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C hapter One

Present Day

Somewhere in Space

Anya

Someone is screaming. I must be dreaming because I went to sleep on my comfy mattress, yet I feel like I’m lying on cold, hard metal. What’s going on?

My eyes pop open, but my brain isn’t fully online yet. Was I drugged? My head feels like it’s split wide open. As my eyes focus, I notice other bodies lying on the floor nearby. My heart beats like a jackhammer when I see boots that belong on the feet of some post-apocalyptic Mad Max character.

The pain is too real—I’m not dreaming. I make an end run around my rising panic and order my brain to engage.

I glance up past black boots to leather-clad calves and see they are wrapped around the feet and legs of something definitely not human.

I may not have had my morning cuppa joe, but my brain is now making lightning-fast synaptic connections.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to recognize that the creature resembling a humanoid boar who is currently pointing a gun at my chest is an alien .

Sweat blooms on my upper lip and my eyes widen in fright as I absorb what’s going on.

I thought aliens from other planets were the stuff of sci-fi movies and National Enquirer abduction stories. This isn’t fiction. This is real! I order my brain to comply with whatever they ask and force my hands to stop trembling. Job number one is to stay alive.

Crap, he sees my eyes are open and signals with his gun for me to get up.

I may be disoriented, but I’m not crazy enough to argue with the business end of that weapon.

I stumble toward a couple of human women forming a line behind another boar-man.

This one grunts at me and I can’t help but notice these guys have four short tusks protruding up from their bottom jaw. Holy shit… tusks!

I get in line behind two women in their twenties like me. One is in baby doll pajamas, the other is wearing only a pair of black boxers with small red hearts. I’m the one from Colorado in a cute flannel two-piece number with a moose on it. Have we all been kidnapped from Earth in our sleep?

“What’s happening here?” the petite redhead in the front of the line asks, earning her a hard thump on the head by the butt of boar-man number two’s gun.

Rule number one, no talking. Check. Other women are shakily standing up at the first guy’s command. We’re forming an impeccably ordered line. I’m obeying every direction, even as icy terror races along my veins.

A third boar enters, fumbling with a handful of tech gear.

I realize these are glorified collars as he fastens one around each of our necks, and trust me, he’s not gentle about it.

Screens on the walls jump to life and a video plays.

It does not have high production value, but the message is crystal clear.

We all watch, horror growing, as the video depicts a collar being snapped on a reptilian alien’s neck.

The picture shifts to a close-up of some alien version of a smart watch on an extremely hairy arm.

An equally hairy hand pushes a button on the watch and voilà, cut to the poor victim being shocked at what appears to be a torturous level.

His eyes widen and his alien mouth pulls back into a rictus of agony as he screams, a sound so chilling the hair on the back of my neck stands up.

Now there’s a shot of the watch being dialed higher, and then a gruesome close-up of the victim screeching in pain, his eyes rolling backward.

His knees hit the floor as he claws at his neck, trying to remove the collar.

With no additional warning, I hear a loud pop, and his head explodes right off his shoulders.

My knees sag, but I don’t allow myself to sink to the floor.

I hear the sound of someone retching a little in the back of her mouth, but I can guarantee no one is uttering a word of protest.

Don’t fuck with these guys. Point taken.

My horror escalates, my heart hammering in fear, as we’re marched into an adjoining room.

One by one, we’re given a painful shot behind the right ear.

No doubt what this is for because now the alien gibberish isn’t gibberish anymore.

The translator they implanted allows me to understand the angry orders they are barking.

“You’re on the Warbird One in deep space. You’re now the property of the MarZan cartel. Follow!” the boar at the head of the line commands.

My head reels at this information. It was obvious they kidnapped me from my home on Earth, but to hear myself called property spears a sharp arrow of terror through my body.

I’m being as compliant as possible. I’m no fool.

No one’s coming to save me, I’m too cynical to believe that.

I need to figure a way out of this mess.

Even as I attempt to control my rising panic, I struggle to get a mental image of every room, hallway, and door—trying to keep track of the layout of this place.

The floors and walls are metal. Everything is utilitarian with no frills.

There’s been no attempt to make anything attractive or homey.

Stark lights shine brightly from above. I see doors, but I don’t know where they might lead.

I have no idea the scope of the ship, how many floors, or rooms, or aliens might be lurking down hidden corridors.

I take note of how many of these ugly aliens I see, how heavily armed they are, and who’s in charge. If there is a way off this ship and back home to Earth, I need to find it.

Terrified of being punished for looking behind me, I sneak a quick peek at how many of us there are—maybe ten human women walking briskly in this fast-paced line. There are four guards, all muscled, wide, ugly pig-like males covered in medieval-looking brown leather pants and tunics.

In addition to the four short tusks protruding up from their bottom jaws, they have porcine noses, and two small horns on the top of their heads.

They each have a baton fastened to one side of their belt and a gun fastened to the other.

With a rifle slung over one shoulder and the smart watch torture thingy on one wrist, they look ready for battle.

We’re forced into a corridor that looks like it’s straight out of a low-budget fifties jailhouse movie.

Cell after cell comprised of three impenetrable-looking metal walls and a fourth wall of bars facing the hallway.

Each room is about eight feet square, with one small bed, a toilet, and a sink.

My mind is only registering this information peripherally because my primary focus is on the inhabitants of the cells.

I glimpse the alien in the first cell. He’s pushing seven feet tall with thick, ropey muscles. He looks kind of Neanderthal with a short, slightly flattened forehead, and shaggy hair and beard. His jaw is set and tight, his weight is on the balls of his feet, and his brown eyes look flat and dead.

Two of the boar guys flank both sides of his door.

Poised in battle stances, their raised guns tell me they won’t allow any pushback from us women—or the gargantuan alien in the cell.

On high alert, the boar to the right of the door points his gun at the alien in the enclosure.

“Face the back wall! On your knees, hands on your head!” The guy instantly pivots, then sinks to his knees.

The boar-guy at the head of the line pushes the redhead in the pink PJs into the cell as if she weighs little more than a bag of groceries.

He slams the door shut behind her and keeps the line moving.

I’m worried for the redhead, but I don’t dare give her even another passing glance.

The guards are antsy and look as if they’re itching to use their weapons.

At the door to the second cell, the guards go through the same routine.

They throw boxer girl into the cell with a fairly humanoid-looking guy.

He’s humongous—so muscled he makes Conan the Barbarian look puny.

He has a robotic left arm and a prosthetic eyepiece that shines red.

He’s heavily scarred on his face, right arm, and bare torso.

He’s the more “human” of the two males I’ve seen.

This realization spikes a shiver up my spine.

He looks strong enough to kill with his bare hands.

The feral glance he tosses over his shoulder after the bars clang closed shows no compassion for the human female in his cell.

Before we move toward the third cell, the boar at the head of the line asks no one in particular, “How are we going to get her into his cell? He has the highest record of kills in the arena. I doubt he’ll get on his knees without a fight.”

“Fuck him,” another responds. “Shock the shit out of him until he’s out cold, then throw her in.

” He doesn’t wait for any argument, just presses his watch and turns up the dial until I hear the alien in the next cell roar in pain so loudly my ears ring.

Then I hear a thud, which I assume means his body hit the floor.

“You’re next, human,” one of them orders me. “Let’s see if you’re alive tomorrow.” His tusky laugh chills the marrow in my bones.

Fearful of what my new cellmate looks like, I’m afraid to step around the boar at the front of the line. But I’m too terrified of the guards to dawdle, so I take one step forward. One of the guards impatiently tosses me on the floor of the cell next to my comatose cellmate.

The seven other human females in line gape in horror at the scene in my cell, then continue forward without missing a step.

The alien I’m imprisoned with is clearly out cold. His cheek pressed to the hard gray floor. Although I have nothing to fear from him at this moment, my guts are churning as if they’re in a blender.