Alien Revelation

by Nicole Krizek

  Onalee made a noise in her throat, somewhere between a whimper and a groan. Conall wasn’t sure how Brogan had heard it, but his next directions seemed to address it directly.

  “Onalee, everything’s going to be ok. I’m going to take care of you both, but I need you to do something for me. Are you ready? I need you to look into Conall’s eyes, and take a deep breath with him. Can you do that?”

  “Okay,” she nodded, turning her wide-eyed gaze to Conall. He clasped his free hand around hers, and took a slow, deep breath. She followed his lead, breathing slowly and determinedly.

  “Good. Now let’s get you out of here,” Brogan coached.

  “I don’t want to be the one to point this out, but how exactly are we going to manage that?” Conall asked. “We’re pinned down on the opposite side of the atrium, and I can’t see a way to cross to the transports without being open to weapons fire.”

  “Where are you?” Brogan questioned. “I still don’t have visual on your location.”

  “Behind a fallen serving droid, about…” he popped his head up for a fraction of a second, “twenty yards off the front right corner of the dais.”

  “Yes! I see you… There’s a hall ten yards up ahead on your right. There are emergency shuttles that direction, which I’m sure most people overlooked.”

  Conall saw an opening in the wall in the direction Brogan had indicated.

  “I think I see it,” he responded.

  “You ready to move?” Brogan asked them.

  Conall nodded. “Yes,” he said into his comm. Onalee’s affirmation was less sure, but Conall could tell that she was with them.

  “Okay. Go on my mark, and stay together,” Brogan instructed. “Three… two… one… GO!”

  Conall and Onalee stood, and moved out from behind their metal shield, hands clasped as tightly as possible, shielding their heads with their unjoined arms. Brogan fired shots from the balcony in the direction of their nearest assailants, while Conall and Onalee quickly picked their way through the debris and bodies.

  They were nearly to the hallway, when Onalee looked back towards Brogan’s position. As she paused for the briefest of seconds and turned, her body lurched before collapsing, as if in slow motion. Conall dove to catch her, and barely managed to break her fall, catching her head just before her skull made impact with the hard floor.

  She cried out, and Conall shielded her body with his own.

  Through his wristunit, where the link to Brogan was still active, he heard Brogan’s distant bellow, and knew he’d seen that Onalee had been hit. He flicked his eyes to the second floor balcony, just in time to see Brogan plant a hand on the railing, and leap up and over. He lost sight of him in the chaos of panicked people and flying projectiles.

  Conall did his best to shift himself and Onalee into the partial cover of the hallway, half sliding, and half lifting her, while staying as close to the ground as possible; all the while she emitted near-continuous gasps of pain. Once out of what he considered the more direct lines of fire, Conall sat back on his heels, his hands roaming delicately over Onalee to find the wound she’d sustained. It was high up on her left thigh—an ugly hole that looked to be burned into her skin, nearly to the bone. He covered her with his body again, as the fallen droid, behind which they had been sheltering mere seconds before, was blasted nearly to bits, and debris once again rained in all directions.

  From his nearly prone position, Conall craned his neck down the curved hallway, trying to guess the distance to the shuttle, and whether he could make it there with Onalee before the next blast. As he looked to his other side, to check if the coast could be considered even remotely clear, he saw one of the most beautiful sights he could ever have dreamed of: through the showers of debris from the now smoking robot, came Brogan. Running toward them in a crouch, and firing from a weapon in each hand, Brogan dived over the downed robot, and rolled to a low standing position. He scanned and fired as he ran, still crouched, finally sliding to a stop on his knees right beside them.

  “I saw Onalee go down, but I couldn’t tell where she’d been shot,” he said, his voice strained.

  At some prompt, completely unknown to Conall, Brogan turned back, and fired on someone who stood atop the dais with a strange looking weapon in his hand. The male went down, and Brogan quickly scanned for another threat.

  “How is she?” he asked over his shoulder, his weapon still raised, eyes scanning.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen this type of wound before,” Conall answered.

  Brogan spared a second to look. “They’re using energy blasters,” he told them. “She’s burned, but it hit her in a decent area.”

  A decent area? The hole was ugly and deep, but thankfully wasn’t bleeding as much as Conall expected it to.

  “Am I going to be alright?” Onalee asked tensely through the pain.

  “O’ course ye are,” Conall answered. His accent growing thicker with emotion. “We’re goin’ to take ye home and get ye patched right up. You’re goin’ ta be fine.”

  “I have to get you both out of here,” Brogan told them.

  “Us?!” Onalee exclaimed. “What about you? What about the Royals, and King Lukas? Is he going to be okay?!” Her voice was nearly a wail by the end of her barrage of questions.

  Brogan turned back to them, crouched as low as he could be, and placed a hand on Onalee’s head, looking tenderly into her eyes.

  “My primary objective is, and has been this whole time, getting you two to safety as quickly as possible,” Brogan stated, as if that were an undeniable fact, and he wasn’t sure how they had both missed it.

  “But… The Royals… The King… The baby!” Onalee managed, through gasping breaths. Conall wasn’t sure why she was so concerned about the royal family, as she lay there in agony, but he was sure there had to be a reason.

  Brogan’s eyes made another sweep of their surroundings to check for assailants before he answered her.

  “I’ll explain as quickly as I can: King Lukas and the rest of the royal family are in the hands of the Arathian Defense now, as was our plan if a disaster of this magnitude should strike. I can do nothing more for them at this moment.” He looked deeply saddened, but resigned to the reality of the situation.

  “During our scheduled briefing this morning, I prepared my team for the possibility that I might need to attend to… other priorities, in the case of an emergency today. It felt prudent, given the current circumstances.”

  He glanced meaningfully at Onalee, and although he spoke quickly, his voice held conviction and certainty. Conall looked at Onalee, whose eyes had gone even wider, if that were possible. He saw her mouth the word “circumstances,” and watched a series of expressions cross her face, in rapid-fire succession.

  “Circumstances?” repeated Conall. “What circumstances are those?”

  Suddenly, Brogan ducked, and pushed Conall’s head down next to his, as blasts began coming from a different angle. He fired back from underneath his arm, as he half-yelled to Conall over the noise, “That answer will have to wait.” He turned to Conall, something fierce reflecting from the depths of his eyes, and asked, “Can you carry her?”

  “Aye,” Conall answered.

  “Go, now!” Brogan ordered.

  Conall lifted Onalee into his arms as carefully as he could, and held her tight against his chest. They had been at the intersection of two hallways, and people were now criss-crossing each other in their indecision about which one to take. He picked his way across to the one Brogan indicated, doing his best to stay out of people’s way, but it was nearly an impossible task. Onalee cried out in pain as people collided with them in their panic.

  It was better once they made it properly into the hallway. Brogan led them confidently, and Conall was relieved that the male had spent time onboard the ship before the party.

  The hallway was empty, until they rounded a corner and were incepted by a group of Arathians in armored gear. They held large weapons, and were h
eading the opposite way, towards the atrium.

  For a moment, Conall’s heart stopped, expecting them to be more terrorists. But they weren’t.

  Brogan pointed his weapons to the ceiling, away from them, then holstered one of them and held out his arm, the one with the wristunit on it. A woman in front of the squad waved her palm over Brogan’s forearm, and a symbol illuminated between their bodies.

  Conall had seen it before: it was the symbol of the Royal Guards.

  The woman did a double-take at Brogan’s dirty and smoke-blacked face, and recognition dawned in her eyes.

  “Brogan, I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you under all that soot.” The woman lifted the lower part of her blast shield to expose her face, and gave a signal to the people behind her, who immediately resumed their trek towards the weapons fire. Conall saw kind eyes, with a stern and determined set to her jaw, and knew that this woman was no one to reckon with.

  Brogan gave her a half-smile, and a brief, but reverential, bow of respect.

  “Saveena, I’m incredibly glad to see you.”

  She briefly bowed back. “I’m glad to see that you’re alright.” Saveena glanced with concern at Conall, still holding a rapidly-breathing Onalee. “These must be the VIPs you mentioned? She looks in need of haste. Please, don’t let me hold you up. We’ll make sure things get seen to here.” She nodded once to Brogan, and held out her right arm.

  “Thank you, Saveena,” Brogan said, clasping her forearm in an action that seemed, to Conall, almost like the passing of a baton. They released arms, and she jogged off to catch up to her team.

  “Who was that?” Conall asked, once they were alone in the corridor and Brogan ushered him forward again.

  “Saveena, an old friend from my early training days, along with her best team of ass-kickers. Don’t worry, her team will get a handle on this mess soon enough.”

  Conall pushed them from his mind. He couldn’t worry about the other people on the ship; his concern was getting Onalee to safety, where she could get medical treatment.

  Thankfully, they were soon at the hatch to one of the emergency shuttles.

  “Here, get inside,” Brogan told them, his weapon scanning up and down the hallway still searching for a target.

  The hatch was small, forcing Conall to turn sideways to avoid hitting Onalee’s head or leg on the narrow doorway. The shuttle wasn’t much bigger, and only had one bench seat.

  He sat down with her still cradled in his arms. Brogan followed them inside, holstered his remaining weapon, and quickly entered commands into the console in front of them. The hatch closed, and a friendly computer voice told them that they were undocking from the ship.

  Once the transport floated a few feet away from the ship’s hull, Brogan entered more commands, and the shuttle sped towards the planet’s surface.

  Conall lifted Onalee’s dress a few inches to get another look at the wound. It wasn’t bleeding as badly as he feared—the energy blast had cauterized most of it—but it was deep, and to his eyes, looked terribly severe.

  “How is she?” Brogan asked again, his focus still on the console.

  Conall’s eyes drifted up and down the female in his arms, quickly taking in her appearance.

  “She’s sweating, and I think her temperature is rising,” he told Brogan.

  Brogan turned in his seat to face them. He smoothed hair out of Onalee’s face, and looked at her again with that tender expression. Conall had never seen him like this until today.

  “I think you’re going into shock,” Brogan told her evenly.

  “Is that bad?” Onalee asked weakly as her body began to quake.

  “No, you’re going to be fine.” Brogan’s eyes met Conall’s. “We’re taking you to Conall’s house to get help.”

  It wasn’t a question, but Conall nodded anyway. That’s exactly where he wanted her as well.

  Brogan continued. “I contacted a doctor who’s going to meet us there. You just need to breathe through the pain until we arrive.”

  Onalee nodded, and Conall could tell that she was doing her best.

  Brogan kept stroking her hair with his right hand, while his left yanked up the sleeve of his long shirt, exposing his wristunit. Conall whispered soothing nonsense into Onalee’s ear to distract her from the pain, while his eyes followed Brogan’s movements.

  The male had pulled up communications with the other Guards. Most of the information was passing too quickly for Conall to process, but he got the gist of it: the royal family had all made it onto their transport, and were in route to the trios’ palace. A team of doctors had been called for Lukas, who wasn’t faring well after he’d taken the hit to his torso. There weren’t any further details on his condition. Queen and baby seemed fine so far, but would receive a more complete check-up once they reached her personal medical team in the palace.

  The rest of the Guards were either back onboard the ship helping the Arathian Defense to subdue and detain the attackers, on the shuttle with the royals, or were putting the palace on complete lockdown.

  Brogan sent an incredibly brief message, saying only, “I found them. We evac’d in a port-side emergency shuttle. Injuries sustained to O. Will rendezvous with med at ML estate.”

  A moment later he got an affirmation from someone named Director Haas. Brogan shut off the unit and pulled down his sleeve.

  “Is it alright that you’re here with us?” Conall asked him softly.

  Brogan nodded. Conall didn’t ask further. He was relieved that the male was with them. He wasn’t sure what he would’ve done once Onalee had gotten shot if Brogan hadn’t appeared, as if by magic, to lay down cover fire so they could all escape.

  He held the woman a little tighter, and rubbed his face into her hair. She felt much too hot, and sweat was beading on her skin, making her dress cling to her body.

  Normally he would appreciate it, but not today—not under these circumstances.

  It seemed like hours, but was only a few minutes later when their shuttle pulled in front of the MacLeod’s house.

  Brogan and Conall eased Onalee out of the transport, and down the walkway through the front door. The entryway was a bustle of activity, since the doctor had arrived only a few minutes earlier.

  The unfamiliar male was older than other Arathians Conall’d seen, with short-cropped hair dusted with gray. He was confidently directing the MacLeod family, who were working quickly to get him what he needed. Conall wasn’t worried, his family was good in a crisis.

  This wasn’t the first injured person they’d had in their home—unfortunately.

  He was relieved to see Ashlyn, Reus, Aevum, and Karo among the others, and unharmed. Their shuttle had obviously arrived moments before the one bearing his trio.

  Claire directed them to take Onalee upstairs to the spare bedroom in Conall’s suite. He laid her on the large bed, before lifting the hem of her dress to show the doctor where she’d been hit.

  Brogan carried over a table for the doctor, who wasted no time. He opened a case of various instruments, and ran one over her entire body from head to toe.

  Conall moved out of the way to stand at the foot of the bed next to Brogan, both of them anxiously waiting for the doctor to say something. Brogan put his palm on Conall’s shoulder in a supportive gesture. Conall appreciated it more than he would have liked to admit.

  “Da’, is she going to be okay?” Oliver asked from his other side.

  Conall gathered him close. “Of course she is.”

  Oliver didn’t ask any more questions as they watched the doctor run a different device over her wound. Onalee began to squirm and cry out in pain against the sheets, making Conall’s chest constrict. The doctor turned towards him and Brogan.

  “I need you up on the bed with her,” he told them. “Distract her. This part of the process is going to be painful.”

  Neither male needed to be asked twice. They both climbed over the footboard and moved to her side. Clare gathered Oliver close, and they wat
ched together from the foot of the bed.

  Conall helped the doctor hold Onalee’s leg steady by kneeling over it, pinning it in place between his calves, and supporting her knee gently with his hands. Meanwhile Brogan went to the top of the bed and tried to distract her. He took her hand in his own.

  “Hold tightly,” Brogan told her. “Squeeze my hand through the pain. That’s right. I know it hurts, but you’re doing so well.”

  She nodded and kept contact with his eyes.

  “That’s right, make sure you continue to breathe. There you go. That’s the way. Think about a lovely, sunny day in the palace gardens. We can all go, I’ll show you both the beautiful reflecting pools…” Brogan glanced briefly at Conall, who knew he’d go wherever they wanted, as long as they made it through this.

  Brogan continued to reassure Onalee, until she began to cry out in earnest.

  “Brogan, I can’t! It’s too much,” she sobbed, tears streaming down her face. He nodded and turned towards the doctor.

  “Can’t you give her something?”

  The doctor stopped and looked up at Brogan. “I suppose, but it’s going to take a moment to kick in, and the charred tissue needs to be removed immediately to decrease chances of a scar…”

  “Damn the scar!” Brogan insisted, at the same time as Conall demanded, “Give it to her!”

  The doctor nodded, and placed a device against Onalee’s carotid artery. The pain inhibitor did take a long moment to course through her body, but once it kicked in, she settled down.

  “Better?” Brogan asked her, smoothing his free hand over her hair. She nodded.

  He nodded once at the doctor, who continued the process of cutting away the parts of the wound that were burned and unable to be regenerated. Onalee didn’t squirm or jerk any longer, so Conall let go of her leg. When she held out her other hand to him, he shifted up the bed beside Brogan and grasped it.

  The male’s wristunit lit up under his shirt, and Brogan pushed up his sleeve to get a look at the alert he’d just received. He pulled his shirt back down and gave Conall a look before refocusing on Onalee.