Rescued by an Alien Page 3

  My jaw drops.

  A large clawed finger carefully, slowly pushes my chin up until my teeth meet.

  I fall back on my ass.

  “You...you speak…”

  “Human?”

  A weak laugh escapes my throat. “Yeah. Human.”

  “The translator makes it so we understand each other.”

  A sudden tickle in my throat interrupts this moment and I start to cough hard.

  Something shoots out.

  But not out of my mouth.

  Oh… NO.

  …noNonoNONONONOthatdidnotjusthappen!

  I can only squeeze my legs together in horror.

  The alien is already looking at me sharply though. His head is up, his nostrils flaring like he can smell…

  I think of what I smell like.

  And why.

  My stomach curdles.

  And I want to die.

  I just coughed out alien ejaculate.

  I gag, and plant my hands on the floor while I try to swallow down my body’s desire to expel the contents of my stomach.

  Flashback.

  Contents of my stomach? I don’t know when I ate food last. But I know what I do have in my stomach. That’s why my mouth feels like it’s torn.

  I gag again.

  I’m crying, and shaking and abjectly miserable and my ears are hurting from the thundering bellows coming from the alien.

  I stuff my fist between my teeth and clamp down on my knuckles.

  “NO.”

  Still racked with tremors, I roll my eyes upward, and see that the alien’s mouth is open, his fangs are out, he’s breathing hard - ribs punching against his skin.

  His scaled skin.

  I move my eyes away fast.

  His suit is torn and reveals massive, roped muscles that pull tight and relax, pull tight and relax in an almost paralyzingly mesmerizing display.

  His voice is deep and rough when he says, “Can I touch you?”

  Touch me? I’ve been touched enough.

  But I don’t say anything. I don’t move. I do lock up when he takes my silence for acceptance and reaches his hand out…

  And presses his thumb into my cheek to widen my jaw.

  Flashback.

  Hard fingers digging into my face, forcing my jaws apart, keeping me from biting down on their-

  But instead of having something shoved in; now, my fist drops out.

  His thumb brushes my cheek so lightly I wonder if I imagine it.

  Then he backs away, his chains slithering after him like…

  I close my eyes.

  “Y-you rescued me,” I call out shakily.

  When I get no response, I open my eyes again. He’s watching me intently.

  I give a pointed look at his restraints.

  At what is keeping him prisoner.

  Pulling myself up on legs that feel about as substantial as half-set cheesecake, I stand.

  “I-” I swallow. “I might be able to return the favor.”

  He measures me a moment. “If you think you owe me a debt; consider it settled.”

  My grand offer - made at great potential detriment to myself, made knowing full well the traumatic, life altering - or life ending risk I’m taking if I’m able to set him free and he’s not as nice as his actions seem…

  He just brushes it aside?

  Why would he say no? Who would say no? “You can’t want to stay like this.” The puzzle he presents by refusing my offer is making my mind’s gears grind in a new, safer direction.

  I like safer.

  His muscles bunch hard.

  Umm, not so safe...

  I watch but he makes no moves, and his aggression seems to be turned inward. Feeling firmer having noticed this, I try again. “Tell me how to set you free.”

  “Don’t.”

  That stops me. “Why?”

  “I put myself here.”

  “You… you locked yourself up?” I’m panting just thinking of being chained down. To choose to do it? “Why would you…”

  “I was scaring you.”

  He says that so simply.

  This alien put himself in lockup because he was scaring me?

  I drag my eyes from his to hold up my hand and examine my shaking fingers. I was perhaps not prepared to launch a full-on rescue mission anyway. Or, this could be a delayed reaction from offering to help a giant monster break free in a one-roomed cell in the belly of a space ship.

  I’m not sure, but I think it might be option number two.

  I sink to the floor, dropping into a cross-legged position.

  The suddenness of my movement has him jerking up - and one of his restraints pulls out of the wall.

  I gawk.

  “Sorry,” he says and he sits, his tail sweeping to the side. The end of it lands hard on the floor with a thunk.

  “Actually, I… I think that’s my line. Didn’t mean to startle you?”

  “I thought you were falling. You folded very gracefully at the end.”

  My cheeks flush. “I used to dance.”

  His eyes change color.

  That’s… unexpected.

  I scoot back.

  His fingers make fists.

  Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. My glutes and thighs tense as I prepare to rise.

  “Don’t go.” Low, and quiet; he almost sings the words.

  I. Fucking. Freeze.

  That. Voice.

  No. No, I’m… I shake my head.

  That was… beautiful. But it isn’t the voice. Not possible. My head is a mess.

  I don’t move to leave though.

  He lets the silence settle for a time while we watch each other. “Why don’t you ever dance anymore?”

  I shake my head and pick at the dirt on my hands. “I haven’t since the accident.”

  “The-” he starts.

  I cut him off. “What do you do?”

  He holds my gaze long enough to let me know he is allowing me to avoid the topic when he answers, “I fight.”

  I wait for him to expound on that.

  He doesn’t.

  “That’s it?”

  “That is what I am good at. It is considered an honorable profession to my people and the people who rule over us.”

  “I meant, is that all you were going to give me. Fighting could mean you’re a soldier, or-”

  “I’m a gladiator.” He studies me. “How do you not know this?”

  I’m incredulous. “How would I know this?”

  He blinks.

  “I’m a human.”

  Long ears suddenly flap forward on either side of his face. Huh. Where did those come from?

  “I know this about you now,” he agrees. His eyes lower and I swear he almost looks sad again - more than sad - he’s heartbroken.

  Why? And why does my chest hurt?

  I dig the heel of my palm into it until I can breathe.

  “Did you receive a significant head injury?” he questions.

  I can’t stop staring. “Is that a note of hope in your voice right now?”

  His ears sling back and the lower portion of his horns fills with deeper color. “I’m sorry. All this time I believed…” His horns scrape the wall when he shakes his head slowly, his eyes downcast and sheening purple and looking so... lost that I have to rub at my chest even harder.

  Maybe I’m having heart trouble. I have had a lot of stress.

  He brings his claws to the back of his neck where he grasps a handfull of long sharp looking spines. “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “Okay,” I start. “What was the original question? I forgot. Who knows? Might have a head injury.”

  His lips try to smile. Either aliens don’t smile well or he’s terrible at it. “Let me ask this; how is it that humans are unaware of Rakhii as gladiators? I know virtually nothing of your kind, besides the knowledge of what you call yourselves. I… didn’t listen well to the other human we rescued. What sector of the galaxy do you hail from?” />
  I grimace. “I don’t know.”

  He repeats like he can’t imagine how this is even possible. “You don’t know?”

  “My kind don’t teach about where we are in relation to… aliens.”

  “This seems unwise.”

  “Yeah, well, we don’t know that there are aliens, so.”

  He looks as if he can’t believe this. “If your kind doesn’t know…” he trails off thoughtfully. “They must be very, very far away.”

  “Great. Yay,” I add, suddenly struggling not to let defeat overwhelm me.

  Very, very far away? He’s never even heard of ‘my kind’? What does this mean?

  What is going to happen to me? Can he get me home?

  “Human,” he says it reluctantly or maybe just slowly like he’s testing the address. “I am Rakhii.”

  I let him do most of the talking - not only because I want to learn about him, but because I really love his voice, even when he’s not doing that amazing thing with it - not that it’s the voice. His is just soothing in a way I can’t explain.

  When I realize I’m getting cold, I rub my arms, grimacing when I hit bruises.

  And then I grimace when I realize I touched… other stuff.

  I am disgusting.

  “Female?”

  I feel my lips twist up. Which is surprising because I don’t feel happy at all. I frown again. “Hmm?”

  He tilts a horn in the direction he sends his glance. “There is a sink. Wash. Rest.”

  I blow out a breath. “Privacy?” I ask.

  His nostrils flare. “There is no where else on the ship strong enough to hold me, so I cannot leave. But,” he offers this almost reluctantly, “You will find a cleansing unit on the second level - just ask Tahmoh-”

  “No!” I say too quickly, too sharply - causing his head to come up and his horns to bang into the wall behind him.

  They are huge.

  “I’d rather stay with you,” I whisper. I’m about to blurt out a correction - ‘I’d rather stay here’ - but I get sidetracked when his tail raises off the floor and sort of… waves happily before flopping down again.

  What. In. The. Hell.

  Aliens.

  He absently stretches his neck from side to side like it’s important to stay limber. I suppose when one has a set of horns like that it’d be hard not to have them come into contact with things like walls… Geez, having to wear those around constantly? Yikes.

  “Um, I’ll just…” What? Wait? I am disgusting-

  “I can sit facing the other direction,” he offers. “Let me just…” With a tug, he pulls one of his wrist chains out of the wall so that he’s free enough to turn.

  No. Effort.

  I gape at his back. “I thought you said this was the only place that would hold you!”

  He shrugs at the wall. “I said it was the only place that would hold me. I did not say for how long.”

  I fidget.

  “Now that you are here…” he starts. He seems to think better of something and starts again. “Now that you’re feeling calmer, the concern is not as great.”

  I look down… and notice large splashes on the floor. They lead right up to him. It’s not the color I’m used to, but it looks like… “Are you bleeding?”

  “Probably not as seriously as Tahmoh.”

  I stare at him so hard he must sense it. He cranes his head enough to give me side-eye. “You aren’t bathing. You’ll feel better once you’ve bathed.”

  I fix my eyes past him, examining the wall. “There isn’t enough water in the world to make this better.”

  His chains make a terrible screech, and I flinch.

  He goes still again.

  I head for the sink.

  “If you will come closer, I would like it if you would let me see how badly you are hurt.”

  Scaly hands pulling back what’s left of my clothes? Poking, prodding, pinching, forcing me - “No.”

  “Let me see.”

  “Do you know human gestures? Say, the one we use when we want to reject someone’s suggestion?” Not that that was a suggestion. It was more like a coaxing command. Almost cajoling.

  I can hear the amusement in his voice when he answers, “No, I do not think I know that one.”

  “Want to be educated?”

  Turning around now, he smiles. Very sharp teeth. “I would like to have you teach me,” he adds. He inhales slowly and cocks his head. “You're not afraid to?”

  Good point. Why wasn’t I?

  I shrugged. “Heck if I know why not. If I do things that don’t make sense I’m claiming that I get an official ‘it’s been a bad day’ pass.”

  His ears fold back sharply.

  “Have any disinfectant on this ship?”

  He blinks. “Why?”

  “To clean your wounds.”

  His brows crash together. “We just lick them.”

  “That sounds sanitary.”

  “It is. I would lick yours,” he offers ...hopefully.

  I try not to wrinkle my nose. And fail. “No licking.”

  “You will like licking.”

  I hear a whoosh, but my brain is like a computer stuck with the “Program Not Responding” message circling on it, not registering what the sound means. Because I’m suddenly frozen in place; all I can see are Zadeon’s eyes. They are locked with mine and the small of my back tightens-

  Something goes sailing past me.

  Zadeon explodes upward - he moves fast - and I cover my ears to muffle the sound he makes.

  A voice calls, “It’s just clothing and bondsoap, you machaai. Relax, brother. I’m not going to hurt her.”

  Brother.

  Tahmoh gives me a meaningful look that I take to mean those last words were for me as much as his ...brother.

  I turn back to Zadeon, who is having some trouble controlling himself.

  Oddly… I’m not afraid.

  I look at the hole in the wall from the missing chain.

  Maybe I’m stupid.

  Voice still harsh in reaction to being surprised, he sounds almost stern now when he asks in a way that is not asking at all, “Are you going to wash your wounds?”

  I don’t know why that makes me smile. “What about your wounds?”

  He huffs a laugh and shifts to angle himself so that he’s facing away again.

  I wash.

  For the most part, he politely pretends not to notice that I cry.

  Though his tail is most agitated.

  “Toss your damaged clothes over here, please,” is all he says though, his voice rough.

  When I do, he pitches them with more force than the trashcan is able to handle. It topples over and rocks on its side.

  Then he opens his mouth and breathes fire on it.

  Burns it to ash.

  The can. My shredded, filthied clothes.

  And the wall behind it.

  Okay - the wall isn’t burnt to ash, but it does darken and the coating on it begins to warp and curl.

  A little fan kicks on, sucking up the smoke and the fumes.

  And a tiny sprinkler pops on over his head.

  I know my mouth is hanging open. But it’s the voice from a wall speaker saying, “Do that again, and I’ll activate the hose, Z,” that has me out and out laughing.

  Hearing my laugh makes Zadeon’s entire countenance lighten; he stops hissing at the ceiling and gives me a half smile that has me fussing over my new clothes as if I have lint and loose threads I need to pluck off.

  He lets me avoid him for a bit, not breaking our silence until I start looking around for a place that I can sit.

  “Here,” he calls, and I look up to see him using one of his sharp claws to cut the cuffs of his upper suit so that he can take it off without having to have the manacles on his wrists unlocked.

  He folds it into squares, and, probably guessing that I am kind of internally wigging out over the thought of getting quite that close to him, he makes a gentle toss onto the floor
.

  “Thanks,” I say, and yes, the floor is uncomfortable, I hurt everywhere, and no one has mopped down here in awhile - but I am cleaner - at least on the outside. And this alien isn’t hurting me, and has gone out of his way to be… nice.

  Yet melancholy threatens to overwhelm me. “Would you talk to me?” I ask. My voice sounds so small.

  There’s a soft grunt in response. I take it I’ve managed to surprise him - or please him. I can’t tell. “About what?”

  “Tell me anything. Tell me about yourself. Just don’t stop - your voice is…” So good I swear I know it. “Really soothing,” I finish lamely.

  He’s quiet for a beat. Then he says, “A gladiator can’t fight forever. Technically, I am young to be as accomplished in the ring as I am. But fighting battles wears hard.” His fingers run over a long, thick scar across his abdomen. Seeming to be lost in thought for a moment, he moves to touch two ragged holes in his ears; they look like something with big-ass fangs savaged him.

  I gulp at that thought.

  What would take on this guy?

  “It can be lonely.” He seems to consider that such an understatement that his tail joins in on the conversation and he rolls it outward in a sort of “okay, actually…” gesture before he clarifies. “It is lonely. A fighter makes ‘fans’ but not really ‘friends’. I rarely get to spend time with my family.”

  “Why do you fight?”

  I hear a soft thwap and look over to see that his tail has landed near my head. He drags it back, only to let it plop down again, and there’s a fringe on the end of it that makes a clinking noise as the quills there drag along the floor. “Even on days when it seems like I can hear almost nothing, I can hear the crowd. Their cheers ring in my head for a long time after. And the sound of a full stadium… the feel of it.” He shakes his head. “I’ve been in hundreds of battles, but every time, they get my hearts pumping.”

  He talks and tells me about his family and of gladiator battles, and with a subtle glance I can’t decipher, he tells me how he feels about the female he loves. Apparently, he’s loved her and watched her from afar his entire life - but she doesn’t seem to know it.

  How sad.

  I have to rub at my chest again.

  I am raptly hanging on his every word - absorbing the effect of his voice on my mind and my spirit like a balm. So even I’m surprised when my mouth blurts, “What's going to happen to me?” It was a shaky interruption and I hold out my hands to stave off his reply. “Forget I asked. I’m not ready to hear it. Just… I’m sorry, keep talking. Please.”