Romance: Scifi Romance: Mated by the Alien (Abduction BWWM Paranormal Romance) (Interracial First Contact Space Romance)

by Linda Mathers

  We haven’t seen much evidence of our efforts yet, but the reduced number of guards at their station is a good sign we think. For as long as I can remember it has been five guards milling about in the daytime, increasing to seven at night. After our last time jump, there were four guards in the day, and only five at night. It’s impossible to say whether this is a direct consequence of our meddling, but it’s encouraging to think it might be.

  Roxy is the last to arrive in the basement. Six feet of pure muscle, hair shaved into a buzz-cut…the woman’s a machine. She’s our not-so-secret weapon, able to provide much-needed backup while we sneak behind enemy lines. She can wield a knife like nobody I’ve ever seen before. She’s fearless, and fearsome, with a cutting sense of humor that I am not ashamed to say I’ve fallen prey to a few times.

  No words are exchanged as Taylor passes the retinal scan, opens the wall panel and we file one-by-one into the machine. It’s a small contraption, one of the first of its kind. Time travel was only in its infancy during the takeover, although the scientists had high hopes for the machines. Its range is around 20 years, back or forward. If you choose to believe the reports, a group of rebels had tried to stop the aliens from ever arriving on Earth in the first place, but in the process almost started a nuclear war that would have wiped out the entire planet. It was narrowly averted by altering the timeline again.

  As we settle into our seats, Roxy yanks the panel back to conceal us and I set the dials to my left. A slow whirring rises in the cockpit as I squeeze myself into my seat, gripping the armrests hard enough to imprint crescent-moon shapes in the upholstery. I am not looking forward to the trip. It isn’t a lot of fun, feeling your body shredded into microscopic pieces and then put back together again. As we begin the jump, my skin feels as though it’s being stretched beyond the limits of my skeleton; my limbs feel 10 feet long. In reality, the pain is merely a blip in the expanse of time, our collective yells lost in the vacuum of a space that both exists and does not, simultaneously.

  It’s over before it begins. We slam back to earth, jolted in our seats, panting and perspiring from the exertion. Taylor is the first out of his seat, unbuckling his restraint and throwing the door open. It’s a relief to have fresh air drift into the small space—an even bigger one to step out into it, to allow the moonlight to illuminate my face.

  “Everybody clear on the plan?” Taylor asks, hands on hips, standing in the middle of the empty wasteland we always land in. Miserable weeds crawl up from beneath a cracked tarmac, the remnants of an ancient airstrip. There’s nothing but weeds for miles, before the landscape trails off into dense woodland—the location of our stash.

  There’s a choric mumble of “yeahs”, in varying levels of enthusiasm. The plan is the same as always. We’ll jog to the shack, where we keep our weapons. If it goes as it always has before, Keith will give up halfway there, complaining of a stitch in his side and clutching his waist for emphasis, valiantly calling for the rest of us to “go on without me” before Roxy will scoop him up and carry him the whole way in a bridal hold. We’ll collect our weapons, then jump into the rundown truck we scavenged and head for the nearest settlement. We took down four of the Tribe members last time, a female in the middle of doing laundry and three young males. I’d narrowly avoided being scratched by their talons on my last trip…

  It hadn’t felt so good, our last victory. The female had seemed defenseless—just a mother in the middle of hanging out a batch of damp clothing. Even the males that had gone for me—a little voice in my head had hissed you would have too, it is only self-defense. It takes more effort to quiet the voice, lately. I’d once been ruthless—you have to be ruthless in this strange new world—but seeing terror cross the faces of what might possibly have been innocents didn’t feel like a proactive, protective measure. It had seemed like murder.

  Shaking myself out of my guilt-fueled reverie, I change the record: There’s no time for sentimentality now. We’re already running full-pelt to the shack. Taylor yanks up the sheet of rusty corrugated steel that shields the entrance, allowing the rest of us to duck underneath, except for Roxy who leaps into the truck’s driver’s seat and cranks the starter, taming the engine from its initial roar to a purr.

  We each grab three weapons from our stock: a flamethrower; a pistol; a stun gun. I feel better once equipped with my armor, as if it not only provides physical protection but emotional protection, too, from the guilt threatening to consume me. My weapons remind me why we’re doing this: for the good of the Human race.

  The ride to the settlement isn’t a long one, but it’s far from comfortable. Apart from the jerking, erratic movements of the vehicle, the silence is deafening, filled with words we can’t bring ourselves to utter. There’s so much that hangs in the balance on these missions and so much that could go wrong. It’s entirely possible we could be driving back with a much lighter load than we’re setting off with.

  Thankfully, when we exit the vehicle and take up our trek into the soggy grassland surrounding the settlement, the tension is dispersed. We fall into a loose triangular formation, Taylor at the front and Roxy backing us up. I’m clutching my gun so hard on approach that it’s digging red marks into my skin, but the pain doesn’t have time to register—we’re at the settlement.

  I split off from the group with Briana to tackle the explosives. We’ve tried to ration it to one bomb per mission. They have a pretty large range. Not wide enough to touch the Human towns that lie nearby, but big enough to take down several Axylan houses at a time. Setting the timer is Briana’s job, while I keep a nervous lookout. The others are providing a pretty big distraction—one sweep of Taylor’s flamethrower takes down two of the Tribe members on the fringes of the town. They have no time to so much as cry out before they’re consumed by bright orange flames licking up their legs, devouring their torsos.

  I cringe inside. Seeing the flamethrower in action has always made me squeamish. I’ve tried so hard to make myself immune to this stuff, to wear the same mask I use to avoid detection at the prison, to conceal my emotions—the tactic I use when the screams echo, when the lights are out and I’m lying in my bunk, unable to sleep.

  “Come on, Amy,” Briana hisses, tugging at my elbow. I hadn’t noticed she was done. The bomb sits under the edge of one of the older houses—they were makeshift at first, reclaimed wood or corrugated steel sheets thrown hastily together, easy to destroy. Now they’ve had a chance to settle themselves, the Axylans have built huge iron and steel structures, impossible to set fire to without a little explosive help. The device looks innocuous, somehow, harmless while it sits there, emitting a quiet steady beep. We break into a run, heading straight for the others, who are now engaged in a battle with a smaller Tribe member. The female in question appears to be tangled in her own washing line, writhing and squirming as the flames lick at her ankles. It’s a pitiful sight. Before I can think about it too much, I give her a single blast from my own flamethrower. The alien tumbles backward, arms thrown aloft, keening miserably in that unusual way they have of voicing distress.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Taylor yells, and we all turn to run. Beyond the houses lies the forest, and beyond that, denser woodland. We can reach the truck in a few minutes if we push ourselves, and push ourselves we do. My lungs are about to burst and the telltale burning of cramps rises up my calves. I can see the truck…

  Something grabs me from behind, an iron grip around my waist. I’m on the ground in seconds, trying to turtle, curl up and away from my captor, but they’re holding fast. I see the others scatter—away from me, away from the settlement, away from everything. I have no voice left with which to cry out, but I don’t miss Taylor’s futile glance backwards, panic lighting his eyes.

  “Get…off…me!” I growl, pushing and clawing fruitlessly at my captor. I twist around just in time to see huge grey eyes blinking down at me, jaws pulled back in a snarl—it’s an alpha male, talons drawn back preparing to attack. If I don’t get away soon…r />
  Those talons—pure ebony, sharpened to a lethal point and oozing an amber-colored poison—are dangerously close to my neck when something else scrambles out of the undergrowth and throws the beast off me.

  Chapter 2

  At first I assume it is Taylor—good ol’ Taylor, come back to rescue me. Whether it is out of friendship or out of guilt, I don’t know and I don’t care. No, that isn’t Taylor! It is another Axylan. It’s even bigger than the one that has me pinned, another male. His talons at the ready, pulling the white skin of his wrist taut. He’s going to lunge at me, tackle me away to kill me all by himself…

  Can I run? I freeze, propped up on my elbows, as he tackles my assailant, throwing him off of me; I drag air desperately to my lungs. I scramble to my feet as quickly as I can, but it isn’t quick enough. My right leg, which crumpled painfully beneath me when I was thrown to the ground, gives way when I put weight on it. I can’t hold in the gasp of pain that escapes me when I take a step. But the sound of it is lost in the grunts coming from the two Axylans, grappling on the ground. Even if I manage to make a run for it now, with my leg in this state, they’ll catch me—they’re always going to catch me. I’m going to die out here, alone, with the flames licking at my corpse…

  The Axylans are still fighting. Another step toward the tarmac pulls a scream from my lips, echoed by a louder cry behind me. The bigger male swipes his talons at the other with a sharp, vicious movement. It takes my addled brain a few seconds to process the indigo blood spurting from the smaller Axylan’s throat, and that the cries have stopped.

  His throat has been torn clean out.

  A hand goes up to cover my mouth. It wouldn’t do to throw up here, of all places, when the same thing is, in all likelihood, going to happen to me. The bigger male pivots slowly around, crouched as if to pounce, knees bent and palms resting on the dusty ground, allowing me to get a better look at him.

  He has the same marbled skin as the others, with chestnut-brown hair slicked back from his face. Huge onyx eyes blink up at me as he eases out of the crouch and unfolds to his full height. I’d estimate he is seven-and-a-half feet tall, towering above my own modest five nine. He’s wearing loose khaki combat pants and no shirt, revealing perfectly defined abs. I can just make out blood staining the fabric of his pant leg and in spatters across marbled flesh, signs of the fight that just took place. Aside from the blood, there isn’t a hair out of place.

  I cringe away from him when he takes a step toward me. It’s instinct, a weak attempt at self-preservation in the wake of his approach. Fear thrums in my veins, makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

  “It’s all right,” the Axylan says. His voice is unlike anything I’ve ever heard coming from an Axylan before. It is creamy and soft, with a gruff, masculine undertone. He reaches one hand out as if to pacify me, palm up and long fingers spread, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  His English is perfect. They’ve taken great care to learn the language, to fit in. It was part of their perfect facade at first, their need to appear ready and willing to contribute to Earth’s safe and efficient running. It only strikes me as threatening now, with this Tribe member towering above me.

  My own voice is lost in my throat for moment. I can only croak out a few words, and even they are weak: “Stay away from me.”

  “I’ll stay right here if it makes you more comfortable,” the male reassures me. “I’m Yves. Do you have a name?”

  “I’m Number 3734.” I’m supposed to give only my number. I am well-programmed. Threats and torture will do that. My old identity is worth nothing in this strange new world. And it is a part of myself I don’t want to willingly give away to this creature. A bout of nostalgia hits me, a memory of hearing my own name said so simply and casually—Amy. Hearing Taylor or the others say it now carries an inordinate weight, as if we are risking too much simply speaking a part of the past out loud. The mere act of sharing our identities, defiantly using our names with each other, is another way to rebel, something to defy the Axylans with.

  “I meant your old Human name. You can be truthful with me, there’s no need to be afraid. I won’t hurt you.” His words and tone do nothing to ease the anxiety building inside me, and I can only suck in a harsh breath while we stare each other down. I will not give him the last bit of myself.

  “All right, then. We can work without the name,” Yves says, suddenly brisk and business-like. “We need to move, before they send out reinforcements.”

  “What do you mean, we? If you’re not going to kill me, I’m out of here.”

  “You’ll never make it. Your friends already left, and new troops will be here any minute. My place isn’t far, only a mile that way.” He raises one muscular arm to point northwards, the opposite direction to where the truck would have been, to where I should be headed, “Besides, we could work together. I scratch your back, you scratch mine, that kind of thing.” The idiom sounds ridiculous coming from his mouth, and I can’t help but sputter a laugh. Yves squints at me, a bemused smile tugging at his own features. The light in his eyes prompts me to shut down the laughter, squashing it and pressing the lid firmly over it. While I am in his clutches, he will not see me as defenseless.

  Before I can reply, there’s a roar of engines close by, a sound I take to be the approach of reinforcements. I’ve never stuck around long enough to find out what happens after one of our incursions, and I’m not sure I want to now.

  Chapter 3

  “We need to go, Human,” Yves says, urgency coloring his words. Logic wins out over mistrust, and suddenly we’re running into the shade of the trees, me limping on my bad leg.

  “Why exactly should I be trusting you?” I snap from the crouch I’ve found myself in, pressed up against the bark of a thick tree trunk, its coarse surface scratching my cheek.

  “Because you’ve run out of other, more rational options?” Yves’ voice is filled with sarcasm, a trait I didn’t know the Axylans possessed. He sounds almost human, talking like that.

  “That might just be true,” I mutter, “but seriously, what the hell is your game?”

  He easily rises. “It’s a long story.”

  “I’ve got time.” My reply makes him roll his eyes, a mild smirk appearing on his face.

  “I suppose you have,” he agrees as we begin walking in the direction of what I presume will be his home. The pain in my leg is still there, although less demanding.

  “I don’t like what we’ve done to your planet.” That catches me off-guard.

  “That was a short story,” I can’t help but interject, dragging another frustrated sigh from between pursed lips. The violet of his lips and the blood on his chest is a stark contrast to the marbled white of his skin. I notice that in the dim light of the forest the color seems less threateningly alien and more intriguing. Ridiculous! I deride myself. These creatures are not intriguing, they are the monsters of ancient fairytales, the big bad wolves come to blow our species down.

  “I came here hoping to find refuge. I saw the way our species destroyed itself, I watched as we burned ourselves up from the inside. The wars were the most terrible period of Axylan history. Millions died, countless others were so severely injured there was no hope left, and we had to leave them behind on the blistered remnant of our planet. The children, the innocents. It was the worst violence I’ve ever borne witness to. And now this. The oppression you’re suffering can never truly be rationalized away—not even Ayla can claim it is for the benefit of our species.”

  “I don’t agree with what you and your fellow rebels are doing here, but I can sympathize. You’re choosing the wrong targets, though. I know it is hard to fathom any of the refugees as innocent, but I can tell you the females have for the most part been forced to accompany their alpha male partners. They are not here because they choose to be. That said, they are still Axylans, they’re still powerful and ruthless.”

  “You may be weeding us out gradually, yes, but the way you’re going about it i
s all wrong.”

  “So how exactly are we supposed to be going about it? And how do you know about our plans?” I was getting angrier the more he talked.

  “We’re aware of the time machines.” That startles me. The time machines are prototypes: even in the time they were created few had knowledge of them. To the rebel cause, they are our biggest and most valuable secret. The one thing we’d managed to protect from the threat of Axylans.

  When Yves continues, it’s carefully, as if he’s aware that he’s spooked me. “The lower ranks have no knowledge of time travel, don’t worry. But they news of your attacks is starting to travel. There was some talk of trying to catch all of you, but in the end we decided there wasn’t any point in wasting the resources. The damage you have caused is minimal. The settlements are merely collateral damage.”

  “As for your plan, a plan for organized rebellion, you need to aim higher. Go for the higher ranks, then the others will turn back to peace. Everyone follows Ayla and the others so blindly, they don’t have time to think about what they’re doing. Take away the object of their focus, and they’ll learn to live in peace again.”

  “You say it like it’s easy to get to Ayla IX. She’s untouchable, we all know that. There are hundreds of soldiers protecting her at any one time.”

  “Ah,” Yves says, spinning suddenly to face me, an index finger raised as if to say, wait, tiny human, while I bestow some of my alien wisdom unto you. “That’s where I come in.” The smile forming on his lips is mischievous, now, as though we’re sharing some sort of inside joke. His familiarity unnerves me, makes me feel as if I’ve known him for years.

  “Either your leaps of logic are so big I get lost along the way, or you’re completely bat shit crazy,” I tell him, grinning in spite of myself.