Captured by the Alien Warrior_A Sci-Fi Alien Romance

by Viki Storm

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  About the Author

  © Viki Storm 2018. All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form by any means without the prior written consent of the author, except in the case of brief quotations for critical reviews and certain noncommercial uses permitted by law.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, locations, and events portrayed in this work are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Sold to the Alien Prince (Zalaryn Raiders Book 1)

  I never get used to the smell of burning hair.

  We step off the ship, the Admiral Superior lashing the backs of our legs as we pour onto the hard-packed soil. I grit my teeth, summoning my strength to keep from taking that whip of his and lodging it into his nostril.

  But I comply. I shout and whoop and raise my fist to the air. After all, I’m on The Great Raid. A rebel traitor—eager to sack this planet and fill my waist-pouch with coin.

  Except, as I look around at the planet, I get a bad feeling. There’s something wrong.

  Problem is, I can’t figure out what.

  Many of the other young raiders are looking out at the desolate planet, the scattered shacks in the distance. This is not what they envisioned. They imagined riches and lush crops tended by fertile, plump females. They imagined livestock and flowing water. Industry, factories and shops with electronic devices, fuel and other valuable items to be loaded into the cargo bay of our ship.

  Their faces broadcast their wounded pride.

  Zalaryn warriors are worthy of better plunder, bigger settlements. “Higher risk and higher rewards” is one of the Zalaryn warriors’ favorite mottos.

  Other lads, however, are not disappointed by the barren planet and are already setting fire to the nearby dwellings. They are whooping and hollering.

  Happy to burn.

  I can do nothing except join the rabble. I can do nothing but burn.

  These lads? They’re too eager to burn. It’s one thing to feel the joy of conquest wash over you, but these raiders are downright gleeful. And young. The oldest lad has barely seen twenty winters.

  They aren’t the caliber of warriors that would accompany the leader of the rebellion, High Merchant Noxu. He would be surrounded by the most hardened, experienced raiders, not a bunch of wild lads.

  “Shut your holes,” Admiral Superior Zuro shouts. He’s missing three of his teeth, and—as if to make up for the fact—he wears a leather thong around his neck threaded with the finger bones of his slain foes. “This is it, boys. Time to take. But keep an open ear. Listen for orders.”

  I’ve dealt with plenty of officers like him. Running the ship like the tyrant of a small planet, meting out punishments to any who dare offend him.

  “Leave no stone unturned,” Zuro says. “Take anything of value. And that includes slaves.”

  I keep my eyes down and my ears open. I’m good at that. As the Captain of the Imperial Guard I have to know the minds of my foes and think two steps ahead of them at all times.

  On this planet, however, I am not Droka, Captain of the Imperial Guard.

  Here, I go by the name Kroda—and get nothing but disrespectful sneers from the youth who think that I’m too old and slow to be on a raiding party.

  If they only knew the things I’ve done. The blood I’ve had to spill. The phantom screams that haunt my nightmares.

  They’d respect me—be in awe of my deeds. But only because they’re young and stupid.

  That’s when I hear the slow boot steps echoing inside our ship. I go to the back of the crowd, hide my face. The captain of this ship is the rebel leader, the former High Merchant Noxu. I am to apprehend him—dead or alive. High King Xalax, my dearest childhood friend, has sent me on this covert mission and I do not intend to fail.

  As our captain exits and stands in the light, my stomach drops. Void take me, I think.

  It’s not Noxu.

  I’m on the wrong ship.

  The captain is wearing breeches of fine suede, the light beige of a yearling khoro. His boots are polished and studded with onodite crystals, but anyone can see that the toes and heels are not reinforced with rhomanium fibers for strength and protection. He’s dressed like he’s going to the aphelion feast with the heads of state.

  It’s obvious he’s never been on a raid before in his life, let alone commanded an entire regiment.

  “Proud warriors,” the captain says, his voice full of the arrogance of someone who hasn’t had to hear the word ‘no’ very often. If ever. “I am Captain Ingzan. Unsheathe your anankahs. Set a full charge. Let the wailing widows send capsules into orbit. Let their griefsongs echo through the sector. Let their prayers for mercy and rescue fall on deaf ears!”

  Everything makes sense.

  Ingzan is Noxu’s son. And while Noxu is cunning and experienced, his son has led the sheltered and spoiled life of the upper class. This raiding party is Noxu’s present to his son. Noxu rounded up a group of inexperienced raiders and put them on this ship so his son can play captain.

  Noxu must have sent us way out to this desolate sector to keep his son out of harm’s way. He doesn’t want his son in any real danger, so he sent us here, to a planet where an errant tumbleweed is the biggest threat we’re liable to face.

  The youths roar their approval. They think this is going to be like the songs that drunken old fools sing in the taverns. They are going to be disappointed when they see that there is nothing on this planet for them.

  “Show them the power of Zalaryx! Send them fleeing into the shadows!” Captain Ingzan screams. He’s doing a good imitation of what he thinks a bloodthirsty warrior would say to his men. “Charge forward!”

  The boys start to run. I open my mouth and breathe in, feeling their fear and anxiety prickle over the sensory pads on my tongue.

  I quicken my stride to follow. There’s no way that this raid is going to end well. The boys are going to be disappointed—and there are fewer things in the galaxy more dangerous than a Zalaryn warrior with his blood up and his spirits low.

  The youths storm into the small shacks, run into the dusty pens and rows of pitiful crops. I brace myself for the familiar sounds of squealing livestock and the stench of fire.

  I am not disappointed. The boys ravage the small settlement, blasting the doors off the dwellings, decapitating scrawny goats, setting fire to the rickety old spacecraft.

  This is not glory. This is not a display of our courage and might.

  This is a slaughter.

  But I am not moved to pity. I have been at this a long time. I have formed a nice thick layer of crust around my heart—hard as the soil underneath my boots.

  I follow the Admiral Superior into the settlement, keeping my eyes open for any warning signs of real trouble.

  I know I won’t have to wait long.

  - - -

  The first sign of trouble—and I mean honest, void-worshiping trouble—is when Admir
al Superior Zuro drags the old man out of bed and crushes his small, human head underneath his boot. The Admiral asks no questions, merely yanks the shriveled old ankle sticking out under the blanket and stomps his skull with no more ceremony than when you step on a pedipalpoid skittering across the dusty floor of your chambers.

  The sound was depressingly unremarkable. A man’s thoughts, dreams, memories, his life, ended in much the same way that you crack open a shell to get to the nut inside.

  “Tear the place apart,” the Admiral Superior yells. The younger raiders whoop in approval and start to ransack the pathetic little dwelling. I stand shocked, watching the blood pool under the old man’s head. I am about to say something when our captain strides into the dwelling.

  “What a delightfully bloodthirsty showing!” Captain Ingzan says, smiling broadly and clasping his hands together like a maiden who just heard a scandalously bawdy joke. “How he yelped when he landed on the floor! The poor bastard probably thought he was having a bad dream and then—splat!”

  I ball my fists so hard that the tendons in my arms start to tremble. My teeth grind together like the cogs of a rusty machine.

  “These humans disgust me,” Admiral Zuro says. “They don’t even bother to defend themselves.”

  “It’s because they have nothing worth defending,” I say. This settlement is nothing but a few dilapidated houses and some stinking birds that are missing half their feathers.

  “Their lives, dear Kroda,” our captain says to me. “A true Zalaryn warrior will always fight to defend his life. These humans cower and weep, begging for mercy when they deserve none.”

  Our captain. I know that he’s never fought for anything, except maybe over a game of podlk when someone in the tavern accuses him of miscounting the chips.

  “Hey,” one of the younger raiders yells. He comes stumbling into the room holding an old woman by the wrists. She takes one look at the dead man on the floor and starts wailing.

  “Shut up, old crone,” the Admiral says. He raises his anankah and she quiets.

  “If only there were some trees on this barren planet,” the captain says. “We could have an old-fashioned skewering, like the days of the Founders. I have read that a human can last several days, just so long as they are given water. What a shame.”

  “My captain,” Zuro says. “Have more faith in your humble servants.” He reaches down and grabs a splintery support beam from the rickety dwelling and pulls it free, the primitive iron nails screeching as it comes loose. The woman screams and starts gibbering in her human language.

  Zuro takes the dagger from his belt and starts to whittle down the end of the beam.

  “Take care,” the captain says. His voice is lyrical, rehearsed, like he fancies himself to be the cutthroat captain in a mummer’s farce on the summer night’s stage. “Do not sharpen the end to a point,” he tells Zuro. “Carve it round and blunt. I am a great scholar of history. Despite the name, skewers are not intended to pierce the flesh. You are not to impale her like a wriggling lumbroid on the angler’s hook. Blunt the end. Insert it gently into the entrance to the bowels. Go slow. Wiggle the skewer, so that it merely pushes the internal organs to the side. Do not rupture anything. She will last much, much longer this way. She might still be alive when we travel back here in a few neus from now.”

  “You are a most excellent commander,” Zuro says. “Wise in the fine arts of conquest.”

  I want to scream. But I am not Droka, Captain of the Imperial Guard. I am Kroda, a scarred old raider.

  In the days I was in charge of raids like this, my men would never dream of such brutality. But I am not in charge. I’m supposed to be apprehending the traitor Noxu, but since I’m on the crew headed by Noxu’s son—his cruel void-spawn—I must stay under cover. I am still positioned well to spy and get vital information about the rebellion.

  Stopping the rebellion is the important thing. They are allied with the Kraxx; the war and violence in our future will make a few skewerings look quaint.

  Am I really going to ruin it all to save one pitiful old human? The fate of my entire planet is at stake.

  I look away as the youths drag the old woman outside, kicking and screaming. Maybe she’ll have a heart attack before they can carve the stick and place her upon it.

  Her cries send my stomach into a churning, sick storm. I vow to make everyone responsible here today pay a hefty price for this atrocity.

  Myself included.

  Myself most of all.

  It’s all I can do to keep from running outside first thing this morning and check the plants. The last four nights, something miraculous has happened when the sun was down: my crops actually grew.

  This planet doesn’t grow very much, despite claims of it being a perfect human settlement, similar in most ways to Earth.

  Similar to Earth? Yeah, right.

  Even in the blighted, devastated ruins of Earth, we had rain, sunlight, soil.

  People.

  Things you take for granted.

  This settlement was started fifty years ago, as a secret haven for those with means to leave Earth. Its coordinates were kept a secret. You had to know someone who knew someone to even get a chance to talk to the leaders of the settlement.

  Oh, and cash. You had to have lots and lots of cash.

  But cash can’t buy rain. It can’t put nitrogen in the soil. And it sure as hell can’t change the way the atmosphere scatters the light waves from the odd, red sun.

  I force myself to slow down. To make my bed. To wash my face and brush my teeth. When you live alone—and I mean alone, I often go days without seeing another settler—it’s easy to neglect things like that. But I hear my mother’s words in my head every morning and feel guilty: looking good and feeling good often go hand-in-hand. She’s right, of course. Was right. When she was coughing up blood and little rubbery pink pieces of lung tissue, she didn’t look or feel very good.

  I put some pellets into the stove and light the fire. They smell horrible, and I don’t want to know what they’re made of. The guy who lands here once a month to sell supplies insists that the fuel chips are a type of coal. I’m pretty sure he’s lying and the fuel chips are dung from a foul alien creature.

  I warm my hands at the stove, flexing my fingers to try and work the cold out of them. This planet does not have an axial tilt like Earth and therefore we do not experience changing seasons. We only have one continuous season: cold.

  After I set my water to boil and comb my hair, I wrap my cloak around my shoulders and step into my boots. I’ll get properly dressed after I come back inside and wash, but right now I have to check the plants. I can’t wait any longer. The last four days the tomatoes have gone from little hard green nodes into plump green fruits. The corn sprouted too; the stalks are thin and wispy as blades of grass, but that’s okay.

  This is the most success I’ve ever had.

  I concocted a new soil mixture and—for once—it seems to be working. Our planet orbits huge red star that is magnificent, especially at sunset, but only gives off dim yellowish light. You step outside and it’s like the whole planet is lit up by someone’s oil lantern.

  I remember my childhood on Earth. The sunlight was bright enough to make you squint and put your hand up to shield your eyes. To compensate for the weaker light, I have tried everything to get the plants to grow. Soil mixtures. Various pH concentrations in the water. Nutrients. One of my early attempts even involved rigging a glass above the seedlings to magnify the sun’s rays. Needless to say, it didn’t work.

  I brace myself for the cold and it doesn’t disappoint. I wrap my cloak even tighter, but the cold seems to have tiny little fingers, agile and adept at finding a way through the tight weave of the fabric. Underneath I’m just wearing my threadbare nightgown, which I sewed out of an old flour sack three years ago. Out here, you have to make things last.

  I jog to the rows I’ve planted, telling myself it’s to warm up, not because I’m overflowing with hope.
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br />   Because hope doesn’t pay. Hope is merely the precursor to disappointment.

  I crouch down ready to see my recent success… and there is nothing but brown, shriveled husks where the tomatoes were. The corn stalks are brown too, the leaves crisp and papery.

  I feel sick. I can’t stand another disappointment like this. I was stupid to let myself hope.

  Back to the drawing board. Again.

  Except, I don’t have time to start over. I’m running out of the money my parents managed to smuggle off-planet. Soon I will have nothing valuable to barter when I need more grains or fuel chips or lantern oil.

  Nothing, of course, except my virginity.

  Soryahn, the traveling salesman who brings us the fuel and other supplies, has made his intentions clear. When my parents died, he offered to take me with him. “I’ll do right by you,” he says, “I got a little place with my mom and sister. They’d help you take care of the babies.”

  I see him once a month to buy the dried pieces of manure he swears isn’t manure, and already he’s got me bearing his children. I suppose if he’s fantasized about me long enough, he’s already progressed to that stage of our relationship in his mind.

  Soryahn is at least forty—almost twice my age—and not the sort of man a young woman dreams of marrying.

  But he might be my only hope. If I stay on Yrdat long enough, I’ll starve. Or freeze.

  Probably both.

  I don’t want to run. I’ve had to run before. That’s how I ended up here. When I was twelve and got my first menstrual period, it was required Earth law that I submit my DNA for testing. Less than one percent of human females have DNA that is compatible with Zalaryn DNA, so of course I thought nothing of it.

  What twelve-year-old girl wants to think of a life as an alien breeding vessel? Copulating with the big red bald creatures who run outposts on our planet. Giving birth to one of them. Giving birth to five or ten of them.

  That’s the beauty of a child’s mind. The purity of optimism. The surety that nothing bad will ever happen to you.

  Two Zalaryn aliens came to our house, gave my parents a copy of the test results, then held me down and tattooed my shoulder with a barcode. My mother fainted dead away. My father seethed with impotent rage, vowing vengeance that everyone knew would never come to pass. The aliens said that I was too young now, but on my twentieth birthday, I would be summoned. I would leave Earth forever to become mated to one of their kind.