Page 1 of Oh No, I Shot A Spaceship And Kissed An Alien Cyberchef

Chapter

One

LAURA

Iglare at the sleek, silvery NutriSynth machine, resisting the urge to give it a good whack. It might work on Earth appliances, but knowing my luck, hitting this alien tech would probably cause it to explode—or turn me into a frog or something.

“Come on, you glorified microwave,” I mutter, jabbing at the control panel. “All I want is a cup of coffee, or in this case not-coffee. Is that too much to ask?”

Apparently, it is. The screen flashes, then goes dark. Great. I’ve broken the stupid thing. Add “Destroyer of Alien Tech” to my ever-growing resume of failure.

I whack it for good measure because what is there to lose? I’m pretty sure all I achieve for my efforts is a stinging hand and an empty cup. At this rate, I’ll have better luck trying to brew coffee by harnessing the heat of my frustration.

I run a hand through my brown, tangled hair, wincing as my fingers catch on knots. Everyone comments on my long waves, but very few seem to realize how much effort it takes to keep them looking sightly. No shaggy mountainlady or frizz monster here, thank you very much. At least I can control a calm exterior, despite the turmoil inside.

The other human women will be waking up soon, expecting their morning caffeine fix. Or whatever passes for caffeine in this corner of the galaxy. If I can’t figure out how to work this machine, I’ll have a riot on my hands. After everything we’ve been through—the abductions, the fear, the uncertainty—the least I can do is make sure they have a decent start to their day. It’s not like I can offer them a trip back to Earth or a “Get Out of Alien Abduction Free” card.

It isn’t much, but it’s something I can control in this crazy new life. If only we had real coffee beans and not this stupid machine that squirts out what I suspect are plastic-infused flavors made from who-knows-what goop. I don’t trust it at all. For all I know, it’s recycling our tears of homesickness into this mockery of a beverage.

“Having trouble?”

I stiffen at the deep, rumbling voice behind me. Nelan. Just what I need to make this morning complete.

I turn to face the Volscian, crossing my arms over my chest. Given his ruby-red skin, long black hair, and sharp horns that sprout from his hairline, everyone has been quick to associate his species with devils and demons. Yeah, whenever this guy is around I’m in my own personal hell. Though, to be fair, he does make the flames look good. Not that he’ll ever catch me admitting it.

“Everything’s under control,” I lie. “I’m just... familiarizing myself with the equipment.”

I focus on how his pointy-tipped tail flicks behind him whenever I speak, much like a cat’s, rather than look up into his pitch-black eyes. There’s no way I’m looking into those depths… The last time I did, I got caught being sucked in, like the faint wrinkles around his eyes were cracks in his façade, and that I could see deep into his soul to who he really was.

As if!

A romantic, I am not. I’ve long since learned to be a realist in this harsh life. I can rely on no one but me, and I have no time at all for relationships. Not when I have coffee and breakfast to make. Love is a luxury I can’t afford, especially when I can barely afford to keep my sanity intact.

“Indeed,” Nelan says. He raises an eyebrow, his dark eyes scanning the kitchen. They linger on the blinking NutriSynth, the scattered utensils and dough-filled bowls, and what I am pretty sure is a scorch mark on the ceiling. How did that even get up there? I think I’d remember starting a fire… Then again, maybe I’ve repressed the memory along with my desire to scream into the void.

“And how is that... familiarization going?” His lips twitch, almost smirking, before settling into his usual disapproving frown.

Is he laughing at me? I grind my teeth as I glare at him, imagining tiny daggers shooting from my eyes. Pity my newfound alien life didn’t come with superpowers.

“Just fine, thanks. I don’t need any help,” I snap, turning my back to him. It puts the now functioning NutriSynth at my mercy. Maybe another whack might just solve all my problems—I certainly feel like hitting something. Or someone.

My frustration turns into despair as I stare at the control panel. The symbols might as well be hieroglyphics. Every human at the hotel has received a translator implant, but it doesn’t mean we can read written words. I shrug and stab a few buttons, hoping for the best. It’s a time-honored human tradition: when in doubt, push random buttonsand pray.

The output of the damn machine spurts sparks, rather than squirting out hot liquid. I yelp, jumping backward in my haste to avoid being zapped. I’d rather not die if I had the choice, and I’d also rather not have to go to the medical bay for electrical burns or shock… I still don’t trust these alien devices, if I have to admit it. For all I know, their idea of “healing” involves probes and tentacles.

“Clearly you don’t need any help at all,” Nelan says, his voice dripping with sarcasm as his warm breath ghosts over the shell of my ear. I catch a whiff of something spicy and alien. It isn’t an unpleasant scent. I suppress the shiver that rocks through me. He’s entirely too close, crowding me in. My heart beats fast… and I absolutely hate that thrill of excitement that goes through me every time our skin brushes. I have no interest in romance whatsoever, I remind myself.

Do I…?

“I suppose the smoke is a new feature you’ve unlocked?” His voice is entirely too smug.

I’ve definitely got zero interest in romance. Especially with him.

Still, I don’t move away when his chest brushes against my back as he reaches around me to input commands into the machine. I try to focus on his hands, but my eyes are drawn to his cybernetic arm, the metal gleaming under the bright kitchen lights. Despite all their alien technology, or maybe because of it, he’s the only one I’ve ever seen with a prosthetic. I wonder how he lost it? What kind of life did he lead before coming to the hotel? Was he an assassin like Sutek, or a pirate like Valtair? The thought of the pain he must have endured makes something twinge in my chest, an uncomfortable mix of sympathy and curiosity.

“Look,” I say, trying to keep my voice level, refusing toacknowledge him and how he makes me want to squirm, “I appreciate your concern, but I can handle making a simple cup of not-coffee. I’m not completely helpless, you know. I’ve mastered the art of burning toast and overcooking pasta. This is simply just the next step in my culinary journey.”

I laugh, though there’s no real humor behind it. I’m just grateful that my voice doesn’t crack on that last statement. I’ve been helpless more times than anyone should. I’m determined to never, ever, let it happen again. I just have to keep pushing; that’s all. Fake it ’til you make it, right? Even if “making it” in this case means not electrocuting myself with alien kitchenware.

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