Mary Vandenberg stood amidst the group of surly Marines in the Claymore's ready-room, pacing back and forth as the company-sized crowd filed in and took their seats. The relationship between Colonel Vandenberg, an Air Force officer, and the jar-heads of whom she'd been fatefully forced to take command was strained - the bond of respect and trust they'd had for their late commander, Major John Hathaway, had been shattered along with the 113^th's ranks two weeks before at the small Invid outpost on the unremarkable world of 34 Derterelae IV. With Valiant's Marine contingent already seriously depleted of officers from previous actions, temporary command had shifted to other branches of the REF stationed aboard Valiant. Since she had the most experience in air-ground coordination in the battle-group, Mary Vandenberg had received the unwelcome "request" from both her superiors and the Naval commander aboard Valiant to step in for her dead friend Hathaway, at least until the battle-group could meet with the transport vessel Triathalon, as was scheduled in two more weeks. The Marathon-class fold- transport was bringing the fresh and rested 27^th REF Marine Battalion from Tirol to relieve the battered 113^th.

The fate of the 113^th was uncertain, and this added to the tension in the decimated unit. Odds were that it would be disbanded, with its surviving members to be consolidated with those of the 64^th and the 88^th, the battalions attached to the other Garfish-class destroyers in Valiant's battle-group - also seriously attrited in the recent battle to form a new unit, with the left-overs being split up and spread around the Corps. Needless to say, the unit's morale was low - the bond of camaraderie was strong, as was the pride in their own unit, and the Air Force woman now commanding them was merely the vinegar they were offered to drink as Marine High Command tossed lots for their robes.

Mary understood the situation, and understood that she had an uphill battle to keep morale up in the disgruntled ranks, and she hoped to achieve that goal by giving them a chance to do what they did best - to hit the beaches and fight for their comrades.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she intoned with sarcastic politeness, consciously imitating the style of their former commander. "I know most of you don't feel comfortable with me commanding you. I myself don't feel comfortable commanding you. We come from different worlds, different regimens of training, different theaters of engagement. But we have one mission, and we are all here to perform it, comfortable or not. Comfort, Marines, is what you will receive when you return to Tirol for leave in three weeks - and that comfort will be hard-earned. But for now, we must roll up our sleeves and get about to performing that mission we were sent in this charming corner of nowhere to perform - to serve Earth, to fight for her interests, and above all, to protect our own."

The reaction of the Marines to her opening remarks was uncertain - they were disciplined, low morale or not, and were dutifully respectful in her presence, even if she knew unkind words were being said behind her back.

Mary took off her cap and motioned to a viewscreen that displayed a map of Dahlori-4. "As most of you have undoubtedly already heard, you've lost more of your own today. The Claymore's communications officer received a message at oh-thirteen fifty from the last surviving pilot from Phoenix squadron. The squadron was attacked out of the blue on routine patrol, and though we have not been able to confirm, were killed save for one pilot. Now I know how you grunts feel about your fly-boys; I especially know about the close relationship the 113^th's fostered with these brave men and women that are always there for you when you call, who are the reason any of you at all came back from Derterelae IV. That's why we're sending you men - it's time to return the favor."

"Excuse me, sir," Lieutenant Glass, one of the platoon leaders, intoned. "Who is it that we heard from?"

"The known survivor is Lieutenant Austin. I know he's just a Navy puke they threw into your ranks for a few lessons on driving a Battloid on the ground, but I understand he's been all but adopted by the 113^th as one of you. That's the kind of inter-service camaraderie we like to be able to brag about to the top brass and civilians upstairs, so I hope it's true - and the way you men and women discharge this mission will be testimony to that."

"Your mission," Mary continued, "is a standard search-and rescue patrol. Get in there, extract our lost lamb, and find out what happened to him and his squad. If possible, we need you to confirm the destruction of the other fighters in Phoenix, and to recover the bodies of our men. We will make available to you all the necessary resources to perform the mission, but will not be able to provide much fire support from Claymore until we know more about the conditions that led to the destruction of the squadron. Valiant has been appraised of our situation, and she's on her way back, though she is not due in-system to assist for another week, and we can't expect help from the Longsword or the Dagger for two more days, so we're on our own for now."

Mary paused, and watched the Marines shift in their seats. It was hard to gauge their reaction to the mission - most were stone-faced and silent. "We don't even know who the enemy is, but we do know that they've been jamming ours and Lt. Austin's transmissions - hoping we'll be fooled into thinking it's caused by the magnetospheric disturbances in this system. The brief contact we made with Austin allowed us to triangulate his position to within a hundred-klick radius. Viper squad will perform a high- altitude reconnoiter and will give you some air cover - but they will have to be extra-careful, so don't expect too much of an assist from them. We'll be pulsing you intelligence updates every two hours, so keep your uplinks on and ready. Final mission briefing will take place in the hangar bay in three hours. Any questions? No? Then you're dismissed!"

The sounds of the forest had Michael on edge for the last several days. He had guessed that the enemy base was to the north-west, and thus decided to head to the south- east. If he could get far enough away, he could try to contact the ship again, after the solar disturbances had subsided. It there were in orbit to extend the jamming range (which he doubted), Claymore would have already destroyed them. All he had to do was get a hundred or so miles away, beyond what he expected to be the range of the jammer: not an easy task, in this wilderness.

Michael supposed he should be used to the jungle by now. But something had changed. The region he was moving into seemed darker and more sinister. The eyes in the blackness had vanished, but even more than before, he had a profound sense that he was being followed. There had been no sign from the Zentraedi mecha, and that worried him; he knew they'd keep searching for him, but at least he could see and hear the Quaedluun-rau suits from a mile off. The thought he might be pursued by less obtrusive means had him quite terrified.

He hadn't slept in two days, thanks to this uncertain feeling. And his use of the stimulants in his med-kit was already past the point of diminishing returns. He was stumbling more often, and spent hours at a time traipsing forward in a half- aware daze. Occasionally, he'd be startled by what might have been the sound of footsteps or breaking twigs, and he would crouch and freeze, searching the wood with the IIR scope on his crossbow. Sometimes he could almost make out a bipedal form, its signature just barely Regesstering over the background, but he couldn't be sure that it wasn't just his imagination.

"Boy, you've really gone and gotten yourself in it deep this time, Michael," he told himself, almost in a whisper, sitting down to a meal. Eating had lost a lot of its pleasure, when he began to feel the need to keep looking over his shoulder.

Finally, when his ears had picked up no sounds for several moments, he ripped into his food, and began to nibble away at it. He was down to one MRE package per day; he had to conserve food as long as he could, and he wouldn't even know where to begin with the native vegetation. Hunting for animals was out, for now at least, seeing as his only weapon had but nineteen bolts left.

Michael rose, and began to heave his backpack over his shoulder. Suddenly, he felt an arm reach around his neck, choking off his air supply. Michael staggered, trying to loosen the grip, and let his pack slip to the ground. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the voice of his martial arts instructor was booming. Baka! What's wrong with you? You learned the counter for this in your first week in the dojo! Have I taught you nothing?

Michael turned his chin into the inside of his attacker's elbow, and stamped hard down on its foot with a heel. Before the assailant could respond, Michael had thrown the figure over his shoulder, and took a defensive stance.

His enemy had landed on the ground well, crouching in an attack posture. Whoever this was, it was definitely humanoid. It wore a thick camouflaged bodysuit over a distinctly. . . feminine figure. The face and head was covered by a helmet with some sort of multi-optics package, and what looked to be a conventional rifle of ancient Tirolian design was tightly strapped to his stalker's back.

"Surrender, Micronian. You shall return with me either as a captive or a corpse," Michael heard a synthesized gender-neutral voice say in his own tongue. "But you shall return," the automated translator circuit added.

Michael smirked. "I don't think so." He considered swinging his crossbow forward, but he wouldn't have time to pump it, aim, and fire before his opponent was upon him. This fight would have to be hand-to-hand.

The camouflaged figure attacked first, far more quickly than Michael had anticipated. He managed to block blow after blow, but was giving ground with each strike. His enemy tried a chop to his neck, and Michael evaded it by ducking down and tried to sweep the attacker's feet with a kick.

She - Michael had decided his enemy was definitely female - saw through the maneuver. She jumped back quickly, and stood there, planning her next move.

Don't let her take the initiative, Michael imagined his master shouting. Michael shouted his unique kiai as he launched a series of punches and kicks into her abdomen. Several hit their mark, and though she was knocked back by the momentum, the strikes didn't seem to injure her much. Watch for the circle kick, his mind's version of Takuda-sensei told him. The fight was now going into high gear; Michael managed to land a few good hits on his enemy, and she on him. For her mass and height, this opponent was amazingly strong; as strong as Michael himself. His first instinct was to go for the head, but he'd be damned if he threw his fist into that helmet. Still, Michael was growing more aggressive and confident. His enemy was now faltering and retreating, blocking more than attacking. Watch for the circle kick, he imagined his instructor repeating. Michael reacted quickly as she threw a punch at his groin; he blocked it almost too easily. Suddenly, in a move too fast to Regesster, she spun around and struck Michael's head with her instep with tremendous force. Michael felt his teeth rattle in his skull, and staggered backwards in a daze.

You didn't watch for the circle kick, the gruff voice chastised. Michael spun slightly, and fell to his knees. He could hear his opponent closing on him from behind, ready to deliver the knock-out blow.

This time the voice in Michael's head was his own. When the going gets tough, the tough fight dirty! He rose quickly, grasping a heavy branch that had lain at his knees, and shattered it across the helmet of his enemy. While she was still stunned, Michael returned the earlier favor, and replied with a thundering circle kick of his own, again to the helmet, knocking the assailant to the ground. Now's my chance, Michael thought as he ran for his backpack. Reaching for a single strap, he leaped over some ground clutter towards an escape route.

Before he got far, he felt a tug on his backpack, and then felt the strap he was holding tear away; the other strap had caught on a log, and the backpack lay dangling over it. Michael turned to grab it, but the camouflaged attacker had unslung her rifle, and was bringing it to bear on Michael. "Shit!" he cried, hitting the dirt, and feeling the first projectile go over him. Michael scrambled behind a thicket of trees, and then ran as fast as his legs would carry him, leaving his enemy, the pack, his food, field radio, and any hope of escape behind.

A quick one, that, Meliana pondered as she gathered her wits and set about planning a strategy to search for the enemy that had just barely eluded her. And full of fight in him. This mission may provide more of a challenge than I'd hoped.

Meliana opened the Micronian's backpack, and began to rummage through its contents. Field radio, rations, shelter, medical supplies, tools for capturing food. Meliana contemplated the immediate consequences of the find. He will no longer be able to contact his ship, nor will they be able to locate him. His food supply will be limited to whatever is in his belt-pouches, and whatever he can find in the woods. His load will be lighter, meaning that he can probably move faster than I now, at least until he grows weak with hunger. That should be about two days from now. I will have to hurry before his trail becomes too cold.

Meliana scanned the tracks of the Micronian she had been assigned to capture or kill. He was heading further to the south-west, presumably to put more distance between himself and her base. She appropriated some of the Micronian's rations, closed his weatherproof backpack, and hung it in a distinctive-looking tree, attaching a small transponder to it, should she need to recover the item for the use by the Scientist Triumvirate.

The Nous-gran'diel checked her rifle briefly as a matter of course, and began to set out again after her prey. His trail was easy to pursue for several hours worth of march - apparently, the Micronian was running at top speed to put some raw distance between himself and her. She marveled at the endurance this unenhanced individual possessed - he was in a near-sprint for several miles, before he apparently slowed to a forced march. Even she would have a hard time keeping this pace, even more so because she did not have his great stride. But after what must have been several hours, the trail became harder to pick up. The Micronian was not only robust and swift, but he was clever as well. He began to employ the forest paths made by the native fauna, and made certain to interrupt his travels by wading or swimming along any stream he encountered, forcing her to carefully search the banks both up- and down-stream to find where he left the body of water.

Three days passed in the hunt - too quickly for Meliana, who continued to try to follow his trail at night, using the enhanced sensors in her helmet package. It was no easy feat, and her target was lasting longer than she could have possibly imagined. Fear, she mused smugly. Fear can be a great motivator for the doomed; no Zentraedi should forget that, lest he be taken unawares by those that can experience it.

Meliana stopped to rest and eat. Her heightened activity had her genetically enhanced metabolism running as fast as it could, and her stores of energy were depleted. For safety's sake, she climbed high into the arboreal cover of the forest before she tried to take her respite, should her prey double back on her and catch her in her less alert rest mode. Finding a branch that would support her weight, and from which she would not easily fall, Meliana settled in for the night, opening one of the alien's ration-packets and exploring its contents. Utensil, she noted, looking at the "spork" that came with the MRE. She munched lightly on what she decided was some sort of hard baked pastry while pondering the sheets of paper included in the package. Ahh. . . she mused. Defecatory wipes, she decided. How convenient. The meal's main course was apparently some sort of reddish meat sauce in noodles, and was very pleasant to the taste. These Micronians live well, Meliana decided. It is a good thing Zentraedi do not receive such fine food; otherwise we might begin to forget the Imperative of the Masters in favor of the imperative of the stomach.

The Zentraedi soldier finished the meal, and snacked on some of her own rations somewhat, to make up for the caloric loss she had endured in her feverish pursuit. Finally, her meal done, she closed her eyes for rest. Perhaps I will dream tonight, dream of battle and glory and praise, she thought, echoing a typical Zentraedi ritual expression. And tomorrow I shall earn it.

A shot rang out in the distance, startling Michael as he stomped through the thick brush in the lightly wooded foothills of the mountain range that forebodingly separated him from his goal. He heard a secondary explosion nearby from the bullet's detonation, but couldn't locate either the direction from which the shot was fired.

"Damn!" he exclaimed aloud. "Not again!"

Michael had spent the last day hiding out in the shell of a tree that had partially burned some time ago, and had healed - leaving a large cavity near its enormous trunk. He was hungry - though the energy bars in his belt pack managed to keep him going, even if they were not satisfying his hunger - and all his body ached from extreme over-exertion and stung from the small scratches he'd received stumbling through this world's closest imitation of a briar patch two days ago. His uniform stank terribly, and he was afraid his jaunts in and out of the water might expose him to some alien form of pneumonia or worse.

But above all, he was simply scared and tired. Even a good twelve hours of sleep the previous day couldn't restore much vigor to him, and he was having a hard time focusing his eyes. And had he been jumpy before he was first attacked by his pursuer, he was very near hysterics now. So he did the only thing he could do in his mental and physical state, faced with the prospect that his pursuer had finally caught up to him again: he ran.

Michael felt like he must have run five miles in the forest and his heart felt as if it was about to burst. How the hell did she find me? Michael demanded of himself, throwing his weakened body around a thick-trunked tree. His enemy was close behind him; every so often, she'd take a pot- shot at him, and Michael would flinch and keep running. Finally, her weapon hit its mark, as Michael felt something impact the flesh in his thigh. The bullet passed completely through the muscle, and exploded three feet in front of him. Had Michael not been too preoccupied with the pain and not falling on his face he would have been happy the wound was not more serious.

Michael hit the ground in a practiced roll; that was the first thing Takuda-sensei had taught him. After dragging himself behind an old log, he unslung the crossbow and pumped it, scanning from behind cover for the enemy.

He didn't have to wait too long. A figure burst out of from behind a tree, and Michael aimed quickly and fired. The bolt sank into a tree inches away from the figure's helmet, but it had the desired effect; the assassin hit the forest floor for safety. Michael scampered away behind another tree, hearing the sounds of exploding bullets striking the log he'd used for cover. Michael pumped and fired twice again from behind a tree; again, narrowly missing. The bolts sank deep into the soft earth near the prone form.

Before his enemy had a chance to rise again, Michael had already begin to stagger away as fast as his injury would allow.

He didn't see his pursuer again for several hours. Apparently her mission had been to take him alive if possible, and she was likely hoping his injury would wear him down. And as far as Michael could tell, she was likely right. Still, if she's trying to keep me alive, Michael pondered, why is she using exploding bullets? Probably they only want enough of me to return to answer questions - or if there are Robotech Masters nearby, to be put to a zylonic mind probe and then dispose of me. He was bleeding profusely, and didn't have the time to make a proper tourniquet for his leg. Michael continued to stumble forward, refusing to merely give up. He had a duty to resist capture, and he didn't trust Zentraedi to be particularly humane, micronized or no.

Eventually, Michael's leg failed him, and he collapsed. Michael uttered a brief prayer: "Om namo Amitabha Buddha", and pulled himself with great agony back to his feet.

His sight was greeted, not with a vision of a rescuing Bodhisattva, but with the cold reality of his enemy emerging from behind a tree. Michael swung his weapon around quickly and fired. This time, his aim was true. The crossbow bolt sank deep into his enemy's abdomen, with enough force to knock her completely off her feet. Michael began to turn to stagger away, when his enemy, the arrow still in her belly, rose and fired again, again missing by inches. Michael ducked for cover, and cocked the bow once more, firing again in her direction. The bolt went wild, sinking into a tree trunk some distance from where he was aiming.

How the hell is she still standing? he asked himself as he limped away, hoping to find better cover. She fired again, falling short of her mark. The wound was definitely affecting her aim. Michael pumped and fired again; the bolt pierced her left arm. Michael cocked the crossbow again, but before he could aim, she raised her rifle with the right arm, and fired it one-handed. Michael screamed in agony as the bullet pierced his right shoulder and emerged out the other side. This time it exploded mere inches after leaving his body, and he felt fragments of the bullet penetrate his back. Michael collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony.

He heard the footsteps of his inhuman adversary behind him, and the sound of a new bulled bring chambered. "Do you surrender?" he was asked by the synthesized voice, as he felt the rifle barrel being pressed into his back.

"Yes." Michael acquiesced. He slowly rose, deeply in pain, leaving the crossbow on the ground. "I'll surrender. . ." With every ounce of strength he had left, he spun around and grabbed the alien rifle, tearing it away from its owner, and smashed it across her helmet, shattering some of the electronics inside. His enemy dazed by the force of the blow, Michael pushed her away with the butt of the rifle, and swung it around to fire at her. ". . . when Hell freezes over!" he cried. Michael grimaced as he pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened; the weapon had jammed. Michael threw the rifle to the ground in disgust and quickly reached for the crossbow, brought it to bear on his enemy, who was still staggering backwards, and fired. The bolt pierced her chest, and she sank to the ground, emitting one last gasp.

Michael looked over the body for a brief moment, and turned away, leaving a trail of blood behind him as he vanished back into the jungle's darkness.

Michael could hear the river in front of him; he was near some rapids and noted the splashing and gurgling of the water from some distance away. When he finally stumbled out of the brush, he looked upon a mountain stream, foaming and rushing over the many obstacles, rocks and broken tree limbs, that blocked its path.

Austin knew he was in bad shape. He'd taken a bullet in the leg and in the shoulder, and he was lucky that they had overpenetrated before they exploded; otherwise he'd be dead now - or captive. Now it was time to lick his wounds.

Michael wondered how to get back to his survival pack. No matter; he had an antiseptic solution and a collapsible water-pan on his utility belt. Michael unfolded the pan and dipped it into the water, and then added the sterilizing tablet. The water turned faint purple; and Michael took a cloth from another pocket, and dipped it in the solution. He painstakingly removed his blood-soaked shirt, and began to wipe the blood from his chest and back. The solution burned as it entered the open wounds, but Michael only winced - that meant it was working. He finished cleaning that wound, and began to bandage his shoulder.

Michael considered his predicament. No radio, no food, no motorcar, not a single luxury. His only supplies were in a scant utility belt, and a half-empty crossbow. And he was wounded. What if they send more of those. . . things against me, he thought. The dread began to surround and overwhelm him. It was over. I'll never get off this rock alive! he thought.

I can't think like that, he told himself. Damnit soldier, brace up! But his heart just sunk deeper into his chest. He shook his head, lay down with his eyes to the twilight sky, and did the only thing he could think of. Softly, barely a whisper, he began to sing to himself.

"Freude, schöner Götterfunken, Tochter aus Elysium. . ." His German was rusty, but he knew the choral part of Beethoven's 9^th by heart. It was the only piece of Classical music (apart, perhaps, from Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody #2) that he truly enjoyed.

Michael began to feel a little better, and sat up to clean and bind his leg-wound. Somehow, the pain was less intense, and he laughed at himself for his former despair, slowly beginning to lose himself in the song, even going so far as to mimic the orchestral parts (albeit crudely), singing ever louder with each successive verse. "Froh, wie Seine Sonnen fliegen durch des Himmels pracht'gen Plan," was his challenge to the foreboding jungle.

Something in the forest stirred; and Michael stopped singing. Was it one of the animals that were following him earlier, or was it that. . . what ever that thing was? Or was it an illusion - merely frayed nerves? He knew he shouldn't have broadcasted his location like that, and he waited. Convinced he was just seeing things, he resumed, albeit more quietly. "Laufet BrŸder euhre Bahn!" The forest stirred again. The figure, still clad from neck to toe in thick camouflaged cloth, bleeding profusely from several crossbow bolts yet imbedded deeply into the assassin's body, emerged from the dark wood. Michael stopped singing again, and she halted her hesitant approach.

Michael looked for the crossbow, but it was out of reach. And she seemed to have lost her weapon anyway.

Michael started to rise, and she backed off slightly. "YakkŽ?" she said. The translator circuit must be broken, Michael reasoned.

It was the Meltran dialect, spoken by female Zentraedi. 'What is it?'

"Yakk - de tantz?" Michael replied in the Zentran dialect, which was more familiar to him. 'What do you mean?'

"DekarchŽ eruker' zaan. YattŽ?" 'That noise you make. What is it?'

The song! Michael thought. He finished the verse: "Freudig wie ein Held zum Siegen!"

She approached closer - just out of reach. "What is it?" she repeated in her tongue. Her voice was very weak, and Michael could see that she'd lost a huge amount of blood. How she was still conscious was a mystery.

"What is it?" she repeated one more time, and collapsed.

Michael caught her, and carried her to the river. He was still hurting himself, but managed to lay her onto his metallized plastic emergency blanket.

He tore off her helmet, and watched as her long pale-green hair spilled into his lap. Her face was remarkably beautiful and familiar, and her eyes stared up at him with puzzlement and fascination. "What is it?" she gasped, barely a whisper.

"Lie still; you are hurt!" Michael ordered in her language. He took out his survival knife, and cut off her uniform. The crossbow bolts had to be removed and the wounds closed, if she were to survive.

She feebly tried to resist, but her strength was spent. Michael wondered if he were doing the right thing in trying to save her, but she was his prisoner now, and he had a responsibility to her and to the REF. It was a matter of duty.

"This will be painful," he told her gently as he began to work on removing the arrows. One had passed through her arm, on in her lower chest, and a third in her abdomen.

Michael removed the head from the one that had passed through her arm, and pulled out the arrow. That was the easy one, he told himself. He noticed that she had, for the most part, already stopped bleeding, but he still had to get the other two out.

One was deep in her chest, possibly penetrating a lung; it had passed cleanly between two ribs. She hadn't been bleeding noticeably from her mouth, but he couldn't be sure.

"I'm going to have to cut into you to remove this," he told her. "Can you take the pain?"

She nodded, and Michael dipped his knife in the sterile solution and cut her open, making a clean incision between the ribs. Before long, he found the arrow-head, and carefully pulled it out of her, taking care not to do any more damage than was already done.

Remarkably, she hadn't fainted from the pain, and Michael looked into her eyes as he started to stitch up the chest wound and clean it. She was staring at in him in puzzlement: why was he trying so hard to save her life?

Michael took her hand and squeezed; remarkably (for a Zentraedi) she squeezed back. "One more," he told her. She closed her eyes and waited. Michael cut into her abdomen and examined the wound. Luckily, the bolt hadn't punctured any organs, but there was some internal bleeding, and Michael used his limited knowledge to try to control it. He pulled out the bolt, and closed, finishing up with another wipe with the antiseptic solution.

Night was coming on. And if it were as cold as the last several, she wouldn't make it. Michael grimaced and checked his own wounds again before staggering off to assemble wood for a fire. She watched him carefully, but remained silent. Michael got the fire going, and brought her some water.

"How are you?" he asked.

"Weak," she replied. "Why do you do this for me?"

"Shhh. Talk later. For now, you rest."

Michael walked over to her and knelt by her side. "You've lost a lot of blood, and it's going to get very cold tonight. We need to conserve warmth." Michael lay down beside his enemy, and covered the both of them with the blanket.

Her body was very cold, but she didn't show any signs of shock or hypothermia. Still, she was weak, and it was clear that her life hung on by a thread.

Michael thought it odd that she didn't resist. Meltran warriors were notorious for their tenacity, even when micronized as she was. But her response to the injuries was peculiar. Michael knew many micronized Zentraedi, and had never seen them come this tough.

The woman nuzzled against him, craving his heat, and Michael could already feel the warmth returning to her lithe body.

Tomorrow should be an interesting day, Michael thought as he drifted to sleep.

Copyright © 1996 Robert Morgenstern, Peter Walker
Last Updated: Friday, April 5, 1996 1:32 PM