by Aguirre, Ann
Since Zylar wasn’t allowed to accompany her in here, she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to be doing, and she didn’t read Barathi, so the signs that hung around the huge equivalent to a space locker room were totally useless to her. There were no lockers, per se, but rectangles scattered around the space could pass for benches, and others were pulling objects from octagonal storage containers. Maybe one of them even belonged to her, but damn if she could find it.
“Are you new?”
Beryl whirled to face the tall alien addressing her. The being stood over six feet with pale green, speckled skin. No neck frill or responsive spines, thinner than a Barathi, with a triangular-shaped head and impressive teeth, set in rows like a shark. No legs, instead the alien’s torso grew out of a stalk that had tiny cilia at the bottom and multiple fronds where human arms would be. She wanted to ask, Are you a plant? but that would probably be rude.
“Yeah, I just got here yesterday.”
“And you’re already in the Choosing? That’s…brave.”
“It just sort of worked out that way. My name’s Beryl.”
“Kurr.” The fronds fluttered, but Beryl didn’t think she was supposed to touch them, so she made an awkward half bow.
“Nice to meet you.”
“Ah, courtesy. You don’t see it often among competitors.”
“That sounds like you’re familiar with the Choosing.” It wasn’t quite a question, but she did hope Kurr would elaborate.
“This is my second time,” Kurr admitted.
“I thought you got to pick someone in the second round. What happened?” None of her business, really, but she was curious.
“We did not receive permission in the final phase. Since prospective nest-guardians may compete five times as well, I will try again. If I don’t receive approval, I will have to leave Barath, and I have no travel documentation for anywhere else. If I fail, I must return home.” The fronds trembled like that was a dire fate.
“Is home that bad?”
“Yes,” Kurr said simply.
Beryl didn’t pry into why that was the case. “Do you read Barathi?”
“Of course. Don’t you?”
It was embarrassing, but she had to say, “No, I don’t. Is there technology that could teach me quickly? I’ve got a translator installed already.”
Kurr answered, “As I understand it, there is technology for those who are cognitively impaired, but it would essentially be an AI reading to you from inside your brain.”
“Yikes. I don’t want an onboard brain computer. I’ll learn the old-fashioned way, but that will take time. For now, do you see a container that’s marked for Beryl?”
In response, Kurr turned and scanned the room. “That one says ‘Precious Gem’ and nobody is touching it. Could it be yours?”
“Thank you so much.” She wished she knew the right way to show appreciation in body language, but she didn’t know anything about this bold new world, so she settled for offering another little bow. “If you need anything, just let me know.”
A frond curled around her arm, and it did feel like vegetation, not flesh. Kurr is a sentient plant? So freaking cool. “Are you proposing an alliance?”
She paused, eyes widening. “Is that allowed?”
“There are no rules preventing it, though ordinarily, competitors care more about personal success and building their own reputations to cooperate.”
“I would love to partner up with you. Since I’ve never competed before, I don’t know what to expect, but you can count on me to watch your back.”
Kurr took that literally. “Since I cannot see it, that could prove useful.”
“I’ll see you out there,” Beryl called, hurrying over to the unit that seemed to have supplies earmarked for her use.
It took her a few tries to get it open, then she just stared at the items. Okay, I was joking about the gladiator stuff. But it seemed like it might be for real since she was looking at freaking body armor, piled neatly before her, some cubes that she couldn’t identify, what surely must be a weapon, and small item that unfolded by segments into a stick with a hook at the end. She couldn’t imagine what any of this was for.
Still, she’d promised to do her best, so she fastened on the armor pieces and tried not to think about how terrifying what came next must be. The others were starting to file out, so she grabbed everything and rushed after them, her stomach knotted. Kurr must already be out there, not that Beryl could picture what out there was like. Taking a breath, she steadied her nerves and followed the last group of competitors down a long tunnel inset with round yellow lights.
She emerged just behind the others, beneath a tinted dome. The sky was visible through the rippled shell, but tinted gray. Barathi spectators filled rows of seats around the center field; it really was like a sporting event for marital purposes. People would love this on Earth. It would take The Bachelor to another level entirely. Though it was hard to count, it looked like there were about fifty of them on the field. She hadn’t asked Zylar about it, but now she wondered if only a limited number could pass to the second round.
Kurr came up beside her and whispered, “There, if you’re looking for the Chosen.”
She hadn’t been yet, but it was helpful having it pointed out. “Thanks.”
The Chosen were seated down front, cordoned off from the rest of the audience. Thanks to Zylar’s simple coloring, Beryl spotted him right away and she waved; when he didn’t respond, she wasn’t sure if he didn’t understand the signal or if she wasn’t supposed to acknowledge him during the competition. Either way, she settled down as a voice boomed all around the arena.
“Welcome to the Choosing! These prospective nest-guardians represent the future, so please welcome them warmly!”
In response, the crowd hissed and clicked. The sounds resonated to unnerving levels, likely the Barathi equivalent of applause. None of the contenders responded to the noise, no movement, no showboating. Very different from how athletes or performers on Earth would react. Beryl kept still and tried to ignore the churning in her stomach.
The unseen announcer continued, “When your name is called, step forward. You will have one interval to show us who you are.”
Panic spiked in her head, clear and sharp. What the hell does that even mean?
“Shumira of Beta-7!”
Her knees weakened a little in relief over not being first, as a tall, imposing alien strode forth in battle armor tailored for broad shoulders and multiple limbs. Though Beryl couldn’t be sure, it looked like Shumira was running martial arts katas, albeit unlike anything she’d seen. Yet she could easily picture how these gestures would decimate an opponent. Shumira moved with precision and grace, fighting an unseen attacker, then as her time was up, signaled by a shrill tone, she snapped back into formation with the sharpness of a trained soldier.
Oh shit. Why didn’t Zylar tell me I needed to prepare a performance? Fear blanked her head as other names were called, and the levels of skill displayed by her competition only freaked Beryl out more. One contender sculpted a model city out of dirt in what had to be under a minute, and the response to that show was overwhelming. Kurr stepped out next, doing a complicated frond dance, accompanied by a high-key whistle that occasionally became so high-pitched that Beryl imagined that Snaps must be howling along, back in Zylar’s quarters.
Zylar finally made eye contact. At least, she thought he was looking at her, and she tried to ask, What the hell? But he didn’t respond, just gazed at her steadily, and some of her nerves subsided. Kurr rejoined the lineup and one of the fronds brushed Beryl’s arm. She pretended it was meant as reassurance and focused on her breathing. In. Out. Keep calm.
I can do this.
All too soon, the announcer boomed, “Beryl Bowman of Aerth!”
The only damn thing she had in her head was the dance she’d done for the junior high talent show, a complete rip-off from Napoleon Dynamite. She took two steps forward, turned on Jamiroquai in her hea
d, and proceeded to get down.
6
“What in the name of Dhargost is she doing?”
Someone behind Zylar asked the question, but he didn’t know the answer. He had never seen anything like the gyrations she was performing, and he couldn’t tell if it was meant as a martial challenge, some strange human mating dance, or a bizarre hybrid of the two. Some of the limb movements looked aggressive, but the swivel of her lower body suggested a certain eroticism, though the Barathi couldn’t move that way.
When she dove forward and rolled, then tumbled sideways with her nether limbs split, he feared she had been injured, but no, she rolled again, backward onto her feet and into formation just as the tone went off. A rumble of interest went through those surrounding him. Well done, Beryl. Possibly a little too well because he heard fellow aspirants whispering about her quick reflexes and agility.
Soon, the fifty-two contenders finished their introductory displays, and the competition commenced for real. As the staff wheeled the apparatus out, fear trembled through him. He hadn’t seen this trial since his first contest; for good reason, it was one of the most difficult challenges. The mechanism moved around the arena, and across the top, there was a bar with silver rings hanging from it. Below, gears and metal wheels were constantly moving and grinding, a grave danger to contenders.
“For the first time in five spans, we will see our hopefuls brave the Destroyer! Listen closely, challengers. The goal is for you to claim a ring by any means necessary. Note: There are only fifty, so two of you will not be moving forward to the next round. You may not inflict direct bodily harm on other competitors. Otherwise, begin!”
Zylar leaned forward as the contestants rushed toward the mechanism, but as a group, they paused, taking stock of the risks. Then one brave hopeful broke from the pack and tried to scramble up the back, slipped, nearly recovered, and then tumbled backward into the maws of the machine. Ground flesh squirted out of the gears, larger chunks plopping down below, and the audience groaned.
“Catyr, wasn’t that your intended?” someone asked from the back.
Mournful clicking came in response, and he took that as confirmation. If they had a deep connection, the bereaved would leave the Choosing. For now, though, everyone was riveted by the spectacle in the center of the arena. The contenders were cautious, circling the Destroyer as it jerked and spun, making any attempt to climb treacherous. None of the competitors seemed eager to try, after that first gruesome failure.
Beryl ran alongside the machine, so incredibly fragile that he couldn’t believe he’d asked her to consider this. She had no chitin, no fangs, no talons, and while she had done that interesting battle dance, he didn’t see how agility could help in this trial. Then she said something to the Ulian Greenspirit fluttering next to her, and though the conversation wasn’t audible, the Greenspirit appeared to agree.
Suddenly the Ulian’s fronds wrapped around Beryl and flung her upward. Her body sailed above the destructive wheels and gears, and she latched onto the bar with her grabbers. Hanging on while the Destroyer moved seemed impossible, but somehow she did it, wrapping one upper limb, then one lower limb around the bar, and she latched on like a larvae, working with her bottom grabbers to push two rings to the end of the bar. A rapid jolt and twirl nearly dislodged her, and others were trying to race up the back now.
He saw the sheer determination in her jaw as she kicked two rings free. The shining metal sailed away from the machinery and the Greenspirit snatched them in nimble fronds. Zylar was nearly crawling over the barrier in fear and anticipation. She must get down safely. She must. Before, he had always thought it beneath his dignity to call out as some of the aspiring Chosen did, but this time, he couldn’t contain the shout.
“Beryl Bowman! You can do it!”
To his astonishment, she seemed to hear him. At least, she turned and seemed to be searching his section. He lifted a claw and held it in the air as she pulled herself on top of the bar and then rose, balancing as the Destroyer whirred beneath her, and then she dove off the back. Several vine fronds flicked out and the Greenspirit caught her, setting her lightly on the ground, and the Ulian offered one of the rings. Beryl took it and tapped hers against the Greenspirit’s in what Zylar interpreted as a celebratory gesture.
The crowd went wild.
“We have our first champions! Bloodless dominance over the Destroyer, and a new alliance as well! That was a bold strategy… Kurr and Beryl, proceed to the victor’s vestibule! Now, let’s see how the rest of our contenders match up…” The announcer continued his description of the event, but Zylar stopped listening.
He stopped paying attention to the whole challenge, wanting only to go check on his human and to ensure that she’d taken no harm. Countless intervals later, they finally wrapped up, and there were no more fatalities, so one contender was eliminated because they were unable to acquire the ring necessary to continue. A Barathi in front of him cursed beneath his breath and muttered, “I’ll have to attract someone else, then.”
That was exactly how Zylar had lost the last Choosing. This one had colors nearly as unique as Ryzven, so he would surely succeed in drawing a contestant’s eye. Unease prickled over him, but it didn’t matter this time. Beryl had already made it clear she didn’t possess the usual aesthetic sensibilities, and she was loyal. At least, she was quite loyal to the fur-person, so he had to imagine she might also be with him.
Somehow he didn’t lose his patience, threading through the crowd to collect her from the waiting area. He feared she would be frightened, but by the time he arrived, the room was mostly empty, just his human and the Greenspirit she seemed to have befriended. Beryl showed her teeth—a friendly greeting, not a threat, she had said—so he offered both his claws to her. She took one, and that was unexpected.
There was no reason for her to hold onto him, but she pulled him forward. “This is Kurr. Isn’t it awesome? I’ve already made a friend.”
“I greet you,” he said formally.
Fronds drifted up in a ceremonial response, and he caught the subtle hint of scented spores, fruity and fermented and quite lovely. Also, potentially lethal. Beryl’s face wrinkled up. Before she could say something that he feared would be rude and might risk her alliance, he tapped a talon against her grabber and she tilted her head.
“Yes?”
“You did not offer my name. I am Zylar of Kith B’alak.”
The Ulian made a rustling sound and the next words offered reverence. “A respected lineage. It is my honor to greet you in turn.”
“I appreciate the way you helped my intended,” he said.
A flutter of fronds, dismissing the gratitude. “It was Beryl’s idea—that we cooperate, and the strategy for defeating the Destroyer. I would not have been able to climb. If not for Beryl, I would have been eliminated in the first round.”
In round one, Beryl had already displayed agility, problem-solving, quick thinking, and the ability to win allies swiftly. For the first time in longer than he could recall, optimism stirred, quickening his two hearts. We might go all the way together. Receive approval. Unlike Ryzven, he had never entertained any grand dreams; he’d only ever wanted a quiet life with a worthy nest-guardian, and even that small ambition had seemed like it was slipping from his grasp.
Until I stole Beryl.
That mistake might have been the best thing he’d ever done. His human was still holding onto his claw, and she showed her teeth around.
“Oh, stop, you’ll make me blush. I used to be okay on the parallel bars, you know? But don’t get me near a pommel horse. I gave myself a mild concussion the last time…and you have no idea what I’m talking about.”
“Sorry,” Kurr said politely. “I do not. It all seemed quite interesting, however.”
Zylar had never spent any time with a Ulian Greenspirit before, and this one was proving quite amicable. It would be interesting to see how far they went in the Choosing. “We should return to my quarters now. Will you excu
se us?”
The Ulian asked Beryl, “You’re not staying in contestant housing?”
“When I arrived, I only knew Zylar, and I opted not to live with a bunch of strangers.”
“My Chosen did not offer this arrangement,” Kurr said softly.
He thought they sounded disappointed. “It is a bit unusual.”
Everything about Beryl Bowman was.
“Maybe he doesn’t have his own place,” Beryl said. “Like, if he lives with his family, uh, his progenitors? Don’t be sad over it, okay? You can come visit us, if you want! Meet my dog, Snaps.” She turned to Zylar. “Would that be all right?”
“It would be our pleasure to host your visit,” he replied, though he wasn’t entirely sure if the rules allowed it.
“Thanks!” Beryl bounced a bit and squeezed his claw with her soft, little grabber.
I’m holding hands with an alien.
That thought circled in Beryl’s brain as they left the arena. It seemed weird that holding hands would be a thing on Barath too, but Zylar showed no desire to detach from her hold. Now that she’d grabbed him, she didn’t know how to let go without it feeling like a rejection, and it wouldn’t be that, exactly—
Oh, hell, I’m overthinking this. If he hasn’t put stuff in my butt by now, it’s a safe bet that non-con sex is off the table, and holding hands won’t incite him to ravish me.
Privately she admitted to a tiny portion of curiosity about what that would even look like. Based on Barathi body structure, it seemed highly unlikely he had compatible junk. But that was a problem for another day, assuming she decided that was something she wanted to try.
I wasn’t even the kinkiest girl in my class. In community college, Beryl had a friend who was always doing interesting things and people, and she’d shared her threesome video one night at a party like it was a vacation slideshow. Talk about awkward.