2. Blood on the Floor
TWO
BLOOD ON THE FLOOR
Vivian
It’s been three weeks since the naga’s arrival. In that time, there have been countless debates among the senior staff on how to proceed. He refuses to cooperate with us, and just like in Ursula’s original message, is easy to provoke.
Diplomat, he is not.
Rabid Earth animal, he might be…
Ursula directs the machine as it takes another tissue sample. The incision is precise and clean. His vitals accelerate as he regenerates tissue around the small wound. Since the decision to study the naga has been affirmed, despite the laws it breaks, I’ve learned he’s potentially vital in understanding Earth’s current ecosystem, as well as locating and unlocking Lurker technology. A technology we desperately need for an advantage against the Ketts. Whether or not I believe that, I’m not certain.
I think he cares only about escaping.
Though it’s also clear he wants Ursula dead, and if he’s out for her blood next—my fingers twitch to touch my scar—he’s going to have to join the large group of others who also want her gone, diplomacy be damned.
I flick my gaze over his face, finding his strong serpentine features relaxed despite his heightened blood pressure.
Considered intelligent, his kind has been deemed extremely dangerous and primitive in the ways of society and culture. There are rumors that a female officer from a previous mission to Earth returned pregnant and that there are no longer female nagas among them. I also heard that a live Lurker has been spotted. No one is willing to make a definitive statement on whether there’s any truth to the hearsay.
I’m only told what I need to know.
I understand the peril of the situation I’ve been forced into. Sentient lifeforms are protected and must be approached with care and delegation. Capturing one, keeping them captive, and performing tests on them is forbidden under the Sovereign’s Universal Commandments and is punishable by turnover to that species’ governing body.
Not even Father is above the Sovereign’s laws. Not even me.
If we’re caught… I refuse to let the thought finish.
What Father is doing is unethical, and it leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Yet… at the same time, it’s palatable, and I hate that. When I think of the hundreds of millions of innocents dying to the Ketts, cutting into an alien’s body—one that is just going to regenerate anyway—is a bearable sin. At least, that’s what I tell myself every time I stick a needle in his unconscious body and steal his blood.
“Lower the base temperature by two degrees,” Ursula murmurs at the head of the table.
I adjust the setting. The naga’s medical unit, the podule, is set to his body’s preferred environment. Which is hot, humid, and wet, and nothing like the natural state of the ship. Under my lab coat, my clothes are damp with sweat.
Muffin, Ursula’s other research assistant, draws another vial of blood from the naga’s arm. We have gallons of it now, but Ursula always wants more.
“Sedatives being readministered,” I announce when the machine alerts me it’s time.
She labels the latest sample. “Pause them. I want to see if he’s willing to talk today.”
Stiffening briefly, I nod and start the stopwatch on the Yulen machine only I can properly run. Muffin collects and places the newest blood vials in the refrigerator. I check the naga’s restraints as the drug to induce limb paralysis is attached to the machine’s IV.
Ursula collects her tablet and returns to the table. With her silver hair tied away from her face, no one could look more severe. Her skin is free of wrinkles despite approaching her late sixties. She’s an impenetrable wall of stone and ice, one barely containing an aura of evil hidden behind it. But she has nothing to hide about her nature. She’s a known sociopath, and my father prefers sociopaths in jobs of authority. Being one himself, Father doesn’t want his allies blinded by emotion. Emotion is for the weak. Emotion is for those who aren’t warring.
I was once emotional when I was a child, though I’ve since learned letting any weakness show will only make matters worse by inviting Father’s ire.
He sent me to Ursula upon the completion of my medical training over six years ago, after I aced the machinery and nursing exams. I’ve never worked for anyone other than her. If she’s taught me anything beyond my father’s lessons, it’s that messing up comes with consequences, and being emotionless has its perks. I strive to be her.
I strive to not care.
In less than thirty seconds, the naga’s eyes snap open. He blinks and clenches his jaw.
His furious gaze narrows on Ursula, and when he realizes he still can’t move, a growl tears from his mouth. Venom drips from his fangs when he bites in her direction.
Muffin tightens the strap across the naga’s forehead and sticks a rubber rod between his teeth. Murder gleams in his eyes as he glances up at Muffin, now collecting a small sample of the naga’s venom.
I pray he doesn’t look my way.
Ursula stares him down. “Are you ready to talk?”
With rage in his fierce eyes, he glares back at her as Muffin removes the rod and walks away. The naga slices his tongue over his fangs in response, filling his mouth with blood.
Ursula audibly sighs under her protective mask.
Realizing he can do nothing else, he settles his body, allowing his fearsome gaze to answer for him.
I’m barely breathing under my mask, waiting for Ursula’s next order, all while trying to keep my fingers from digging under the elastic material to touch the scar on my chin. I try not to stare at him, but it’s hard. He’s wildly interesting.
He’s… the most interesting thing that has ever happened in my life.
His messy shoulder-length gray hair piles on the table under him. Unlike Ursula’s hair, whose gray indicates age, the naga appears no older than a male in his early forties. With his distinguished features, unblemished except for a few faint scars, there’s a glimmer of masculine youth. Sometimes I think he’s younger than Ursula, and at other times I’m certain he’s older. Figuring out his age and the length of his lifespan is part of our mission.
He’s a survivor, and if his scars weren’t an indicator of that, the lack of fear in his eyes is.
He’s not afraid, and he should be. I’m one of Minton Volp’s kids, and I’m afraid.
“If you would work with us, we could make your accommodations here pleasant. You don’t have to be sedated. You could have space, water… meat. We know you can speak. It is duly noted that your kind communicates in the common tongue.”
He remains quiet.
She taps her tablet in frustration. “Have it your way. If you still won’t speak willingly, I think it’s time to try something new.” Ursula leans away and looks at me. “Vivian, hand me a scalpel.”
I reach behind me and grab a sanitized one.
I wish I were a person with integrity, a person with righteous morals who fought against the corrupt, but I’m not because I am afraid . I grew out of morals when my father introduced me to my mother. Her refusal to acknowledge my existence sealed which side I was on. My father’s.
When I hand the scalpel to Ursula, I look down to discover the naga’s eyes locked on me.
Like clockwork, my face spreads with heat—my body with tingles—and I swallow shallowly. Hot already from the temperature, I turn away. My hand cups my mask as I glance at Ursula and Muffin. Their focus is elsewhere. They don’t notice a thing.
He notices. I know he does. Even through his fury, he knows something is up with me. It happens every time his gaze finds mine in the brief moments he’s awake.
I’m sick.
And I’m certain it’s because his fang sliced through my flesh.
“Vivian, Muffin, leave the room.”
Jumping, I turn back. “What? Why?”
Ursula grabs an apron and ties it on. “You don’t need to be here for this.” She pulls out a recorder from her pocket. “You’re too soft.”
Soft? I scoff. I’m not soft.
Except, eyeing the scalpel in her grip, my suspicion of what’s coming amplifies. “Too soft for what? We can help.”
Muffin ducks out as Ursula levels a blank look of warning at me. Knowing he’s watching, I stiffen, feigning courage. I don’t want the naga to think I’m weak or soft; if he does, it’ll make me an easy target if he attempts an escape. I need to be nothing to him, not weak, not soft, or even strong, but somewhere in the middle. Unnoticeable.
She gives me a tight smile, one I see straight through her mask. “No. You’re right, Vivian Volp. You should stay. Put on an apron. This will be good for you. Although if you interrupt me or share with others what is about to happen, you know the consequences.”
Glancing at the scalpel in her hand again, my stomach churns. I stiffly grab an apron and tie it around my waist.
She’s standing over the naga when I turn back around.
“We could learn a lot from each other, you and I. Except you refuse to acquiesce even if it’s in your best interest. Do you understand what that means? What your refusal is going to make me do? I’ll have to up the ante.” She shows him the blade. “My knife is sharp and small but it can cause a lot of damage. And since you like to waste time, I will waste more of it with pain. When you are ready to stop being so wasteful, speak.”
I stand across from her on the other side of the podule, letting dread settle in my stomach.
There’s no convincing her not to do this—I knew this was going to happen if the naga refused to speak—all I can do is remain silent and be ready to administer painkillers the moment she turns her back. I am weak.
His gaze slips back to me and his nostrils flare.
I jerk back.
Ursula sighs. “Are you going to be able to handle yourself? Leave now if you can’t. I won’t deal with your unconscious body if you faint.”
I nod sharply, avoiding the naga’s eyes. “Yes. I can handle this.”
I won’t leave because a part of me, a small part of me, wants to study him and understand what it is about him that’s made me sick. He’s infected me with something. Something that makes me think of him when I’m in bed at night, something that… sometimes makes me wet. He’s frightening, and I should be scared, not confused.
Ursula’s attention shifts back to the alien, and she raises the blade. “This is going to be messy. You have one final chance.” She positions the scalpel at the bottom of his arm, right above his wrist where his scales start. “Simply speak and I will stop.”
He says nothing.
I flick my eyes to the screen displaying his vitals. I keep my focus there.
It starts with a terrible silence—he doesn’t even hiss—and all I hear is the slight shuffle of something happening. His vitals blur across the screen, accelerating as the scent of blood rushes past my mask’s filters and into my nose.
“Still nothing?” she asks.
Say something , I beg as the machine beeps, alerting us to his distress. He may have hurt and attacked me, but that doesn’t mean I want the same done to him. And this is different, this isn’t self-defense on Ursula’s part—it’s torture.
She moves the blade up his arm. “I can and will hurt you worse than this.”
The naga grunts. Holding my breath, I glance back at him. His attention is on the ceiling, his lips flat, his brow furrowed deeply.
His blood pools on the table. As Ursula continues to cut, it drips onto the floor. She’s systematically slicing off all the scales on his arm, leaving none of the skin beneath.
He never speaks, even when I’m inwardly imploring him to say his name.
There is only silence, punctuated by threats, and… dripping blood.
By the time Ursula gives up, the day shift has been over for hours and I’m numb, traumatized, and unable to focus on what’s going on around me. I’m vaguely aware of Muffin’s return as he wheels the unconscious naga out of Ursula’s lab and back to his medical cell.
I never had a chance to sneak painkillers into his IV. Ursula didn’t stop until both of his arms and part of his chest were stripped of scale and flesh. There were no breaks.
“You surprise me, Vivian,” she says while peeling her bloody lab coat off. Around us, several bots clean the floor. “I expected more of a reaction out of you.”
“I can handle a little blood,” I murmur, gazing at the diminishing pool on the ground.
She picks up her tablet and takes it to her desk. “Good to know. We’ve learned a lot today, and tomorrow I expect you to be ready to start all over again. He will speak. The sooner he does, the happier your father will be and the sooner we’ll have the answers we need.”
“Yes,” I agree, knowing it will appease her and, in return, make her forget about me sooner. “He will speak. Tomorrow, I’m sure.” Turning for the exit, I stiffly walk away. “Definitely tomorrow.”
“Vivian.”
I freeze.
“I want you to collect tomorrow’s samples before he’s brought in for interrogation. It’s taking too long.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Escaping the room, I bypass my office and head straight to the decontamination chamber and destroy everything I’m wearing, retching bile all over the floor. There isn’t a fleck of blood on me, but it’s not about cleanliness, it’s about the destruction. After my suit is gone, and I’m left in only a cami and pants, I walk the long hallways home, encountering only a couple of others working the night shift. They’re too busy to notice me.
My apartment is minimal in design, tucked within one of the mid-level caste floors of the ship. Private units like mine are often given to the serving staff of those in richer, more lavish spaces, to keep them close in case of an emergency. The higher floors are the safest places on the ship, far from the turf battles and gangs that ruled the Dregs—the central floors around The Dreadnaut’s core.
I’ve lived on this ship my whole life and haven’t set foot in over half of the sectors within it. Colony ships often employed guides for those traveling to different parts of it. I used to have one assigned to me after my grandparents died and I was moved into this smaller space close to the medical research sector.
That was over twelve years ago.
Except for those who trained me, I’ve been on my own since. Alone except for the woman I work for and the few people I encounter regularly amongst her staff, like Muffin.
Once my door is shut and locked, I hurry to the bathroom and take a temperature reducer. Curling up on the floor of the shower unit, I let the water wash over me until my fever fades and the smell of my sweat and the naga’s blood is replaced by soap.
Pruned, shivering, and exhausted, I stumble to bed, sidestepping piles of old books, files, and boxes of hard drives to get there. My apartment would be empty without the mess that’s scattered across the floors and climbing the walls. It’s everything there is about my family’s history, Yulen’s history. Old technology, some of which has been dismantled, covers every table and fills every drawer. I’ve spent my life trying to figure out how the medical technology built by my ancestors is locked down by DNA, and further still, how to dismantle that lock.
Any other night, I’d be amongst the mess searching for answers. Tonight, my mind is scorched with blood, scales, and a massive gray naga with large dark hands and claws that shred the white plastic of the cushion beneath him.
Tossing and turning in bed, sleep doesn’t find me as my body overheats. Naked under my blanket, I stare at the ceiling, petting my scar with my finger.
He’s just an alien, nothing more.
The Lurkers, the Gestri, and the Ketts were once just aliens too.
The naga’s silver-gray eyes appear within the ceiling. Eyes that make my pulse race and goad me into thinking unendurable thoughts.
Shuddering, I clutch my pillow and turn on my side until my alarm sounds and it’s time for me to collect his blood.