A Space Girl from Earth: The Kyroibi Trilogy, #1

By Christina McMullen

Yesterday, her biggest worry was failing an exam.
Today, it's saving the galaxy.

From her six foot four inch height to the uniform white dots that peppered her skin in perfect geometric patterns, Ellie Whitmore was certainly unusual, but an alien from the other side of the galaxy? Of course not. That's just what the tabloids said to sell papers.
Or so she thought.
Turns out not only is Ellie an alien, but an ancient and powerful relic housing the forbidden knowledge of a lost civilization is hidden deep within her genetic code. Suddenly she's on the run from a malevolent Emperor who sees her as the key to ruling the galaxy. Even her own mother can't resist the draw of ultimate power and the one person Ellie might be able to trust is an unrepentant assassin who may be responsible for her life's upheaval. Now, she must travel to a distant planet and unlock the secrets to restoring peace and ending tyranny.
But how can anyone expect her to save the galaxy when she can't even pass organic chemistry?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christina McMullen
• Release date: Apr 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9798223999829

Christina McMullen

Christina McMullen is a science fiction and fantasy author who dreams of flying cars, electric sheep, and one day having the means to adopt all of the world's rescue dogs. When she isn't writing, Christina enjoys travel, vegan cooking, modern and classical art (she fancies herself to be a somewhat competent artist as well as author), and of course, reading. 

Book preview

Dedicated to anyone who has ever felt different or weird. Your uniqueness is beauty and the world is a better place for it.

Chapter 1

ELLIE STARED AT THE message on her screen, wondering what possessed her to check her email right before a final exam. A final exam for a class she was on the verge of failing, no less. Already, Professor Stafford was setting out exam books, yet she couldn’t tear her eyes from her mother’s infuriatingly cryptic message.

Miss Whitmore, would you please put away your computer? The exam is about to begin.

I-I’m sorry, Ellie stammered as she closed the laptop with trembling hands. Professor Stafford set an exam booklet on the corner of her desk with a disapproving frown before moving on to the next student, unaware or perhaps simply uncaring that she was visibly shaken.

At least, Ellie reminded herself, this would be the last exam of the semester. She could question her mother later, but now, she had to focus. With a deep and cleansing breath, she threw herself into the exam, but the compounds and formulas were as elusive and baffling as ever. Even if she hadn’t been distracted by the message, this was not her first attempt at Organic Chemistry and the class hadn’t been any easier the second time around.

Let’s hope the third time’s a charm, Ellie thought darkly as she slipped the completed exam into the box on Professor Stafford’s desk and attempted to quietly leave the exam room unnoticed.

Miss Whitmore?

Unfortunately for Ellie, doing much of anything unnoticed was next to impossible. She cringed inwardly, taking a moment to compose herself before turning to meet the sour expression on the instructor’s pinched face. Despite standing nearly a full foot taller than the gaunt and stooped Professor Stafford, Ellie found him intimidating.

There is yet another hour allotted for the completion of this exam. Are you certain you don’t want to double check your answers? He asked the question with the same scolding and superior tone one might use when chastising a toddler for sneaking cookies before a meal. With all due respect, Miss Whitmore, your grades have been nearly as abysmal this semester as last. You need a minimum of a B in order to bring your GPA up to a passing grade.

Ellie’s apologetic smile was thin and strained.

I understand, sir, but I’m afraid I could sit in the exam room all day and it would make not a bit of difference. I’ll just have to try again in the fall. Or switch to a major that doesn’t require this bleeding class, she added silently.

Professor Stafford’s frown deepened, as did his obvious displeasure. You do realize that a failing grade will go on your transcript, Miss Whitmore, do you not?

Of course. I am planning to hire a tutor this summer and fully expect to take the class again, Ellie began, but Professor Stafford continued as if he hadn’t heard her.

"Other instructors may be inclined to forgive academic incompetence for a brush with celebrity, but I, for one, will not give special favors to anyone."

For one stunned moment, Ellie stood completely speechless, but it didn’t take long for her shock to turn into wary disgust.

"I would never expect any professor to give preferential treatment to a student simply because of who their parents are, she said, affecting an icy tone despite the flush of embarrassment creeping over her cheeks. I’ll see to it that I find a competent tutor."

Without waiting for a reply and knowing she wasn’t likely to get an apology, Ellie spun and stalked from the building before Professor Stafford could get in another barb about who she was. It was nothing new and it was not uncommon, but it was hurtful nonetheless. Never once, not even as a small child without boundaries, had Ellie expected anyone to give her special treatment simply because of her social status. Yet it seemed as if there were some people, many to be honest, whose assumptions held stubbornly despite lack of substantiation.

If she was half as entitled as people assumed, Ellie doubted she would have even bothered with university, let alone a difficult science curriculum. After all, she’d been provided for her entire life and as soon as she reached the magical age of twenty-one, she had access to a trust fund that afforded her just enough money to live in excess for a couple of lifetimes.

But the thought of merely existing, even in the lap of luxury, didn’t sit well with Ellie. She understood and did not take for granted the rare position of wealth and privilege that she had been born into. Instead she hoped to use her status to influence real change in the world and with a double major in environmental engineering and social sciences, she hoped to one day do more than just inspire. Of course, without a passing grade in organic chemistry, she would have to rethink at least part of her planned career path.

Ellie hadn’t even noticed when she left campus and found herself several blocks away. Heading into the constant bustle of Midtown Manhattan with her head clouded by worry would have been asking for trouble and she chastised herself for letting Professor Stafford’s comments get under her skin. She ducked out of the ever-present flow of traffic and took out her phone.

It was mid-afternoon. Her mother’s email said she would be in the city by evening. For Isa Whitmore, that could have meant anything from afternoon tea to past midnight. Ellie didn’t even have to check her British Airways app to know there were at least eight flights her mother could have booked. That is, if she was coming in from London at all. With their careers, it was not unusual for Ellie to lose track of where in the world one or both of her parents were at any given time.

Thank goodness for Julian, she thought as she checked her text messages. Julian Bond, her mother’s personal assistant, had sent her the flight information and expected arrival time, as well as a personal note that made Ellie bristle.

I know your penchant for wandering the city alone, Ellie, but I must insist that you await us at your mother’s Midtown condo. I cannot stress how important this is.

Julian was typically pleasant, and more than pleasant on the eyes in Ellie’s opinion, but he had an infuriating tendency to treat Ellie as if she was a child in need of supervision. To be fair, all of her mother’s assistants had treated her similarly, but the biggest difference was that most of them were women and closer to her mother’s age. Julian was barely an adult himself, having accepted the position fresh out of university a mere four years prior.

She knew he meant well, but after the unpleasant encounter with Professor Stafford, Ellie imagined she could detect condescension underscoring the admonishing text and closed the app without reply. Besides, even if her mother’s flight landed on time, Isa would not arrive at the condo until late in the evening. There was no way Ellie was going to sit around brooding and alone for six hours. Instead, she hailed a cab and gave the driver an address across town.

Within thirty seconds, she regretted the decision.

I know you!

The cab driver squinted at her in the rear view mirror instead of paying attention to the insane midday traffic. You’re Isa’s daughter, aren’t you? Ellen, right?

Ellie, she mumbled with a polite smile, but the driver wasn’t listening. Instead, he was rambling on about her mother, as if she’d somehow missed the fact that the internationally famous supermodel known mononymously as Isa, was beautiful. Ellie couldn’t open a magazine or walk through Times Square without seeing her mother’s signature pout staring back at her.

And isn’t your old man Rick Whitmore?

He’s my stepfather, she mumbled and immediately felt terrible, cursing her mother’s cryptic email and the confusing feelings it had stirred within her. Richard Whitmore was an acclaimed film director and as much a household name as his wife, but to Ellie, he had always just been Dad. He and Isa had married when Ellie was very young. So young that she did not remember a time before Richard was in their lives. Although he too had older children from a previous marriage, Richard had always treated Ellie as if she was his biological daughter, a kindness that she did not take for granted. 

It’s too bad about your face.

Until that point, Ellie had been content to let the star-struck driver ramble on about her parents. She hadn’t truly been listening and it was easier to get lost in her own thoughts and not appear aloof or rude since he wasn’t trying to make small talk. But the comment, directed at her and of a personal nature, brought her attention back to the present.

I beg your pardon?

Those spots. You know, you ain’t a bad looker otherwise. I bet if you got those removed you’d be almost as hot as your mom.

To say that Ellie had an unusual appearance was something of an understatement. She had been fortunate enough to inherit an enviable share of her mother’s best features, though she had to admit, surpassing Isa’s statuesque height of six feet by several inches before the age of fourteen had felt more like a curse. Undoubtedly, she was a stunning beauty, but Ellie’s natural grace was overshadowed by a peculiar condition that seemed tragically unique to her.

Hundreds of mysterious white dots peppered her skin and formed strange geometric patterns that almost looked like deliberate designs. Unlike freckles, the spots were uniform in size and a brilliant white that stood out rather prominently against her dark complexion. The most striking patterns and highest concentration spattered across Ellie’s high cheekbones and smooth forehead. Isa claimed publicly that her daughter suffered from a rare form of Vitiligo, but Ellie was positive her mother was simply trying to rationalize something that could not be easily explained. After all, she’d spent a small fortune on makeup specifically intended to cover every skin problem imaginable, yet the spots remained.

Which in turn made Ellie a curiosity. Oddly, she didn’t mind the out-there tabloids speculating that she was an alien or a demon from another dimension. She didn’t even mind that the Weekly World News claimed her markings to be the price her mother paid for eternal youth. No, it was the more grounded in reality gossip news outlets that usually caused her the most distress. That people had a tendency to speak of her condition openly, judging her appearance without regard to her feelings hurt more than she would ever admit. She knew it wasn’t just her. All celebrities were fair game, objects to be judged, and not living, breathing humans with the capacity to feel. The driver’s comment only served to reinforce this truth and Ellie’s mild irritation turned quickly to anger.

You can pull over here, she instructed with only the briefest shadow of civility, relieved to finally see the familiar architecture of the east side neighborhood where she still maintained a thin measure of anonymity. Normally, she would have bought the cab driver’s silence with a substantial tip, but after the comments about her face, Ellie wasn’t feeling particularly generous and opted to pay the exact fare instead.

She lingered by the dusty display window of an ancient beauty shop, feigning interest in a display for a skin cream that was at least as old as she was, and waited until the cab pulled away and out of sight. Just to be safe, she stopped in and browsed a couple of the vintage clothing stores that defined this particular block before ducking into a particularly flamboyant shop called Dragulous. She smiled and waved at the woman behind the counter, who winked back, concluded her customer’s transaction, and followed as Ellie ignored the ‘Employees Only’ sign and slipped into the tiny and overstuffed stockroom.

I saw you loitering down by Mable’s. Another super fan or a creeper? Bethany grunted as she threw her weight against the stubborn lock on the back door and made a mental note to pick up WD-40. With an ear-splitting screech, the bolt slid free and the battered steel door swung outward, revealing the trash strewn alley.

Both, Ellie replied, pulling a face. And a massive dick.

You say that like it’s a bad thing, Bethany teased with an exaggerated wiggle of her eyebrows.

"I said he was a massive dick, you pervert. Ellie stifled a giggle before hopping off the loading dock and into the alley below. See you in a few?"

You know it, but I’m going to be a little late tonight. I’m sure he knows, but can you remind Vito for me? Miss Shirley’s coming by right at five. She rolled her eyes dramatically before narrowing them at Ellie. Be careful back there.

I always am. You’re the one I worry about.

Bethany flexed one incredibly well defined bicep and raised her eyebrows.

I ain’t the one with the paparazzi up my butt. I’ll lock back up as soon as you get to the corner.

You better, Ellie called and headed toward the next block. When she got to the corner, she turned around and waved, not leaving until she heard the echoes of the beat up metal door slamming down and the squeak of the locks jamming back into place.

Chapter 2

DESPITE THE INTENSE smell of grease, the ever-present garbage trucks noisily emptying the ever-present trash, and the very real possibility of some pretty big rats lurking in the shadows, Ellie found a certain comfort in New York’s dank back alleys. She relished the virtual silence as traffic noises faded into the distant background and the constant chatter of passing conversations disappeared. Certainly, there was danger. She didn’t dare traverse the narrow two blocks between Dragulous and MochaMoka after dark, but in the thin trickle of afternoon sunlight, she took comfort in the seclusion and knowledge that she was in no danger of a photographer popping up out of a garbage can like a bad cartoon.

Still, when the sun slipped behind a cloud and temporarily threw the narrow passage into an artificial twilight, Ellie was grateful to see a familiar and comforting figure in the distance. Vito, the owner of MochaMoka, stood out on the loading dock, smoking a cigar and staring at his phone with a distracted frown. At the sound of Ellie’s muffled footsteps on the crumbling cobblestones, he looked up, stubbed out his cigar, and stowed the phone in his front pocket.

Don’t you got an exam today?

It’s over.

Already?

For me at least.

Vito shook his head and reached down to give Ellie a hand as she hoisted herself up onto the loading dock.

I thought you said you needed this class?

Do I have another dad now?

Hey, I just worry about ya, kid.

Ellie blushed. I know, and thanks. I appreciate it and I know I’m going to have to take the class again, but right now, I just want to start my summer break.

Fair enough, Vito said with a nod, but added, I’m sure you probably don’t want to hear this, but I got a call from the walking cadaver earlier.

Oh? Ellie tried to act casual, but her stomach automatically twisted. The cadaver was Vito’s nickname for Julian, based on his stiff, British mannerism. He’d figured out early on that Ellie was fond of spending her free time at MochaMoka and warned her about the dangers of wandering New York. Between Vito and Bethany, they’d convinced Julian that the bar was probably one of the safest places in the city. He promised Ellie he would keep her whereabouts from her mother, who would have made far too big of a fuss over the matter. And what did Julian want?

He asked me to tell you to go straight to your mother’s place after class.

What? That’s just... How could he? Ellie sputtered, thinking about the condescending text message she’d ignored, but her anger turned to worry as she thought again about the message from her mother.

Vito chuckled at her. I told him how you were gonna react to that.

So what, are you gonna kick me out now?

Nah. I also told him you were a grown woman who could make your own decisions.

Thanks for that, at least, Ellie grumbled.

Ah, I’m sure he means well, Vito said, sneaking a look at his phone. Go on and let Gertie get ya set up. I gotta wait for those knuckleheads from distribution to come back. He made a rude gesture at his phone. They took my liquor order down to some trinket shop and left me with six boxes of Lady Liberty key chains. Can you believe that? Who buys this junk, anyway?

Only about a million tourists every day, Ellie answered, grinning as she plucked her own keys out of her backpack and showed him a miniature Statue of Liberty that clacked against an Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, and countless other well-known landmarks in miniature form. In fact, there were more tchotchkes on her keychain than keys. They’re a big money maker. Maybe you should hang a few by the register and make a few extra bucks, she teased.

Get outta here, Vito sniffed indignantly. You, of all people, want this place overrun by tourists?

Good point, she said with a genuine chuckle as she went through the open door to the small storeroom. Oh, I almost forgot, she added, turning back to the dock. Your evening bouncer might be late.

Yeah, I already got a warning from Miss Shirley, he grunted and waved her off.

You gotta stop letting her take advantage of you, Vito!

Miss Shirley emceed the area’s most popular drag show, which happened to take place at MochaMoka every Friday night. Unlike Ellie, Miss Shirley was not above using her celebrated status to obtain special favors, like making Bethany stay open late to accommodate her schedule.

With the amount of money she brings in, she can do whatever she wants.

Fair enough, Ellie said, shaking her head as she left Vito to wait for his order.

Inside, she stood a moment in the back hallway to let her eyes adjust to the always dark interior and hummed along with the now familiar notes from one of Gertie’s favorite jazz standards drifting back from the main area. By day, MochaMoka was a semi-upscale Italian bistro where Gertie served up light meals, authentic pastries, and coffee creations to die for. But in the evenings, the jazz changed to the thumping beat of dance music and mixed drinks replaced coffee orders at the bar.

East Village locals from all walks of life frequented the bar both during the day and in the evening. Despite being of a generation that wasn’t known for open-mindedness, both Vito and Gertie were accepting and incredibly protective of all of their regulars. There were rumors—which Ellie didn’t believe for a moment—that MochaMoka was a front for illegal mob-related activity. Even Bethany, who sidelined as a doorman in the evenings, speculated that there was more to the aging owners than meets the eye. Vito was a little rough around the edges, but just because he wanted to keep a low profile wasn’t enough proof to connect him to the mafia.

For Ellie, the dark paneled bar was a safe haven and one of the only places she’d ever been that made her feel normal. With the eclectic and often flamboyant crowd of regulars, hardly anyone gave her height or strange complexion a second glance. And as she settled into a dark corner booth with a hazelnut latte, Ellie was again grateful for the anonymity. She slid her laptop out of her backpack and reread the email. Again, it felt as if her heart was being squeezed tight by a rubber band.

Hello Ellie,

I’d hoped to put this conversation off for as long as possible, at least until your exams were over and the whole family could be together later this summer at the lake, but I’m afraid something has come up that I cannot ignore. I know I’ve rarely mentioned your biological father and on the few instances where you had expressed curiosity, I was probably shorter with you than I should have been. This was never a slight against your father, but more of a misplaced defensiveness on my part because I did not want to diminish or take away anything from your relationship with Richard.

That being said, I realize now my silence has had its own consequences. I wish I could say more, but for the sake of security, I cannot. I am sorry, Ellie, but you must heed my warning.

As soon as your exam is over, please go immediately to my apartment. You will be safe there. Do not talk to anyone, especially strangers. I know, this is the advice I gave you when you were just a child, but all joking aside, Ellie, this is important. Be mindful and be safe.

We need to talk, as a family. I’m getting on a flight and I’ll be in town this evening. Richard has arranged to meet us at the lake, but I want to have a chance to talk to you privately tonight.

I love you,

Mom

Ellie read the letter a few more times, still unable to believe that it wasn’t some sort of hoax. It was true that her mother rarely spoke of her ‘real’ father, but from the way she spoke, always in the past tense, Ellie assumed he had died long ago. Now she wasn’t sure what to think. All she knew of the man was his unusual name: El’iadryov. Her own full name was supposedly a diminutive of his and from the way her mother accented it on the rare occasions when she used it, Ellie assumed her father had been of Eastern European or Russian descent. Knowing that region of the world had been in upheaval right around the time of her birth, a tragic death seemed unfortunately likely.

Of course, she noted, sliding her gaze over to the open door to the stock room—where Vito was giving the delivery driver a hard time, Italians don’t have the monopoly on mobsters, do they?

A quick internet search showed her that organized crime existed everywhere. Suddenly it didn’t seem so far-fetched that her father could have been tangled up with the mafia and that’s why Isa didn’t want Ellie to know about him. Perhaps he was in danger or worse, maybe he was the danger.

Or perhaps I’m stressed and letting my imagination run wild, she chastised silently. Life was not an action movie. Not even with an action movie director as a stepfather.

Girl, you are not going to believe what happened last night.

Ellie jumped, still caught up in the embarrassment over her wild speculations, when a friend of hers plunked a beer on the table and launched himself into the booth across from her. She looked up at Stephan and then at the clock in the corner of her computer’s monitor and blinked. It was already after