Seven
Margaret
"Where are we going?” I risk the question as Tusk bundles me into the korabi equivalent of a motor vehicle. The technology here is spectacular in every sense. It feels akin to magic to me to be driven around in something that flashes and growls like a living beast. I know what cars are, of course, Mark was always talking about buying one, or perhaps a television. The Beringers across the street had a fancy new twelve-inch set they invited us to watch once. I was so enchanted by it, I thought I'd never be able to tear myself away.
Now I am surrounded by machines and tools so far in advance of anything I could ever have imagined before. They have eyes that see everywhere. Flying machines which can not only see, but also destroy people on the ground. Food machines which can produce any type of meal one might desire. There is not a stove or a fire in the palace, of that I am certain. There is no smell of hot oil or crispy burned pie edge, or steak, or…. anything. Food here is a product printed in layers. I am still mentally cataloging all the strangeness which surrounds me. It is hard when I am consumed with thoughts of the big alien beast who sits beside me and begins to pilot the vehicle.
On Earth, cars are cheerful and heavy. Here, vehicles are sleek and aggressive. This one is a kind of black which would make it disappear entirely into a shadow if not for the flares of rainbow color running the edges. This vehicle does not match Tusk, at least not on the surface. He is too big, too archaic to fit it. Or maybe not. He still glows with circuitry beneath his skin. These aliens are themselves machines, laced with technology running through their very veins.
“I am taking you to my home. The palace is not secure, and never has been. It is not safe for you, or for me, for that matter. My home does not have dozens of passages running in and out of it, and it is not inhabited by multiple factions who have been quietly warring for generations.”
He is driving me into a city. An alien city. I feel awe washing through me as we leave the dark shard of the palace, a place which has from the very beginning felt like an end, and move toward a much more open and cheerful space. I see rolling hills in the distance dotted with little houses, and I see a more densely built area into which we are driving.
“The humans live beyond the wall,” he tells me. “The trash you saw belongs to them. Korabi have an elevated aesthetic.”
He is not wrong. The korabi city reminds me of ancient architecture, perhaps Greek or Egyptian, or neither, but maybe both. There are great pillars and ornate carvings which seem to tell stories involving figures and plants and beasts. They swing by faster than I can truly take them in, but my overall impression is that the korabi are actually a very artistic species.
“This is my home," he says, drawing the vehicle to a halt on a quiet street festooned in flowers and marked with great carved pillars.
His home must surely be one of the grandest in the city. There is an air of historical majesty about it. Everything from the door frames to the windowsills is carved ornately. The trim is golden and the outer walls are a royal blue.
He picks me up, for reasons I do not understand, perhaps to stop me from running away, or perhaps because he considers me a package to be moved rather than a person to be invited in. Whatever the reason, I find myself with my arms wrapped around his neck as he carries me over the threshold in one of the most unintentionally romantic gestures I have ever enjoyed.
I can still feel the effects of his second ravaging between my thighs, his seed making them slippery as he holds me under my rear. This is a small moment of what could be intimacy.
There is a grand foyer. Off to the left I can see what must be a kitchen. There are counters and something that looks vaguely oven-like. I am fascinated, because it seemed to me that the korabi did not cook food at all. They magic it from the ether.
“You have a kitchen!”
“Yes. I have a kitchen.”
“May I use it, please? Not now, of course, but sometime… I would like to cook for you.”
“You would?”
“I would," I say, feeling immensely shy. He seems surprised that I would want to do anything for him, and I suppose I am too. Tusk is two completely contradictory things to me. He is my rescuer and my tormentor, my captor and my liberator. He may believe awful things about me, and he may hold me responsible for a terrible atrocity, but he is more engaged with me, possessive of me, and caring for me than any man I have ever known.