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Almost there. Almost. Only a slender thread kept his left arm tethered to the bedpost. Grav had considered which limb to free first and had decided to work on the left arm, sawing at the chain closest to the one encircling the bedpost.

And…got it! The rung cut all the way through the plastic. He pumped his left fist in the air, the loose chain dangling from his wrist. He’d worry about how to get the chain off after he escaped. He reconnected the dangling chain to the bedpost by inserting a tie the “wrong” way so it looked connected but could be removed.

Legs or right arm next? Once both arms were free, he could escape at the first opportunity—but being hobbled would slow him down. However, once unchained from the bed, he could search for a better implement and cut all the bands and be totally free within minutes.

Arm, he decided, and started sawing on a plastic link. He hadn’t expected to make this much progress—but he hadn’t anticipated her being gone so long. The town wasn’t that far away. She should be able to walk it in a little over an hour. What could be taking so long?

Now that he had a means to free himself, he no longer worried about starving to death if the woman encountered his comrades. But he hoped nothing bad had befallen her.

As Drek’s aide, Grav had moved with the ground troops, but as “support staff,” his duties did not entail direct contact with the enemy. However, the argument, “Not my job” would be considered moot if anyone discovered he’d come face-to-face with a human and failed to act. Although the takeover had been aborted, allegiance to the empire required he kill any survivors he encountered. They would expect him to kill Laurel. Progg did not leave loose ends.

He had the ability to kill her now. With an arm free, he could snap her neck or grab her weapon and put a bullet through her chest.

The idea turned his stomach. Perhaps he felt she’d earned the right to live after fighting so hard to survive. Or maybe because killing her seemed senseless. The Progg didn’t kill to kill. They eliminated their opponents painlessly and instantaneously—to gain something. Nobody suffered. Except maybe the survivors, but there weren’t supposed to be any.

He heard a scuffling. She’s back! Relief washed over him, and he shoved the rung and the spare ties under his mattress.

When she appeared, he was sitting on his bunk, studying his toes.

“Oh, good. You’re still here,” she said with what sounded like sarcasm.

“Couldn’t leave without saying goodbye,” he fired off, getting to his feet. “You changed clothing.” She’d left wearing faded-blue pants, a black shirt with a pouch in front and a hood on the back. She’d changed into tight gray pants and a long-sleeved gray-and-white striped shirt. Same weapon though. It was still strapped to her hip.

Her hair looked…fluffier.

He sniffed. “You smell different.” He detected the musk of human, and her own fragrance, but new odors, not unpleasant, not exactly, partially masked her natural scent.

“I went to my apartment in town. Got some clothes.” She brushed her hands down her arms and averted her eyes. “Took a hot shower.” Her gaze snapped to his. “But thank you for insinuating I smelled bad.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes.” He resigned himself to another flavorless food bar. They tasted worse than field rations, which he’d never had to eat because as the admiral’s top aide, he got served whatever Drek ate. Since he’d been on his own, he’d foraged for food. Some of it had been so disgusting he couldn’t force it down, while some of it bordered on tasty. He had learned not to open the glass cases in the grocery stores. Good Zok, the stench.

“You’re making a face,” she said.

“I’m recalling the spoiled food in the grocery stores.”

“Yeah, you don’t want to open any freezer doors.” Her light, almost-musical laughter caused an inexplicable pang of pleasure and guilt.

He had nothing to feel guilty for. While his people had almost erased an entire civilization from existence and had caused hardship and suffering for the survivors, the hegemony of the strong over the weak was the way of the galaxy.

Powerful planetary nations had been conquering weaker ones since beings took to the stars. Without galactic allies and lacking the technology to defend itself, but being highly habitable, Earth had been a prime target. If the Progg hadn’t invaded, someone else would have. The Progg just got there first.

To their detriment. They’d paid the price with a pyrrhic victory. Earth rulers had had a secret weapon and didn’t even know it.

Laurel left, taking the metal bucket, returning with an empty pail and a spade. Keeping an eye on him, she scraped at the floor where the urine had spilled and dumped the smelly dirt into the bucket and took it away.

“Thank you,” he said gratefully. Removal of the layer of dirt didn’t completely eliminate the odor, but it had reduced it.

“You’re a pain in the ass.” She set a commode at the head of the bed. “Use this.” She moved toward the exit. “I’ll get us something to eat.”

While she was gone, he tried out the commode.

When she didn’t return right away, he began to wonder. Had she left the cave? Had they run out of food bars? That wouldn’t be bad, except he had to eat. He’d begun to wonder how far she’d gone to get food, when she brought in two plates, one delicious-smelling, the other he prayed wasn’t intended for him. “Are you an herbivore or a carnivore?” she asked.

“We do not eat animals,” he said, repulsed by the idea.

“Oh, that’s where you draw the line?” She settled the good dish on the table in front of him. “I had a feeling you’d be difficult. Rigatoni with marinara sauce. No meat or cheese.

“Fork.” She slapped down a flimsy utensil that would be useless as a weapon. She was cautious but not careful enough. She’d forgotten about the ladder under the bed.

“Thank you for the vegetarian meal.” Her consideration surprised him, as did the fact that she intended to eat with him. She settled on the other side of the room with the foul fare. He could smell the meat, but he wouldn’t hold it against her that she ate animal flesh.

“You’ve already knocked over a bucket of urine. The last thing I need is you getting sick and puking all over the place,” she said.

The mention of sickness reminded him about the sneeze. He scrutinized her for signs of illness. She appeared healthy—even more robust than in the morning.

“No more sneezes?” he asked.

“None you need to worry about.”

That didn’t sound reassuring, but with a fatalism, he realized there was nothing he could do about it. Just my luck I’ll escape and then die of an Earth disease like Admiral Drek.

They ate in silence for a while.

“What do you intend to do with me?” he asked.

She took a long time before replying, “I don’t know.”

“You could let me go,” he suggested.

“So you could kill me?”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

She snorted.

“You’re going to keep me forever?”

“I haven’t decided what to do.”

You could kill me. He refrained from suggesting that option, although objectively, for her, it was the best one.

“Did you have a good day?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“There was nobody around—like I said.”

“No. Not so far.” She tucked her hair behind her ears, drawing his attention to the long, gleaming tresses. He itched to touch her hair and see if it was as soft as it looked. Progg groomed their coarse, quill-like hair into a strip over the top and the back of their skulls.

“Do the Progg return to the towns they’ve already been through?” she asked.

“Generally…not,” he replied cautiously. The situation was complicated, and surprisingly, he cared about her safety. “But you should remain vigilant in case someone passes by.”

She blinked. “You sound like you’re warning me.”

“Like you said, if something happens to you, I’ll starve to death. I wish to keep my meal provider alive,” he replied. He had the means to free himself now. What happened to her didn’t matter. Except, it did.

“Your concern is touching.”

No, it was disconcerting. One did not sympathize or empathize with the enemy—even if a takeover campaign had been aborted. Especially not then.

Danger to her and others, although greatly reduced, still existed. Ground forces didn’t revisit areas they had cleansed, unless they had reason to believe stragglers remained, which rarely occurred because the Progg were thorough. Do it once, do it right. However, the unexpected retreat had left a wake of uncertainty and chaos.

An unknown number of Progg remained on Earth, their frame of mind and intentions a mystery. Would they follow their last set of orders? Had they even gotten the same communique he had? As the admiral’s chief aide, he enjoyed a status the rank and file did not have.

A certain number might have deserted their posts before or after the retreat. The GM never admitted publicly to desertions, but having worked alongside Admiral Drek, Grav knew it was a problem. However, just because a man deserted didn’t mean he’d be friendly to humans. While some deserters were conscientious objectors opposed to the cleansing, others were scofflaws and cowards unsuited to military service.

He studied his guard, fascinated by the vibrancy of her hair and how her mouth and throat moved when she chewed and swallowed. Her particular scent, growing more enticing, wafted across the chamber.

It surrounded him, beckoned him to inhale and record the aroma as an indelible memory. A Progg’s hypersensitive olfaction was an atavistic remnant harkening to One Million PT, the pre-tech era. On smell alone, he could track her, locate her wherever she went. Thankfully, he found the odor pleasant. Too pleasant—but he avoided dwelling on his emotional reaction.

Having a single opposable thumb on each hand didn’t hinder her dexterity. She wielded the fork and other implements with ease. Then again, humans would craft tools to fit their hands.

“Did you see any other humans in town?” Was the one who shot him still around? Of course, he hadn’t been shot in town but in the woods.

She hesitated. Then: “No.”

Was she telling the truth? Or did she wish to hide the fact she’d encountered others? Nothing was simple or straightforward anymore. He sighed.

She stared at him with a question in her eyes.

“You and I do not share much trust,” he said.

She snorted. “On that, we can agree.”

After they finished their meals, she collected his plate and the harmless fork. “You are no longer gray. Your skin is silver again.”

He glanced down. His shirt, which she’d cut open to tend his wound, hung on his frame, leaving his chest bare. She was right. His natural luminescence had returned. “How did you know this is normal for me?”

“In the early days, there were news videos.” Her lips tightened, and she left the room.