Purple Haze (Aliens in New York Book 2)

by Kelly Jensen

  God, his mom. His grandmother! Dillon squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t know what hurt more—thinking about Lang, or his family. Better he think about what he’d learned before he…

  Gah! Opening his eyes, Dillon considered the smartwatch strapped to his wrist for about three seconds before voicing one of the several million questions he’d been storing up. “Ecero, do you have an update on Beclan? Is she awake yet?”

  “Beclan Jord’Nay has not yet regained consciousness.”

  “But she’s otherwise stable, right? No change?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “You’d tell me if she… If she wakes up or, um…” Dillon bit his lower lip. “If she dies?”

  “Beclan will recover. Her repair cells have addressed eighty-seven percent of the damage.”

  Dillon swallowed and his stomach clenched. He turned his attention back to the incomplete series of glyphs traced over the surface of the table. “Can you tell me what any of this means?” He tapped the first sequence. “I’m not sure if I have them all right.”

  “The first sequence is a word. Would you like the translation?”

  The clenching in his stomach got a little tighter. “Ah, yeah?”

  “The word is Skrael.”

  Well, that was helpful. Not. “What does Skrael mean? Is it Wren for something?”

  Lang had taught him a handful of Skov words—mostly completely inadequate curses. Apparently the worst thing you could call a Skov was potato head, and even that could actually be a compliment under the right circumstances. Vagnan had explained a couple of words in Wren, but he’d done so while they’d been connected, and Dillon had deliberately forgotten them. Sort of.

  “Skrael is the designation of this station. The closest translation in English would be skin, though the meaning is actually more akin to skim, or surface. As with most Wren language, the meaning is tied directly to the context. There are several Earth languages with similar characteristics. The closest match is the Danish word, also Skrael, which translates to peel.”

  Dillon arrested his thoughts before they could dive down several tangents—including the remarkable coincidence that an alien word could have an almost identical meaning in one of Earth’s languages. “This station?” Something slotted into place in his brain—something he’d filed away for later and hadn’t gotten back to. “This place is called Skrael Station.”

  “Yes.”

  When he’d been roused from stasis, Ecero had mentioned the word station. So the ship they’d used to transport him here must be docked somewhere. If memory served, a few levels up—or had it been down? It was hard to tell which direction you were traveling inside a lift tube. Add in the possibility of transdoors, and he could be, well, anywhere.

  “So, this is where we traveled to from New York.”

  “That is correct.”

  “And Skrael Station is where, exactly?”

  “I am not permitted to give location coordinates.”

  Of course not. Sighing, Dillon tapped another sequence of glyphs. These had been the largest on Beclan’s “map”—right across the center—and he was pretty sure he had most of them right. If Ecero wasn’t allowed to give out location details, he probably wouldn’t translate the glyphs, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. Dillon underlined the sequence with the stylus. “What about this word?”

  “That sequence does not match a word in my database.”

  So much for that.

  Prodding his lip ring again, Dillon studied the glyphs. “Each of these translates to a letter, right?”

  “That is correct.”

  “So, what are the letters? If I’m going to be here a while, I suppose I should start learning the language.”

  “I have several educational modules to choose from. What is your learning style?”

  “Why don’t we start with these letters?”

  “Certainly. In English, they are, from left to right, A-N-T and… Is the fourth the same as the first?”

  “Sure.”

  Dillon made the correction.

  “The next glyph is not in my database. It is close to the letter F. The glyph after that has no English equivalent, but could be pronounced either C or K. The next glyph is the same as the third?”

  Dillon studied the third and seventh glyphs and saw how they were similar. He’d changed only one stroke. Was that an accident of memory, or had they actually been different? Under it, he wrote T and said, “The word isn’t making much sense, anyway, so we’ll call it a T. The next letter?”

  “I.”

  “Then another C or K, and, finally, the A one again.” Dillon studied the mess of letters he’d traced under the sequence of glyphs. “This isn’t a word in Wren?”

  “It is not.”

  So, if he chose C over K and assumed the similar glyphs were both T’s, he had ANTAFCTICA. Sounded a little like fantastic, except all messed up. Could mean anything in English. Maybe he could suggest it to Lang as an alternative to potato head. “You antaftica!” Actually, out loud it sounded a bit like Africa. Except that Beclan’s mental picture had definitely included ice. A whole lot of it. An entire continent of it, surrounded by—

  “Ecero?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

  “I am here.”

  “Does the word Antarctica mean anything to you?”

  There was a slight pause before Ecero answered, “Antarctica is a continent surrounding the southern polar region on the planet Earth.”

  “Yes, yes it is.”

  Was it possible he’d never left Earth? That his time in stasis had been nothing but a ruse to confuse him? Dillon shook his head, but the motion did little to clear his thoughts.

  Dropping the stylus, he pushed back from the table. “I’m going to take a walk. Open the door, please, Ecero.”

  The door slid open to reveal the familiar long corridor. As Dillon stepped out, the AI said, “Your next session with Elder Vagnan is due to begin in twenty-four minutes.”

  “I’ll be back by then.” Instead of turning toward the communal washroom, Dillon made for the lift tube. “I’d like to visit Beclan. What level is she on?”

  “I can forward your request—”

  “It’s cool. I’ll just head on over, and if I’m not supposed to be there, Obele will walk me back, I’m sure. I could use the exercise.” The medical area might be near the stasis chambers, right? It would make sense, sort of. Either way, Dillon wanted to scope out more of his prison than one measly corridor.

  Dillon took a few seconds to organize his plan. He knew he couldn’t count on Ecero for actual help, but as long as he kept his questions oblique, the AI could be a very useful ally. He called the lift tube, stepped inside, and requested the medical area, assuming he’d be sent back to where he’d come from.

  The door slid open on another bland corridor. Was this the one he’d used… what, two weeks ago? Three? Dillon stepped out of the lift. “Which room is Beclan in?”

  A lighted path blinked into existence, stopping at the fourth door on the right. Dillon followed the trail and paused outside the door. It didn’t open automatically. “Can I go inside?”

  “You are not authorized to enter this room.”

  “I just want to visit.”

  “I can forward your request—”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Placing both hands flat against the door, Dillon leaned in and listened. Nothing but the machine hum and his own breath. After a moment, he leaned back. He didn’t have to touch Beclan in order to delve into her mind, but the thought of doing so after she’d suffered so much was more than awful. It’d be wrong, too. And terrible.

  But she knows where we are.

  Maybe he could try someone else, instead? Someone not recovering from his training.

  I can’t.

  A whisper of sound caught his attention. Dillon turned toward the lift tube, half expecting to see Obele striding down the corridor. The person walking toward him didn’t move as if they owned the place, though,
and their uniform was different. So… not Wren. They stopped to kneel in front of Dillon and turned their hands outward. “May I be of assistance, Elder?”

  Was it the jeans and T-shirt? They defined him as readily as Vagnan and Obele’s robes.

  “You can get up.” This whole kneeling business got on his nerves. “What’s your name?” Dillon asked.

  “I am Genten Jord’Nay.”

  Another Nay!

  “And your, um, function?”

  “I am a medical technician.”

  “Can you tell me about the patient in room—” Damn it, he couldn’t read the glyphs on the door, and asking Ecero for another translation would be very un-elderlike. “Ah, here.” Dillon tapped the door.

  As Genten began relating the condition that had brought Beclan to the medical wing—Yeah, don’t want to hear this story twice—Dillon slipped in beneath the Nay’s words and gently probed their emotions. Genten’s mind felt similar to Beclan’s, with concentric rings of conditioning and purpose, but they were happier with their lot in life. Medicine was a worthy pursuit and honored their birth parents who, interestingly, were of two different clans.

  Don’t get distracted! And for the love of all that is cold and icy, don’t go too deep.

  Genten seemed completely unaware of the intrusion, so Dillon probed a little deeper and… there! Right there! As happy as Genten was with their—his?—her?— This was the first time Dillon had been unable to determine the gender of one of Lang’s people, and it seemed Genten didn’t ascribe to labels, either. But they had their work. The only issue that really bothered Genten was being away from home. Earth was strange. The ice outside felt familiar, but the sky was the wrong color, and the air tasted oddly.

  Okay, that’s enough. Draw back. Slowly, draw back.

  On the way out, Dillon got snagged again by Genten’s homesickness—probably because the emotion resonated strongly with his own feelings. Without thought or plan, he commiserated with the Nay, sharing his own sense of being disconnected from family and the hope that one day, soon, they’d be reunited.

  When he withdrew, Genten was staring at him with something bordering awe. Then the Nay bobbed their head and said, “Thank you, Elder.”

  Dillon blinked rapidly, unsure why his eyes were stinging. Swallowing, he forced out a quiet, “You’re welcome,” and turned back toward the lift tube—which, of course, opened right then to reveal the taller, larger, robed silhouette of Obele.

  Dillon turned and ran.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Darkness awaited Lang on the other side of the transdoor. Having expected to be inside his ship, he stumbled into the gloom, hands outstretched. As his eyes adjusted, details sharpened. They were in a warehouse of some sort—large, the corners stacked with crates and cobwebs. Arayu formed a distinct shadow near a shipping container on the far side. Before stepping out into the unknown, Lang checked the space behind him, feeling the sudden need to return to New York. There was a door, but it looked far too ordinary to be associated with anything other than perhaps a closet or bathroom. He tried the handle only to find it locked.

  “The door is keyed to the Wren, only,” Arayu said from across the warehouse.

  “Can we use it to return to my apartment?” Personal transdoors were supposed to be private, but many supposed to’s didn’t apply to the Wren.

  “Unless you give me access, I can only key out, not in.”

  Answering with a grunt, Lang started toward her. “May I ask where we are?”

  “New York.”

  Lang stopped walking. “Dillon is in New York?”

  “He is not. This is…” Arayu glanced around her at the dim and mostly empty warehouse. “This is a way station.” She gestured toward a shipping container. “We use this location to travel to and from places on and around Earth.”

  “I thought we were going to use my ship. Wait, we’re not going to use a ship? You have a transdoor that can extend between the stars? How long have you had this technology? Is this—”

  Arayu cut him off with a sweep of her hand. “You have been on Earth far too long.”

  Yes, but the habit of asking several questions at once felt more Dillon than human.

  “We do not need to use your ship to travel to Antarctica.”

  “Dillon is in Antarctica?”

  “He is. We will travel there now.” She placed her palm to the panel mounted beside the shipping container door.

  Lang swallowed the rest of his questions and waited. After a few seconds, the panel glowed, and the doors of the container snicked open. Arayu gestured for Lang to precede her inside. He hesitated for a beat before doing so, back crawling as he passed the elder, and stumbled as he passed through the door into a space much larger than the inside of a shipping container. Lang turned, but Arayu had already sealed the doors behind them, leaving only a faint seam in the wall.

  Lang surveyed the rest of the space, noting first the five stasis pods lined up along the far wall, then the series of barely visible seams beyond them indicating cubicles that could house anything from a toilet to a torpedo tube.

  “This is a stasis chamber.”

  “You are very observant,” Arayu replied.

  “Why are we in a stasis chamber?”

  “Sometimes it is necessary to sedate travelers between doors.”

  Lang’s inner Dillon spoke up again. “Bullshit.”

  Arayu’s slim eyebrows quirked upward.

  “You brought Dillon through here, didn’t you? You put him in a chamber and let him think he was being shipped halfway across the galaxy.”

  “I did not bring Dillon anywhere.”

  Lang waved his hands. “Vagnan, then.”

  “Elder Vagnan.”

  Knees twitching, Lang repeated, “Elder Vagnan.”

  Elder Arayu turned to face him. “We are inside a clan facility. A Wren facility. Can you remember how to act in a civilized manner?”

  Lang held his mutinous tongue.

  Arayu glanced at the stasis pods lined up like a row of large glass pills, then back at him. “Sometimes it is more comfortable for a visitor to believe they have journeyed somewhere. And safer. Dillon is… He is clan. He is Wren. Regardless of your fears, he will be well taken care of. He is of great value to our people.”

  He is of great value to me.

  Lang dropped his chin lower and let his hands spread in a gesture of supplication. “I understand, Elder.”

  But though it was familiar, his submissiveness didn’t feel quite right anymore. Like an ill-fitting coat. Still, Lang maintained his posture until Arayu seemed satisfied. Then, he followed the elder across the chamber toward a brightening seam. Another transdoor.

  Where did this one lead?

  Arayu paused again. “While Vagnan resides at Skrael Station, his authority supersedes mine, even though I have the ear of the clan chief. I am already jeopardizing my position by bringing you here, but I believe I am acting in the best interests of two valuable assets. Please do not make me regret this decision.”

  “Understood.”

  The door slid open to reveal a long corridor.

  “You are entering Skrael Station. Please instruct all personal AIs to connect with me for the duration of your visit. If you require directions, speak your destination, and a lighted path will guide your way. All other inquiries may be directed either to your personal AI or myself. I am called Ecero.”

  Lang tapped his smartwatch. “Upero?”

  “We are connected,” Upero responded. “Do you require directions?”

  Arayu shook her head. “I am familiar with the station.”

  Did Arayu keep a personal AI? For the first time, Lang wondered if she actually had a ship, or if half of everything she’d told him last summer had been a lie.

  Since when did clan tell untruths?

  The station AI spoke up again. “Elder Vagnan awaits you in Convergence Room Four.”

  Arayu started down the corridor. Halfway along, a door opened.
Whoever planned to step through halted on the threshold and dropped to their knees, hands spread wide. Arayu did not pause as they passed, but Lang couldn’t restrain his curiosity. He took in the supplicant, and the room beyond them, a medical chamber with a single patient strapped to a diagnostic lounge.

  It wasn’t Dillon. Lang moved on.

  The lift tube at the end of the corridor opened at their approach and once they were inside, delivered them to the appropriate level without instruction. The doors opened to another corridor. A series of lights led to a door less than halfway along. Convergence Room Four, no doubt. Once again, Lang followed Arayu, only this time, he used the walk to consciously alter his stride. He tried to remember how to walk as the clan did—as Skov, as less—and couldn’t. Questions kept piling up, the most important being: where was Dillon?

  Dillon was not in Convergence Room Four.

  Elder Vagnan stood alone in a small room styled like a lounge with a sofa arrangement along one wall and two close groupings of chairs. A shelf protruded from the serving station at the end, bearing three glasses of water and a bowl of golden yellow spheres. Fruit-flavored balls of protein. They had access to all the abundance of Earth and served factored food. How very Wren.

  Vagnan and Arayu exchanged a Wren greeting—mostly silent. Then Vagnan turned his attention to Lang. Lang folded his knees and dropped to the floor, all but prostrating himself.

  “Elder.”

  His stomach clenched, and his heart felt as though it might beat a hole in his sternum. Sweat beaded his forehead and dampened the back of his neck. For a horrible second, Lang thought he might vomit.

  A hand touched his shoulder. “Steilang, be welcome. Please, sit with us. Take some refreshment.”

  Stunned, Lang couldn’t move. In fact, he could only dip lower, his hands sliding across the floor. “Elder, I apologize for any offense.” Why was Vagnan not castigating him?