Taken by the Alien Warrior: Scifi Romance

by Linda Mathers

  “Let me see your rank tattoo.” Even coming from my own lips, the demand is so sudden that it startles me. The acknowledgement of his rank will confirm or juxtapose what I have been trained to believe, deep in my subconscious—he is the enemy. If he’s as high up as his sister, there’s no way he could ever bring me to safety. There’s too much at stake. In that case, it’s more likely that we’re heading to one of the public gallows, so that I can be branded a rebel and executed in front of an international television audience and a few public spectators for good measure.

  A hush falls over the forest as Yves bares his neck to me. He doesn’t look happy about it —his expression exposes his dread, the wary look in his eyes growing and his lip curling in reluctance. He looks braced for rejection, braced for a fight, braced for me to run screaming.

  There’s a lot of chestnut hair to sweep out of the way, and the height difference means he has to bend his knees for the nape of his neck to be on eye-level with me. The tattoo is stamped into ivory flesh, over the taut muscle. A single digit: I. He’s the highest rank there is. By all rights, he should be the one on the throne, not Ayla.

  “Shit,” I breathe, unable to do or say anything else. Yves swivels slowly to look at me, jaw set and expression carefully void of any emotion.

  “I can tell you don’t trust me, Human,” Yves says. He straightens up, and for a second he is completely the kind of creature I know his people to be, stoic and cold. “And you have no reason to. You see us as polar opposites, which may be true, but you need me. And I need your help.”

  “I don’t know how I’m supposed to be helping,” I mutter, still taken aback by the awful realization that he’s a head Axylan. “You’re as powerful as they come.”

  “You know, you remind me of her,” Yves says, barely audible. He looks lost in thought for a moment, settled back on his haunches, staring off at a spot just above my left shoulder. “Of Ayla, I mean. Before…all this. Feisty. Determined. Wary.”

  I’m not sure I’m comfortable with the description, but I stay silent anyway. Yves looks distant, as if anything I might choose to say would only get lost in the void between us.

  4

  “Everything hurts, all the time.” I’m not certain he intended this admission to be voiced aloud, because he appears startled when the words leave his lips. The sound is so pained that before I have chance to consider the consequences, my body has moved of its own accord, and my hand is resting on his shoulder, rubbing soothing concentric circles. I can feel the primal strength emanating from him.

  “Talk to me, then. Make me trust you.”

  It’s as though my body has been taken over by some metaphysical presence, because these words are surely no longer my own. My voice, soothing and inviting, surely doesn’t belong to me.

  “She tore our family apart. It might not seem like it, but Axylans take family bonds very seriously. Our families are our hearts, our souls. Human attachments, in comparison, are…feeble, at best. What she did was— is—unforgivable. I watched my brothers die, and I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it. I was too concerned with the possibility of sharing Ayla's power—I thought if I hung around long enough she'd share some of it with me. It's how we were raised, to believe power is the ultimate prize. The only worthy goal.”

  “I should have talked to her more. I should have been there when they weren’t, but I was just as useless as the others. I was her oldest brother, I should have done something…”

  “It doesn’t sound like there was anything you could have done,” I coo sympathetically, surprised at the display of Axylan tears when he glances up at me.

  Yves moves before I can do anything to stop him (that’s my excuse and I am sticking to it). So suddenly that it steals my breath away, his lips are on mine, softer than I’d ever imagined marble could feel. His flesh comes alive under my fingertips as I instinctively touch his cheek. What was once cool stone is replaced by warm silk. Yves’ warmth is familiar somehow, as comfortable as a handmade sweater, a broken-in jean jacket or a blanket tucked around my shoulders.

  At the same time there’s another kind of heat there, a feeling of intention, enough that it sets my blood alight. I can feel it coursing through my veins, burning me up from inside. He is no longer solid—he is all around me. I find myself kissing back with everything I have. His lips on mine are the center of the universe, spiraling out of control around us. His body is my only constant, a rock to cling to in a growing storm.

  All too soon, it’s over, and he pulls away from me, panting slightly. It is surreal. How is it I’m the one who’s done this to him, stolen his breath and brought color to his cheeks? A strange sense of pride swells in me, irrational and probably somewhere in the boundary of insane, but fantastic nonetheless. I watch as he becomes solid once more, the translucent figure knitting back together so his skin is like marble once again, solidifying around the edges. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.

  “I’m sorry,” Yves apologizes immediately, swiping with the back of his hand at the sensory vestiges of the kiss that cling to his lips. I’m so dizzy with adrenaline that my vision swims and it takes three tries to raise my voice to above a whisper.

  “What was that for?” My words are an octave too high, my shock all too apparent. Yves only glances guiltily at my face for a moment before returning his gaze to the ground.

  “I shouldn’t have done that,” he admits. I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t feel a twinge of hurt at this, that my stomach doesn’t churn knowing what felt so unexpectedly beautiful has been reduced to a simple mistake in his eyes. Rejection is like a stab in the gut, sharp pain flooding up my abdomen and into my chest. “You caught me unawares. Nobody has offered me anything close to comforting words in a long time.”

  “It’s okay,” I breathe. Yves shakes his head, once again raising his face to lock eyes with mine.

  “It’s not even close to ‘okay’,” is the only thing he’ll say on the matter, before snapping to attention, suddenly the epitome of action and decision. “I know another location of one of your machines. It’s not far from here. I can take you there, if you trust me enough to do that.”

  “Yeah, I…” I trail off. He obviously isn’t expecting a reply, as he is already headed off deeper into the forest. My lips still tingling with the memory of his, I follow, my steps shortened and awkward. Everything feels awkward now. In that brief moment we were so at one with each other and just as quickly we’re detached from each other. The world seems fuzzy. Something is wrong. I feel disjointed. I’m surely coming apart at the seams.

  “What happened back there…” I begin, trying to catch up, “something changed. Something’s different.” It seems like an obvious statement, but Yves’ head snapped around to look at me, mouth pressed in a thin line.

  “Nothing has changed,” he spits, too harshly. It’s difficult to imagine that mere moments ago those same lips were treating me with such unadulterated tenderness.

  “I don’t know what’s going on, Yves, and I don’t like that. Could you please slow your processing to a more Human level? Help a girl out.”

  “I’m sorry,” is all he will say. The rest of the walk is taken in silence, and by the time we reach our destination, both of my legs are aching and I feel like a complete idiot, unable to keep up. All of this feels ridiculous, traipsing after the huge alien like a lapdog faithful on the heels of its owner.

  The machine is half-hidden in a narrow alleyway on the edge of another rundown city. A large tarpaulin has been dragged to cover the entrance, and if Yves didn’t know the machine’s precise location I’m sure I would have mistaken it for a large pile of trash, the remnants of some long-forgotten furniture.

  “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” Yves says, once the tarp has been pulled back to reveal a single seat with restraints and a green control panel. I’m not sure if he’s talking about the planet invasion or the kiss. Either way, I can only shake my head as I slide into the seat, eager to get out o
f here.

  “Will you meet me?” he suddenly exclaims as I’m clicking my safety harness into place. At my look of confusion, he hastens to explain, “In the future. I can give you a date, we can meet Ayla. A month from now, okay? It’ll take me that long to establish contact, to convince her that I’m not a threat to the throne. You have the resources, the backup, and I have the connections, remember?”

  “Yeah,” I agree unenthusiastically. “Okay. A month from now. Same location?”

  “Yes. Here. I’ll program the coordinates in now; try to bring the others. You can bring this machine and they can travel in the bigger one. I’ll be waiting.” He taps a couple of buttons on the control panel and tries to slide the door shut, halted only by my hand on his arm. I’m once again surprised to find his skin go from cool to melting like soft wax beneath my touch. My eyes narrow in confusion, my grasp tightening on Yves’ arm.

  “Your skin is amazing,” I murmur, awestruck. I can see color rising in the pale flesh, as if blood is rushing to the surface to greet my fingers. He takes in a shaky breath, the now-familiar wary, guilty expression lighting his features. He’s beautiful in this light. The dim streetlight is shielded by a building to our left, so only a patch of the orange glow reaches us, illuminating Yves’ ivory features and casting shadows over his left side. He looks mysterious, an enigma. Beautiful.

  “Does it always change at someone’s touch?” My voice is still a whisper, contrasting the curt reply that accompanies another jab of the control panel.

  “No.” He goes to slam the door shut on me but I stop him by grabbing his hand and interlacing our fingers—there it is. Cool to the touch at first, but heat begins to spread as I loosen my hold. He isn’t going anywhere just yet.

  “My name’s Amy, by the way. Amy Cross.” The admission is an even quieter whisper, and the only thing that prompts his reply.

  “My skin changes only for you, then, Amy Cross,” he tells me, indicating our joined hands. My brow crinkles in confusion, but his fingers slip from my grasp before I can protest, and the door clangs shut. All I can do is hold on for dear life as I’m hurtled through time, Yves’ name fading on my lips.

  5

  The cell is stifling at night. I'd never really had much chance to notice before, almost thankful now that I had always collapsed on my bunk after exhausting myself with work and the rebel efforts. But I haven't seen the others in seven weeks. It's been almost two months since I've been down to the machine, since I met Yves. Taylor has been avoiding my eyes in the canteen, and apart from a stilted apology from Keith at the printing press and an accusatory look from Briana in the corridor, I've had no contact with anyone but my cellmate for the entire time. Briana is evidently trying to make me feel guilty for not turning up to our nightly meetings, Taylor is shouldering most of the guilt of leaving me by himself, and they're all blissfully unaware of my newfound connection with the Axylans.

  I have no desire to share with them, either way, not since the cold truth of reality has settled in again. Seeing the Axylans in action, their “natural” attitude—that is, looming over us at our workstations, on patrol while we shovel gruel down our throats, clanging on cell doors purely for the sport of waking us in the middle of the night—has revived a resolute sense of anger within me. And the memories of one of them strolling beside me in a darkened forest, soothing my swollen ankle, kissing…

  I don't let myself think about the kiss. Instead, while I'm lying in my bunk at night, staring at the ceiling, the oppressive heat of thousands of bodies suffocating me, perspiration streaming down my face, I think of the Axylans’ cruelty. The heavy snores of my cellmate keep me grounded in the present, each snort chasing away the haunting feeling of Yves' lips on mine.

  My agreement to meet with him is forgotten, the moment lost. I have to concentrate on my own species. We're resilient, us Humans, ready to fight until the bitter end. It fills me with a strange calmness, a gratitude so deep it cannot be contained. They cannot keep us down; we will not be confined to a single space on this planet—our home for the entirety of our own evolution.

  It's this feeling, and this feeling alone, that spurs me into action in that moment. Our efforts are not working, clearly. If all it takes is a single sacrifice—that of my own life—to aid the rebel efforts to save billions of lives, then perhaps it really is for the best. If Yves was insincere, if he is real intent was to get me executed, isn't it worth the risk? I rouse myself to action and check to see if the coast is clear.

  Worth the risk. I repeat these words to myself like a mantra as I make my way back to the basement. It's almost 0200, and the barred dirty windows set high in the cinder block walls let in only the palest glow of moonlight. It's somehow comforting that our own solar system remains intact, oblivious to the wreck Earth has become. The Moon is indifferent to our struggles.

  I tap in the coordinates Yves showed me. It is not with the memory of his lips on mine that I strap myself in, nor with the sensation of marble bleeding into flesh that I brace myself to be hurtled forward in time. My focus is on my own species, on the feeling of rough alien hands gripping the flesh of my upper arm when I was dragged from my hideout. The pure debilitating fear of having the barrel of a ray gun jabbed in my face for the first time. The running and hiding, under the cover of darkness, just to be able to show a little free will.

  The machine grumbles beneath me, and I am falling.

  6

  When I emerge from the machine at his co-ordinates, the world is on fire.

  Upon closer inspection, I realize that isn’t entirely accurate. It’s hard to squint through the flames that I can feel licking the skin of my throat trying to make their way into my lungs. The source of the fire is a formation of Axylan guards, flamethrowers pointed in a direction a little to my right. At first I assume they’re aiming for me, because my hair is so hot I fear it will spontaneously combust. I can’t breathe. Then a blurred movement from the corner of my eye draws my attention. A hunched figure lies crumpled on the ground, arms thrown over their head to protect their eyes, knees drawn up to a chest that looks strangely like marble…

  I make the connection a moment too late and the guards turn on me. Thankfully I had the presence of mind to grab my weapons before I made the time jump, although my handgun is stowed in the pocket of my overalls and my own flamethrower landed somewhere behind me as I made my landing. I scramble for the handgun, feel a hand curl around my bicep as I dig. My fingers grip the handle just as the hand moves to yank me out of the machine, and I squeeze the trigger in the Axylan’s face. With him dispatched, I face the rest of the troop.

  In a matter of minutes, I get the upper hand. I quickly move to shield the injured figure, grab the fallen flamethrower and wield my two weapons simultaneously. The smell of burning flesh rises with the clouds of smoke and the wails of the Axylans. Sweat pours down my face and I’m panting with exertion by the time they have been silenced. I collapse to my knees, trembling from rage and adrenaline.

  “You came,” a shaky, gravelly voice behind me says. My heart is thumping so loudly in my chest that I can hear my own blood pounding in my ears. I turn to face the crumpled form of Yves.

  “I wasn’t going to,” I blurt immediately. He nods, a pained expression crossing his face as he gingerly unwraps his arms from his chest, as if wary of broken ribs. His marble skin is covered in soot, and I can make out several nasty burn marks on his hands. His shirt has holes burned into the shoulders and chest, and falls open revealing a lobster-red patch of abdomen; his combat pants are filthy with ash and dirt. He looks on the verge of passing out.

  “They knew I was coming,” he explains as I rush to him, intent on relieving his pain as he did mine in the forest that day. Desperate hands clutch my forearms; his eyes water with pain and relief. “I made contact with Ayla last month. She was wary, at first, but I made her trust me again, slowly. She became my sister again—time after time I wondered whether I could really do it, whether I could kill her when we’d become
so close again, just like we used to be. She made me her third in command. I had the power that was always rightfully mine, finally.”

  I imagine him in his purple robes, arms crossed over his chest as he reveled in the power he’d had to fight so hard for. The spoils of an Axylan triumph. I wonder, at that moment, if he’s going to desert me after all? The look in his eyes is so wistful it’s jarring.

  “The last bout of public executions were what made my final decision. It was barbaric; a throwback to all those deaths on our own planet. When I found out they had been ordered by Ayla, I couldn’t keep the disgust off my. She knew I was not with her any longer.”

  I remember the executions he was referring to being on the news. I’d been in hiding then, living in the empty shell of an old apartment block, waiting it out until they found me. That period of my life is grey and hazy in my memory, the details not quite solid. I do remember the cold that worked its way under the doors and through the floorboards, eating raw beans out of the can and huddling around a crappy campfire in the gutted remains of the living room. I remember jumping at every sound that made its way into my little filthy haven: the creak of a step, the whistle of the wind through the cracked windows, a tank rumbling past outside. Living in fear that chipped away at my resolve, and by the time they found me and bundled me into an armored truck, I was past fighting.

  I’d managed to repair a tiny digital radio that had been left behind in one of the kitchen drawers, and each night I’d sit rigid, facing the front door, trying to catch a signal. The rebels who were free had set up a broadcast on one of the higher frequencies, a news channel to catch up on all that we’d missed while running or while in captivity. The executions themselves had been aired one night in late October, the biggest mass genocide by the Axylans so far. Ayla had strung up a huge set of gallows in what used to be the center of some burned out city, unrecognizable by its skeletal remains. The gallows spanned five miles of streets, and were manned by a thousand Axylan guards. Two thousand rebels had been murdered that day, stepped up one by one to hang by the neck until dead. The broadcast had sickened me then, and it sickens me now, to know that I haven’t been able to prevent it.