Page 3 of Mated to the Grumpy Alien

In that room, I hear Cyg’s voice out loud, since he is stored on the mainframe there. Once I leave it, I hear him as a sub-vocalization in my head, since he’s linked to a microchip embedded in my skull, just below my left ear.

Outside of the core room, I make my way to my living quarters. The only piece of tech outside of the core room is a monitor in my living quarters that can play back a visual recording from one of the cameras in the village.

No, the villagers don’t know they’re being recorded. And no, I don’t review the footage very often. But Cyg convinced me it would be wise to keep an eye on them. Sure, it’s flattering that they think I’m a god, but if they decided to turn on their god, I would want to know about it beforehand. So I allow Cyg to use a portion of his capabilities to monitor anything that happens in what amounts to the town square.

Now I stop in front of the monitor and say, “Show me what’s going on down there.”

Cyg doesn’t reply, but the monitor flickers to life. The viz rewinds, stops, and then begins playing forward.

The village fire, which is usually little more than some smoldering embers they barely keep alive, has been stoked into a fire. More alarming, there’s a pole erected in the center of the fire.

“What the hell?”

“The woman in question appears in the viz in approximately eight seconds.”

Sure enough a few seconds later, Torvin appears dragging a woman with him.

She’s like no woman I’ve seen since arriving here. She’s nearly as tall as Torvin, but considerably better fed. She’s not wearing the normal drab linens and furs but is dressed in dark blue leggings and a colorful multi-layered tunic. The satchel she carries is bright red, the color of spring poppies.

And her hair… Her hair is the color of flame. A copper red I haven’t seen since leaving Perse.

Cyg is right. This woman is not from here.

I can’t tell from watching the viz if she is from Perse like me or if she’s from somewhere else entirely. What I can see is that Torvin is dragging her closer to that flame.

Whoever she is, she’s in danger.

“They think she’s a witch. They’re about to burn her at the stake.”

“That is the conclusion I have reached as well,” Cyg subvocalizes in my ear.

“And you didn’t think to mention this to me before now?”

“You stated that you did not wish to be disturbed while working on the generator.”

About a dozen responses flash through my mind, but I don’t say any of them out loud. Instead, I head for the entrance to my fortress, sealing each of the doors behind me.

I grab my sword–the one I crafted from scrap metal after arriving on this planet. It’s not nearly as nice as the saber I once held on Perse. But when you become a prisoner, you are stripped of your belongings. I leave the cave and head down my mountain to the village. I only hope I make it in time to save the girl.

Like I said, I was raised in the old ways. Tradition says that no matter what happens in your life, the Tides of Be’lah are always bringing you closer to your true destiny. No matter how bad things seem, the Tides have a greater plan for you. Every moment of grief, every failure, every triumph and every loss is designed to bring you closer to your mate. To the one person who will complete you, so that together you can fulfill your life’s destiny.

I had believed it as a child, but after the last decade, I had lost faith.

Surely there was no way that the Tides of Be’lah intended for me to be branded a traitor, captured by slave traders, and stranded on this damn planet. Surely there was no way all of this was bringing me closer to my mate. I hadn’t believed for a moment that this was my destiny.

Until I saw her.

chapter

three

Cressida

So this was definitely not on my to-do list for the day. Granted, I don’t know that anyone has ever jotted down, get burned at the stake, in their day planner. Yet, here we are.

I mean I’m not exactly hanging over the flames as of yet, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure that’s where we’re heading. I’m trussed up like a proverbial pig, hands and feet tied, mouth sorta bound, though they left my eyes uncovered. Small blessing maybe, if I can figure out a way out of this mess.

I try again to reason with them. I realize that we are definitely at a disadvantage of communicating with one another, me and the steroid-looking brute who’s barking orders at everyone. We do not speak the same language. Now I am not a linguist, by trade. I’m an art historian teacher. But I know enough about history and civilizations to know that this dialect is super old.