Chameleon: Alien Castaways (Intergalactic Dating Agency)

by Cara Bristol

  5

  Chameleon

  Alien Castaways 1

  Cara Bristol

  Chameleon (Alien Castaways 1)

  Copyright © September 2020 by Cara Bristol

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  eISBN: 978-1-947203-19-8

  Editor: Kate Richards

  Copy Editor: Nanette Sipe

  Proofreader: Celeste Jones

  Cover Artist: Croco Designs

  Formatting by Wizards in Publishing

  Published in the United States of America

  Cara Bristol

  http://www.carabristol.com

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Other Titles by Cara Bristol

  About Cara Bristol

  Author’s Note

  Although real places are mentioned in this story, the town of Argent, Idaho is fictitious.

  When you wish upon a falling star, er, UFO…

  Young widow Kevanne Girardi catches sight of a meteorite streaking across the sky and wishes for a good handyman to help make her rundown lavender farm a big success. Instead, she gets a shapeshifting alien who apparently has never seen a leaky faucet before. But his loving and noble spirit make him just the man to fix her wounded heart. He hasn’t promised her forever, but a girl can hope, can’t she? Maybe she’ll make another wish…

  When his ship tumbles out of the sky and lands on Earth, Chameleon never expects to fall for a human woman. Unfortunately, he can’t stay. He made a mistake that led to the devastation of an entire planet, and now the survivors are depending on him to get them to safety. He must repair his ship and leave before the Xeno Consortium finds him and Earth becomes endangered, too. But oh, he wishes he could stay with Kevanne forever…

  Can a twist of fate make their wishes come true?

  Chapter One

  “How long before the Xeno Consortium fighter closes in?” Tigre’s tail whipped from side to side, and he rubbed the pigmented bands slashing his cheeks. In moments of stress, the stripes darkened and swelled, becoming more prominent.

  Wingman peered at his screen. “They’ll be close enough to fire again in thirty minutes.”

  “How much time before we reach jump space?”

  “Thirty-four minutes.”

  “I don’t like those numbers,” Tigre said grimly.

  Neither did Chameleon. If the consortium caught up with them, they would fire on the Castaway to disable it, arrest the entire crew, and…well, death would be preferable. They’d all wish they were back on ’Topia.

  “We have to increase the distance between us and them. If we activate hyperdrive”—Chameleon glanced at his console—“we can reach jump space in four minutes, six seconds.”

  “With our stabilizer core already damaged, entering jump space could be risky, and doing it in hyperdrive?” Shadow, their acting engineer, shook his head.

  “Give us some numbers. Say we shift into hyperdrive and enter the jump, what’s the risk to the ship?” Tigre asked. Chameleon respected the calm way the Saberian sought information and figured the others did also since they’d chosen him to captain the Castaway. Chameleon hadn’t been in a position to disagree, but Tigre had proven to be a competent commander. Besides, who captained the vessel didn’t really matter as long as they got as far away from ’Topia as they could.

  “Sixty-five percent, give or take five,” Shadow replied.

  “That the ship will remain intact?”

  “No, that it will break apart. If we enter jump space at hyperspeed, I estimate our chance of survival at 35 percent—at best. If we do pass through with the hull intact, there’s still a good chance the engines could be irreparably damaged, leaving us to drift.”

  “Which means we get captured by the Xenos anyway,” Wingman said.

  “Not necessarily,” Chameleon disagreed. “In jump space you can’t predict with finite accuracy where you’ll end up. At best, you can get close to your coordinates in time and space. Assuming the consortium fighter follows us in, most likely they’ll end up in a different section of the galaxy.”

  “Unless they’re tracking us,” Wingman said. “They’ve dogged us since we escaped ’Topia.”

  “They’re picking up our exhaust signature,” Tigre said. “If we put enough distance between us, the signature will dissipate.”

  “The prisoner could be tagged. I’ll bet that’s how they’re keeping up with us. I had recommended we keep him to use as leverage in case we were captured, but I’ve changed my mind. We should eject him into space.” Wingman flexed his soot-covered wings, many feathers curled and blackened. They must have caught fire during the bombardment.

  “I hesitate to kill a man who might be innocent,” Tigre said. “He was searched and scanned. We detected no tracking device.”

  “He mimicked a Saberian to gain our trust. We only discovered he was a Xeno when the ship scanned everyone as we boarded,” Wingman persisted.

  Checking that his personification was still holding, Chameleon listened to the interchange between their appointed captain and the Avian with rising alarm. The conversation headed into dangerous territory. Tigre provided a voice of reason, but Wingman argued a strong case.

  “Technically, we boarded his ship,” Tigre pointed out. “He said he came to warn ’Topians of the attack and get as many of our people off the planet as he could.”

  “What else would he say?”

  “Why risk his own life by being on the planet during the bombardment?”

  Wingman shook his head. “He’s a spy.”

  “A spy who helped us to escape? None of us would be alive if he hadn’t led us to the Castaway. We would have died with everyone else.”

  They’d watched from space as an armada bombarded ’Topia, scorching the land and turning lavender oceans to steam.

  “He did it to save his own ass.”

  “His ass was already safe. He could have taken the ship and left. He didn’t need us.”

  “Why are you defending him?” Wingman scowled. “I say we airlock him now. The longer we keep him, the more we’re all at risk.”

  Chameleon surreptitiously inspected his hands again. Still red. Good.

  “He hasn’t done anything. At least, not yet,” Tigre said. “Since we’re in this together, this needs to be a group decision. Wingman, I know your vote is for airlocking. I’m a no unless we get hard evi
dence he’s a threat. Shadow?” He looked at their Vaporian engineer.

  “I’m with you, Tigre. No for now.”

  Tigre turned to Chameleon. “What do you say, Inferno?”

  “I concur with you and Shadow. The prisoner should not be airlocked,” said Chameleon, the Xeno prisoner in question. He’d escaped the brig and gained access to the bridge by personifying a crew member. So, no. He opposed ejecting the prisoner into outer space. “I believe his intentions were sincere or he wouldn’t have led us to the Castaway. He had a thorough scan, so I’m confident he isn’t wearing a tracking device. Besides”—he glanced at the readings on his screen—“we now have twenty-two minutes until the fighter will fire on us again.”

  “We’d never win a firefight,” Tigre said. “Our chance of survival in a jump may only be 35 percent, but I say we take it. Who’s in for a jump?”

  “Jump,” Wingman agreed.

  Shadow nodded. “Jump.”

  “Jump,” Chameleon said.

  “Psy should vote, but there’s no time. We have our consensus. Put us into hyperdrive,” Tigre ordered.

  Shadow nodded and turned to his console. The teamwork impressed Chameleon. ’Topians were genetic hybrids, their mishmash of DNA bestowing them with different abilities and aptitudes, which they’d used to their advantage. If the goal of the ’Topian project had been cooperation, the consortium would have lauded the experiment as a huge success. Instead, they’d deemed it a failure and ordered its destruction.

  Shadow counted down: “Hyperdrive commencing in five seconds, four, three, two, one…” Lights blinked causing the vessel to go dark for an instant, and the ship shot through space. The stars blurred, but there was no sensation of movement.

  Until the Castaway entered jump space. Then the ship seized and shuddered as if a giant hand grabbed the vessel in its fist and shook it. The hull groaned and swayed. The engine growl swelled to a roar. Chameleon clung to his personification and the chair, bracing himself as the vessel shuddered and rocked.

  Thirty-five percent. That’s all they had. We’ll make it. We have to make it.

  The ship began to spin. Chameleon lost his grip, flew from his seat, and crashed into a panel.

  “Can you control the spin?” Tigre shouted, hanging on to his own seat.

  “I’m trying!” Shadow yelled, clinging to his console while punching in a command.

  Finally, the ship stopped tossing and turning and went silent and still. Lights flickered but remained on.

  “We’re out!” Tigre said. “We did it! We’re on the other side!”

  The men cheered.

  The door to the bridge slid open. A horned man with reddened features burst in. “What in herian happened?” the real Inferno demanded.

  Tigre, Wingman, and Shadow spun around. Chameleon picked himself up off the floor. His tail, as bright blue as the rest of him, twitched with alarm. With all the shaking, he’d lost the personification, and he stood there revealed for what he was: the Xeno prisoner they thought was in the brig.

  Chapter Two

  Chameleon dove for freedom.

  “Stop him!” Wingman shouted.

  Inferno tackled him, and he and Wingman wrestled him into a chair.

  “Do you see?” Wingman glowered at Tigre. “He escaped and mimicked one of us! We have to neutralize him. Airlocking is our only recourse. We five are the last living ’Topians. If we want to stay alive, we can’t risk keeping him around.”

  If he didn’t come up with something quick, they’d kill him. He had to get them to see him as a person, who wanted to help them, not hurt them. “I mean you no harm—”

  Wingman ignored him, produced a neuro stunner, and brandished the weapon while addressing the others. “Xenos have mastered genetic engineering and manipulation. He could have a homing gene programmed into his DNA. He impersonated a Saberian, and then he personified a Luciferan. Who knows what else he can do? You can’t trust a Xeno.”

  Tigre pointed at the real Inferno. “Find Psy, please. Tell him he’s needed on the bridge.” Then he addressed Shadow. “We can’t sit and drift. Let’s get moving. Put us into hyperdrive.”

  “Would if I could. Hyperdrive is shot. Three of the four engines burned out. We’re a breath away from requiring auxiliary support now. If I can repair one engine, we’ll have two functioning, and then I can get us somewhere.”

  “Make it happen,” Tigre said.

  Shadow glanced at Chameleon. “Is it safe to leave? I’ll have to go to the engine room.”

  Wingman glowered. “If he twitches, I’ll fry his synapses.” Most likely the Avian hoped Chameleon would attempt to flee to give him an excuse to shoot him.

  “Do it. Get us out of here,” Tigre said.

  For a moment, Shadow’s form wavered and faded, but then he pulled himself together and slipped off the bridge. Vaporians were another experiment. Born with solid bodies, they were genetically imbued with the ability to alter their solid state and become apparitions. Then came the cruel twist. Upon reaching adulthood, if they didn’t mate, they began to evaporate until they dissipated completely.

  For their own amusement, the Xenos had played many dirty tricks under the guise of science. They’d given some of the most intelligent beings the shortest life spans while handicapping others with low intelligence or physical deformities. Others received self-destruct genes. At a predetermined time, their genetic programming went haywire and killed them. Xenos had spliced animal DNA with humanoid DNA. Plant with animal.

  The ’Topians had reason to distrust their creators. Yet they had not only survived but thrived, developing a medical science to counteract many of the congenital perils. Until the bombardment.

  “I mean you no harm,” Chameleon said. “I came to ’Topia to rescue as many people as I could before—”

  “Shut up.” Wingman waved the disruptor.

  Would a ’Topian weapon affect his nervous system? He wasn’t sure, but he had no plans to test its efficacy unless they tried to airlock him.

  Inferno reentered the bridge with Psy. Veritals could tap into psychic energy, read minds, and access deeply buried memories or erase them. He’d sensed Psy’s energy when they’d boarded the ship and had given him a wide berth in case Psy detected his identity.

  Tigre folded his arms, crossed his ankles, and leaned against the handrail, a portrait of calm, except for the prominent throbbing facial stripes. “Thanks for the quick response, Psy. We need a read on our prisoner here.”

  Psy’s pupils were large and round, his eyes unblinking. “I’ll do what I can.”

  Tigre studied Chameleon. “You want to tell us again who you are and why you’re here?”

  “My name is Chameleon.” Already, the fingers of Psy’s consciousness touched his mind. Insidious, subtle. If not for the forewarning, the probing might have occurred without his awareness. He could block it—Xenos had the ability—but doing so wouldn’t engender goodwill from his comrades. He needed them to trust him if he was going to stay alive, and, although they didn’t realize it, he was essential to their survival. So he threw up a barricade to the darkest memories and let Psy walk through the rest.

  “I was a member of the Xeno Consortium High Council, and—”

  Wingman’s face darkened, and Tigre uncrossed his ankles.

  “I opposed the bombardment of ’Topia.”

  “Bombardment? Try genocide!” Wingman said.

  “I opposed the destruction of ’Topia,” he repeated.

  “You didn’t oppose it enough to try to do anything about it!” Wingman charged.

  “You’re here, aren’t you?” he snapped.

  Just before the bombardment had begun, he had led several hundred ’Topians to an escape shuttle. Prior to that, over several months, he’d worked with a ’Topian contact to try to convince the pacifist government to shore up the planet’s defenses while secretly relocating as many people as he could. Unfortunately, the consortium had caught on and moved up the date of extermination,
which was why he happened to be on the planet during the bombardment. He wondered what had happened to his ’Topian contact, if Wisp been able to escape.

  Secretly working with his small opposition group, Chameleon had rescued several thousand people. The rest of the population—millions—had perished.

  His role in that was the shame he locked behind the mental barrier. He could feel Psy trying to pry open the door. Let him try. He’d allow himself to be airlocked before he’d grant admission.

  Psy withdrew, but Chameleon maintained the shields just in case. The Verital squinted and rubbed his temples as if reading his mind had given him a headache. Good. Stay out of my head, then.

  Tigre straightened. “Well? Is he friend or foe?”

  “What he’s told you thus far is the truth, but he blocked certain memories, and, without the use of force, I couldn’t read them.”

  “So force it!” Wingman said.

  “It could cause irreparable brain damage or kill him.”

  “And the downside is?” Wingman flexed his wings. “Has he been implanted with a tracker?”

  “If he was, he doesn’t know it,” Psy said.

  “I would know it,” Chameleon retorted automatically, but he wondered. As a member of the ruling class, he’d enjoyed enormous personal autonomy, but he couldn’t be sure geneticists of yore hadn’t built in a failsafe. It was unlikely but possible he did carry a tracker gene. Whether he did or didn’t was immaterial. They had to keep moving, or they were doomed for sure. He studied the men whose fates had become tied to his. Tigre’s brow furrowed in contemplation, a scowling Wingman flexed his fingers as if itching to push the OPEN AIRLOCK button, and Psy still squinted. Inferno rubbed his horns as if they ached. Any one of them or all of them could be carrying a tracker.

  Lights blinked, and then the Castaway hummed with a throaty rumble.

  Moments later, Shadow strolled onto the bridge to the cheers of the other men. He raised his hand. “Two engines are operational, but hyperdrive is shot. The stabilizer core is beyond repair; we’d never survive another jump, and the energy-matter transformer is fried.”