Page 6 of Love Galaxy

J-on.Silently, I test my pronunciation—J-on. Jon. S-mi-th. John Smith—until it sounds in my head the same as how he had introduced himself.

John Smith and his assistant are squished into the mudroom at the back of the main house. We have not progressed deeper inside because Killan is blocking the door to the internal corridor, determined to hammer out the minor details of our daily work schedule before granting them access to the rest of his home.

The assistant is of a species I have never met before.Hu-mans,they said. She is short, her head covered in pale, wispy hairs, with smaller, darker hairs in two patches across her brow.

“I am not debating the contract nor your access,” Killan says, crossing his upper arms over his chest and holding his remaining lower arm against one side of the doorframe, determined to remain as uncompromising as the Drah’os. “I am merely trying to gain assurance that your filming schedule will not cause delays in our production.”

“We cannot talk comfortably here,” Roan says from behind Killan, trying and failing to push our oldest brother out of the doorway. “Where are our Females?” Standing to his full height, he looks over Killan’s shoulder, examining the corners of the mudroom as if expecting to see the eligible Females packed into what little free space remains.

I look down at my four hands, feigning disinterest in the answer and attempting to ignore the lump that has formed in my chest. It has been three Common months since Roan persuaded Killan and I to complete our application forms for the reality broadcast. For the first month of waiting, Roan could talk of nothing else. Then, after the production crew had informed us of our success, he spent the following two months working long hours to prepare his home for his potential Mate.

Killan and I spent that time preparing the farm, cleaning the tunnels, ensuring everything was in full working order. I had relished the distraction, desperate to keep my thoughts away from the impending onslaught to my privacy.

“Your Females are in isolation,” John Smith says, in answer to Roan’s question. “We can’t have them seeing you before we begin filming. But,” he adds, “they’re keen to meet you. The sooner we can get the cameras set up, the sooner we can introduce you.” He gestures at his assistant to begin.

She opens the bag slung over one of her small shoulders. Inside the padded case sit three dozen miniature cameras, all approximately a quarter the size of my palm. I could crush them in my hand should I wish. Retrieving one, she clips it to the panel that forms the overhead lintel of the outer door.

“Motion activated,” she says, meaning anyone entering or exiting the house from the mudroom will be caught on film.

Unease tightens my chest, and I shift from foot to foot as the Human selects another miniature camera.

“Not so fast… ” Killan begins, but I miss hearing whatever else he says as movement catches my attention.

There is an eye pressed to the narrow gap between the blackout blind and the windowsill. It is surveying the mudroom, swiveling left and right, as if searching for something. It is a very blue eye, the color of the sky on the rare days when the wind stops long enough for the dust to settle.

They must be another crew member. Although why they would spy on us, I do not understand.

They might be an eligible Female.The thought jumps into my head, causing the tightness in my chest to expand. A Female.A potential Mate.One who has crept out of the spaceship. Is she so keen to meet us that she would risk breaking the rules on day one?

I raise a hand, intending to draw Roan’s attention to our watcher, then remember the camera clipped to the lintel, and the words shrivel up in my throat. Instead, I glance around the room, searching everyone’s face for signs that they have noticed our watcher.

“… every working hour… ” Killan is saying, evidently in the middle of another lecture that Roan and I have heard a dozen times or more.

The Drah’os has his mouth slightly open, as if shocked by the force of Killan’s passion. His assistant has fixed the lens ofher handheld camera onto Killan’s face, undoubtedly recording what will be the first of many arguments.

I shuffle sideways, toward the exit and the hidden Female.

Briar

I’ve never been on a film set before, but even I know this production is a shitshow. Nobody in their right mind is going to watch a so-called reality dating show where the men are dressed in alien costumes like they’re members of an extreme Halloween trick-or-treat gang.

I grasp the windowsill to keep myself upright as my headache beats a drum solo inside my skull and return my attention to searching for a cellphone.

Inside is Chloe, standing there bold as brass as if she’s never committed assault before. I can only presume the person standing beside her is Mr. Smith. He’s got his back to my window, so all I can see is the black of his suit and his bald head. Bald? Huh. I guess I didn’t pay much attention to his appearance.

Aside from my two abductors, there are three men dressed like alien lizards, each with four arms and no clothes.

Well, no clothes that look like clothes. I imagine they’re actually wearing skin-tight jumpsuits that are textured to give the impression they’re covered in scales. The jumpsuits cover their entire bodies, even their heads, except for their faces, hands and inner wrists. These appear to be free of scales and instead have been generously painted in a green-colored foundation, complete with expert blending and contouringso it’s impossible to pinpoint exactly where the skin-tight jumpsuits end and their painted skin begins.

The producers must be certifiably insane to think I’m going to fall in love with anyone dressed like a four-armed lizard man.

And how the fuck are they able to move all of their arms at once? I can’t see any wires, and I can’t hear the whirring of an engine to suggest robotics.

Two lizard men are vying for position at the entrance to a passageway which leads farther into the building. The third guy is standing a little separate. He’s got his back pressed against a wall, like he’s trying to avoid whatever confrontation is happening between everyone else.

I can tell they’re arguing by reading their body language, although I can’t hear what they’re saying. Soundproof windows, maybe?

Panic swirls around my stomach like assassin-trained butterflies, and I press my lips together to keep from crying out loud.

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