Page 29 of Taken By the Alien Killer
“Uh-huh,” CynJyn crows, rocking with the climb. “That’s the sound of not being a chess piece.”
The sky goes black at the edges, then at the center, then everywhere. Stars punch through—cold, clean, sudden—and I swear I can taste them, iron and ice on the back of my tongue. The planet rolls under us, banded with clouds, freckled by cities. The glass throws ghost versions of our faces over the view, and for once I don’t hate the girl looking back.
“Say it,” CynJyn prompts, softer now. “Say how it feels.”
“Like I crawled out of a story someone else wrote,” I say, and my voice breaks exactly where it wants to. “Like my ribs have windows. Like I finally got the air I keep pretending I don’t need.”
“Good,” she says, and her grin gets quieter, more dangerous. “Now keep going.”
We settle into the lane that isn’t a lane, a thin seam smugglers and fools use when they don’t want to fill out paperwork. CynJyn’s fingers dance over the console, strip-scrambling transponder chatter, feeding the nav a breadcrumb trail only a liar could love. The cruiser purrs along, delighted to be doing something indecorous. The ceremonial seat warmers try to make our sins cozy; I cut them off and laugh when CynJyn calls me cruel.
“Tell me a joke,” she says, shoving the bottle of neon poison into a cup holder like it’s a talisman. “Custom demands it.”
“Knock knock,” I say, deadpan.
“Who’s there?”
“Not me,” I say, and for once the joke is funny because it’s true. We laugh like kids who just jumped a fence and didn’t get caught. The laughter tastes like copper and sugar and a beginning.
“Run me through what you packed,” CynJyn says, more practical now, more pilot than priestess. “Food?”
“Two bars. The rehydrating kind that tries to be a cookie and fails.”
“Clothes?”
“Spare shirt.” I grimace. “The ridiculous top you bullied me into last month.”
“Now it’s a uniform,” she says. “Med kit?”
“Mini. If we get decapitated I can offer antiseptic.”
“Perfect,” she says, and pats my knee. “Rook’s Rest will fill the gaps. We’ll pick up credit chits from Lloyd’s cousin, trade a few favors, and nobody is gonna ask you your surname unless they’re trying to sell you a fake one.”
The comms panel emits a polite double chirp. It’s nothing—just a range-cross notification—but my shoulders jump anyway. CynJyn flips a switch, sends a square of our ID behind a veil, and we slide past the listening post like we’re smoke. My heartbeat goes back where it belongs.
We talk nonsense to keep it there. We list the worst sandwiches we’ve ever eaten. We rank the house’s portraits by how likely they are to judge us in the afterlife. We decide Boo Boo would absolutely pick a fight with a star if it looked at her wrong. The ship purrs. The stars stare. Akura becomes a coin you could spend and regret later.
“Hey,” CynJyn says after a while, quieter, eyes on the bleed of starlight over the nacelle. “You okay?”
“I thought I’d be more guilty,” I admit, surprised to hear it. “I thought I’d be sicker. I thought I’d be more… small. I’m not. I feel—” I search for a word and come up with one I trust. “Loud.”
“Good,” she says. “Be loud. The universe can take it.”
“Do you think he’ll—” I start, then stop, then hate that I started at all.
“Stand,” she says, not looking at me. “And breathe like it hurts.”
“I hate that you’re right,” I say, and love her for it.
We drift a while inside that soft, impossible peace—a stolen cruiser, two girls who shouldn’t, a planet spinning itself smaller behind us. The console glows in muted blues. The auto-starfield paints the canopy in curated constellations for important people who hate the real sky’s chaos; I kill it and let the real stars burn. CynJyn hums a song that isn’t a song, just a thread of sound to stitch me to the moment.
Rook’s Restlooks like someone welded a city out of leftover arguments. Rusted ribs, patchwork plating, neon that flickers like it owes someone money. My palms sweat as we slide into the approach lane. I can taste hot metal through the vents and the old-socks funk of recycled air.
“Dock Control,” CynJyn hails, voice pitched to charming. “This is… ceremonial shuttle C-Three-Fancy requesting a sleepy berth with no questions and a working seal.”
Static crackles; a voice answers like it’s chewing gravel. “Identify.”
“Identifying as a girl with credits,” CynJyn says, winking at me. “And a very healthy respect for your fire suppression system.”
