Excerpt:
When the
lorienok abducted Delaney—after she’d finally accepted that she wasn’t
dreaming, in a coma, having a mental breakdown, or in hell—she’d given them a
fake name: Jane Smith. Not an exceptionally creative or unique pseudonym by any
stretch of the imagination, but having come to grips with the fact that she’d
been literally abducted by aliens, her imagination was stretched dangerously
thin. Intergalactic kidnapping wasn’t a chronic illness, but for a time—a
longer time than she was comfortable admitting to now—wasting away had seemed a
preferable fate.
She didn’t
accomplish much by hiding her identity. She didn’t have any blood relatives to
protect, a criminal record to hide, or a trust fund to safeguard. Delaney Rose
McCormick had about as much value associated with her name as did the fictional
Jane Smith and left nearly as small a void on Earth. But all Delaney had in
those early days directly following her abduction was her name and the hope
that everything—the abduction, the tests, the training—was just a big mistake.
Which, as it turned out, it was. Her abduction had been the biggest
technological mistake in lorienok history, but that didn’t change her
circumstances. Days turned to weeks turned to months turned to the abandonment
of tracking time. Hope died. She had nothing to her name, but her name, at
least, was her own, and she would keep it for herself.
By the time her
domestication specialist, Keil Kore’Weidnar, discovered Delaney’s capacity to
learn and taught her Lori, his native language, the issue of her name had
become moot. He’d already renamed her Reshna, a spiral-shaped handheld tool
used to drill into ice. He’d shown her a hologram of it, pointing to the spiral
and then to the wild frizz of her unconditioned curls. They had a
similar-looking tool on Earth, but they used it to open wine bottles. He’d
named her “corkscrew” for her crazy hair.
She’d been called
worse names in high school.
She couldn’t say
she’d lived in worse places, though. Most of her foster families, with the
exception of the Todd household, had been decent people who’d given her
clothes, a bed under a roof, and regular meals. Besides clothes, those basic
necessities were still being met, so a little gratitude was probably in order.
But only just a little, because she also had a cage. And a collar. And if she’d
just translated the words and growls of the pet store manager correctly, she
had a new owner.
Like most lor,
her owner had thick, curved ram horns jutting from his head, and like all
lorienok regardless of gender, he was covered head to toe in brown fur.
Sasquatch did exist after all; he just wasn’t native to Earth. He was roughly
the same size and shape as a human bodybuilder, and in addition to the horns,
his nose and mouth protruded slightly into a blunt muzzle, two rows of sharp
predator teeth filled his overly large mouth, and pointy bearlike claws tipped
each finger and likely each toe on his boot-shod feet.
Unlike most,
this male wore his hair long. His locks were tied back from his face in a messy
bun with a forest-green elastic band. His beard was also long and came to a
point at the end, hanging a few inches below his chin. But his eyes were his
most striking feature, assuming that one had already become accustomed to the
ram horns, claws, abundance of muscle, and close-cropped body fur. His left eye
was the same doe brown common to all lorienok—a smidge rounder and larger than
human eyes, like calf eyes with those thick lashes and soul-deep stare—but his
other eye was ice blue. A thick scar bisected his right brow, eyelid, and upper
cheek, slicing directly over that unique, penetrating gaze.
His bearing was
regal and confident, the sharp cut of his jawline proud, but his eyes betrayed
him. He was sad—horribly sad—and he glowered at Delaney through the wire door
of her cage like he was the Greek king Sisyphus and she his boulder, resigning
himself to an eternity of labor over an impossible, futile undertaking.
Or maybe Delaney
was just projecting because she couldn’t imagine anything more impossible and
futile than her current existence. I am not a pet! she wanted to yell. But
after witnessing Keil’s cold-blooded murder, she knew to keep her mouth firmly
shut. If anyone suspected her more intelligent than a golden retriever, her
death would be next.
Accomplishing
impossible feats while enduring debilitating injury and sensory deprivation
were challenges both expected and anticipated by the young cadets training to
enter the combat and strategic intelligence division of the Federation.
Qualifying exams were brutal. Training was rigorous. But for the few who didn’t
fail, drop out, or obtain an infirmary discharge, the rewards were
astronomical. Torek Lore’Onik Weidnar Kenzo Lesh’Aerai Renaar had certainly
reaped those rewards many times over, as evidenced by the four property titles
bestowed to his name. He’d never been one to flinch when facing a challenge,
but this order—the court-mandated appointment of an animal companion to
“facilitate mental recovery”—was the challenge that finally made him flinch.
Torek stared at
the human—at the beautiful, riotous hair that sprang like coils from its head
and would obviously need continual cleaning and grooming, at its tiny stature
and lean form that probably couldn’t lift its own weight, at the lovely gray
eyes and smooth, bare skin that would need layers upon layers of protective
coverings to keep it warm—and he seriously considered the merits of simply
retiring from the Federation.
No one would
blame him after what had happened. He could return to his home in Aerai and
resume the quiet, peaceful, unappreciated toil of plant cultivation he’d
abandoned so many seasons ago along with his dreams of filling that home with a
family.
The store
manager hefted a bound book from the counter and plopped it into Torek’s
unwilling arms.
“What’s this?” A
tingle of cold dread crept across the back of Torek’s neck.
“Why, it’s your
owner’s manual, of course.”
“Of course.” The
Federation’s policies and procedures manual was the thickest book Torek had
ever had the displeasure of memorizing, and it wasn’t even half the size of
this tome.
“You’ll be the
envy of all Lorien. The first to purchase a human, our newest species.
She’s the pilot
for her breed, of course, but her domestication is progressing fabulously. They
dispatched a harvester while she was still in transit, so until the next
shipment arrives, she’s the only human we’ll have for a while yet, six kair at
the least. You must be thrilled.”
As Torek flipped
through a few of the manual’s pages and skimmed the table of contents, the
tingle of dread that had started at his neck devoured the rest of his body and
intensified to nausea. An entire chapter was dedicated to heating and
insulating the human’s living quarters. If her rooms dipped below a specific
temperature—Torek brought the book closer and squinted, but no, his eyes didn’t
deceive him—and the human didn’t have tailored, fur-lined coverings to retain
heat, she would sicken and die. If he didn’t provide her with private sleeping
quarters, she would become lethargic and depressed, then sicken and die. If he
didn’t feed her three meals a day, complete with a cooked protein, vegetables,
and some grain, she would sicken and die. She was even allergic to ukok, a
simple seasoning. If consumed, her throat would swell, cutting off her air
supply, and she would immediately die.
He would kill
her.
Not
intentionally, of course, but despite the wild popularity of owning foreign
domesticated animals, he’d never even owned a zeprak let alone something as
exotic, delicate, and temperamental as this human. She wouldn’t survive a week
in his care.
His throat
tightened. His breath shortened. His chest ached, and suddenly, black starbursts
shadowed his vision.
Not now. Not in public. Not again.
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