Taken By The Alien Next Door

by Tiffany Roberts

  “Put your piece inside,” said the groalthuun.

  His companion, a craggy-faced bokkan with gray, rock-like skin, remained unmoving, but Tenthil felt the bokkan’s eyes—also hidden by goggles—lock on him. Both guards wore tailored, high-quality coats left open at their collars to display a bit of the combat armor beneath.

  “Come on.” The groalthuun waved his hand. “Boss appreciates all the business you Ergoths bring in, but the rules ain’t changing. No one goes in packing but pre-approved private security.”

  Moving with deliberate care, Tenthil unfasted his jacket and raised his left arm, revealing the flechette pistol holstered under his armpit. Such weapons were devastating at close range, but they were messy—as the Ergoth Tenthil had taken the pistol and pin from a few hours before might’ve attested, were the pulverized remains of his head not splattered across an alley wall. It would have been preferable to take the pin through less violent means, but the Master was unwavering when it came to the tenets of the Order.

  No witnesses.

  The Ergoth leadership would assume it had been a hit from a rival gang. Many of the thugs and criminals in the Undercity and the Bowels carried weapons with flechette ammunition because they were intimidating—few species could survive a blast from one. Superheated tristeel darts only yielded to higher-end combat armors at close range.

  Keeping his movements slow, Tenthil removed the pistol from its holster and laid it in the open drawer.

  The groalthuun spread his lips, revealing wide, flat teeth in what he must’ve considered a smile. Tenthil’s people would’ve called any creature with such teeth prey.

  The drawer slid shut, vanishing into the wall; even Tenthil’s keen eyesight couldn’t pick out any trace of a gap or a seam.

  For most individuals, entering a potential hostile space while unarmed was a frightening prospect, but Tenthil was unconcerned. He’d been trained as a living weapon and he knew how to improvise, both essential skills for a successful assassin.

  He wasn’t here to cause trouble, anyway—at least not tonight. This was a reconnaissance mission. Once he was familiar with the club’s layout and Drok’s movements within it, Tenthil could formulate and execute a plan of attack.

  “Pick it up on the way out,” said the bokkan in a deep, rough voice. “It’ll be tied to your body scan.” His expression hadn’t changed, but his stance shifted to subtly direct the barrel of his auto-blaster toward Tenthil.

  The guards shifted closer to the walls, revealing a rugged blast door behind them. Whether the rest of Twisted Nethers’ security held up to this standard, Drok wanted his patrons to at least feel safe inside. It wasn’t surprising given the wealth of some of the regulars—several of the Undercity’s most prominent business people, legitimate and illicit alike, frequented this establishment.

  Perhaps this contract would provide Tenthil a challenge. Perhaps it would provide some meaning, however shallow, to his work. For too long, it had merely been a matter of following orders, of being wielded as the Master’s sword. Despite spending most of his time outside the temple to fulfill contracts, Tenthil felt caged by his obligations—and that was enough to drive him to madness.

  The groalthuun pressed another hidden button—Tenthil carefully noted its position—and the blast door rumbled open.

  Music swept over Tenthil, loud enough to hurt his ears. Strobing lights and slithering neon crawls mingled with holographic projections to make it difficult for his eyes to focus properly. The smell—alcohol, food, and drugs from dozens of worlds, hundreds of bodies dancing, and sex—crashed into his nostrils. The air itself pulsed with vibrations from the music and dancers.

  Despite his discomfort, he didn’t hesitate to cross the threshold. Once the door had closed behind him, he restored his bioelectric field to full force, finding a hint of comfort in the brief tingling that spread across the surface of his skin.

  The interior of Twisted Nethers was larger than he’d anticipated. The place was tiered like a stadium; he stood on the middle of three levels, which ran around the main floor in a ring. Several stages along the ring boasted beings of diverse species dancing in varying states of undress, each performing for their own crowd. Each stage had its own audience space with tables and chairs, no two of which were quite alike in either furniture or arrangement.

  Straight ahead, a wide set of steps led down to the bottom tier, from which the music originated. The lower level was dominated by a crowded dance floor, but also possessed a wide stage, at least thirty tables, and a huge bar running nearly half the circumference of the space with more than a dozen beings stationed behind it, furiously mixing and serving drinks. Projected lights and images rained down from overhead, filling the air with motion and color—fearsome alien beasts, naked males and females, sleek vehicles, and abstract shapes, all moving, flashing, and fading in an endless holographic dance above the mass of writhing dancers.

  Tenthil removed the Ergoth pin from his jacket as he scanned his surroundings, willing his eyes to adjust to the visual chaos. More of Drok’s security team were posted throughout the club, but the only ones openly carrying weapons were those stationed at the staircases leading to the upper tier—undoubtedly the VIP area.

  He slipped the pin into his jacket pocket and walked around the middle level. He kept his eyes on the dancers as he moved but focused his attention on his peripheral vision to drink in the details of the club’s layout and security. The music from below was only deafening when he was near stairs leading down; there were likely sound-dampening fields set up around the stages to allow each its own clean audio. Each time he crossed into a different audience area, the music changed, sometimes drastically.

  Several corridors and doors branched off the lower and middle tiers. Some were marked as restrooms in various alien languages—catering to so many species necessitated a variety of facilities to accommodate patrons—while the rest declared STAFF ONLY in at least a dozen languages beneath bold letters in universal speech.

  The upper level extended over the middle far enough that Tenthil could see into it only from the opposite side of the ring. The few beings visible above were clad in rich attire, seated at tables that doubled as dancing platforms. A naked volturian female writhed atop one of the tables, surrounded by seated volturian males. The males were close enough to her that she must’ve felt their breath on her bare skin.

  Tenthil rounded the tier to stop beneath the volturians. He leaned his arms on the railing, turned his face toward the lower level, and listened.

  Countless sounds assaulted him in a chaotic jumble—the music from the nearest stage was the loudest of them, but the din of countless conversations and the thumping bass from the dance floor refused to be overpowered. He moved his head, and the qualities of the sound changed as his ears entered the dead space on the edge of the sound dampening field. It was there that he discovered what he’d sought—the lilting, flowing words of the volturians’ native tongue drifting down from above.

  His translator implant granted him understanding of the complex language; the volturian males were arguing over who would get a turn with the female first.

  Despite the numerous dampening fields, sound traveled well enough from the VIP level for Tenthil to overhear nearby conversations. That could prove valuable; the Master always appreciated his acolytes bringing new secrets when they returned to the temple from their work around the city.

  After scanning the upper level again, Tenthil moved on to the mid-level doors marked as restroom access. All three led into long corridors with high ceilings, two of which seemed high enough to overlap the space occupied by the third floor. Those taller halls possessed heavy-duty hatches near the centers of their ceilings. The latching mechanisms on both hatches appeared to be manual wheel cranks. Such mechanisms were common throughout both the Undercity and the Bowels beneath it, but not in places like this, where security and modernity were presented as paramount.

  Either the hatches were fused shut or the owner
of the establishment thought them too far out of reach to be vulnerable to intrusion.

  Tenthil stepped aside for a passing group of Ergoths, glad he’d removed the pin; if these thugs had found him impersonating one of their own, it would’ve meant a fight, and Tenthil wasn’t quite done with this place. Getting thrown out by security for bloodying some Ergoths would only make it more difficult for Tenthil when he came back here to close his current contract.

  He assessed the walls and ceiling around the hatch; for the first five meters, the walls were smooth and wide-set, broken only by random pulses of neon that moved like radiant serpents racing through the dark of the Void. Though invisible to the naked eye when not illuminated, Tenthil recognized the lights for what they were—infinitesimal imperfections of which he could take advantage. Beyond the smooth sections, dozens of exposed pipes, ducts, and conduits would make the rest of the climb effortless.

  Best to check the hatches before I leave tonight, should an opportunity arise.

  Leaving one of them unlatched would provide an easy entrance for his next visit—when he’d be a bit less inclined to follow the weapon-check policy at the front entrance.

  He exited the corridor and returned to the railing overlooking the lower floor, fixing his gaze on the dancers below. This time, he kept his attention on the uppermost edge of his vision. Drok, if present at all, was most likely behind one of the STAFF ONLY doors or up on the third floor.

  Tenthil had come to accept the simple truth of his work long ago—no amount of training, planning, or skill could completely cancel out the effects of chance. Even the Void—which, according to the Master, touched everything—could not overcome the randomness of the universe.

  Chance was at play when Tenthil lifted his head just as a huge, heavily muscled tralix descended the steps from the third floor and emerged on the middle tier directly across from him. The left prong of the tralix’s forehead crest was broken off, and his mottled teal and violet skin was covered with old scars, including a prominent one on his cheek.

  This was Tenthil’s target. This was Drok.

  Drok turned to face the small entourage that had arrived—a long-necked ertraxxan with skin the color of old bruises clad in upper-class attire and four well-dressed, broad-shouldered vorgals who were undoubtedly his personal security—and offered them a wide, tusk-filled smile. He and the ertraxxan clasped hands. Though Drok had to be twice the mass of his guest, the ertraxxan maintained a dignified air, displaying neither intimidation nor subservience. All this happened over the course of a few seconds, and Tenthil paid little mind to the meeting.

  Though Tenthil was grateful for his first in-person glimpse of his target, his attention had been caught by the sixth member of the ertraxxan’s group—a pale-skinned female with dark hair that lightened to blue toward its tips.

  He knew her species only due to the Master’s insistence on his acolytes maintaining familiarity of every alien race known to inhabit Arthos, the Infinite City, and that familiarity focused on anatomy to ensure efficient kills. Only the most powerful and influential species—the six races which comprised the Consortium, the rulers of the city—had been omitted from those studies.

  This female was a terran, a race that only recently begun official migration to Arthos. She was the first of her kind Tenthil had seen outside of holograms.

  And she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.

  She was tall and slender, wearing clothing that revealed enticing patches of her pale skin, and her hair shimmered in the ever-changing light.

  Stepping aside, Drok waved the ertraxxan and his entourage toward the stairs. The ertraxxan, wearing a displeased frown—which seemed to be the default expression for his kind—lifted his chin and led his people up. Tenthil held his gaze on the terran until she was out of sight; she moved with a subtle sway to her hips and an unspoken grace in her lithe limbs.

  Drok paused to speak with the armed guards on either side of the steps before following his guests upstairs.

  Forcing himself to remain in place, Tenthil looked up at the top tier. The booths ringing the circle were likely but a hint of what was hidden above. Private dance chambers and secret meeting rooms were both the most probable and tamest of the possibilities—too tame, perhaps, for a place like Twisted Nethers.

  The wealthy of the Infinite City sometimes pursued strange tastes.

  Chance fell in Tenthil’s favor again when the ertraxxan entered the booth to the right of the stairs with the female and two of his vorgal guards in tow. Drok stepped inside a few moments later, ducking slightly to fit inside.

  Drok settled himself into a seat across from the ertraxxan, who directed the terran onto the table with a flick of his wrist. Drok’s gaze locked on the female as she climbed up and began a slow, sensual dance, swaying and undulating her hips, causing her green skirt to brush around her long legs.

  Warmth blossomed in the center of Tenthil’s chest and spread outward; the female’s hypnotic motions stirred something unfamiliar in his blood, something deep and powerful.

  You have a job to do, he thought. The Void has accepted Drok’s name, and it must also receive his life.

  Tenthil glanced down to find his hands clasped on the railing with knuckles white and claws extended. When he finally eased his grip and lifted his hands, they trembled. Unease sank like a leaden weight in his gut. What was wrong with him? He’d never been so distracted by anyone, by anything.

  Rogue thoughts flitted, unbidden, through his mind. How would the female’s skin feel beneath his fingertips? What did she smell like, how did her voice sound? Venom flooded the glands above the roof of his mouth, a few drops leaking from his fangs and onto his tongue. Oddly, it lacked its usual bitterness—this was sweeter, with a hint of spice.

  He barely suppressed the frustrated growl threatening to rise from his chest. Shoving away from the railing, he walked around the central level, forcing nonchalance into his steps, forcing himself to peruse the various stage shows as he passed. None of the dancers—male or female, clothed or nude—of any race incited the reaction his brief glimpses of the terran had.

  Realization struck him—he couldn’t entirely rely upon himself or his body.

  Tenthil should have left the club at that moment, should have walked on to the door through which he’d entered. He told himself he remained because of duty, because of his contract, because of his resentment for the Master, but none of that was true.

  He remained because he wanted another look at the terran.

  Clenching his jaw, he stopped when he was beneath Drok’s booth, leaned back against the railing, and watched the dancers on the nearby stage. The guards beside the staircase Drok had used loomed at the edge of Tenthil’s vision. Though their eyes were obscured by dark goggles, and their rigid postures were unwavering, Tenthil knew they were scanning the crowd, sizing up every patron in a ceaseless threat assessment.

  Tenthil relaxed his jaw and tipped back a little further, pausing when the music from the nearby stage faded and he heard the deep, gravelly voice of a tralix from overhead. He focused on it.

  “—can’t wait to push it. Think we’ll make a killing,” said Drok.

  “Of course we will,” the ertraxxan replied in a high, reedy voice, his pronunciation of each word—in universal speech—was precise. “I provide only the highest quality goods.”

  “You’d almost think you take pride in all this, Cullion.”

  “I do,” Cullion said, “and it would comfort me if those with whom I do business show some pride of their own. A bit of poise would do you well, Drok.”

  “We’re making money. What else really matters?”

  “Status. Respect. Reputation.”

  “I got all that. And fear, too—that’s more important. People around here know not to mess with me.”

  “Few appreciate a braggart, Drok. I am not amongst them.”

  “This braggart keeps the gangs in line and the money flowing, all while keeping the heat off yo
u, so you look legitimate.”

  Cullion made a frustrated sound—a sort of clicking growl. “I am a legit—”

  Drok cut off the ertraxxan with a guttural laugh. “Yeah, and I’m running an innocent dance club here. There’s the difference between us, Cullion: you were born into what you got. I had to fight for every credit I’ve ever had. Try spending a few years in a fighting pit on Caldorius and then complain to me about this shit.”

  “I find your language distasteful.”

  “Yeah, you find everything about me distasteful—except that I turn you profit. Now we going to talk distribution, or what?”

  “Once I dismiss my pet, yes.”

  “I don’t mind her.”

  “You are staring as though you wish to fornicate with her.”

  “I like watching her. Definitely nicer to look at than you, Cullion. One of these days, you need to finally let me at her.”

  “Just when I assumed you couldn’t be fouler. This thing is beneath even you, Drok. An animal here to perform for our visual entertainment and little more. I would be remiss if I allowed any of my associates, even the most distasteful, to stoop to such a low.”

  Drok laughed again, a richer, fuller sound. “You’re nuts. You paid a small fortune to have her, and you could earn back that investment a hundred times over if you’d rent her out from time to time. Hell, half my staff wants a go at her just to know what it’s like. She looks soft. Real soft.”

  “I will hear no more of this,” Cullion snapped. “If you cannot focus on the important matters at hand, I will—”

  “Fine, fine. Send her to the lower stage. My customers appreciate a good show.”

  “She is mine, Drok. Not an attraction in your house of debauchery.”

  “If I didn’t know all ertraxxans were pricks, Cullion, I might believe you had a personality of your own,” Drok replied. “Send her to the stage. People will watch her, which means they’ll buy drinks and drugs a little longer. When my business prospers, yours does, too.”