In His Alien Hands (2 page)

“The shuttle showing up here would make sense, but think about how much time has passed since Bethany’s arrival,” the healer replied, sounding agitated. “We can’t be certain what this female has experienced. It’s a wonder more of the vessels fleeing with inhabitants haven’t landed here sooner. Didn’t the Zargonnii say the main ship was destroyed by rogue Tonans and the Gorgano? This female didn’t have the protection of a Zargonnii to shield her from the entry descent into the water portal between worlds as Bethany did. Finn saved his mate Bethany. The Zargonnii warriors are a sturdy lot. They are also loyal. Ask yourself why Titus, a leader, would abandon this female.

“Regardless the circumstances, Arax, all know you went after this human the moment she was detected. Who knows how long she traveled the black holes in space until hitting a planet with water and access to ours. With the wormholes, black holes, and alternate universes, she could have been exposed to time travel, and something tells me she has been. If her shuttle entered a time continuum, she could have landed on a world hundreds, if not thousands of years in the past or future. That alone would cause any species distress, even if she never left the shuttle. Her mind could be beyond hope. Thrown from world to world or worlds within worlds.

“Traveling worlds within worlds can be exceedingly dangerous, especially in our water world when uninvited. Humans are made up of different percentages of water. Our world will welcome them, but other components step in when realizing the DNA pattern is off. The water is there, but the familiarity of acceptance is not. An alien, even a human alien, needs a host to travel with them for introduction—or be incredibly strong to suffer through the initiation that makes them worthy of entry. She’s lucky to have survived this far.”

“If there’s any hope for her survival, we need to try.” Arax settled her gently into the healing machine. Her last gaze before she closed her eyes was so pitiful it hurt his heart. Arax had no clue who she was, but never in his life had he seen someone so empty while so consumed with hurt. He placed his hand to her forehead. If any creature needed an act of kindness, this one did.

“The memory monitor isn’t set up but should record manually through the machine. It will take some time to retrieve her memories,
if
she survives,” the healer said.

“The memories can wait.”

“If she lives, what will you do with her?”

“I’ll decide that when and if she lives,” Arax replied, then removed his hand.

The black chamber door closed over the female and she disappeared from view. Valves opened and Arax heard the nitrogen and water pumping into the machine. There was no fear of her drowning; the chamber created life bubbles filled with oxygen. The bubbles kept a sealed pocket over any orifices to prevent the nitrogen from seeping within her. Arax was capable of the same feat, but he wasn’t able to heal—his air pockets held only oxygen. The bubbles were the machine’s way in. The micro healing agents would flood her blood to travel to all the areas simultaneously. Like a stitch they would work from the middle outward. The nitrogen would then freeze the victim into a cryonic state, keeping her alive as the machine diagnosed and treated her wounds while keeping specific parts of her insides from freezing, allowing it to work.

The humming of the machine raced along with Arax’s emotions. The device seemed to take forever, creating odd sounds neither had ever heard before. Arax and the healer exchanged worried glances. If the human had different organs than his species, the machine might remove them, or add new organs she would have no use for. She could end up with fins, gills, or mutations to adapt to their world the likes no one had ever seen. Or, depending on human origin, she could become an atom or a tiny microorganism.

Arax grew concerned with each second that passed. Anything could be happening to her. If the machine was to guess what action to take and patch-quilted her body back together, she could be healed but still hideous to gaze upon. Arms and legs might deform or be disposed of. Worried he may have placed her into a position where death might be more welcome, Arax was tempted to stop the procedure.

“Why is it taking so long?” Arax demanded.

“She’s human. Her features are distorted compared to us. The machine might be fusing her baby finger to the finger beside it like ours, or rearranging her toes into the three we have. The machine isn’t an exact science when dealing with other species. It may treat her as though she were the plague and rearrange her molecules. Anything could be happening. She could end up with a tail, or no nose and no eyes. The machine might not be able to decide if she’s in water form or if she’s humanoid.”

Arax was aghast the healer had said aloud his own fears. Finally, the chamber settled down. The door lifted, expelling a huge amount of smoky, black vapor Arax had never seen before. Both he and the healer waved their hands in front of them, dispelling the gas. For a moment all Arax saw was an unsightly pile of mangled clothes. Normally the chamber was entered into nude, but there hadn’t been time to strip her. It appeared the machine had attacked the clothing, sensing it as noxious and harmful. His heart fell at the sight; the female might also have been shredded.

Arax took a deep breath, looked into the machine, and then stumbled back in stunned surprise. “What the fucking hell?”

“I was afraid of this,” the healer mumbled.

“Oh no. What do we do?” Arax said, fighting the building panic.

“The question is what will
you
do?”

The female was alive, and she began to cry. Huge tears slipped from big green eyes fastened onto Arax. He ran a quick hand over his face in dread.

I did this. It’s my fault. Poor little female. What have I done?

Arax knew there was only one thing he could do. There was only one chance for her survival. He stepped forward to retrieve his new female and faced the healer.

“For now we will tell the council she died.” Arax leveled a grim, hard look onto the healer. “Not a word, do you understand? Not a single word to anyone.”

The healer was as grim as Arax when he nodded.

Chapter 2

Meadow leaned over the icy railing of the huge ship to look into the murky, black waters beneath. She was careful to keep any exposed body parts from touching the metal. Her clothes, tattered and layered piles of mismatched drab cloth, did little to protect her from the harsh chill in the air. Rolling emptiness mirrored her emotions. The waves splashed high and hard enough to catch the wind, bathing her face in a light, cold spray. It seemed to Meadow the ship rode lower each day, and each day the temperature dropped a little more. Soon it would be too cold to go above deck. And then it would be too cold below deck, and after that they would become a morbid floating block of icy death.

The sides of the old vessel were coated in ice, and she was surprised they didn’t sink with the extra weight. Or perhaps they were, slowly, in a taunting fashion. The lower portal windows had frozen solid months ago. The deck was slick when early morning dew carpeted the walkways. In the distance chunks of ice bobbed, ominous sea assassins, playing hide-and-seek in a deadly game. One solid blow to breach the hull and they would be doomed.

The sky overhead when she cast a quick glance up was thunderous. Dark gray, billowing, surreal clouds swayed so near to the water Meadow thought she could reach up and touch them. Every day it was the same. Each morning she’d wake to race for the deck, always hoping there was a glimpse of land—of life. Instead, she was greeted with an almost daily occurrence; the wrapped body of a deceased passenger being flung overboard. No words were said for the dead, no one mourned. Just another person here yesterday and gone today.

The massive ship under her feet was rusted and riddled with holes after the endless two years of drifting in the pounding, merciless weather. The engines had failed long ago, the ocean current was the ship’s guide, their compass was the tide. Every once in a while the passengers were gifted with the sight of sea life, though it was a rare occurrence. More often than not the creatures were dead, and those were salvaged when possible for food. Rotted and disgusting meat was better than starvation.

Meadow spied nothing as she cast her gaze about. The old ship groaned as it floated aimlessly, sometimes in circles. From the looks of the skies they’d soon be in a deadly game of dodgeball—only icebergs proved unforgiving when the storms waged war and there was no time-out.

High Tide
was the ship’s name.
Fitting.
An infinite sea vessel, the passengers never able to catch a glimpse beneath as the water was endless, never revealing anything below the surface. It was the voyage from hell with the walking dead aboard. Every person on the vessel knew it was just a matter of time before the Grim Reaper claimed them—one way or another.

When the boat had first set sail Meadow hadn’t known this ocean world would never let her off. Regardless, there hadn’t been a choice. The encroaching waters swallowed more of the land with each passing moment. No one had set eyes on dry ground in over six months. They had come close once and lowered the lifeboats with a small search crew of men. Everyone onboard had paid the price, some with their lives.

The small island they’d found had been guarded by its inhabitants. A brutal war waged for the food and fuel with passengers and crew against pirates. The ship was boarded by the victorious pirates who slaughtered half of the vessel’s number. Forty armed men in total abandoned the sinking island to take control of
High Tide
. Crew members were killed. When only passengers remained, and every large male thrown overboard, the brutal assault stopped—at least for a while. New rules were explained. Meadow wasn’t heavily into rules, and she loathed pirates with a passion.

“You’re not gonna get any chow if you don’t hurry. You know only the first fifty eat.” Ginger raced past her as she yelled for her to hurry again.

Meadow drew in a deep breath and sprinted to the hall where people would gather, shoving and fighting, waiting for the doors to be thrown open. The rations onboard were dangerously low. The double doors were unlocked and smashed against the walls at the passengers’ enthusiasm to gain entry.

A waiting game ensued. The pirates decided who could eat and would pick and choose regardless of those battling their way in first. They searched out the desperate, the ones willing to do anything, or the ones they wanted to do anything to. All knew by now Meadow wouldn’t be swayed, but if they wanted her alive they would have to feed her sometime. They were trying to break her and others by toying with them.

“Cut off’s here,” a beefy man yelled when he reached Meadow.

Immediately there rose shouts and screams of protest. Jostling grew worse and Meadow staggered, trying to remain upright while the beefy pirate picked up a man and sent him crashing into the horde.

“That’s only forty,” was screamed, but a few still scattered like rabbits.

“And tomorrow it’ll be thirty,” the same man yelled.

“Soon it will be zero. What then?” Ginger leaned back to whisper to Meadow.

“I’ll tell you what it’ll mean,” Mick whispered, coming to stand near Meadow. Mick, the brooder of the three, always had a dismal opinion. Meadow thought his look was always grim. He was tiny and thin, Meadow felt a gust of wind could carry him away. Mick’s stature had saved his life. Standing five foot two, maybe one hundred and thirty pounds, he was no threat to the armed pirates. No one left alive was considered a threat. “It’ll mean we either start choosing who we’re gonna eat or who’s gonna be tossed over the side when they arrive last.”

Meadow was handed a small bowl of brown beans when the rations came to her. It didn’t look as though there were two tablespoons of the sticky, half-burnt mess. Others cried around her. The people granted food clumped together for safety from the thirty passengers left with nothing. They could all try again at dinner. But as time went by there were some deprived of food for too long who didn’t have the energy. The pirates ate first, and what was left had to be divided between the seventy lost souls.

Off to the side a woman consoled her two small children. Meadow knew the kids hadn’t eaten in two days. Meadow had gone hungry the day before. She took one small bite of cold beans and motioned the woman over. Meadow handed her bowl to the woman and put a hand to her wrist.

“Have at least one bite,” Meadow warned, her words low. “If you die, you’ll leave them alone. What’s the point of keeping your young ones healthy for the wolves?”

The woman nodded, took a taste, then divided the rest between the girl and boy. When the eaters were finished they were led away to work. The non-eaters weren’t expected to do anything except stay out of the pirates’ way. Anyone who complained was thrown overboard. Meadow was led off as well. Even though she’d given her rations away it didn’t matter. She retrieved her bowl from the woman. Anyone holding a bowl must work.

“You have to stop being everyone’s savior,” Ginger scolded.

“I’m no one’s savior,” Meadow said. “I just want some humane action to remind me I’m human.”

Ginger nodded. Two long years of living in hell didn’t mean they were sinners or the devil’s advocates. They were the devil’s prisoners. Mother Nature had abandoned Earth, or maybe she had died too. As long as her heart beat Meadow would remain the kind of person she had grown to be. One worthy of being loved, even if only by herself.

The two women walked side by side down to the galley where everything would be cleaned until it sparkled. Dinner, the likes of which the passengers never saw, would be prepared for the pirates. All were monitored closely. Anyone who dared sneak a single taste would be used as knife or whip target practice before being tossed overboard.

Captain Tray, head pirate, idly scooped at a plate containing beans, smoked ham, and canned fruit. Meadow knew he loved the term
pirate
, depicting him as a romancing rogue. He was nothing more than a filthy thief, a low-life scum. The only romantic images of him Meadow pictured was dancing a skillet across his cocky face.