Title: "Prime Directive"
Author: monimala
Fandom: "Andromeda"
Rating/Classification: SAC, angst, Tyr/Beka-ish, vaguely slashy.

Disclaimer: I donít own these characters.
Summary: Sort of a flip-side to "Uncharted Territory". Tyr thinks about what is beneficial and what is not.
A Nietschean does nothing that does not benefit himself.

Perhaps this is why he spends so many nights in his quarters shuddering under the silent stroke of his five-fingered companion. He benefits himself. Ha.

A Nietschean should not waste precious potential genetic material.

Exactly which adage should he adhere to at what time?

And his alternatives are limited. He knows now that he cannot leave this ship. Not without what belongs to him...not without claiming it for his own in front of all the Prides...sticking it to those murderous, dishonorable Drago-Kazov once and for all.

Where the murkiness comes is in defining what belongs to him.

For it exists not only in a sealed cargo bay.

It exists all around him.

In Captain Hunt's pigheaded nobility and the steel of his damn fool spine.

In Harper's desperate need for a heavy hand and a little guidance.

In Trance's infallible innocence and wealth of secrets.

In the Magog's loyalty beyond Pack, beyond animal instinct.

In Andromeda herself's sleek intellect, cool core, and dangerous exterior.

And in Beka Valentine.

Would that he could leave her out of the equation...but he cannot.

There is a biological directive that negates the need for one's fellow man...yet there is something distinctly advantageous about keeping the captain of a High Guard warship on edge. So, he locks eyes with Dylan for a moment longer than necessary. A soft touch here...a whispered word of advice there. Danger. Promise. Possibility. A flirtation.

There is nothing advantageous about a flirtation with Beka Valentine.

There is nothing advantageous about the ache that rises in his chest when they move side by side but do not touch...about the way his first instinct is always to circle her, draw a protective shield around her so no one can come near her...about the wounded growl that rises from his throat, marking him more the patron animal of his Pride than the calculating Nietschean male, when he is alone in his cabin and his mocking hand beckons. He would call it "love" were such a thing possible. But it is not, of course.

It is simply a biological drive.

She is a female. More than adequately shaped. Courageous. Bold. Perhaps his hormones mistake her for one of his own kind? Perhaps he has spent so many days and nights in close quarters with her that only his mind is still able to account the difference. She is merely human.

But she belongs to him nonetheless.

So, he cannot leave.

And it appears he cannot stay. Not the way he has.

Sometimes he thinks he could approach her. Companionship is not a concept beyond Nietschean understanding. They could spend time together. While away hours. Perhaps he could appeal to that base side of her that matches his own insane desires...that side of her that trolls dingy spaceport clubs for a tryst or two or four.

*Beka...since I am all ready wasting valuable seed having completely untoward fantasies about your inferior, human, body and your smart mouth, would you like to share my bed tonight?*

Most of the time, he realizes why it won't work.

It is against his nature.

And it is against hers.

There would be abuse. He would, no doubt, find himself on the point of a Nova bomb, being shot towards the nearest black hole.

So, this Nietschean does nothing that does not benefit himself.

He knots the sheets in his clenched fists, rails against his traitorous bodyís urges...curses the images of limbs entwined...white-gold against bronze...bites his lip and draws blood.

And then, in this one small thing, he admits defeat.

He cries out her name when he succumbs.


November 27, 2001.

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