13. THALIA

Ihad a nice little pity woe-is-me-party while I scraped mystery goo from under counters and tables, dusted every corner, and Ahane was in the back playing with hot water and chemicals. Whatever he was using to scrub the filth away had a non-specific floral scent.

I jabbed at a stubborn bit of mystery goo with a flat spackle knife tool I’d sourced from the utility room.

“Thalia.”

The way Ahane said my name felt like he was running big hands up and down my spine. The Tha- rolled off his tongue, and he seemed to savor the last syllable. It actually sounded like he was about to say a different word and had caught himself at the last breath to shape my name.

Which only made it sexier. He could have read me a damn loading sheet, and I’d have hung on every sexy syllable dripping from his lips.

I’d heard my own voice (and screams) and nothing else for so damn long.

Greys didn’t address you by name. They’d engineered out the ability to communicate verbally generations earlier. If they did make the effort to address you by name inside your own head, it was horrible and creepy. It shoved you out of your own head. A body snatcher there to take you from yourself.

I sighed softly.

Ahane moved around the corner and crouched down beside me. “Tell me you did not manage to hurt yourself.”

I focused on jabbing at the fatsicle stuck to the underside of the table. No chance I was telling this guy that him saying my name gave me the pee shivers. “I’m fine.”

He leaned close, scales flexing and turning a deep garnet hue. His tail lashed behind his shoulders.

I gave him my best blank I have no idea what you’re talking about. I was a bit rusty given it didn’t work for shit on Greys because they’d just crack your head open and rummage for whatever they wanted.

His nostrils flared. While the rest of him was thick and big and stoic, like a big slab of ruby, his nose was actually quite sharp and well-defined, and the tiny scales made gorgeous, curling patterns.

I moved to touch him before I stopped my gross, scum-scraping hand from invading his space.

He held quite still, but his eyes traced my movement.

“The golden spiral.” That’s why he was so beautiful—his scales all matched the golden ratio. Or, specifically, the golden spiral. All the patterns and arrangements seemed to hit that sweet spot. And they just went on and on, one flowing into the other, without end.

“What?”His voice was rough.

I blushed. “Sorry. It’s an Earth thing.”

“An Earth thing?”

“A mathematical principle. We call it the golden ratio. Specifically, it’s 1.618. Your scales are in a pattern that matches something from that principle we call the golden spiral. Galaxies have the same shape. Seashells. Pinecones. Plants. Ocean waves. Humans naturally think the golden ratio—especially the spiral—is peak physical beauty. We don’t consciously realize it, most Humans couldn’t even tell you what it is, but we know it.”

I could tell him what it was (sort of) because I was a nerd. And I’d aspired to have my nerd status confirmed, but higher education was a hell of a struggle without scholarships or parents able to write the check and not drag you back into the deep end of family dysfunction.

Ahane drew back a bit further. “That ratio is part of our basic math curriculum. We do not consider it indicative of an inherit beauty.”

“Humans are drawn to it and Earth is full of it. There are theories that it’s because it’s easy for our brains to process, and our brains are naturally lazy, so they like things that let them be lazy. But that doesn’t explain why so many things conform to it.”

“Your brain is not naturally lazy.” He snorted. “So everything on Earth conforms to this ratio. Plants, animals, rocks.”

“Not everything. But lots of living things that Humans didn’t create. And we unconsciously make art and sculpture and buildings that have it. So it’s not a thing for you?”

“Not in the way you describe. And, as I have told you, I am not considered beautiful.”

Gestalt beauty standards weren’t something I subscribed to, so I was going to keep thinking he was gorgeous. “Huh. I thought it was universal, since galaxy arms and stuff match it. I wonder what happened to make Earth evolve that way.”

Ahane’s expression suddenly dried out. “The same thing that explains why your home system should remain isolated and untouched.”

Math didn’t give me the tickles either, but he didn’t have to suck the last little bit of that’s neat out of it. “Did you come looking for me for a reason, or just to make sure I hadn’t fallen into a bucket or something?”

“I came to tell you we need to eat and I have prepared food for you. I was certain you had not fallen into a bucket.”

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”

“It is an observation. I knew this because I had the buckets with me.”

I sighed. Asshole. Such a scale-covered asshole.

“Food,” he stated.

I sniffed the air. Didn’t smell like food. Smelled like floral-scented cleaning products mingled with oatmeal. Plain oatmeal. The worst oatmeal there was, and all oatmeal was bad. “You did?”

“Yes. We haven’t eaten and while I can go for some time without food if necessary, you cannot.”

“When was the last time I ate?” There had been some weird paste on the smuggle-shuttle that had come out of a pouch that had tasted like nothing and had the consistency of gritty soft-serve. Had forgotten all about it. If that wasn’t evidence I was under stress. Memories weren’t forming.

The Greys found the Human brain’s ability to both form memories but not form strong conscious connections and pathways to those memories interesting, useful, and frustrating. It meant memory formation was unpredictable and erasure somewhat of a guessing game. I’d told Him that sounded like a variation on the fast, cheap, good, pick two conundrum.

He hadn’t been amused.

Ahane’s tail moved, then he moved ahead of it, and pulled me up off the floor. I let him bring me into the kitchen, which now sparkled with how clean it was.

“Wow.” I lifted my bare foot. “I think my foot is stickier than the floor. Should I even walk on it?”

“I will find you something for shoes,” he said.

“Don’t go into debt for it.” We were not getting into an old-fashioned company store situation. “I like being barefoot. Even if it is a health code violation.”

This entire diner was a health code violation.

My stomach growled. This would be my first real “you’re in space now” meal. The Greys fed their Humans an Earth-like diet, up to and including growing potatoes in hydroponic facilities. Occasionally, He had given me items stolen from Earth. The items had always come from someone’s kitchen or pantry—and probably somewhere the original owner was on a Grey ship. Not like the Greys had been dropping by the local 7-11 for a loaf of bread. But they had often taken samples of food to understand Human preferences, then try to reverse engineer it like Humans would try to reverse engineer a crashed UFO.

There was a bowl of a grayish mush on one side of the prep counter, and opposite it, a plate of small green pancakes.

I took my indicated seat on a battered stool in front of the bowl of mush. I pulled out the utensil shoved into the mush. A spork with longish tongs and a deep basin. The smell of old oatmeal assaulted my nose.

I eyed the mush. “I thought you said you were a cook?”

Ahane used his own spork on his pancakes. They were not bready, but seemed to be seared on the outside while maintaining an undercooked-custard consistency on the inside. “I was told I would cook whatever was available.”

He didn’t add that he was clearly very familiar with it being three days until payday, and the pantry had two beans, half a cup of cornflakes, and a packet of duck sauce. There was something about his tone and the tightness of his neck that warned me he didn’t want to discuss it.

My mush was… sticky. Like taro. I picked up a spoonful. Yep. Sticky. Maybe it would taste better than it looked. I liked scrapple, and scrapple looked like what it was: all the parts not good enough to go into sausage. “Before you were here, what did you do? Jobs exist, right? It’s not some utopia where all your needs are met and you live lives of leisure and crashing Grey research labs?”

“Crashing Grey research labs as recreation was the motivation.”

“So… utopia, then.” Crashing Grey research labs did sound like a hell of a good time.

He snorted. “No.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I am confused as to why you’re asking.”

Wasn’t he deliciously prickly. “Standard Human conversation over a meal. Since there’s no weather, and we’re both old enough to be out of school, I’m asking about your job.”

That and nobody had talked to me for ages and my ears practically had little mini orgasms at the sound of his voice.

Reluctantly, he went for his participation trophy. “Mechanic. Your turn.”

“I worked in a warehouse to pay the bills while I went to school.”

“So you had, in fact, not finished your education. We could be discussing that.”

“Probably not much to discuss, seeming as it seemed impossible to finish. Life kept getting in the way.”

He nodded, but it was the I understand completely way, not the hmm, hmm, yes, nice, NEXT TOPIC. “If you don’t want your food, you may have a bite of mine, but I’m certain you won’t like it.”

How did he know what Humans liked to eat? He nodded towards my spork, then raised his tail above his shoulder and the tip flattened. “Unless you would prefer to be served small portions off my tail.”

I dropped my spork in the mush.

He waved his tail back and forth in a here comes the airplane brrrrrrzzzzz!!!! fashion.

When the universe presents you with the opportunity to eat space-mush off the tail of a gorgeous dragon alien while sitting in the kitchen of a sketchy interstellar truck stop after you’ve escaped clammy chicken mind-probing, body-violating Grey aliens…

I gripped the edge of the counter. “Yes.”

He flattened his tail into a wafer-thin shape with exquisite facets. He dipped the tip into my oatmeal, scooped up a perfectly round, single-bite portion, and presented it to my lips. The very tip of his tail brushed my lips.

I went hungry hippo on it, then drew my lips down the tip, smoothing the ball into my mouth.

Fireworks exploded through every nerve like yay!

Until my tongue processed the mush.

The mush tasted like… moths? Not that I’d ever eaten moths, but the vague, faint taste instantly made me think of moths. Fuzzy, fluttery, dusty, moths.

My throat spasmed in a gag. I fought it, breathed through my nose, and made myself gulp down the wad in my mouth.

My throat fought, but I won the battle.

I took some sips of my drink. Mmmm. Recycled grey water chemical taste.

Ahane waited, then said, “Humans require more than one small bite. You are too small and frail as it is.”

“I am not small and frail, buddy.” I’d put on some weight with the Greys because the food had been the only slightly familiar, not-nightmare part of the entire ordeal and I’d medicated my misery with vegan space scrapple and Earth potatoes. I jiggled in assorted places now.

“You are tiny. Spindly.”

“I am not.”

“I could lift you with my tail. Or one hand. In fact, I believe I have.”

I stabbed one of his custard-cakes with my spork and hauled off a chunk. He washed almost pink in shock, his tail pluming into a rose-like shape as it jerked up like a periscope.

I shoved the green thing in my mouth.

Terribleidea. Terrible.

My eyes watered as my throat closed over. The taste was moths, lemon pepper, and the-morning-after-cheap-fish-taco asshole.

I didn’t even know food could taste that bad.

I dropped my spork, grabbed the table, breathed in through my nose, and gulped. The wad entered my throat, I gulped again, and everything was a hair away from going into complete explosive revolt.

I pulled up the most recent memory of Him sliding those damn probes into me. He always had saved my upper thigh for last, when I’d been pinned by the throat probes and at the peak of what I thought I could endure, and those long, fat thigh-probes slid into the perpetual wounds.

I’d called those eight probe days. Forearms, calves, neck, thigh.

Calm please. Still please. It will be over soon. Do not resist.

Sometimes there had been pain blockers. Sometimes there had not been. He had found it an interesting way to study hope, and how Human anticipation there might be a solution for their agony could lead to all sorts of other responses and possibilities than the usual ration of 100% pain.

Nasty lemon-pepper space-moth asshole had nothing on Eight Probe Days.

I opened my eyes. Ahane was right beside me, one hand on the counter, the other very lightly holding my matted mess of hair in a delicate, hesitant grip. An empty bucket had appeared from somewhere and was at the ready.

“I’m okay,” I said around deep, gulping breaths.

“It may be better if you did vomit.”

“No, no, it definitely would not be.”

“That spice may be toxic to Humans.”

“It was the taste. I’m okay.” I gulped down some mouthfuls of water to wash the taste out of my mouth, then shoveled another mouthful of moth-chum into my face to try to replace the aftertaste.

Ahane frowned. “I did not flavor your food for a reason.”

“What reason is that?”

He released my hair, trailing his claws gently down my back for a brief instant, then picked up the bucket and took it back to where he’d snatched it from. “Being fairly certain Human tastes do not align with Gestalt tastes.”

How could he be fairly certain of that? How many Humans did this guy know?

Having now consumed food worse than anything I could ever have imagined, moth-chum was no longer that bad. I managed to gag down the entire bowl.

Ahane took note of the way my skin prickled and the little hairs on my arms stood up. He came around the counter and studied my upper arm, his gaze traveling upwards, and he gently moved my mess of hair to see the nape of my neck.

The little hairs stood up even higher for an entirely different reason.

His claws closed down, barely, on my hair.

His claws pierced through the top layer of matting, then sank tiny degrees deeper and deeper. Strands of hair parted around the tips and sent tiny pulses to my nerves. His palm lowered far enough for my hair to meet his skin.

His fingers curled, uncurled, curled, uncurled.

My body whimpered more, please. My brain had the sense to quietly panic that a dragon alien the size of a small truck was sampling my hair.

Ahane’s hand stopped moving. Then he withdrew it.

So what was scarier—the dump truck sized dragon alien giving me a few squeezes from curiosity or said alien not realizing he was doing it?

He moved away again. “Put on your mask and cloak and gloves.”