Page 1 of Stripped By the Alien

1

- Nora -

Nearly two months alone in space, and I'm starting to see the shapes of naked men in the weird constellations around me. It's getting bad.

But I keep going. Somewhere ahead, beyond a weird area of space that nobody's mapped, lies the reason entire civilizations are running scared. My job is to find out why, and probably die in the attempt.

I enjoy the sexy men until the starboard attitude thruster coughs, sputters, and dies.

"Oh, that's the last thing we need." I catch the spin before it develops into anything serious, feeding corrective input through the stick while my left hand dances across a row of controls. The ship answers with all the enthusiasm of a drunk mule.

Somewhere behind me, a warning tone chimes. I silence it without looking.

"That sound usually means something expensive has broken," Lucius says from his docking cradle above the console.

"I appreciate the diagnosis," I say through clenched teeth.

The AI drone flashes a quick green with his light. "I'm here to help, Captain Ellis."

I snort and bring the scout ship back under control. The spin slows, then stops. Outside the canopy, the stars settle into their proper places. A faint vibration travels through the frame as the backup thrusters take over.

"The backup system engaged successfully," Lucius says. "Congratulations. We have avoided becoming a cautionary tale in the training manuals."

"Again," I say absentmindedly.

The drone unfolds from his cradle and drifts down beside my shoulder, barely using his rotors because of the weightlessness. He's about the size of a frisbee, all matte-black armor and sensor lenses. Space Force insists that drones don't have personalities. Whoever designed Lucius never received that memo.

Diagnostic reports scroll across my displays. Most are yellow. Two are red. "The water recycler has nearly stopped recycling water," Lucius announces.

I close my eyes for a second. "When were you planning to tell me that?"

"There are levels to these things. It was not immediately critical." His emotion light flashes pale blue: miffed. "And you appeared busy."

My scout ship, Intrepid 21, was already old when I entered flight school. At some point a committee looked at the fleet, looked at me, and decided this particular collection of failing components was suitable for a mission beyond the edge of explored space.

The annoying part is that they were right. Most pilots would've turned back by now. All my personality tests show an alarming level of tenacity, bordering on requiring treatment. Turns out the best treatment is just flying out into space.

Ahead of me, the navigation display paints a thin green line through the darkness, toward a region that's occupied military planners for months.

Alien refugees keep arriving from that direction in entire convoys with damaged ships and half-finished stories. Every report is different. Every report ends with someone running. The only detail that stays consistent is the terror.

I glance at the mission timer. Fifty-three days since leaving Earth. Fifty-three days without another human being.

"Lucius."

"Yes, Captain?"

"When I get home, remind me to spend a month somewhere crowded."

"You said something similar twenty days ago."

"I was serious then, too."

He rotates a sensor cluster toward me. "Statistically speaking, your first destination should be a social gathering. Human pair-bonding opportunities increase significantly in environments involving alcohol."

I laugh despite myself. "If my love life depended on military-issued advice, I'd be doomed."

"Your love life appears doomed regardless," he quips.