunity to escape.
That’s why he’d asked for water. He had been thirsty, but mainly he needed her to say yes to something. Small yeses led to bigger yeses.Yes, I’ll loosen those ties so they don’t cut into your wrists. Yes, I’ll let you up so you can urinate.
Best-case scenario, he would prefer to get loose while she was gone. Then he’d have time to search for weapons. He eyed the handgun butt jutting out from under her pillow. Hopefully, there were others stashed away. He would need some way to defend himself. Few humans were left, but the survivors would have a score to settle. They wouldn’t have the reservations about killing him like the woman. One had already tried.
He flexed his fingers, tugging at the restraints.
An effortless campaign had collapsed into the worst disaster in Progg history. The takeover had proceeded as planned. The air assault had eradicated humans from major and medium cities and military installations, and ground troops had landed to raid small towns and rural areas.
Always hands-on, Admiral Drek moved with the ground troops. While the troops finished cleansing the area, Grav had been sent ahead to scout out a new base of operations, i.e. a dwelling worthy of an admiral, when the commander had messaged him that he was shuttling to the command ship for medical treatment. Drek had developed some unusual symptoms: sore throat, sneezing, runny nasal passages, malaise.
Grav offered to accompany him to the ship, but Drek had instructed him to remain. “I won’t be long. When I return, we’ll need a new location.”
Those were the last words the admiral spoke to him.
If Grav had gone with Drek, he might have prevented the tragedy. He likely would have died, but he might have saved millions of lives if he’d pressed the admiral to enter quarantine.
But either Admiral Drek had refused to isolate himself, or no one had dared to suggest it.
With the med unit unable to cure the foreign disease, the admiral had passed the contagion to everyone aboard the command ship—including some senior officers who’d departed for the home world shortly after greeting the admiral.
Not only had the entire military wing assigned to the Earth Campaign been taken out, but millions on Progg-Res had perished, the largest loss of life ever sustained. Worse, it hadn’t occurred through battle but throughnegligence, failure to take common-sense precautions.
