Tyree

by Alana Khan

  Part of me wants to bask in the physical release, the calm bliss of the aftermath of my orgasm, but I don’t allow it. I’m still not used to these base needs. I lived thirty-five annums without them. I resent them.

  I step to the sink to wash any remnants from my hands and cock. As I dry myself with a towel, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Shaggy golden hair, glowing green eyes, strong jaw. I still see a stranger when I glance at my reflection.

  It was less than two lunar cycles ago when I examined myself in a mirror just like this in the room I shared with the captain. I was only three fiertos tall, so I had to jump up on the sink, my knobby little knees perched on each side of the cabinet, so I could peer at my reflection.

  That was the exact moment I realized the Transformation was coming. My round, cherubic face was manifesting harder planes and angles. I observed defined muscles in my calves for the first time in my life.

  I was abducted by slavers from my home planet at the age of seven. I had only recently learned about the Transformation. Larians are born sexless, or as Dr. Drayke explained, intersexed. I had two vents between my legs for excretion.

  Some of my race never transform. Others do—but only when they’ve met their truemate.

  I still don’t understand how it happens. Dr. Drayke says he can find nothing in the literature. My planet was so backward, there was no research available about my homeworld. Two Larians would meet and for some reason, it would trigger the Transformation. One would become male and the other female. Then they’d celebrate with a mating ceremony, and later, perhaps offspring.

  I figured I’d be this odd, sexless, tiny person forever because I would never meet another Larian. And certainly never Transform.

  Now here I am, stooping a little to catch a good look in the mirror. If I glimpse myself when I’m in the right frame of mind, I can see what the others on the ship see when they view me: a tall, powerful male with broad shoulders, strong muscles, and observant green eyes. But most of the time I still think of myself as I’ve been most of my life: short, slight, and weak.

  But when I’m near Grace I never feel that way. I can’t forget I’m all male when I’m around her. I’m protective of her, wanting to keep her away from the other males. I want to get to know her better and learn every memory, good or bad, that made her into who she is today.

  I want to take care of her, provide for her, and bring food to her. When we eat together I have to tamp down my urge to feed the best morsels to her—I know she’d hate me doing that in front of our friends.

  It’s not just my body and emotions that have changed since my Transformation. I haven’t admitted to anyone how much my psychic powers have increased. Before, I could only enter someone’s mind when they invited me. About the only thing I could do was calm them, which is what kept me alive through all my annums as a slave.

  Now my gift is more powerful, I can occasionally catch words or phrases drifting from my shipmates’ minds as I sit next to them or pass them in the hall.

  It’s a blessing Grace’s thoughts never stray into my own. I find it calming to be in her presence. Between the lack of mind chatter and her sweet soul, there’s no one on board I’d rather spend time with.

  Except for the erections. Those are worse when she’s around. And now I’ve offered to spend more time with her until her concert commitment is fulfilled.

  Chapter Two

  Grace

  I ate dinner alone in my room; I just couldn’t bear to be around other people tonight. They’ll be laughing and joking, and I’ll just be a bundle of self-absorbed nerves. I don’t want to be pathetic or needy, I’d rather be alone.

  Although I’ve been out of captivity and safely ensconced in this cabin for over a month, it feels cold and foreign. The twelve by twelve space has dull metal walls, a double bed, dresser, tiny corner desk, and a chair. It connects to a utilitarian private bathroom. I haven’t had the time, money, or opportunity to do anything to it. There isn’t one personal item in here—except for my instruments.

  I have two: String Thing, which I bought on planet Numa, and an electronic multi-purpose instrument I found in the abandoned wing of the ship. Composing and playing my music are the only pastimes that soothe me.

  Now, with this horrible series of concerts looming over me, my music is a double-edged sword. It calms me for a moment, then fills me with dread when I contemplate playing in front of a concert hall full of people.

  Even though I only have twenty shipmates, it’s a miracle I’ve played for them twice since we took over the ship. I feel so comfortable and close to my new friends I somehow found the courage to perform for them.

  The first time it gave everyone the opportunity to dance with their former cellmates—and gave me an excuse to not have to dance at all. There was a lot of romance in the air that night, and no one was focused on me or my music, just their partner. The second performance was to honor Tyree’s Transformation in the only way I knew how—the gift of music. My stomach was in knots playing just that one piece for everyone, but I forced myself to do it—for him.

  Tonight is dragging by. The hundredth time I glance at the clock, I'm relieved to see it’s time for bed. Of course, sleep chooses to elude me. Instead, my thoughts keep looping back to my first recital.

  Mom was there with her boyfriend du jour. Actually, this one stuck around longer than most. Too bad, because he was one of the meanest of all the men who lived with us for a while when they were down on their luck or too lazy to work.

  I remember he told me to call him Candyman. It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized how inappropriate it was for a second grader to be calling her mom’s drug dealer Candyman.

  I’ve watched this particular memory so many times I push fast forward in my mind. I gloss over the details and just remember his vicious comments on the car ride home from the recital.

  “You’re stupid. An idiot. You made a fool of yourself,” his voice was derisive. “You think the audience clapped because they liked it? They just didn’t want to hurt your feelings. But I heard them laughing at you while you played. The woman in front of us told her husband she’d never heard anything so terrible. You played it all wrong. Made a dozen mistakes. Right, Terese?”

  I’ll never forget mom's head bobbing up and down in the front seat, agreeing with him. I’ll also never forget the beating I got when we arrived home. First, he used his hand, then his belt. That was the first and last time I performed comfortably in public.

  My hands are slick with sweat, my teeth clamped shut in tension, and my heart aches in sympathy for my younger self.

  Hours later, I’ve watched a parade of reruns of Candyman’s relentless ridicule and putdowns. After living with his harsh contempt for a few years it’s a wonder I have a shred of self-esteem left.

  I’m bathed in a cold sweat just thinking about my upcoming concert. It doesn’t matter that half the galaxy loves my music—tell that to my antiquated “lizard brain”—it’s on high alert as if I’m in the middle of a battlefield.

  I concede that lying here is futile; the anxiety is just too compelling. I heading to my bathroom, then slip under the shower for a moment to rinse off the sweat. Why did I arrange to meet up with Tyree tomorrow morning? I should have known I’d need his help tonight.

  After getting dressed, I meander through the ship's narrow, metal hallways for a while, but I knew where I was heading when I left my cabin—the bridge—to see Tyree.

  “Come in. Can’t sleep?” Tyree offers, concern in his warm voice. I thought Axxios, the huge, golden pilot, might be here with him, but it’s just Tyree and me in this quiet, enclosed space.

  He knows me pretty well. We shared a lot those few days before his Transformation. I’ll be honest, I’ve done my best to avoid him since he recovered. My mouth goes dry every time I remember the image of him in bed with his sheet pooled on the floor. And my traitorous mind throws that picture at me far too frequently. I liked him better before he became this huge, masc
uline Adonis. I was more comfortable.

  “You’re right, Tyree, I can’t sleep. But I know you’re busy…” It was foolish to come. I know he has work to do, I don’t want to be selfish. But instead of leaving, I sit at the comms desk behind Tyree who’s in the captain’s chair.

  Axxios, the pilot, has been giving Tyree lessons at the helm. We need more than one person who can drive this ship. Tyree flies this vessel alone at night when Axxios leaves to catch some sleep.

  “So you’ve been given the go-ahead to pilot this thing? You must be a fast learner,” I look at the panel in front of him filled with incomprehensible buttons, levers, and switches as well as several glowing, blinking computer screens.

  “I know how to keep us on the course Axxios sets. With a little coaching, I can set new coordinates, but I’m much slower than Axx.”

  I glance out the floor-to-ceiling windows. The view is spectacular from here—as it should be since this is command central for the ship. I try to let the endless stars in the sky calm me.

  Tyree is turned to face me, so I’m the only one gazing out the bank of windows. My eyes open wide in fear—a ship just appeared out of nowhere in front of us.

  Perhaps it’s the look of abject terror that crosses my face, but Tyree’s head swiftly pivots to where I’m looking. He immediately launches into high gear.

  “Taking evasive maneuvers!” he shouts, his fingers flying on his computer. “Drack, that device was cloaked. My panel gave no warning. Computer, call Axxios to the bridge. Now!”

  A ten-foot-tall face appears on every other one of the floor-to-ceiling windows that double as communication vid screens at the prow of the ship. “Your call letters identify as the Sweet Deliverance,” the hideous face announces. The male is spotted in ugly, amphibious shades of brown with spikes protruding from his forehead, brow ridges, and chin.

  “Gren,” Tyree breathes.

  Crap! Our former captain. We knocked him out and released him on planet Numa after the overthrow. He’s a minion for the MarZan cartel.

  “Funny, I could swear this ship is the Warbird One, owned by the MarZan cartel,” his voice is condescending and provocative. “We’ve come to collect our property.”

  Our ship veers sharply, the engine making one loud, grinding noise that doesn’t inspire confidence. Where’s Axxios?

  “You’re sitting ducks out here,” Gren taunts. “This should be fun.”

  I see a laser burst barreling toward us and I brace for impact. The ship lurches, but it’s a near miss. The corners of Gren’s mouth turn up in evil glee.

  “Just wait, things will get worse.” He’s toying with us.

  “I’m trying to outrun him, but his ship’s better equipped,” Tyree’s voice is tight.

  We speed up, taking evasive maneuvers, Tyree’s kicked us into high gear. He’s competently zigzagging to dodge Gren, but the other ship is hot on our tail.

  “How do I hail him back, Tyree?”

  “Red lever, upper right of your panel, why?”

  “Listen, Motherfucker,” I say, my tone deadly serious when I see my face side-by-side with Gren’s on the front screens, “we let you live. We should have killed you when we had the chance.”

  “Mighty bold talk, little Earth girl,” his voice is derisive. “Pretty cocky coming from a defenseless breeder.”

  “Go to hell.” I flip off the comm, my face flicks off the screen and I shout to Tyree, “Where are the controls to the laser cannons?” And where the heck is Axxios?

  “You don’t know how to shoot them, Grace. Computer, call Axxios to the bridge!” he orders again.

  Our ship heaves as Gren fires another shot at us, closer this time, but still a miss. He laughs, obviously enjoying taunting us.

  “I knew this would be too easy,” he chides, “this isn’t even sporting. Primitive animals flying a ship. Frankly, I was surprised a bunch of gladiators and breeders figured out how to take off from Numa. You must be speed reading the manual as we speak,” he chuckles.

  Axxios flies through the bridge doors, completely naked. Tyree vacates his chair as golden-skinned Axx slides into his spot in one smooth move.

  Tyree switches to a different station and flips switches frantically. I hear the high whine of laser weapons gathering power. Go, Tyree!

  I flick my comm back on, see my image jump to life in front of me and try to distract Gren while Axxios and Tyree prepare to fight or flee.

  “You’re right, we’re out of our league,” I admit. “You don’t want to kill us. Let us live. There’s a bounty on our heads, I’ve heard we’re worth more alive than dead.” Through the magic of technology, it feels like I’m looking straight into his evil, terrifying eyes, even though I know he can’t really see me, just my image. You’d think this would chill me to my marrow, but all I can feel is seething rage.

  Tyree fires a shot. It misses.

  “Recalibrating,” he shouts, his fingers moving on the panel in front of him with lightning speed.

  I hear the lasers powering up and then he fires again—a direct hit into the belly of the cartel vessel just as Axxios steps on the gas. We move so fast I’m thrown against my seatback with enough force the flesh of my cheeks press back against my bones.

  “Take that!” I shout, even though Gren’s repulsive face has flickered off the screen. My face is still up there. I see ten-foot-tall normally-demure Grace, her face squeezed in anger, arm raised in a fist. I look for all the world like an angry warrior. Rather than being embarrassed, it’s thrilling to see that powerful woman on the screen.

  Captain Zar crashes through the doors, “Can I help?”

  “Enemy ship is dead in space back there,” Axxios gloats still focused out the windows. Interesting how raising one’s middle finger in anger seems to translate so well between different species a million miles away in space. “We’re safe, but I’m not slowing until we’re in the next sector.”

  The anxiety level on the bridge promptly reduces ten notches, although Tyree and the pilot are still frantically checking readouts on their computers. I glance over at Zar. The half-man, half-lion is completely nude and totally comfortable. I still forget, most of these gladiators fought naked in the arena for years. Clothing still seems optional to them.

  “Can’t hear any of their space chatter, Axxios. We’ve definitely put some distance between us. Nice maneuver. I’m glad you were here. I couldn’t navigate fast enough,” Tyree admits.

  “For a male who’s never fired a laser before, I’d say your direct hit to their hull more than made up for slow responses at the helm. We’ll do some more drills tomorrow, Tyree. You’re coming along well; you’ll be more than proficient in time.”

  “MarZan cartel?” Zar asks.

  “Not just MarZan, but our former captain, Gren,” Tyree’s voice drips with disgust. “Glad we overthrew the motherdracker.”

  “That was a close call. It’s getting harder to stay one step ahead of them. We’re going to need a complete overhaul on Emirus. Axxios is right, we need to replace our broken hyperdrive. Glad we’ll have the credits from Grace’s performance. Thanks, Grace.” Zar turns his head to look at me and smiles, his long, sharp canines flashing.

  I hear chattering outside the bridge door and then it bursts open, with everyone on the ship spilling into this relatively small room. Most of the males are nude, the women are all wearing t-shirts of varying lengths. Everyone’s talking at once, most asking variations of “WTF?”

  Sometimes it still surprises me to look at my shipmates when we’re gathered together. All the alien males are huge, muscular gladiators of different species. There’s a spotted one, a silver one, and another who looks like a Neanderthal, as well as other aliens of various species. We’ve been together long enough now that we’ve become like a little family.

  Tyree gives a quick rundown of the MarZan attack, giving most of the credit to Axxios and even praising my small part in it.

  “Sounds like you dracked them up pretty good with the laser c
annon,” Dax praises. “Way to go, brother.”

  The corners of Tyree’s mouth lift almost imperceptibly and his shoulders pull up and back. He’s proud—he should be.

  “We’ll touch down on Emirus in a few days,” Zar continues. “The three days of performances will give us time to obtain new call letters and install important upgrades. Since MarZan knows our ship name, we’ll need a new one.”

  “This time we’ll take a vote,” Anya, Zar’s curly-haired human mate, interrupts. “Maddie, can you label a pot with the words ‘new name’ and put it in the dining hall? We’ll gather all suggestions.”

  “Let’s fill the pot with great ideas, Zar says. “Get some sleep.”

  People file out quickly. I haven’t forgotten why I came to the bridge in the first place. I couldn’t tolerate being alone in my room. After the attack, it’s even clearer to me that I won’t be able to duck out of my responsibilities. Although it’s totally ridiculous, just thinking about these upcoming concerts ramps up my anxiety. I hope Tyree’s generous offer to help me still stands.