The Alien Warrior King's Accountant - Loki Renard Page 0,1

sixties, hard to tell, but definitely at the stage where people usually retire and go fishing or something.

“I’m listening,” I tell him. I can’t imagine what kind of special assignment he might have in mind, but he seems happy to give me good news. That’s a surprise. We haven’t had much in the way of good news since the plague shut everything down and left us in our own little cubicles in our own little homes.

I never get special assignments. I am the perpetual office junior. Rogers Accounting has been in business since 1840. Mr. Rogers’ great grandfather started it, and then passed it onto his son, who passed it onto his son, who eventually hired me. It’s a very small firm, but it is prestigious. There’s a certain air about it, the kind that excites people when they hear it. The sort that makes you accept less than industry average to work there, which is why my apartment is small, and not in a good area of town.

At least, that’s what I tell guys I meet at bars when they ask me what I do. God. It’s been so long since I met a guy at a bar. Would I even know how to make awkward sexually charged conversation anymore? Would I be able to sort of feign interest because I know I’m supposed to want a faintly functional guy to share a house with? I don’t know. I think if there was anybody else in here, I’d probably stab them. It’s just too small, and people are irritants at the best of times. It’s been weird, being lonely and also being pretty glad to be alone.

“It will involve some travel.”

This keeps sounding better and better.

“Are we actually allowed to travel?”

I haven’t left my apartment in months. I haven’t shaved my legs in just as long. Sometimes I pretend my monitor doesn’t work during Zoom calls and just sit there plaiting my leg hair. Maybe they got an exemption somehow. I’ve heard it’s technically possible.

“You are for this assignment. It’s off-planet.”

“Haha! Mr. Rogers!” I laugh. Then I wonder if I should laugh. Has he gone mad? Have I gone mad? There’s a real possibility we’ve both gone mad, and that would be bad for the both of us. You’re not supposed to laugh at crazy people though, it’s politically incorrect, and you might be crazy one day too. and you wouldn’t like it if people laughed at you then.

“Tania, please listen.”

“I’m listening.”

“I know this sounds strange, but my grandfather was at Roswell when the crash happened in 1947. He met the pilot. It wasn’t a little green man. It was a very annoyed, very large, scaled alien warrior. This alien warrior demanded that my grandfather give him his suit so he could evade the attention of the authorities. My grandfather did, and an alliance was formed.”

“Okay.”

“And our firm has been contracting to various alien species ever since.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Maybe he’s had too much cough medicine. I’ve done that by mistake before. And then on purpose. But that’s another story, one I don’t want to tell right now. Or ever.

“The details of the contract will have to remain sealed until you make contact with the client. You will find this challenging, I am sure. But I also think you’re more than up to the task.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rogers. That’s really kind of you.”

“You’ll be picked up at 4:30 am. It’s early, but it can’t be helped. That’s when the solar winds will be at their zenith.”

“Zenith. Huh. Gotcha. Okay.”

I am now well into the territory of just humoring him. Poor guy. He’s broken under the strain. I think we all have in various ways. I just have to be kind until his wife calls for someone to take him away to wherever old people get taken when they think they work for aliens. God, this is depressing. Poor bastard. I’m not going to be the one to tell on him, that’s for sure.

Hopefully, he feels better tomorrow when whatever he is on wears off, or once he gets some rest.

2 The Client

It’s four o’clock in the fucking morning, and somebody is banging on my door. It sounds like they’re attacking it with a battering ram, the booming sound making my entire apartment shake. I can hear the neighbor’s dogs going off their rockers at the sound.

Should I call the cops? Eh. Who am I kidding. They’re not going to arrive before whatever is out there makes it through the door. I