Page 3

Roslyn

This isn’t happening.

If I close my eyes, breathe deep, and get a handle on the racing of my heart, all of this will go away.

I won’t be entirely screwed before my mission here even starts.

But—with a chill racing down my spine and sour bile coating the inside of my mouth—I open my eyes and find out this isn’t, in fact, something I can just wish away. There’s no denying the visceral reality of the male standing in front of me.

He has cool, slate-grey skin, and his face is all chiseled angles and harsh, unforgiving lines, mostly humanoid in appearance but also distinctly un -human—brutal in its intensity. Capped with shaggy black hair that falls to his shoulder, there’s nothing even remotely resembling warmth in his expression as he stares down at me.

My mind blanks, all thoughts narrowed down to one dark, stomach-turning question.

What the fuck is a soldier like this doing here?

There’s no mistaking this male for exactly what he is. A soldier. Or a warrior, of some kind. And a pretty fucking lethal one, by the looks of him.

The guard is straight-backed and keen-eyed, reflexes fast as a whip as he stopped me from face-planting into the ground after that cheap shot Ansalla landed. He has at least a foot on me, and is twice as wide, his muscled physique showcased by a tightly fitted, short-sleeved black tunic top. Those short sleeves leave his arms and shoulders bare, revealing plated ridges of natural armor that cover him from neck to wrist.

And if that weren’t intimidating enough, he’s also got two wickedly sharp horns arching back from the sides of his head.

The rest of the guards seem as lazy and distracted as the worst Sol Alliance recruits. They barely have their eyes on their surroundings, most of them more interested in shooting the shit with each other or ogling the contestants.

But this one?

This one is going to be a problem.

I knew it from the moment I caught his eye standing on the landing strip with his deep black eyes fixed solely on me.

A guilty spotlight, that focused gaze.

Like he could see every calculation I was making about the guards, the crew, the show’s defenses. Like he knew with one single look that I’m not just here for love or fame.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice translated into my ear in a deep, warm rumble that carries the hint of an unfamiliar accent.

“I’m fine.”

I pull my arm from his grasp and take a step back, steadying myself before I meet his eyes again.

They have no pupil, no white, just… darkness. Eyes as black and endless as the vast emptiness of deep space, though the longer I look, I realize they’re not entirely devoid of light.

All that depthless black is threaded through with silver. A galaxy shifting and shimmering as he takes me in.

I can’t read a single thought in those unsettling eyes, can’t decipher the expression on his rough-hewn face as I take one step back, then another.

He tracks each inch of my retreat, something that might almost be a smirk turning up the corner of his lips just before I turn to catch up with the rest of the group.

“Good. I would hate to see you get into any trouble while you’re here.”

A drowning wave of panic washes down my spine. I take another step.

I’m a little tin soldier who’s been wound up and set on my path, walking unthinkingly forward as I follow the tail end of the crowd toward the beach.

There’s a prickling static hum in my brain, a warning pulsing with each beat of my heart.

I don’t know who this male is, where he came from, or what he’s doing on this crew of amateurs, but I am certain of one thing.

In no universe do I want his attention on me.

I don’t want to be on his radar, not for a single second, but some part of me knows it’s already too late for that.

A chill settles itself into my bones, and I swear I can feel that fathomless black gaze follow me from the landing strip to the beach beyond. Even in the warmth of Eritin’s burning sun and in sight of its spectacular sea, I can’t shake it.

A soft touch on my shoulder nearly makes me jump out of my skin, and I whip around to find Juni watching me with a tight, concerned expression.

“You alright? I saw what Ansalla pulled back there.”

“I’m fine,” I mutter.

“And that guard? Spirits save me, he’s one to look at, isn’t he?” She cranes her neck back toward the landing strip, but I keep my eyes fixed forward.

At least until she touches my shoulder again. My skin itches as Juni’s fingers edge a little too close to my shoulder blade and the marks I keep hidden there, but I force myself to relax.

It’s probably not in my best interest to bug out and scare off the only friend I might find here.

“You sure you’re alright?”

Swallowing around more of that sickly sour coating my mouth, I nod.

“Alright,” she says with a brief squeeze before she drops her hand. “Then I should probably let you know I’m coming over to get ready with you for the welcome dinner.”

“You are?”

“I am.” Her smile is bright and undaunted. “You and I are going to be allies, Roslyn.”

“We are?”

Juni glances to where the rest of the group is walking ahead. There are a couple of producers leading the charge, assigning cast members to the row of small dwellings they refer to as our ‘bungalows’.

Or, at least, that’s how my translator chip picks the word up.

Truthfully, I’ve never learned much about human architecture, especially considering the last time I saw it for myself, I was only six. But there’s something that almost seems familiar about the structures.

Each one is unique, and all are constructed of natural materials that complement the surrounding tropical splendor. Wood walls and palm-thatched roofs, with wide windows overlooking the beach and covered front porches with woven hammocks perfect for lounging.

The closer we get, though, the clearer it becomes they’re not just quaint cottages. High-tech locks on the doors, the shimmer of privacy screens on the windows, and the persistent hum of the hovercams make it impossible to forget that there are dozens of eyes always watching. Producers, contestants, guards, cameras. I won’t be alone for a second here.

And that’s not saying anything about the billions more who’ll watch all of this when it airs.

Juni places her hand back on my shoulder, halting our progress as the rest of the cast continues on. She looks up and down the beach, and I do the same. The cams have mostly moved on for now, following contestants as they disperse to their bungalows.

“Can I be honest with you?” she asks, and the conspiratorial glint in her eye has me nodding, too curious not to. “You’re going to be a pretty big fucking deal here.”

I swallow hard. “I’m not. I mean, I don’t want to be—”

“It’s alright,” she says quickly. “I love that for you. Honestly. But if I had to guess, that’s not something you’re really ready for?”

The comment could be insulting, but there’s no judgment in her tone, so I nod again.

“So I think we can help each other.”

“How?”

“Simple. I’m here to be a big fucking deal, too. Make no mistake, a mate would be nice, but I’ve got bigger plans for how much I can make of this opportunity, and partnering up with the hottest commodity on the beach is just good strategy.”

Despite myself, I laugh at her candor. I’ve always preferred people who speak plainly and get to the point.

“Alright,” I concede. “That’s fair. And for me?”

“Also simple. I help you navigate through all of it. The producers, the cameras, the contestants. I help you figure all of this out so you can make the most of it, too.”

I almost refuse her help.

The instinct to run, to hide, to keep my profile low and do everything I can to stay out of the limelight claws at me. It’s the same instinct I learned on Severin—hammered into me from the very first day I stepped off the transport from Earth. Head down, stay down, don’t draw any undue attention.

But it’s probably too damn late for that.

I had half a dozen hovers on me like flies swarming shit as soon as I stepped out of the cruiser.

I’m not blind to Ansalla’s hostility or to the looks I’ve been getting from the rest of the cast.

And, as the cherry on top of this garbage sundae of a situation, I’ve caught the attention of some kind of super-soldier, one I can’t imagine is going to go on his merry way and leave me be.

Maybe it would be good to have an ally, for however short a time I’ll be on the beach.

“Think about it,” Juni says softly. “I’ll come over later regardless, but no pressure.”

“Alright. Let’s do it.” My impulsive answer bubbles out of me before I’ve thought it all the way through. “Let’s team up.”

Juni’s grin lights up her whole face. “You won’t regret it, Roslyn.”

“Ros,” I say with an unlikely smile of my own. “You can call me Ros.”

“Ros. I like it.” She hooks her arm through mine as we hurry to catch up to the rest of the group.

A few minutes later, Juni gives me a parting wave as she’s assigned to a bungalow, and I follow the thinning crowd of contestants toward the few remaining unoccupied dwellings left on the beach.

“This is you,” a producer tells me.

She’s Vas-Greshiran, with deeply tanned skin and a stunning array of silver tattoos covering her bare arms. Her black hair hangs loose and wavy around her shoulders, and she watches with expectant silver eyes as I get my first look at where I’ll be staying here on Eritin II.

The bungalow is… adorable.

There’s really no other word for it.

Squat and cozy, with intricately woven palm fronds wrapped around its exterior like a living art piece and an expansive front porch with breathtaking views of the ocean, I can’t stop myself from taking an unconscious step forward.

I’ve never seen a place like this in person, much less had the opportunity to stay in one. My hand twitches toward the door, and I offer a brief thank you to the producer as I climb the front steps.

Only to glance back and find her following right behind me.

“I’m uh, alright,” I say awkwardly. “I can find my way.”

“Oh, I know,” she chirps. “But I’ve got instructions to see you in and explain a couple of things.”

I bristle a little at that. Sure, humans haven’t been around the intergalactic block for long, but I’m more than able to open a door for myself and figure out whatever kind of tech they’ve got in this place.

“Come on,” the producer says. “And I’m Sella, by the way.”

With nothing to do but follow as Sella walks up the short set of stairs to the front door, I swallow my protest and climb up after her.

The inside of the bungalow is just as beautiful as the outside.

Open, airy, and bigger than it looks from the front, the first room we walk into is a combined kitchen and lounge space bathed in light from the big window overlooking the beach.

The kitchen is outfitted with machines that look somewhat similar to the ones I used on ships and at bases while enlisted with the Sol Alliance, designed to whip up food and beverages with the push of a button. There’s no dining table, but the kitchen features a long island counter with a few stools pushed up against it.

The living space is sunken down a step from the kitchen and furnished with low, cozy loungers piled high with pillows. Painted and decorated with tans and blues and deep greens, the whole space perfectly complements the beach and jungle outside.

“Follow me,” Sella calls over her shoulder as she passes an open door that leads into a small half-bath and steps through another into the bedroom. A door at the side of this second room reveals another, bigger bathroom with a wide tub and a glassed-in shower.

A giant, canopied bed more luxurious by a factor of ten than anywhere I’ve ever had the pleasure of sleeping takes up the middle of the room. My travel-weary muscles ache to flop down and test it out for myself.

“What do you think?”

I look over at Sella, about to tell her I’m fine, I’ve got it from here, when something else catches my attention.

It takes me a few seconds to realize what I’m looking at.

Clothes. Lots of them.

Hung up on a long rack on the far side of the room, there are dresses and bathing suits, skirts and pants and tops. I make my way over and run my fingers along the rich fabrics.

“What are these?” I ask.

“They’re for you!”

I turn to find Sella watching me with a wide smile. My gut twists.

“Why?”

Her smile grows even wider. “We’re going to make you a star, Roslyn. You’re the first human to take part in Mate Match, and we’re going to have the whole sector rooting for you by the time this is all over.”

Oh.

Oh, fuck .

Juni was absolutely right, and I give myself a mental pat on the back for accepting her help, even as my mind races with the implications of what Sella just said.

She starts pointing out all the different pieces, explaining that she’ll be my personal producer while I’m here, and I can come to her with any questions or concerns.

A whisper of suspicion trickles down my neck, slimy and unpleasant.

Beyond studying Eritin and the terrain surrounding the Mate Match production zone, I studied the show itself, too. I watched any season I could get my hands on, researched past contestants, listened to interviews, and read tell-all articles. Anything to learn more about what exactly I was getting myself into.

And I know enough to know this is… odd.

They don’t roll out the red carpet like this for just anyone, and it’s one more brick to join the wall of dread going up in the back of my mind, one more pair of eyes I don’t want on me.

Again, though, there’s not a single thing I can do about it. Being difficult and refusing my own ‘personal producer’ will only put more scrutiny on me, so I hold my tongue.

“You’ll have to pick out something fabulous for the welcome party tonight,” Sella says breezily, walking back into the main room. “And if you need someone to help you with your hair and makeup, we can—”

“No,” I interrupt. “It’s fine. I’ve, uh, got a friend coming over.”

“Friend?”

“Yeah. Juni. Met her on the transport.”

Sella thinks for a moment before her jaunty smile returns. “Great! Our audience loves to see the friendships that form here in addition to the love matches. You two will be perfect together.”

She prattles on for a little while longer about the rest of the amenities, and though she seems friendly and harmless enough, I keep my answers short, polite, neutral.

At least until she starts showing me around the living space. I forget myself for a moment and ask a question that’s been on the tip of my tongue since I saw the cast accommodations. Since I learned what Mate Match was, really, and the strange familiarity of the whole concept.

“Why does this all feel so… human?” I ask, clumsily, trying to find the right words to describe what I mean. “The whole premise of the show. These bungalows. It all seems… familiar, somehow.”

Sella nods. “You humans definitely had a knack for putting together a compelling vidcomm show back on Earth. I believe when the original creators of Mate Match were coming up with the premise, they were quite inspired by the news of your planet and all its many forms of entertainment.”

The answer hits me like a fist to the gut.

Of course, it makes sense.

As far as I could tell from the timing of Mate Match’s initial seasons, it started up right around the time the Seventh Sector Council made First Contact. Back when humans were thrown into the existential chaos of learning we weren’t alone in the universe.

It all happened a little before my time, but not by much. And even though I was only a kid when we boarded one of the last shuttles off that dying rock, I heard the stories.

Now, though, I don’t know if it makes me feel better or worse to be a part of this strange imitation of pre-Collapse entertainment.

I’m lost for a moment in some gut-wrenching combination of grief and longing, homesickness for a place I can barely remember.

Earth.

Humanity’s abandoned homeworld, desolate and uninhabitable after the ruin war and capitalism and unfettered environmental destruction made of it, left in its lonely orbit around the Sol Alliance’s namesake sun thousands of light-years from here.

“Alright,” Sella says as she strides for the door, apparently unaware of the turn my mood has taken. “Settle in, get ready for tonight, and don’t hesitate to use your comms screen to contact production if there’s anything you need.”

She gestures to a small screen mounted on the wall beside the front door, and I nod.

It’s not until the door swings shut behind her that a tiny bit of the tension in my chest loosens and I take my first full breath in hours.

The relief doesn’t last.

Almost as soon as she’s gone, the screen lights up with an announcement about the welcome dinner—just three hours from now—and I feel the clock start ticking.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Find something to wear. Get through this dinner.

And tomorrow my real work starts.