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It had been his idea – Estril's, because what separated the two of them, now?
He was not the first to wonder if the Andalite bandits were actually human. Others have wondered, rumours had flown, but no one wanted to be the one to tell the Visser he might have been wrong. No one valued his life so little. Besides, while the bandits were certainly...unorthodox in their methods, and seemed to lack the discipline (and, at times, the ruthlessness and arrogance) of Andalites, their persistence, ingenuity, and survivability was unarguable. They must be Andalites – no other race were, or could be, so persistent a thorn in their sides.
Until more Andalites arrived. Details were scarce, of course, and they had nothing but a slain Andalite body and half a human shoe pulled from a Taxxon maw to show for it. But...stories. An account of a disturbance at the mall. The eaten human was rumoured to be the Visser's host's brother. The new Andalites had been fully grown, trained, unlike the child amongst the bandits that fought with his Andalite form. And yet...they did not disguise as well as the bandits. In fact, they did not appear again after those short days.
The Visser stood out amongst the humans, even in morph; of course, he made no effort to camouflage himself. But the bandits, the children, hid and handled themselves on a planet of aliens better than the trained warriors.
If they were human...
<Then they can be traced,> Estril 159 breathed in his head, plucking the thought from his mind as soon as he had it. They surveyed the wreckage around them, staring at the pools of blood amid the gore and bodies. Hork-Bajir, Taxxon, Andalite blood...and, possibly, human, as well. <Well, human, even your pathetic mind can be useful, after all.>
Tom curled up in his corner of his mind, and felt sick.
<Fools. They showed their hand,> Estril crowed inside their head as he stared at the computer screen, tapping his foot impatiently. <Andalites would not bother to savage an operation that had no chance of tracing them.>
Please no, no, please don't...
“Match found,” the computer announced coolly. “Percent match: 99.95. Closest match on record: Thomas Berenson.” A picture of Tom flashed onto the screen, adding insult to injury.
Estril froze. Tom froze. All eyes in the room turned to stare at him, Hork-Bajir and Taxxon and human.
Please no please no please no –
He wondered, idly, if War-Prince Alloran ever pleaded for Aximili's life.
<Probably,> Estril snapped, tamping down his rage. <Look how much good that did him.>
It'd been quick. Their car got intercepted at the hardware store's parking lot. Two men had shoved his parents into the backseat with him. Tom – Estril – had kept them there, with the gun his subordinates had handed him.
His parents' betrayal and blazing incredulity would stay with him. Lots of things would stay with him.
Like their screams, as the men had wrestled first his father to the ground, then his mother. Shoved their heads under the roiling, disgusting water. He'd hear those sounds in his head forever, however long that was worth.
Screams turned to moans, to gurgles. Then...stillness. His parents rose, of their own – no, their Yeerks' – power. Blank, cold features. They looked at him. Shook their heads.
Oh, god, Jake.
He'd seen them long before his parents did – youths had better eyes. Jake, of course, standing on the front lawn, waiting. But Tom – Estril – was the one to spot the hawk, up in the sky. The suitcases. The basketball, in Jake's hands. His basketball.
God, Jake.
His mother – the Yeerk in her head – lifted her hand, Dracon weapon flashing in the sun.
<Nooooooooooooooo!> he screamed, soundless inside his own head.
Estril slapped the weapon from his mother's hand; Dracon fire seared through the air. Everyone was shouting. The car screeched to a halt, and they all tore out of their seats.
All Tom could do was stare as Jake, in full view, shrank, morphed, and took to the skies.
Jake.
For the first time in years, hope flared, a dim spark in his chest.
Yeerks suffered a lot when they starved. He felt a distant, grim satisfaction in that. It would make no difference; he would just be given to another Yeerk after. Death would be a mercy, and Yeerks were not merciful.
But he could watch the Yeerk suffer from his own mind, count down the hours until the end of the fugue. He could enjoy Estril's fear, his pain. For once, those pains were uniquely the Yeerk's, and not also his own.
<You will not go free,> Estril hissed at him between waves of agony. Images, memories filtered over to Tom, unbidden by the Yeerk. The Yeerk was losing control.
<No. But I will live.> And, maybe one day, Jake...
Estril didn't even have the strength to respond.
In the end, it hadn't mattered; Visser One's Hork-Bajir had hauled him from his cage and all but threw him into the pool with less than an hour before Estril's expiry.
<Let that be a warning. Do not fail me again,> the Visser hissed, as Tom, temporarily freed, struggled uselessly beneath taloned feet. <Know that you only live because your host, and his useless parents, are to find the errant boy, Jake.>
When Estril crawled back into his head, full of fresh Kandrona rays and relief, Tom closed his eyes and surrendered.
There was hope. Slim to none, especially as he'd had a Yeerk's front-row view on how Andalites were anything but the saviours of the galaxy. But, hope nonetheless.
<You are a fool,> Estril told him, not for the first time. He'd regained his cockiness now that he wasn't starving.
<He'll save me,> Tom snapped back. <Yeerks don't understand family.>
<We don't,> Estril admitted. <But you know nothing about war.>
The first time he – well, Estril – morphed was the first time he did not hate being swept up in this intergalactic Andalite-Yeerk war.
Skin sprouted spotted fur. Teeth erupted into fangs, fingers into claws. The strength and speed, the absolute absence of fear. The jaguar's senses lit up the dull night into a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds.
He could feel Estril's elation mirror his own. The awe and wonder. It was the first time they'd ever agreed on anything.
Estril swiped a paw through the air, picturing heads rolling across the floor.
Tom dreamed of birds in the sky, and all who flew free.
He'd fought Estril more in the last two weeks than he had in the last two years.
<Fool.>
<He will save me,> Tom insisted. The corollary, and you will die, went unsaid but not unheard. <I know Jake.>
But he remembered Jake's blank features at their last meeting. Tom found the Taxxons behind him less frightening than Jake's flint-set face.
<He'll save me. I know Jake.>
When he heard Jake and the others blew up the Yeerk pool, and half their hometown, Tom realized he really didn't know his brother. Or at least, who – what – Jake had become.
The sight of Jake's tiger on the Visser's bridge was the most beautiful, horrible thing he'd ever seen. His body froze, and the leaden sinking of his gut was all Estril. Estril's fear, his panic, his rage.
Checkmate, Yeerk, but his hope died then too. Because Jake was on the Pool ship, Jake was too far to save him, Jake was staring at him, his tiger face betraying nothing.
Jake...
Rachel appeared behind them, a whirlwind of death and grizzly strength. Estril rolled past her and she laid him open with her claws, dropped her whole weight on top of him; the world exploded in pain, but he was already beginning to change.
Rachel.
His flesh melted into a coiled rope, venomous fangs tipping his mouth. Cobra. Death. All around him animals changed; Rachel charged on, utterly unafraid. He wished he could be that brave in the face of death. (He knew he was facing death.)
Bite. Bite. Again and again, Estril's rage and fury and unending fear. Tom couldn't even slow him down. Jake was screaming in the background. He was screaming inside his own head.
For the good of the galaxy. For the good of humanity.
Jake. Boy-general Jake.
Then...pain. Skewered on bear claws. They felt, more than saw, the bear's maw approaching.
The tiger was watching.
<Jake, stop her!> Estril screeched.
I love you –
I'm proud of you, little brother.