Taken by the Alien Warrior: Scifi Romance

by Linda Mathers

  “Get…off…me!” I growl, pushing and clawing fruitlessly at my captor. I twist around just in time to see huge grey eyes blinking down at me, jaws pulled back in a snarl—it’s an alpha male, talons drawn back preparing to attack. If I don’t get away soon…

  Those talons—pure ebony, sharpened to a lethal point and oozing an amber-colored poison—are dangerously close to my neck when something else scrambles out of the undergrowth and throws the beast off me.

  2

  At first I assume it is Taylor—good ol’ Taylor, come back to rescue me. Whether it is out of friendship or out of guilt, I don’t know and I don’t care. No, that isn’t Taylor! It is another Axylan. It’s even bigger than the one that has me pinned, another male. His talons at the ready, pulling the white skin of his wrist taut. He’s going to lunge at me, tackle me away to kill me all by himself…

  Can I run? I freeze, propped up on my elbows, as he tackles my assailant, throwing him off of me; I drag air desperately to my lungs. I scramble to my feet as quickly as I can, but it isn’t quick enough. My right leg, which crumpled painfully beneath me when I was thrown to the ground, gives way when I put weight on it. I can’t hold in the gasp of pain that escapes me when I take a step. But the sound of it is lost in the grunts coming from the two Axylans, grappling on the ground. Even if I manage to make a run for it now, with my leg in this state, they’ll catch me—they’re always going to catch me. I’m going to die out here, alone, with the flames licking at my corpse…

  The Axylans are still fighting. Another step toward the tarmac pulls a scream from my lips, echoed by a louder cry behind me. The bigger male swipes his talons at the other with a sharp, vicious movement. It takes my addled brain a few seconds to process the indigo blood spurting from the smaller Axylan’s throat, and that the cries have stopped.

  His throat has been torn clean out.

  A hand goes up to cover my mouth. It wouldn’t do to throw up here, of all places, when the same thing is, in all likelihood, going to happen to me. The bigger male pivots slowly around, crouched as if to pounce, knees bent and palms resting on the dusty ground, allowing me to get a better look at him.

  He has the same marbled skin as the others, with chestnut-brown hair slicked back from his face. Huge onyx eyes blink up at me as he eases out of the crouch and unfolds to his full height. I’d estimate he is seven-and-a-half feet tall, towering above my own modest five nine. He’s wearing loose khaki combat pants and no shirt, revealing perfectly defined abs. I can just make out blood staining the fabric of his pant leg and in spatters across marbled flesh, signs of the fight that just took place. Aside from the blood, there isn’t a hair out of place.

  I cringe away from him when he takes a step toward me. It’s instinct, a weak attempt at self-preservation in the wake of his approach. Fear thrums in my veins, makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

  “It’s all right,” the Axylan says. His voice is unlike anything I’ve ever heard coming from an Axylan before. It is creamy and soft, with a gruff, masculine undertone. He reaches one hand out as if to pacify me, palm up and long fingers spread, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  His English is perfect. They’ve taken great care to learn the language, to fit in. It was part of their perfect facade at first, their need to appear ready and willing to contribute to Earth’s safe and efficient running. It only strikes me as threatening now, with this Tribe member towering above me.

  My own voice is lost in my throat for moment. I can only croak out a few words, and even they are weak: “Stay away from me.”

  “I’ll stay right here if it makes you more comfortable,” the male reassures me. “I’m Yves. Do you have a name?”

  “I’m Number 3734.” I’m supposed to give only my number. I am well-programmed. Threats and torture will do that. My old identity is worth nothing in this strange new world. And it is a part of myself I don’t want to willingly give away to this creature. A bout of nostalgia hits me, a memory of hearing my own name said so simply and casually—Amy. Hearing Taylor or the others say it now carries an inordinate weight, as if we are risking too much simply speaking a part of the past out loud. The mere act of sharing our identities, defiantly using our names with each other, is another way to rebel, something to defy the Axylans with.

  “I meant your old Human name. You can be truthful with me, there’s no need to be afraid. I won’t hurt you.” His words and tone do nothing to ease the anxiety building inside me, and I can only suck in a harsh breath while we stare each other down. I will not give him the last bit of myself.

  “All right, then. We can work without the name,” Yves says, suddenly brisk and business-like. “We need to move, before they send out reinforcements.”

  “What do you mean, we? If you’re not going to kill me, I’m out of here.”

  “You’ll never make it. Your friends already left, and new troops will be here any minute. My place isn’t far, only a mile that way.” He raises one muscular arm to point northwards, the opposite direction to where the truck would have been, to where I should be headed, “Besides, we could work together. I scratch your back, you scratch mine, that kind of thing.” The idiom sounds ridiculous coming from his mouth, and I can’t help but sputter a laugh. Yves squints at me, a bemused smile tugging at his own features. The light in his eyes prompts me to shut down the laughter, squashing it and pressing the lid firmly over it. While I am in his clutches, he will not see me as defenseless.

  Before I can reply, there’s a roar of engines close by, a sound I take to be the approach of reinforcements. I’ve never stuck around long enough to find out what happens after one of our incursions, and I’m not sure I want to now.

  3

  “We need to go, Human,” Yves says, urgency coloring his words. Logic wins out over mistrust, and suddenly we’re running into the shade of the trees, me limping on my bad leg.

  “Why exactly should I be trusting you?” I snap from the crouch I’ve found myself in, pressed up against the bark of a thick tree trunk, its coarse surface scratching my cheek.

  “Because you’ve run out of other, more rational options?” Yves’ voice is filled with sarcasm, a trait I didn’t know the Axylans possessed. He sounds almost human, talking like that.

  “That might just be true,” I mutter, “but seriously, what the hell is your game?”

  He easily rises. “It’s a long story.”

  “I’ve got time.” My reply makes him roll his eyes, a mild smirk appearing on his face.

  “I suppose you have,” he agrees as we begin walking in the direction of what I presume will be his home. The pain in my leg is still there, although less demanding.

  “I don’t like what we’ve done to your planet.” That catches me off-guard.

  “That was a short story,” I can’t help but interject, dragging another frustrated sigh from between pursed lips. The violet of his lips and the blood on his chest is a stark contrast to the marbled white of his skin. I notice that in the dim light of the forest the color seems less threateningly alien and more intriguing. Ridiculous! I deride myself. These creatures are not intriguing, they are the monsters of ancient fairytales, the big bad wolves come to blow our species down.

  “I came here hoping to find refuge. I saw the way our species destroyed itself, I watched as we burned ourselves up from the inside. The wars were the most terrible period of Axylan history. Millions died, countless others were so severely injured there was no hope left, and we had to leave them behind on the blistered remnant of our planet. The children, the innocents. It was the worst violence I’ve ever borne witness to. And now this. The oppression you’re suffering can never truly be rationalized away—not even Ayla can claim it is for the benefit of our species.”

  “I don’t agree with what you and your fellow rebels are doing here, but I can sympathize. You’re choosing the wrong targets, though. I know it is hard to fathom any of the refugees as innocent, but I can tell you the females have for the most part b
een forced to accompany their alpha male partners. They are not here because they choose to be. That said, they are still Axylans, they’re still powerful and ruthless.”

  “You may be weeding us out gradually, yes, but the way you’re going about it is all wrong.”

  “So how exactly are we supposed to be going about it? And how do you know about our plans?” I was getting angrier the more he talked.

  “We’re aware of the time machines.” That startles me. The time machines are prototypes: even in the time they were created few had knowledge of them. To the rebel cause, they are our biggest and most valuable secret. The one thing we’d managed to protect from the threat of Axylans.

  When Yves continues, it’s carefully, as if he’s aware that he’s spooked me. “The lower ranks have no knowledge of time travel, don’t worry. But they news of your attacks is starting to travel. There was some talk of trying to catch all of you, but in the end we decided there wasn’t any point in wasting the resources. The damage you have caused is minimal. The settlements are merely collateral damage.”

  “As for your plan, a plan for organized rebellion, you need to aim higher. Go for the higher ranks, then the others will turn back to peace. Everyone follows Ayla and the others so blindly, they don’t have time to think about what they’re doing. Take away the object of their focus, and they’ll learn to live in peace again.”

  “You say it like it’s easy to get to Ayla IX. She’s untouchable, we all know that. There are hundreds of soldiers protecting her at any one time.”

  “Ah,” Yves says, spinning suddenly to face me, an index finger raised as if to say, wait, tiny human, while I bestow some of my alien wisdom unto you. “That’s where I come in.” The smile forming on his lips is mischievous, now, as though we’re sharing some sort of inside joke. His familiarity unnerves me, makes me feel as if I’ve known him for years.

  “Either your leaps of logic are so big I get lost along the way, or you’re completely bat shit crazy,” I tell him, grinning in spite of myself.

  “Hear me out.” This is so bizarrely human in its delivery that I have to blink to make sure I’m still staring up at a seven foot Axylan. He’s walking backwards now to continue looking me in the eye as I limp along. “I have contacts, higher-ups. I can get to people, see? We can help each other.”

  “Help each other how?” My incessant questioning is getting on my own nerves—I wish he’d go ahead and explain himself so I didn’t have to keep being so vulnerably Human. “And I’m still not entirely sure why you’ve decided to go against your own species, so forgive me if my trust isn’t exactly flowing in abundance.”

  “I’m not like them.” This admission is so quiet I almost miss it. “There are several complicated factors which I’d rather not get into right now, but let’s just say helping you would be helping me. You might just need to find some of that trust you were talking about.”

  The whole scenario is bizarre—limping through the woods with this huge Axylan. Agreeing (Have I agreed, is this an agreement, some sort of treaty?) to help each other. Fraternizing with the enemy.

  “I’m guessing I don’t have much choice, here,” I say, slowly. “So say I agree. We just, what, use your so-called ‘contacts’ to infiltrate the main troops? It’s that easy?”

  “It’s a much quicker and efficient plan than your original one.” There’s a chuckle in Yves’ voice. And—I must have hit my head—there is a smooth, reassuring quality. For some very strange reason, I think of liquid chocolate… Come on! Snap out of it! I try to concentrate on the bracken crunching beneath my boots. “So you’re with me?” He sounds eager.

  “If I get some more answers, then I guess I am.”

  “You’re not going to like them,” he says, perfectly cheerily. “The answers, I mean. I’ll be lucky if you don’t go running for the hills.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be running anywhere with my leg in this state,” I mutter. The ground rises steeply ahead of us, as if to highlight that fact, and the pain doubles in intensity.

  “You are hurting,” he says simply, and suddenly we’ve stopped in our tracks and he’s bent over raising the pant leg of my overalls to get a closer look at my damaged right leg. Pain flares briefly at his touch, and then calms, soothed by the ice of his skin. I hadn’t expected his touch to be so cold (Wait, had I been expecting his touch at all?) but the temperature of his fingertips match the texture, and it is hard to believe he isn't actually carved out of marble. I don’t miss the flicker of concern in Yves’ eyes, although I put the look down to the fact that he knows I’ll most likely slow him down rather than any worry for me personally.

  “I’m sorry,” he tells me. Again he surprises me, leaves my mind racing to catch up…

  “For what? You didn’t twist my leg up under me.” I try to sound matter-of-fact.

  “It might not be my fault directly, but it is because of my people that this happened. My fault that you don’t feel safe enough to share your first name with me, that you’re forced to spend your days in prison. I didn’t want any of this to happen, but Ayla’s plans…”

  “You talk as though you know her personally,” I venture. There’s a wary, haunted look in his eyes that speaks volumes of the contempt he appears to hold for himself, all because of the situation his species have found themselves in. So much loathing in those dark eyes, loathing for himself and loathing for his species. It makes me want to offer comfort, somehow, maybe slide an arm around the back of his neck to pull him close. The thought startles me, because it’s ridiculous, of course. His loathing is probably for me: after all, I am the one who has been killing his “innocents”, blowing up settlements that he claims are harmless.

  “I did,” he echoes, and I’m jolted back to attention. Yves knows Ayla IX. Only those of a high rank get to come into personal contact with the leaders, and those of a high rank… let’s just say nobody tends to question their loyalty. They won’t hesitate to eliminate a threat. The fear I managed to outrun back at the settlement catches up to me now, flows icy and smooth through my bloodstream. My sluggish mind connects the dots: the loathing has to be directed toward me. He has dragged me this far into the forest so that he can kill me himself, uninterrupted. I would turn to run, but the incline has tired me, and his fingers are still locked around my ankle. Vaguely, I register that his thumbs are stroking up and down my skin, so gently now that the cold of his flesh is almost imperceptible. A tingling feeling spreads up my leg, bringing a stream of warmth with it.

  “Your ankle should feel better now,” Yves says, a glimpse of concern flickering over his pale face. He releases me, a cautious hand proffered in case I stumble.

  “Wait. You can’t just drop something like that on me without explaining. Are you taking me back to her? Are you going to have me publicly executed, is that it?”

  “I’m not going to hurt you, I told you,” Yves says, sounding slightly frustrated with my paranoia, however well-founded it might be. “Besides, Ayla and I are not close anymore.”

  “But you were?” I push. We’re on the move again, almost at the top of the slope. The pain has abated, only a numb twinge when I move wrong suggests it was ever even there. I’m grateful for this, at least. Maybe the Axylans are useful for something…

  “We used to be close, yes,” he admits, then exhales shakily, as though preparing for an argument. “Ayla IX is my sister.”

  A beat passes in which neither of us speaks, and I’m having a hard time coaxing breath into my lungs. Yves slows to a stroll, twisting his fingers together in a manner I’d be tempted to call anxious, if he were Human. Somehow, I can’t picture him standing next to Ayla IX on her throne, in a silver crown and the flowing violet robes of the leaders. A realization dawns: I’ve been comparing him to a Human this whole time. And he’s nothing like the sociopaths back at the bunker, the guards who won’t hesitate to shoot a stun ray into the back of anyone who is working too slowly, who pluck the supposed slackers up, like they were rag dolls, by their t
hroats and slam them against heavy stone walls. It’s bizarre, that they and he are so unalike. I want to class Yves as “enemy”, but with him looking at me through eyes awash with guilt, it’s difficult.

  “Your sister,” I echo, pointlessly.

  “I don’t agree with what she’s doing.” Yves’ words run over each other in their rush to escape the confines of his lips, “I tried to stop her, at first, but she’s stubborn. She was the youngest of our siblings and I always felt like it was my duty to protect her. Our brothers were awful to her, ever since she was a kid.” I stop cold as I try to reconcile the child he is describing with the image of Ayla IX I know so well. Powerful, entitled, mercenary—the propaganda darling, always photographed with jaw open in a roaring, mocking laugh. I never imagined her to have a past, never imagined anything before the dictatorship our world’s been crushed under.

  “So how did she get all this power?”

  “Our parents were the rulers of our home world. They were killed in the war that destroyed our planet and the crown automatically reverted to our oldest brother.” Yves leaves a pause for effect; my stomach churns when I imagine how this story will unfold. “She killed him. She killed every kind of opposition to her reign, tired of being overlooked her whole life. She’d always been determined or maybe ‘defiant’ is the better word. She gave back as good as she got, but in the end she was the youngest, and a woman in a patriarchal society, so she thought it the only way to get what she desired. She would’ve killed me, too, but I escaped before she had the chance.” Another pregnant pause, in which Yves bites down on his bottom lip just hard enough to draw a drop of violet blood to the surface. “I just want my sister back, safe, but I’m not sure she can ever be the person she was. She’s changed so much.”

  The ghosts I saw previously in his eyes have returned, swimming to the forefront of that piercing gaze. His guilt weighs heavily on me somehow, so heavily that it’s hard to breathe.