by Gemma Voss
The Alien’s Handler
Virgin Warriors of Kar’Kal Book 1
Gemma Voss
Copyright 2020 by Gemma Voss
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations.in a book review.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
About the Author
Sneak Preview
Chapter 1
Ella
The alien invasion was less exciting than one might have imagined. People thought that, surely, Earth would have put up a real fight. Maybe we would band together and shake our fists at those invaders with our moxie and nuclear warheads. Well, that was cute in the movies.
But did you ever stop to consider how we might stack up against an intergalactic alliance with the technology to travel light-years with an army in tow? Missions to Mars are basically sandbox play to these life-forms. And wouldn’t you know, they came here with the express purpose of neutralizing a barbaric species before more harmful space exploration practices could be established. Pretty much the Space Age equivalent of “Hey kid, step away from the hot stove before you burn your mitts off!”
The first to show up were the Peace-Negs, with their olive branch talk and their cures for disease and famine. They gave about five Senators a heart attack when they forked into the Capitol building without warning to discuss treaties. Every world leader was scrambling to sit at the table for the Earth Delegation and get a piece of the technological utopia pie. A few months later, the Alliance army rolled into the atmosphere, and I guess most people were feeling too high on the positives to fret over the newly formed puppet governments.
The fact of the matter is this: for a whole lot of people, life is better Post-Occupation—myself included. My mom doesn’t have cancer anymore. I’ve had a steady job for the past five years even though I never finished school. Tax season and student loans have ceased to exist. Most importantly, we’re far, far away from the Sector 5 War. To little people like me, sovereignty is just a buzz word people like to kick around.
That doesn’t mean there aren’t some unhappy folks that can’t get over the whole we’re-an-alien-colony-planet thing. I get it, in theory. But practically speaking, I really could care less.
I’m forced to see the disgruntled Pro-Sovereignty Anti-Alien crowd every day, and well, it gets really annoying. They protest outside the lab where I work, which is the largest gathering place of alien life-forms in the South Jersey area. Oh yeah, you’d think New Jersey would be the last place an alien would want to plop a research lab, but apparently there was some usable space hanging around. Besides, I’ve come to learn that most aliens love a good trip to the beach.
Today is no different. As I cross the grounds from the transport bus (which runs on waste and smells like ass), I have to walk past the crowd of people waving signs that say “GET OFF OUR PLANET” and “ALIENS GO HOME.” None of them are very creative, but they are always written in all caps. If you get too close, they spit on you. To avoid them I shuffle within the blob of other commuters and ignore the cries of “RACE TRAITORS!”
Most of the local aliens live in a complex attached to the research center, and they find it strange that so few human workers take advantage of the reduced price living quarters. A couple of purple-skinned Verguli women are watching the protesters tail commuters from behind the gate with bemused expressions.
“Don’t they get tired of being so angry?” I hear one of them say as I slip through the gate and hustle towards the entrance.
“Ella!” My manager Jen intercepts me in the hallway before I make it to my assigned laboratory. “Let’s chat.”
I blink in surprise but join her in her office. Jen Marsden is a no-nonsense woman with a brilliant mind. She was on the cutting edge when it came to working with the Alliance early in the Occupation, and it paid off for her. Now, she heads the most prestigious research facility on the East Coast. Five years ago, she hired me even without the college degree. I’m only a Handler, a glorified assistant, but I’ve always been grateful to her.
Her desk is piled with folders and stacks of paper. The walls and shelves are jam-packed with photos, gifts from foreign planets, and awards that gather dust.
I remove a box full of lab equipment from her leather chair and take a seat.
“Sorry about that,” she mutters as she sinks into her own seat behind the desk.
“What’s up?” I ask, wracking my brain for anything I might have screwed up recently. Things had been going well, or at least I thought.
“Let me get right to it. I’d like to move you to a new research team.”
“What? Have I done something wrong? If this is about Oongla’s mishap in the grocery store—”
She lets out a chuckle. “No, no. Nothing’s wrong. In fact, quite the opposite.”
I blankly await her explanation.
“Don’t get a big head, because I don’t need more annoying employees,” she sighs. “But you’re my best Handler here.”
My chest swells. Jen does not hand out compliments. “Thank… you… ?”
She jabs a finger at me. “You’re not getting a raise.”
“Okay, so what’s going on?”
When the clock ticks nine o’clock, her phone starts ringing off the hook. She ignores it and starts explaining: “The Oofara team is doing great. I’m feeling confident that they can function with a part-time Handler since they’ve improved their bedside manner and cultural skills. I have a new team coming in and I’d like you to start as their Handler. I have to confess, though, they might be a handful.”
I’ve been a liaison between the Oofara research team and the human world for almost as long as I’ve worked here. As someone with zero marketable skills, the opportunity to explain basic Earth concepts to a reptilian species has been a cushy gig for me. All I do is play babysitter to prevent PR disasters.
I shrug. “All right. Any details?”
Jen lets out a massive sigh of relief. “This is it. This is what I’m talking about. Rolling with the punches. That’s what I need.” She points at the mountain of crap on her desk. “Red folder. Meet me here next Monday and I’ll get you settled with them.”
I manage to remove the red folder without causing an avalanche. My heart squeezes for my sweet reptile team who I’ll be forced to part ways with. They have truly become my friends in all this time. The yellow eyes took some getting used to, but they are wonderful people from the top of their scaly heads to the bottoms of their ugly clawed feet. Just another reason I get frustrated at the sight of those protesters every morning. I’m honestly proud of the work I do. The Oofara have regenerative abilities and have been testing re-growth healing options for humans and human-adjacent species.
I scan over the briefing stapled to the inside of the folder flap.
The Ka
r’Kali Research Delegation has been approved to send a five-man team for their proposed exploration of Earth mating practices as they relate to the evolutionary predecessors of Kar’Kal.
“Hmm,” I muse, glancing up at Jen. She’s already absorbed in her computer screen, no doubt drowning in emails. “Dare I ask why they’ll be a handful?”
“Ehhh,” she shrugs. “The Kar’Kali are sometimes called ‘stone cold killers’ by the military personnel I see around.”
I frown. The briefing seems to sugar coat this with the phrasing: Kar’Kali cultural practices demand the suppression of emotion and eschew personal connection via the implantation of local hormone adjusters.
“So they’re boring. Big whoop,” I say. “So long as they don’t kill me…”
“Nah. Just don’t expect them to hit the bar with you like the Oofara,” Jen says with a smirk. I snort, remembering our few nights out on the town. There’s nothing quite like the sight of a pack of eight-foot-tall lizard-people getting down on the dancefloor. My smile fades as one stat from the folder jumps out at me.
“Woah! This says that Kar’Kal is directly in the middle of Sector 5.”
She nods. “They’ve been at war with the Azza for thousands of years. Raise their kids in a petri dish, train them for battle, and send them out when they’re sixteen. No personal relationships allowed.”
Stunned, I stare at the rudimentary map that shows the Kar’Kal planet in relation to the Azza outpost planets where enemy warships are launched towards the Alliance border. The planet sits on the edge of the further reaches of Alliance power.
“But they’re researching mating? That’s odd,” I say, tapping the edge of the folder against my upper lip.
“What, you want me to narrate the whole dossier for you? Read it your damn self. They have an unprecedented drop in population. They need to solve their birth rate problems.” She waves her hands at me, banishing me from her over-worked presence. “Ya know, more babies for the front lines.”
I slide the folder into my bag and leave Jen to her paperwork mountain range. Stone cold killers, I think to myself. That’s gotta be an exaggeration.
Chapter 2
Kila
Planet Earth is an odd place with very little technology to be seen, even in the cities. The Alliance has made strides outfitting these barbarians with medical care, transportation, and updates to housing. When we originally descended to the docking bay in the United States, I could see green areas and swathes of sparkling ocean, so I suppose there is a chance I will encounter more attractive parts of the planet. Until then, I find myself in a place called New Jersey. I cannot imagine what the Old Jersey must have been if the modern version consists of ugly black roads and block-shaped architecture.
I arrived only a day ago with my research colleagues. There are five of us, the only Kar’Kali now in Sector 27, a recently neutralized area that is desolate for light-years and light-years of travel space.
There is no structure in this place, a privilege of their distance from war. Instead of receiving schedules, orders, and uniforms, we were simply escorted from our transport vehicle and deposited in front of our new living quarters. We have but a key, a phone number, and a map showing the way to our new office, cafeteria, and bus stop.
It is now what humans call Monday, when they return from their weekly holiday known as Week’s End. I am not certain what there is to do over this holiday, but I will have to find out whether we will be allowed to access the lab during this time. There is no point in wasting two days of every week. We currently await the Head of Research, a female meant to lead us through an orientation meeting.
We wait by a massive gate, which is patrolled by a small security tower. It hardly seems well-manned, but I suppose this is no fortified planet. The only threats we might face are likely human ones. Kiva, the youngest member of our team, is the only one in good spirits following the long journey from home. He is regaling us with the information he gathered while prowling the halls of our residence last night.
“I have been making inquiries with other beings on our floor,” he is saying, gesturing his hands wildly. “They suggested that we conduct some research at the local establishments known as bars. These businesses, which sell mind-altering beverages, are reported to be a common location where humans seek and find a mate. It seems no matter where one goes on this planet there are bars to attend, suggesting just how permeating the human need to locate a mate must be.”
“Kiva, calm yourself. Watching you is making my head ache,” Mori complains. He did not even wish to join this research mission. He was assigned to the team solely based on his excellent standing at his Birth Center position.
Pakka, our team leader, paces by the gate, craning his neck for a sighting of the Head of Research. He is eager to get started and hates to be running late. Kiva frowns but says nothing back to Mori. Even though we are no longer at the capitol city’s military research facilities, our home planet ranks linger over us. Having only just finished his mandated five passings in combat, Kiva is merely a Grounder. Mori, Vala, and myself are all Domestics of various rank, while Pakka is a Cruiser with fifteen passings spent in deep space combat. It won’t matter to humans or the other Alliance species we might run into, but rank is ingrained in our minds.
We will be on Earth for an unspecified number of passings, but I am not sure that time can separate us from the passings we spent in combat. Here in the peaceful outer reaches, I cannot help but feel disconnected from reality.
A crowd is gathered on the other side of the gate, demanding freedom from invading oppressors, but none of these humans have seen the skies blacken from an Azza death fog or watched a fleet gather in the atmosphere like a swarm of angry vakkali. They have not seen males they’ve known since the early passings die screaming and begging for mercy. I suppose they think the Alliance is their enemy.
I watch the crowd with a sickening stomach. I want to tell them that when true war finds them, there will be no time for complaints and arguments. They anger me, but misplaced fury will always be my worst trait. It is as my adolescent supervisor always told me: “Anger does not kill enemies.”
Finally, a female appears that waves her arm at us in greeting. She is called Jen, and she is a small female with golden hair and eyes the color of grass. Her skin coloring reminds me of the inside flesh of a ground tuber, similar to many of the humans I have seen so far. Humans seem to vary in color more widely than Kar’Kali, as I’ve notice they range from Jen’s pale tone all the way to a dark brown.
Jen strides up to us and does not stop walking. “Don’t look so thrilled to be here, folks. Follow me.”
It seems there is no avoiding strange language such as this when it comes to humans. They tend not to say precisely what they mean. Even with translator chips on both sides of a conversation, humans can be indecipherable.
We trail her as though she is our new Commander, through glass sliding doors, past security checkpoints, and into an elevator. We are led down a hallway and into a messy room that must be her office.
Pakka is appalled. “Do you not employ a secretary? How is it you are efficient with all this disaster?”
“There’s a method to the madness. I do have a secretary. In fact, here’s his phone number. He’ll show up at some point and sit over there—” She jabs a finger at the desk area just outside her glass-paneled workspace. “If you need to plan a meeting with me, or even just have a basic question, you can go through him unless it’s urgent.”
“What qualifies as urgent?” Mori asks.
“That is what your Handler will be for. She’ll be here soon to join us on the tour. Basically, any questions you have regarding protocol and any plans you have for human interaction will fall to her. And she’s at your disposal for any basic work you need to outsource.”
“Handler?” I scoff, crossing my arms over my chest. “I thought that Pakka stated we would not be allowing any non-Kar’Kali scientists on our research team. Other species a
re generally full of distractions.”
Jen busies herself with a pile of papers on the edge of her desk. “She won’t be on your research team. She is there strictly to monitor your interactions with the human public and consult on matters of data collection among human subjects, volunteers, what-have-you…”
“What have you what?” Pakka says expectantly when the human seems to stop mid-sentence.
“What we will have is none of this handler nonsense,” I interrupt. “Perhaps some species cannot comport themselves in public, but not the Kar’Kali. Our project is of the utmost importance and it cannot be jeopardized by feeble human cognitive functions.”
There is a light knocking against the glass. I turn to see a new human female in the frame of the open doorway. The sight of her stops my brain working. I simply stare, in shock, as a hammering in my heart grows stronger and stronger.
“Feeble human cognitive functions reporting for duty,” she says with a wide smile. “I’m Ella Sacco, nice to meet you guys.”
Chapter 3
Kila
I cannot stop looking at the female named Ella. She has been walking with us as we tour the facility but does not say much. Jen leads the conversation, dictating all the information we will need to function in the building. My eyes slide to Ella while Jen talks, drawn like magnets to the human’s face.
She is not objectively different from other human females I have seen, but I find her much more appealing. Her hair is dark brown like the color of fertile soil, and her skin is a warm tone like sunlit sands. Her eyes are a luminous blue, framed by long black lashes. The silhouette of her body seems to burn a hole in my brain, a place in which her curving shape will make residence indefinitely.
There is surely something very wrong with me. My veins feel like fire under my skin at the sight of her.
It is not often I concern myself with how others respond to my opinions, but since I realized she heard me disparaging her, my mind has not rested. Does she hate me? Does she think that I hate her? After all, humans are known to be feeble-minded, are they not? Certainly, she is not…
