*Like she’s luring them all after her so she can kill them, or something? Bad can be good. Look at you for example.*
The noise at the bar had intensified, which must be why it’d chosen to speak directly to his mind.
Ledderik snorted.
Her white hair bobbed into view less and less. Males of various species were sitting down on the nearest chairs and looking confused. She was moving fast, and as she became distant, her pheromonal wake, or whatever it was, subsided.
He thought he could smell it – tangy and fragrant, like those blossoming night lilies on Dispora that attracted eels and paralyzed them when they swam too close to the flower.
Hopefully this one couldn’t do that to men.
He might kill just to see her again and that was bizarre. Not the killing, the seeing. As he squeezed between drunk patrons, he turned this over in his mind.
“Yes, yes, yes!” said Smorg. “Go, Mister Hero! Go help the damsel.”
“She’s s’kar, not a damsel, and I’m no hero.”
“Anti-hero then.”
“Not that either.” He stopped moving, grimaced. This wasn’t his deal.
“Okay, fine, you’re a Not-hero. You gotta admit this excites you? Killing. Maiming. Fucking a girl you got the hots for. Run. Use those little legs.”
“Ignoring you, sword.” He did want to follow her, see her, and this was a girl who truly made his dick hard.
“It’s Smooorg.”
Already he had a deeper relationship with this s’kar female than he’d had with any other female.
High above the heads of the street-goers, he spotted a tentacle waving a blaster – a ribbed row of red lights glowed on the weapon like gills on sea life. Amateurs. A gun that lit up was advertising.
Still... His nostrils widened.
*Wheee! Gun-play! If you don’t chase her, I will never speak to you again.*
“Promises, promises.”
Shit. He was going to do this. Getting himself blaster-creamed by a mollok would be a better death than his fake ashes being thrown on a cemetery heap after his LoL time ran out.
A last-minute fling of violence was in his forthcoming future. His heart sang at the prospect of impending death. He scooped up a few knives and forks in passing, pressed the buckle of the sword belt against his chest to keep it in place, and began to jog.
He’d missed the fun of killing, and with no Zarblu, there was no one to stop him.
People who saw him coming stepped aside with shocked expressions frozen on their faces.
He guessed he must look fearsome. He was tall, wearing his black ensemble, with hooded cloak, big boots, a sword that babbled. Yeah, he was retaking badass.
Skipping would look bad for a cyborg’s reputation so he only grinned and sped up.
She was outnumbered...so maybe he could rescue her and ask for a reward. Like burying this artificial dick between her legs, like Smorg was keen on?
Was that a thing? A viable request?
Why was she seemingly oblivious to what she’d stirred up?
Ahhh. Of course.
It was the day of naming for the s’kar, and she’d been sent on one of those hazing missions, to trace a path to base, collect xyz useless things – no doubt she was busy checking her retinal map instead of scanning bars for leering males brandishing guns.
If she had no idea what was chasing her, she was really in trouble.
Why were they following her though, and with drawn weapons? To kill, steal, capture? Why did she seem so attractive to males?
He messaged Smorg. *Know anything of s’kar sexuality? Is this normal?*
“Yes, I do. Bi-annual cycles. No, it isn’t...I think. Insufficient data to figure out reasons.*
“Okay.”
He hurried faster, stomping on toes and elbowing to get people to move aside. The knives and forks jangled in his cloak pocket.
*That’s it! Faster, faster! If we catch her, I’ll cheer you on and count the thrusts.*
“We?” Ledderik grunted. The sword had worse morals than he did.
Chapter 3
Thorn figured the commotion as she passed through the bar must be due to some celebration.
She flipped her coat collar down, ran a finger between cloth and neck. Sweat dampened her neck, and she felt all-over weird, like a storm was coming, a big electrical storm.
Heavy of body, hot, and terribly aware of everyone she passed. Her last casual glance over her shoulder had showed a trail of people following her. Make that a posse of males – somehow she could tell their gender? Well, that wasn’t unusual. The andurian was of above-average height and the molloks were equally obviously male, handsome, and square-jawed, stalking along in their dark blue long-coats with hair flaring and their tentacles waving above their backs. The dalk had a tall fence of teeth occupying half his face and shoulders that went on forever...dalk females were half that mass.
But, were they following her?
She checked the reflection in a window and spotted what appeared to be a naked fricking weapon. For her? Or was she caught in the middle of some local war? Calling the law might violate her mission. Not that delivering a teddy bear cross tentacle toy was of great importance but she liked putting those precise flourishes on her contracts. Like the Old-Earth saying went – cross the tees, stab the eyes.
Wait. No. It was dot the eyes. She’d never worked out the logic of that.
It wasn’t her they wanted, clearly. They wanted someone else. She was a lowly, unnamed s’kar with barely a coin to her name, if soon to be awarded the captaincy of a starship.
The Jocelyn. She smiled.
Move. Get out of their territory. She scurried.
Her internal map said turn left, then climb a flight of stairs that led to a museum – go through that, out the rooftop exit and mostly it was a straight run across the top to the last checkpoint where she had to hand over this damn stuffed toy, which was a...
Thorn frowned at the stuffed bear thing poking from her coat pocket. Possibly a mollok considering all the blue tentacles.
To pay for entry, she passed her wrist over the screen at the bottom of the stairs before jogging upward.
Halfway up, sound morphed, fuzzed out, and she stopped and placed her palm at the base of her throat. Air loudly rasped inward, outward. Her heart alarmed her, thumping madly, and what was going on between her legs? Gods, she needed to stuff her hand down there. Her cycle was coming, for sure.
“Fuck. Fucking great.” What next?
She went faster, taking several stairs with each stride. A blaster shot went whomm as it passed, heating her ear, melting a light fixture at the top of the stairs. Fuck again.
So illegal! They were definitely after her. Was the bear made of platinum?
She rattled out a request for law assistance with a retinal text then zagged and zigged as she went through the wide entrance, hoping to avoid being hit. The floor was mostly empty, with only a robo-janitor and a family of purple mongorians wandering about. An exhibit of huge animated critters roared as she sprinted by reading the signs.
Reception.
Mongorian star warrior exhibit to the left.
Old-Earth anime zoo to the right.
The lifts, the lifts were ahead.
A ret text from BART law, jurisdiction 303, rolled down her retina: your enquiry will be dealt with ASAP after an explosion and riot in nearby districts are stabilized.
All our citizens and visitors are important to us. Please wait patiently.
How did you stabilize an explosion?
No help coming then. Yet.
She was a highly trained s’kar officer, if unnamed and mostly unarmed except for a small pistol in her coat. She’d figure this out and return the bear.
Thorn skidded into the nearest replica antique lift, boots scraping on the stone floor, slapped the roof tab she wanted, then she watched the lift doors close far...too...slowly for anyone sane who wanted to live.
A voice from above intoned:
Please enjoy our replica elevator music.
Ding ding dingle ding dingle...ding ding dingle... Nauseating.
Draw her little token weapon? No one was shooting at her now, and escalating this would be dangerous with all the innocents.
She considered tossing the bear toy at the feet of the males running toward her, four abreast. The second andurian lumbered behind. A magenta laser blast spat from a weapon he aimed – the bolt zipped between the four and lanced across her lower leg.
The wall had a new hole. Smoke drifted. She smelled cooked meat – her skin.
“Shit!”
Consider the situation escalated.
Gasping, swearing some more, she hopped on her good leg while clutching her other thigh, far above the sizzling wound. That her back hit the side of the lift was the only reason she didn’t fall over.
Grimacing, she watched as the four slowed to check behind them. The two molloks lowered their tentacles.
“False data,” one shouted to his partner, and he nodded back. Their mating tentacles, which were never expanded in public that she knew of, had swollen ends.
Gasping, cursing in obscene words she never knew she had, she watched the purple mongorian family of ten or so stampede out the front doors, screeching. Their wriggly hand lumps waved in distress above their blobby heads.
A lean figure in black sprinted in and leaped onto the andurian who’d shot her, planting his feet atop the creature’s shoulders. A sheathed sword flopped at his back.
He punched his hand at the eye of his foe. Something glinted in his fist and the andurian’s head rocked, the blaster falling from his fingers.
Foe sounded right when describing an andurian. They could dent metal with a headbutt.
The andurian in the row of four raised his weapon, no doubt planning to shoot the cyborg.
Thorn found herself holding her breath. Toasted cyborg might be next.
Something about his bravado had her wishing for his survival. Go, cyborg. Who knew museums could be so freakin’ exciting?
The cyborg – she’d decided he was one by the metal of his hand and the red of his eye – leaped again, somersaulting in mid-air to land neatly on his feet then strolling onward. He scooped up the dropped blaster and shot the second, indecisive andurian as if swatting a pest.
Before the blaster’s whine ran down to nothing, he crumpled into a sprawled, lifeless mess
The lift doors were barely half-closed. Ding ding dingle...
The stabbed andurian was still standing. Frozen, stunned, or dead?
He toppled backward, hitting the floor with a crunch and shudder in a minor earthquake. From the thin metal rods projecting from his eye and his stillness, he was dead.
She winced. The cyborg must know that Old-Earth saying too, and it was definitely stab the eyes. Were those things steak knives?
With a shush, the lift doors met and blocked out everything, then nothing, for the doors and front wall flashed into transparency. Rising, escaping, buoyed by relief, she waved at her pursuers.
“Bye, boys.”
The molloks waved back, looking sheepish, as if aware of some mistake. Like maybe showing off their sex tentacles for everyone to see?
The dalk beside them glowered. Steam whooshed through the slabs of his teeth, shrouding his ugly squashed face. He ran to the side. Going for another lift?
“You better not be.”
Thorn pulled the little pistol from her inside coat pocket and sighed at its pitifulness. If a new-born thwibble came for her it was dead. A dalk? Not so much.
Eyes unfocused she recalled how the cyborg had watched as the lift took her upward. He’d seemed to debate with himself before shaking his head and following the dalk.
Was the cyborg on her side, and what in all the many intergalactic and archaic meanings of Hell had just happened?
The bleeding from her leg wound had slowed. Grimacing, she wrapped her hand over the smoldering hole in her flesh and fancy uniform. Expensive, getting holes blown in you.
Blood seeped between her fingers. The pain spiked and her teeth set against each other.
“Ouch.”
Would she get bonus points for being wounded on this mission? Alas, despite the painfulness, it was shallow.
It seemed likely the dalk was still pursuing her. He outweighed her by two, out-uglied her by ten.
The cyborg, now he was kinda cute, as well as deadly. Thorn squinted, again wondering why he was cute. Correction, seemed cute. An unknown, like most of today.
That metal hand? His efficient red, glowing eye dissecting her as she disappeared upward? That mysterious black outfit and his strong male thighs and arms? She swallowed...and chest.
Hmmm. She’d almost felt his gaze arrive at her crotch and zero in as the distance ticked off.
Like he wanted to put something inside her.
That enticed her. Unnatural. She decided she liked deadly.
Dreaming. Fanciful. Ridiculous.
She should prepare herself for a fight.
And all she had to defend herself with was a tiny gun and a stuffed tentacle bear. Almost of its own accord, her hand slid up her leg to snuggle between her legs...and over that throbbing land where her pussy now ruled supreme.
Her cycle was coming, and she was lusting after a ruthless cyborg who killed with tableware.
“Fuuuuck,” she whispered.
She needed her head examined or her reproductive organs. He wasn’t a s’kar. Not even close.
Reporting a murder, wait, it was two, she remembered to text.
Assistance coming, soon, the law replied. Estimated delay of...twenty...two...spokmins.
“Joy of joys.” She lightly banged her head against the wall behind her.
Gave her time to masturbate though. As if. She wasn’t actually sure of how to do that. She leaned harder into the wall. This lift was such a fantastic replica. Speed of a laden sparrow with herpes. Suddenly, the device decided to remember this was the five thousandth century since galactic reunion and shot upward, making her leg twinge as she braced herself.
Floors thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen wafted past, silently, except for the cheerful dingle of the music. Every second floor the walls and doors became transparent.
Dizzying. This must be why her head seemed ready to explode. She looked down, saw the jut of her nipples ever so obviously pushing the white material outward atop her breasts. Her nipples wanted to celebrate.
Wear black or camo next time I’m in sexual heat, Thorn noted.
If this happened every cycle she wanted to get neutered.
Had the dalk and the cyborg followed her? She’d have some time on them. Dalks were slow as mud. The other lifts would take time to get moving.
She might’ve stopped the lift, might’ve thought about enlisting help from others in this building but her don’t fuck with the s’kar inbred independence made her decide to keep going.
Almost at the roof – her destination.
From there, she could depart and run over the rooftops, as planned. The great huge dalk would never leap even the first gap, and she’d have at least a spokmin on him.
Heads might roll, and tentacles too, once she reported on this mess.
Two andurians were dead on the museum floor. That was surreal.
With her tail lashing and swatting her coat and the wall, Thorn peeked again at her wound. She’d maybe get a scar to remember this by.
Top floor. A chime sounded, warning that her destination had been reached. She took her tail in hand as the doors opened – it calmed her, helped her think. She used to suck the end when young...and oh to be a kitten again.
The dalk was in her face, waiting, gun out, grinning like a nightmare.
Her gun hand was down, dangling. Not a chance she could beat him to the trigger.
“Drop weapon.”
She dropped it. “Hate to get your dentist bills,” she said hurriedly, trying to distract him from shooting her.
His hand lowered, his
mouth opened a tad, showing tongue behind the ten-meters-high palisade of teeth.
Okay, she’d not really measured but now seemed the wrong moment. The dalk fidgeted with his pants as he stepped closer, revealing a rare fact about dalks she was unaware of until now.
Dalks had two dicks and these looked very, very angry, erect, and red. Not that she’d seen many male members out and about.
Thorn gulped. “Hey now, settle down. You want the bear?” Daring a move, she plucked it from her pocket and waggled it. “Bear?”
The dalk only planted a hand on her chest and shoved her into the lift wall, making her cough and yelp. He grinned.
“I want you, s’kar female. Clothes, off!”
“No! Go to whatever hells you believe in!” She was going to dive for the gun wasn’t she? His weapon pressed barrel-upward into her face, since he’d closed in and forced her to hug the wall. “Hurts,” she grunted. It was crushing her cheek bone while his cocks pocked into her stomach below.
“Won’t hurt when I fuck you.” He pawed at her, ripping away cloth that should’ve taken more trauma than that.
“Uhh...” Somehow, considering his size and all, she doubted his words. Don’t panic. Her heartbeat was already going crazy – pulse bumping at the inside of her chest and her throat.
At least his breath smelled of minty flowers.
Desperate, she tried to wide-band, emergency ret text only to find her connection a buzz of static. Now it was panic time.
She tried to knee him, which did nothing as her leg was stuck between him and wall, strained to lean down, then to grab his gun and direct it away, but he was far too heavy to budge.
He only haw-hawed in laughter and grabbed her breast.
“What...” She coughed. “Have you done to –”
A shiny cyborg arm ripped across between her and the dalk’s neck, the cyborg’s hand wrapping over the dalk’s gun-holding wrist.
While the cyborg did magic and hauled away the dalk, Thorn snatched up her ceremonial pistol. She rubbed her sore face. Son of a misbegotten star kraken, the dalk were heavy.
Hauled away, tipped backward, with his heels dragging on the rooftop floor, the dalk gave one squeaky grunt before the point of a sword speared out from the middle of his chest.
Blade (Dark Monster Fantasy Book 3) Page 2