This is not going to be a comfortable trip.
Then the reality sinks in. There is life out there in the universe—we are not alone. Aliens exist. I’m on a real, live spaceship, heading to the planet of Zoraht, home of the Zorahn. I won’t see Earth again for six months.
I look around, and the faces of the women next to me all betray the same emotions. Awe. Fear. Excitement. Up until a few weeks ago, we were just civilians going about our normal daily life.
Now we’re astronauts. Insane.
Major Schultz, the US Army officer who’s been functioning as a liaison between the Zorahn and us, clears his throat for attention. “As you know,” he begins, “this is a momentous day for humanity.”
The woman next to me, a tall, lean blonde, rolls her eyes. “God, he likes to hear himself talk,” she mutters under her breath. Her name is Harper, I remember, from the team-building exercises the Army made us participate in once we’d been chosen by the Zorahn. She’s a swim coach in California who almost made the national team in college.
Hector Schultz either doesn’t hear her or pretends not to. “The ten of you,” he says, “have been chosen by our honored guests, the Zorahn, to travel to their planet and discover the wonders of their world.”
The way Hector Schultz makes it sound, we’re space tourists. That’s not even close to the truth.
The real reason we’re on this ship? Our genes. According to the emissaries, Zoraht, the homeworld of the Zorahn, is being ravaged by a mysterious disease, and their scientists need our genetic material to devise a cure.
We’re glorified lab rats.
“Remember that the thoughts of every single human on planet Earth are with you,” he continues solemnly. “You represent the first step in an alliance that we hope will span generations.”
He looks like he could go on for hours, but one of the Zorahn males clears his throat, and Hector Schultz takes the hint. His voice trails off, and he stands in the middle of the ship, looking uncomfortable and out of place.
The Zorahn male who interrupted Schultz’ monologue steps forward. He’s seven feet tall. His skin is bronzed, his head is clean-shaven, and his body is hard and corded with muscle. Blue tattooed whorls cover his bald head, though the rest of his body is unmarked. I think his name is Beirax. He wears black pants, but in place of a shirt, intricate bands of blue fabric cover his chest.
He’s intimidating as fuck.
He says something, the words harsh and garbled in my ears. I have no idea what he’s saying, and I turn to look at Harper, wondering if she can understand him any better than me. The tall blonde is frowning, her arms crossed over her chest.
Nope. Not just me. The only one who seems to have any clue what the Zorahn said is Schultz.
Noticing our looks of confusion, Beirax snaps a question to the other male on board the ship, Mannix. Mannix is just as tall as his fellow alien, but his tattoos are black and brown, not blue. I’m sure the coloring has some significance, though what it is we don’t know. The Zorahn haven’t bothered to tell us much about their culture. All we know is that the High Emperor rules the entire planet and we will be under his personal protection when we are on Zoraht.
Mannix shakes his head. He holds his palm over a wall panel, and it slides open, revealing a storage cavity packed with mysterious and unidentifiable objects. Pulling a handful of small golden disks out, he hands one to each of us, and mimes that we’re to insert the disks in our right ear.
Ah. Translator. That’s why Schultz didn’t look as confused as the rest of us.
Harper snorts. “No need for the lab rats to understand what they’re saying,” she says dryly. She lifts the button-sized device to her ear. I do the same, yelping as a spark runs through me at the point of contact.
“No kidding,” I mutter, rubbing at my ear. “Also, no need to tell us that the damn thing should come with a warning label. I guess they don’t have lawyers on Zoraht.”
“We don’t.” Beirax’s voice drips with frost. “If you could return your attention to me, Viola Lewis?”
Ahem. The translator’s working then. Good to know that the first alien sentence I hear is a scolding.
A couple of the women giggle, but they stop as soon as they feel the full force of the Zorahn’s glare. “As I was saying,” he continues, “You are passengers on Fehrat 1. The journey to the homeworld will take ten of your Earth days. You will be placed in stasis for the trip. Any questions?”
Multiple hands fly in the air. Beirax sighs in frustration and points to a petite dark-haired woman. “Sofia Menendez,” he intones. “Yes?”
I wonder if the Zorahn understand the concept of a first and last name. The way Beirax refers to us, I doubt it. Voila Lewis. Sofia Menendez. Either that or he has a stick up his butt.
The last of the Zorahn, Raiht’vi, chooses this moment to enter the spaceship. She’s a lot taller than most human women, but her build is similar to ours. She has a narrow waist and wider hips, and her clothing, bulky as it is, doesn’t hide the swell of her breasts.
As tall as the men, she’s the only one with hair on her head. The scarlet tresses are tightly braided and decorated with objects that look like shells, and her clothing is white. “Are we ready to leave, Beirax?” she asks, a forbidding expression on her face.
“The humans have questions, Highborn,” Beirax says apologetically. “According to the orders of
