by Lili Zander
The Zorahn male who interrupted Schultz’ monologue steps forward. He’s seven feet tall. His skin is bronzed, his head is clean-shaven, and his body is hard and corded with muscle. Blue tattooed whorls cover his bald head, though the rest of his body is unmarked. I think his name is Beirax. He wears black pants, but in place of a shirt, intricate bands of blue fabric cover his chest.
He’s intimidating as fuck.
He says something, the words harsh and garbled in my ears. I have no idea what he’s saying, and I turn to look at Harper, wondering if she can understand him any better than me. The tall blonde is frowning, her arms crossed over her chest.
Nope. Not just me. The only one who seems to have any clue what the Zorahn said is Schultz.
Noticing our looks of confusion, Beirax snaps a question to the other male on board the ship, Mannix. Mannix is just as tall as his fellow alien, but his tattoos are black and brown, not blue. I’m sure the coloring has some significance, though what it is we don’t know. The Zorahn haven’t bothered to tell us much about their culture. All we know is that the High Emperor rules the entire planet and we will be under his personal protection when we are on Zoraht.
Mannix shakes his head. He holds his palm over a wall panel, and it slides open, revealing a storage cavity packed with mysterious and unidentifiable objects. Pulling a handful of small golden disks out, he hands one to each of us, and mimes that we’re to insert the disks in our right ear.
Ah. Translator. That’s why Schultz didn’t look as confused as the rest of us.
Harper snorts. “No need for the lab rats to understand what they’re saying,” she says dryly. She lifts the button-sized device to her ear. I do the same, yelping as a spark runs through me at the point of contact.
“No kidding,” I mutter, rubbing at my ear. “Also, no need to tell us that the damn thing should come with a warning label. I guess they don’t have lawyers on Zoraht.”
“We don’t.” Beirax’s voice drips with frost. “If you could return your attention to me, Viola Lewis?”
Ahem. The translator’s working then. Good to know that the first alien sentence I hear is a scolding.
A couple of the women giggle, but they stop as soon as they feel the full force of the Zorahn’s glare. “As I was saying,” he continues, “You are passengers on Fehrat 1. The journey to the homeworld will take ten of your Earth days. You will be placed in stasis for the trip. Any questions?”
Multiple hands fly in the air. Beirax sighs in frustration and points to a petite dark-haired woman. “Sofia Menendez,” he intones. “Yes?”
I wonder if the Zorahn understand the concept of a first and last name. The way Beirax refers to us, I doubt it. Viola Lewis. Sofia Menendez. Either that or he has a stick up his butt.
The last of the Zorahn, Raiht’vi, chooses this moment to enter the spaceship. She’s a lot taller than most human women, but her build is similar to ours. She has a narrow waist and wider hips, and her clothing, bulky as it is, doesn’t hide the swell of her breasts.
As tall as the men, she’s the only one with hair on her head. The scarlet tresses are tightly braided and decorated with objects that look like shells, and her clothing is white. “Are we ready to leave, Beirax?” she asks, a forbidding expression on her face.
“The humans have questions, Highborn,” Beirax says apologetically. “According to the orders of the High Emperor…”
She cuts him off. “I’m aware of Lenox’s commands.” She gives us an unsmiling look. “Satisfy their curiosity. We leave in a knur.”
One Knur equals Twelve Earth Minutes, the device in my ear helpfully interjects.
Twelve minutes until we’re off planet. I take a deep breath and wipe my sweaty palms on my NASA-issued clothing, made from a navy material that fits like a second skin. The last few weeks of training and a highly nutritious diet have left me fitter than I’ve ever been in my life, but I still don't care for the government-issued Spandex. “Why can’t we wear normal clothing?” I’d asked when a grim-faced captain handed them to me.
“The suits are specially formulated for space travel. The nanotechnology cleans itself and will help regulate your body temperature.”
“Does it come in pink?” When he didn’t crack a smile at the wisecrack, I’d mumbled, “Navy isn’t really my color.”
“You are a representative of the United States,” he’d replied tersely. “You will dress the part.”
So I stand in the Zorahn ship with the other women, the ten of us looking like an Olympic ski team. If the aliens think it’s weird that we’re dressed identically, they don’t say anything.
Raiht’vi, the female Zorahn, disappears into the cockpit of the spaceship. At least, that’s what I think it is, given the number of instrument panels on the dashboard. It’s also the only part of the ship that has a window.
Look at the blue skies, Viola. You won’t see them again for six months.
Sofia, who is fresh out of medical residency, asks her question. “The translator is speaking English to me,” she says. “I’m bilingual. How did it decide what language to use?”
Her question seems to puzzle Beirax and Mannix. “The translator doesn’t decide,” Beirax replies, a confused expression on his face. “The translator translates.”
“Why didn’t it translate to Spanish?” Sofia persists.
Beirax frowns. “The translator translates Zor to English and vice-versa. That is its purpose.”
Not a universal translator then. That shit probably only exists in the imaginations of sci-fi writers.
“Excuse me?” A soft voice at my elbow makes me turn. A stunning redhead with a perfect figure and flawless pale skin stands at my side, biting her lower lip. I blink, and even the alien falls silent.
“Hi, I’m Olivia,” she says, with a little wave of a manicured hand. “I can’t get my translator to work.” She holds the device up and shakes it, all the while wearing an adorable little pout.
If I were going to set up an intergalactic dating service, I’d definitely put bombshell Olivia Buckner’s picture front and center.
“Try sticking it in your ear,” Harper quips. She and I exchange glances as Mannix gets another translator, and Schultz about falls over himself to help her put it in. Even Beirax can’t take his eyes off her gravity-defying breasts. Male interest in a hot female is universal.
My gaze drifts over the muscles of the brown tattooed alien, Mannix. Are Zorahn cocks like human males?
Focus, Vi!
After much attention from the men, Olivia finally has her translator installed, and Beirax signals he’s ready for the next question. A woman with short curly brown hair raises her hand like she’s in grade school. “You said stasis,” she says nervously. “Is that safe?”
“Of course it is.” Schultz rushes to reply before either of the Zorahn can answer. He looks indignant. “Everything on this ship has been tested. The United States government is deeply invested in your safety and well-being.”
Mannix gives Schultz an irritated look at the interruption. “The High Emperor has decreed your safety. It is so.”
“This High Emperor must be quite the guy,” Harper Boyd murmurs.
I don’t doubt it. As a gesture of good faith, the Zorahn came bearing gifts. One of them was the cure for leukemia. Rumor has it that lung cancer is next on the list, and the tobacco companies are practically drooling at the prospect of being able to market their wares again without health concerns.
I don’t know what else the Zorahn promised our government to get them to sanction shooting us into space, but whatever they offered, it’s gotta be huge. Much bigger than cancer. Once the Zorahn told them what they wanted, the government fell over itself to cooperate with the aliens. They even got the media in lockstep. I’ve seen article after article gush about the Zorahn, calling them our allies, even our saviors.
The way I see it, the Zorahn spaceship could be a tin can, and I doubt the government would care. There’s too much superior alien te
chnology at stake.
May Archer looks worried, biting her lip. I nudge her. “I’m sure we’ll be fine,” I say, keeping my tone reassuring. “The Zorahn want us to arrive safely as much as we do.” We’ve been told our genes could save their race, but only if they can study us in their high-tech space-age labs. Thus the journey to their planet.
Beirax makes a chopping gesture with his hand. “No more questions,” he says tersely. “Hector Schultz, it is time for you to leave. We depart for Zoraht in a pars.”
One pars equals Six Earth Minutes, my translator chirps.
Six minutes to go. I glance around at the nine other women, but no one in our little space sorority seems excited anymore. Reality has set in.
Who volunteers to leave Earth behind and travel to an alien planet for six months? What kind of person chooses to trust the emissaries when they promise our safe return, guaranteed by the High Emperor of Zoraht himself? Why would anyone line up to be poked and prodded by alien scientists?
The answers are simple. Money. Adventure. And in my case, a lack of anything left on Earth to live for.
Schultz salutes us briskly and departs, clattering down the ramp. There are no windows on the sides of the ship, so I can’t see the crowds outside. Maybe some of the other women have family watching them depart. Not me. I have no family left. My mother left when I was ten, and my father died of leukemia two months before the cure came. Yeah, I know. Irony.
I watch as Beirax and Mannix hold their palms over several large panels in the back, which slide open to reveal the stasis pods. Ever seen a picture of the capsule hotels in Japan? That’s what these resemble. “Are we going to be awake during the trip?” I blurt out without thinking.
This time, Beirax actually rolls his eyes. “It is a stasis pod, Viola Lewis. By definition…” His voice trails off, and he sneers at me.
Yeah. I’m making a great first impression.
I awaken with a lurch and bang my head against the ceiling of my stasis pod. “Ouch,” I groan, rubbing at the spot. Pain wars with excitement and excitement wins.
We must be landing on Zoraht.
The panel opens, and I peer out eagerly. I’m here. I’m on a different planet, halfway across the galaxy. I’m going to see an alien world.
Then I realize that something’s wrong. The three Zorahn are standing in the center of the craft, and one of them, Beirax, has a weapon pointed at the other two. “I’m sorry, Highborn,” he’s saying. “I have other plans for the humans.”
“Lenox guaranteed their safety.” The female Zorahn, Raiht’vi, speaks through clenched teeth. “ You’ve altered the ship’s course and locked the controls. What are you doing? This is treason.”
“No.” Beirax’s voice is eerily calm, and his hand, the one holding the alien gun, is steady. “I commit no treason. I answer to a higher authority.”
“Traitor.” Raiht’vi looks ready to tear Beirax apart from limb to limb with her bare fingers. “There is no higher authority than Lenox.” She glances at the cockpit and sees something on the screen that causes her to gasp out. “No,” she whispers. “That is the prison planet. You cannot mean…” Her eyes go wild, and her voice rises in pitch. “What are you doing, Beirax? No ship can survive the asteroid belt. We will all die!”
Asteroid belt? Prison planet? What the hell?
Goosebumps rise on my skin. Something very bad is going on—bad enough that Raiht’vi thinks we’re all going to die, and Mannix looks like he’s going to wet himself—and my instincts warn me not to get in the middle of it. I don’t want to know how effective the Zorahn weapon can be.
Over the whine of the engines, I think I hear the other women stir in their stasis pods. Don’t move, don’t move, I beg. Don’t do anything to draw attention to yourselves.
Beirax draws himself to his full height. “For a thousand years,” he intones, “we have sinned against the Draekons. We have used them and imprisoned them. We have exiled them to a harsh and hostile world.” His eyes glow with an inner fire. “And we, the Order of the Crimson Night, have sworn never to forget.”
Sinned. Imprisoned. Exiled. Whatever Beirax is talking about, it isn’t giving me the warm and fuzzies. Who are the Draekons, and what the hell kind of fucked up politics have we landed in the middle of?
The ship lurches. As I watch, my heart pounding in my throat, its trajectory changes. A red planet looms in the view screen, and the nose of the ship tilts inexorably toward it.
We start to descend.
Scratch that. Descend suggests that we’re landing with a measure of control. From the panic etched on Raiht’vi’s face, from the way my stomach’s churning, I don’t think we’re landing.
We’re crashing.
“The Draekons will rip us apart, Beirax.” Raiht’vi tries again, one last desperate appeal. “You fool, don’t you understand? Even if we survive the landing, they will destroy us. You must let me correct our course before it’s too late.”
Beirax remains unmoved. “I chose exile and even death so the Draekons may rise again.” His voice rises to a chant. “It is foretold. The humans were the seed that gave life to the Draekon. And I, Beirax, will provide the seed anew. The human women will restore the Draekons to the glory that is their birthright.”
Part of me struggles to understand what’s going on. The other part of me is frozen in horror. We’re going to crash on an alien world. One that’s reduced Mannix to a blubbering mess, one that’s caused Raiht’vi’s face to whiten with terror.
The hum of the engines grows louder. We’re definitely falling now. Asteroids hammer at the body of the ship from every direction. I cling onto the ridged walls of my stasis pod, trying to hold on. I don’t know if the others are awake. All I can do is hope that they’re safe.
With a dreadful screech, the right wing breaks off. I see it on the viewscreen, the metal hurtling away from us. The ship immediately rolls into a spiral. Panels spring open, their contents erupting into the main area.
It is chaos.
The ship gets hotter, and it becomes difficult to breathe. My stomach is churning. A sudden reel of the ship has me flying through the air, tumbling toward the walls.
Then I collide against a hard surface with a sickening thud, and everything goes dark.
2
Arax
“I dreamed about you last night,” I tell Nyx as the two of us jog through the plains, pursuing a herd of argangana. The swift-footed beasts are difficult to catch, but they’re our main source of meat in this world. The rainy season is almost on us—yesterday, the green moon Uzzan had barely been visible in the night sky—and we need to stock up on food ahead of the torrential downpours that flood the lowlands and make hunting impossible.
“Should I be flattered?” Nyx’s lips curve into a sly grin. “Has the lack of women in this world finally changed your preferences, Firstborn?”
I laugh despite myself. On Zoraht, Nyx’s words would be treasonous, but one of the things I like the most about the dark-haired man is his complete lack of reverence. Some of the other exiles still cling to the rigid social structures of Zoraht. Not Nyx.
“It wasn’t that sort of dream.” My smile fades as the memories come to the forefront.
Lines of young men await the Testing; I’m one of them. Nyx is in line, too, his sleeve rolled up, showing the nineteen tattoos on his forearm.
“We were in the main market area of Vissa, you and I. It was the time of the Testing.”
“Ah.” Nyx’s face turns sober. None of us like to remember the day we tested positive for the Draekon mutation. “I wasn’t tested in Vissa. My Testing was in Giflan.”
Giflan, the city by the sea, with its purple cliffs and soft blue skies. We had a home there. I remember running along the interior corridors, weaving through the throngs of people, Lenox at my heels, the guards panting behind us as they struggled to catch up with their young royal charges.
“Mine was in the Royal Palace,” I reply. “But in my dream, we were side by s
ide in the market tents.”
The indigo-clad Scientist holds the golden-tipped needle of the Draekon tester against my flesh and pierces my skin. Nineteen times, the tester has flashed green. This time, it flashes crimson.
“Do you know what it does?”
The argangana are tiring. The herd’s pace slows, and we are close to catching up with them. I reach for my throwing knives. At my side, Nyx does the same. “What?”
“The Draekon mutation,” Nyx replies. “Do you know what it does? There are rumors, but the truth is sealed for most citizens.”
Our footsteps slow as we near the herd. We will need to bring down six of the beasts so we have enough to eat during the rainy season. Nyx and I have outpaced the other hunters, but Rorix and Ferix are at our heels, as are Vulrux and Thrax.
“The prevailing theory in the back streets of Vissa,” Nyx continues, “is that the Draekon mutation is a plot hatched by the Highborn and the scientists to keep the populace afraid and obedient.” He shoots me a sidelong look. “Until I saw you on the Exile ship, I would have said the same thing.”
Until he saw the Firstborn of Zoraht, exiled along with the others. The Draekon mutation does not care for the blood status of its victims. Highborn or Lowborn, no one is immune.
Nyx is watching me carefully, waiting for my reply.
According to the sealed records of the ThoughtVaults, twelve hundred years ago, the scientists created a race of soldiers called Draekons who could turn into beasts at will. These beast-men conquered the stars and expanded the Zoraht Empire, but over time, they rebelled against their masters and sought freedom from a life of war.
Terrified at the thought of their creations running amok, the Zorahn scientists sought to kill the Draekons, but they were only partially successful. They couldn’t completely wipe out the Draekon gene. It manifests itself in the general population and seems resistant to eradication.
Since the scientists can’t destroy it, they’ve opted for the next best thing. They round up anyone who possesses the Draekon mutation, and they exile them on a prison planet.
