The Alien Warrior King's Accountant (Royal Aliens 4)

He looks at the hole in the ceiling with the same expression anybody else might have when looking on the scene of a heinous crime. And then he turns on his assistant. It’s like I’m not even there, thank god.

“Terrible! I trusted you!”

I open my mouth to try to explain myself, but then I realize he’s not actually speaking to me, even though the first thing he did upon entering was nail me with a viciously dark look.

“What is happening!? Is the human destroying the ship?” He fires off two more questions, the second of which makes my stomach perform very uncomfortable flips. Obviously, my species has a very poor reputation aboard this vessel and among these aliens. I’m used to not being exactly popular, but at least most people on Earth don’t expect me to ruin everything.

“She is, sire,” the bastard says. “Aggressively, and without regard for the sacred vessel.”

Tyrant rounds on me, his eyes flashing furiously, the harsh lines of his face drawn into the sternest of expressions.

“Why are you doing this, human? Have you come here undercover to lay waste to my war effort? Is this the first salvo in your relentless campaign of sabotage?”

I back away from him and his rage, finding myself reaching for the far wall and hoping that I’ll fall backward through it. This is one place where the floor might actually open up and swallow me if I wish it hard enough, but both the floor and wall stay irritatingly firm.

“No. I just don’t know how to use your technology. I was trying to make a bed.” I point over at the assistant. “He told me to do it! He set me up!”

The look the assistant gives me might actually kill me. There’s so much intense loathing in it.

“Is that true?”

“Yes, sire. I thought she might have some rudimentary control of her most basic faculties. Evidently I was mistaken.”

Goddamn, the sheer assholery of this guy deserves its own museum.

“Humans don’t have the ability to use our technology. They don’t have the cells for it. Make her a bedroom she will be comfortable in, Terrible.”

That’s the second time he’s used the word Terrible with a capital T. I can suddenly hear it. Wait a minute…

“Your name is Terrible?” I ask the assistant the question with more amusement than I should probably dare express given the whole situation in which I find myself.

“Yes. I am Terrible. I am second in command to Warrior King Tyrant. I am the lord of warkind. I am the general of a thousand elite warriors. I am the keeper of the sacred knowledge of slaughter. I am not a babysitter for humans.”

I see what’s happened here. I’ve gotten caught in the middle of some internal politics. Terrible’s not an assistant or an attendant. He's a power-hungry ass who doesn't feel like his assignment is worthy. I’m beneath him.

Tyrant lets out a royal growl which makes the wall behind me quiver as if it is afraid of being caught in the fallout of his displeasure. But my mouth is already opening, and words are already coming out. Oh god. I’m talking back.

“You weren’t asked to babysit,” I point out, full of logic. “You were asked to assist me, which you barely did. You set me up.” I shouldn’t be talking back to someone who is probably the second most important person in my universe right now.

“I did not set you up!”

Tyrant lets out another growl. It is so loud I can feel it all the way to the very core of me, my soft innards vibrating in time with his royal rage.

“SILENCE! THE PAIR OF YOU!”

I am being yelled at by an angry king. It is not a pleasant experience. It makes me feel infinitesimally small, and quite concerned. Every bit of my body knows to fear Tyrant. Terrible annoys me, but Tyrant commands my very cells. He speaks to the ancient animal parts of my brain. He dominates the reptilian core hiding atop my spine, and he makes me want to curl up in a tight little ball.

Terrible shuts his mouth and folds his arms over his chest. He may bulge and strut, but his fin is lying back at an even shallower angle than before and I think he too hates disappointing his king.

“Human, you are here to assist me in the small matter of my accounts. Terrible, your job is to assist me in all things. Apparently, neither of you are capable of either task. We are currently in a skirmish with the most vicious of Martian troops, and I am here dealing with you two!”

His disappointment and annoyance is so scathing I feel it in my soul. This is the absolute worst start to any job anywhere at any time. He’s right. Or at least, half-right. I really think this is mostly Terrible’s fault. There has never been a better name in the history of existence.