The Alien’s Private Redemption (Alien Brides: The Chelion Conspiracy #2)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Jail was boring.

That was the first thing Private Angela McBride learned after she got past the fear and confusion. Food, exercise, everything was on a schedule. The only surprises came from the nightmares that had her waking up with the taste of blood in her mouth and the interrogators who danced around the self-destruct instructions in her brain.

They moved her every few days, each new cell identical to the last. White walls, steel toilet, thin mattress. The only variation was in how the guards watched her - some with fear, some with hatred, a few with pity. None of them knew what to do with a soldier who'd been turned into a weapon without her knowledge. She wasn't sure she knew either.

It didn't matter that she hadn't been convicted of anything yet. There was enough evidence to have her executed if the lawyers decided to move quickly. Nobody believed her when she told them she hadn't planned to betray Captain LaGrange. Everything she'd done had been part of her orders.

When they'd been stopped on their way to the fallback location, she would have sworn they were being attacked by monsters. It sounded crazy when she talked about it and that was probably why her most recent interrogators had been psychiatrists.

She wasn't crazy, had never done drugs, and hadn't had a psychotic break. The Orvax had explained all of this to her command - after they'd saved her from her own brain. Or, rather, the programming someone had put in her brain.

At this point, she was just bored.

There was nothing in her current cell beyond the bare necessities. The fresh paint on the concrete blocks couldn't hide their age - tiny cracks mapped decades of settling foundation, each one memorized during endless hours of observation. The constant whir of the air conditioning unit created white noise that somehow made the silence deeper, more oppressive. Her bare feet could feel every groove in the rough floor, the texture a constant reminder of where she was.

They'd given her plastic shoes to wear, no shoelaces allowed, but she preferred to feel the ground beneath her feet. The shoes had sat in a corner of the cell until the guards had removed them as a possible weapon. When they wanted her to walk somewhere, she was usually offered non-slip socks, but she liked those even less than the plastic shoes.

The door buzzed and Private McBride stood. She wasn't in uniform but she'd found the guards were friendlier if she was at attention when they walked past her cell. If you could call a less derisive sneer friendly.

Angela maintained her stance at attention while the guards passed, letting them see the model prisoner they expected. It was easier than explaining why she sometimes caught herself scanning for escape routes or analyzing their weaknesses.

She wasn't sure which was worse - not knowing if she could trust her own mind, or knowing exactly why she couldn't.

Two guards came to her cell and she saw the shackles in their hands. Without being told, she turned around and put her hands behind her back. They'd stopped making her lay down on the floor to be handcuffed; the first benefit she'd gotten from being a non-violent and compliant prisoner.

A little voice in the back of her mind was urging her to take the opportunity to escape. If they were going to be fools, she should show them the error of their ways.

Instead, Angela held herself still, and as relaxed as possible. Whoever the little voice belonged to, it was going to get her into trouble if she listened to it. Especially if it belonged to her.

Once her hands and feet were secured, she was turned around, directed out of the cell, and towards the cell block doors. All the other cells she passed were empty and she wondered when the last time they'd been used had been.

The window they took her past let in enough light to let her know it was daytime but she didn't let herself dwell on what time it was, where the sun was coming from, and what that might mean for where she was.

Given enough time, she could figure it out, but she didn't want to right then. Even if nobody else noticed, she knew she was being as compliant as possible, with no thought of escape. With what she'd done, it was the least she could do to show contrition.

The guards led her to a different interrogation room this time. It was in the same hallway but a different door. She'd started counting the doors every time she was moved. Just in case. Inside were two chairs and a table, an upgrade from the rooms with a single chair. The guards secured her to the chair with her back to the door, and left.

Angela knew the tactic, had gotten used to telling how long they'd left her alone by counting the seconds as she looked around the room, and was surprised when the door opened less than five minutes later. The counting gave her something to do while she tried, desperately, not to wonder if this would be the time they triggered her self-destruct on purpose - and decided not to bring her back.

The interrogation room carried its own institutional scent - stale air, metal furniture, and the lingering anxiety of previous occupants. The single overhead light cast harsh shadows across the white walls, making the room feel smaller than its already cramped dimensions. The metal of the handcuffs bit into Angela's wrists, their chill a sharp contrast to the stuffy air.

"Hello, Private McBride," a familiar voice said behind her. The most recent psychiatrist came around the table and sat in the chair across from her.

Perfume wasn't allowed for people working in the cell block but Dr. Phillips' mint-and-lavender scent cut through the sterile atmosphere, too sharp and clean against the underlying staleness. Her blonde hair hid streaks of silver, pulled back into a severe bun, and it all seemed to be of a piece with the charcoal grey pantsuit that seemed to absorb what little warmth the fluorescent lighting offered.

Angela didn't think she wore the same suit every day but she did seem to like wearing shades of grey. Appropriate for a psychologist working on interrogating prisoners, she thought.

"Hello, Doctor Phillips, how are you today?"

"I'm very well, thank you, Angela. How are you?" Dr. Phillips gave her a small smile that didn't reach past the end of her lips and sat down in the other chair.

"I can't complain," Angela said. "Though I'd like something to read if at all possible."

"Anything in particular?" Dr. Phillips clicked her pen and started writing in the folder she always had with her. Angela hated that folder. She didn't know why, it had never done anything to her, but she did.

"I'd take the back of a cereal box at this point, if I could get it. But I'm inclined towards the classics, or a good adventure story."

"I'll see what I can do," the psychiatrist said. The whir of the fan highlighted the scratch of her pen on the paper while she made notes. Angela waited patiently for her to finish, and only strained a little to see what was being written.

"Now, Private McBride," Dr. Phillips said, looking up at her. "Do you know why you're here today?"

Angela was torn. The little voice in the back of her head was supplying her with a long list of responses, many of which were not helpful, and she wanted so badly to use them. Her favorite was 'Are you here to tell me I can enter the clog dancing competition?' but she shook her head.

"I presume you have more questions for me, Doctor," she said instead.

"That is correct, Private," the doctor said with a nod. "I'd like to start with some of the things you've mentioned over the last several weeks. Do you still maintain that you hear voices?"

That wasn't what Angela had said and she hoped Dr. Phillips was provoking her deliberately rather than trying to get her to admit that she was crazy. She might actually be crazy but she wasn't about to have that as part of her record.

"Not more than most people," Angela said slowly.

"You're saying that you don't talk with other voices in your head?" Dr. Phillips asked.

"It sounds weird when you say it like that," Angela said with a nervous laugh. "I thought a lot of people had an internal monologue. Or described their self-doubt as an asshole voice in the back of their head."

"They do," Dr. Phillips acknowledged. "But they don't usually say to kidnap someone. That's a different kind of voice."

Angela sighed. "I wasn't told to kidnap anyone. And it wasn't my intrusive thoughts that told me to disrupt the ceremony. Those were verbal orders from someone in a position of authority."

"No one in your command gave those orders," Dr. Phillips said. "Were you hallucinating?"

Private McBride could feel her temper starting to fray and beneath that was the terror of what would happen if she kept up this line of questioning.

"No, ma'am, I wasn't hallucinating."

The psychiatrist studied her and Angela struggled to maintain eye contact.

"Have you ever lost periods of time?" she asked, and Angela breathed a sigh of relief. The question hadn't gone the direction she had been expecting.

"I got black out drunk a few times in high school on accident."

"Has it ever happened without drinking?"

"No, ma'am."

"Have you ever felt like you weren't in control of your body?"

That was a new question. Angela waited for her lungs to seize but, when they didn't, she shrugged. "Everybody moves on autopilot sometimes."

"I'm not talking about losing focus during a repetitive task. Have you ever felt like someone else was controlling your body?"

Panic started to build inside Angela and she could tasty the faintly viscous, coppery liquid that meant she'd bitten her tongue too hard.

"Can you answer my question, Private McBride?" Dr. Phillips stood and leaned towards her across the table.

Angela shook her head as she fought her jaw. The blood wasn't just coming from her tongue. The feel of it sliding down her throat made her want to vomit. The taste of bile filed the back of her mouth even as she struggled to take a breath in.

"Angela, who gave you the order to disrupt the ceremony?"

Her lungs stopped and Angela felt her body thrash with a desperate need for air. As her lungs seized, Angela felt the familiar split beginning - like watching herself from a distance while something else took control of her body. The physical world began to fade, its edges growing soft and gray.

She didn't fight it anymore. Fighting only made the transition more painful. Instead, she let herself fall back into her sanctuary. The mountain path appeared beneath her feet, worn smooth by years of mental footsteps. Pine needles crunched softly with each step, their sharp scent mixing with the crisp mountain air.

Here, she could always breathe.

The cave waited ahead, its entrance half-hidden by hanging vines - exactly as she remembered it from her childhood. Inside, bioluminescent moss painted the walls in soft blues and greens, each patch positioned precisely where she'd placed it over years of mental visits. This place was more real to her than any cell they could put her in.

Here, she was safe. Here, she was in control.

Or at least, she had been until now.

Something was different this time. The familiar sanctuary felt... watched. As though someone else had followed her down the careful paths of her mind. Angela pressed herself against the cave wall, its coolness seeping through her mental projection. The copper taste was gone, replaced by the mineral tang of underground springs. But for the first time in all her visits here, she wasn't sure she was alone.

Her favorite memories were stored there, like pictures in a shoebox painted to look like a treasure chest. They were safe here, she was safe here, and eventually it would be over and she would be free.

A storm raged outside the cave and she thought she heard a voice in the wind calling her name. She ignored it, searching instead for the treasure chest of memories.

It called again, louder this time. She didn't recognize it but something inside her craved it. Reluctantly, she stopped looking for the box and crawled to the mouth of the cave to listen.

"Angela, come back," the voice called again. "Let me help you."

Nobody could help her. She was dying. If she stayed in here, it wouldn't hurt.

A shadow appeared in front of the cave and the voice called her again.

"Please, Angela. I can't lose you. Not when I've just found you."

Something in his voice reached deep into her chest and squeezed her heart. He sounded sincere, lonely, and like his heart was going to break.

She reached her hand out to him and he took it in his own clawed, scaled hand.

Private Angela McBride came to in the interrogation chamber and promptly vomited all over the table. With her first breath, she nearly aspirated the bile that seemed to coat her tongue. Strong arms held her up while a hand pounded her back until she could take a breath without choking.

She noted with some satisfaction that she'd managed to vomit all over Dr. Phillips notes. Tears streamed down her face while she turned to look at the man holding her.

Her gaze landed on a green, scaled neck, rising out of a white button down shirt collar to a face that looked like a cross between a human and a crocodile. Or maybe a gecko?

It was his eyes, though, that caught her. They were human and felt like home.