Page 2 of Alien Rescue

The lid slid closed, shutting out the light, leaving her alone in a grave with barely enough air to breath.

“Gullible?”

She thought she heard Mr. Parnell and Morgan laugh. But it had to be her imagination. Mr. Parnell would never laugh at her. He wanted her to pass the test as badly as she needed to prove herself. She stared at the last bit of light streaming in, desperate to soak it into her memory. To keep it close for the endless days of darkness ahead.

Silence, fear, and darkness became her world.

Chapter Two

Zanr stroked his ridge, then quickly lowered his hand when he saw the other warriors in the shuttle look at him.

It had been two weeks since he’d found his breeder in a hole in the basement of the building they’d blown up. She’d looked so small and frail—he couldn’t understand how anyone could put her inside that hole in such a cruel way. She’d been thin, obviously starved, and even though she’d been unconscious, she’d been shivering with fever. He wanted a few hours alone, maybe a few days, with the human who’d put her in there.

Zanr stepped out of the shuttle, parked in the human capital city of Washington, and walked over to Larz. His friend was dressed as a warrior, but stood separate from the rest of them. Only the need for as many boots as possible, to march, had caused Larz to be included for today’s show of strength.

Before Zanr had acquired his own female human, he didn’t understand how Larz could give up everything for an evil human like Margaret, the meanest female Zanr had ever seen—he didn’t know how Larz ever turned his back to her.

From the moment Zanr had found his breeder, small and nearly dead in that basement, he’d started to understand how Larz felt. No matter what his breeder did, he’d protect her. He’d even give up his warrior status for her, the way Larz had done. But in his case, he’d be giving it up for a frail, exceptionally beautiful female with extraordinary hair. The hair on her head alone would almost make it worth it to lose his warrior status.

It was ironic that Larz, who was of the Parenadorz’s blood, was now a citizen. And Zanr was a warrior with no blood to speak for him—a fact he’d always pretended didn’t bother him, but it niggled at him sometimes.

Larz nodded at him, not allowed to give a warrior’s salute to Zanr anymore. Not for the first time, Zanr wondered why they kept to such rigid customs. “How is your breeder?”

“She still doesn’t recognise me. Viglar said that she has a fever typical to humans. It broke two days ago and now she is sleeping. I only left her alone because marching is compulsory, and she is sleeping now.” He’d set the sensors to alert him if she woke or her condition changed in any way. Even with the probe watching over her, he didn’t like leaving her alone.

“We are both scheduled to march with shuttle thirteen.” Larz pointed to the right.

Zanr nodded and they went in search of the shuttle. “Have you marched before?” Larz asked. He’d been born on Earth, but all warriors had knowledge of their home planet and customs and were born with warrior skills. Unless you were a bloodless.

Zanr stepped into the shuttle. “Shortly after Zacar recruited me, we conquered a small planet in the Ebudian system and I had to march three days straight,” Zanr told his friend.

“It was five miserable days,” another warrior said.

“Why that long?” Larz asked.

“That planet was small, but their people fierce. We had a big fight on our hands and had to show them they’d be up against a large occupation force if they rebelled.” He’d always had the impression that Zurian and Zacar had enjoyed the fierce fight, but regretted the need to kill those brave warriors in the battle for their planet.

“How many rounds do you think we will have to do?” he asked Larz, but included the other warriors in the question. There was always someone willing to take the bait. The sun wasn’t up yet, and he had no doubt they’d march long after the Earth’s moon appeared.

“I think thirty,” Larz said, deadpan, but his eyes showed his amusement.

Zanr knew it was thirty; he’d heard Zacar give the command. He kept his features calmly interested. Their ability to camouflage meant they could march up the street, enter a shuttle, and become invisible to the human crowd, and join the end of the row and march the route again.

The other warriors all groaned. “I’m not betting with you,” one at the front shouted back at him. “Last time I lost my M clock to you.” Zanr bared his teeth at the warrior to show his enjoyment. The clock was a round shape, red, and made out of plastic with a big, white M on it. He’d even managed to make the clock work.

“Twenty rounds,” a braver warrior said. “And I’ve got a human ball of yarn.”

Everyone turned to face the warrior who’d spoken: Ziccen.

“What is a ball of yarn?” Zanr asked. If it was something his breeder would want, he’d win it.

The warrior opened the flap of his uniform pocket. It bulged in a way no Zyrgin pocket ever did. Their technology allowed them to shrink their weapons and most of their belongings to such a small size it was barely seen by the naked eye. It was made possible by jinz izwe—their most sacred resource that they never shared. Any warrior would give his life to ensure the precious metal stayed out of foreign hands.

“They make their primitive clothes with it.” Ziccen held out a ball of furry strands that clung together. It glowed soft pink in the shuttle light. The warrior lifted the soft string and broke off a piece. “It’s not very strong.”

Zanr wanted it. His breeder would appreciate the pink color and she would like its softness. She’d be satisfied that she was claimed by a good warrior. He’d filled their dwelling with everything a woman could desire, but it wouldn’t hurt to add a little extra.

“I have a game to bet,” he told Ziccen. The other warrior brightened. He didn’t have a breeder he had to satisfy and had time to play the strange human games with the other warriors.

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