Beth's Stable

by Amanda Milo

  His lips are tugged up in a hissed sort of grimace, and his brows are drawn low. “Narrrra,” he purrs at me, the sound so apologetic and regretful and pretty, that it confuses my body into going still.

  This single moment of indecision is all he needs. He catches me like a praying mantis—not that creepy, but just that fast—and just that effective.

  I clutch my stomach and implore him with my eyes as much as my voice. “I’m pregnant—what if whatever you want to inject me with isn’t safe for the baby?”

  His eyes travel to where I’m gripping my flesh-beach ball in a protective hold. With his free hand, he reaches out, stroking the strip of my skin that’s exposed by my baby-bump baring shirt. His expression deepens, his eyes warming with wonder—and it makes my throat close over.

  ...Until he ruins it by raising his eyes to my chest, and trying to move his questioning touch to the future milkbar instead.

  I block him like we’re practicing karate moves, I even add one of those “HuhWAAH!” sound effects as I do it—because who does that? Who just reaches out to honk someone’s body parts? If it doesn’t belong to you, then don’t—

  My lips press together at the realization that this alien does think he owns me. And if we’re digging into technicalities, I suppose in this place, there are probably laws that say if he paid for me, then he really does own me. Therefore, he probably thinks he can do whatever he wants.

  He is mistaken.

  I didn’t sign up for this. No! Jim Carrey’s line in Liar, Liar plays in my head, because no! NO. I’m not anyone’s, I belong to me.

  I warn him with my eyes that he better not come near me with the needle.

  He seems amused: one side of his mouth is pulled a little higher than the other, making his cheek round and dimple, and his eyes look too pretty, dancing the way they are. He sets down the syringe, walks to the wall, and taps a screen. The image of the blind woman’s alien comes to life in front of us,

  HOLOGRAM! Ha, that’s totally the right word! I knew it’d click. Eventually.

  Where was I? Ah, yes: I watch them as they exchange a few words. My alien turns, and gives me a come-hither gesture with two fingers, paired with a smile I don’t trust.

  I bare my teeth. “Let me tell you where you can shove those fingers.”

  His smile turns to a dirty grin—and I remember he can probably understand me now.

  There’s a mechanical chime, and the computer says, “Chip upload complete.” My alien raises the thing that looks like a gun.

  CHAPTER 3—BETH

  BETH

  My alien—sans raised gun—beckons me to follow him to a doorway that leads to a bathroom. He leaves me, and the relief at being able to relieve myself softens my indignation over him thinking he could quality-check my goods.

  When I step out to rejoin him, the other human is here, along with her alien.

  Also her dog, who is very, very distrustful of everything remotely alien. When the aliens load the gun that mine’s been waving around, and they pin us down and shoot us with translator chips, I find I really sympathize with the dog’s reservations.

  When they restrain the shepherd and shoot her with a translator chip too, well, that doesn’t endear them to her any better, let me tell you.

  But now all of us, even the canine, understands alien commands—yay. I overhear that we’ve got access to most every known language, to understand and to speak it. For my alien’s ‘crew’ though, he’s forcing upgrades remotely so that they’ll soon have human English available on their translators.

  While the aliens rapidly discuss the vaccine that my alien had started to prepare for me, I head for the other woman, with the intention of offering reassurance in the form of… whatever I can offer her. It’s not like I can do much, but hugs, a shoulder to cry on, a sympathetic ear, any of it, all of it, I’m here, I’ll do what I can—but before I can make it to her, my alien grabs me.

  The other alien asks his woman, “Can you understand us, female?”

  Her dog’s eyes actually narrow at him.

  The woman gulps. “Yes.”

  My alien announces, “I consider this a kritted success. Now, we’ve got a job to do. Quest luck, as the hobs say.” Then he stops, his forehead knitting kind of attractively for a psycho. “Or is that Rakhii? Tevek, if we had one of those…”

  “Goodbye,” his friend says good naturedly—but with clear finality.

  Giving me a wink, my alien tilts his chin, and his grin slowly broadens to one so blinding, it takes me a moment to react when his hand slaps me on the ass. “After you, my beautiful slave-bride.”

  I’ve. Had. ENOUGH. Of. This.

  I snatch up his slapping hand and bite him.

  Shocked silence fills the medical room. My alien stares down at me like he can’t believe what he just felt. Then, proving he’s been damaged up top—he starts howling. With laughter. “Have fun with your new wife!” he calls over his shoulder to his friend, his hand falling to my lower back—but not straying any lower, I’m gratified to note—as he ushers us out.

  He bumps my shoulder as we’re walking side by side. “So, my nippy little purchase. You can understand me?” he asks.

  Tipping my head back to meet his gaze, I give him a cool nod.

  He grins down at me. “Good. We have work to do. But first: tell me about you.”

  He’s hauling me down one corridor after another, and I’m sure that if he turned me loose right now, I still might never get free. I feel like this ship has turned into a labyrinth. “Tell me about your kind,” he prompts.

  Sure. Why not? I cover the basics: I’m human. I’m from Earth—and he is really intrigued with this planet he’s never heard of. But it quickly becomes obvious that his interest is less academic and more enterprising as he turns this session into an interrogation: how many wenches do you claim to have on your planet? Do they look like you?

  “In general?” I ask.

  He frowns. “Of course in general.” He looks me up and down and very seriously informs me: “A finer female than you doesn’t exist.”

  Strangely warmed by the compliment, I’m not sure if I should tell him that there are women far, far more beautiful than I am—I don’t want to encourage him to steal people from Earth. Luckily, (?) I don’t have to say anything—he goes on, talking rapidly, making plans that somehow almost don’t sound villainous mostly due to the fact that he’s so earnestly excited by the prospect of this new find: humankind.

  Basically, there were a whole lot of credits (alien money) spent on buying up human women today, so when he finds this place of plenty (Earth), he can make a FORTUNE in credits, and—

  He interrupts his own machinations to make a rapid subject change. “I took a click and prepared an entire half-cocked speech in my head for when you ask me to let you go home.” He frowns down at me, not like he’s unhappy—more like he’s a little crestfallen that he’s been robbed of a chance to put on a performance. “Why haven’t you asked me to return you to your home?”

  Because home isn’t safe for me. I won’t say this situation is better, but at the moment, in this instant, I’m not facing immediate harm. This alien has made me feel just a little bit safe, and I realize with a start that I’m not feeling worn down.

  I didn’t even know how drained I’d been feeling until all of a sudden, I’m not on the run from a threat. A little alien abduction? No biggie! This situation is almost, oh, let’s call it ‘tentatively leaning towards an improvement.’

  My chances of survival—and my baby’s chance for survival—has the potential to be better odds in this alien’s hands, which should be a terrifying thought. Except that for all that he’s zany, he’s not been so bad, so far. “Because if you’re making plans to go to Earth and kidnap more women, it’s unlikely you’ll let me go?” At my reply, he gives an almost imperceptible, shivering bounce, this full grown man-alien, and I take note of his suddenly hang-dog expression. I scratch at my temple. “Do you want to give me whatever s
peech you had planned? You look like you’re ready to burst with it.”

  “Yes!” He brings both of my hands together, making me clap like a caught seal. “That would be great. Yes, please.”

  I try not to smile, mostly because I’m afraid he really is unbalanced, but it’s hard, because he’s a tiny, tiny bit entertaining. “Okay. Will you take me home?”

  His chest swells, and he grins at me before he affects a scowl. He stops walking. He stops smiling. “Hear me well: No.”

  CHAPTER 4—BETH

  BETH

  “I’m Ekan. I’m your master now.”

  I stare up into his mercurial-behaving, forbidding face.

  Quote Moment: This is just like the scene in Aladdin, where Jafar stomps Genie under his boot heel and lays down the new law.

  New Master; new rules.

  But then Ekan’s cold expression instantly melts to an immensely playful one. Using the grip he has on my shoulder, he wiggle-sways me back and forth between his hands for a moment. “Just joshing!”

  Then he draws back, appearing momentarily pensive. “Although, I suppose I do intend to have full mastery of your body and over your desires, so,” he rolls back his shoulders, “‘Master’ is as good a title as Ekan when you address me, you lovely little spawner.”

  Spawner?

  His eyes drop to where he’s still clutching me. “Creator, your skin is unbelievably soft.”

  Charming. “You thinking of making a dress out of it?” I ask. “Buffalo Bill-style?”

  He really does seem to have a thing for touching me. He’s rubbing his thumb down my arm, and when he reaches the inside of my elbow, his eyes light up as he learns my skin here is even softer. Then his eyes snap up to mine, startling me with his quick-change in demeanor as he turns serious. “What’s ‘Buffalo Bill’ style?”

  Kat Stratford’s dad from 10 Things I Hate About You groans in my mind. Because Gah! I do not want to be giving this alien any ideas!

  In the book and movie Silence of the Lambs, there’s a serial killer who abducts women and skins them so he can make dresses from their hides. He’s given the infamous moniker Buffalo Bill, after the historic figure who reportedly did a little something similar to Native Americans and prairie bovines. Do I want to share this? HECK NO.

  I shouldn’t be giving this alien any material to encourage further plots. He seems like a real enterprising sort. If he so much as gets a hint that there could be a market for dresses made of human skin, Earth could be emptied of all humankind. We’ll either be sold—or tanned. My tongue dries up.

  (Which, if someone had designs on preserving human parts, will probably make the pickling process easier. My brain helpfully whispers: What’s a dried human tongue worth?)

  Gross, Brain. Gross.

  Ekan’s (unnerving) curiosity melts into a teasing grin. “My, my, you’ve shown me such fire, and now you’re cowed?”

  My eyes narrow.

  He smiles even wider. “There she is.” He chucks me under the chin, and I have visions of sinking my teeth into his hand. He must be able to almost see them right along with me because his own teeth flash and he laughs—then the demented man tickles me along my jaw like he’s not worried for his fingers nearly as much as he should be.

  “You’re insane,” I inform him.

  He engulfs my hand in one of his, and his expression resettles into one of quieter amusement. “It usually takes beings a few less clicks to reach this conclusion.” He uses his hold on my hand to make me twirl in place. I do it jerkily at first, not sure what he’s really guiding me to do. I just let it happen by the second and third rotation. It’ll serve him right if I get motion sick and barf on his big boots.

  Meanwhile, he keeps talking, like this is totally normal. “I can’t lose my standing—I’m going to have to amp up my rotation’s quota of unpredictable maneuvers.”

  I plant my feet to stop him from making me dance around more than he already has. “Is there any chance you could leave me out of anything involving this quota?”

  He gapes. “Absolutely not! You’re the most fun toy I’ve had in my hands in the age of a star.”

  The Emperor's New Groove is a favorite movie of mine. This alien-version, real-life Emperor Kuzco is something altogether different when he’s got you hostage.

  “‘Toy?’ Yay me.” He’s making me tired. Either that, or it’s all the walking—but I’m pretty sure it’s him. He could put a set of triplet baby chinchillas to shame with his zest for… everything.

  He cups my hands and makes us clap together again, loudly. “That’s the spirit!” And with that, he starts leading me wherever he has plans to be.

  We snake through one corridor after another, a much longer process than it took to arrive, and I wonder where he’s taking me. As if he’s sharing a confidence, Ekan hunkers closer and offers, “Your vaccination was skipped until you and the litter’s safety can be determined, so try not to play host to any germs you encounter.”

  “I’ll try to restrain myself.”

  He forces me into a side hug. “Your cooperation excites me beyond reason.”

  Sliding my hands between us, I push away from him, and only succeed in getting loose because he lets me. “It doesn’t seem like it takes much to drive you there… beyond reason,” I clarify when he looks at me in question.

  His dry chuckle is so much more pleasant than it ought to be. He sounds delighted.

  He catches me, bringing me against his body again. Not keen on him being quite this affectionate, I try to dart under his arm, and he finds this uproariously funny. He half-lets up on his squeeze-grip of me so that I can breathe, but I’m still being forced to walk against him. I sort of feel like those monkeys they strap onto the herding dogs at the rodeo: I’m in for a ride, whether I want to be or not. Jovially, he inquires, “What shall I call you?”

  He almost doesn’t give me a chance to answer. He just keeps right on talking. “I don’t mind naming you. I’ve never had a pet! I’d love to name something of my own—”

  “OKAY, stop right there,” I say, and he literally stops walking, so I tug on his shoulder until he leans down far enough that I can cover his still-running mouth. “I’m Beth,” I admit. “And you know, this is probably a good thing that you asked my name. They say victims should humanize themselves with their captors. Maybe it’ll help you—aka my unbalanced captor—to see me as a person, not a pet—”

  He starts laughing, straightening up and hugging me to his side like I am just the coolest trinket. “Beth,” he tries on. “Beth is perfect! What a beautiful name for my new favorite gift to myself!”

  “Wow. Well, there went that hope of being humanized in your eyes. You’re a dick.”

  His brows bounce. “If my translator is correct, you’re comparing me to a cock.” He slants me a look. “Are we specifically referring to mine, personally?” He gives me his most serious expression yet. “Because I’m impressive beyond reason.”

  “You’re all sorts of beyond reason. And you’re giving me a headache.”

  He pats me. “Save it for later. Work first; beg off after.” His eyes light up. “Begging... oooh, I think I’ll enjoy this.”

  The horror of this prospect must be painted all over my face, because he glances at me and does a double take before he grabs me up a little messily—sort of like an unsupervised toddler cuddles his first kitten—and rushes to tell me, “Don’t worry, don’t worry—I’ll play good with you. I vow it.”

  I’m seriously wishing he’ll tell me he’s ‘just joshing’ again—but when he doesn’t, I’m not settled in the least. An A for effort though?

  We step up to a door that suddenly slides open, showing sky, before a clank signals that the ship has dropped a ramp. We walk the steep decline down to the ground. The whole way, Ekan keeps ahold of my arm—but not so much to stay me from running: he’s letting me use him for balance. The grade of this thing is unreal. “Where are we going?” I brave up and ask him.

  “You’re going
to work for me. In order to do that, I need you to get dressed. I don’t happen to have women’s clothes in my wardrobe, so we’re going to appropriate some for you.”

  Appropriate? “What I’m wearing won’t suffice?” I ask, waving at my tshirt and yoga pants.

  “Hardly,” Ekan scoffs. “Too much fabric for what I have planned.”

  I give him the wary look this concerning pronouncement deserves.

  Ekan’s answering smile is all flirtation. Sultry too. Potent. Dangerous.

  I don’t do danger.

  It’s one of my life lessons-turned-rules. Been there, moved in with that, had a hell of a time escaping.

  Ever seen the movie Ladyhawke?

  When the sexy knight-to-wolf shifting Etienne Navarre tells the thief he catches that he needs a guide, the thief, Phillipe, tells him he wouldn’t go back to Aquila’s dungeons for his own mother. But Navarre is compelling, and he sort of tramples Phillipe’s protests and strong-arms him (trusses him up in ropes, actually) into helping anyway (perhaps I should be thankful Ekan has no rope). At one point, when Phillipe falls back on pickpocketing, he starts talking to God, saying he knows he promised he’d never steal again—but may the Lord have mercy, because God knows what a weak-willed person he is… And that’s me. I’m so weak right now. Even when I know better, I am attracted to danger.

  And Ekan? He’s danger up, down, and every which way.

  I gulp and edge away from him.

  But only for a half of a split-second, because Ekan merrily drags me right back beside him—and keeps me there.

  This time, when he leads me through the crowd, we’re still getting stares, but they feel less intense.

  Still, Ekan seems less relaxed than he was before, his face now sharp, his easy-smiling mouth almost unrecognizable with the way it’s currently set. I wonder if he misses his dangerous-looking friend and the alien warhorse.

  Even his formerly grabby-hand has stopped getting friendly with the inappropriate places on me—it’s hovering over the handle of what looks a lot like a pistol strapped to his thigh.