The Human Pet: A Sci-Fi Romance

Part 1

Kayla

My name is Kayla Seren. All my life, I yearned to go to space, witness the birth of stars in nebulas, and maybe be the one to discover life on far-off moons and planets.

Never did I imagine that soon after my 23rd birthday and scraping by with my master's degree, I would be one of the chosen few for a coveted seat on a star vessel from Earth-the Phoenix Borealis-as a xenobiologist. How naïve and full of hope I'd been with visions I would be the first to document the existence of life beyond our tiny planet.

How wrong we had been, underestimating the hazards of the universe.

First, a fungus we'd accidentally brought aboard infested most of the plants meant to be our food supply. Next, we tumbled into a wormhole making "we're not in Kansas anymore, Toto" the understatement of the century. We are light-years from Earth. Lost among the stars.

Then we encountered an alien race: the scourge.

Know this; we were mistaken to go to the stars.

***

A blaring sound disturbs my sleep. Someone jabs me.

I open my eyes, shocked to find myself sleeping at my workbench in the lab. A child's wide eyes stare at me.

Dylan-my sluggish mind reminds me-one of the settlers we rescued.

The little boy points to the lab door window. Bursts of red light flash in the hallway.

Oh no. Have the scourges found us?

Through the door and into the hallway I run.

Sirens wail. A voice through a crackling speaker announces, "All crew of the Phoenix Borealis report to the navigation bridge."

"Stay here," I tell Dylan before closing the lab door.

The emergency lights illuminate my path to the helm.

It is as if hell has erupted. So much shouting. Crimson-colored lights flash. The air in the room is so hot it feels like an overheated furnace.

The captain hollers at me. "Take your position as primary navigator."

My mind reels. It's been months since I have had any training for the navigator's role. I'm a biologist. I know nothing about maneuvering spaceships. My captain gave me his word; summoning me as a navigator would only happen if the primary navigator cannot complete their duties.

Suddenly it's difficult to breathe.

No, no, no. Now is not the time to think about what might have happened to anyone else on the ship. Survival depends on each of us doing our job.

I take a few deep breaths and go to the navigator's seat. Draped over the controls is (or was) the navigator, his expression locked into a terrible grimace, teeth clenched and eyes wide.

I have my answer; the navigator is dead, and rigor mortis has already started. I push his curled-up body onto the floor and take my seat.

I struggle to regain control over my emotions.

Focus on your job. Mourn later.

I swallow. If we survive, that is.

"Navigation, get us out of here," says the captain.

The scourge ship fires at us, hitting our ship with such force that I'm thrown from my seat. My hip slams into the navigation panel, and I fall onto the floor. Inches away from my face are the navigator's dead eyes.