Alien Survivor: (Stranded on Galatea) An Alien SciFi Romance

by Juniper Leigh

  Holding up one, she gestured to her face—all right, then: face wash. A second, she gestured to her head. Shampoo? But what need would a Galatean woman have for shampoo? I nodded. And the third, she gestured to her body. Soap, I would imagine.

  “Thank you,” I said, kicking myself for failing to remember that simple phrase in Galatean.

  She approached me, then, with the fourth and final bottle, kneeling in front of me and gently prying my knees apart so that she could get access to the bandages. She undid them gently, and I sucked in a sharp breath of air when she pulled them away. The wounds stung wildly, but even I could tell that they were healing. She opened the bottle and poured a dollop of waxy-looking gel into her hand before smearing it across my leg. There was a sort of mentholated sensation, cooling and pleasant, before the gel began to harden. When she was done, it looked as though she’d constructed windowpanes into my leg muscles. This stuff would allow me to get into a hot bath without screaming in agony. I approved, though I wondered absently what she might have to use to remove it later on.

  “You’ve been very good to me,” I said, hoping my tone translated my gratitude. “I really do appreciate it.” She pursed her lips and blew gently, helping the salve to set so that I could get into the tub.

  “What is this stuff?” I asked absently, poking at it. But Jaelle batted my hand away, making a tsking sound.

  “Sorry!” I said, holding my hands up. “Sorry.”

  Jaelle smiled, rose to her feet, and slipped out the door, leaving me alone in the warm, steamy space. I breathed in the heavy, hot air and exhaled. I might actually get to relax.

  I hobbled over to the stone steps leading up to the tub and shut off the water when it was full. I shed my robe and underwear and dipped a tentative toe into the scalding hot water. But despite the temperature, I got in, relishing the heat on my skin. My burns were protected by that bizarre gel that Jaelle had put on them, so I sank low into the water, breathing a sigh of relief as I let all of the tension go out of my body.

  I dunked my head under the water, listening to the old bray of my heart as it pounded in my ears before breaking through the surface of the water with a gasp. The soaps smelled like roses and lavender and I lathered my hair up and dunked myself under again. I washed my face with exfoliating microbeads and washed my body with sudsy foam that left my skin pink and tingling.

  My mind was clear as I set about the task of cleaning myself, and I craved more nothing. I wanted to be emptied of my concerns, my complicated feelings for Danovan and Christian, my fear and my pain, my confusion, the heartache of my personal and professional losses. I wanted all of it to stay out of my mind. I sank low in the water so that my head rested against the stone side of the tub and allowed my eyes to come to a close. I floated in the gigantic tub, a tub made to accommodate bodies that were twice the size of my own, and I focused on the sound of my own heartbeat. It was soothing, and fetal somehow, like I’d gone back to the womb and was cradled gently in amniotic fluids. My limbs curled naturally, my fingers making loose fists, and I let myself just… float.

  But then I thought of him, and I couldn’t help it. I thought of how his silver skin bore a subtle shine, how his eyes had specks of blue and purple in them, how his mouth felt when it was on my mouth. I wanted to know what he looked like underneath the cover of his clothes. I wanted to see him as nature intended, and I wanted to see how our bodies could fit together.

  I had studied the human and Galatean genome, and I knew how those most basic building blocks could lock in together, like halves of a zipper from two different jackets. But I had never really bothered to consider how our bodies fit. We had chosen larger humans and smaller Galateans for our trials, assuming that things would just sort of… work. But we’d never studied it. We didn’t know.

  I imagined him naked in front of me, and ran my hands over the curve of my breasts, my fingertips catching on my erect nipples. Then lower, lower, down along the plane of my stomach and between the cleft of my thighs, to that tiny kernel where all of my most sensitive nerve endings took up residence.

  I rubbed myself with a fervent sort of desperation, craving release, and the obliteration of the swirling miasma of my thoughts. I wanted him; I wanted him so badly my entire body pulsed with it. If he were to come into the bathroom, if he were to find me there, if he were to see me touching myself…

  My breathing grew more and more rapid as my body tensed. I thought of his hands on my hips, his tongue against my tongue, and I wanted more, more. I felt my spine go taut, like the strings of a bow, and I was nearly to the peak of my arousal when there came a knock at the door.

  I nearly moaned my displeasure, but managed to keep it inside. What if it was Danovan?

  “Come in!” I shouted, without thinking.

  After a moment, Jaelle walked in, and I covered my breasts with my arms as I sat upright in the tub.

  She bent at the waist to pick up my discarded garments and she held them aloft for a moment before she exited with them. I imagined that it was her intention to clean them—I wish I’d had the language to tell her not to bother.

  But the moment was ruined, and I begrudgingly pulled the plug at the bottom of the tub, forcing myself into a standing position as the water drained out.

  Even the oppressive gravity of the planet didn’t seem quite so heavy after that bath, though I’m pretty sure I would have been veritably floating if my fantasy hadn’t been interrupted. Jaelle had left a plush towel for me on the countertop and I took it and wrapped myself up in it, enjoying how much bigger it was than any of the towels aboard the Leviathan.

  I moved over to the counter and peered into the mirror that hung on the wall beneath the high-set window. My reflection looked pink and relaxed, my skin scrubbed clean almost to shining. It was then that I realized that we humans had it all wrong: we really needed to be importing their beauty products. Whatever was in those soaps had done wonderful things for my complexion.

  I dried myself off and bent at the waist to flip my hair over my head and wrap it up in a towel turban. It was ridiculously large, given the size of the towel, and the white cloth draped down my back, hitting the backs of my thighs as I moved. Then I went to the hook where Jaelle had hung the dress and tugged it on over my turban.

  The gown was beautiful, and fit surprisingly well under the circumstances. The front of it hugged the curve of my breasts and the neckline drooped low, exposing the delicate arch of my shoulders. My hands were lost in the long sleeves, but the hem was only just barely brushing the floor.

  The color was, I’m not ashamed to admit, rather striking on me: a deep emerald green with delicate golden details stitched in by hand. They were tiny vines and flowers that crept up the hem, like a wild, overgrown forest of gold.

  Jaelle came back in then and threw her hands wide, smiling as she admired the effect of the gown. She herself was wearing something similar, a beautiful piece in deep royal purple with a sort of boxy design etched in silver thread at the hemline. The garments themselves brought saris to mind, with their bright colors and exquisite detailing. But the shape of them was almost Victorian.

  Jaelle gestured from me to come closer and I hobbled along until she could pluck the towel from my head and abandon it on the bathroom floor. She took me by the hand and walked with me out of the bathroom and back into the master suite, whereupon she sat me on a low wooden stool and got to work.

  Much to my dismay—and rather vocal protests—she began her ministrations by tearing the sleeves off of the dress. “No!” I shouted. “Please, don’t ruin your dress for me.”

  But she would have none of it. She simply went about stitching the tattered remnants where the sleeves had been to give the dress smooth lines once more. That done, she went to her wardrobe and procured item after item in varying sizes, shapes, and shades of gold. She began by clasping a golden chain about my waist, which did well to show off the curve of my hips.

  Then she got to work on
my hair. This task took considerably longer than it might have otherwise, given that the Galateans were a hairless people and she hadn’t the faintest notion of how she might tame my wild curls. But eventually she got them fastened in something of a twist, held fast with golden braided rope that could be seen crossing my crown like a headband.

  Next, she clipped two large golden discs to my ears, the focal point of my accessories, no doubt, before she placed a small pot of golden paint in front of me and dipped a brush into it. I arched one brow high over one eye in questions, but Jaelle just smiled and got to work.

  The brush tickled my skin, and the paint was cool with each stroke. She started at the tip of my middle finger on my left hand and painted up, up. I admired her handiwork: vines with leaves and tiny budding flowers, all in precisely applied golden paint. Up my arm, beneath the strap of my gown, over my shoulder, and around my neck, like the vines were growing on me, like they were my jewelry, and they were.

  She rouged my lips and lined my eyes in gold, and when I stood to admire myself in the mirror, my breath caught in my throat: The effect was absolutely stunning. I looked like a fairy or a wood nymph, golden, glittering vines climbing up my arm and wrapping around my neck like I’d summoned them to make me beautiful.

  Jaelle squeezed my unpainted shoulder and murmured something to me in Galatean. All I could do was manage to say, “Thank you.”

  She tended to herself next, clipping silver and blue gems to her ears before painting a colorful burst of flowers on her sternum. She trailed vines in blue with small red and blue buds up one side of her neck, behind her ear, and across the crown of her head. I don’t know how she managed it, but her fingers were quick and deft, and flowers atop her head looked like perfect watercolors. Once we both were ready, she took my hand and held me steady so that we might descend the staircase together.

  Our men were waiting for us at the bottom of the stairs, clad in colorful tunics and dark, tribal henna. Danovan’s designs curled upward from beneath his shirt, climbing along the line of his neck and blooming across one side of his face, dark kohl against the silver of his skin. The effect was striking, and strange. His tunic was black and red, and it made him look even more alien, even more intimidating, even more beautiful. Olander’s tunic was yellow and orange, and his henna framed his face like a finely designed beard across the line of his jaw.

  If we thought they were stunning, they must have thought similarly of us: Danovan’s jaw nearly hit the floor when he saw me.

  “Do you like it?” I asked.

  “You’re…”

  “It’s not my blue dress from the gala, I know, but—”

  “I like this better,” he said, scaling the stairs to meet us so that he could take the burden of my bodyweight away from his mother. He lifted me into his arms and carried me down the stairs. His father opened the door for us before taking his mother’s hand, and just as I was about to ask where the party was going to be, I turned my head to look toward the town square and had my answer.

  The square was bursting with life. Music rang against the cobblestone, and people were dancing with colorful streamers trailing behind them as they twirled. I beamed and looked at Danovan, who also could not repress a smile.

  “This is what Galatean weddings are like?” I asked, and he gave a nod of his head.

  “It’s a commitment ceremony,” he said. “And the entire village shows up to express their support. They recognize that it takes the participation of an entire society to raise smart, kind, caring children. So the commitment ceremony is between the two people who wish to mate, as well as between the couple and the rest of the community.”

  “That’s a beautiful idea,” I said as he set me on my feet. The four of us began to walk toward the town square, and as we drew nearer, I could see Dinervah. She was at the center of everything—along with her beau—and they were both wearing all red. From head to toe, just bright, blood red. Dinervah was beautiful, like her mother, with pale skin and dark eyes, and the red was striking against the white of her skin. Her mate was broad and muscled, his skin a burnished bronze that he had streaked with red paint.

  “What is his name?”

  Danovan was grinning from ear to ear as he admired the couple, sitting quietly, their hands clasped together, as the village danced around them. “Calwesh tel’Moradrine. An old friend of mine.”

  “So then you approve of this union?” I asked, watching as Olander and Jaelle fell into the line of boisterous dancers.

  “Hardly! I know what a lout he can be.” We watched them for a time, before I shoved him slightly forward.

  “You should dance,” I said. “I’ll watch.”

  “You’ll be all right?” I asked.

  “Of course. Go on. I insist.” He flashed me a grin and set off to join the madding crowd. And I watched him dance and dance and dance.

  Chapter 13:

  Danovan tel’Darian

  By the gods, but she was beautiful. When my mother suggested that she borrow one of her dresses for my sister’s commitment ceremony—or quel’niarcht in Galatean—I assumed she would swim in it. But the gown flattered her wonderfully, and I admired how it hugged the fleshy parts of her breasts and backside. I barely remember the ceremony—I just remember the scent of her skin when I leaned in to translate the exchanging of the vows.

  My sister looked lovely in her red dress, and I couldn’t help but smile at my good fortune that I happened to be in town during her commitment. But Ara couldn’t seem to understand that a Galatean commitment ceremony wasn’t the equivalent of a human wedding. A bride didn’t spend a year planning it, picking out the perfect ensemble, choosing the food and the music. In Galatea, a woman wore her mother’s dress, if she had it, and her best dress if she didn’t; her mate wore something in complementary colors. And everyone from the village, except for the families of the cora and the cirash—the bride and the groom, respectively—brought wine and food to be shared in the town square. In cities as large and populous as Pyrathas, a ceremony such as this one would happen nearly every night of the week, and it was accepted that only the close friends and family members of the couple would attend. But Hiropass was still small enough that the entire village turned out for the ceremony.

  It began with dancing. It was representative of the great circle of life, how the community gathered around the cora and the cirash to show their support, to show that they would help to protect this new unity. Then, the cora spoke her vows to the cirash, and the cirash to the cora. Finally, their hands were bound with strips of silk, tied by the families. And that was pretty much it—then everyone would eat and drink, and the couple would return to their dwelling to start propagating the species.

  In Galatean society, people celebrate their commitments in this way early and frequently. Being as it is not legally binding, any two people can commit, for all they’re committing to is to love and raise and support whatever progeny comes out of their joining. In fact, the commitment ceremony is more for the future child than it is for the cora and the cirash.

  “It’s all ritualistic nonsense anyhow,” I mumbled to Ara as I refilled both of our wineglasses. We were drinking Pyrathan plum wine, and it was sweet and tart and very alcoholic.

  “I think it’s nice,” Ara countered before raising her glass to her lips to take a sip. The imprint of her lips was pink on the edge of the class. “I think it’s a nice ritual. And besides, ritual is important.”

  “But why is it necessary to declare your intention to commit to someone, to a family, when that commitment doesn’t even really mean anything? If my sister, Dinervah, were to decide she wanted to leave her mate, she could. And there is no real consequence. Just… poof. Gone. Over. Done.”

  “It’s better than our system,” Ara grumbled, reaching forward to pluck a few sweetmeats from my nearly empty plate. She used her fingers to scoop them into her mouth. “We make it super easy to get a marriage license but like basically impossible to leav
e. So sometimes people are stuck in just the crappiest situations for, like, years.”

  “And everyone is so fickle,” I said, leaning back in my chair, “who knows how long it will last?”

  “Exactly,” Ara echoed. “Who knows?”

  We looked out together to the bonfire that had been built in the center of the square, where a smattering of people were dancing cheek to cheek in the flickering firelight, Dinervah and my parents among them.

  “But,” Ara went on, sensing my thoughts, “it’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it?”

  “Hm?”

  “Love. Look at them.” She pointed with the hand holding her wineglass, which she then drank deeply of before setting it down on the table between us. “They are so… beautiful in their love.”

  And she was right. They were beautiful. In that moment, with the music of crackling embers, they saw only each other. Their bellies were full of food that their friends and neighbors had prepared in celebration of their joining; their mouths were tangy with the taste of plum wine; and their eyes were locked on their lifelong companion.

  I thought, looking at her, mine might be, too.

  But I gave a sharp shake of my head to disabuse myself of the notion. Christian was alive—my employer, my friend. I wouldn’t betray him.

  “I’m glad we were able to be here tonight,” she quietly intoned, reaching across the small bistro table to take my hand in hers. “It was a lovely introduction to Galatean culture.”

  “I’m glad we could be as well,” I said. “Though I wish you could’ve spent more time speaking to Dinervah under… more normal circumstances. I think you two would really get along.”

  “Of that I have no doubt.” She withdrew her hand and picked absently at her nail beds, her eyes clouding as she seemed to try to pick the perfect words. “Listen,” she said at length, “I want you to know something.”