Alien Survivor: (Stranded on Galatea) An Alien SciFi Romance

by Juniper Leigh

  Alien Survivor:

  Stranded on Galatea

  By Juniper Leigh

  Copyright 2015 © Enamored Ink

  Table of Contents

  Part 1: The Leviathan

  Part 2: The Fall

  Part 3: The Quickening

  Part 4: The Bloodletting

  Part 5: The Carpathian

  BONUS Novel: Alien Alpha (Qetesh Warrior)

  Alien Alpha (Qetesh Warrior), my first Alien Sci-Fi novel, is available for FREE as a bonus at the end of this book!

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  Part 1: The Leviathan

  For my part I know nothing with any certainty but the sight of the stars makes me dream.

  -Vincent Van Gogh

  Chapter 1:

  Danovan tel’Darian

  A landscape of stars glittered past the windowpane like diamonds strewn across a swath of black velvet, but they were still only the second most beautiful thing I saw that day. We were stepping off of the shuttle and onto the extended-travel vessel, and the heel of her shoe caught itself in some ill-placed grating. I instinctively threw an arm out to catch her, and she steadied herself with her hand placed gently against the slope of my bicep.

  “Thank you,” she muttered, bending at the waist to hook a finger into the back of her black pump so that she could slip her foot back inside. And when that was done, she angled a pair of eyes on me that were so startling a limpid blue that I could do nothing but stare, slack-jawed, as I drowned in them.

  It was like a moment in a movie—the best part about my training alongside a contingent of humans was access to the cinema collection on the Farnsworth, our training vessel. I never missed a movie night in the rec room, and I never saw a movie I didn’t like, but when I saw her, it was better than any moment in a movie. It was the blond lady and the guy with the weird child at the end of Sleepless in Seattle; it was the angry cafe owner when she walked into his gin joint; it was the half-fish cartoon redhead when she saw a prince dancing on the deck of a boat.

  She swept an errant auburn curl from her eyes and smiled, and I found myself smiling back, my heart thrumming like a timpani in the symphony hall of my chest. She was smiling at me, and I couldn’t breathe, and I wasn’t sure how long I stood there grinning like a fool before Christian Ward—technically my boss—clapped me on the shoulder and said, “See there? This Galatean is already indispensable.” And the moment was broken.

  It was the first time I had ever stepped foot aboard Federation Ship 8719, the Leviathan, among the first Galatean warriors to take a security post for the Federation. I had been assigned to be the body man for Christian Ward, and the job was simple: allow no harm to come to him, and do whatever he tells me to do.

  And she…

  In that first, fiery instant, I had no real notion of who she was. She was blue eyes and pink lips and red hair, and I was reduced to my most basic parts, a wellspring of desire the depths of which rocked me to my core. But she didn’t even seem to see me at all, not really.

  “Christian!” she exclaimed, as soon as Ward had spoken. She withdrew her hand from my arm and threw her arms around Ward’s neck. He, in turn, wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her off of the grating and spinning her in a circle.

  Christian Ward kissed the red-haired girl, a gesture that laid claim to her, and my symphony hall became a wishing well into which my heart dropped like a stone. I silently admonished myself for my sentimentality. I’m not in a movie. At any rate, I thought wryly, I ought to mate with someone who would choose more sensible footwear on a gods-damned spaceship.

  Clasping my hands behind my back, I cleared my throat and stood straight as the rest of the shuttle’s occupants disembarked onto the gangway, splitting around me and the embracing couple over which I was standing guard.

  “My God,” Christian said, setting the lady back down onto her feet, “but I have missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you, too,” she cooed, lacing her fingers with his and swinging their hands merrily.

  “Ah,” Christian said, opening himself up to include me in the exchange, “Ara, darling, allow me to introduce you to my new body man, Danovan tel’Darian. He was with me aboard the Arclight and did such a smashing job that I’ve asked him to be transferred to my detail permanently. I’m glad to see you again, tel’Darian.”

  “Likewise, sir,” I replied evenly, giving a sharp nod of my head to my charge in acknowledgment of the praise. I liked working for Mr. Ward. He had an expansive collection of films and music from the North American region of Earth circa 1970. These were my favorite human things. Well, those and peanut butter.

  “And, Danovan, this is Dr. Araceli Cross, honored guest for tomorrow night’s gala and my close personal… confidante.”

  Araceli extended her hand, and I took it before my mind even registered that my body was moving; it was warm and assured in my grasp. “A pleasure to meet you, Danovan tel’Darian,” she said. “And thanks for catching me. I admit to a certain degree of clumsiness, but I would’ve hated for the literal first step I took aboard the Leviathan to result in my lying facedown on the floor.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, Dr. Cross,” I managed as she withdrew her hand.

  “You’re my first Galatean,” she said, “meeting socially, that is. I’ve worked with Galatean genomes for the last four years, but I never actually met any. There are precious few on Earth, and the only ones I ever encountered were dead and didn’t exactly make good conversationalists. Sorry! Sorry. I don’t mean to just sort of… ahh. I think I’m nervous. I’m just very excited to finally meet one, in the flesh—and alive. And may I just say, you are extraordinary.” She smiled at me; I quirked a curious brow. “Even more beautiful than anything I’ve seen on my table or in my newsfeed.”

  “You flatter, Dr. Cross,” I muttered, feeling heat rising into my face and grateful for the coarsely textured silver-tinted skin that would conceal a blush. She was beautiful, but odd. She talked a lot, and rapidly. She gestured animatedly with her hands and when she smiled, her mouth was parenthesized by a pair of prominent dimples.

  “Quite,” Ward flatly intoned. “Let’s not flirt with the alien bodyguard, dear, you’ve only just arrived.”

  I scoffed even as Araceli’s smile faded, but Ward had her hand hitched into the crook of his elbow in an instant and was setting off toward the living quarters at quite a clip, and the aforementioned alien had no choice but to follow close at their heels.

  As we walked, I wracked my brain to try to recall where I had heard that name before: Dr. Araceli Cross. And then I remembered—in the most technical sense, Christian Ward was her boss, the same way the owner of a film production company is technically the boss of a cinematographer. They might have a say in how much money is spent, but they haven’t the slightest notion as to how things are actually done. Dr. Cross worked for GenOriens, arguably the most prestigious scientific research organization the galaxy had ever seen. And Christian Ward was its president, having inherited the company from his mother. He was a businessman—in fact, the Ward family was a business family—but Dr. Cross was a scientist. A geneticist, in particular, and one who specialized in prenatal genetics. If you asked Mr. Ward, he would tell you she was a bona fide genius. In fact, he had said as much to me countless times. And that is how I recognized Dr. Cross: because my boss was in love with her beautiful
mind.

  “I think you’ll enjoy the Leviathan,” Christian was saying as we made our way down a hall, shadowless in lighting that came at us from all angles. “The Federation spared no expense.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Aptly named, the Leviathan,” Christian went on as we rounded the corner. I caught Dr. Cross casting a few furtive glances over her shoulder at me. I made every effort to keep my eyes locked straight ahead.

  “Oh?”

  “Mm. She boasts six levels devoted to military, five for general living quarters, three for premiere living quarters, one for a market with restaurants, shops, and the like, two for research facilities, five for storage, seven for the hangar bay, one for crew, three for kitchens, and—”

  “I get it,” Dr. Cross quipped, smiling, “it’s big.”

  “You didn’t let me finish. One level—the top—is entirely an observation deck.” Christian beamed down at her, reaching up with one hand to run his palm alongside his perfectly styled black hair. “And that’s where the gala will take place tomorrow evening.”

  “I’m so looking forward to it,” Dr. Cross said, giving his arm a little squeeze. The three of us made our way to the end of the corridor, pausing in front of the entrance to the elevator. “How funny,” Dr. Cross remarked, “don’t these look rather like the pneumatic tubes they have at the bank?” But the interior of the capsule was much more elegant, with walls comprised of high-resolution touchscreens that featured maps of the Leviathan and directions to its more popular destinations: steakhouses and martini bars, couture shops and luxury spas. We stepped inside, crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with other executives, scientists, bodyguards, and kitchen staff, all hustling to their various corners of the ship.

  When the elevator doors whooshed open, Araceli was pushed out on a sea of other disembarking passengers, though I did what I could to direct the stream of traffic. A breath, and we were off again, down another corridor full of indirect lighting and cool metallic walls.

  “What level is this?” Araceli inquired as they walked.

  “Eighteen,” Christian replied. I opened a door for them, and when we stepped through, we were utterly transported. Gone were the cold metal walls and grated floors; now we were stepping on richly patterned red carpeting and trailing our hands over a mahogany bannister where, to our right, the wall used to be. Dr. Cross paused, and I along with her, and we leaned forward, finding ourselves high, high on a balcony that overlooked floor after floor of other such balconies. It opened to a stone lobby with a modest waterfall that filled the space with the sound of running water.

  “Extraordinary,” she remarked, watching people move about on the balcony opposite.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” I marveled, grinning, marking my good fortune. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

  “There’s a hotel that looks like this,” she replied, “back on Earth. The St. Regis, I think?”

  “Come,” Christian urged us, “you’ll have plenty of time to wander about. But I’m exhausted. Let’s just get back to my quarters for the night, and have a drink.”

  “But there’s a waterfall!”

  “Just so.”

  We pulled ourselves reluctantly away, finding ourselves mere steps away from the entrance to Christian Ward’s executive suite. He pressed his palm flat against a dimly glowing touchscreen, and we heard a series of beeps before the door parted in the center to grant us admittance.

  “Now, Ara,” he said as he moved into the pitch-dark room, “I’ve given you touchkey access to this suite and had your bags delivered here.”

  He switched on a light, and I blinked as my eyes adjusted. It was truly lavish. “Of course,” Christian went on, “if you prefer your own room, that can be arranged as well.”

  “Oh, Christian,” Araceli murmured as she allowed her gaze to rove idly over the expanse of the room. He really had spared no expense, and if the man had been trying to seduce me, well, this room would just about have done it. The floor was carpeted in pristine white, just past the marble foyer. A chandelier hung as though levitating in the center of a sunken living space, appointed with luxurious white-and-chrome minimalist furniture. But it was the view that really stunned. A picture window looked out over the hull of the ship and on into black, star-spangled night, the planet Galatea—or Kepler 542B—visible just in the lower half of the window.

  “Pour us a drink, won’t you, Van?” Christian said to me as he shrugged out of his suit coat and tossed it absently over the back of the couch. “Beefeater gin for me—what’ll you have, darling?”

  “Gin’s fine,” she replied, only half paying attention.

  “Two martinis, then.”

  I blinked, eyes darting frenetically over the space until they alighted on a minibar by the picture window at which Araceli stood. I went over to it and glanced over my shoulder, eyeing Christian as he disappeared into the bedroom.

  “I don’t know how to make one,” I muttered.

  “Hm?” Araceli asked, tearing her attention away from the stars.

  “A martini,” I explained. “I don’t know what that is.” I grinned rather sheepishly. I’d been trained in the art of hand-to-hand combat, not in the art of mixology.

  “You don’t know what a martini is?” she echoed, arching a brow.

  My expression may have soured slightly as I turned away, locating, at least, the aforementioned gin. “I’m a warrior, not a bartender,” I grumbled.

  “And I’m a scientist,” she said, propping a hand up on her hip, “but I still know how to make a martini.”

  “Then you do it,” I said, and held out the bottle of gin. She smiled and took it from me, pouring a good portion of it into a shaker.

  “Actually, this is good,” she remarked as she added ice and vermouth to the mix. “This way you’ll know how to make martinis the way I like them.”

  “Which is all that really matters,” I said, with perhaps the nuance of sarcasm.

  “Indeed.” She shook the shaker, and I couldn’t help but smile as she scrunched her face up with the effort. Then she ran a twist of lemon around the edge of each glass and poured in the mixture, garnishing with olives and a splash of olive juice in each. “That’s a dirty martini,” she said, and held the glass out to me. I hesitated, but took it, and she clinked her glass against mine before she took a sip. “Try it.”

  “This is for Mr. Ward—”

  “Oh, he won’t know the difference.” I lifted the glass to my lips and took a tentative sip. It burned and tasted bitter and salty, and I hated it. It tasted nothing like peanut butter. My expression must have revealed my distaste, because Araceli was beaming a broad, bedimpled smile.

  “Well,” she said at length, plucking the glass from my hand, “they’re not for everyone.”

  Christian emerged from the bedroom, clad in a fine-looking hunter-green smoking jacket, and arched one thin brow high over one shrewd brown eye. He had a plush white terry cloth robe slung over one arm. “Where’s my martini?” Christian was a handsome specimen, to be sure, with skin the color of fresh-brewed coffee. He kept his goatee trimmed short and his hair clipped close, and he was neat and stylish, favoring three-piece suits and pocket squares. But he had a distinct look of displeasure as he glanced between Araceli and myself, contorting his otherwise fine features.

  “Here it is,” Ara said, holding out my abandoned glass, even as I moved to resume my post by the front door.

  “Honestly, Ara, you can’t expect me to drink from the same glass as a Galatean,” he protested. I stood, impassive; Ara furrowed her brow.

  “Fine, I’ll drink it, and you can have mine.”

  “No,” he said, snatching my martini glass and taking it to the small bar sink. He tossed the martini down the drain and threw the glass into a small garbage pail; Ara winced when she heard it shatter. “Make another.” For my part, I remained the silent stoic; I was used to such outbursts.

  But Ara
took in a deep breath and crossed her arms under her breasts. “I don’t think I want a drink anymore,” she quietly intoned. “I’m tired. I think I prefer to turn in.”

  Christian stood stock-still a moment before giving a sharp nod of his head. “Very well,” he said, taking her martini glass from her and drinking deeply of its contents. “Danovan, please secure the deadbolts and arm the security system. The code is the same as the one I used aboard the Arclight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you’ll have the room in back. There is an attached bath, but should you want for anything in the night, please don’t hesitate to make use of the kitchen.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Good night.”

  Christian turned on his heel to make a sharp exit back into the bedroom. Ara lingered awkwardly a moment, watching me turn the deadbolt, arm the security system. “I’m sorry about that,” she murmured, “about… well. I’m sorry. It was rude.”

  “It’s fine,” I insisted.

  “You…” she began, her head canted gently to one side. I could feel her eyes on me, heavy and discerning. “Do you have a translator?”

  “I’m sorry?” I asked, brow quirked.

  “I just didn’t expect you to be so fluent in my language.”

  I arched one shoulder in a shrug. “I started training with humans nearly twenty years ago,” I said. “And I like movies.”

  She smiled again, bobbing her head in a nod. “Movies,” she echoed. “Yeah, I like them, too. It was nice meeting you, Danovan tel’Darian.” She said my name like she loved the taste of it, and hearing her say it made me feel warm in the pit of my stomach.

  “Likewise, Dr. Cross.”

  Chapter 2:

  Dr. Araceli Cross

  The first thing I recall about that day was the sudden shift in cabin pressure when the shuttle from the FTL vessel docked with the Leviathan. My ears popped and I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling slightly green from all of the interstellar activity. It was my first foray into space. The journey was absurdly long from my home on Earth to Kepler 452B’s orbit and I wasn’t exactly used to being jostled around like that. I was so focused on not vomiting all over my dress that I didn’t even see the stars.