Do it once. Do it right.
Had the admiral lived, he would have been court-martialed and executed.
Which raised the question:IfGrav got rescued, what would happen to him? Would he be deemed responsible for failing to prevent the tragedy by allowing the ailing admiral to return to the command ship?
In the four months since that fateful conversation, Grav had received only two communiques—the shocking one that Drek had died and others aboard the vessel were ailing, and an even more disturbing one several weeks later from the GM that the disease had spread to Progg-Res, the Earth campaign had been aborted, and any remaining ground troops would be extracted when it was safe to do so. He’d been instructed to avoid humans and their dwellings, but to kill any he happened to come into contact with to prevent contamination. There’d been no further comms, and his requests for updates had gone unanswered.
Now, he’d lost his comm device. It had been stolen along with his weapon.
He suspected he couldn’t go home—but he didn’t see how he could remain on Earth either. He guesstimated 95 percent of the Earth’s population had been obliterated, but that still left an angry, vengeful 5 percent. He eyed the sleeping woman. Who had she lost, he wondered. A mate? Parents? Siblings? Children?
Unaware the invasion had been aborted, she didn’t realize it wasprobablysafe to return to her home—as long as she remained vigilant. There remained an unknown number of Progg who, fearing the contagion, would kill any humans they came into contact with—including the ones who’d been promised safety in exchange for their assistance.
Grav had assumed that after cleansing the last town, the ground troops under the admiral’s command would have remained in place, awaiting further orders. But Grav returned to the location and found it deserted.
Most likely, they’d sickened too and had shuttled to the ship for treatment, only to die. They could have been absorbed into another unit and moved on. Or they could have deserted and scattered. Not everyone agreed with the methods used to build the empire; new recruits sometimes balked.
An air assault was clean and easy. You didn’t see the targets. Ground troops came face-to-face with the populace. They had the technology to cleanse the entire planet from the air, but vaporization killed all living creatures—people, animals, birds, fish, insects, microorganisms. A global assault would have obliterated the ecosystem. Who desired a dead planet?
As the admiral’s aide, Grav had never taken a life, never participated in a raid, but knowing what occurred had bothered him more than it should until he hardened himself to it. There was nothing he could do to stop it. It was the way of his people.
He studied the woman with the enticing scent. Having looked her in the eye, he couldn’t take her life.
Like she hadn’t been able to take his.
At least, not yet.
By happenstance, their paths had collided, locking them into a twisted fight for survival.
His shoulder joints were killing him. Thirst he could deal with. Hunger he could ignore. But the pressure in his bladder had grown unbearable. If she didn’t wake soon, he’d soil himself. He couldn’t wait any longer.
“Hey! Hey! Wake up!”
* * * *
“What the fuck?”
Laurel jolted upright, her dream vaporizing like people on a doomed planet. Her mind awhirl, she’d lain awake for hours. It seemed like she’d just fallen asleep, and then her prisoner had the nerve to wake her up? Clearly, he didn’t understand his role here.
Vainly, she tried to recall the dream, sensing a significance, a message. Something about…chains?Dammit.
She scowled at her hostage. No, not a hostage, a prisoner. A hostage got traded for something. Grav was a dangerous albatross. Who’d woken her up.
“I have to urinate,” he said.
“So, urinate.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed. She needed to pee; she could imagine how badly he needed to go.
“Please,” he said.
“I’m not letting you up.” She got to her feet and slipped her gun into the holster. She left the chamber and went into the storage room where she kept the portable composting toilet and relieved herself.
Upon returning, she scrutinized him with growing frustration. Allowing him to soil himself was not a good long-term or even intermediate-term solution. And unless she kept shoving a straw in his mouth and spoon-fed him, she would have to figure something out.
Chains…The remnant of the dream drifted through her mind. What did it mean? Their fates were now chained together?
He twisted on the bed, probably trying to relieve the pressure on his shoulders. He couldn’t go anywhere, thanks to the zip ties. The prepper had purchased a mega-sack of the plastic ties. Police officers had used them when they arrested a big group of suspects and didn’t have enough handcuffs. To get them off, you had to cut them off.
Chains…
