AN: Sorry for the wait gentle readers - this one took even longer than usual to complete. Thanks for sticking with me so far and for the amazing reviews. Warning: There are some not very nice things happening in this chapter - please don't let it put you off though.

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Her brain reeling from the information given by the soldier, Buffy tried to get out from under Spike’s slumped form. He became aware of her struggles just enough to pull away and roll to one side, groaning. Buffy scrambled to her feet, snatching up the stained shirt to cover herself before grabbing Spike’s pants, boots and jacket, thrusting them at the still woozy male. He made no move to get dressed so she helped him, all the while keeping a close eye on the girl staring insolently at them. The soldier said nothing more, just raised her rifle meaningfully. With Buffy’s arm wrapped around Spike’s waist to keep him steady, the grim faced trio began to make their way back to the tent.

A short time later they emerged from the woods to a chilling scene. The trivet and heavy cooking pot lay half buried, smoking in the fire, its contents bubbling and spitting on the remaining embers. The wooden bench was upended, clumps of healing herbs trampled into the earth. A second soldier whipped his head round as they approached, weapon ready, smirking at the sight of Buffy wearing only a shirt. From the ripped doorway of the tent came sounds of fabric tearing, metal objects crashing to the ground and fragile things being smashed. Buffy stared around her in hurt wonder as her new home was needlessly destroyed.

A shrill scream, followed by a high-pitched growl, pierced the clearing. Spike, who until now had been silent, staring at the ground, jerked his head up. In a blink he was tearing towards the sounds, jabbing a bemused male in the gut as he passed by, disappearing into the trees with inhuman speed. The female soldier belatedly swung her gun at his retreating back, only to have her arm shattered by a blow from Buffy as she screamed, “No!”

The shot went wide.

Half a dozen men, led by Finn, came swarming out of the tent. Briefly taking in her dishevelled appearance, and that of his groaning comrades, he barked out orders. “Holden, Watts, keep her here and call a medic for Kennedy and Bright. The rest of you, follow me. Spread out, men.”

Feeling fleetingly insulted that he had only allocated her two guards, Buffy waited till Finn and his men had disappeared before swiftly disabling them, then she too ran after Spike.

A wave of pain sent her crashing to her knees. Spike’s hurting. Without questioning how she knew this, Buffy scrambled back up. Adrenalin fuelled her steps till the pain blanked out. Moving in a wide arc to avoid the others, she reached the scene first.

Spike was crouching, golden-eyed, in front of a distressed Tarah and Dorn, his body shaking violently as, one by one, the semicircle of men around him fired their tasers. Blue electric current flickered along the wires embedded in his skin, but Spike refused to be subdued. So many shocks, but with each new jolt he simply bared blood flecked fangs and roared back in challenge.

Dorn and Tarah were standing with their backs against a large tree, snarling. Dorn's dress was ripped down the front and she clutched the remaining pieces tightly against her chest. Both girls had tears streaking down their savage Aurelian faces, faces thick with bruises. A man writhed on the ground, white-faced and screaming, clutching his genitals as ruby red poured through his fingers. Bloody pieces of flesh and gristle lay in the grass beside him.

Another man lay dead.

“Stop it!” screamed Buffy. “Stop this NOW!” She leaped over the stretched wires to stand before Spike, daring them to fire at her. She didn't have time to care that her shirt gaped open, leaving her a half naked target, or that the stitches on her thigh had re-opened.

The men hesitated. Two even released the button on their ultratasers. Before the others could decide what to do, Finn arrived. “Don’t kill it. Secure the hostiles for questioning and get more medics. We’re returning to base camp.” He looked hard at Buffy with something like disappointment in his eyes. “Bring her too.”

Fully alert now, the ring of soldiers converged on the little group. Spike growled warningly but Buffy turned to him with a desperate look.

“Please, Spike, no. You can’t fight bullets.”

Holding her gaze as if to say, ‘That’s what you think!’ Spike instead reverted back to his human features. The men roughly dragged him upright, twisting his arms behind his back before securing his wrists tightly. They did the same to Buffy. The two other women, perceived as a lesser threat, were cuffed with their hands in front, allowing a tearstained Dorn to hide her exposed breasts. Buffy didn’t have that luxury.

Glancing at her companions, the women pale and upset, Spike snarling at every unnecessary push and shove, she had to wonder who the enemy was here.

Buffy managed to reach Dorn’s side. “Dorn, those soldiers, did… Did they?”

Dorn bit her lip and shook her head, looking down.

“No, thank the goddess” Tarah spoke for her in a low voice. “But they came close. If Spike hadn’t got there in time… Please, you mustn’t blame Spike for attacking them like that. He had to protect us - that’s all that mattered to him.”

Strangely, Buffy couldn’t find it in her to be disgusted by Spike’s idea of retribution; no, her disgust was reserved for her own kind.


***

Half an hour later they were at HQ, the perimeter fencing and gate repaired after the recent battle damage. Patrols were in evidence and no civilians in view. The group were led inside the main control block, a grey utilitarian building of reinforced concrete, now bristling with activity.

Commander Giles was leaning over the shoulder of a small red haired woman who was keying in data at a furious pace. The large screen in front of them showed grey fuzz which could have represented anything. Several holocubes, dotted around the room, were more revealing, each on a repeat loop. Two perfect Watcher stations hung suspended in an inky, starlit background; one minute intact shelters housing a thousand human souls, the next a silent yellow fireball exploding into space, winking out as the oxygen was consumed, leaving behind dead shells and jagged debris.

Giles straightened up as he heard the newcomers arrive, eyes closed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked tired. When he opened them they widened briefly then narrowed on Finn.

“What the hell is this?”

“We captured the hostile as instructed, sir, and found two more at their camp.”

“And can you explain why Ensign Summers is also a prisoner?”

“Summers has been compromised by the enemy. She broke Private Kennedy’s arm and was protective of the male. She can’t be trusted, sir."

“And did you take the trouble to explain what was going on?”

“There wasn’t time, sir. The male escaped and killed one of my men. He also ripped off Private Warren’s... privates, with his teeth, before we captured him.”

Giles took in the state of the two Aurelian women.

“Did your orders include attacking defenceless women?”

“Warren and Smith may have got a bit carried away, sir." Finn looked more defiant than apologetic, finishing, "They aren’t human.”

Giles became very still. His voice, when it came, was sub-zero.

“You are not barbarians. I distinctly ordered you to bring Spike in for questioning. Unharmed. This order would also apply the two females under his protection. Human or otherwise, your men did not have the right to behave like animals.”

He turned to Dorn and Tarah, his expression grave. “Ladies, I must apologise for your treatment at the hands of these… men, but these are desperate times, and I’m afraid that I must detain you until further notice.”

“Finn, take the Aurelians to Containment Cell One…and get out of my sight. I’ll deal with you later.”

Finn glanced at Buffy, not daring to ask why she hadn’t been included with the others.”

“You still here, Finn?”

Finn knew better than to argue.


As Spike and his women were led away, he called out softly. “Buffy, you can’t think we had a hand in this?”

She exchanged a long look before answering. “I’m sorry, Spike. You, Dorn and Tarah have been nothing but kind. But this… I just don’t know what to think.”

A few days, all it had taken to overturn her world-view of the enemy, find family, feel real hope for the first time. Had she been completely naïve to let her guard down? Spike could see the conflict in her eyes and gave her a brief, sympathetic smile, before leaving.

Turning she moved to stand in front of one of the holocubes, watching the metal ship bursting apart then reforming, over and over again.

Mesmerised, it took a while to register that Giles had given her permission to get herself cleaned up and ‘dressed more appropriately’. After a long shower, and with her wound fixed by medical rather than mystical means, Buffy returned wearing regulation uniform and boots. They felt strange and drab, perfectly matching the way she felt.


“I’m sorry, Buffy. This is all my fault.”

“Sir?”

Giles gave a deep sigh before continuing. “I said I’m sorry. I encouraged you to enter into marriage with an Aurelian. I know I asked you to spy for me, but, deep down, I wanted the truce to be real. I had hoped you’d be, if not happy, then at least content to be such a vital part of the peace process. It was stupid and wrong of me.”

“Are you sure it was the Aurelians she asked in a small voice, one that drifted away as she searched for any sign of doubt on Giles' solemn face.

“General Anjell and his troops disappeared from their camp right before the attack. An amazing co-incidence, don’t you think?”

A large part of Buffy wanted it all to be some horrible mistake, but who else could have caused such devastation? Her head was full of questions. Why did Spike bother to save her life if he saw her as the enemy? And even if willing to play the innocent husband while Anjell made his move, why allow Dorn and Tarah to stay and face retribution too?

“Private Kennedy did mention that, but I thought they couldn’t reach us in space. That we were safe.”

“So did I, Buffy, so did I.”

Just then the girl with red hair came into the room balancing a tray, her sweet elfin face lit up when she saw Buffy.

“I thought it was you. Hi, I’m Willow. Do you remember me? I was sent to join the nerd squad just as you got all chosen to be a protector. Here.” She juggled her arms about, removing a cup with one hand to give to her. “It’s called Kush but it tastes like real chocolate, plus, bonus, there are cookies too. The others say it’s poisoned as it’s grown in Aurelia, but, pfft, anything that tastes this good can’t be bad, right?”

Buffy couldn’t help but smile at Willow’s enthusiasm and took a sip. It was true, this was pleasure in a cup and she knew she would be sampling it again at every opportunity. She greedily took two cookies, reminded that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

“Of course I remember you, Willow.” And she did. The shy blushing girl with a fearsome intellect had tentatively tried to be friends years ago, but Buffy had been too insecure to let her near. Before she could change her mind they’d been assigned to different stations.

Giles took a cup from Willow too, and a cookie that he proceeded to dunk in the rich brown liquid.

“Now, back to business.”

At his words, Willow settled back in front of the puter to continue her task. Buffy gravitated towards the screen.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, I’m trying to get a service feed to work on Watcher 10. We know the station is intact but no-one is responding, and we can’t get pictures from inside.”

“What about the main cams?”

“Nope, not working. They’ve been destroyed or disabled. But here, see? There’s another system that most people don’t think about; the service bots scan each part of the ship so they can deal with problems - spillages, worn seals on doors, that sort of thing - then they go and sort it out, or report it to the main puter if they can’t. I’m trying to tap into their codes, then I can translate the codes into visuals."

As if by magic, the streams of numbers racing up the edge of the blank screen froze. Three numbers had changed to green words, repeated; decoded, decoded, decoded.

“Ooh, look!” Willow gave a delighted squeal before touching each word.

Abruptly, the grey vanished, revealing three small rectangles, each showing a different scene. The light was different, infrared; the view distorted by the fisheye lens of whatever machine was scanning the room. Reaching forward again, Willow touched the screen and the first picture enlarged to fill it.

They were looking at the galley. Long smears of gravy, or something else entirely, stretched across a room littered with trays, cutlery, bodies.

Wait.

Several bots were skimming the floor, determined to remove the mess. The one they had tapped into moved forward, thin telescopic arms outstretched. Transfixed, they saw its progress towards one of the still figures. It was a woman, lying on her back, her throat torn open. What looked like sausages lay on her stomach till Buffy recognised them for what they were. She tasted lemons as she tried not to gag.

As if puzzled, the bot paused before squirting cleaning fluid on the poor woman’s face, dabbing at it with a cloth. A man lay beyond her, his head cracked open like an Easter egg. In the red light his blood appeared almost black. There was so much of it.

Willow lurched from her chair and, without a word, ran from the room. Checking that Buffy was okay, Giles closed the first picture and touched the next one.

They were facing an open doorway marked AGRIPOD. To the left a sign hung loosely by one corner. 'NOW RIPE AND READY: Tomatoes 5 credits each. Strawberries 3 credits. Cherries 1 credit. Coming soon... Genuine pippin apples - first harvest in space!'

The door itself had been wrenched open. What looked like wide claw marks left gleaming metal shavings curling up from the paintwork. Again, the floor was filthy, this time from muddy footprints - some humanoid, others definitely not. The bot was diligently removing the evidence.

Satisfied the images were on record, Giles moved onto the last one. Willow returned just as the final scene came into view.

They were in the recreation room, the only place onboard where an effort had been made to provide a homely atmosphere. Games, both old fashioned and virtual, lay scattered about; visors and touch pads vying with chess pieces and playing cards for attention. A retro jukebox, glowing in the corner, indicated that music was playing. The place was in a shambles.

Instead of utter stillness, here there was movement. A small blonde woman was sitting in a large swivel chair, dainty booted feet propped up on a table. She wore tight leather pants and was idly dipping a finger into her cleavage to retrieve a trickle of liquid before popping it into her mouth with a grin.

A young man lay face down in front of her. A male in a dark shiny uniform strutted over to her and placed gnarled hands on her shoulders before dipping down to kiss her brow. He was bald with shrivelled features, a small puckered mouth widened in an approximation of a smile. The woman looked up coyly before shifting her features into those of an Aurelian.

A second male came into view, arms outstretched, hands gripping the long hair of two severed heads. Gaunt features alight with glee; he lifted the heads to his face in turn and firmly planted a kiss on the mouth of each, sliding his tongue past their slack lips before flinging them aside.

Spying a female crewmember of middle years trying to crawl towards the door, he leapt into her path. She tried to put up a fight, injured as she was, but he played with her like a cat with a mouse. Ending the fun, he spun her round and gripped her from behind. Giving a long lick up the side of her neck he paused to whisper something in her ear, laughing as her face twisted in revulsion. He sank his fangs in deep; she was dead before she hit the floor.

As the bot scanned the human remains littering the room, noting its tasks ahead, two more figures - no, creatures - ducked down in the doorway before unfolding to their true height of seven or eight feet. These weren’t Aurelians. They wore their thickened bones like armour; barrel-chested, long arms, cloven feet, powerful claws. They had massive heads - all brow and jaw and teeth. Strands of saliva broke away as they turned their faces in tandem to look for prey. Their small, deep-set eyes radiated cunning, not reason. As they picked over the fallen, crouching to dispatch the wounded, one filled the vision of the camera. A massive hoof filled the screen and the picture was gone.

Silence.

A visibly grey Giles turned to Buffy with anger - and something like sympathy - in his eyes.

”Get some men, Buffy. Bring me Spike. It’s time we had some answers,” he ordered, finishing under his breath, “by whatever means necessary.”

***