Alien Creep: An Alien Shifter Romance (Alien Abductors Book 1)

by Calista Skye

  “Please disregard all these idiots, Mila,” Xan'tor says, grabs me lightly around my hips, and lifts me up onto a tall crate like I'm a toddler. “They can't help it. They were all born with great mental problems and are incurably stupid. But we do our best to help them get somewhere in life.”

  “What does that say about our leader?” Prash laughs. “The chief idiot.”

  “Hi, guys,” I say. Sitting this high up, I can see them all, although they're busy with all kinds of things in different parts of the big room. “Or good morning, I guess.”

  They wave and smile at me.

  “I feel more like a therapist than a chief,” Xan'tor says and walks over to the drinks machine. “And I suppose I must be affected by dealing with these crazies every day. Would you like a Grempix brew, Mila?”

  “Sure,” I reply, feeling unreasonably happy and ready to try anything. I suppose a night of hot sex with an even hotter alien would explain it. And the chance that he'll help me find Emma. With him on my side, I don't see how we can fail. “But only if it won't kill me.”

  “There are no guarantees,” Xan'tor says, absentmindedly handing me a steaming mug. “Nothing in here works right. But this doesn't smell too much of mercury, so it's worth a try.”

  He leans on the crate I'm sitting on and sips from his own mug while he chats with the others.

  I'm tempted to put a hand on his shoulder. But I don't know how official we are yet. Heck, I don't even know what Xan'tor thinks we are. I just know that he wants me to stay with him, and that has to be a good sign.

  Because of course I've entirely fallen for this huge, blue guy with the tail. He's sensational in everything he does. Strong and confident and insanely capable. He's his own man with his own rules and his own integrity, and those things are totally intoxicating. But now that I think about it, the thing that pushed my infatuation solidly over into the I'm-in-love-with-an-alien-and-fine-with-it territory was the way he allowed me to abuse his spaceship while I was learning how to control it. I have been in small boats with otherwise normal guys, and it's like those things bring out some kind of demon in them. You never see a more ridiculously scared or neurotic male than when he reluctantly lets someone else steer his boat. Or drive his car. But Xan'tor was totally relaxed and didn't even look most of the time. Even when we were falling fast back towards the surface of Titan. And then he cheerfully accepted my silly 'thread-the-needle' challenge.

  I'm sure he has his flaws, although I haven't seen them yet. I just know that I want that calm, that emotional intelligence, and that complete reliability in my life.

  No – the way things are, I desperately need it.

  “Good morning, Mila,” Frox says, rolling into the room. “I'm sorry I wasn't here when you arrived. These nitwits must be boring you to death.”

  “She's still alive,” Xan'tor says. “But not because we didn't try. Do we know where Crirux is?”

  “Scout work for the new mission,” Frox says. “Don't know when he'll be back. You want some breakfast, Mila?”

  Xan'tor points with his mug. “I set the machine to make us some. Should be done by now.”

  “So it is,” Frox says. “And now you're expecting me to bring it to you, like a servant?”

  “Well, you do enjoy to roll around,” Xan'tor points out. “Might as well do something useful. But never mind, I'll get it.” He saunters over to the machine and takes out two plates of the same kind as in his spaceship. “Does everyone have something productive to do today?”

  “Preparing the new transport for the mission,” Beloron says and gives me a strange little glance. “Hopefully, it handles an atmosphere better than the last one.”

  Prash drops a bundle of metallic objects to the floor with a resounding crash. “I'll be sorting through this stuff. Might be useful.”

  “I guess someone has to check the neighboring systems for ambushes,” Renerak rumbles. “Been a while since we did that. I remember in the old days, we did everything by the book so as not to be surprised. Call me old-fashioned, but I kind of like the safety of that.”

  Xan'tor hands me a plate with steaming food, as well as one of those spork things. “Then we should all be old-fashioned.”

  I dig in, feeling pretty starved.

  “And you, Frox?” he asks. “Busy thinking up ways to insult me in front of Mila?”

  “Ha,” the alien says. “That doesn't take any thought. It's just pointing out the obvious. No, I will be dealing with the small things that have to work perfectly. You know, little things that nobody notices when they're there, but can ruin the whole campaign if they're not.”

  “I suppose that counts as working,” Xan'tor sighs. “Well, then I suppose— ah, the missing lunatic.”

  “Lunatic?” Crirux says, sauntering into the room with an innocent smile on his stunningly beautiful face. “I will have you know I'm in perfect mental balance. Mostly. Good morning, Mila. So nice to see you here still.”

  “Just a joke,” Xan'tor explains. “Turns out we all agree we're crazy. Any news?”

  Crirux glances at me. “Could be. I bumped into a friend on the way back here. Smaskil, remember him?”

  “Always wanted to join us,” Xan'tor says. “But he drips too much slime everywhere. We'd need to hire twenty cleaners. So yes, I think we all remember him, probably not too fondly.”

  “He usually hangs around the Bululg and tries to flatter them into giving him a job. So he's always up on information about them.”

  Xan'tor takes a sip of his mug. “And?”

  “And apparently they're sending out special invitations to all their best and richest customers about a special auction that's coming up at Earth. Not a regular auction – a very special one. And it's supposed to be secret from everyone that's not invited. They've never done that before.”

  “That's true,” Beloron says. “They like word to get around.”

  “Rumor has it,” Crirux continues, “that there's a very special lot coming up. At the second to last auction, apparently they sold an Earth female who was especially attractive and fetched a record price.”

  All the aliens look at me.

  “That would be Mila,” Xan'tor says slowly. “And?”

  “Apparently, that Earth female has a sibling. Or a 'nest mate', as the Bululg put it. She's the very special lot.”

  23

  - Xan'tor -

  “Emma!” Mila exclaims. “My sister!”

  Crirux smiles. “She's expected to set another record, because when Mila was sold, the crowd was not the best or the wealthiest. And still she set a record price. This time they're taking no chances. Only the richest are invited to bid on this special lot.”

  “She's alive!” Mila says happily. “There's still hope!”

  “Smaskil says that the special lot is still on Earth, but will be taken up to the station for processing and selling soon. She will be under guard, because apparently something happened to her sister after she was sold? She was taken or something? From her rightful owner?” Crirux arches his eyebrows in mock sincerity.

  “Yes, yes,” I says impatiently. “I took Mila. We've already been through all this. I don't regret it, by the way.”

  “Nobody suggested that you do,” Crirux states. “But I wonder, Xan'tor, is this going to be a complication?”

  I look at Mila. Her dark eyes shine with hope and trust in me.

  On a nearby console, I notice a small, blue light flashing. “Not necessarily,” I say. “We will find a way. No matter what happens. Very well, we all have things to do. Let's do them.”

  Everyone gets busy with their tasks. I lift Mila down from the crate. “So she's still alive.”

  “Yeah,” she says, almost trembling with excitement. “Do you still mean what you said last night?”

  I look into her dark, clear eyes. “I still mean it. Let's get some more information about everything. Frox?”

  “What?” Frox replies.

  “You know that old ship in the hangar, the o
ld-fashioned one?”

  “Of course.”

  “Does it still work?”

  “It's a robust old thing,” Frox says. “And it's still hooked up here… let's see… no error messages. I think Crirux flew it last. Right, Crirux?”

  “What?” Crirux calls from across the room.

  “Did you fly that old ship in the hangar? The two-seater?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Is it safe?”

  “It was back then. Must be two cycles ago.”

  I take Mila's hand. “Come with me.”

  We get to the hangar and I point to the old ship she was so interested in. “I have to be gone for a few hours. Meanwhile, see what you can do with that. It should be no harder to fly than my own ship. If you take it out into space, try not to crash into this base. It would hurt you much more than the base.”

  “Okay. Where are you going?”

  I kiss her lips, then turn my back and set off for my own ship. “Won't be long.”

  Taking off, I see Mila standing there alone in her white skin-tight outfit, head tilted in fetching puzzlement. She's looking lost and small.

  It stings me to leave right now, but I have my duties to think of.

  I set a course for the usual meeting place and lean back in the seat.

  Mila.

  She has turned my life upside-down. This could have been such a simple time, doing well-paid things for the Bululg and getting closer to the ultimate goal. Bringing glory and honor to my clan.

  And all the while bringing dishonor to myself.

  Not that anyone else would see it like that. Only I do. Working for the Bululg, for someone who could just sell someone like Mila, is actually intensely shameful.

  Is that why I dived down into the lakes time and time again when I was young, saw my friends die and be dragged down into the depths to be eaten by the net monsters?

  Is that why I spent years fighting small skirmishes at the borders of my home world’s sphere of influence in space, far from home for years at a time?

  Is that why I established myself as a mercenary and slowly worked to strengthen my reputation, gathering around me the best in the business?

  So that I could help the Bululg sell young women like Mila to the highest bidder? To slavery, torture, and death?

  The thoughts fill me with darkness.

  I pull the lever back, breaking out of lightspeed.

  The other ship is already present at the meeting point. It's much bigger than mine.

  The docking mechanism clicks into place and I make my way into the other ship. Nobody is there to guard the hatch, so I continue to the ship's conference room.

  There are three of them, which must be a bad sign.

  “Greetings, kinsman Xan'tor,” Clan Head Lios'rot says, very gravely, as he rises from a deep chair.

  The leader of my clan has come to see me. Yes, this is a very bad sign, indeed.

  I bow lightly. “Kinsmen, Clan Head. I come as called.”

  “As you always do,” Lios'rot notes graciously. “You are a dutiful warrior, bringing our clan much honor.”

  “And funds,” says Greni'ot, my cousin who is the clan treasurer. “We are all grateful.”

  “Indeed,” Cruf'ter agrees, a clansman who is not related to any of us by blood, but who is a good social engineer with lots of influence.

  Lios'rot sits down and motions to me to do the same. “It has been a long time since I've seen you. You are keeping busy, we hear.” The blue in his skin is faded and pale, the arm spikes withered and almost gone from lack of combat.

  I sit down in one of the chairs in the conference ring. “I am. I would be interested to know how you hear it.”

  “Oh, word reaches us,” the Clan Head says, always vague, like the politician that he is. “Almost all of it good.”

  “Almost, Clan Head?”

  “You have done some strange things recently,” Greni'ot says. “Concerning the Bululg and Baron Pantoflir. Some female slave was involved.”

  I lean back in the soft chair. “I see.”

  “We're not asking if it's true, Xan'tor,” Cruf'ter says. “We've heard it from many sources. We're only asking that you not do anything like it again.”

  I never liked that guy. “Who is 'we', Cruf'ter?”

  The social engineer raises his eyebrows in feigned puzzlement. “We. The clan. Your Clan Head.”

  I fix him with a cold stare. “The clan head has asked me nothing. Do you speak for him?”

  “Now, now,” Clan Head Lios'rot says with a chuckle. “I can speak for myself. What Cruf'ter means is that it is never a good idea to bite the hand that feeds you, so to speak. Reports are saying that you stole a slave girl from the baron, and thus embarrassed the Bululg. As I understand it, they are among your most generous clients. It would be better to not put that generosity in any danger.”

  I look around the conference room. It is very tastefully appointed, and very expensively. Many fine works of art hang on the wall, some of them new since last time I was here. There's a thick and extremely intricate carpet on the floor. This is the Clan Head’s personal space cruiser, but he rarely uses it. Still, no expense has been spared to make him comfortable here. “So noted.”

  “Good, good,” the Clan Head says. “It is an unpleasant topic, I understand that. But don't worry, Xan'tor! When the time is right, and our clan has been restored to its full status as a Major Clan, you will come home and we will find a well-matched wife for you. From another Major Clan, of course. There is no need to amuse yourself with alien female slaves. Focus on your job and your duty. Which I know you do, of course. You have my full confidence, dear Xan'tor, a true asset to our clan. It's an honor to count you among our number.” He smiles magnanimously.

  Greni'ot leans forward. “There is another topic, Xan'tor. What are the prospects for the near future? In terms of money?”

  I shrug. “I'm a warrior, not an economist.”

  “You must know something about it,” Cruf'ter says. “What are your plans? What kind of fees will you collect soon? In other words, how much can the clan expect to receive from you in the near future?”

  I look up at the ceiling, also adorned with special artworks that are meant to be seen from below. “Are you doubting my ability to contribute to the clan, Cruf'ter?”

  He leans back, not looking at me. “Perhaps.”

  Greni'ot must see my face darken. He quickly raises his hands, palms out. “Nobody doubts you, Xan'tor. We are just a little bit on edge right now. It's the Tantt clan, Xan'tor. It looks like they're launching a campaign for the throne.”

  I stiffen. The Tantt are our closest neighbors on my homeworld. But they were never good friends of ours. Their plan is obvious. “And they will go through us.”

  Clan Head Lios'rot nods slowly. “The Mur clan holds the throne right now. But it won't last. They've grown fat and complacent. Their finances lie in ruins. Now it's only a matter of time before another clan will topple them and claim the kingship. The two strongest clans are the Tantt and us. So yes, the fastest way for the Tantt is to attack us in a war, and then go on to toss the Mur off the throne.”

  “They have bought a lot of weapons lately,” Greni'ot says. “We're badly behind on that. If we don't get a great amount of money soon, we might not be able to defend ourselves against the Tantt.”

  “But I have sent huge amounts straight to the clan for years,” I object, my voice suddenly hoarse. “Have those funds not been used to strengthen our defenses?”

  “They have, of course,” Cruf'ter snorts. “But what you call huge amounts isn't quite as huge to us. That's why we're concerned about you turning your best-paying client into an enemy.”

  “You know what this could mean,” the Clan Head says. “The Tantt could launch their attack at any moment. If we can't counter it with the most modern weapons, and lots of them, then they will win. We'll make their victory expensive, but they will win. And that could be the end of our clan. Our men slain, their tail
s hanging on the trophy wall in the Tantt feast hall. Our women enslaved and sold to brothels. We must win against the Tantt.”

  “I'll come home,” I spontaneously offer. “I'll fight with the clan!”

  The three others exchange worried glances.

  “Of course, it would be wonderful to see you fighting for the clan, Xan'tor,” Lios'rot says. “You are a great warrior. But you can do more for us by continuing your business. We don't need more warriors. We need money, Xan'tor. Lots of it. And soon.”

  The room spins around me. The amount the Bululg promised me for this next mission is immense, and would probably be enough to equip our whole clan with the most powerful weapons in that part of the galaxy. Even after the other guys on my team get their shares. And yet...

  “I'm sure you understand how serious this is,” Clan Head Lios'rot finishes and slowly gets to his feet. “It's the ultimate threat to our clan.”

  I stagger back to my ship, barely noticing that I decouple from the Clan Head's large cruiser and key for a course in a random direction.

  The end of my clan may be near. It all comes down to me.

  My clan needs me to do this for the Bululg. The other guys in my outfit need me to stay cool. They have duties, too.

  Suddenly, the world has gone dark.

  24

  - Mila -

  “Field Report Number… umm... Two? By Private Mila Carver, Illinois Brigade, Earth Freedom Army. One. I am still in space.”

  I'm sitting in the pilot's seat of the old spaceship. Around me are all kinds of controls and displays, much more old-fashioned than in Xan'tor's sleek saucer. His ship looks like it was made by Apple, but this one is more functional and could have had a Ford badge on the hood. If it had a hood. And if Ford made two-seater fighter spaceships. It reminds me a little bit of Luke Skywalker's X-Wing from the Star Wars movies, but this one is bigger and even less stylish. But it looks powerful.

  “Two. I have a space ship now. In a way. As in, I don't own it but I think I can use it. Three. Emma is alive. And scheduled to be sold at an auction held by the Bululg. Four. I still have a pipe bomb that I can use as a last resort to kill as many Bululg as I can. And I almost did. Five. I have allies. Kind of. An ally, maybe. Ingrid, delete that. Five. I have secured an ally who has said he might be willing to help free Emma. Six. There is some kind of mini-Earth inside the moon Titan. Seven. Apparently, some old alien species liked to do weird stuff with moons. Maybe worth looking at in the future. Eight. I'm pretty happy with things, especially the sex with that blue warrior and everything else he does. No, no. Ingrid, delete that. Eight. Morale is high. The End.”