The Attalans act like I’m a cherished guest. They have taken great care to feed me, heal me, and see to my every need. They give me everything I want, except for information. Or freedom. And that’s how I know what I truly am.

A prisoner.

It doesn’t matter that the cage is gilded. My quarters may be beautiful, with every surface covered in gold leaf or luxurious fabric, but the door that locks from the outside is the blemish on the beautiful face the Attalans are trying to present. It has soured everything. The bed is insanely comfortable, with crisp linens and fluffy pillows, but I’ve hardly slept a wink. The drapes are the softest fabric I’ve ever felt, but it’s hard to appreciate them when they frame a screen that projects a digital image of the outdoors.

I’d give anything to step outside and talk with someone who can tell me what’s going on. But the door that locks from the outside keeps me contained and in the dark. Just the way they like it, I’m sure. Although I can’t figure out why they’re treating me like this. What could they possibly have to gain by treating me like a dangerous hostage?

There’s a large silver button on the side table I can press when I need assistance. Any time, day or night, when I give that sucker a push, someone from the medical team arrives at my door within moments. I hear the click of the lock and they enter in their bland white medical uniforms and sensible shoes. They’re perfectly pleasant, but they might as well be mute for all the luck I’ve had getting any real information out of them. Likewise, my requests to meet with anyone who knows what’s going on have been very politely declined. They keep telling me my only job is to get better. To make sure that the leg I broke in a crash landing on this planet continues to heal.

I think that’s the strangest part.

I should still be in bed. Or in a wheelchair at the very least. I can’t imagine how many steel plates and pins they loaded me up with. But I can’t even find a scar. It still feels a little weak, but I’ve been able to walk around like it was never broken in the first place. I assume they applied some sort of futuristic medical treatment. We don’t have that kind of technology on Earth — you still get a clunky cast and weeks on crutches, even with all the other medical advancements we’ve made. The point is, I have to assume because I don’t remember. Any of it. It’s all one big blind spot. And not remembering what they did to me makes me a little nervous. More than a little, if I’m being honest, because I have no sense of how long I was unconscious. It’s just one more giant question mark, and I already have plenty of those.

I want answers. But nobody will give me any.

Everything about this place makes me uneasy. Being separated from my friends and crewmates, unable to communicate with them, only heightens my sense of confusion and isolation. I pace the length of my room, arms crossed over my chest, picking up speed as my frustration grows. Exercise of any sort violates the strict instructions my caretakers have given me, and I take pleasure in disobeying them. Besides, I need some way to burn off all the anxiety and nervous energy bubbling inside me like an active volcano.

It’s hard to stay calm when you’re the one left behind. All alone. Technically, alone and really confused, since most of my memories from the crash are a little hazy. I think the pain overwhelmed me and short-circuited my brain for a while. I remember coming out of hyperspace and all hell breaking loose. Our starship spun out of control, tossing us around like rag dolls in the metal hull before crashing into the snowy landscape. Things get fuzzy after that, like snippets of a movie I’m watching instead of events I’m actually participating in. White hot pain in my leg. Savannah hovering over me, all color draining right out of her face when she tore open the leg of my flight suit to survey the damage.

I remember the commotion when the alien warriors arrived, determined to escort us to the city, but I quickly slipped out of consciousness when one of them threw me over his shoulder like a roll of carpet. Our journey over the snowy terrain focused on speed, not comfort, and I continued to slip in and out of consciousness as we crossed miles of wintery hills. I remembered nothing of our arrival in the city, other than a vague sense of passing through a deep, mountainous cave.

I have so many questions, and no answers.

Where my friends?

Have they made any progress on their mission?

How much time do we have left to save Earth?

How long have I been locked up here?

Why won’t they let me speak to anyone?

Why are they holding me captive?

A flash of anger travels through me. The fate of Earth and my crewmates hangs in the balance and I don’t intend to stay tucked away without a fight. I’ve really worked myself up and I’m itching for confrontation. I cross the room with my finger extended, ready to stab at the silver button on the table.

I don’t have a chance. Someone knocks first.

“Come in,” I say, struggling to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

It’s the same nurse that often cares for me. She’s petite and slender, with shiny gray hair secured tightly in a chignon. She looks a few decades older than I am and has endless reserves of patience when she speaks to me. She actually reminds me of my mother, a thought that pops into my head out of nowhere and makes me homesick for the first time in the years since we left Earth. The renegade memory tamps down my anger and frustration.

Usually the nurse arrives to take my vitals and dispense medication. She speaks to me in hushed tones, determined to keep me calm under all circumstances. Today, however, she’s brought some sort of a package for me. She steps into my room and deposits the large flat box on my bed.

“This is for you, my dear,” she says. “The minister has been informed of your progress, and now that you’re on the mend, he expressed his wish that you join him for dinner tonight.”

“And I’m guessing hospital scrubs wouldn’t be appropriate.” I gesture to the beige, sack-like hospital gown I’ve been wearing since I first awoke.

“He instructed me to bring you something more suitable to wear,” she says, nodding her head as she acknowledges my comment.

“Please tell your minister that I appreciate the gesture and I’ll be happy to join him for dinner,” I say. In truth, I do appreciate the gesture. This is my first chance to talk to someone who knows what’s going on around here, if he can be persuaded to tell me. My mind starts running a mile a minute. This could be my one chance and I can’t mess it up.

“I’ll be back to collect you when it is time to dine, in about an hour,” she says before quietly closing the door and leaving me to my own devices. I hear the lock slide into place and am once again reminded of my status as a captive.

At least now I have something else to focus on. I walk into the bathroom and turn on the bathing unit that’s surprisingly similar to a shower on Earth. I give it a minute to warm up. While the water runs, I return to my sleeping quarters and lift the top off the giant garment box.

Pretty must be pretty on any planet because the gown that the minister has selected for me is gorgeous: a floor-length gown in a vibrant fuchsia color that’s adorned with sparkles and gems. I dig further inside the box and see that other items are included: some sort of a small cosmetic kit, jewel toned slippers for my feet, and a clasp for my long brown hair (I think. It could also possibly be a bracelet. I’ll have to check with the nurse.)

I can’t stop a sense of excitement from rising within me. For the first time in days, I have a sense of hope. There’s something I can do to control my own destiny. I need to be smart I need to approach the situation with tact and diplomacy and charm. And femininity; it’s clear from the gown that the minister has an idea of me and I’ll do my best to conform to it. To give him what he wants so that I can get what I want in return. I’m not above using my feminine wiles to throw the enemy off-kilter. Not with everything that’s at stake.