Sold to the Alien Prince

by Viki Storm

  I know that voice. How come I didn’t recognize it earlier today?

  A hand grips my arm, hard, with the intent to hurt me. He yanks me off the lift and I stumble to the ground, my knees knocking painfully on the hard stone floor.

  He laughs. That oily chuckle. I’m filled with revulsion. Because I know that I will not make it to the maids’ quarters tonight. I will not make it back to the royal bedchamber tomorrow morning, full of contrition and determination to hear Xalax and his side of the story.

  I am going with Teda. The chuckler. The sleaze from the auction house.

  “Get up,” he commands, lifting me up with a staggering strength. These Zalaryn males are so big and so strong, even the sleazy, pudgy ones like him. I scramble to my feet, trying to pull my arm free, but I know it’s no use. He’s got me in a vise-grip.

  “No,” I scream, and he clouts me on the head. His fist feels like a mallet and I get woozy. I’m not sure what direction is up. I can’t see except the flash of his yellow teeth as he smiles in the dark.

  I try to say something, try to scream again, but everything is hazy, swimmy, like those horribly panicky dreams where you’re trying to move—where you need to move—but your limbs aren’t cooperating. I feel the tele-lift go up and my stomach lurches. Or maybe that’s from the knock on the head. I try to roll over, but he’s got me tight around both arms. At least rolling off this thing and plummeting to the hard ground below would be preferable to whatever he’s got planned for me.

  I float in and out of consciousness. I am in a vehicle, I feel the humming of the engine and the force of acceleration. It is dark. There is something around my wrists.

  Then I am being dragged, really dragged now, because I can’t get my legs to cooperate. My shoulders hurt. I fear that he might pull them from my sockets like how I used to pull the drumstick off the roast chicken on Sunday dinner.

  I am indoors. The air is hot and stuffy, not like the cool interior of the fortress. The ground is rough, unfinished stone tiles, but it is cool against my skin.

  “Let me see if you’re really as good as I remember,” he says. His voice pierces through my dizzy thoughts, sending a much-needed bolt of adrenaline through my system. He rips off my soft robe and throws it over his shoulder. The shame I feel at his eyes roaming over my nude body is so much more intense than it was in the auction house.

  Because now I belong to another. Xalax. My mate.

  His words, just hours before, ringing in my head: See what it’s like to have intercourse when you’re not bonded. It’s not the same. It will be brutal and ugly.

  And it will sever our bond.

  No. I can’t let this happen. Except, I already have. In my stupidity and haste, I have ruined everything.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “You look a little used and worn out. That’s good, though. I don’t have to worry about being gentle.”

  He runs his hand down the side of my face and the hot, sweaty fingertip makes me want to wretch. Oh void-lover, how horrible is it going to be when he takes out his thing? I can’t stand the thought. I might actually lose my mind if he does that.

  He chuckles again, that vile, malevolent laughter. He takes his finger off my face and I can still feel where he touched me. He plucks at the knot at his breeches.

  “Let me have a little taste,” he says. “If you please me, maybe I’ll keep you around. If not, we can always ship you off to the Kraxx warlord. He likes Earth girls. But I’m sure you know that.”

  The knot on his breeches catches and he looks down to try and untangle it. This is my only chance. I don’t care if I have to go running nude through the streets, I cannot stay here and let him defile me.

  I rear back my legs, pulling my knees all the way to my chest, then I kick with all my strength. I can’t believe my luck. I connect with him square in the chest.

  He lets out a little surprised whoof of air.

  And then… nothing.

  He doesn’t fall. He doesn’t stagger. He doesn’t even wobble.

  “Oh, so you like it rough?” he says. “Alright then, I can give it to you rough. I can make it hurt.”

  He takes a step towards me and then the most blessed sound fills the room. The beeping of his comm-panel. He stops and curses, but takes it out of his pouch. He looks at the screen and taps it.

  “Yes?” he says.

  “I am coming over right now,” the voice says. It’s hard to tell who it is because the speaker on the comm-panel produces a small, tinny sound. “I will be there in 011 minutes.”

  “You better get yourself ready for me,” Teda says. “After conducting business, I’m going to be in the mood to hear you scream.”

  He slams the door behind me and I hear the heavy iron of a lock. Founders locks, Xalax calls them. He told me that they usually only have the old-style locks equipped on dungeon cells, for fear of someone tampering with the electronic locks.

  It is dark and I cannot see anything. I crawl to the door and press my ear against it. There is a small crack between the door and the floor and I can see a faint line of light. I put my ear to the crack and wait.

  I hear the whoosh of an electronic door open.

  “Fifty neus,” the sleaze says. “And fifty nights.”

  “I don’t have time for this,” the visitor says. His voice is raspy. The same man I heard earlier discussing the Kraxx alliance. “We have a problem.”

  “What is it, my commander?” Teda says. He is now playing the part of the eager sycophant. Gone is his violent cockiness.

  “Xalax has discovered the plot,” the raspy one says.

  “How do you know?” the sleaze says. “Are you sure?”

  “Don’t presume what I know and do not know,” the raspy one says and I hear the meaty sound of a hand striking Teda’s face. This should fill me with happiness but it does not. A weak and petty male like Teda will only vent this rage later by being cruel to me.

  “My apologies,” Teda says.

  “I have installed an electronic ear inside Xalax’s chambers,” the raspy one says. He explains to the sleaze about how Xalax caught a Kraxx envoy in the fortress and discovered the Kraxx spaceship out in the waste. He explains how he used a rerouting program on his comm-panel to make it look like the communications between himself and the Kraxx were sent from Xalax. How it will all be a matter of time before he can expose this alliance, frame Xalax for colluding with the enemy, and seize power for himself.

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Except, I sort of can.

  I knew Xalax wasn’t selling out his people. I knew he wasn’t conspiring with one of the most blood-thirsty races in the galaxy.

  But I was stupid. I saw one message and assumed the worst.

  Just like the entire planet is going to do if this goes public. Xalax will be hung upside-down from the Magneto Spire, as is the ceremonial punishment for traitors and cowards.

  I learned about this in my studies of Zalaryn culture. They strip the offender, cuff his ankles, and hang him upside down from a rack. The Magneto Spire is one of their communications towers, but it was chosen to be the location of the torture because its unique magnetic properties. It produces a sphere of electro-magnetic energy that targets any nearby water molecules. It heats them slowly, essentially boiling the victim alive from the inside-out.

  And this is what will happen to Xalax unless I get out and help him.

  This feels wrong. It feels like a part of me was ripped out, like a chunk of something red and vital is missing.

  And it’s all my fault. I should have grabbed her, struck her, lashed her to the bed, locked her in the closet and made her stay. Anything would have been better than this.

  She should be safe. She might even return soon. Humans are an emotional lot. Zalaryns too, if I’m being honest, our rage and aggression can blot out our reason. Maybe she needs to walk around the fortress and cool down. Void knows I’ve done that many times as a youth, wandering the dark, cold corridors for hours until my storming head
and heart calmed down.

  There is no way she can leave the fortress at this hour. The sentries posted at the exits would apprehend her and message my room.

  But telling myself that over and over does not ease the knot of tension inside my skull.

  I have torn my chambers apart, trying to find any listening devices, but I have found none. Either I am a paranoid fool or the traitor is far more clever than I gave him credit for. Or both. That’s always an option.

  As I am balancing on a table, dismantling one of the light fixtures, my door bursts open. I stumble a little and almost fall, but I am able to keep my balance. It is Droka and Ayvinx. They don’t look happy. That’s okay, neither am I.

  “We found it,” Droka shouts.

  “Shh,” I say. I point to the wreckage of the room, then my ears. He nods. We leave my chambers and duck into a maids’ washroom across the corridor. It is a tight fit, but we all three squeeze in.

  “We went through the comm-logs,” Droka explains. “We analyzed the sender’s ID information. It was encrypted and we had to decode it.”

  “You decoded a high-level security protocol?” I ask. That seems a little much, even for Droka, who’s dedication and resolve are the most admirable on the planet.

  “Boiling sunslight, no,” Ayvinx says. “We paid someone I know to analyze the logs and break the code.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “He performed under the condition of anonymity,” Ayvinx says.

  “A criminal,” I say, not asking. But at this point, I don’t care.

  “Anyway,” Droka says, trying to divert the subject. He must have been desperate if he consorted with the criminal underclass in the capitol. It just goes to show his loyalty. “It showed that the message was sent to the Kraxx from your comm-panel.”

  “Yes,” I say. “I am aware of that. Resa showed me the transmission from my stored outgoing messages.”

  “Where is she?” Droka says.

  “She’s out,” I say. “Walking.” His lips tighten and I can almost read his mind. He knows I’m not telling the truth, and debates asking me, but decides against it. I’m glad of it more than he can know.

  “But our electrician saw right away that it had been sent with a lumbroid,” Ayvinx says.

  “Lumbroid?” I ask. What is he talking about. Lumbroid? The wiggly, slimy things that live in the dirt?

  “It’s a tele-comm term,” Droka says. “How lumbroids tunnel and burrow and hide underground. It means the message was sent and rerouted in a clandestine manner.”

  “He saw the lumbroid and he tracked it. He brought up all the messages that were sent.”

  Droka brought up his comm-panel and handed it to me. I scroll through and read message after message transmission. Some of the transmissions say they were sent from my comm. Others say they were sent by High Healer Hanyz and High Builder Huxi. More sabotage. Framing the High Healer and the High Builder for treason as they have tried to frame me.

  We will give the Kraxx 1011001 units of protein. It will cause a shortage on our planet that will serve to purge the weak element from our midst. The strong can raid, as is our tradition. Those who cannot provide for themselves or their families will rightfully starve.

  Another message promises a small tithe of human females: you will find them disobedient at first, but after administering a few beatings, they will become tractable and amenable to intercourse with your warriors.

  I can’t stop reading. This plan is so much more insidious than I thought. I was selfish, thinking it was just a play to oust me from power but it is so much more. It’s a full-on war against our own Zalaryn race. Purging the weaklings. It’s disgusting. If there’s one thing we have never done in our long, storied history, it is turn on each other. There have been power struggles like any civilization, but we look out for our own.

  This is cannibalism. This is contrary to our biological directive as living organisms.

  “Who?” I growl. The Magneto Spire will be too good for this vile creature. I’ll start by taking his eyelids.

  “Not sure yet,” Droka says. “The electrician is still trying to decode the origin of all the messages. He says it shouldn’t take much longer.”

  “He is to tell us immediately,” I say. “And he is to recover as many of these messages as possible.”

  “Yes, I have already given him the orders,” Droka says.

  Just then I hear footsteps storming down the corridor. It sounds like they are going towards my room. Droka shrugs, but I see his hand go to his anankah.

  Have the traitor’s thugs come for me? Or is it the High Sheriff’s thugs come to arrest me for a traitor?

  I open the door slowly and peer down the corridor. It is two sentries at my door, pressing the beacon urgently. My stomach sinks, churning with sick thoughts of dread and regret.

  I run towards them. “Resa,” I call.

  “Crown Prince,” one of them starts to say. He looks at his partner, unsure how to proceed.

  Unsure if I am the type of person who will slay the messenger who brings bad news.

  “Resa,” I say again. Because that’s the only reason sentries would come to my chambers tonight.

  “We saw her walking and did not disturb her,” he says. “However, about twenty minutes ago we heard a short scream. We’ve been looking for her ever since, but…”

  “No,” I say, my voice a whisper. Someone has taken her. I know it. Her scream was not in reaction to some benign threat, like a pedipalpoid in a dusty old corner, wielding its pincers at her ankles. No. Not tonight. Not with everything happening all at once.

  Tonight is a night for evil deeds. For mayhem and ruination.

  I hear Droka and Ayvinx approach behind me.

  “Xalax,” Droka says, his voice kind but firm. “We need to go. The electrician just sent a comm. He’s got it. The identity of the sender.”

  “Who?” I say. My lips feel numb, my tongue dried up like a useless piece of leather in my mouth.

  “He says he tracked it to a comm-panel in the fortress. Ninth floor, comm-panel serial number 101001.”

  “I think there’s a list of the serial numbers somewhere,” I say. Where would we keep such records? But I know that we have them. I’m so close to unraveling this plot, but my heart is not in it anymore.

  Not if Resa is gone.

  Not if I’ve lost my mate.

  “I’m looking it up,” Droka says. He’s scrolling on his comm-panel, eyes down, the screen casting an eerie light on his face.

  “Crown Prince?” one of the sentries says.

  “Keep looking,” I say. “Go, Now!” I shout. But I know it’s pointless. She is not in the fortress.

  All because of my stupid pride, my anger that she was so easily swayed into thinking it was me. My brutish, bulling words, so harsh and full of venom.

  “I got it,” Droka says. “Sweet void-loving mothers and fathers, I can’t believe it.”

  He tells me who it is but I can barely hear him. My heart is pounding so hard there is nothing but the thudding and squirting of blood in my ears.

  “We gotta go,” Droka says. “Ninth floor tele-lift.” He drags me along on feet that feel like they’re clad in boots made of iron.

  When we get to the tele-lift I see something that makes my hands tremble with rage. One of the ties from Resa’s robe, lying on the stone floor. I pick it up and feel the soft weave of the Khoro fur. It’s hers.

  I run around, calling her name, clenching the string in my fist. I will wrap it around the neck of the person who has her.

  “Xalax?” Droka says. He’s holding something, his comm-panel I see. “I tapped into the surveillance feed on the west-side recorder. Look.”

  I watch as Teda approaches her, puts his hands on her. Backhands her with enough force to render her senseless.

  I take it back. I am not going to strangle him with this string of Khoro fur.

  I am going to put him in the dungeon and serve him his own liver. He will eat it, ev
entually, when he is hungry enough. Then I will start cutting off other parts of him. We’ll see how long he can survive on a diet of his own corpulent body.

  “We’ll get him,” Droka says. “But we have to go up to the ninth floor right now. Look. This message says that he’s going to board a ship and leave the planet tonight. We have to get him before he leaves.”

  “Resa,” I say.

  “We’ll find her,” he reassures me, but he does not look me in the eye. He knows what could have happened to her in the twenty minutes since she’s been missing. What our race likes to do with the Marked females we import into our planet. “But we got to get this bastard before he leaves.”

  “I know,” I say. I am torn. My whole life I felt divided duties. I never got to live my own life—I was always living the life of the Crown Prince and future High King. Always taught to think not about myself, but to think and act with the entire Zalaryn race in my mind and my heart.

  And now, in the middle of the night, I am forced to make my choice.

  But it’s not a choice. Not really.

  I know what I have to do. For the greater good. For the good of my entire planet.

  “Let’s go,” I say, and begin to run.

  I listen to their conversation for a little longer, but I don’t need to hear the rest. I know what is coming. Death. Destruction. Kraxx. And Xalax hung upside-down from the Magneto Spire, his blood boiling from the inside.

  I need to get out of here. Obviously. I grope around the walls and try to feel for anything. The room is smaller than I realized. Maybe only six feet square. A closet perhaps, one that this cretin has decided to empty out and fashion with a large iron lock.

  Am I the first girl that he’s caged and abused? Or is this where he brings dissidents or weapon-makers that do not comply with the High Weaponsmith’s requests? Teda is the High Weaponsmith’s top lackey. Is that who’s out there with the raspy voice? I have never met any of the High Council members except the High Builder and I know that it’s not him.

  I feel above my head and am surprised to be able to reach the ceiling. There is a bar stretched across. A closet rod. I feel along the rod and find a pair of iron shackles cuffed and dangling. Oh void, he really is a sadist. I handle the shackles, trying to feel for a key. Maybe I can get them on his wrists somehow. I feel something thin and flimsy sticking out of the groove where the shackles press together. My heart leaps, thinking that I found a key. But the thin little thing falls out into my hand and I realize what it is.