Alien Bride (Love, Drugs, and Biopunk)

by McGill, Brie

  Orion rested a satiny hand on Aleister’s back, blowing smoke into his face. He tilted his head to censor his words from the rest of the room, whispering into his ear. “Take the daughter instead.”

  Aleister yanked his head away and shot him a curious glance. “Time is of the essence!”

  “The senator will make time.” Orion sucked a breath through his cigarette. “Mark my words.” He looked at the girl.

  She was equally terrified and angry, razing him with a heavy stare.

  Orion had to talk business with Aleister to get what he wanted. They never discussed women.

  “Nero.” Aleister nodded at him. “Stun her.”

  Nero released his grip on the girl, shoving her away from his body. Whipping a kluzein pistol from his belt, he blasted the girl.

  A bubble of blue energy crackled and engulfed her, knocking her into an unconscious heap upon the floor.

  Orion cringed.

  It was a crude way to take someone. If he were doing the taking, he would have done it with finesse.

  “Let’s pack her up, get her out of here.” Aleister waved an arm. “Come on, move!” He marched away, heading for the door.

  Nero scooped up the unconscious girl and shadowed him.

  Really, Orion wanted to take her in his arms, but he couldn’t telegraph a shred of excitement. He had his work cut out for him.

  Phobos followed the others.

  Deimos darted around the other side of the house, opening a closet, releasing that wretched rat-dog.

  He disappeared in a frenzied skitter of little paws.

  Orion shivered. He hated dogs.

  He stared at the boy lying on the ground. The boy would be fine.

  Pacing across the kitchen, Orion spied a microwave fixed above the stove. Punching a series of buttons, he activated it. Resting his forehead against the door, he exhaled in ecstasy. There was no joy like a microwave. He listened to the low, steady hum, felt the warmth of the light, the shifting electromagnetic fields penetrating his body. The ache in his head, the tension in his nerves, his emotional distress melted away in a stream of gigahertz glory—

  “Orion, what the fuck!” Aleister grabbed him by the collar and jerked him away from the machine. He smashed a fist into the panel and popped open the door, stopping the machine.

  Orion groaned, scowling.

  “That is the devil’s technology. Stay away.” Aleister dragged him away. “There’s a reason we heat our food on the stove at my house.”

  “This isn’t your house.” Orion compulsively grabbed the ceramic lizard from the stovetop and stuffed it into his coat.

  "Open the hatch." She heard a sour and demanding voice, with an unfamiliar accent. Rutian, maybe.

  The roof of a vahan popped open with a metallic whir.

  Ninkasi couldn't move, couldn't open her eyes. She felt her body crumpled over the broad shoulders of a man, transported like a heavy piece of luggage.

  "This whole operation was a mistake!"

  She felt a rise in altitude, followed by a drop.

  "It will work to our advantage." There was a second voice, cool, collected and dark.

  The man peeled her body from his shoulders and rested her on a cushioned leather surface.

  "I can't believe you didn't say something!" The first man was hysterical. "You, of all people!"

  "I did say something." Moment of silence. "She moved."

  Clatter of hands and feet down a series of rails, and another man stopped beside her. She heard his ragged breathing over her body.

  One hand squeezed her neck, and fingers jabbed a multitude of points on her chest like darts.

  Her consciousness disappeared.

  Orion crept to the den and lurked in the doorway, observing Aleister.

  In the center of one wall hung a massive digital light tube screen, part of the state-of-the-art home theatre system installed by Aleister.

  A red and gold mahogany throne dominated the opposite end of the room—Aleister’s chair. A gold-plated crown with rubies glittered above the headrest, while two gold lions reared up on hind legs, resting their paws upon the crown. Intricate golden knotwork spiraled the length of the crimson velvet upholstery; golden symbols of The Brotherhood decorated either jewel-encrusted arm rest. The throne stood on golden lion’s paw feet.

  Orion remembered years ago, the upholstery bore the cursive golden letter ‘E,’ signifying the throne belonged to Aleister’s Great Uncle Eldon.

  Now the throne was stitched with a shimmering letter ‘A.’

  Other mahogany chairs with red velvet lined the room, but Aleister’s throne dominated the center.

  Flicking on the TV, Aleister sat in his throne, kicking his feet onto a matching royal ottoman. He relaxed in a purple satin robe, stitched with silver alligators and emblems of The Brotherhood. He wore a glazed expression, dark stubble crowding his chubby cheeks, surfing mindlessly through television channels. He gripped the remote with his left hand.

  Orion couldn’t tear his eyes from the hand. Indelibly scarred, burned, lashed, gashed, and flayed, Aleister’s left hand was an object of Orion’s perverse fascination.

  It wasn’t only the sick degree of physical torture Aleister endured that fascinated Orion—it was the fact that, over time, his body healed and retained its functional capacity. Aleister wrote, cooked, smoked, ate, scratched himself and flipped the middle finger with his left hand.

  Aleister never quit, not for a second, not in the face of any opposition. He never ran away.

  For this, Orion secretly revered him, his courage, his persistence, his bull-headed obstinance.

  But he dared not speak it.

  One night, they were drunk together. Aleister confessed his father was horrified by his handicap: the family astrologer warned the left hand would bring the family shame and disaster.

  He never mentioned it again. He never mentioned the details.

  He didn’t need to. Their bond was rooted in an unspoken common ground—they were both survivors, escapees from depraved families.

  “Fuck off, Orion.” Gazing into the screen, Aleister made no physical acknowledgment of his presence.

  Orion rested his head against the wall.

  “I know you’re staring at it.” Aleister gripped the remote, flipping channels.

  “Am not.” Orion slinked into the room, taking a seat near the throne, leaving an empty chair between them.

  “Don’t lie to me!” He glowered.

  “I’m not lying.” Orion pointed at the screen. “You’ve been staring at that damn screen the whole time. How would you know what I’m looking at?”

  “Because.” Aleister wrinkled his nose with disgust, and returned his attention to the screen. “I can feel it. I can feel you staring, like I’m some kind of circus animal.”

  Orion’s eyes remained on the hand. He lifted his own gloved hands behind his head and reclined against the wall, unable to tear his eyes from Aleister’s deformities. “I’m not staring.”

  Aleister narrowed his eyes and thrust a finger at him. “I know when you tell a lie. I don’t need six fingers or a sour disposition to know when you’re full of shit!”

  Orion marveled at the depth of the scars carved into the flesh beneath Aleister’s thumb and index finger.

  “Don’t lie to me!” Aleister threw the remote across the room.

  It smashed against the wall, changing the channel; batteries exploded from the back and clattered across the floor.

  “And stop staring at my fucking hand!” He smashed his hand against his face. “Fuck! Get me that remote. The broadcast starts in a minute!”

  Nero strode into the room, stopping abruptly at the sight of the smashed remote on the floor. “I fixed this ten minutes ago. ” Shaking his head, he knelt to collect the pieces.

  “Do not question my methodology!” Aleister thrust a finger in Nero’s direction, smacking his palm against the arm of his throne.

  Deimos tiptoed into the room, holding a brobdingnag
ian silver goblet encrusted with jewels.

  “And you!” Aleister threw an arm in the air. “You are on my shit list!”

  Nero passed the remote to Deimos.

  Deimos hung his head and inched toward Aleister, offering the remote. “Lord Aleister, my apologies.”

  Aleister pressed his lips together and snatched the remote.

  “I made a mistake.” Deimos kept his eyes on the floor. “I interpreted data incorrectly and foiled your plans. I must cultivate a mindfulness to ward against future errors.” He lifted his eyes, big, brown, glassy, blinking, puppy dog eyes, and gave his best boyish smile.

  Aleister was unmoved.

  Deimos presented the goblet. “And I brought you some beer.”

  Aleister swiped the chalice. “Forgiven!” He narrowed his eyes. “What are you, fourteen?”

  “Seventeen, Sir.”

  “Participating in our unit is an honor.” He took a swig from the goblet. “Your next mistake won’t be forgiven.”

  Deimos bowed his head. “Yes, Sir!”

  Phobos and a troupe of twenty other men poured into the room, one man parading with an oak keg high above his head. Others distributed silver tavern mugs.

  One man passed Orion a mug.

  Orion lifted a hand to decline.

  Aleister rolled his eyes. “You’re too good to celebrate?”

  He glanced out the window. “I prefer wine.”

  “I told you to stay out of my cellar!” Aleister pointed a finger in his face.

  Orion’s eyes followed the movement of his finger.

  He waved a hand, swatting him away. “You are forbidden to enter without my expressed permission.”

  Orion craned his neck forward. “You don’t drink the wine—”

  “But I use it!” He slammed his goblet against the armrest. “I specifically reserved that Chianti to use in my lightcakes recipe, and you drank it!”

  “I’m surprised you know what a Chianti is.” Orion shook his hair from his face. “How much wine do you need to add to unleavened wafers?”

  “How much wine are you stealing from my cellar?!” Aleister leaned over the edge of his throne, eyes bulging. “How much do you need to drink?!”

  He lifted a hand. “There are” —he looked at the floor, and laughed— “tens of thousands of bottles between all the vaults. You mean to tell me there’s not one single other Chianti you can waste in some inedible recipe to feed to your brainwashed acolytes?”

  “I wanted that one!”

  Orion tilted his head. “Because you saw me drinking it?”

  Aleister squeezed his hand into a fist. “You didn’t ask me if you could drink it!”

  Mugs clanked; beer flowed; the crowd of men hollered and cheered.

  Orion’s eyes flitted to the screen: the image of an enormous communications tower, made of crisscross metal bars, groaned and toppled in a fireworks display of explosions. The tumbling tower ripped out power lines, crashed into a parking lot, cracked the asphalt and flattened several parked vahans.

  An anchorwoman reported: “The much-awaited and recently completed communications tower in the heart of Jambu’s Diamond District was demolished by terrorists. . .”

  The den rocked with the earthquake of men whooping, clapping, toasting mugs, and stomping feet.

  One man lifted the mug above his head, sloshing a rain of beer on his companions. “To Aleister!”

  They whistled and screamed. “To Aleister!”

  Aleister stood up, and climbed onto the seat of his throne. “To liberation!” He raised the goblet above his head.

  The men went wild.

  Orion smirked, crossing his arms.

  “To our planet!” Aleister thrust the chalice before him and slopped beer on the Persian carpet. “To the downfall of the corporate overlords!”

  The air grew thick with sweat, screams, and stupid devotion.

  “To reclaim our sovereignty!” Aleister’s voice cracked, his face flushed red.

  Orion winced.

  “To rip the fangs from the beast, one communications tower at a time!” Aleister whipped the crowd into a frenzy.

  The cheering peaked.

  Orion thought his ears might bleed.

  “We will not be herded silently into a cage!” Aleister threw his goblet against the wall.

  Nero slapped his face with a palm.

  “We are not cattle to be farmed! We are not lemmings rushing into consumption-based suicide!”

  Orion leaned his head against the wall and shut his eyes.

  The cheering tapered away.

  Opening one eye, he observed the footage of destruction loop endlessly on the television.

  The reporter’s voice surfaced above the din: “The Rutian terrorist faction, The Brothers of Light, came forth with prompt public statements denying involvement. Authorities involved have questioned. . .”

  “I thank you all for a job well done!” Aleister clapped his hands. “We will fight the good fight!”

  The den emptied. Phobos and Deimos remained; Nero scrubbed beer stains from the carpet.

  Aleister reclined in his throne, wearing a satisfied smirk.

  Orion leaned forward in his chair, one gloved hand supporting his chin, staring intently at the screen.

  The broadcast continued: “The Empire Daitya’s Premier announced a partnership with Techthonic Innovations, citing a keen interest in Ms. Grigori’s patented bio-mechanic technology.”

  A middle-aged woman with flawless skin and bright red lips smiled at the camera, behind a pair of vintage lemon sunglasses, beneath a broad-rimmed funeral hat, a veil of black lace obscuring her face. She piled her blonde hair into a tidy bun and wore a black dress, hands covered in a pair of pearly silk gloves spanning the length of her forearms.

  Orion lit a cigarette. Not this shit again.

  “The Premier states Echidna Grigori’s long list of humanitarian achievements drove his decision to deeply enmesh the Daityan government in a powerful corporate alliance. Ms. Grigori’s company has not only revolutionized the worldview of contraceptive technology, but she freely donates her injectable devices to low-income districts and undeveloped nations.”

  He sucked back smoke until he coughed, turning his head away from the screen. He felt ill.

  He understood why Aleister hated TV.

  “Truly the work of an angel, Ms. Grigori’s genetically-enhanced crops have revolutionized nutrition for the children of Daitya's underclass.”

  The broadcast shuffled between film snippets of Echidna shaking hands with suited officials and squeezing the tiny hands of school children. In every video clip, she hid her face behind makeup, her emotions behind a netted veil, her intentions behind sunglasses.

  A smoldering lump of rage burned in the pit of Orion’s stomach.

  “Lager doesn’t stain.” Aleister pointed at the carpet.

  Nero moved his chalice across the floor. “The carpet is stained, Aleister.”

  He shrugged. “Make the twins clean it.” He pointed at Phobos. “You! You owe me. Get on your knees and start scrubbing!”

  Phobos knit his brow and glanced to his brother. “Don’t you mean—”

  Deimos snuck to the edge of the room.

  “Clean the fucking carpet! You’re in no position to complain!” Aleister waved his arm. “God!”

  Orion shifted in his chair, turning to face Aleister. “You execute your missions with succinct precision.”

  Aleister pointed to the screen. “We’re professionals.”

  “But have you ever considered, that despite your skill. . .” Orion took a thoughtful drag on his cigarette. “You operate in obscurity.”

  “This is MY chateau.” Aleister smashed a palm against his throne. “Not an open forum for complaints! I provide for you—if you don’t like it, leave.”

  “You heard the broadcast.” Orion let out a long breath. “They still think The Brothers of Light are responsible. Do you want someone else to reap the credit for your ope
rations?”

  Aleister knit his rugged eyebrows.

  “Are you satisfied with that?” Orion ashed in an empty beer mug.

  “While I respect The Brothers, they aren't nearly as elegant about executing their plans. . .” He tugged at his goatee.

  “Your brilliance is superior.” Orion nodded. “That’s why I think it’s time you earned yourself a place in the public eye. Become a hero.”

  Aleister narrowed his eyes. “I get suspicious when you talk too much.”

  “It’s time for a big target.” Orion tossed his cigarette butt into the mug, and promptly lit another. “Time to make a difference in a big way.”

  Lowering his voice, Aleister leaned over the arm of his throne. “What are you talking about?”

  “I'm not talking about towers.” He smoked furiously. “I'm talking about those who give the orders to build the towers. Stop fucking around with infrastructure they will inevitably repair, abducting corrupt senators that are easily bought and replaced.” He nodded at the screen. “Do something huge. Take down Echidna Grigori.”

  Aleister stared at him with wide eyes.

  “You’re the only man that’s brilliant enough to pull it off.” He nudged Aleister’s shoulder with his knuckles. “Others who tried have failed. But you never fail.”

  “You think we have the capacity to do it?” Aleister dug his nails into the throne.

  “The numbers and resources for the mission are present.” Orion tapped his cigarette against the mug. “But it requires your command.”

  “Getting rid of Echidna would be huge.” Aleister stared dreamily into the ceiling.

  “It’s the perfect opportunity to accomplish everything you want.” Orion savored the taste of the smoke. “Knock the Empire down a peg. Repent for your ancestors’ greed. Throw a wrench into the engine of the war machine.”

  “Wait a minute.” He narrowed his eyes. “You never scheme with me. What’s in it for you?”

  "Sure, go ahead, send the senator a ransom note with letters clipped from magazines next time there's a vote—when is that, in a few weeks? It's a good plan." Orion stared him in the eyes. “But imagine the evils Echidna will unleash upon the world if she goes to bed with Daitya.” He pointed.

  “But what do you care?” Aleister tilted his head. “You’re notoriously uncommitted.”