yeah—I accept!”
The machine gave her a cheerful acknowledgement and a can dropped into her waiting hand.
“That machine is so slow,” She muttered, mainly for her own benefit as Lissa was certainly not listening. The other girl stared out across the terrace at the mountain panorama.
It was a bright autumn day and the sky was a blue bowl across which a few fluffy clouds scurried. As she munched on a bag of chips and a grilled cheese sandwich, Lissa took in the view and listened with half a mind as her best friend rambling in her ear. Stephanie was chattering on about a boy she had met in the hallway, when a peculiar motion in the clouds above caught Lissa’s attention.
St. Lucia’s Academy taught in fourth grade science class that low-lying, puffy cloud formations were known as cumulus clouds. However, fourth grade science had never mentioned anything about flying ships.
Gaping in flat astonishment, Lissa watched a glimmering spar pierce the floating cotton-candy clouds just over Stephanie’s right shoulder. Emerging like a sword thrust from the billowing white tufts, the brass-tip was quickly followed by first the hull and then the double masts of a magnificent flying ship.
The terrace erupted in shouts as students scattered like mice before a leaping cat, but Lissa was too stunned to move and only stood and stared awestruck at the magnificent sight.
“Don’t turn around,” she said to Stephanie, which of course caused the other girl to turn.
“Google search me,” Stephanie breathed in a panicked whisper, “What the hell is that!”
The sails of the ship were oddly-shaped and brilliantly golden. It had twin turbines holding it aloft along the air currents and strange protuberances sticking out at odd angles from the hull. Along the side in gold lettering were the words, Forty-Five Dancing Girls.
What an odd name for a floating ship, Lissa thought. Through the transparent shield that covered the deck before the mizzenmast she observed strange creatures acting as crew and a chubby man directing them with a scowl on his alien face.
The golden sails luffed—crew scrambled about her deck—the galleon slowed majestically, turbines rotating and hissing with escaped steam, and as students and teachers ran madly about, scrambling for cover, Lissa and Stephanie stood and watched as it descended toward the terrace.
She was so enthralled by the odd appearance of the ship that it was a moment before Lissa became aware of an odd pulling sensation around her waist.
Stephanie stepped back.
“Where’s that glow coming from?” the other girl’s eyes grew round. Lissa glanced down. A golden glow had begun to flicker about her. Her eyes leapt up to meet Stephanie’s gaze again. The other clutched her sandwich tightly in both hands as the air about them seemed to haze and shimmer and then…
It felt like a pop mixed with a fizzle and abruptly the girls found themselves standing on the deck of the hovering ship looking out over the rail at St. Lucia’s Academy.
The Earthling
Captain Nask grinned widely, showing his flat wide teeth to the small Earthlings standing on his bridge. The taller one looked at first confused and then frightened as she spotted him, but when her face settled into an air of defiance it made him grin.
Nask brushed his long floppy ears off his shoulders—a habitual gesture—and sauntered over so heavily his gait made the deck tremble.
A translator 'bot came forward—its brass fittings trimmed in wood to match the rest of the Forty-Five. The bot was small and bulbous, with a brass top hat on its shiny head, two large black sensors for eyes and a pair of small hover jets for feet.
Nask growled out a greeting and the bot obediently relayed this to the small female. She crossed her arms with a look so skeptical he needed no translation.
“She rejects your kind welcome, Captain. Her tone of voice suggests extreme sarcasm and she refers to you with an epithet that likens the sound of your language with an Earth animal known for being extremely dirty.”
Captain Nask gave a rumbling laugh, his grey mottled face twisting into another grimacing smile. He noticed the small curvy female elbowing her companion, as though trying to correct her behavior.
“Tell her I can appreciate her anger, but it will not help matters. Our destination is the slave markets of Asterope Prime in the Pleiades Sector. They are now my property, and will do as they are told.”
The bot did, and then paused slightly as the taller Earthling replied. Even after she had finished speaking he hesitated, as though his internal processors were not certain how exactly to proceed. Then, turning to face the Captain squarely, it said, “She is a rather defiant little thing, isn't she?”
“What did she say?” Nask demanded, his scowl returning.
“It hardly bears repeating, Sir,” the bot said firmly.
Nask gritted his teeth furiously, “Bot, switch to direct translation mode,” He ordered, “You had better be obedient, young lady, or I’ll skip the slave market and sell you to a meat factory!”
Nask watched as the Earthling shrugged, shrugged! and assumed a nonchalant pose, as though the idea of being served as part of an alien dish was of no consequence to her. The other female buried her face in her hands. At least one of them had a proper sense of self-preservation, Nask thought, bemused. He frowned when the bot translated a reply.
“What a strange species,” he muttered. Holding out a pair of breathing masks, he gestured forward, ordering the bot to lead the Earthlings down into the cargo hold where they would be stored.
Mrs. Phelps
Mrs. Izzie Phelps was an auburn-haired beauty. She kept her curly copper hair pinned back from her face with a clip fashioned of silver, gold and bronze leaves that her daughter had given her two years ago for Christmas. Her soft white hands were covered in just the right number of freckles and she typed in a steady patter of keys at her desk, eyes following the line of neat notes she had compiled beside her.
The phone rang. Her eyes flicked to the ID and one finger tapped the speakerphone button.
"Yes?"
“Mrs. Phelps?" the receptionist Anne had a high-pitched voice through the speaker, "The Dean of St. Lucia is on the line for you. It’s about your daughter."
"Put him through."
"Mrs. Phelps, this is Jean-Mark Sufflet, Dean of St. Lucia," the speaker had a nice baritone, "I'm calling about your daughter Lissa."
"Good afternoon, Mr. Sufflet. Is everything alright with Lissa?"
"Yes, well," there was a pregnant pause in which Mrs. Phelps discerned that everything was not alright, "I'm afraid..." began Jean-Mark.
"What is it? Has she done something?" What could it possibly be? Lissa was a good girl and had never done anything before to warrant a personal call from the Dean.
"I'm afraid," Jean-Mark began again, "Mrs. Phelps, your daughter has been
