“It’s Monday on Earth. If I were home, I would have worked today. I had the afternoon shift—one to ten. I love my job. Most of my friends hate theirs.”
“And what is your job?”
“I work at a coffee shop called Rock n’ Robusta.”
“Robusta? I am not familiar with that word.”
“It’s a type of coffee bean. We use only the highest quality beans at Rock n’ Robusta. We use Arabica beans, too.” She lifted her head. “Do you know what coffee is?”
“Yes, I researched it after I watched the movie Pulp Fiction. The character, Jimmie, says, ‘I don’t need you to tell me how fuckin’ good my coffee is, okay? I’m the one who buys it. I know how good it is. When Bonnie—’”
“‘—goes shopping, she buys shit. I buy the gourmet expensive stuff because when I drink it, I want to taste it.’” America gasped. “Oh my God. I can’t believe you’ve seen Pulp Fiction.”
“I’ve seen it many times. Like I said, I’ve studied your culture, and in doing so, I’ve viewed many films produced in the United States.”
“It’s my favorite movie,” the two of us said in unison. “At least my favorite in English,” I added.
“Wow, that’s crazy,” said America as she laughed. Lacking the hard clicks of my language, her laugh was rich yet delicate, and I was thankful our change in conversation had brought her some temporary happiness. Something warm rushed through me. It felt good to hear her laugh. “I wish I was there now—at Rock n’ Robusta. I’d order a large coffee.” She straightened her back.
“We have something similar to coffee—tarla beans. When placed in a cup of water, the beans immediately sprout, and the infusion process begins as the leaves develop and open. The beans are removed when the first bud appears, or the blooms will sour the brew.”
“It sounds more like a tea than coffee. Rock n’ Robusta sells tea, too.”
“So your job is to prepare and serve coffee and tea?”
“Yeah, and scones and cookies, and sometimes I sell records, too. There’s a small record store inside the shop. It’s pretty much the only place around that still sells vinyl. Because of that, a lot of bands come in—not just the locals—but pretty much any band that’s on tour and playing in San Diego. We get them to sign photos and album covers, and sometimes they donate memorabilia, and then we hang them on the walls. We play rock music, too, all kinds—hard, alternative, classic.” She dropped her hands in her lap. “Oh, I’m sorry. You probably have no idea what I’m talking about. I’m just rambling on and on…”
“Motley Crue, Led Zeppelin, Nirvana, The Beatles…”
“You’ve listened to them?”
“Yes. Earth music in English, like movies, has become part of my independent studies. I’m familiar with most genres, but rock is my favorite. Enestian music is…” I paused to find the right words, and America tilted her head to one side and leaned closer to the containment wall. “It’s melodic but one-dimensional. It holds no inspiration or influence.” I inched forward. “American rock music has a culture all its own. It impacts fashion, attitudes—even your language,” I said. “It’s…”
“Raw emotion, energy, it moves—”
“The soul,” I said, and opened my eyes as wide as I could as I gazed at the blur that was America’s face. If only I could see her clearly while we spoke—her tender human lips, plump and meaty, the apples of her velvety cheeks as they lift with each word. “And with its weave of rifts and drum beats, it suppresses all fears, all uncertainties, leaving one’s spirit whole and comforted, if only for a moment.”
“Yes, that’s exactly it,” she said enthusiastically, her human voice and accent pleasant against my ears, but a moment later, she set her chin against her knees and let her hands drop from her lap.
“America?”
“Yeah,” she said weakly. She sniffled, and I knew she was crying again, softly. Again, I wished I could touch her. My hand upon her could offer some sympathy.
“I should go. I want to stay. I want to learn more about you, but I’ve already stayed too long. If I get caught, then I can’t return.”
I sighed and imagined her at Rock n’ Robusta, making coffee and other alien brews like I’d seen so many times on American television programs. In my mind’s eye, she measured, mixed, and tapped on a strange machine until a dark liquid flowed into a cup she held, her hand soft and bumpy with underlying bone and cartilage. To hold her hand, even comfort her, I should like to do that very much.
“I know. Go,” she said, as I stood and straightened my tunic.
Lestra was at the end of the hall. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked when I reached her. “Fifteen minutes— That was more than fifteen minutes. I can’t keep my brother distracted for much longer than that.” She walked ahead of me, and once we were out of the lab, her steps turned into a stomp.
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” I finally said when we reached my quarters. “Something is wrong with my father. It’s obvious at first glance that humans have more similarities to us than differences. Like I said before, their thought processes are—”
“How can you even think that?” Lestra’s lips came together with a hard click. “That alien is nothing like us.”
“It speaks a language. It can reason. Its cognitive abilities surpass any of the inhabitants of Reelio Seven.”
“That’s not saying much. Reelians are weak witted.”
I sat onto the edge of the bed, my body slumped like the gray blurry figure of America when she had sat in a ball in her cell. “She was examined this morning by my father.”
“As to be expected,” said Lestra as she sat next to me.
“He hurt her. How could he do that?”
“Simple. The way he always does.” She scooted closer, and the bed sunk with her weight, rocking her body against me.
I stood and crossed the room. A tapestry depicting an ancient raid upon our kingdom hung against the wall. It was intricate, delicately hand woven, each detail a small bud of colored thread. “But it’s different this time. She’s different. She’s not like the others.” I gave the tapestry a punch, hitting the stone wall behind it. Dust emanated from its primordial fibers, and the smell of rot became heavy in my room.
“What are you doing?” asked Lestra as she ran to me. “You’re going to crack your shell.” She grabbed my hand and held it, then ran her fingers along my knuckles.
“I’m fine,” I said and ripped my hand away.
“You’re not fine. You’re obsessing over something that’s out of your control, something that shouldn’t even be your concern.”
“Lestra, just go, please. I want to be alone right now.”
“Why, so you can lie on your bed and listen to that awful alien music you like so much?”
“Go, please.”
She stormed from my room, and as she caught the light next to the door, I could have sworn she was wearing shell powder again.
Obstinate palace maid. And how could she be so insensitive? My father’s cruelty had to end, not only toward beings that possess higher order thinking skills, but all living creatures. I turned on my monitor and blasted Motley Crue, envisioning America sitting beside me as we sang the lyrics.
Chapter Nine
America
“No. Not again. Please!”
Blinded by the bright light and immobilized, I screamed until my lips were sealed shut by a force not my own. Voices, more voices. Words I didn’t understand. And clacking sounds—not metal upon metal or plastic upon plastic—the sound was dull, and at times there was a scraping, not like sandpaper, but like smooth surfaces gliding across one another. The sound an ice skate makes against the ice.
What were these things? These things with human-shaped bodies and a language made up of sounds and clicks. If only I could see them.
What are you doing? No! Don’t!
Something slid against my body, something hard and cold. It stopped at my hip, found my previous puncture, and with a thrust
re-entered the wound. A spark of hot pain radiated through my abdomen, shot down my thigh, and ended at my foot. The left side of my body burned as the probe dug deeper, twisting and grinding.
Hands clasped my legs, hard yet rubbery against my skin. No! No! My knees were separated, and my legs, now numb and heavy, were pulled apart. My heart pulsed, heavy thumps that rattled in my ears. Each intake of air took strength and thought. Breathe, Breathe. Breathe, I told myself. But the heaviness in my chest remained, and though the room smelled of chemicals and raw meat, my lungs burned and yearned for a deep breath.
Just do it! Kill me now! I don’t want to live if I’ll never see my mom and my friends again! I can’t live in that cell another day!
Garran. His blurry body erupted in my mind as I strained to see my captors. He made me laugh the day before, brought back good memories, but his sympathy, his company, it wasn’t enough to give me any prolonged hope—not now, not when I was here, like this.
No! I want to die. Let me die now. Death, please save me from this humiliation! My eyes closed.
The re-punctured wound at my hip throbbed. Around its swollen edge, a bit of blood was crusted, but it hadn’t turned into a scab. I rose to the right wall, and when the sink retracted, I caught water in my hand and gave my body a splash. The cool water eased the sting of my wound, but when I sat down again, the pulsing, fiery ache returned, along with the memory of the second time I’d been brutally violated by my alien enemies.
The tray that had held the colored cubes of food the day before was still in my room and icy cold to the touch. I gently propped it against my hip, hoping it would alleviate the swelling.
I was still alive after what they did to me, but for how long?
A whip of fear lashed up my spine, and the walls of my cell appeared to close in upon me, crushing my freedom and sucking the air from my lungs. My muscles and my mind pulsed with a need for freedom, for an escape if only for a minute’s time.
I had to get out of here. I could do this.
The urge was too strong to resist. The food tray was cookie-sheet sized and harder than any metal I’d seen on Earth, its strange sheen reflecting my face in a blur of gray and gold as I held it, angling it in the dim light. Yes! I had to try. Why not? Sitting in my cell and waiting for another round of torture or even death left me little hope. What if Garran never returned? Then what? Any chance of survival would be gone, too.
I sat, my legs drawn but facing the lethal wall. After placing my palms in the center of the tray, I raised it above my head. Would the integrity of the tray shield me from the fatal wave of jell?
In one quick motion, I pushed the metal through the liquid curtain. Sparks flew and pinpoints of tiny lights spurted in all directions. The fall of goo split, spilling over the edge of the tray while I remained shielded, hunched, and digging my heels into the stone floor in a crawl that inched my body forward.
But the tray’s thinner rim began to melt under the wall’s caustic wave. Like drops of hot wax, a shower of molten metal rained at my sides, a splash that hit my arms in several places. If the tray buckled or a hole burned through its center, the wall would undulate downward like the blade of a guillotine, severing my head from my body.
Just one more foot!
The smell of burned hair filled the narrow hall as my head slipped through the divided wall, and I sat up on the other side, catching my breath. The tray was warped, its sides solidifying in the hall’s dank air, and as I set what was left of the metal to my right, I noticed a hunk of singed hair, dry and wiry, lying across my shoulder. It gave with a yank, crackling into ash that peppered the floor.
Coin-sized drops of metal, aluminum foil thin, trailed my arms, leaving stinging, red, and hairless patches of skin when I brushed them away, but I ignored the pain. I was free. And even if it didn’t last for more than a few minutes, it was enough to hold my sanity.
Now what? Right or left? Did it really matter? How far could I get without being caught?
Right, I decided, and crept down the hall, the small lights in the ceiling sensing my presence and becoming brighter as I walked beneath them. This was not the same hall I’d been in before. This hall was lined with cells on the left, cells identical to mine.
“Empty, empty, empty,” I mouthed as I passed each barren room, its containment wall deactivated, but as I came across the next, its fourth wall intact and rippling, a deep howl cut through the thick, misty liquid.
A small body, a four-foot high, broad-shouldered blur, hobbled forward, and I stumbled, my back knocking against the far wall.
A series of grunts came next, dark and haunting, making my skin prickle and my shoulders jerk into a hard shudder.
“Shhh, please,” I said, looking left and right.
But the creature continued its mad rant even after I sprang forward into the shadows of the next dormant cell.
Voices. Clicks. “Damn!”
Something hit my calves, a dot of pain erupting from the source. Instinctively, I raked my hand across my lower leg and found a small, liquid-filled dart that spun under its own power, feverishly drilling into my soft flesh as if it was designed for the tough, armored hide of a rhinoceros.
My vision blurred, and my body thudded against the cold stone floor.
Two failed escape attempts within a twenty-four hour period, both resulting in a medically induced state of unconsciousness, left me too weak to cry, though the last attempt had been liberating. Knowing what lay beyond my cell gave me the needed dose of determination I needed in order to keep my sanity.
Like before, I had been returned to my cell. And I was still alive—for now.
That was something I needed to ask Garran about again. I needed to know my fate. He had to tell me.
But who was Garran, this strange alien who liked Pulp Fiction and rock music? Three galaxies from Earth, and he knew about the Fab Four? He understood what music meant and what it did for me, and apparently rock music did the same for him, too.
Not many people understood that. Attie hated my taste in music. Country music was her thing, and though rock was our coffee shop’s theme, even some of my co-workers complained and were tempted to switch it up to a pop music channel as soon as the owner left.
But not me. Like Garran said, rock moved my soul, and in a strange way, so did my conversation with Garran. Now that I was back in my cell, the bit of hope his last words left me with returned, like maybe the king would eventually send me home. It wasn’t anything specific that he said. I wasn’t sure what it was, but something about him gave me a sliver of faith. And something more. I liked the way his voice sounded. Odd, different, yet it wrapped around me when he tried to console me.
I wanted to see him again. I needed to see him again, and in the process, I had to convince him to help free me. But what were these aliens? Garran said something about shell, but his shape was human in so many ways.
“America.” Garran’s fuzzy figure appeared on the other side of the slithery wall. Thank God, my botched escapes didn’t jeopardize his ability to sneak in here and see me. He didn’t need to know about either one of them.
“How are you feeling? Have you eaten? I checked your file before I came. It indicated that a meal had been delivered,” he said.
“There was one meal, but I didn’t eat it, and now it’s gone.” I remembered the sick, charcoal-like smell of the burning food cubes and the melted tray. “And I haven’t been given any more food since.” And maybe never again, considering what I had done.
“That’s unacceptable. If I can, I will try to find out why and have meals delivered to your cell regularly.”
“Thank you,” I said, touched by the fact that he seemed to really care about me.
He eased to the floor, and I studied his silhouette when each of his legs bent and his palm met the ground to hold his weight while he settled into position. As I lowered across from him, pain rushed to my hip, my arms gave, and I collapsed.
“Are you okay?” asked Garran. He move
d forward, rising on his palms and stopping just shy of catching the top of his head in the goo of the containment wall.
“I was taken again,” I said as I delicately held my hand against my hip and rose to a sitting position. “They—”
“It was your second examination. I know what they did,” he said shamefully.
“I don’t think I can survive another.” The memory of the crippling highest point of pain returned. My throat tightened as my pulse spiked, and I gasped before swallowing hard.
“No, you can’t. I mean, you need to try, to stay strong, to…”
“What’s going to happen to me?”
“I’m not sure.”
But there was something about his tone and hesitancy to answer that made me think he knew more than he was leading me to believe, and I shivered as the cold in my shoulders rode the back of my neck. I wanted Garran on this side of the barrier, his arms around me, making me feel safe. Somehow, I knew I would like that.
He shifted his weight, and one hand dropped from his knee to the floor.
“They’re going to kill me the next time, aren’t they?” I rose until my body was square with his and without covering myself with my hands. Why care about my nakedness when I was going to probably die anyway?
He lowered his chin.
“Aren’t they? Please, tell me! I want the truth.”
He lifted his head until we were eye-to-eye, and through the rippling curtain, his face appeared skull-like with dark sockets and a defined chin. But that didn’t frighten me. If he were next to me, comforting me, I was sure his eyes would hold a special softness, and I could bear his answer, even the one I didn’t want to hear.
“Yes,” he said. “I am sorry.”
The minute I was cruelly examined by my captors, I knew this was my fate. I just didn’t want to believe it until now.
Every nerve in my body pulsed, and the hair on my arms rose. My stomach wrenched with a sudden, explosive pain, and I sucked in a quick breath until it subsided, and I was left feeling sick all over.
Gamma Rift Page 5