Anxious Gretchen: Space Archaeologist Part 1
As much as I hated early mornings, my drive to work was my favorite part of my day. The traffic on the route from my spartan, university-provided lodgings to the Colony was nonexistent. Not to mention, the view was spectacular.
Glorious pinks and oranges cast by the rising sun painted the Newfoundland landscape in a lush, heavenly glow. The perfect serenity was broken only by the Atlantic's rhythmic waves, the gentle hum of my engine, the intermittent cry of seabirds. And Dylan's snores.
I elbowed him. "Dylan, wake up.”
Ignoring me, he burrowed deeper into the passenger seat and pulled his unzipped jacket close like a blanket. He hated mornings even more than I did.
“Dyl! Dylan!” I hissed, elbowing him harder. “Dylan Okamoto! Wake up!”
He grabbed my elbow before I could jab him again. “Quit it.”
Smirking, I shook out of his grip. “We’re almost to the dig site.”
"Then let me sleep until we get there," he whined.
"Rough night?" I asked. I glanced in my rearview mirror to double-check that the rest of my undergrads were following me to the dig-site. The two sedans were still there, and though I couldn't see inside them, I imagined their drivers were navigating in utter silence.
"No, last night was great. The five-fifteen wake-up call? Not so much," Dylan replied, pushing himself upright. Two and a half months into our summer internship, and Dylan was still the only person here I felt comfortable being friendly with. I had been Dylan's TA for his Introduction to Archaeology course the previous autumn. When I had been assigned my team of undergrads at the beginning of June, I had felt dizzyingly relieved to see a face I recognized. Dylan was a hard worker, a fast learner, and, unlike me, excellent with people.
He stretched his arms forward, his heavy eyelids staying obstinately closed against the strengthening morning light. "You should've hung out with us."
I shook my head, knowing the invitation to commiserate about our day around the fire with a few bottles of crappy wine, had been nothing but a formality. Undergrads didn't actually want to socialize with their Ph.D. supervisor. No one really wanted to spend time with me in social settings, anyway. "No, I would've put a damper on things."
"No, you wouldn't have," Dylan said, his eyes now wide and earnest. He rubbed at his sunburned cheeks and gently returned my elbow nudge from before. "We wanted you there. We don't share our cheap booze with just anyone."
"That's the other thing," I said, turning right. "It's weird drinking with nineteen and twenty-year-olds."
That startled a delighted snort out of Dylan. "I always forget that your dad is American and that you grew up down there. This is Canada, Gretchen. The drinking age is lower here."
I eased the car into the parking lot. "Well, I may be fifty percent Canadian, but drinking with people who aren't even twenty yet feels one hundred percent weird."
Dylan laughed tiredly as I pulled into my unofficial spot and cut the engine. "Well, we're probably going to do it again tonight. You should think about joining"
Two sedans pulled up alongside us. The wan, disgruntled faces of my young team frowned at me through the windows.
Logically, I knew they were unhappy due to the early hour, unseasonable cold spell, and the hangovers they were sporting. That didn't stop the voice in the back of my mind from suggesting that it was really because none of them wanted to spend the day working with me.
"I'll think about it," I lied, opening my door and swinging my messenger bag over my shoulder. The crash of waves against the rocky shore blissfully drowned out my students' complaining. I shut my eyes and inhaled the sea air—once, twice, three times—attempting to settle my anxiety. It was my second summer as the Ph.D. candidate managing the dig-site at the former Colony of Avalon, and I was still struggling when it came to directing my charges.
Social situations—especially those in which I was in an authoritative position—were the worst.
Nine sleepy, not-yet-twenty-year-olds emerged from their cars, eyes heavy-lidded and mouths puckered in unhappiness. A particularly strong gust cut inland and caught the sides of Dylan's jacket, dragging him backward. "Oh, fuck this, Gretchen. I'm going back to bed."
"Get moving before I fail you," I threatened half-heartedly. I double-checked my bag and pockets to make sure I had everything, my cell phone clattering against my pill bottle in my jacket as my fingers fumbled across them.
"You no longer hold that power over me," Dylan argued, tugging his knit hat lower over his ears. But he lumbered towards the employee shed, beckoning his grumbling compatriots to follow. I turned the collar of my jacket up against the chill and followed their stomping, mud-caked boots across the crushed gravel lot, all of them murmuring about coffee beneath their breath.
Upon reaching the employee shed, Dylan yelled, "Yo, Borowicz, keys."
I hoisted my bag higher onto my shoulder and wound my way through the clump. I slotted the key into the shed door, gently nudging it open.
"Tossing the keys would've been a lot faster," Dylan pointed out with a small smile. He scratched at his forehead, his beanie shifting to reveal a mess of dark, greasy hair. The undergrads' propensity for skipping showers was something I would never understand.
I secured the keys in my pocket and switched on the light. "The keys could've been dropped or stepped on or—"
"Blown into the ocean?" Dylan suggested, his brown eyes meeting mine in understanding. He was joking, but I nodded all the same. No matter how far-fetched, worst-case scenarios were always in residence at the back of my mind. "We're at least two hundred meters from the shoreline. There's no way the wind is strong enough to carry a ring of ten plus keys all the way to the water."
I shrugged. The other students ambled into the shed, heading directly for the coffee pot.
"Alright, the storms have been pretty bad this week, we have to check for flooding on the seawall this morning before we start our regular duties," I announced to general despair. They all hated me, of that I was ninety-nine percent sure.
Our job was to maintain the historical Colony of Avalon by preserving the buildings and outdoor sites. We also supervised teams of visitors at multiple active dig-sites while they played archaeologist for the afternoon.
"Once you’ve finished your coffee, grab your trowels and meet me at the wall in fifteen minutes," I said in an attempt to temper their dislike of me. A wave of silent disdain met my order as stained coffee mugs were distributed.
I cringed, wondering if they had heard me or were blatantly ignoring me. I knew they were most likely too tired to muster up the energy for a response before having their coffee, but I couldn't stop myself from fidgeting. I opened my mouth to say something else when I felt a calming hand on my shoulder. Dylan patted me gently in solidarity. "Go ahead and scout it out. I'll grab your trowel and make sure the sheds are locked before we head down."
I nodded my appreciation and headed outside.
I relished the solitude as I tramped through the silent Colony, my boots squelching into the muddy walking paths that led past the gift shop towards the remains of the blacksmith's forge. Kittiwakes screeched across the pale sky, the ocean settling into a gentle roil as I reached the seawall.
I looked down at the aged, stacked stone wall which stood wearily in its perfectly excavated rectangle. The past week of intense wind and rain had battered it brutally. The foremost trench in front of the wall was already underwater, and the second was threatening to reach total submersion within the next few days.
I cursed myself for underestimating the water level and not bringing my galoshes. This meant a hike back to the equipment shed unless I wanted to spend my day laboring with sodden feet, enduring the judgmental glares of the undergrads.
I turned to summit the hill when I noticed a slash of vibrant, verdant light on the seawall that shouldn’t have been there. It formed a perfectly straight, vertical line, like a jumbo laser level, bisecting the wall into equal halves.
“What the hell?” I looked around, trying to find the light source, wondering if it was one of my students playing a prank.
Seeing nothing unusual, I braced myself for the inevitable grossness of soggy socks and made my way down into the sodden pit toward the strange light. I waved my hand in front of it, but it didn’t waver. Gingerly, I reached toward it.
The moment my hand made contact with the wall, the gash of light expanded.
I retracted my hand immediately. Or tried to. My palm was inexplicably stuck to the grimy stone. The green light expanded, engulfing my hand as I tried to free it. I overbalanced, dropping on my ass into the shallows. My bag slid from my shoulder, sinking into the mud. Water seeped into my pants. “Shit.”
I got onto my knees. The light now encased my hand up to the wrist. I stood up but slipped on the silt. My free hand caught my fall before I broke my face on the edge of the seawall.
But instead of feeling relief, my heart juddered. Both of my hands were now trapped.
"What the hell?" I whispered between forced, deep breaths. What the hell was I supposed to do? “I NEED HELP!" I yelled frantically as my hands grew numb. By the time my elbows were consumed, I could hear my complaining undergrads cresting the hill.
"Gretchen! Where are you? What's wrong?" Dylan shouted, the seawall blocking me from view.
"Dylan, I'm stuck, I can’t—"
I braced my feet as best I could and tugged hard. With my shifting weight, my boots lost all traction against the silt. I shrieked as I fell, a painful collision with the seawall imminent.
But then, the wall was gone, and I was no longer falling down but—impossibly—up. I screamed. Colors raced by me in an iridescent swirl. My chest contracted, and my vision blackened.
I dropped onto something solid, my head bouncing off an unyielding surface. I cursed, cradling my skull as I curled into myself. I shut my eyes against the suddenly too bright light. I tried to settle my breathing by inhaling deeply, holding my breath for a few seconds, then releasing it.
There was a rustle of fabric from across the room. I shot to my feet.
The monochromatic grey walls were illuminated by searing amber-blue light. It was devoid of anything but an amber platform with a spindly metal arch upon which I now stood. I spied one expansive, oval window on the opposite side of the room, beyond which was only opaque blackness. Maybe a darkened hallway?
But most importantly, I was not alone.
"Holy fuck," I gasped.
The being before me was tall, exceptionally so. It had long hair that faded from brilliant, luminescent silver at the roots to pristine white ends. Two large, navy eyes looked back at me over a hawkish nose. Two small ears and one mouth with a concerned tilt to it. It—she, possibly—appeared human except for her purple skin and odd hair.
Whoever, whatever she was, she blocked my only way out of the room.
"Who are you? What's—what's going on? Where am I?" I asked, my voice trembling along with my body. Maybe there was an old tunnel hidden beneath the seawall, and I had fallen underground? But that didn't explain why the underground of a 17th-century colony would be so modern. Was I somehow inside someone's tricked-out doomsday bunker?
The purple woman held her hands out to the side, palms facing me. She said something indiscernible, in a language that sounded like gibberish. The words were soft at the edges, sharp as pickaxes at the center.
"Where are we?" I tried again. "What's happening? Are you—are you kidnapping me or something?"
I took her silence as confirmation.
I needed to get out of there immediately. I rushed towards her, my aching body protesting every movement. My water-logged boots slipped against the smooth floor.
The being steadied me, and had the audacity to look hurt when I recoiled from her. I blinked hard at the hand before me—at its six fingers—trying to grab my forearm.
"Don't touch me!"
I twisted away and crashed into the marble-smooth wall. I needed to get out of there, I couldn't stay, this creature, this thing, might kill me. Something pressed gently between my shoulder blades. "No, no, no," I shrieked. I lashed out with a numb fist and lunged for freedom.
She shouted, reaching for me again.
"I don't— I don't—" As my breathing continued to deteriorate, speaking became nearly impossible. The floating, detached sensation of lightheadedness washed over me. The room pitched violently, and my knees buckled. The being caught me a foot from the floor, one arm around my waist, the other protectively cradling my head. She shifted me into her arms, a hideous mockery of a bridal carry. I rolled my head toward the window as we passed it. If I could figure out where I had been taken, maybe I could figure out how to escape.
Through the cloud of sweaty strawberry-blonde hair that had come loose from my ponytail, I saw a vast expanse of velvet black cradling a large yellow planet with rings in the distance.
Saturn. That was Saturn.
The undergrads have finally driven me crazy, was my last, inane thought before my mind went mercifully blank.
An alarm blared, loud and abrupt and out of place.
I shifted to turn it off, but my arm, weighed down by a marrow-deep lethargy, refused to cooperate. Unable to silence the music that was agitating my already pounding head, I resigned myself to wakefulness. I blinked, adjusting to the blue-gold light emanating from an intricately curling sculpture in the corner of the room—which was not my bedroom in my temporary university-provided apartment.
"Fucking hell," I murmured. The throbbing in my head intensified to match my rising pulse. "My head."
"Apologies, honored one. Fulyiti Kezira thought you would like music to listen to as you recovered. She selected it personally."
There was a soft electrical beep that silenced an oddly familiar guitar riff. "Take care, honored one," the soothing voice continued in the sudden quiet. "You must rest after the procedure. Becoming agitated makes the integration more difficult."
Each gentle word was a wallop to the skull.
"Procedure?" I croaked, glancing in the voice's direction. A being stared down at me. Her oversized silver eyes were luminous in her lilac-skinned face. She was very tall, I guessed seven feet, at least. The clean, elegant lines of her white tunic and pants only highlighted this fact. Her hair was braided away from her face in a serviceable style that looked like it was woven from strands of sparkling starlight.
I thought of the other tall purple being, the impossible flash of Saturn, the adrenaline-soaked rush of fear.
"Yes, your scheduled procedure, honored one," she said, not noticing my trip down terror-lane. "The translator implantation surgery, as I am sure Fulyiti Kezira informed you." She reached out with ridiculously long fingers and ran one tapered tip over a tender spot near my temple.
"No one informed me of anything," I protested, grabbing at my collar to find I was no longer wearing the clothes I had put on this morning but instead a clean, ivory-colored sheath. I clenched the soft fabric closer to my body, determinedly not thinking about how I had gotten cleaned and changed. "Who are you? Where am I?"
"I am Healer Jil'ana. I performed your implantation procedure." She gestured to a small gem-like nodule on her forehead. It resembled the subdermal piercings that I occasionally saw on undergrads. I reached up to find a protrusion in my forehead. Maybe I was dead. I had always sworn to myself that I would die before getting one.
I jumped slightly as the wide, black metallic cuff Healer Jil'ana wore around her left wrist issued a warning chirrup. With her right hand, Jil'ana thumbed at the surface of the band. A series of schematics projected from her wrist across the wall above my head.
I craned my neck awkwardly to see what made her eyes squint so judgmentally.
"Easy, honored one, your vital signs are rising at an alarming rate. You must settle yourself, or you will continue to endure unusually high postoperative pain." Her fingers moved along a projection of what appeared to be my extremely elevated heart rate. She tapped her band. A 3D anatomical diagram of a brain appeared, hovering above her wrist like a restless hummingbird. She frowned. Or at least, it would have been a frown on a human. I had no idea what it meant on a purple (potential) people eater. "Your brain scans vary slightly from the other humans that I have treated, honored one. Are you well?"
"No!" I said, no longer able to avoid the insane truth of my predicament. "I've been abducted by fucking pastel aliens," I clutched at my ribs in an attempt to ground myself and even out my breathing, "and I think I'm about to have a panic attack!"
"Honored one, you must calm down—"
"Don't tell me to calm down!" I choked. The pain in my head surged.
"Now I'm heeeeeere!" The loudly sung declaration heralded the entrance of a second alien, who hopped one-footed into the room. She held her other leg above her head, pretend-strumming across her thigh while she enthusiastically belted the guitar riff that had awoken me.
Wait—Did they even have guitars in space? What if she was miming the gruesome way these aliens killed their enemies? Did they surgically install this strange chip in me so that I could understand what they were saying when I was brutally executed?
I tried to employ one of my calming strategies and catalog objective facts to settle myself. I was alive, and I was whole. I was breathing, and I could still see, hear, and feel. The newcomer peered at me inquisitively, and my thoughts spiraled. I had no idea where I was or whom I was with. And these aliens—holy shit, aliens—were strange in the extreme.
Take the air-guitaring newcomer's entire appearance, for example. Her gleaming navy hair was wrapped into a pair of elaborate buns atop her head. Feathered, 1980s style bangs framed full, navy eyes decorated with brilliant, gold eye-liner. Combined with her odd ensemble—a ruffled, multi-tiered, floor-length, open-front skirt worn over leggings and paired with a sleeveless shirt that had been elaborately embroidered with a bejeweled version of the band Queen's logo—she was rather overwhelming.
If I survived this, I would have to tell my therapist that his calming strategies were ineffective in the event of an alien abduction.
"Heeeeere I am, princess of the universe!" If I had ever thought about my potential alien abduction, it would not have included an alien who greeted me with song lyrics. She dropped her air-guitar pose and moved as if to embrace me. Or strangle me. I scrambled backward across the bed until I hit the wall.
"It's okay," came a distinctly male voice. This voice was quieter, and had a gentle lilt to it, unmistakably from the American south. Unlike Healer Jil’ana, his voice didn't physically hurt my head to listen to. "She won't do anything to you, except maybe hug you. She's just super excited."
If he was an alien, he was comfortingly human-looking. He was an African-American man, a few years younger than me. He wore jeans, a faded periodic table t-shirt, thick-framed glasses, and a flannel that looked as soft as his smile. His hair and ears were hidden beneath a well-loved, dark grey beanie.
"Fulyiti Kezira and Chester, her Favored, I was just about to send for you," Jil'ana said, clearly relieved not to be dealing with me alone anymore. "The patient, Gretchen Ann Borowicz of Earth, has successfully received her transplant." The wristband's projection changed to something that might have been written in wingdings for all I could understand. It appeared as though my implant was only for auditory language translation. "As you can see, for a human patient of five feet, six inches, and one-hundred-fifty-four pounds, I administered the proper amount of anesthetic and pain reliever, but the patient continues to be unduly distressed.”
"The patient is duly distressed!" I blurted. "I don't know what the hell was done to me."
Chester, the apparently Favored, turned to the double bun-sporting alien. "FleetMerc! You didn't. I told you! You have to give her the speech and then ask."
"But—" she protested.
"No!" Chester held up a chastising finger. "Fulyiti Fleetwood Mercury of the House of Fuiq, your honored guest is scared. You have to give her the orientation speech and ask if she's willing to help us." Chester seemed absolutely unruffled by the seven-inch height difference and otherworldly appearance of his companion as he glared sternly up at her.
"Fulyiti," Healer Jil'ana interjected mildly, eyes downcast to her demurely folded hands, "with all respect to your station and to our desperate need for the honored guest's skills, you did give me your solemn vow that I would not perform this procedure on uninformed denizens of Earth again."
The healer tapped her wristband twice. The projection of my accelerated heart rate appeared once more. "The honored guest is showing high distress signals. And from what I have gathered, she has been told nothing."
"I wrote it all out for you, Fleetwood," Chester admonished, poking Fulyiti Fleetwood Mercury in the arm. She snatched at his hand and twined their fingers together companionably. "This is why I told you I should come with you.”
She shook her head. Her gem threw tiny prismatic rainbows when it caught the sculpture's light. "I did not have time! Gret'chen arrived aboard the Killer Qu'een, and post-haste commenced the freaking. She swooned in Azo'lah's arms—"
"I fainted!" I protested.
"—before I could arrive and impart the wisdom."
"Then you have to give the speech now," Chester said with fond exasperation. He released Fleetwood from his grasp and held out his hand for me to shake. "Hi. Sorry about this. I'm Chester Leon, formerly of Earth. Let me assure you that no one here means you any harm. And don't worry about the fainting. Change in gravity and oxygenation levels had me passing out when I first got up here too."
I shook Chester's hand. He politely didn't mention how mine was clammy and trembling. I think he noticed anyway since he gave it a comforting squeeze.
Fleetwood Mercury eyed the exchange with interest. She knocked Chester's hand out of the way before clasping mine in both of hers, shaking it vigorously.
"I am Kezira, the second Fulyiti of the house of Fuiq, the ruling family of the central continent of the planet Destyr." I only recognized half of the words in that sentence and still understood none of it. Kezira, the second Fulyiti, continued, "The closest approximation of my title in Earth English is Princess. But you may call me by my chosen Earth name of Fleetwood Mercury, after the gods of your people's music: Freddie Mercury of the majestic Queen and Fleetwood Mac, who knows all the important rumors.
"Although we have brought you here from your native planet, you are our honored guest and are safe. You are not a prisoner. You will not be rectally probed." I turned my wide-eyes to Chester, who snickered behind his fist. "You can leave at any time. However, please do not, as we require your help." Fleetwood Mercury said this all very quickly and in a way that suggested she disliked having to give the so-called orientation speech. Upon finishing, she stuck her tongue out at Chester before grasping my face and squishing my cheeks.
"Rock on," she said solemnly, pressing her forehead to mine. My eyes crossed as I attempted to maintain eye contact.
"FleetMerc," Chester said, patiently peeling her off me, "we talked about how humans are less tactile than Destyrians. Most of us don't do the touchy forehead greeting."
"I think you are merely trying to keep the adorable Gret'chen all to yourself," Fleetwood Mercury shot back. "Your gods of music speak of nothing but touching." She looked back at me, her expression serious as a funeral. "Gret'chen of Earth, are you a fat-bottomed girl?"
Whatever I had expected, it was not that. "I beg your pardon?"
"I wish to see if you make your planet rock circularly," Fleetwood said matter-of-factly as if this was a quotidian question.
"That's not…" Chester sighed.
"I don't rock anything. You just can't ask that," I said. Terrified by the sudden sharp downturn of the princess' mouth, I added, "I have an average bottom for a human, I guess."
"But that is a fat bottom by our standards. Excellent. I will have a fire prepared and—"
"Oh my god, Fleetwood. Stop," Chester groaned. "I know you're excited, but she's terrified if Jil' ana's monitors are any indication."
"You must do something, Chester, her Favored or the honored guest's implant will fail to assimilate and will need to be removed," Jil'ana said, moving toward me. With them pressing in on all sides of me, I felt crowded, the air too thick, but the oxygen too thin. The aliens' arguing layered over the shrill, warning beeps of the healer's wristband. I screwed my eyes shut, burying my head into my folded arms.
"Silence," a new voice commanded. There was the sound of light footsteps, and my brain was torn between raising my head to look and trepidation at what this new alien would be like.
"Azo'lah," Fleetwood Mercury whined, the pitch of her cry ear-piercing.
"Quiet, please," I pleaded.
Jil'ana murmured, "Azo'lah Myax, I do not understand what is wrong with the honored guest."
"She has some sort of Earth ailment that causes her to act irrationally. She was quite unreasonable before she fainted." Azo'lah replied. "Like most humans, it happened upon her retrieval. The trip up is quite difficult for them." I finally forced myself to glance up and flinched. The newly arrived Destyrian was the one who initially abducted me.
Azo'lah was even taller than the healer. Her sparkling silver and white hair was now secured by a metallic band so that it laid practically but elegantly close to her head. She wore close-fitting pants, boots, and a sleeveless tunic that showed off her strong, defined arms. She was beautiful in a stoic sort of way.
"It wasn't just the trip up! I—I have social anxiety disorder," I said. "There were pills in my jacket. My Beta-blockers."
"Oh, shit," Chester said. "Healer Jil'ana, do you have the patient's jacket?"
Jil'ana crossed the room and retrieved my jacket from where it rested near the sculpture. “It is here, Chester, her Favored.”
"Great. And could you get something for her to drink? There you go." Chester draped the jacket over my tented knees, as if afraid he would trigger a panic attack by touching me. I fumbled with shaking fingers for the pill bottle in the pocket.
"Do you need me to get that?" Chester offered.
"Please." I allowed Chester to take the bottle from my sweaty hands and undo the cap.
"Your requested beverage," Jil'ana said. She proffered a cup fashioned from thick, turquoise glass. "Could someone please explain what is happening to the honored guest."
"She has a human mental illness called anxiety. It's like the depression, uh—darkness—of the Myax, but it causes her to have irrational, nervous thought processes, and sometimes panic," Chester said. "I'm sure there's some information in the Archives. I'll pull it up for you." Chester tapped a large black square that looked like an enamel pin attached to his beanie. At my inquisitive look, he said, "My wristband kept getting caught on things in my lab and messing up everything, so Azo'lah got me this instead." My eyes turned to the wrists of all of the aliens present where matching bands of black rested.
From Chester's pin, information projected onto the wall in a script that varied from aggressively jagged to whimsically curved. The only thing that gave a clue as to the nature of the article was the familiar diagrams of brain activity.
Jil' ana leaned into the diagrams and clarified, "And this is why her brain is different?"
"She's a loon?" Fleetwood supplied helpfully as she leaned against Azo'lah Myax's side, resting her head on the taller Destyrian's shoulder.
"No," Chester laughed.
"She is Myaxi," Jil'ana said, a note of awe in her voice. "There is no other term for it. See, here and here," her long fingers indicated specific points on the projected diagrams, "it is an exceptionally close mirror to that of our Myax. I was concerned with your choice, Fulyiti. However, you have chosen well."
"Myaxi?" Azo'lah turned, scrutinizing me. To disguise my still shaking hands, I tossed back my pill with a sip of water. It tasted somehow fresher than the water on earth, with a hint of underlying sweetness, like ripe raspberries.
"The strength of humans constantly surprises me," said Healer Jil’ana fondly. She inclined her head to me and brought her hands up, touching at the wrist, her left palm placed across her chest, the right one held up and out. I didn't know exactly what it meant, but there was an ancient sacredness about it. Azo'lah, Chester, and Fleetwood Mercury followed suit.
Azo'lah's wristband beeped gently, but insistently. She silenced it with her thumb, announcing to us all, "The All-Councilor has summoned us. It will not do to keep her waiting any longer. Fulyiti, why don't you collect the clothes you had commissioned for our honored guest."
"No one is to frighten my fat bottomed girl until I return," Fleetwood commanded haughtily before flouncing out of the room in a cloud of diaphanous fabric. Healer Jil'ana and Azo'lah followed in her footsteps, conferring in hushed tones.
"Fleetwood doesn't realize she's the most frightening thing when you first arrive," Chester whispered conspiratorially. "How are you feeling?"
"Like my head is a dig-site," I replied. "I mean, my head hurts. It's worse when the um...Destyrians talk. Sorry," I said quickly, glancing at the retreating alien women.
"Side effect of your translation device assimilation. That's what they did, by the way." He eased his beanie aside, revealing a tiny circular jewel. "It's a micro-unit that translates our speech for one another. Your head probably hurts when Azo'lah and Healer Jil'ana speak because it hasn't finished calibrating. I'm speaking English, and Fleetwood is too, for the most part. Her English has gotten loads better, though her colloquialisms are..." He shook his head. "Anyway, the translator doesn't have to work when we speak. That's why it doesn't hurt."
I nodded then asked the question that had been on my mind since Chester first confirmed his humanity. "How long have you been here?"
"Seven months or so." He shrugged, seemingly wholly unperturbed by the fact that he was a fellow abductee. "I mean, I went home for Christmas—"
"Home, where?" I asked.
"Myaxi," Fleetwood declared, sweeping back into the room with a bundle of clothes. "I had them commissioned especially for you based on Earth documentation of what archaeologists wear." She thrust the bundle into my arms. It was brown jodhpur breeches, a tank top, a soft, off-white button-up shirt, lace-up boots, a leather jacket, and... a fedora. Fleetwood proudly placed a black corded whip and belt on top of the pile.
Chester did not bother to stifle his laughter. "I'm so sorry. I tried to tell her the whip wasn't necessary, but she liked it."
"It is the tool of an archaeologist!" Fleetwood argued earnestly. "Now, you must dress to meet the All-Councilor."
"Um...could I have some privacy?" I requested.
"Of course," Chester said. "Come on, Fleetwood."
"But I wanted to see her fat bottom!" she yelled as he dragged her away.
I quickly searched the room, looking for my own mud-covered clothing. Forced to admit that my things were nowhere nearby, I returned to Fleetwood's gift. The clothes looked like an amalgamation of costuming from every adventure movie featuring a (wildly inaccurate) archaeologist character. I ran my hand over the shirt fabric—it was finely woven and ridiculously soft. I shook out the breeches and pulled the shoulders of the leather jacket taut.
Fuck it. When on Destyr, I thought, tossing the whip and fedora into the corner.
There was a sharp rap on the door, followed by Azo'lah asking, "Gretchen Myaxi, are you prepared for our meeting with the All-Councilor?"
I stared at the implant that glistened at my temple in my reflection on the glassy cabinet, flinching at how the gem caught the light. My mother would hate it.
Oh, God, Mom—
Another sharp knock. "Gretchen Myaxi, are you alright?"
"Fine," I lied. I found my new boots surprisingly comfortable during my short walk to the door. But instead of having to open it or it opening automatically, the door simply disappeared as I approached. I tentatively waved my hands through the space where the door had been only a second prior and found it as empty as it appeared.
Azo'lah Myax towered before me, and any lies I had been telling myself about exhaustion-induced hallucinations or coma-related nightmares while I changed into my Fleetwood Mercury provided attire evaporated beneath her deep-eyed glare. Staring up into her face, I knew there was no corner of my brain that could conjure up any dream this unlikely.
"This is insane," I said.
"I assure you, it is not. Though Fulyiti Fleetwood may be." I thought I saw a smirk chase itself across Azo'lah's face and wondered precisely who she was that she was allowed to make fun of royalty.
"She is… a bit much," I agreed hesitantly.
Azo'lah nodded. "She has always been that way, ever since we were children. Her Earth obsession has exacerbated her behavior."
"Since you were children? How old is she?" I asked, suddenly wondering about Fleetwood Mercury's exact age. The obscene height of the Destyrians made them all appear to be adults, but Fleetwood's exuberant behavior could easily be explained if she were, in fact, a child.
"Fulyiti Fleetwood graced us with her birth 549 binary cycles ago," replied Azo'lah. At my gaping mouth, Azo'lah continued, "It is roughly equivalent to 27 Earth years."
"Oh," I breathed.
Azo'lah took a step back and gestured down the hall. "Please, follow me."
I scrambled to keep up with her down the glistening hallway, taking two steps to match every one of her militarily precise strides. "Where are we going? Where are we exactly?" I asked.
"The royal palace of House Fuiq," Azo'lah replied.
I unsubtly ogled my surroundings. The palace walls were an opaque, ivory glasslike material, the simplicity of which highlighted the beautifully designed, multi-colored tiled floors.
"We are to meet with the Auhtula and her All-Councilor," Azo'lah continued. "There, you will be debriefed regarding our mission."
"Our mission?" I wheezed, dodging a Destyrian who turned the corner at the same time we did. This new corridor was lined with floor to ceiling windows, and I had to shield my eyes from the blazing sunlight until my eyes adjusted. My breath caught in my throat as I gasped in awe.
"It is quite the view," Azo'lah stated, peering out the window to the right.
We were suspended at least forty stories high, a city unlike any I'd ever seen before sprawled below us. Buildings of every height and shape made of gray metal and milky glass created a skyline that climbed and swooped, like a soaring bird of prey. Billboards broadcast advertisements for strange products in retina-burning shades of fuchsia and lime. The skies were full of vehicles slithering through beams of goldenrod light, like mice in the digestive systems of snakes. Destyrians walked pathways, wrapped closely near their companions. Others chased after what must be children and multi-legged pets. Teal-barked, pink-leafed trees lined purple-grassed boulevards, and the mint sky played host to two brilliant suns. The city was cut in two by a rushing river that cut directly beneath the hallway we stood in.
"It's—" My eyes darted to our left, where a row of buildings that looked like super-sized, sea glass vases followed the river to a body of water so gargantuan, its edges were undetectable even at this height. The lake, ocean—whatever it was—was jade green and glowing.
I squished my face to the window. "What is this place?"
"Thal, our capital," Azo'lah said, nudging me toward the end of the hallway.
Our journey ended at a door that dematerialized when we stepped up to it. Azo'lah herded me into the room as I once again marveled at the technology. Once we cleared the threshold, the door reappeared. "Never gonna get used to that witchcraft," I breathed.
Azo'lah cleared her throat.
I turned my attention to the room's interior. It was outfitted with elaborately carved amber-colored wood furniture inlaid with polished stones, which shone in the natural light from the single, wall-sized window that overlooked Thal. Stunning sculptures of placid Destyrian women wearing unique tiaras upon their meticulously rendered hair gazed at me from each corner. Standing along the opposite side of the large, centrally located, elliptical table were six Destyrians. They were all varying shades of purple, from plum to lavender. All but one appeared to be women, and they towered over me, even from this distance.
"Gretchen of Earth," said the one standing just left of center. Her hair was an oil spill of curls across her shoulders, and her regal face radiated warm welcome. "We are pleased at your arrival."
"Um, hi?" I said with a small wave. Meeting new people had never been my specialty.
"All-Councilor," Azo'lah, dipped into a short bow as she greeted the Destyrian who had just addressed me. Azo'lah's next bow, directed at the Destyrian in the center, was much deeper. This woman was the shortest of those assembled. Her navy hair wound around her head in a complicated updo of braids, the metallic threads interwoven with her dark tresses highlighting her sharp features. While everyone else was dressed in garb resembling Azo'lah's—sensible tunics and pants in neutral tones—this Destyrian wore a flowing silver robe that refracted every beam of sunlight. Azo'lah greeted her reverently, "Auhtula Ty'uria."
When I didn't follow her example, Azo'lah jabbed a sharp elbow into my ribs. "Auhtula is the title for our ruler."
"If the Fulyiti is to be believed, your Earth word would be queen," supplied the All-Councilor.
I started at that pronouncement and dropped into a haphazard curtsy, which I aborted halfway to bow like Azo'lah instead. My hands began to sweat; I was not prepared to meet more royalty.
Auhtula Ty'uria smiled. "Azo'lah Myax. You are well received. Gretchen of Earth, you are most welcome."
"You too." I cringed. "I mean, thank you. Your home is beautiful. The trees are fascinating, and your water is green, which is—and the doors they just—" I moved my hands like an over-enthusiastic children's magician, "Whoosh."
The Destyrians on the other side of the table chuckled. My face burned with embarrassment. This was why I despised social situations. I was exceptionally bad at them. And that was when I understood the cultural norms. Being abruptly thrown into the deep end of the Destyrian nobility-pool was my worst nightmare.
Auhtula Ty'uria nodded placatingly. "They do. I am surprised at how quickly you have grasped our language. I was not told you were a linguist."
"Oh, I'm not! Only for dead languages. On Earth." I tapped my temple. "I was... upgraded upon my arrival."
The Auhtula frowned. She turned towards the lone male at the far right. "I was unaware the translation implant had advanced to allow an offworlder to understand with such fluency so quickly."
"It hasn't," the male replied. His narrowed eyes bored into mine.
Azo'lah stepped forward and said, "Vice-Chancellor Lija, I believe Chester, Fulyiti Kezira's Favored," Azo' lah's eyes tracked to the Auhtula for a moment, "tinkered with Gretchen's implant before it was inserted. It appears that the adjustments he made have been more successful than anticipated."
"Yes, it would," Auhtula Ty'uria agreed. Though she seemed satisfied with this explanation, Vice-Chancellor Lija's glare did not waver. "Please," the Auhtula gestured to the chairs surrounding the table, "sit. Let us explain why you are here."
I clambered to obey, my much shorter limbs impossibly clumsy as I hopped into my higher than Earth-standard seat. The Destyrians elegantly folded themselves into their high-backed chairs. With my feet hovering off the floor, I felt like a toddler at the adults' table during holiday dinner.
The All-Councilor caressed her wristband. In a seriously creepy move, the eyes of the sculptures in the corners of the room pulsed with blue-gold light, which coalesced rapidly into a three-dimensional projection of a binary star system that hovered over the table. Three planets of varying size traversed a figure-eight path around the fiery twins. "This is Wivin Xar, our… I believe you call it a solar system on Earth. You call your light-giver a sin, yes?"
"Sun," I corrected, drinking in the elegant dance of the planets and suns. The largest, darkest planet took the tightest track between the suns, while the smallest, most-Earth-like, carved a much slower path at a much greater distance.
"Sun," the All-Councilor repeated as though the word greatly amused her. "Our people have three planets. Vas Roya," the projection of the largest planet quadrupled in size. Its angry red-brown surface bubbled like a blister. "The home of the Ancients, where Destyrians originated.
"Then, there is Golyn," the middle planet on the projection overtook Vas Roya in size when its name was spoken. It was a gorgeous marbling of indigo and navy; I had to sit on my hands to stop myself from touching it. "Golyn is where our ancestors fled when Vas Roya burned."
My eyes widened. "Burned?"
"Chester Leon has read our texts, and he said your people would call what happened solar flares," Azo'lah explained.
"While most records of the Ancients have been lost over the millennia, we know that Vas Roya became uninhabitable," the All-Councilor continued. "The surviving accounts say that the temperature was inhospitable as fire rained from the light-givers. The land trembled, swallowing cities. Ash fell, and crops failed. The Ancients were advanced enough to flee to Golyn, where our ancestors flourished. So much so that we outgrew the planet and moved to inhabit Destyr."
The projected Destyr, mint, plum, and gold, swelled in size beyond Golyn.
"But isn't Golyn larger?" I asked.
The All-Councilor nodded. "Larger yes, but with 70% less landmass. Once Destyr was proven to be habitable, and of a milder climate, our ancestors moved en masse. We now use Golyn as an agricultural, fishing, and mining planet. We maintain strict regulations so as not to strain Golyn's natural resource output."
"That's all very interesting," I said, as politely as possible, "but what does it have to do with me?"
Auhtula Ty'uria answered, "Destyr is divided into five continents, all led by an Auhltula. All Auhtula's can trace our lineage, and therefore our claims to leadership, directly to the Ancients."
Ty'uria pressed something on her wristband, and the hologram flashed from planetary systems to a picture of a Destyrian. Her hair, the color of a cloudless summer day, was pulled back severely from her face, and her dark eyes glinted like onyx. I still wasn't sure about distinguishing ages of Destyrians, but her smooth face with its proud chin looked quite young.
"Pola." Hisses of disgust met the name, but Auhtula Ty'uria pressed on, "Auhtula Pola of the southern continent has been spreading rumors that my lineage is tainted. That my claim to lead the central continent is void. She is threatening to unseat me if I, and my daughters, cannot prove beyond doubt that we share the sacred blood of the Ancients."
"What about the other Auhtulas?" I grimaced as I massacred the word with my awful pronunciation. "Can't they, I don't know, defend your honor?"
The counselor to the Auhtula's left who had remained silent until this point growled, "They are weak."
"Myax Jolail," scolded Auhtula Ty'uria with an indulgent smile.
"Apologies, Auhtula, but I speak only the truth," Myax Jolail said.
"Wait? Are you two related?" I pointed between Azo'lah and Jolail. Both women were strong-bodied and had light hair, but otherwise had few similarities. However, even relatives on Earth often looked like they came from separate gene pools.
"No," Myax Jolail replied curtly. "Myax is a term of station. It replaces my first name instead of my mother-name because I am Auhtula Ty'uria's First Myax. We are the protectors of our people."
"So, you're the general of her army?"
"Nothing so crude. Though, it may fall to us to function as such if Pola's audacity drives her to breach our territory."
I rubbed my forehead. My brain was turning to jelly with all these unfamiliar terms and political volleying. "I'm sorry, but I still don't understand—"
Jolail sneered, "The western continent is meek, they hide in their hills and have refused to come to our Auhtula's aid. The eastern continent has already aligned itself with Pola, and the north is currently being led by an Auhtul."
As Jolail spoke, images of other Destyrians joined Pola's, two women of middle-years and then a young man, barely a teenager if his scrawny frame was an indicator, whose alabaster locks were cropped close to his skull—the first Destyrian I had seen with short hair. Everyone at the table glared at his picture.
The images fell away, and Vas Roya spun back into view. "We wish to avoid war at all costs," explained the All-Councilor, straightening in her chair, "but with unreliable allies who will not stand with our Auhtula, our hand is forced to prove her claim through less traditional means.
"Before they abandoned Vas Roya, the Ancients lived near and worked in the Temple of Aluthua. The temple was significantly damaged as Vas Roya burned. But from the scrolls and tapestries that survived the journey to Golyn, we know there were three holy relics: a staff, a cloak, and a coronet. These objects brought their bearer great wisdom, strength, and powers beyond that of the average Destyrian. Only the Ancients and their direct descendants could wield them.
"We wish for you to lead a team to the ruins of The Temple of Aluthua and return these artifacts to our Auhtula so she can prove her claim to leadership. Azo'lah has been assigned to—"
"I'm so sorry to interrupt," I held up my hands, "but are you seriously asking me to go to another planet, somehow enter a demolished holy site, and Tomb Raider you objects that may or may not be there?"
Authula Ty'uria leaned forward and asked, "Tomb Raider?"
"Not important," I said hurriedly. My heart rate, which had been steadying back to its usual rate, was building up quickly. "What is important is that I can't go to an alien planet—an alien planet that was destroyed by solar flares—and lead a dig for you. I’m not qualified! Plus, I don't have supplies, I don't have a team, I don't—"
"Azo'lah Myax, Fulyiti Kezira, and Chester Leon will be your team," replied Jolail crisply. "And I believe Chester Leon has acquired your tools."
My damp palms squeaked as they clenched the smooth edge of the table. "How am I supposed to breathe? How will I survive on a burning planet? What will I eat?" My neck snapped toward Azo'lah. "Wait, when was the last time I ate?"
"Healer Jil'ana supplied you with nutrients earlier in the day while you were unconscious," she replied. "Vas Roya is no longer dangerous. In fact, Destyrians who still believe in the deities of old visit it regularly on holy journeys, though the soil makes it impossible to grow food, and therefore it is still unsuitable for permanent habitation. And you need not worry about breathing there. Destyrians and humans have similar atmospheric necessities. In fact, Vas Roya has a higher percentage of oxygen than Earth's troposphere—"
"That's not—I can't," I stammered. "I can't. I need to go back to Earth. I have a job and students who hate me but need me to stop them from falling into unmarked holes." I stood, my grip on the table slipping. "I have parents and a cat—oh my God, Sebastian! You can't keep me here, I need to feed my cat!"
I thought of Sebastian, long-haired, and snuggled into my pillow, waiting for me to return. Oh, God, had I even filled his bowl before I left? Usually, he yowled his demands for kibble, but I couldn't remember hearing his usual racket that morning.
A long-fingered hand grabbed my side. "Gretchen, please," instructed Azo'lah. She guided me back into my seat, her touch uncomfortable in its unfamiliarity but somehow anchoring.
Tense silence saturated the room while I wrestled my breathing back to normal.
"I apologize for upsetting you," Auhtula Ty'uria said. "From what Chester tells me, this process is… startling."
"Damn straight, it is," I agreed.
Auhtula Ty’uria’s rich voice was warm as she continued. "I understand your frustrations and your fears about leaving behind those who rely on you: your family, your students, your Sebastian. It is a heavy thing to be relied upon. I understand your burden. And that is why I am asking for your help to recover one of the lost relics. For without you, we are out of options."
The woman at the far left of the table timidly smoothed her silver hair behind her ear and suggested, "We could call upon The Dangerous Ones."
This was apparently an unpopular suggestion if the indistinguishable roars of outrage were anything to go by.
"War with Pola is a more palatable option!" spat Jolail.
I leaned towards Azo'lah. "The Dangerous Ones?"
"Mercenaries," she hissed. "Loathsome beings who will do anything for profit and then turn on you given the chance of second payment. Their leader betrayed our Auhtula years ago and will never be forgiven."
"What about," I yelled to be heard, "another archaeologist? Just pop me back to Earth and bring someone else on board?"
"There is not enough time," Jolail spat. "Your ship is set to depart within the hour."
My jaw dropped. "The hour?"
"Auhtula Pola is already advancing," said the All-Councilor. "We must prove Auhtula Ty'uria's claim before war breaks out."
"Why do you even need a human archaeologist?" I asked. "I'm sure there's a much more qualified Destyrian archaeologist—"
"There is not," Auhtula Ty'uria interrupted. "Historians and Archivists we have aplenty, but archaeology is not a field well-developed in our culture. Destyrians, as a whole, believe it is best to let the dead, and their belongings, keep to themselves. We need your expertise."
Their expectant gazes were like cement blocks dragging me down into the river of responsibility I'd been unceremoniously flung into.
"Please," Auhtula Ty'uria whispered, leaning toward me in earnest supplication. "Gretchen of Earth, please do this for us, for our people. If you do not, there is no telling how far Pola will take this war."
"Too far," murmured the All-Councillor, gravely. "Her ambition is boundless, and her desire to rule all five of the continents is well-known. If we do not prove Authula Ty'uria's right to rule beyond a shadow of a doubt, Pola will unleash violence upon all of our citizens. And once she has taken this continent, she will use its centrality to launch her attacks on the others who do not follow her."
My heart broke for them, but that still did not make me right for this mission. "I'm sorry, but I—"
Auhtula Ty'uria cut me off. "Just this single, vital mission. To assist us in saving our people and stopping a needless war. Please. Then we will send you back to your life on Earth."
"I don't..."
Azo'lah's hand, which had yet to leave my side, tugged on my borrowed shirt's soft fabric. I met her dark eyes. "Gretchen, please."
I wouldn't do this. I couldn't do this. I wasn't qualified. I still had another year before I earned my Ph.D.
But if I could stop a continental war from breaking out with one dig—
This was batshit. Absolutely insane.
"You promise to send me home once I've recovered your," I waved a hand haphazardly, "relics? I'll go right back to Earth once you have what you need?"
Auhtula Ty'uria bowed her head solemnly. "My word is law. You will return to Earth after you complete this most sacred of tasks for us."
Totally fucking batshit.
"Fine," I capitulated. "But my cat better be okay while I'm gone."
Fleetwood Mercury pounced on me the nanosecond the door to the council chamber dematerialized. She pulled me into a stranglehold of a hug. "Do not worry, Gret'chen, I will haunt your shadow! You will be safe with me."
"That's creepy," I mumbled, lips scratching against the gems stitched into her shirt. "Sorry."
Chester peeled her off of me. "Don't apologize. You're not wrong." He grabbed Fleetwood's elbow, diverting her attention. "Most people don't find the idea of haunting reassuring. I think you picked the wrong word, FleetMerc. Besides, we don't even know if she agreed to help."
Fleetwood's brow furrowed like it had never occurred to her that I might refuse.
Azo'lah, who had followed me from the chamber, playfully poked Fleetwood between her enormous navy blue eyes then rubbed their shoulders together. "Frown not, Fulyiti. Gretchen has promised to aid us in this one mission. Then we must return her to her Sebastian."
Instead of appeasing her highness, this information seemed to do the opposite. Fleetwood wrapped her six fingers around mine, tugging me down the hallway at a pace that forced me to jog to keep pace with her. "Um, help?" I asked, glancing over my shoulder at where Chester was heavily breathing through his own hastened footsteps.
Azo'lah, ambling beside him, smiled in a soft, indulgent fashion. "Fulyiti, I know you are rather enamored with your new friend. However, if Gretchen wishes to return to her Sebastian at the end of this mission, the Auhtula has given her word that it shall be done."
"Is Sebastian your boyfriend?" Chester huffed.
"My cat," I returned just as winded.
Fleetwood Mercury turned abruptly down another hallway, dragging me onto a balcony constructed of amber-like material, inlaid with crystals.
"Do brace yourself, Gretchen Myaxi," Azo'lah instructed pleasantly as we were abruptly surrounded by light the color of the balcony.
My eyes widened, and my grip on Fleetwood's hand tightened. "What? Why?"
Why was answered a moment later as we dropped into a stomach-churning, controlled free-fall, somehow absorbed and at the same time buoyed by the golden light. I screamed, plastering myself around Fleetwood, who patted my head consolingly.
From Fleetwood's other side, Chester laughed. "You aren't actually falling. The speed at which we're being transported only makes us feel that way."
"Why couldn't we just use a normal elevator!" I shrieked, closing my eyes tight against the unfamiliar sensation. It would take hours for my stomach to untangle itself from the Gordian knot it had tied itself into.
"The science behind Destyrian gravitational transportation is actually fascinating," Chester replied. "I've spent the last few months studying the methods behind their technological advancements and—"
"Gret'chen." Feather-light fingertips brushed along my eyelids. I opened them to find Fleetwood Mercury staring at me, her dark blue eyes dyed turquoise by the light. She gestured to the luminous splendor of Thal in all its honey-tinted glory. "By land or by sea, getting there is half the fun!"
She sounded like she was reciting a travel advertisement from the 1950s. Considering her idea of what an archaeologist's wardrobe consisted of, I shouldn't be surprised. "Okay," I agreed, tremulously. Fleetwood beamed, the round apples of her cheeks temporarily turning her eyes into crescents of joy. She was the most adorably weird person I had ever encountered.
She squeezed me close as the gilded light dissipated, and our descent slowed. We landed on a different, but no less striking, amber balcony. It appeared to be a landing pad for the light elevator. I was getting the impression that Destyrians refused to sacrifice aesthetics for functionality.
"I don't know if I liked that," I murmured. Mortified, I unwound myself from Fleetwood.
Chester clapped a hand to my shoulder. "You get used to it."
"Let's rock n' roll,” Fleetwood said. She resumed her grip on my hand and skipped down a long metal and stone ramp to what looked like the Destyrian version of a helicopter pad.
Trailing behind Fleetwood on legs that desperately needed a break, I turned to Azo'lah. "You mentioned something about Destyrians being tactile, but you and... her highness are the only ones who touch me."
"It is in deference to your culture on Earth," Azo'lah responded. "Those around Fulyiti Kezira have had time to adapt to Chester's preferences." She studied me. "However, it may also be because you are both quite unattractive by typical Destyrian criteria."
"Thank you?" I said as Azo'lah overtook Fleetwood's bounding skips down the ramp.
"You're thanking her for calling us ugly?" Chester asked incredulously.
"I didn't know what else to say!" I protested. "Different cultures have different ideals. I didn't want to seem ethnocentric or—"
"KILLER QU'EEEEEEEEEEN!" Fleetwood proclaimed, throwing one fist triumphantly towards the sky, her attention diverted as a spaceship came into view.
"Oh my god, Fleetwood Mercury, you absolute princess," Chester breathed, this side of rapturous. He wrapped his arms tightly around Fleetwood's waist. "It's so pretty. I get to fly it, right?"
The ship was beautiful in a sleek, badass way. Shaped like a backward stingray, it was sharp-edged and constructed from subtly sparkling metal in wine-red and black. The words Killer Qu'een were spelled out in English letters composed of hot pink crystal shards beneath a series of symbols that I was beginning to recognize as written Destyrian. On the very tip of the ship's pointed bow, a bedazzled crown was affixed, like the space version of a hood ornament.
A dozen Destyrians swarmed around the ship, loading supplies up the illuminated gangplank. A male Dysterian almost tripped over himself as he bowed. "Greetings Fulyiti Kezira, Chester her favored, Gretchen of Earth, and Azo' lah Myax. The last of the supplies are being brought on board as we speak. We must await the transfer of the last of our newly arrived guest's wardrobe to her cabin."
"Wardrobe?" I sputtered. I was totally ignored as Fleetwood linked arms with Chester and squealing, they darted up the gangplank.
I turned to Azo' lah. "Any chance there's something normal for me to wear?"
"No," Azo' lah tossed over her shoulder. "If you'll pardon me, I must check our weapons."
I blanched. "Weapons? No one said anything about weapons."
"Gret'chen!" Fleetwood Mercury popped her head out of the entrance, nuzzling Azo'lah's shoulder as she passed. "Come choose your bunk and preferred seat. I have already claimed pistol!"
"Shotgun," Chester's muffled correction came from the depths of the Killer Qu'een.
I grinned, helplessly charmed despite everything and, questioning my sanity, willingly boarded an alien vessel.