The Alien Warrior King's Accountant - Loki Renard Page 0,9

bus.

Tyrant appears through the wall, resplendent in all his royal finery. He has a big weapon hoisted over his shoulder, sort of like a gun, if it were made by people who make churches and computers and also guns. It’s very large, and very impressive, all spikes and glowing bits and pieces. It’s also sort of steaming, as if it has been recently fired in a furious kind of way.

I lose the ability to speak momentarily, overly awed by his majestic appearance. He is still shirtless, and his torso is gleaming with alien sweat running in slick rivulets down over the scales of his chest. It makes him shine all the brighter with what look like colors of fury.

He looks at the hole in the ceiling with the same expression anybody else might have when looking on the scene of a heinous crime. And then he turns on his assistant. It’s like I’m not even there, thank god.

“Terrible! I trusted you!”

I open my mouth to try to explain myself, but then I realize he’s not actually speaking to me, even though the first thing he did upon entering was nail me with a viciously dark look.

“What is happening!? Is the human destroying the ship?” He fires off two more questions, the second of which makes my stomach perform very uncomfortable flips. Obviously, my species has a very poor reputation aboard this vessel and among these aliens. I’m used to not being exactly popular, but at least most people on Earth don’t expect me to ruin everything.

“She is, sire,” the bastard says. “Aggressively, and without regard for the sacred vessel.”

Tyrant rounds on me, his eyes flashing furiously, the harsh lines of his face drawn into the sternest of expressions.

“Why are you doing this, human? Have you come here undercover to lay waste to my war effort? Is this the first salvo in your relentless campaign of sabotage?”

I back away from him and his rage, finding myself reaching for the far wall and hoping that I’ll fall backward through it. This is one place where the floor might actually open up and swallow me if I wish it hard enough, but both the floor and wall stay irritatingly firm.

“No. I just don’t know how to use your technology. I was trying to make a bed.” I point over at the assistant. “He told me to do it! He set me up!”

The look the assistant gives me might actually kill me. There’s so much intense loathing in it.

“Is that true?”

“Yes, sire. I thought she might have some rudimentary control of her most basic faculties. Evidently I was mistaken.”

Goddamn, the sheer assholery of this guy deserves its own museum.

“Humans don’t have the ability to use our technology. They don’t have the cells for it. Make her a bedroom she will be comfortable in, Terrible.”

That’s the second time he’s used the word Terrible with a capital T. I can suddenly hear it. Wait a minute…

“Your name is Terrible?” I ask the assistant the question with more amusement than I should probably dare express given the whole situation in which I find myself.

“Yes. I am Terrible. I am second in command to Warrior King Tyrant. I am the lord of warkind. I am the general of a thousand elite warriors. I am the keeper of the sacred knowledge of slaughter. I am not a babysitter for humans.”

I see what’s happened here. I’ve gotten caught in the middle of some internal politics. Terrible’s not an assistant or an attendant. He's a power-hungry ass who doesn't feel like his assignment is worthy. I’m beneath him.

Tyrant lets out a royal growl which makes the wall behind me quiver as if it is afraid of being caught in the fallout of his displeasure. But my mouth is already opening, and words are already coming out. Oh god. I’m talking back.

“You weren’t asked to babysit,” I point out, full of logic. “You were asked to assist me, which you barely did. You set me up.” I shouldn’t be talking back to someone who is probably the second most important person in my universe right now.

“I did not set you up!”

Tyrant lets out another growl. It is so loud I can feel it all the way to the very core of me, my soft innards vibrating in time with his royal rage.

“SILENCE! THE PAIR OF YOU!”

I am being yelled at by an angry king. It is not a pleasant experience. It makes me feel infinitesimally small, and quite concerned. Every bit of