'Firefly meets Battlestar Galactica'.
A merchant's daughter is captured and sold into slavery.
A genetically modified survivor of an alien attack scours the galaxy for her taken brother before he is 'disassembled'.
An alien scientist u...
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"Open your eyes, sweet."
Those green eyes watched her, the color of deep forests, filled with secrets and sadness; so beautiful they made her heart ache. Soft curls brushed her cheek. The scent of flowers and fresh turned earth teased her nose. She reached for the woman leaning over her, but her fingers met nothing.
"Lulubelle?" Her voice cracked. Her vision cleared. She stared at a curved ceiling, lit by the feeble illumination globe set in the wall by her head. Her arm was still stretched out in front of her, grasping air. She dropped her hand, wiping the tears tracking across her temples. Trying to figure out where she was, she sat up.
Macbeth fell back, gasping for air. Pain seared through her nerves. She clutched her stomach, where each tick of her pulse was knifelike. An invisible blade slowly pushed through her guts. Sweat beaded her forehead. She retched, dry heaving, unable to stop her body's reaction though it escalated the pain, blanking her vision.
Something cool pressed against her forehead. A sensation passed through the point of contact, like crystals of ice pouring into her veins. It was unsettling at first, but as the ice spread it canceled the vise grip pain had on her body. The retching ceased, letting her breath as her eyes refocused. The Theros hovered over her, one delicate hand pressed to her skin. Macbeth stopped herself from jerking away.
It was a lesson engrained in her through years of haggling in the market. Never shy away from aid, no matter how strange the source. She cut deals with the surliest traders, befriended the gruff supply merchants, and took breaks where she could find them. Those hard grizzled men liked her enough to help her through the farm's rough patches, and there were many. They respected her because she always found a way to pay them back.
Macbeth swallowed, studying the Theros as it clearly studied her. It's oval shaped blue orbs where pupiless but their focus was unmistakable. The two watched each other until a spike of pain made her shudder. It tilted its massive head, the tentacles lining its scalp constantly in motion. Like a creature straight out of the old myths, the gorgon with snakes for hair, tasting the air. But there was no malice in those writing locks, only curiosity. Without removing the hand from her forehead the Theros broke their stare down to gaze at her stomach. She couldn't stop the flinch when its other cool hand grabbed her wrist, tugging her arms away.
"What are you...?" Macbeth trailed off as the Theros lifted her shirt, the fabric stiff and stained by her blood, a lot of her blood. She took in her position, realizing she lay on a saturated cot. Blood leaked through, forming a puddle on the floor. She could see a smeared trail from the cot to the door. There was so much of it, how was she still alive? The oddest thing was not one drop stained the Theros's pearly skin. She didn't have time to dwell on this oddity as the creature probed at the hole in her stomach.
Macbeth tensed, too shocked to scream. The twitch of her muscles sent a small gush of blood from the wound. The Theros lifted its gaze. Her teeth buzzed, the implant in her ear giving off an odd hum she'd never heard before. What was happening? She reached up and tugged her earlobe, trying to grasp the situation when the Theros spoke to her.
Not in words, not exact ones, but chained together images, slipping in and out of focus. Concepts and thoughts billowed through her mind like morning fog. Macbeth knew she was on a Nisseri scout ship, dragged here by this being, who managed to launch them into space. She knew the Theros saved her life, and would not hurt her now. She knew the Theros was female. The flow of thoughts stopped. Macbeth stared at the creature, shaken by this invasive form of communication. Her translation implant kept going haywire but it wasn't exactly designed for telepathic speech. The Theros waited for her to respond, a hand hovering above her stomach.
"You won't hurt me," she said, holding herself still. Without looking away, the Theros lowered her head until those tentacles touched her skin. Macbeth felt a light shock before her muscles cramped, a pulling sensation taking root beneath her wound. She watched, eyes wide as her flesh sealed back together. The Theros took her hands away, leaning back on her haunches. Once their physical contact broke, her body filled with aches, but thankfully, nothing like the pain from before. She examined her stomach. Sticky drying blood and a smooth round scar were the only evidence of her brush with death. This was the reason no Theros left a Nisseri ship alive.
Macbeth sat up, trying to ignore the mess covering her. She braced her hands on her legs, lightheaded and dizzy. How had she survived the blood loss? She shook herself, aware the Theros continued to watch her.
"Thank you," she said, uncertain it knew her language. "Do you understand me?" That great wedge shaped head tipped in an unmistakable nod. She squeezed her knees, at a loss on how to proceed.
"What's your name?" she asked, earning another head tilt. Did they have names? The Theros lifted a hand, fingers signing a language Macbeth didn't recognize. "I'm sorry, I don't—wait." She hopped from the cot, careful not to slip in the blood covering the floor. She extended a hand, cringing at the sight of her stained skin. "Can you show me, like before?"
The Theros shuffled forward until their fingertips met. Images flashed, half formed memories, and ideas, Macbeth saw a world covered in endless ocean, this time from beneath the waves. Colonies of Theros surrounded her, swimming like eels through massive underwater gardens and towering coral structures rising from the ocean floor. A haunting song filled the water, high and low pitches, a song of happiness, contentment. They circled each other, calling out in bell like tones. They called to her, Song of High Joy, inviting her to dance. They swam in the shallow sandbars, where sun drenched waters attracted all manner of ocean life. The Theros joined here in their seamless dance too, but with a greater intent, seeking their life mates. It was here their song grew tainted by the sharp, jangling tones of fear. The scarred ones from the sky descended upon them in their sacred places, ripping them from their homes into their cold lifeless traveling shells. She felt the collective horror of her people through the empathetic bond their species shared, as the scarred ones cut them, took pieces to decorate their deformed bodies. Cut them down until she was alone, waiting to die, and no one could hear her song. Monster the others called her, beast. They were closed to her song, unwilling to listen, but the human female who—
Macbeth stumbled back, catching herself on the wall. The Theros didn't move, aware of her human companion's panic. This was nothing like the Pathosians who sought to consume her emotions. This was a complete melding of identities, a loss of self and she knew she was far out of her depth with this being. Macbeth leaned against the wall for support, trying to sort through the influx of information, her heartbeat gradually slowing down. The Theros waited on her, because for some reason she trusted Macbeth, above all others, to help her. I always pay my debts.
The exchange of information must have, at least partially, flowed in both directions.
"I will find a way," she said, making a vow to the Theros who saved her, Song of High Joy. It formed the name Meketh on her tongue when she spoke the song aloud. She didn't dwell on how that worked. "I will bring you home."
