Therrus never meant to fall into Drovenveil.
HQ had calibrated the portal for Earth—Rio de Janeiro, to be exact. Instead, his body tore through an alien sky, a streak of green cloaked in the illusion of human flesh.
The impact cratered the hillside. Bones snapped, then reset with the efficiency of his
This is—what do the humans call it? —Heaven, Therrus thought. I can be myself and still be around the humans and all the great stuff!
The convention hall teemed with humans, many of them dressed up as various characters from the Earthan sci-fi media Therrus
Earth Station 23
The temperature systems hummed.
I tapped my knuckles against my palm, trying to think, but getting nothing but tightness in my chest and throat.
Stinging in my eyes.
Therrus had told me once that tears, fascinatingly, were the universal expression of grief… Human, Civaran, Klibian…
That didn’t help right now.
The woman at the front desk eyed Therrus, then pointed at his sunglasses. “It might be bright outside, but don’t expect much sunshine from old Bulver. He doesn’t like reporters, Mr. James.”
Therrus, reveling in the ring of his adopted Earth name, replied with a bow. “Fear not, madam. I am only here to help.”
Therrus picked flowers with Harmony Star in a field near their cottages.
“Luke! Come look at this!” Harmony called.
His heart panged every time she used his alias, but she couldn’t know his real identity. His true reptilian humanoid form would scare her, no matter how much she loved animals.
“Get it right this time, Therrus.” Loriq’s green skin shimmers as he stabs a finger at the main console of the Civaran starship. “Three relocations in two months?”
“Word of honor.” I raise one six-fingered hand in an Earthling salute. “No more interacting with primitive humans.”
Luke’s six-fingered hand trembled as he poured foamed milk with precision into the inky black liquid—each muscle begging to be the first to perform the long-awaited act. He had only read about making an espresso macchiato in his Human Studies courses, but now he was here on Earth, hiding his Civaran hand beneath caffeine-resistant gloves,
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It is a little-known fact that the universe runs not on love, money, or the speed-of-light, but on appointments. Missed ones, mostly. Civilizations have collapsed because a royal overslept, galaxies have failed to form because a bureaucrat’s lunch ran long, and a million-year war was fought because someone misplaced a tea invitation.
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“My, my, you have aged. Haven’t you, old friend?” Dorian whispered through his electronic voice box. He paced the control room overlooking Alice and the Timekeepers clashing with his stony, anthropomorphic titan down in the cavern. Alice piloted her 1910s diesel mecha, as always.
She was not the young Victorian blonde that he, the dashing Dorian Gray,
Beyond the laughter of the party and the company of her odious fiancé, Kytt crept through silent halls until she came to a door. There were many doors, but this one bore a Stormer & Sons detector lock. Her source was correct: Sir Dorian Gray was hiding something.
She pressed one ear to the polished wood. Nothing.
The tip of the civen blade hovered above my loathsome face for only a moment before shattering it. In the same moment, the pressure within me burst. Again and again, I stabbed my proxy monitor in a frenzy that opened a flower of blackness within the frame. My senses dimmed, and I pitched forward into that dark blossom.
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I cleared pizza boxes and take-out bags from the sofa so I could sit, peeled off my socks, and tossed them on the floor, too. I hadn’t brushed my teeth, answered Mom’s texts, or checked the bank messages I’d been ignoring for days.
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