by Viki Storm
“Waffles?” I ask. These translator chips do a pretty good job, but the Earth languages’ dictionaries are seriously deficient.
“You know, warm and crispy baked breakfast treats? Best eaten with butter and maple syrup?”
“I possess neither the facilities nor the inclination for pastry preparation aboard my ship,” I say. She sighs.
“No fooling,” she says. I don’t understand her odd style of communication, but I have no time to seek clarification right now. The beeping is not a cooking timer.
It’s a warning.
“There is a ship approaching with undue speed,” I explain.
“Chasing us?” she asks.
“That’s what it appears to be,” I say. “Most likely a Phurusian ship tracking the locator chip inside your collar.”
Her hand goes to her neck again, fingertips brushing the red polymer of the device. That damned collar, what I wouldn’t give to smash it to bits.
“We’ll get it off,” I say. “I promise.” I am capable of promising no such thing—but I do it anyway because I know I must get that abomination off her neck.
“I hope so,” she says doubtfully.
I run a scan, trying to get more data on the ship that’s following us. The data comes through, sparse though it may be. My flight screen analyzes the patterns and extrapolates a composite of the following ship to a ninety-two-percent degree of accuracy. Phurusian technology hard at work. If the scan can be believed (and it can), it’s indeed a Phurusian Interceptor. It would normally be piloted by a fellow Kenorian warrior, as we’re the ones that get assigned dangerous missions with high likelihood for combat. But when I run the heat signature scans, the body temperatures of the beings inside the ship are twenty-six degrees centigrade, the typical temperature of a Phurusian, not a Kenorian.
They must not trust us, I think. I hope my fellow kinsmen are okay, that the Phurusians haven’t indicted them for any future crimes or crimes of association.
I push our speed higher, knowing it’s going to burn more fuel but not having much choice. But instead of lurching forward, the ship jerks back. Brooke is thrown violently forward, but her harness saves her from being tossed out of her seat.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“In general, no,” she says. “But if you’re referring to the whiplash, then yes, I’m fine. What’s going on? Are we hit?”
“No,” I say. “It’s worse than that.”
“Why am I not surprised?” she says.
That’s when I feel it. The pull. It’s a strange sensation, being on a ship that’s being reeled in with a slipstream beam. The opposing, dueling forces roil your stomach and disturb the fluids of your inner ear. I’m disoriented, getting nauseated, but I have to reprogram our ship’s path. The only hope is to double back and head straight into the slipstream beam.
“Keep your eyes open,” I tell Brooke. “It helps with the nausea.”
“It feels like my stomach’s coming out through my nose,” she says. But she opens her eyes.
“Fixate on a spot in the distance,” I instruct.
“You mean that endless patch of black over there?” she says. “Or that endless patch of black over there?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “Just focus on something with your long vision.”
My own nausea is getting worse from working close-up on my ship’s nav-screen. It takes me two tries to push the button confirming the new flight path, and when I hit it, the ship spins and then barrel rolls upside-down, changing course in the shortest possible distance.
“Jesus wept,” she says. For a moment, I think she’s going to be sick, but she manages to maintain composure. Once the ship changes course and we’re flying into the slipstream beam, most of the jarring nausea fades, as the forces are not in opposition anymore.
The bad news is that now we’re flying directly towards a Phurusian Interceptor.
“Why are we flying towards it?” she asks, but I barely hear her. All my concentration is focused on maneuvering the ship. My fingers ache from gripping the steering paddles.
“We have to break free of their beam,” I say. I can’t go into the physics of it with her, even if she could understand it. Going in the same direction of the beam is like swimming with the current; you build up speed. Just like swimming in a strong current, the tricky part is finding a suitable place to exit. You have to feel your way, find a small break, then turn at just the right time at just the right angle. It’s difficult, but it’s the only choice you have. The alternative is swimming against the stream—which is impossible for even the strongest swimmers.
“Is this Anax?” a voice says over the comm-speaker.
“You know that it is, asshole,” Brooke spits, but she hasn’t depressed the output button, so they can’t hear her.
“Yes,” I say. I can’t recognize the voice, only that it’s got the high-pitched simpering sound of a Phurusian and not a Kenorian.
“I hope that you’ve had a change of heart and you’re planning to return the convict, and that’s why you’re speeding towards our ship,” the voice says.
“Not quite,” I say and cut off the comm-link. Just then I sense the slight wobble in my path signifying a potential exit. It’s now or never. I veer hard right and depress the accelerator as far as it will go.
“What the hell?” Brooke says. The G-forces are tough on her human physiology, but not any tougher than three Phurusian years as a reproductive servant.
“Hold on,” I tell her. “We’re going supra-light speed.”
“Are you taking me back to Earth?” she asks hopefully.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Not until we get your collar off, remember?”
“God damn it,” she says. “Are they going to detonate it now, since you just pissed them off?”
“I doubt it,” I say. “And they physically can’t detonate it when we’re traveling supra-light speed. The detonation signal travels slower than light.”
“Can we outrun it?”
“Sort of,” I say. “We can get a good distance ahead of them—ahead of any detonation signal—but it would eventually catch up.”
“Oh,” she says.
“But we can get a far enough lead to hopefully buy enough time to get it off,” I say.
“Good,” she says, and she’s so obviously relieved it makes my chest ache.
Because I have no idea how I’m going to get the collar off.
And even when I do, I’m still not taking her back to Earth.
She doesn’t realize it yet—but she’s mine.
Chapter 7
Brooke
From up in the air, the Kenorian settlement planet looks like a ball of dirt. We slow down and enter the atmosphere for landing. The closer we get, the more skeptical I am that anyone down there will be able to help get the damned collar off of me. If there even is anyone down there; Anax says that all he’s heard is rumors regarding this place. They say that Earth is primitive? I mean, I’m trying to be sympathetic—the Kenorian home planet was nuked to ash—but as we descend, it’s easy to think that if anyone does live here, they’re all in caves and chucking spears at tusked animals.
Or maybe it’s because Anax seems so barbaric that I picture the rest of his kind to be primitive and tribal. He admitted that they got most of their technology from the Phurusians in exchange for hiring out their muscle. If these guys can’t build something as technologically advanced as this convict collar, how would they be able to disarm it?
Then again, they do seem like they’re good at breaking things.
“Is your harness secure?” Anax asks. “It’s about to get rough.”
“I’m fine,” I say. He keeps asking me if I’m okay, and it’s starting to get annoying. I’m obviously not okay big-picture-wise. I’ve been captured—by him—condemned, enslaved, collared, then re-stolen, chased and bound for some desolate planet that may or may not harbor a secret enclave of primitive alien warriors.
So what the fuck do
I care if the flight is a little bumpy?
I do tighten my harness a little bit when he’s not looking. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. He’s been nice enough, risking everything to get me off of Phuru—but I’m still not sure about him. He hasn’t forced himself on me or even hinted at anything untoward, but why did he decide to rescue me? Was it out of the goodness of his heart? Yeah, right. No one does anything out of the goodness of their heart. He was the bastard who apprehended me, so why did he suddenly decide—after my trial and sentencing—that he was going to save me?
No, I’m sure he isn’t doing this for noble reasons.
He’s got other plans for me. Probably to keep me for himself.
Or sell me in a slave auction or something. I’m sure in this huge universe there’s some crazy, lawless stuff going on, and he could probably sell a human female for… I’m not sure if I want to be worth a lot of money or not. I mean, it would be a blow to the ego to be thought of as worthless, but if human females are some exquisitely rare item, then I’m going to be in danger, like a new pair of Air Jordans in the hood.
The ship lurches forward, and I have to suppress a groan. Space travel nauseates me. I will be glad when we land just so I can stand still without the constant G-forces roiling my inner ear fluids—not to mention my stomach contents. As he steers the ship to the ground, my eyes are glued out the windshield. I’m desperately searching for any signs of high-tech civilization on par with Phuru.
And I’m let down.
There’s a scattering of domed structures, like Quonset huts. And holy hell, I do see an open fire pit with a blaze going. No tusked creature roasting on a spit, though.
Anax keeps the ship going pretty smooth and steady, and I’m not as sick as I was earlier. We land and I wait for him to power down the ship. He pushes a bunch of buttons, and the whole thing rattles to a standstill. He unbuckles his seatbelt and stands up. He’s towering over me, so imposing and… huge. I don’t feel afraid, though—even though I know I should be. He is the one who took me from Earth, stunned me and abducted me on the streets of downtown Los Angeles and delivered me straight into the uncaring, grinding jaws of the Phurusian legal system.
But something’s changed since I watched Anax transform from his human-esque disguise into his true alien form. When he stood before me, ready to arrest me for murder, I was terrified. Now? I really don’t think he’s going to hurt me. Maybe I’m a fool, but I don’t sense danger from him. And as a girl living alone in Los Angeles, I’ve definitely become attuned to danger.
He reaches down and unhooks the buckle, then takes my arms and guides them through the straps. I don’t need his help, but I don’t resent it, either. It’s comforting, in a way, to have someone on my side.
At least I hope he’s on my side.
It’s possible that my danger-radar got whacked out of calibration during supra-light speed travel.
“Come on,” he says. He holds my gaze, and I feel glued to the chair.
He takes hold of my wrists and lifts me out of the chair. Again, it’s sort of comforting. I’m dangerously close to shutting down, and it’s good to know that I have someone to shepherd me around.
He helps me down the stairs and onto terra firma. I have sea-legs… er, space-legs. Something about the artificial gravity of his ship must have affected my muscles.
“This planet is smaller than Earth and Phuru, so the gravity is weaker,” he says. “You’ll feel light and unsteady until you adjust.”
“I feel like a strong wind could knock me over, like I’m an empty potato chip bag or something.”
“Potato chip?”
“Never mind,” I say. He keeps a steadying hand on my arm as we walk towards the fire—and I’m glad of it. “Are fires customary for Kenorians? Like, how primitive is your civilization?”
“Not as primitive as Earth,” he says, and I immediately regret my words. I didn’t mean it like that, but I don’t think I can talk my way out of it.
“I’m asking because of this damned collar,” I say. “Are your people going to have the technical ability to get it off?” At the mention of the collar, he seems to soften a little, hopefully forgiving me for my rude question.
“I’m not even positive that these are my people,” he says. “I’ve only heard rumors that there were stray warriors gathered together on this planet.”
“Is the fire a good sign, then?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “Ritual, open-air communal dining is common among my people.”
“Good,” I say. “I’m starving. I hope your people aren’t vegans.”
“Vegan?” he asks. “Does this have to do with potato chips?”
“No.” I laugh. “There’s people on Earth who don’t eat meat or any animal products.”
“But you’re not one of them?”
“No,” I say. “No way, not me.”
“I have never heard of such a thing,” he says, seeming honestly puzzled. “There are some races with non-carbon-based anatomy who do not need to synthesize amino acids or convert glucose molecules, so they do not need to ingest those things.”
“That’s good news,” I say. “A barbecue sounds really good right now.” I try to see who’s sitting around the fire, but we’re still too far away.
“Sweetness of sound,” Anax says, almost under his breath. “I never thought…”
“It’s them?” I ask. “Kenorians?”
“Yes,” he says, obviously in shock. I’m in shock that he can see that well; I can only see vague, shadowy lumps.
Anax quickens his pace, and I struggle to keep up—but I don’t complain or ask him to slow down. I know if it was me finding some long-lost humans, I’d be running balls-to-the-wall to greet them.
We get closer and I see them, at least twenty warriors, looking so much like Anax. They must have noticed the big-ass spaceship landing a half-mile away, but they’re paying us no mind.
As if they’re expecting us…
“Hey, Anax,” I say. “Why aren’t they mobbing us or asking who we are? We landed, and it’s like they don’t care.”
“You’re right,” he says, slowing our pace to a stop. “I was preoccupied with finding out if it really was a Kenorian settlement, I didn’t stop to think. They should be upon us, demanding to know who we are and what we’re doing. But it’s like they already know who we are and when we were going to arrive…”
“Hello, Anax,” a voice says from behind us. I startle and whirl around on my heels. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
It’s a Phurusian with his weapon pointed right at us.
Faster than I can blink, Anax pushes me behind him, protecting my body with his own massive frame. He pulls his own weapon and points it at the Phurusian. The Kenorians by the fire do nothing, as if they know that this is not their fight and want no part of it.
But that doesn’t make sense, either. From what little I know of the Kenorians, they love fighting and will join in a fray whenever they can.
“Let’s not be hasty,” the Phurusian says. “I have no desire to vaporize your flesh—or the flesh of your stolen human captive.”
“I have no desire for flesh vaporization either,” I say. The Phurusian’s weapon is a long staff, like something a wizard would carry, but something tells me that he’s not exaggerating when he says it could vaporize our flesh.
“Quiet, Earth female,” Anax hisses.
“I don’t care a whit about one lousy human,” the Phurusian says. “Personally, I find the practice of enslaving such a lowly sub-species to be abhorrent. They produce weak and feeble-minded offspring.”
Anax growls—actually growls, like he is some fire-clan caveman. “Watch your tongue, Phurusian,” Anax says.
“Please,” the Phurusian says. “Spare me your ridiculously overwrought protective instinct. I told you, I have no interest in the convict.”
“Then what does interest you?” I ask, peeking out from behind Anax. I realize I’ve been clutching his biceps.
They’re rock hard, impossibly hard, like two massive steel poles. His skin feels cool to the touch, that weird layer of callus not transmitting any heat. He’s so much like a human in a lot of ways, but so much more he’s not like one.
“I’m interested in Lord Phuru,” the Phurusian says. “And toppling his whole crooked regime.”
- - -
We walk to the fire and four Kenorian warriors rise, coming towards us. Their forms are outlined in shadow, the roaring fire at their backs. I know Anax won’t let them hurt me (and according to Anax, Kenorians do not harm women), but it’s still an intimidating sight. I wouldn’t want to go into battle and stare down a whole army of these bad-ass bruisers.
“Anax,” one of them says. His voice is calm, and at first I mistake it for steely indifference—then I realize it’s the tightly controlled voice of someone close to tears.
“By the Unseen Hand of the Black,” Anax says. “Kothar? Do I speak to a ghost?”
“No ghost, brother,” Kothar says. He’s a little taller than Anax, his skin a shade darker. To me, all the Phurusians looked the same, but it’s easy to see the differences between the Kenorians. Kothar has a different nose, a little rounder, a little smaller. He also has grey eyes with much bushier eyebrows.
The two stand before each other for a moment, and I’m almost afraid that they’ll draw weapons. But they don’t. After they both recover from shock, they embrace, clapping each other heartily on the back so hard it would probably crack one of my ribs. Then the words come pouring out: Where were you… I thought you were… but how did you… I can’t keep up with their rapid speech, but I know what it all boils down to: the two were once fast friends, and each thought the other was dead, on planet Kenor at the time of its attack and destruction.
It’s dark, and I wouldn’t be able to swear to it in court, but I think I see Anax wipe away a tear.
“There were many more of us off-planet at the time of the attack,” Kothar says. “Corvi, Udos, Yaubin, they were with me on a mission during the destruction.”
“I didn’t know you were on a mission,” Anax says. “That’s why I feared you dead.”
