Table of Contents
ALIEN, AWAKENING
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
ALIEN, AWAKENING
Book 2 In The Alien, Mine Series
SANDRA HARRIS
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
ALIEN, AWAKENING
Copyright©2017
SANDRA HARRIS
Cover Design by Two Horses Swift
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
P.O. Box 24
Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN: 978-1-68291-419-9
www.SoulMatePublishing.com
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book can be read as a stand-alone story, but the reader may derive more enjoyment from it by reading the previous story, Alien, Mine.
Abducted by aliens.
Rescued by aliens.
Stranded on the far side of the Galaxy, psychologist Kathryn Holden, has done her best to help her fellow abductees (both human and non-human) adjust to their new life in an alien civilisation. Setting out to explore her new home and search for that last elusive fragment of her own peace of mind, she discovers a perfectly preserved, underground city with no evidence of a population . . . and an Artificially Sentient Intelligence bent on protecting her from anything or anyone.
T’Hargen Mhartak, sector head for covert operations for the Angrigan, Magran & Legolopanth Alliance, once deluded himself that the human woman, Kathryn Holden, held the key to lighting the darkness shrouding his soul. A momentary lapse in judgement. However instinct demands she is fundamental to the future of the Alliance — the only thing he lives for, the only thing standing between his peaceful society and the callous Bluthen race.
When he and Kathryn are catapulted deep into enemy territory T’Hargen is forced to question his deep-seated convictions in order to secure a strong ally for the Alliance, and also, possibly, capture that fragile dream he’d abandoned long ago of awakening to a bright, new future.
For KC
Dear Little Soul
I will always love you.
Acknowledgements
As always, my love and appreciation to my husband for his never-failing support, and my eternal gratitude to my critique partner, author C.T. Green, for always keeping me on the straight and narrow.
Chapter 1
T’Hargen Mhartak forced back the gorge rising in his throat as the combined blood of recently murdered innocents seeped down his forehead and ran with disturbing slickness past the corner of one eye. Compelled to seek refuge beneath a jumble of discarded bodies and appendages, he cursed his enemies, the entire Bluthen race, for their inherent cold, callous, psychopathic natures. The prikjas had dumped the remains of these people in this open pit like so much useless waste.
Every muscle in him tightened with repugnance, then the cold claws of remorse and guilt sliced through his gut. Once again he hadn’t been able to save people from the Bluthen butchers. Despite a frantic, covert search of the laboratory, he’d not been able to find one living captive. He twisted his lips with black humour. The Bluthen’s complete disregard for other life probably accounted for the exaggerated intensity of the energy overload he’d rigged. The resulting explosion should be quite . . . robust. And the bastards wouldn’t be able to halt it in time.
Carefully, so as not to disturb the cover of bodies and broadcast his whereabouts to the patrolling Bluthen soldiers, he turned his wrist and checked his timer.
Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen.
He was a long way from peripheral safety. This one was going to be close.
Twelve, eleven, ten.
An image appeared before his mind’s eye of long, curly, black hair, supple brown skin, and dark amber eyes compassionate enough to make a man think . . . His mind sheered away from the illusion of hope while Kathryn Holden’s features continued to shine like a light in a dark place.
During the rescue and rehabilitation of the most recent Bluthen captives, her tentative expressions of interest towards him had momentarily trapped him like an enchanting enigma offering . . . something he wanted, needed, but couldn’t name, and then he’d run from her as though she were g’Nel’s Soulcaller.
He’d—
A thundering explosion ripped through the air as if bent on the total annihilation of every molecule. The ground shook in a vehement fit. The bodies around him jostled as though cheering on the destruction of their slayers. Violence stormed the very fabric of the area, rattling his teeth. His chest and spinal plates hardened into battle readiness and his cranial ridges swelled. Pressure built in his head. Heat licked at his exposed skin. A massive shockwave ripped the oxygen from the air. He gasped, gagged on roasted air, then a concussive force punched the consciousness from his mind.
~ ~ ~
T’Hargen came to with a start, heart pounding, tremors rippling his muscles. An odd sense of bereavement haunted him as the vague memory of a dream where he lost something precious and vital flickered away like a legendary mist lantern.
Spongy heaviness weighed against him and restricted his movements. His head throbbed as though every cell in his brain exploded again and again in rhythmic agony. He swallowed the pain and forced his eyelids up. Close, indeterminate dark shapes filled a grey gloom. A recollection flashed through his mind, quickly followed by more.
Bodies. I’m in the pit.
He held his unsteady breath and listened for sounds of survival. Nothing. No moans, no apparent activity, not even bird or insect calls. Cautiously, he began to extract himself, respectfully displacing the deceased, but the press of their bodies hampered his progress as though reluctant to allow his release. The pungent smell of charred flesh and melted polymers stung his olfactory senses, became stronger as he emerged.
He squinted against the daylight, swung himself up to the lip of the pit and straightened. Mangled, charred, grey-skinned Bluthen bodies—and parts there of—oozed blood and gore. Burned wreckage from temporary structures littered the ground in haphazard union with forest debris.
No signs of life. Whatsoever.
He
delved into a pocket of his bloodied vest and sought the data disc he’d stolen. His fingertips brushed the crystalline surface and he pulled it to light then inspected it for damage. Reassurance flooded him at the intact appearance. A breeze picked up and flushed fresh air into the blast zone. He stared with dispassionate scrutiny at the remains of the outpost then sucked a deep breath, turned, and thanked the dead for their lifesaving shroud.
His scanner bipped, confirmed no life forms, and he twisted the corner of his mouth into a sardonic smile. He’d nearly been among the dead, but thanks to the Bluthen’s deplorable regard to beings’ rights, he remained alive. That was irony for you.
Or was the irony that the last image on his mind before he thought he might die was that of a beautiful, human woman who terrified him more than any enemy he’d faced? He frowned. Kathryn Holden was a psych analyst and he’d had more than his fill of them. All they’d managed was to probe a wound deep enough to sear a permanent brand into his soul. Not one of them had been able to provide him a weapon to fight the desolate, sanity-gouging memory of a slaughtered village—or his guilt over the incident.
So what was it about her that lured his thoughts to return to her again and again? Since the moment of their meeting one hundred and fifty-two Mrililian days ago, whenever his guard was lax, she invaded his mind, taunted him with the promise of . . . His heart stilled for a beat as a determined flicker of certainty speared an answer through the walls shielding his psyche.
Serenity?
He gave an angry shake of his head. Impossible. Serenity was beyond his reach. At this junction, the best he could hope for was equanimity. He forced his attention back to the here and now then panned his gaze over the destroyed enemy encampment.
Twenty more scum that will no longer murder innocents.
He identified the two species in the pit, Magrans and the recently encountered Gailings, and made a mental note to notify their respective leaders. At least then the dead could enjoy their rites and the living would have some closure.
Feeling at least three injuries to his torso and legs that he could well have done without, he limped towards his concealed shuttle and tried to decipher the enigma of the human woman’s continual intrusion into his mind.
Why her? After the emotionally charged drama of rescue she’d revealed a personality quiet, calm and unassuming.
~ ~ ~
Kat Holden drew in a deep breath and bellowed a battle cry from the pit of her stomach. Answering roars reverberated from the men and women behind her. Across twenty feet of turf she glared through the protective bars of her helmet at their rivals lined up in a mirroring “V” formation.
This was it.
Match point.
And the prize for this game was one of Evarda’s five-layered, triple-fudge ombrayos.
Her mouth watered and she twirled her long hardwood club in readiness. Her team was up two minors/one major. Oh, yes, woe betides anyone who got in her way. Sunshine beat on her back, heated her helmet and chest guard into mini saunas. Sweat trickled down her neck and pooled between her breasts.
The ref signalled an imminent start. Her opponents did a quick shuffle. A larger form replaced the player defending against her. Adrenaline pumped through her veins like a fizzing spark down dynamite cord. An evil grin stretched her lips. Obviously the determination and competitive streak of a well-built, six-foot human woman was something the goundash representatives for the Third Corps Angrigan Cadet fleet had not encountered.
She narrowed her eyes and studied her new primary opponent. The Raider of the other team stood square on his feet, stance lose, shoulder muscles bunched. Big bastard.
Going for intimidation, huh? Good luck with that, buddy.
His left forearm showed marginally more development than his right.
So, a lefty. Just like Mum.
The red target on the side of his helmet appeared almost unscathed—few scratches, no dints.
New equipment or . . . he didn’t get hit much.
She widened her grin, a good threat tactic. Having suffered the tingling of the mild electrical charge that indicated a direct hit to the target, and then endured the ignominy of being dragged back over enemy lines for them to score a primary point as a result, she’d found it good incentive not to be hit again. She turned her head a fraction to show her almost pristine target.
Make what you will of that, hulk.
The ref lifted his horn. Kat raised her hardwood staff and pointed the solid, spiked-ball end towards those who stood between her and victory—AKA fudge ombrayo. A strident hoot sounded. She let her inner beast free and charged.
Two steps from collision with the other Raider she planted her weight into her right foot and brought her left foot diagonally in behind it, balance held in her bent knees. The head of her opponent’s goundar speared towards her chest. She followed the twist of her body as her left shoulder turned away from her right, pulled her stick back with her left hand, then slid it through the lax clasp of her right until the ball encountered her fingers. Her opponent’s spikes scraped across her chest guard. She bounded a step closer and jammed her goundar ball into his stomach. He grunted. Recoil shuddered up her arm.
She gripped her goundar tight and shoved hard. He stumbled back a pace, fell into a roll, and came up defensive, stick pointing towards her. Around them their teams clashed. Bodies slammed into bodies. Hardwood cracked on synthetic protection. Shouts of pain and triumph mixed with war cries. She lunged at her opponent, thrust her goundar towards his left shoulder.
He stepped forwards, turned into her attack and swung his goundar up. Her strike slid across his back. His stick swung towards her head. Alarm spiked across her nerves, her eyes flew wide, her throat closed on her breath. She jumped forwards and thrust her head and shoulders down as though to dive into the dirt. Blunt pain exploded across her scapula.
Damn, that was a hard hit.
The spikes of his goundar ball dug into her flesh near her armpit, caught the edge of her armour, and dragged her towards him. She swung a blow at his knees. The pull of his goundar ceased. She carried through with her swing, arcing her goundar upwards to clash against his and deflect a downwards blow.
He backed off a pace. She followed, wrapped her left hand tight around the club, and drove it straight at his ribs. He punched at her. She dodged and retreated. His goundar swung on a collision course with her head. She lifted her weapon to block his blow. His club landed and bruising force exploded across her forearm.
Son-of-a—!
She focused her strength, pushed back the pain, feinted a strike towards his head then rammed the bottom end of her stick into his ribs. His goundar swung down. She pulled her chin in. Took a light blow across her chest. His strike carried to the ground, she stepped into him, jerked a knee towards his stomach and her elbow to his head. His hips shot back and his right shoulder dropped in an attempt to evade her blow. She stepped back and drove her goundar straight at his unspoiled target.
Connection made a very satisfying thud.
His body jerked. As per the rules, he buckled his knees and folded to the ground.
She threw her head back and shrieked victory. Her team responded. Their Seizer bulldozed his way to her side, grabbed the fallen Raider by the wrists, and dragged him away to their camp. She closed ranks with the defenders of her team and guarded their retreat. The Third put up a fierce attack, no doubt because their honour was going down.
All she wanted was the fudge.
Shoulder-to-shoulder with Dave, goundars pointed like lances at their rivals, she took another step back. The demarcation line marking their territory appeared near her feet. Triumph sizzled through her. Should the opposition cross that line, voluntarily or not, they were forfeit, considered captives. She stretched her lips into a wide grin.
The final time signal bl
ared through the air.
“We won! We won!”
Her team whooped while goundars flew then rained down. The Third ducked and withdrew to a safe distance. Kat released her pent-up focus and eased the tension from her muscles. It was over. They had won. She closed her eyes, pulled in a rueful breath, and wondered how many of her team had envisioned Bluthen features under the helmets of the rival side. Something she was constantly tempted to do.
An unfair advantage?
Possibly, but they’d paid for that factor with pain, blood, terror, and lives. Experiences the Third had yet to endure. Maybe that was why General Mhartak allowed only inexperienced troops to participate in goundar with the New Earth residents. The game could all too easily degenerate into something ugly if both sides allowed the horror of war to direct their actions.
A hand clapped her shoulder and an uncomfortable ripple shot through the ache still pounding there.
“Nice moves, Doc,” Dave enthused, “Matthew teach you that?”
She lifted her lids and turned to their ‘mayor.’ “He did. Long stick fighting.”
“How’s your arm?”
She released the clasps of her body guards and helmet, slid them gingerly off, then turned her forearm to inspect the throbbing, ugly bruise halfway between her elbow and wrist.
Evarda bustled to her side, a medical scanner, bandages, and swabs neatly placed on the tray she carried, a look of resigned reproof turned her usually smiling mouth down.
“I felt certain that blow would break the radius bone,” she said, running the scanner over Kat’s arm. “I still don’t understand why the game has to be so brutal. Didn’t we get enough of that in the Bluthen encampments?”
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