Tarakan pulled the throttle back and the sleek, black skimmer slowed noticeably. Peering out the portal of the aircraft, he watched with growing irritation as the small Tac fighter buzzed low over his left wing.
Forgetting the wrist comlink that was glowing brightly with connection, the Zygon swore, "Sonofaqueron," then he bit his lower lip in a futile attempt to cut short the vulgarity.
The soft, patient, evenly sonorous voice in his ear jarred his seven-foot frame. "Careful, Tarakan, I might give the earth brat to you for training."
"Sorry, Baroosh," he said insincerely, "but my patience is that of a Zygon not a Queron. I would teach him well and worthwhile the lessons of such impudence."
He turned the throttle left and the sleek craft rose up clearing the darkness as the small Tac fighter eased off into the galaxy. The large Zygon was a humanoid, except for the scales that rose on his arms and the long talon hands and feet that encased the leathery-like palms and soles, Zygons were very much like humans...very tall, very large, and very warrior-like humans.
Had not the gentler, more peaceful Querons discovered their planet destroying itself in civil wars, the Zygons would no doubt be extinct. Tarakan would be the first to acknowledge the fact, but his pride would not allow him to admit it to Starlord Baroosh, his own trainer and master mentor.
"He is an earth boy, no more than eighteen by the comlog. He broke away from the training ship as soon as they entered our galaxy. He thinks he can go back to earth."
Baroosh stopped, took a long, deep breath that expressed his compassion for the lad. "He will be devastated when he sees that earth is no more. The training ship was only able to bring back five hundred. I fear the rest have perished."
"Let him go, then, master, he will learn a far better lesson on his own." The long talons pulled the throttle to the left aiming for a return to Quadrant Five.
"Did I give permission to abort?" The silky threads echoed in Tarakan's earplug.
"It's obvious he refuses training."
"I remember a Zygon who was just as obstinate. Went through ten trainers before he fell into my soft arms," Baroosh noted with enough amusement to turn Tarakan's face hot and raise the small scales on his muscular arms, a sure sign of irritation.
"I suggest, Tarakan, sug......gest," oh that voice could be sweet and endearing and yet still hold more threat than a raised bullwhip, "that you put forth a zimmer more of effort in this retrieval." SNAP the sound terminated the connection and it was more authoritative than any other sound the Zygon could have heard.
"Priest's be my keeper," he said as he deftly turned down and round and increased his speed. Within minutes the Tac Fighter was coming into view.
Kierdron McCardle relaxed back in his seat, sweat pouring down from his short, bright green hair. Spiked and styled in the outré fashion of his millennium, Kierdron loved the emerald green that perfectly complemented his sea green eyes. DNA experimentation had long since allowed humans to select not only the _s_e_x_ of their offspring, but the color of hair and eyes, and emerald greens, oranges, purples, fuschias were as much possible as the browns and blues of human history.
He had listened like all the young men had as they were swept up into the large Queron ship. Listened to coldcrap thrown at them by the apparently beneficent figures. The long-robed Querons stood over eight feet tall, and perhaps it was the height that allowed all his companions to drift into ennui rather than the soft-spoken, sincerely felt efforts of this race to save them from themselves.
Kierdron smirked, confident now that he had outrun the pursuing black ship that had picked up his trail only hours after he had stolen the small fighter from the Training vessel that was taking him to his new home in Quadrant Five of the Queron Galaxy. Apparently these space beings knew nothing of flying by the seat of your pants, Kierdron thought merrily as he brushed his hand through the shiny green spikes of hair.
Checking the gauge on the Tac's brightly lit panel, he calculated another twenty minutes and he would be home free, past the boundaries of this galaxy and back towards home.
Home, Kierdron thought with a harsh pull in his chest. There was a full scale world war in progress and the last thing he remembered as he and 500 young men like him gathered in the large hall for instructions was a bright light and then they were on the Queron ship. The others were dazed and frightened and they had stood there like lambs to slaughter sucking in the high talk of the large, towering Querons. Kierdron knew better, Earth still revolved third planet from the sun, on and on into the ages.
Fifteen minutes. Closing his eyes, he remembered the time before. The small academy where he was tubed, raised and educated, in the true military fashion for which he was born. He was proud of his genes, his selective DNA that made him an athletic, five-foot-nine, well built young man. Solid muscles, slim wasted, taut buttocks, every muscle genetically enhanced for speed, strength and agility. Kierdron wished he had seen at least one battle before being whisked off. He had lived for that moment all his life, yet these saviors of the universe had ruined it for him.
Trained at the academy since his creation, he knew neither mother nor father. Often he had heard stories of conventional families, mothers and fathers who held and coddled their children. He was told how lucky he was to be autonomous, solely dependent upon his fellow warriors, set to do battle and fight for planet earth. He took pride in his independence and was glad that he was one of the chosen.
Fed manuals and strategy as well as weapons and universal aircraft instructions, he thanked his background now as he managed the small Queron fighter with agility. Confident that he knew all there was to know about the Universe, he was quite assured he could handle his first call to duty.
He had heard stories of the Queron's benevolent acts of redemption, their strong determination to save galaxies from destroying themselves. Having traveled many training missions through the academy, he was well accustomed to planetary travel within his own galaxy. All along his training was focused on interplanetary and galaxial wars, little did he dream his first combat would be against his own people.
A sudden bump broke his reverie and his eyes shot open. Scanning the monitor, he saw an object low and overhead, dipping again towards his right wing. Another jolt. "_f_u_c_k_!" Kierdron said. Bending down, he snatched a glance outside his right portal. It was the _d_a_m_n_ pursuer.
Grabbing the control stick, Kierdron dropped down, dipping the small Tac fighter low. Pulling up sharply, he somersaulted over the alien ship and gently tapped the left rear rudder.....easy....too hard and they both would crash.
He dipped left and spun wide and around as the black ship seemed impervious to him.
"If you're chasing me, _f_u_c_k_head, act like it," Kierdron raged as he realized the ship was proceeding out of the galaxy ahead of him. As Kierdron swung by one more time to clip the black ship, he gaped in awe as a bright beam of blue locked onto the Tac. The engines cut immediately. Kierdron checked the gauges frantically, all systems were go. It was the Queron fighter, some sort of laser lock.
Releasing his restraint, Kierdron rose from his seat. Opening a small cabinet to the left, he pulled out a laser gun, a tazer tong, and a small crystallian saber he had managed to retrieve from his captors. He was ready to meet his host.
"You dare to take me on," Tarakan laughed as he locked the blue beam onto the aggressively agile attacker. However, he could not help a small glimmer of respect for this little scrapper of a humanoid.
Checking the gauges he noted a slight leakage in the retro tanks, "Little Loosh rattled you, did he?" The large, reptilian-like humanoid said as he tenderly patted his leathered palm against the plastar console. "We need teach him manners," then grudgingly admitting a small admiration for the way the humanoid had handled the small Tac, he added, "but he could teach us a thing or two about flying."
Rising up he turned on all the power units overhead. The total _c_o_c_k_pit of the sleek skimmer came aglow with blinking lights of soft pastels and deep blues and purples. Checking the readouts carefully, he muttered obscenities under his breath. His wrist comlink blinked, but he was oblivious, until he heard the soft voice all but purr into his ear.
"Temper, Zygon, temper-temper. It's been a long time since you've had a session on my lap, let's try to keep them down to only four a sunspan."
"The loosh has damaged a reserve, clipped the rudder link, and apparently unbalanced the navicomp. I'll need to take her down and do some repairs," Tarakan continued to gaze around with his silver eyes, the narrowed eyebrows giving him the look of a demon.
"You are on the fringes of Earth's galaxy, I suggest you continue to Earth's moon. The Historian says there are stollrocks there. You can crush them down for patchwork. I take it you have the prize?" Baroosh's voice came through calmly, but there was an agitation beneath the silky threads with which Tarakan was well accustomed.
"Is there a problem, Baroosh?" he said lightly, "Perhaps you want me to throw this one back, t'would be my pleasure," he added firmly as though dead-set on doing just that.
"Enough of your charm, Zygon, the humanoid comes back safe and sound or you and I travel to Vector Five for a lengthy session of re-training."
Tarakan winced, but kept his continued train of thought to himself.
The silence meant the Queron was considering options, using that highly gifted intelligence to conclude alternate courses of action best suited to the situation.
Softly, the words came across, "I have no wish to see the human suffer, but Historian says Earth's moon is the only answer, I will leave it in your tender talons, my friend, try to spare the human as much a view of what remains of his planet as you can." Then there was a pregnant pause of pure purpose as the lightly spaced words held sincere promise, "I'll say it only once, Tarakan, be firm....but kind." The clipped sound of cut off punctuated the air and Tarakan took a deep breath. Remembering his own resistance to training by one Queron trainer after another, he knew well the hurt and defiance that could be aroused in the conquered.
Making sure the laser lock was secure, he gently turned the craft towards the ring where Earth once existed.
Kierdron stood armed for battle. The lazer blaster lay cradled in his arms, the huge barrel pointed straight ahead towards the baylock door. The tazer tong was gripped tightly in one hand and the saber lay at his side, resting nicely in the crystallian scabbard. Anyone with half a whit would have been terrified of the sight presented by the trained and highly-skilled warrior, but Kierdron McCardle had no idea what Queron warriors were like.
He stood tall and proud, feet slightly apart, chin jutting out feigning a grimace of menace. The dark green jumpsuit of the Terra forces well fitted to his muscular frame. Small beads of sweat broke out on his forehead as he awaited entrance into his domain, but time lapsed like thick sauce before a hungry man, no one came. Kierdron dared to turn about, checking the outside portal, they were still moving. Slowly he saw Neptune, Saturn, all the planets of his galaxy, and his heart broke, he was going home. Was this a ruse, a trick to get him to think all was well. He turned back towards the baylock door and fidgeted nervously with his artillery, unsure now of how to proceed.
True, he was trained and ready for battle when he was snatched above the Queron ship, but he had never really seen battle yet. He had never experienced anything more than the simulation training presented at the academy. What was it like to kill a man? What did it feel like to have your own mortality brought into play? He could only wonder and wait, but the waiting was killing his resolve in small, inconspicuous increments. Kierdron McCardle was scared.
The skimmer sped at warp speed through the blackness, passing stars and moons and planets. Tarakan had heard stories of how the earthmen had traveled to all the planets in their galaxy, strip mined them, killed off the different species of animals and insects, and eventually overpopulated their own planet beyond endurance. With earth the only remaining planet for habitation, they had fought more wars amongst themselves than some galaxies had fought in millenniums....only to finally obliterate the entire planet and species, now save for 500.
True, Zygons were a truculent lot, well-known through the universe as scaly fighters itching to do battle for the slightest cause. When Zygon had split the planet into two factions, Alphas and Betas, the temperature of the social structure had reached boiling point. The Querons had for some time been monitoring the political fragility of Zygon and when things were reaching critical state had sent in their Retrievers and Trainers and within a matter of weeks secured the entire population of Zygon.
The plan was simple, Zygon either surrender and submit to training and in time live side by side as equals among the Querons, or they be banished beyond the Queron Galaxy and end their days fighting off in the farthest reaches of the universe. Eventually, most Zygons had seen the logic and reasoning behind the Queron's rule and surrendered to training, now ruling the Queron galaxy alongside their master mentors. Some, like Tarakan, had taken more extreme measures of training. Starlord Baroosh was the one being who could bring Tarakan to his knees.
Tarakan came into the third orbit from the sun. Large fragments of rocks spun around huge gaseous clouds. The site was almost beautiful as the sun caught the helioglobes as they spun amidst the colored rocks and dust specs of what remained of planet Earth. He could only hope that the human wasn't looking out the portals. Pulling the skimmer into a wide arch he came up upon the dark side of Earth's moon.
Engaging docking units, he prepared for landing. As the small craft and it's captive ship came down perpendicularly to the moon's surface, large rectangular blocks shot off into the four corners of the space designated for landing. Tarakan watched with satisfaction as the cubes hit the surface, splayed open automatically and started glowing a bright orange. The equalizers would have the moon's surface squarely around the skimmer for a distance of 100 yards in each direction producing oxygen. The area, known as a plack, was hermetically sealed with air that both the human and the Zygon could walk outside without masks. Most creatures in the universe had long ago adapted, through genetic selection, a tolerance for space travel and most planetary atmospheres, making suits almost unnecessary.
As the skimmer nestled itself into the surface of the moon, the small Tac fighter was cocooned beneath its belly, like a child in the womb. Satisfied that all systems were operating perfectly, Tarakan started to arm himself. However, Starlord Baroosh's words echoed in his ear, "be firm but kind."
Before closing the armament cabinet, he took out a bright blue ring and adjusted it on his right index talon. Smiling at the challenge awaiting him, he exited the small baylock door.
Kierdron now leaned far back against the wall of the Tac's inner chamber just across from the baylock's small opening. They were not moving and he guessed that the retrieval ship had set down someplace for repairs. Surely his capricious little maneuvers had done some minor damage to the skimmer. Kierdron nodded his head at his own assumption, pleased that he had at least given as good as he got.
Realizing he could not stay in here, poised for battle for any additional length of time, he readjusted the large lazer blaster, flexing his cramped fingers. Taking the tazer tong, he placed it inside his green shirt, easily accessible, and patted the crystallian saber. He was ready to take on the whole Queron army now if necessary.
Hitting the baylock release, he straightened as the door slid open and the small stairs fell to the moon's surface. Carefully, he peered down. Within the peripheral view allowed by the small opening, he could see nothing ready to attack him. Turning on the overhead camview, he watched as the unit spanned a small circle around the exit stairs. Nothing, all was quiet.
Step by step he descended the ladder, spinning his head sharply, angling his body. The gun was held still and straight and he spun his frame to accommodate the large barrel. Other than the landing pods firmly set into the surface, there was nothing to block his view. Did his pursuer still sit in the ship above his? He looked up quickly, but the baylock door to the skimmer was still closed. The ship stood over him like a huge umbrella.
Kierdron let out a heavy sigh. He was in charge of this little expedition now. The pursuer, the Queron retriever, was still stuck up there. Kierdron had the advantage. He could take him as he came out the baylock. The brightly green haired young man backed away from the landing stairs and keeping his eyes fixed on the skimmer's baylock, he never saw the web-like film that started to unveil behind him, dripping down from the exterior of the skimmer.
The lizard-like humanoid clung to the sides of the black ship. Looking down he could see the human backing into his line of sight. Pulling up the small pocket on his back, revealing the sac protruding from his left shoulder blade, Tarakan closed his eyes. A green, web-like silt started weaving a web as it descended down into the path of the young man below.
"Come on, you son of an alien, let's get this on," Kierdron spoke softly, trying to calm himself with the standard show of aggression.
Suddenly his body lifted off ground, he began to dangle precariously shifting forward, losing his balance, the heavy gun bringing him down with his legs drifting up behind him. Frantically, he tried to turn around and see what had hold of him, but the heavy laser gun was pulling him face down. He looked like he was trying to learn how to fly.
When Tarakan saw the green webbing successfully capture the object of his quest, he released the remaining fluids by turning his body slightly. The last vestiges of sticky substance shot around the landing pod's base, a strong enough hold to keep the captive dangling independently off the ground.
The Zygon dropped gracefully to the surface directly behind the struggling human.
Kierdron heard the sound of something heavy land behind him. He shook his body with a great effort to turn himself around, but only managed to start swinging wildly about. Something swung out and kicked his hands viciously. The laser dropped to the ground.
"_f_u_c_k_!" Kierdron yelled, reaching for the crystallian saber. He flicked the small handle and a large laser beam penetrated the air in a bright blue flame. He swung again, arching his arm wide, hoping he could reach whatever alien being stood behind him, taunting him in his helplessness.
A loud laugh shook the air as Kierdron turned the other way hoping to catch whoever or whatever stood behind him off guard.
"You fight like a Paylon, earth boy, is this what they teach you about battle?"
"Who are you?" Kierdron asked nervously. Catching the quiver in his voice, he renounced his terrors with a taunt. "Is this how Queron's capture the universe, by hiding from their victims."
Something caught his feet; something large and leathery-like wrapped itself about both his ankles and gave him a hard shove, sending him into a short flight against the stairwell he had just descended. Kierdron raised his arms to keep his head from banging into the metal railing. Forgetting about the saber, he was unaware that the beam slashed the webbing that held him up.
"You DO NOT want to do that!" his captor yelled, but it was too late. Kierdron dropped hard to the ground, but as the webbing broke lose from the pod base, it snapped back like a taut rubber band, snapping around Kierdron, rolling him into a ball. The human now lay on the ground, snuggly cocooned with his knees tucked into his chest and a green spider's web completely restricting all his movements. The saber, knocked out of his hand, glowed brightly in the gray moon dust.
The laughter rang out against the still darkness of the moon as Tarakan watched one very irate, one very furious human curse and swear and threaten revenge. The helpless ball of rage would start to roll, Tarakan prophesied, if he didn't settle down some.
Kierdron panicked. He hated being trapped, secured tightly unable to move. It was the one area of combat training that he failed repeatedly. There were times he thought he would be retired for that failing, but his quick learning in other areas most times deflected that one fault. He tried to pull his arm in; perhaps he could reach the tazer tong that rested inside his shirt. He gritted his teeth against the rising panic that threatened to overcome him, but a short cry escaped him involuntarily as he realized how tightly sealed in he was.
Tarakan heard the soft cry that escaped from his captor. Recognizing the pain behind that whimper, a pain that he himself had experienced, he took his index talon and ran it carefully along the threads of the webbing. The casing immediately broke open and the green-haired young man jumped to his feet. Green eyes blazed furiously, glistening with the residue of unshed tears of frustration.
Spinning around he saw his captor for the first time. He could not help his mouth falling open in shock. This was not the alien he had envisioned. This was not one of the dark skinned, long-robed, eight-foot Querons who spoke with gentle voices and whose dark eyes promised understanding and aid. This was a lizard-like creature with long wild yellow hair. The face was human in shape and form, but the eyes narrowed and angled slightly, reminding Kierdron of a crocodile. Their silver glint added a demonic look to the creature. Though not quite as tall as the Querons, he still stood two feet taller than Kierdron. Wearing a cotswool jumpsuit, the sleeves were cut off at the shoulders, allowing his scaly arms to shine in the soft moon glow. The scales were slightly raised, and Kierdron watched, fascinated, as they rose higher with the inspection. No doubt a sign that his speculation rankled the creature.
"Not what you expected, heh, earth boy?" The voice came low with a hint of amusement.
Kierdron remembered the laughter and shook himself visibly as he remembered it not unpleasant at all...rather charming in fact.
"I expected someone else," Kierdron admitted, inching backwards. "I think it's all a misunderstanding. I assumed you were a Queron ship?"
The silver orbs followed him warily as he tried to move inconspicuously farther back. The creature smiled, showing large, pointed teeth.
"I'm sorry I buzzed you, it was all a misunderstanding."
"No," Tarakan said softly, "I have what I pursued."
"I'm from Earth. I am a Terra Force Fighter," Kierdron tried to stand firm, but there was a quivering in his voice at the mention of home.
Tarakan looked up. They were still on the dark side of the moon.
"Your planet is gone. You have no place else to go."
"NO! You lie. You lie like those darkling Querons with their long robes and intellectual coldcrap." He spun around, raising his eyes towards the heavens trying to gauge his position by the stars. Then he laughed, as though realizing the joke was indeed on him.
Tarakan winced, fearful this new good humor was but a prelude to sheer madness. He didn't want a lunar-pied madman to take back.
"We're on the darkside of the moon. That's all," he ended softly trying to reassure himself.
"We're here to fix my ship. The skimmer's retro tanks are leaking thanks to your little antics, Loosh. Then we, meaning you and I, are going to Quadrant Five and your training will begin." Tarakan was taking charge and his patience was coming to an end. This was no warrior; this was a scared earth boy who needed a little reassurance. No great master of the craft of war, was a shame to waste his silt sac on him. Now he would have to wait 24 hours to refill his sac with bodily fluids.
"Come, enough of this opposition, you will help me collect the stollrock."
As Tarakan turned, Kierdron reached inside his shirt and pulled the tazer tong. Snapping it open he lunged forward like a swordsman shocking the back of the large reptilian-like humanoid.
A roar escaped from Tarakan as his back screamed out in hot pain. A numbing wave sliced down his spine towards his legs, sending him crashing to his knees. His arms were next as he braced himself for the fall, but there was no feeling in them by time he crumpled to the dusty surface of the moon, only a foggy urgency in his brain as that too gave out on him.
"You have just begun to see opposition, you freak," Kierdron said. Running forward he collected his saber and the laser blaster. He was fully armed again. Racing up the stairs to the small Tac fighter, he came out with a large coil of nylopile, it's thick weave strong enough to hold the most truculent of captives. Kneeling down, he began to truss up the alien creature. Securing the large talons behind the alien's back, his gaze was pulled towards the bright red spot where the tazer tong had scorched skin.
Most tazer tongs merely reddened flesh, but the area where he had hit this alien was oozing a greenish fluid and the area looked angry festering and throbbing with a life of its own.
Kierdron rose up, unsure of what to do. He couldn't leave this creature here to slowly die of an infection. Who knew what was happening, perhaps these creatures were allergic to the hot shocking effects of the tong. Returning to the Tac fighter he pulled open the cabinets looking for an aid kit. Finding the long enduring symbol for medical aid, the red cross in a white circle, Kierdron rummaged through. Some salve and bandages....that would have to do.
Running back out, he gently cleansed the area with aqua acid, the lunar water that was known for its universal properties as an antiseptic. Then rubbing some aloe salve over the area, he applied the self-adhering, transparent silicon bandage. The fine filament would protect the wound from bacteria while still allowing it to breathe.
"Okay, Crocodile Man, you'll be fine. Just stay out of the sun." Kierdron laughed, remembering pictures of the long extinct animals and how they fascinated him. He tried to pull the large alien against the landing pod legs, but found the creature was too heavy for him. Finally, he pushed a small moon rock near and propped him against it, the large head lolling back against the surface, eyes closed, wild yellow hair streaming out behind him. Kierdron looked down, momentarily fascinated by the being.
At first he had felt only revulsion, but now as he saw the fine, sharp line of the jaw, the slanting eyes that looked almost enticingly exotic, he wet his lips admiring the sheer physical shape of the being. He was muscular in all the right areas, well enough defined to show up Kierdron's own pre-fabbed pecs and abs. Yet this man was naturally bulked up, with a force that came out of him in waves. There was something appealing, hell, more than appealing, _d_a_m_n_ed enticing about this figure.
Kierdron shook his head, remembering the training, but also the pre-designed hormonal needs in him to seek release in other men. When you went to war you got comfort and care and all your needs fulfilled by your own _s_e_x_ and Kierdron, like all warriors, was proud of his _s_e_x_ and their autonomous existence in all male battalions. But he was not supposed to be attracted to every male creature he encountered...this was no human, he reminded himself.
"See ya," he said, with a mock salute.
As he walked away, a long talon snatched out and grabbed his ankle. The shock of his trussed up captive loosening a hand had him momentarily stunned. As he reached his arm behind him to pull the laser blaster from its scabbard along his back, he felt his legs pulled up in front of him and he fell backwards almost hitting his head. The hard drop onto the laser gun knocked the breath out of his lungs. He gasped for air, as he was rolled, pinned, searched, and de-armed. His hands were pinned over his head, his legs trapped and secured spread-eagled. It was all done so quickly; he barely had time to register. He cursed his lack of preparedness for the unexpected. All that he had been trained to do on instinct seemed to have lost itself in real battle.
"Like I said," the voice almost growled above him, "you'll be helping me collect the stollrock, whether you like it or not."
Kierdron was yanked onto his feet. His hands were cuffed together by two bright blue rings that seemed to glow. The young warrior noted the same glowing crystallian on the alien's index finger. They seemed to glow in sink, throbbing along to some silent beat.
"I just need to get home," Kierdron said, desperately.
The crocodile eyes slanted upward almost in query, but a look of compassion seemed to soften the almost demonic glare.
Suddenly a soft beep attracted both men's attention. Tarakan's comlink glowed softly on his wrist.
"Is all secure?" Baroosh asked as though he expected nothing else.
Tarakan smiled wickedly as his captive, "Why wouldn't it be? He is just a boy, as you said."
Kierdron reddened in anger at being called "just a boy." He shifted nervously from one leg to the other his hands still bonded together in front of him.
"He is a trained fighter, prefabbed and conditioned, Tarakan. Keep watch and complete the mission in haste. The Historian says that aftershocks from the dissolution of Earth will cause an earthquake in the next circadian. I suggest you make your repairs and return to Quadrant Five."
Although Kierdron could not hear the voice in Tarakan's ear, he knew it was contact from the Queron authorities. He would have to bide his time and make his escape when the opportunity presented itself.
"He has eagerly offered to help in the retrieval of stollrock," Tarakan sneered at the boy. "We will be leaving here within five hours at most. Can Historian transmit the exact location of the rock?"
"It's coming through on your faxiliogram. I will take the cooperation of the boy as a sign he is still alive and well," Baroosh said, pleasantly. "I am reviewing potential trainers as I await your return. The boy has proven spirited and special and he will be handled properly. He will make a wonderful ally."
Tarakan felt a soft pull along his heart at the mention of potential trainers for the boy. Just irritation, he thought to himself, that Baroosh never even suggested the boy needed someone special, someone who's own training required eleven trainers to finally complete the job. The croc eyes looked appraisingly at the physically fit young man. Every muscle and sinew strung taut and tight now in a show of strength and force, yet the boy's spirit seemed chipped and thus the lack of quick thinking. This home business was really going to cause problems, Tarakan thought. Once the confirmation that earth indeed was destroyed, the boy might be more than anyone could handle.
There was something pathetic in the strong determination to return to a home that was no more. Something that reminded Tarakan of himself when he refused to believe that the Querons were right about their route of destruction. It took a real eye opener to make him finally acquiesce and he was lucky he was in Baroosh's care at the time. Any other trainer, not half as sharp, witty or agile as Baroosh, would surely have had to kill Tarakan once he realized some home truths.
Pressing firmly on the blue ring, the glowing softened and stopped. Kierdron's hands were released from their mated uselessness. However, the blue cuffs remained, ready to lock him into submission when so instructed.
"Come on, we've some digging to do. You might as well help, neither one of us will get off this moon if we don't make some repairs. I will show you how to crumble stollrock, melt it and patch a ship."
Kierdron's eyes showed distrust, but also realization that there wasn't much else he could do. He nodded his head and looked up into the heavens, still searching for that point when the earth would come into view.
The rotadrill had accomplished a task that men would have taken weeks to do. A huge tunnel cut into an angle along the side of the small mountain range of the moon. Tarakan and Kierdron both wore the light oxygen plates that covered their mouth and nose with a thin, transparent film, the fabric converting the thin air into rich oxygen that both of them could breathe.
"Stick close to me," Takaran said. "These tunnels can sometimes be fragile."
"You're more apt to cave us in than I am. You weigh a ton," Kierdron said, petulantly. "Just don't take me with you."
"Loosh, I want nothing more than be rid of you. You are not the most pleasant alien I have crossed paths with." Tarakan moved forward, the small rock tongs and lazer chisel slung across his back. Kierdron pulled the tracking sled, the small motorized wagon that could hold much more weight than appearances would show.
"You are not the prettiest," the green-haired boy said, staring at the pulsating silt sac.
Tarakan growled and turning a critical eye over his shoulder he noted where the boy's green eyes lingered.
Reaching his hand back towards the small sac, about 4 inches by 4 inches just under his left collarbone, Tarakan felt the silicon covering for the first time. He stopped so suddenly, Kierdron almost walked into him, but the sudden stop caused the tracking sled to ram into the boy's heels.
"Ow! _d_a_m_n_it!"
Tarakan peeled the bandage off while the silver eyes locked with the sea green gaze. Kierdron blushed and turned away first, worried the deed would be misinterpreted for weakness.
"So you gave aid, Little Loosh. Not exactly a warrior's priority." Feeling the green sac as it pulsed and throbbed, Tarakan laughed. "Seems your taser tong merely regenerated my silt membrane. I'm at full supply."
"That's disgusting," Kierdron said, finding the sac, now exposed gross and disturbing.
"I find your form to be lacking in many areas, too, Earth Boy. Your face is too round, soft like a Loosh pups."
"What the hell is a Loosh?" Kierdron asked, as they continued their little procession.
"On my home planet, Zygon, there are pesky little swamp creatures. They are round faced and sit on cozalt pads in the water, squatting on their four appendages like little stools. They are Looshes. They serve no need but to chirp and sing all day, but they are cute in a purposeless fashion...much like you."
"Well, maybe these little Looshes are merely waiting their time," Kierdron said with meaning.
"Oh, I'm sure they are," Tarakan joined in on the double entendres, "going to take over Zygon and the whole of the Queron Galaxy. Chirp us to death with the songs of their great deeds and strength." He laughed loudly at the bantering and pulled the faxiliogram from his shirt pocket.
"There," he said, pointing to a large pile of rocks and debris. The area widened from the narrow tunnel to a small circular area. It looked very much like a cave in from above had left the pile of rocks, hollowing out the overhead ceiling. Kierdron sighed heavily, glad that they were no longer in the confined space. He hated being closed in, secured in any fashion, but he would not give in to his fears of panic. He must not let this alien know he had fears.
Working side by side, they gathered a large amount of the stollrock, the gray stone that almost looked like clay. Tarakan dug and chiseled, pulling the choice pieces from the pile while Kierdron stacked them on the small sled. When they were finished, Tarakan pressed a button. The sled covered itself with webbing and a small tracking device appeared at the end.
"Let it go," Tarakan said.
Kierdron dropped the small rope he had used to pull the sled and watched amazed as the small wagon began backing up the way they had come.
"It has a memory system. You pull it someplace; it takes itself back home. It will be at the ship when we return. The Querons are a controlling lot," Tarakan mused, "but they are intelligent and they do as little physical labor as they can."
"Sounds like you respect them."
"I was taught respect at first," Tarakan said, a wistful look upon his angular face, "but in time it was earned. They saved our planet from self-annihilation and in time we came to stand next to them, side by side as equals."
Looking up and seeing the determination for resistance on Kierdron's face, he added, "Why are you fighting them so stubbornly?"
"I am not fighting anyone. WHO THE HELL ARE YOU TO JUDGE ME? BECAUSE I CHOOSE NOT TO BE DOMESTICATED. YOU'RE NOTHING BUT A SLAVE TO THESE FRIGGING QUERONS." Kierdron screamed at him, all the frustration inside him coming out at Tarakan's defense of his captors.
"QUIET!" Tarakan matched him in rage and volume. These shafts are fragile, they will not hold under such an assault."
Reaching out to turn the boy around and head out of the cave, the large man was shocked as Kierdron sidestepped him.
"I've no desire to abandon my home planet at the say so of aliens I know little about."
"You will be trained, given a Queron mentor, taught their ways and instructed. It will be for your own good as you will see in time."
"I want my freedom."
"Freedom must be earned." Tarakan kept inching closer, trying to get the boy to relax. He had no time to chase a skittish loosh.
Kierdron saw something in the silver eyes, a sympathy and understanding that did not ease his fears, only bring them to the surface.
He turned and ran. "Leave me here," he yelled over his shoulder. "Just leave me here and leave me the Tac. At least have the decency to leave me the Tac." The green hair was lost as the boy angled off into another tunnel.
"WAIT!" the alien yelled, "We need to get back, there will be aftershocks."
But the boy was lost to him, panicked by the realization of his fate, refusing to accept some truths; he was determined to cut himself off from Tarakan.
"By the Priest's of Orion, I swear, Baroosh, he lives on borrowed time." With that, Tarakan raced after the green-eyed pest.
Kierdron hated going deeper into the tunnels. He hated the small enclosures and prayed that he would come out of some moon crater within a matter of a few meters. But he only went deeper and deeper and even with his warped perceptions he could tell he was angling downward. If only he could hide, let the alien give up, return to patch his ship and leave, dropping the Tac off to conserve fuel. He could not carry the small craft with his reserve tanks half empty. Surely he would leave the small fighter here for Kierdron. Not even an alien could be that unmerciful.
The area opened into a huge vaulted dome and Kierdron breathed a sigh of relief. As he crossed the large area, he felt a rumble beneath his feet. Suddenly the area opened up, wide and cavernous. Kierdron slipped and fell as his left leg twisted painfully under him, his hands grasping for purchase, but he slid down along the dirt. Grabbing a piece of rock, he looked down. His heart stopped. It was a huge, bottomless pit, dark and widening as he clung onto the moving sides of the ravine.
His fingers hurt as he dug them deep into the rock, his nails broke, and it was the sheer training and determination that kept him hanging by a thread. His left leg screamed out in agony, and he couldn't get his right leg to dig in. His fingers started sliding and he wanted to cry out, scream for help and mercy and forgiveness and pray that there was a god somewhere, despite what they taught him in the academy about being your only god, the only one to ever depend upon.
Then his fingers tired of their hold and he began to fall. Closing his eyes, he slid along the sloping wall down towards the ending of his life, towards the end of the first and last call to duty. But just as he accepted his death with the cold regard he had been taught all his young life, he stopped suddenly. He was in a net, a fine green silt-like net. Looking up he saw Tarakan, talons digging into the walls of the opening, the silt-sac falling from his back in a fine green veil of salvation. Even in the darkness of the pit, Kierdron could see the razor like teeth as the alien smiled to him with satisfaction.
Tarakan concentrated hard, releasing a thicker spray of netting. He didn't want to lose his prize now that he had him trapped. Using his agile legs and claws he dug easily into the sides of the huge pit, much like a spider at home in a vertical arena. The earth rumbled some more and Tarakan waited for the settling before starting the climb up. The earth boy was light, not even a quarter of his own muscular weight; Tarakan felt as though he carried a babe upon his back.
The netting held the boy safely and even though he bounced a bit on the ascent, he was safe and secure while attached to Tarakan's sac.
Tarakan cleared the ridge of the pit and turning slightly he grabbed hold of his own silt netting and pulled the package up. As his captor cleared the rim, the bright green eyes stared out at him from the confines of the net. Tarakan noted the lost, frightened look, the abandonment of hope. This boy had more demons to deal with than anyone he had ever met in his travels as a Retriever for the Querons.
"You're all right. You are safe." He reassured Kierdron as he sliced a talon along the netting still attached to his back. The green webbing fell away from the boy as he lay on the ground. Almost comically, the youth placed his hands over his head in fear and Tarakan realized the boy was afraid the netting would bounce back around him like before.
"It is under my control while attached to my sac," Tarakan said. Then turning slightly, he closed his silver eyes and the netting fell easily off, floating into the pit like a fine silk caught in the wind.
Kierdron started pushing himself back away from the pit using his right leg for purchase as he skooted back on his butt. The crocodile eyes noted the swelling along the lower portion of the boy's left leg. Reaching down three-talons he grabbed the boy's hand and in one fluid, easy movement, he swung the startled youth over his left, broad shoulder.
Stunned by the past few minutes and the certain death he faced, Kierdron felt a whoomp as his breastbone hit the broad, muscular wall. Feeling the pulsing silt sac beneath him, he pushed himself up in disgust, eager to be put down onto his feet.
"Let me go. Put me down." He pleaded, struggling frantically.
A sharp, stinging pain brought his attention to his vulnerable position. The large leathered palms came down in four hard connections to his upturned buttocks. The taut muscles tightened in fear of further assault, but the large palm merely rested on the twin globes.
"You are due some training by me," Tarakan said, angrily, "but now is not the time. We need to get the craft repaired, you tended to, and us off this moon in a zimmerspan. Any further resistance, disobedience or obstinacy shown by you, will only make me truss you up for now. But I promise as the Priests are my keeper, you will feel my dissatisfaction and feel it sharply." With that pronouncement, Tarakan sent another sharp smack to the boy's bottom, this time pleased with the soft cry of pain and surprise.
"The Queron's used paddles on their more truculent students, but my leather palms will serve nicely in any training necessary."
Kierdron relaxed over the broad peek.
Pleased with his quiet load, Tarakan took long, determined strides out of the moon cave.
Kierdron sat quietly under the shadow of the skimmer, comfortably propped back against the stairs of the Tac. He watched as Tarakan crumbled the stollrock into small clusters. The smaller rocks were then put into a microburner that soon had hot molten puddles of bubbling mass. The large, scaly alien then walked under the skimmer and with a tonger, he applied the patches to the gashes in the reserve tanks.
He spoke very little to Kierdron since depositing him on the stairs, only pointing a threatening talon and saying quite clearly, "Don't move." Kierdron had no desire now to move, his leg was swollen, straining against the even pliable stretch of the cotswool.
He was tired, he would have admitted it to himself if he allowed the warrior upbringing to admit such human frailty, but he didn't realize that the soft cooing sounds the alien made as he worked were relaxing him, putting him into a trancelike state of contentment. He could barely keep his eyes open.
Tarakan knew the effects of the soft cooing. Many a Zygon parent had used it to send a rambunctious toddler to bed, one who insisted too determinedly to play with the looshes in the ponds or catch the firewhips that pulled their long tails through the dark night. The earth brat was experiencing the lullaby of Zygon. His own son, Tomerak, had drifted off in his arms whenever he cooed. Remembering the child of his heart, the loss of his world, Tarakan concentrated on his task.
When he finished, the navicomp was working, the reserve tanks were patched and refueled with what remained in the Tac, and a makeshift rudder link would keep them on course...at least enough to get them home. Taking the Tac with them was out of the question. The fuel was barely enough to clear this galaxy and perhaps deposit them safely on Urethros in Quadrant One.
Just as Tarakan began cleaning up, he noticed the stairs empty. A growl of pure threat escaped his lips, no lullabies now for the brat, he thought. However, as he passed the Tac fighter he saw the boy standing on the edges of the oxygen plack staring up into the heavens.
Tears were streaming down his cheeks and Tarakan had never seen so sad a face on any creature he had encountered. Walking forward, clearing the umbrella covering of the Skimmer, he looked up and saw the colorful debris of what was once this boy's home. The moon had spun its course and there was no denying the truth now.
Placing the three talons onto the boy's shoulder, Tarakan tried to offer comfort. "I know what you feel."
But the boy would have none of it. Pushing Tarakan's hand off, he stepped back, rage and loathing on his face, "YOU KNOW NOTHING! FREAK!" Then softly, "T'was not your home." Not bothering to put on the oxygen plate, Kierdron started forward beyond the plack. Mere seconds out into the thin air and he would be dead and surely he knew this.
The Crocodile creature placed both hands on Kierdron's shoulders and lifting him off the ground he yanked him back hard against his chest, pinning him against the green cotswool shirt that strained against the rock hard muscles. "You are a fighter I thought, but I see you are nothing more than a child who cannot accept what is."
Kierdron hiccupped as the pain of seeing his home planet gone ripped open his heart. The challenge seemed to prick some inner regions of his conscience as he wiggled and struggled in the tight embrace. "Let me down, you freak, I'll show you. I'll show you what I was born to be."
Tarakan spun him away from the parameters of the oxygen plack and practically threw him into the center of the small arena. A cry escaped the boy's lips as his swollen leg made contact with the moon's surface, but he was able to keep his balance and stay standing.
"Okay, earth boy, we joust. You win; you take the Tac and leave. I will not follow. I win and you come with me. You take the training and you give the Querons a chance. Do I have your word?"
Kierdron looked beyond the large reptilian-like alien seemingly losing himself in the colored gases that sparkled amidst the destruction and ruin of his home. Then he met the silver eyes of the croc-man and nodded. "I will leave here alone."
Tarakan smiled and nodded his approval. "Confidence, it is a good thing, but you will be taught defeat and acceptance as well. The confidence will be regained as a Queron warrior."
"I am Terra Force and I will be nothing else."
With that the two crouched low ready for combat. Kierdron knew he had the disadvantage with his leg, but he was startled when Tarakan looked down. The large man ripped off a chord around his waste and tying it around his wrist he anchored one arm to his side. "I think we are fairly matched, don't you?"
"I don't need your sympathy, Crocodile."
Tarakan laughed, but his good humor was cut short as the small earth boy rolled forward pushing his legs up and under the larger man, toppling him. Tarakan roared in surprise, but quickly regained his confidence. "A worthy opponent. I am glad to see the earth baby has grown up a bit."
Kierdron raced forward in anger, the taunt no doubt doing well its work. Tarakan grabbed his arm by splaying his own three talons along the boy's elbow. Turning and stooping low, he managed to lift the youth off his feet and send him crashing to the soft moon dust, splattering a cloudy gray mist around them both.
Offering his hand to the boy, a sign of fair combat, the alien was pleased when the boy accepted. However, Kierdron allowed himself to be lifted only half way when he kicked out his right leg striking Tarakan in the shin and toppling him backwards. The jarring motion sent him landing full force on his left leg, and he cried out in pain.
Tarakan went into the fall rolling sideways. Hearing the cry of anguish, he decided to end the game, knowing he could have conquered this creature from the start, feeling guilty for toying with him. As Kierdron fell back, Tarakan rolled under him grabbing the boy against his chest, securing him tightly in place. Kierdron struggled still determined to win.
"It is over. Ease up and give in. You are not conquered, only subdued."
Just then the earth rumbled violently. Tarakan knew the game was over. He needed to move quickly. Touching the blue ring, he was pleased as the cuffs around Kierdron's wrists blazed into a blue glow and drew his hands together like powerful magnets. Kierdron raged at the unfairness still thinking they were doing combat....when he had lost this battle a long time ago.
Tarakan rolled and stood, pulling the boy up and tossing him once again over his shoulder. He raced towards the skimmer and spoke into his wristcom. The belly of the skimmer opened and the landing stairs came down quietly and swiftly. With little time to waste he carried his prize up, slammed him down hard in one of the pilot chairs and secured the harness around him.
He closed the baylock and within seconds the glowing panels of the console acknowledged systems were go for takeoff. Releasing the Tac fighter, he secured his own seat harness and giving his passenger one quick glance, he pushed the throttle as they spun up and away from the moon.
Kierdron twisted in his restraints turning to look out all viewable portals he saw the Tac fighter, his only chance of escape, buried in the thick blast of moon dust as the skimmer jettisoned up and off the surface. A look of horror still pocked his face in a colored grimace as the console's bright lights glowed around him. He pulled at the blue cuffs binding his hands, but all his efforts were futile, and as the skimmer sliced through the residual gases of earth's destruction, the heartbreaking events of the day caught up with his tired soul and Kierdron McCardle passed out.
The sea green eyes opened slowly, unsure of what awaited the conscious. He felt warm and cozy and totally relaxed. The fine fibers of the doogus down were light and tender to his skin. He stretched luxuriously while eager to retain the safety of his position. His hands ran down his body and he was mildly shocked to find himself naked. His leg no longer hurt, but a casing could be felt around the appendage. He moved his leg slowly and was satisfied that he still had feeling in it.
A thin, cellophane undergarment was around his waste and hips. It felt like plastar, the transparent material that could be filled with air, molded to shapes, and durably pliable. He had never seen it used in garments before, but then again, he had never seen crocodile men either. Whatever, he was too tired right now to care.
"You are awake. That is good." The voice brought him up and about, pulling him from the fringes of his contentment.
"What happened?" He asked, confused by the events.
"You passed out. You were burning with fever. A bad sprain and a gash that I allowed to get infected. I apologize. You are my responsibility and I ignored your condition to give you a chance at battle. You are fine, though. I've cleaned the wound, reduced the swelling, and injected you with agaron. Your fever is gone." Tarakan had a flask pillar of soup and a siddlestraw steaming hot. He placed it on the table next to Kierdron.
"Now, you eat and we get you back to Quadrant Five."
"I would sooner starve to death," Kierdron kept true to form.
"You will eat."
Tarakan's wristcom blinked. Baroosh's soft voice tickled his ear.
"I take it you have my little rebel? Safe and sound, no doubt?"
"He is as you said, merely a child of earth, petulant and difficult." Tarakan showed his sharp teeth to Kierdron, pleased with keeping his captive in place.
"I like his spirit. He is a fine warrior in his soul. He will make an even finer Guardian and Protector, perhaps even a Retriever and Trainer in his own time."
"He would that," Tarakan admitted, with just a trace of pride in his voice.
"Which is why I have this list of potential trainers before me. There are at least one hundred qualified and the final decision is getting difficult."
"Perhaps he needs one who understands him better," Tarakan ventured, hating the wanting that tore his heart.
"Has to be an experienced Trainer, one with years of captives and their contention behind him. One who will know how to guide and instruct, correct and modify one so head strong." Baroosh was ever the logical voice of reason.
Kierdron watched, his face red. He hated one-sided discussions that were so totally about him, yet leaving him so clueless as to their full content.
"I will peruse the list again....surely there is a perfect match." At that, Baroosh clicked off, leaving Tarakan frustratingly irate.
"Eat!" He commanded, patience terminated by the disconnection.
Seeing the boy not eager to obey, Tarakan picked up the pillar flask and the siddlestraw that kept the liquid hot. Handing the container to the boy, he was taken aback as a strong arm swung out and splattered the liquid onto the floor. The flask, unbreakable, bouncing around the room only to rest under Kierdron's bed.
The silver eyes slanted, angled in a wiley fashion. The angular jawline snapped as the Zygon began to mutter in a language Kierdron could not understand.
The covers were pulled off. Before the boy could move, the blue wrist cuffs were called to arms and his wrists snapped together. He was lifted easily, but quite gently, considering the anger on his captor's face.
Carried in the arms of the gator man, nestled like a babe in the scaley cradle, Kierdron's squirming didn't perturb the seven-foot alien one whit. Tarakan walked over to a low couch in the small sleeping quarter. Sitting down, he easily flipped the boy face down across his large lap.
Kierdron froze, not knowing what to expect. He had never been physically punished before. Punishment at the academy was left to the members amongst themselves and it was usually stone cold silence for weeks, loss of meal privileges or hologram viewings. Never any physical retaliation, as your comrades were needed and necessary and their welfare was always your utmost concern.
He didn't know what was coming. Suddenly he felt the fine fabrics of his "briefs," the plastar shorts he woke up in fill with air. A thin fiber filled the crack of his buttocks, wrapped around his genitals safely protecting them. A strand expanded around his thighs, pushing his legs down while the material around his belly pushed his buttocks up and rounded. The expanse between his legs widened as his thighs were pushed apart and Kierdron realized the boxers were preparing the maximum exposure of his fleshy buttocks, still bare and uncovered by any plastar.
"These are called training pants," Tarakan said, as though lecturing a tour group on an intergalaxial vacation. "They are worn during your training and I'm afraid I'm taking the liberty early. Baroosh will not be pleased, but you need a firm, well-placed hand NOW."
With that final announcement, Tarakan slammed the leathery palm down hard on the exposed white globes. Kierdron kicked in shock at the first hard swat. It was nothing like the almost loving tap he had received from the croc-man in the moon cave, this was pure, determined punishment.
"Ow!" Kierdron shouted, trying for all his worth to bite his tongue. But this man was huge, well-muscled and quite upset right now....his hand hurt like nothing Kierdron had ever experienced before.
SWAT SNAP The stinging of the leather palms had Kierdron wiggling, but the plastar boxers only adjusted to his every movement arching his back down, rising his bottom up, spreading his legs and Kierdron had the odd sensation that his bottom was actually accommodating Tarakan....meeting him merrily for punishment. This thought was the most humiliating and Kierdron couldn't help himself.
Fifty hard swats, fifty stinging paddlings from the leathery palm and Kierdron was bawling like a child. Crying for the first time in his life, needing something so badly he had no idea what. Sure he wanted the pain to stop, sure he wanted to be away from this man, but he wanted something else too, for beyond the pain and humiliation, there was a safety, a caring...something Kierdron did not understand.
"What are you called?" Tarakan asked resting his large hand across both the blazing orbs that even felt hot through his leathery flesh.
The boy tried to speak, but the holes in his soul allowed only a squeak. Tarakan rubbed gently the hot flesh, trying to comfort his captive.
"Come on, Earth Boy, unless you want me calling you Loosh from now on." The teasing seemed to help as Kierdron shifted uneasily on the long lap, pulled his cuffed hands up to his face and tried to rub away the tears that cooled his red face.
"Kid n cardle." The garble came out between gasps for air. The soul was still reaching for some plateau to station itself, whether humiliated child or mighty warrior, only a lost little boy lay secured on Tarakan's lap.
"Kid n Cart?" Tarakan asked, deliberately showing ignorance. He knew the comlog would give him all he needed to know and more.
"Keer-dron Mac Car-Dul," Kierdron enunciated, trying to regain some dignity at least in the sound of his own name.
"Kierdron McCardle." Tarakan let it roll off his tongue, savoring the sound. "I like it. It suits you well. I am Tarakan Rokugoru Alykzandar of Planet Zygon, now Chief Officer of Retrieval under the beneficent rule of Starlord Baroosh, Quadrant Five of the Queron Galaxy,"
Kierdron couldn't take it all in, he didn't know how to answer. His position uppermost in his mind right now.
"Say my name," Tarakan encouraged.
"Tarakan Crocguru Alligator," Kierdron defied him.
The assault began again, this time with a hard rhythm. The training pants shifted. Kierdron could feel the air readjusting. It seemed like the air was adjusting to push new, unexposed flesh up for attention.
"Ow! Please, no more."
"Are you sure?" Tarakan asked still pounding away on the abused flesh.
"Yes. My word as a Terra Force Fighter," he said, feeling ridiculously like a little boy and anything but a Terra Force Fighter.
Tarakan pulled the sobbing youth up onto his lap. The struggling boy was no match for the alien. Pulling him tightly against his chest he started a slow rocking movement, cooing in that strange way of his. Kierdron, hating restraint, kicked and twisted, but held so firmly in place, softly eased with the sounds of the lullaby, he found himself relaxing. The tight embrace seemed to bring him contentment.
The wristlocks released and his hands fell free. Pulling them up between his heaving chest and the rock hard wall he leaned into, he felt an overwhelming sense of belonging, being cared about and for, and he feared he would lose it.
"You will be fine, Kierdron," Tarakan said between the cooing. "You will be a treasure amidst the Querons and you could teach me and many a Zygon a thing or two about flying."
Kierdron pushed off enough to meet the silver eyes with his own sea foam green. Surprise was the uppermost expression, but there was also an acceptance in the look, a gauging of truth and the knowledge to know it when it was spoken.
"Now, will you eat the soup?" Tarakan asked, softly.
"I'm hungry," Kierdron admitted, no longer choosing this place for battle. "But like you said, I'm just subdued, not conquered."
Tarakan let out a boisterous laugh that made the boy smile. "Right, Loosh, biding your time."
The wristcom blinked and Tarakan pushed the boy up and off of him. Smacking his sore bottom once with direction he laughed as Kierdron skooted quickly towards the bed standing by for further directives.
"Yes, Baroosh?" he asked into the wristcom.
"Urethros is expecting you. Full overhaul, fueling and lodging for you and the boy."
"We are moving there, arrival within the circadian."
"I'm narrowing the possibilities for trainer for the boy. Just a few fifty now to investigate. You will be pleased, I'm sure, to be rid of this retrieval." The soft voice tucked itself around Tarakan's ear, as usual, not expecting anything but concurrence.
"I think there are factors you need to take into consideration on this retrieval, master."
"Oh?" Baroosh asked, as though he were totally without a clue.
"This one is different. He is worthy of someone who has walked where he now goes. I would request, Master Baroosh, that we discuss upon my return." Tarakan sounded like a little boy to the Starlord's ears, a child wanting and wishing for something he needed with all his heart.
"Well, I can hold off choosing," the silky threads eased the ache in Tarakan's heart. "Return and speed well, Tarakan," and the wristcom disconnected.
Tarakan smiled as hope lit the dark skies of his galaxy.
Far off in the high towers of Quadrant Five of the Queron Galaxy, Starlord Baroosh turned in his swivel chair and looked out onto the organized and bustling city of his home planet. Teepeeing his fingers together he kissed the tips laughing softly to himself. "I've found you a reason, my boy, a reason to finally forget."
On his desk a comlog printout of Kierdron McCardle, stats and facts, lay face up. Next to it a list of potential trainers compatible in nature. One lone name faced out from the translucent comp sheet: Tarakan Rokugoru Alykzandar.
The End
If you liked it or not, let me know. Knickeless@hotmail. com
This one is for Frost Spinner and Dice....my buds.
Leave your heart amidst the stars And tuck your soul under the moon There are hard times ahead of you And you'll be lost so soon.
Lock your eyes on other shores Galaxies both new and distant Let them think you a warrior A rebel and a miscreant.
You know what you can do You know what you can be You know the magic in you The love that you can see
For soon another being meant To take your heart to war Will find you out and turn you round And open up your door.
The one who holds you captive now The creature you were meant to hate Is but another soul like you In need of his own starmate. (Knickeless)