Chapter 5 Companions, Not Pets, Eve
COMPANIONS, NOT PETS, EVE
“Madame Eve,” the Commander says, his tone clipped. “This way to your quarters.”
The Commander leads me through the ship’s dark corridors. Everything is black, grey, or green, all highlighted by glowing yellow script and bands of light near the floor as the only sources of light in the hallways. Despite my fear, I can’t help but feel like I’m in a movie theater.
In the shadows, we pass other grey-skinned human-like men in identical uniforms to the Commander’s.
They all have long black hair too, some in single braids, others in complex patterns.
Most pass me with blank faces, as if a human woman aboard their ship is nothing remarkable.
But a few aliens look at me longer than necessary.
And those looks make me feel uncomfortable, so I hold on to my necklace more tightly than necessary, remembering Clay’s advice.
As we turn a corner, I glimpse down another corridor where two human women lean against a wall casually talking. I’m shocked. I thought I was the only human onboard.
But I quickly notice they’re wearing what can only be described as strategic scraps of fabric and decorative chains that cling to every curve of their bodies while revealing far more than they conceal.
One has honey-blonde hair that falls over her bare shoulders; her top is little more than two dozen delicate chains that manage to trace the swell of her breasts.
The other, a brunette, is wearing something that might, generously, be called a dress, but it looks more like expensive sci-fi lingerie masquerading as clothing.
Both have thin silver collars around their throats, delicate, but unmistakably designating ownership. When they notice the Commander, they immediately stop talking and lower their gazes in perfect submission.
I feel sick as I realize what they must be. Not staff. Not equal. Prostitutes. Women who travel with the military.
“You didn’t tell me there were other humans onboard.”
The Commander spares a glance over his shoulder, expression remote. “Officers' companions. They're not like you. You're an employee of the Celestial Spire. The Sovereign Directors of the Ascendant Alliance ensure your position.”
“So you mean those humans are...” I can't bring myself to say the word.
“Companions. Well-treated and content, I promise.”
I stop walking. “I want to speak to them.”
The Commander hesitates, clearly reluctant, then offers a curt nod.
We approach the women, and I search their faces for fear or desperation. Instead, I see something that chills me even more. Serenity.
“Are you prisoners?” I ask bluntly.
They just stare at me with beautiful and innocent eyes.
The Commander translates in his alien language, and my translator converts his words: “Tell her what you are. She doesn't understand.”
“We are beloved companions,” the blonde replies in the same alien tongue. “We bring pleasure and comfort to our masters.”
The brunette adds, “We have never been to Earth. We were born in Imperial breeding facilities and trained from childhood in the arts of service.”
The words hit me hard. Breeding facilities. Trained from childhood. I feel terrible for them. I want to ask them more questions, but the Commander dismisses them with a slight hand gesture, and they glide away.
I trail after the Commander with my mind reeling. Those women have never known freedom. Have never even seen Earth. They were bred like livestock and trained from childhood to please alien men. But what’s truly terrifying is how content they seemed.
I'm human, female, and alone. I clutch my necklace tighter. The small piece of metal with alien writing on it, that I can’t even read, is apparently the only thing that separates me from them.
Stay calm, I tell myself. But I remember Miranda's warnings about women who never came back. What if my “employment” is just a more elaborate version of those human “companions” I just saw? What if the only heartbreaking difference is that I was allowed to live “free” for twenty-two years first?
And now Clay’s warning about the doctors carries more meaning. If they can actually change minds through telepathy, how many of those companions started out fighting before they were “calmed” into submission?
I need to be smart about my situation and not freak out.
We stop in front of a mustard-colored door, so mundane against the ship's dark aesthetic that it seems deliberately out of place. “Your quarters,” the Commander says. “Put your hand here,” he instructs, indicating a small panel next to the door. It warms under my palm and then pricks me.
I hiss and pull back.
“Now the door is keyed to your genetic code.
It'll lock and unlock for you alone.” His tone becomes serious.
“But I suggest you stay inside unless I or another authorized officer escorts you to another part of the ship.
This is a military vessel, and not everyone here shares the Ascendant Alliance's enlightened view about human staff.”
“What’s the worst that could happen to me if I were to go out alone?” I ask not because I really want to know, but because I need to know. No matter how bad it is, I know my imagination could come up with worse.
His eyes meet mine intensely. “Some of my men might mistake you for a different kind of human. The kind that doesn't say no.”
“Oh. I think I’ll stay in my quarters with my books.”
“Good decision.” He inclines his head in a polite gesture. “The ship's physician will examine you shortly for health clearance. Welcome aboard, and may the goddesses guide you.”
“Thank you,” I say, relying on basic politeness to mask my inner turmoil.
Once I’m inside my room, I’m surprised that it’s not like a prison cell at all.
It smells like a hundred blooming flowers.
More potent than any Earth perfume I’ve ever smelled.
Not what I expected on a military vessel.
The rest of my quarters are Spartan—black walls, a grey metal wardrobe, a narrow bed, a tiny desk, and a miniature bathroom.
There’s a little window to see the stars, and I almost fall over when I see Jupiter at a distance.
I go to the window and just stare at it.
It’s so amazing I almost forgot about my fate and the fate of the human women I met in the corridor.
After I get over the fact we are passing a planet outside, I open all the drawers and the small closet. Hanging in the wardrobe are three black dresses. Gifts from the Celestial Spire, apparently, as there is a note, thankfully written in English.
I look at the dresses, each one crafted from a material so fine it looks like liquid shadow.
I run my fingers down one, and my skin tingles.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I try one on, and the sensation makes me shiver.
The fabric clings to my body, responding to my temperature and my movements.
It’s more than a good fit. It’s as if it’s a second skin but a flowing second skin of warm silk.
It’s strange. Too strange for me right now.
I take it off and put back on my Terra Sanctum uniform.
Then, I pick up the plain black boots. The material is finer than any leather I’ve ever felt.
So, I take off my own shoes and slide these alien boots on.
And they do not disappoint. My feet feel like they are enveloped in warmth and comfort like I’ve never felt before.
“Not surprisingly, sci-fi boots are superior,” I say softly to myself.
Next, I look around hopefully for any underwear or bras, but I can’t find any.
Only thigh-high stockings. “Don’t aliens wear underwear?
” I ask under my breath. After a few minutes of looking, I come to the conclusion it was probably just a mistake.
Just like there are no pajamas, but I’m certainly not going to ask the Commander for either of those things.
Then, I look around the room for the IC and find a small device about the size of a flip phone.
It flashes my name the instant I touch it, letters appearing in silver light across its black surface.
Curious, I try to look through it, but every screen is filled with alien hieroglyphics I can’t read.
After a few seconds, I set it back down on the desk and hope I won’t have to learn this alien language.
The desk suddenly brightens at my presence, projecting a holographic interface with alien script. I wonder if it’s like Terra Sanctum and it’s a welcome message to the guest.
I sit heavily on the narrow bed, and I can’t stop my hands from shaking.
Suddenly, the reality of my situation is crashing down on me like a tsunami.
Those women in the corridor could be my future.
And if the aliens can alter minds, change thoughts, and make people compliant.
.. how would I even know if it was happening to me?
I need a plan. Rules to live by. Ways to make sure I don’t become like them.
Rule one: Never accept anything that could be a drug. No drinks. No pills. No “calming” treatments.
Rule two: Stay alert. If I start feeling too content, too happy about my situation, something's wrong.
Rule three: Remember who I am. Remember Earth. Remember that this isn't normal, no matter how normal they try to make it seem.
Rule four: Never trust anyone completely. Not even humans; if they've been here long enough, they’re no longer human.
I repeat these rules in my head like a mantra, and then I even say them out loud.
But, I’m interrupted by the holographic interface. “Welcome, Eve Eden, probationary employee of the Celestial Spire. How may I assist you?”
The projection displays alien script and what appears to be a crest: a silver silhouette of a female figure set against a halo of twelve starbursts.
“What does that say?” I ask.
“It's the crest and motto of the Empire: 'Through Devotion, We Ascend.' This reflects Imperial citizens' belief that unwavering loyalty to their divine matriarchal goddesses elevates them above all others, promising both spiritual enlightenment and galactic dominance.”
“Where exactly is the Empire?”
A holographic star map appears that means nothing to me. “Human astronomers call the Empire's home planet Kepler-452b. It is approximately 1,800 light-years away, in the constellation humans call Cygnus.”
“Is that far from the Celestial Spire?”
“It takes approximately two days to travel by heavy space cruiser from the Celestial Spire to the Empire.”
I spend the next hour learning about the Imperial hierarchy, their goddess worship, and their history of conquest. The more I discover, the uneasier I become. This culture is built on dominance, submission, and expansion.
“Computer, what is the Empire's official stance on humans?”
“Humans are classified as a Level Three species under Imperial law, indicating moderate development but with limited spacefaring capability.”
“And what does that mean for human rights?”
“Level Three species receive basic protections under Imperial law, subject to various exemptions and cultural allowances.”
“Exemptions like what?”
“That information is restricted.”
I try a different approach. “Tell me about the Ascendant Alliance.”
The display changes, showing two almost identical, grey-skinned men with silver eyes, black hair, and sharp features.
Though physically identical, their differences are immediately apparent.
One stands with military precision, his expression controlled and calculating.
He has short hair and perfect-fitting modest clothing.
The other has a more relaxed stance, with something predatory lurking behind his smile.
His hair is shoulder length, and his shirt is open at his throat.
It’s as if one is a before and the other an after picture after a makeover, but it’s impossible to say which one is the before picture and which one is the after picture because, for being grey-skinned, they are both very attractive.
“Sovereign Director Rafe and Shadow Sovereign Director Lorian, twin sons of former Imperial Commander Gai and civilian Seren. Born Imperial Outcasts, they relocated to Reima Two and built the Ascendant Alliance, a company first founded by their mother, into a galactic hospitality empire spanning more than three hundred properties. For the last thirty years, the Ascendant Alliance has stood as one of the few legal employers of humans, positioning their labor as proof that humanity can serve beyond the role of companions.”
“What's the difference between their roles?” I ask, studying their faces.
“Sovereign Director Rafe oversees business operations. Shadow Sovereign Director Lorian manages security and special client services.”
“Special client services?” I repeat, thinking about those women in the corridor.
“That information is restricted.”
“How old are they?”
“Forty-five Earth years. Imperial lifespans average five centuries.”
Five hundred years. No wonder humans don't return. Maybe they'd outlive everyone they ever knew by getting better healthcare.
“Are the Sovereigns married? Do aliens marry?”
“Neither Sovereign has entered into a formal union, though negotiations have been initiated with prominent families on Reima Two. Imperial tradition requires twin males must share one wife.”
Share a wife.
The words send an unexpected shiver through me that I don't want to examine too closely.
I'm about to ask more when a soft chime announces a visitor.
“The physician has arrived,” the computer tells me.
“Open the door,” I say as the projection fades, but those twin faces remain burned in my memory. Will I ever meet them? Clay said they chose me specifically. And I feel both excited and frightened by the prospect.