The Alien Warrior King's Accountant - Loki Renard Page 0,4

and find myself sitting on what looks like a picnic hamper.

King Tyrant pulls on the cord which makes the burning flame of the not-at-all-completely-ostentatious hot air balloon and together we ascend into the heavens. I can feel the cool winds of the crisp morning on my skin, and it’s a very refreshing sensation which makes the tips of my ears and nose tingle. I can see the mountains out over the city, covered in wilderness I always meant to explore but never found the time.

Slowly, the city dwindles beneath us into a glowing spiderweb, and then space is closing in around us. Higher, higher, higher we go, until cities become continents and continents are covered by clouds.

“I can’t breathe in space,” I say conversationally, in case he didn’t know.

“I am well aware of the limits of your biology, human,” he reassures me.

“My name is Tania,” I remind him, so he can use my name instead of referring to me by my species which feels somehow very un-PC.

“Tania,” he repeats. “What does that name mean?”

“It means fairy queen.”

“A name for a queen, but an accountant for a king,” he murmurs, finding that pleasing, apparently.

There’s what might be counted as an awkward moment as I try to mentally catch up with events. Tyrant says that his shuttle can look like a piece of toast if he wants it to. He is clearly superior and advanced in every way.

“What is your species called?”

“Excuse me?”

I get the impression that it might be a rude question, like I’m supposed to already know all about his species and him — though he did introduce himself when he came to my door, so maybe not.

“We are the Essence. We are the universe’s ultimate warriors. Besides the Scythkin. They’re also pretty good, being covered in retractable blades. But we are the most warlike, the most naturally dominant. Our colonies number in the millions…”

He continues to brag about his vast empire, and all I can think about is how complex his taxes are going to be. I don’t even know what code we’re using. I can guess it won’t be the U.S. tax code. There must be some kind of intergalactic tax sort of situation going on.

“I would have thought that aliens so sufficiently advanced could do their own accounts.”

“Accounting is a crude and primal trade. It is suited for your species. I loathe accounting. I loathe accountants! I loathe…”

The list of things Tyrant loathes is really long. I stop listening once he starts naming things I don't know about. Whatever Gerks are, he does not like them at all.

Again, I use the time he spends talking to try to orient myself to sanity. I have to get my shit together. This isn’t a nightmare. Mr. Rogers wasn't crazy. I’ve just turned up to my first international work assignment in fluffy slippers. I hope there’s a shower and a change of clothes where I’m going. He said there would be, and I guess I have to take him at his word.

“Almost there,” he interrupts himself to announce.

There is a very bright light shining above us. It’s so bright I have to shade my eyes. Looking up is out of the question. The balloon is rising faster now, almost as though it is being sucked up into the innards of the ship.

CLUNK

Darkness surrounds me. Not proper darkness, just the kind you experience when you walk into a room with the curtains drawn after being outside on a hot and sunny day.

It takes a minute or two for my eyes to adjust, so I am dependent on the king to guide me from the hot air balloon, which no longer looks like a hot air balloon. It looks more like a cardboard box.

“This is so weird,” I murmur to myself.

“You will become accustomed,” Tyrant says. “Your species is remarkably adaptable. It has to be, because you are otherwise very weak and unable to impose mastery.”

“Have you seen what we’ve done to our planet? We impose all day long. You think the thing came with cities and highways?”

“Do not mistake infrastructure for true dominance,” Tyrant says in a tone which implies some kind of mystery. I wonder what true dominance is for an alien king who believes his species to be absolutely essential to the universe.

“Hm,” I say, hoping that the noncommittal sound gets me out of whatever conversation might follow. I find myself strangely stirred by his talk of dominance, and I am already feeling vulnerable. “Excuse me, Mr. Tyrant?”

“King Tyrant,”