Captured by the Alien Warrior: A Sci-Fi Alien Romance (Zalaryn Raiders Book 2)

by Viki Storm

  “I’ll flip this switch,” she says and gestures to the lever that will disable the cloaking device, “and then push this button,” and she points to the button that will start the autopilot sequence and take her to the docking bay of the fortress.

  “And who will you demand to see?”

  “High King Xalax,” she says.

  “How will you know that he is the king?” I ask.

  “Come on,” she protests, “this is a little ridiculous. No one’s going to pretend to be the king and kidnap me.”

  “There are plenty of scoundrels in the fortress. If one says, ‘I am the High King, what is your business?’ how will you know he is truly the king?”

  “I will ask him, ‘what is the name of Droka’s older brother?’”

  “Good,” I say. I don’t have an older brother.

  I hesitate, unsure what I should do. On the battlefield I rarely think—letting my instincts take over. But with her… it’s different. I think several moves in advance, and don’t like any of the outcomes.

  The void take us all. I take her into my arms and press my lips to hers. I kiss her long and deep, relishing the feel of her smooth tongue against my own. I taste her emotions in my mouth. The sour anxiety, the sweet hope for success—and the darker, earthier taste of her arousal.

  “Do not leave the pod,” I say again when I finally summon the willpower to pull away. I exit before she can respond.

  “Fifty neus,” I say, waving my hand to signal Ayvinx. “And fifty nights.”

  “Fifty-one,” Ayvinx says, “to you and yours. You put the fear of the void into me just now. It was like you stepped out of thin air.”

  “The pod is cloaked,” I say. I’m glad he can’t see Aren. He’s a lusty bastard, and I’ve had my fill of lusty bastards looking at her.

  And he’s not pledged a vow to take no mates, I think. He could charm her. He could purchase her from the auction house when all this is over. That, I realize, is why I don’t want him to see her. It’s shameful to voice my fear, if even in my own head: I’m afraid that she will meet him and like him—that she will let me keep my oath.

  “Did you bring everything?” I ask, my voice sounding a little too pleasant and cheerful.

  “Yes,” he says, “Although I don’t know why we can’t just poison the protein bricks and be done with the lot of them.”

  I shake my head. For a sneaky mercenary, he’s shortsighted sometimes.

  “If you were in charge of the rebellion and you robbed the planet of almost all of the protein stores, what would you do with them?”

  “Sell them black market,” he says, no hesitation. “I see. Can’t go poisoning the civilians.”

  “I should certainly hope not,” I say. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

  We hurry, preparing everything before the rebel ships land. It’s just the two of us; Xalax radioed to the farm’s workers and told them to vacate the area.

  “Fucking eerie,” Ayvinx says.

  “My thoughts exactly,” I say. The farm is made of several rows of tanks sunk into the ground. Thick steam rises from the tanks, gathering over the ground like forgotten arachnoid webs underneath the bed. The smell is something like a ripe foot after a long day inside a sweaty boot. Sour and sharp. The tanks are covered with mesh, but as we walk past, I can see the slithering, writhing masses inside.

  Children tell stories of what the protein blocks are made of, and even the grotesque imaginations of little warrior boys are not half as macabre as the truth.

  One of the beasts jumps out of the water and sinks its teeth into the metal mesh covering the tank. It’s pale, slimy body pulsing and undulating as it struggles to free its jagged teeth.

  “Void-lovers,” Ayvinx says. “Remind me again why we eat these vile creatures?”

  “Because after you remove the teeth, the grubs are pure protein and lipids in a perfect ratio. And nothing else can live on this hot planet.”

  “Except us,” Ayvinx says.

  “Yes,” I say, “Any race ruthless enough to eat these things is a race that can survive anywhere.”

  “I almost don’t want to save these void-spawn,” Ayvinx says, giving a shudder.

  “Think of how glad you are to have a protein block after a fight,” I say, needling him a little. “How you inhale the entire block in two bites, and relish the sated, full feeling in your belly.” In truth it doesn’t disturb me to know that our protein blocks are nothing more than pureed larvae. All over the galaxy, different races eat different things, and all food seems weird if you don’t grow up with it.

  That, and I’d rather eat the larva than let these things mature.

  The larva are big, about the size of my forearm, and when they mature they are a species of tunneling coleoptroid the size of a young Zalaryn child. Their pincers can take off a strong male’s finger.

  “Can we hurry up?” Ayvinx asks.

  “Sure,” I say. We increase our pace, jogging through the rows of grub tanks. There are three large buildings at the compound: a storehouse, a processing plant and a small administrative office.

  Xalax said that our primary objective is to safeguard the protein. “We can rebuild the farm,” Xalax told me, “but not on empty stomachs.” We are to take the protein out of the storehouse and hide it from the rebels.

  Ayvinx and I work all morning to move the crates upon crates of protein blocks to the processing facility and the office. There are several tele-lifts available, but it’s still backbreaking labor, even for two skilled warriors. It would go faster if Aren was helping guide the tele-lifts, but I don’t want her out in the open. The rebels aren’t supposed to land until late—after the shades go up to block the sunslight—but they might get here early.

  We eventually succeed in emptying out the storehouse, and Ayvinx collapses onto the dusty ground. “I haven’t had such a workout in years,” he says.

  “Not since two-for-one day at the pleasure house?” I ask.

  “Ah,” he says with a smirk, “I make the females work for their coin. I leave with a spring in my step and a burden lifted from my loins.”

  “We’re not finished,” I say. “Today we work for our coin.”

  “Bring me the equipment. I can set it up from here.”

  “I’ll do the sensors,” I say. I give him the pack with the equipment and he gives me the sensors and instructions on how to arm them.

  Our plan is relatively simple. When the rebels land, Ayvinx will pretend to be a fellow scoundrel. He’ll tell them that he’s taken charge of the facility, and the blocks are in the storehouse ready for transport. Half of the rebel regiment will be assigned to carry the crates onto the ship. They’ll want to work fast, before the sat-nav signals detect them and a peacekeeping fleet is dispatched to investigate.

  Which is why we emptied out the storehouse. Ayvinx will lead them into the empty storehouse, and I’ll activate the binding protocol. It won’t hold indefinitely, but Ayvinx has programmed the system to activate and last for three neus—which should be more than enough time.

  Binding apparatus work by harnessing gravity. It’s a dicey procedure, and not altogether reliable on a large scale—but it’s almost always successful when binding a single building. It requires planning and preparation, however—which are not the strong suits of the Zalaryn race.

  We plant a gyro-weight in the center of the building. Ayvinx will have to measure and calculate the exact center of mass of the building, which will not necessarily be the geometric center. Then he’ll dig a large hole, plant the device, and set it in motion. It’s powered by a small qizo mineral—a speck the size of a grain of sand—and will generate motion in such a way that will mimic great mass.

  And I mean great mass. The larger a planet, the stronger the gravitational pull. A large planet like Hueeroo or Jupiter has gravity strong enough to pull anything from a vast vicinity. On planets like that, your limbs feel like they’re made of lead—your lungs squeezed painfully in your chest. You feel li
ke you’re being crushed because you are.

  Big enough mass? Strong enough gravity? A being isn’t able to move.

  That’s all a black hole is. A black hole is not an actual hole. It’s merely a supremely dense, collapsed star. So dense—so much mass—that it’s gravitational pull is so strong that once you get close enough (once you pass the threshold of the event horizon) then there’s no escaping the pull. Not even light can escape.

  And that is the effect the gyro-weight produces. It produces the effect of huge-scale mass and crushing gravity—but only in the designated area. It’s truly an innovative weapon, but not used much because of, as I said, the difficulty in powering it, and the intense preparation required.

  When we activate the device, the rebels inside the building will feel as if they’re glued to the floor.

  I set up the sensors on the outer perimeter of the building. I have to link them all with the portable comm-control panel, and it’s a frustrating procedure. Every time I think it’s properly set up, I get an error message.

  I finally get them linked—and when Ayvinx has his part set up, he’s able to link the whole thing without a hitch. There are some, like him, who can effortlessly work with electronics and communications devices. He should have gone into the service of electronics, but I can imagine that would have been too much like work for him.

  That will take care of the majority of the invading rebels, but there’ll still be some in the regiment who’ll be directed to destroy the equipment and slaughter the grubs.

  There’s a smaller dwelling in the facility—a fourth building I suppose. It’s small, but farther away, and is the highest security building on the farm. The lock uses 512-bit encryption, plus a shiny Founder’s lock is clamped on for good measure.

  I use a low-wave shock from my anankah to blast apart the Founder’s lock. The electronic lock will need more finesse. I don’t want to blast open the door just yet—it has to open at the exact moment. Luckily, Ayvinx knows someone who isn’t opposed to earning extra coin with creative computer programming. I insert a chip into the lock. For a horrible moment, nothing happens—but then the screen starts flashing numbers. There are basically an infinite amount of passwords that can be generated by the encrypted lock, so I know that the chip isn’t guessing at all of them. Ayvinx says the program overrides the current lock settings and will rewrite the code so that the lock has no passcode.

  I’m skeptical, but within a few minutes, there’s a soft click of the lock. I don’t dare open the door yet, but I depress the button and find that it is indeed unlocked.

  The sounds coming from inside are enough to chill my bones. I don’t want to be around when this door opens—but of course I will be.

  I’m the one who’s going to open it.

  Droka and his friend (I don’t think they’re actually friends but they definitely know each other) seem to take forever setting up the equipment. I watch them haul crate after crate out of one building and lock it away into another building. The protein, I imagine. They’re trying to hide it. Well, they’re not doing a good job. There’s not a lot out here—just a couple buildings and rows of tanks. It won’t take much imagination to look in the other building when the protein isn’t in the first.

  I trust that they know what they’re doing, but their scheme seems too simple to work. Then again, I know nothing of their technology and weaponry. On Earth, we have nothing that could compare to these spaceships or to their anankahs. On Earth, our communications systems require a charcoal pencil, a scrap of lumpy home-pressed paper and someone willing to mule your missive to the next village.

  They fiddle with some other equipment, but I can’t even take a guess at what they’re doing. Shiny metal boxes, cords, tripods are the closest approximations that my mind can make.

  They work all day under the broiling suns. I want to help, but I don’t envy their sweat and aching muscles.

  It starts to get dark, and that’s when I see the burst of light in the sky. The rebel ship descends. The window glass of the pod vibrates, sending a low hum echoing through the small vessel. It’s frightening, and for a moment I’m sure the glass will spiderweb and crack, ruining whatever cloaking mechanism Droka set up. But the glass holds, of course. If the pod can withstand a voyage of millions of light years through the void, then of course it can withstand another ship’s landing.

  It’s a large ship—the size of Captain Ingzan’s ship. Probably a hundred warriors on board, ready to pillage and plunder—steal what they want and burn the rest.

  Droka is hidden on the other side of a large plateau, but Ayvinx is inside one of the buildings. Moments after the ship lands, a small envoy of raiders pour out. They survey the area and engage in huddled conversation.

  That’s when Ayvinx steps out, waving his hands over his head and shouting something. The rebels draw their weapons with a sickening speed, but Ayvinx keeps his hands up. He looks like he’s about to throw up, and I bet he doesn’t need to try very hard to act the part. I feel like I’m about to throw up—and I’m in relative safety inside the cloaked escape pod.

  Their leader seizes Ayvinx, and they have a heated conversation. I can’t hear anything, but I don’t need to. Ayvinx must say something they like, because more warriors pour out of the ship and a sizable portion of the regiment follows Ayvinx towards the recently-emptied storehouse.

  After that, everything happens very fast.

  Several of the rebels funnel into the empty storehouse. Ayvinx slinks out and slams the door shut, pausing only to key a code on the door’s outer lock. He gets a small comm-panel out of his waist-pouch, pokes at it, then runs like the damned blazes.

  I keep my eyes on the building, expecting it to catch fire or explode. I don’t know if I can watch such carnage, but I certainly can’t look away.

  But instead, the storehouse does something I do not expect. It bends. That’s not the right word for it, but there is no right word for it. The walls bow inward just a little, the roof dips down—the whole building looks for a moment like it’s going to collapse. No, not collapse. Implode. But then the walls and roof straighten out, and the building is all right angles again. I strain my eyes to see, but everything about that building appears normal. No flames. No smoke. No explosion.

  I’m not sure what happened, and from the look of it, neither are the other warriors. They’re running amok, smashing and destroying in an aimless fashion. I recognize the tactics from Yrdat. Ayvinx better be careful, lest they get the notion to skewer him alive.

  The other warriors stop in their tracks to look at the storehouse. There must be screams. I’m glad that I can’t hear anything.

  Ayvinx is across the rows of tanks, on the other side of the compound from the spaceship. All the other warriors are looking at him. Maybe they really are going to skewer him for whatever stunt he just pulled. My eyes are fixed on him, wondering what’s going to happen. He trapped the majority of the rebels inside the empty building, but there are still at least twenty-five others outside—and who knows how many still inside the ship.

  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see a flicker of movement on the right side of the compound. Near the rebel ship.

  No, I think. No, no, no, no! Not Droka. He’s at the rear of the ship, with an armload of that same equipment. A tripod, metal canisters, wires. He’s doing something—disabling or sabotaging the ship somehow.

  And that’s when the reinforcements come in. Over the cresting hill, pouring into the little valley where the main compound is set up. Hundreds of them.

  But I don’t know what ‘they’ are.

  They’re too far away. But fast. The void-lovers are fast. I suppose with six legs, they should be fast.

  They’re insects? Do insects even exist out here? These seem too big to be insects. They’re at least the size of a dog. But as they get closer, I can see they have thick, horned shells. Serrated claws. Long spindly legs that seem to have extra points of articulation. That’s how they can move so fast, I thin
k. That’s why they blanket the ground and ripple and move on the surface like the waves of the ocean. Ocean. That’s what they remind me of. Once, for my father’s birthday back on Earth, we had a crab dinner. I was too young and didn’t want to eat the beastly thing, and my parents laughed, saying that was fine—more crab for them. The memory of them happy, before I was Marked, brings a sudden rush of hot tears stinging my eyes. I wipe them away and look outside.

  The things are starting to scatter, fanning out in search of an ankle to sink their pincers into.

  They go after the rebels, instinctively compelled to attack rather than retreat. Like a swarm of angry bees.

  Droka is still in relative safety behind the ship. He’s climbed onto one of the tail fins and is perched a few feet off the ground, looking incredibly uncomfortable. But more comfortable than with two or three of those crab-things latched onto his flesh.

  Ayvinx has drawn his weapon and is fending off two warriors. I think there is no way anyone can withstand the assault of two of these hulking, barbaric aliens, but he dispatches with them handily.

  The rebels are in chaos. They run around, trying to avoid the creatures. Eventually, they come to their senses and retreat to their ship. It takes them a while, since many are running serpentine and many others are stopping to beat the creatures away with the blunt end of their weapon.

  Soon enough, they’re all packed onto the ship—and that’s when I see Droka start poking at the comm-panel from his waist-pouch.

  That’s when I understand.

  Phase one was to lure half the regiment into the empty storehouse and lock them inside.

  Phase two was to unleash these huge crab-creatures and cause enough fear and chaos to corral the rest of the rebels back into their ship, where they could be locked inside.

  I have no idea where these creatures came from—if Droka and Ayvinx were counting on the element of surprise, then they definitely succeeded.

  After the creatures disperse, Droka and Ayvinx spend some time tidying up the compound, cleaning up wreckage, tinkering with the settings on the comm-panels, inspecting the storehouse and the ship.