Chosen by the Alien Above 1: A Sci-Fi Alien Romance Serial (2 page)

I splashed tepid water on my face. One hour in the hot Florida sun made my face look like I’d been slapped by an angry lover. My normally pale skin was bright pink. I’d probably peel. Even my breasts were blushed. That was probably the heat. I didn’t do topless beaches. Not gonna catch me baring it all to the world.

I liked my breasts. It wasn’t that. They were curvy and deserving of far more attention than they ever got. My belly was generally still flat thanks to a high school swim career. Pizza and college were changing things though.

I missed swimming. The thought of swimming naked in the ocean sounded pretty awesome. The outside of my body wasn’t the problem. The problem was on the inside.

My insides had transformed my life into one ginormous peep show. The thought of voluntarily attracting more attention was repulsive. About as appealing as having a mosquito stuck in your ear.

Less.

I stared into the hazed-over mirror. The finish worn to metal in patches. Like a car painted fifty years ago. It didn’t look all that clean either. People staying in this dump must not want to get a clear look at themselves.

I couldn’t blame them for willful ignorance. Wished I had more myself.

I scrubbed at the film and scoured away a more reflective patch. I stared into the revealed reflection. Red veins crept through the white of my green eyes. I moved to reveal an angry red bump on my chin. I touched it and wondered what the dull ache meant.

It could mean nothing. It could mean everything.

Why did a twenty-two-year-old have to fear it being anything more than a pimple?

I wished for the millionth time that somebody would tell me. God. Nostradamus. My doctors. Any random person that sounded convincing.

Anyone.

It was probably a pimple. No reason to be morbid. Just an ill-timed imperfection. My skin rebelled against the humid heat. I normally had an immaculate complexion.

False advertising to the world.

I pinched the skin around it. Poked and prodded the bump hoping it would erupt like a dormant volcano.

I had a serious bodily fluids fascination. Show me a pimple and I’d show you twenty minutes of disgusted compulsion. Picking, pinching, squeezing. The whole revolting side show. I couldn’t help it.

It was partly because I had to stay on it. A painful bump for me could be a far more deadly sign. Or it could just be a sign of departing adolescence.

I gave up after a long while of protracted badgering, and still the little bugger refused to pop. Maybe it was a mosquito bite. It was redder and angrier than ever.

Please God, let it be a stubborn pimple or an irritated mosquito bite.

It was hard not to let your brain spiral. Especially late at night.

I splashed more water on my neck and chest. I stepped back into the bedroom and stood in front of the fan.
 

Better.

I shivered as the warm breeze cooled my wet skin. Glorious cool, if only for the minute it took for the water to evaporate. My nipples hardened as the chill washed across my breasts. I looked at the bed. At the hot, wet cocoon that no sane person would consider a fit place to sleep.

Not happening.

I threw the towel over the chair by the bed, thought better of it, and threw my pants down instead. I didn’t want mosquitoes guts stuck to my butt.

I grabbed my laptop and flipped up the screen. I’d go over the questions. Get my mind on something productive.

This was my big break.

Could be.

If I didn’t blow it. If I didn’t blow up. If I didn’t blow out. There were a lot of ifs.

You don’t get the chance to interview the most famous, most reclusive man on the planet every day. In fact, no one had ever gotten the chance. And he didn’t even live
on
the planet. He lived
above
the planet. In a space station twice as big as its only neighbor, the International Space Station. That made it bigger than a twelve bedroom house.

Sure, down on earth, that was nothing for your average billionaire to crow about. But 300 miles above the surface of the earth was another matter. Space was purchased at a premium. The ISS was built and shared by the most powerful countries on the planet. It cost 150 billion dollars. The best the world could afford.
 

And it was half the size.
 

Noah Sinclair was no ordinary billionaire.

Not because his wealth exceeded all other billionaires combined, by a lot. Not because he made his first billion by age sixteen. Not because his nano-algorithms changed the face of academia and the medical industry simultaneously.
 

No. He wasn’t ordinary for a much simpler reason. When all those reasons faded into the dust bin of history, one detail would remain.

He was the first man to emigrate from Earth. Astronauts did stints on the ISS. Sometimes for up to six months. But they always returned. They always expected to return.

Noah Sinclair left Earth ten years ago. People in my generation remembered the day like Kennedy’s shooting in my grandparent’s. I was twelve. Young and full of life and wonder. The whole thing was televised into oblivion. I was at my best friend Cindy’s house and we got to stay up late to watch. Cindy and I giggled like crazy, like the twelve-year-olds we were when Noah flashed his gorgeous smile at the camera and waved like he never expected all the attention.

No one believed he wasn’t going to return. Everyone thought it was an elaborate publicity stunt.

We were wrong.

The frenzy of media speculation that followed his departure eventually died down. It took years. There was the occasional report of his return or an equally fictitious interview. They all turned out to be hoaxes. The news mentioned his name less and less over the years.

It seemed the citizens of Earth decided to ignore our high-flying neighbor, just as he apparently decided to ignore us. Everyone thought we’d heard the last of Noah Sinclair. The general belief was that he’d probably died of something or other, because no one could live in outer space for ten years.
 

The logic was infallible because no one ever had.

Which is why I didn’t believe it when an email from him landed in my inbox.

Every aspiring reporter wants the big break. That one, single story that has the juice to launch your career into the stratosphere. For most, that break never happens. For me, it literally meant the stratosphere.

Noah Sinclair wanted to give his first ever interview from his adopted home. Ten years of silence were about to end. I had no clue why he chose me. The mountain of legal papers I signed didn’t offer one.

I almost refused. It was too insane. It didn’t make any sense. But the reality of my situation spoke louder than my fear of rockets, space stations, and the deathly cold of outer space. I had one fear that overrode all others.
 

The fear of dying without having lived.

I spent twenty-two years coloring inside the lines. Of doing everything exactly right. And what did it earn me?

Eighty percent of a degree in journalism and one hundred percent of a terminal diagnosis.

I wanted to live before I died. This was my chance. Maybe my last. The interview that every journalist worth her salt would kill for. I had to die for.

Ugh. I hated being awake at night. My brain tripped into dark holes.

I took a drink of water and tapped the keyboard to make it brighter. I typed N-O-A-H
 
S-I-N-C-L-A-I-R and searched. The usual links came up. I’d read them a hundred times since agreeing to the interview. I clicked over to images. A million pictures recorded his departure day. He wore a sleek black tux, like he was going to the Oscars or some secret meeting where the masters of the universe decided all of our fates.

I wished I could bust into that meeting. I had a few choice words for whoever decided on mine.

Like I was twelve again, one thing struck me. He was gorgeous. Boyish. Dashing. Confident. Leaping into a great and dangerous unknown and looking for all the world like he was about to go for a bungie jump.

Some of the pics captured a closer look at him. Hazel eyes peeked through a mop of deep brown hair. Those were the last pictures anyone had seen of him. I wondered how he’d changed. Ten years can change a lot.

Did he walk around his space house in a tux? Formally sipping tea and reading Dostoevsky? Maybe his body had withered from disuse and he looked like an old man. All loose skin and weak bone. Maybe he was just a floating brain now. Bobbing around the house in a mason jar, thinking of big ideas.

Whatever he looked like now. He was two helpings of hot stuff ten years ago.

A window popped up on the screen.

REMOTE_USER: Enjoying the view?

What the hell?
 

REMOTE_USER: You should be sleeping.

Ummmm. What?

REMOTE_USER: Hello? Are you going to ignore the well-meaning suggestion of your obviously gracious host?

Who the hell?

I typed a reply.

CG: Roberto, is this you?

My roommate Roberto was naggier than a mother had a right to be. He probably installed a messenger client so he could check up on me.

REMOTE_USER: Roberto Domingo. 4
th
year journalism student at Berkeley. Cumulative GPA 3.1.

It paused.

REMOTE_USER: No. And he needs to spend more time with his eyes on books and less with them on you.

CG: It’s not like that. And I’m capable of navigating my personal life, thank you. Who is this?!

That wasn’t entirely true but this person couldn’t know.

REMOTE_USER: Ms. Gabarro, why are you not sleeping? Distracted by beautiful images?

CG: How do you know my name? Who is this? How did you know I wasn’t sleeping????

REMOTE_USER: You’re computer turned on.
 

CG: Is this the government? The NSA or something?

REMOTE_USER: It’s bad manners to insult the host before you step through the door.

CG: Host?

REMOTE_USER: We are scheduled for a visit tomorrow, are we not?

Noah Sinclair?

Did the richest, sexiest billionaire recluse just hack my six-year-old Mac laptop to flirt? What was he after?

CG: Is this Noah Sinclair?

REMOTE_USER: As the interview has yet to begin, I get to ask the questions.

It was Noah Sinclair!

CG: You hacked my computer and virtually assaulted me.

REMOTE_USER: That’s a bit dramatic, but true I guess.

CG: Answer one question first.

REMOTE_USER: Granted.

CG: Why me?

REMOTE_USER: Why not you? Have you nothing special about you? Nothing that draws the eye and interest? Nothing deserving of attention and adulation? Don’t you deserve to get lucky?

Was it a bad sign that I was already edging toward exasperated and the official interview hadn’t started?
 

CG: Those aren’t answers. They’re more questions.

REMOTE_USER: <——guilty.

CG: <——still waiting.

REMOTE_USER: Don’t steal my clever use of ASCII characters!

CG: Don’t use computer nerd speak when regular words will do.

REMOTE_USER: LOL. ;)

CG:<——growing impatient

REMOTE_USER: Fine. I chose you because you are special. Life on Earth grows short for you. Don’t deny it. I know your medical history.

The bastard hacked my medical records!

CG: More hacking?

REMOTE_USER: Massaging. Privacy in this day and age is an illusion.
 

CG: I guess it is with you. Thanks for invading my entire life.

My skin burned and it wasn’t the humidity. Who the hell did this guy think he was?

REMOTE_USER: Don’t be angry. I’m particular about house guests. So much so that you’re the first.

CG: Do you need a stool sample?

REMOTE_USER: We’ll take care of that when you arrive.

Was he joking? It was hard to tell. Surely he was.

CG: So I’m special? That’s your reason?

REMOTE_USER: Don’t me make sound like a high school stooge. You’re special. You’re now in a position to understand how precious life is, and what you might be willing to do to keep it.

CG: Cryptic. Vague. Confusing. Partial answer at best.

REMOTE_USER: True. But life is that way. Suffice it to say that you’re uniquely qualified. Besides, you have a great ass.

( o) ( o) - - - - - - (__(__)

Did he just say that?

CG: Is that ASCII art your eyes looking at my butt?

REMOTE_USER: What if it is?

CG: That would be inappropriate, Mr. Sinclair. And it would set a bad tone for the interview. I’ll be there to question you for the people of Earth.

REMOTE_USER: You make it sound like I no longer fall into that category.

CG: Do you?

REMOTE_USER: My turn for questions. Why didn’t you accept the reservation I made for you? You’d find it far more agreeable than your current lodging.

CG: I won’t be bribed into a fairer look at you than you deserve, Mr. Sinclair.

REMOTE_USER: Judging by the way you were ogling my D Day pics, I’d say you find me fairer than most.

Ahhhh! What should I say? Ignore it? Yea.

CG: Thank you for your generous offer, but this room is comfortable.

REMOTE_USER: It’s ninety-eight degrees in there. The mosquitoes are waiting for you to lower your defenses. The “cold” water comes out at eighty degrees. Your bed is a wet mess. Is that what you call comfortable?
 

I flung my arm over my bare chest and crossed my legs. Was he looking at me? Seeing me naked?

I looked through the blinds, stood up and checked the peephole. Nothing. I sat back down and noticed the camera lens at the top of the screen. Covering my breasts with one arm, I touched the lens. Did he hack into my laptop camera?

CG: Are you watching me?

REMOTE_USER: Yes.

My other arm snapped over my chest. They did the best they could to hold it all in.

CG: That’s totally inappropriate! How?