The characters and concepts
of Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda belong to Atlantis, and whoever
else has legal claim. They appear here without permission. No
infringement of copyright is intended, and no profit has been
made from this tale.
Ah, the joys of writing fic without reference tapes. Please excuse continuity errors--this was written just after first viewing the second episode, without awareness of events in later episodes.
Tyr kept his distance from the crew of
the Eureka Maru, keeping his emotions under rigid control.
How could they tolerate that...Magog...among them? His
every exhalation carried the reek of rotting flesh. Brem claimed to be some kind of priest or missionary. What could a cannibal claim as sacred? What could he say that thinking men would deem worth hearing? The Nietzscheans had gone to war because of the acts of the Magog--and still, the Dross turned a blind eye to the ravages of these marauders. No Magog could change what it was.
He shut them out of his mind, focusing his attention on the blade in his hand. It was a marvel of craftsmanship, sleek, deadly, and perfectly balanced, all impurities drawn out of the metal. He flipped it end-over-end, testing his reflexes. A minor meditation, but it kept his hands limber, the muscles warmed, ready for any demand he might make of them. He was not fool enough to believe himself in safe territory.
His sharp ears caught the sound of footsteps, almost covered by the Maru crew's chatter. He stilled, watching the door.
Dylan Hunt strode in, tall and proud as an Alpha. He wore the uniform of the High Guard of the Commonwealth, the colors of a broken people, without shame. Of course, Tyr realized. For Hunt, the Fall was only begun yesterday.
He carries the honor and glory the High Guard once claimed as
its rightful due. He knows nothing of three hundred years of
darkness. Then a more earthy thought flashed across his mind:
They bred them large, in those days. Born in a time of
plenty, Hunt showed what good nutrition and excellent training
could make of a man. He eyed the other man's physique, noting
the well-developed muscles, the economic movements. Not engineered, but still a fine specimen. This Hunt could win himself many wives, if he were Nietzschean. A woman brought rank, status, and the possibility of genetic immortality. For companionship, a man looked to other
proven men.
He listened as Hunt made his pitch to the crew of the Maru. He heard far more than the words. In the High Guard captain's voice, he heard the ever-elusive dancing star. 'One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.' He firmly quashed
that thought. It was too soon for such thoughts. Better to observe.
Valentine put up a sharp, but token, verbal resistance. He expected no less of her. Beka Valentine possessed determination and will, but she
also worked alongside a Magog. Her strength of purpose remained
unproven. Hunt, on the other hand... The captain had fire in his eyes, claiming space by sheer dint of personality, demanding respect by right of the territory he held against all other claimants. Alpha.
"What about you?" Hunt asked him.
"What about me?" Tyr returned evenly, not looking up from his blade. What, indeed? His Pride dead, this most recent failure diminished his prospects even further. No woman would see a benefit in claiming him. Any Pride would rightly question his genetic worth.
Hunt...had fought a one-man guerrilla war, and won. He knew the ground, yes...but not the time, not his enemy. Yet he succeeded. He knew the use of power--and yet had shown misguided compassion to a fallen enemy. He watched the light as it ran down his blade, as Hunt spoke the Words.
"--is to live dangerously'."
Tyr fixed the other man with a long, silent stare. He knew the Words. He had strength. He bore the seeds of a dancing star.
"You read the right books," he commented, carefully stripping his response of any real opinion. This, too, was a test. A challenge. Would Hunt perceive it?
"I'm a man of many talents," Hunt drawled.
Challenge met, returned. Tyr sheathed the blade and rose to his feet. He strode forward, eyes locked on the light-pale face of the High Guardsman. "For months, I have served fools. It is, perhaps, time to change that."
Give nothing that is not earned, he'd been taught. Repay what must be repaid. Hunt had given him a chance for future survival. Hunt never wavered, never looked away.
"Welcome to the Andromeda Ascendant,
all of you. We have a lot of work to do. Let's get started."
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