Beyond the Next Star

by Melody Johnson

  The hover vehicle crossed the unnecessary drawbridge over the frozen moat and entered a snow-covered courtyard.

  The courtyard probably contained more than just blinding tundra, but at first glance, that was all Delaney could discern through the passenger-side window. Even the castle, looming over them from its icy mountain perch, appeared to be made of the same shimmering opaline stone as the rest of the city. With both of Lorien’s suns glowing through the blanket of snow-spitting clouds, the unrelenting white of the courtyard reflected like a veil of glitter.

  When her eyes adjusted, she noticed that lorienok were in the courtyard, their brown and blond fur blending into the scenery because of their waterproof white jumpsuits.

  One of Keil’s culture lessons sprang to mind: lorienok were comfortable in the cold, even during the dead of Rorak, unless their fur became wet. They were susceptible to fever or fur rot—something terrible—and they protected against such illness with waterproof jumpsuits. Keil had been generous with his knowledge, gentle in their hesitant friendship, caring and wonderful and—Delaney swallowed back the tears before they could spill down her cheeks.

  Lorienok were socializing in the courtyard, sitting on benches, chasing miniature versions of themselves around a snow-spouting fountain, and walking leashed creatures of all shapes, sizes, and species, presumably their animal companions. One of those companions was soaring through the sky, a giant bat with a beak and a furry mane around its bearlike face, easily the size of a refrigerator. Its owner was smiling and chatting and enjoying her day as if she wasn’t flying her pet like a kite in subzero temperatures.

  As the hover vehicle passed, every one of the lorienok, pet flyer and all, without fail stopped what they were doing, bowed their heads at her owner, and touched their palms to their hearts.

  He wasn’t just a billionaire. He was their king.

  The hover vehicle stopped, and the driver’s door lifted. Delaney was draped in a thin, soft fabric that suspiciously resembled a bedsheet with a hole cut out for her head, and over that, swaddled in several layers of fur-lined blankets. All those layers were stuffed tight inside a hooded white waterproof jumpsuit—same as everyone else was wearing. The store manager had even given her boots. They were so enormously oversized that she suspected they were actually his; her owner had refused to leave the establishment until she’d been well and thoroughly bundled. Nothing was exposed to the elements except her eyes, but the cold was sharp and cutting, penetrating her outfit in seconds.

  Her owner exited, walked around the vehicle, and opened the passenger-side door. Delaney stepped one foot onto the icy ground, led on a leash by her owner, and the blast of that arctic wind was death breathing down her spine.

  She froze, overwhelmed by the brilliance of all that white and sparkling ice, the shimmering castle, and the deference the lorienok showed her owner. Everything was so new and foreign and beautiful and frigidly, deadly cold, and Jesus Christ, this was her life now.

  Her owner tugged on her leash, the yanking on her neck as foreign as this new world. She tripped over a snow mound, slipped on the ice beneath it, twisted her ankle, and fell ungracefully, face-first into a snowbank.

  The snow caught her in its softness, but the leash extended to its full length and yanked on the collar as she fell, cutting off her breath.

  Delaney coughed, choking on the collar. It loosened nearly immediately, but then she inhaled and coughed some more, choking on the snow.

  A firm hand gripped her under each arm and lifted her from the ground. She fought for a moment, searching for purchase before realizing that her feet were dangling midair. Her owner was holding her up at eye level, scrutinizing her struggles.

  Delaney met his mismatched eyes, still coughing. She swallowed and got herself under control. And then her teeth started chattering.

  Christ, it’s cold!

  Her owner’s expression was intense: his mouth a frowning slash, his brow wrinkled deep in disapproval, his gaze piercing.

  He spat something that sounded like a curse, braced an arm around her back, and carried her on his hip like a child. She should have struggled in earnest—and probably would have, had she been less cold and less dazed—but falling headfirst into a snowbank in arctic temperatures had sapped both her physical strength and ability to think, literally and figuratively freezing her. By the time she realized she should have considered fighting him—would a golden retriever welcome being manhandled by a new owner?—he’d already crossed the remaining distance through the courtyard and entered a carved passage into the mountainside.

  The small room they entered had reflective walls. She watched over her owner’s shoulder as three lorienok followed them inside. They packed into the room, cramped shoulder to shoulder. Her owner reached out with his free hand and pressed the pads of three fingers into a panel on the wall. A set of clear doors slid closed, and suddenly, Delaney’s stomach bottomed out. The room catapulted up the side of the mountain. The snow-covered courtyard, its fountain, and all the many milling lorienok shrank to thumb-sized toys.

  They were in an elevator. She was on an alien planet inhabited by Sasquatch, and in an elevator.

  The air inside the elevator was just as cold as the air outside and growing colder as they ascended into the sky. Delaney’s shivers became full-body tremors. Her owner tightened his arms around her, and inexplicably, she caught the scent of sandalwood and spiced vanilla. She leaned in minutely just to confirm, and yes, the scent was wafting from the fur at his neck, subtle but unmistakably his. Was he wearing cologne? Vanilla cologne? Did they have vanilla in this tundra?

  He made a purring noise in the back of his throat. Keil had demonstrated the noise and taught her its meaning during their social sciences lessons. It was called a viurr and was most commonly a maternal noise, but also used with loved ones, the ill, the old, and animal companions, as well as small children. Her owner was attempting to put her at ease.

  Maybe this charade wouldn’t be the disaster she’d anticipated, assuming he finished reading Keil’s manual. She’d had her doubts when he’d tossed the hard copy to the floor, but he’d begun listening to an audio edition during their ride from the pet store. Keil had been confident that their combined effort to write a care manual that was both believable and beneficial to her survival had been a grand success. His life’s greatest achievement, he’d declared, and having written care manuals for seventy-three foreign animals—all of which he’d domesticated—that was quite a claim. As was the claim that his seventy-fourth would be his last.

  “I’ve taken great pride in my lifetime of work for the Federation and in the legacy I leave behind.” He’d stroked the side of her cheek with his knuckle. “But if the Federation no longer heeds my recommendations, what am I but a cog in a machine? Cogs don’t feel. Cogs don’t regret. Cogs only do, and I refuse to have anything to do with an industry that can’t feel how wrong this is.”

  He’d been right in one regard: his seventy-fourth care manual had been his last. She could still smell the choking scent of feces as his bowels had released in death. She could still see the lorok who’d killed him, scrutinizing her through the wire cage. She’d wanted to scream her rage, cry out for help and justice, but retaliation in that moment wouldn’t have saved Keil. It would only have damned her too, so instead, she’d done exactly as Keil had advised she do when under intense scrutiny: she’d let her eyes glaze and wander with ignorant unconcern. She’d become the pet they’d believed her to be.

  Six months later now, and she still wanted to scream.

  Delaney shifted, shaking away the memories. One of the lorienok behind them was gazing straight ahead, looking bored as he watched the snowflakes melt on her owner’s back. The other was looking at Delaney with an exaggerated pout elongating her face. She was murmuring something about being poor and dear and getting warm. The woman talked too fast and in that singsong, high-pitched voice that most lorienok used when speaking to Delaney. Between its pitch and her own gaps in fl
uency, Delaney couldn’t translate the lorok’s baby talk into complete sentences.

  The elevator slowed, stopped, and the doors opened.

  Delaney faced forward and blinked.

  The interior of the castle didn’t mirror its exterior. Considering the stone and medieval architecture, not to mention the frigid weather, Delaney had expected to see a crackling fireplace, throw rugs, and a cushy leather couch with piles of pillows and blankets. She’d anticipated dark wood furnishings and thick, velvety drapes. If her owner really was their king, a squire should have greeted them, balancing a steaming cup of something to welcome him home.

  But thinking she could anticipate what to expect on this planet was ludicrous. As if the furry, horned, muscular, alien Sasquatch holding her gently on his hip and rubbing her back wasn’t reminder enough that the unexpected was now her reality.

  Everything inside the castle was white and silver and reflective. Three rows of stadium-style desks and chairs were set in a full circle, like a sports arena, overlooking a floor-to-ceiling, 360-degree view of the courtyard, moat, waterfall, snow plains, and city beyond. Each desk had a hologram monitor, and behind each monitor sat a lor or lorok. At least fifty of them filled the room, and each was dressed in a blue coat and pantsuit—shiny-buttoned, crisp, and professional. They were all touching their holograms, swiping and typing and clicking and drawing. They were all focused and intent.

  They were all armed.

  Her owner exited the elevator and strode past the arena of desks. The lorienok here didn’t genuflect like the ones in the courtyard, but they looked up and nodded their heads respectfully as he walked by. He strode down a long hallway and past several open rooms: tables and chairs in one, couches and holograms in another. Between the stone castle and its fortifications, the functionality of the furnishings over style or comfort, and the uniformed occupants and their weapons, this place seemed more like a fortress than a home. A niggling concern pricked her thoughts: what were they fortifying against?

  Near the end of the hall, her owner turned on his heel and strode into what was undeniably a bathroom, complete with a shower, sink, cabinets, and a massive, three-foot-deep tub made luxuriously for a seven-foot-tall man. Everything was carved from a polished white stone, similar in appearance to the opal material on the exterior of the castle, but combined with the sleek technology of its interior. In addition to indoor plumbing, the bathroom sported an automatic sink and toilet. Even the tub was automatic, spouting water as her owner waved his hand over its faucet.

  He set Delaney on her feet. She winced, her ankle throbbing. She hadn’t worried over it until now, distracted as she was by the cold and the shock of him carrying her, but as she bore her own weight, it became painfully apparent that her failed dismount from the hover vehicle had done some damage. On a planet where the veterinarians hadn’t even read her care manual yet (a manual that she herself—without any medical training or education beyond a high school GED—had coauthored), they could probably treat a common cold and sprained ankle at best. She shuddered to think about the potential consequences of anything worse.

  Her owner unzipped the front of his waterproof jumpsuit. She let her gaze slide blankly past him as if she didn’t care, as if she didn’t know the difference between being clothed and being nude. As if her heart wasn’t pounding in overdrive as he faced the toilet to relieve himself.

  “When in doubt,” Keil had advised, “simply wander away.”

  Delaney peered into the bathtub, poked the sink, flinched away from the faucet as it spat ice water, and, with her contrived exploration of the bathroom complete, she opened the bathroom door and limped away.

  Three

  Torek nearly lost his aim, staring at Reshna’s retreating back. His human was extremely intelligent. After watching him open the washroom door only once, she’d mastered the use of the door’s lever and proximity sensor. He’d have to be vigilant with her, perhaps program extra locks and safety protocols between rooms to prevent her from entering places better left unexplored. He imagined her touching a heating plate in the kitchen as innocently as she’d touched the faucet and shuddered.

  His human was also injured. Within the first moment of her arrival, with nearly her first step on the Onik estate, she’d slipped and fallen. If her uneven gait was anything to judge by, her foot was still paining her.

  And so the agony of attempting to care for and keep another living being alive began.

  Torek washed his hands, brushed the snarls and oil from his body, and checked the temperature of the bath. It was absolutely scalding, just as the manual had indicated was her preference. He scowled at the tub in doubt—what living creature could enjoy such temperatures?—but his human had certainly seemed chilled even after they’d entered the lift. Her temperature tolerance and preference was somewhat different from his.

  Time to put his manual’s guidance to practical use.

  It took a few minutes, but he doubled back down the hallway and found Reshna inside one of the empty common rooms. She was sitting on the couch still fully bundled, watching today’s broadcast as if she were truly engrossed in the newscasters and their political banter. Cute. But the sight was also annoying because his guard knew better than to waste energy by leaving a teleprojector on in an empty room.

  He approached Reshna slowly. She’d already noticed his presence, switching her focus from the broadcast to him, and the look in her eyes gutted his resolve. She was scared and hurt and wary of him, which was understandable. Most animal companions were wary upon entering a new home, or so he’d been told. Being uprooted from one place and planted in another, even if that original place had been negligent, must be disorienting. And she was in pain.

  “It’s all right,” Torek murmured gently. “I won’t hurt you.”

  She continued to eye him cautiously, but by Lorien’s grace, she stayed on the couch as he approached. He eased within arm’s reach and smoothed his knuckles over her cheek to distract her as he slipped his other hand under her collar.

  She winced. A distressed moan escaped her throat.

  “Okay, okay. You’re all right.” He remembered that her neck, already raw from wearing a too-tight collar, was chafed anew from her fall in the courtyard. He stopped petting her and took hold of her wrist instead, releasing the collar.

  She relaxed slightly.

  “Good girl. Such a pretty girl.”

  He unstrapped her boots one-handed, an impossible feat had she struggled. But he continued to murmur comforting nonsense; she seemed to take to it. Her eyes remained wary, but her body remained still.

  “And now your coverings. Can’t have you trailing mud and snow everywhere you go. No reason to make our cleaning crew work overtime on your first day.”

  He tugged her to her feet and pulled down her hood, releasing her rioting curls from their confinement. He grinned, petting her hair.

  “Very pretty girl,” he murmured.

  He opened her waterproof jumpsuit, slipped her arms from the sleeves, and unwound the fur-lined blankets from around her arms, neck, and torso before dropping the suit down to her ankles. He pulled the blankets from her thighs and calves and tugged the ends from her borrowed oversized boots. Having bundled her so thoroughly, he’d nearly forgotten the skinny angles of her body beneath the puff of her outfit. He could actually see the bumps of each rib through the thin fabric of her borrowed yenok. She’d been dirty, mistreated, and malnourished in the pet store manager’s care. Torek’s anger bloomed across his cheeks, hot beneath his fur.

  He gripped her waist, stepped on the empty suit pooled at her feet, and plucked her bodily out of her boots.

  Her mouth dropped open, but when he set her down, her lips closed without any sound having emerged. She stood for a moment, then shifted, favoring her left leg.

  Her skin was starting to pucker again, and a tremor shook her body. According to the brief chapters he’d listened to on the cleaning and physical care of his human, the tremors were a physical r
eaction to being cold; same with the clacking of her teeth and the puckering of her skin. And it was no wonder. She had hardly any natural insulation between her bones and skin. In addition to the outline of each rib, he could see the knobby protrusions at her wrists, elbows, and collarbone. And her skin was completely bare, save for the long, golden curls haloing her head and the darker, winged tuffs above her eyes, neither of which were capable of retaining much heat.

  She needed fitted protective coverings for her body. He would be one of those owners whose animal companions wore clothes, he realized, groaning to himself, but what alternative did he have? Blankets and an ill-fitting yenok were woefully inadequate protection for her delicate constitution against Lorien’s climate. Another strike against that store manager. Torek ran a hand down his face, his heartbeat accelerating. He should have bought an easier animal companion, one that didn’t require a wardrobe. One less exotic. One less prone to dying.

  You will not panic. Deep breaths, just like Shemara Kore’Onik always says, Torek reminded himself. Reshna has a problem. Her care manual has a solution. She may die eventually, but not today.

  According to her care manual, a scalding bath would quickly elevate her temperature.

  “Okay.” Another breath. “Now, Reshna, let’s get you out of those rags and warmed up in—”

  She pulled her hand from his grasp and walked away.

  “Oh no, you don’t.” He lunged for her wrist. “Come here. Be a good girl, and—”

  She yanked her hand free again, forcefully this time—so forcefully that she actually cut her forearm on his claws—then ran in stilted, limping strides from the room, clutching her bleeding arm.

  Torek cursed under his breath.