The metallic groan of a door opening echoed through the cavernous building, drawing my attention to the far end where three human males emerged. The one in the lead immediately commanded my focus. Older than his companions, with silver threading through his dark hair like frost on winter branches. He moved with the unmistakable bearing of someone accustomed to authority, each step deliberate and measured.
"Lady Prime," he said, coming to a halt several feet away. His head dipped into a curt nod. "I am General Abernathy. It is a pleasure to meet you."
I studied him carefully, my senses attuned to any hint of deception, any flicker of malice in his words or bearing. But I detected nothing. No subterfuge, no hidden agenda threading through his tone. The tension that had coiled in my muscles loosened, though only slightly. Around us, the contingent of soldiers remained far too alert, fingers hovering near weapons, their eyes tracking our every movement. The type of twitchy readiness that set my nerves on edge.
"General," the Prime returned his nod with equal formality. "The pleasure is mine. I am grateful the President was able to meet with me on such short notice."
"Our working relationship is important to all of us," the General replied, his hand sweeping outward in a gesture that invited us to follow. The movement was smooth, practiced, a diplomat's flourish wrapped in a soldier's efficiency.
We fell into step behind his escort, our footfalls echoing through the sterile corridors as we passed through two more buildings. The architecture shifted gradually, the harsh industrial lines and scientific equipment giving way to something softer, more refined. An area clearly designed for administrative purposes.
The General paused at a security checkpoint, his posture straightening as he turned to face us. "We would like to ask that you leave your weapons here." His tone was respectful but firm. The request was clearly non-negotiable. "Your guard will accompany you into the meeting room, as the President's Secret Service team will accompany her."
"Of course," the Prime acquiesced, the sweep of her hand graceful and unhurried. "We come in peace."
I watched as the others began unbuckling their blasters and unsheathing their blades, placing them on the gleaming metal table the guards indicated. My blaster came off easily enough, as did the ceremonial sword I wore on my hip. But when my fingers brushed the hilt of the blade strapped to my thigh, I hesitated. The worn leather grip had molded itself to my father's hand first, then to mine over countless years. Relinquishing it felt like severing a connection to him, to everything he'd taught me about honor and duty. Still, I forced my fingers to work the buckles, laying the weapon down with care that bordered on reverence.
Once we stood disarmed, the General and his two companions led us deeper into the facility, leaving the other military guards behind. The room he brought us to was surprisingly modest. A large conference table dominated the center, the polished surface reflecting the garish overhead lights. Against the far wall sat a desk scattered with papers, and beside it, a small square device hummed quietly. The unmistakable scent of fresh, cool water emanated from its vents.
The General cleared his throat, a nervous gesture that seemed at odds with his military bearing, though his eyes remained relaxed as they swept over our group. "It is safe here. You may divest yourselves of your disguises if you so choose."
The Prime gave another subtle nod, and my hand moved instinctively to the cuddwisg device at my belt. The moment I switched it off, I felt the familiar sensation of my true form reasserting itself, the tickle of camouflage leaving my skin. The General's expression remained perfectly neutral, utterly unfazed by the transformation, though I caught the way his comrades' eyes widened with poorly concealed shock. Their reactions would have been amusing under different circumstances.
"The President has landed and will be here shortly." The General's voice cut through the settling quiet of the room,crisp and professional. Without waiting for acknowledgment, he pivoted on his heel and strode from the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
"Well, that went well," Cristox mumbled beside me, his thick fingers working through his mane with visible relief. The cuddwisg always made him itch. All that fur compressed beneath the holographic disguise left him irritable and uncomfortable.
The Prime's response came measured and calm as she lowered herself into one of the leather chairs. "We have a good relationship with the American government." Her tone suggested she believed it, though I detected the faintest thread of uncertainty woven beneath her words.
"Let's hope," Bieste murmured from across the table. The Elktonni's features would have passed for human if not for his deep crimson skin and those unsettling bright red eyes.
Kariosak shifted his weight, his emerald green skin appearing washed out and sickly under the fluorescent glare. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of concern we all felt but hadn't yet voiced. "Lady Prime, have you considered that the President won't be amenable to capturing one of her own?"
The Prime drew a slow breath, and I watched the subtle tension gather at the corners of her eyes before she released it in a faint sigh. "I have," she admitted. "As is her right." She paused, her golden gaze distant for a moment, as though reviewing memories of past encounters. "But from what I know of her from our earlier dealings, she is righteous and fair. Once she hears of Hewes' crimes—the full extent of what he's done—I cannot imagine she will let him go unpunished."
Ixaka, the only one in attendance stranger looking than me, remained utterly silent in the corner. The Wojonik cut an imposing figure even in stillness. Dark red skin that seemed to absorb the light, yellow eyes that tracked every movement with predatory awareness, curved horns that swept back from histemples, leathery wings folded tight against his broad back, and a tail that occasionally twitched with barely suppressed energy. Our captain's human mate, Maddie, had taken one look at him and declared he looked like someone on Earth called Satan. I looked up the reference and understood immediately.
Pavo, as usual, just looked bored. His pale features showed the familiar expression of detached tolerance that I had come to recognize. Like most Romvesians, he had little patience for military maneuvers and political posturing.
I stood at the Prime's left shoulder, my position deliberate and protective. As the senior officer, all the others would look to me for direction—whether it was time for diplomacy or violence. And while I took my orders from the Lady Prime and would follow her lead in all matters of diplomacy, I would not allow her to come to harm.
When the door opened again, every muscle in my body went rigid, coiling with instinctive readiness.
Four males entered first, and I assessed them with the practiced eye of a warrior. These were not the soft politicians or bureaucrats I'd expected. These males were soldiers, protectors. Each stood tall and broad-shouldered, their bodies honed by training and discipline. They moved with the coordination of a unit that had worked together for years, eyes sweeping the room in overlapping patterns that left no blind spots. They wore dark suits paired with stark white shirts and dark ties. I found myself appreciating the attire, the clean lines, the understated authority it conveyed. I had adopted Earth suits for my own wardrobe whenever possible, finding them far more refined than the ceremonial garb of the ship.
Then a female stepped through the doorway, and everything inside me went still.
I had known, intellectually, that the American President was female. I'd reviewed her dossier, studied her photograph,and memorized the facts of her political career. But nothing—no image, no briefing, no amount of preparation—could have readied me for the visceral impact of her presence.
She was diminutive. The crown of her head would barely reach the center of my chest. Her frame was slender, almost delicate, yet she possessed curves that proclaimed her femininity with unmistakable clarity. The swell of her hips, the fullness of her breasts straining subtly against the fabric of her navy-blue tailored suit. She had secured her hair in a loose bun at the nape of her neck, but even restrained, I could see the thickness and richness of it. The color reminded me of the ordoz nuts that grew in the forests of my youth, deep brown shot through with veins of gold that caught the light.
Her face was heart-shaped, with high cheekbones that gave her an air of aristocratic grace. Large green eyes, the color of new leaves in spring, surveyed the room with keen intelligence. And her lips, full and naturally pink, pressed together in a line that suggested both determination and barely concealed anxiety.
I drew a deep breath, unable to stop myself from seeking her scent. It flooded my senses like a drug, hitting me with an intensity that made my head swim. Fundamentally sweet, with an underlying note of spice that made my pulse quicken and my blood heat. Beneath that, I detected the acrid tang of nervousness—her body betraying what her composure tried to hide. But stronger than her fear, richer and more intoxicating, was the unmistakable aroma of courage. This female was afraid, yes, but she had walked through that door anyway. She was brave.
My wings fluttered involuntarily, a response I couldn't suppress. For a Gudari like myself, such a telling reaction was more significant than I cared to admit. My heart hammered against my ribs as an unfamiliar heat spread through mychest, radiating outward until my entire body thrummed with awareness.
This wasn't just appreciation for a beautiful female. This was something far more dangerous, far more profound.
