Struggling against looming unconsciousness, the male flails in my grip, his last feeble attempts to fight free of my crushing hold. How weak, how ignorant. But it is this very weakness that promises me victory. All of these humans have underestimated a Cryzorian warrior, overlooking my resilience and indomitable spirit, and now they shall pay the price. Here, light years away from my homeland, I reaffirm my purpose. I am the harbinger of retribution, the relentless herald of Cryzor’s dominance. And whatever sniveling creatures dwell on this backwater planet that calls itself a dominant species are about to realize their place. On their knees. Under my heel. The Cryzor Horde will descend upon this planet soon enough, and nothing will be left by the time we’re done.
I have a moment of almost pity for this soft pink creature but easily push it away. I do not have the luxury of compassion. With a quick twist, I crack the brittle bones under flimsy flesh, breaking the male’s neck with ease. The thrashing human falls still.
I drop the now-dead human, looking at its crumpled form, dispassionately pushing through the pain that still courses through my damaged body. This chair, this room, these chains cannot hold me any longer. I am fire and steel; I am the first wave of my people. This world will know my name, feel my wrath.
Pain is still lancing my body from the last session with their scientists’ scalpels, despite my bot’s efforts to heal my body. I roll my shoulders, take several controlled breaths, and take in my surroundings. The broken strap, torn and shredded from my claws, swings ever so slightly. The human’s body is still andsprawled on the floor, and the facility is quiet outside the door to my cell. The sharp, acrid aftertaste of good, straightforward violence lingers in the otherwise sterile room.
I kneel and retrieve the flat piece of plastic from the corpse that the humans use to open the doors in this facility. I stare at the rectangular bit of plastic in my silvery fingers in bemusement, faintly amused at the thought of the bit of plastic being capable of keeping people locked out. After all, to a Cryzorian, this gadget is nothing more than a child’s plaything.
Despite my disdain for the humans’ archaic weapons, I strip the man of them anyway. I take a moment to sneer at the ‘weapon’. The weight feels insignificant in my hand, the metal dull and unrefined – a direct reflection of the beings that made them. Still, if it gives me an edge to escape, I will exploit it for all it’s worth.
Eyeing the human’s clothing, I consider my options. A cursory glance at the male’s body reveals the absurdity of the idea. The clothing, suitable for the slender form of the now lifeless human, is painfully inadequate for my physique. I would rip through the fabric if I tried to fit it on my body. I sigh with quiet indignation; it seems these beings, like their weapons, are ill-suited to accommodate a Cryzorian’s might.
I’d rather not make my escape with my cock swinging free between my thighs, but it looks like I don’t have a choice. To a Cryzorian, shame lies not in our unclothed bodies but in the inability to fulfill our duties. Armed with this conviction, I stride toward the door.
My nanites let me know that my ship is not far away. These idiots have kept my means of escape in the same facility they confined me. I will get to my ship, return to Cryzor with news of a new planet with abundant resources to exploit, and watch as my people crush these humans under our superior heels.
CHAPTER 3
Lily
As I drive down the little one-lane road toward Lublin Harbor, I’m surprised that I’m the only car on this road. I would assume that a festival would’ve drawn more people besides just myself off the dreary slog of the highway. Maybe Aunt Zizi is right, and people really need to take time out of their busy lives to stop and smell the roses.
After driving a few miles down this road as it curves through forests, farmland, and rolling hills, I reach the town’s outer edge. A large, hand-painted sign welcomes me and Mango to Lublin Harbor. It’s a charmingly crafted sign and looks freshly painted. It greets us with open arms, its bright red letters bearing the inscription ‘Welcome to Lublin Harbor, A Town Built on Love’.
Huh, that’s a weird town logo. Although come to think of it, maybe it isn’t the weirdest slogan. I think I heard once that ‘Virginia is for Lovers’ is a state motto. So perhaps it’s not so strange after all.
Arriving at a new destination seems to fill me with renewed energy. I’m just happy to turn my attention away from thefeelings that my conversation with Aunt Zizi dredged up. Thinking of Marcus makes my stomach ache, or maybe I’m just hungry.
Once I pass the welcome sign, I head into the center of town, which appears to be an old-fashioned, aptly named Main Street lined with shops and restaurants. One side of the street is a curve of coastline lined with shops, and a park dominates the other side.
My eyes are greeted with a symphony of colors and sights. Every inch of the town is decorated, banners and flags flying high, their vibrant hues waltzing in the slight breeze. It’s a merrymaking atmosphere, beating through every nook and cranny. Beneath the decorations, Lublin Harbor is an unusual mix of Andy Griffith’s old-timey Mayberry, a fishing village, and a Baroque cathedral. The Eastern European Gothic architecture stands out like a woman in a ball gown at a backyard barbeque against the quintessentially American Cape Cod charm of the rest of the town. It reminds me of all the pictures Aunt Zizi showed me when she returned from Prague.
The mishmash of architectural styles should look weird and visually confusing. However, it all works together in a way that defies explanation.
Lublin Harbor’s architecture carries a peculiar charm that’s impossible to overlook. The buildings flourish in all forms of baroque, gothic, and plain clapboard functionality, each more intriguing than the last. Terra-cotta rooftops sit atop alabaster buildings contrasting against an azure sky while spires donned with bulbous copper green domes pierce the heavens. Intricate carvings and scrollwork on the buildings are squashed next to clapboard flat-faced storefronts that could be pulled straight from the 1950s.
The park is teeming with people; most of the town appears to be gathered there. As I look down Main Street, I see a forestof masts sails – the town’s marina. As I drive past, I see a procession of old fishing boats gently bobbing on their anchors, their worn-down wood creaking with every lapping wave. Wisps of nets, faded and frayed with years of use, spill from their decks, and the pungent aroma of salty sea air mingles with earthy notes of wet wood and brine. A single seagull is perched on a dock piling, its shrill cry plaintive and piercing. The road veers away from the water as I drive past the harbor.
I’ve only been here a minute, but I’m already enamored with Lublin Harbor. I’ve always loved the feel of a New England fishing village, especially one that seems untouched by time like this one.
Driving up and down Main Street, keeping a close watch for pedestrians, I’m losing faith that I’ll find any free parking spots. I’ve driven the street twice and haven’t seen any open spots in this strange town.
I finally luck out and manage to claim what appears to be the last available parking spot in town, conveniently situated in front of a delightful-looking bakery. As I park, my stomach lets out an undignified whale call. I’d skipped lunch earlier and had mainly been subsisting on convenience store snacks like beef jerky, cheese curls, and energy drinks.
Even better than the sight of a glass case filled with yummy-looking baked goods is an outdoor seating area under the sign Divine Harvest Bakery. A pink-and-red striped awning protects most of the seating area from the bright late afternoon sun.
“Well, Mango, lucky us! If we can get a table outside, you can come with me. If you’re a good boy, I’ll even sneak you some lunchmeat from my sandwich,” I promise, reaching back to grab his crate. I also snatch up his harness and leash in case I can entice him to stretch his legs with me. He’s somewhat resistant to leash training, but it’s been improving lately. When I first started training him, every time I put him in his harness, hewould fall on his side and turn into a frozen lump in protest, but now he will explore a little. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to mind the crate much, or the cross-country drive would’ve been torture – for both of us, I imagine.
As I pick up the crate, he purrs contentedly, his eyes darting between my face and the enticing bakery. I chuckle, “Yes, buddy, we’re gonna have some lunch.”
The front door to the bakery is propped open, and incredible smells emanate from inside the storefront. Shrugging my shoulders into the warmth of my jacket, I stroll towards the bakery with its cheerful facade of pastel-colored walls and a signboard boasting ‘Best babka in town’. A feminine voice with a slight and unplaceable accent calls out to me from inside the shop, “Feel free to take any of the tables outside, love. I’ll be right there with a menu.” I glance inside to locate the owner of the voice. From behind the glass counter, a statuesque woman gives me a welcoming grin and a wave.
With a grateful nod, I choose a seat near a tree on the edge of the boxed-off area, where the sun’s rays pierce through the leaves of the trees overhead, casting a dappled array of sunlight over my head. I set Mango’s crate on the empty seat next to mine, reaching my fingers into the crate to give his chin some reassuring scratches. He seems utterly unfazed by the noise and action happening around us. From here, I have a perfect view of the festivities unfolding in the park. The soft, sweet scent of sugar and cinnamon wafts over from the bakery, and I sigh contentedly, relishing the prospect of a sandwich and a hot coffee.
Across the street, in the lush green park, the town’s children run around, their bright laughter ringing through the air. The wind tugs playfully at the streamers they clutch in their hands, causing the long ribbons of color to stream behind them like a comet’s tail – a vibrant display against the green grass and azuresky. There’s an unfettered joy in their playful antics, happiness so heartfelt it’s contagious, tugging at the corners of my mouth and making my heart feel a little lighter.
I watch the children prance around the park, their clothes lending additional color to the already vibrant spectacle. The girls are dressed in what appears to be traditional pinafores in mostly primary colors, lending an air of vivaciousness to their every movement. Reds, yellows, and blues jostle for attention amidst the flounce of the dresses, their vivid strokes contrasting starkly against the pristine white shirts that peep out from underneath. The outfits dance, alive in the sun, adding an almost ethereal quality to their innocent games. Meanwhile, the boys are donned in dark trousers and crisp white linen tunics. Some of them are wearing vests in varying bright designs and patterns. Many of the adults were also garbed in similar outfits. It’s like I’ve stumbled upon a colorful, jubilant Russian Renaissance fair.
