Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
“You really are a sap-skulled male. You want this one?”
The new voices nearby snipe at one another, arguing. My head spins, trying to make sense of what I just saw.
A face. An undeniably masculine one that almost—almost—seemed human. Ish.
Aside from all the ridges. And the thicker bones. And the horns.
Clearly, my bar for “normal” is in hell, at this point.
But even though the “male” who peered in at me was thoroughly unsettling and horribly alien, he was at least recognizable.
And… pink?
Maybe I imagined that part.
Or it could have been the reflection of these insanely bright lights off my stupid T-shirt.
The next time I have access to fire, I’m burning this thing.
Oh, fuck. Is there fire in space?
Newly perturbed, I launch into another round of shrieks and jostling. The crate moves for half a second before something heavy and unyielding lands on the corner.
A decidedly pink palm with three meaty fingers and a thicker thumb. All tipped in black-pearl claws. When I dare to lean closer, I find a symbol branded into the guy’s calloused, scale-like skin.
Good holy fuck.
I shuffle away, accidentally slamming my tailbone into the metal wall behind me. Another round of paint-melting curse words fly from my cracked lips.
“What is it saying?” the dark voice from before demands. “Why can’t we understand it?”
“The being is female, Your Excellence,” the dumb, jelly-headed Blowpop chimes.
“I’ve no notion why she is still speaking her primitive language.
We’ve uploaded Galactician, so we know she can comprehend us.
We will recheck her ability to speak before she departs and upload your native language for her, if you wish.
We’ll also run all the necessary scans to ensure she will be safe to breathe on your planet. ”
The second, more feminine interloper hums flatly, her sarcasm obvious. “Naturally.”
These assholes.
A shadow falls over me as a second pink face appears. This one has the same overly thick bone structure and scales, but its angles are more feline and delicate. A long violet braid hangs through the grate for a moment before the frowning alien moves back.
“It looks pale and sickly,” she assesses. “Weak, too. Her nails are blunter than a pip’s.”
A strong aroma smacks me in the face. Something musky and spiced. Wooziness rolls over me as the big pink guy bellows, “Is she sick? How dare you cage her this way when she’s unwell!”
The Burpee suction-cups its reply, watery with fear, “Not at all, sir! Her tests indicate optimal reproductive health. She meets each of our highest standards for a proper breeding vessel!”
The utter fucking nerve of these guys. An indignant shriek tears up my raw throat.
The pink female gives another doubtful hum. “And it—she—is here willingly?”
“Certainly!” the Bops bubble back, lying. “She volunteered, as they all did.”
She’s too smart for these fuckers, though. “This omega is putting up quite a fight for someone who’s pleased with her station.”
“Her excitement is likely due to the proximity to alphas,” Bubble-Breath Two answers. “Her planet has none.”
I think of the series of pitiful man-babies I’ve dated in my twenties. Well, that much is true.
“Fight does not scare me,” the male harrumphs. “But I do wish to know what she is saying.”
There are more popping squelches. “She’s used the human English word for mating a good deal.”
Fuck, fuck, fu—
No. NO.
Should I say “shit” instead? Surely that can’t get me into more trouble. Right?
I’m expecting some version of approval, but Angry Pink Guy just gets even more pissed at my captors. “Why would she make mating calls here? Is her heat near?” he demands loudly. “Has she anyone to tend to her?”
Oh dear Lord.
I have no heat, obviously, but the lying sack of alien goo keeps on spinning his web. “Her heat should occur in roughly six spans, if you account for the time-shift between planets and the lingering effects of her stasis.”
The pink guy chokes, his guttural voice practically shouting, “Six spans?! Morfu’s dick, that’s barely even a full lapse!”
I can’t tell whether my brain is on the fritz or if the words he’s saying just don’t have an English translation.
Could they have a different English translation than the one my brain provides?
In context, I’d guess they’re measurements for time.
Either way, the man (male?) seems apoplectic about the numbers.
“Not to worry,” the sucky Vaseline alien assures. “If she is not Selected soon, she will not suffer long. Her race has frequent heats. Roughly one per lapse, once her cycle regulates.”
The not-English-English is killing me. None of it means a damn thing to me.
Fucking what?!
Thankfully, none of these monsters can hear my thoughts like the computer did. I start to open my mouth to protest again, but an absolutely oppressive waft of manly, musky spice swirls into my cramped lungs.
The pink one’s voice is a low growl, laced with longing I don’t understand. “She heats once per lapse?”
A wet pop confirms the nonsense statement. The light pink female sighs heavily. “Very well. I suppose we’ll take her.”