Read Chosen by the Alien Above Part 3: A Sci-Fi Alien Romance Serial Online
Authors: Nora Lane
Chosen by the Alien Above Part 3: A Sci-Fi Alien Romance Serial
Chosen by the Alien Above Series
Nora Lane, June 2015
Copyright © 2015 Nora Lane
All rights reserved worldwide
No part of this book may be reproduced, uploaded to the Internet, or copied without permission from the author. The author respectfully asks that you please support artistic expression and help promote anti-piracy efforts by purchasing a copy of this book at the authorized online outlets.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incident either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, business establishments, or actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
All sexual activities depicted occur between consenting characters 18 years or older and who are not blood related.
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Chosen by the Alien Above Series
Chosen by the Alien Above Part 1
Chosen by the Alien Above Part 2
Chosen by the Alien Above Part 3
Chosen by the Alien Above Part 4 - Coming Soon!
Excerpt
* * * * *
There were two major obstacles to any imagined love I might harbor.
One, I was here to interview him, as a professional. I wasn't here to sign up to be his personal concubine.
I could almost see the uncapped pen in my hand, shaking to scrawl my signature.
And two, even if that obstacle could somehow be overcome, even if that stormy sea could somehow be safely navigated, it didn't matter.
I had less than thirty days to live. That was the concrete consensus of my team of doctors back home. Despite their hopeful babbling.
The lightness in my being that buoyed me up on the wings of a bubble burst in mid air. The tension on the surface tore apart.
I crumpled in my chair, despite its best efforts at perfecting my posture. This pushy gel stuff was getting irritating.
Tears burst from the limitless reservoir behind my damned eyes. I wished I could see another truth, another way. Another future. The most dangerous time to embrace hope was when everything inside you knew it was pointless.
Small streams guttered down my cheeks. I snorted as an especially wrenching bubble burst in my throat.
Noah was at my side in an instant. He knelt on the floor, his head not much lower than mine. He was crazy big.
"What hurts you, Cora?"
Every fiber in my being wanted to spill the beans. Wanted to pour my tragedy into his large hands. I didn't harbor any false hopes that he could change it. But getting it out would've been enough. Just sharing it would've been a comfort.
The words choked in my throat. This wasn't why I was here. I wasn't three hundred miles above the surface to dump my troubles on the richest, sexiest recluse to ever float above the face of the earth. And I didn't want to give him leverage. Something he might find useful in manipulating his questioning.
"It's nothing," I said.
He took my trembling hands in his rock-steady ones. His skin was soft despite the obvious strength lurking underneath. He looked up into my eyes. The room faded around us.
"That's not true, Cora. I know it's not because I've been in your shoes. I know what it means to carry the burden of a death sentence."
He placed both my hands in one of his and cupped my cheek. I'd never been treated so tenderly. Certainly not by the doctors when I got the news.
"You're destined to die, Cora. Not in some far off, ambiguous way. Death stalks near and your body grows weary of the chase."
He wiped a tear from my cheek.
"You're going to die soon and not a single soul on earth can do anything about it."
I was truly a mess now. Rivers of tears and snot drew deltas on my chin and flooded the plains of my chest. Wet drops tinted the suit a slightly darker purple. My breath came in painful, racking sobs.
"Why are you telling me this?"
He lifted my chin and touched my lips.
"I'm telling you because I think I can save you."
* * * * *
After what was entirely too long surviving in a nightmare, I awoke. A mechanical monster in my dream shook me. No, shaking was too strong a word. It rattled me, vibrated me. Which seemed a weird thing because I was no longer dreaming. That, and it was pleasant. You don't expect the horrible things chasing you in dreams to bring comfort.
Wait.
No.
It wasn't the thing in my dream moving me. I cracked my eyes open and looked at the ceiling.
Where the fuck was I?
I mentally washed my mouth out and studied the unfamiliar surroundings.
Slate gray metal panels stretched across the ceiling. I didn't know if they were actually stretching, but their smoothness made it likely. Black veins traced through in meandering streams that broke apart here and rejoined there. Like a circuit board, only organic. Like the natural branching of blood vessels.
Orbital One.
That's where I was. The events of the last week spread over me. No not last week. Less than a day. It felt like much longer. I’d been scared enough, sick enough, and lusty enough in less than a day to cover a year’s worth of emotional experience.
Why was I vibrating?
Noah had me keyed up and humming like piano string. Was that it?
I was in his bed. Alone. One step at a time.
Warm gel contoured to my curves, supported me better than anything I’d napped on before. It was weird without a blanket or a sheet. But I guessed you didn't need covers in the womb.
The womb vibrated all around me.
“Ms. Gabarro, you are scheduled to have dinner in five minutes,” a disembodied, synthesized voice said from everywhere at once.
I flinched and the gel moved with me.
Cosmo.
The ship’s over-helpful AI.
“I vibrated your restoration pod. I hope you don’t mind.”
I stretched out like a cat in the sun.
“It’s wonderful. Thank you, Cosmo.”
“I am programmed to please. Noah has instructed me to remind you that dinner is in four minutes, seven seconds, and—“
“Got it,” I butted in. His penchant for being overly precise was annoying. His software routines needed some rounding.
“Perhaps you are unaware, but you are still wearing the inner layer of your g suit. I only mention it in the event you desire to change—“
“How’d you know that?”
“My optical sensors detected—“
“You’re watching me? Have you been watching the whole time?”
“I have optical sensors located throughout the station. I maintain constant observation on all circuits to ensure optimal operation.”
What was with these peeping Toms? Did Noah program in his lack of respect for other’s privacy?
“Would it be possible for you to not watch me for one friggin’ second?!” I layered in my absolute sharpest cutting sarcasm.
“My circuits are programmed to allow deactivation of individual sensors. It was a feature—“
Artificial intelligence indeed. Until one could properly digest a sarcastic remark, we humans had nothing to fear.
“I meant stop watching me!”
“Optical sensors deactivated in Noah’s quarters.”
“Thank you!”
“I am programmed to—“
“Don’t talk! Please,” I added. Did Noah also program in the ability to annoy the living crap out of someone?
I wiped at my eye and dislodged an eye booger the size of Jupiter. I hoped my eyes weren’t as red as its famed counterpart.
One minute of silence was all I needed. One minute to get my footing.
TING. TING. TING.
What was that?
TING. TING.
Somebody at the door. It sounded like a hammer banging away.
A hideous growl echoed in. A cold shiver slithered up my spine, despite the cozy gel.
TING. TING. TING.
That dog bot! It was trying to break the door down! So it could probe and dissect me! I knew it!
I would’ve pulled the covers over my head if I’d had any. Restoration pods. The best for napping. The worst for hiding in.
How long had I slept? Long enough to have not showered, cleaned up, or changed clothes. Too long.
I jumped out of bed, which was more literal than usual because the gel seemed to guess my intention and pushed me off as I pushed off it. I needed new clothes, but didn’t see anything that screamed closet.
I was thankful nothing literally screamed, “Closet!” Self-aware things could definitely go too far. What if every fridge, toaster, and trashcan had an AI? It would be a constant stream of irritating, over-abundant information dumps.
The avocados are eighty-two percent over-ripe. My sensors indicate your bagel is toasted. Why don’t you ever empty me? Trash pick-up is every week, in case you were wondering.
What a nightmare the inevitable future was going to be.
I paced around the large room. Where the hell was the closet? It was all smooth walls and sloping curves.
“Cosmo, where’s the closet?” I hoped he got the irritation in my voice, but I wouldn’t have bet on it.
“Turn sixty-three degrees to your left and take eleven paces.”
I did as instructed and found an area of wall that looked like it might be a door.
“Did you not see me wandering around? Looking for this?”
“I did.”
“So why didn’t you tell me where to find it?”
“You indicated I should not speak.”
Great. An AI with no understanding of sarcasm
or
nuance.
I tried the closet, or what I hoped was it, and not a trash chute that jettisoned straight out of a hole in the hull. It would suck me into oblivion. Faster than Astro could do her alien medical things to me.
That would be the upside. To the trash chute.
Still, I hoped it was a closet.
Those black vein-circuits ran down the door and circled in a tight oval, spiral. I touched my palm to the spiral. The door slid to the side in silence. Why were space doors always slidey ones? I guessed there was a manual somewhere, one that all the builders had to abide by.
Follow the rules and you'll do fine.
That was the assurance you got. Well, it was a lie.
I'd followed the rules my entire life. From honors classes to saving myself for Mr. Right. And what assurance did I get?
That I was going to die in less than thirty days. That thirty was optimistic.
Why me?
Why did I get to be the lucky outlier that broke all the rules? It didn't matter what I did. Fate had already decided my future. Why was I so special?
GRREAARRRAAHHH.
I flinched in fright. Why did Noah have to program that dog with such a hideous growl? It would've been bad enough as your garden variety baritone, Rottweiler bark. Adding that metallic scratch and sliding off-pitch note made it heart-attack terrifying.
Despite his genius, Noah had obvious programming shortcomings.
The open closet door revealed my wardrobe options.
I should say option. Singular.
The generous Mr. Sinclair left me one single outfit to wear. How thoughtful. How thoughtful because he must not’ve been using his brain. The jerk!
It got worse. There were two things horribly wrong with the single choice before me.
One. It was pink. Not baby, soft pink. Hot, cotton candy, lasers pink. I hated pink. Not since the age of seven was pink a major constituent in my wardrobe. I mean, pink!
Did Noah think I was seven years old? Maybe twelve? Was I somehow frozen on the day that Cindy and I watched him leave Earth? We were definitely going to discuss this. His manual on how to relate to women was missing a page or two. Probably whole chapters.
And two. It was tight. I didn't do tight clothes. I was curvy enough without purposefully drawing attention. Me and tight clothes guaranteed one of two responses.
Oh yea's
from the boys. Hisses from the girls. Sometimes laughter too. Point was, I didn't do tight clothes. And this one-piece was a narrow nightmare.
I glanced at my thermals. At the orange stain down the front. I was not wearing this to dinner.