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“This just tastes so good. Pancakes are light and fluffy and hot, syrup sinking into them just the right amount, and the bacon is crispy, its saltiness offsetting the sugar in the banana and the syrup. It’s perfect.”
He looks very pleased with my compliments, and why shouldn’t he? I mean every word of them. This is real human food, and that is rare to encounter in this day and age. I eat two plates full and end up feeling a pleasant kind of stuffed I haven’t felt in a very, very long time. He is taking care of me so perfectly. This is how a human woman should be treated. Well, apart from the caning, but maybe he doesn’t understand the significance of it, or have any idea how it feels. Maybe he read in a book somewhere that human females should be disciplined. Maybe I can dissuade him from ever doing that ever again.
“You are going to be happy with me,” he says, his smile warm.
I almost believe him. I find myself wanting to believe him. What if this is my happily ever after, being the personal property of an alien who caters to my every need?
“More hot chocolate?”
“Yes, please.”
I really don’t need any extra food right now. I am so comfortable. I am so completely catered to.
“Is this what life will be like?”
“Well,” he says. “We are not always going to live on my ship, of course. I intend to transport you to a human simulation.”
“Human simulation?”
I thought I’d heard of everything, but the universe is constantly coming up with new things to horrify me. The term ‘human simulation’ gives me images of people stuck in pods being farmed by machines. Surely he can’t mean that. It would be so derivative and horrifying. I don’t think he secretly intends to hurt me. His demeanor is that of a kindly 1950’s husband explaining how things will be to his wayward new wife.
“You will live in a contained environment, in which you will be kept safe from any and all dangers, including the ones you seem so eager to court.”
“You mean I’m going to live as a prisoner.”
He lifts a brow at me. “Hardly. Prisoners are not afforded the kindnesses and personal attentions I intend to bestow upon you. Once your mind has been wiped, you will no longer hunger for your wild life…”
“Excuse me?”
“You will no longer wish to run amok. You will…”
“Back a bit,” I say. “The part about the mind-wiping. What was that?”
“Humans do better when their reality is controlled,” he says. “You’ve been suffering from an abundance of choices that have left you lost, confused, and self-destructive. Once you are implanted in the simulation you will live the life you were designed by nature to live. You will be happy. You will have no other option.”
I keep the smile on my face, forcing it to remain in place because I cannot let him see the wild panic that is scrambling around in my belly like a feral hare. I have to get away from this alien. This is a fate worse than death. At least Sheriff only wants to hang me. This scythkin wants to take my mind and make it, and everything else, his slave.
“Oh,” I say, sipping at my chocolate even though it seems to now curdle in my stomach. “And how long until we get to the simulation?”
“Not long. A few days. I know you will no doubt feel impatient to reach such a happy place, but I will ensure you are well taken care of in the meantime.”
The slowest, most terrifying sense of horror is beginning to creep through me. This creature is a monster in the truest sense of the word. He will deprive me of the thing that makes me most essentially human. He will take not only my freedom, but my understanding of what freedom is. He’ll take my brain and turn me into his little plaything. God knows what he’ll do to me. He’s the only one who will know, because I’m going to be completely without my fucking mind.
“Wow,” I say. “Thank you very much. That’s very thoughtful of you.”
I need to get off this fucking ship. I need to find an escape vessel, or a life pod, or some kind of whatever. Hell, I’ll take an insulated bubble that ends up floating inexorably through space until such time as I end up perishing of hunger rather than be taken to this simulation he seems to think will be nice.
“Could I have a tour of the ship? It seems so amazing.”
He smiles at me. “Don’t worry about the ship. You are going to need to get used to worrying about yourself and your behavior. And your bed time, which it now is. You are excused from the table.”
I take that as a sign to get down, which I don’t mind doing because it means I get to move around the ship a little more. The scythkin, who has still not introduced himself by name, leads me to another room inside his vessel — but not before I finally crack and ask him what he’s called.
“What should I call you?”
“You can call me Atlas.”
“Atlas,” I repeat. “You can call me Sandy.”
