“I’ll confess, I was very confused at first. It was overwhelming at times. The O’Haras were of great help. I believe their assistance made my group of test subjects more successful than we otherwise would have been.”
“Do you think they will proceed with further testing?”
“It’s hard to tell, but if my group’s success is any indication, they should. None of my fellow test subjects have gone mad or had other truly adverse reactions to this point. Most seem to be dealing well with their new status. I think the human influence and advice had a lot to do with our stability.”
They exited the ship, and Grady Prime breathed the clean, fresh scent of the damp forest. He took a look around and marveled at the giant trees that sheltered them as if in some wondrous cathedral of nature.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Sinclair Prime asked, undoubtedly noting Grady’s fascinated survey of the huge trees.
“I have rarely seen anything to rival this. You are a lucky man to live and work in such a place.”
“I have long thought so,” a new voice added from over Grady Prime’s left shoulder. Caught off guard, he spun on his heel to see who had managed to sneak up on him, and came face to face with an unknown Alvian.
The man was almost un-Alvian looking, with his shoulder-length brown hair and hazel eyes. He had the darkest hair color Grady Prime had ever seen on an Alvian, yet he was undoubtedly a member of his race. For one thing, he had the pointy ears, though that was not always a foolproof method of identification. He also had the cold feel to him that Grady Prime had recently begun to associate with Alvians.
Now that Grady Prime could feel, he could more easily recognize those who could not. Sinclair Prime, for all that he claimed to feel more than the average Alvian, was still noticeably cold to Grady Prime’s new emotion-enhanced senses. This man was colder still.
“Patriarch, you honor us with your presence.”
Grady Prime was clued in by Sinclair Prime’s respectful tone. This man was most likely the Zxerah Patriarch. A fabled being of immense power and ability. Grady Prime looked him over, surprised the Patriarch was such a young-looking man. He was only an inch shorter than Grady Prime and appeared to be more slender, but Grady knew as well as any soldier that appearances could be deceiving.
“Grady Prime, it is a pleasure to finally meet you.” The Patriarch held out his hand in the way of soldiers. “I am Ronin Prime, Patriarch of the Zxerah Brotherhood.”
Grady Prime took the man’s hand and his measure, as he was measured in return. Power flowed from the Patriarch, tangible yet banked. Like a glowing ember that could be fanned to flame at any moment.
“It is an honor to meet you,” Grady Prime replied politely, holding the man’s gaze as they ended the friendly handclasp.
“Mara Prime is going to want to meet you, of course. I hope you’ll both join me for dinner after.” The Patriarch included Sinclair Prime in his invitation with a nod of his head.
“Of course, Patriarch,” Sinclair Prime answered quickly as the man turned to go.
Grady Prime didn’t get a chance to say much of anything. Ronin Prime moved like the wind. One minute he was there, the next he was gone like a puff of smoke.
“Doesn’t let any grass grow under his feet, does he?” Grady asked with some humor as they resumed walking up the path that led from the landing area.
“The Patriarch marches to the beat of his own drum.”
Grady Prime laughed. “It seems we both have been consorting with humans too long if we have adopted their race’s sayings as our own. As they would say, touché, my friend.”
Sinclair Prime joined in his laughter and as they rounded a final curve in the narrow path, they came face to face with an old Alvian male with hair gone white with age. Grady Prime knew this one. This was Mara Prime, the top geneticist for their race. Grady had dealt with the quiet old man from time to time as he worked with Mara 12 and the O’Haras in the early days, but he hadn’t seen him in many years.
“It is good to see you again, Mara Prime. I hope you are well.” Grady gave the elder a traditional sign of respect. He would have offered his hand, but that was a greeting reserved mostly for soldiers and not one Mara Prime had ever responded well to in the past. He was very reserved, even among Alvians.
“Well enough, thank you, Grady Prime. I would like a report on your progress before you continue with your duties. Follow me.”
The old man turned without another word, clearly expecting to be obeyed. Grady Prime followed behind, knowing he had to get this over with if he was going to be allowed to get on with his work. So different, this greeting of Prime to Prime than the meeting with the Zxerah Patriarch. Grady Prime had liked the Patriarch right off—respected his power and the aura of authority around him—even on such short acquaintance. Grady Prime didn’t much care for Mara Prime’s cold ways and never had.
After a thorough debriefing in Mara Prime’s sparsely decorated office, Grady Prime was finally free to resume his duties. Sinclair Prime met him outside the small building where Mara Prime’s offices and laboratory were located.
“There is little sun left today, especially here under the canopy of trees. Dinner is not far off,” Sinclair Prime explained. “I thought perhaps I could show you a little of the base on our way to meet the Patriarch for dinner.”
Grady thought it an excellent plan and followed eagerly after Sinclair Prime. He’d changed his uniform top for one that had openings in back for his wings. Grady Prime was shocked at first to see the tawny golden feathers of his wings folded along the curves of Sinclair Prime’s back. Although it was probably rude, Grady found he couldn’t stop himself from stealing glances at them.
Finally, Sinclair Prime stopped, a huge grin on his face as he turned to face Grady and very deliberately spread his wings.
“Does this help?” He cocked one eyebrow and grinned. Grady Prime laughed in answer.
“I apologize. I am simply fascinated by your wings.”
Sinclair Prime stood still, his wings outstretched while Grady Prime got a good long look. The tawny color was not uniform. The long feathered shafts had patterns on them of gold, brown, white and rust. The pattern had elements in common with that of other birds of prey Grady Prime had seen both on this planet and on his homeworld of Alvia Prime. Yet somehow, it was different. Chevrons of color danced down each extra-long shaft, interspersed with smaller feathers here and there.
“Your wings are truly amazing,” Grady said after a long moment. “What happens when you lose feathers? I assume as a soldier you’ve run into injuries from time to time.”
Sinclair Prime folded his right wing along his back, bringing his left wing forward so he could touch the feathers with his hands.
“Look at this one,” he pointed to a particularly thick shaft. “This one broke off a week ago, and I glued it back on as a temporary measure until the new shaft grows into place. It’s not ideal, but it works. Sometimes you can’t save the broken shaft and you just have to fly with a gap until the new plumage grows in. And we molt every once in a while. When we’re young, the new feathers come in every year until we reach adolescence. Then the process slows. We’re out of commission flying-wise every decade for a complete molt. Otherwise we only lose feathers occasionally, never grounded unless we receive very serious injury such as a broken bone.”