Grant's voice fails him.
Batty's eyes glow red at the edge of the dark. “Co, Grantyde.” She strides into the field that surrounds Archer West. Her bare feet crunch on the dry grass.
He catches up with her as she babbles into his phone. The screen isn’t on, but the flashlight is, and it’s flickering in a seemingly random pattern. A few hundred feet away from the facility, she halts and places the phone on the ground, flashlight up. She jogs away, back to Grant, and tugs at the edge of his coveralls to pull him further from the blinking light.
The terrifying thing isn’t the noise. It’s the absence of it. The silvery shape that detaches from the night and descends should be making so kind of roaring engine noise, and it isn’t. It slips into the field like a darting fish, and its skids crackling and hissing across the dirt is the loudest part.
It’s not a big ship. Just three tis the size of his civic, or so. A hatch unfolds in its side, and a rose-colored light illuminates a humanoid silhouette. An armored alien, about five feet tall with a face hidden behind a do of frosted glass, erges from the ship, pointing a long, boxy thing at Grant. Its function seems lethal and obvious.
“Kiam,” the alien says, its voice modulated by its all-over armor. “Kiam’kvae.”
“Kiam’ni,” snaps Batty, and shoves the gun’s nose to the dirt.
The figure drops imdiately to one knee. “Mayi’ Sykora. Tutheam’nakaewaiaem.”
Grant stares in panicky awe at the sleek vessel in front of them. It’s so dark that it seems to bend the light around it. More of them are coming out of the hatch. Most are taller than Batty by a head or so. The last off is closer to her size, and maskless. Another of Batty’s kind, and another woman, he thinks. She steps to Batty’s bat-ear and murmurs into it. Batty responds clipped and uncompromising, still staring into Grant’s eyes.
Drake was going to kill him. Drake is dead. He has no future here that doesn’t end at a black site or staring down a barrel. And here’s this weird little alien who’s saved his life, who’s been—
Who’s been what? What is she?
“Loneso Grantyde.” She beckons to him.
He reaches out and takes her hand. She squeezes his fingers tight.
“Up.” She caresses his palm. Her eyes glow. “Co up. Falling star.”
He climbs into Batty’s space ship.
The descent was silent. The ascent is loud. Grant’s been strapped into a mory-foam seat that’s barely big enough for him. The buckles across his chest and stomach leave him barely any clearance to breathe. The G-forces are muted, sohow, by the structure of the thing, but they’re still hellacious enough to shove him into his seat and keep his arms pinned heavy to the wall behind him.
Batty has never stopped holding his hand since they climbed in. He’s used to seeing photos and videos of astronauts looking ridiculous and pancaked as they take off, but Batty still looks beautiful as they ascend (he thinks—there’s no window). Her face is a portrait of hope and awe.
And when the blast is cut off, and the unearthly weightlessness sets in, she screams with joy. She unbuckles herself and throws herself across his lap and gazes wild and giddy into his face. “Ho,” she gasps. “Ho ho ho ho ho.”
And then, in front of a half dozen silent armored sentinels, she pulls his face forward and kisses him.
Her tongue is rough and textured on its surface as it quests into his mouth. She rakes her fingers through his hair and twists her legs around his waist and clings to him in the zero-G. The shock has levered his mouth open, kept him stock-still, but after a mont he animates, and his arms wrap around her, around the shearling coat that serves as her only clothing. He squeezes her into his chest, and as his tongue ets hers, she lets out a shivery moan of encouragent into his mouth. And it’s terrifying and he has no clue what his life is about to beco, where they’re going, he doesn’t even speak a word of her language and he’s seen her reduce an office building to at, and for a wet, blissful mont that feels like an eternity none of it matters. Nothing matters but for the blue bombshell squirming beneath his fingers and the inviting plumpness of her lips and her body, and then he tastes copper and he realizes he’s tasting Drake’s blood. Drake’s, and who knows who else from that abattoir.
She feels him falter, and falters too. She pulls back, and her face is becoming strange again as she beholds him. She glances to one side, issues a flowing order to the other woman in the cabin, and pushes off from Grant, landing in the seat next to him and buckling herself back in.
Her hand is back on his. The grip is firm and more distant, sohow, more controlling.
“Ganeamak, Grantyde,” she whispers.
“What?” he asks, and then there’s a sharp sting on the side of his head and he grits his teeth against the pain of it.
His ears stop working. They still transmit sound, but it’s just this hellacious mishmash of misfiring signals. His vision darkens as the sensory overload rolls over him and he makes a strangled choking noise or he thinks he does, he can’t even tell, he might be screaming for all he knows, and he squeezes his eyes shut and when they open the hatch is wide, and Batty’s compatriots are piling out. Did he pass out?
They’ve unbuckled him. He stands, shakily. The gravity’s back. He climbs out of the hatch, bowing his head to fit beneath its low lip.
He erges onto a platform plated with a hard, scarlet-colored wood. Gold tallic bannisters and guardrails pen him and his landing party in. They’re several dozen feet above a hangar, full of similarly sleek craft. His eyes wander across the fleet and out into a massive, open hangar door. How is he breathing air right now? It looks like they’re open to vacuum. There must be so kind of mbrane across the view.
The view of Earth. His ho planet dominates the sky. They’re in orbit.
Batty is standing at the center of the platform, surrounded by crew. A soldier drapes a scarlet robe around her shoulders. Her posture is straighter, her shoulders squared.
She sees him erge and hurries over to him, bare feet slapping on the deck. She speaks in rapid-fire llifluous chatter. Sothing buzzes and snaps in his head, like a static shock on the inside of his skull.
“Kaeusa’laekanae’amastand ?”
He blinks rapidly, trying to clear the sudden black dots at the edge of his vision.
“Can you understand ?” Batty repeats. Her words don’t match the shapes her lips are forming, like an old Shaw Brothers kung fu dub.
“Yes,” he says, or tries to say. His vocal chords, his mouth. They form so other syllable instead. Like he’s having a stroke. “What is this? What’s going on?” Still, the sickly separation between intent and action. The verbal equivalent of seeking a phantom final stair in a dark staircase.
Her eyes are wet. Her hand squeezes his. “We’re ho, Grantyde,” she says. “We’re safe.”
She moves away, leaving him dizzy and lightheaded, speaking to one of the masked minions. “You’re new.”
“Yes, Majesty. On my fifth cycle aboard.”
“Your na, soldier?”
“First Corporal Tyvan, Majesty.”
“Did Hyax select you? She’s still brigadier, yes?”
“She is, Majesty. She signed my comndation.”
“Then you’re welco, Tyvan, and your service will honor , I’m sure.” She inclines her head. “Clean my husband and find him sothing presentable to wear. Then bring him to my cabin. Are you hungry?”
Grant is staring at the yawning gap through which the starscape spreads. Earth’s slow turn. He watches a storm twist over the Atlantic. He sees the lights of the East Coast like a gossar spider’s web.
“Grantyde,” Batty prompts. “Are you hungry, darling?”
“Uh. Yeah.” He blinks. Darling. Husband? “It’s just Grant. Please—what’s happening?”
“Now you speak Taiikari, and I can make it triply clear.” She shrugs her robe the rest of the way on and belts it. “To , and to your new life, you are Grantyde.” She follows his gaze to the planetscape before them. “Bid Maekyon farewell. Your ti on that world is finished. You are now wed to Princess Sykora of the Black Pike. Sergeant Ajax.”
The other soldier snaps to attention. “Yes, Majesty.”
“Send word to the majordomo that I’ve returned and need her council at her earliest convenience. I intend to make a ship-wide address. Do you suppose I ought to keep the blood on for it?”
“I don’t know, Majesty.”
She clicks her tongue. “Does it make look like a dread warrior returned, or like a rabid animal? Answer without fear.”
“Both, Majesty.”
“A bath then, I think. Sergeant Agra.”
The woman soldier snaps to attention. “Yes, Majesty.”
“I rember that right—you’re Agra?”
“I am indeed, Majesty.”
“Hello again, Agra. Is Quartermaster Kymai still aboard?”
“He is, Majesty.”
“Outstanding. Give him my complints, beg him again from not to quit, and have him send two tureens of reedweaver curry to my quarters. One oversized.”
“Wait. Please wait.” Grant takes a step forward and is imdiately checked in his tracks by one of the black-clad soldiers. “I’m the husband? Of Princess Sykora of— uh—”
“Of the Black Pike.” She sweeps her hand out around the cavernous chamber. “This is the ZKZ Black Pike.” The gesture finishes with her palm against her chest. “And I am Princess Sykora.”
She approaches him. That sa graceful step, the slinky tilt of her hip. It looked dancerly to him before. Now it looks lethal, panther-like. Her gaze traces him. Her arm raises. He feels her touch light on his stomach. “And you are mine now, Grantyde,” she says.
He sees the old Batty in there, in the openness of the smile that spreads across her face. Just a mont of it.
Before his stunned mind can put a response together, she’s turned on her heel and strode away, flanked by two of her soldiers.
User Comments
0 comments from readers