How did I get here? My mind was a thick fog, my memories like dim lights twinkling in the distance, obscured by mist.
I braced myself against the sink and turned on the faucet so I could splash cool water over the flushed skin of my checks. I peered into the mirror and took in three deep breaths, trying to get my heart to calm down, desperate to find some modicum of comfort in the familiar lines of my face. But as my mind spun, trying to find the logic of my location, I became somewhat unhinged until I deflated entirely into tears.
Don’t cry, Novalyn. Don’t cry, don’t cry.
Apparently there was a door, and it opened with a whoosh as I was attempting to give myself something of a pep talk. I spun around, bracing myself against the sink, and saw a tall, slender man standing in the doorway. He was familiar — how did I know him?
“Good morning, Novalyn,” he said, a sweet, lilting accent to his voice, one that I couldn’t quite place. “How are you feeling?”
“Where am I?”
“A bit groggy, then,” he stated, peering down at a tablet in his hand and quickly making a note. I narrowed my eyes at him: he looked familiar, yes, but I couldn’t quite place the lithe frame, the strong, aquiline nose, or the eyes that were such a startling shade of blue that they seemed almost luminescent.
“Am I sick?” I asked, running my hands over the light, soft linen outfit in which I was clad. It walked the line between hospital scrubs and pajamas: white, with delicate embroidery on the cuffs of the sleeves and the hems of the drawstring pants.
“I certainly hope not,” he said, “though I am concerned that your memory isn’t starting to come back.” He approached me cautiously, the way one might a wild animal, and held his finger up in front of my eyes. He shifted it back and forth, and my eyes followed it automatically. Satisfied, he made another note on his tablet.
“May I?” he asked, and pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. He smiled, a sharp, startling thing that was alluring, but cold, somehow. “An antiquated method,” he remarked, “but effective, nonetheless, when precision isn’t necessary. You aren’t running a fever.”
“Why would I be running a fever?”
“In case you’d had some sort of adverse reaction to the sedatives.”
“Sedatives?”
He watched my face contort with that same mixture of fear and confusion and he placed his hand genially on my shoulder, an awkward gesture that seemed practiced, forced. “I promise you, everything will start to come back to you momentarily. Most humans recoup a hundred percent of their memories within fifteen minutes of waking.”
I nodded dumbly, trying to make sense of his words. “So, I… I’m not a prisoner, then?”
He smiled again; it was disarming. “No, of course not.”
“And I can leave whenever I like…?”
He canted his head gently to the side and I noticed for the first time that he didn’t have ears. How was it that he didn’t have ears? Where were they, why were they missing? I was staring. Was it rude to stare?
“It’s not quite as simple as all that, Nova,” he equivocated. “Presently, there isn’t anywhere for you to go.”
“I don’t understand — ”
“Would you like some water, perhaps? Something to eat?”
I shook my head. “I want to know why I’m being kept here — ”
“You aren’t being kept anywhere.”
“I want to be taken to the person in charge.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“Well, what can you do?” I demanded. He smiled again, doing his best to keep me calm.
“I can feed you, and give you something to drink, and sit with you while we wait for your memory to come back.” He clutched his tablet to his chest, and I watched him carefully. He was perfectly still, not a single fidgeting movement, not a hair out of place. He was pale with hair the color of fresh-hewn corn that hung neatly to his shoulders; he was quite handsome, if you could get past the whole no-ears thing.
“Can you please,” I said, fists clenched, “please just tell me where I am?”
He paused before giving a sharp nod of his head and gesturing to the doorway. I hesitated, but ultimately brushed past him to find myself in a rather long, but otherwise nondescript hallway with more of that same indirect lighting that my chamber had. He followed me out and led me down the corridor at a leisurely amble. There were other doors like mine, but none of them were open; they permitted no noise to escape. The hall was perfectly quiet.
At the end of it was another door. I pushed against it, but it didn’t give until my host held up his wrist to a console nearby. Then, it whisked open and we stepped out onto a bustling promenade with a glass ceiling that boasted the most extraordinary view of the night sky I had ever seen.
“Welcome, Ms. Bryce,” he said, “To the Atria, Federation Ship 4199.”
Not the night sky, then: space. Stars. Closer than I’d ever before been to them. I tilted my head back and marveled.
“Okay, I get it,” I said, my jaw slack with wonder. “I’m dreaming.”
“I assure you, no.”
“Yep. Definitely dreaming.”
“Ms. Bryce — ”
“Do you have a name?” I asked, angling my eyes on The Earless Wonder. He grinned, showing a set of three sharp canines.
“Tymer Mafaren, Central Echelon,” he said, “We’ve met.” I narrowed my eyes at him; I tried to be shrewd, cunning, tried to mask the sinking sensation that something horrible had happened, or was about to happen. I tried to keep my stomach from turning over, tried to keep the previous evening’s dinner from ending up all over Tymer Mafaren’s highly polished shoes.
“We know each other?” I said, more of a statement than a question despite how my voice pitched ever so slightly upward at the end.
“We do.” He reached out then, using a fingertip to brush an errant brown curl out of my eyes, and that one simple, intimate gesture brought a memory crashing back with such force that it almost knocked the air out of me.
Tymer and Me. At dinner in Little Italy. Clumsy, twirling long spaghetti noodles, laughing so hard my hair falls out of its clip. Tymer, reaching across the table to tuck it behind my ear. Tymer, talking to me about love, about psychology. Tymer, standing on the hardwood of my studio apartment and telling me I am beautiful.
“Novalyn?” he said gently, drawing me out of my reverie. “Come with me.” He took my hand then, and I clutched it, my eyes squeezed shut against the force of the memories as they flooded back into focus. I let Tymer lead me, trying to stem the rising panic that threatened to make my heart beat clear out of my chest. I did know him; we’d dated. Only a few dates, right? How had it gone…?
I’d met him online, wasn’t that it? He had messaged me first, and I had been drawn to his eyes. We had exchanged a few messages, and on our first date, we had had dinner. Wasn’t that it?
Now, Tymer was leading me through an all but abandoned mess hall, where he sat me down at a table and fetched me a cup of water and a plate of food: hearty fare, oatmeal with fresh berries. “Here,” he said gently, “I’m sorry you’re… I…” He paused, eyeing me. “I’m kind of new, actually, at my job.”
“What exactly is your job?” I asked, drinking deeply of the water.
“I’m a member of the Echelon,” he said, and I blinked, trying to determine if he thought that was supposed to make sense. “We are an intergalactic agency comprised of members of most known species that serves as a neutral intermediary in conflicts and generally keeps an eye on… things.”
“Things?”
“And stuff.” He smiled, and I couldn’t help but smile back. “Anyway, I am an extractor of the central Echelon, and you, Ms. Bryce, are my charge.”
“Charge?” I echoed, setting to work on the oatmeal, and finding it surprisingly savory for space food. Space food. I had to push the thought of being in space utterly out of my mind in order to get any of th
e food down.
“Yes,” Tymer went on, “I, ah… I was tasked with identifying and extracting… that is, there is a…” He stammered, and I just sort of furrowed my brow, watching him as I chewed. There was something kind of comforting about the mundane act of eating.
“What?” I urged.
“Um.” He cleared his throat, a distinctly human gesture for one who, I gathered, was not, in fact, human. “Novalyn. The thing is…” But the haze was beginning to lift, and I was starting to see things for what they were. He had been tasked with extracting humans from Earth, for God knows what reason. And he had chosen me. Not because he was interested in dating me, or getting to know me, or even fucking me. But for some vaguely sinister purpose that left me afloat in the middle of space, millions of miles from home.
“You just… target people? To abduct them?”
“Ah, ‘rehome’ them, we like to say,” he said, having the good grace to look abashed.
“Like a fucking cat you can’t take with you to your new apartment?” I demanded, my voice rising.
“Please, try to remain calm,” he said, his voice soothing and sonorous. “Everything should be explained to you.”
“I want you to explain it now.”
He hesitated a moment, but sighed, and slowly nodded his head. “Yes, you were targeted. You matched certain search criteria — ”
“What were the criteria?”
He ran his tongue over his lips and looked down at the table between us. “Fertile human female, age eighteen to twenty-five, few or no friends, little or no family, sexually responsive, with a body mass index between twenty-six and thirty-five, and no known diseases.”
I blanched, staring at him slack-jawed and stunned. He parted his lips as though he were going to say more, but he was interrupted by an insistent little beeping on his tablet, and he peered down at it, ostensibly reading a message. He looked up at me, grew pale, and curled his fingers around my upper arm, dragging me out of my seat, not violently but certainly with more force than he’d used up to that point. I tried to jerk away, but he was deceptively strong and had quite a grip. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Further explanation will have to wait. I have to get you upstairs.”
He marched me in silence toward an elevator, and I tried to get a good look around, to orient myself on the giant craft, but there was no use: it looked the same on all sides, the domed ceiling admitting a spectacular view of totally useless stars against the velvet black of oblivion.
“Upstairs” was, it seemed, a sort of alien esthetician’s office, full of people scuttling about in white lab coats, applying makeup and cutting hair. I furrowed my brow as Tymer led me over to a woman — earless, like Tymer, and bald to boot — with wide eyes, violet and ringed in thick, black lashes. They began to communicate in a language I didn’t understand, comprised primarily of languid vowel sounds that were intoxicating to the ear. I thought I heard Tymer say my name, but it sounded more like “Nowalen Rye,” and I couldn’t be sure.
The female approached me and began to lift my shirt up over my head. Naturally, I resisted. “You have to at least buy me dinner first,” I joked nervously, but realized that my words were utterly lost on her: she didn’t know a single word of English. “Hey, now,” I said when she didn’t abate, when her fingers untied the neat bow that held up my drawstring pants. “Stop that.” I jerked away, out of reach, and I saw Tymer start to stick up for me, but she waved him off even as she summoned another lab-coat-wearer, who stuck me in the neck with a needle. I yelped, lifting a hand to rub at the affected area, and felt all of my cares slip away. I relaxed almost instantly, became pliable and easy, and she was able to strip me of my clothes without so much as a word of protestation from me.
She, along with two others, led me into a private room and lifted me up onto a metal table. They had me on my back first, kneading my breasts and thighs in their cold hands, taking measurements, examining my hair and sticking their fingers into my mouth to look at my teeth. Then they bent my legs at the knees and pried my thighs apart, spreading open my nether lips so that they could look closely at the flower of my sex. Their fingers found my clitoris, and my entrance, and they pushed two fingers, perfunctory, exploratory, inside of me.
And I didn’t mind it. I was humming something quietly to myself, something melodic and pleasant, and I liked the attention, and the feeling of their hands on my body. “What are you guys doing?” I asked, almost absently.
“Prepare,” one of them said. “Make beautiful.”
Beautiful. I had never felt particularly beautiful. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t a dog or anything like that, but usually I just felt so very deeply average. My eyes were pretty enough, I supposed, a limpid sort of blue, but Tymer’s eyes had pretty much blown mine out of the water. My hair was a mess that I could never manage to get under my control, and my nose was, I thought, rather a bit too small, too turned up. Of course, my tits were fairly epic, if I did say so myself.
Those fingers continued to work themselves in and out of me, and I wondered if they were trying to make me come. I didn’t think I would come, not detached like I was from my body, not looking down from above at their bizarre ministrations. But no, after a few minutes, the fingers withdrew, leaving me glistening wet and vaguely wanting. The fingers were replaced in short order by a wand, about two inches in diameter, that they slid inside of me. They moved it around, and I was dimly aware of an image on a monitor: a sonogram, then. Maybe to make sure all of my bits were in total working order.
They clamped two delicate little jewels, all gold and red, to my nipples, making them hard and aching, before they removed the wand and stood me up. They dressed me in a gossamer gown of light, airy white-and-gold fabric that was as delicate as a butterfly wing, and even more transparent. They pulled a gold belt around my waist and fastened the gown on one shoulder with a golden brooch shaped like an exotic bird. The dress covered only one breast, leaving the other exposed. But not for long: an odd drape of golden chainmail was fastened around my neck and under my arm, covering the exposed breast with a bit of beautifully rendered gold armor.
Then they set about curling my hair in a series of neat, tight little ringlets that they piled atop my head and secured with a clip that matched the golden brooch. Next, makeup: natural blush and lip rouge, and a dusting of fine gold powder over my eyelids. They held up a mirror for me to examine myself, and I smiled: I felt like an Amazonian queen, and I wanted Tymer to see me.
But where was he? “Where is Tymer?” I asked, and the estheticians glanced between themselves, pencil-thin brows in high, quizzical arches over their overlarge eyes as though they were trying to make sense of the gibberish language I was spewing. They had about three seconds of interest to give me before they gave a shake of their head and a wave of their hand, then moved on.
They herded me into a circular room with doors all around it, along with about a dozen other girls. We were variations on a theme with our Greek toga dresses and our one-breasted armor, our gold dust eyeshadow and highly stylized coifs. They all had the same dreamy sort of expressions on their faces that I was sure I had, compliant, complacent, and ready to be sent wherever it was we were going.
Where were we going? “Tymer?” I asked. “Where are we going?” But Tymer wasn’t there. I scanned the faces of my compatriots, humans all, of varying shapes, sizes, ethnicities. All young, all bleary-eyed and yawning. And when the doors around us whooshed open, we all stepped dutifully forward.
I peered through the door, which seemed to be an entryway into a little pod, equipped with a chair in cushy white leather, and a control console with words and symbols I could neither recognize nor parse. Aside from that, it was glass, and around it: stars.
The tall, bald woman in the white lab coat approached me and nudged me gently forward, but I dug in my heels. “What will happen to us?” I asked, but the woman just pushed harder. She rattled off some totally indiscernible speech in that same language Tym
er had used with her earlier, and I tried to latch onto anything that was even remotely recognizable. “Are you also a member of the Echelon?” I asked. “What do you do? And when will I be able to go home?”
When I said the word Echelon, something in her expression changed. Her features darkened, and she was no longer using the soothing tone of voice when she turned around to shout something at her colleague. I couldn’t understand the words, of course, but I did make out a familiar name: Tymer Mafaren. They were talking about him, and none too kindly at that.
With a strength that betrayed her slight form, she hauled me bodily into the pod and dropped me into the seat. By the time I turned around to protest, the door had already closed behind me. The Calm-Happy-Easy drug was most definitely wearing off, and I looked to either side of me and saw that my pod was linked to the pods of the other girls.
Without the slightest warning, the pods were blasted off in a ring, away from the Atria. I looked up and watched the great ship grow smaller and smaller overhead as the loop of pods was shot away, like a bullet from a gun. But toward what?
In the vast emptiness of space, there was no turbulence, so I stood up to peer over my useless console to see if I could ascertain what we were aimed at. There was a planet, blue and white. Earth? Were we being sent home?
Alien Prince: (Bride of Qetesh) An Alien SciFi Romance Page 23
