Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 42132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 211(@200wpm)___ 169(@250wpm)___ 140(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 42132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 211(@200wpm)___ 169(@250wpm)___ 140(@300wpm)
“There’s nothing in it,” I point out the obvious problem with his comment. If I am to work in here, I will at least need a shiny magic alien desk. Though, I suppose if I am absolutely pushed there’s no reason I can’t work on the floor.
“It’s a haptic room. You construct what you need by touching it. Let me show you.”
He holds his hand over the floor and it rises towards him, a smooth substance which morphs and changes from floor to bedding with a few expert twitches of his fingers. Watching, I am sure that there’s no way I’m going to be able to do that myself. It looks complicated in the way simple things always are.
“Brings new meaning to making the bed, huh,” I quip.
He gives me a look which tells me he does not appreciate wordplay.
“Try it yourself,” he suggests.
I wave my hand over the floor, not expecting it to work in the slightest. Surprisingly, it works. It works too well. When my hand passes with intention over the floor, a spike rises from the ground, rockets toward the ceiling, and slams right through it, piercing the roof. There’s a howl from whatever is above, and the attendant rushes forward to remedy my mistake. He manages to pull the spike back down to the floor, but the hole in the ceiling remains.
“Oh, fuck.” My curse comes too late, and does nothing to help the situation.
RED ALERT!
RED ALERT! A new siren blares through the ship. I wait a second and it repeats a third time.
RED ALERT!
“What’s red alert?” I don’t know why I’m asking. It’s pretty obvious that I’ve caused damage by warping this vessel like an M.C. Escher painting.
“Loose human causing chaos on the ship.”
“Really? That seems very specific for a whole color.”
“Happens more than you think,” he says dismissively.
His response makes me almost irrationally excited. I’d assumed that I was the only human here, but if I’m not, that means… it means I might actually get to be in the same room as another person for the first time in months.
I try not to sound too happy. I get the idea he doesn’t want me to be happy.
“Oh, so there are other humans on the ship? Maybe I can liaise with one of them and get the lay of the land, so to speak.”
His eyes cut back to me, a deep evil green.
“I don’t think you’re going to be on the ship long enough to worry about liaising with anybody. King Tyrant does not tolerate damage to his ship. It is akin to slicing bits off his bride. You are almost certainly about to be put off the ship.”
“Aren’t we in outer space?” If I am put off this ship here something terrible will happen to me. I can’t remember if I will get crushed, or freeze, or turn inside out, but I’m sure it’s at least one of those things and I don't like any of them.
“That will not factor into the equation.”
I swallow. Yesterday I thought I would be stuck inside my apartment forever. Today I’m facing the possibility that I’ll die in the void of space. Then it occurs to me that the attendant just said something about Tyrant’s bride. For some reason that makes me almost feel worse than the whole void thing.
“He’s married? The king, I mean?”
“He's married to this ship.”
“So I’m in trouble then.”
“A vast amount of it. A full nebula.”
Assuming I am not hurled from the ship, Mr. Rogers is not going to be happy with me if I am fired from my first foreign job for property damage. I might not see another opportunity for advancement for the rest of my career. As weird and paradigm-destroying as this entire situation is, I don’t want it to be over within the first five minutes.
“What the absolute Hades!?” King Tyrant’s still distant howl makes me shake. I can hear him coming, his heavy booted feet causing a reverberation that even the most impressive space age material can’t hide.
“Will you tell him I didn’t do it?”
The assistant shakes his head.
It was a long shot. A really long shot. He’s made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t like me, doesn’t want me here, and thinks talking to me is beneath him. I am about to be thrown under a Tyrant-sized bus.
Tyrant appears through the wall, resplendent in all his royal finery. He has a big weapon hoisted over his shoulder, sort of like a gun, if it were made by people who make churches and computers and also guns. It’s very large, and very impressive, all spikes and glowing bits and pieces. It’s also sort of steaming, as if it has been recently fired in a furious kind of way.
I lose the ability to speak momentarily, overly awed by his majestic appearance. He is still shirtless, and his torso is gleaming with alien sweat running in slick rivulets down over the scales of his chest. It makes him shine all the brighter with what look like colors of fury.