by Lisa Lace
Alisha shook her head and glanced around at the other women at the party. “I’m going to talk to some of the other girls. I want to meet people who are going through the process,” she said.
Zandra nodded, albeit doubtfully. “Would you be angry if I headed out?” It was getting late, and they both had work in the morning.
“No. Not at all,” Alisha replied with a smile. “Thanks for coming. I know you didn’t want to be here.”
“That’s what friends are for,” Zandra assured her.
“I hope the food was up to your standards,” Alisha said.
“It wasn’t too awful.” Zandra placed her empty plate in the bin to be washed and then hugged Alisha goodbye. “See you tomorrow, Leesh. Don’t stay out too late.”
“Will do,” Alisha replied, and gave Zandra a warm squeeze.
Zandra sighed as she watched her friend walk over to a group of women. They welcomed her, making room in their circle. Zandra retrieved her coat from the cloakroom and headed out to the street.
It was a relatively short distance from the TerraMates building on Tremont to her apartment in Beacon Hill. Zandra decided to walk instead of catching a bus. The weather in Boston that night was bitter, with an icy wind blowing through the city streets. Zandra had grown up there, so she was used to it. As long as it wasn’t snowing she could swing it.
On her walk home, she took a shortcut down a side street. This was a route that she took often. However, it was late at night and emptier than usual. As a woman living in a big city, Zandra was always aware of her surroundings. That night, alone on an empty city street, Zandra was hyperaware. Her skin felt electric with nerves as she listened to the click of her heels on the sidewalk. A gust of frigid wind blew a crumpled sheet of paper in her direction. She sidestepped it. When she did, she heard the light scuffing sound of soft-soled shoes behind her. When she stopped walking, the sound stopped, too.
By instinct, she continued walking, listening for the sound. She heard the footsteps. They sounded heavy, like someone wearing snow boots, a common footwear choice in Boston. The farther she walked, the more convinced she became that someone was following her. She glanced to the side, pretending she heard something coming from her right. In her peripheral vision, she could see no one behind her. She quickly returned her eyes forward, so as not to alert her pursuer.
By now, her heart was racing. She had heard so many horror stories of women getting attacked when walking alone late at night. She began walking a little more quickly, and to her horror, she heard the footsteps quicken behind her.
Ahead of her, she could see the streetlights of Park Street, which was always crowded no matter the hour. She began to relax a bit. She knew there would likely be a police car or two, since it ran along Boston Common and had several T stations. She walked faster, her heels clicking in time with her racing heartbeat. She neared the intersection with Park Street, finally making her way her out of the corridor of Tremont. To her dismay, Park Street was completely deserted.
She didn’t stop. It was only two more blocks to her apartment. Now that she was out on the larger street, she barely noticed the footsteps behind her. But when she listened closely, she could hear whoever it was in close pursuit. She heard a cough. It was male. Definitely. One more block to go. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She had heard so many stories, never thinking it would ever happen to her—the streets were usually crowded. How had she stayed at the party so late? She blamed Maxine and her persistent sales pitch.
Up ahead, she saw her apartment building. As she walked, she pulled her keys from her clutch, making sure to hide her movements with her coat. When she was within ten feet, she began to sprint, heels be damned. She heard the footsteps. The person was definitely running after her. Her pulse pounding loudly in her ears, she slammed into the front door, sliding her key into the lock, turning it, and letting herself in in one motion. She shut the automatically locking front door behind her with force. She stood in the lobby of her building, pressed up against the glass, looking out at the street. Her heart was still racing, and she heaved a sob. She watched the street, trembling, waiting to see some sort of movement. She thought for a moment she saw a dark figure step into the shadows across the street, but as she stared, she saw nothing more.
It was all in your head, she assured herself. You’re just being paranoid.
She watched for several minutes as her breathing and heart rate slowed. There was no movement outside, not even the usual garbage blowing in the wind. The street outside was entirely deserted. Finally, she stepped away from the front door and walked across the black-and-white-tiled lobby, heading for the elevator.
Jurgen
Jurgen Apaknor looked around at all who had gathered at the roughly hewn granite table of the tribe’s war room. At almost seven feet, Jurgen was one of the tallest at the meeting of the Alphas of his tribe. He was thickly muscled, with iridescent green-gold skin. His long, thick, wavy gray-and-tawny hair was loose over his shoulders. His beard was trimmed short as always. His eyes were golden, the irises black vertical slits. He crossed his powerful arms, which, like his chest, were covered in the interlocking triangle tattoos that marked him as the chief.
Only the biggest and strongest males were Alphas, the warriors of planet Erusha’s tribes. Erusha had been at war for longer than its history had been recorded. Every time a resolution had been in sight, some new conflict arose, the war-torn planet constantly in flux until the recent peace treaty had been set in place. Eight months before, the thirteen tribes of Erusha had met, declaring a truce. With the use of higher technology such as blasters, bombs, and drones, the planet’s population was nearing extinction. With the peace treaty, thousands of years of bloodshed were brought to an abrupt halt. The war-hungry tribes hardly knew what to do with themselves. The peace was tenuous, as tensions over old wounds were simmering mere inches beneath the surface.
Jurgen had been the chief of his tribe since the death of his father almost ten years before. He felt he had been a good leader, bringing his tribe to victory many times. However, tragedy had struck his tribe, leaving him unsure of what to do. Two years previously, an enemy tribe had attacked the Apaknor Tribe, burning the settlement to the ground and kidnapping the women and younglings. This was a common enough occurrence among the tribes of Erusha. However, the Saavi Tribe already had women and young of their own. They did not have many, but they did have some. The Saavi were a cruel people, cruel to the point of incomprehensible actions. In the name of the goddess, they sacrificed those of the Apaknor Tribe, impaling them on wooden stakes on the side of the goddess’s mountain and then leaving them to die.
“Our tribe faces certain extinction,” Jurgen began, effectively starting the meeting. The Alphas all looked to him as he spoke. “Because of the peace treaty, we cannot steal another tribe’s women without the other tribes seeking vengeance for our transgression.”
“Could we potentially make a trade?” one of his generals, Mutorn, asked. He, too, was muscle-bound, covered in tattoos of rank. He wore his gray beard long, tied with a leather wrap. He wore his long hair loose. The right side of his face was scarred severely from battle, his eye on that side turned white.
“What would we offer in trade that they don’t already have?” Auslur asked. He was the oldest of the Alpha males. He was also one of their strongest warriors, even though his face showed signs of aging. It was rare for Alphas on Erusha to live past their fiftieth year, as he had. Auslur had not only strength but a mind that was always at work—he was a brilliant strategist. “We have Beta males. We have food. We have weapons. The other tribes also have these things.”
“We could trade Alphas, perhaps,” Utyi suggested. His comment was met with a low growling from some of the other Alphas. To be traded to other tribes meant to be downgraded to the status of Beta males—slaves who did menial labor and fieldwork. It was intended as an insult. Utyi was young—his thinking was often rash.
“That would leave us less pr
otected,” Auslur pointed out calmly. “That would be a mistake, peace treaty or no peace treaty.”
“We are sworn brothers,” Jurgen reminded his Alphas. “We do not trade brothers for anything.” He knew this would assuage any fears that any of them would be sacrificed for the good of the tribe.
“There is one possibility,” Grav spoke up as he rose from his seat. He was the smallest of the Alphas. He was closer to six feet in height, his body wrapped in lean, ropy muscles. He was included in the Alpha ranks because of his skill with warfare technology. He was, perhaps, the smartest of them all, not to mention the most lethal. “I have received messages from Earth. It is a small planet, inhabited by a species known as ‘humans.’ They send messages offering human brides for sale.” He adjusted the goggles he wore on his closely shaved head. The darkened lenses protected his eyes from the sunlight and the glare of his computer screen. Grav had been born with pale-blue eyes—uncommon among the golden-eyed Erushan population.
“How do we know that we can breed with them?” Jurgen asked.
“They are some of the most fertile females in the universe,” Grav replied. “There is a company on Earth that finds women who are interested in becoming brides throughout the universe. Once payment is processed, they send a shipment, accompanied by matchmakers.”
“Matchmakers?” Utyi asked.
“Individuals who arrange marriages,” Grav explained.
“What sort of payment would they accept?” Mutorn asked.
“Gold is universally accepted, untraceable, and untaxable,” Grav explained.
“How are our resources of gold?” Jurgen asked Auslur, who was in charge of the tribe’s hidden cache of riches.
“We have an ample amount stockpiled in the vaults beneath the communal building. If you tell me how much you need, I can see if we have enough,” Auslur told Grav.
“If Jurgen decides that this is the solution, I will contact TerraMates and inquire,” Grav explained, looking at their chief.
Jurgen remained impassive. He needed to hear more. He also needed the tribe to consider the effects of mating with human women. “If we do this,” he said, “our descendants will be hybrids. The Apaknor Tribe would become a race of mongrels.”
There was silence as the Alphas considered this.
“Show us what the human women look like, Grav,” Mutorn suggested, curiosity evident in his voice.
Grav nodded, spinning his seat around to the keyboard of his computer, which was tucked into the corner of the war room. On the large monitor mounted to the far wall, a picture appeared. It was of a thin, cream-skinned, willowy being. She had bright white teeth, none of which appeared pointed. Her hair was long and golden. Her eyes were blue surrounded by white. She wore a form-fitting black dress.
“TerraMates, with their messages, has sent some pictures of what we can expect,” Grav said, his focus on his own, smaller screen.
Another picture came up on the screen, this time of a dark-skinned woman. Her hair was thick and curly, and her irises were brown in the middle of her white eyes. Her lips were full and painted bright red. She wore a dress the hue of the sky when the twin suns were setting. Jurgen didn’t have a name for the color. The dress was filmy and tiny ropes held it up at the shoulders.
Grav brought a third picture up on the screen. They all looked. This woman was pale with brownish dots sprinkled across her skin, bright red hair, and green in the middle of her white eyes. Her lips were painted a light red. She was dressed in tight turquoise pants and a white shirt. Jurgen found her attractive, but the others began to comment.
“She wears the clothes of a male,” Utyi mumbled gruffly.
“She looks sickly,” a warrior named Yrald remarked.
“Weak,” Mutorn agreed.
There was a ripple of agreement around the room. Jurgen remained quiet, listening to the conversations to gauge how the tribe felt about this idea.
“But it would be an easy solution,” Grav said, speaking over the low buzz of the conversations. “We could increase our numbers exponentially.”
“They will die in childbirth,” Yrald stated, as if he knew.
“Then we’ll get more,” Auslur replied, unconcerned. Besides Jurgen, he was the only one who knew how extensive the tribe’s supply of gold ore was. The Apaknor Tribe lived closest to the goddess’s mountain. The tribe had, over hundreds of years and countless generations, collected much from its slopes and caverns.
“Our descendants will be weak. They will quickly be killed off by the other tribes,” Cirdam said, pounding a large hand against the palm of his other.
“Certainly we could train them,” Auslur cut in.
“Or we could develop our weapons,” Grav suggested.
“We will surely face extinction still,” Cirdam replied, spitting on the ground in disgust. “Crossing species is an act of depravity. It would be like mating with a gunuk. It simply isn’t done.” The idea of mating with the grazing gunuk, a hooved, horned, and flat-toothed beast, which they raised for meat was certainly a sickening idea.
Cirdam turned to Jurgen. “How can we replace the women we have lost with a lesser species?” he yelled, glaring at the chief. “How can you replace Lilat with that?” He pointed at the screen.
“I will never replace her,” Jurgen replied. “Nor tarnish her memory.”
“You know your job as chief,” Auslur murmured, his gaze trained on the floor. Auslur had lost his wife and daughter in the massacre.
Jurgen nodded. “We must all do what we can. We must ensure the future of the tribe. Perhaps we can make a deal with one of the other tribes for their women. The negotiations would be difficult, and we would return with a few, if any at all.”
The Alphas all considered this a moment before breaking into individual conversations. While it was ultimately Jurgen’s decision, he needed his tribe to be supportive of his decision. He couldn’t afford to have anyone break from the tribe. Not when their numbers were so reduced.
Jurgen listened to the conversations, slowly walking about the room. Usually, he had an answer, one that he felt comfortable with. He was a leader whose rule was marked by confidence and quick decisions. However, this choice was complicated—it was one he didn’t want to make but was forced to due to circumstance.
As he watched, the Alphas’ bickering began to get heated. One confrontation even escalated into a fight between Cirdam and Aphelion, the youngest of the group, when Aphelion slammed his fist into Cirdam’s face. The two crashed into the table as Cirdam rammed into Aphelion. Calmly, Jurgen walked over to them and pulled them apart. Cirdam he tossed aside, watching as the muscle-bound warrior collided with the wall and then slid down, dazed. Aphelion he held by the throat. The much younger male struggled, trying to loosen Jurgen’s grip with one hand, while lashing out with the other. Jurgen tightened his hold, a low growl emanating from his lips. Aphelion made a choking sound but continued to claw furiously at Jurgen. The chief unholstered his blaster, holding it to the male’s temple.
“Death comes to those who attack the chief of the tribe,” he snarled, raising an eyebrow. He switched the blaster on and saw Aphelion flinch then go slack in his grasp. Jurgen let go, watching Aphelion’s body crumple to the ground as he tried to catch his breath.
Jurgen turned to Grav. “Do humans have any attributes that would be beneficial to our race?”
The tech expert nodded slowly, scratching his sharp chin with a thin finger. “Earth is a combative planet, much like Erusha,” Grav explained, bringing up pictures of Earth and its people. “Humans may not be physically imposing, but they are highly intelligent. Much of the universe’s war technology originated on Earth. They have brought their own population near to extinction several times over the past millennia. Regardless, they survive. Time and time again, they have brought themselves back. I think this ability and this level of resourcefulness would be valuable to our tribe.
“Many other societies across the universe have bought brides from Earth,” Gr
av went on. “I have contacted a few of them. They find the human women not only highly capable, but very good company as well. I don’t see why this would not also be true for our tribe.”
“We could even purchase enough to supply brides for the Betas who will soon be able to move up as Alphas,” Auslur suggested.
Jurgen nodded. They needed as many human women as they could afford. It would be a wise investment to bring in wives for a few of the Betas who were maturing.
“We could easily double or triple our population within a generation,” Grav added.
Jurgen reluctantly nodded again. It seemed like a better solution than bargaining for another tribe’s women. Deep in his heart, he didn’t want this, though.
“As chief, I will make the final decision. First, I will go and ask the goddess for her advice on this matter.” He looked around, making sure to make eye contact with each of his men, including the two whom he had just admonished. “When I return, we will move forward one way or another.” The Alphas understood they’d been dismissed and filed out.
When the room was empty except for Grav and himself, Jurgen turned to the other man. “How long have you been in contact with other planets?”
Grav shrugged, giving him a small smile. “A few years,” he admitted. “You never know if interplanetary allies could help turn the tide of a battle.”
Jurgen considered this. Grav was always surprising him with his forward thinking and resourcefulness. In the years since he had taken over the technological aspects of the Apaknor Tribe, he had far outshone his predecessors.
“Good idea,” he said, clapping Grav on the back. The thinner male was pushed forward by his grip, but he grinned. “Perhaps after we figure out our current problem, we could move forward with some of those alliances. Make them official,” Jurgen finished up.
It was quiet on the goddess’s mountain. The slopes were still decorated with the long, bloodstained, wooden stakes from the massacre of the Apaknor women and children. The stakes stood in silence, reminders of the wounds and ghosts that haunted his tribe. Jurgen felt sickened as he passed them. I need to have those burned, he thought. It wasn’t yet time—they continued to mourn their losses. This was why he struggled with the decision that he currently faced—he wasn’t yet healed of his grief and ready to move on. And he knew he wasn’t the only one.