Chapter Three
Another One Bites the Dust
The room stilled as the footage played. The Russian missile zoomed through the early morning gray sky like an arrowhead. My brothers stared, frozen, while my dad muttered a curse word. Would other nations follow?
"What in the hell are they doing?" Joel said, standing up so fast that his chair scraped against the floor. "It's right over their city." In my mind, shards of crystal the size of skyscrapers fell, destroying anything underneath.
The missile struck an invisible barrier. No explosion, no fireball, just a shimmer and a fine, silvery dust.
"Whoa..." Wyatt whispered, leaning forward on the couch, his usual smirk replaced by wide-eyed awe.
The TV screen cut to the pudgy general, his face pale and tight as he gave a hurried statement in translated Russian. There were threats of more missiles and secret weapons that the world and the Volardi didn't know about, and to be afraid.
It was bluster. Some looks were universal, and his unblinking stare as he never took his gaze off the ship told the story.
They didn't shoot it down, send interceptor missiles, or anything. They just stood still as if it didn't matter, because it didn't.
The Volardi's response came from every speaker in my house and on Earth.
The tone was calm but laced with a seriousness that sent a shiver down my spine.
"Our empire does not retaliate against small, ineffective acts of hostility.
To those who wish to test our patience further, know this: we protect our own and this planet, even from itself. "
They must have sensed it was time to announce themselves further.
The broadcast shifted to a high-tech, crystalline chamber.
In the center sat a Volardi triad: A Soturi, Dara, and Femeni.
Each was striking in their own way, posed like a living portrait.
Brandon sometimes gave them other names: Alpha for the bigger ones, Beta were in the middle, and Femeni?
I heard the Emperor decided those from Earth would be called Omegas as his way to honor Humanity.
"They're putting their best face forward because of the missile strike," muttered Joel. "Like a business. So what are they selling?"
The Soturi sat at the left, a towering figure with tanned skin, long dark-blond hair, and two rows of purple flecks going down from his shoulders and straight down to.
.. well. He was broader than Alen by far, with every inch broadcasting authority and power.
A heavy fur cloak, cut from some skinned beast, draped across his frame.
His jawline was sharp, and violet eyes scanned the room as if daring someone to approach his mates.
He didn't speak. He just posed like a war statue.
I'd seen the same look before on musicians who thought a gig was beneath them.
"What kind of name is Zephyron?" said Wyatt, reading the news ticker.
"His," said Chase. "Undoubtedly, our names are just as alien."
On the far side sat the Dara. Still tall, but leaner, like a baseball player, and with smoother features and a quiet strength in his gaze. His skin had a softer tone. Where the Soturi radiated force, he basked in a zen-like calm.
Then there was the Femeni. Positioned in the middle like a rare treasure between two guards.
He was small like me, just more delicate.
Freckles, gently tousled dark-blond hair, and soft violet eyes within shimmering light.
His glow wasn't metaphorical. A transparent force field shimmered around him—faint but strong enough to block any airborne disease. The ticker confirmed it.
They were so clearly connected like the couple at the beach.
The Dara's fingers rested near the Femeni's hand.
The Soturi's cold and detached eyes softened when he glanced at his mate in the middle.
The Femeni sat protected and loved. It was a presentation, but the bond was real.
The love with two people was amazing, and I didn't have a word for this level of connection between three.
"They're beautiful!" Wyatt murmured and brushed messy blond hair from his eyes. "Like a painting or something. I'm not gay, uh, no offense Tommy, but wow. They look like models..."
"They're dangerous," Joel shot back. "Don't let their looks fool you."
Chase spoke, his tone thoughtful. "They're here because they're desperate. You know when someone's lost everything? That's what I see."
That wasn't true because all three were together and protected by a technological empire.
Yet there were others not so lucky. The scrolling text mentioned all the lost Femeni and the empire-wide mourning.
It was calculated for sympathy but not inaccurate.
Alen had said the Femeni were the heart of their civilization.
They lost more than children or a future.
An unholdable 'thing' from their third sex crushed their spirits when gone.
Screeching car brakes and a sharp door knock jolted me out of my thoughts. Knocking turned into pounding and then windows rattling.
"Thomas!" called a shrill male voice. "Thomas Beauregard! We know you're inside."
Sixteen square security images appeared on the smart TV. "Reporters," said Joel. "A whole mess of 'em."
The pounding grew louder, and cameras flashed outside. I can keep track of several voices, like at a gig or with my brothers, but there were too many. Only a few male and female shouts filtered through.
"Thomas! Any official word about the invasion fleet?"
"How long have you been working with them?"
"Tell us more about the Repopulation Program!"
"How's it feel to be a traitor?"
"Are you pregnant?"
My home's AI chimed in, calm and unbothered by the noise. "Invaders detected: Activating security protocols."
"What?" My words were barely out before extra locks I didn't know about clicked and clunked, reinforcing doors. Metal shutters slid down with a faint hiss.
"What the hell?" Joel shouted, spinning to face me.
The AI cut me off before I could speak. "Deterrent system activated." On screen, a tall, middle-aged man in a suit hefted a face-sized decorative rock Brandon and I found in San Diego and pounded it against the door lock.
The air instantly stunk of ozone before crackling. Bright blue lights sparked as the reporter yelped in pain. The rock fell and split open on the pathway.
Joel ran a hand through his dark hair. "Why did you let your alien friends put Terminator technology in your house?"
"Wrong sub-genre," said Chase.
"It's still sci-fi," snapped Joel.
"Alen said he installed safety upgrades, but I didn't expect this!"
Cameras caught various military vehicles. Some black, others beige, all blocky, and a few had a police insignia. Grim-faced men and women with equally serious guns herded reporters away from my door. Thankfully, the house's AI knew to not attack the US Government or LA cops.
In my living room, three holographic forms grew from a single floating dot, turning into Brandon and a tired-looking senior British man with glasses—Maurice.
It had to be past midnight in London. The last guy was an attractive older man in his sixties with salt and pepper hair and a body more fit than men half his age. Westmore?
"General?" I said.
"Pffft. He's not a general," said Wyatt. "Swole Santa's got a beard. They don't allow beards in the military."
I dated enough military guys to know it was complicated, and his rank and duties were beyond a simple title.
Westmore gave a tired look to Wyatt before speaking to me, "Thomas. Our visitors have asked you to attend a function this evening."
"Asked?" I said, crossing my arms.
He ignored the jab. "The Volardi will present their case directly to key representatives and influential figures. You're to help them."
Joel stepped forward. "You're not seriously suggesting he get involved with this, are you?"
The general turned to him, unfazed. "Your brother has an opportunity to help secure Earth's future and his own."
This was Brandon's adventure, not mine. He's the one who hooked up with an alien. Sure, I helped because I sensed he had hidden something from me, but I wasn't an ambassador. Just someone who'd make it big with music.
Eventually.
Brandon leaned in, and his hologram flickered. "Just hear them out, please?"
The hologram drew images of Volardi who'd attend. The first was the giant Soturi we saw earlier and his two mates. His grim look and narrow eyes suggested authority, so it was no surprise what Westmore said next.
"Zephyron, caretaker but de facto ruler of the southern province on Sudo. Influential in the Empire due to memory crystal resources and Simulacrum manufacturing."
My eyes narrowed in confusion before the implant explained it to me. "Oh, robots."
"Not like any you've ever seen," said Westmore.
"So one of those city planets like in Star Wars?" asked Dad.
"Desert planet."
"Ewww," I said and waved my hand in apology.
Maurice smirked. "I daresay old boy, you best not tell them that."
"I could stay here and tell nobody anything," I offered.
I liked military men. But being told what to do? Never my thing. So kudos to the general for not ordering me as he continued. "...I assume someone who likes the ocean might be interested in, oh, Aquanta."
A blue marble floated in the room with dark, almost purple water at one end, swirls of teal and blue, and white clouds along the edges.
It wasn't Alen's planet Phalon, dotted with thousands of islands, but another ocean world. This one had serpentine landmasses. Images played of multi-story high waves, implants to let me swim underwater for hours, and domed cities on the ocean floor.
The beauty was nothing compared to the Soturi who appeared, and for a second, I nearly forgot how to breathe.
At least six and a half feet tall, with sharp, chiseled features.
He wasn't thick like Zephyron, but with a lean and heavily muscled body instead.
When he moved, it was with a dancer's grace.