Hunted by the Alien Pirate: Mates of the Kilgari

by Kyle, Celia

  “I’m more than willing to spill blood and have my own spilled.” Grantian crosses his arms over his chest. “I am no coward, Montier.”

  “I did not say you were. But if battle is what it takes to free our missing crew mate, then battle must be joined. It must.”

  Grantian sneers, drawing himself up to his full height.

  “I do not shy away from battle, but neither do I see a point in throwing away lives in pursuit of a lost cause.”

  “Lost cause?” I hold my hands out, clenching my fists and trembling with rage. “My fated mate is a lost cause? Would you be so fucking cavalier about turning the other cheek if it were Lamira in the clutches of the accursed Project Blue Dawn?”

  Grantian opens his mouth to respond, but then his eyes glimmer with comprehension. He can’t quite muster anything to reply with, but Solair interjects himself.

  “Montier, that is quite enough. I understand your anger, your fear, but turning against your own is no solution.”

  “Turning against my own?” I sneer at him, struggling to contain my anger. “But it is not my own. This is your crew. Is it not? Or perhaps we should return to the old ways, when the captaincy was determined by ritual combat.”

  Solair’s eyes widen, and Grantian takes a step forward.

  “Montier, you are way out of line.”

  “Then allow me to compound my crimes with assault.”

  I ball up my fist and take a step toward Solair, but a light begins to flash on the comm console. Swipt peers at the read out, and his mouth gapes in shock.

  “It’s an incoming message—from Fiona?”

  “What?” I rush to the console, nearly bowling Swipt over in my haste. I start punching keys in an attempt to respond.

  “Settle down, Monty, it’s a one-way transmission. She can’t hear us, but we can hear her—that is, if you shut the fuck up and let us.”

  Swipt’s admonishment works better than Solair’s proclamations precisely because our pilot is usually so low key and laid back. If I’ve angered him, I must really be out of line. I force myself to calm down while Swipt turns up the volume. Fiona’s sweet voice, distorted by feedback, reaches my ears.

  She’s alive, at the very least. For that much I am grateful.

  “…managed to hack this console but it won’t be long before I’m noticed. I didn’t tell them a thing, guys, not a damn thing. They don’t believe me, but they’ve given up the interrogation. They’re going to sell me at an auction. I don’t know when. Probably soon. End transmission.”

  The comm goes silent, and I slam my fist down onto its surface in barely contained rage.

  “Settle down, Montier. If you wreck the bridge, we’re all screwed.”

  I turn toward Solair and struggle to keep my tone even.

  “Captain, we must return to Perseus immediately.”

  “The answer is still no, Montier.”

  I growl low in my throat, my pulse throbbing so hard in my temple it’s giving me a headache.

  “But Solair…they’re going to sell her, like a piece of meat at the market. Don’t you know what that means?”

  Solair’s grimace fades into a sad frown.

  “I know, Montier. I know all too well, but we don’t have any choice. The Ancestral Queen, even with her recent upgrades, isn’t a match for a fleet of mercenary ships. It’s a suicide mission.”

  “Would you be so cowardly if Varia was about to be sold lock, stock, and barrel? Hmm? Would you leave her twisting in the wind because you feared a good fight?”

  “I don’t fear a good fight. I fear the destruction of this ship and the deaths of everyone on it, including you.” Solair sighs. “Montier, please try to see reason. If we get killed, there will be no one to rescue Fiona. We have to sit back, be patient, and pick our spot.”

  “Pick our spot?”

  “Montier…” Grantian moves forward and puts a hand on my shoulder. “We haven’t fully restocked our supplies, and we’re running low on provisions and credits. We are simply not in a position to mount a rescue effort at this time.”

  I settle down a bit, realizing he’s right, but my mind continues to work in overdrive. There must be a way we can manage this. There must be.

  Then it hits me, a crazy scheme that I would not foist upon my worst enemy, but a scheme with a minimal chance of success nonetheless. Now I just have to sell it to Solair.

  “I have a solution that will allow us to slay two rats with one blade stroke. We can rescue Fiona and turn an incredible profit at the same time.”

  Solair’s mouth twitches, but he settles back in his command chair.

  “I’m listening, Montier.”

  “Right. So here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to find out where this auction is taking place, crash the party, and rob the patrons and body merchants alike.”

  Solair reacts as if he’s been slapped but then turns toward Grantian.

  “Thoughts?”

  Grantian shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot.

  “Well…it’s true that slavers often have a plethora of resources, not to mention the wealthy bidders. And we could free the women from their clutches as well.”

  “The plan gets my vote.” Varia turns her gaze on her fated mate, and Solair grimaces.

  “Sometimes, I hate being in command.” He sighs and then nods. “Very well, Montier. It’s a long shot, but your scheme is just crazy enough to actually succeed.”

  He turns toward Grantian once more.

  “Grantian, see if you can find any likely locales in this sector for such an auction, and make the superluminal calculations. The Ancestral Queen is riding to the rescue after all.”

  Now that I’ve gotten my way, I’m suddenly ashamed and humbled by my earlier outbursts.

  “Thank you, Captain…” I drop my gaze to the floor. “I am sorry I threatened to assault you earlier.”

  “No worries, Monty. You’re right. If Varia was in danger, I’d probably be just as determined to save her.”

  Hang on, my love. We’re coming.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Fiona

  After I sent my message, I logged off of Tarsk’s computer console and returned to the seat he’d left me in. I remained in place, trying to still my beating heart.

  I know the transmission was received. I wish I could have made it a two-way communication, but that would have required spending more time attempting to hack into their central comms system. I wasn’t sure how long I’d be left by my lonesome, and it seemed more prudent to get the message off before I ran into trouble.

  Now, it’s all I can do not to explode. Whatever they’re planning on, be it putting me up for auction or engaging in “enhanced” interrogation techniques, I wish they’d just get it over with. Waiting is killing me for sure.

  After what seems like hours but is likely more akin to less than one, the doors slide open behind me. Playing my part to the hilt, I quickly spin about in my seat and look with fear upon Tarsk and a pair of burly Kraaj guards.

  “Well, my little delicacy, are we feeling more talkative? Or is it time to put you on the block?”

  Making sure to put a worried, clueless expression on my face, I reply.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I already told you everything, simply everything.”

  He snickers and puts his arms akimbo as he gazes down at me with a half-smile on his silver-skinned face.

  “Not bad. You really are a skillful liar. So be it.”

  Tarsk gestures at his fellows, and they move forward to each grab one of my arms. I have no intention of not cooperating with them, but they take that choice away from me anyway.

  I groan as they throw me on my belly over the desk, roughly pulling my arms behind me. Using a set of magnetic manacles, they secure my wrists together in a crossed position. Then one of them produces a black cloth made of a flexible and light material similar to spandex and forces it over my head, blindfolding me. I try not to panic, realizing I can still brea
the through the porous fabric, even when they tighten it around my throat with a brace.

  Then I’m roughly herded along ahead of them, out of the office and, I presume, to the top level. I only know I’m outside because of the gust of wind and the scent of fresh air that reaches my nostrils beneath the hood.

  They load me onto some form of transport, probably a hover sled since it seems to have an open cabin design. Indeed, my belly bottoms out as they lift off of terra firma. One of them, as if I needed to be secured even more, snaps my ankles together with another manacle and then secures my crash webbing across my chest. He gropes me deliberately during the process, which I endure without protest, though not without flinching.

  I guess maybe they’re afraid I might try to throw myself off of the moving vehicle to my death. To be honest, if it weren’t for the fact that I know Montier will be coming for me, I might consider it. The life of the enslaved is a hard one and not likely to end well for me.

  Although officially outlawed on most civilized planets, slavery still flourishes throughout the seamier and rougher parts of the galaxy. It is still tolerated on many planets in the League of Non-Aligned Races, as each sapient race has their own customs and traditions they hew to.

  Slavery is also still an economic building block in the Helios Combine. And sadly, it is still allowed in the frontier, where established law from political entities capable of backing up their edicts with firepower is thin.

  I’m not sure how long we travel, or what direction we go in. After about an hour or so, I feel the hover sled dropping altitude as we vector in for a landing.

  Once we’re back on the ground, my captors free my ankles and then slip a noose around my throat before leading me like a dog on a leash. I’m glad for the hood at the moment, believe it or not. It would be rather humiliating to be seen like this.

  I don’t know where I am, but I can hear the sounds of what seems a busy marketplace. A man with an Alzhon accent is hawking his guaranteed treatment for erectile dysfunction, which apparently involves powdered Kilgari horns. I have to shudder at that notion. Not only is there no way it would work, it’s downright cruel in concept. I try to reassure myself that in all likelihood the compound contains no such thing at all.

  Smells reach my nostrils through the hood—exotic spices and sizzling meat being prepared for the consumption of the bazaar-goers. The turf beneath my feet seems muddy and slippery, and I stumble several times during the trek. Unfortunately, this causes me to choke as the noose slides shut on my throat, and I hastily scramble back to my feet—no mean feat without the use of my arms.

  At last I’m taken into a cool environment, interior because I can no longer feel the wind. I stumble down a sloping decline, and at last they remove the hood.

  I blink several times, realizing there’s not much light down here. Red clay walls, like in a pit, hem me in on all sides. A long metal bar has been anchored into the clay by multiple posts, and chained to it by their ankles is a line of women, most of them looking terrified, and all human. All but one looks to me with a mix of fear and curiosity as my wrists are freed and I’m added to the coffle.

  “Sit down.” The one woman who does not react sits against the far end, holding her knees and rocking back and forth with her matted hair hanging in front of her face, obscuring her features.

  I settle into my spot, looking at my fellow captives with a mix of pity and regret. Hopefully, when my rescue comes, these poor souls will be liberated as well.

  One of the women, not much older than me with golden-brown skin, dares to speak once the guards leave us alone in the dark, fetid chamber.

  “You look like a recent capture, not an import. Did they nab you on Perseus?”

  I sigh and decide to tell the truth. What the hell? Got nothing to lose now, anyway.

  “Well, my friends and I were framed as terrorists by a shadow cabinet in the IHC government and came to Perseus to investigate their evil machinations, but then we ran into Kraaj mercenaries who took me captive.”

  She blinks in confusion and then apparently decides I’m pulling her leg.

  “I was just asking,” she grumbles before falling into silence.

  I shrug, though I suppose it is a rather outlandish story.

  The door to our cell bangs open, and a Kraaj slaver throws a bundle of cloth at my feet.

  “Get dressed.”

  Then he leans his back against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest, a slight smirk on his lips. Clearly he intends to watch the entire process.

  I pick up the cloth and discover it’s a two-piece number, a pair of ludicrously short shorts—they might as well be panties—which are comprised of a thin, diaphanous black material, utterly see-through in all but the poorest light. The top is of a similar design, ostensibly covering my breasts, but in reality seeming more like an invitation than a visual barrier.

  Turning my back on the guard, to offer him the least amount of a show as possible, I slip out of my torn and dirty garments and dress myself like the other women. Then I turn about, covering my body as best I can with my hands as he snatches up my old clothing and leers.

  “Perhaps I will bid on you myself, fair one.”

  Perhaps you can choke to death on your own vomit, ugly one.

  He leaves us, and I sigh about the indignity of it all.

  “Don’t worry, Fiona. Help is on the way.”

  I turn around sharply, staring at the woman with her hair flung over her face.

  “How do you know my name?”

  The shoulders shake as she gives a slight chuckle.

  “Would you believe I’m a psychic?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Because I’m not.” She flings back her hair, and I gape at the smiling face of Varia.

  How in the hell did she get here?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Montier

  “Remind me again why I agreed to be hornswoggled into this ludicrous caper?”

  Solair turns toward Thrase and offers a shrug as our shuttle puts down just outside the bustling marketplace teeming with sapients.

  “Because you’re a noble woman who is willing to sacrifice some of her dignity in order to ensure the safe return of her friends?”

  “Dignity?” She looks down at herself with chagrin. “What dignity? I have surrendered it all after being dressed in this…I hesitate to even call it a garment.”

  Thrase, much like Lamira, the dark-haired woman who sits next to her mate Grantian, has been adorned in the appropriate fashion of women to be put on the market. Per se, her clothing, such as it is, is designed to put the goods on display. A short tunic-type garment covers her torso, belted at the waist to display her figure, barely decent by about an inch. It won’t be decent if she should bend at the waist to any degree. The neckline is plunging, the back nonexistent, and the gimmicked collar and leash padlocked around her fair throat give the illusion of our deceit some legitimacy.

  I have to point out, Lamira isn’t complaining, but then again, she’s not Thrase.

  “Zander likes it.”

  She turns to glare at me sharply. I had intended my utterance to be private, but perhaps my volume was too loud.

  “Cretin. Too bad for you Zander is far too mature and intellectual to be taken in by a mere display of naked flesh.”

  Zander carefully turns his gaze out the window, pretending he isn’t blushing. Rumors have it that Zander has a thing for Thrase, and possibly vice versa, but I have no confirmation of that. Rumors swirl on a ship like the Queen on long voyages after all.

  “All right, settle down and get into character.” Solair locks out the shuttle commands with a password since this isn’t the most reputable of markets. Hot desert winds whip around us. All around our group, the climate is arid and the terrain is desert-like. It’s hot. And dry.

  And dangerous.

  Getting into character means for Grantian, Solair, Zander and me to put up the hoods on our billowing, tent-like desert robes. Ostensibl
y it’s supposed to hide our horns, given that two Kilgari were seen infiltrating the Blue Dawn Facility on this planet.

  Grantian’s search for a slave market was a short-lived one, and it turns out we had to go back to Perseus after all. While it saves us a lot of time, and I’m obviously gratified by the short delay, I try not to gloat about it. Too much.

  We exit the shuttle and join the milling throng as they meander about the marketplace. While the slave auction is obviously the star of this particular locale—their prison-like building is by far the largest in the bazaar—plenty of other merchandise is on display. Trying to blend in, we don’t make directly for the slave auction, but mill about looking at the various wares.

  Despite her protests, Thrase stays in character. She and Lamira meekly follow along behind us on their leashes, looking suitably indignant and dejected. Eventually we work our way up the street where a Kraaj hawker stands on a wooden slab, gesticulating wildly as he stands before a line of chained, completely nude human women. These women aren’t actually for sale—yet—but are being used as living advertisements for what awaits the patrons inside.

  “Behold, my fellow sapients, feast your eyes upon the beauty that can only be found in human women. See their supple skin, just waiting for your disciplinary lashes, their delicate fingers, ready to please you in all the ways you’ve imagined and many you’ve never dared to ponder.”

  His face splits in a wide grin as we head past him for the entrance.

  “Ah, my good sirs, please come inside. You will not be disappointed. I promise you.”

  “I’m sure we won’t.” Solair grins at him and then speaks in a low tone to the rest of us. “I don’t see many soldiers about at all.”

  “Indeed.” Grantian grins and pats his concealed punch dagger. “If it comes down to a fight, I like our chances very much.”

  We head inside the slaver building—a squat, cube like structure with cells lining the outer walls. Many sad-looking women stare out the bars down at us, and I feel a swell of pity for them. Perhaps there is a silver lining in our being forced to mount a rescue for Fiona.