Fallen a sci fi alien ro.., p.1
Fallen: A Sci-Fi Alien Romance (Rogue Alien Warriors Book 4), page 1
FALLEN
A SCI-FI ALIEN ROMANCE
HATTIE JACKS
Copyright © 2022 by Hattie Jacks
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover: Kasmit
Editing: Epona Author Solutions
Created with Vellum
CONTENTS
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Emma
Myk
Epilogue
Emma
Also by Hattie Jacks
Just who is this Hattie Jacks anyway?
EMMA
The winged alien male watches me with ultimate suspicion as I carefully measure the ingredients I’ve persuaded him to let me have into a bowl.
Strange, alien ingredients I’m hoping are flour, sugar, and an egg. My hand hovers over the bowl as I go to strike the shell of the dark green oval on the edge.
I am breaking an egg into a bowl in front of an alien with wings. As if my life could get any weirder.
Weirder than being abducted, drugged, held captive by sentient AI robots called Proto that wanted to use me as a host for alien babies. Implanting something in my brain means I can understand alien languages. Then, to cap it all, along with four other human women, I’m rescued by a race of aliens who are all feathered predators. The Legion of the Gryn.
The shell is not hard like a chicken egg, more like a reptile egg and I have to pull it rather than crack it apart. A happily familiar yellow and translucent raw egg plops into my mixture. I look up into the dark eyes of the winged alien male who continues to eye me warily.
He doesn’t react, and remembering the absence of birds on this planet, I wonder exactly what sort of creature lays eggs on Ustokos.
Come on Emma! You’re a professional, get cooking!
I pick up a carved wooden spoon and stir the mixture until it’s smooth, then I pour it into a metal pan that is going to have to pass for a cake tin.
“Is that it?” The young alien warrior asks me.
“It needs to go in the oven, I mean fire pit, for around twenty minutes.” I reply, gently pushing past him and heading to the enormous hearth flickering with flame.
It reminds me of a medieval castle kitchen, a small area to one side of the fireplace is what they use to bake the hard bread sticks called piir that are the only baked goods these aliens produce. I try not to think about the kitchen that was waiting for me on Earth in a pretty corner of a Cotwold village in Southern England. The one I designed from scratch and which had every single catering gadget I would possibly ever want.
I slide the cake inside the oven and stand back. The male hovers at my shoulder, still concerned.
“What will it do?” He asks.
“It will rise and cook.” I turn to him and smile, trying to put him at ease. “Then you can taste it.” He recoils as if I’ve punched him. “Honestly, I’m sure you’ll like it.”
He makes a face that’s somewhere between disgust and terror. Most of these male aliens haven’t seen a female since they were ripped away from their families as children by Proto. The only reason he’s indulging me now is the fact that I’m female, and he’s both scared and in awe of me.
Cooking for the lair is seen as a lowly job and left to some of the youngest warriors, all of whom want to prove themselves so they can rise out of the kitchens and join the patrols against Proto. At least that’s what I’ve found out while I’ve been hanging around the huge building the Gryn call their lair and is now my home. You can take the chef out of the kitchen, but you can’t stop her cooking up a storm.
As I wait for my cake to bake, I remind myself I have to start a storm somewhere.
“How long now?” My alien asks impatiently, as they all are. I remind myself they’re young and ambitious, just like I once was.
I risk a peep in the oven; the cake is browning nicely, and I’m pleased that the fact I’ve made thousands of cakes in my time means I don’t need a watch to check the time. “I would expect it to take another five minutes.” Then I remember that the Gryn don’t have clocks or bother with time other than night or day. “How do you time your cooking?”
He shakes out his wings at me, attempting to be a little menacing and just making himself seem younger. “Once it’s running with blood, it’s ready.” He huffs.
I can’t help myself but laugh. All these males eat only meat, mostly a cow-like animal with three eyes they call maraha. The human woman who met the Gryn before us, Viv, managed to get them to introduce a single vegetable into their diet, but it’s not popular.
“That’s exactly how I like my maraha, too.” I give him my warmest of smiles, and I see he relaxes, just a little. “You do a great job, all of you. Feeding the lair is an important responsibility.” I look behind him at the other two mercs, the title given to any warrior who is not a squadron leader or a member of the small cohort of senior warriors which include their imposing leader, Jyr, Prime of the Gryn.
He puffs himself up slightly at my words. “I’d still rather be on patrol.” He says, and I groan internally as they go silent again.
“Cake should be ready!” I say brightly after what seems like forever, but my nose tells me was no time at all. It seems in all the universe creating culinary delights is not seen as the important job it actually is.
After all, an army marches on its stomach. Especially an alien army stuck in a seemingly never-ending war for survival against the sentient AI.
I pull on an enormous leather gauntlet that drowns my hand and reach into the oven, pulling out the cake. Setting the tin to one side, I gently press on the top to see if the sponge gives under my finger. After all, despite my experience, not only was I guessing at the measurements, but I’m also using ingredients that are, literally, alien to me. The sponge springs back, and I turn to the merc in triumph.
“Is it supposed to do that?” he asks, the suspicious look back on his face.
“It means it’s cooked.” I reply, unable to keep the note of joy from my voice.
“It doesn’t look cooked.” He twists up his mouth.
“What?” I turn back to my cake. The center has dipped, almost to the bottom of the pan.
I feel like my first day in catering college. Like I have a culinary mountain to climb.
“Ah. I think it might need some more ingredients. Not quite the same as on Earth.” I quickly calculate that the eggs might be different, or that more of the flour like substance might be needed. “You can still taste it if you want?”
He steps a little closer, peers further at the cake, snorts out a breath, and backs away. “If this is what you have on your planet, I’ll stick to Ustokos food.” He replies.
“But you don’t mind if I try again.” I call after him as he walks off.
“Help yourself. I don’t care.” He returns to the hearth where the enormous maraha carcasses roast, spinning slowly on their spits, ready to be carried through to the food hall where the rest of the lair dines.
I pluck at some of the sponge that hasn’t collapsed and very gingerly put it in my mouth. The flavors explode over my tongue. If I can get the thing to rise, it’s going to be one of the best things I’ve ever baked.
Because that’s what I do; it’s all I do. I create things people want, my entire life as a chef is about pleasing others. And if I can’t get back to Earth, and my perfect pub kitchen, I’m definitely going to create my own little piece of Earth on Ustokos.
MYK
The sword slices through the air with a hiss as the blade cleaves the oxygen itself. Or at least that’s what I’d like to believe. Each and every stroke brings me closer to my peak, to put me in condition. To ensure I can exact my revenge when the time comes.
I drip with sweat. It runs off me in rivers, mixing with the dirt from the forge and streaking me with black. My feathers twirl as I leap, fly and spin, each movement a calculated killing blow as I increase my paces in the empty room.
The empty room that empties my mind and allows me the opportunity to concentrate on my goal. My only goal, hunting down Proto a nd smashing it to oblivion in order to avenge the death of my sister.
The sword clatters across the floor as I break concentration for a second. My mind filling with thoughts of her sweet face, and how her eyes closed for the last time as she lay in my arms.
The rest of the senior Gryn may have been made to forget by Proto, but it did something far worse to me.
It allowed me to remember.
Everything.
With a roar, I roll and grab the sword again, redoubling my efforts to hunt, kill, and maim. I might have been unable to protect her, but I will protect the lair and the other Gryn with everything I have. I will use the enhanced healing Proto gave me to ensure I destroy it.
“Myk?” I whirl around at the intrusion, unable to see anything in front of me other than bots, my sword blade comes up against soft flesh.
Soft flesh that squeaks.
“What have you been told about entering the forge without an invitation?” I rasp, my chest heaving with my self-imposed exertions.
“The forge is off limits.” The young merc whispers. A thin line of red runs across his throat.
“And now do you know why?” I cuff him around the head.
Younglings might be the bane of my life. They seem terminally attracted to my weaponry, but it doesn’t take the really curious long to find out why it’s not a good idea to come into the forge.
“Ow! Yes!” He whines.
“What did you want?”
“Fyn sent me to pick up the new weapons for the patrols.”
I growl low in my throat. I’ve not finished my workout and that means the dark clouds are too close to the front of my mind. The merc doesn’t move, and I can’t work out if it’s because he’s scared or stubborn. I feint to the left, and he flinches violently.
Scared.
As it should be. I don’t need any more responsibility on my shoulders than what I already place there.
“Follow me.” I grunt at him, l lead the way through to the main area of my forge. The fire was tamped down while I ran through my paces, but it still glows white heat in the center.
“Fyn’s weapons are over there.” I point a claw towards a carefully bundled pile of swords I finished last night. They are wrapped in heavy maraha hide. “Tell him to take care. These have a new coating that makes them particularly sharp.”
I suspect my grin of triumph has scared the youngling more than me nearly taking his head off earlier as he backs away from me, nearly tripping over his wings in his haste.
“I’ll tell him. I’m also going on patrol today.” His chest heaves with pride as he lifts the bundle into his arms.
My heart descends to the floor. Another young Gryn at the mercy of Proto. I can’t deny the young ones their chance to prove themselves. I just wish I could protect every single one.
“Nothing to be proud of.” I snarl at him. “Proto wants to kill us all. If it gets you, and you’re not ready, it will torture you for information about the lair before you die, you know that, don’t you? Are you ready?”
He visibly shudders at my harsh assessment.
“Hey, Myk.” Kyt, the lair’s quartermaster, stands in the doorway to my forge, leaning against the door frame, watching my interaction with the merc.
As usual, his thoughtbond, the telepathic link I share with all the senior Gryn, exerts a calming influence over me. Kyt is happy.
He makes me happy.
I don’t want to be happy, but I like to feel it in him, the youngster we rescued from Proto.
“Vrex off.” He says to the merc, who needs no further excuse and scurries away in a flurry of feathers.
“What do you want, Kyt?” I turn back to my forge, pumping up the bellows to get the fire roaring again. “I’m busy. Ryak has a large order he needs me to fill.”
“What on Ustokos does Ryak want weapons for?” Kyt ambles in and starts poking at the throwing daggers I have hanging from one of the many weapons stores. They tinkle pleasantly as he touches them.
If it was any other Gryn, they’d be at risk of losing their claws.
I shrug at him. “It’s what he asked for.”
“I’m going to send you up Sophie later to discuss weapons for capturing a joykill. Can you be nice to her?” Kyt tries not to allow his voice to waver, but it does, tailing off into the growl of a mated male.
Thank Nisis! I’ve been trying to get him to see he needs to take a mate for the last half a cycle. Even if capturing a joykill bot, one of Proto’s nastiest creations is not exactly what he should be involving a mate in.
I grunt at him and the pleasure that resonates down the thoughtbond fills my heart, the pleasure of being a mated male, even if Kyt doesn’t recognize it yet.
A heart I can’t give into, not now, not ever. My heart is shriveled. It is nothing. I’ve nothing left to risk and nothing left to lose.
Proto did that to me, and I will ensure that nothing is left of it once I get my chance.
EMMA
I look over my creations proudly. Once I got the right amount of alien ingredients, in the right order, baking became just as easy to me as it did on Earth.
I’ve got flaky danish style pastries, all covered in sticky ambrosia, bread buns and sponge cake I’ve flavored with something that passes for lemon. I gave the ambrosia a wide berth, given that Viv’s already warned me about its soporific properties. Makes tasting a little difficult, but I’ll adjust the amounts I’ve used once I get more feedback from the Gryn.
Set out on a trestle table in the food hall, I think it all looks very tempting, and it’s all ready for the lunchtime rush. A little piece of Earth right here on Ustokos, a ruined alien planet at what is probably the opposite end of the universe to the Milky Way.
I try very, very hard not to allow tears to form. I might have been just about to start my new life, without my twat of a former fiancé, opening my own pub when I was snatched away. All I remember was reaching into the back of my car, lifting out a box of vegetables, when I felt a sharp pain in my neck. The last thing I saw was the ruby red and emerald green peppers tumbling to the ground as everything went dark.
Life in full color became a swirl of pain and horror until I woke up in a white and silver room with three other unconscious women. All of whom immediately became my responsibility and my friends.
“This looks amazing, Em.” Bianca sashays into the food hall, making a bee line for my table. “What are these?” She picks up a danish and frowns at it.
“Danish pastry - wait!” Bianca goes to take a big bite. “They’re covered in ambrosia. Try these ones instead.”
I pull out a platter with pastries that I haven’t covered in the stuff, because my human friends have already indicated they like what I’ve made, given I’ve been promising them forever I would start to cook human foods.
“Mmmm!” Bianca mumbles, her mouth full. “These are amazing! You’re a genius!” My heart warms a little at her enthusiasm. Bianca can be a great cheerleader when she wants to be.
“Do you want to try some?” I ask a couple of mercs who walk past the table. Now is a good at time as any, given Bianca is stuffing her face and at least it shows what I’ve made is edible.
Like most of the males in the enormous sprawling cliffside complex the Legion of the Gryn call their lair, they initially look alarmed that a female spoke to them. This is immediately followed by an attempt to look strong, their feathers bristling. I’m not entirely sure they know that they are doing this, especially as on occasions I’ve seen them look at their own wings in surprise.
