Water of Life (bad conversion)

WATER OF LIFE RHYS ASTASON Copyright © December 2011, Rhys Astason Cover Art by Calisto Kerrigan © December 2011

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Water of Life Rhys Astason

Acknowledgements It takes a village…. To my wonderful gals, J & H, for reading and re-reading this story, for putting up with my paranoia and insecurity (and cracking the proverbial whip). To J for making this manuscript so pretty with lots of red. To my kids for eating countless mac & cheese dinners. To my wonderful husband and his, “Are you done yet?” Why yes, yes I am done.

Chapter 1 Camp Audie Murphy American Federation, Joint Forces Command On the coast of The Republic of Oman 0530 GST Master Chief Petty Officer Jackson Monroe hated running. That hadn’t always been the case but after twenty years in the Federation’s Navy, time had finally caught up with him in the form of a solid hour of pure pain. Eighteen months ago, regardless of terrain, an hour of running would have been nothing. Hardly enough to break him into a sweat unless he pushed himself racing his Raider teammates, the Wolf Pack. But he had been whole then. His new reality was a bluish tint to his face because his overworked lungs simply refused to process the lifesaving oxygen any faster. It was probably due to the fact they were now burning with fiery vengeance, his lower back was screaming with every movement, and his left knee felt like it was about to crumble into dust if he took another step. His whole body felt like it would burst into flames at any minute. The only good thing was that his right knee felt fine. Actually, the titanium joint and attaching rods felt nothing. Never would. Jackson hit the sandy beach portion of the hardest trail on the base and slowed down his pace to a light jog. He couldn’t complain. This leg wouldn’t blind him with agony if half of it got blown off. It was a good leg. The best that the American Federation Military could provide which meant it was the best prosthetics available in the world. He had been lucky. Eighteen months ago, he had only lost a leg. Several

of his teammates had lost a whole lot more. “Morning, Master Chief.” “Morning, Chief.” “Chief.” Jack looked up in time to see the arrogant smiles from three members of Special Warfare, Raider Six, the Dragons, run past him. The fuckers had lapped him even though they had started at least twenty minutes later. It would be all over Camp Murphy by the time he got back. It didn’t matter that they were fifteen years younger, on the active duty roster and had use of two completely non-mechanical legs. He was never going to live this down. If nothing else, the other Chiefs would skewer him over an open fire for making them look bad. “Over the hill,” one of them said loud enough to carry over the breaking surf. “Assholes,” Jack muttered under his breath, coming to an abrupt stop on the hard sand. He gave up the ghost and leaned forward, hands resting on his thighs. He rubbed his very human aching knee, ignoring the water that rushed against his shoes and silently cursing at the metal that was now his other leg. He looked up at the retreating backs of the Dragons, so eager to go spread the gossip that they had lapped Master Chief, the Ball Breaker of Camp Murphy. Jackson wondered what the blazes drove him to run this course. He hated sand as much as he now hated running. “Good morning, Master Chief.” Oh yeah. Now he remembered. That smoky voice hit him right in the groin every single time he heard it. He straightened and turned, meeting sparkling green eyes that were alight with mischief. Today she was actually within an arm’s reach. With the

whole bloody beach to walk on, she was just a hairs breadth from intruding in his personal space and brushing against him. His breath stalled in his throat. Close enough so his hands could rip open the offending wetsuit and finally feel the softness underneath. Where his lips could finally taste the skin he had been dreaming about for over six months. She sent him that naughty grin he now considered as belonging solely to him even if it couldn’t possibly be true. The one that hinted she knew exactly what he was thinking about and made so many promises that his cock twitched in anticipation. This flirtation had been going on since they’d met. But flirtation was all it could ever be. Cold harsh reality slammed into him like a freight train. Gracen Ellison was simply too pretty, too young…and too commissioned. “Morning, Captain,” he replied, his voice sounding harsh even to his own ears. The moment shattered. Something flashed across her eyes. Regret? Anger? He had just reminded both of them that whatever they were doing was against regulations. Her smile tightened imperceptibly, something he wouldn’t have recognized a few months ago, but now it was as clear as a bell. She gave him a small nod, bordering on brusque dismissal before trotting up the beach with her surf board tucked tightly under her arm and heading up the wooden steps towards the parked cars.

I’m such an asshole. He followed her to apologize. To kiss her senseless. Anything to take away that bruised look from her eyes and bring back the promising, smoldering look that he loved. “What the hell are you doing, Jackson?” came the irate voice behind him. Only years of training kept Jackson from reacting poorly

and looking guilty as he turned to face his best friend and former Wolf Pack teammate, Chief Petty Officer Brian Hunter. “Chief.” “Don’t you Chief me, Master Chief,” Brian said, his arms crossing against his impressive chest and giving Jackson his best ‘I know I caught you doing something you weren’t supposed to’ look he usually reserved for green sailors just off the boat. “This is a level five course, Jackson. You have nothing to prove. The Navy didn’t promote you to Master Chief to keep your pretty face around. You have skills they find valuable, but if you blow out your other knee they will have no choice but to send you packing.” Jack slowly nodded, dropping his head to hide the relief that flooded his features. Hunter had only caught him running a course he hadn’t been medically cleared for and not staring after a pretty young captain like a starving man facing a juicy T-bone. “You’re right.” “Of course I’m right,” Brian replied, slapping Jackson on shoulder that, had the other man not been prepared for, would have sent him sprawling on the sand. “I’m always right.” Brian grinned broadly, showing off white pearly teeth against a darker skin tone. “Asshole,” Jackson grumbled. It was definitely becoming his favorite word. “Fop.” Jackson’s eyes flattened dangerously and one eyebrow arched as he put the full weight of The Look onto Brian. “Fop?” “You know,” Brian hesitated, “when that one duke goes out of his way to…” “I read the book, Chief,” Jackson said, glaring

menacingly. Then his lips twitched and the mask of righteous anger completely fell. “But I never thought you’d be man enough to admit to reading it.” The silence lasted for a full two seconds before Brian’s explosive laughter filled the beach. “Asshole!” Brian shook his head, a smile still playing across his lips. “You were right. It was a great way to just blow some steam.” Their eyes locked. Sometimes words weren’t necessary between brother warriors. The memories haunted both of them. Brian’s smile faltered briefly and eyes dropped to Jackson’s leg, then away. “Brian-” “I swear to God,” Brian pointed at Jackson, a smile back on his but this time it didn’t quite reach his eyes, “if you tell anyone I actually read that lovey dovey girl porn, I’ll kill you in your sleep. And Jesus Christ those covers are horrid even in a reader.” He responded to Jackson’s snort with his own laugh. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” He turned and smirked. “Bet I can beat you to the truck, old man.” Jackson shook his head, a lazy grin in his face as he followed gamely up the weathered steps even as Brian detoured to a different car first. He knew that they would have to talk about that last mission someday. Really talk. But not today. Jackson’s pace slowed when he saw a blue lump on his bumper. He picked up the still frozen ice pack. Gracen. Guilt rode through him hard as he glanced up to see her on the second level parking waxing her board. Nothing he could do right now, but he’d figure out a way to apologize somehow. Coffee. He’d buy her coffee and apologize. Satisfied with the plan, he pulled open the truck’s tailgate and hopped on, before gingerly placing the ice on his pounding knee.

“Jesus, you are getting old,” Brian said, handing him a cold drink. “Pot. Kettle. Black.” Brian laughed. “I’m vintage.” He puffed out his chest and tapped it twice before pointing to Jackson. “You, my friend, are an antique. No shame in being elderly, though.” He saluted with the bottle before taking long drink. The broad smile on his face slowly faded. “This is my last tour with the Raiders.” Jack sent him a piercing look. Hunter was a career man, like himself. And that career was Special Warfare or nothing. “They pushing you out?” “No,” Brian shook his head, “but the new guys are getting younger every day and I’m starting to feel old.” He shrugged. “Not as old as you, of course.” He laughed at Jackson’s scowl. “Speaking of which,” he nodded towards the upper level, “are officers getting younger?” A low, appreciative whistle cut through the air. “Damn. Should be against regulations for a captain to be that fuckable. Isn’t the Army supposed to be full of rejects?” Show some fucking respect, was on Jackson’s lips but he managed to bite it back and followed Hunter’s gaze up to the second parking level. His eyes drank in the sight of Gracen peeling off the wetsuit to reveal a deep red tankini that had become his favorite. He tore his gaze away. “Doctor Ellison? Never thought of her that way.” He hid his blatant lie behind the bottle of water, taking a long drink and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He couldn’t believe how close he’d come to snapping at Hunter. Letting it out that he had a thing for the pretty, young officer – hell, it was bordering on obsession, if he was honest with himself – was all he needed to top off this FUBAR day that had only just began. Looking at the

crashing waves, he purposely ignored Brian’s incredulous look. “Dear Mrs. Monroe,” Brian intoned dramatically, “the Naval Division of the American Federation regrets to inform you that your son, Master Chief Petty Officer Jackson Monroe is not just old, but actually a living corpse….”

Stupid. Moron. Imbecile of epic proportion! Gracen Ellison viciously rubbed a new coat of protective wax into her board. Waxing could have waited until the next time she went out. It would take repeated, long term emersion before salt water ate into the new, delicately balanced fiberoxy Surfrider board, but after that bitch slap by the Master Chief, she needed to do something physically vigorous. Since slamming her head against the Jeep wouldn’t do her reputation any favors, waxing her board to a factory shine would have to do. What had she been thinking? That a flirtation with the Master Chief could go anywhere? She couldn’t ask him out even if she had the balls because of her rank and he clearly wasn’t the type to go against regs. What was worse was the knowledge that where she thought it had been a mutual flirtation, he had just been humoring her, a superior officer. He had just been waiting for her to buy a clue and when she hadn’t, he finally slammed the door shut on her face. Morning, Captain. No ‘Mornin’ Doc’ which had been the usual greeting or the incredibly rare ‘Good Morning, Gracen’ with that slow sexy drawl of his that made her think of bed and long nights of salacious sex. With a groan, she rested her head on the board. This stupid crush had to go, especially after that complete shutdown. She’d been embarrassed and more than a little

bit hurt but instead of just getting in her car and driving away, what does she do? Leave an ice pack on his truck. Even from the surf, she had seen him favoring his all too human left leg as he pushed his body to the breaking point. She’d seen it because she had been watching him with hungry eyes as he ran on shore. Waiting for him just like she normally did every morning he ran this particular killer course she knew – Knew! – he hadn’t been cleared for but couldn’t find it in herself to rat him out to the SpecWar surgeon. All so she could have a few flirtatious minutes with one of the sexiest men she had ever met. Even after the shutdown, her inner doctor took over and monitored the potential injury regardless of the fact that the man was clearly done humoring her ridiculous infatuation. Wasn’t that the reason she was still in the parking lot? Because the doctor in her was worried that the knee was going to crumble under him and there would be no one there to help? She glanced down to the lower level where the two experienced Raiders were talking, Chief Monroe holding her ice pack to his knee, Chief Hunter leaning on the fence. Well, he wasn’t alone now. If the Master Chief’s knee gave out, his buddy could take him to MedBay. She let out a frustrated huff, but carefully stowed her board before angrily ripping off her wet suit. Laughter rank out on the parking lot. Don’t look. Don’t. Look. She peeked. Chief Hunter was slapping his knee laughing hysterically, a sight totally unbecoming for a hard ass Chief, and the Master Chief just shaking his head, his lips twitching as if fighting off a smile. Damn. He was even sexy when he was a jerk. Men

sucked. And she needed a life. A trendy chorus rang out from a side pocket in her bag, making a genuine smile light up her face as she picked up the phone. Derrick. The one person who could always be counted to have her back and tell her when she was being a whiny girl. Older brothers – even if in this case it was older by only five minutes – never failed to put their little sisters back on track. She opened her phone and read the text message on the screen.

.: Tell me you are out of bed at this ungodly hour because surfing rocks and not to simply flirt with an over the hill glorified frogman :. Gracen smiled and her eyes travelled to the subject of their conversation. Her breath hitched. Chief Hunter was now gone but Master Chief had ditched his shirt and was dumping the rest of his water over his head. She stared. How could she not? Never had she wanted to be one with water more than at that moment. To be intimately acquainted with the rippling, powerful muscles of his back. To slide across the tattoos that she knew by heart. On his left shoulder, Semper Fidelis, Semper Paratus, Semper Fortis. Always faithful, always ready, always strong, the motto for the Federation’s military. On his side, the Navy anchor inscribed with Non sibi sed patriae, not self but country, and held up by an eagle with outstretched wings. On his chest, Honor, Courage and Commitment opposite his heart and a tribal howling wolf, the Wolf Pack symbol, under it. But it was the deep scar that went from his right shoulder to his left hip, visible even from the distance that separated them, that gave her pause. A souvenir from his last mission. The same one that had cost him his leg. She hadn’t known him then, but she couldn’t help but be thankful

for the combat medics who had undoubtedly struggled to keep him alive. He turned, giving her full view of the chiseled chest with a smattering of hair on his sternum leading down a happy trail she was dying to let her fingers travel. How pathetic was it that she had memorized minute details of a man she had no chance with? Even Derrick, whose motto was ‘Don’t know, don’t tell’ when it came to her sex life, picked up on her interest in the Master Chief and handed her his military personnel file on a silver platter in order to try to give her rose colored glasses a little less tint. She’d managed to not look at the file for a full hour, then read through it twice. The problem was the more she knew about the man, the more she liked him. She was truly smitten despite the impossibility of a romantic resolution. Regardless of reality, a half naked Master Chief was a sight simply too good to pass up. Gracen lifted her phone as if she was looking for better signal, then clicked the camera button and zoomed in. Click. Save. She was too much of a connoisseur of eye candy to not want to revisit that moment in time. Send. That should shut Derrick up. It didn’t take long to get a reply.

.: Damn. Over the hill isn’t supposed to look that good. His records say old, not hot. MC must have some magic mojo against the Ellison clan. I might go a little gay for him. :. Gracen laughed. .: Liar. Besides, isn’t a little gay the same as a little pregnant? :. .: I’m in touch with my inner metro, darlin. Go home. We need to talk. :. Gracen paused at his abrupt change in tone. Derrick was never serious. Not with her. The only time he was

serious was when events leading to a Global Catastrophe, aka. Dealing with the Family, were on the horizon. Awww, hell. Gracen made it to her cabin on base in record time. The benefit of being a commissioned officer, and from one of the world’s richest families, was that she had a private cabin. Favoritism was officially frowned upon by the Federation’s military, but it happened. Especially when it was the Ellison Conglomerate, who had their hand in just about every sector of the military from weapons, to computers to the bloody Quonset huts, or ‘cabins’, that came in various sizes and made up ninety percent of the living quarters on base. The other ten percent were so temporary they might as well be called pup tents. She stood in front of the SatCom with its blinking message but opted to hit the shower first. The salt and wax was giving off a rather ripe scent and if world annihilation or ‘dealing with the paternal biological donor’ was imminent, Derrick would have said so. Besides, ten minutes in the shower now would enable them to talk until her scheduled rounds. By the time she got out of the shower, a record-setting seven and half minutes, there were multiple blinking messages. Impatient ass. She quickly pulled out the touchpad and hooked her phone to it, then pulled out a richly decorated shiny black box that looked more like a jewelry box than a computing device and hooked it to everything else. “About time, Mary,” Derrick grumbled with a pout when his image came on screen. “Have you talked to Uncle Zed, today?” Gracen looked at her brother. They shared the same light brown hair, though his was a trendy mop that looked

like it was styled by Hollywood’s finest instead of ‘I just didn’t bother to comb it today’ look, and green eyes. With that pout monopolizing his features, he looked a handsome fifteen instead of their shared twenty-five. She hated him for that because even if she never wanted to be fifteen again, her older brother shouldn’t look like he was a decade younger than she was. It went against the Universal Laws According to Gracen. “Mary? MarySue, I can see you but I can’t hear you,” he said in high pitched sing-song voice that never failed to grate her nerves. Asshole. He knew how much she hated that nickname, but he would continue to use it just to piss her off. And to ensure that she was indeed safe and using the secure line. “Zed’s dead, baby. Paranoid much?” “Hey, protocols need to be adhered to.” “Since when?” “Since forever,” he huffed blowing an errant strand of hair away from his face, then his eyes narrowed. “What’s got your panties in a bunch?” Busted. “Nothing. You said you wanted to talk, so talk.” “Nothing? Danger, danger, Derrick Ellison. Next thing you’re going to tell me is that you’re fine.” “Bite me,” she growled. “Sorry sis, I’ll leave that for the Master Chief,” he said with a smile that quickly fell when she refused to meet his eyes. “Aww, darlin’,” his voice softened, “what happened?” Gracen knew that she could count on him to drop everything and let her unload. Just like she would do for him. It was how they’ve always been; counting on each other when everyone else around them was a disappointment. But right now, she needed to mope and feel sorry for herself in order to get over this stupid crush.

“Pass?” Derrick clucked his tongue and leaned back on his chair, studying her carefully. Then he nodded. “Pass issued 0704 GST, May 23 th, 2024. You only get one before I make you talk even if I have to step my dainty little foot outside my air conditioned castle and into that camel humping hovel you call a base.” A weak smile adorned her lips. “Thanks darlin’. Now what did you want to talk about?” “Remember the meteor storm we talked about three months ago? “Yeah,” Gracen nodded, “pretty, but nothing got through the atmosphere. Brass sent some ‘Hawks to check the areas we could, but that close to the border it was asking for trouble. Satellite Imaging showed nothing.” “You checked SatIm?” he asked with a proud, infectious smile. Gracen bit back a responding grin and shrugged. “Old habits die hard. Why?” “We traced the path of the meteors,” he explained. With a few quick taps, a new image took over the screen. The projected path of the meteors. A group of several rocks that were never supposed to come near earth until, out of nowhere, the whole flock did a sharp ninety degree turn straight for their little blue planet. “Celestial objects don’t turn on a dime.” “No, they don’t.” Derrick’s image came back on screen. “I also think that they made it through the atmosphere.” “There are no crash signs-” “I didn’t say crash.” Gracen’s mouth hung open. “Landed? You’re suggesting they landed? What’s your proof?” Derrick snorted. “Proof? Since when have I needed

proof to make incredulous allegations?” He held up his hand, silencing whatever she might have said. “Look, this is actually background information which may or may not affect the real reason I’m calling. We have signs that your little corner of the planet is about to get a lot crowded in a short amount of time.” Gracen snapped her mouth shut so hard her teeth rattled. Her brother was a brilliant goofball but this was much more than just an adorkable mechanical engineer dabbling in astrophysics. The people he worked for (the ones they agreed to never talk about) were anything but dabblers. In anything. “Just because of the meteors?”She asked after several long seconds. He shrugged. “Where are you?” “The Fortress.” Nothing else needed to be said. Derrick was safe. He wasn’t an operative and his job kept him out of the front lines. Unlike hers. “Special Warfare crowded?” “No,” he shook his head, “the scary BlackOps kind from around the globe. Each with their own agenda. Your little hot zone is about to turn molten.” He paused and reached out for the screen, placing his hand flat against it, then gave her a goofy smile. “Darlin’, you are the only family I bother to recognize, much less like, so just wear your birthday present and watch your back, ‘kay?” Gracen smiled and lifted the necklace tucked under her tee shirt. The innocuous looking silver caduceus pendant contained a state of the art tracking device which allowed for pinpoint within fifty yards. She only wore it because she knew how freaked out Derrick had been when her duty orders placed her in the middle of the desert on the brink of war. She got up from the sofa and placed her hand against

his on the screen. “Love you too, Boy Wonder.”

Chapter 2 MedBay Camp Audie Murphy 1025 GST Captain Desdemona ‘Don’t Ever Call Me That’ Russo cut through MedBay in order to get a much needed Triple Suicide at the camp’s coffee hut. She knew perfectly well that Colonel Archer James Esposito, the Chief Medical Officer, hated when personnel, particularly pilots but especially her, used his hospital as a shortcut to The Coffee Shack. However, she had the secret weapon on how to avoid the Esposito – treating the Medical Bay as a top notch obstacle course. There was no barreling through the hallways in order to get through the other side. That was equivalent to painting a red target on your back. No. She ducked, ran, crawled – but only once – and even used a gurney with the patient still in it in order to avoid facing Esposito’s wrath. It had worked; thirty nine days and counting without even a glare from the rather handsome surgeon. She was almost starting to miss the way those amazing green eyes flashed down at her. “What does it say in front of this building, Captain?” Dez cringed, freezing her tracks for a full five seconds before instinct took over and she ducked behind a partition. “Medical Bay, Colonel! Sir!” A very nervous male voice answered loudly. Dez bit off a sigh of relief. She wasn’t the target of Esposito’s wrath. This time, at least. “Are you sick, Captain?” “No, Sir!”

“Then why are you traipsing around my Medical Bay?” She dipped her head around the partition to see Esposito chewing out a much larger and much younger captain. Dez bit off a smile. Live and learn, buddy. Her eyes drifted to an orderly pushing a large cart. With a nimble dexterity that would have done her ballet-loving momma proud, she ducked beside the cart. Looking up at the exasperated orderly, she smiled, “Green eyes are so overrated.” With a wink and a wave, she scampered down a different hallway, now grinning broadly, as Esposito’s voice continued to ring out through the Bay. Now she desperately needed the caffeine and maybe, if she hurried, she’d be in time to see Gracen and Master Chief do their courtly coffee dance around each other. It was actually quite adorable in a prim, Victorian sort of way. They thought no one could tell. Well, there was nothing really to tell, except once in a while, a stray glance lingered a tad too long. That was what spoke volumes of passion and lust. Dez nearly stumbled as her analytical side dissected the whimsical thought. If she kept thinking like that - and about gorgeous green eyes - she’d become some limp noodle romantic. She needed to get back into her ‘A’ game. Make someone suffer. Gracen. Perfect target. She’d totally squirm under the scrutiny of forbidden lust. Quit that! She quickened her pace, making a cursory glance into Gracen’s empty office as she passed it and skidded to a sudden stop. The office wasn’t empty and that was bad news all around. Doing a parade crisp about-face, she barged in without even a by your leave. Gracen, mesmerized by the display in front of her, didn’t bother to notice the intrusion. Dez momentarily paused in the doorway and glanced around the room before entering. It wasn’t really Gracen’s

and it wasn’t really an office but, to the best of her knowledge, only Gracen actually worked at the terminal on a daily basis, whether studying charts, reading papers or communicating with other trauma surgeons across the world. So when she had christened the former Doctor’s Office Lounge into Gracen’s Office four months ago, it had stuck like a leech to a plump butt. Dez studied Gracen for a full minute. With her chin resting on her hand, the glow of the display softened Gracen’s features to the point that she looked like she belonged in a sorority instead of the Army. But Dez knew those soft looks were deceiving. She’d seen Gracen elbow deep in a soldier’s chest trying to keep him alive. Yeah, the Doc had a surprising steel core. That is, except when dealing with the Master Chief. Teetering on her toes, Dez looked over Gracen’s shoulder to her computer screen. She wasn’t in a conference trying to save some poor schmuck’s life across the globe. She wasn’t writing some potentially ground breaking treatise that would save some poor schmuck’s life somewhere on the globe. She wasn’t working on or reviewing the countless charts of some poor schmuck that had crossed her path. Nope, Gracen wasn’t doing any of those things that could justify her being – Dez looked up at the clock hanging on the wall – now ten minutes late for her unofficial coffee date with the Master Chief. Instead of doing something lifesaving, Gracen was surfing the NewsNet. Dez looked at the clock again, then back at Gracen. So much for that plan. “You’re late for coffee.” Gracen didn’t look up from her screen, but gestured to the large twenty-four ounce micro-aluminum can next to it. “I got a Xombie.” To drive home her point, she picked up the

can, drank it before setting it down, and promptly went back to ignoring her unwanted visitor.

Yup, this was bad. Dez stretched her neck, first left then right, before flexing her shoulders back and linking fingers together, pushing out until they popped. This was going to take a while. She debated going for the Suicide before tackling whatever crisis this was going to be but opted to suck it up and help out her friend. She grabbed the Xombie and took a long drink. Gracen didn’t even notice. “All right,” she sighed, resting her hip on the desk, “what did he do?” “Who?” came the grumbled response. “Wow, next thing you’re going to tell me is that you’re fine.” Dez dipped her head and sent Gracen her most empathetic ‘I’m here for you’ look, which was promptly ignored. She sighed. “Isn’t this FlirtSurf followed by FlirtCoffee Thursday?” Gracen’s shoulders drooped and her eyes closed briefly before leaning back on the chair and meeting Dez’s dark brown eyes. “Does everybody know?” “Do you want me to lie to you?” Dez bit off a smile as an embarrassed groan escaped Gracen’s lips. After several long seconds, she decided to put the doctor, who had surprisingly become one of her best friends, out her misery. “Only people who know you and considering you are – well, you – only me, Jenna and Nurse Ratchet, but she knows everything about everyone so she really doesn’t count. Now are you going to tell me what happened?” “Starting today, this stupid crush is officially over,” Gracen murmured, grabbing her drink back with a scowl and holding it as if it was liquid gold. Dez was formulating her version of an Esposito tongue-

lashing when a ridiculously small high tech phone got shoved into her hands. She crinkled her face in distaste. “What do you see?” Gracen asked anxiously. “A toy made for children,” Dez replied, holding out the phone as if afraid it would soil her hands. “If you want to show me something, put it on a screen instead of a disposable gadget.” Gracen snorted and shook her head. “Get with the 21st century. Small is in.” Dez glanced down at her own ample chest then looked up with a lazy confident smile. “Keep telling yourself that, sweet’ums. What do those Navy losers say? It’s not the size of the boat but the motion of the ocean?” Her throaty chuckle became an outright chortle when Gracen rolled her eyes. Gracen sighed. “I can’t put this on one of those.” She nodded to the screen in front of her. “That is one of Derrick’s little gifts and so encrypted that it would take an act of God to break into it.” Now curious, Dex studied the phone. “Have you noticed anything strange in your flight patrols?” Gracen asked. Dez pursed her lips and tapped the screen. She looked up at Gracen thoughtfully, “How secure are these?” “If you’re good, I’ll get Derrick to snag you one.” Gracen smiled and quickly ran through Derrick’s extraterrestrial theory. “That’s a big jump even for him,” Dez said after scrolling through the images on the phone. “This area is huge and full of dirt, sand and rocks. Unless there was a huge impact crater,” she shrugged, “well, you could hide a small carrier in that amount of space.” She studied the highlighted area of the map. “Some of this is on the ugly side of FUBAR Triangle-”

“You mean it actually has an ugly side?” Gracen interrupted. “Yeah,” Dez replied without looking up. She enlarged a section of the map and leaned forward to show it Gracen. “See, this is where the insurgents sit and take pot shots at us from across the border.” “Isn’t that against International Law?” Dez arched a brow and just looked at Gracen. Gracen drew back with an embarrassed grimaced. “Insurgents,” she nodded, “are not big on International Law. Got it.” “Anyway,” Dez snorted, “anything beyond this point we can’t see unless we invade or put SatIm specifically on it.” “Which means it would be telegraphing to the world that we are interested in that area because we plan on invading it.” Dez sniffed noisily and wiped a fake tear. “I’m so proud. They grow up so fast.” Gracen punched, smacking her knuckle just in the sweet spot on the side of Dez’s leg. “Owwww! Why is that you medics know just where to hit to make it hurt?” She pouted for a good five seconds, rubbing her leg the whole time before something occurred to her. “Say, did Boy Wonder mention anything about camel spiders?” “Solifugae?” A slight twitch on the side of Gracen’s mouth was the only sign of her distaste and one not missed by Dez. “How do you remember that shit?” Dez held up hand before Gracen could talk. “I wasn’t really asking,” she said, a wicked smile ghosted her lips as she turned back to the display in her hand. “But I swear the last time I was at FUBAR, one of those creepy crawlies was staring at me

and it was a big mother. The size of small dog.” “See!” Gracen squealed in a pitch that made Dez cringe. “Everybody says that’s an urban myth but it’s true. I bet there is some hidden colony of super spiders somewhere and they are planning to take over the world.” Dez snorted. The one thing that could always be counted on was Gracen conspiracy about spiders. “You really need to stop freaking out over spiders.” Gracen snatched the phone from Dez’s hands with a pout. “They are huge and hairy and creepy.” Dez grabbed the phone back, holding her new toy out of Gracen’s half-hearted reach. “So you gonna tell me what happened with the Master Chief?” “Nothing,” Gracen crossed her arms belligerently, then sighed. “I’m such an idiot.” Dez grabbed Gracen’s arm and pulled her out of the chair. “You can tell me all about your idiocy while I’m drinking a Triple Suicide.” She stopped when Gracen started dragging her heels. “Look, if that man is still there waiting after,” she looked at the clock, “twenty minutes, you need to just put him out of his misery and marry him.” Dez opened the door, pulling a reluctant Gracen along. There was no way she was going to give the Doc time to change her mind. The need for caffeine was about to reach critical and override all common sense. She could already taste the rich flavor sliding down her throat when she slammed dead center into something hard. Her head snapped up and she was lost in a field of green. I love green eyes. She inhaled deeply, surprised by the earthy masculine scent. For some reason, she had expected he’d smell like a hospital. She never realized how tall he was. Or how tall he was. Or... “Care to tell me what you are doing on my Medical Bay,

Captain?” There was something about his tone, along with the fact Gracen was now painfully pinching the inside of her wrist, that suggested to Dez she’d been daydreaming a tad too long. A weak cough escaped her lips as she extricated herself from Esposito’s arms. Dez coughed more forcibly and pointed to her throat with what she hoped looked like a painful shrug. “She’s got a terrible sore throat and can’t really speak,” Gracen piped in. Esposito’s eyes narrowed. “That will be a first.” He turned to Gracen, “Are you now so bored that you’ve decided to do a nurse’s job and take throat cultures?” “I live to serve,” Grace said with a smile before pulling Dez away from Esposito. “Doesn’t he remember that I’m the bad-ass pilot who flew into a sandstorm —” Gracen shushed Dez. “You’re not supposed to talk remember?” “A blinding sandstorm,” Dez continued, “to rescue his sorry ass when his truck was stranded?” “I’m sure he remembers and is ever thankful.” “I should have left him to get eaten by camel spiders.”

Camp Audie Murphy Outer Perimeter 1105 GST Command Master Chief Jason Danziger tapped the steering wheel of the Stalker Light Strike Vehicle. The reader in his pocket was burning a hole in his side and just the thought of what had been in his inbox this morning made

his jaw clench in anger. Idiot! It had to be a woman. Why else would a decorated Master Chief decide to separate from active duty after twelve grueling months of physical therapy and another six in desert duty as reserve support to mostly green Raiders? It made no sense. A woman must be involved because they never made any sense unless they were also Special Forces. And those women were rarer than finding an officer actually willing to work for his paycheck. Danziger huffed impatiently. Jackson was just not the type to let some frilly woman change him. It took a special breed of soldier to make it through Special Forces Training, but only the elite made it as a Raider. To be a Raider for almost fifteen years was beyond being excellent at your job and bordering on super human. Only a handful of Raiders ever reached the One-Fiver honor and the Navy moved heaven and earth to keep them within the family. Now Jackson was about to throw that away and Danziger couldn’t find the bastard to chew him out and change his mind. Movement caught his attention, his eyes narrowed at the sight of a mixed bag of E-3s and 4s huddled together, exchanging money and definitely up to no good. Well, if he couldn’t chew out a certain Master Chief, some snot-nosed kids would have to do. Danziger shifted the idling LSV into gear and pulled in front of the oblivious group. “All the pretty maids in a row,” Danziger growled, his face a stone wall but a wicked grin played across his mind as the nearest Corporal froze in place momentarily. “Command Master Chief!” rang out making all of the E3s and 4s snap guiltily into attention. “Why are you cannon fodders loitering around on my camp?” Danziger looked directly at a very nervous Petty

Officer 3rd Class, but it was a rather short Army Specialist that stepped up to the front and answered. “Command Master Chief! The Wolf Pack just annihilated the Dragons at Boyd’s and they are about to take on the Deltas!” An Army issued reader appeared in front of Danziger. There was nothing but superficial difference between readers of the separate services for this specific reason. In battle, one never knew when the Navy had to put up with the Army. Danziger glanced at the name stenciled on the Specialist’s uniform, before taking the reader. “Why am I not surprised that you are at the center of this, Reis?” He started tapping on the reader display when the Specialist wisely remained silent. Then suddenly stopped when he realized what he was actually seeing. He glared down at the young Specialist. “Did you just use your government issued reader to illegally tap into the video feed of this camp’s Tactical Training Facility? Do you know how many regulations you just subverted?” “A half-dozen, CMC!” “Try a baker’s dozen! Get in that vehicle, Reis,” he ordered then turned to the rest of the motley crew. “Next time, don’t let one of your own, regardless of branch, take the fall. If you have nothing better to do, double time it to Boyd’s if you want to see real Navy warriors earn their paychecks and put down some Delta Dogs. Move!” The group scrambled before he had a chance to change his mind, giving them all the crappiest duty on base. It was a 3.5 mile run to Boyd’s and they’d still have to be presentable or get reamed by any Chief or Sergeant they had the unfortunate luck of running into. His job done, Danziger allowed a small grin to lift his lips and turned back to the vehicle. The grin turned to a glare as he studied the

too smart for her own good IT specialist. Danziger climbed back into the vehicle and handed Reis her reader. “You’re done, Reis. You’re out in 72 hours on the next transport. Pack your things and say your goodbyes.” He shifted the LSV into gear, ignoring the stunned Specialist. They made it to Boyd’s in record time. Especially since no one in their right mind, not even the Camp’s CO, a Brigadier General who once got his rear pulled out of the fire by a then Chief Petty Officer Danziger, would correct the CMC as he cut across the areas designated pedestrian traffic only. When he parked the LSV, Danica Reis finally managed to find her voice, probably since she was no longer holding on for dear life. “Command Master Chief…” her voice trailed off when Danziger gave her ‘The Look’. “You’ve been tagged for Special Forces Training,” his voice holding a congratulatory tilt to it, “and I’ve signed off on it with a personal recommendation.” He almost smiled when her eyes nearly popped out of her brain and then lit up with excitement. “If you wash out,” his voice held steely edge, “I will make sure that you end up cleaning toilets for the rest of your military career. Do you understand that, Reis?” An immediate blanch followed by quick bobbing of the head satisfied Danziger. Almost. “And if you’re not good enough to be invited to be a Raider, I will make it my mission that you blue-nose in Antarctica until it becomes a tropical island. Understood?” “Understood, Command Master Chief,” she said. “I won’t disappoint you, CMC.” Danziger nodded. “Come see what you aspire to be.” They entered the high tech training facility in time to see a Senior Chief chew out several shame-faced and very

green Dragons. “Zero kills, ladies! Congratulations, you’ve set a new FUBAR record. You may have been big fishies in your little ponds back home but now you are going against sharks. And those beat up old sharks just handed your little white asses without breaking a sweat. It’s time you learned a little respect. Full gear, we’re going for a little run.” “Run and Chunk, Chief?” Danziger asked after the eight Dragons burst out of the facility. The Senior Chief glanced at Reis before turning with a smile. “Hooyah, CMC. They actually lasted longer than I expected, but there’s still nothing like making green Raiders puke all over themselves.” He nodded and walked out. “Teamwork, Reis. Always remember that,” Danziger said as they climbed the stairs to the facility’s command tower. “If one person in your team fucks up, you’ll all end up paying for it.” “Ahh, Command Master Chief. You’re just in time to see my Deltas frolic with your Wolf Pack or what’s left of them.” There was absolute silence as all of the techs waited to see how Danziger would react to the double insult, but he showed no emotion as he saluted crisply and nodded. “That’s downright kind of you, Major, to let the Wolf Pack practice with your Deltas,” Danziger replied. He studied the digital displays in front of him, including the prep area cameras. “Twenty versus six?” “Yes, it hardly seems fair, I know,” the major said. “But Master Chief requested the full team. Said it has been a while since they’ve gone against Deltas.” “Indeed,” Danziger replied, keeping eye contact until the major looked away. They watched the screens as the exercise started. It didn’t take long for Danziger to recognize the Jackson’s

plan: use the Deltas’ size against them. Deltas were the best when you wanted to level town by sheer force alone but they were bulls in a china shop when you wanted a silent surgical strike. The way the tactical maze was set up with its dark blind corners favored quick and silent ambushes. Something which Raiders specialized in and the Wolf Pack had mastered. There was no action for the first five minutes of the game, only radio chatter by the Delta squad as they went through the maze in search for the six ghostlike enemies. “Delta-Six, you are PUD. Headshot. Delta-Three, PUD. Headshot. Delta-Five, PUD. Headshot.Delta-Twelve, PUD, headshot,” the tech said as he read off the display. He shook his head and covered his mouthpiece, turning to his partner. “Wow, it only took four kills for them to realize there was a sniper.” A low growl reminded him who was in the tower and he quickly ducked his head back to the display. The other tech bit off a snort. “Delta-Seventeen, Four, Eleven, Eight, Pushing Up Daisies. Center mass and headshots,” he sounded off. “How the fuck did they hit us,” came the voice of the frustrated Delta. “Did anybody see them?” The major stomped to the console and hit the mic. “You are dead, soldier. And the dead don’t speak!” He released the button and moved behind the tech. His mouth now in a thin angry line and his eyes furrowed as he stared at the display as if willing it to show something other than the decimation of his pride and joy. “Delta-Nine, Fifteen, Twenty, Eighteen, PUD. Center Mass.” “Did they just shoot those men in the backs?” the major sputtered in outrage, then snapped his jaw shut when he recognized the absurdity of the outburst.

A light flashed on the view screen briefly illuminating the Southern section of the maze. “Delta-Two, Seven, Thirteen, Ten, Sixteen, PUD. Massive trauma due to explosion.” “Wolf-Foxtrot, right-leg shot. You are at 85% capacity. Wolf-Golf, left shoulder shot. You are at 77% capacity.” “They must be worse off than that,” the major grumbled. “Sir, the tac-suits relay the exact point of injury and extrapolate the trauma accordingly to the soldiers’ actual fitness,” the tech answered. Danziger ignored the techs and the major, focusing on Jackson’s performance and movement. Wolf-Alpha had four kills to his score as the sniper. Not a surprise since a sniper’s position put zero pressure on the mechanical leg, but as the game continued, Jackson moved along with the same fluid movement as his teammates. In fact, in this controlled environment the leg did not seem to be an issue at all. Unfortunately, field missions were anything but controlled and there was no way the Navy would let Jackson be in the active roster again. “That was a kill shot,” the major exclaimed. “That’s likely, sir,” the tech agreed. “But Wolf-Charlie is still at 55% capacity with that lower abdomen shot and all of your Deltas have now been classified PUD by the system.” “What?!” The major looked at the display before doing an about face and storming out of the tower. The tech shrugged. “That is the game gentlemen. Final score: Wolf Pack 20, Delta .5.” “God dammit does that actually count? I’m still moving. Mostly.” The voice came over the open mic. “Throw them a crumb,” another voice replied. “We would have amputated your lower body and dragged you back home. Half alive for half a body.”

“Only in your dreams you’ll be touching my lower body.” The tech ignored the guffaws that followed. “The mic opens to all at the end of the game, gentlemen. Wolf Pack individual scores: Alpha, 6. Beta, 5. Charlie, 3. Echo, 3. Foxtrot, 2. Golf, 1.” “Jesus H. Christ, Jackson,” a voice exclaimed. “Compensating much?” “Yes,” Jackson replied. “For the fact that you still can’t shoot even when it’s a slow moving Delta.” “I was covering while Hunter set off his pyrotechnics!” Danziger stepped forward and pushed the open mic. “Ladies, if you are done blowing each other, I want to speak with the Master Chief.” Silence filled the com followed by Jackson’s, “Hooyah, Command Master Chief.” “What the hell did you do, Jackson?” “Probably kicked the CMC’s puppy with that adamantium leg of his.” “The mic is still open, assholes.” “Fu-” The tech quickly hit the off button on the mic and turned to the Danziger. “The Master Chief is headed for the Blue Ready Room, Command Master Chief. If that’s convenient for you?” Danziger nodded and turned when he noticed Reis. “You still here?” “Just leaving, Command Master Chief!” By the time Danziger entered the Ready Room, Jackson had most of his high-tech gear off, except for the black smart chip elastane suit which sent player readouts to the tower. The suit was form fitting, designed to fit like a second skin and it had been that very reason which allowed Danziger to keep track of Jackson’s movement during the

game. The suits had yet to accommodate artificial limbs and this one hung limply on the prosthetic which had held up so well against the strain of the physical game. “Something you want to tell me, Master Chief?” Jackson paused briefly before grabbing a towel and pulling the elastane hood over his head and let it hang on the back of his neck. “Come to give me a hard time, Command Master Chief?” “Don’t you Command Master Chief me, Jackson,” Danziger said. “What the hell are you doing?” “I’m done, Jason. It’s time to move on.” “It didn’t look like you were done out there,” Danziger pointed out. Jackson shook his head. “Not the same thing. The Navy will never let me out again,” he replied. “I’m as useful as a one legged man in a butt kicking contest.” Danziger stood silent for a full minute. “What’s her name? Because there has to be a her for you to be using your ‘other’ head. If the Navy thought you were useless, they would have sent you packing. They do not let go of OneFivers without a fight and you have to know that if you separate now, it would only be IRR. They’d call you back in a New York minute if shit even appeared to be hitting the fan.” “There’s no her,” Jackson answered, though his eyes no longer held Danziger’s. “That last year took too much out of me and I’m running on empty. If I can’t be out there with my team, then I don’t want to do this anymore.” Danziger let out a frustrated huff. “That I can actually understand. I really wanted it to be a her so I could knock some sense into you.” He nodded and pulled out his reader. “Dammit! Why couldn’t the Gales just grow you a new leg?” Jackson’s wry chuckle filled the momentary silence, but it was the look in his eyes, which had Danziger silently

cursing himself. As much as he wished the Medical Corps had the ability to grow a new leg for Jackson, he knew that the Master Chief would undoubtedly want it more. “Once I sign off on this, you can’t take it back,” Danziger pointed out in one final attempt to change his friend’s mind. Jackson nodded. “This is all I’ve known for the last twenty years, Jason. But it’s not all that I am.” Danziger nodded and reluctantly tapped several keys on his reader, authorizing the request. He looked up and met Jackson’s eyes. “I know, Jackson,” Danziger said, clapping his hand on soon to be former Master Chief’s shoulder. “But there better be a her involved somewhere or I’m going to kick your ass.”

Chapter 3 The Bacchus Joint Camp Audie Murphy 2135 GST “After a day like today, I am planning on floating my way to dreamland,” Dez announced to the three other ladies at the table. “Tell them what you told me,” Dez ordered Gracen. “I’ll get the beers.” Gracen swallowed a sigh and looked across the table from Major Jenna Halloran, arguably the best damn Surgical Nurse in the Federation’s African Command, to Lieutenant Marisol Cordova, Dez’s co-pilot. Gracen couldn’t think of any other two women on the base more different from each other. Jenna was a lithe, soft spoken, cool blonde who could inspire paralyzing fear in even the most experienced surgeons, military or civilian alike, with just one look while Marisol was a vivacious black haired beauty who could make anyone feel at ease with a simple smile. Gracen took a deep breath and quickly explained the information that Derrick provided and what it might mean for them and Camp Murphy. “You are talking about aliens,” Marisol said, her eyes sparkled with excitement. “Extra-terrestrial material,” Gracen explained. “Sentience is so unlikely at this point that it seems rather ridiculous to even mention.” Jenna snorted. “It’s hard enough to find intelligent life in this planet much less any others.” With a nod of thanks, she grabbed one of the beers that Dez put on the table. “What she’s actually saying,” she continued, “is that we can look

forward to long hours and heavy duty trauma.” “Men and their guns,” Marisol muttered. “Always compensating,” Dez said waving her pinky finger around. “Hear, hear, sister,” Jenna added, clicking her bottle with Dez. Gracen smiled as the three women burst into raucous laughter and only half listened as they continued talking. She automatically sipped her beer as her attention slid away from the conversation and to the other patrons of the club. It was more like a seedy bar but in this end of the world and on a military base, beggars couldn’t be choosers. As much as the military frowned upon and enforced fraternization regulations between officers and enlisted, they could do nothing about the civilian contractors that freely moved between both groups. It was really no surprise that an entrepreneurial civilian would grease the wheels to build a civilian bar where uniform and rank were left at the door. Bacchus quickly became its own sovereign nation on the base where, as long as nothing overtly improper occurred, the military brass was willing to turn a blind eye in order to appease the large civilian population on base. A jarring kick to her chair brought Gracen’s attention back to the conversation and Marisol’s expectant gaze. Gracen glared at Dez, the champion shit-starter, who was hiding a knowing smirk behind her bottle. A glance at Jenna’s arched eyebrow said she wasn’t going to any help either, so Gracen sent Marisol an apologetic smile. “Huh?” “So what’s the plan?” Marisol repeated. “Well, the first thing that’s going to happen,” Dez jumped in, pushing the now empty beer bottles towards Gracen, “is that Doc, here, will be getting us more beer. Oh,” she

pointed to the half empty bowl, “and more chips, too.” She batted her lashes at Gracen. “Pretty please.” Gracen looked at her own nearly empty beer bottle. With a tired sigh, she got up, heading for the bar. “You are a cruel, heartless bitch,” Jenna said after a minute, a small twitch on her lips took the sting off the words. “That’s probably why I like you.” Dez snorted and shrugged. “Gotta throw the guy a bone. He will either rise to the occasion or crash and burn. Either way, it should be entertaining.” “What are you guys talking about?” Marisol asked, her eyes ping ponging between Dez and Jenna, until she finally found what they were looking at: Gracen at the bar next to Master Chief Monroe. “Wait, Gracen and the Master Chief?” A low whistle escaped her lips.”She is going to get in so much trouble.” Gracen expertly navigated her way through the gauntlet of bodies but jerked to a stop just shy of the bar. Her heart lodged itself in her throat. Of all the bars in the base, he had to be in this one tonight. Well, considering there were only three places to get drinks on the base and he couldn’t get into the Officer’s Lounge, the chances of running into Master Chief had been fifty-fifty. She took a second to appreciate the view. Black cotton tee shirt with the Wolf Pack insignia stretched tight over his broad shoulders, dark faded denim jeans that, by the look of his ass, fit him perfectly, and well worn suede combat boots that had become the preferred footwear for everyone on the base, on or off duty, for the simple fact that it blended so well with the sand that covered just about everything. Jerk, she thought viciously. He should have at least given her the courtesy of turning into a troll in the day and a half since she’d seen him. Not provide another mouth

watering visual that would fuel countless battery operated fantasies. A familiar heat flashed through her body until her fingers practically tingled. Boy, she had it bad. She should just lie to herself and blame the desert and heat. There was nothing wrong with lying to yourself once in a while, right? She was going to walk right up there and get the beers. Nothing to it. Or… Retreat. That was the better option right now. Turn around and live to fight another day. Better yet, run for the hills before – DAMN! - he turns around. Her only hope was to slowly backpedal out of his line of sight before he noticed her. She prayed to any god she could think of for the power of invisibility. Their eyes met. She suddenly had a lot of sympathy for a deer being caught in the mesmerizing headlights of an incoming car. Only this time, the headlights were a pair of extraordinary dark blue eyes flecked with gold, which suddenly widened in surprise when they focused on her before veiling into cautious reserve. Gracen squashed her disappointment, and with a tight smile that she hoped didn’t look as fake as it felt, sent a short nod towards Master Chief’s direction before walking up to the only open spot at the bar. Right next to him. She tried to get the bartender’s attention to no avail. She was stuck waiting her turn next to a man who thought she was a nuisance. Joy. A tense bubble of silence surrounded them, growing more awkward with each passing second. It didn’t take long to realize that ignoring him was childish, so she said the first thing to come to mind. “Off duty?” With a visible cringe, she dropped her head and sighed. Could anything more inane come out of her mouth? Want to have wild monkey sex with me? That definitely would have been worse, but not by

much. There was always a chance the earth would open up and swallow her whole. She chanced a glance at him. The small twitch on the corner of his mouth was back and even the bottle, now pressed firmly against his lips, couldn’t hide the fact that he was laughing at her. She couldn’t blame him. If she were in his shoes, she’d be smirking at her moronic behavior, too. “Thank you,” he said. When she looked back at him as if she was about to smack him upside the head because she did not appreciate being the butt of a joke, he added, “The ice pack.” “Oh,” she shrugged, “you were favoring your left leg. You do that when you’ve pushed too hard.” An undecipherable emotion fleeted across his eyes before his eyebrow rose in a silent, probing query. Gracen bit off a groan and dropped her gaze. That’s

just awesome. Why don’t you add psycho stalker to love struck bimbo? Any minute now, he’ll be calling for the MPs or running for the hills away from the crazy woman. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. Her gaze snapped up, seeing his eyes had softened with genuine regret. Her heart was completely undone, missing a beat as the world stopped for a full microsecond. Me, too. In that instant, the connection was undeniable. There was no rank. No obstacles. Just a man and a woman. However, that moment was short-lived. The noise of the club rushed back into her ears, as did the reality that they lived. Her fantasies were her own and she didn’t his apology or explanation. This time she wasn’t going to be a bitch about the fact that things didn’t always work out the way she wished they would. She shrugged and met his eyes with a genuine smile. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

His face suddenly closed up and he nodded slowly, deep in thought. So that was it. Conversation, as awkward as it had been, was over. Gracen turned to the bartender, pushing the empty bottles forward, then handing him several bills before grabbing the four newly opened ones. “Gracen.” The bottles stopped mid-motion and she slowly turned to the Master Chief. God she loved how her name sounded when he said it in that deep rich bedroom tone, as if savoring the feel of it against his lips. She wondered if he had actually said it or if it had been her imagination. Especially since he started chipping at the label of his beer, making no move to attract her attention. “Do you know where we’d be,” he asked quietly, never looking up from his beer, “if rank was not an issue, Gracen?” He said her name again. Then her brain processed the other words. Blood rushed to her ears, pounding like the sound of the drum core. “Not here?” Her voice came out as a breathy whisper, more like a question than answer. He dipped his head and looked at her. “Not here,” he agreed. “And with a lot less clothes.” Gracen inhaled sharply, her lips parting slightly open as she simply stared at him. The world fell away as adrenalin rushed through her body, giving her a euphoric glow even as she considered the implications. Flight or fight. Run for cover or see where this leads. Biting her lip, and decision made, she rested the bottles back on the bar, sitting down on the stool next to him. “One of us needs to resign, Master Chief,” she said after several tense seconds. “Retire,” he said. “And I already did.” Her mouth hung open as surprise turned to glee, then turned into outright panic. It must have been obvious in her

face. “You can drop that panicky look,” he said with a wry chuckle. “I didn’t do it because of you, Doc.” “No, no,” she laughed awkwardly, “of course not.” Gracen reached out to stop a passing waitress. Dumping three bottles of beer on the woman’s empty tray, she pointed to which table they belonged to before turning back to him. On its own accord, her hand rested gently against his arm. “Are you okay?” Jackson looked down at her hand with a hooded gaze. Feeling like she had suddenly overstepped the bounds again, she started to move it when his other hand covered hers, holding it in place. “I am. It’s just time to move on.” They sat there for several seconds. Her hand on his arm, his hand over hers. Such a small intimacy they hadn’t dared before. His thumb lightly caressed her hand. Both now ignoring how it might look to any observer. “When?” She hated that it came out as a needy whisper. “Two days. CMC pulled some strings and I’m off on the next transport.” Her hand slowly slipped off his arm and he looked up. His blue eyes held hers, seemingly searching for something she couldn’t decipher and it must have shown in her face because he started to pull back. For a minute, it looked like that would be the end of something that never even had a chance to begin. Gracen looked away and took a decisive breath. Reaching over the bar, she grabbed a napkin and a discarded pen before sitting back down on the stool. Tossing aside all caution, she quickly wrote three letters and a number: HS-6A. Then she passed the napkin to Jackson. Picking it up, he immediately recognized the significance

and looked up at her in surprise. “One of the benefits of being who I am is that I have a solo cabin,” she said pleased that her voice finally sounded normal amidst her chaotic emotions. “You can still get in trouble if this gets out.” He folded the napkin in his hand. Gracen smiled. “Then you better be worth it, Master Chief.” Before he could respond, the music was abruptly cut off and a loud crackle rang out followed by five distinctive bell chimes. A cold, authoritative voice came out of the sound system. “This is not a drill. This is not a drill. By order of FA CentCom, Camp Murphy is now on Alert Status: Level Alpha. All military personnel report to your Battle Stations. All civilian personnel report to your Command Stations. This is not a drill. I repeat. This is not a drill. We are now on Alert: Level Alpha. All personnel, man your stations.” Immediately, the whole bar took action. Chairs scraped the dusty floor and glass rattled as everyone started moving towards the doors. Gracen turned to Jackson but a hand grabbed her from behind. “You are officially a menace,” Dez complained staring at Gracen then nodded at Jackson. “Master Chief.” “Captain.” “I don’t feel so good,” Marisol said looking more than a little green. Jenna grabbed Marisol’s arm. “Come on,” she nodded to Dez to grab the other one, “I’ll make you a Banana Bag.” She looked around the club as more than one person was being helped out the door. “It definitely won’t be the only one.” Gracen turned to Jackson. So much to say. So little that could be said. “Stay safe, Master Chief.”

He nodded. “Hooyah, Doc.

Parking Area, The Bacchus Joint 2215 GST Jackson cursed all military gods as he walked outside Bacchus to ordered chaos. He caught a glimpse of Gracen climbing into a LSV headed towards the main base and MedBay. They had been so close to something but the way his luck kept panning out – he absently rubbed his thigh where flesh met prosthetic – he’d probably ship out before they had a chance to sort any of it out. To make things worse, his status of impending separation from the military meant he was all dressed up with nowhere to go. “Chief!” A deep voice rang out above the ruckus freezing every military personnel, commissioned and enlisted alike, on their tracks. CMC Danziger climbed out of his vehicle. “All of you better be stone cold sober by the time you report to stations or so help me God, I’ll make you regret you were ever born!” There was a flurry of movement as bodies quickly piled, on their own accord or with the help of others, into vehicles and scurried out of the parking lot. The threat only held true for the enlisted soldiers, but even the officers hustled in order to avoid an angry CMC. They certainly wouldn’t countermand any of his commands. Danziger looked at Jackson, his face grim and marked by tension. “Please tell me you’re sober.” “Hooyah, Command Master Chief,” came the long drilled response. “Sorry Jackson, but this is all hands on deck. Retirement will have to wait until this FUBAR is resolved.”

Jackson waited, knowing Danziger would fill him in on exactly what was going on. He didn’t have to wait long. “We just got caught with our pants down,” Danziger continued, pulling out a beeping tablet from his trouser pocket. He growled a curse then rapidly tapped a command. “At 2200 hours, a convoy was attacked travelling through the Green Zone near Three Points Run. There is still a nasty firefight going on and we’ve dispatched Vipers for cover but they are going to need to evac’d. A massive force appeared out of nowhere on the border and by the looks of it, they are going to deploy and make a push into disputed territory.” “Send me in, Jason,” Jack said. “I can do this and you need my experience.” Danziger stared at Jack for a full ten seconds, then nodded. “I know you can, Master Chief. The Dragons, Sharks and SeaWolves are being dispatched to the border. I need your Wolf Pack to support the evac.” He held up his hand, stopping Jackson mid breath. “There are soldiers dying out there, Jackson. I need you and your team to protect the Gales we are sending into the Hot Zone.” If non-combat medical personnel, Nightingales, were being dispatched to a Hot Zone in addition to the combat medics already in the field, then the situation was not just bad. It was catastrophic. Gracen. “It’s a clusterfuck, Jackson. Get your team ready.”

MedBay 2235 GST “There is no way in hell you are going, Gracen, and that’s the end of it,” Colonel Esposito yelled as he stalked

down the hallway of his once serene medical facility. “Are you suggesting that I’m not capable, Colonel?” Gracen followed so closely at his heels that she almost rammed right into him when he stopped and turned, glaring at her. “Are you questioning my orders, Captain?” The icy tone filled the air, causing several people who were following the conversion to quickly turn away in case the Colonel decided to target anyone else with his wrath. Gracen held her ground, but took her intensity down several notches. “No sir, but primrep suggests extensive injuries. The combat medics are already overwhelmed. There isn’t going to be enough time for MedEvacs and if you don’t send someone with extensive trauma experience closer to the Hot Zone, you are going to lose the inevitable CaseEvacs.” “You are a trauma surgeon, Captain, not a glorified EMT,” Esposito said, glaring at her before taking a deep breath and rubbing his hand over his closely cropped blond hair. Her experience from the Angeles Disaster was priceless in this situation; Gracen knew it and Esposito knew it, too. “I know what you did in Angeles, Gracen. Your group performed miracles and set new standards for trauma procedures, but you didn’t have people shooting at you. In fact, you’d be wearing a bull’s eye on your back, because they do target medics.” “I know they do, sir,” she replied with a nod. “But we both know that I can help.” His lips tightened into a thin line. “You do realize that helicopters are the mode of transportation?” Gracen swallowed and her jaw tightened with

determination. “I can suck it up, sir.” Esposito tried to stare her down for a full fifteen seconds before his shoulders relaxed and his eyes travelled to her left. “Et tu, Halloran?” He looked at Jenna as if he wanted to skewer her alive, but she simply stared back. “Fine, come with me,” he huffed and headed out the door. Jenna handed a med bag to Gracen. “Didn’t think I was going to just let you be the martyr, did you?” She held the door open for Gracen while putting on the nearest flight jacket. They hurried to catch up to Esposito. Gracen’s eyes widened when she saw Jackson. “Master Chief!” Esposito yelled. “That is my surgeon.” He pointed to Gracen. “That is my nurse.” He pointed to Jenna before turning his irate focus back to Jackson. “They are alive and in one piece,” he paused, glaring at the two women, “I want them returned to me in that condition.” He looked down at the Master Chief’s legs. “Or I’ll take your other leg.” He turned and stormed off. The three of them stood there for several seconds watching the retreating back of the angry colonel. Gracen turned to Jackson to apologize, but clamped her mouth shut when he chuckled and shook his head. “Something you forgot to mention, Captain?” Gracen’s brow furrowed, then she recognized the teasing glint in his eyes and just shook her head. A sharp whistle got their attention, and she saw that Jenna was already being helped on the helicopter. Jackson grabbed her med bag and nodded. Gracen looked at Dez’ pride and joy and swallowed thickly. It was an irrational fear, really. She’d never been in an accident. Just watched one on live television with about a million other people. The only problem was that she’d been

nine at the time and illogical about it ever since. Perfectly safe, she told herself, but the closer she got to the chopper, the drier her throat became. By the time they were all seated, her throat rivaled the Sahara Desert and it must have showed on her face as Jenna comfortingly patted her knee while she fumbled with the helmet and its built in com system. “Good to know that I’m not the only one who gets chewed out by Esposito, Master Chief,” Dez’s voice, full of pompous humor, came over the com in the headset. “Told you I’d get you in my chopper, Doc Hang on tight, ya hear? We’ve got ourselves a SuperHawk virgin, boys. Let’s show the Doc a real good first time.” Gracen flushed miserably, her hands froze over the enigma that was the safety harness and her eyes slammed shut. The weight of six pairs of very masculine eyes bore down directly at her and she tried to swallow the mortified embarrassment that only grew when she heard the throaty chuckles. Jackson bit down on a grin as he stowed his weapon, then pulled the helo’s door closed. He glanced at Gracen before kneeling in front of her. His hands covered her anxious fingers until she finally looked up, a lopsided, but thankful smile creasing her face. “Afraid of flying, Doc?” “I just prefer fixed wing,” she answered, managing to find her voice. “I thought you retired.” “Got postponed,” he responded, expertly locking her into the harness, then tapping her knee and giving her the thumbs up signal. When she nodded, he sat back on his chair, ignoring the quizzical looks from his team mates. Once they lifted and leveled, Jenna opened her mike and turned to Jackson. “Tell me, Master Chief, is that

service for doctors only, or do we all get such personal attention?” She ignored Gracen’s look that was threatening painful bodily harm if not immediate death. “Don’t mind him, beautiful,” Chief Brian Hunter chuckled, “he’s old and cranky. But I’ll be happy to service you any way you want.” Gracen saw Jenna’s face turn into a cold, stony mask and grabbed her arm before the blonde could speak. Gracen pointed to the insignia on the shoulder lapel on Jenna’s flight jacket. That of a Hospital Corpsman, not her own officer’s jacket. Jenna nodded, then turned to Hunter with a haughty frostiness and slowly unbuttoned the jacket, showing her officer’s insignia. Hunter straightened, ignoring the muffled snickers. “Sorry, Major.” “Are you calling me a sorry major, Chief,” she looked down at his chest, “Hunter, is it?” Snickers turned into strangled chokes as Hunter fell for one of the oldest traps in the military. The one that only the greenest recruits fell for. “I apologize, Major,” Hunter said. “I was unaware of your rank.” “Heads up, kittens,” Dez’s voice interrupted over the speakers, “ETA 2 minutes. That should be plenty of time for the Chief to get over his foot in mouth disease.” All around chuckles were broken by a ‘Holy shit!’ over the open mike. Gracen turned to the Specialist strapped into the door gunner position, then looked out her window. At first there was nothing but greenish blue glowing darkness. Suddenly the night exploded into hundreds of fireflies followed by very distinctive pops which were anything but harmless. “Master Chief,” Dez called out, her voice now devoid of

the previous teasing, “Dragon one-one is requesting a strafing run.” The look in Jackson’s eyes spoke volumes. For a call to be made from the SpecWar team already on the ground meant things were bad. For Dez to pass the request to him, knowing full well they had medical personnel on board, meant it was even worse. He sent Gracen an apologetic look, before turning to his men. With only a look and nod, all of them started moving with practiced efficiency. “Roger that, Captain. Ready in twenty.” He yanked at a clip on his chest and pulled, hooking it to an anchor near the door. “Stay put,” he ordered Gracen and Jenna. Hunter moved up to the other side of the door, clipped his own cord to another anchor and pushed the door open. Both men snapped open twin compartments on the wall above the door which housed the SuperHawks side guns. In a flurry of movement defined by years of experience, they armed the weapons. “Locked and loaded,” Hunter yelled. “Hooya, Master Chief,” came the reply from the opposite side of the cabin. Jackson swiveled into position. “Targets acquired. In position for gun run, Captain.” “Alpha Mike Foxtrot,” Hunter said in a low deadly voice, a cold smile darkening his features. Adios motherfuckers. Dez had taught that one to Gracen. By default, she’d picked up what seemed like a million other jargon words used by pilots, but Gracen never really thought she’d have firsthand experience in deciphering combat speech. “We have your position, Dragon one-one. We are inbound, hot,” Dez said over the com, her voice now totally cool and professional. “Light them up, Master Chief.”

The SuperHawk throttled down smoothly and started the run that would surely kill countless of insurgents. Saving lives, Gracen reminded herself. All this destruction was to save the lives of the soldiers who ultimately were protecting those who could not defend themselves. She turned off the rest of the chatter and concentrated on her breathing. Her hands tightly gripped the leather seat under her while she purposely filled her head with procedures and protocol. The likely injuries she would face were massive trauma from shrapnel or gunfire. The helicopter shifted suddenly to one side and her eyes flew open. Both Jackson and Hunter were firing the side guns but now another team member knelt between them firing his weapon as well. The deadly fireflies started whizzing right at them, but none of them even flinched. An uneven pinging reverberated in her ears until Gracen used her fingers to silence the noise. Her hands slowly dropped to her side as the realization that the pinging was from the deadly fireflies hitting the armor plating on the chopper. Her eyes snapped shut, her heart pounding in her ears. She should have stayed in her nice safe ER. She hated when Esposito was right. Blood stopped flowing to her hands and her knuckles whitened as she gripped the seat tighter. Classify injuries based on severity. She forced her brain to focus. MedEvac versus CaseEvac. Those that could wait for medical choppers versus those that needed immediate transport. “RPG!” A voice shouted. “Break right!” Gracen’s eyes flew open as Jenna grabbed her arm in a vice-like grip. “Hold on!” Dez yelled over her shoulder. “Countermeasures!”

“Deployed!” Marisol responded, her hands flying over the controls. “Hang on, back there!” The helo pitched right just before the RPG exploded to the left, sending a shockwave of heat and blast at them and pushing them sideways. “That was clos—“ “Look out!” A second rocket exploded above them, pulverizing the stabilizers and sending shrapnel into the swashplate, unbalancing the rotary blades. The smell of burnt metal and oil blanketed the helicopter. The alarms ringing in the cockpit leaked ominously into the cabin. The SuperHawk lurched deeply to one side before Dez wrangled it back under control, but it was enough to allow a stray tip of a broken rotary blade to fly right into the throat of the specialist manning one of the side guns. The impact sent him flying across the cabin, blood spurting from his wound, showering everything and everyone in its path. His body slammed into the sergeant that had been kneeling between Jackson and Hunter, sending him flying out the open door. Both Jackson and Hunter reached out a split second too late and grabbed only air. The specialist’s body jerked like a macabre marionette until the cord snapped, slashing through the air like a whip and striking Jenna and Gracen. With no anchor, the specialist slammed into Hunter before disappearing into the darkness. “We’re hit. We’re hit. Charlie Alpha One is going down. We are going down.” Hunter’s feet flew out from under him by the collision, but agile reflexes allowed a miracle fingertip grip on the side door wall. Jackson’s hand snaked out and managed to grab the bottom of Hunter’s vest, pulling his teammate back into the cabin. Just as Hunter righted himself, another explosion

flung more shrapnel, this time accompanied by a blast of fire through the cabin. The helicopter jerked with a violent force that sent both Jackson and Hunter falling backwards into the inky blackness. “Brace! Brace! Brace!” A cry was ripped from Gracen’s throat as she sat in helpless horror, watching them disappear, but it was drowned out by the roar of ripping metal and fire as the helicopter plunged into the darkness in a blurring downward spiral. Then everything turned black.

Chapter 4 Three Points Run, aka. FUBAR Triangle Disputed territory bordering The Republic of Oman, United Lands of Arabia, and the Yemeni Alliance 2305 GST It was the dripping that finally woke her. She hated dripping and blamed that solely on Derrick. He told her how it was important to become immune to waterboarding if she was going to join the military, though he never did answer when she demanded why. He even tried to convince her that the early morning torture sessions he devised were for her own good.

“You’ll thank me,” Derrick said as he pinned her arms and dripped water on Gracen’s forehead, “when the Agents of Evil are holding you hostage and demand you betray your oath to the Federation and all that is good and true.” “Idiot!” She twisted and turned, trying to escape his vice-like grip. “You’re not even doing it right! And I’m going to be a doctor, not a spy.” She kicked out with her leg, her knee coming perilously close to sensitive bits. “Hey!” Derrick scrambled off the bed, dropping the water jug and his other torture devices on the floor. “Watcht it with the knee, Little Miss KicksALots!” “Get out!” “Don’t need to get testy,” he said, fighting to maintain control of his twitchy lips and failing miserably. “I’m just trying to help.” He ducked as a hairbrush hit the door two inches above him. “I’m not that tall, but thanks for the vote of confidence.” He laughed. “It’s time to wake up, princess.” “I don’t want to,” she murmured, batting at the drips and

rolled over, but something held her back. One of Derrick’s little jokes she was sure, but this time she wouldn’t play. It was times like this she wished they had other siblings or at least that they hadn’t shared a womb. She refused to open her eyes. All she wanted to do was grab a few more moments of precious sleep, but now on top of the dripping water, Derrick had to play his ridiculous grinding metal music. And what was that burning smell? Had he tried to make breakfast again? That’s it. I’m going to kill him. Gracen’s eyes snapped open but her brain could not process what her eyes saw. Which wasn’t much at first, just a hazy blur, but as her eyes adjust to the semi-darkness, what she did see simply wasn’t…right. Faint shimmering lights flickered around her and her knees were uncomfortably close to her face. She discovered straightening them was impossible as something pressed against them, twisting her like a pretzel. Her head dipped to one side, eyes blinking several times until her brain recognized that some of those lights were actually stars bordering her feet. There was something innately wrong with that, but she couldn’t quite figure out what. Shaking her head in an attempt to clear it just caused the dull throbbing to turn into an unbearable pounding, which made her eyes tear. Minutes passed, or maybe seconds, but eventually the pain decreased to a manageable level so reopening her eyes no longer seemed like such an impossible task. She wiped the annoying dripping off of her face, immediately cursing as newfound pain exploded on her cheek. She looked at her hand, recognizing the dark brown, coppery liquid even in the faint light. Blood. The memory of the crash flooded slammed into her with

a vengence, suddenly clarifying why everything looked so weird. She was still strapped into her seat but somehow upside down. Actually, the whole helicopter, or what was left of it, was upside down. Gracen dug at the harness release but it refused to unleash. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Jackson had certainly strapped her in securely. Jackson. Panic clawed at her throat and her eyes slammed open darting across the cabin. A strangled sob escaped her lips. He wasn’t there. Relief flooded her system, followed by extreme terror. He had fallen out alongside Hunter. Her eyes strained, looking to see if their anchors had held, but she realized there was nothing to see because the door and part of the cabin had been ripped out. The helicopter was in pieces. A wave of dizziness washed over her, threatening to unleash coppery bile. She managed to swallow it down at the last second, but the bitter taste lingered in her mouth. That didn’t bode well. Although the harness had held her in place, her chest was a dull, pulsating ball of pain and she could feel the deep tissue bruising which could mean internal bleeding. She was lucky her neck hadn’t snapped. Especially with the added weight of the helmet. Gracen moved to take it off, when she remembered the com system. Tapping at it, hoping it had miraculously survived, Gracen nearly burst into tears when the crackling radio sound rippled though her ears. “Anybody there?” Her voice sounded rough and scratchy as if from lack of use but it was probably due to more bruising. She swallowed and licked her lips, hoping the moisture would smooth out the roughness. “Dez? Mari?” She stretched trying to get a look into the cockpit but it was pure darkness. “Chief?” No response.

She hated how weak her voice sounded and how utterly alone she felt. Gracen suddenly remembered Jenna. She reached out but was met with empty space and crumbling dirt. Her breath hitched. Jenna had either been ejected or she was buried under the rubble. It was quite possible that Gracen had just lost three of her friends. Not to mention Jackson. The pain in her heart radiated across her body, making it difficult to breathe. Panic set in and her hand clawed at the latch of the helmet. Unlike the harness, a hard yank forced it to come undone. She quickly pushed it off her head, allowing it to tumble to the floor… or in this case the ceiling of the cabin. She took a deep breath. Molten pain erupted from her chest, burning through her battered body and distorting her face into a masque of pure agony. Deep breaths, not a good idea. Check. After several shallow breaths, the pain lessened or maybe it simply became bearable. She looked down at the four point restraint mechanism of the harness. Jackson had made it seem so easy to… With a twist and push, she was free and falling, face first. Fortunately it was a short distance to the floor and the landing was eased by the soft packed dirt, but it still elicited a sharp grunt from Gracen. She was finally free. And totally on her own. All she wanted to do was crawl into a corner and cry. For Dez and Mari. For Jenna and Jackson. But most selfishly for herself because the reality of the emotional pain was starting to sink in and it was about to trump the physical discomfort. Gracen reached inside her uniform for Derrick’s pendant. The silver caduceus meant she was never truly alone. He could always find her. But she needed to make it easier to be found. She’d mourn the loss of her friends later.

When she had time to feel sorry for herself. She pushed herself up and was met with a hand. Buried in the dirt. Fortunately, the hand was still attached to an arm as Gracen quickly discovered when she started to dig at it. She brushed the loose dirt away until she found the face, one she only vaguely recognized as a member of the Wolf Pack. She quickly checked for vitals but there were none. Her hand rested lightly on the Marine’s face. He looked so peaceful. Movement caught her eye. For a brief instant, Gracen thought she had misread the vitals and that he was somehow alive. But it was not the man that was moving, just a portion of the dirt behind him. Gracen stared as a limb emerged. Then another. And another, followed by a head and glassy black eyes. Camel spiders. A startled squeal escaped Gracen’s lips and she quickly snatched her hand back. She hated spiders, especially when they were the size of a small Chihuahua. Solifugae, because only people who loved arachnids or absolutely abhorred them would bother to remember names — and orders, classification and life cycle — were nonvenomous and tended to be as wary of humans as we are of them. But something about this particular was off…like its size. Gracen tended to view just about any spider as being the size of a large rat or small dog but this one, as it fully emerged from the tunnel it had created, was literally the size of a Chihuahua. And it was not scurrying back into the dirt when it became aware of her. In fact, it looked like it was studying her. She pushed away that fanciful, and slightly paranoid, thought. Having had enough, Gracen made a vague shooing motion, but to her surprise, the spider held

its ground. Then, to her utmost horror, the spider opened its mouth parts and bit into the man’s body. Unmitigated terror took hold of her as the mass of the spider decreased…into

the Marine. Gracen slowly backed away from the living nightmare in front of her. The dirt wall in front of her rippled with scurrying movement and the primal part of her brain screamed for her to run. Refusing to take her eyes off the spiders, she backpedaled to where she thought the opening of the helicopter was and promptly tripped over her own feet, landing with a hard thud. Gritting her teeth as a new wave of pain exploded across her body, Gracen closed her eyes and focused on breathing. “Owwww,” she managed once she remembered how to breathe. She decided to not move and ride out the pain, but the light tapping against metal made her raise her head. A swarm of legs was barreling straight for her. Kicking off with her feet, Gracen pushed up, scrambling out of the helicopter and stumbling into the open night air. The arachnid nightmare was forgotten as her eyes took in the new horror of crushed metal and fire. With faltering steps, brain processed the information her eyes were seeing. The burning pieces of metal which once had been a fully functional helicopter, were now buried into and scattered across the desert sand. The SuperHawk had broken into three large parts; the still burning tail, the main cabin, which she had been in and which now housed the new spider colony, and the severely burned cockpit, several yards in the distance. There was no way anyone could have survived in that cockpit, but Gracen started moving towards it anyway. An oddly shaped bundle of debris caught her attention,

distracting her from her goal of the cockpit. As she stepped closer, the scent of burned flesh assaulted her nose. Gracen covered her nose with the back of her hand and stepped forward on the off chance that the smell was worse than the injury. Large boots came into view, followed by legs which had a distorted outline and a torso that was moving. Gracen took several quick steps only to be stopped dead on her tracks as a large, bulbous body with too many legs sank its mouthparts into the body of another sailor. Disequilibrium and nausea swamped her, threatening to bring her down on the spot, but she ruthlessly shoved it back down. She stumbled backwards, unable and unwilling to get a closer look to identify the fallen man and crashed straight into something hard…and large. Gracen spun around only to be met with sharp blue eyes dulled by pain. “Jackson!” His name came out as a choked cry filled with relief and she launched herself at him. A strangled ‘oomph’ escaped his lips at the impact of her body, but his arms wrapped around her tightly, his face burying itself against her neck. They held each other tightly, making up for the lost opportunities in the past and recognizing that there weren’t going to be new ones in the future. It felt like an eternity, but it was over too soon, the moment shattered when Jackson’s knees, flesh and metal, gave way, his weight pulling Gracen to the ground with him. “Sorry, Doc,” he whispered against her skin, his voice raspy with pain. Gracen landed awkwardly under his weight, but she didn’t care as she cradled his head. All she wanted was to hold on to him and forget about everything else. Wanted him to tell her it was going to be alright. Wanted everything to go simply go away except for Jackson. Wanted… She took a deep breath slowly disentangled herself

from the mass of limbs. “No,” she pushed herself away it’s…” Her voice trailed off as his eyes shuttered close. “No!” Her hands carefully laid his head on the ground. “Nonononono. Jackson! Stay with me.” Her hands expertly moved across his torso unsnapping and pulling apart the tactical vest. She glanced at his face, hoping for some reply or response but she could barely see his features now. What she wouldn’t give for some surgical lights right now. The glow from the various pieces of equipment still on fire was diminishing and the darkness was creeping over them, slowly but surely. Like death. Glow sticks! Gracen cursed herself for not putting any on her uniform. She hadn’t thought….Hadn’t been prepared. “Glow sticks,” she demanded harshly, but Jackson was unresponsive. Barely breathing. “Jackson! Where are your glow sticks?” Still nothing. “Godammit Master Chief! Open your eyes!” The shrill, desperate pitch of her voice pulled must have pulled Jackson to consciousness. With a strangled wet cough, his eyes opened and his hand reached for a pocket, pulling out several sticks. Gracen gave his hand a squeeze before grabbing and snapping the sticks. She held the glowing stick over him and cupped his face. “Stay with me, Master Chief.” “Hunter,” he breathed out laboriously. Each breath becoming shallower and erratic. Gracen nodded absently as she lifted the stick over his torso and pulled up his shirt. A startled gasp escaped her lips and she almost dropped the light on the angry tear that went from his stomach to mid-chest. It looked like the only thing keeping his organs from spilling out was the liquid sealant he must have poured on it.

“Jesus Christ. Did you pour the whole damn bottle on it?” “Yes,” he hissed through gritted teeth as she started to probe the integrity of the seal. “And Hunter’s, too.” “Do you have any idea how long it’s going to take us to get all this off you?” she complained without heat. It was going to be a mess clear out the sealant, but it had clearly saved his life. How he had managed to survive the unplanned and out of control rappel from the helicopter she’ll never know. Years of medical training simply took over she took off her flight jacket, rolling it up into a makeshift bandage and pressing it against the wound. “Hold it tigh—” a series of coughs erupted from her throat and she inadvertently pressed harder against his wound. A hiss escaped his lips and his hand grabbed her arm. “Sorry,” she said when she managed to breathe again. “Check on Hunter,” he ordered, his voice a bit stronger if only temporarily. He nodded behind her. Gracen turned her head and eyes widened when her eyes finally recognized the awkward shaped lump behind them was indeed human and lying a few feet away from them. She looked at Jackson, shaking her head when she realized that he must have pulled an unconscious Hunter from wherever they had crashed. Her hands cupped his face. “Hooyah, Master Chief. Don’t you dare die on me.” “Can’t make any promises.” A ghost of smile tilted his lips. Their eyes met over the faint glow of the stick she had shoved into his hand. He grabbed her hand and squeezed before releasing it reluctantly. “Go.” Gracen nodded, blinking away her suddenly blurry vision which sent her world spinning, if only moment, before scrambling towards Chief Hunter. She cracked another glow

stick and checked him with quick efficiency. He was still breathing and vitals were weak but steady, despite the odd shape of his hip and unnatural way his leg lay on the ground. He was alive. For now. Gracen started to move back to Jackson when nausea returned with a vengeance, forcing her to go on all fours. She managed to choke it down but her body rebelled, forcing racking coughs to explode from her body. She fought to maintain consciousness and, after countless seconds, her body stabilized. After several breaths, she wiped her mouth only to realize that the back of her hand was covered in blood. The bloody expectorate on the ground looked even worse. Coughed up blood paired with dizziness and nausea was a very short distance to internal bleeding. Her time was running out fast and, by the looks of things, there was nothing she could do about it. Gracen wiped off the blood on her shirt and slowly moved back to the glow that was Jackson. He was so still that for a minute she thought he had gone, but his eyes slowly opened and his head turned towards her. “He’s holding on,” she said. “You did good, Master Chief.” She started to lie down beside him. “No,” he reached out stopping her from lying down, “Gracen.” With a pained grimace, he pulled out his sidearm and pushed it into her hands. “You have to get out of here before the insurgents get here. Head east,” he pointed, “towards the convoy. You’ll be safe with them. Don’t look back.” A wave of weary acceptance crashed into Gracen as she memorized his rugged features, still incredibly handsome even when marred by soot, blood and pain. A humorless smile touched her lips. “Too late for that, Master

Chief. Besides, the insurgents are just going to have to take a number.” She nodded at the fluid darkness moving towards them. “Camel spiders,” she told him. Jackson shook his head. “They are non-lethal.” “These are different, Master Chief. Like nothing I’ve ever seen before.” She scooted beside him, resting her head near his arm. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me, Jackson.” She reveled in his nearness but cursed the gods that it took imminent death for them to get to the horizontal position with each other. They remained unmoving for several long seconds and she thought he must have passed out, when his arm shifted. Lifting her head, she saw the open invitation in his eyes. She moved into his embrace, rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes in a contended sigh. She imagined a butterfly caress on her hair followed by a soft kiss. “I’m sorry, Gracen.” “So am I,” she whispered before darkness overtook her once again.

Chapter 5 Private Office, D-21 Underground Level 2 Diego Garcia Naval Air Facility, American Federation Middle of the Indian Ocean 0930 GST Doctor Marcus Millerson hid his disgust under an expressionless mask as he stared at the arguing uniforms on the SatCom in front of him. The narrow minded troglodytes had no idea the gift that had landed on their laps. All they saw were their careers being threatened by a blustering shark who knew how to rattle sabers. William Alexander Ellison was the worst kind of businessman, rich, powerful, wickedly smart and with no desire for public office which made him difficult to manipulate and impossible to control when something he valued was threatened. In this case, his estranged daughter, Army Captain Gracen Ellison, officially classified as missing in action over three weeks ago. Millerson ignored the discussion in front of him and considered his options. Ellison was not lighting a fire under the Joint Chiefs of Staff because of some undying paternal love. He valued his possessions. His DNA, in this case the daughter, was a prized possession, now more so than ever, though he didn’t know it yet. Having a man of Ellison’s stature (and wealth) would fund countless projects ad

infinitum and without the pesky legalities that the military currently held him under. Of course, the military had benefits as well, an unlimited supply of fresh subjects and

the ability to free him from a foreign prison the night before his scheduled execution. Decisions, decisions. A subtle movement from one of the guards caught Millerson’s attention, making him realize that the uniforms once again demanded a response. “Doctor Millerson,” the tightly wound voice from the five star Admiral cut through air with laser precision. “Is there no way to cure this infection?” “Tell me gentlemen,” Millerson’s voice had a calm, charismatic lilt that made several members of the military panel relax despite his reputation, “did you not read my report or did you simply fail to understand your aides when they explained it to you?” He ignored the angry rumbles from the table. “This is not an infection. The subjects have been invaded by alien DNA which has bonded to them at a subcelluar level. There is no cure. There is no extraction. There is no going back. There might not even be a life. At this point, we do not know if the subjects will ever wake up from the tanks.” He paused, tapping his finger on the table as he considered the possibilities. “Actually, it wouldn’t be much of a loss if they didn’t. Their injuries are healing at an extraordinary rate, even by tank standards. That alone should provide enough data for countless studies even if we must, at some point, destroy the subjects.” “Psychopathic butcher,” muttered a general. “One man’s butcher is another’s visionary, general,” Miller responded. “Science progresses regardless of cost and these hybrids are a true miracle of science.” “Are the – patients –” the Admiral emphasized, “a threat to national security?” “That’s not the issue,” a lower ranked admiral

interrupted before Millerson could respond. “By his definition, they are no longer human and that, in itself, is sufficient reason to destroy them.” “That would be the equivalent of killing the goose that lays the golden eggs,” Millerson explained slowly. “They are priceless and let me point out the obvious – we have them. No one else. There is the potential of creating an unbeatable weapon.” “You said there is a chance they will never wake up.” Millerson shrugged. “These subjects might not. Who is to say about future ones?” Several voices raised their concern at the implications now voiced, each trying to be heard over the others. The Admiral in charge simply stared at Millerson who stared right back. The Admiral raised his hand and silence fell across the table. “Suggestions, Doctor?” “Reports confirm that the genetic differences between the subjects have increased. I was correct in segregating-” “And subsequently increased the risk that this operation will be discovered,” a Marine general snapped. “Especially under the pressure of someone like Ellison. Instead of one-” “The plan which I put forth,” Millerson interrupted, “and which was approved, took Ellison’s reach into consideration. All of us have reasons for ensuring this plan continues to work. Should the subjects wake, which is in serious doubt at the moment due to the original injuries, pockets of quarantines are easier to control despite the added security risks. I don’t think you want your future weapons to mingle with each other until they have been properly indoctrinated.” Voices of dissention rang out once more.

“Enough,” the command in the Admiral’s voice cut through the conflict. “We will continue with the current protocol established by Doctor Millerson until further notice. We will reconvene in fifteen days, but I want daily reports from you, Doctor.” “What do we do about Ellison? He is not going to sit idly by, waiting for our ‘investigation’ to be concluded.” “We keep the status quo in regards to Ellison. Give him all the assistance he requests but tell him nothing. Let him hire his mercenaries to search for his daughter. He will find nothing.”

Chapter 6 Medical Laboratory C-35 Underground Level 3 Diego Garcia Naval Air Facility, American Federation 0214 GST Gracen floated through levels of awareness peacefully. She realized that if this was death, it was quite pleasant, but if it was heaven, it was actually kinda boring. The one thing that quickly became apparent was that every time she was cognizant, every time her brain tried to remember the accident or attempt to dwell on the pain of all she lost, a blanket of exhaustion quickly swamped her. It was easier to fall back into deep slumber then to figure out what else there was to being dead. Eventually, when the bone weary exhaustion finally disappeared, she was aware more often and that was when the dreams began. Dreams mixed with memories mashed with fantasies. Memories of growing up with Derrick as her only lifeline to any emotional connection in a world riddled with power hungry schemers. Adults who had no time for children other than to use them as pawns in some end game or other. It was a miracle that neither of them ended up as raving sociopaths like the rest of their ‘family’. There were fantasies about Jackson and she couldn’t help but mourn the chance, miniscule as it had been, that something good could have happened between them even if reality had been impossible. But she was in charge of her watery afterlife and here, anything was possible. She’d be happy enough with X-rated fantasies about the Master

Chief. At least that’s how it should have been, in her mind. But a different dream replayed over and over again. The one of two suns shining across a green sky. Where purple water shot across a vast ocean and frolicked with air currents, passing massive islands of moving earth which nurtured exotic flora and where fire danced across the sky, earth and water.

Yes, yes. Lovely world. But this is my fantasy and I want something a bit more tangible. A question bloomed into her mind as if spoken.

You know, if I’m stuck talking to myself, I should at least have the common courtesy to respond verbally. Confused silence. Gracen sighed. Maybe her subconscious couldn’t verbalize. That would be a much nicer explanation than it was just being pissy rude. Tangible. Like … an image of Jackson flooded her mind. Short cropped dark blond hair that was just long enough on top for her to think about running her fingers through it. A killer smile that so rarely graced his very kissable lips. Him emptying the bottle over his head, water cascading down his bare chest. Her tongue lapping at the drops.

Now that’s tangible. Confusion bordering on incredulity. A concept eventually found words or what her mind interpreted as words. ~ Energy source? ~

What the hell? Energy source? Sex, precious. Pure, unadulterated sex. Confusion. Gracen visualized grabbing her subconscious and shaking some sense into it. Who would have thought that it

would be so clueless about carnal pleasures? Her subconscious focused on the metal that masqueraded as a limb. Then his normal leg. Then back to the metal. Concepts became easier to interpret into a semblance of conversation. ~ Question. Loss? Grow. ~ A clear image of regrowing a limb.

Giving up so easily? Is sex such a foreign concept or is it the fear of violence? ~ Metal. ~ Gracen mentally shrugged. Prosthethic. Loss. No regrowth. But her inner doctor was now fully engaged. Maybe someday. Once they had more control of DNA and the ability to control stem cells in order to build flesh and bone and muscle. She paused. The amount of energy, both in terms of fuel and heat, the body would require for such a task, especially in an adult male would be enormous. ~ Clarity. ~ Her subconscious hit itself in the forehead for being so obtuse. Gracen shook her head, clearing it of such fanciful thoughts. The lack of a leg didn’t bother her, though. Not when it came to Jackson. She’d seen too much as a surgeon and the measure of a man was not linked to flesh, or lack thereof. Thoughtful silence.

We’re done? Any more questions? Meaning of life? Birds and the bees? ~ Completed. ~

Does that mean I can have my X-rated fantasy back? Image of her lips slowly moving down Jackson’s chest. ~ Negative. Completed. ~ The image of two suns rising flooded her head. The sense of purpose and action crashed into her.

Listen up, little prude. This is my world and I want an Xrated fantasy. So go back into whatever little hole you crawled out of. I’m busy. ~ COMM – PLEEETE – TED. ~ Gracen took a mental step back. She got the distinct feeling her subconscious thought she was a slow witted piglike animal, despite her knowledge of anatomy. Adrenalin flooded her body and her eyes snapped open, only to be temporarily blinded by greenish light. Her eyes darted through the thick air, but something felt off. The pressure of the air rippled across her face when her hand glided to her eyes in an attempt to rub clarity into them. Not air. Liquid? She actually was floating. Gracen’s hands reached for her face. A breathing apparatus covered her nose and mouth. Her vision acclimated to the opaqueness of the liquid and she looked down at her body seeing probes attached to her chest and torso. At least she was wearing clothes. She fingered the stretchy, rubbery black fabric of the shorts. It was the same unfamiliar material as the cropped top. Her hand slammed against her chest. No dog tags, but most importantly, no pendant. Derrick must be going insane. The caduceus had been his way to control an uncontrollable situation. Had it been lost or disposed? Was he looking for her? Gracen took a deep breath. Of course he was. He wouldn’t be satisfied until he saw a body and who knows what length he would go to find her. She had to get out of the bloody tank now. Her eyes did a full one-eighty scan. It almost looked like…healing tank? But that technology was still in its nascent stage. There weren’t supposed to be any functional tanks in practice. Where the hell was she? The last thing she remembered was the crash. And

Jackson. Her heart clenched and she expected the blinding pain to tear her apart again, but it never blossomed. The loss was there. Of Jackson. Dez. Jenna. Mari. But somehow, it had already dulled. It was almost as if she was seeing the pain from an outsiders’ point of view. Seeing it, but not feeling it.

Is that what near death does? Dulls the pain? The image of the camel spiders flooded her mind and her heart rate immediately quickened. Gracen’s hands quickly examined her body. Two arms. Two legs. No visible bites. No tears. Then why was she in the tank? Internal bleeding was fixed by surgery, if caught in time. Current theory suggested that healing tanks, if they were even practical, would be used for massive lacerations not blunt trauma contusions. Unless she had actually died, been preserved by some experimental cryo unit until medical science had progressed to such a point where they could revive dead tissue and she had just awakened decades into the future. Images of time passing and a completely different world flashed across her mind. Gracen took a panicky breath and her heart accelerated further. Her body was suddenly engulfed in a sense of well being and comfort. The back of her mind chided her for such a fanciful imagination. Was her subconscious actually laughing at her? Gracen paused and took a deep breath. What was more troubling? The fact that she was talking to herself or that the responses had a clearly different tone in personality than her own? She’d worry about that later. Now much more grounded, she reached out, testing the boundary of the tank. When her fingertips found a hard surface, she swam forward. At first the vision in front of her

was blurry and distorted, so she just waited until she became accustomed to it. Medical equipment of various shapes and sizes eventually came into a watery focus. Several dormant terminals. A large console with a myriad of buttons, blinking lights, and readings of some sort. And a sleeping orderly in charge of it all. Figures. Gracen knocked on the plastiglass tank in order to wake up sleeping beauty. When nothing happened, she pulled her arm back and hit it as hard as she could, but that only served to bruise her hand. She blew out a frustrated breath. An anemic bubble floated in front of her face, highlighting her feeble attempt to affect her own destiny. How the hell was she supposed to wake him up? She looked around the tank but there was no com system. The plastiglass was way too solid to be broken or make any sufficient noise and certainly couldn’t yell with the mask covering her mouth. She looked down at her chest. Duh! She yanked at the sensors, roughly pulling them out, and then looked up expectantly. Even through the plastiglass and the water, she could hear the shrill alarm. The startled orderly fell out of his chair, then rushed to his feet. He tapped almost haphazardly at the console, whether he understood the readouts or even read them was definitely up for debate but he at least knew how to turn off the alarm. The confusion was written on his face as plain as day. Gracen waited. Slowly, he finally looked at her direction and blinked. She sent him a small wave and watched his eyes widen. He shook his head and walked slowly to her tank. He tapped on the plastiglass. “Are you awake?” No, Captain Obvious. I’m still unconscious. Gracen

simply stared at the baby faced orderly for a full minute, then her eyes dropped to the insignia on his arm. Hospitalman Recruit. Oh hell. She would have preferred a sleepy orderly to a green wannabe medic. “Oh, ummm,” the HR straightened and scratched his head, “I’m going to have to check protocol for this. No one expected you to wake up.” Gracen looked at him, frozen in stunned bewilderment. If they hadn’t expected her to wake up, why had they put her in the tank? Was she someone’s idea of a perfect guinea pig? The HR’s movement roused her out of her daze and she desperately tapped against the glass. When he turned, she gestured at him to stop and get her out, but he simply stood there, looking at her in confusion. She gestured again. You. She pointed at him. Get. She pointed at the console and made a typing action. Me. She tapped her chest. Out. She put her hands together then shot one out as if it was coming out of a box. At least, that was her interpretation, The HR just looked confused. Come on. You can do. She looked at him, willing his brain cells to rub together and become the logical conclusion. You can figure it out. The HR looked at her, then her hands, then back at her. His eyes cleared. Yippee. “Umm, I don’t think I’m supposed to,” he hedged. Gracen saw the opportunity and did something she had never tried before. Using the water to her advantage, she allowed herself to float slightly higher than the HR, presenting a more imposing figure than her full five feet, nine inches provided. Then, giving him the best impersonation of the Command Master Chief Look - the one that made all enlisted, and often officers as well, run to do his bidding, no questions asked - she stared the HR down.

The HR suddenly snapped to attention, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously in his throat. “Yes, sir! Ma’am. Captain.” He pivoted and hurried to the console.

Wow. That actually worked. I’m going to have to remember that one, she mused. She watched as the HR started tapping rapidly on the console and darting quick looks in her direction. That type of look was dangerous, though. She’d seen it before. It screamed imminent fullblown panic. She just hoped he hadn’t set off an alarm that woke up half of the facility. Within a few seconds, Gracen could feel the water start to drain out of the bottom of the tank. Once her head cleared, she pushed off the respirator and took a deep breath. The smell of the overripe fruit from whatever she’d been soaking in flooded her nose. She looked at her arms. Whatever the soup mix was, it made her skin look great. She turned her hand over and rubbed the pads of her fingers. No wrinkling, despite the long term immersion. Huh. She gently floated down to the bottom of the tank as the water drained. With a hiss and a snap, as if someone just opened a soda bottle, the plastiglass twisted down into some holding cell on the floor. Gracen looked up to see the HR standing in front of her, holding a towel and looking decidedly nervous. “Thank you, HR…?” She looked at him expectantly. He snapped to attention. “Garaldi, sir! Errr, Ma’am.” Gracen rubbed the towel on her hair, which definitely felt longer. “Captain or Doctor will do, Garaldi. Now, which terminal has the medical records or, better yet – do you have it on a tablet? Where is my gear and where the hell am I?” She started moving towards the console then stopped abruptly and looked down at her legs. No muscle atrophy or fatigue. No tightness. Stretching her arms over her head,

she realized she felt great. Well rested and fit, like she’d just come out of a spa. Considering she was sure her insides had been a soupy bloody mess…. “Yes, ma’am. I don’t know. Diego Garcia. I mean,” he almost slammed into her, but dodged at the last second, “maybe you should just wait. I called my supervisor and he should be here any minute.” He looked nervously at the door, then back to her. “Maybe you should sit down…” Gracen had stopped listening the minute she eyed the second tank. She hadn’t noticed it before because it was placed directly behind the one she been in. Once free from the plastiglass case, she’d headed straight for the HR and the console, not bothering to look behind her like Dez had drilled into her so many times.

Always watch your six, Doc. Dez. Gracen’s throat tightened and her eyes slammed shut. She expected a sharp sense of loss to hit her like a tidal wave but it never materialized. There it was again. That sense of dulled emotions. She knew she should be feeling something sharper but all she felt was mild concern and a vague sense of separation, as if part of her expected to see Dez again, somehow. A ridiculous thought since no one could have survived that mangled cockpit. There was going to have some serious grief issues that would have to be resolved sometime in the future. But not now. Gracen shook her head and looked up, her hand now on the plastiglass. She blinked in confusion. She hadn’t even realized she had moved with speed and purpose. Despite the slight opaqueness of the green healing liquid, there was no question who was in the tank, even if he was facing away from her. The unevenness of the outline was telling, but she noticed the tattoos first. They were seared into her memory. She’d had more than

one daydream about what it would have felt like to touch them. She circled the tank so she could see his face. Jackson. She allowed a brief moment of relief, leaning on her forehead on the glass. He was in the tank so at least there was a chance… “What’s his status?” she asked without looking up. “Umm, well, I guess the same as yours?” Tanked but not expected to wake up. So if she had woken up…? Gracen inhaled deeply, there was a chance. There had to be. She lifted her head, noticing the panel on the plastiglass. She couldn’t help but think about the conversation she’d had with her own subconscious. The energy required to heal from massive injuries was immense. “Which of these,” she pointed to the various readings, “regulate the nutrition content of the liquid?” “Ma’am, I really don’t-” he stopped when she turned a cold, authoritative stare at him. He pointed to a section. “That one. Those are his stats. The readouts are also relayed to the console.” Gracen checked the vitals. All steady, if a bit on the lower end of the spectrum. There were signs of higher brain function. She blew out a relieved sigh. He was in deep sleep, quite possibly dreaming. She took a moment to visually inspect his injuries. His chest looked like a dark tied-dye tee shirt, a colorful collection of purple, blue, greens and yellow. Good God, he must have been hammered internally worse than her. The gash across his abdomen had closed and was healing quite well. Too well actually. Her head tilted to the side. How long had they been tanked? “Uhmm, I’m not sure…” She glanced at Garaldi, when she realized that she had spoken out loud. Her eyes snapped shut as an image of water fusing torn flesh back together invaded her mind with

such force that she took a step back, needing to hold onto the tank in order to keep from crashing to the floor. What the hell? She looked at Garaldi. Unfortunately, he seemed oblivious to anything but his own nervous fidgeting and sweating. Gracen shook her head and returned her attention to Jackson. His face was mostly covered by the respirator, but what was visible looked no worse for wear. The thing that really struck her was his hair. It looked a quite a bit longer and lighter or maybe that was just a trick of lighting and the liquid. Her head tilted to the side. Maybe not. She tapped the nutrition gauge to the maximum setting. Garaldi opened his mouth, then shut it with a loud snap. “What about Chief Hunter?” “Who?” “There was another Raider with us, Chief Hunter. He was alive before I passed out. Where is he?” Garaldi shook his head. “I don’t know of any Chief Hunter. You two were the only ones brought to this facility.” Gracen closed her eyes, leaning her head against the surprisingly warm plastiglass tube. She’d failed Hunter and she’d failed Jackson. Was anything going to turn out right? “How long have we been here in Diego Garcia, HR?” she asked, her voice suddenly tired. Before she could get the answer out Garaldi, the door behind them swooshed open, drawing their attention and chaos erupted as six soldiers, in full battle gear pointed their very big weapons directly at them.

Chapter 7 Medical Laboratory C-35 Underground Level 3 Diego Garcia 0244 GST Marcus pushed through the soldiers in front of him and stopped, staring at a living, breathing, and fully awake miracle of nature. She stood confident and unfazed in front of some orderly like a mother hen protecting her helpless chick from a predator or, in this case, the six very tense Marine guards pointing their assault rifles directly at her. His eyes travelled across her body. She was actually quite pretty in a clean scrubbed All-American, wholesome girl-next-door sort of way. He could see her appeal, if one was into that type. He personally, preferred them shorter, blonder, – his eyes stopped at her chest – fuller, – their eyes met – and stupider. She clearly had more in common with her father than previously suspected. “Doctor Millerson. Step. Back.” The lead guard ordered in a harsh tone that demanded to be followed. “Major, I think you’re overreacting.” “There are protocols, Doctor.” “Quite true,” Marcus agreed as he stepped in the line of fire. “Tell me Doctor Ellison, do you intend to kill anyone, destroy this base or annihilate this planet?” Her mouth twitched. “Not today.” Marcus dipped his head, his lips tilting in amusement as he turned back to the major. “See? Perfectly safe. Now I’m sure you have better things to do in the middle of the night. I have a patient to check on.”

“You do not give us orders, doctor.” “No. Would you like me to wake up someone who will?” He let the threat hang for a minute. “This is my lab, Major. In it, I am god, king and country. You can guard the door, if you wish.” The major’s jaw tightened to a point that Marcus could actually hear teeth grind, then his eyes darted sideways, listening to the voice in his headset. With a jerk of his head, the guards carefully backed out the lab. Marcus slowly approached Gracen but his eyes diverted to the cowering sailor behind her. “You too,” he said dismissively, waiting until the sailor scurried away, but not before getting the approval of Ellison. “I am Dr. Marcus Millerson,” he introduced himself, not bothering to extend his hand but sending her a charming smile that never failed to put everyone at ease. Her eyes, however, stayed guarded and she gave him a shallow nod. It didn’t escape his notice that she hadn’t extended her hand in greeting, either. The apple does not fall far from the tree. “How are you feeling, Dr. Ellison?” “Fine, Dr. Millerson.” Yes, just like her father and this was going to take a lot more effort on his part than he anticipated. “Call me, Marcus.” He smiled warmly. “Shall we sit down? Are you hungry? Tell me how I can make this ordeal more comfortable for you.” She blinked and her eyes softened just a tad. He could always find a way in, even against the most impenetrable walls. Women were so easy to manipulate. Perhaps she wouldn’t be as difficult as he originally expected. “I would like to see our medical files,” she said. “And you can start by telling me how the hell we ended up in

Diego Garcia.” “Certainly,” he snapped his fingers at one of the assistants that had been hovering near the console. “Download the pertinent data into a touchpad and please bring Dr. Ellison,” he noticed she didn’t correct him and asked to be addressed informally, “a robe and some slippers. We don’t want her to catch a chill. Perhaps some coffee as well? Then I will be more than happy to answer all your questions.” Gracen sat silently on a medical bed that had been set up by Millerson’s, or Marcus, as he insisted on being called, quietly efficient staff. He was trying very hard to put her at ease, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on why it was completely failing. She couldn’t help but watch him and wonder why, and how, a civilian doctor was in charge of what appeared to be a top of the line, and likely experimental, military medical facility. There was something about his persona that was familiar but she couldn’t quite place where or how she might know him. Or of him. He was handsome. Almost too perfect, actually, with aristocratic features that would be more appropriate carved in marble or on some billboard instead of gracing the halls of a medical military facility. He was a textbook gentleman physician, intelligent, attractive, attentive, urbane…someone whom she would normally find interesting on an intellectual level, if not sexually. Her eyes drifted to Jackson’s tank. At least she would have been interested in the all too smooth doctor if not for one very imperfect Master Chief she couldn’t get out of her head. Her breath stalled. Flashes of memories slammed into her mind drowning everything else out. Fire. Grief. Comfort.

She’d made peace with dying in Jackson’s arms. There were certainly worse ways to go. Then, pain. Gracen’s eyes snapped open. Reaching for her neck, all she felt was smooth skin. But she knew that had been where she’d bitten. A wave of reassurance flooded her out of nowhere, alleviating the panic that had threatened to resurface. Her heart slowed to a more sustainable beat and the muscles which had clenched so tightly relaxed. She shook her head. Was this some delayed shock? A flashblack or simply an overactive imagination? Her attention turned back to Millerson. He looked up, catching her mid-stare. His lip tugged upwards arrogantly. He looked pleased by the attention. As if it was something he’d expected and counted on. The conceit of a man used to having his looks appreciated and admired. But his eyes were cold and empty. Then it struck her…Millerson was a younger version of William Alexander Ellison. Perfect on the outside, but lacking on the inside. The question was, what did he want from her and how far would he go to get it? In no time flat, Gracen’s vitals were checked and she was wrapped in a plush robe with comfortable slippers. The latest touchpad available for medical personnel weighed lightly inside her pocket and she held a steaming cup of freshly ground French roasted coffee. “What happened to the others?” she asked. Millerson his full attention to her. “Others?” Gracen studied him for a full second. He suddenly seemed ‘too’ interested and she wondered if she should have waited instead of asking a civilian. In for a penny… “There were ten passengers in our helicopter,” she answered. “Chief Hunter was alive before I passed out.” Millerson waited for her to continue and then looked

down at his tablet, nodding slowly. “You and the Chief Monroe-” he motioned towards Jackson. “Master Chief,” she corrected a bit too sharply. Millerson looked up from his tablet at her tone and she cursed herself for being so transparent. “You and Master,” he emphasized, “Chief Monroe were the only ones brought to this facility.” For a reason was left unspoken. “I can inquire about the other passengers if you wish.” There was just enough hesitation when he said passengers that told her he meant bodies. The dead, not the living. “Since when has a small base like Diego Garcia had a top notch, experimental medical lab?” She said after several long uncomfortable seconds of silence, studying Millerson over the rim of her mug. Millerson’s features tightened imperceptibly, before the bland friendly mask returned. “I’m certain there are several bases throughout the Federation that do not advertise their full capabilities, Captain. You – and the Master Chief – have been here for three weeks, if that was going to be your next question. What do you remember about what happened?” “The crash.” She knew he was expecting to elaborate but she wasn’t about to confess to half-remembered and, quite possibly, pain-induced hallucinations unless she had no other choice. “A Special Forces unit was dispatched to your crash site, found your injuries to be – unique – and had you shipped directly to Diego Garcia.” Gracen considered his very practiced response while taking a sip of the delicious coffee. “How did they know to ship us here? All critical injuries in the AFAC are shipped to

Australian Confederation.” The confusion on Millerson’s face was almost too perfect to be genuine, but Gracen decided to let this play out. “The Federation’s African Command sends all of the critical cases to our base in Perth. Diego Garcia is not on the MedEvac list.” “Ah, yes,” Millerson said with a nod before letting a very practiced boyish grin highlight his handsome features. “The military jargon always gets me.” Gracen was surprised how unmoved she was by what she considered a heavy handed attempt to charm her. It was more than just her interest in Jackson or the practiced charisma that she identified with her father. Her response to Millerson felt almost…foreign. She shook away the whimsical thought. “What was unique about our condition?” Millerson’s affable aura slowly melted into predatory professionalism. He studied her for a full minute before answering. “The area where you were found was teeming with spiders. When both of you presented with a, and I quote, ‘gelatinous film covering all skin surfaces’, you were both placed in Level Four, Bio-Containment Units. After HazMed deemed that you were not contagious, that it was just an extreme allergic reaction due some unknown spider toxin, you were placed in the tanks.” Gracen tried to repress the shudder. “Unknown spider toxin? We were bitten?” “Do you remember a bite?” He waited but when she didn’t answer, he simply shrugged. “By the time you were placed in the tanks, there was no appearance of any bites. Several were taken for dissection and study but primreps have been inconclusive.” Gracen paused. The fact that preliminary reports were

inconclusive were not nearly as interesting as his ease of use of military jargon. “So our gear was disposed of? I was wearing a pendant. It has sentimental value.” She looked at him expectantly but was sorely disappointed. Millerson shrugged. “Likely. The military usually has to be talked out of destroying valuable assets.” A predatory smile darkened his features to such a degree that she forced down a shudder. The one thing she learned from her father was never show weakness in front of sharks. “I wasn’t aware that there were tanks in actual use,” she said, proud of how steady her voice sounded. The predator tilted of his mouth became condescendingly bland. “Are you made personally aware of every military innovation, Captain?” He had purposely used her rank instead of her title. A not so subtle reminder that she really should shut up and listen. He tapped on the console embed in the table and brought up her scans. “As you can see,” he pointed to the triple helix structure of her DNA, “something happened that night. Care to elaborate?” Gracen’s annoyance turned into stared slack-jawed incredulity at the impossible structure in front of her. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “I lost consciousness.” That was technically true. Just because she hadn’t seen what caused the fundamental change in her genetic makeup didn’t mean she had no suspicions. It had to have been those unnatural spiders. Millerson must have the same suspicion, but that didn’t mean she had to confirm it. “What does that exactly mean?” Millerson shrugged. “Right now? Other than being an oddity of nature, nothing. Just that you are not fully human anymore. You’ll have to tell me if you develop the sudden ability to walk through walls or crave human brains.”

“Will do, doctor,” she replied, leaning back on her chair, the coffee now forgotten. Gracen turned to tank Jackson occupied. A powerful compulsion to be near him slammed into her, leaving her stunned by its intensity. “What about the Master Chief?” Her voice husky with need. “He actually died en route from the crash site,” Millerson answered, studying her carefully. “Twice.” Surprise overrode the compulsion. “A Level Four unit cannot be breached in the field once activated.” “Correct,” Marcus said. “The medics never touched him. Fascinating, isn’t it?” Gracen stared at him for a long minute before getting up and heading towards the tank, only stopping when she faced Jackson. She knew Millerson followed some distance behind her, studying her every move and reaction as if she was a bug under a microscope. In reality, she probably was, considering the unwanted genetic enhancement, not that it was doing much of anything right now. Her eyes narrowed. The bruising on Jackson’s body was different. The coloration was now more muted, significantly less blues and more greens and yellows than when she had first seen him. Signs of accelerated healing, even by what she assumed were tank standards considering it had also caught Millerson’s interest. Jackson’s arm jerked, catching her attention. The spasm travelled up his body and suddenly all hell broke loose as his whole body started to convulse. The shrill alarm sounded throughout the lab, ringing deep in Gracen’s ear. Her hands shot out to cover her ears, her eyes tearing at the sudden pain that made her want to double over in the fetal position for the next decade. She was suddenly much more sympathetic towards Garaldi’s start when she ripped off the probes.

“Someone shut down that damn alarm!” Millerson yelled out, looking at her curiously. Behind him was blur of activity as his order sent assistants bustling across the lab towards the console. The screeching carillon was cut off mid note but the ringing reverberated through Gracen’s spine. She shuddered and straightened, surprised that she had managed to stay upright. Jackson’s readings were all over the chart and the convulsions looked more like his heart was being restarted as opposed to true seizure. The compulsion to touch him hit her again, so strong that she took a step forward, her hand reaching out before she even realized it. The only thing that kept her from her goal was Millerson walking right in front of her. “Who in the hell changed the nutrient levels?” The icy tone hung in the air, chilling the previous agitated bustle of the lab. “I did,” Gracen whispered, her eyes never leaving Jackson. “His injuries were much more severe than yours, especially considering he flat lined. The tank settings were calibrated for maximum regeneration without overtaxing his already strained system and you knew nothing about this technology.” His hand quickly moved across the panel, recalibrating the settings she changed even as a stream of data spat out from his tablet. “Are you trying to kill him?” Millerson pinned her with a glare, but didn’t wait for a response before turning back to the display in front of the tank. “Push two CCs of Phenytoin,” he barked at one of the medics. Gracen bit down on her lip, ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time’ would have sounded just as stupid out loud as it did in her head. She pressed her hand to the plastiglass,

giving up the fight against the compulsion to touch it. Her eyes unfocused. The frustrated desire – need – to touch skin, washed through her mind. It would be so much easier to control via touch. Control what? She looked up, confused by her own jumbled thoughts, to see her fingers curl on the smooth surface of the tank. A clear understanding of the conductivity of the materials that made up the plastiglass urged Gracen to put her other hand on the unit. An explosion of imagery flashed through her mind, too fast for her to catalog in its entirety. Yet, somehow, it was neatly packaged to where she could almost feel the information in her hands, as if physically holding it before it was pushed into the tank. The order to use the knowledge correctly, to heal and do no further harm, rang in her mind as if spoken. A sense of comprehension flowed back through her hands. Without warning, the nutrient rich fluid started to slosh around furiously. Huge bubbles burst all around Jackson until he was no longer visible through the swirling liquid. Voices cried out around her, but Gracen was surprisingly calm amidst the chaos and completely confident of the outcome. As if it had exhausted all of the energy available, the violent maelstrom suddenly stopped. The silence in the lab was deafening. Millerson’s hands stilled on console, his mouth hanging open as he stared up at the tank. “What the …? Belay that last.” He slowly turned to Gracen. It was the bewilderment in his tone that jarred Gracen from whatever trance she’d been under. She blinked several times only to collide with a now wide-awake Jackson. Relief rushed through her when recognition cupped with intelligence and warmth blanketed his face. His chest

heaved in exertion as if he had just finished a marathon, but his gaze never left hers. His hand reached out, covering hers through the glass and they stood there staring at each other. “That’s interesting,” Millerson said to no one in particular. He turned and looked at one of the medics. “Open the tank.” Her eyes never left his as the liquid drained and the tank opened. “Good morning, Master Chief.” Her voice choked with emotion. Not caring how it looked, she stepped up the platform and threw her arms around him, nearly toppling them both. Jackson’s face buried in the crook of her neck, his arms holding her tight. “Mornin’ Doc.”

Chapter 8 VIP Guest Quarters, A-11 Underground Level 1 Diego Garcia 0520 GST Gracen stared, unseeing, at the data on the reader in front of her. After the excitement of Jackson’s recovery, an informal interrogation masquerading as a barrage of tests, assailed both of them. Eventually, but not soon enough in her opinion, Millerson called an end to the examinations and they were quickly ushered to VIP guest quarters. They were now in a very isolated sector of the base and on a completely separate level from the laboratory. It quickly became apparent to her that the Naval Air Facility which was visible on the U-shaped atoll was actually just the tip of a fully operational Naval Air Station with several underground levels. Diego Garcia was the perfect — and perfectly secret — staging ground for American Federation Forces in the Indian Ocean. She couldn’t help but wonder how many other similar facilities were under Federation control around the globe. The sudden burning in her eyes forced her to blink and break her contemplative brooding. She looked around the room. The size alone made it something reserved for High Brass or high ranking officials, but the dark wood and rich leather furniture just screamed it. Since Jackson was just across the hallway, she figured his quarters were just as elegant, but she couldn’t help but wonder why an Army Captain and a Naval Master Chief warranted such luxury. The benefits, however, were undeniable. The suite,

because there was no other way to describe it, included a private shower, which had been the first thing Gracen had taken advantage of. A long indulgent shower that allowed her the chance to finally cry bitter tears for the loss of her friends. Although the tears streamed down her cheeks, she still couldn’t help feeling a bit detached from the pain, as if there was a buffer protecting her from the cold hard reality of it. She wondered if it was just part of denial. The one thing she couldn’t deny was that the new triple helix DNA. The image of the impossible worm-like chain burned itself in her mind. It was fantastic and… preposterous. By all accounts, they — her and Jackson — should be a mass of goo not walking around as if nothing had happened. There was no apparent change, other than working wonders for her vanity, leaving her skin glowing and her hair full and thick. If only it would do a little more for her confidence. After that amazing initial connection with Jackson, she froze. It didn’t help that they were in a middle of a lab full of strangers but …she simply froze. All the old doubts she had prior to the crash rose again with a fiery vengeance. Closeness brought on by imminent death never stood a chance in stark light and that hug had been all her doing. She’d thrown military regulations to the wind and launched herself at him. Of course he’d respond, she chided herself. He was probably just damn glad to be alive. To make matters worse, when he’d been told they were the only two survivors from the crash site, he hadn’t been able to look at her and she knew why; Chief Hunter. After that, she couldn’t even manage to look at Jackson. At least the voice in her head had stopped meting out its own brand of advice and comfort. That was progress, right? A sharp knock on the door had Gracen adjusting the

utilitarian slate scrubs that were more appropriate for company than the tank suits. She opened the door to be met with one of her new shadows, a Marine Gunnery Sergeant who had somehow drawn the short stick and got stuck with guard duty. Though whether he was guarding her from the base or the base from her was still up for debate. “Your uniform, Captain.” He held out a crisply folded bundle containing the standard Federation gray and blue working uniform topped off with what looked like brand new boots. Her feet ached just at the thought of breaking in new boots. She glanced over his shoulder at the closed door across the hall. And the three additional guards that had been added to the rotation. Her eyes collided with the Gunny’s dispassionate professional gaze. He had undoubtedly noticed her assessment of the additional guards and filed that away for future reference the way any Marine worthy of the rank would have. Perhaps, he hadn’t gotten the short end of the babysitting duty stick after all. The look in his eyes said everything that needed to be said. He was protecting the base from her and the Master Chief because by his book, they might be military but definitely no longer human. Gracen wondered how many of the guards were told of their new ‘not really human status’. “Thank you, Gunny,” she said, carefully extending her arms so as not to spook him and allowing him to hand her the clothes. If possible, his eyes flattened further. Oh, this was going to be more fun than a barrel of monkeys. “The Admiral will brief you at o' six thirty,” he said. “Would you like breakfast to be sent to you before then?” Wow. Room service. That meant that they were not going to be allowed to mix with the general population. What

was the Brass so afraid of? And what the hell was an Admiral doing in charge of a ‘little Air Facility’? Either he was a complete fuckup and related to the powers that be – possible but not likely – or this base was definitely a hell of a lot more than just an Air Station masquerading as a small Naval Air Facility. “O’ six thirty,” she acknowledged, “breakfast will not be necessary, Gunny. Thank you.” She gave him a dismissive nod and closed the door. Even though the briefing was still an hour away, Gracen opted to discard the scrubs in favor of the uniform. To her surprise, everything fit perfectly, even the boots. She left off the uniform blouse but didn’t fail to notice that her name, rank, and insignia were all present. Where they found Army insignia on a Naval Base, she’d never know. Gracen tossed the uniform blouse on the table and started pacing. There were just too many things happening at once. What she wouldn’t give to hash it all out with Derrick. But the second thing she had tried to take advantage of in the luxury suite was the top of the line communications systems. It didn’t take long to realize that none of it would give her an outside access despite her experience, thanks to paranoid Derrick, in bypassing security systems. There were so many walls in the Diego Garcia system that it started to resemble a huge virtual maze. She’d hoped she’d gotten out without setting off any alarms but the added guards and the Gunny’s behavior might indicate otherwise. So that just left her right where she started; right back to Jackson. She needed to put aside her insecurities and just talk to him. Keep it totally professional and pertaining to their current situation. The fact that just the thought of talking to him alone immediately increased her heart rate and

made her palms moist, flustering her like a virginal debutante at her first ball would be something she’d just have to get over. Eventually. Gracen plopped back down on the chair and stared once again at the touchpad. She’d deal with the science part first. The triple helix structure was quite elegant and a complete enigma. A change that complex should have done something more than just give her beautiful skin and thicker hair. Clearly she was missing something critical. Her fingers absently drew on the puddle of condescension that had come off her water bottle. Trial and error. She’d start with the absurd. Could she fly? Gracen closed her eyes in concentration and imagined her body floating off the chair. Light as a feather, stiff as a board. Her subconscious made a very rude noise. Or what she interpreted as a rude noise since there was actually no sound at all. Gracen rolled her eyes. “Great. You’re back.” She sighed. “And now I am actually talking to myself. Is it worse if I respond or if I don’t? Since I haven’t moved, flying must be out.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. What about telepathy? It would be worthless if she could send but her target couldn’t receive, so that left Derrick out. Which meant Jackson would be her receiver. No, the Master Chief. The first thing was to go back to thinking of him solely as Master Chief and in a completely professional manner. Okay, then, back to telepathy and professionalism. She snorted. But if it was possible, then the Master Chief would be the most likely candidate. Gracen sat back and closed her eyes again, concentrating on a mental picture of him. Dark blond hair, blue eyes, a sexy cleft on his chin, the howling wolf tribal tattoo on his chest, her relief that he was alive, the way his body felt when she hugged him, the way she felt safe

with him. Gracen’s eyes snapped open. God, was she actually in love with him? No. Not possible. You can’t fall in love – be in love – with someone you haven’t even gone on a date with or kissed or barely touched. That’s not how love worked, was it? They’d just talked in the last six months and not those long soul-bearing talks, either. Just simple conversation. Sometimes just a hello, followed by a smile and a sense that…the day just got better. She stifled a groan. What was she going to do, being in love with a man so far out of her league? The sharp crackle of crushed plastic caught her attention. She was gripping the bottle so hard that water was just about to burst out of the top. She relaxed her fingers, her eyes drifting to her forearm and an exact replicate of Jackson’s tribal wolf. Gracen let out a yelp, pushing off the table abruptly as if trying to get away from her own arm. The half-filled water bottle went bouncing across the table, spilling water everywhere. The chair jerked backwards, tumbling to the ground while Gracen ended up halfway across the room, holding out her arm and staring at a tattoo that hadn’t existed five minutes ago. A knock at the door was followed by no-nonsense, “Captain? Is everything alright? Do you need assistance?” “No,” Gracen finally managed to squeak out, “I’m fine. Just fine. Here. Everything’s fine. Just an accident.” Her eyes never left her arm in fear that the wolf might actually come to life or some ridiculous image that had flashed across her mind. “We’re all fine here. Thank you.” She touched the tattoo. That’s my super triple helix

power? I can conjure up tattoos? That superpower kinda sucks!

Gracen got a strong sense of increasing frustration coming from that pesky voice of her subconscious, but she just ignored it and started tracking the tattoo. She had admired it and now she had one just like it. Yeah. That’s going to be interesting to explain. Why no, Master Chief, I’m

not some besotted crazy stalker with delusions of a relationship. Not at all. Oh this little thing? Well, since I can’t have you, I got a duplicate of your tattoo. This time the long-suffering sigh from her subconscious was unmistakable, long suffering sigh from her subconscious. Then the tattoo started to fade. “Holy crap,” Gracen squealed, her eyes widening. “That really is my superpower?” She snorted and within seconds the tattoo disappeared. “Yeah, that’s going to come in handy when I join the sideshow.” She looked up at the mess around her previously pristine room. “You know, flying would have been more useful. Telepathy.” She righted the chair and groaned at the sight of the wet mess created by the water bottle. “Being able to scoop,” her hands made an exaggerated circular motion, “spilled…” The water lifted from floor and Gracen stared at the floating bubble suspended in the air. Her eyes fluttered between her hands and the shimmering bubble. In a moment of pure panic, she tucked her hands into her chest, watching as the bubble of water lost its shape, splashing once again into the floor and table. “Did I just do that?” The image of the dull pig-like animal flashed strongly in her mind. “Aren’t we uppity?” Gracen took a deep breath, extended her arms, and…nothing happened. Her lips tightened. “Shazam!” A horde of pigs, all being violently shaken until they

disintegrated into a million little pieces. “Hey! Knock that off.” She was definitely going to need therapy. An image of a straight beam of light slammed into her mind with such force that she actually saw stars. “Owwww!” The heel of her hand slapped forehead. “That is the worst ice-cream headache, ever!” The image representing her sitting at the table, eyes closed, deep in thought…. Her eyes furrowed. Huh? “Focus?” ~YES!~ Gracen visualized scooping up the water into a tightly controlled, liquid bubble. Slowly but surely the bubble reformed until all of the spilled water was collected. “Now what?” Her eyes darted to where the bottle had fallen and the bubble dropped precariously. “No, no, no, no!” She held up her hands as if she was physically stopping the descent. Her mind was bombarded with images of water floating all around. Bubbles danced in the sky and ribbon-like streams of water glided in currents in the air. It was an elegant ballet. Fluidity in motion. Dropping her hands, Gracen focused on the bubble until it stabilized. It was like surgery – visualize and focus. Walking right up to it, she poked at the bubble lightly, watching the rippling effect before sliding d her whole hand inside. She pulled the dripping hand out. It was just like… water. She looked at her hand and then back at the bubble which now required a lot less concentration to maintain. With a sharp flick of her hand, the water droplets floated back to the bubble. “How cool is that?” A giddy smile blazed across her features. In no time, the bubble started gliding in the air,

changing shape with the flow of her hand. As her confidence grew and her gestures smoothed into a graceful dance-like movement, the water flowed like silk and the patterns became more complex. Her stomach growled and she was beginning to regret not taking the Gunny up on the breakfast delivery. She eyed the fruit basket sitting on the counter hungrily and grabbed an apple, chewing thoughtfully. “Behold the power of Water Girl.” Gracen scrunched her face. Eww. “Be astounded by the grace of Aqua Queen.” The memory of a very wild weekend in San Francisco that had almost landed Derrick and her in jail flashed across her mind. She snorted indelicately. “Princess H2O.” P…H2O? No. “The Aqua Avenger.” She shook her head. “I’ll leave it for the marketing people to figure it out.” A clear sense of pleasure and pride came across from the voice of her subconscious. That voice. So different from her own and ever so vocal since the crash. Gracen forced down a chunk of apple through her suddenly dry throat. Derrick’s meteors, the spiders, and the new helix made ridiculous sense somehow. Wow. She was either going to have to put on the Dunce Cap or start wearing the Village Idiot sign around her neck. At least now she knew how she had survived that crash. All she had to do is figure out the why. Hi there. She waited. Nothing. Wait. It made sense that it couldn’t talk. Most of the communication had been via imagery. How do you visualize a hello? Gracen rocked back on her heels, then closed her eyes and relaxed. Taking a deep breath, she pictured a sun rising on the beach, her swinging on a hammock with arms opened wide. She felt a sense of surprise, then the scene in her head changed to the green sky, purple ocean world with its twin

suns. This time the ocean was dancing in a complex pattern, shooting straight in the air and twirling. It reminded her of a water fountain show she’d seen as a child but this felt as if the water itself was alive and in full control. Suddenly the water parted like the Red Sea, mimicking her arms. A sense of comfort washed through her. She probably should give it – because there was no sense of male or female – a name since it was clear that the voice and the extra helix weren’t going anywhere. “Yes, Virginia, we are not alone.”

Chapter 9 VIP Guest Quarters, A-11 Underground Level 1 Diego Garcia 0615 GST A sharp knock sounded on the door, startling Grace out of her preoccupation with her newfound water skills. A curse escaped her lips when she glanced at the clock, but her aptitude kept the water from splashing to the ground. With a flick of the wrist, the water flowed like a silky serpent through the air and into the small kitchenette sink. She wondered if her proficiency had more to do with her natural abilities or if A.L.E. – alien life entity and the best name she could come up with on the fly – was actually controlling it on his own. Another forceful knock oozing with impatience had Gracen snapping to the put on the uniform blouse. She threw the door open, still buttoning and adjusting her uniform. Her eyes met with the cold steel of annoyance emanating from the Gunny. His eyes flicked across her face, nostrils flaring and mouth tightening in disapproval. Without a word, he did a brusque about face and started heading down the hallway. The water workout had been more strenuous than she’d thought. Feeling the moisture on her face, Gracen wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, then dried it on her pants. Using the shirt sleeve to mop up the rest, she looked up and met the restrained amusement coming from Jackson. A genuine smile immediately lit up her face only to wane a bit when she actually studied his expression. The tilt of his lip was familiar but the strain around his eyes wasn’t

normal. He looked exhausted. Ignoring the discreet cough by one of the guards, Gracen walked up to Jackson. She reached out to touch him but managed to stop herself at the last second. “Are you all right?” “We need to talk.” They stared at each other for several long seconds, exchanging weak smiles. “Okay,” Grace said, waiting for a response from Jackson. All she got was a tightening of the jaw as he shifted his weight. Suddenly all of the old doubts resurfaced, smothering her previous giddy sensation of success of water wielding. She was once again being too familiar for a professional relationship. The already weak smile froze on her face as she took a step back. A loud cough from the guard drew her attention before the Gunny’s wave of angry impatience hit her. He was standing perfectly still, no tapping of the feet, no fidgeting of any kind, but the stance spoke of a man used to having his orders followed immediately and without question. She was doing both and the fact that she was an officer made it worse because it was not his place to correct her. Gracen acknowledged the Gunny with a small nod, taking a step down the hallway but not before noticing the painful grimace that darkened Jackson’s face. He was definitely favoring his weight away from the prosthesis. “Have you read the AAR?” he asked in a tight voice after several seconds of silence. The After Action Report. She hadn’t even noticed if it had been included with the medical records. Brilliant, Gracen. Impress him with your ineptitude. “No,” she admitted, “I was too busy to looking at our medical files to notice it. Why?”

They passed several smaller hallways without much foot traffic before ending up in a larger bay that was teeming with life. The underground portion of the base was simply huge but cramped at the same time. It felt like a design by committee without any clear sense of cohesion. There were several curious looks from the working personnel but none lingered too long. Not that Gracen blamed them. The Gunny and his guards were fascinating to watch but not to be seen by. “Something’s off,” Jackson continued. “Missing or deliberately left out,” he explained softly. He grimaced again. A fine sheen of moisture developed across his forehead, showing what an effort it was costing him to keep up with the Gunny’s punishing pace. She suddenly stopped and went down on one knee to ‘fix’ her boot laces. She looked at the guards and shrugged. “New boots.” When she started again, she did it in a much slower pace. Jackson quirked an eyebrow but she simply shrugged it off. “There is no clear explanation as to what happened to the others,” he said. “The report is vague at best.” Gracen watched as the Gunny stopped and waited for them by a double set of doors and she knew this opportunity to talk would soon be over. She stopped and turned to Jackson, surprised by his sudden lack of color. “I’m sorry… about Chief Hunter.” Jackson clenched his jaw in pain at the sudden stop. Dark lines of strain were made more visible by the unnatural paleness of his face. “Not your fault,” he answered in a clipped tone sharpened by palpable pain. This time she didn’t stop to think of how things might look, she just reacted. Reaching out and cupping his face, she – or maybe A.L.E. – willed the pain to diminish by

passing along the knowledge of pain receptors and betaendorphins. The light bulb turned on for Gracen as she ‘overheard’ the rapid transmission of information between two completely alien entities. Of course Jackson would have his own ‘passenger on board’. His DNA matched hers in a way that made them a different species from humans. Similar but different enough that models suggested they couldn’t interbreed. But she and the Master Chief were perfectly compatible. She wasn’t going to dwell on that bit of knowledge just yet. Within seconds of the conversation, Gracen actually could feel the shift in chemistry within Jackson’s body. Relief as the pain inhibitors took effect. His eyes widened and his color started to return to normal. “What did you do?” he asked in voice filled with surprise and a hint of abating pain. “Long story, not for public consumption,” she answered, dropping her hands to his shoulders. Suddenly a wave of fatigue slammed into her with the force of a tsunami. She gripped his arms as she fought to retain consciousness. The moment passed but left a pounding headache in its wake. “Gracen?” “Oh,” she inhaled sharply, “that’s a nasty side-effect.” She straightened with effort and looked up into blue eyes filled with worry. “I’ll live, but please tell me you feel better. Because this wouldn’t be worth it for any other reason.” When he nodded, she sent him a weak smile and patted him on the shoulder before turning towards the Gunny. She noticed that if she focused on one step at a time, swaying like a drunken sailor on his first shore leave could be avoided. “Gunny,” she said carefully once she got to the door,

“please see if you can find a protein bar or shake and some water please. Otherwise I might just pass out while the Admiral is talking.” By the time she was settled on one of the most comfortable conference chairs she’d ever sat on, the Gunny had produced a bottle of water and two protein bars. She mumbled her appreciation before ripping into the bar like a starving man. If nothing else, she had learned more about her new genetic makeup in the last five minutes than in the two hours she had spent studying the medical charts. Part of her water wielding clearly involved healing or perhaps the more accurate interpretation would be manipulating the liquid inside a human body. The question would be if she could do it to just anyone or if was limited to just her and Jackson. She’d been a bystander as Al – if she kept thinking of him as A.L.E. she’d start craving beer – communicated with the fellow entity inside Jackson, transferring knowledge. But could she actually manipulate the fluids in another person simply by touching them? Could she force the body to respond? Maybe it would depend on the injury. Regardless of whether she could or not, it definitely came with a cost. Healing took energy. If nothing else, she’d have to get into the habit of carrying one or two protein bars around her everywhere. Depending on the kindness of strangers wasn’t going to cut it. She looked up, meeting Jackson’s intense gaze with a lopsided grin before ducking her head and grabbing the water bottle. That look telegraphed he wanted answers. Now. Her brain scrambled, trying to figure what to say, especially in mixed company. The commotion at the door saved her from Jackson’s scrutiny. The man who walked into the room commanded

authority. The sheer force of admiral’s personality told her who he was before she sighted the rank, itself. Everyone snapped to attention or, in her case, moved as quickly as possible without toppling over and passing out. It didn’t go unnoticed. “Sit,” Vice Admiral William Alexander Harrison said, sitting down and directing his gaze to Gracen. “Are you unwell, Captain Ellison?” “My apologies, sir,” Gracen responded, taking her seat. She sent a brief nod to Millerson as he took the final seat on the table. “It appears that I’ve pushed my recovery a bit too fast.” She stared at cool brown eyes that burned with intelligence, knowing that she was in deep trouble. If the size alone of the base wasn’t a telling sign that this wasn’t just a small facility, then the three-star officer staring at her certainly did. He was no fuckup. Not at all. A shot of adrenalin raced through her body. Harrison nodded, then turned to Jackson. “And you, Master Chief?” “As well as expected, sir,” Jackson replied. There was an undertone in the exchange that Gracen couldn’t quite put her finger on it. It was like two predators circling each, looking for weaknesses. “You caused quite a stir when you woke up.” Harrison continued, glancing down at his reader. “Both of you did.” A heavy silence hung in the air. The only noise were the taps of the admiral’s fingers on his reader. “What do you remember about the crash, Captain?” He asked almost casually. Gracen blinked and her eyes immediately sought out Jackson. It was the brief flash of warning in his eyes that mentally set her back on her heels. But a warning about what? She turned back to the admiral. The look in his eyes

was suddenly familiar. Special Warfare. That was the undertone between Jackson and the admiral. She didn’t like where this was going. A debriefing by an admiral, most likely a former Raider, was way out of her comfort zone. Especially when she had plenty to hide. The casual setting, Millerson’s presence, and the admiral’s carefully modulated tone had all been intended to set her at ease. An elegant trap because the admiral already knew the answers to his questions. Dammit she was horrid at cloak and dagger and reading between the lines. The only puzzles she was good at involved lots of blood. She was going to stick her foot in it. No doubt about it. What information could be left out without drawing red flags. There would have to be some downright lies if she had any hope of not spending her natural life imprisoned in a secure military laboratory. She darted a glance at Jackson. Their lives. Whatever she said would affect him as well. Just keep it simple and impersonal. “Noise…” the roar of gunfire. “Blood...” the Seaman flying across the cabin. “Fear…” the horror of seeing Jackson fall out of the helicopter. Her throat clenched up. The downright terror she felt that moment outweighed the devastation of the crash itself. Suddenly a wave of comfort flooded her, taking away the terror of the memories. It was almost as if her body sedated itself. That didn’t feel normal. Wait. Is that your doing, Al? She suddenly realized that was why the sense of loss had been so muted. We are so going to have a long

Pictionary discussion about this ‘cuz there is no way I’m going to allow you to keep sedating meA discreet cough focused her gaze to Jackson. She took a deep breath. “Fire,” she continued, a slight flutter in

her voice forcing her to press her lips tightly shut. Harrison’s eyes flickered with recognition. “That will stay with you for the rest of your life,” he said in a voice speaking from experience. “If you wish to speak with someone about that, don’t hesitate to ask.” He waited for her nod. “What about after the crash?” “I was still strapped in when I regained consciousness-“ “You were the only one in the cabin?” She nodded. “The only one I could see at the time. Once I managed to release the latch, I landed on the bottom of the cabin and on top of one of the Wolf Pack buried under the sand and rubble.” She turned to Jackson. “I’m sorry that I don’t know who it was. It was dark and he was completely interred. I only managed to check his vitals.” “Velasquez or Richardson,” Jackson replied, meeting and holding her gaze. “And then?” Harrison nudged her back to the unofficial report. Gracen took a deep breath. “I climbed out of the cabin and saw the extent of the crash. There was debris seemingly for miles.” Harrison looked at her waiting for more, then looked down at reader. “And then the Master Chief found you?” “Yes, sir. He asked me to check on Chief Hunter, who had weak vitals but was still alive at that point. Sir, what happened to Chief Hunter?” Harrison glanced at Millerson who shook his head. “Are you sure Chief Hunter was alive?” “Yes, sir. He was still breathing before I passed out.” In the Chief’s arms was left out but it definitely hung between her and Jackson. “Is it possible that your injuries might have clouded your perception of Chief Hunter’s status?”

She bristled at the insinuation. “The ability to recognize when someone is alive is the first thing they teach us at medical school. Sir.” “Only you and the Master Chief were brought to this facility, captain. If Chief Hunter was alive before you lost consciousness, then he must have expired before the rescue. Do you recall seeing anything out of the ordinary?” He pressed. Gracen let her eyes drift as if trying to remember. They knew about the camel spiders but what were they looking for? In any case, it didn’t mean she would have necessarily seen them before passing out. “No sir,” she said after a few seconds. She just hoped that Jackson hadn’t said anything otherwise this was going to go poorly. “It was dark and confusing. I was trying to remain conscious. There could have been a herd of pink elephants in tutus that night and I’m not even sure I’d remember seeing them.” Harrison looked at her for several long seconds before turning to Jackson. “After pulling Chief Hunter to the main crash site – commendable, though I’d expect no less from an old Raider warhorse – do you recall seeing anything out of the ordinary, Master Chief?” Crap! Why wasn’t Harrison asking for more details about Jackson’s experience? Had she already made a mistake? Gracen met piercing dark blue eyes fixed directly at her. Her breath stalled and they stared at each other for what felt like an eternity. Even she could recognize his veiled expression. Jackson must have remembered her telling him about the camel spiders. “No sir,” Jackson finally said. “After Captain Ellison checked on Hunter, I gave her my sidearm and told her to head towards the convoy. I was unaware of the severity of her injuries.”

“Why would you give her your sidearm?” Millerson interrupted. He wasn’t even looking at the Jackson, but instead, was leaning back in his chair, looking bored with the proceedings. When the answer wasn’t immediately forthcoming he looked up, seeing more than one irritated gaze at his interference. “She already had hers,” he pointed out. “We had crashed in an area possibly teeming with insurgents,” Jackson replied in a flat ‘I shouldn’t have to explain the obvious’ tone he reserved for green recruits. “In a firefight, you can never have too many weapons.” “Quite right,” Harrison agreed. “Do either of you have anything to add?” He looked waited for both Gracen and Jackson to shake their heads. “Dr. Millerson tells me that both of you are walking medical miracles and that your addition - is neither contagious nor dangerous to my base. An interesting quirk of genetics.” This time he stared at now bored again, Millerson. “If you have nothing to add about your condition, then I will lift the quarantine but be aware that you will still have a Marine guard attachment until further notice. For the time being, consider yourselves reassigned to Diego Garcia and on restrictive duty until cleared by Dr. Millerson. Which means in your case, stay out of the way of people who actually have to work.” There was a clear dismissal in his tone so Gracen and Jackson got up, saluted and headed for the door and their waiting babysitters. Gracen suddenly stopped and turned back. “Sir, I was wearing a pendant. It has strong sentimental value and I would really like to know what happened to it, if possible.” Harrison nodded. “I will look into that for you, Captain.” “Thank you, sir,” “And Captain,” Harrison called out, waiting for her to

meet his gaze, “until Brass clears you for full access to SatCom, stay out of my communications network. You won’t get through and we will know you’re there.” Caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Gracen flinched imperceptibly, her heart firmly lodged in her throat. “Yes, sir.” She turned and walked out the door only to be met with a very unhappy Master Chief. “What was that about in there?” Jackson nodded at the now closed door. His frigid tone was eerily polite, but the fire in his eyes demanded an immediate answer. Gracen, still embarrassed at being caught and stinging from the reprimand, pointedly glanced at the guards. “Not in front of the children,” she snapped before pivoting on her heel and retracing her steps back to the main artery.

Chapter 10 Main Bay, Sector Omicron Underground Level 1 Diego Garcia 0734 GST Shit. Shit. Shit! She needed to learn to react better to censure before her blood pressure shot through the roof. It didn’t help to snap at Jackson either, so she’d have to apologize for that. Less than twenty four hours out of the tank and she was starting to wish she could go back in. Why hadn’t she been cleared to access SatCom? What was the Brass hoping to achieve by the blackout? What she needed was to talk this out with Jackson. By the time Gracen stopped, she was in the middle of the large bay. Turning back, she realized that Jackson was several feet away, straining to catch up to her brutal pace, pain once again lining his face. Her cheeks burned in acknowledgement of her callous behavior. Something else she would need to apologize for. Gracen waited, her eyes darting across the activity of the bay without really seeing. They needed to talk but how? She couldn’t exactly invite him to her room or her to his. That was definitely something the guards would notice and, regardless of all that has happened, they were still members of a military that frowned deeply on any perceived inappropriateness between officers and enlisted. Her eyes stopped at two sailors washing some spill and debris on the floor with two very powerful fire hoses. The only way to talk to Jackson was alone and the only way to do that was to get rid of the guards. Cause a distraction.

An idea popped into her head. Oh, I’m going straight to

hell for this one. As Jackson neared, she looked up, her eyes filled with remorse. “I’m sorry.” A loud shout rang through the bay as one of sailors struggled to maintain control of his hose. Several others jumped on the hose that was now bucking and twisting like a champion bull. By the time the second sailor looked down at his own hose it was too late. The force of water rushing out jerked the hose out of his hands and flying across the bay, raining down gallons of water on everything and everyone. Jackson grabbed her arms, pushing her out of the line of water and flailing bodies. When the hose that was being held down jutted with power, it launched three sailors into the air and directly into their guards. This time, it was Gracen that pulled him out of the bay and into the nearest hallway. After trying several doors, she entered the first one that was unlocked. Ducking her head inside revealed a small room being used as a storage closet, but the most important thing was the fact that it was empty. She yanked at Jackson’s arm until he entered then closed the door behind him. No lock but it would have to do. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry for everything, but we need to talk and I couldn’t exactly invite you to my room.” “How did-?” Jackson turned, pointed back, then seemed to think better of it and just shook his head. “Nevermind. Why did you withhold information with the Admiral?” He paused, eyes narrowing in thought. “You didn’t say anything about the spiders to the interrogators in the MedBay either, did you? “Neither did you,” she pointed out. “Why not?” Jackson inhaled sharply and avoided her eyes. “I might

have heard them, if it was them, but I never saw actually any spiders. I wanted to avoid causing you any embarrassment by suggesting you had.” Gracen’s eyes softened and shoulders relaxed. “Thank you. Besides, I’m sure they already know about them, at least according to Millerson. But I wasn’t sure what I’d seen was real or a product of blood loss so I decided silence is golden when we were in the MedBay.” “But you are sure now?” Gracen nodded. “The extra helix that is now embedded in our DNA isn’t some chemical accident or freaky natural mutation that just happened out of the blue.” “The spiders bit us?” “The spiders’ bite was just a mechanism of transferring the DNA from one location to another. At least that’s what I think happened. The spiders were the most accessible hosts at the time.” “Hosts? To what?” “Do you remember the meteor shower three months ago?” He nodded. “My brother, Derrick, who has a level of clearance higher than the Eiffel Tower, believes that the rocks in shower were more than just simple mineral and ore. He thinks they were intelligent and landed in the desert.” Jackson looked at her as if waiting for the punch line. When it didn’t come, he rubbed his hand over his face before pinching his temples. “Aliens?” He said in a tone that was anything but one of a true believer. “That meteor was on a path away from Earth,” Gracen explained, “but at the closest point to it, they turned on a dime and headed this way on a collision course.” “And they landed in the desert?” She nodded. “Convenient,” he muttered. “They were going to land somewhere.”

“But we just happened to crash on top of their crash – landing – site?” “No, of course not.” She snorted derisively. “They landed on top of the spiders. The same spiders that tunnel throughout the desert. I have no idea where they landed other than somewhere within a four hundred mile radius. At least according to Derrick.” “All right,” Jackson took a deep breath and leaned against a discarded desk. “So these – aliens – land on top of spiders, infect them and wait around for bigger fish, which turns out to be us, and use the spiders to jump ship into us? Why?” “Harder to take over the world without opposable thumbs and small spider brains?” “Gracen.” He didn’t raise his voice, but her name came out as a low growl of his voice that rumbled through his chest. Coupled with the white of his knuckles as he gripped the edge of the desk, Gracen decided that this was not the time for cheeky comments. “I don’t know!” She threw her arms up in frustration. “It’s not like Al speaks English, you know. I don’t even think he can speak,” she paused remembering the exchange of information when she had eased Jackson’s pain, “as much as transmit information via touch.” “Al?” Jackson clenched his teeth. “You named an alien parasite currently possessing your body?” “Well, it was actually A.L.E. for alien life entity, but that stated sounding a bit too brewski so I shortened it to Al…” Gracen started to wilt under Jackson’s version of the Command Master Chief Look. “It’s not like that!” Jackson didn’t move. “Look, he’s not controlling me and he’s not a parasite. The alien DNA actually merged with ours. He’s not a separate entity that can be incised out.

“He?” “Well…” Gracen chewed on her lip, staring over his shoulder to avoid sardonic heat of his eyes, and did a half shoulder shrug. “It was impersonal and started to freak me out because I couldn’t get that one feature where the parasite blows out of the pilot’s chest…” The image flashed across her mind in vivid detail of blood, gore and terror. She’d seen it twice in the theater. What a ride. ~ !@#@#@@##@ ~ A strong sense of horror that was not her own. “Oh, so now you decide to join the party?” Gracen started pacing back and forth, throwing her hands up in the air with a frustrated growl. “Why don’t you tell your buddy over there,” she pointed at Jackson, “to step up to the big show?” Jackson pinched the bridge of his nose and inhaled slowly. “You speak to it?” “You know that small voice in the back of your head – you conscience or subconscious – whatever you want to call it,” she gestured erratically if shooing away pesky flies, “that only shows up once in a while to say ‘Hey beer after whisky is risky’ or ‘It’s probably wrong to put pink hair dye in your brother’s shampoo’?” She looked at him expectantly. “If Navy wanted us to have voices in our head, they would have issued one.” “Oh come on!” Gracen lost all composure and stomped her foot down, glaring at him with all her worth. “Are you really telling me that since you got out of the tank, you haven’t felt that something was different? An inner voice that wasn’t quite yours? Haven’t you felt something foreign inside you?” Gracen paused for a microsecond, her eyes widened and a strangled snort escaped her mouth. Her lips

tightened into a thin line and she practically swallowed her hand as she stifled another strangled laugh. “That sounded better in my head.” Jackson inhaled deeply holding it for several long seconds and he rubbed his forehead before letting it out in an annoyed huff. “How did they let a girl like you become a trauma surgeon?” A half giggle stalled in her throat and the smile lighting up her face fell, dragging her mouth open in surprise. The color drained from her face and she recoiled as if slapped, blinking away the sudden burn in her eyes that threatened to be followed by a flood of tears. Not going to happen. Gracen straightened to her full height and squared away her shoulders. “You...You…Frogassman!” She looked around for something to throw. Anything. And she found it. Two long strides brought her within arm’s reach of her missile. With a vicious twist, the cap of a discarded half-empty water bottle went flying to the ground. A split second later Gracen flicked her wrist like a whip towards Jackson. Tepid water geysered out of the bottle and flew through the air, taking shape of an elegant, wet arch aiming straight for his face. Jackson swore he heard the voice inside his head gleefully snicker before it ducked its imaginary head. Time slowed to a crawl. Microseconds felt like hours just to let him recognize and relive his own stupidity. He insulted her, but worse…he hurt her. It was worse than the beach because that had been an accident but this – this could have been prevented. Regardless of the insanity that was coming out of her mouth, she hadn’t deserved the disrespect he had

shown her. He’d seen first-hand that she was indeed a capable surgeon. Hell, she was more than just capable. She excellent and dedicated, as well as respected by her peers, of which he was not one of them. And he stomped all over that by insulting her capabilities. Brilliant. Now he was going to take this like the man he was because he deserved her rage. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t cringe and raise his arm to deflect her watery wrath. So he waited. And waited. Finally, he opened his eyes and dropped his arm only to be hit with an empty water bottle straight to his nose. “Oww,” he mumbled, rubbing his nose but that only made it worse. He hated getting hit in the nose. Anywhere else in the face was fine but after that first bloody break, any hit to his nose, no matter the strength, would reverberate across his cheeks and forehead. It was enough to make him wish he’d listened to his father and become a mechanic. Fierce green eyes blazed angrily at him, but it was the gravity defying impossibility in front of him that left him dumbfounded. His head tilted to one side as his brain struggled to understand what it was seeing. “Fuck…me.” “I’ll have you know,” Gracen walked up to him, tapping surprisingly hard on the chest, forcing his head to snap to her, “that I’m a damn fine trauma surgeon and you better hope that I’m not going to have to prove that you as you lay bleeding out under my hands.” “And I couldn’t do that,” she pointed to the watery arch defying gravity, “before the crash. Before those grotesquely bulbous spiders that bit into people like a hungry vampire at an all-night virgin buffet. Before I started talking and listening

to that alien voice inside my head.” “Prove it.” He stared at her with a dubious expression that sent her blood pressure soaring. “What?” She looked at him as if she was about to use her tightly fisted hands straight at his nose. “Prove that you are controlling…it,” he said, waving at the water. Her lips tightened into a thin line and she looked at him like she wanted to flay him alive. She stared at him for several long seconds before shifting her focus to the water. With a flick of her wrist, she sent the water straight at him and this time he thought he was actually going to get drenched but at the last second, the water veered away from his face and circled his head like a liquid hula hoop. “That’s…amazing,” he said, his eyes wide with admiration. “What’s amazing,” Gracen snapped, “is that you are an asshole of biblical proportions.” She pivoted on her heel and headed for the door. “Gracen, wait.” Jackson reached for her, but the movement was awkward and unbalanced, putting all his weight on his prosthetic leg. The same leg that hadn’t felt normal, or what had become normal for him, since getting out of the tank. The pain exploded mid thigh, shooting up into his body until every nerve felt frayed and tender from the strain. A sharp grunt tore out of his throat and he gripped his leg in a vain attempt to deaden the agony. He blindly reached out for the support of the desk behind him, but missed, his hand grabbing only air and flailing like a fish out of water. His leg gave out under all the stress, sending him crashing for the floor. A solid body collided with him instead, supporting his fall while taking the brunt of impact.

A strangled ‘ooomph’ burst out of Gracen’s mouth. It took several seconds and some maneuvering of his weight by both of them before she spoke. “That was beyond stupid,” she snarled without real heat, her arms still wrapped tightly around him. She righted them both, leaning against the desk. Her anger deflated, she turned to him, touching his hand gently. “That bad?” “It hasn’t been the same since I’ve gotten out of the tank,” he confessed through gritted teeth. Her hand tightened its grip and a wave of relief deadened the sharpest pain. “You’re doing it again,” he said. “You’re decreasing the pain, just like earlier.” “Not me,” she said, shaking her head. “You.” She smiled at his confusion. “You’re doing it now. You and yours.”

Chapter 11 Office B-121 Underground Level 1 Diego Garcia 0754 GST Jackson hastily looked away, denying her words. “Don’t do this,” she whispered, reaching out cupping his cheek and gently forcing him to face her. “Don’t shut out the possibility just because it makes you a little uncomfortable to be outside the box.” Her thumb gently stroked his cheek. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Her hand dropped from his face but he grabbed it, holding it tight against his chest. “For being such an ass earlier and for before… I never meant to hurt you. That’s the last thing I ever wanted.” His thumb slowly caressed her fingers. “You do know,” he brought her hand to his lips, “that this is doomed before it even begins, don’t you?” Gracen snorted indelicately, her eyes fixed on his lips against her skin. “What makes you think I’m looking for permanence? I just plan on using you for wild monkey sex.” He let out a bark of a laugh and tugged her closer. Her hand dropped to his chest as he let it go to cup her face. “I am so wrong for you.” A caress of the cheek. “But you are so right for me.” His hand slid to the nape of her neck and covered the distance between them. He telegraphed his intent. Embossing it on an imaginary invitation and waving it in front of her so she’d have more than enough time to stop it or turn away, but she didn’t. His lips met hers without resistance…or enthusiasm. He pulled back slightly, a small tilt tugging at his lips. She

was still angry and wasn’t about to make it easy for him. He deserved it. The lack of interest would have crushed a lesser man, but Jackson knew, because he knew her, that it was just an opportunity for him to prove himself. He leaned forward again, his mouth pressing softly against hers, but this time his tongue ghosted across the seam of her lips before sucking gently on her bottom lip. Her body grudgingly started to relax against his. The warm softness of her lips was intoxicating. His tongue darted between them, daring her to open up to him. A soft gasp escaped from her lips, allowing him to plunder at her addictive taste. His tongue took control, savoring each new sensation before coaxing hers to participate. He sucked at it, nipping and urging a reaction from her. When it came it nearly unmanned him with its intensity. It would have floored him if he hadn’t already been firmly planted on the carpet. Gracen’s hand gripped his uniform tightly as if anchoring her body against the onslaught of his sensual assault. When met with such skill from a fantasy come true, a girl could only pretend indifference for so long. Her tongue met his, mimicking his moves before doing some of her own. She pulled back slightly in order to bite the plump lip. Her teeth sank deep enough for him to stiffen against the punishing nip, telling him that not all his trespasses had been completely forgiven. She ran her tongue against the battered skin, soothing the small ache and stirring a much deeper one. She went bonelessly as he pulled her onto his lap. In the last second, she hesitated and pulled away. “Your leg,” she managed between erratic breaths. “What leg,” he replied, firmly setting her on his lap and recapturing her lips with a fierce intensity. The passion that had been simmering between them

just beneath the surface exploded in a multitude of kisses, licks and caresses. His large, calloused hands slid under her uniform, ruthlessly yanking at the tucked tee shirt until it came free, finally splaying across sensitive skin. Gracen arched under the heat of his touch as it seared deep inside her, branding its mark into her psyche. She dug her fingers into the corded muscles of his back while his kisses travelled across her jawline and into the delicate skin of her neck. She shifted her weight, eliciting barely controlled groans from both of them as she ground against his rock hard cock. “The door,” he managed in a ragged breath. His voice hoarse with desire and his fingers buried into the softness of her hips. Gracen heard the words but her passion addled brain refused to burst the bubble of rapturous heat until Jackson dug his fingers almost painfully into her side. “It doesn’t have a lock,” she said, refusing to release him even with the knowledge that they could be walked in at any moment. “If we continue,” he reluctantly but firmly pushed her slightly away, “we will end up very naked and I’m not into performing for an audience.” Gracen bit off a cry of frustration, but met his eyes with a smile. “I bet you’d be an excellent performer.” Her fingers brushed across his forehead, tracing a line down to his cheek. He pressed a kiss against her palm and leaned into the caress. “You are so worth all the trouble I’m going to get into,” she whispered. Jackson smiled that rare true smile that wiped away twenty odd years of naval conditioning and combat which hardened everyone. Her breath hitched and, not for the first time, she wished she could have met him before all that. As a young, carefree, rowdy devil may care ready to bring the

world to his heels. But, then again, she probably wouldn’t have given that boy the time of day because he couldn’t hold a candle to the man in front of her. “So are you, Gracen,” he replied, his hands slowly caressing her thighs. A girlish squeal, which she managed to refrain outwardly, reverberated through her mind. She smiled wickedly instead and leaned in, focused on his lips. ~ Strong sense of confusion and puzzlement at to what she was doing. ~ A chuckle escaped her lips just shy of her goal of recapturing his delicious mouth. “Laughing at a man just before you’re about to kiss him is likely to crush his ego,” Jackson pointed out. Gracen lightly brushed her lips against his and straightened, her eyes twinkling with humor. “Are you telling me that you are not feeling a strong sense of understanding chemical reactions but being completely clueless about carnal pleasures?” His eyes dropped in thoughtful consideration, then looked up. “What happens now? With our – hitchhikers?” Gracen shrugged. “Wait? Listen? Not much else we can do. I know that they aren’t going to hurt us. They basically brought us back from the dead. You literally,” she said. His brow raised in question. “You flatlined twice en route. It could be that your – hitchhiker – is still recovering from that expenditure of energy before he can communicate with you.” She signed. “At least as much as they can communicate with us. It’s going to be a long and bumpy road for a while.” “What about that water thing?” He pointed to the dark puddle on the carpet near them. Hadn’t even noticed when it splashed to the ground spraying them. “What do you call it?” She followed his gaze to the puddle. “Water thingy is

just as good of a name as water wielding …dominion… bending…mastery.” Her head tilted to the side as she studied the shrinking mark on the carpet. She wondered…. Gracen stretched her arm out, palm up and focused on the spilled water soaking the carpet. She slowly lifted her arm, higher and higher until silvery droplets were pulled from the carpet and into the air. She felt a delighted expression come from Al and smiled. With a whirl of her wrist, all of the droplets were collected together into one bubble. She made an elegant move with her hand and brought the sphere to them. She grabbed Jackson’s hand and lifted it palm up. “It’s a matter of concentration,” she said, pulling the water between them and resting it just above his hand. “Just follow your instinct and listen to your voice.” “Is that a Tai Chi move? Martial Arts?” Gracen shrugged. “Focus on the water. Keeping it together in your mind. In this case, a sphere.” She took control of the bubble. “Once you got that down, you can mold it into different shapes.” She elongated the water into a snake, then shrunk it into a rectangle block. “How can aliens manipulate water with movements based on martial arts?” Jackson shook his head, refusing to believe what he was seeing. “I don’t think they do,” she finally confessed. “I think that it’s all on me. The only way I could understand the concept was in a fluidity of motion.” An unwelcomed heat blossomed across her cheeks. “I once watched one of those late night infomercials and they were crowing about the health benefits of Tai Chi and I watched the whole thing because it looked really cool and it was late and I was tired and I couldn’t sleep-“

Jackson pressed two fingers against her lips. “So you’re winging it?” “Yes?” She said in a hesitant voice. “You’re kind of good at winging things aren’t you?” “Just call me MarySue,” she said, her mouth twisted with a disparaging tilt. When his eyes narrowed in question, she sniffed and shook her head. “A MarySue is-“ “I do read, Gracen,” he interrupted. “What do you read?” She asked suddenly very interested. “Military thrillers? Biographies of great military generals?” Something flickered across his face before the mask of the Command Master Chief Look took over. “I know what it is, just not why you’re called that.” It was hard for her to be intimidated since she was nestled snuggly into his lap. “That’s not going to work with me, you know.” She laughed when he just arched his brow and waited. “When we were younger, I could best Derrick in just about everything until we got into mechanical engineering and physics. Anyway, he’d get all pissy about it so he started calling me MarySue. Mary if he’s feeling particularly punchy.” She snapped her mouth shut into a tight line. Would she ever be able to talk to this man without sounding like a flustered debutante at her first ball? A lazy grin played across his lips. “Is everyone astounded by your beauty? Do they all worship the ground you walk on?” Just like that, he turned her ridiculous babbling into a teasing flirtation and made her feel like she wasn’t completely hopeless at talking to a sexy as hell Master Chief. She bit off a responding smile. “I’ll have you know, in a perfect universe ruled by me, of course,” she batted her

eyelashes at him, “that is exactly how things would be. But I would definitely avoid the martyr death scene. The hell with that. I’m gonna live.” Jackson looked down at the water bubble floating gently over his hand. “All right, let’s test your little theory,” he said. “What do I do to control it?” “You already are, Master Chief,” she told him. “I let go a while ago, you’re controlling it. Just visualize it in your head and follow your instincts. Listen to the alien DNA in your body.” Gracen smiled wickedly. “Use the forc-“ “Don’t,” he growled, never taking his eyes off the water, which was now spinning inside the bubble. He took a deep breath and started weaving his other hand through the air above the sphere. Within seconds, the sphere was no more. In its place was the same elongated tube she first shaped. Feeling relaxed and carefree for the first time in what seemed like ages, Gracen decided to play and tease. She leaned forward, purposed rubbing herself against him and brushing her breasts against his arm. “Gracen.” Her name came out as a rumble deep from within his chest. “You know,” she whispered against his ear, “keep practicing and I’ll let you be my sidekick, Water Boy, Master of the Sev-“ Jackson’s concentration shattered, sending water tumbling to the floor splashing both of them. He grabbed her tight, forcing a surprised squeal to burst from her throat only to be smothered by his lips crashing into hers with demanding zeal that quickly escalated into a flurry of hunger. The door opened with a loud mechanical click. The sound resonated throughout the room, shattering the renewed fire ignited by the kiss. Gracen and Jackson pulled apart, but not fast enough. The harsh reality of being caught

in an extremely compromising position hung in the air between them. One of their guards, a young looking sergeant, stood frozen at the door like a deer in the headlights. The scenario would have been funny if it had been anyone but them being caught red-handed. Before either Gracen or Jackson could think of something to say, the sergeant straightened, turned, and closed the door behind him. Gracen looked at Jackson before jumping to her feet and extending her hand to help him up off the floor. He surprised her by accepting, but the grimace of his face told her why. She straightened her uniform and studied him under her lashes. She knew that position was trouble in more ways than one. “It wasn’t you,” he answered her unspoken question. “Trust me, with you on top, the last thing I was thinking about was my leg.” His hand landed on a wet patch of his uniform. “Do you think you can do something about this? It might be a little hard to explain that it’s water considering the circumstances and I think we are running out of time.” Gracen held out her hand over the wet uniform and pulled the water out. Doing the same with hers, she grabbed the discarded water bottle and refilled it with the water. She turned to see him rubbing his thigh. “The leg-“ “Is a dull throbbing pain,” he interrupted. “I’ve had worse. All I need is some rest.” The bossy inner doctor used to handling difficult patients took over. “Jack-“ The door opened and the sergeant stepped in, looking straight ahead. “And this is office B-121,” he said in a very controlled voice, “currently being used as a storage unit on this level. This concludes the door of Level One, Captain

Ellison. Would you like a tour of any other level or facility?” He turned towards her but stared over her shoulder like a proper subordinate reporting to a superior officer. Gracen could have kissed him but, then again, kissing enlisted personnel is what got her caught in the first place. “Thank you, Sergeant Lockett.” Her eyes met his, which widened in surprised that she remembered his name. “I think that the Master Chief and I would like to return to our quarters.”

Chapter 12 VIP Guest Quarters, A-12 Underground Level 1 Diego Garcia 0924 GST After returning to the assigned quarters, Jackson found himself energized, relieved, and…hungry. He pushed aside the food tray that had contained his breakfast. His second breakfast. He still couldn’t believe how much eggs and bacon he had put away in the span of thirty minutes. The fact that the first tray hadn’t been enough surprised him. The fact he actually finished the second tray of artery clogging goodness would have concerned him under normal circumstances, but his body needed the fuel to heal and, if the quickly disappearing bruises on chest were any indication, he was doing so at an accelerated rate. He rubbed his elevated thigh. If only it would stop with the constant throbbing pain, he would actually right as rain. Actually, he was bordering on downright happy. He felt like a sixteen year old boy who just got to make-out with the prettiest girl in school. Make-out. He snorted. That was a nice euphemism for being thirty seconds away from ripping Gracen’s clothes off and fucking her on the floor of a storage room without a lock. Shouldn’t he be too old for those types of shenanigans? He should be focused on the alien DNA now residing in his body. On the fact that he could now manipulate water like Poseidon but without the Greek baggage or maybe Aquaman but without the talking fish. The image of the morning cartoon flashed across his head. He paused. Could

he speak to fish? He shook his head at the ridiculous notion. Apparently his hitchhiker thought so, too, if the sense of confusion which swamped him was anything to go by. That was the other thing. He had felt a presence – a voice – inside him the minute his eyes had opened inside that tank but it felt so...young. And inexperienced. As if it didn’t know what the fuck was going on because the situation was so far above his paygrade he was getting dizzy. It would be just his luck that Gracen gets the intelligent, experienced alien goo and he would end up with the green recruit who just came out of goo camp. The image of a world with green skies, twin suns and purple oceans just reinforced the image of alien goo. Sentient, intelligent goo, but goo nonetheless. A sense of adventure and knowing that any trip would be a one way ticket but it would be worth it. This was starting to feel like some clichéd war movie. The beautiful Captain, the crusty Master Chief, and the Kid, fresh out of boot camp. Jackson just hoped the Kid wasn’t going to end up getting them both killed. Jackson felt the Kid pout in the corner. How did goo pout, anyway? He sighed and with one swift motion of his hand, pulled the water from the bottle in front of him. Gracen had been right, just visualizing the concept as fluidity of motion made it easier to understand. He did a large circle with his hand until the water looked like an upright hula hoop, then sat back and watched it spin in place. His concentration and control was already getting better. Maybe it was the food. Maybe it just helped that Gracen had figured it out first and gave him the idiot’s guide to parasitic aliens and water manipulation. Gracen. He was way too old for her. Way too damaged and definitely way out of her league. He was just a middle

class kid from Tacoma whose choices after high school had been become a mechanic like his dad or join the Navy. William Ellison wouldn’t have allowed Jackson to polish his shoes, much less kiss his daughter. Maybe that was it. Permanence was not was she wanted, so maybe this thing with him was just a way to stick it to the old man. He quickly discarded that thought. Gracen just wasn’t like that. She was just too sweet and a tad too goofy to be vindictive. Boy. He had it bad for the Doc. His mouth twisted in a self-deprecating smile that abruptly became a grimace when a sharp pain shot out of his thigh and exploded in the back of his neck. The water hoop crashed on the carpeted floor with a wet splat but Jackson didn’t care because he was bent his chair, holding his neck and trying to remember how to breathe. He didn’t know how long he stayed in that position but when the pain decreased, he managed to sit up and take a deep breath. ~ A wave of apologetic embarrassment. ~ “Jesus Christ, Kid. What the hell are you doing in there?” Jackson grumbled. Now he was talking out loud with his own alien. Perfect. He looked at the bottles on the counter. The pain meds would solve his problem but they would do more than take the edge off. They’d knock him out for hours and even after he’d wake up he’d still be a bit loopy. He could deal with pain but he had no patience for loopy. He looked at the enlarging dark stain on the carpet and pulled out the water with a quick flick of the wrist, sending it to the sink. His jaw clenched as he got up, his body protesting every movement, but he shut that off and picked up the tray, limping awkwardly towards the door. He opened it just as another wave of dizziness threatened to swamp him.

“Are you all right, Master Chief? Should I call MedBay?” Sergeant Lockett asked, his voice laced with concern. Jackson blinked several times and looked at his empty hand. He hadn’t even noticed when the sergeant had taken the tray. “No, I’m just tired. Thank you,” Jackson nodded to the tray. “I’m going to crash out if anyone needs me.” Jackson closed the door with a resounding click and walked back to the reader that held the after action reports. There was something missing in the reports but he couldn’t quite figure it out. ~ Regret. Apology, deep sincere apology. ~ “What did you do, Kid?” The pain hit him like a freight train, buckling his knees and blurring his vision. Jackson reached out for the chair but a wave of darkness engulfed him and he crumbled to the floor.

Chapter 13 Private Office, D-21 Underground Level 2 Diego Garcia 1454 GST Marcus tapped his security code on the door to his office and watched the door swoosh open. Frozen in the threshold, his eyes clashed with the intruder’s. “You were not invited into my private office,” his gaze dropped from the empty eyes staring at him and glanced at the shoulder insignia, “sergeant.” The sergeant blinked slowly, his mouth in a thin, uncompromising line. His eyes drifted to the plain, unadorned desk and the black case sitting at its center. He jutted with his chin, then turned back his cold eyes to Millerson. “You have a call.” Marcus looked at the black case. He had been expecting one of his previous employers to contact him, but he didn’t recall anyone who had the power or skill to circumvent the security inside a military base. Then again, there is always a first time. He walked around the table and sat down, flipping open the case. State of the art military communication and jamming system. Impressive. The few who could afford to employ him had always been resourceful, but this organization with their military grade technology was clearly head and shoulders above the rest. Marcus tapped on the blinking digital display. “Ah,” a disembodied, lightly accented voice came through the system, “Dr. Millerson, good of you to join us.”

Not a voice he recognized. “You have the advantage.” “You can call me, Mr. Smith.” “Then this conversation is over, Mr. Smith.” “You certainly have the power to disconnect this call,” Smith said. “Perhaps even endanger the freedom of our employee who is standing within striking distance of you.” He paused just long enough to make the point. “Don’t worry, however, he is not there to threaten you. But I am confident you will listen to my proposition.” Cold fury raced through Marcus, but his face remained blank of emotion. “I’m listening.” “It has come to my attention that you have access to something rather invaluable. In exchange for samples, we will provide you with something you want.” “And what would that be?” “The opportunity to experiment as you wish.” “That is an intriguing offer, Mr. Smith,” Miller replied. “But I don’t take kindly to entrapment.” “Tell me, Dr. Millerson,” Smith said, “do you think the government would bother? They have no intention of bringing you to trial. They already own you. It would be rather embarrassing if it came out that the American Federation authorized a Black Ops mission to rescue a foreign national from imminent execution in a foreign prison.” “Let me guess,” Marcus said in a dry tone, “your organization was right behind them?” “Of course not,” Smith replied. “You had nothing of value for us then.” “But I do now,” he finished. “What is your guarantee that once I hand the samples to your…agent…he won’t put a bullet in my head?” “There isn’t one,” Smith answered. “We are businessmen, Dr. Millerson. It would be unsound for us to go

through all this trouble to acquire the samples, only to kill the geneticist most likely to make any use of it. You will come with the samples. Experiment as you see fit. Give us what we want.” “And what might that be, Mr. Smith.” “Control, Dr. Millerson. Complete control.” Marcus sat back on his chair, studying the case in front of him. He never cared for the politics of egomaniacs, but he did care about the science and knew the military wouldn’t let him push the existing boundaries. “I would have complete freedom to experiment?” “Within reason,” Smith answered. There it was. “And what limitation would I be under?” “You can’t kill anyone who is valuable to us.” Interesting. “Accidents happen.” “Not those accidents, Doctor,” Smith said. “It seems like I would be exchanging one prison for another, Mr. Smith.” “You would be free to leave at any time, Doctor.” To an inevitable execution was left hanging in the air. Even the gorilla standing at attention by the door could figure that out. Marcus looked at the case in front of him. What the hell. He was always willing to the dance of a different piper when it suited him. “There is a problem,” he said. “Samples are not enough. We will need one of the subjects.” The silence was deafening. “The female will be easier to control,” Smith suggested. “An excellent point,” Marcus agreed. Actually, they needed Ellison as much as the samples if the preliminary reports were accurate. “I am very pleased we could come to an understanding, Doctor,” Smith said. “You have twelve hours to get all of the

samples. My people will take care of acquiring your subject.” The display shutdown, conversation over. The silent gorilla lumbered with a quick efficiency that surprised Marcus. In no time, the case was shut, sealed and removed from the office by its gorilla overlord. Marcus couldn’t help but appreciate the arrogance of his new employer. He pulled out a sleek looking reader from a pocket. Too bad the gorilla hadn’t thought to search him for any recording devices. If the extraction went awry, he could always claim his part of the conversation was due to imminent threat by the armed intruder in his office. He tapped several key strokes on the reader, then spun his chair as the display screens came alive on the wall. There was something he was missing, but he couldn’t quite figure it out. All models suggested significant changes, some quite catastrophic, would occur when a third helix was added to the human genome. Yet, both Ellison and Monroe were walking, talking, and behaving as if nothing had happened. But the evidence staring him in the face said that was simply impossible. Ellison knew something. It was in her eyes. She couldn’t hide or lie if her life depended on it. Maybe it was spiders. Maybe something else. Could she be working for her father? That was the only explanation as to why she would withhold information from the military, but all signs pointed to a disharmonious relationship with the senior Ellison. Then again, that would be the perfect cover story, wouldn’t it? Due to that pesky genetic incompatibility problem, he would have plenty of time to figure the most intimate details of Captain Gracen Ellison. Inside and out. Marcus turned back to his desk. Reaching down, he opened the unlocked bottom drawer. The one thing he learned with paranoid military is that anything locked would

be searched. Repeatedly. But open drawers containing condoms, a half empty bottle of vodka, and a nondescript, bulk-sized bottle of aspirin would be blithely passed over. Grabbing the aspirin, Marcus popped open the top and inspected the contents before closing it back up and putting it in his pocket. He wondered if Mr. Smith actually knew how many different samples he had in his possession. There was nothing he could do about capturing and securing Ellison. That was on Smith and the squad being sent to retrieve them. But the nightmarish specimen contained in the secured lab on Level Three was certainly within his sphere of influence. So the only question in his mind was how to get the interesting looking but outwardly unexceptional, except for its size, spider sample out. Its DNA, however, was a plethora of inconsistencies, impossibilities, and downright magic. He could spend the next ten years studying it and still not fathom all of its nuances. It was really too useful to leave it to the military troglodytes. Perhaps he should have mentioned that a dead sample would also require transportation. Now that he thought about it, Monroe’s corpse would be quite useful as well. How hard could it be to drag a corpse around? Perhaps the true question was how much influence would he have with the extraction squad? Marcus had eleven hours, forty-five minutes to figure that out.

Chapter 14 VIP Guest Quarters, A-11 Underground Level 1 Diego Garcia 2358 GST Gracen glanced at the digital display as she stepped out of the bath. It was almost midnight but she still wasn’t tired. Meditation, exercise and a hot shower all failed because her internal clock was completely out of whack. Now she was wide awake and with nothing really pressing to do. She rubbed the towel vigorously over her hair as she headed for the dresser. It would have been easy to pull the water out but she’d always loved the cool, slightly damp feel of her hair. The towel was consigned to oblivion as it fell carelessly on the floor while she dug out a pair of military issued black boyshorts and camisole. Now partially dressed, she considered the activities available: read reports…not unless someone held a gun to her head, go over medical files…which would tell her

nothing new about the reality of their extraordinary triple helix status, watch the entertainment vid…simply not in the mood. Nothing suited her restless mood because there was a fourth option and she was already doing it. Stewing over one Master Chief Petty Officer Jackson Monroe. She hadn’t seen him since their little adventure that morning. She froze on her tracks. God that man knew how to kiss. And how to use his tongue. A wicked smile played across her lips as her mind came up with several very salacious places his tongue could explore. A familiar heat

blazed between her legs. The Fates were cruel and heartless bitches giving Gracen a glimpse of heaven – or at least a damn good orgasm – then slamming the door in her face and sending her crashing back down to an orgasmless earth. There was no doubt in her mind that they would have ended up naked in the storage room if the sergeant hadn’t interrupted them. ~ Confusion. ~ Gracen laughed. “Darlin’, we’ve had this conversation before and you weren’t too keen on the birds and the bees talk.” She shook her head in amusement. The problem was she hadn’t seen Jackson, much less been able to talk to him. When she’d checked, the guards said he was resting. But who rested for over twelve hours. Yes, he was still recovering from near-catastrophic wounds and the healing that entailed, especially their accelerated type which took tremendous amount of energy. But was he avoiding her? Did he regret what happened between them? Would she ever just grow a backbone and confront him like a mature, capable adult female that she purported to be? With a frustrated puff, she blew an errant strand of hair that had fallen on her face. “Any suggestions, Al?” ~ Pointed silence. ~ “I was wrong. You’re definitely male.” The fact that she’d ended up having to deal with Millerson and his tests, samples, and rather curious questions just made it worse. There was no way in hell she would ever trust that man and she probably had made her distrust obvious, much to her chagrin. Derrick always said she was the worst at playing political games, but she couldn’t fake amicability especially when her skin started to crawl every time the man came near her. After his failed

attempts to draw her into conversion, he seemed to be continuously sizing her up as if wondering what it would take to have her head mounted on his wall. She got out of the lab as fast as possible and couldn’t help but think something unpleasant would have happened if not for her shadows. It was the first time she was actually glad to have the Marine guards at her back. Gracen stopped in the middle of the room, hands on her hips and took a deep breath. “You can stand here and whine – very unattractive by the way – or you can get dressed, go knock on his door and talk to him. Really, what’s the worst that could happen?” The image of Jackson saying thanks, but no thanks and slamming the door in her face in front of the guards flashed across her mind, making her cringe. “That…would be bad, but humiliation doesn’t kill you. It makes you stronger?” She took a steadying breath, squashing the burgeoning nausea deep in her belly and reached for her uniform. An authoritative knock on her door startled her out of her panicky absorption. With one foot in and one out, she balanced precariously, debating whether to finish dressing or immediately answer the door. Modesty won out and a second more impatient sounding strike rattled the door as she zipped up. Forgoing footwear, she jogged to the door and flung it open. Speak of the devil. Jackson stood at the door emanating a tense, bordering on nervous, air about him. They stared at each other for several long seconds and. for the first time since she met him, Jackson’s eyes were clear of pain. Without saying a word, Gracen pushed the door open. A fresh, just out of the shower scent combined deliciously with a very male essence drifted across to her as he entered. Her eyes

fluttered shut as she inhaled deeply. She savored the scent she wanted to completely immerse herself in. “I need to show you this,” he said. It was the clipped tone in that luscious voice that snapped her out of her daydream. Gracen blinked, thankful she hadn’t done something completely mortifying like ripping his clothes off and throwing him on the bed. She glanced at the hallway, then stepped out into it, looking at the empty space. Change in shift? “Where are the guards?” She asked, coming back inside and closing the door. “Lock it,” he ordered. Gracen stopped cold, her heartbeat going from sixty to six hundred from those two simple words. She took a deep breath trying to squash the sudden anxiety that clenched her throat tightly. The click of the lock engaging thundered through the still room. “So.” Pleased her voice sounded controlled compared to the chaos she was feeling, Gracen started to turn, “What do you want to…” Her eyes immediately zeroed in on Jackson’s hands – unsnapping his belt and dropping his trousers. “Ookay,” came the breathy response. The boxers versus briefs question was answered. Dark grey boxer briefs that left little to the imagination, yet still covered him plenty. And there was plenty to cover. Her tongue darted out, moistening her lips before teeth clenched tightly to the bottom one. Her hands clenched tightly at her side at the knowledge that her imagination had not done him justice. Right now, she’d give a month’s salary – a year’s worth – for the power to disintegrate cotton. An undeniable twitch had her mouth watering and it must have showed. “You’re killing me, Gracen,” was his strangled response

to her gawking. “Not that,” he tapped his thigh, “this.” Gracen managed to drag her eyes away from his fantasy inducing cock to his leg. “Oh,” she whispered as if she knew exactly what he was talking about but her eyes and brain just couldn’t grasp the significance of what he was showing her. The leg was just like the other: muscular, fit, a scattering of hair that gave a sense of power and virility. The color was off, however. One leg had a tan, the other didn’t. It looked like the sun had never kissed it. Brand new, actually. Her eyes widened. Brand new. “OH!” Gracen covered the distance between them, her eyes meeting his. With a none too gentle shove on his chest, she pushed him down to the nearest surface – the bed. “Take it off,” she ordered, yanking at his uniform. “Get. It. Off.” She jerked a boot off and threw it over her shoulder. Within seconds, a half dressed Master Chief was sitting on her bed and she was on the floor between his knees, examining his leg. “This isn’t exactly how I pictured this,” he muttered under his breath. A strangled hiss escaped his lips when she dug her finger on his thigh. “Don’t be such a baby,” she replied as she examined his brand new leg. “Does it feel the same?” She ran her hand across the other leg. Superficially, they were identical by touch. “Yes, just like…” She touched her lips to his inner thigh, “Gracen!” She looked up. “I was just wondering if it would feel the same.” “Does it?” He asked through clenched teeth. Gracen chewed on her bottom lip, then dropped her head and ran her mouth across his other thigh. She sat back

on her heels and looked at him. “Yes.” Jackson pressed his lips into a tight line. “Do you usually examine patients with your lips?” Gracen blinked. “Not usually, no.” She turned back to the leg, hands splayed across his thigh, fingers just millimeters away from his wide awake cock. “Jesus,” came the strangled reply, his hand gripping the side of the bed. “Is it the exact replicate of your leg from before the accident?” “No,” he said. There was an edge to his voice making it sound rough and strained. “No scars. The knee feels perfect, like the brand new joint it is.” Gracen leaned in again, her face so close that her hair landed on his lap. “There’s no seam. No definitive separation between old and new. Just a sort of blending of the two.” Her finger slowly traced the skin where she estimated the amputation incision had been made. “Christ, Gracen,” Jackson grabbed her wrist and jerked her up, “you keep touching my leg with your head on my lap…” He let go of her wrist and cursed under his breath. Gracen sat back on her heels again, blinking away the tightness in her eyes. “Have you noticed any other healing?” He looked up at her, his brows furrowed. “Take off your shirt,” she ordered, proud that her voice held no hint of the hurt crushing her heart. When he sent her a confused glance, she snapped her fingers and waved them impatiently in front of him. It was a trick she’d learned from Esposito that always got results. “I’m starting to feel a bit underdressed here, Doc,” he said as he pulled the navy tee shirt over his head, dropping it on the bed. “Despite any previous misconception,” she said in a

cool, unemotional voice, “I am a qualified doctor,” She ignored his flinch. “If I see anything I haven’t seen before, I’ll let you know.” “Gracen-“ “The bruising has healed,” she nodded to his chest. “So have the scars. Your tattoos are still there so they were deemed unharmful, I suppose. I’d bet that the scar on your back has also been healed. Took you, what? Twelve? Fourteen? Hours to regrow two thirds of a leg? That’s beyond fantastic, actually.” Jackson watched her silently for several seconds, then snatched her hand before she even realized it and pressed it against his crotch. “Clearly, I’m not unaffected by your touch. At my age, this doesn’t happen with just anyone, but it does happen every time I see you. Every time I hear that ‘fuck me now’ voice of yours. Every time you touch me. “What I meant was that if you keep touching me, with your head on my lap the way you were, that I was going to have you naked and flat on your back in less than thirty seconds.” He let go of her hand and balled the bed sheets tightly in his fist. “Despite trying not to, I’ve practically tattooed my response to you.” Gracen manage, just barely, to keep from stroking him but didn’t remove her hand. “You don’t seem very happy about that.” Her thumb slipped. Accidently. Jackson clenched his jaw tightly and closed his eyes, counting to ten. And back again. “This isn’t something that can be undone or forgotten. The repercussions…I thought I’d made my feelings perfectly clear.” “I thought so, too,” she whispered, “but then I start thinking that I’m a Captain and an Ellison and I start

overanalyzing.” “You’re overthinking when it comes to me, Doc,” he said. “I’m pretty simple.” Gracen finally smiled and got up, only to straddle his lap. “Not by a long shot.” Her mouth covered his in a demanding kiss, taking as much as she was giving and churning the long pent-up passion between them like a wild hurricane. A heady sensation of sexual prowess exploded within her when he groaned against her lips and buried his hands under her camisole. His immediate, powerful response had her grinding against his hard cock and reeling from feel of his large callused hands bunching up the cottony fabric as they slid up her sides, stopping just shy of her breasts. He gently tugged at the camisole, until she lifted her arms to let him pull it all the way off. After exposing her breasts and half over her face, he stopped, trapping her arms in the fabric and holding them immobile. “Jackson…” His name came out as a breathy whisper full of need and desire. “I love…” a gentle bite on her jaw followed by his tongue darting across her neck. “The way…” a sharp suckle on the tender juncture elicited a surprised gasp from her. “You say my name…” trailing kisses down the center of her chest before latching on to the silky curve of a creamy breast, close enough for his whiskered cheek to lightly tease the increasingly achy nipple. With his tongue and cheek teasing her mercilessly, Gracen struggled half-heartedly against his hold. “Jackson, please.” He pulled slightly away, a wicked smile playing across his lips as a frustrated sigh escaped hers. She arched towards him, like an offering of ripe fruit on a silver platter.

“Do you want me to stop?” He breathed just above a pert nipple causing her to shiver at the promise of his mouth on her. “Stop teasing,” she corrected. “Do you know how long I’ve dreamed of doing this?” He asked as he peppered sharp little kisses between the valley of her breasts, leaving a trail of moist pink skin in its wake. His lips gently brushed across the opposite nipple. “Of ripping off that wetsuit of yours and using my tongue to lick the ocean water off your body?” He brushed his cheek across the hypersensitive peak eliciting a sharp hiss from her. Gracen bit her lip to keep from crying out. “Not nearly as long,” her voice dropped a pitch as he continued the sensual assault with his tongue, “as you’ve starred in my battery fueled fantasies.” She pressed her knees against his hip, grinding herself down on him. Jackson groaned. Maybe it was the thought of her masturbating to an image of him or the reality that they were finally getting naked but any semblance of control on his part was destroyed. He gripped her hand over her head tightly and buried his hand on her hip, pulling her towards him as his mouth descended upon an aching nipple like a predator attacking his favorite prey. He licked slowly, almost reverently, tasting every groove and texture of the turgid flesh against his tongue before brushing his teeth lightly across the delicate tip and biting it unexpectedly. The sensual moan that escaped her lips must have hit something primal in him. Jackson released Gracen’s hands and using both hands around her waist, twisted, dumping her flat on her back on the bed. He trailed kisses down her center, only stopping when he reached her trousers. With quick, practiced efficiency of years of wearing uniforms, he

unsnapped and pulled them off in one effortless motion. He put one leg on his shoulder and kissed up to her inner thigh and grabbing her boyshorts when he suddenly stopped and looked up at her passion hazed eyes. “Condoms,” he groaned. It that was one thing that the VIP quarters were not expected to stock. Gracen closed her eyes, considered the options and made a decision. “The side effect of the barrage of tests we endured is that the only thing we have is that pesky alien DNA with a voice that is completely clueless about carnal pleasures.” Jackson snorted. “I have been getting a strong sense of confusion from the Kid.” He kissed the inside of her knee and shrugged when she stared at him. “You named yours AL. I got the voice of a green recruit just out of alien goo camp, thereby named The Kid.” A girlish giggle burst out of Gracen. She couldn’t quite believe that she was finally naked – practically – with the man she’d been fantasying about for months and she was laughing. It wasn’t what she’d expected. It was so much better. And completely foreign for her to feel this at ease with someone who was about to get as intimate as possible. She slid one leg up his side while he continued to stroke and kiss the other. A dark thought reared its ugly head. There was another quirk to their new DNA, one that might put an end to this delicious fantasy come true. “You can’t get me pregnant.” Icy fear dampened her fire when he froze at the words. Men always tended to panic when a woman they were about to have sex with mentioned breeding. Her heart shriveled a little at the veiled look in his eyes. “Well, you’re probably the only one who can, actually, based on the changes to our DNA. We are genetically

incompatible with everyone else. So you’re kinda looking at the future mother of your children.” Her eyes widened in sudden panic. “Not that it’s going to happen tonight because that’s taken care of on my end for now unless you’ve developed some superhero soldiers that can combat contraception.” She finished with a weak laugh and anemic smile before she closed her eyes. Picking up the pillow and covering her face, Gracen wondered if suffocation would be less painful than the humiliation of him leaving. She waited for him to drop her leg and run as far away from the psycho girl who talked about future children before they’d even had sex. If he’d been curious about her offer for bareback sex before, he should be downright terrified now. Why was she always such a disaster in any intimate situation? Jackson had to admit, if only to himself – and the Kid, who wouldn’t understand anyway – that she was quite adorable when she got all nervous and started rambling. The fact that this beautiful, smart and quite capable woman got flustered around him was quite of an ego boast for an old man who never thought he’d have a realistic chance with her. Now he did. He probably wasn’t going to get her pregnant today, but it would happen and probably sooner rather than later. The thought of seeing her grow large with his child hit a very primal spot dead center and gave him a deep sense of satisfaction. He nuzzled the back of her knee before reaching for the boyshorts and pulling them off slowly and deliberately. The pillow came off over her face but he was focused on the previously unknown paw print tattoo on her hip. His eyes met hers. “This wasn’t ever going to be simple,” he said, casually

stroking the paw print. “And it was never going to be casual.” He waited to make sure she fully knew what she was getting into before they continued. “It suits you,” he said when her eyes softened and heat slowly replaced all other emotions. She must have recognized the smug look in his face. “It was there way before you.” “Then it was fate,” he replied. Her smile turned into a hiss when he licked the paw print and continued upwards, leaving a wet trail of nips and kisses. His hand drifted over her stomach, trailing through her feminine curls before slipping between slick welcoming folds the same time his mouth rose to firmly envelop a tawny nipple. He sucked deeply, using his tongue and teeth to savor and tease while his thumb stroked her clit. His fingers, now coated with her delicious wetness, slowly pumped in and out, raking across the spongy center that soon had her grabbing the bed sheets and digging her short, trimmed nails into his back. She arched off the bed with a strangled, satisfied cry she managed to smother in the last moment. “You are so much better than my old battery operated entertainment,” she said, a satisfied smile playing across her lips. “Can I keep you or should I be embarrassed that you can give me an orgasm in less than ten minutes?” “More like less than five.” A patently male smirk turned into a grunt when she tugged at his hair, punishing his impudence and in an escalation of retaliation, Jackson proceeded to suck deeply at the side of her breast, leaving a mark that would last for several days. Gracen didn’t seem to mind, but the look in her eyes told him she’d get her revenge eventually. “Does it bother you that your children will be mine,” he asked against the side of her breast.

He couldn’t face the dreaded fear that her eyes would tell a different story than her mouth, so he kept his gaze lowered, but he couldn’t keep the uncertainty out of question. Her hand caressed his face, cupping it gently and urging him to look up. “No,” she said with a surety that left no doubt about the permanence of their relationship. “Not at all. Not a bit.” In a lightning fast motion, Jackson moved up, claiming her mouth in a scorching kiss, instantly reigniting the passionate fire between them. Frenzied nips and licks led him down the center of her body until he was nestled firmly between her legs. His chin teased her curls and his tongue darted out between her folds savoring her salty-sweet taste. A gentle graze of his teeth across her clit had Gracen arching off the bed again on her way to another delicious peak. “I will get back to tasting you,” he said, sliding off the bed and planting his feet firmly on the floor. He grabbed her ankles and pulled her to the edge of the bed. With the boxer briefs discarded, he nudged her legs apart, settling between them. “But I’ve waited too long for you.” His fingers dug into her hips and without so much as a by-your-leave, buried himself deep within her. He meant to pause, wait until she got acclimated to his intrusion but he was lost the moment her searing heat enveloped him and when she clamped tightly around him, any semblance of control was lost. He slammed into her almost brutally but she wrapped her legs around his waist, meeting each thrust with wanton abandon. He wanted more; wanted it all. Pulling her up so that only her lower back was actually on the bed, he groaned when she clenched tightly around him. He swallowed her throaty chuckle in a punishing kiss. Demanding more and

everything, he buried himself impossibly deep within her. Her nails sank deep into his back, he knew that she would be leaving more than simple crescents on the abused flesh but downright red claw marks, branding him as he had her. He slammed into her repeatedly until his own body tightened and he roared her name as the wave of pleasure drowned them both. He gave one final thrust feeling her clench around him like a delicious vice milking him for every last drop. Jackson leaned forward licking her collarbone and tasting the heat of their passion before clamping down on the tender junction of her neck and biting, almost painfully, making her arch and clench tighter around him. “Think our friends learned a thing or two about carnal pleasure,” Jackson asked as he gently soothed the battered skin on her neck. “Hooyaaahh Master Chief.”

Chapter 15 VIP Guest Quarters, A-11 Underground Level 1 Diego Garcia 0258 GST Jackson’s eyes snapped open, all of his senses fully alert…for no apparent reason. He glanced at the digital display, silently cursing the ungodly hour, then looked down at the mess of hair nestled across his chest. A content smile curved his mouth at the sight of tangled limbs wrapped around crumbled bed sheets. His fingers playfully curled an errant strand of her hair as he considered their options. The military was actually the easiest – he’d already resigned – but there were other issues. His age and her social standing were two, not to mention the fact that they had alien DNA embedded within them. It wasn’t likely that they’d just be allowed to fade into the night and live out their lives. A fierce determined look shadowed his face and his hand coiled around her hair, his lips brushing it softly. Whatever lay ahead, they’d deal with it together because he wasn’t going to let her go. “No,” she whispered, her fingers raking across his chest. “Go back to sleep. A girl can only handle so many orgasms in one night.” Not so sleepy green eyes flashed at him. “Did I wear you out, Doc?” A very smug, masculine smirk curved his lips. Gracen pinched a nipple then twisted until he grunted mercy. “I wasn’t asleep for fourteen hours,” she growled menacingly, but her eyes sparkled with mischief. She

leaned down and licked the skin she had previously manhandled. He pulled her on top of him, but with a quick roll, she was off the bed and heading for the bathroom, leaving him holding air. “Nice evasive maneuver, Doc,” he called out. Kicking his legs off the bed, he surveyed the explosion of clothes, trying to determine where his had landed. Finding his boxers, he quickly put them on and headed for the small kitchenette. Careful to not slam the small refrigerator’s door against the wall, Jackson leaned over and pulled out two water bottles, then glanced warily at the door. Who was the genius that put a commonly used appliance in the furthest comer of the room, next to the door? Especially a heavy door that could so easily rattle the contents and create a mess. He shook his head, closing the door and placing one bottle on the counter. With a sharp twist, he opened the other and downed half of it in a long swallow. “Did you put that back on,” Gracen pointed to his boxers, “just so I could take them off this time? Because we are so not done, Master Chief.” Still gloriously naked, she leaned against the doorframe of the bathroom. Jackson’s eyes slowly travelled her delicious curves like a caress. A slow promising grin tilted his lips unevenly. “Have you been a lot thirstier lately?” A loud rumble interrupted anything she might have said. They looked at each other for a long second. It could have been anything; an earthquake, tsunami, accident. But when a second roar, much louder and clearly distinguishable as an explosion, thundered through the walls, they knew it was anything but natural. The door suddenly burst open, trapping Jackson behind it against the wall. The last thing he’d seen was Gracen

diving for cover by the bed. He sent a silent prayer that she stayed put because the sounds of boots and the crashing of the door to his room, followed by the unmistakable rapid popping sounds meant they were knee deep in shit. Jackson took a shallow breath and waited until the intruders entered the room. “Target acquired,” a voice clipped.

Shit! “Bag her,” came the sharp order from outside.

They were after her? “This one is empty.” “Second target, unknown location.” Jackson knew he was out of time. He placed one hand flat against the door and glanced around it. Three masked men in full black tactical uniforms rushed through into the room aiming their assault rifles but not firing. Unlike the group that had entered his room who had fired first. “We know where you are,” the lead commando said. “Come out and you live.” The commandos had expected one person and, in their blitz charge into the room, never bothered to look behind the door they’d pushed through. Hubris is the enemy of every professional soldier and these men were about to pay with their lives. All Jackson needed now was for luck to be on his side and a split second distraction. Gracen stood up from behind the bed, stark naked, she held up her hands up in surrender. The commandos froze for a long second. Hubris and debauchery? Death sentence. Jackson kicked the door shut and chaos erupted. He jumped at the commando nearest to the door. One hand wrapped around the man’s neck, grabbing his chin, the other gripped the back of the head and with a vicious,

practiced twist, the neck splintered. Jackson held the immobilized but still breathing commando as a shield, pulling at the man’s sling that where his weapon hung. The other two commandos quickly spun around, popping a quick succession of shots which hit their now dead teammate in the chest. Jackson lifted the dead man’s weapon and pulled the trigger. The first shot hit the commando that had done all the talking in the tactical goggle, shattering the eye socket and sending bone and crystal fragments straight into his brain. His head snapped back with such force that it sent him reeling towards Gracen’s feet, dead before he hit the ground. Jackson turned to the second, and much more prepared target hunching over his weapon and trying to get a better shot. In a split second assessment of which was his best shot, Jackson discarded the head because of the tactical helmet and center mass which was protected by the body armor. Jackson dropped his aim for the vulnerable knee. Two bullets shredding tissue and fragmenting bone was all it took to drop the commando, before a single shot between the eyes finished it. The door burst open again and Jackson turned, still holding the dead commando, but he knew it was too late. Out of nowhere, water rushed past him and slammed into the legs of the entering commandos like high velocity piranhas ripping through bone and flesh. The men dropped to their knees. Jackson shot off two quick bursts, killing both commandos instantly. An unnatural silence hung in the air. It was over. In less than two minutes, five men were dead and the immediate danger was past, but the adrenalin pumping through his body still roared against his ears. He took a

deep breath, dropped his corpse shield and looked out the half open door. He dropped to one knee and unlatched the weapon he’d been using from its previous owner. He took a quick glance at Gracen, who was now kneeling on the ground and resting her head against the doorframe of the bathroom, breathing rapidly. “You all right?” No response. “Gracen!” She turned to him. “Are you all right?” Her head bobbed up and down slowly. “I have to check if anyone else is out there. Stay here.” She opened her mouth to say something but then snapped it shut and nodded again. Jackson gave her a quick nod he hoped was comforting and sighted his weapon. He opened the door slowly, listening for any movement, and then dipped his head around the door way to ensure that it was empty. Reassured it was clear, he took a deep breath and slowly walked across the hallway. The door to his quarters hung open. With the weapon ready, he entered to an empty room and a cleanly murdered bed. The commandos had shot first, expecting him to be on it. Reasonable, considering the time of morning. They certainly had not expected a Master Chief to be across the hall sleeping with a Captain. Orders to kill him but take her. Not good. He walked back to Gracen’s room. “They are all dead,” she said in a flat, unemotional tone. It didn’t surprise him. In fact, he’d counted on it. What worried him was her reaction to killing or helping him kill, instead of saving. “You all right?” he asked watching her carefully. She nodded, but didn’t look up. Gracen zipped up her trousers and picked up a boot. “Are you hurt?” he tried again, but only received a

negative shake of the head as she laced up her boots. “Gracen.” The sharp implied order in her name compelled her to finally meet his gaze. “You did good. You did what you had to do. Standing up like that was incredibly brave.” He shortened the distance between them and cupped her face. “And incredibly stupid. If you ever risk your life like that again, I will kill you myself.” He wrapped his arms tightly around her. “I did what I had to do,” came the muffled reply. “Don’t do it again,” he said. Reluctantly, he let her go, but not before ghosting a kiss on her forehead. “Grab their weapons and extra clips.” Turning away, he grabbed his clothes. Years of training allowed him to get combat ready in seconds flat. He went over to one of the bodies and started taking off gear while she went about liberating the assault rifles and ammo. “Do you have any idea who they are?” she asked when he pulled her up and started putting the body armor on her. “Not ours, but definitely trained,” he replied, leaving the fact that they’d been only after her unspoken. “Rifle or nine?” Hhe held out a 9mm pistol. “I’m more comfortable with the nine.” She took it from him, pulling back the slide and chambering a round. He nodded, snapping the holster to the vest and wrapping it around her leg. “Grab all the mags you can find.” Jackson started putting on another vest when a body came hurtling against the doorway. Both Gracen and Jackson aimed. “Whooaaa!” Sergeant Lockett yelled out, his hands in front of him. He looked down at the bodies. “Holy…” A low whistle escaped his lips. He turned to Jackson. “The base is under attack by an unknown enemy with unknown numbers. They’ve damaged the elevators, weapons locker, crippled

communications, and destroyed the main artery to the other side of the base.” His lips tightened. “They knew exactly how to hit us. You had a security detail.” Jackson just shook his head. He’d wondered about that, too. But there were no bodies in the hallway or his room, which left the status of the security detail a mystery that would have to be solved later. “Six of us, plus the Gunny, got pinned down in the Main Bay.” He looked down at the bodies again. “I guess they were looking for you guys.” “Not quite,” Jackson answered. “Grab the armor and anything else you can carry.” He turned to Gracen, “Still with me, Doc? Stay behind me.” She squarely met his eyes. “I thought I’d lead the charge with my little gun and no combat experience.” Locket ducked his head and stepped out of the room. Jackson walked up to Gracen until they were toe to toe with him glaring down at her. “Do you want to take charge, Captain?” Gracen straightened, taking a step back only to smack into the wall behind her. Her eyes widened and lips parted. Jackson’s eyes dropped, following the tip of her tongue as it slid across her lower lip. She stepped forward into his space. She stepped forward, practically into his arms. “Why yes, Master Chief,” she whispered just shy of his lips, “I am taking over.” She blew softly against his lips. “I’m putting you in charge of keeping me alive because I’m not through with you yet.” She flashed him a wink and followed Lockett. Jackson’s eyes followed her and the brief levity of their situation evaporated. She was putting her life on his hands. That trust, so evident in her eyes, both humbled and terrified him. He was used to being in charge of the lives of others,

but this… He shook his head and stepped out into the hall and took the lead. They moved down the long hallway, checking every artery until the scattered popping sound of gunfire stopped them just shy of the Main Bay. Jackson glanced around the corner, getting a better picture of the situation. “Hostiles have set a perimeter around the south end stairs,” he said, turning to Lockett. “What’s on that side that’s of value? Armory?” Lockett shook his head. “The armory is on the other side of the base. Those stairs only go to the second level,” Lockett replied. “On this side is the gym, our quarters, offices…” his eyes snapped up. “Access stairs to level one labs, bypassing all security measures.” “Why would anyone leave such a security breach so exposed?” Gracen stared at him dumbfounded. “The equipment. It was too large for the elevators,” Lockett replied. “This area of the base is new, less than a year old. It’s normally free of personnel, especially at this time of night. We were only assigned quarters in this sector because we were bab-” his mouth snapped shut with a loud click. “Babysitting us,” Jackson finished, ignoring the embarrassing crimson in the Sergeant’s face. “We need to link up with Gunny and press the hostiles. Whatever they are after, they still haven’t gotten it. Yet.” He glanced at Gracen briefly. “We’ll lay down covering fire as we hop across the bay to meet up with Gunny, then plan how to stop them.” “Give me the extra rifles,” Gracen said. A mutinous shadow crossed his face, but she continued. “It will be easier for both of you if I carry them and if I go first, there will be three rifles covering for you.” The words were polite but

the tone was that of an officer handing down a command. She met his icy stare without flinching. She was right in this case and he knew it. “I thought I told you not to risk your life again.” “I’m not risking it. I’m putting it in your capable hands, Master Chief.” After being drilled for five solid minutes on the proper method of run, duck, and cover, Gracen knelt behind Jackson. For the umpteenth time, she wondered what had possessed her to get inside that helicopter. The sex had turned out pretty awesome but the whole crashing, aliens, almost dying, getting shot at – not so much. There was going to have to be a whole lot more sex to make up for the rest. The minute they started firing, she took off. Her only focus now was getting across the bay to the Gunny and his group taking cover behind crates. It wasn’t that bad, actually for the first ten yards. Dodge. Run. Duck. But when the bullets started hitting her cover, pure adrenalin shot through her, making her sprint the last thirty yards in record time. “Captain!” “I come bearing gifts.” She dumped the rifles by his feet. “Hmm.” He looked at the rifles. “Master Chief and Lockett?” He nodded the way she came. “Yes, Gunny. Chief has a plan.” At least she hoped he did. He stared at her then grunted, before turning and handing out the rifles to his ragtag group. All of which she recognized from their security detail. “I had four men on guard duty over you two.” He checked his weapon. “Dead?”

“We don’t know,” she replied. “The hallway was empty.” “Hmm.” He gave measuring stare, then nodded. He might not want to trust her but at least there was no rampant animosity in his eyes. “Lay covering fire on my mark,” he told his men. “If you’d be so kind, Doc.” He nodded to the opposite side of their small barricade where one of his men lay bleeding. Gracen moved with alacrity to the downed soldier. She recognized him from the morning detail but without uniform, all she could do was guess his name and rank. With efficiency bred by experience, she quickly exposed the shoulder wound to check its severity. Her movements brought the unconscious soldier back to the land of the living. “Hiya, Doc,” he whispered his voice weary from pain and blood loss. “Hiya back, Corporal…” “Peters, ma’am.” A hiss escaped from him when she moved the arm to get a better look. “Well, Peters, you had me all excited there for a minute, considering you are bleeding like a stuck pig, but really all you have is shoulder wound. You, corporal, are what we call in surgery a “tease”. You get a surgeon all excited, all ready to hack and slash, but turn out to only have a little ol’ bullet wound.” Her brow furrowed as she started digging through the Trauma Kit someone had pushed towards her. She quickly gloved her hands and grabbed the shears to pull away the debris from the high velocity wound. “I’m not going to die?” “Nope. Not today, Peters,”… not if I can help it. Gracen continued trying to make him at ease with inane chatter while she picked the wound apart. She sent a quick prayer that the bullet had missed the axillary artery and that the

bone damage was minimal, otherwise she wouldn’t be able to keep her promise. Gracen grabbed the liquid sealant and held the wound open. What she wouldn’t give for a portable scanner so she could see exactly where to put the sealant instead of just flooding the wound it. She took a deep breath, sealant poised for injection. As she exhaled, images of blood, bone and tissue flooded her mind. She blinked several times, trying to clear her head. Another, more throaty, exhale, made the images clearer. An arterial knick, not immediately life threatening. Bone shards had ripped through muscle before embedding themselves, were certainly painful and would require extensive surgery for removal, but also not nearly as bad as all the apparent blood loss would have suggested. Wait, did she actually just scan his injuries? ~ Yes. Yes. YESS!~ She looked over at Peters’ face. “You really are a tease.” She injected a single dose of sealant in just the right spot. And I’m a living breathing scanner. “Gracen!” She turned to see Jackson holding the Gunny who now had a blossoming red circle in the center of his white tee shirt. She grabbed the kit and scrambled over to them. Ripping off her gloves, she quickly put on new ones and yanked his shirt up, revealing three closely packed bullet wounds to the abdomen.

Shit. ~ Water. Water. Water!!~ Gracen grabbed the irrigation solution and dumped it across the Gunny’s abdomen. Following instinct and the unspoken instructions by Al, she placed her hands on belly, avoiding direct contact with the actual wounds. She saw the

destructive path of the bullets like an image in her mind. He was going to need surgery to extract the bullets and suture the tears. ~ Red. Liquid.~ An image of a red ocean filled her mind. Fountains of liquid being shot in the air and controlled. Could it be that simple? Blood wasn’t water, but it was liquid. Why couldn’t they control it? Liquid is liquid despite what it was actually consisted. Gracen pushed blood into the biggest tears covering the damaged organs like a band aid. She knew it wouldn’t be enough because any jarring would detach it, so she injected the sealant to secure the blood bandages. He was out of immediate danger. There was still damage that would have to be fixed in surgery and bullets to be extracted… Gracen paused. Could the blood volume be used to push the bullets out? A hail of bullets dissipated any thoughts of experimentation as she dove to cover the Gunny. “They’re on the move!” “Low on ammo, Chief!” Gracen knew that they were out of time. If the commandos were on the move, they must have gotten whatever they were after from the labs. Without ammo, their last line of defense would crumble. Unless….they used the water to stop the enemy, but that would mean that their little secret would be out. She half crawled to Jackson’s position. “Water,” she said, plastering herself against the metal container they were using as cover. “Shoot the water main on the wall. We can use it against them.” Jackson looked at her for several long seconds before glancing at the men fighting beside them. His jaw tightened

resignedly. With a brusque nod, he turned and aimed. Gracen took a deep breath, hoping she could actually do what she was promising. Lifting her hands in front of her, she focused her thoughts on the water that was about to spray free. Movement by the stairs caught her attention. “Hold your fire! They have a hostage.” He turned to Gracen. “Millerson.” Gracen popped her head to the around the side of their cover and watched as Millerson, surrounded by three commandos, was ushered up the stairs, heading for the top level. Regardless of how much she disliked him, they couldn’t allow him to be taken to heaven knows where. “Lockett!” Jackson looked at the sergeant. “You’re with me.” He turned to Gracen. “Don’t you dare tell me to stay behind,” she growled. “You know I can help.” A small twitch of his lips. “I was going to say stay behind us.” “Oh,” she said, a hint of crimson touching her cheeks. He shook his head. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

Chapter 16 Topside American Federation Naval Air Facility Diego Garcia 0345 GST Jackson, Gracen and Lockett made their way out of the stairs to the top level, a large, mostly empty hangar. Empty of aircraft but not bodies. The commandos had been very thorough in disposing of any unfortunate soul that happened to run into them. Gracen made a move to check for life signs but Lockett grabbed her arm. “They’re gone, Doc. We don’t have time.” All her training demanded she check anyway. That somehow there was always a glimmer of hope because life always finds a way, but there was no hope for those broken bodies. They looked like discarded toys tossed away by an angry child. Locket pulled her back gently, but firmly. She met Jackson’s eyes. He’d let her check them. Satisfy the doctor inside her, but that mean leaving Lockett behind to protect her because he had to go. She saw it in his eyes. Fighting all her instincts, Gracen nodded reluctantly and allowed Locket to lead her out of the hangar. They walked out onto the tarmac and into pure chaos. The exit strategy of the commandos had been executed for perfect cover and complete bedlam. Explosions went off all around the base, igniting fires and releasing shrapnel that kept most of the base’s sailors either pinned down or trapped in the underground levels. It was clear that the commandos had been thorough because none of the guard positions were operational. At least by the military. A

scattering of sailors that had made it topside quickly found themselves pinned under heavy fire from their own watch towers in the middle of the lagoon. Jackson turned to Gracen. “Can you take that down?” He nodded to the tower that currently housed several enemy snipers. “We can’t move otherwise.” Gracen looked at the tower. Any help now would be

useful, Al. The image of a water spout, or what looked like one, flooded her mind. “No,” she shook her head, not looking at Jackson, “but I can probably get them out.” Gracen visualized the water collecting at the base of the tower. The water coiled around the wooden column like a snake. Gracen raised her arm, twisting her hand and willing the water to curl upwards and cocoon the tower. When it reached the area with the commandos were housed, the water poured in until it enveloped the box like a blanket. “How…?” Lockett whispered. “Abandon their position or death by drowning?” Jackson asked, looking at Gracen. She continued to focus on the water and used her other hand to wipe the perspiration off her brow. “I didn’t think I could bring the tower down, but I knew I could take the water up.” It wasn’t long before the first dark figure jumped from the tower into the uncertain darkness of the lagoon. Only after the second figure followed the first did Gracen drop her arm and release the water to crash back into the lagoon. Jackson tapped the still mesmerized Lockett on the shoulder and pointed. Gracen saw group leading Millerson across the airfield, had stopped disbelief, staring at the waterlogged tower and recognizing that their meticulous

plan might be falling apart. Jackson and Lockett took their positions, aimed and fired. Two commandos dropped to the ground but it was enough time for the rest of the group to dive for cover and return fire. Now that one tower was out of commission, some of the bunkered sailors returned fired, splitting the attention of the commandos. Gracen looked back at the water of the lagoon. She could launch it like the shards that had taken down the men that had attacked them in her room but she lacked the finesse to control it, which meant she could hit Millerson. But maybe she could pull the water out and trap them like the men in the tower. ~ No! ~ An image of a glass only a third full, flooded her mind and she felt a distinctive scold.

Got it! Running low on energy. Don’t need to get all grumpy about it. Debris from a ricochet bit into her face eliciting a startled squeak a half second before Jackson pulled her to the ground. “Focus on trying to avoid the flying bullets, Doc,” he ordered. Properly chastened, she nodded. With their position compromised, Jackson motioned for Lockett and Gracen to follow him. Using the parked airplanes for concealment, they made their way across tarmac until one of the rear guard commandos spotted them and fired, forcing them to duck for cover before returning fire. “Where are they going?” Gracen asked, ducking as one bullet passed way too close. “They can’t takeoff with all these bullets flying around.” “They are heading across the airfield,” Jackson answered. “My guess is they have boats on the ocean side

of the base.” “How are we supposed to stop them from getting to those boats? We’re outnumbered and outgunned. There’s no way we’re getting to the beach before they do.” Lockett asked Jackson, but he kept his eyes glued on Gracen as if worried she would suddenly drown him. “We don’t stop them,” Jackson replied. “We stop the boats.” He waited until Gracen met his gaze. “If we get close enough, can you topple or beach the boats?” Gracen nodded slowly. “I think so.” She hoped. “We need to move fast and get around them, otherwise we’ll never stop them.” He scanned the area and pointed. “That way. I go, both of you lay down covering fire. Then Gracen. Then you,” he told Lockett. Gracen turned to where Jackson pointed. It was a good seventy-five yards away with at least half of that in the open as they crossed the tarmac before there was any chance of cover. The problem was also that they would have to jump the cinder block before they could use it as cover. That was the reason the commandos hadn’t made their move. They weren’t too keen on being sitting ducks. Lockett glanced at Jackson’s leg, then nodded. “On me,” he said. He moved around one side of their cover. Gracen moved around the other side and waited for Lockett’s call. From this distance, she might not hit any of the commandos, but it would be close enough for them to think focus on her instead of Jackson. “Now,” Lockett said a split second before he started firing. Gracen tried to focus on her shots while still keeping track of Jackson. His speed was amazing, but what kept him alive as the commandos targeted him was experience. He had a sixth sense of when to dodge or duck without

losing his stride and hurdled the cinder block with the aptitude of an Olympic athlete. Maybe the addition of the extra helix did even more to their human DNA than just give them a permanent roommate. “Get ready,” Lockett said. The flash of Jackson’s gun started popping from the side of the cinder block. Now, with the addition of the sailors that had been under attack of the tower, the commandos were truly pinned from three positions, even if the fire aimed at them was sporadic. “Go,” Lockett yelled and started firing. Gracen made her dash for Jackson’s position. The first couple of yards still had some cover for her to hide behind, but it was the sprint across the open area that had her worried. She hated running as much as it hated her. She zigged and zagged, ducking like a pro. She was quite proud of herself until she realized that the commandos weren’t shooting at her, but were focusing their fire on Jackson and Lockett. She filed that tidbit away as she sprinted to Jackson’s position. “Have I told you that I hate running?” she asked between huffs. With a deep breath, she turned and took aim. “They never took a shot at me.” “You complaining?” Jackson asked between shots. Gracen rolled her eyes, then looked around their position. She could hear the waves and smell the salt in the air, but she definitely couldn’t see it. “Wait,” she said, “where’s the ocean?” “About five hundred yards behind us.” Five hundred… She squinted in the darkness. There were definitely more shapes in the background and she thought she could see a faint glow of foam from a wave. What she couldn’t miss was another two-hundred feet of runway they would still have to cross in order to get to

ocean. “Ready? Targets are at eleven o’clock.” The tone in his voice told Gracen that had been anything but a question. She took the hint. With a quick nod, she took position, hoping that Lockett had been a sprinter in school. When Jackson resumed firing, she followed suit. Lockett started his gauntlet run and this time the commandos were definitely taking aim. But the sergeant was fast. Faster than she had expected and almost as good as Jackson. Running low to the ground and making himself a near impossible target. Not impossible enough. He was twenty feet away from their position when his feet flew out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground. Time slowed to a standstill. The sound of bullets and the fires, roared in Gracen’s ear as she watched Lockett lay there in the open field. After what felt like a lifetime, Lockett moved, crawling towards them. The only thing that saved him from being riddled with bullets was the slight indentation on the uneven grassy area past the tarmac. Gracen moved without thinking, jumping over the cinder block and ignoring Jackson’s loud curse behind her. The loud roar of bullets told her without looking that he was laying down covering fire in order to protect her while she ran to Lockett. She hadn’t been able to help those unfortunate soldiers in the hangar but she wasn’t about to let someone she knew die in front of her. Jackson would provide much better suppressing fire than she could and frankly, she made a smaller target even if she’d have to drag Lockett. Ducking at the whizzing bullets, she slid next to Lockett. It wasn’t a big surprise to her that suddenly they weren’t under such intense fire. “You gotta help me, Sergeant,” she yelled, grabbing him

by the armor vest and started pulling him to cover. Lockett did the best he could by pushing off with his good leg and letting the shattered one get dragged behind him. “Just a little further,” she encouraged, “we’re almost there.” Her heart nearly stopped when Jackson stood up from his position, releasing a fully automatic hail of bullets on the commandos. Battle honed instincts had him turning around and finding another guard tower. The one she hadn’t even bothered to look for. Following her precedent, he sent the water up the tower to take out the snipers. What his visualization lacked in finesse, it made up with raw power. The water didn’t curl around the tower gracefully; it rushed up like a torrent of pure force, crushing anything in its wake. The roof of the tower flew off into the darkness followed by anything and everything that had been inside it. He hopped over the barrier, wrapped his arm around Lockett’s waist, and hauled him over it. Gracen was immediately by the Sergeant’s side, ripping at trousers in order to see the damage. “Are you insane or just suicidal?” he barked at her, grabbing her arm angrily. She yanked her arm back. “Clearly insane,” she yelled back, “or I would have stayed in my nice safe hospital back in Coronado!” She didn’t look up, focusing on the mangled flesh in front of her. “We’re out of time,” he said in a tight voice, nodding in the direction behind her. Gracen looked up, then glanced over her shoulder. The commandos were on the move again. She turned back to Jackson, their eyes locked. There were at that place again. So much to say, that needed to be said, but no time to do it. His lip tilted up and a wry chuckle escaped his lips. It told he was thinking exactly the same thing. His hand cupped her

face, caressing her cheek and she knew exactly what was going to happen. The smile fell and the Master Chief look replaced it. “Stay with him,” he ordered, then spun quickly and headed across the main airfield. “Jackson!” she yelled. Gracen turned the air blue as she watched Jackson’s retreating form, but a muffled groan drew Gracen’s attention back to the sergeant. “Are you sure you’re not a closet sailor, ma’am,” Lockett said through clenched teeth. She sent him a black look as she assessed the damage to his thigh. The wound was high and perilously close to the femoral artery. Had he been hit with a regular assault rifle, even in full automatic mode, it would have been less damaging than one shot from a miniature missile the high caliber sniper rifles housed. He was lucky it wasn’t a direct hit, only taking a large chunk of flesh. A direct hit would have ripped his leg off. Gracen pulled the shredded fabric away from the wound, ignoring his sharp hiss. The damage to the mangled flesh was considerable. The chance he could still lose his leg was still possible. She was going to have to do something drastic in order to curtail the significant amount blood loss and if growing paler was any indication, it would be sooner rather than later. “Stay with me, Sarge,” she said giving him a gentle squeeze on his calf. “Can you feel your toes?” “Yeah,” he answered, his voice thick with pain. Without equipment, she followed the old tried and true method. Reaching for his belt, she quickly unbuckled it and yanked it off his trousers. Wrapping it around his leg, she rebuckled and pulled with force. Locket howled in agony. Gracen took the tail of the belt and pressed it into

Lockett’s hand. “You need to stay awake, Sergeant. If you can’t move your toes, loosen this a bit. Here,” she handed him her gun, “if I’m not back in fifteen, use it to get the medics to you.” “Doc, wait,” he called. “You’ll be fine,” she said. Without looking back, she sprinted across the main runway and through the surrounding grassy field until she took cover behind a simple observation post. She took a few precious seconds to simply breathe. If this was going to become a habit, she was going to have to start running more regularly. With a quick glance around the wall, she tried to find Jackson. It was easier than she expected because he was pinned down behind the sea wall, about fifty yards away from her. He was now shooting with a 9mm. No match for the assault rifles he was up against and the commandos knew it. They started moving Millerson to the black military assault boats waiting just off the surf. With all their attention split between Jackson and their extraction, they hadn’t seen her come up behind the observation post, leaving her wide open to make a move. Gracen stepped around the back side of the post and raised her hands, calling the surf where there was none. She couldn’t flip the boats but a large enough wave would do the job for her. The mild pounding headache she been ignoring since working on the Gunny, turned into an all-state drum core that reverberated down her neck, but she kept her focus on the water. She tried to visualize a wall of water in to crash into them but her head exploded in blinding pain, sending her keeling forward, head first into the ground. Millerson and the men around him looked down at their

feet. Instead of shallow water they had been in, they were now standing on wet sand, next to beached boats, as the ocean receded away from them. The commandos looked around, momentarily confused. “Snap out of it,” was the sharp order that snapped everyone’s attention back into the moment. “Grab the ropes and hump it back into the water.” Millerson’s eyes focused on the lead commando with heavily camouflaged features that made him undecipherable. None of the men wore rank insigni, but there was no doubt who was in charge. The sheer presence of the man told Marcus that he wasn’t going to be an easy pushover. Millerson slowly followed them on his own accord then stopped in his tracks. “Drop the boats!” he turned and ran as a ten foot wave came barreling at them seemingly out of nowhere without breaking. The commandos scattered as the wall of water swallowed the boats, turning them over and slamming them, and a few men, against the sand as if they were a child’s toy. It didn’t take long for the lead commando to take charge. With their escape route cut off, he gathered the group near a sand dune, barking orders into his communication device demanding an alternate exit strategy. “Where is he?” Millerson barked at the nearest commando who pointed to the last know position. “Keep him there.” He scanned the line of sight, stopping when he spotted Gracen. “Get the girl, alive,” he ordered. The instant bullets stopped flying around his head Jackson knew something happened. And that something was Gracen. He couldn’t help but be impressed with

Gracen’s water works. She’d done exactly what he’d hoped for and more. He gave the commandos one last look and stopped cold. Millerson was again in the middle of the commandos, but now he was giving orders. Two commandos headed towards the observation post while the rest covered Millerson. Jackson, down to his last clip, opened fire on the two headed towards Gracen, hoping to buy her enough time to head back across the airfield. The loud clicks thundered in his ears. The gun was empty. Jackson tossed it aside with a frustrated curse when an image of a wall of water slammed into his head and nearly knocked him on his ass. “Be a little more subtle next time, Kid,” Jackson grumbled but stood up and raised his hand. The water jumped at his commands like a raw recruit, crashing it on top of the two commandos and dragging the thrashing men out to sea. With his other hand, Jackson brought the water in front of him like a shield, deflecting the hail of bullets that had targeted him. He dropped his arms and the shield crashed into the ground. Despite the distance, his eyes lasered on Millerson. A cold, humorless smile curved the doctor’s lips and he tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Shoot the girl,” Millerson snapped. Jackson raised his arms and the watery shield reappeared, whirling a protective wall between the commandos and Gracen and Jackson. StealthHawk helicopters flew over their heads, hovering on top of commandos. The cavalry had arrived. Jackson dropped the water only to realize that the StealthHawks were unmarked. Heavy ropes dropped from

the helicopters beside the commandos. Once they hit the ground, standing platforms opened up. The commandos and Millerson each took a platform, wrapping their arms around the ropes. With a jerk they were airborne. Millerson smiled and tipped his hand to Jackson as he flew into the darkness. Jackson watched him go for a full minute before spinning around and heading for Gracen, who was slowly getting up to all fours. Kneeling down, he brought her into his arms, crushing her to his chest. Gracen buried her face against his neck. “You’re all right,” she whispered, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist. “Did we win?” “Any time you can walk away from combat, it’s a win,” he said. “My head hurts. I think I fried Al.” Jackson kissed her temple and slowly massaged circles on her lower back until her body completely relaxed against him. Come on Kid, do something. Ease her pain

like she did mine. An image of a kiss flooded Jackson’s mind. Jackson snorted. Finally seeing the benefits of carnal pleasures? He asked without expecting an answer but the sense of laughter filled his mind. Jackson then tilted her head, claiming her lips in a slow, gentle kiss which savored the feel of her soft lips. She was still for a moment. Responding first with a smile he felt under his lips, then her hand came up to caresses his cheek before sliding across his neck, holding him firmly in place. A flood of peace flowed through him, easing every small ache in his body. “It doesn’t hurt anymore,” she said against his mouth. “You’re getting better.” “How exactly am I supposed to take that?” He chuckled.

Gracen smiled. “You know what I mean. You took the pain away when you kissed me.” “The Kid’s idea,” he replied. “Smart Kid.” “Getting there,” he agreed. “Can you get up?” “Do I have to?” she asked, but she was already moving out of his arms. Jackson stood up and held out a hand. Gracen took it freely. “Careful there, Master Chief. Or someone might think you are getting a bit too personal with me.” She sent him that grin he loved.

Chapter 17 Topside American Federation Naval Air Facility Diego Garcia 0455 GST The sky was starting to lighten with the upcoming sunrise as they retraced their steps back through the runway. The airfield was now teeming with activity now that the commandos had escaped. Squads were policing the areas of the dead commandos. Fire crews were putting out the various fires, medics secured the wounded or dead, and sailors were starting to clear the damage. “Do you always shoot to kill,” Gracen asked in a low voice afraid of what his answer might be even though she already knew it. Jackson studied her for a full minute before answering. “If someone is shooting at me, then yes. The only safe enemy at your back is a dead one.” Gracen nodded. It made sense and she was just going to have to tweak the ‘do no harm’ part of her Hippocratic Oath. “It takes a little getting used to.” “You never get used to it,” Jackson answered. “Otherwise, you become a psychopath.” His hand came up to caress her cheek. There was a flicker of something in his eyes and it didn’t take a genius to figure it out. She certainly wasn’t about to hold his job against him. “Well, you might be stuck with a slightly insane doctor…” her voice trailed off and eyes widened. “Lockett,” she said, spinning away from Jackson and running to where she left the injured sergeant.

Gracen dodged several sailors, ignoring an angry yell only to skid to a stop when she found the sergeant. Two medics were preparing Lockett for transport. “Heya, Doc,” Lockett said when his head fell in her direction. “I got drugs,” he said with a smile. “You’re alive!” His eyes closed and he looked as if he had finally succumbed to a drug induced slumber, but suddenly his eyes snapped open. “Did we get’m, Chief?” One of the medics, a dour looking corpsman, glared at her through narrowed eyes. “A tourniquet, doctor?” Gracen sighed. “I had a belt and a bleeder,” she replied. “I’m a doctor, not a miracle worker.” The corpsman grunted, then waved the waiting sailors to carry Lockett’s stretcher. “Hey Chief,” Lockett called out, as he was being loaded into a waiting Jeep. “I don’t blame you one bit for kissin’ her. I’d kiss her too if I could.” Everyone in the immediate area stopped dead in his or her tracks. Gracen closed her eyes and wished for that the ground would open up and swallow her whole. ~ Confusion. Liquid. Not earth. Others, earth. ~ An image of mountains of earth twisting in the air appeared in her mind. Huh? Gracen’s eyes, snapped open. You okay? She got the impression of a very lazy shrug and a definitive, ‘Meh, been better’. Alrighty, then. She looked as the crew around them quickly jumped back into action. “Would either of you care to tell me what the hell just happened to my base?” Admiral Harrison walked up to them. He still carried an assault rifle and looked nothing like the spit and polish admiral they had met earlier. Now, he simply looked like the Raider he had been. “I’ve been getting some very interesting reports,” he looked pointedly

at them. “Where’s Dr. Millerson?” “About that, sir,” Jackson started. A low flying helicopter swallowed whatever he might have said. They followed its path as it landed in the runway. Jackson didn’t recognize the ouroboros symbol stenciled on the tail as belonging to the military, but Harrison apparently did. “The cavalry has arrived,” the Admiral said drolly. “I feel safer already.” He turned to Jackson. “Is there anything that I need to know before this operation gets taken out of my hands by The Group?” Jackson paused. Had this been any other Admiral, one without a SpecWar background, loyalties would be different. He’d heard rumors about The Group, but had never known if they were real of if they were simply the Special Warfare’s version of the Big Bad Wolf. But true or not, he wasn’t about to leave Harrison out to dry. “It was an inside job. Millerson wasn’t a hostage, he was being extracted and he got away with something out of the labs.” The Admiral said nothing, but his lips pressed into a tight, fine line before nodding and turning to the helicopter. The door slid open and a combat squad, armed to the teeth, hopped out and took positions. Once the leader was satisfied, the last man waved at the cabin of the helicopter. A man, wearing what even from a distance could be seen as a very expensive suit stepped out of the helicopter. He walked towards the squad leader, pausing long enough for the other man to point in their direction. A much younger man in jeans and with chestnut brown hair that kept flying in his face, followed right behind. A gasp escaped Gracen’s lips when the younger man finally managed to get his hair out of his face. She started

running towards the helicopter. The younger man saw her at the same instant and, pushing the suit out of his way, ran towards her, catching her when she launched herself at him. “Brother,” Harrison murmured under his breath in Jackson’s direction, “in case you were not wondering.” Before Jackson could gauge what the admiral knew or how to take that comment, he straightened and took a deep breath. Gone was the SpecWar old warhorse and in his place was an Admiral. “You’re with me, Master Chief,” he ordered and started walking towards the man with a suit. “Admiral Harrison,” the suit extended his hand in greeting, “I’m Masuyuki Saito. I wish our meeting could take place under different circumstances.” Harrison took his hand and nodded. “This is Master Chief-“ “Jackson Monroe,” Saito finished, with a slight bow. “I have heard much about you, Master Chief.” He turned to the Admiral. “We have much to discuss, Admiral.” “Can’t. Breathe,” Gracen mumbled into fabric. “Eyes popping. Drool pooling,” she gasped dramatically. “Shut up and enjoy it,” Derrick Ellison replied, but he started to loosen his vice-like grip. When he finally released her, it was only to cup her face with his hands. “I knew – knew – you were alive, even when everyone else told me differently.” He gave her a lop-sided smile. “I figured if you were really dead, you’d find a way to haunt me.” “Damn straight, I would,” she said with a squeeze on his arms. “If you ever scare me like that again, I’m going to fucking kill you myself.” He pulled her in for another hug and looked

around. “Didn’t I tell you not to have party without me?” “Don’t you want to know what happened? How did you find me?” “Oh, we will be spending a lot of time together since…” his voice trailed off as he looked over her shoulder. “Say, the Master Chief knows that we’re related, right?” Gracen looked up at him confused and shrugged. “I guess. Why?” “If looks could kill…” his voice petered out and he stared at her. “You’re banging the ol’ fella, aren’t you?” “Hey!” she glared, but was too glad to see him to be truly irritated. “You didn’t say how you found me.” “Come on,” he put his hand over her shoulder, “and meet my boss,” he said. “To be honest, I wasn’t looking for you when I found you. We were looking for someone else.” “Who were you looking for?” “Marcus Millerson,” Saito answered, then bowed to Gracen in greeting. “This is Masuyuki Saito,” Derrick introduced, “my boss’ boss.” “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Dr. Ellison. Your brother,” he acknowledged Derrick, “thinks you will be a valuable addition to our team.” “Why where you looking for Millerson?” Jackson asked. “Because of his connection with Anton Shivelsky,” Saito said. Gracen thought back to why she’d thought Millerson seemed familiar. “They are related?” “They are one and the same,” Derrick answered. Gracen’s face froze in horror. She turned to Admiral Harrison, “You let the Butcher of Belgrade work on us?” “To be fair,” Saito started, “Admiral Harrison inherited Dr. Millerson from a higher paygrade than his own.” He

turned to Harrison. “If it’s any consolation, resignations have already been tendered and you have been cleared of any wrongdoing.” Harrison’s lips tightened. “I wasn’t aware I had been charged with anything.” Saito smiled thinly. “You weren’t-” “I know what he took,” Gracen interrupted. Her eyes crashed onto Jackson’s. “He took our DNA. He must have seen something….” “How can you be sure?” Saito asked. “Silvesky was...” she shook her head, “is a brilliant theoretical geneticist who decided to put his theories to practice with human test subjects. The concept of a triple helix…” her voice trailed off, unsure how much she could actually say in front of a stranger, even if he was Derrick’s boss. “Trust me, Doctor,” Saito replied, “we are well aware of your new genetic makeup. What could he do with your DNA?” “Heeelp meeee!” Derrick said under his breath, biting off a chuckle when Gracen looked at him incredulously. Of all the times to joke about a science fiction movie about genetics. “Shilvesky was always enamored with the notion of the perfect soldier,” Admiral Harrison said. “That idea would be very profitable in certain circles.” “Then why are you standing here?” Grayson looked accusingly at Saito, ignoring Derrick’s attempt to have her tone it down. “Go after him! Do something!” Derrick cringed. “This is not Hollywood, Dr. Ellison,” Saito responded as he pulled out a small reader, studying the information. “And whoever is funding Shivelsky has very deep pockets and far

reaching connections.” He looked up at Harrison. “Perhaps this is not the location to be having this conversation?”

Epilogue American Federation Naval Air Facility Diego Garcia (The Group - Base Zeta) Hardigan Bay 0645 GST Master Chief Petty Officer Jackson Monroe, AFN (Ret.) liked running. He’d never felt better, even after running for a full ninety minutes. His body felt in peak physical condition, which was saying something for a man closer to fifty than he was to twenty. He slowed down to a jog as he moved from the paved road to the sandy beach. Running felt great but he still hated the sand. Only the view made it worthwhile. He stopped with a slight jerk. “Good Morning, Master Chief.” That voice hit him directly at his groin like a laser missile. Every. Time. A slow smile curved his lips and he walked up to her, invading her personal space. His hand cupped face. Her eyes widened and mouth parted in surprise or invitation. It didn’t really matter. He leaned in. “Morning, Gracen,” he said just before capturing her lips in a slow, methodical way that thoroughly tasted as he nipped and licked her mouth. When he finally pulled away from her slightly swollen lips, her eyes were still closed and a cat-ate-cream smile lit her face. “Hmmmmm,” she murmured. “That’s a hell of a morning kiss there, Master Chief.” Her eyes opened, sparkling with humor. They also held a smoldering heat that had him just about ready to rip her wet suit off and fuck her right there

and then. “Should you be calling me Master Chief?” he asked. “I’m officially retired, separated from the military as of o’six hundred hours Gulf Standard Time. “You’ll always be Master Chief to me,” she said dropping her surfboard on the wet sand and throwing her arms around him, pressing her lips to his. She teased her tongue over their seam until he opened up to her sensual invasion. “MY EYES! My eyes!” Derrick cried out, hands covering his face and writhing in pain, causing a the startled couple to jump apart. “Grow up,” Gracen snarled menacingly but the effect was destroyed when she couldn’t smother the smile that lit up her face. “You know,” Derrick said to Jackson, “there are some sights that cannot be unseen. Ever. And your hands all over my sister is one of them.” He shuddered, then turned to Gracen. “Captain Ellison, you are in violation of Article 134, Section A-11 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice as it pertains to fraternization, which prohibits unduly familiar relationships between officers and enlisted-” “I’m retired,” Jackson interrupted. “-personnel,” Derrick continued, completely ignoring the rude interruption. “In violation of Section, B-12 as it pertains to flagrantly inappropriate public display of affection while in uniform -” “Not in uniform,” Jackson cut in. “While on a military base,” Derrick corrected tightly. “In violation of The Group’s Personal Code of Conduct, Article 12, Section B11.24, as it pertains to fraternization between active agents on the duty roster, punishable by thirty days of doing my laundry and typing up my reports-”

“Now you’re just making shit up,” Gracen said crossing her arms defiantly across her chest and tapping her foot impatiently. “Why do you insist on tormenting me?” Derrick tilted his head and gave her a look that clearly said she was insane, then smiled. “Because you are so cute when you’re all guilty for being caught with your hand in the cookie jar.” He looked at Jackson. “Or with your tongue down Master Chief’s throat.” “We haven’t agreed to sign on with The Group,” Master Chief said. Derrick studied Jackson for several seconds. “If you actually think that was an option, then you’re not as smart as she,” he pointed to Gracen, “gives you credit for. They are giving you an illusion of choice, but with what you are and what you can do,” he shrugged, “you’re Group whether you sign on or not.” A heavy and uncomfortable silence hung between them until a choked giggle escaped Gracen. “Can we,” she gestured between Jackson and herself, “have matching costumes? I was thinking turquoise spandex because of the water thingy. I was thinking Aqua Goddess for me and Jackson can be…Aqua Lad, the amazing-” “Aqua Dork is more likely,” Derrick muttered, then swallowed when Gracen’s eyes widened. He turned to Jackson and was met with the Command Master Chief Look. “Uhhhh, I meant that for her, not you….” The look became more severe and he crumbled. “Turquoise spandex is terrible for your figure, Saito is going to have a field day with this relationship of yours, and we found what else Millerson took from the lab.” He took a deep breath, “We’re having a meeting. Come on.” He turned and practically ran back to his Jeep. Gracen turned to Jackson. “That look gives me the

tingles,” she said, a slow smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “The good kind that makes me want to rip all your clothes off and have my wicked way with you.” She went on her tip toes and nipped him in the lips until she felt a corresponding grin. She released him and bent down to pick her board but he beat her to it. Easily sliding it under his arm, Jackson grabbed her hand with his free one. His thumb stroked her knuckles gently. “I love you.” He said it simply and without fanfare because that was who he was, then panic set in when he realized that she might want something grander, something… She smiled. “I love you, too.” It was all she said and all everything he needed.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR I live in a private island California with my two demonspawn wonderful, adorable, well-behaved boys and my nagging, patient, kind, and loving husband. I have always enjoyed talking back to the voices in my head creating stories and visiting new worlds. where I am the ruler of the universe and control everyone like puppets on a string.