Welcome To Albaterra: A SciFi Alien Romance (Albaterra Mates 0.5) Read online

I looked over at Leanne. She was reclining on her bed, hands clasped together across her chest and a faraway expression on her face.

  “What’s all pointless?” I asked.

  “This mission,” she answered, but she didn’t look at me as she spoke. “Do you ever wonder whether there’s anything to find? Like, what if we were sent out here for no reason?”

  “You mean intentionally?”

  “Not necessarily,” she said, finally turning to face me. “Although that’s a possibility as well.”

  I shrugged. “Not really. We would be pretty naïve to think we are the only creatures in the universe.”

  “It’s never even crossed your mind?” he probed.

  “I guess it has once or twice,” I admitted. “I just don’t dwell on it.”

  She sighed and resumed staring at the ceiling. “You’re such an optimist, Tabitha.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m just realistic.”

  Leanne smiled with veiled amusement, and then said idly, “I’m so hungry.”

  I glanced at my watch and got to my feet. “Speaking of that, I should get to the kitchen.”

  “Don’t you ever get tired of serving people?” she asked, also getting to her feet. She moved to the mirror to pluck her stray hairs into place.

  “No more than you get of taking their measurements,” I replied with a snarky grin.

  Leanne turned around to face me with her hands on her hips. She was the seamstress aboard the Paragon, and it showed. Even on a spaceship hurdling through an unknown galaxy at impossible speed, Leanne was the very image of fashion. She was the only crew member who insisted on wearing Armani and Chanel when she wasn’t in uniform.

  “When are you going to let me make you that dress?” She demanded.

  I rolled my eyes. “What do I need a dress for? The Paragon prom?”

  “You’re so frustrating.” She walked over to me and smoothed the hem of my shirt down. “You’d be a total knockout. You have such a nice shape, not like those stick-figure supermodels I was making clothes for in Milan.”

  I batted her hands away and said, “Aren’t supermodels supposed to be the measuring stick for beauty?”

  “Please,” she scoffed. “You know why supermodels have to be so skinny? It’s because a body with no shape allows the designer to create whatever shape they want out of the garment. It’s a blank canvas. You’re not a blank canvas. You’re a masterpiece.”

  I couldn’t help but blush a little. I was by no means self-conscious about my appearance, despite being aware of having a few extra pounds. I received plenty of attention from men, but Leanne’s compliments were so genuine and heartfelt that I felt embarrassingly adored.

  We exchanged goodbyes, and I headed for the kitchen. I had been hired on the Paragon crew as the chef when I had unknowingly served my perfected Beef Wellington to a NASA recruiter. Space travel had never been on my bucket list, but the prospect of literally getting off the planet had been extraordinarily appealing at the time. I had accepted the offer without much thought. Leanne and I had met during orientation when she’d eyed my blouse and insisted on—in her words—bringing me out of the past and into the present.

  I continued thinking about my conversation with Leanne as I prepared tonight’s dinner - Salisbury steak. I hadn’t been entirely truthful with her; it had crossed my mind more than once that we would return to Earth with nothing to show for our time in space. It just wasn’t as big of a concern for me as it appeared to be for her. My decision to join the Paragon crew had much less to do with being a part of something huge. Instead, it had almost everything to do with escaping my past.

  Even as I sautéed the massive pan of green beans, I could still see his face in my mind, bloodied and blank. His lips had been parted as if he’d been about to speak, and he’d stared at me so intently I’d been able to look away. His fingers had been wrapped around my wrist so tightly I could feel my veins pulsing in an effort to circulate through my hand. I hadn’t realized I was screaming until I choked on my own voice.

  It had all started in college. His name was Patrick and he’d been the ultimate all-American guy. He was a football player, part of a fraternity, and he was majoring in Business Management. He came from money, which I’d realized the first time I’d seen him driving his Porsche. He’d been the kind of handsome that physically stopped women in their tracks. I wasn’t immune to his structured jawline, the aristocratic nose, and the suggestive blue eyes. His charm and wit had only served to draw me under until I was drowning with heart-wrenching, gut-rolling, mind-numbing love for him.

  Like all things, it had been good for a while. I’d go so far as to say it had been amazing. It had been thrilling for me to be chosen by such a man, not because I didn’t have self-confidence but because I’d idolized him so desperately. Little had I known it, but Patrick was drinking in my adoration and reciprocating with a poisonous cocktail of shameless devotion and unyielding dominance.

  He’d done his job well. The first time he laid a hand on me, I didn’t even question it.

  Two years and countless bruises later, I was finally free of him.

  I shook my head violently, trying to shake the images off my brain, and turned my focus to the food. Cooking was the one thing in the entire world—no, the entire universe—that kept me sane. It was cathartic, therapeutic in its methods and manipulations. It gave me the creative freedom to explore different flavor combinations and plate arrangements, but it was also regimented in its instruction and execution. I felt balanced when I cooked.

  Of course, it was just a bonus to hear how wonderful my food was.

  As usual, I served dinner to the crew instead of eating with them, despite having a sous chef and a handful of kitchen staff. I plated each meal myself and handed it off with a smile. While the Paragon was a huge ship, the crew itself was small: ninety-seven people. In truth, I didn’t know everyone, but I’d learned everybody’s name and learned the rest from Leanne. She was an unabashed gossip. Having her on board was like having an outer space edition of TMZ.

  “Hey, beautiful.”

  Trey Jones stepped up in front of me and winked. I had to restrain myself from rolling my eyes. He was a mechanic onboard who was persistently trying to date me—or sleep with me, most likely. I had turned him down at least six times already. He was actually rather attractive with his sandy blonde hair and well-toned form, but his overt and explicit personality repulsed me.

  “Hello, Trey,” I said, trying to inject as much ice into my tone as I could.

  “What has the chef prepared for me tonight?” he asked, looking at the food hungrily. I silently wished it was the only thing he would look at hungrily.

  “Salisbury steak,” I said. Pointedly, I added, “It’s Walt Clark’s favorite.”

  Trey turned to look around the dining hall for Walt, who was several tables away. His mouth was full of steak, and each of his hands was holding a hunk of bread. He was a portly guy with exceptional knowledge of computers. I didn’t consider myself friends with Walt, but I found him a very nice guy; I felt a little bad for using him to dig at Trey.

  “Well, every dog has his day,” Trey said sarcastically before turning back to me. “Why don’t you join me for dinner, beautiful?”

  “I have to finish serving, Trey,” I replied absently. “And you’re holding up the line.”

  He stepped aside to allow the person behind him forward, but he didn’t walk away. Instead, he reached to me and brushed his fingers through my ponytail. I lurched backward in surprise.

  “I love curly hair,” he said. “So sexy.”

  I didn’t respond as I handed a plate to another diner.

  “I bet it looks even sexier down,” he purred, leaning closer to me. “Like those chocolate curls, you put on your cheesecake.”

  At my wit’s end, I slammed my gravy ladle down onto the table top and turned to him with the meanest glare I could muster. “Trey, I am trying to work. These people are hungry, and it’s my job to feed them, so
either throw on an apron and get scooping or sit down and shut up.”

  Several of the crew members waiting in line for their food whooped and clapped. One of them even barked out, “Yeah!”

  Trey’s cheeks reddened slightly, though not nearly as much as I would have liked. His ego, however, was too swollen to allow much room for proper shame. He yanked the plate I’d just finished making from my hand and stalked across the dining hall to the opposite side. He sat down and jammed his fork into the steak as though it had personally offended him.

  I reached for my ladle again, but, before my fingers made contact, I was suddenly thrown to the ground. My ears exploded with the gritty, deafening sound of a blast, and my stomach lurched as the very floor beneath me rocked violently from side to side. Before the roar from the blast could leave my ears completely, I was assaulted with the screeching wail of alarms.

  We’d been hit.

  The realization hit me in the face like a mallet, and my stomach lurched again, this time in terror rather than in response to the haphazard motion. I instantly felt like I wanted to vomit from fear, but I knew I had to get myself together, and I had to do it quickly. I reached for the lip of the table and pulled myself up. The sight that met my eyes was just as frightening as the initial hit had been.

  The food had gone everywhere. Slabs of Salisbury steak had been flung across the floor, drenched in puddles and smears of gravy. Green beans were scattered across tabletops like beads from a broken necklace. Gobs of mashed potatoes were piled randomly all over the ground, creating a miniature mountain range of starch. Torn and tattered slices of bread rolled from one end of the room to the other with each heave of the ship.

  Amidst the culinary havoc, crew members were running clumsily to the doors, fighting against the ship’s aggressive movements. I watched Walt Clark slip in a pool of gravy and land on his chin. Trey had already gone, probably to the engine room to help. Leanne was nowhere to be found, but I hadn’t seen her come into the dining hall at all that evening. It was almost like watching ants race to the entrance of their anthill, sprinting in droves to safety. Crew member after crew member ducked out of the doors, presumably to go to their emergency zones. At that time I remembered I had a zone to report to as well. Every member of the Paragon had received training outside of their field, including basic medical training and emergency maneuvers.

  I pulled myself all the way to my feet and joined the chaotic crowd flooding the dining hall exit. Even through the shrieks and yells and commands, I could make out a few words here and there.

  “Move! I’m with the command center!”

  “We’re not going to make it! We’re not going to make it!”

  “GET TO YOUR ZONES!”

  I closed my eyes briefly as I was jostled from all sides, and, once again, the image of Patrick’s bloody face flashed behind my eyelids. It had never occurred to me when I’d accepted my place on the Paragon that I might never make it back to Earth, but I steeled myself against the idea. I was going to do everything I could to make sure everyone returned home safely.

  And, if I never made it back alive, I sure as hell wasn’t going to spend my last minutes thinking about him.

  3

  Rex

  The smell of hicorn meat filled the house and had my mouth watering as if I hadn’t eaten for days. I loved my mother’s cooking so much that I came by my parents’ house several times a week for a meal. My father always commented on the irony that I was Tribe Elder with anything I wanted at my beck and call, but still depended on my mom to make my dinner. Of course, I knew he enjoyed having me visit so frequently. At the very least, it offered them some relief from taking care of my little brother and sister, who had been surprise twins.

  “You look tired, my parva’li,” Mother said sympathetically, stroking my cheek with love.

  “Beni,” my father interjected. He sounded exasperated, as he often did when Mother doted on me. “He’s an Elder, not a baby.”

  “He’ll always be my baby,” Mother crooned, stroking my cheek again.

  I smiled back at her. I certainly wouldn’t have allowed my mom to behave in such a way with me in front of other tribesmen, and definitely not in front of other Elders. However, I didn’t mind her doing so in the confines of the home. I knew it made her happy.

  “The hicorn smells great,” I commented with a hearty sniff. “Did you do something different?”

  Before she could answer, Igno—my little brother—shrieked. “Who! Who!”

  Mother, Father, and I all looked around to see where he was pointing. Through the window, I could see the approaching figure of a woman. I recognized her instantly. My parents did as well, and they shot looks back and forth between each other that they thought I couldn’t see. I ignored them and got to my feet.

  “I’ll be right back,” I told them.

  I had stepped out of the house before she drew near enough to announce her presence, and we met on the walkway. Her name was Pugna’ta, a beautiful tribeswoman with exquisite cheekbones and a figure that made A’li-uud men quiver. Her skin was as azure as a clear-day sky, which was a rare trait in our race, but it appeared lighter than it actually was in contrast with her long, braided, silvery-white locks.

  “I knew you’d be here,” she purred.

  I offered her a small, unemotional smile. “Hello, Pugna’ta.”

  There was no bad blood between us, but Pugna’ta and I had a history; one I was insistent on never repeating again. We had engaged in a very brief, very intimate relationship many years ago. It had ended with mutual disinterest and a vivid knowledge of one another’s bodies. Pugna’ta was a warrior of my kingdom, widely regarded as merciless and lethal in battle. I considered her indispensable to my militia, but my desire to have her around no longer went beyond those lines. Prior to my being made Tribe Elder, she had reciprocated those feelings. Since my crowning, however, she had taken to showing up at my parents’ house, as well as mine, on a fairly regular basis with an excuse flimsy enough to see through but legitimate enough not to question.

  I wasn’t foolish. I knew her interest in me was power-deep.

  “It’s been a while,” she said smoothly. “How is the Honorable Rexstrenu’us?”

  “I’m well, thanks. What can I do for you?” I asked crisply.

  She tossed her braid over her shoulder, and I could clearly see slight irritation marring her otherwise perfect features. I didn’t care. If I gave her even the slightest hint of possible interest, she would jump on the opportunity to sink her claws in.

  “I’ve heard some things,” she replied. “Disturbing things.”

  “About what?” I asked abruptly, growing a little annoyed. I knew Pugna’ta and her games, and I knew she would draw out the conversation as long as she could in hopes of being invited inside. I wasn’t interested in playing her games tonight; I wanted to eat Mother’s hicorn.

  Her eyes narrowed, and I realized she was actually serious. “Humans.”

  “What about humans?”

  “Look,” she said suddenly, sounding snappish and short-tempered. “I know you were at Forum and you know what I’m talking about. This is serious.”

  I maintained my calm as I said, “I know this is serious. What I don’t know is how you know anything about what was said at Forum, being you’re not an Elder and weren’t present.”

  “I have my ways,” she said dismissively.

  It took a lot of effort on my part not to interject my own comments to that. Pugna’ta certainly did have her ways, and she was less than moral. It wasn’t surprising to me at all that she would stoop to such a level, but I couldn’t help wondering which Elder had been the one to bend to her will.

  “The point is that we’re at risk. Albaterra is at risk,” she continued. “Never in our history have humans gotten so close to our planet. Our great advantage was knowing about their existence while they knew nothing of ours. That might have been compromised now.”

  “I am aware of this, Pugna’ta,�
� I said exasperatedly. “What’s your point?”

  “My point is that we need to do something,” she hissed, stepping closer to me.

  “We are doing something. And, by ‘we,' I mean the Elders.”

  She scoffed, rolling her head back with cynical amusement. “As long as that peace-monger Vi’den is running the forum, we’re not doing anything.”

  My movement was swift and aggressive. I slammed my forearm into her throat, sending her flying backward. She landed off the path in the waist-high grass on her back. I heard bustling from inside the house and knew my family was watching everything that was happening, but I didn’t restrain myself. Walking to where she lay, I looked down at Pugna’ta with daggers in my eyes.

  “I ought to have you locked away for that,” I said icily.

  She scrambled to her feet, looking disheveled and furious. “How dare you,” she seethed.

  “You’ve got that backward,” I said. “It’s a crime to disrespect an Elder, you know.”

  For a moment, I thought she was going to attack me. Then, her face mellowed, and she looked at me with wide eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Rex,” she murmured. Her tone was layered in false innocence, and she kept her gaze trained on mine. “I was out of line.”

  I didn’t reply. In truth, had she spoken ill of any other Elder, I probably wouldn’t have even addressed it. Vi’den was my mentor, though, and an exceptionally kind soul. I was unyieldingly defensive of him, and I wasn’t going to let anyone—much less the haughty Pugna’ta—dishonor him.

  “Really,” she said, closing the space between us and tracing a finger along the muscles of my chest. “I’m truly sorry, Rex.”

  I grabbed her wrist and eased it back to her side. “What do you want, Pugna’ta?”

  She pouted slightly with my rejection but said, “I want to help.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “How?”

  “However you need me to,” she replied silkily. Again, she lifted her finger to my chest and dragged it along my pectorals, but I didn’t stop her this time. She looked at me with earnest, suggestive eyes and added, “I want to offer myself to you in any way I can.”