by Corin Cain
Protected by the Alien Warrior Triad
Corin Cain
Contents
Foreword
1. Tammy
2. Forn
3. Hadone
4. Darok
5. Forn
6. Tammy
7. Forn
8. Darok
9. Tammy
10. Darok
11. Tammy
12. Tammy
13. Forn
14. Tammy
15. Hadone
16. Tammy
17. Forn
18. Tammy
19. Darok
20. Tammy
21. Hadone
22. Forn
23. Forn
24. Hadone
25. Tammy
Foreword
Welcome to the Aurelian Empire, where the dominant, powerful alien warriors come in threes!
This steamy reverse harem alien romance is for adult audiences, and is heavy on the action and adventure!
- CC
1
Tammy
The wrench snaps clean in my hand as I push against it too hard – and suddenly without the resistance to hold me back, I lurch forward; raking my hand against the jagged metal of the engine.
Fuck!
I bite back further curses as pain flares through my palm. Looking down, I can already see the bright, red blood surging from the wound. That’s not good. Working on dirty machinery like this means an infection will be almost inevitable unless I treat it quickly.
Fucking Aurelians.
That’s a common refrain throughout the city of Barl. Those arrogant, seven-foot-tall bastards ruined us. My wound is just a painful reminder of how much.
With a snarl, I drop the rusty remains of the broken wrench and yank myself away from the workbench. I’ll have to get my top-of-the-line medical kit. It’s just lucky we have one.
As I cross the room to where I keep the med-kit, I think about the reason for my resentment.
Everyone agrees that the Aurelians are the reason our planet suffers. It’s a point of pride that I was born to a free planet – not one under the yoke of those powerful aliens, who now restrict our trade and put pressure on our economy as retribution for our alleged ‘rebellion’ against them.
Our planet suffers, but not everybody suffers equally.
I can’t believe my best friends abandoned me! Jade and Anna went with the enemy – joining an Aurelian harem! I know it’s not easy here on planet Independence, but giving up your body to those savage creatures, just for the sake of an easier life…?
Alright – I’d be lying if I said the choice my friends had made hadn’t tempted me. I’ve only seen pictures and holo-vids of Aurelians, but the huge warrior-aliens are muscled and lean, with powerful physiques that would make any woman’s knees quake.
Maybe I’m even a little jealous of Jade and Anna – but there’s no way I’d give up my freedom to be just another wench in some alien’s harem. How could you possibly feel special if you’re just one of a hundred women – or more? Aurelians gather masses of women in their infamous harems – desperately trying to find their ‘fated mate’ so they may reproduce. But the irony for women like Jade and Anna? Unless you’re that one in a million woman – one genetically compatible with that specific Aurelian warrior – you’re nothing but a pleasurable set of holes for them to enjoy.
I might not be in an Aurelian harem – so how come I’m still getting fucked by the Aurelians? At least, that’s what it feels like. Their unfair trade policies have crushed our global economy. Their tyranny has crushed our planet’s spirit. I only need to look at the bloody wound on my palm to be reminded of how much suffering those alien bastards have inflicted.
With a snarl, I take the med-kit from the wall. We’re the only chop-shop in the city of Barl – hell, the entire planet of Independence (which was renamed after we broke free from Aurelian rule) – to have a top-of-the-line med-kit. This one is courtesy of the Capital’s nursing school, where I was once an intern.
I was supposed to be helping sick people and curing the wounded. Instead, I now spend my days stripping serial numbers from illicit engines and swapping parts out to confuse the authorities.
I pop open the med-kit and pull out an inexpensive charge of intravenous anti-bacterial agent. I press the cartridge to my palm, just under the wound, and wince at the sharp sting of the injection. In theory, it’s flooding my injury with engineered antibodies designed to counteract any possible infection.
That’s solves one problem – but now I look down and see that the cut across my palm is over an inch long and still gushing blood. I’m not about to waste a charge of my sealant gun on the wound, though. Unlike the cheap charges of anti-bacteria, sealant is worth its weight in gold here on Barl.
The street kids I take care of are always getting scrapes and bruises in their day-to-day life, scraping their meager existence in the back alleys of Barl. I do what I can to look after them.
As a result, while the sealant gun of my med-kit had been fully charged when I’d left the Capital, there’s precious little remaining of the chemical agent now. Every other component in the med-kit I can and do replace. It might take most of my under-the-table salary to keep the kit stocked, but I owe it to the orphans who have no-one else to look after them. The sealant gun, though, is a prized piece of technology dating back before the Aurelian embargo – and it’s practically impossible to get hold of now.
Fucking Aurelians. They even cut off our medical supplies! Those bastards can all rot in hell.
Instead of sealant, I wrap a clean swathe of bandage around my cut. It’ll stop the bleeding – eventually – and so I reluctantly get back to the work-bench before my boss, Edgar, can chew me out for “wasting time on break” as he likes to call it.
Edgar – fuck. He’s got a good heart but he’s a grumpy bear.
I shake my head. I don’t have time to waste on thoughts like these. There’s still one good wrench in my workbench – almost as good as the one that broke – and as long as I’m careful with my work, I shouldn’t have to suffer too much from my injury.
I can’t believe I’m stressing over a fucking wrench – but high-quality metal is in short supply on Independence. The bulk of the short supply goes to our army, who stand on constant alert. When we rebelled against the Aurelians, we lost their protection against the things out there in the universe that are even worse than those marble-skinned overlords.
For example – the moment the Aurelians left, the Scorp started coming.
Scorp are bad news – worse even than the Aurelians. At least you can reason with one of those seven-feet-tall warrior-aliens. There’s no reasoning with the Scorp. I don’t think they’re even capable of reason.
The half-reptile, half-human creatures are proof that if there are Gods watching down on us, they have a sick sense of humor.
Those monstrous beasts can stand over ten-feet-tall, with huge pincer claws and sharp, barbed tails.
Their pincer claws are bad enough. They can rip you in half like your body is made of parchment paper – and, if you’re lucky, that’s what will kill you.
But if you get stung by the barbed tail of a Scorp, your fate is so awful it makes my knees quake just to imagine it. One touch of their dripping barb and you’ll die a horrific, agonizing death from the venom they secrete.
Fortunately, Scorp aren’t native to Independence. They land seemingly at random. The species travels through space in massive, organic ships that look like asteroid-sized eggs. They infest the galaxy like roaches – only towering, deadly, venomous roaches.
Their incursions are relentless, and those organic ships appear in o
ur atmosphere almost weekly. If our anti-air defenses don’t stop them from landing, people die.
Lots of people.
My parents are gone because of the Scorp – so if there’s one thing in this universe I hate even more than those arrogant Aurelians, it’s the red-eyed, reptilian bastards that live to kill.
As much as I blame them for our suffering, it wasn’t the Aurelians who destroyed my family and my future. It was the Scorp.
It hurts to remember my family – which is why I have to force myself to do it regularly. We once lived near the Capital itself. The Capital is the one place on planet Independence still seemingly untouched by the ravages of the Aurelian embargo. It’s the only remaining paradise on this now Gods forsaken planet.
I was supposed to be a nurse there. If everything had gone well, I’d have completed my internship and been working in the Capital hospital right now.
My family had owned a small refinery, servicing the local farms near the Capital. Had. One night, a Scorp organic ship landed in the darkness, unseen and unnoticed by the anti-air defenses. I still feel guilty that I lived while the Scorp interlopers slaughtered my family.
I know it’s foolish to think that way – but survivor’s guilt still haunts me every night, right before I fall asleep.
I’d only escaped because I wasn’t there that night. I’d been the only one in the entire village with high enough grades to get into the Capital’s university system – with a full scholarship for nursing.
That’s why I’d been safe in a city dormitory that night. If only I’d been there when that Scorp ship landed… Maybe I could have saved some of the wounded with my medical training. Maybe I could have helped…
But I was safe and asleep in my bed, and I didn’t even hear about the tragedy until the following morning.
I carry the guilt constantly. The only time it dissipates is when I’m setting a broken leg or bandaging a cut for one of the street kids. When I’m healing other people, it heals part of me – temporarily, at least.
Those poor kids. They take such awful risks. Earlier this year, one of my street brats named Tod tried to snag a useful piece of metal from the tracks of the ancient rail system, but his leg was snapped when a shifting piece of metal fell on him. He was so tough, he wasn’t even crying when they dragged him to me. If it wasn't for me, he wouldn't be walking today. I know that the other orphans would have helped take care of him, especially Stacey, but it would have been bad. Really bad.
Even when it’s not a serious injury like that, the street kids constantly have bite wounds on their body, from when the many savage dogs that hound them finally catch up. Others wear black and brown bruises from the beatings they receive when their shoplifting and thievery is discovered.
The street kids are a reminder that the dark underbelly of Barl can eat you up if you aren’t careful. Stacy, Tod, Tyler and Runner are the four kids that I take care of. They’re like my own children, even though I’m far too young to be their mother.
The street kids. My slaughtered family. Life certainly is grim here, but if you let it get you down then you'll give up, and giving up isn't an option.
I shudder, trying to push out the dark thoughts of Scorp Warriors from my head. I think of those murderous reptiles daily, but at least they haven’t attacked this close to the city in over a decade. Yet, even as I remember that, I feel a constant anxiety that these uneasy peace-times will soon be broken.
“Oi! Tammy! How’s that order coming along? Almost done the fucking thing?” It’s my boss, Edgar. His voice is gruff and curt. I shoot him a glance from across the grimy mechanic’s shop.
Edgar claims he once had a fancy downtown showroom for luxury cars, long before I was born. Now, though? He runs a chop-shop – selling used parts and rebuilt vehicles that we don’t ask too many questions about. It’s better to keep ignorant, given the shady characters who bring in cars, hoverbikes, and anything else they think we can chop and flip.
For example, right now: When Edgar asked about the order, he really meant: “How’s it going stripping any identifying materials and serial numbers from those parts, so we can flip the stolen goods without getting caught?”
“Give me five minutes!” I shout back at Edgar, grimacing as I open the engine back up, exposing its valuable guts to me. The cloth bandage around my palm is soaking through with blood, and as I work I realize the cut is a lot more painful than I was expecting.
I still won’t waste a charge of the sealant gun on it. I don’t have the money to recharge the gun, and if something horrible happens to Stacy, Tod, Tyler or Runner… I’d hate myself forever if I’d wasted one of the last charges on myself.
I scan the innards of the engine. Engines are simple – not like people. They all work roughly the same way. At least, the ones on Independence do - because we can’t afford fancy Orb-powered machines here, like the Aurelians have.
Other than that, being a mechanic is somewhat akin to being a nurse. It’s all about knowing which bits go where, and making sure all the leaks are plugged.
The advantage of machines over people, of course, is that when something’s wrong with an engine on Independence, you can poke around inside it without causing it any pain. Surgery on people isn’t quite as simple as that.
But simple doesn’t always mean better. I think back to my days in the Capital, working my internship in nursing. I wish I could go back there – but without my parents to help with rent, and with seventy-hour work weeks expected in my unpaid practicum, there was no way I could afford to continue.
Which was ironic – that I couldn’t afford to help people. Surely you shouldn’t have to pay for that. People in Independence desperately needed help.
I know, because I feel like that’s my purpose – I should be helping people, not contributing to the rampant crime problem in Barl.
But I force back my conscience and instead focus on swapping parts from one engine to another, hopefully making both untraceable.
Not that the authorities care too much. Edgar slips them an envelope filled with cash every month. The problem is – each month they push for more, no matter how much we make. I’ve seen the stress in Edgar’s face as the end of every month draws near, wondering how much blood they’ll squeeze from us this time around.
“Work faster! Johno is coming down with new orders later tonight. Gotta make a living after these fucking Aurelians try to bleed us dry.” Edgar’s booming voice is unnecessarily loud. His hearing worsens every year, probably from the long decades in this loud shop. If I stay here much longer, I’ll end up like him – straining to make out even simple words.
That’s the least of my worries though. Chop-shops don’t exactly have the greatest worker’s safety protocols, as evidence by the rusty wrench that cut me. I’ll probably hack open an artery or die of an infection long before I run the risk of going deaf.
Plus, there’s always the risk that someone is going to come in looking for their missing goods. I know Edgar’s got his single-shot rifle, but if we piss off the wrong people…
Sometimes I wonder if it’s all bullshit – this narrative that the Aurelians are bleeding us dry. I know everyone says the Aurelians are behind the economic depression, but it stinks like politics. The current planetary elect is part of the Human-Nationalist party which thrive on anti-Aurelian feeling. Rumors persist that the ruling party is just a puppet of Lord Aeron, the richest man on Independence – who always has the shadow of his gaunt-faced viceroy lurking behind him. Mysteriously, Lord Aeron’s businesses have all flourished since the embargo halted Aurelian wares. His lower quality goods have less competition without the off-planet imports.
As a result, I’d wager his Human-Nationalist party has every incentive to keep anti-Aurelian sentiment high – but as much as I hate the warrior-aliens too, there’s one thing I’ve come to realize with certainty:
If you stop taking Aurelian protection, they’ll leave you out to dry.
I’ve never seen one of the towering
aliens in person. I can’t say I want to. It still rankles that Jade and Anna left for one of their harems. I’ve heard the rumors of how violent they can be, especially during the mating frenzy.
I can take care of myself, but that doesn’t mean I’d seek out a losing fight – especially not when Aurelian warriors travel, fight and fuck in ‘triads’ of three bonded warriors.
Once again, I shake my head to refocus on the task at hand. I move to the next batch of parts, filing down the serial numbers. I have to do it by hand, and as a result my palms and fingers are calloused after years of work.
It wasn’t always this way. Once, my hands were as soft as those of Jade and Anna. I’ll admit, I miss my two friends badly, even though I resent them. Jade and Anna left during the exodus ten years ago, before the new Human-Nationalist party restricted space travel for women. Wave after wave of young women were leaving the dust and poverty of planet Independence to join Aurelian harems.
I used to receive holograms from Jade and Anna, both lounging around a huge pool on the Aurelian home planet of Colossus. They were basking in paradise while I worked my hands bloody – until they resembled those of a man.
Then, one day, the holograms stopped coming – around the time that the Human-Nationalist party put extreme restrictions on space travel.
I try not to be resentful, but it’s hard not to be when the two women you once called your closest friends joined the other side – literally sleeping with the enemy, and merely for the promise of an easier life.
I’ll admit, I sometimes imagine what life might be like as part of an Aurelian harem. No more worrying about where my next meal is coming from. Days spent in the sun, nights spent…