Old Shanny, the crone, was snoring again, which meant another sleepless night for Jocelyn.

In between the sporadic fevers caused by the Erobium and the old woman’s elephant snores, it was next to impossible for Jocelyn to manage a full night’s rest these days.

At least her job was less taxing on the body than some of the other ones around the camp. During suppertime she had watched Plobo, a reptilian-like Dromedian, collapse to the ground from sheer exhaustion, falling asleep while waiting in line for his food.

She had never seen a Dromedian sleep before and found it rather amusing. All their appendages curled upwards like a puppy, waiting to be scratched on the belly.

She had felt bad for smiling, given their dismal circumstances.

Jocelyn rolled over onto her side and buried her head underneath her pillow.

Shanny was talking in her sleep as well.

“Be careful Bob,” she muttered.

Jocelyn had asked Shanny once who Bob was, but her question was met with a lunatic rant.

“Don’t say his name like you know him,” Shanny screeched.

“I don’t know him,” Jocelyn protested. “That’s why I asked you who Bob was.”

More ranting and ravings from Shanny about how all the good men were gone and how Jocelyn was a backwards thinking whore.

Jocelyn learned a valuable lesson that day: don’t talk to Shanny—ever—which was a shame since Shanny was one of a few humans left in this galaxy.

Jocelyn held her pillow against her face.

Maybe there was a way she could suffocate herself unconscious, just to catch a few hours of sleep.

There was a sudden a knock on the dilapidated wooden door to their cabin; three quick raps. Jocelyn smiled as she rose to a sitting position. She knew who it was from the way he was knocking.

She lifted the blankets off of her and reached for her robe.

Another three knocks.

Shanny stirred awake and immediately groaned.

“Can’t I get some damn sleep,” she complained. “Bob needs a sandwich.”

Jocelyn didn’t bat an eyelash at the strange comment. After four years of bunking with the frizzled old woman, Jocelyn was used to hearing random nonsense.

Jocelyn opened the door.

Standing outside was a tall guard, rifle slung behind his back. The number 67 was etched onto his armor.

“Jocelyn Dark?” he asked.

Jocelyn nodded. “Yes,” she replied, despite her last name not being Dark. It was the name she was given by the Xaksunians as part of their caste system.

The Darks in the camp were in charge of gathering the Erobium extract, the Lights were responsible for filtration, the Greys were responsible for mining the ore, while the Whites were left to transport the finished product to the Xaksunian shipping sites.

“I need you to come with me,” the guard said. His voice was thick through the mask.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked.

“You’re not to ask any questions.”

Shanny piped up. “Oh for goodness sakes, shut up and allow me to sleep. We all know you two are going to wander off and canoodle. Just go with the guard, you slut, so I can prepare Bob his sandwich.”

There was brief pause.

“Huh?” the guard finally asked.

Jocelyn ignored Shanny as usual. “Let me put on my shoes.”

The moment she stepped out of the sheet metal cabin, guard 67 cuffed her.

“Is this necessary, Jaks?” Jocelyn asked. His name resonated on her lips.

“You can never be too careful,” Jaks replied. “They’ve increased midnight patrols lately.”

“Why?”

“You haven’t heard?”

Jocelyn shook her head. “I don’t have enough friends here that allow me privy to gossip.”

He nudged her to walk and so she did.

“A couple of bodies were found the other night in the Mallorean mining site, about one hundred miles from here. Their throats were slashed from ear-to-ear.”

Jocelyn pursed her lips, “Soldiers or slaves?”

“Soldiers,” Jaks replied. “Well seasoned ones at that. The Overseer is getting nervous. He’s worried that the slaves are finally revolting. A full out slave rebellion is the last thing he wants.”

“A rebellion sounds nice,” Jocelyn smiled.

“Nice for you,” the guard muttered. “For guys like me,” he put his thumb against his throat and did a slashing motion.

“I guess that would be tragic. You do have a pretty head,” Jocelyn teased, “I think.”

“You think?”

“To me you look acceptable,” Jocelyn said.

“Acceptable…” the guard muttered.

“But that’s by human standards,” Jocelyn continued. “You’re a Cymerian. By Cymerian standards, you could be one of the worst looking males out there.”

Jocelyn was teasing him of course, something she enjoyed doing.

For the most part, the Cymerian features resembled that of humans, except for their cerulean colored hair and parallel set of gills across both cheeks. The gills allowed the Cymerian’s to breathe amongst various climates—including the dark voids of space.

“I never thought you to be that shallow,” Jaks said, “So caught up on someone’s looks.”

“Do you have any chocolate?” Jocelyn asked.

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t care how you look. Besides, it’s what’s on the inside that counts.”

“My vital organs?”

“Exactly,” Jocelyn replied. “There’s nothing I’m attracted to more than a beautiful spleen. That and milk chocolate.”

They traversed through the dark alleyways of the Slaves’ Nest, home to all the unwilling workers imprisoned on Behyru. It was a dense community, packed with thousands of makeshift shelters, all constructed from left over sheet metal.

During the violent windstorms that Behyru frequently endured, Jocelyn’s shelter would creak and bend. The joists, which held everything together, rattled worse than Old Shanny’s arthritic bones.

It was a miracle that their shelter hadn’t been uprooted and taken by the wind. Jocelyn had seen it happen to others in the Slaves’ Nest before.

“I’ll never get used to the smell of the Nest,” Jaks said.

“Try living in it,” Jocelyn said.

The Slaves’ Nest typically harbored two types of smells. The first was the scent of life—which Jocelyn didn’t mind so much. The smell of skin and sweat from collective alien races blended together and formed its own unique type of aroma, serving as a reminder to Jocelyn that people were still alive. Life equated to hope.

The second smell was of death, and that was depressing.

Often when a slave died—the reasons various: poison, over-exhaustion, executions, punishments—the guards took their sweet time to remove the body. As per protocol, other slaves were forbidden to touch the dead, for reasons beyond Jocelyn’s comprehension. Thus the scent of decay was always prevalent amongst the other smells of this makeshift city.

It was a reminder to Jocelyn that inevitably, her body would end up fouling the Slaves’ Nest too.

They walked past the murder posts at the heart of the Nest. Jocelyn could never stomach the sight of them.

Three wooden poles, anchored to the ground and stained with blood, stood like totems. It was here that slaves were mounted, tied, and eventually whipped when they had violated the rules of the Xaksu.

In some instances, slaves were even executed.

Jaks noticed the look of disgust on Jocelyn’s face as they walked past the posts.

“Come on, let’s quicken the pace,” he said.

She had no objections.

They eventually stopped at the outer gates of the Slaves’ Nest, leading to the wooded forest area. It was here they ran into another guard.

“67,” the guard greeted.

“Soldier 337, at ease.”

“Where are you headed?”

“I’m taking this prisoner out of the Slaves’ Nest.”

“Reason?”

Jaks tapped his index finger against the etched numbers on 337’s armor. “What’s this here?” he asked.

“My personal identification number,” the other guard replied.

“What else does this number symbolize?”

“My rank.”

Jaks nodded. “Yes and your rank is 337. Now what’s my rank?”

“67.”

“Right, so what does that mean?”

“You have a higher rank than I do.”

“And that means what?”

“You have authority over me.”

“Brilliant,” Jaks replied, “That’s absolutely brilliant. So, 337, I will be taking this prisoner outside of the gates.”

337 turned his head towards Jocelyn.

She held her breath, knowing full well that if the Xaksu found out she and Jaks were cozying up to one another, they’d both be executed.

Jocelyn was rattled. Jaks on the other hand didn’t seem fazed by the confrontation.

“I’m going to have to log you on file,” 337 said.

“Fine,” Jaks said. “Do what you have to do.”

337 lifted up a panel on his suit’s gauntlets. He accessed the touchscreen inside and began tapping away.

Jocelyn leaned into Jaks and whispered into the audio receptor on his helmet.

“What are you doing?” Jocelyn asked.

“It’s fine. Trust me.”

337 finished his log entry, closed the panel in his gauntlet, and turned his attention to the two of them.

“You’re good to go,” he said as he walked over to the gate and punched in the access code. “How long will you be?”

“As long as I need,” Jaks replied. “When I return, I expect you to allow us back in, with less resistance.”

“I apologize,” 337 said. “But policy is policy.”

“So is a foot up your ass,” Jaks said as they crossed through the gate.

Once they were a safe distance from the camp, Jaks turned to Jocelyn and released the shackles around her wrist.

“Sorry for those,” Jaks said as he undid the clasp of his helmet, lifting it off his head. He revealed his handsome face.

For an alien, he was extremely good looking, Jocelyn thought.

His almond shaped eyes were the color of moonbeams and when he looked at her, she felt as if he were staring straight into her heart. His square jaw and high cheekbones added to his chiseled features. When he spoke, there was a melody to it, a certain calmness that Jocelyn couldn’t quite explain.

He towered over her at six-foot-six in height, compared to Jocelyn’s modest five-five, but that didn’t matter. His physical presence was comforting to her.

It was sad to think that the Cymerians—like humans—were on the verge of extinction.

Jaks looked down at Jocelyn and smiled. He brushed her hair from out of her eyes so he could get a better look at them.

Jocelyn blushed. She had the urge to kiss him on the lips, but then remembered that smooching wasn’t how Cymerian’s typically showed affection. Two Cymerian’s kissing was akin to two humans rubbing their armpits together.

It was strange to them.

“You’re not going to get in trouble for bringing me out here, are you?” Jocelyn asked. “I mean, the guard took down your suit number. It’s on record now that 67 took a slave out into the forest.”

Jaks smiled and shook his head.

“My rank is actually 76. 67 belongs to a Dromedian name Horo. I got him drunk during dinner and stole his suit. He’s passed out in his bed right this very moment. If 337 decided to be prudent about this, all fingers will point to Horo.”

“Don’t you feel bad you’re going to get Horo in trouble?”

Jaks shook his head. “He’s not the most pleasant being to work with; cruel to the slaves and a jerk to his subordinates. You slaves know him better as the Lasher.”

Jocelyn shuddered at the mention of the nickname. She had been on the receiving end of the Lasher’s whip once before. The scar on her left thigh will stay with her forever.

She smiled, suddenly feeling better about it. “I wonder if Lasher sleeps the same way the other Dromedians’ sleep, with his arms and legs raised in the air.”

“Like a poof,” Jaks said.

“Well, I was thinking more like a dog.”

“The poof is the Cymerian’s version what you call a dog,” Jaks said. “Four appendages, furry, and enjoys licking themselves and then your face afterwards.”

Jocelyn stuck out her tongue and made a face. “That’s gross.”

Jaks took her by the hand. Unlike kissing, holding hands was an approved form of affection for Cymerians. She was thankful for that at least.

He led her through the thick, auburn trees of the woods.

The two moons that hovered over Behyru—Artemis and Andromedis—illuminated the forest with its pale blue afterglow.

To Jocelyn, it was the perfect romantic setting.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“It’s a surprise,” Jaks whispered. “Just hold my hand tight.”

She did.

It was simple moments like this that gave her the will to live; to continue fighting through the constant pain caused by the poison coursing through her body.

Just hearing Jaks’ gentle voice was worth all the nightmares she suffered from—the dreams where black tendrils consumed her entire body, pulling her deeper and deeper into an abyss. It was the chorus of whispers buried deep in the darkness that was the worst, the sound of a thousand voices crying for help.

She didn’t know which was better, one of her nightmares or week-long episodes of feverish chills that kept her awake.

They eventually stopped at a clearing. In the center was a single, rectangular picnic blanket and on it a wonderful spread of food and wine. Two candles burned brightly next to it.

It was perfect.

“I figured the powdery porridge and protein bar they served you was not satisfying for your taste buds,” Jaks said.

“No, definitely not,” Jocelyn said, eyeing the fruit and cheese platter.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Jaks asked. “Go on.”

Jocelyn practically sprinted to the spread. She had the urge to smash the food into her mouth with two fists, but refrained from doing so.

She didn’t want to look like a pig (or whatever the Cymerian’s version of the pig was) in front of Jaks.

Jocelyn plucked a single grape off from a vine cluster and popped it in her mouth. She savored the sweetness of its flesh and its juiciness with every chew.

It had been ages since she tasted fruit.

“Sadly, they’re genetically engineered,” Jaks said as he took a seat next to her and popped a grape in his mouth.

“They taste fantastic,” Jocelyn said as she grabbed a piece of cheese and bit into the salty morsel—a perfect balance to the sweetness of the fruit.

“I suppose for synthesized food, it’s not bad.”

Not bad? Compared to the bland porridge Jocelyn had been eating for a week straight, this food was heavenly.

She filled her belly with more fruits, cheese, some sweet meats, and of course a bar of milk chocolate. She polished it all off with a healthy glass of wine.

When she was done she let out a satisfying sigh and lay down on the blanket, staring up at the sky illuminated by a sea of glittering stars.

Jaks lay down next to her.

“How was work today?” he asked.

It was a simple question, but Jocelyn knew that her answer was important to him.

He was aware she was dying. Sometimes Jocelyn worked through the pain of the poison and Jaks, being the caring Cymerian he was, wanted to know that she wasn’t straining herself too hard.

“I can’t complain,” Jocelyn replied. “Well I can, but no one would listen anyway.”

“I’m listening,” Jaks replied.

“No one listening who can turn my destiny around one hundred and eighty degrees,” Jocelyn corrected.

Jaks frowned.

“There was a new guard today, a human female,” Jocelyn said, “Number 407.”

“Was she nice to you?”

Jocelyn nodded. “You know how it is with rookies. They all start off acting tough, working strictly by the book, showing off their shiny guns thinking that’s the best way to inspire a slave.”

“Our duty isn’t to inspire,” Jaks said. “It’s to enforce.”

“A stupid way of doing things,” Jocelyn said. “You’d get double the productivity from the slaves if you gave them the hope of something better.”

“Like what, fair wages and pension and benefits?”

Jocelyn shook her head. “No, I was thinking more along the lines of giving us a life. Allow us to feel alive, like members of a community or a society, instead of prisoners.”

“That will never happen,” Jaks said. “The Xaksu have a narrow-minded vision of what this galaxy should look like.”

“I still don’t know how you can work for them,” Jocelyn said. “They destroyed most of your race.”

Jaks rose from his sitting position and reached for the bottle of wine. He poured himself a healthy drink.

“I don’t have a choice,” Jaks said.

“Of course you do.”

“How about you?” Jaks asked. “You have as much choice as I do, yet you continue to work for them.”

Jocelyn sat up and grabbed the bottle out of his hands. “Are you kidding me?”

“No.”

“Our situations aren’t the same. If you haven’t noticed, I’m a prisoner here.” She took a deep swig straight from the bottle. The alcohol warmed her belly and loosened her tongue. “I don’t have any choice in anything.”

“You did. It was offered to you by the Overseer,” Jaks said. “I saw the entry in our database.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jocelyn took another drink. She averted her eyes from his.

Jaks smiled. “You know, I can always tell when you’re lying to me.”

“I don’t do it that often.” That was truth.

“I know,” Jaks said as he put his glass down, “But back to what’s important. The Overseer offered you a position on Kymera. You would have received a rank if you’d taken it.”

“No thanks,” Jocelyn said. “Not to sound xenophobic but I don’t have much love for the Xaksunians. I can’t think of a worse situation than being stuck on their home world.”

“But you would have a rank,” Jaks reiterated. “Do you know what that means? You’d have an opportunity at a life. You’d have a home to return to once your day’s work was done. You’d have real food instead of synthesized protein bars. You’d have a chance to live.”

Jocelyn looked at Jaks sadly. “And how long will that last?” She showed him her veins.

“They must have a cure for the poison,” Jaks stated.

Jocelyn shook her head. “If they do, they’d have given it to me long ago,” she replied. “They can’t afford to lose their best Erobium extractor, can they?”

“No, they can’t,” Jaks agreed. He swallowed hard. “Do you know how long you have?”

He’d been avoiding this question for quite some time now.

Jocelyn shook her head. “No,” she replied. “It took Lazlo six years to die after he first noticed the black in his veins.”

“And when did you first notice?”

“Six years ago,” Jocelyn replied. “I’m living on borrowed time.”

“But you can live comfortably,” Jaks pointed out. “So why don’t you?”

“I already told you the reason why,” Jocelyn flared. “I wouldn’t be able to stand living on the home world of the people who murdered my friends, my family—my entire race.”

“The entire galaxy is at war. Just look at the Asrai, they’re possibly crueler than the Xaksu.”

“So that makes it okay?” Jocelyn asked. The drink had hit her hard. Her emotions were dancing on the tip of her tongue. “Let’s go kill more species just because the Asrai are doing it.”

“Gaia was collateral damage because of this war,” Jaks said. “Think about how I feel? My race was targeted and terminated. They assassinated my king. He was only two years in age.”

“So why work for them? Why make the conscious choice to assist them in their killing frenzies?”

Jaks closed his eyes and exhaled, “Because I wanted to live. Call it selfish, but it’s programmed in my soul to live at all costs. So that’s what I’m doing. I’m living.”

“No,” Jocelyn said. “What you’re doing is surviving.”

She took his hands in hers and held them against her face. “This is living.”

He closed his eyes.

“I don’t want to go to Kymera,” Jocelyn reaffirmed, “Because I have everything I need right here.”

Jaks raised a brow. “Wine?”

“You,” Jocelyn whispered as she nuzzled her head against his chest, “You idiot.”

They sat in silence for a moment, Jocelyn taking comfort in Jaks’ warmth.

When Jaks finally spoke, there was seriousness to his voice that wasn’t typical of him.

“I’ve been doing research,” Jaks said, “About the Erobium poison. There’s some evidence that an Acrophya’s heart can counteract the poison.”

Jocelyn lifted her head and looked at his stern face.

“Where can we find an Acrophya heart?”

“Osiris, the planet of the beasts,” Jaks replied.

Great, Jocelyn thought. Stepping foot on Osiris, the beast planet itself was an automatic death sentence. Whereas Glammora was known for its fine arts, music, and trend-setting culture, Osiris was known for its vicious face-eating monsters that roamed its surface. Any travel to the planet of the beasts was a one-way ticket only.

It was irony at its finest: save the girl from a horrible, poisonous death by pitting her against a violent, flesh-eating monster.

She’d take her chances with the poison.

“I know there’s a high level of risk involved, but it’s still better than sitting around, waiting for death to come and take you.”

“That high level of risk you’re talking about is a ninety-nine percent chance of being some wild beast’s snack.”

“True,” Jaks nodded. “But it’s better than the alternative: you being one hundred percent dead. If there’s even a one percent chance to save you, we should take it.”

Jocelyn sighed. “My life is not worth this risk.”

“Don’t say that,” Jaks said. “You’re being a pessimist.”

“No, I’m being a realist,” Jocelyn said. “But let’s just entertain this idea of yours for one minute. We go to Osiris, slay the mythical Acrophya, tear its heart out of his chest, and I eat it with a side of hot sauce. There’s still one fundamental flaw to this plan.”

“And that is?”

“I’m a prisoner here on Behyru,” Jocelyn said.

“You don’t need to be,” Jaks pointed out.

“You’re suggesting I take that Overseer’s offer and head on over to Kymera?” Jocelyn asked. “I’d be trapped there as well.”

Jaks shook his head. “That’s not what I’m talking about,” he said. “I’m talking about freedom, for both of us.”

Jocelyn furrowed her brow.

Was he suggesting the impossible?

“I’m talking about escaping.”

He was.

“You’re crazy,” Jocelyn stated.

“I’ve done crazier things than escape from a Xaksunian slave camp,” Jaks said.

“I’ve seen the Xaksunians in all their cruelty. You should know damn well what they are capable of.”

Jaks shrugged. “They don’t know what I’m capable of. I’ve measured myself against the other soldiers here. I can best them in both hand-to-hand combat and artillery.”

Jocelyn rolled her eyes. “Typical male,” she muttered.

“It won’t come to that though,” Jaks said, “Even though I’d win.”

“You have a plan?”

“I have a plan,” he confirmed. “I just need you to trust me. I’ll need a couple of days to finalize the details. When this is over we’ll both be free to roam the galaxy as we please.”

“Like space vagabonds,” Jocelyn said.

“Like happy wanderers.”

Jocelyn looked up at the night sky and took in the glorious lights that danced in the sky; hundreds of galaxies, thousands of planets, millions of cities, all waiting to be explored.

“Do you trust me?” Jaks asked.

Jocelyn nodded. She felt safe when he was around. She felt protected.

He was the knight in shining armor that she had read about in books—the hero of every good love story.

If there was one thing she needed more than anything, it was a hero.

“Then let me save you,” he whispered. “Let me save us.”

Jocelyn finally agreed. “You think we can visit Glammora after I eat the Acrophya’s heart?”

Jaks nodded. “We can visit anywhere you like.”

“Then I’m sold.”

Jocelyn leaned in and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek, her lips brushing against the soft scales on his face.

“Your customs for showing affection are highly unorthodox,” Jaks said.

“Shut up and kiss me on the lips,” Jocelyn ordered.

“It’ll be weird.”

No it wouldn’t, Jocelyn thought. It’d be perfect.