Primal Planet Guardian_A Science Fiction Alien Romance

by Skylar Clarke

  I test my wrist inside the cuffs I still wear. My frame is thin and hungry, and human wrists are smaller than most. They have been tightened as much as they can be, locked around me on the smallest setting, but perhaps a chance remains even without my makeshift lockpick. I twist my wrist to and fro, wincing with pain as the cuff inches up my hand. They are locked in front of me, and the Velorian walks behind. I hunch forward, away from him, as if in fear, to hide my efforts. I feel the skin on my hand breaking as the cuff digs in, but I continue all the same, keeping my breathing calm and controlled as we walk. I can’t stop now, not when I’m this close—there may not be much blood, but if there is, the Velorian will smell it in a moment and likely wish to investigate how I have managed to injure myself while walking in a straight line. One more twist, one more jerk of my hand, and the cuff comes free, sliding over my tapered fingers and dangling from where the contraption is still fastened around my left wrist.

  Without pause, without allowing myself to think, I reach for the hidden blaster strapped securely to my leg. This is the first chance I have where using it might not get me killed. I am more used to scrapping with my fists, to pulling a knife if needed to add to the perceived threat, than I am to shooting blasters. My aim leaves much to be desired. The shot at Sami in the hall of the Red Nova ship had been mostly luck, but I might not be so lucky here. I have only saved it this long because I have been so badly outnumbered that even shooting one slaver successfully would have been in vain. But here, now—there is only one person I need to shoot.

  I don’t waste time thinking. I turn and fire my blaster before he has a chance to take it from me. I am very aware of the fact that this is my one and only shot, but this blaster is unfamiliar. I don’t shoot the things often in general, and while this model is much smaller than the usual, easily concealed beneath clothing or in a tight pair of boots, it is also more fiddly. I miss completely. My owner steps aside, somehow anticipating the shot through my body language alone. The shot goes wide, destroying the nearby stall of a salesman, who immediately begins yelling at the injustice. I fire again, panicking as my owner reorients himself and begins to reach for his own gun. This time, I hit someone instead of something, and I hear the sound of a large alien gargling in pain.

  My buyer moves, hands quick as a whip, and snatches the blaster from my hand. I move to run, to disappear into the crowd where I might at least attempt to lose him, but he grabs me before I get so much as three steps. Other aliens are approaching as I struggle against his hold; the seething owner of the stall, as well as the injured alien and a group of his friends. The creature is grey, with too many arms to count at first glance, and one of them has been struck by the shot from the blaster. Blue blood drips onto the filthy ground.

  As they approach, and as I struggle uselessly to free myself, I realize that my buyer is not reacting as expected. He has not yet made any move to punish me when my intent had clearly been to shoot him and escape. It makes no sense, and I don’t trust it. Each small movement on his part makes me flinch in anticipation of a blow. His hold, one arm locked around me, feels more like a protective encircling than anything more sinister. Like his grip on my arm before this, it does not even feel so much as uncomfortably tight. Pressed close to him, I can hear how loud his breathing is, how fast. I might think that I was imagining it, could I not also hear him counting quietly to himself, trying his hardest to gain some control.

  Of course it’s my luck to be bought by a total weirdo. It is just the epitome of the Anna Bennett experience. Then again, it takes a deviant of some sort to seek out an auction and buy another person.

  The aliens have closed in during my musings. My buyer still seems more focused on his breathing exercises than the approaching danger, and without knowing why, I kick back one foot a bit, and give his leg a nudge to gain his attention. He stands taller and faces the creatures snarling at him.

  “If you can’t control your slave,” says the injured party, still clutching his bleeding arm, “then you don’t fucking deserve her.”

  My buyer uses my blaster to dispatch him without pause, the force behind the shot knocking the alien back into the already damaged stall and destroying it further. I expect the other aliens to disperse at such a causal show of violence, but they don’t seem bothered in the least. The stall owner, in fact, seems rather more incensed than he was before.

  “You’re gonna pay me for that,” he rattles, drawing his own blaster. “Or I’m gonna shoot you.”

  The only response my buyer gives is a low laugh.

  I am not shocked when the stall owner rushes forward, firing the blaster. My buyer turns, taking me with him, an easy, fluid movement. I feel the heat of the blaster shot rush past me and realize that it is not set to stun. Had the alien not moved, it could have blown a hole through both of us.

  As the stall owner prepares to fire again, my buyer releases me from his hold and steps in front of me. I sink back further as they fight, a quick exchange of blows. There is a wall behind me and a plethora of increasingly angry aliens in front. Still, in the chaos that is breaking out, there is a very good chance that I can still escape if I try. Just as I am about to make a break for the loading docks by leaping over some of the wares laid out before another stall, my buyer breaks away from the fight for just long enough to return my blaster to my hand.

  It makes no sense, but I find my fingers curling around it reflexively, holding it tight. Thoughts of running leave my head as I watch him quickly finish the fight, ultimately disarming the alien and leaving him in a crumpled heap on the ground, twirling a new blaster in his hands. A few more aliens rush forward, hoping to gain the advantage and overwhelm him with their numbers. He shoots the first to reach him with the blaster, deftly switching it to stun to do so, and takes out the remaining three with his strength and dexterity. One is left unconscious, joining the other prone bodies on the ground, but the final two standing remain stubborn. Every time he knocks one aside, the other tries his luck while his comrade recovers. It is during a particularly showy move, a kick that involves tilting his body back to keep his balance, that the hood falls from his head.

  His cloak billows in the hot, dusty breeze, leaving him temporarily frozen in the most dramatic silhouette I’ve ever seen outside a movie poster.

  The aliens seem taken aback. “Velorian,” one whispers to the other. They seem afraid. The two stand close together, hold their hands up, and back away.

  The jig is up, and the alien who purchased me removes the cloak he has been wearing over the upper part of his armor. He is huge, as any Velorian is. It has been a while since I have seen one of his species, and I cannot help but feel a bit intimidated. He is an Ice Velorian, with skin that is a lighter blue than most, and spines that look abnormally long and deadly. The spines there mirror those on his back and shoulders, and are distinctive of his race.

  For just a moment, as the aliens disperse, he pauses to catch his breath. I few months ago, I read an article about a human woman marrying a Velorian. It was one of those sensationalist news stories picked up by tabloids and pounced on for its rarity. They were kind of our heroes, if I recall correctly, made temporarily famous and revered for their acquisition of a plant that could make a vaccine. I scoffed when I read the page that mentioned their marriage ceremony. So what if they had worked a successful mission together? Aliens were … aliens. When I read the news, I could not fathom being attracted to one. But now, well—it’s difficult to deny that the specimen in front of me is pleasant to look at. The effortless grace with which he fights, the raw power behind his kicks and punches, makes my breath catch in my throat. He is not handsome—not by human standards at least—but his face is symmetrical, his jaw is strong, and his eyes are piercing. Visually speaking, he is incredible, perhaps a perfect representation of his species.

  That Stacy woman had luck on her side if she had one of these fall for her, a small part of me speaks up.

  He looks at me for the first time since the end of the fig
ht, and I feel my cheeks heat a bit. I worry for a second that I’ve somehow spoken the words aloud, but all he does is hand over the cloak he’s just removed, eyeing my tattered dress pointedly. As I wrap the garment around myself, I push the growing feelings down and remind myself of the situation I’m in; of the situation the Velorian has contributed to.

  However attractive and however skilled in combat, the Velorian just bought a woman at an auction. He is many things, but he is definitely not my type.

  6

  Mathios

  The woman’s eyes have stopped darting from one possible escape route to another. They look more skeptical than frightened and angry, and it is for that reason that I leave the blaster in her hands. I can tell that this confuses her even further. She looks from the gun back to me several times, before cautiously reaching down to switch the dial from kill to stun. It’s an interesting choice. From the company she kept prior to this misadventure, I would have thought she’d have no trouble killing if it meant keeping herself alive. Given the choice, I suppose she wants as little blood on her hands as possible. The cloak I handed her is far too big, but as it had only come to my own waist, it is not long enough for her to trip over.

  “Keep it close,” I say, nodding at the blaster.

  She nods back once, a quick, anxious dip of her head. Her eyes still look more perplexed than anything, but when I turn and walk away, making my way toward the landing docks once more, she follows with only the barest hint of hesitation. Anna releases the grip on the cloak and switches to holding the blaster with both hands. It is a smart decision. She recognizes that her aim had been off the first time and hopes to use two hands to steady it. I can see the gears within her brain turning as we walk, but not once does she actually turn the gun my way. She is smart enough to know that with my reflexes, I will be able to intervene before she pulls the trigger.

  Now that she has something with which to defend herself, she is less fearful, seeming to recognize the blaster for exactly what it is. It doubles as a peace offering and a warning, the combination of which says more than words could ever manage to. That’s my style, and perhaps she is figuring that out. She has to realize by now that I am not like the others—that I haven’t purchased her for some horrible purpose. I can see the spark of intelligence in her blue eyes—nearly the same blue as my icy skin tone—but I feel compelled to reassure her verbally as well.

  “My ship is a short walk from here,” I begin. Her head turns toward me, but her feet keep their careful distance. “When we arrive, you will go to my quarters and rest. There is a shower if you wish to clean up, and I’m certain I can find some spare clothing if you wish to change.” I have the urge to ask her about the dress. I seem to remember reading somewhere that it is used in an ancient human mating rite, but I could be incorrect. Humans do not find themselves in my sector often, and I am not as familiar with their culture and customs as I am with those of other races. Whatever its use, it certainly looks like it has a social purpose. It is not practical in the slightest. “We will talk at length when you have had a chance to recover from your ordeal.”

  There is silence between us for a moment, broken only by the sound of our footsteps. When she speaks, she does so carefully, not quite trusting me.

  “I was only with them for several hours really, and I slept most of that,” she answers. She looks back in the direction we came from, where the auction stage lies. “I’m much luckier than everyone else still stuck on that stage.” For a second, her voice edges toward disgust and hate, but she doesn’t have the energy to keep it there.

  I am taken aback by the genuine concern with which she speaks of the others. Surely a member of the Red Novas is well acquainted with such activities. There is no current proof connecting the gang to the slave trade, but given their other activities and the reputation of their leader, I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn so. Another part of her statement causes more amusement than shock.

  “You managed to sleep on a slaver ship?” I ask. I do not laugh, but there is humor in my voice, and I can tell that she hears it.

  She looks just as shocked at my kindness as I am at hers. “Believe it or not,” she says, “I’ve fallen asleep in worse places.” Anna wears a smile for a few short seconds, before she realizes what she’s doing and hardens her expression. I can see the change come over her face, and even the way she holds herself becomes more guarded, regretting having dropped the mask long enough to let some small slice of herself break through.

  In a way, she reminds me of myself.

  Except, of course, that she is a criminal. Somehow, I keep forgetting that, and it is an important thing to remember.

  Still, from what I have seen, she does seem entirely reprehensible. I do not hold the fact that she pulled a gun on me a few short minutes ago against her. Had she been in real danger from me, it would have been her only real chance. In addition to this, Anna clearly feels awful for the slaves left behind. Her voice was full of pain when she spoke of them, and even now, her head turns back in that direction every few strides, as if pulled toward the sound of the quiet sobbing and whispered prayers that emanate from the back of the stage. Her personality is not at all what I expected, and I find myself intrigued to a dangerous degree already.

  I am sure that I haven’t made a mistake in my identification. All the scans match up, as well as the information—she is of the Red Nova gang. The group may be small, but they have done many terrible things. For the most part, they shied away from outright murder, but you didn’t need to kill someone to ruin their life, to steal their sense of safety and of self. Red Novas burn homes, steal crops, and kill livestock, among other things. Some of these crimes can perhaps be chalked up to survival, but according to my notes, they seem to cause chaos for the sheer fun of it just as often.

  Even though the emotions have been plainly displayed on her face at several points since our meeting, I still have a hard time believing that she feels true empathy for others. It may be just a front, an act to win my trust or my sympathy. There is no way she could know that I’ve read so much about her, that I’ve studied the actions of her gang.

  Such complex warring thoughts are making my feet move more slowly. I push them from my head and concentrate on navigation, steering the two of us east, into an alley that doubles as a shortcut. With a little luck, we can get away from the chaos we just caused before anyone truly dangerous comes looking. In the distance, I can hear fighting, as though an actual brawl has broken out in the market square. If I can, I would prefer to keep us far away from such indiscriminate violence.

  The alley is narrow, pushing us closer together. Anna remains half a step behind me, but no further. We are nearly at the alley’s end when movement makes me pause. I hold up a hand, and Anna stops as well, just in time for a number of aliens to begin trickling in. I back up a few quick steps when Anna gasps, grabbing my arm and compelling me to look behind us.

  The other end of the alley is similarly blocked. There seem to be ten in all, aliens of various species. My nostrils flare when I see a Xzerg, an old instinct that I can never quite quell. I step so that I am standing sideways, my wide Velorian field of vision allowing me to see everything I need. They close in on both sides, talking amongst themselves excitedly about how well-off I look.

  “Look at him,” one says. “This one’s just bought himself a brand new slave, and you shoulda heard his bid.”

  “Pretty one too,” another says.

  I feel my claws extend.

  I remove my outermost layer slowly as the aliens draw their blasters. It is the mercenary armor I had placed over my usual uniform, knowing I would need to blend in with the others at the auction. For a moment, they only see the fine make of the armor, and their leader smiles in a pleased way as I hand it over, thinking this is a show of cooperation. As their eyes have a chance to take in what I wear beneath it, they widen from interest to growing anxiousness. My military spacesuit speaks for itself, and a few of them back up despite the be
hest of their leader.

  “Stand your ground, you worthless cowards.”

  My lips twitch, revealing pointed teeth. The removal of my armor could have been mistaken as a symbol of surrender, but in fact, it is the most effective threat I can give. Ten aliens taking on a Velorian is one thing. It would be difficult for certain, but it is not impossible. All Velorians have the instincts of a warrior, but the gang surrounding the human woman and I likely have their fair share of experience playing this game. They could do it, given the right weapons, the right leader, and the right strategy. Fighting a trained member of the Velorian military is different. They know just by looking that I have training that all of them lack. They also know that, however this ends, I have the resources to track them down. Even if this ends in my death, I likely have comrades that will track them for me. They know this, and the unease is growing on their faces, but the resolve of their leader keeps them rooted in place.

  I step toward the leader, facing him. I will have to trust Anna to alert me if they seem about to close in any further. I clear my throat to capture their attention, though it is likely that I already have it.

  “Velorians actually have a second form,” I state calmly. “Do you know that? Many races assume that it is a myth, but I can assure you of its truth.” I give them a sharp, glittering smile before I continue. “I’m pretty famous actually, even among my own kind, because of an incident that occurred during the Xzerg wars of past years.” I turn my gaze briefly to the Xzerg among them before speaking again. “Have you heard of the massacre on the third moon of Knuk? That was me—not a team, not a company of soldiers—just me.”

  Perhaps they have heard of it, perhaps they have not, but I have adapted the tone one takes on when telling frightening stories, a tone that evokes thoughts of crimson and the distant memory of screams. One of the aliens shudders as though he can smell the blood. I deactivate the top half of the military suit, releasing the necessary clasps and allowing it to open down to my waist. The scars there are horrific to most people’s eyes. A few are longer, wrapped intricately around my torso, but most are short lines made from stab wounds or messy round shapes of scar tissue created by bullets. There is one particularly gruesome patch just above my left hip, where I had been burned by the explosive blast of a fire grenade.