Bone Rider (8 page)

“Holy fuck!”

Riley staggered back reflexively. His foot slipped on a wet floor tile and it just about sent him crashing backward into the bathtub. He caught himself through a combination of excellent balance and common flailing, but the additional scare made him curse even louder.

You promised you wouldn’t freak
, an offended voice said in his ear.

It made Riley jump again and whirl around even though he already knew nobody would be there. His heart was trying to climb up his throat, probably to escape sharing its living quarters with whatever had taken up residence in Riley’s body. It didn’t help that he recognized the voice: the last time he’d heard it, it had whispered husky praise against his neck as its owner fucked him stupid.

“Holy fuck,” he repeated, not as loudly as the first time, but with as much feeling. “Fuck. Fuck! Who are you? What are you doing? Get the fuck out of my fucking head!”

No
, the voice said, immediately and without room for debate.
No way. I can’t survive on my own. I need you. I’m not going anywhere.

“Well, I don’t need you,” Riley snapped, looking back in the mirror for lack of an actual visible counterpart. “And I don’t want you in me. Get out!”

Something shifted in him. It felt like tiny little hooks digging into his insides as his squatter clung to him with all its might.
No
, it snarled.
You can’t make me!

Riley groaned quietly. It didn’t hurt so much as it felt exceedingly uncomfortable, but the realization that the silver metal bastard was holding his body hostage made him almost as mad as it terrified him. “It’s
my
damn body, you fucking
parasite
,” he growled.

You can damn well share it for a bit
, the squatter snapped back, not letting up.
’S not like I’m hurting you. I’m not a parasite; I’m a smart armor and weapons system. I’m useful
.

“You’re hurting me,” Riley gasped. The hooks felt like knives now, vicious and in so deep. He could feel himself shake with adrenaline and an increasing burning sensation under his skin. His fingers were clutching the edge of the sink so hard his knuckles turned white.

Oh
, the armor system muttered, sounding contrite. The burning lessened, then stopped.
Sorry. I just…. Sorry
.

Riley sagged a little with relief. He took a deep breath, then another one. All right. He needed to calm down. This was going to escalate real quick if he kept yelling and the thing in him kept getting defensive. He was reasonably sure this wasn’t a nightmare of the scarily realistic kind, which meant there really was something in him. Something that could hurt him badly. Riley had no idea how to force it out, and it didn’t seem all that smart to antagonize something that was snuggled up to his vitals, especially since it claimed it couldn’t survive without him. So he closed his eyes, let his head fall forward, and tried to center himself despite the panic that was still tearing at him. He emptied his mind like his daddy had taught him to do when he needed to get clearheaded fast, but this time, there was someone right there with him and that someone apparently got nervous when Riley stopped thinking.

Riley?
the thing—parasite, armor system, whatever—asked, almost timidly.
What are you doing?

The hooks were back, giving Riley the mental image of a cat digging its claws into his leg to avoid getting unseated.

“I’m trying to calm down,” Riley told it. “Stop it with the clinging.”

The slight burning stopped immediately.
Is it working?
came the hopeful inquiry.
’Cause you promised you wouldn’t get upset.

“Well, I didn’t know there really was something in me.” Riley sighed and lifted his head again to study his eyes once more, but he didn’t see anything in them that didn’t belong. “I was bluffing. You scared the shit outta me.”

Yeah, right back atcha
, the squatter muttered. It still sounded as though there was someone speaking in Riley’s ear, which was disconcerting to say the least.
And stop calling me a squatter
.

“You’re squatting. In
my
body. I’ll call you whatever the hell I want.” Riley rubbed a hand over his face, trying to hang on to his hard-won composure. “Okay. Let’s talk about this.”

Not in front of the mirror, though; the empty space behind him was giving Riley the creeps. He went out into the main room, opened the curtains to let the afternoon sunlight flood in, and looked out over the mostly empty parking lot. The air was hazy with dust, the scrawny bushes outside bowing deep in the wind, but Riley barely noticed. He was staring down at his truck, parked in a corner near the emergency exit.

“You sabotaged my truck,” Riley gasped, a glimpse of memory raising his hackles. “You were all over the engine and then you jumped in my face, you fucker.”

I was about to start to disintegrate
, his unwelcome houseguest defended itself.
I needed a host. It was do or die.

“You couldn’t have asked?”

How? I need to be connected to communicate, and I didn’t speak your language yet.
Riley opened his mouth to demand clarification, but the thing kept right on talking.
You know, this hasn’t been fun for me, either
, it said grouchily.
I didn’t plan to hitch a ride in an alien
.

Alien?

“You’re an alien?” Riley squawked. It probably shouldn’t have surprised him, especially considering that dream he so wasn’t thinking about now, but it still floored him. “I got hijacked by an alien?”

You’re the alien
, the squatter insisted.
I’m… not from around here
.

It must’ve realized that this was a big deal for its involuntary host, because it stayed quiet while Riley tried not to hyperventilate or think too closely about the
Alien
movies and their take on extraterrestrial encounters. When he was done checking his belly and chest for signs of distension, it added reassuringly,
Listen, I’m not going to mess with you, okay? Or… breed in you. Gah. That’s disgusting.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Riley asked, filing away the information that apparently the alien could suck general concepts out of his mind as easily as focused thoughts and language data. “You could be trying to lull me into a false sense of security until your eggs hatch or something.”

Yeah
, his squatter huffed,
or I could just barf into your brain right now and be done with it. It was an emergency, you asshole—I had no choice but to find a host and you were the only compatible organism around. Can’t we just… agree to cohabitate for a while? I swear I won’t nest, or hatch, or… or whatever other gross things you can come up with. I’ll be no trouble. You won’t hardly know I’m there
.

Riley sat down on the edge of the bed heavily. He swallowed, feeling completely out of his depth. For the first time in years he allowed himself to wish his father was still alive; he could’ve used his advice and reassurance.

“Is this permanent?” he asked, scared of the answer, but needing to know.

No
, the squatter said immediately.
We’re not fully bonded. I only did the basic hookups, nothing more. This is a temporary fix until I can find myself a suitable host and arrange for my relocation. Think of me as a… a roommate or something
.

“And until then I’m walking around with you in my head?” Somehow, this didn’t sound like a particularly good deal for Riley.

I’m an intelligent armor and weapons system
, the disembodied voice reminded him in a tone that suggested this was something to be awed by if you weren’t a complete moron.
I can and will protect you in return for riding your bones for a bit. I’ve already taken the liberty of hardening your skeletal structure. Did you know your left knee was all kinds of fucked up?

He had, actually. Bull riding was hard on the body, which was why he’d quit it after only one season and had never tried to go pro. It takes a special kind of crazy to keep climbing on one mean bull after the other, and while Riley had the skill, he didn’t have the ambition.

Yeah, that’d do it
, the voice muttered, apparently in reaction to his thoughts about the wreck that had damaged his knee.
I fixed it. I can also shield your skin from the inside or outside if necessary. I’m not a freeloader. I can pull my weight and then some
.

It also talked a lot.

Catching that thought, the squatter hurried to declare,
I’ll be quiet as a mouse
, and fell silent.

Grateful for the opportunity to digest what had happened, Riley scooted up the bed and leaned against the headboard. He didn’t particularly like his options. Even if the alien let him try—which was doubtful—he couldn’t tell anybody about his situation, because he had no idea which authorities to approach or whether the creature would show up on X-rays or in blood tests. Chances were he wouldn’t get to find out, because he’d be declared crazy and locked up before he’d finished his tale. Of course, he might actually be insane—he was hearing voices, it wasn’t all that improbable that he’d simply snapped—but Riley had never been prone to flights of fancy, there was no history of mental illness in his family, and the Misha situation, while painful, was hardly the toughest spot he’d ever been in and thus unlikely to be the thing to push him over the edge. All things considered, he’d rather believe in aliens than contemplate the idea that his mind had fractured.

There was nobody he could turn to either way. He had no close friends who’d listen to this kind of story and believe him. What was left of his family was scattered to the four winds, and he had no desire to contact them. He doubted they would’ve helped him anyway. Not one of them had dealt well with the revelation that Riley was gay. He’d be lucky if they even picked up the phone. Misha… Riley gritted his teeth.

Misha wasn’t an option anymore.

Riley couldn’t evict the creature on his own, and he wasn’t sure he would’ve done it if he could’ve, because even though it had jumped on board uninvited, it hadn’t done so out of malice. He understood survival instinct. He knew what it was like to be desperate enough to do shit you wouldn’t normally do. It said a lot about his alien squatter that it was trying to win him over instead of simply hurting him until he submitted. Also, yes, Riley did remember all those awesome orgasms and he was honest enough with himself to admit that fantastic sex made a persuasive argument. It wasn’t because he was lonely. He wasn’t. He’d been happy on his own before he’d met Misha and he’d be over Misha soon enough. He wasn’t seriously contemplating granting sanctuary to an alien because it would give him somebody to talk to, because that would’ve been pathetic. Right.

“This is gonna be short-term?” he said, biting his lip and wondering if he was about to make the mistake of his life.

Cross my heart and hope to die
, the squatter promised eagerly.
Can I stay?

“Can I kick you out?”

No. I swear, you won’t want to, I’ll be—

“—quiet as a mouse?” Riley suggested dryly.

As a whole pack of mice
. There was a brief sense of movement under Riley’s skin again, but this time it felt nice, warm, and kneading, like a massage.
Thank you
, the alien said softly.

“You’re welcome.”

Riley grabbed a pillow, stuffed it between his back and the wooden headboard, and snatched the remote from the bedside table. He needed some mindless entertainment to distract himself from the fact that he’d either just made a deal with a creature from outer space or accepted his descent into madness. Right now, either thought made his belly churn with anxiety and his jaws clench with tension.

Don’t think
, he reminded himself.
Don’t think don’t think don’t think
.

The screen lit up, dramatic music filled the motel room, and then the sound of an explosion. Apparently, they’d hit on a
Die Hard
marathon. Perfect. A few hours of watching Bruce Willis as John McClane wisecrack and blow up shit should do the trick. Riley shifted his shoulders, slid his ass down until he’d achieved the ideal couch potato slouch, and settled in to watch.

T
HE
military personnel working at Camp Jackson had seen their share of unusual and top secret things. Sometimes, it was hard to tell why anybody bothered to label the objects and/or people coming through the Basement as classified. Other times, it seemed a good idea to simply do one’s job and shut one’s trap. And then there were times when even the most bored-to-death grunt would feel a prickle of excitement in the air that made them sit up and pay attention. The arrival of the Texas convoy was such an event. There was something about the way the transport had been assigned top priority, about the faces of the guards as they helped unload the three unremarkable hazmat containers. Nobody knew anything and nobody was going to ask, but within the hour Camp Jackson was humming with interest and quiet speculation.

Down on sublevel eight, in the forensic labs, the whispers were more subdued, though no less intense. The boxes were carried into a high security lab and left there unopened until the security protocols were enabled. The forensic team of four under the command of Lieutenant Dr. Leandra Butler scrubbed down and donned hazmat suits and masks, a precaution they were used to but that still made most of them a little bit queasy deep down in their gut. It was a normal reaction to the unwieldy outfits and the limited field of vision caused by the mask, and as uncomfortable as it could be, it also kept them on their toes and helped avoid complacency. Not that they were in any danger of treating this as an ordinary case. If it had been an ordinary case, they’d have done CT scans, MRIs, and maybe an ultrasonograph before sending in people, but since they didn’t know what X-rays, magnetization, or high frequency sound waves would do to these bodies, the autopsy was going to be done the old-fashioned way first.