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TITLE: Congenital Negotiation
Congenital Negotiation You see, it's not that we don't love, it's better. Because everything we do furthers our reproduction. Everything in our lives is an intense, sexually charged negotiation. - Gaheris Rhade - Double Helix Damn Dylan Hunt! Tyr growled and made the aide leading him jump. The young Sabran cast back a sharp glance, but the Kodiak didn't deign to address it. He just glared out from under the full mane of dreads and the younger male pulled any challenge from his features. The aide quickened his step and Tyr prowled after him down the main corridor of the Jaguar Flagship. He was not happy to be here. This was what the last of the Kodiak Pride has become, messenger boy for one ludicrously insane zealot to an insipid milksop of a Jaguar. He clenched his teeth against further outbursts. The fast pace the aide had set aggravated a recent wound in his hip and thigh. Damn the Kalderans! They came to a halt in front of a door larger than any they had passed. The golden medallion set in it was embossed with the Jaguar crest. The high-polished sheen of the rampant jaguar with its etched spots parted in the middle as the aide waved his hand over the control plate. The Sabran saluted him - forearm crossing his crest, bonespurs down away his superior - before bowing and backing away. Tyr stepped over the threshold, his body tensing as he picked up the metal on metal clash of swords. He stepped silently despite his injuries and peered around the corner. Eight Nietzscheans stood in the centre of the large room: three in dark grey Jaguar uniforms; one in Jaguar ducal livery; and four clad in loose black practice suits. Two of the black figures were circling each other with practice swords drawn, mesh masks covering their faces. One moved with loose, quick movements while the other was large, bold and forceful. Both were breathing heavily. The smaller leaped forward, his lithe form striking like a cobra at his opponent’s broad torso to deal the deathblow. The referee in the livery clapped his hands sharply signalling the end of the match, “Well played, Sirs. Another match to his Highness the Archduke.” The smaller Nietzschean pushed his mask up to reveal the slightly flushed fair features and crystalline blue eyes of the Sabra-Jaguar leader, Charlemagne Bolivar. He stepped forward to his opponent, a Sabran noble by his size and colour, and crossed forearms. The referee stepped forward and passed the Archduke a towel. With an imperial nod to the room, Charlemagne excused himself, "Do pardon me, I have an appointment.” The Archduke turned his back on the clearing room to acknowledge the tall Kodiak leaning against the far wall. Tyr stalked forward; “I was under the impression exercise made you weary.” He raised his forearm to meet the Jaguar’s salute. Bolivar's sharp features softened into a wry smile. “No, watching you exercise makes me weary. Moving all those bulky muscles must be exhausting.” Charlemagne emphasized his comments with languid admiring gaze. “If you don’t mind, shall we talk on the way to my chambers.” They walked several metres before Charlemagne continued. “Thank you for bringing the update personally. I am very obliged.” Tyr sighed at the way the Sabra-Jaguar leader could make answering his commands seem like the receiver’s personal inspiration. “Yes, now that you have me here, what is it you wish to discuss?” The Archduke smiled, choosing instead to mention the Kodiak’s barely perceivable limp. In slim graceful hand reached out and traced along his left hip. “Were you in battle? You really should have that seen to.” They paused at a lift. When the door opened, Tyr strode in. He stood to the side, folding his arms across his chest trying to retain the personal space that Charlemagne kept invading. “Yes. Our medical officer has already released me.” “I insist you see my masseur. He works miracles for me all the time. Besides I can hardly negotiate when my opponent is physically weakened. As you know ‘to be the equal of the enemy - this is the first condition of an honourable duel.’” Tyr smiled accessing his host’s size; a head shorter. “You wish to fight then? I do not believe my injuries will leave me at a disadvantage.” Charlemagne’s lips quirked up into a smile; eyes gleaming. The moist spikes of his golden streaked hair added wildness to his normally refined air. “I was thinking more in the metaphysical sense.” The lift stopped and Tyr followed the Jaguar into a small observation deck that must serve as his drawing room during occupation. The room was domed - the starscape shimmered beyond. To Tyr’s tactical assessment it was too open and exposed. The archways on either end were wide and indefensible, only the hall door at his back was securable. His host’s signature purple was found in the heavy tapestry of the drapes that softened the metal walls. Walls hung with artworks from the three galaxies presented themselves to Tyr’s critical eye. Having met and fought beside the reigning Sabra-Jaguar, he understood how the room truly reflected its creator. The feigned foppery was a glamour that hid the steel beneath. The Kodiak’s rumination was interrupted by a chime. “Ah. Refreshments. Enter.” Charlemagne commanded as he retreated to a set of navy and gold upholstered chairs assembled on a plush carpet in the middle of the room. “You will join me?” It was a question from one who was not used to being denied. “Computer. Music. Collection . . . 143.” Tyr joined him, settling himself into the too comfortable chair. His heightened senses stimulated from all sides by: the natural wool of the chair covering; the approaching smell of real meat, vegetables and fruit; the warm swellings of a pre-Commonwealth Earth composer; and the rich colour scheme of the room. The soft voice of his host drew his attention. “ . . . he can already roll over and pull himself along the ground. And he is already taller than the average Jaguar at two months in spite of being two weeks premature from the expected seven-month gestation. Every time I look upon him I believe I am happier of my choice to join your people’s cause.” The Kodiak nearly choked on the slice of orange, “It’s not my cause. They are not my people.” He calmed himself, overly aware of the servant that poured the real coffee at his elbow. Is it not your cause? He would not have the Jaguar believe he had forsaken his people. Charlemagne raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Are they not? Do you not protect them, and work with them without monetary compensation? You have all but mated within them. That human woman . . . ah . . . Captain Valentine. I have been informed that she is genetically enhanced. Her cunning and passion are quite improbable for a human. She’d be a good fourth or fifth wife for a new Pride Alpha.” Tyr knew when he was being baited. He allowed no expression to reign on his proud face “It is true that Beka is more Nietzschean than many in Prides that I have met.” He glared at the servant waiting beside the table. The young man in turn risked a glance at his master. The Archduke nodded and the human withdrew to the hallway with an audible sigh of relief. “Did you just summon me here to insult me?” Tyr sat back throwing a leg over the armrest, “I’ll thank you, sir, to next time send a courier.” The he gave the Jaguar a level glare from under his brow as he relaxed into a contemptuous slouch. “Ah, Kodiak. Your pride is so easily wounded. I did not intend insult.” Tyr braced an elbow on a chair arm and the other on his leg - arching his fingers under his nose as he continued to study the Sabra-Jaguar leader. “I have talked to my sisters. And as I hoped, one I admire excessively is quite interested in you.” Charlemagne’s features softened as he dipped a strawberry into a little pot of chocolate. Tyr’s brain paused for a second as the strawberry was sucked between the pink soft lips of his host. This mental lapse he was sure hadn’t registered on his face. He is playing a game. “Continue.” “I will but first I need to clean up and change. Try the sauna and I will have Alexander tend to your massage. My servant will assist you.” Charlemagne stood with easy grace and appraised him with a startlingly salacious glance. Disconcerted, Tyr watched as his host turned and his hands gave an elegant sharp signal to the servant in the hall before departing through the far archway. Immediately the door from the corridor opened and the young human stepped in giving Tyr a cringing look. “This way, sir.” The boy led him through the opposing archway and into a wood-lined sauna suite. Tyr scanned the door noticing that there were no visible locking mechanisms. He sighed trying to find the logical path through the maze that Charlemagne had woven in word and action. He made the decision to play. He was too curious to leave and some illogical part of him enjoyed Bolivar’s unpredictable presence. He shrugged off his vest. The human collected his garments staggering slightly under the weight of leather and steel. The terrified child bowed and departed stumbling over himself to be out of the Nietzschean's glowering presence. Tyr felt a flicker of annoyance at the timidity of the boy, realizing how familiar he become to humans who were fierce and strong, and talkative, illogical and stupidly idealistic . . . He was content to be alone as he wound his hair into a thick knot atop his head securing it with the leather tie. He removed the leather vambraces from his forearms tossing them into the sauna proper before stepping into the shower stall. He tapped in blood temperature plus two degrees into the keypad then punches the on button. Hot soapy water pelted from all directions. Picking up the provided sea sponge, he cleansed his body with efficient and practiced strokes before hitting the rinse button. His footprints quickly evaporated as he prowled over the wood floor to collect his forearm guards. After securing them he went to the sauna’s brazier and poured a breaker of scented water over the hot rocks; flooding the room with steam. Tyr had sat wrapped in his thoughts in an unconscious imitation of Rev Bem's mediation pose when the sullen child came to collect him. The boy held out a waist wrap of cream coloured cotton. He extended his arm further, his eyes widening at Tyr's naked perfection as the Nietzschean stalked toward him. The child took an involuntary step back as the bold figure came near. "I will not chase you around boy!" The Kodiak growled in annoyance as he snagged the garment from the clutched hand. "You have nothing to fear from me.” Tyr gave the child a critical glance. “Are you a slave?" The boy shook his head "No . . . not any - they pay." Tyr tilted his large dark head sending the warrior’s long dreads snaking across his sauna moistened shoulder. "Where are you from?" He wrapped the soft cloth around his waist. The human, as if surprised to be engaged in conversation, quickly answered "Schopenhauer’s World, sir." "That's Sabran." "Was, sir.” The child almost smiled, “three years ago the Jaguar Pride won it." The boy shrugged at the Nietzschean's inquiring look. "They're better . . . and smaller." Seeming less terrified the child added, "Master Masseur Alexander is waiting, sir." With shoulders more square the human turned and lead the way back to the dressing room. Tyr smiled inwardly as he followed to where the massage table now stood on the carpet. Yes, Captain Hunt, sometimes diplomacy is the best remedy.
“So how is that? Are all your aches and pains been seen to? He is a treasure is he not,” Charlemagne’s soft voice said with startling nearness, “Alexander is Sabran. Came with my wife’s entourage, but I’ve finally coaxed him away.” Tyr opened one eye to see the Archduke in a languishing perch on the back of the navy chair. He was draped in an open deep blue silk kimono and draw sting pants slung low exposing a decadent trail of dark golden curls. The blue set off his pale gold skin to great advantage. The Kodiak closed his eye at that observation and tried to enjoy the masseur’s touch again despite Bolivar’s presence. He was doing a good job of it until the Archduke pushed away from the chair and began to pace; bare feet muffled in the thick nap of the carpet. “One of my sisters, as I have said, would compliment you very nicely. She is quiet intrigued. She kept the flexi of you. I would not be surprised to find it pinned to her wall.” Charlemagne paused and Tyr unwilling looked at him. The blue eyes were watching the talented hands of the masseur as he kneaded mercilessly Tyr’s lower back. The normally petulant lower lip was pursed with thought. The Kodiak sighed and closed his eye again as the amazing hands pushed the wrap up exposing an ass cheek and narrow hip to the Archduke’s perusal. The hands descended on the knit heavy muscles of his upper right thigh. From under his eyelashes Tyr noticed that the Jaguar was gazing contemplatively at the newly exposed flesh. Bolivar cleared his throat probably realizing he had rudely paused overly long. “She is my youngest and my favourite sister. Isobella is probably the most like me, I warn you. She can be conniving and treacherous, as well as passionate. She is also very loyal to those she loves. I feel she is yet a bit young to be much aboard, but she has taken a liking to Elessbett so is off here and there constantly.” The Archduke gave a sigh that was as much amused as it was annoyed. “She will need her independence, but in turn she will bring grace, intelligence and insight to your line. That’s not to say that you yourself do not possess those genes.” “Thank you for your generosity, sir.” Tyr’s words were a bit forced as the masseur hit a still stiff area of his left thigh. He sighed and closed his eyes as the hand eased the pressure and became gentle. “You are welcome, Kodiak. She wishes to know more about you. Intimate details.” “If she wishes intimate details then she should have come with you. I have not been shown so much as a flexi of her.” Cool plastic slide across the fingertips of his up flung arm. He lifted his head and look at the flexi. The formal portrait there did have striking similarity to Charlemagne. The strong delineated features softened into a more feminine haughtiness that was only slightly undermined by the sensual smile. Yes, it was a face of a Matriarch. “The portrait was taken a few months ago. The first video is from a recent tournament. The second taken last week during a practice section.” Tyr touched the image and it faded and was replaced with a group of laughing women entertaining a group of Sabra and Jaguar males from the spectator side of a tournament ring. The camera zoomed in to show Isobella standing over a Sabran man, her skin pale where her hand grasped a darker bicep. Her face was full of passion that belied the chaste kiss she placed on the man’s brow. Tyr felt an undeniable tingle of jealousy toward the combatant. A cool hand traced his spine. “How do you find her?” Charlemagne’s voice seemed deeper as it came from behind him. Tyr touched the flexi again and the tournament arena gave away to a palace practice floor and two slim black clad figures circling each other. Tyr recognized Charlemagne’s graceful deadliness even though he wore a practice mask. His opponent was of equal height and a similar natural grace. The hand swept along his lower back and down the exposed curve of his ass leaving his skin tingling in its wake. “She is exquisite. You are right she is very much like you.” The hand retraced its path up his body until Charlemagne stood in his peripheral vision. Tyr turned slightly to see more clearly the deep golden curls sneaking down into the deep blue silk. The thin material did not hide the still soft but thickened and heavy member beneath. “Is this the sort of intimate questions she was asking you to parley?” Out of the corner of his eye he could see the Archduke’s naked forearm, bonespurs like sharks teeth leading to the pale hand where it rested on his darker skin and he could see how Isobella so easily inspired jealousy. He looked up into the bright blue eyes. No matter how much he had complained bitterly to himself on the way here, or how he ungraciously accepted the petition to be the report barer to this fop, he didn’t truly believe it. Since meeting Charlemagne in the halls of the Andromeda Tyr could feel the intensity of the man beneath the silly decadent behaviour. He had seen deep intelligence in the first contact of their eyes. Underneath the frilly satin was a panther that lived up to the name Jaguar. A panther he had watched on the practice room floor and in the skirmish following their first meeting. “Let us just say that she trusts my judgment in these things. Our delights run to similar tastes.” “She must truly be close to you if she does not mind that you dally first with her prospective husband. Would it not show that my tastes lay in different areas.” The Archduke let out a short bark of laughter. “You have been around humans for far too long, Nietzschean. In all the things we do you will find sexual charged bargaining. ‘We others, we immoralists, have, conversely, made room in our hearts for every kind of understanding, comprehending and approving.’ Come along and let me remind you.” Tyr could feel the energy radiating from Charlemagne and allowed himself a smirk as the blue eyes widened perceivably as he swung naked off the massage table. The Jaguar made a sweeping gesture for Tyr to follow, and then turned and padded off though an archway. The Kodiak looked and found that his clothes had been neatly folded on what was probably a dresser. He shrugged then strode naked after his host. At the end of a short corridor, Tyr found himself in what could only be considered a boudoir. The domed room was paneled in vid screens showing a view of space. The main piece of furniture was the bed displayed in the centre of the room. It was draped in the same deep plum that was favoured in the décor of the drawing room. The other furniture consisted of a valet stand, a bedside table, a convincing electric fire behind an open ornate grate and what Tyr figured was a liquor cabinet where Charlemagne was pouring a deep amber fluid into to crystal glasses. The tall Nietzschean stepped forward as unconscious of his nakedness as the Archduke seemed to be aware of it. He received his drink. Charlemagne raised his glass, “To the future cooperation of our Prides.” And may the past not be repeated, the Kodiak thought as he raised his own. Tyr followed his host’s lead and took a sip. The rich liquid coated his throat leaving a pleasant burning trail. The subtle hints of smoke and honey rose in the burning wake. “It was smuggled from Earth. Apparently, there are still slaves there who take pride in their labours. It is a ‘Scottish whisky’ made from a twelve hundred year old recipe I’m told. Marvellous, is it not.” “Yes, sir, it is.” The Archduke's smile held immense power as he threw back the end of his scotch and dashed his glass into the electric fire. The intensity in the eyes that stalked forward sent shivers of down the taller Nietzschean’s spine. How long since any of my kind looked at me with such hunger, such passion? “’Behold, his eye, as bright as is the eagle’s . . . ” He murmurs in a growl so low he is not sure the other heard. Charlemagne pressed his hard lean body against the softer bulk of Tyr fully confident of reciprocated lust and eagerness for sexually negotiated war. He was certain of his own Nietzschean genes to win the right to claim Tyr for his Pride. Tyr wondered if Charlemagne knew of his connection with the Orca. It would explain why the Alpha felt pressed to try to bind him with his own body. It was a planned seduction. While Tyr was confident in his own genetic worth, few others of his kind ever were. He looked down at the handsome face so very different from his own yet more alike than he had seen in so long. He had come to be . . . fond of his fellow crewmates, but nothing was the same as the acceptance of one’s own kind. Acceptance he would need to confirm in a battlefield he'd not tasted in many years. The face before him was held in the mask of patience. The blue eyes were full of impassioned challenge. "Let it not be said that an Anasazi ever backed down from a challenge." Tyr tasted the lips that smiled up at him, and was surprised by the passion of the kiss. Pale hands traced paths over his skin. The trails lead to his buttocks where the hands kneaded his flesh in an already possessive fashion. The sensations of the hands and lips weakened his guard enough that he was surprised when those same slender hands grabbed hold and tossed him the couple of meters to the bed. In speed true to his kind, the panther was upon him. Silk swathed legs straddled his hips. Greedy hands, soft lips and sharp teeth placed their mark across his chest and neck in an asymmetric rhythm that allowed no prediction of what next stimulus would land upon his skin. Would it be the gentle stroke of the hand, the moist sucking of the lips, or the bruising bite of the teeth? He was kept off balance, caught in the tide of passion and thirst. Passion suppressed too long; never allowed to rule. Thirst for reciprocated passion. Thirst to be among his own kind; to belong and be accepted. He was starving. He had not truly eaten since his marriage to Freya. There was no ardour in the universe like an unleashed Nietzschean. Elessbett had truly understated her husband's skills. Was this one of the skills that was breed like table manners? It had to be. No one, but Captain Hunt had beaten him at anything. Yet he did not struggle - just met caress for caress; kiss for kiss; bite for bite. Why was the small man in control? Why was his mind drowning in his body's sensations? A puddle of silk formed on his thighs then slipped away. The pressure on his groin released and returned. These were opportunities lost to take charge to turn the tide of battle, yet he submitted. The pleasure he had been experiencing swept downward as Bolivar thrust against him. He disengaged from Charlemagne’s demanding lips to glance down to where the Jaguar’s cock lay atop his own matching it nearly inch for inch, its girth and length prodigious jutting from such slender hips. His face must have given his thoughts away or Charlemagne just read his mind. The petulant lips slide into a sly smirk; the bright eyes crescents. "You think in breeding for the finer things we would neglect our women? Have them run off after your improbable muscles and greater . . . stature?" He emphasized the comment by running his hands along Tyr’s well formed chest while grinding his pale purple cock against the coffee brown one. It was amazing, almost like the Jaguar had memorized a map of Tyr’s every erogenous zone. Zones the Kodiak didn't even know he had and a true Nietzschean knew his own body and had control of most every muscle. Through fluttering lids he watched his torturer; the blue eyes still heavy lidded as the Alpha watched the evidence of his skill. Tyr watched as a hand plucked the top from a small porcelain tub that appeared from nowhere. Slippery fingers stroked their combined lengths with cool oil. The smell of sweet almonds became redolent in the air. He unwilling bemoaned the lost of friction as Charlemagne slipped his leg between Tyr's thighs. The Jaguar continued to watch every uncontrolled moan and shudder of the Tyr's pleasure as he tugged and massaged the heavy balls. He moved on to stroked and tickled the seamed path leaving a slippery trail between the cheeks of his ass, swirling light fingers along the pucker hidden there. Slim fingers ventured in sending little white sparks of ball lightning through Tyr’s vision. He had fluttering visions of blue hawk eyes on a pale face and a full lip caught up in white teeth. The fingers moved faster and faster until he was uttering deep primal growls. Then he lost, his knees up against his chest and the pale golden body thrusting deep into him. There was now nothing to worry about. He fully surrendered to the master of this tableau. He had never been fucked by a man like this. This was no grim grunting of near companionship to relieve the boredom or tension before battle. This was primal surrender to an Alpha of a Pride worthy of joining. If his sister had half so much skill he'd never have time for a second wife. If he had two such wives surely he'd die of pleasure. He had a brief vision of Isobella and Beka together in his bed. One light stroke of Charlemagne's fingers on his cock he exploded, coming so hard his vision blacked for a second. His body shuddered from over stimulation by Charlemagne’s final frantic thrusts; filling him with a libation of his noble genes. With a sigh the Jaguar melted against him, resting his pale forehead on the dark chest; panting. After a second he looked up with a smile at what he had won. "I am going to commission a painting of you, life-sized, the throes of passion written on your face and you perfect body against my purple satin. There is a wonderful human artist on Schopenhauer’s World. He is bold and dynamic with his brush. I'll hang it over my bed. Elessbett and I will find it ever so stimulating." Tyr laughed. He hadn't felt this relaxed or at ease since before the fall of his Pride. He could see now how the Sabran first daughter had succumbed so easily to the Jaguar. Here was he was, Tyr, the mercenary, who had made comfortable a thousand life pods, tents and abandoned buildings, surrounded now by silk, down and the skin of the ruler of a Pride a million strong. In losing this one battle he had achieved most of his goals. He was recognized and accepted by the Pride second only to the Drago-Kazov. He could bring the Kodiak back from the dead in the name Jaguar-Kodiak. He was interrupted in his repose by the shifting of the man against him and realized that his seducer was not finished with him. The thick member buried in him twitched and hardened into life. Instinct returned and thick arms pulled the smaller Nietzschean from his confident perch. Tyr thrust Charlemagne on his stomach and blanketed the pale body with his larger one. For the first time he tasted pale skin, the salt and musk of the thin sheen of sweat. Tyr nuzzled the soft fine hair at the nape of the neck, his hand in search of the pot of lubricant. Soon his slick fingers were teasing between the slim cheeks and into the clutching tightness. His full lips curved in smile as they traced the fine-corded muscle of the back that arched toward him. He easily separated the thighs of the unresisting Alpha sliding between them. His hands skimmed the soft thighs - one settling to massage the flesh of the globes; the other gently cupping the source of Jaguar Pride’s most precious genetic material. That hand squeezed gently then moved on to stroke the still slick cock of his host. He slipped his thumb between the cheeks, teasing the opening as he slowly stroked the shaft in his other hand. The Jaguar Alpha moaned, tremors chasing down his spine as he pressed back willingly. Despite the peace and surrendering of the first battle, the war was still on. It was good to be back in control. Taking care to not torture his host long, he pressed forward, his thick length breaching the relaxed Jaguar’s opening easily. He joined the moans of his partner as Charlemagne’s talents were further displayed. Tyr engulfed his partner’s body, reaching around his slender waist to once again stroke the prodigious cock in his large fist. Through the tide of pleasure he found himself snarling and pounding the smaller male mercilessly into the silk. It was not long before the Jaguar gave a shuddering growl and clamped down hard on Tyr’s cock. The convulsing walls around him sent him roaring his release. Again his vision darkened and he slumped; his weight blanketing the amazing pleasure giver.
Charlemagne tugged loose the lacings of Tyr’s leather forearm guards, pulling them free of the three large blades. As pale fingers traced the sensitive cuticles where the skin gave way to bone, Tyr realized that the Jaguar was capable of raising sexual responses out of any part of him. Like a satisfied cat, the Archduke looked at home where he lounged across Tyr’s torso lining his pale gold forearm up with the darker one, comparing the bonespurs. The Kodiak’s large sweptback blades had a battle-scarred patina. The Jaguar’s were polished ivory sharpened into saber-like curves, the ends curled back toward the hand. Curious. I wonder if the Perseids have compiled a survey on bonespur development and gene identification. “Bolivar-“ “Please. Tyr. We have just preformed the most intimate of gestures. Call me Charlemagne.” Tyr sighed, “Charlemagne.” The name rolled off his tongue making him wonder - not for the first time - if the Alpha had not been fortuitously named. Running his hand along the supple spine he continued, “what do you seek by joining in my captain’s delusional fantasies?” The Jaguar, bored with comparative anatomy, traced a cord of hair where it fell across the baroque curve of Tyr's bronzed shoulder. “I’m tired of war.” “Is that really so, Jaguar?” His bedmate tsked him and the large Alpha rolled his eyes in response. “I want to lounge here, stay home, dally with my wife, and spoil my children. Oh and make my people the pride of the Commonwealth, of course.” Tyr laughed, “Yes, of course. But what about all your enemies dying improbable deaths.” “Well, I still wish that too. I just want them to do it quietly somewhere else.” “So you think you’ll be happy in the new Commonwealth. Even though it’s charter will call for the freeing of all your non-Nietzschean subjects.” “Yes. Besides,” Charlemagne’s beautiful mouth curled into a wry smile, “that dismantling will probably take years.” “You do not feel this is un-Nietzschean? What about strife and conflict?” “Are not the Magog and Kalderans conflict enough? Surely even with a peaceful home front there is enough strife in the greater world? Even with all the old Commonwealth together, we would only be three galaxies out to the billions. Once we rebuild we can comfortably look outward again.” The Archduke trailed his fingers down his bedmate’s sternum, the languid smile returning to his face. Tyr nodded against the satin pillow. A new Commonwealth was why he stayed aboard the Andromeda, why he placed himself in danger. In a peaceful Commonwealth, he could rebuild the Kodiak Pride. Under his guidance the Nietzschean race could be the foremost species in the three Galaxies. The uniting of those Prides began here. Tyr had a brief humorous flash of trying the Jaguar’s method of negotiation on Cuatemoc or Cuchulain Nez Pierce and shuddered. He pulled Charlemagne closer using the lingering flavour of strawberry and chocolate to drive the distasteful thought away. He disengaged with a last lick, his own languid smile from curving his lips. “About your sister.” Charlemagne’s smile deepened. “Jaguar-Kodiak doesn’t sound so bad after all.” -end- |
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