Daeja paced the tiny rectangular holding cell for the ten thousandth time since the small welcoming committee had placed her there.
Their phrase, not hers.
She scoffed. Her Drakein had been growling incessantly inside her mind’s eye since she arrived.
There was nothing welcoming about the dozen armed non-Drakeins who’d aimed their loud, barbaric weapons at her immediately upon seizing her person.
Inconceivable.
She did not know how they did it, but the planet’s simplistic natives seemed to detect her single exploration pod the moment it touched ground.
When was that exactly? Hmmm.
She struggled to recall her lessons in measuring time on this planet. Non-Drakein 9, or Earth, as it was called by the natives, was strange indeed. They had but one sun and moon and time, though ever moving, was counted in seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, centuries—so very bizarre for beings who lived for blips of a Drakein’s lifetime.
Using her practiced calculations, she estimated at least two Earth hours had passed since she entered these prison quarters.
Grrr.
Her Drakein was not impressed. Dust motes floated in the air, and it smelled of mildew and mold.
She should have shifted to her magnificent beast before they’d cuffed her with those confounded metal shackles. The manacles proved too potent for even her great strength—a feat she would not have credited non-Drakeins with being able to pull off.
They were a tricky alien species, indeed. Granted, Daeja was not a warrior. But all Drakein were fierce. Her own inner beast was a wondrous creature with brilliant scales ranging in hue from the palest petal pink to the same deep mauve of the moons that had at one time circled her home planet.
Melancholy seized her, and Daeja closed her eyes and swayed on her feet until it passed. She was frightened, but more than that, she was embarrassed. Like a youngling, she’d been bested before her feet even touched the ground!
Grrrr.
Grimacing, she placed her hands over her stomach. It growled loudly in the small chamber for as many times in the past few minutes.
Her inner beast reminded her it had been a full rotation of this planet’s sun, a day as the non-Drakein’s called it, since she’d consumed the last of her allotted rations.
Frek.
Her cheeks heated at using the Drakein curse word, even if in her own head. The non-Drakein 9, or Earth, word for it would be fuck.
Strange, she observed. During their travels, the survivors of the Drakein war had come across countless alien planets and ships. Some were peaceful, others were not.
One of the peaceful visitations yielded them a translator device that was injected into the bloodstream. The way she understood it to work was thousands of nanobots attached themselves to neurons in the brain and acted as language processors.
Definitely a good trade, giving them their last twenty cases of Drakein sweet wine for the tech. Of course, she’d been punished for acting without permission. But it was worth it now.
Daeja’s stomach rumbled again, and she wondered if this planet fed its prisoners. They seemed less hostile than she’d anticipated. After all, manacles aside, the holding cell was rather comfortable.
Neither hot nor cold, there was light, a constant stream of air filtering in through overhead vents, and a chair for her to sit upon. Quite nice, actually.
The Flamebound Clan, to whom she’d been born, would have afforded any prisoner of war a reception rivaling that of an expected guest—food, drink, bath, and rest—though not necessarily in that order.
Unfortunately, the Viper Clan had won the war. They favored much harsher treatments and were less hospitable overall. They ruled the small ship that was all that remained of their home planet, Drakein, with an iron claw.
If only she’d studied Non-Drakein 9—Earth, she repeated the name in her head, committing it to memory—a little more before the Commander had sent her to its surface.
But Daeja was not in control of her situation. She had no voice in the matter. Trained as a healer, she’d been a medical engineer upon their ship. Her words did not matter to those in charge.
Only explorers and warriors could vote, and they were all from the Viper Clan. True, sparring was a favorite pastime among the Drakein, but that differed from war.
What was she doing here? This assignment was better suited to an explorer or scientist or warrior, for frek’s, er, make that, fuck’s sake!
Her place was among the medical decks of the ship, not scouting an alien landscape. Everything was so different here.
The very colors of the planet favored whites, blues, and greens, whereas Drakeinan was all pinks, purples, and grays. She’d hoped to make a home for herself and the others, but their insipid commander wished for one thing—to rule.
Curse Cass Viper and his zealous efforts to ensure his leadership! Before the war, this would not have happened.
Her heart twisted inside her chest as she recalled the stories from her old Clan. Alas, the Vipers had defeated the Flamebound, and saying, even thinking, anything against the new regime was akin to treason.
What would I give to live in a place where peace reigned, not mad rulers?
Daeja gritted her teeth with worry for her apakein, her grandfather. Her mother’s father was all she had left of her family.
What would he think of her failure? Would he even have a chance to reflect before the Commander executed him?
Gods, please protect my apakein.
The coward would not hesitate to take his revenge on the gentle elder, and it was revenge. She would make no mistake about that.
After all, it was Daeja who had dared refused his suit. The unpleasant memories of his unwanted attentions assailed her as she waited in her holding cell.
Commander Viper called her to his room one fated day after daily rations had been distributed.
“Are you feeling ill, sir?” she’d asked, thinking he had summoned her seeking medical treatment.
The older male leered at her as if she were a tasty klavabak treat. His incessant and unwanted ogling made her feel unclean and uncomfortable.
“I have been watching you. Our life is different here in space than the stories we tell of our past, but we must begin again. Our people’s survival depends on it.”
“Yes, sir,” she responded, uncertain where he was headed with this talk.
“You are lucky Daeja. I have chosen you as the first who will mate me,” the conceited pale-faced male had grinned at her, despite her derisive snort.
“I will not mate you, Commander Viper.”
“Then you shall go to work for me. Perhaps you would like to clean the waste receptacles? All must earn their place,” he growled.
Shivers raced up and down Daeja’s arms at the hated memories. She could not stand to think what he would do if he learned of her failure. Her apakein was a gentle male, undeserving of such punishment.
He was the last Flamebound male, an elder granted sanctuary for that very reason. His age had kept him alive, which was fine with her. Let them see him as no threat.
The Viper Clan males were vain and cocky, but even though their numbers were low, one male could not out fight a dozen. The losses on both sides were unfathomable and the cost far too great in Daeja’s eyes.
Their species had been decimated. Females outnumbered males at an alarming rate, and no new Drakein were being born.
Despite Commander Cass Viper’s belief that females were dispensable, they truly ran the ship. Daeja loathed the man and his antiquated ways. Could he not see it was those foolish beliefs that had almost destroyed them?
Cass Viper was a fool, as lousy in battle as he was at the helm of the last Drakein space craft. Without his father’s name and those guards still loyal to his house, males could bear arms and did so with skill, he would be nothing.
Despite that, he still had the power to hurt her. And if she did not check in soon, he would do it. The cruel male held her apakein hostage.
Gods, how could you let this happen?
She wiped away those cruel, angry tears that refused to abate. Captured by the enemy with no recourse!
Ugh. It was hopeless.
Daeja forced her tears to stop. She should show no weakness to these strangers. What good would that do?
She needed to be alert and careful, trusting her captors would be a grave error. Taught to gather information while revealing none, she tried to recall her lessons.
It was for her worthy ship mates and her grandfather that she would do this, steeling herself for what was to come, Daeja inhaled slowly. The very fate of all Drakein depended on her.
The 100 years Great War had devastated Drakeinan, consuming their kind in what turned out to be an almost species annihilating event.
It was the almost that counted, as her grandfather often said. The only thing that mattered was the war had ended.
They’d finally found peace with the last battle that had ended in the death of the royal line for the Flamebound Clan.
There were only forty-two of them left. Her apakein plus thirteen Viper males made up the current male population of their species, including the loathsome Commander. The remaining twenty-eight, including Daeja, were all female.
Theirs was a patriarchal society. Without strong males to lead them, what would happen to the softer, fairer female?
True, they’d had to abandon their home as it was no longer capable of supporting life, but they were hopeful of finding sanctuary on one of the several inhabitable planets among the stars. But that was not what kept them going.
Rumors of a legend persisted among the survivors as they searched for somewhere safe to land. Tales of four princes whisked away in the dead of night decades ago, sent to a faraway planet.
Those four princes would one day lead them to prosperity. At least, that was the hope.
Daeja had heard the stories often. Foolish old wives’ tales. But some, including Commander Viper, believed them.
The crazed male was hunting them. He wanted to extinguish the noble line. That was her mission.
Find the stasis pods. Destroy the royals.
Lost in thought, she hadn’t listened for the telltale click of the portal that allowed access to her holding cell. She turned her head, ready to defend herself, but the female who entered seemed nonthreatening.
She wore lenses on her face and looked at Daeja curiously. The strange non-Drakein was comely and appeared friendly.
Daeja gasped as she took in their similarities. The alien was bipedal. Her features were in the same places as Daeja’s. She wore clothing, had hair on her head, and smelled rather like the aerial species that used to roam Drakeinan.
“Can you speak?” the alien asked.
So, Daeja, being a Drakein, decided to give her a formal greeting call. She opened her mouth and shot her small, yet potent, pink flame across the room with a screech that would have made her apakein proud.
“Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech!”
Which was how she wound up freezing, doused with water and covered in a strange white foam, then manacled by her throat, wrists, and ankles and bound to the chair and table in her holding cell.
Freking flarshlaks!
*Read more from Alien Protector today!