Enemy of the Alien Bride Lottery

by Margo Bond Collins

  “The details don’t matter now. The point is,” Vos continued, “it is common for the vid-dramas to create special episodes devoted to holiday themes. We are going to do that this year.”

  I nodded slowly. “That could work. How long do we have to prepare?”

  “One Earth week.” Vos’s grin turned maniacal. “We have one Earth week to get ready.”

  “Excuse me?” I felt my eyes go wide as I stared at my obviously insane commanding officer. “How could we possibly make that deadline?”

  Vos laughed aloud and pushed off his desk, moving back around behind it to sit down again. “No need to panic, Lieutenant. This is going to be an abbreviated version of the games. But that means we are going to have to choose our candidates more carefully than usual. I want a limited number of candidates for both brides and grooms. I’ll be handpicking the brides, though your team will need to research them even more thoroughly than usual. We need human females who have few ties to Earth and relatively few career prospects. The ones who are therefore most likely to be happy with the idea of a Khanavai mate.” He leaned back in his chair, looking more self-satisfied than I had ever seen him before. “We are going to bring these women into outer space and turn them into stars.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “It also means that we need to choose warriors who are eager to find mates of their own.”

  I nodded, my mind already racing through all of my personal contacts—everyone I had gone through officer training with, all the warriors I had been stationed with in my military career, even the males I had grown up with back on Khanav Prime.

  “I need grooms who understand the importance of the Bride Lottery,” Vos emphasized.

  “Yes, sir,” I said automatically.

  “And toward that end, I want you to be one of the grooms in this extra-special Holiday Special.”

  I froze, stunned into silence, which Vos mistook for surprise and delight at being chosen.

  “I know. Isn’t it wonderful? You are going to be able to choose your very own mate. Well, from the approved candidates, of course.”

  Vulk. Vulk, vulk, vulk.

  Vulking Zagrodnian hells.

  I did a little calculating in my head. According to my most recent intelligence, Deandra was due to be released from prison within the next Earther week.

  There was no way Vos would agree to include her in his “Holiday Special.” She had been clear during her trial that she disapproved of the Bride Lottery. For this version of the Bride Games, Vos wanted brides who were eager to be mated.

  I opened my mouth to say something but stopped. If I spoke out openly against this plan of his, Vos would simply replace me. That was how he worked.

  No, I needed to stay where I was if I ever wanted a chance to make Deandra Casto my mate.

  “Well?” Vos raised his eyebrows at me. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  No vulking way. “I think this is a grand plan, Vos. I’ll go get started immediately.”

  Vos smiled proudly and stood. “I’m delighted to be able to help you find a bride of your own. Your work here has been exemplary. I can’t think of a better member of my staff to represent us in the Holiday Special.”

  “Thank you, Sir.” I shook his hand human-style, and left his office, already plotting to get out of any attempt to mate me off to some random human female.

  No matter which human he chose for me, none of them would be a match for my Deandra.

  And no way in all the Zagrodnian hells would I mate with anyone but her.

  Chapter Seven

  Dee

  Later the night of my meeting with Marjorie Kent, before lights out, I picked up the epaper she’d left behind, finally curious to see what kind of information Marjorie had given me.

  I scrolled through the information. The first few pages were about the halfway house I had agreed to go to—lists of rules, schedules, and so on.

  But then, almost buried between information about the rule against keeping candles in our rooms and a schedule of meals that would be offered in the communal kitchen, was an odd link that simply said Brides.

  I clicked it, and the image on the epaper dissolved into a completely different article.

  This one was about the growing human dissatisfaction with the Bride Alliance.

  It had charts and studies and quotes from psychologists about the kind of damage that could be done to our collective psyche by a program like the Bride Lottery. I read through it, my confusion growing.

  Was this why Marjorie had stared at me so intently? Was she trying to tell me something without using words?

  There was no indication where the article might have been published, but when I scrolled back to the top, I realized there was a byline.

  Roya Haji.

  Roya. The same name as the woman who was going to pick me up to take me to the halfway house.

  Dread settled in my stomach. Was I being roped into some kind of anti-Bride-Lottery group?

  I won’t participate. I will never go to prison again.

  When I finally walked out of the penitentiary a week later, a tall, slender woman with dark hair and wide-spaced brown eyes greeted me with a warm smile. “I’m Roya Haji,” she said, holding out her hands to take mine.

  “Nice to meet you,” I mumbled.

  Roya led me to a small black sedan, and I slid into the passenger seat.

  Closing the car door behind her, Roya reached into her purse and pulled out a small black device with several controls. Tapping a code into it, she waved it around the car’s interior. After a few seconds, the screen flashed green.

  Finding me watching her, she waved the device in my general direction. “It scans for bugs,” she explained. “We’re clean. We can talk freely in here.”

  I opened my mouth to ask why she felt we needed a surveillance detector, but she held up a hand. “Wait until we get on the road. It’s even better when the car’s in motion—that way no one can point a strong microphone in our direction and pick up what we’re saying, either.”

  That was a lot more paranoid than almost anyone I’d ever met had been—except possibly my father, of course.

  If I thought I could afford it, I would get him one of those detector devices for Christmas.

  Assuming he didn’t already have one. It had been a long while since I had bothered asking after the state of his electronic equipment.

  Mostly because I didn’t want to know.

  “There,” Roya said as we pulled away from the penitentiary and onto the nearest highway. “Now we can talk. I assume you got Marjorie’s message?”

  “You mean the article about the resistance to the Bride Lottery?”

  “Exactly. I wanted you to know that you are coming into a group of like-minded women. If anyone had ever bothered to check, they might notice that most of the women in our halfway house are there for breaking Bride-Lottery-related laws.”

  Dammit. I knew that’s what was going on.

  “It’s funny you should call it resistance to the Bride Lottery,” Roya continued. “That’s what we are. The resistance.”

  Great. Without even realizing it, the legal system was putting resistance members in touch with each other, grouping them together in one house and giving them reason to think there were a lot of like-minded people on the planet. Which there probably were—we just didn’t all hang out together, as a general rule.

  Until now.

  “We have a lot of big plans,” Roya continued. “We’re hoping you’ll be interested in joining us.”

  My stomach dropped. Involuntarily, I glanced back over my shoulder, even though I could no longer see the prison behind us.

  Roya caught the motion. “You don’t have to decide right now,” she said. “I know getting out of that place is fresh for you. But just keep in mind that the Bride Alliance takes a basic freedom away from human women—the freedom to choose who we spend our lives with.”

  She wasn’t wrong. And when it came down to it,
I agreed with her—that was, after all, why I had talked Sammy Wesson into marrying me straight out of high school. We planned to get divorced after the mandatory five years, but somehow had never gotten around to it. It hadn’t seemed important—at least not to me, and I guess Sammy must have felt the same way, given that it had been at least seven or eight years since I’d even heard from him.

  Not that it mattered now.

  Our marriage had been dissolved, as if it never happened.

  “I’ll think about it,” I promised Roya.

  “That’s all we ask.”

  The halfway house was nicer than I had anticipated. All my imaginings had been informed by vid-dramas where aging hitmen slept in rat-and-roach-infested bedrooms with single beds and cracked paint on the walls.

  This halfway house looked like all the other multi-storied Victorian Revival houses on the street—newer, sturdier construction in an old-fashioned style. It even had a wraparound porch and curlicue gingerbread molding on the house.

  “Cute,” I said as I got out of the car and hefted my duffel bag over my shoulder.

  “The neighbors were not thrilled to have us move in, but they’ve come around, for the most part,” Roya told me. “Come in and I’ll show you to your room.”

  As I followed her through the door, we were greeted by three perfectly normal-looking women seated in a living room area. “Everyone, this is Deandra Casto. Dee, this is Jacinda, Frannie, and Mandy.” I nodded at each of the women, trying to figure out how to remember their names.

  “The kitchen is through there,” Roya pointed, “and your bedroom is on the second floor.”

  Upstairs, she opened the door into a neat, if somewhat barren, space containing a single bed—at least I’d been right about that part—a small bedside table, and a dresser. “Feel free to decorate any way you like. We just ask that you don’t put any holes in the wall or burn the place down.”

  I snorted in quiet laughter.

  “You’d be surprised.” Roya’s tone turned dry. “There’s a reason we banned candles.”

  I nodded my understanding, and she turned to leave. “We usually eat dinner together around six, if you want to come down. There are also a couple of places within walking distance—some fast-food joints and a pretty good taco stand, when it’s open. Manuel keeps his own hours, so you never really know. Just remember, curfew’s at eight.”

  “Thanks,” I said faintly.

  “Oh, and if you’re going to be here for Christmas dinner, let me know by tomorrow morning so I can add you to the list.”

  “Um. I’ll be here. I really don’t have anywhere else to go this year.” My father hadn’t contacted me even once while I was in prison. I didn’t know if he knew I was out yet. It would be better to stay here for the holidays.

  “Okay. I’ll see you later.” Roya paused in the middle of shutting the door to lean back into my room. “Be thinking about what we talked about in the car, will you?”

  I nodded, and she waved again, pulling the door shut behind her.

  Little did she know, I was likely to think of almost nothing else.

  The next several days were surprisingly peaceful.

  Nobody bothered me again about joining their resistance group. Everyone who participated in meals cleaned up after themselves, but it was now my job to go through the house once a day and clean the common areas.

  Once a week, I would clean the bedrooms. I decided to split that job up over several days rather than trying to do them all at once.

  I liked the work. It kept me busy, stopped me from thinking too much—especially once Mandy gave me an old headset and music player. I could tune out the world as I swept, mopped, vacuumed, and scrubbed.

  Nights were the hardest. More than once, I walked into the living room, what Roya called the “common area,” hoping to watch a mindless vid-drama, only to find my housemates in a heated discussion about ways to take down the Bride Lottery.

  When that happened, I turned around and walked out.

  What they didn’t know, though, was that I often stopped in the hallway, leaning against the wall just out of sight and listening to their plans.

  None of their ideas were terribly practical. Most of them involved somehow taking out Station 21. But that wouldn’t work, I was certain. The Khanavai would simply rebuild—as they had proven after the Alveron Horde attack during the last set of Bride Games.

  So in the end, I mostly kept to myself.

  Christmas morning, I came down to the smell of pies cooking. I found the scent inexplicably cheering. And by the time I made it into the common area, I was in an unaccustomed good mood.

  “Dee, come join us,” Roya called out from her seat in the corner of the room. “Check under the tree.” She flashed a big smile at me.

  I walked over to the small Christmas tree in another corner and pulled a brightly wrapped package with my name on it out from under the tree.

  “I didn’t get anyone anything,” I said apologetically.

  “You weren’t expected to,” Jacinda said.

  I opened my mouth to apologize again but was interrupted by all the screens in the house clicking on.

  The familiar tones of the Bride Games jingle sounded throughout the room, and we all froze.

  “Seriously?” Mandy muttered. “They’re going to ruin Christmas with this shit, too?”

  Vos Klavoii’s familiar green face popped up, filling all the screens. “I am coming to you from the Khanavai Warrior Bride Games,” he announced, “bringing you a brand-new holiday special.”

  I had to agree with Mandy. This was obnoxious.

  Still, I watched, rapt as the game-show host began drawing names.

  “Only three this time?” Roya murmured as he moved on to tell us about the grooms.

  But I was frozen in place, unable to say anything, or even tear my eyes away from the screen.

  His face had just popped up on the screen.

  Wex Banstinad.

  The green son of a bitch who testified against me in my hearing, making the prosecution’s case against me rock-solid.

  I’d watched in the courtroom as he had repeated my words back to the attorney.

  Glaring at the screen now, I found myself fighting the same dual responses of fury and lust, just as I had in the courtroom that day.

  Just as I had the day the Khanavai had come looking for Amelia and Wex had spoken to me in the parking lot.

  He was still gorgeous. He still made my knees go weak—even just in a vid. And he was still the green alien bastard who had sent me to prison.

  I supposed this was his reward, getting to choose a mate of his own.

  “I feel sorry for her,” I muttered.

  “What’s that?” Frannie asked.

  “Nothing.” I smoothed my suddenly damp hand down the side of my jeans. “I can’t watch this. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go back up to my room. I can open this later.”

  Roya gave me a sympathetic look. “Take it with you. You might be able to use it.”

  I fled back up the stairs. Once in my room, I opened the gift to find a new wristcom unit—one of the fancy ones with all-channel vid access.

  Roya had tucked a note in with it.

  Now you can watch vids when we’re debating, it said.

  It was a thoughtful gesture and said a lot about Roy’s character that she had noticed—and had not tried to push me to join in their discussions.

  I strapped it to my wrist and set the display to hover over my bed, forgetting briefly that the Bride Lottery had taken over every possible channel.

  When Vos’s face leaped up in front of me again, I hurriedly shut off the com.

  As I rolled over onto my side with a sigh, I realized there were actually two reasons I didn’t want to watch the Bride Lottery.

  First of all, I didn’t want to see that smug green bastard, Wex.

  But even more than that, I had to admit that deep in my heart of hearts, what I really couldn’t stand was the thought o
f watching Wex choose a bride.

  One who isn’t me.

  Chapter Eight

  Wex

  I can’t believe I’m being forced to participate in the Bride Games when Deandra isn’t here.

  I knew the games were corrupt, subject to Vos Klavoii’s machinations and manipulations. But I had planned to use that fact to my benefit, not end up on the wrong end of them. I scowled at the screen in front of my chair in the first meeting of the grooms who would be participating in Vos’s grand experiment, where a picture of Lola Richards stared back at me.

  I have to choose her.

  I can’t choose her.

  What would Vos do to me if I simply walked out of this farce of a game?

  No. I would simply have to make sure someone else matched with her. I would not walk away from this vulking “Holiday Special” with a human mate.

  Deandra Casto is my mate. Even if she doesn’t know it yet.

  Maybe I could engage another Khanavai male’s protective instincts?

  “What do you think of Lola Richards?” I asked the room at large.

  From the other side of the room, a purple warrior stood halfway out of his seat and growled at me.

  Yes! Another male wants her!

  I burst into laughter and held up my hands in surrender. “So that’s how it is, huh? She’s all yours.”

  One of the other warriors, a pink Khanavai male, said, “I liked her answer in the interview. And her scent is nice enough.”

  I kept my eyes on the purple male. His fists clenched in rage, but he slowly sat back down into his seat.

  He’s passionate about her, yet he has control. That’s good for her—but I’ll need to see what I can do to provoke him…and irritate her.

  Relieved to have a plan in place, I tapped on her image and added her as my chosen mate, even though it sent a pang of anxiety through me to do so, even as part of a plan to make certain she ended up with another.