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Book: Chosen by the Alien Above Part 2: A Sci-Fi Alien Romance Serial by Nora Lane
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Authors: Nora Lane
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launched.
I was pretty surprised with all the not dying I’d managed thus far. Especially considering my condition.
The digital counter read one hundred-twenty-nine minutes. I must be getting close to Orbital One. Thank god because I seriously needed to fill four barf bags.
The bright orange suit’s circulatory system hissed in my ear. It was working hard and partially succeeding. My cold skin didn’t stop the sweat dripping from my forehead. It beaded above my brow and then raced into my eye. I swiped at it and succeeded in banging the clumsy glove on the closed visor.
This suit was a personal prison.
The bile I swallowed earlier burned in the back of my throat. The way my belly spun around, I knew a repeat performance was a distinct possibility.
The misery of the hotel room last night started to look pretty appealing. If I could've traded a thousand mosquito-bitten knuckles for floating through space, it would’ve been a tough call.
I glanced back out the window. Stars that were momentarily stable wheeled out of view. I locked my throat down to keep from hurling.
Why didn't somebody tell me being an astronaut was mostly an exercise in not puking? Chu mentioned I might feel some nausea. But I didn't “feel some nausea". My entire body had to vomit so bad I felt it in my pinkie toes.
Note to self.
Tell all those kids that say they're going to grow up to be an astronaut to dream up a new job. It’d be a service to their future. I’d be saving them the heartache, the belly ache.
Stars traced across the window. It was odd to think of it as a window. A window back home was something you could throw open to catch a fresh breeze. I was pretty certain throwing this window open wouldn't be refreshing.
I watched the window, despite the uneasy sensation of the universe rotating around me while I sat perfectly still.
You know those people who think the world revolves around them? If they really knew how that felt, like I did now, they'd lose that attitude real quick.
A flash of gold sparked through the glass. One star wildly brighter than the rest. It slid to the edge of the window and then stopped. The universe stabilized again.
My stomach couldn't have been more grateful.
The flash waned and the true shape of the star revealed itself. It wasn't a star at all. It was a space station.
Orbital One.
The personal mansion of the richest recluse the world had ever seen—Noah Sinclair.
I wondered if he had to pay property tax, or if being 300 miles above the surface got you out of it. I added it the list of interview questions. Maybe one of the first ones. Something soft and easy to get us both comfortable.
Before I hit him with the tough ones.
Like why the hell did you pick me?
And what's so important that you broke ten years of radio silence?
CHAPTER TWO
The suit's comms crackled to life.
“Ms. Gabarro, you hanging in there?”
Noah.
I recognized his voice, not to mention his gently mocking tone. As if everything in life was a game. As if life was a game.
Maybe it was when you were always winning. Being the richest billionaire in history probably warped your view of reality.
I couldn't relate. My life was a game that I was one hand away from losing.
“Ms. Gabarro, are you there? I didn't lose you, did I? Please respond.”
The casual confidence in his voice fell away like an ill-fitted disguise. Concern came through clear as starlight. It touched me. I didn't expect it.
“Yes Mr. Sinclair, I'm here. Not doing great, but I'll make it.”
“Yeah, the first time in space is pretty rough. A lifetime of gravity trains our bodies to expect certain things. And up here, you get none of them. Not without a lot of effort.”
The space station grew larger in the window. The general shape emerged. It looked like nothing so much as a bicycle wheel with four thick spokes and the axle still shoved through the middle. It didn't look anything like the piecemeal junk yard that was the International Space
I was pretty surprised with all the not dying I’d managed thus far. Especially considering my condition.
The digital counter read one hundred-twenty-nine minutes. I must be getting close to Orbital One. Thank god because I seriously needed to fill four barf bags.
The bright orange suit’s circulatory system hissed in my ear. It was working hard and partially succeeding. My cold skin didn’t stop the sweat dripping from my forehead. It beaded above my brow and then raced into my eye. I swiped at it and succeeded in banging the clumsy glove on the closed visor.
This suit was a personal prison.
The bile I swallowed earlier burned in the back of my throat. The way my belly spun around, I knew a repeat performance was a distinct possibility.
The misery of the hotel room last night started to look pretty appealing. If I could've traded a thousand mosquito-bitten knuckles for floating through space, it would’ve been a tough call.
I glanced back out the window. Stars that were momentarily stable wheeled out of view. I locked my throat down to keep from hurling.
Why didn't somebody tell me being an astronaut was mostly an exercise in not puking? Chu mentioned I might feel some nausea. But I didn't “feel some nausea". My entire body had to vomit so bad I felt it in my pinkie toes.
Note to self.
Tell all those kids that say they're going to grow up to be an astronaut to dream up a new job. It’d be a service to their future. I’d be saving them the heartache, the belly ache.
Stars traced across the window. It was odd to think of it as a window. A window back home was something you could throw open to catch a fresh breeze. I was pretty certain throwing this window open wouldn't be refreshing.
I watched the window, despite the uneasy sensation of the universe rotating around me while I sat perfectly still.
You know those people who think the world revolves around them? If they really knew how that felt, like I did now, they'd lose that attitude real quick.
A flash of gold sparked through the glass. One star wildly brighter than the rest. It slid to the edge of the window and then stopped. The universe stabilized again.
My stomach couldn't have been more grateful.
The flash waned and the true shape of the star revealed itself. It wasn't a star at all. It was a space station.
Orbital One.
The personal mansion of the richest recluse the world had ever seen—Noah Sinclair.
I wondered if he had to pay property tax, or if being 300 miles above the surface got you out of it. I added it the list of interview questions. Maybe one of the first ones. Something soft and easy to get us both comfortable.
Before I hit him with the tough ones.
Like why the hell did you pick me?
And what's so important that you broke ten years of radio silence?
CHAPTER TWO
The suit's comms crackled to life.
“Ms. Gabarro, you hanging in there?”
Noah.
I recognized his voice, not to mention his gently mocking tone. As if everything in life was a game. As if life was a game.
Maybe it was when you were always winning. Being the richest billionaire in history probably warped your view of reality.
I couldn't relate. My life was a game that I was one hand away from losing.
“Ms. Gabarro, are you there? I didn't lose you, did I? Please respond.”
The casual confidence in his voice fell away like an ill-fitted disguise. Concern came through clear as starlight. It touched me. I didn't expect it.
“Yes Mr. Sinclair, I'm here. Not doing great, but I'll make it.”
“Yeah, the first time in space is pretty rough. A lifetime of gravity trains our bodies to expect certain things. And up here, you get none of them. Not without a lot of effort.”
The space station grew larger in the window. The general shape emerged. It looked like nothing so much as a bicycle wheel with four thick spokes and the axle still shoved through the middle. It didn't look anything like the piecemeal junk yard that was the International Space
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