Chapter 3
All hell is breaking loose in the women’s quarters.
We are still sorted by hair color, and I am in a huge sleeping hall with about 60 other blondes. None of them is over fifty, and they all look strong and healthy. My entrance has caused a sensation, and I have to answer many questions. After four hours of cross examination, things finally calm down. I wanted to answer all of their questions, because I could see the tension in their faces, and the fear of the unknown. The more they knew about the Qua’Hathri, the easier it would be for them to come to terms with their fate. I wonder if I should talk with Khazaar – several of them had to leave their families behind.
My bed isn’t nearly as comfortable as the one in Khazaar’s quarters, and I toss and turn restlessly all night. Several women cry and moan in their sleep. I stare at the ceiling and wonder if I made a mistake in rejecting him. Not because my situation is uncomfortable now, but because I just can’t get him out of my head. Over and over, I see his face in front of mine, his body, and I feel his skin as he is lying on top of me. I keep having to remind myself that those images were only fantasy, not reality. But it isn’t just his appearance that captivates me. He had surprised me. I had not expected to have a choice, much less to get away with saying “no.” An alien commander, who conquers galaxies, solar systems and populations is considerate of his human prisoners?
The spark of an unknown feeling wells up in me, and I feel the sting of tears in my eyes. The image, in which he had let me see myself through his eyes, rises before me. My body that feels unusually soft and small to him, my face with the bright eyes that betray any emotion. As I put myself in his place again, I feel his surprise at his own confusing feelings. He desires me! Why didn’t I see that earlier? I answer my question almost immediately. Because the experience was too close, too raw and too in-my-face. I definitely hadn’t had the time to discover his feelings. I had been too busy dealing with the strange experience.
There weren’t many like me down on Earth, and I had always tried to keep my gift a secret. In any case, it drains your strength to put yourself in another person’s head, because the feelings and thoughts you encounter there are raw and unfiltered. Being able to read thoughts was a secret that I didn’t even use in resistance against the Sethari.
I close my eyes and let my thoughts wander. In this dream-like state, I wander through the space ship. I explore the halls and listen in on conversations in the other rooms. The quarters of the red-haired and dark-haired women look the same as ours. I dare to go a little further, and cover the distance much more quickly than I could on foot. I go through the door to his room and see him sleeping. He is lying on his stomach. The covers have slid down to his knees, revealing his chiseled body. I can see every defined muscle in his back, and feel an overwhelming desire to lie down next to him. When I am invisible like this, I have the freedom to really be who I am. He is sleeping, so he obviously isn’t manipulating me. He really does smell delicious. Carefully, I sniff the area between his ear and neck, and suck his scent deep into my lungs. Now I can also touch his hair, and it is just as silky as it looks. His hair tumbles to his shoulders in messy waves. His nostrils flare and his eyelids twitch. He is dreaming. He seems so vulnerable, it almost breaks my heart.
I don’t know a single human who can prevent another from entering his thoughts while dreaming. Should I try it? I would love to know what a Qua’Hathri dreams about. At that very moment, he opens his eyes. I give a startled and most undignified squeak, before catapulting myself into the here and now as quickly as I can. I spend the rest of the night listening intently for footsteps. I am sure he saw me – which is actually impossible – and am sure I will have to appear before him. As morning approaches, and the pale sun chases the darkness away, I fall into a restless sleep.
The day begins with each of us being sent to the showers, and then all of us eat together. Everything up here in this huge spaceship with its labyrinth-like hallways is very well organized. It runs like clockwork.
Other than us, there don’t seem to be any women on the ship. The men eat with us, and we are served by other men. You can easily tell the warriors from the servants. Not only because the warriors wear those tantalizing pants, and the servants wear a type of uniform, but also by their stature. I can’t see a single warrior who is small and delicate. They are all eye candy, after you get used to the different skin colors. Their appearances are dominated by broad shoulders, strong muscles and, for the most part, angular faces with high cheekbones.
You can tell that the presence of women is causing some restlessness. The men exchange quick glances with the women, and a particularly adventurous redhead winks at a man with cobalt-blue hair. After a momentary hesitation, he comes over to her at the table and introduces himself. All of the women are quiet and try to occupy themselves with the porridge and watery herbal tea in front of them. In reality, they are trying to eavesdrop, just like me. Since I am too far away to understand what she is saying, I send my spirit out just a little, in order to capture her mood. She laughs before I reach her, and the relief that runs through the women almost knocks me off the bench.
Her laugh seems to be a signal, because now other warriors are getting up and sauntering over to the women. The cold glare of the neon lights, which bathes the room like the light of an operating room, falls on their faces. The women oscillate between caution and curiosity. It is almost funny to see these battle-tested muscle men sneaking around the women, and I catch myself smiling. If they are all as considerate as Khazaar, then things will be much better than they could have been. But wait a minute. Didn’t Khazaar tell me yesterday that the computer had selected me as compatible genetic material for him? I watch the men carefully. They are definitely not seeking out a specific woman whom the computer had spit out as a good match. Instead, they are deciding for themselves whom to talk to. The women are still not brave enough to take the initiative, but it doesn’t need to stay that way, does it?
I decide to lead by example and stand up. I take my tea with me, in order to have something to hold on to, even though I couldn’t manage to keep down a single sip of this nasty drink. The woman next to me eyes me, surprised, and then she follows my example and nods to me. We position ourselves in a corner and talk casually, while we eye the men walking by us.
“I’m Keira,” she says and holds out her hand.
“Cassie,” I answer, and smile at her. “Did you have to leave anyone behind?”
She shakes her head, making her blond curls fly. “No, thank God. I am single,” she adds dryly, and we giggle amicably. It’s hard to describe how good it feels to have this conversation. It gives this whole absurd situation a hint of normalcy, and I don’t feel quite as vulnerable. A redhead joins us. “Mary Jane,” she says, and gives us a shy smile. She is even smaller than I am (which is rare), and so delicate that merely the hint of a breeze could knock her over – this is what I am thinking, anyway, until I look into her light gray eyes and see the sheer will to survive in them. We are in agreement that our president is an idiot for just selling out to the aliens. Mary Jane corrects herself and uses a crude swear word for him, and I almost choke. “But he isn’t our president anymore, so we can call him whatever we want to,” Keira adds. For a while, we outdo each other with the worst swear words we know, and laugh until our stomachs hurt.
Our little group is drawing attention. A man with crimson-red hair and skin the color of a latte comes over and asks Keira if he can show her the ship. Keira says good-bye to us and links arms with her beau.
“What a meat market,” Mary Jane remarks and wrinkles her nose. “Why are you here, anyway? I thought his lordship over there had chosen you.” I freeze for a second. He’s here? Why didn’t I feel his presence? I turn around and see that a petite dark-haired girl has made herself comfortable on his lap. He is feeding her fruit. I turn away from the sight. It makes my stomach churn. It seems I haven’t done a very good job hiding my fury, because Mary Jane puts her hand on my arm and says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be indiscreet.”
“We just didn’t have any chemistry,” I retort, markedly cool.
She raises her red eyebrows, which makes her face look elfish. “You do know that this isn’t about love, right? We may have been lucky, relatively speaking, but in the end, this really is just a meat market. If you are waiting to fall in love, they will probably drop you off on the next inhabited planet. If you are lucky, Cassie.”
I inhale deeply, ready to tell her about the Qua’Hathri’s capabilities. I am assuming that it isn’t just Khazaar who can manipulate his counterpart emotionally and lull them in. But then I decide to leave it. It is better to keep these women in the dark. They should believe that the feelings they have are real. A hint of moss brushes by my nose as a green-haired man approaches us. He seems to have taken a liking to Mary Jane. He reaches out his hand to her, and asks her if he can show her the ship. With everything I can muster, I suppress a belittling snort. “Showing the ship” seems to be the same kind of metaphor we used to use, like with a notorious stamp collection, or asking your companion if he wants to come up for coffee.
I stand around alone for a while and watch the proceedings. Don’t any of them have anything to do? Surely there are things these warriors need to do on a ship this size. Sharpening their swords, planning the next attack – all of the things alien warriors do. Khazaar should be setting a good example, just like he had bragged about, and should damn well be planning his next campaign, instead of chortling around with that woman.
A golden-haired man is sitting near him, and is watching the proceedings with the same great interest. He looks like a Viking to me, who, at any moment, might draw his bloody axe and hack several enemies to pieces all at once. With his blue-shimmering, milky-white skin and golden hair, he could have easily just emerged from Mount Olympus, as well. He interests me because he is staying a little off to the side, preferring to watch instead of engaging. I go over to him, and wait a second for him to notice me, not because I am afraid, not me! Rather, because it is polite to give him the opportunity to ask me to sit. When I am standing, we are at eye level. He nods at me curtly and motions to the seat next to him, rising briefly. His good manners captivate me immediately. He looks a little older than the other warriors, I can see this now that I am close to him. He has crow’s-feet around the eyes, but otherwise, it is easy to see that he is in top shape. Of the many scars on his torso, some are already so pale that you can hardly see them.
“You are Cassie,” he states and gives me his full attention. “The woman whom the supreme commander doesn’t want.”
“He said that? What a bastard!” That comes out before I can think, but to my surprise, my companion’s mouth twitches deceivingly. He leans in to me. His scent is cinnamon, but his attempt to captivate me is overly careful, and doesn’t come close to the force that Khazaar used in his attack. I deflect his scent with one shrug of the shoulders, and ask his name.
“Varsul Kath’Hori,” he answers and takes my hand. Instead of shaking it, he brushes, in perfect form, a kiss on the inside of my wrist, and sends over another cloud of cinnamon. I don’t know if it is his kiss, or his scent, but suddenly I don’t care. I allow him to pull me over, grab me by the waist and pull me on to his lap. Without thinking, I put my hands around his neck, and steal a quick glance at Khazaar. He has buried his dark head in his victim’s neck. I see his quick tongue tickling the woman’s skin, and she giggles and shivers demonstratively.
Varsul has buried his nose in the bend of my neck, and breathes in my scent. “What do I smell like?” I ask. Scent seems to play a big role with the Qua’Hathri.
Varsul lifts his head and looks at me. “Like spring water, moss and woods,” he answers, hesitating. His eyes bore into mine, and he tries to get in my head. I lower the barrier, and grin mockingly. Silence spreads between us, but finally he breaks it with a whisper. “I can’t believe that the lord would reject a woman with your abilities,” he remarks. “Of all the women, you are the only one who has talents similar to ours. You can smell us, and you can tell when somebody wants to read your thoughts. Your children would be privileged and would have the very best genetic predisposition. They would be as close to our race as is possible.” His tone is thoughtful. He points to the other women who are happily worshipping their companions. “We can’t influence you, either, I can see.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe that Khazaar spurned you.”
He is not only very good-looking, but also very intelligent, and before I can stop myself, I tell him so. Damn it, I need to watch myself. In his presence, I am saying anything that pops into my head. He laughs. A real, deep laugh that I feel in my belly. “You think I am good-looking?” I nod, trying to be relaxed, and cuddle up to him. It’s true. I really do find him attractive, because he radiates something that makes me feel at peace. I need that much more than the excitement that comes with Khazaar. “I have a few more years under my belt than these whipper-snappers,” Varsul confirms my earlier guess, “and I wouldn’t have thought that someone like me would have been able to find someone with whom he could continue the lineage of the Kath’Hori. But it seems I am in luck. May I show you the ship?”
I roll my eyes. “Slow down, my friend. You can show me the ship, but nothing else. I need a little time to… get my bearings here.” I try to be diplomatic. Even though I like him, I am not ready to fall into his bed like a ripe apple. He grins mischievously, as if he were very sure of himself, and wraps his arm around my waist. He is lifting me up, when a huge shadow falls over us, and a hand pulls me roughly from Varsul’s lap. Khazaar is standing before me, his eyes blazing at me with anger. Then his gaze goes to Varsul who can only shrug.
“I didn’t know that you were still interested in her, my Lord,” he says smoothly. Then he stands, and bends on one knee. He lowers his head, but I can see that this gesture of humility is hard for him. The lord is still holding my arm with a grip worthy of a warrior. I gnash my teeth, so he won’t have the satisfaction of knowing that he is hurting me.
“Stand up,” he growls, and nods curtly at Varsul. Then he drags me out of the hall and pushes me up against the wall with one hand. I try to wriggle out of his grasp, but naturally, he holds me tight. I go as stiff as possible, and lift my chin defiantly. Yesterday’s friendliness is gone. His pupils are tiny slits in a fiery gold-yellow, and his lips are nothing but two thin strips. For being so aloof yesterday, he sure is quite emotional today.
“Let me go,” I croak, and he actually loosens his grip and removes his hand from my neck.
He shoots me a scornful look, and turns on his heel. His far-reaching, fast footsteps take him around the next bend and out of view, leaving nothing but his seductive scent. The door opens, and Varsul comes out. He sees me standing motionless against the wall, and comes over to me. Gently, he touches the spot where Khazaar’s grip has left its mark.
“Can you explain to me what that was all about?”
He looks at me searchingly. Then he takes my hand and leads me back into the now almost empty hall. We look for a secluded spot, and he snaps his fingers to get the attention of a servant. Almost immediately, an attendant is standing in front of him, head lowered and waiting for Varsul’s instructions. In a language that consists mostly of hissing sounds and guttural grumbles, Varsul gives his orders. We are quiet until the servant appears again, two minutes later, with a tray. He sets a bottle with clear water and two cut glasses down in front of us, and then Varsul waves him off with an impatient flick of the hand. The servant retreats and bows, before he turns and flees with a nervous face. Varsul hands me a glass and I swallow the delicious, slightly metallic liquid with one gulp. He sips at his drink, as if the glass contains a costly beverage. Or a damn strong one, as I realize quickly. A pleasant, warm sensation is spreading in my stomach. Varsul grins at me.
“Things are not the best between me and Khazaar,” he tells me. “He comes from a family that came into power about two hundred years ago, and has ruled the Qua’Hathri ever since.”
“Let me guess.” I interrupt. “You come from the line that was in power before his line, and now you are mortal enemies.” It really is the same everywhere, whether on Earth or in a distant galaxy. Those who rule don’t want to share. And those at the bottom of the food chain want power.
Varsul looks at me with his beautiful eyes, and I think I see a shadow of sadness in them. Or is it something else? As quickly as the feeling appears, it disappears again behind a mask. “That is correct,” he confirms. “Our problem is made worse by the fact that our race is going extinct. He who produces a healthy, male heir first, will be leading the quest for the good will of the people.”
“Why do the people play a role? Who are the people, anyway?” I have no idea how the Qua’Hathri society is structured, and here is the perfect opportunity to satisfy my curiosity. Strictly speaking, I am a prisoner, even if my bonds are made of silk. It can’t hurt to know more about the Qua’Hathri.
“Our society is divided into two castes,” he explains to me, and takes a careful sip. “There is the ruling warrior caste. Our commander’s father is at the top of that caste, at this time.”
For the first time, I hear dislike in his voice, in the way he pronounces Khazaar’s title. It must be hard to submit to someone who removed your lineage from power. I wonder why Khazaar’s family didn’t completely destroy his family. “The other caste is naturally represented in higher numbers. They are our servants. They see to it that the fields are cultivated, that the livestock is healthy, and that we have an abundance of clothing and food.” His tone is factual. Involuntarily, I think about the French revolution. Even though it happened a few thousand years ago, it is still in lessons that I eagerly absorbed in school.
“Why is your family still among the living? I would think that a warrior race like yours would show no mercy and eradicate enemies without thinking twice.”
Varsul changes color. His blue-white cheeks are overrun by a raspberry pink, and his eyes glow, literally. Even his hair, which until now had been lying nicely on his shoulders, seems to move. “We had to swear an unconditional oath of allegiance to our new rulers,” he responds flatly. I can tell I have hit on a sore spot, and I almost regret my curious questions. Varsul rises. Our conversation is over. “It was my pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he says, and kisses my hand again. I shiver when his tongue caresses my wrist. For some reason, I am happy that he is leaving. I need peace and quiet, to be able to think about everything. The challenges of the last few days have taken their toll. I am tired and only want to get in my bed.
In the sleeping hall, I bump into servants who are packing up the few belongings of the women who have decided on one of the warriors. Most of them have clearly done so, as the hall is completely empty. I curl up and close my eyes.
It is deadly quiet in the sleeping hall.