Andie soared upward in a translucent tube of energy, which floated into space with the grace of a ballet dancer. Inside, there was no sound, no burning, no reassembly of internal body parts, only a sense of deep calm.
Being inside the Priority One was so amazing that Andie could only conclude that the Amu, on top of being heartless, kidnappers, and scandal-loving sadists, must also be masochists. What other reason could there be for them to Wormhole when they had Priority One technology?
It would be like choosing to travel west by wagon train, enduring starvation, smallpox, cholera, and assorted vermin, while your toothless husband complains (in great detail) about his hemorrhoids, and your kids asking "are we there yet?" for six months.
Versus ...
Flying west in a private jet with a gourmet chef and a masseuse, while snuggled up in a king-sized bed with 1,000 thread-count Frette sheets artfully wrapped between the naked thighs of a Greek god.
Was there even a choice?
The splendor of Oliver's physique flashed into view. "Cut it out," Andie warned Bad Andie.
"Then stop wrecking my mojo with your chatter about toothless hemorrhoidal husbands. That's just disgusting."
"Fine. No more hemorrhoids."
"Oooh! Look at that. How pretty," said Bad Andie.
Below, the earth hung peacefully in the velvet of space, a flawless sphere, so beautiful, a visitor from afar might assume life on the surface to be similarly peaceful and beautiful. Must have been quite the shock for the aliens when they discovered three-year-old beauty queens, Bigfoot romance novels, deep fried butter and the color puce.
"I heard that about Bigfoot!" Bad Andie said.
"Too bad."
"Don't knock cryptid simian love until you've tried it!"
"Quiet!"
As the earth grew smaller, Andie ached for her home planet, puce, and deep fried butter notwithstanding. Would she ever get back? She realized she had given no thought to what she would do after rescuing Sterling. Her liberation plan appeared to be half-assed. Why had she not aimed for something a tad loftier like: find Sterling, return to earth, locate Luke Skywalker and his rebel forces, send them up to the mothership in a few X-wing fighters, a schematic of the Starship Magnificent's one senseless flaw (there always is one), and a couple of proton torpedoes?
The trip lasted an eternity, yet took no time at all. Andie's consciousness grew until it encompassed the entire universe in both space and time. She found herself untethered and able to float through space as if in a dream.
She witnessed the life cycle of a star from its birth, from a molecular cloud to its death as a white dwarf. Comets darted past. Earth's moon plunged into the Pacific. That gave Andie a tinge of regret. She was rather fond of the moon. And the Pacific.
The one thing she never saw on her journey was the Starship Magnificent. One moment she was gawking at the Pillars of Creation—vast shrouds of gasses in the Eagle Nebula—the next, her vision went dark and her muscles pressed against her bones as she passed through solid matter, most likely, the skin of the mothership.
A floor solidified under Andie's bare feet. A cold, damp, low-lying mist curled around her ankles—like a fog-effect in a music video. Andie almost choked on the fetid stench of too many roses—as if the U.S. supply of Valentine's bouquets all got sent to the same place. Organ music echoed in what must be a giant room, but Andie couldn't see anything because she was alone behind a white curtain. The headache-inducing loud music sounded kind of like Pomp and Circumstance, which wasn't the music she expected to hear in an alien spacecraft.
"You are late," said a loud, officious voice. Not entirely alone, then. But the person only sounded harassed, not murderous. A real plus when one is invading an alien spaceship.
Andie took a step toward the non-violent sounding voice, slipped on the wet floor, arms flailing like a crazed bird, and collapsed into the fog. Rubbing her now twice-injured, extremely sore tailbone, Andie staggered to her feet. A tall, thin, pale, pearlescent-haired Amu in an impeccable silver space suit adorned with various medals and a batman-style utility belt looked her over as if she were a ratty coat too horrible even for the donation pile.
"For what?" Andie said with soggy confidence. Did he know about her plan to rescue Sterling? "Is someone graduating?" How weird. Andie never thought about aliens going to school and graduating. She assumed aliens were born with all their knowledge or got microchip inserts that contained everything they needed to know, like how to be total dicks in a thousand languages.
The Amu's white eyebrows, like sticks of chalk, shot up and his blue eyes grew round. He frowned, reaching down a hand to help her up. Over the sickly perfume of roses, Andie caught a whiff of lavender combined with a bitter-coffee edge—the smell of utter frustration.
The final strains of Pomp and Circumstance echoed through the chamber. Once the music ended, Andie heard a cacophony of throaty, pigeon-like coos from above. "Huh?" Andie nearly tripped again. Beneath the ceiling were at least a hundred hot pink doves, flapping and cooing, held in place by a clear sling of fabric. Okay, this is seriously not what Andie had expected to find in an alien spaceship. Where were the sleek consoles, the Omega 13, the food replicators, the child genius, the cyborg who wants to be human, and the quirky engineer? Wait, this was not a movie. The Amu were real and had pink pigeons, music video mist, and Pomp and Circumstance.
"Welcome all," an unfamiliar voice thundered. "It is a proud day for Amu ..."
The white-haired Amu snapped his fingers in her face. "Ixis, you must get dressed immediately." He thought she was Ixis, the Amu security guard. How fortuitous. Maybe her plan would work after all. "You go on in ..." he glanced at a glass tablet that he must've extracted from his tool belt. It looked like a transparent iPad, "... 3.25 minutes." He thrust a diaphanous gown at her, which she took without thinking—the way unwary pedestrians take flyers from the hands of strangers.
"I'm not going anywhere," said Andie, holding up the gown. "And are you kidding? It's see-through. I might as well be naked." She looked down at her already naked body; her cheeks flamed.
"I heard from Pierre that you were unpleasant and ornery but refusing to serve the royal family?" said the Amu. "But I did not imagine that you were this dreadful. Makes sense, though, given that you're the bride's best friend, you would match her in bitchiness." He examined the pool of transparent fabric at Andie's feet and arched an eyebrow. "You are far shorter than the measurements I received. You might trip over the hem of your costume. I will not lament this, however. I mean, if I am being honest, which I always am. And speaking of honest, what are you thinking with that hairstyle? The crisp grunge burnt look went out of style ages ago. You cannot possibly go out there in such a state."
Bride. Holy crap. Was this Oliver and Talia's wedding? Please no. She could not bear to see Oliver marry that horrible woman, Amu, whatever. Andie clenched her fists and hit her thighs in frustration.
"Ixis, you must calm down, or you will ruin everything. Curse Pierre," said the man. He grabbed her shoulders and held her still. She had to get herself under control if she was to get information that would help her find Sterling.
"Who are you? Who is Pierre? Who am I?" That didn't come out right.
"Is your brain damaged? If so, you can procure a new one but not until after the Joining. It would disturb the aesthetic balance if you were to leave now, much as I would love to see you go. It is not my day. Damn, Pierre. Why did he have to argue with Cyra about the crudité? She put him in the brig, you know.
"Even so, my suffering greatly surpasses his. At least the brig is quiet. Whereas here—the maid of honor is late, has dreadful hair, and loses her mind right before her entrance. The father of the groom cannot remember his lines. The groom is glum. A glum groom. Who ever heard of such a thing? Although, if I were being forced to marry that power hungry whiner, I might be ... well, let us just say, the bride is not my type.
"The doves will not shut up," he shook his hand at the ceiling. "Cyra believes the doves are earth symbols of romance, but she plans to release the 'dirty creatures' into outer space at the end of the festivities. Poor things." He sighed. Andie's stomach twisted with revulsion. No way was she letting those pigeons, doves, whatevers, die in space. She would save them too, dammit!
"And let me tell you. Airbrushing a thousand birds ... twice!!! ... was no picnic. Apparently, the first pink was not shocking enough. Oh, the horror! And trying to pry the matrimonial scepter from Queen Elizabeth—don't even get me started. As to who I am? François Le Grande, Joining Planner extraordinaire, at your service." He actually bowed.
The core concept Andie seized on to from François diatribe was the part where he said the groom was glum. A tiny swelling of warmth bloomed in her stomach. She could hold on to this as a sort of consolation prize. Oliver did not want to marry or Join or whatever with Talia. Why should Andie take joy in Oliver being subjected to a loveless union? He was doing it to save her life. She had deep doubts regarding her moral compass. She knew she had a poor sense of direction, but until this point, she at least confined her weakness to matters physical and not philosophical.
"Ixis, are you all right?" François held Andie's chin, looked into her eyes, and sucked in a breath. Did he know she was human? She had brown eyes, while every Amu's she'd ever seen had blue.
"I'm ..."
"Shhh," he peeked through a slit in the curtain, surveyed his tablet, and rolled his eyes. "Running forty-two seconds behind. Can no one do anything right? Get dressed. Now." Maybe he didn't know. Or didn't care.
Andie slipped the "gown" over her head, deciding it would be best not to make any sudden moves or confessions. The delicate fabric seemed like something woven from dragonfly wings. So light, it tickled as she moved and the light fibers brushed her skin.
"You are an odd one, but the gown becomes you."
François parted the curtain wide enough for Andie to get a look at the room for the first time. She gasped, and the blood rushed from her head, leaving her woozy. Wordlessly, François put his warm hand on her back, holding her up, which was good because otherwise she would've fallen. Again.
The place was mind-bogglingly enormous. A cross between a gothic cathedral and a Costco-sized flower shop.
Twisted rose vines coiled up the walls and around pillars, like floral serpents, surrounding hundreds of rows of pews filled with stunning Amu. Massive framed gilded mirrors hung on seven of the room's eight walls, giving one the feeling that the audience was infinite. At the front of the octagonal chamber stood an intricately carved wooden pulpit bathed in a carnival of light streaming in through the stained glass windows behind. How did light stream in outer space? Fog hovered over the stage, where Captain Emerson Lieder stood behind the pulpit in a stiff gilded uniform blazing with medals and badges of honor.
"Close your mouth," said François, pushing up her chin with the palm of his hand. "It's like you've never seen a holodeck before. You know ... holodeck?" he said, as if Andie was a child. "As in a projection? Not real? Well, the flowers are, obviously. You must be ill. I have a good brain replacement guy on Alpha Centauri. He will fix you up."
"But why does it look like a cathedral? I mean, a cathedral from earth?"
François shook his head and sighed. "You are indeed a severe case. Do you not know that the royal family wants to demonstrate its power over its future conquest of earth? It is a bit grandiose." He waved toward the cavernous chamber. "But I do love it."
"Conquest?"
"Shhh."
"Today my son and his bride will be Joined before this distinguished gathering," roared Captain Lieder. The music blared once again as two bronze doors shaped like pointed archways, each as large as a Sunset Boulevard billboard, opened at the back of the room. The assembly rose as Oliver and Talia entered. Andie's blood froze. Talia wore a diaphanous gown similar to Andie's, but the statuesque brunette filled out the costume entirely differently with her luscious, downward-spilling locks and her Valkyrie-esque breasts surmounting a Hollywood-perfect figure.
Oliver wore a gold military jacket like his father's. Covered with medals. Except his pants were made of golden parachute-like fabric that fluttered as he walked. The entire time, he kept his eyes ahead, his mouth pressed into a straight line.
The music reached a climax as Sterling floated through the door in a spectacular burnished gown matching Emerson's. The knot in Andie's chest, the one that had started at the banquet, finally loosened. She wasn't too late. Sterling was here!
She bit her tongue to stop from screaming or breaking down and crying, though most likely, no one would hear her through the music.
Andie needed to have a plan before she revealed herself. She must be calm and clear-headed, or she'd never succeed. Her eyes flitted back and forth between the exit and Sterling. Perhaps she could run out, grab Sterling, and get her out the door. Then they could find a place to hide on a ship as large as Cleveland. Or they could simply outrun the high-heeled storm troopers (teaching them a valuable lesson about agility and killer heels), fall into the trash compactor; meet a couple of good-hearted droids who would help them steal a shuttle and navigate it back to earth.
"Gorgeous she-devil, Talia," whispered François.
"Emphasis on 'devil," said Andie uncharitably.
François giggled conspiratorially. "I like you." The feeling was mutual, and Andie said so. "But you are much prettier." She opened her mouth to argue, but he put his index finger over her mouth. "Do not disagree with me. I am the professional. Never question the artistic ego."
"All right," Andie said, preparing to leap into the cathedral and retrieve Sterling.
François laughed. "With backstabbing friends like Talia, who needs enemies? I think she ordered your gown in the wrong size just so you would not show her up. And I will bet she made you wear your hair like that. I will take care of it. Just imagine how angry she will be when you enter looking more beautiful than she. I love it." François closed the curtain, Pomp and Circumstance still blasting. He un-Velcroed (aliens had Velcro?) a compartment on his tool belt and retrieved one of those magic Amu cloths. Stepping back from Andie, he tapped his finger on his chin. "Hmmm. I picture you in long hair—light brown with streaks of gold and auburn, curled, maybe with some ringlets here and there."
"That is what it looked like before ..." Andie pointed at the crisp remains of her hair. "How did you know?"
"I am the Joining Coordinator extraordinaire. I know all. They only hired Pierre because I was on vacation. Look how tan I am."
"Um, you are pretty white."
"I know. Thanks to that idiot, Pierre."
François briskly took the cloth to Andie's head. She could feel her hair growing from her scalp. It felt odd and prickly.
"But how are you ..."
"Shhh. This is a very complex process, and I need to pay attention or you could end up with wooly eyebrows and possibly a beard."
He continued his elaborate work as Andie tucked her chin against her chest, watching her hair lengthen over her shoulders and down her chest like a flower bursting to life in time-lapse photography. "I think this is the right length." Andie's hair had never been this long. It felt deliciously sexy and barbaric. He worked the towel here and there in her locks and then swiped over her face. "Perfect. Look." He adjusted something on his tablet, and a life-sized three-dimensional hologram of Andie appeared. It was rather eerie, as hologram-Andie kept doing model poses and twirls, something Andie had never done, but even more peculiarly, she wasn't currently doing it either.
"Oh, my," Andie gasped. She looked a little too much like evil Ixis, though much shorter and in an iridescent gown instead of leather.
"I know," said François. "I am an artiste with a gripple." And he wasn't lying. It was like having her very own alien fairy godmother. Andie barely recognized herself.
"Gripple? I mean, yeah. Gripple."
He held out the magic cloth. Good to know the proper name. "Thank you," whispered Andie, as the music broke off.
"You are welcome," said François, kissing her forehead. "Anything to enrage Talia and Cyra. You humans have a word, 'Bridezilla.' Your friend and her almost mother-in-law are a two-woman army of rampaging beasts. They more than deserve one another."
"You know I'm human?"
"Of course. Either you are insane or human. I choose human. You are too nice to be Amu."
"Thanks. You're nice too." François's mouth softened. Andie thought he must not have many people say that to him.
"Wait, did you say Cyra?"
"Yes, why?"
"Where is she?"
"Right there," François flung his hand in the general direction of the stage. He turned around and checked his alien iPad. "You're almost on. Look." He pointed at the ceiling over the stage where what appeared to be a ten-foot square, red-velvet draped waterbed, floated downward.
"What is that for?" Whatever it was, Andie knew it wouldn't be good.
"I know. So pretentious. My idea, to be honest. Pierre thought the bed should already be on the stage. Boring!"
Oliver and Talia climbed the steps on to the stage while Sterling made her way to the pulpit where she stood next to the Captain who took her hand. What? Why would Sterling hold the Captain's hand?
The bed landed. Oliver regarded the bed as if it were an executioner. He attempted to loosen his collar. Talia licked her lips and smiled a huge toothy grin, light reflecting off her white, white, predatory teeth in the middle of plump red lips.
"You're just about up. Take off Talia's gown slowly. It is much more dramatic that way."
"What?"
"It's the consummation portion of the ceremony. To make it legal."
"Wait, you mean they're going to ..."
"Oh, yes. I realize humans consider intercourse in front of an audience to be taboo and vulgar. Earthlings are a bigoted, narrow-minded and ethnocentric bunch who cannot fathom that, for another culture, public sexual congress is a sacred part of the wedding ceremony. However, most civilized galactic residents consider the human customs of forcing bridesmaids to look like iced bakery goods, holding the ceremony in front of bloody depictions of sadistic murder, and assailing the bride and groom with perfectly good rice, infinitely more vulgar."
"You mean they're going to ..."
"The Amu Joining. What did you think was meant by Joining?"
"I didn't think ..."
"Never mind. You must do your, or rather Ixis', duty and strip the bitch bare."