by Amanda Milo
Ammos looks at the supplies in the basket, what’s left of them. “I have a few things I want to make first, then we should go gathering. He’ll need that poultice changed frequently.”
CHAPTER 16
PRETA
When I open my eyes and see Ryan, words are leaving my mouth before my brain has a chance to catch up. “Y’werShot!” I croak, my lips not entirely awake yet, but he covers my mouth with his hand—softly, just a warning to be quiet.
“I’m fine. It’s not serious, but I’m not walking out of here any time soon.”
“What did it hit? Through and through, or...?”
“Took a chunk of my thigh muscle. We’ll call it a deep graze.” He snorts at himself. “Look,” he locks his gaze on me, and I go tense. “Forget that for now. What do you remember before you woke up just now?”
“We…” my memories are weird. Dream creatures, and… I look at my hand. I look under my hand—we’re lying on a giant pile of leaves. Not dry and crunchy, or wet just… green, suede-textured long leaves. I’ve got what looks like a freaky spider pelt on top of me. I look up at Ryan, who is wearing clothes while I am not, what the… “How did we get here? Where are we? Why did we have sex in an alien cave?”
And I see it.
He’s wearing this grim, pained smile and it scares the crap out of me. At the finish of my last question, it’s barely imperceptible, but his eyebrows twitch towards each other, and two tiny creases at the edges of his eyes appear for the briefest second.
And I know that the next words out of his mouth are going to be a lie.
“Don’t,” I tell him. The good news is that I don’t think he’s lied to me before, now that I’m seeing this.
His mouth hangs open for a beat before his head tips up, in sort of a nod—except that it doesn’t come back down. “Micro Expressions, right. I pulled a double shift that day so that I could be there when they took you to the lab, and so that I could be the one to escort you back.”
“I remember that day,” I say softly, recalling it with the fuzzy, half-lucidity of the drugged. “That was the first time you touched me.”
His eyes go comically round. “That sounds bad. It was a hug.”
Without warning, I feel a smile beaming across my face. “Uh huh.”
He levels me with a glare that lights up my insides, and makes my smile turn into a slightly evil grin, I’m pretty sure.
But all my humor dies when his expression leaches to one of sadness. Regret. Guilt.
Despite him being the guard, and me being the prisoner he towed around, Ryan never took advantage of me. He never touched me in a sexually inappropriate manner and I was the one who propositioned him. Not because it would get me favors, or protection, or anything useful; I was attracted to him, and I let him know. He responded, and we enjoyed mutual satisfaction, simple as that. None of our encounters were forced, or coerced, and I know that—but somebody here did take advantage of me. An alien. “They raped me?”
My voice is so calm, I’m startled. I’m so calm, I’m startled.
Ryan looks like he’s about to pick up a twenty-foot caber and throw it—if his leg wasn’t messed up and if we had twenty-feet of caber for him to vent on. He looks furious. He looks sick. He looks sorry.
He moves to draw me into a hug. “Preta…”
I don’t push him away, but I redirect by grabbing his fingers and holding them. “I’m fine.”
And… I am. I don’t hurt anywhere. I don’t really remember it, and what I think I remember, I thought it was Ryan. Unless something crops up later, sharper memories or somesuch, I’m going to be able to pick up and move on without becoming emotionally crippled. “How do we get out of here? I need clothes.”
His arm is still suspended towards me, connected to me by my fingers. With his other hand, he points in my face. “Fuckin’ weird, how you can do that.”
I pull my head back so that he’s not bopping me in the nose. “What’s weird?”
“You turn it off. It’s like your emotions are there; then they aren’t. They gave you a coping mechanism.”
He sounds both horrified and awed.
I might be feeling both too, but he’s right; it feels like my concern is turned off. I’m not awed so much as I’m grateful not to have to deal with my own emotional fallout. I wonder if I can control this on/off switch I’ve been provided. I snort. Provided. Like their intention was a gift.
My snort makes Ryan twitch, and he’s going to rub that buzzed layer of nubby fluff right off his head if he keeps dragging his hand over it like that.
He eyes me. “You don’t want to… talk about it?”
He looks mixed parts concerned, relieved, angry.
I eye him back. “Do you need to talk about it?”
His hand leaves his hair and makes a fist to match his other. Oh no; he doesn't need to talk about this—he needs to beat the shit out of something. I look at his bandaged leg. He’s kind of S.O.L. “How bad is your pain level?”
He glares down at his leg. “It should feel worse than this. They forced some sticky shit down my throat. It hurts, but I’m sitting up and not screaming, so…” he shrugs—but instead of loose, relaxed hands, they’re still balled up, the veins standing out starkly. He actually looks really hot, I’ve always had a thing for arm porn, but when I move to stand, he glances at the leaf-bed, to the massive wet spot that pooled under me.
Awkward. Well this’ll help him calm down, yeah.
“So,” I attempt to move past the moment, “What do we do?”
Honestly, my dad was great, but reading fables wasn’t his style. He told stories, and sure, read the two fox, one box, black socks rhyming-type books, but fables, not so much, and therefore, I’m not clear on how it goes exactly, but there’s this one about a lion, a thorn, and a mouse, and if the lion turned and snapped at the mouse for touching the thorn—then I definitely should have taken the initiative to read up on this tale. Maybe if I’d learned the lesson from a book, I wouldn’t have this snarling lion in my face as my reality right now.
“I can’t DO ANYTHING! I CAN’T EVEN PROTECT—” he cuts himself off, biting down on his knuckles as if sinking his teeth into his own skin will keep them out of mine. But the blue line throbbing alongside his temple tells me that injury, plus helplessness, plus worry does not a settled man make.
Meanwhile, my soldier senses say my teammate is as safe as we can reasonably consider one to be in this situation, and… someone should do reconnaissance.
Ryan is not going to like this plan.
I can’t actually tell if they downloaded successful missions from the past directly into my brain, but if it were me on this bed, and Charlie was the one up-and-able, I know what she’d do.
If it were Charlie on this bed, and it was our dad who was the one up-and-able, I know what he’d do.
...Yet I know if it were one of them on this bed, and I announced my intention, I’m pretty sure Charlie and my dad would say this is a ‘too stupid to live plan.’
I roll my eyes. Baby-of-the-family syndrome.
I wrap my hairy blanket tighter around me and start to search—and thankfully, I find my jumpsuit. It’s folded and under a strongly scented, slightly warm bag of what could be alien potpourri.
“What are you doing?” His expression turns gutted. “No. Preta, you can’t go out there!”
I toss the blanket onto the bed and shake out the saffron monstrosity. Charlie, please be okay.
Inside my head, I scoff loudly. It’s Charlie. She’s fine.
My nudity stuns him silent, I think. Me too, actually—I don’t see my ribs punching against my skin, and... I don’t feel as if I’m starving. I ponder this as I jam myself into my eyesore of an ensemble… if a one-piece qualifies as an ensemble. Surprisingly, my sexy suit isn’t any worse off than it was earlier when I was walking around sweating in it, and actually, it smells better. Must be the potpourri. I flip it over in my hands, studying it until I see it has a little face, and it’s
peering right back at me. Large orb eyes, a bulbous nose, and long, magenta, ruffle-edged ears are what I initially mistook for dried petals; and yeah, it smells good. And what I mistook for satchel mesh is its weird little skin.
Carefully, I set it on a primitive looking end table next to the water pitcher, and I see that Ryan has a potpourri pet on his side too. Decorating with live pets certainly makes the accomodations interesting. Like hotels giving guests pet goldfish. Question is, why are the aliens providing amenities for us captives? I mean that’s what we are, right? This all feels very familiar; grabbed, crammed in holding room, violated without consent. Does a shower come with the Platinum Captive package? I hope someone ticked that box for me because I want to be signed up for this subscription. Also, underwear and a bra would be nice, and I didn’t miss the fact that mine have disappeared.
“Preta.”
His eyes are pleading with me, begging me not to go out alone.
Old Preta, the powered-by-Folgers Preta, would stay.
I feel the other presence in my head though. The one that wants to me to do what I have to do to protect my team—him. I may be pregnant, but I am currently the only member with mobility at the moment. “I have to know what’s beyond that door.” As far as we’re aware, staying in here is no safer than stepping out of this room—but I’m not going to point this out to him because it’s obvious he’s infuriated enough with his bum leg as it is. It’s stupid to make promises we both know I can’t keep—but I can promise him this much: “I’ll play it careful.”
He nearly falls off the bed making a lunge for me.
I feel horrible, but inside, I’m being driven to see what we’re up against.
His snarling gets louder when I open the round-topped, thick-planked door, and for how big this door is, I’m surprised when I can still hear his cursing perfectly well after I close it behind me. Mmm. Soundproofage: nil.
I fully expected to step out and see monsters. What I don’t expect are three rather concerned human...ish… faces staring back at me.
All of them are covered in vines and flowers.
I shake myself. They were dragons just before everything got really crazy—vines and flowers, I can handle. I peer at them, aware I’m staring, but unable to stop. Thankfully, they stand very still, and I appreciate that they don’t seem to mind my curiosity at all. None of them are acting aggressive, or threatening, which is what I stepped out expecting, so I’m feeling more than a little thrown.
When three sets of eyes shift to something on the side of my head, I realize I’m fiddling with the thing I feel there. Slowly, I pull it out, having a very good idea of what it is.
A little fire-orange flower.
I raise my eyes slowly, and lock on the brilliantly colored fire-flowers all across the middle one’s body.
“Are you well?” one of them asks.
Whoa, whoa—wait. They can speak Human?
What does this mean? Does he have a translator too, and it pings off a signal in ours and uploads everything, or have they captured humans before somehow, and there happened to be an English speaker among the poor schmucks?
And ‘am I well?’ As if he genuinely cares to know.
I tap my flower back in place. I wasn’t sure how I was going to play this, but here I stand playing nothing, because this is yet another gameboard I don’t recognize.
How frustrating.
“Azibo?”
My translator must have been pulling overtime while I was out, because it supplies, ‘mate’.
One of them breaks away to approach me, and offers me a pile of leather-like material. Lifting the top item, I see it’s more than a bikini top and less than a vest, and this bottom half here is basically a mini skirt made out of a purple spotted giraffe, if giraffes had skin textured with elephantine wrinkles. And… lichen? The lichen seems to be growing happily out of the hide.
Okay. I accept them graciously even though it’s going to take me a minute to build up the willpower to walk back in to a frightened, bitey Ryan vying for me to stay with him while I undergo my costume change. I could change out here; prison has a way of breaking you from being shy, but prison also has a way of teaching you that some men see invitations in all sorts of circumstances. Apparently one of them already had a good time; I’d just as soon not tempt the others.
“Are you hungry again?”
Still surprised that I can understand him, I pause too long and he gestures to my stomach. “I fed you. You were in great need. I believe you will need to eat often.”
“Fed me, huh?” Drogan didn’t mention unconscious feeding, then again, he was worried about my emotional damage. All in all, I’d rank being fed pretty far down on the ‘it was terrible, are you okay’ list of discussion topics too. In this case, without gnawing aches, without morning sickness or lab drug sickness, and with no obvious soreness or even bruises that I saw of from them enjoying themselves while I was out of it—I’m feeling better than normal.
“Yes. Your seedling must take much from you.”
“My…” I know all about government contracts; they take the lowest bids almost all of the time, and sometimes, that gets shoddy results. Workmanship just isn’t what it used to be. And my translator is obviously one of these casualties. Thanks Concord Prison Ship: you will not be getting a five-star rating from me.
“You seem restless.” He examines me quickly without heat. “Restless; but rested. Restored.” His eyes flick to the door at my back and I tense.
He doesn’t miss it.
Way to play your hand, Sol.
He’s eyeing me carefully as he says, “We were about to refill our supplies for poultices. Would you like to go along?”
“You’ll let me outside.” My tone may or may not convey a heavy dose of disbelief.
He looks unsure. “Let?”
I don’t want to give him ideas but he can’t be stupid.
“After what happened in there—” I cut myself off because he doesn’t leer, he doesn’t get angry that I’m pointing it out, he doesn’t grab me and throw me down and relive another conquest. He actually looks… confused.
“Ceremony?”
Now it’s my turn to wear his look. “Ceremony,” I repeat slowwwly.
“Ceremony,” he confirms, this time with pride, but not in a creepy way. Oddly, he manages it in a completely non-threatening vibe entirely.
He appears to be having difficulty grasping where the problem is with this plan, and I’m not going to enlighten him. Stupid captors make escape options more likely. Though, he doesn’t appear stupid; he’s got sharp eyes—striking eyes, actually, spotted with yellows and greens like a Cattleya-orchid.
If they’re going to attack me, they’re going to attack me. Location isn’t going to change that, however, learning the lay of our land isn’t a bad idea—not that we’ll be able to move any time soon. A leg wound takes weeks to heal from—and that’s IF it doesn’t get infected.
“Let me tell Ryan,” I test, but the alien only nods and looks perfectly accommodating. I know this is going to upset him, so I don’t walk into the bedroom; I just pop open the door and lean my head in to mouth “I’m going to be fine. I’ll be back: don’t freak out.”
It’s a good thing I didn’t waste my breath actually speaking out loud, because Ryan completely ignores my I’m going to be fine and don’t freak out and must read something along the lines ‘I’M GOING TO TAKE A WALK WITH MY RAPIST.’
He struggles like his leg is not going to stop him from reaching me this time—he’s wicked-freaked. I see this, but I can either hide in bed and wait for the shoes to drop or I can try to do some recon. Sending him as reassuring of a look as I can manage, I pull back.
“Preta, NO!”
Quietly, I close the door between us. When I turn, it isn’t victorious smirks I see on the three aliens waiting for me. Instead, as my eyes target each of their faces, and I take in their postures, expressions; it’s discomfort that I read, unease—especially on two of them
.
“Lead the way,” I say politely, and watch in no little amazement when they courteously nod and do just that.
CHAPTER 17
PRETA
“How far along is your Sproutling?”
This comes from the one that had sex with me—Petrichor, he politely informed me when he insisted we exchange names, breaking all the rules about not humanizing victims—as we help each other over yet another log. He doesn’t walk well, which I guess shouldn’t be strange since he probably spends a lot of time as a tree-dragon. It’s just that he didn’t have this problem when he carried me, and the other one seems fine. Then again, maybe the other one has more practice at walking on two legs; what do I know?
I shrug. This bumps Petrichor’s arm, which is slung over my neck. That had been something else; we’d been marching along, and on maybe the third time he’d nearly gone down, I slipped under his arm, like it was the most natural thing in the universe to help an alien out. Although, we’ve already had sex, maybe this is my programming glomming on and being super helpful. Which is ridiculous. I should be karate-chopping him, not propping him up. Fricking Mary Sue programming. “My… sproutling?” These prison issue shoes are crap. They weren’t designed for comfort and they certainly weren’t designed for durability on an alien planet and because I’m not wearing any socks, my heels have been rubbed raw and they’re killing me.
I look up when Petrichor doesn’t say anything further, and when he sees that he has my attention, he gestures to my stomach.
Said stomach clenches. And this is my limit. I’ve rolled with everything, not so much as a twitch until the baby. The baby is my soft-spot.
Everything suddenly feels ice-cold. I don't know; maybe I’m super suspicious, but having your alien defiler armed with the knowledge of your early stage pregnancy when you’ve neither told him nor are you showing enough for him to guess is somehow unsettling and seems like a bad, bad portent.
I’m not sure what he reads off of my face, but the look he shoots me is a deeply offended one. “I’m not a threat, Preta.”
