Marauder Fenrir: Scifi Alien Invasion Romance (Mating Wars)

by Aya Morningstar

  He claims he doesn’t want it, but he’s hard-wired to want it.

  I look through the glass at his massive and erect teal cock. Hard-wired.

  I don’t want to exploit him like this...but I have to tempt him enough so he will stay with me. I saw it in his eyes just before the scrubbers came in: he wanted me gone, and he was going to make a clean break.

  But now? Now he’s staring blatantly through the glass at me. He can’t take his eyes off me, and I blush as I realize just how often I’m looking down at his naked and rock-hard body as I scrub myself.

  Why? I’m not actually going to...do anything with him. Right?

  No. Of course not.

  I just need him to protect me from the habbers, and I need to get him to agree to take me down to Mars. Once I’m bundled up for Martian atmosphere, he’ll be less tempted by me, and I’ll make sure his cock stays in his shapeless pants. I’ll help him find Cygnus, and then I’ll get the hell away while those two to do whatever it is they want to do to each other. Kill each other, conspire together? Whatever their real plan is, it’s nothing I can stop on my own or by myself.

  Once I’m free of him, the Empire and New Copenhagen...I can try to find my sister Aura. We can find a way to fight back against the invasion, or at least try to stop the pointless war between the Empire and Mars-Venus.

  He’s still staring at me. What happened to me corrupting him? What happened to me being the end of his race? Is he testing himself? Is this some form of religious flagellation?

  “Fiona!” Sudsley chirps over the sound of the rushing water.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re free of contaminants!”

  The water cuts off.

  “We wouldn’t want to waste any water,” he says.

  I look down, and there are still soap suds dripping all down my body.

  “Can I get another few seconds to wash away the soap?”

  “Nope!” Sudsley says. “You’re not a citizen! Thanks for using the pressure bath; New Copenhagen appreciates your cooperation.”

  The glass pane slides back up, and suddenly I’m standing dripping wet and soapy in front of Fenrir’s naked body. I can hear his big teal cock vibrating as it stands impossibly tall and erect, right in front of me.

  He’s grinding his teeth and his ears are twitching.

  “Here’s a towel!” Sudsley says.

  A rack shoots out of the floor between us, and the towel positions itself between Fenrir and me.

  I grab the towel off the rack and quickly wrap it around myself. “Do you mind?” I ask.

  I see him sigh visibly as the towel covers my body, and he turns around, away from me.

  “Why were you staring at me the whole time I showered?” I ask.

  “It’s part of the bonding,” he says. “I must look at you when you are naked, or I will die.”

  Oh, so he’s going to play along with me now? And not only that, but he’s going to embellish the lie?

  I sigh and nod. It’s what I was trying to make happen with this stunt: get him stuck with me to protect myself. Mission accomplished...but I realize that I really am stuck with him.

  And his big teal boner.

  The towel is clean and fresh, but the soap suds are slimy, so I don’t feel totally clean. But after several days aboard the Cygnus’s Bane without a shower, I’m sparkling clean compared to how I was before.

  “Now,” Sudsley says, “here are some clothes!”

  The rack sinks back into the floor, and pops back up with a utilitarian jumpsuit for me and a super-trendy, high-fashion outfit for Fenrir.

  “Sudsley,” I say, looking down at the gleaming platinum buttons and the smart-fabric tie. “Why am I wearing a glorified prisoner outfit, while Fenrir gets to wear...that.”

  “He’s too tall!” Sudsley says. “None of our...erm...guest outfits will fit him. We had to give him some citizen clothes. Enjoy!”

  Habbers are, on average, a few feet taller than surface dwellers. Not because of gravity or anything like that–habs spin and generate Earth-like gravity–but they are taller simply through superior nutrition and genetic modification. They’re almost as tall as Marauders. Almost.

  “I will not wear clothes,” Fenrir says.

  His cock has fallen and is hanging between his legs, still semi-hard. I do my best not to look, but there’s only so much I can do to stop myself from staring.

  I point to the clothes.

  “Put them on,” I say.

  We wait at the airlock, fully dressed, me in my prisoner outfit and Fenrir in his fancy threads.

  “This is ridiculous,” he says, looking down at his tie.

  It’s transparent when he looks down, but as he furrows his brow and bats his ears, the tie starts to turn teal.

  I roll my eyes. “I guess I know what you’re thinking about.”

  “Yes,” Fenrir says. “My penis can barely fit in these ridiculous pants. Do human males really have such small cocks?”

  I blush, realizing that compared to him, they do have small cocks.

  “Maybe if you ask nicely,” I say, “they will give you something more comfortable to wear.”

  His pants are tight on his muscular calves, but poufy on his thighs–typical habber fashion–and they tighten again as they reach his waist. I can see his cock bulging through the right pant leg. It really does look uncomfortable.

  “Nicely?” Fenrir says. “But I’m angry! Why would I be nice?”

  “You want pants that won’t squeeze your dick, right?”

  “Yes,” he replies.

  “So if you rage and throw a fit, do you think they will give you what you want?”

  “I may have to kill a few of them first,” Fenrir says, “to show that my rage is more than a bluff.”

  I sigh. “You can’t kill anyone here, Fenrir. You might be able to take a few down, but they will make sure you never walk free again if you start killing people.”

  “So what do I do?” he says.

  “Say please?”

  “Please?”

  “Yes,” I say. “You ask for something, rather than demanding it. Then you say ‘please’ to show you are being polite and respectful.”

  He looks at me with furrowed brows. “I need pants that can hold my penis. Please.”

  Suddenly his tie blinks, and a voice says, “Coming right up!”

  He looks down at his crotch, and I see the pants loosen around his dick, until I can no longer see it bulging through the pants.

  “Jesus,” I say. “They really have it made up here…”

  “Interesting,” Fenrir says. “It’s like a primitive biosuit. Suit! I would like a bladed weapon the same thickness as my forearm, and I would like you to begin converting solar energy into producing as many kilocalories of chocolate as possible. Please.”

  “Sorry!” the tie says. “We’re a peaceful habitat. No weapons allowed.”

  Fenrir grabs the tie and holds it up to his mouth like a microphone. “Please make chocolate.”

  “Uh,” the tie says, “I can make your clothes a nice chocolate color, but I can’t make food! Sorry!”

  “I am hungry, Turret Woman,” Fenrir says.

  “Can you please just call me Fiona?” I ask. “Please, Fenrir. Please.”

  “No,” he says. “It may confuse the other Fionas on the habitat.”

  “The other...how do you know there will even be another Fiona on the habitat?”

  “We’ve seen one already, so it’s safe to assume there is an even mix of genders aboard New Copenhagen.”

  “That was a Lisbeth, not a Fiona,” I say.

  He narrows his eyes at me. “I see. I’ve made a mistake. This is not a dialect...it’s a blasphemous practice where childless women have names. ‘Fiona’ does not mean ‘female,’ it’s...your name.”

  I almost laugh, but I worry that if I insult him, he will go back to calling me ‘Turret Woman,’ which is even more annoying than ‘The Fiona.’

  I keep a straigh
t face and say, “Yes! Now could you please call me by my name?”

  “No,” he says. “I will call you Turret Woman.”

  12 Fenrir

  Men nearly as tall as me, and women nearly as beautiful as Turret Woman—nearly, but not quite–escort us onto a small vehicle.

  The vehicle is attached to some kind of metal rail, and it moves us quite quickly along the center of the habitat’s end-cap.

  I’m familiar with habitats as a concept, though I’ve never been in one. My mother’s race was quite advanced, and they’d built a massive series of habitats that had surrounded my birth star. My mother’s race–whose name we must no longer speak–was advanced enough to think they could fight back against the Marauder fleet.

  My father’s invasion fleet hurled enough anti-matter into my birth star that it swelled and overloaded. My father’s fleet helped them evacuate the swelling sun, and thus he met my mother.

  By the time I was born, the habitats had all been destroyed, and I grew up on one of the ships that now races toward the human’s system.

  “Holy fuck!” Turret Woman says, jumping out of her seat and looking through the window. “Fenrir! Look!”

  The sides and top of the vehicle are all glass, and the rail that we are travelling along seems to be located dead center in the habitat, thus we are in zero-g and surrounded on all sides by New Copenhagen.

  I float up by her side, and as I look out, I feel something stir deep within my chest. The humans are primitive, but...this is more than mere engineering. It’s art. Blasphemous, but moving.

  On all sides I see green pastures and houses with bright red roofs. There are even small clouds floating a few kilometers between the central spine and the land, and some of the strips of land have big lakes. The lakes are filled with boats, and the boats have sails colored bright yellow, light blue, and red. And all of the ground and water and space is all curved. I look out across our 180-degree field of view, and see 180-degrees of New Copenhagen. It’s as if the human’s home planet of Earth were hollow, all of the cities were built on the inside of the crust, and I could look up and see all of humanity from the earth’s core.

  “No wonder they are so fucking full of themselves,” Turret Woman says. “I had no idea…”

  “Welcome to New Copenhagen,” one of the men escorting us says. “We will take one of the spokes down, so you’ll need to strap in. As we descend, you will begin to feel the gravity of the centripetal force.”

  Turret Woman lets out a raspy breath of air, which I know by now is a sound indicating annoyance. “Yeah, I may be from Earth, but I know how basic physics works, asshole.”

  The man grins and points down at our seats.

  She kicks off the window, finds her seat and straps herself in.

  “Please, sir,” the man says to me.

  “You are indicating niceness,” I say, “but you have not made a request of me.”

  “Please sit down and buckle in,” he says.

  “What are your ships like?” Turret Woman asks me. “Your big fleet ships?”

  I answer her as I buckle in. “Marauders make no concessions toward…” I look up and see the beautiful red of the houses and the emerald green grass and fluffy white clouds. “Aesthetics. Beauty. Frivolous things.”

  “So your ships look like shit?” she asks.

  “No,” I say. “We have evolved to produce very little waste, and what little we do produce is filtered through highly efficient sewage and waste–.”

  “No,” Turret Woman says, “I mean...your ships look bad. Ugly.”

  “They are neutral!” I say. “As soon as we have interbred with a host race and produced offspring, we must immediately resynthesize reaction mass from the host sun and gas giants. Decades of scraping and refining anti-matter to sustain us and bring us to the next star system.”

  “Why not relax?” she asks. “Get a few nice decorations built so the trip isn’t so dreary?”

  “If our offspring don’t conquer and interbreed with a new race before they die of old age, our entire race will perish.”

  “If you’re so advanced,” she says, “shouldn’t you be able to figure out a way to fix that little glitch in your DNA?”

  “It’s what makes us strong,” I say. “The need to conquer, to interbreed, it’s what makes us Marauders.”

  “You really think so little of us?” one of the women counters, turning back to face me.

  I can feel the gravity increasing as our vehicle nears one of the strips of land. I can even see animals grazing in one of the fields and small vehicles moving across roads on the ground. They are small dots still, but growing larger.

  “What?” I snap back at the woman.

  “You’re just going to tell us everything? Shouldn’t you withhold information, or do you think we pose no threat?”

  “I would please like to cooperate with you, please, to see how we can work together. To arrange a bloodless interbreeding.”

  Turret Woman glares at me.

  I was not polite enough, I realize. I remember my studies from back on the fleet, and add another politeness word. “Thank you.”

  The woman scoffs. “You think you’re hot shit, huh? You think we’re just going to throw ourselves at you?”

  “Why are humans so interested in shit?” I ask. “Is it because you produce so much of it?”

  13 Fiona

  I snicker at Fenrir’s accidental insult. It shut the stupid habber up, but I know Fenrir well enough by now to know that it was a coincidental burn. Or is he way smarter than he comes off, and he’s just playing me with his dumb caveman act?

  I’m still staring in awe at the habitat. It’s what Earth must have looked like in its prime, at the height of relatively peaceful human civilization. I still hate the habbers for their elitism, but seeing New Copenhagen, I can’t blame them for protecting this. If I had been born here, I’d never want to leave either and die to protect it.

  I can see some of the cows as we get closer and closer to the ground. It looks like this spoke we are traveling down will take us directly into a tall building. I want to get outside and feel the grass on my bare feet, but I worry that the building will be our last stop on New Copenhagen. I’m already wearing my prison outfit, and this small glimpse of paradise may be all I ever get. So I open my eyes and drink it all in before it’s gone.

  The building finally swallows up our tram, and the view suddenly disappears.

  “What is this building?” I ask.

  “The Sortitiary,” one of the women says.

  “What does this mean?” Fenrir hisses at me.

  “It’s where their leaders meet.” I say. “I guess you’re important.”

  “Their emperor?” he asks me.

  “The habs don’t have emperors,” I say. “They have triumvirates.”

  His ears pull back, and his chiseled jaw tightens. He narrows his eyes at me.

  “Three people working together to rule,” I say.

  “I see,” he says tersely.

  We’re at full Earth gravity now–something I haven’t felt in a while–and the tram slows to a crawl in a modern-looking lobby ornamented with smart walls and other extremely fancy decorations.

  Fenrir narrows his eyes, and the walls turn purple and teal. He grins.

  “Very important,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  “You’ll be meeting the triumvirate shortly,” one of the women says. “I must caution you that this particular triumvirate was drafted just yesterday. Your timing is...unfortunate.”

  “Sorry,” I say sarcastically. “I should have waited a few more weeks to betray the Empire and become an alleged war criminal on the run with a 7-foot-tall purple alien asshole.”

  “I was not judging you,” the woman says. “Just understand that these three are still learning the ropes.”

  “If these three were powerful enough to become rulers,” Fenrir says, “I trust they will make the correct decisions. Though however powerful they are, they will fin
d me difficult to negotiate with!”

  “That’s for sure,” I mutter. “Or just difficult in general.”

  “I’m glad I challenge you, Turret Woman,” he says, leaning back smugly in his seat with a grin.

  The doors open, and the habbers escort us through the lobby. None of them are armed, though I’m sure the building itself is. If Fenrir is planning something totally stupid–which I would not put past him–I suspect a swarm of drones or automated turrets would make short work of him before he could take down a single habber.

  I should probably have warned him about that ahead of time.

  The lobby reminds me somewhat of the official imperial buildings on Earth: big rooms with high ceilings and bustling with people who look important and busy.

  But aside from almost every single person stopping to gape at Fenrir and scowl at me, there’s a number of differences. The people are tall. Fenrir is a giant, but he’s only a few inches taller than most of the habbers. The women, without exception, are stunning. And the men? If I hadn’t spent the last twenty-four hours or so with the peak of galactic evolution, I’d find their rugged good looks almost superhuman. They also lack a certain...paranoia...that I was used to seeing on Earth. If you let your guard down in the Empire, chances are you’d get a knife in your back. New Copenhagen gives off the vibe of a big party where everyone is friends.

  Some drop-dead gorgeous habber women block our path. They are chattering with Fenrir.

  “Which one are you? Cygnus or Aegus?” one asks.

  “I offer myself to you,” another flirts. “Welcome to New Copenhagen.” She opens her shirt, and two perfect breasts stand perkily before us.

  Fenrir ignores the woman and turns to me. “You see, Turret Woman? I could have any woman I want.”

  I cross my arms. “So? What’s your point?”

  Isn’t he going to destroy us all? Or does he just want to be a huge fucking asshole before he does?

  “Move your breasts aside, female!” Fenrir commands. “I have business with the triumvirate!”

  Another woman grabs hold of the first, and a third takes hold of her as well. “We have formed a triumvirate!” the second woman squeals. “And we offer ourselves–.”