Marauder_A Science Fiction Alien Mail-Order Bride Romance

by Lisa Lace

  Of course, I don’t ever intend to set foot back into Baroma or to take his throne, so all the rumors are thunder, not lightning—impressive growls, but no threat.

  “Thank you so much for taking the time to meet with me. I know King Ursen expresses his gratitude and thanks.”

  I lift my head. “You’re very welcome.” I am unsure whether or not he senses my sarcasm, because he returns my words with a genuine smile. “What do you want?” I ask as the server, a petite lady, comes by and drops off several glasses of water.

  He’s not talking, so I might as well use the rumors to my advantage. I suck mine down in one large gulp, slam it on the table, and ask immediately for a refill. She fills the glass to the brim, and I smile. I would give her a tip, but seeing as I’ve spent every single coin, all I can offer her is my charm.

  Cleaf seems taken aback by my abruptness.

  I chug the second glass of water and bang it down. It makes a loud thud. “Look, pal. We don’t have a lot of time. We should already be off this planet, so if you could just cut to the point, that would be great.”

  A glint of nervousness flashes in his eyes. “It would help if I spoke in my native tongue.”

  “Be my guest. Please, don’t mind me.”

  “We won’t,” Mor digs at me, cutting me off.

  I wave my hand at Mor. Speaking in the language called “Standard” is still new to many on the Centaurus System. Mor and I speak it well since we travel so much. By imposing Standard on many different worlds, I don’t think my father realized he was also helping criminals like me. In addition to my translation implants, I can now communicate with almost anyone from anywhere—and that brings advantages that the chips don’t, like being able to tell when people are twisting the truth just from how they phrase things.

  Mor begins the conversation, and I drop my head onto the table. The water is helping ease my stomach pains, which is a relief.

  I try to listen to the foreign words Cleaf and Mor are exchanging. The Omicronian language is so guttural. They speak in grunts and slurs; it sounds like an angry animal huffing and groaning. But still, I hear my name several times and pick my head up.

  Mor glances at me as he continues their discussion. Cleaf is probably asking Mor why he would continue to work with a Baromenian. Mor will go on to explain that I’m a sworn enemy of Emperor Krouuk. Cleaf probably won’t believe him because Mor won’t tell him I’m a prince, of course. I’m used to this nonsense.

  I make a fist and contemplate this new situation. What would the King of Omicron want with me? Omicronian and Baroma are still rivals, and Baroma’s conquest of Omicron has done nothing to ease those tensions.

  But Mor and I are independent agents—and technically, outlawed from the entire Centaurus region.

  For King Ursen to send a messenger to us would be high treason; working with us, double-treason—and that’s not even a thing. It’s either a trap or King Ursen is doing something he can’t let his enemies know about, something that has the potential to ruin him.

  I can’t imagine the Omicronian ruler ever working with my father. There’s too much hate between them. It would never work.

  No, King Ursen is trying his best to protect himself from the Emperor Krouuk and picking up a disposable but powerful ally to arm himself with. Ursen’s no friend of mine, but the enemy of my enemy…well, it just reignites my headache.

  They talk for only an hour. At the end of their conversation, Cleaf sets a large wallet on the table. My head lifts up. Now I’m very interested. Why did he do that?

  Mor’s dark eyes meet mine; I shoot him a look of concern, and with a quick raise of his eyebrows, I sense he wants me to wait before opening my mouth.

  Cleaf stands pushing the chair into the table.

  “Thank you so much for your time, Your Hi—I mean, Orien.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You have a good one.”

  “Orien, you should know that if you and Mor go through with this, King Ursen the Great would be interested in granting you diplomatic immunity on Omicron and safe passage through our territories and space.”

  I press my lips together. It was a futile promise. Omicronian could never legally house us. Baroma would sniff us out in a second. It’s a strange offer, to house the denounced heir of Baroma. Perhaps, a mark of direct defiance on King Ursen’s part. I don’t trust it for a second.

  Still, I don’t even respond to the messenger’s slip. It doesn’t matter. We can’t go through with a job right now. We need to find a safe place to hide for some time, and then try our best to leave. I just nod and fumble with the empty glass in front of me, running my finger along its edge.

  My disinterest strikes a chord with Cleaf. His expression falls, and his eyes dart to Mor. He takes a step, then stops to whisper something to my partner in their language. Mor isn’t too happy about the words they exchange.

  “Cleaf, might I ask how you found us?”

  Cleaf smirks to himself like he knows a little secret. “You should choose your nightly companions more wisely. Women are eager to brag of the Baromenian Prince’s,” he pauses, “manhood.” And with that, Cleaf turns, then leaves without even looking at me.

  The damned casino girls ratted me out.

  Mor shakes his head. “I told you, Orien.”

  “So,” I start picking the dirt out from underneath my fingernails and moving the conversation along. “I need to wash and sleep. Also, we need to get the fuck off this planet.”

  Mor sits back down across from me. My fingers glide over the leather wallet set on the table. The insignia of Omicronian is pressed into it. It looks expensive.

  I flip the billfold open and then clench my teeth. Even as a royal, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen this many credits in one place. “Mor, what’s with the absurd amount of money?” I ask.

  “I accepted the job.”

  I breathe out slowly through my nose. I don’t want to lose my temper.

  “Okay. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but uh, we’ve been fucking located, and we need to get the fuck out of here before Baroma catches wind of this shit.”

  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we don’t have any money, Orien,” he says in a strained voice, mocking my tone. “And if we follow through with this, we’ll have enough money to leave Centaurian space and never come back.”

  I shake the heavy wallet in my hand in front of Mor’s face. “What kind of job is King Ursen willing to front half a million credits for?”

  “Well, the good news is that we get to leave Centaurus for part of it.”

  “What. Is. This. Job?”

  Every second we spend here is another second Tornack and his stupid purple bodyguards have an opportunity to barge in. I am sure he’s realized the gems are fakes by now.

  Mor leans in so close that I can smell the stench of the morning smoke he had. “We’re going to get King Ursen his new bride from an agency called TerraMates.”

  I squint my eyes and hold his. “Seriously?” I’m not impressed.

  Mor nods and leans back. “Omicronian’s population has dropped due to the casualties sustained during the Great War. It’s become—fashionable—for nobles of various systems to take brides from other worlds, especially the newly-discovered Earth. King Ursen has very particular tastes, and apparently, they’ve finally secured a match with a Terran. A marriage would also legitimize his position since Omicronians are matrilineal.”

  “Even if the woman he marries is an alien?”

  “Better than no woman at all. If he preferred men, he could at least have taken a platonic consort, but,” Mor huffed, “the king was particular. At any rate, it would greatly strengthen his situation, and affirm his seat of power.”

  “But don’t marriages to people from outside the empire fall under the council’s jurisdiction? He could totally do it the legal way, but he’d need approval,” I said slowly, trailing off. “Oh. Of course. If he does that, they’ll know he’s trying to legitimize his base of power.” I tapped my fore
head thoughtfully. “Do you think he’s preparing for an insurrection?”

  “I have no idea. It’s not our business. But King Ursen knows you won’t betray or blackmail him.”

  “And we’re the best damn smugglers in town.” I frown. “I still don’t like this idea, Mor. Baroma monitors the galactic borders meticulously, and a human? From Earth?”

  “We’ve done it before.”

  I groan, rocking my head back and forth. “Smuggling through the border—yes. Picking up a passenger—absolutely not. What if shit goes wrong?”

  “Could it get any worse than this?” Mor pauses. “Besides, Orien, if we don’t accept, then King Ursen will reveal your location to your father.”

  My eyes darken. I tuck the wallet into my pocket and let out a long sigh.

  I’m trapped. I’m sure Emperor Krouuk is aware of my location. Now I understand why we were paid so much up front. At first, it looked to be an act of trust, but really, King Ursen is telling us we’ve already accepted the job. There is no other choice.

  “I guess we’re going to the dating agency. Give me the coordinates.”

  Emily

  I’ve had a few luxurious, boring days here. Wandering around, getting primped and preened, taking a few swims in the pool, even going to the gym and gardens. It’s all surprisingly familiar, very Earth-like, but I was hoping for a more—exotic experience. To meet some real aliens, maybe see the universe.

  Okay, so I’m going to be a trophy wife. But trophy wives usually get to go shopping or on vacation, don’t they? This is a gilded cage. An expansive, luxurious, relaxing cage, but a cage nonetheless.

  Still, I’ve met a few other women here, and it seems like I’m maybe making some friends? It could be that we’re all just bored. The drama’s flying around fast and thick, I admit—it’s very “The Eligible” in here, except that instead of twenty-four women competing for one guy’s hand in marriage, it’s a variety of people from across Earth who all have at least one, maybe more suitors trying to attain their hand in marriage.

  “Do you feel weird about marrying someone right away?” I ask a girl named Marya.

  She shrugs and extends an elegant brown hand towards her own assistant robot, which starts filing her nails with a diamond emery board. “Yes and no,” she says. “Arranged marriages have been a thing since forever, and every culture has done that. Is it that different?”

  “I mean, they’re aliens.”

  She shrugs and gives me a half-smile. “Everyone’s alien to someone.”

  I raise my mimosa and toast her. “You’re not wrong. So, who’s into you?”

  “Oh, the princess of planet Ahimsa. She’s more of a figurehead in a constitutional monarchy, but her family’s made a lot of money from industry as well.” She smiles a little more widely. “I’m set for life. And she’s pretty.” She brings up a holo photo of the princess.

  Short and delicate, with a petite build, she has a pattern of shifting colored patches all over her light violet skin, not unlike a chameleon. The spots were blue and red, like very large freckles. In the various stills and short videos, they change colors when she laughs, smiles, or looks startled. She has no hair, but otherwise looks a lot like a human and has brilliant blue eyes.

  “Isn’t she gorgeous?” gushes Marya.

  “She’s different from what I’m used to, but yeah, I can see it,” I allow.

  “They made their money from treesilk.” She rambles for a while about the robot-tended plantations and treesilk trees, which have some kind of long, thin fiber instead of leaves, which can be spun into a soft and elegant fabric. They are growing sheets of fabric right from the trees, with a weird engineering thing that makes the cells of the leaves grow in a woven pattern. It quickly goes over my head, but it sounds cool.

  “I have a lot to learn about living out here,” I admit. “But do you regret marrying yourself off like this? I have to admit I’m nervous about it.”

  “Not for a second. For one thing, we can still visit home. And anyway, I couldn’t get a job with my engineering degree back on Earth,” Marya continues, “but out here, I get to be valued and loved, and I don’t have to live on ramen.” She gestures to her ring and some very elaborate earrings made of some kind of iridescent metal, with weird little glowing jewels in it. “And look at her courting gift. A life of luxury and someone who knows how to treat a lady, compared to scrubbing toilets?”

  She bursts out laughing, and I follow. It is a little easier to relax when I consider that.

  “What about you?” she asks, leaning forward.

  I shrug. “I don’t actually know! Clipboard—I mean, Kate—didn’t tell me who I was getting. I don’t even have a picture.”

  Marya giggled. “You call her Clipboard? I love it. But that’s weird.”

  She leans back as the robot, which has finished filing her nails, switches to applying a base coat and then a color-shifting nebula polish. Her fingertips glimmer under the UV light on the hovering bot’s base. When she takes them out, I see the rainbow iridescence on her nails keep shifting, swirling, even though it has already dried.

  “Looks gorgeous.”

  “Thanks. But yeah, I’m sure it’s fine.” She shrugs. “I mean, Neveah has pictures and recordings of that diplomat who wants to marry her, and Gelina got the most exquisite jewel-encrusted personal care set from this crazy gambling mogul who sent away for her, and Kate acted like that was all super normal. Maybe your husband-to-be is even more important,” she offers, her brown eyes sparkling, “and he’s preparing a huge surprise!”

  “I hope so,” I admit uneasily. “Hey, you want to get some tacos? I could really go for a taste of home.”

  She laughs again. “Home for me is tandoori chicken, but I’m sure the staff here can manage both.”

  I summon Mindy and give her our orders, and she whizzes off to fetch our favorite foods.

  Things here seemed great. But I still feel a weird sense of misgiving.

  What if I’m the one in a thousand who ends up married to some criminal monster?

  Days pass in luxury and boredom. I start trying to learn Standard, which is a lot easier to grasp than I expected. It seems like most species in the universe are a lot like us humans. I don’t know how that happened, but I’m not going to complain about it. Knowing I won’t have to marry some kind of horrible bug monster—at least, probably not—is a pretty big relief.

  I socialize with the other people at TerraMates, chatting and gossiping with them, and start trying to learn the basic politics and facts. There’s a lot to learn, and for a theater major, it’s even more overwhelming.

  But when all else fails, I can always “yes, and” my way through a hard situation.

  We watch holos and broadcasts from across the universe together and eat popcorn, and Kate nags us to make sure we exercise and stay toned—or in some cases, don’t exercise too much, depending on the clients’ preferences.

  It’s annoying, but most of us are happy to comply. And it’s not like TerraMates is short on success stories. I read up on the company and find walls of happy couples in photos, their testimonials beneath the holo clip shows featuring their marriages and lives together. Many of them even have children, which surprises me.

  It’s reassuring to know I can have a normal, even better than normal life—but it would really help if I knew who the hell I was supposed to be marrying.

  Two weeks pass. Marya and Neveah have left, and so have a lot of my other new friends. They’ve given me their contact info, but getting busy with marriage preparations means I can only expect sporadic replies from them.

  Finally, Kate comes for me. I’m just about biting my nails to the quick, almost faster than the spa-bot can regrow them.

  “You should really stop that,” she says critically as I hide my hands behind my back. “It’s unbecoming for someone in the position you’re about to occupy.”

  “Sorry,” I say sheepishly.

  Kate waves an elegant, completely unbitten
hand. “Just follow me. I’ll be back in a moment. I just have to get something.”

  She taps a door panel, and the wall slides open. I’m still not used to that.

  Then I’m sequestered in a coolly luxurious conference room. I don’t even have Mindy for company this time, and that’s got me really, really nervous. She might be a clumsy robot and a mediocre conversationalist—“hey Mindy, what’s your favorite color?” “You are my favorite color, Insert Name Here,”—but I’ve gotten used to her companionship.

  Kate comes back, carrying a caramel vanilla cappuccino. “I brought your favorite beverage,” she says with a small smile and gives me an expectant look. She seems to be waiting for me to acknowledge the bigness of her gesture, how generous it is for her to just bring me a coffee.

  “Thank you so much!” I say brightly. “I know how busy you must be—normally Mindy does that for me!”

  “You’re welcome,” she says, but she looks satisfied that I’ve given her lip service.

  Kate clears her throat. “Good afternoon.” Her voice is sharp and makes me cringe. I don’t respond to her greeting, and she doesn’t seem phased by the lack of formalities, given our situation. “I wanted to run over a few things with you about where you're going.”

  My chest tightens with anxiety. They’re finally giving me answers. I wonder if she’ll say things I want to hear.

  “Your new home is planet Omicron in the Centaurus System. Your husband will be the ruler of the planet, King Ursen. Here, did you see the travel brochures from the Extraterrestrials and Earth Relations database?”

  I tap the device on my wrist that brings up a holo and projects a keyboard, then type it in. I read out a few familiar lines. “‘Known for being courageous, the inhabitants of Omicron value war and physical strength. They recently ended a long war with Baroma, which rules the Centaurus System.’”

  She seems surprised that I haven’t only been sitting on my ass and getting massages all day, but not unimpressed, either.