Page 8 of Tamed by the Alien Warlord

GEORGIA

D r. Nakamura’s lab smells like antiseptic and fresh death.

It’s too clean, too quiet. Not the reverent kind of quiet like in libraries or temples—no, this place is vacuum quiet.

Like sound itself was scrubbed out along with the bacteria.

I paste on a sweet smile and trail behind my charmingly sociopathic host, pretending I’m not calculating escape routes and estimating how many seconds it would take to stab him in the eye with my stylus.

“It’s such a relief,” Nakamura is saying as we pass another set of sterile doors. “To have a Companion who appreciates real science. The last one thought my bonsai collection was a metaphor for infertility.”

“That’s… a very specific interpretation,” I say brightly, noting the location of the hidden wall panel he just keyed open.

“Companions are meant to be empathic, not imaginative,” he sniffs. “You, however, seem different.”

“Oh, I’m very different.” I trail a finger along a silver countertop, careful to let my ringcam log the biometric locks he just used.

Inside, my stomach is a mess of nerves.

On the outside?

Grace. Glitter. Thinly veiled menace.

He shows me another damn bonsai tree—this one with frost-covered leaves in a humidifier bubble. I make the appropriate noises of interest while cataloging everything else: doors, access pads, camera mounts, weapon mounts.

It’s a damn fortress.

“I’ve always found controlled growth beautiful,” he murmurs, adjusting a mist level on the tree’s dome. “All that wild potential, trained into perfection.”

My smile tightens. “Sounds like a metaphor for… everything.”

His gaze cuts to me. “You understand me.”

“I’m beginning to.”

He moves on, and I follow. Each step down the corridor is a countdown. I need access. I need answers. I need Jasmine.

And I need to get the hell out before I get caught.

The worst part? I can feel Lanz watching.

Not literally—he’s cloaked in orbit with the Reapers, hopefully keeping a low profile. But his presence is in my blood. Every breath I take, I wonder what he’d say. What he’d do.

Would he tell me I’m brave?

Or reckless?

Or both?

He’d say I talk too much, probably.

And I’d tell him to bite me.

Still… I miss him.

“Doctor,” an aide rushes up ahead, tablet in hand. “You need to see this. Sensor ghosts in high orbit. Intermittent—cloaked ship?”

Nakamura frowns. “A merchant vessel shouldn’t be cloaked. Not this close to our tether range.”

He turns to me, all apology and tension. “Please excuse me, dear. I must consult with security.”

“Of course,” I purr, every inch the patient Companion. “I’ll stay here. Maybe admire the trees.”

He’s gone before I finish.

I move fast.

Down one hall. Left at the surgical bay. Behind the coded med-dispensary with the cracked panel I noted earlier. My ringcam pings another door. Open. Unlocked. Perfect.

Inside: records.

Stacks of them.

Data logs, shipments, manifests.

Jasmine’s name hits me like a slap across the face.

Not “employee.” Not “contractor.”

Just one word: SOLD.

The bile rises.

I brace against the wall, breathing hard.

She didn’t run. She didn’t abandon us.

They sold her.

I’m going to kill every last one of these bastards.

I dig deeper. My fingers are flying over the terminal now. No time for subtlety. Just extraction. My bracelet syncs and begins uploading encrypted logs back to the Ravager.

Every pulse is a drumbeat of rage in my ears.

Then I hear something else.

A muffled noise. A soft whimper.

I freeze.

That sound wasn’t a log file.

It was real.

I follow it, heart hammering, down into the hidden corridors—below the legitimate research zones, below even the Companion holding cells.

This is the deep lab.

The one they don’t advertise.

I find the room by its eerie blue glow.

There, behind reinforced glass, is a slab.

And on that slab?—

Jasmine.

My knees nearly give out.

She’s strapped down, naked and pale, with wires laced into her arms and a thick gas mask clamped over her mouth and nose. Her fingers twitch uselessly against the cuffs. Her eyes are wide and unfocused, but I see the whites and the terror in them.

A tech stands beside her, tapping buttons on a console.

A hiss of gas.

Jasmine jerks.

She screams —or tries to. The mask muffles it into a garbled, sickening sound.

I slam my hand over my mouth.

They’re testing on her.

Experimenting. Torturing.

I don’t think.

I don’t plan.

I just know.

I can’t wait for Lanz.

I have to save my sister— now.