by Lisa Lace
“Whoa.” I breathe out. “Okay, so how do I understand you?”
The robot gives me a carefully engineered smile. “It sounds like you’re asking what languages I speak. Is that right?”
“Yes,” I venture. It seems like this is some kind of automated AI. I groan internally, but at least something out here is familiar. Wherever “out here” is.
“As per the conditions on your contract, you have been implanted with translation chips corresponding to the standard currently used across the galaxy. Voices you hear will be rendered into your preferred language automatically as you hear them. Do you have any questions about this topic?”
I rub my eyes. “Uh, I guess not.”
She blinks again. “Great. I’ll be your robotic assistant for the next few days while we get you prepared for your future partner! Would you like to give me a nickname?”
“Uh, Mindy?”
She blinks again. “Did you say the name, ‘Mindy’?” her recorded voice uses my own as she speaks the name.
“Uh, yes.”
“Great. I’m Mindy, and I’ll be your guide! I hope you’re ready to meet the love of your life.” Her wheeled base moves through the hall before me. Barefoot, I trot to keep up.
A door swings open, and I hear the click of high heels approaching me. A tall woman with bright pink lipstick and chestnut-colored hair hanging in tight ringlets stands over me. She looks down through blue-framed glasses and adjusts her olive-colored suit jacket. She marks something off on a clipboard before clearing her throat.
“Hello, beautiful!” Her voice is friendly, but her eyes evaluate me critically.
“Uh, hi? My name is Emily?” I offer, feeling stupid. At least the woman in front of me is human—the robot was startling enough.
“How are you acclimatizing, Emily?” She offers me a smile.
“Pretty well, I guess? Do I uh, start meeting people soon?”
Her eyes sparkle. “Actually, I have great news! Because of your exceptional physique and a few other parameters, including high percentile scores in Intelligence, Charm, and Sociability, you’ve been fast-tracked through our dating program. You’re quite the catch!” She lets out a merry little chuckle.
“Me? A catch?”
Then my old acting coach’s words come back to me. “It’s hard to get your big break, but while you’re surviving in the meantime, live by improv rules. Your new life motto is ‘yes, and.’ Pretend it’s all part of a scene. Anything can happen on stage, and if you pretend you’re playing a role, you’ll never be caught off-guard. You’ll be ready for anything!”
Somehow, I don’t think he had this in mind. But if I were in an improvised scene, I’d take what my scene partners said and roll with it. What someone blurts out one minute can become an established fact the next, after all.
“Of course,” I recover. “A catch!” There’s totally a reason I didn’t make it as an actress, I think to myself, cringing.
To her credit, the pretty woman doesn’t bat an eyelash. Well, other people probably scream and throw up right about now, so I guess I’m taking this better than most. It’s not like I was expecting to be instantly transported to…wherever we are.
“Great! I’m glad you’re as excited about this as we are. I hope you’re ready to start the upgrade process!”
“Wait, upgrade process?” I counter.
Rather than answer me, she claps her hands, and two other women come to greet me. With greenish skin and deep brown eyes, they wear uncannily identical expressions, and when I ask questions, they blink and smile, but don’t answer verbally.
Silently proffering a pale blue hospital gown that feels way more expensive and nice than it should, they point at a flat table and then a cubicle.
“Uh, okay.” Going behind the screened area, I ditch my sweatpants and too-warm coat, then throw the gown on. I place myself on the table.
Then an electronic array comes down from the ceiling. Very quickly, the twins and the weird robot spider thingy start giving me the fastest spa treatment I’ve ever had in my life. It’s still relaxing, and not even the extractions—euphemistic beauty guru language for “zit-popping”—hurt.
When it’s done, I realize they’ve smoothed, moisturized, de-wrinkled, and nourished my skin. It feels like I’ve lost a couple years in age. I don’t have a mirror, but I feel great. They’ve even smoothed out a few bumps and wrinkles.
Mindy comes back in at some point and turns an appealing smile on me. Before I know it, I’m saying “yes, and” to everything. A tray of delicacies and chocolates? Yes. A delicious, bubbly mimosa-like drink? Hell yes. Some kind of weird plant treatment that makes my skin really firm and plump and smooths out my cellulite, enhancing my generous curves? Yes, yes, and yes.
Then they start working on my hair. My black waves get pulled and teased, and a metal basin slides in behind my skull. I get the best scalp massage of my life.
It’s over too soon, and then a pair of dark glasses slide over my eyes. “Wait, what’s—”
“Please don’t be alarmed,” says Mindy brightly. “Remain still.”
Almost every inch of my body tickles, a static electricity kind of feeling coruscating over me. I giggle uncomfortably.
When the glasses lift, and I can see again, I blink in disbelief. Every inch of my body now looks perfectly manicured—my leg hair is gone, my pit hair is tamed and shaved, and between my legs, the whole bikini area looks—well, magazine-perfect.
It’s a little weird, but hey, it beats waxing and shaving the old-fashioned way. Not having to pull out my sensitive hairs with a judicious yank? Sounds good to me.
“Whoa, what’s next, the turtle wax and chamois polish?” I joke.
The women don’t speak or react, so my joke falls flat. The two women step back, admiring their work.
Clipboard appears out of nowhere. She paces around me in circles, taking notes and murmuring to herself. “She looks beautiful. Are you ready for your physical exam, Emily?”
“Uh, I guess so.” I hesitate slightly at what that might entail.
The bench immediately contorts and lifts my legs. I’m suddenly glad I’m not on my period because I wasn’t expecting a gynecologist-style deep-dive into my lady bits.
“Whoa, whoa!” I protest.
Clipboard blinks at me. “Would you like us to cease and desist? We can offer you a three-hour delay or a sedative, or both, depending on your preference.” She offers a smile that almost looks scheduled.
“Uh, no, this is fine, I guess, but a little warning would be nice. Actually, so would that sedative.”
Clipboard takes a seat on a small stool. She chews on her bottom lip and lets out a long sigh. “This final part of the examination will complete your certification process to ensure your compatibility with your chosen mate. In the event that the relationship does not go well, there is a cancellation clause. Warning: some clauses may not be enforceable in sub-galactic areas and are bound by local and regional laws. Do you consent to go further? If you do not, we can return you to Earth immediately.”
Well, here it is, the big question.
Do I want to go back to my terrible now-ex-boyfriend and my crappy life? Or do I want to be married off to some statistically-selected or super-rich stranger, whichever he is, and spend the rest of my life among total strangers—possibly having the adventure of a lifetime?
“Yes,” I say confidently. “I would like to proceed.”
One of the women sticks a thermometer in my mouth while the other shines a light into my eyes.
A fruity drink comes my way, carried by Mindy. It looks like a slushy of some kind, but there’s no alcoholic sting. The mango-like concoction goes down easy—and then I feel very, very relaxed.
Clipboard starts firing questions at me. “The sedative can impair speech, so please don’t attempt to answer verbally yet. How many sexual partners have you had before this point? Please blink your eyes now to indicate the number.”
Before I realize wh
at I'm doing, my eyes slowly open and shut four times. Good thing I can't blush or feel embarrassed by the low number. My high school boyfriend, a couple actors that things didn’t work out with, and Josh. Not impressive.
She nods and continues. “Have you ever been pregnant? Blink once for no and twice for yes.”
I blink once.
She writes something down and continues. “Any sexually transmitted infections, either now or in the past?”
Couldn't they analyze my blood or something instead of asking me? But I blink once again.
“Do you experience pain or discomfort during intercourse?”
No.
“Do you often climax?”
The question throws me off. Why would she want to know that? I wonder if she means by myself or with a partner, but I can't ask a clarifying question. My eyes close once.
“Do you think you have a high sexual drive?”
This is the only question for which I can blink twice.
Her pen checks something off, and she whispers to one of the women. The short one tilts her head in understanding.
“That's great.” She stands up and motions to the women. They stand at the end of the table holding a light. She snaps on a latex glove. “Are you ready for a physical examination?”
“Sure,” I slur. One slides her fingers inside of me.
Clipboard clears her throat. “No visual abnormalities. You look gorgeous.” She turns a smile on me. “Exceptionally well-formed.”
Well, that’s got to be the most specific compliment I’ve ever gotten in my life.
After my inspection is complete, they lift me up off the table. The effects of the drug seem to be wearing off. I feel less chilled out and more nervous. I take a deep breath and stare at Clipboard. Her pink lips press together as she furiously writes down her discoveries about me.
The words come out slowly. “What comes next?”
She looks up, and the light catches in her glasses. “You are a very lucky girl. As I said before, you have been personally selected by one of our finest clients. I hope you like interstellar travel. You should be proud.”
“Who?” I manage.
Clipboard just smiles mysteriously at me.
I guess all I’ve got is my “yes, and.” I know I signed up for this, but I have to admit—this is getting scary.
Orien
Fucking shit. I wake up to a roaring stomach ache. My eyes burn, and I take a deep breath. By the suns! Bile climbs up from my gut, into my throat, burning on its way out. I roll over and gag, throwing up on the ground around me. I shake my head and take several deep breaths.
The light of the moons beat down on me, and the brightness of them says it’s “morning.” No, maybe it’s afternoon.
My arms wobble as I try to stand up. I don't think that I’ll ever drink again. I heave and throw up once more. Standing up is just about impossible. As soon as I gain my bearing, nausea consumes me.
What the fuck did I eat last night? I teeter to the side, falling on top of an elderly woman. She lets out a harrowing gasp when I clutch her waist to keep myself from hitting the ground. I try and smile, but instead, let loose another round of vomit. She hits me several times with a large purse, screaming violently at me. I collapse back onto the ground.
“Terribly sorry!” I holler at her as she runs down the street in horror. Talk about too little, too late, I admonish myself. Oh, well. She can go to someone for the barf on her dress. The cleaners here are used to a lot worse than a little puke.
I hold my head with my hands for a few seconds and take a deep breath. I might still be drunk. It’s hard to tell.
Focus, focus. I look up at the dark sky. At least I’m outside. This would be a whole lot messier if I was indoors. Maybe I can sleep it off. I close my eyes and try to ignore the spinning sensation. I don’t even attempt to recount last night; I can’t remember shit.
But then, ice water drenches me. My whole body seems to go into shock. I let out a high-pitched screech, jumping up and shaking my head. “What the fuck?”
I swipe water away from my eyes.
Mor stands above me, holding a metal pail and looking as smug as ever. “Good morning, Orien.” He laughs. “It is good to see you survived last night's activities.” He’s enjoying this a little too much.
I close my eyes and count to ten. If I don’t, I might kill him. “What happened?” I ask. My hand finds the railing of one of the shop’s patios. I lean against it as I continue to shield my eyes from the bright rays of moonlight. My headache is developing into a painfully blinding migraine, and Mor’s cheerfulness is only adding to it.
“You got drunk.”
I shake my head. “Well, clearly.”
A young woman holding a bottle of liquor passes by. My stomach wrenches at the sight of it, and I hold my breath. “What time is it?” I ask.
Mor glances at his watch. “It’s well into the afternoon.” He claps me upside the head. I try to dodge, but with a hangover, even my exceptional reflexes won’t do the trick. I just want to curl up in a black hole and die. I need sleep; spending the night passed out on the streets of Vezda wasn’t very restful.
Mor continues speaking as he plants one giant hand on my shoulders. “You have had plenty of sleep. Straighten up. We have company.”
Company? I turn and look around. I’m so lost in the haze of a hangover that I didn’t notice the extra body. I can’t believe Mor brought someone to me, knowing I’d be in this state. He better have a good reason, or else—
“I’m fine,” I murmur under my breath. Mor releases his grip, and I correct my posture.
I stare at the man behind him; he’s clearly from Omicron. The corded muscles and tall stature, as well the Omicronian crest of a half-moon set aflame, guarantee it.
His skin is a shade of blue darker than Mor’s, and he has black hair shaved so short, he looks almost bald. It is quite possible he’s one of Mor’s distant relatives.
I smile at him, and he bows at my acknowledgment. I hate when people do that; it reminds me of my past. I know it can’t be genuine. The people of Omicron hate me. Baroma did enslave their whole country after the great war. Even now, they aren’t completely free.
That makes me hate myself a little, especially because I know I could fix it.
I clench my jaw. I don’t have time for formalities. His presence means one thing—someone was able to track us. Two different occurrences in less than twenty-four hours. Either Mor and I are getting sloppy, or word of mouth is traveling fast.
“Prince Orien of House—” he begins.
“Stop. Nope. Don’t do that,” I cut him off, rubbing my temples and staring at the ground. “Is it getting brighter out here?”
Mor lets out a long sigh. “Orien had a great night last night.”
“I can tell.”
“And a great morning,” I chime in.
“I am Cleaf, head messenger of King Ursen the Great.” He bows again.
“If you’re here to kill me, just—honestly, I’m not even going to try and stop you. Mor might, but I won’t.”
Cleaf looks at me, confused, and then at Mor, hoping to get some sort of answer. Instead, Mor clears his throat and points to the bar. “Perhaps we should sit inside somewhere,” he suggests.
“Sounds like a wonderful idea,” Cleaf agrees.
“Eh—” I start walking away from them. “I think I might find a nice bed to sleep in.”
“Orien!” Mor barks.
“What?”
Hands clamp down on me, and I feel my body spinning around. I try to pull away, but a sharp pain forms in my ass. I stop moving and bite my tongue. “By the damn suns!” I curse.
Mor stares at me in abject disappointment. It looks like he’s finally run out of patience with me. Oh, no. “You don’t have money to go to a brothel or a hotel.”
“What? Yes, I do. I have seventy-five thousand crowns.”
“You blew it all gambling last night.”
A sharp pain o
f regret cuts through me—although it might be my protesting stomach. “All of it?” I squeak out.
“All of it.”
“Perfect,” I mutter.
We start to walk. If I blew all the money from last night, I owe it to Mor to behave. “Mor, do you, by chance, know why my ass hurts?”
“You got in a fight last night,” he says.
“I hope the other guy is feeling just as bad.” I take a step with less enthusiasm, carefully distributing my weight. The nausea forms in my throat, but at least my stomach is empty now.
“She’s actually fine. But you—you took a rather serious beating.”
“She?” I furrow my eyebrows. Mor continues the walk down the narrow street without giving me any more details. My behavior from last night shouldn’t be described for Omicron’s royal messenger, but I am sure it’ll be one hell of a story.
The streets are far less packed in the morning and afternoon. People are just beginning to wake up for another night. Daytime, when the moons are highest and brightest, is for sleeping. Unless, of course, your name is Mor and you hate Orien.
The walk to the bar is a struggle, but I’m relieved when we make it inside to the cool, dark basement.
Without all the people, the bar comes across as being much bigger. I’m not usually awake when this place is empty, and it feels weird, very hollow. Only three other patrons are here, sipping water and eating some kind of orange fruit dish.
The one working server sees us and gives Mor a wave, telling us she’ll be here in a minute. We take our seats at a round wooden table. My head immediately falls into my hands, and I let out a low sigh.
I feel Cleaf’s eyes hovering over me. He’s probably confused; as he should be. Most of the rumors surrounding me tell the story of a ruthless, murderous criminal, but here I am; useless and hungover.
His fears are somewhat valid. Members of Baromenian royalty are coached in the highest level of combat. Starting from the day I could walk, I was placed into intense training to prepare for the day I would be crowned. As the only heir, I’m still technically a threat to my father’s throne. He made sure to perpetuate rumors about his wild, bloodthirsty son.
