Page 18 of Tamed by the Alien Warlord

GEORGIA

M y vision swims back into focus like an unhinged holo, and the first thing I feel is a banging in my skull.

I lie there a moment, swirling through the trauma—Jasmine’s pistol slam, the darkness, the taste of fear.

My jaw aches. I gently touch it and press my fingers to my temple.

When I open my eyes, Deepshadow lighting filters through the corridor.

I’m on a cold metal bunk, Georgia-free-sheeted and limp.

A soft hum indicates the ship is still idling somewhere above Gur.

A door slides open. Jasmine stands there, jaw stiff, eyes empty. Her pistol is at her side. Everything inside me wants to leap up and hug her. Instead I lie there, breath shaking.

“Flo,” I whisper.

Her eyes flick away, but she doesn’t turn away. “Georgia.”

I force my voice calm. “Listen—I know this isn’t you. You did what he wanted. I forgive you.”

She tilts her head, expression faceless. “He said I’d clean house after killing you.”

My blood freezes in my veins. “He lied.”

She says nothing. Just stares.

So I try again. More softly. “You remember ‘Messiah and the Maniacs’?”

Her eyes flick. A spark.

I swallow. “You know the theme song. From our childhood? You sung it when we were eight.”

She breathes. That tiny thing.

I start softly:

? He's the Messiah, he's the Maniacs… With his oft-incoherent motto... Run Bar Doughnin!

Her eyes go wide. She stares. I sing the next line. The words feel absurd in this hell corridor, but somehow they taste of home.

Slowly, she hums. Then sings:

? Mashed-up nonsense, made for take-outs... Crazy Heroes, raising HANDS!

I smile with tears in my chest.

She swallows. Voice shaky, but hers again. “Mashed-up nonsense…” she repeats, stepping forward.

I climb off the bunk, slide my arms around her waist. “That’s it. You’re here.”

She closes her eyes, nods, and lowers the pistol. I let her take the weapon and place it on the table.

Our bond crackles back to life, fragile but real. I squeeze her shoulder. “We need a plan.”

She runs fingers through her hair. “We pretend I’m controlled. They’ll let me lead you. On the bridge.” She hesitates. “He wants you there.”

I feel dread coil in my gut. “They’ll be waiting. It’s a trap.”

She glances fearfully down the hall. “Easier than me trying to do it blind. I’ll play the puppet. We bait them.”

I swallow. “Okay.”

We step into the corridor as a pair. Jasmine’s gait is subdued—like a marionette, like the monster she was trained to be. I keep my eyes off her face, pretending not to notice the tremble in her steps. “We’re doing this together,” I whisper. “Promise me you’ll watch my back if I’m puppet.”

Her eyes glisten. She nods.

We reach the turbolift. She presses the button. Inside, she forces that blank mask and gives a little bow. “Mistress Nakamura waits on the bridge. I bring the prize.” She gestures to me. I keep my arms neutral, palms outward.

The lift ascends in silence. I feel the ship hum with tension around us. The doors open on the bridge—a scene frozen in low, saturated red.

Nakamura sits in the captain’s chair, expression amused. The entire bridge crew lies collapsed, unconscious or worse, around him. The air tastes of overcharged vents and betrayal.

Lanz lies on the floor by the main viewport.

He’s pale and still. His good arm lies across his stomach.

I rush to him, swallowing a sob. Jasmine stops me, gently pressing my shoulder.

I bite my lip. “He’s alive—see? He’s breathing.

” I crouch close, touch his cheek. His eyes flutter slightly, but he doesn’t wake.

Nakamura’s cold, clinical voice echoes through the room: “Ah, the prodigal sisters, united at last.”

Jasmine’s gaze is locked on the scientist. She tightens her fists. I glance at her and muster strength. Jasmine may have been a weapon—but she’s my sister again, and she’ll be mine. We’re rewiring this horror.

Nakamura stands. “Lovely display, Jasmine. You nearly glowed under my control.”

Jasmine replies with savage calm: “Too bad the algorithm is unstable.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Is it? Because you two seem … reinvigorated.”

I spin to face him, keeping protective posture over Lanz’s prone body. “Release us.”

He chuckles. “So naive. You sealed your fate when you sabotaged my experiment.”

Jasmine steps forward. Her voice low and deadly: “Fate is for fools.”

Nakamura waves a hand. “Sisters in arms—standing over your wounded warlord. How touching.”

I swallow a sob. “Don’t. Talk.”

He smiles, stepping closer. “Now, what shall we do with them? Marry them? Use them? Letting them walk off would be a waste.”

Jasmine’s voice is ice. “Let them go.”

His expression flickers—then melts into sneer. “If I release them, no warlord gives me the DNA I need. You, Captain, remain my path to evolution.”

I glance at Lanz. His breath is shallow. I taste desperation rising in my chest.

Nakamura’s cold eyes flick to Jasmine. “You can kill her, of course. Or you can comply.”

Jasmine takes a breath. Looks at me. I stand, heart pounding. “We comply,” I whisper to her. Her nod is small but firm.

Nakamura claps. “Well done. Now, Captain? Are you ready to bleed?”

At the exact moment the holoscreens blink in crescendo, Jasmine’s finger tightens on the trigger. The pistol recoils in her hand—it’s our final act of defiance.

BANG. The shot echoes through the bridge.

BANG, BANG, BANG. Jasmine unloads, bullet after bullet tearing into Dr. Nakamura’s chest. The first round sends him stumbling backward.

He crashes to the floor, staring down at the red stain blooming across his pristine lab coat—like a grotesque rose on white silk.

He lifts a trembling finger, trying to speak. “You… don’t… understand…”

She steps forward again, releases the hammer until the clip clicks empty.

He doesn’t fall at once. He just lies there, eyes hollow, watching the life leave him. At last, his hands drop, eyes close—and the cruelty of his life’s work lies still and stranger than any of his horrors.

The ship’s alarms scream to silence.

And for one perfect heartbeat, there’s only us:

Jasmine, pistol smoking and steady.

Lanz, pale and shaking on the deck, still clinging to life.

Me—Georgia—heart pounding, voice caught in my throat.

We stare at each other, raw and naked in this moment of truth, before the bridge doors cave in and the Reapers pour in.

Outside, sparks rain over twisted consoles as the Reapers set the cruiser ablaze. Plasma charges boomerang through halls. Explosions rip open compartments. The siren of death becomes chorus, and we walk through it unbroken. Jasmine stays by my side, silent sentinel with steely purpose.

The warlord moves—half-carried by Gash and others—toward the exit. His one arm wraps around me suddenly. “Georgia… I—” His voice cracks like shattered glass before he collapses into their hold.

I grip Lanz’s good arm, fingers slick with blood. “He’s alive,” I say, half for him, half for me.

Jasmine nods, shoulders trembling. “He’ll survive.”

By the time we reach the docking bay, the cruiser is a hulking metal corpse, bleeding smoke across the Bay of Gur. The planet’s police hover-sentries arrive late, gun turrets aimed high but unmoved.

A high-ranking Gur authority, flanked by armed droids, steps forward. He lifts a chromic badge at me. “Citizen journalist! You’re under arrest! Piracy?—-”

I roll my eyes and smile. “Oh, darling… let’s not start with that.”

He frowns. “Then why must we detain you?”

I step forward, hands raised but chin high. “Me? Don’t you read your own threadfeeds? Piracy doesn’t make news.” I pause for dramatic effect. “I’m a journalist. And you, Officer, you’ve got a war-crime in your lap. Gur has enough bad press without your station being next.”

A tense beat.

Jasmine nudges the officer’s shin. He glances down. “Better PR than a galaxy-wide scandal, right?”

He glances at Lanz’s limp figure, the smoking hulk behind us—and nods once, glancing at his droid as though unsure if he can believe his orders. Finally, the droid says, “Authorized to stand down.”

We walk past them, sisters flanking the wounded Captain. I smile sweetly at the officers. “Thank you for your service. Enjoy your day.”

Back aboard the Ravager, the escape’s roar is deafening. Shields hum. Engines awaken. Jasmine and I walk our way down the ramp and across the deck where destitute Reapers stand no-talk, grim-smiled.

“Where’s Gash?” I ask dryly.

“He’s in medbay,” Jasmine says quietly. “Cobbling something.”

I nod, pressing my hand to Lanz’s wrist. He grips mine in return, weak but real.

He opens his mouth, voice hoarse: “You… saved me.”

I lean close. “No, you idiot. We saved each other.”

Jasmine leans in too, covering her sister and mate from everywhere else we’ve been.

A tervish chord blasts overhead.

“Ready,” I call to the pilot.

“Jump coordinates locked,” comes the reply.

Lanz turns his head toward me, eyes warm with unshed tears. “You... all of this...”

I grip his shoulder. “Family.” I glance at Jasmine. “And Reapers.”

She nods.

Lanz inhales, pain shadowing his features. “Set course.”

Alarms dim. The engines hum with promise.

Lightning blue arcs of superluminal charge blossom across the viewport.

Our world fractures.

Our safety stretches across systems.

And as we lean into the jump—and into each other—I know exactly where we belong.