Alien Comfort Women: The Complete Bundle

by S. L. Hadley

  "You damn coward," he growled at himself. "You worthless piece of shit. Get it together."

  From his pocket, the data slate let out a soft, two-toned note. Momentarily thankful for the distraction, John pulled it out. His heart sank when he saw another request from Lexie. This time, he stared for much longer before thumbing the notification away.

  Standing just long enough to return the slate to its usual spot on his desk, John collapsed onto his bed. He didn't even bother to undress. By the time the third request from Lexie arrived, mere seconds later, he was already asleep.

  ***

  The flashing of the lights and the wailing of the Cruiser's emergency sirens did their job and John was on his feet before he was even fully conscious. He managed to bash his knee against the sink in the process, numbing his entire leg. Cursing, he half-stumbled, half-limped his way to the door.

  In the hall, the entire ship was a maelstrom of panicked activity. Marines and sailors sprinted past in either direction while a handful of civilians followed, lugging belongings or screaming children.

  The first chance he got, John grabbed hold of a passing sailor. The man nearly pulled them both to the ground and spun with a look of annoyance.

  "What's going on?" John demanded.

  The sailor gave John's bedraggled uniform a split-second look and paused for a half-step. "Beat to quarters!" he replied, yanking his arm free. He continued to shout an explanation as he resumed running. "Two Oldie destroyers! Nailed our escort!"

  Swearing again, John plunged headlong into the river of humanity. His leg was still numb and he was passed with many a shove, but he gritted his teeth and limped toward the nearest lift. It was full and he spent three agonizing minutes waiting for the next one.

  Officially, he wasn't required to report to Surgery. He was a passenger here, not a member of the crew. But he'd be damned if he huddled in the hold with a bunch of trembling diplomats and businessmen.

  Fortunately, he'd recovered most of the feeling in his leg by the time he reached his destination. The Surgery was a flurry of activity, medics and aides frantically preparing for the inevitable onslaught of burned and gutshot casualties.

  John spotted the senior officer immediately. She was distributing satchels of surgical instruments from a bulkhead compartment, shouting orders, and studying a blinking data slate all at once. Maneuvering his way through the crowd, John limped toward her. Though she did not so much as look at him, he saluted anyway.

  "Brevet-Lieutenant Archer!" he shouted over the din. "Surgeon's Mate! Where to, Ma'am?"

  "To your 'Vac pod!" she replied, not even bothering to look at him. Cursing, she tapped urgently at her data slate. "You'll just get in the way!"

  John blinked in surprise. "Ma'am?"

  She shoved him aside with a shoulder, palming open the next storage unit and hauling free an armload of bandages and compresses.

  "Out of the way, damn you!" she roared. "Out of Surgery, Lieutenant! Now!"

  Still bewildered, John managed only a clumsy half-step back. "But, Ma'am! I'm a Surgeon!"

  "And you're in the way!" she snapped. Gesturing violently with an arm, she barked an angry, "Sergeant!"

  An enormous beast of a man seized John around the chest with both arms. Effortlessly, he lifted him from the ground as though he was no more than a child and half-carried, half-flung him out the open door and into the hall.

  Confused, indignant, and flush with more than a hint of adrenaline, John stormed back toward the Surgery. Before he took more than a step, however, the Sergeant had drawn his sidearm and leveled it at his chest.

  "Sorry, Sir," the man said. He spoke in a marvelously deep baritone that reminded John, bizarrely, of the purring of Lexie's housecat. That was where the resemblance stopped, of course, especially when the man advanced and grabbed hold of the collar of John's uniform. Spinning him around, he placed the muzzle of his sidearm firmly against John's ribs and marched him away.

  The nearest evacuation pod was empty. Though the hand on his collar never disappeared, the weapon did as the Sergeant unlocked the pod door. He tossed John inside, sealing the door before the latter even had a chance to rise.

  Furious, John scrambled to his feet and stomped to the door. To his dismay, it was locked. Swearing, he pressed his palm to the access panel. His heart leapt at the electronic beep of acknowledgement, then sank when the door refused to open anyway. He tried again to equal effect. Then he pounded on the glass, though it proved even less satisfying and made his hand ache beside.

  "This is bullshit!" he complained to no one in particular. Turning on his heel, he marched away and slipped into the pilot's chair and powered up the controls. Worst case scenario, he could always call Engineering for a remote override. It wouldn't be entirely selfish, after all. This pod was meant to hold up to two dozen people, which meant the locked door could easily cost lives. It was for the good of the service.

  A glimmer of something on the viewscreen ahead made him pause.

  Gleaming silver and chrome against the vast, black emptiness of space, lay a Destroyer. Still thousands of kilometers away, the craft appeared deceptively small. But John knew all too well how massive it truly was. The Oldie warships were far older, larger, and bulkier than a sixth-generation Cruiser like the Odysseus. But they were fast. Heavily armed.

  And against two of them, they were as good as scrap.

  For the first time, John began to realize just how much trouble they were in. Swiftly, before his hands had a chance to shake, he punched the code for Engineering into the comm system. The panel blinked like a heartbeat, waiting for a response from someone on the other end.

  He stared at it anxiously. It may have saved his eyesight. A second later, a near-blinding flash like the birth of a small sun from the viewscreen left him seeing stars. Recoiling, John lifted an arm to shield his eyes as he blinked furiously to clear the brilliant, ghostly afterimage. After a few seconds, he leaned forward and squinted.

  A dozen narrow, shimmering beams of light lanced out from the Destroyer. Some arced, some flew straight, all shot toward the Odysseus.

  Heavy, metallic thudding filled the pod and John spun to look behind him. Desperate faces were pressed to the small, round window in the door and hands were pounding helplessly against the glass.

  John's fear gave way to outright terror. Planting both hands on the console in front of him, he leaned in close to the microphone. His eyes were still half-useless and he couldn't see whether his call had reached engineering or not. He shouted urgently regardless.

  "Unlock this pod!" he begged. "The door's locked! It's empty! Please! Engineering! Do you copy?"

  The light from the Destroyer's weapons grew painfully bright and John reflexively shielded his eyes again. It only lasted a second, though. As the viewscreen went returned to normal, he cautiously lowered his arms and peered through the makeshift protection of his eyelashes.

  Then he felt it. A small, tremor shook the chair and console. It grew stronger. Then, all at once, the pod lurched so violently that John was flung from the chair and slammed against the side of the vessel.

  White-hot pain shot through his side from waist to shoulder, so fiercely that he bit his tongue. He tasted blood. Couldn't see. He tried to rise, but the pain in his side was so ferocious that he nearly blacked out from the attempt.

  The world seemed to spin. Struggling to think, much less clearly, John stared blankly at the viewscreen. Stars flashed across it, appearing, traveling across the width of the screen, then disappearing from sight. Bits of twisted metal and other, less recognizable matter briefly appeared as well. Some rattled against the hull of the pod.

  Weakly, John glanced back toward the door. The faces were gone. In their place, stars flickered as they had on the viewscreen.

  Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to his feet. His side fought him, agony making him cry out and stumble to his knees. His entire chest burned, especially on his right side. As an added bonus, his head ached to the poin
t of fogginess.

  Fractured ribs, he diagnosed with unexpected clarity. Possibly broken. At least two. Possible concussion.

  Bracing himself against the arm of the pilot's chair, he took a slow, deep breath. It ached terribly, but only where he'd landed against the bulkhead. His lungs were unharmed. Gritting his teeth, he gently examined his ribs with his fingertips, beneath the jacket of his uniform.

  Probably fractured. No punctured lung. They'll heal without surgery.

  For the second time, he glanced back at the door. More stars. He was adrift. Unprotected. Had the Destroyer's attack really done that much damage? Perhaps they'd jettisoned the pods as a precaution. Would it make them more maneuverable somehow? He wasn't a pilot. He didn't know these things.

  Gingerly, John crawled his way back into the pilot's chair. The pod continued to spin, rendering the viewscreen a chaotic mess of stars and metal. He stared for a few seconds, praying for some glimpse of something. Anything. Hell, even the Destroyer would give him a vantage point to find the Odysseus.

  He saw nothing. Eventually, the aching of his injured ribs forced him to sit still.

  "Engineering," he mumbled, closing his eyes. "Engineering, do you copy?"

  There was no reply.

  Blindly, he reached out and pressed a half-dozen communications shortcuts at once.

  "Odysseus, this is Lieutenant Archer. Does anyone copy?"

  Still, there was no reply.

  "Shit," he mumbled. He thought about opening his eyes, but they were growing increasingly heavy and what was the point, really? He could stare at the spinning stars and debris until he made himself sick. Even if he spotted the ship, there was no point if he couldn't reach them.

  A small part of him was dimly aware that sleeping was the last thing he should do right now. He dismissed it with a quiet laugh and allowed his mind to wander. There was a faint hissing sound audible that took him several seconds to realize was not oxygen escaping the pod. It must have been some life support function kicking in.

  What would Private Evans think about this mess? Would he suspect John knew the truth and kept it from him? Maybe he should have given in.

  A new thought occurred to him and John started to sit upright. Until the agony in his side made him give up with a groan, at least.

  His data slate. He'd left it in his quarters. Lexie would be a wreck when she heard about this fiasco. No doubt he'd have a hundred missed notifications when he got back. She'd be absolutely frantic.

  Feeling guilty, he let out a weary sigh. Just another sacrifice for the good of the service.

  ***

  When John awoke, there were several hints that informed him things were not as they should be. The first was his side. There was no pain, even when he sat upright far quicker than he ought to have. However, there was an aching stiffness to his joints that left him breathless and groaning. Not just in his side, but everywhere.

  The second was the lack of stars in the pod's viewscreen. In fact, the only thing the screen displayed was an unbroken field of copper-colored sky, dotted with wisps of thin, silver cloud.

  The third was gravity. It tugged at him gently, somewhat less than he was used to. But at an angle that suggested the pod was not quite level.

  The memories returned to him in a flash of insight and John scrambled out of the seat where he'd slept. As he did so, the unexpectedly light gravity made him overcompensate and he stumbled awkwardly into the pod's bulkhead. He proceeded, somewhat more cautiously, to the rear door and stared out through the window.

  He'd landed in a sloped clearing, but a cluster of large, impossibly tall trees obscured everything more than fifty meters away. Shielding himself cautiously behind the plasteel of the door itself, he eyed the tree line. Minutes passed, but there was still no sight of anyone or anything.

  Breathing hard and fighting down panic, John scurried back to the pilot's chair and propped himself on it. It was only then that he realized quite how miraculous his pain-free ribs were. Frowning, he peeled back his uniform and tested them with his fingers, first gently then harder.

  There was nothing to suggest they'd ever been injured at all.

  The anxious fluttering in his gut gave way to dread as the pieces slowly came together. A few quick gestures on the mercifully still-functional control panel confirmed his suspicions.

  They'd locked him in a damned stasis pod.

  On the surface, they were miracles of medical engineering. Find yourself adrift in space and you could instruct the pod to put you into a state of advanced hibernation. Even if it took someone a hundred years to find you, you'd wake up scarcely a year older. It helped with injuries too--no need for triage when you could simply freeze the worst casualties and take your time. Hence the proximity to the Surgery, no doubt.

  Injured ribs or no, that wasn't what worried him.

  For the better part of a minute, John's finger hovered over the Stasis: Time submenu, fearing the answer he'd find. Eventually, he sighed. No point in agonizing over it.

  The number surpassed even his worst fears.

  Forty standard years. Not forty days or even forty months. Years.

  He sat there, silent, staring at the number and trying to comprehend the significance it bore. The longer he stared, the worse it got.

  His parents were more than likely dead. They'd be midway through their nineties if not. Lexie would be in her sixties. He started to consider, rather numbly, how long she'd grieved for him before trying to move on... then decided he'd rather not think about it.

  Closing his eyes, John sagged back into his seat. He wondered briefly who'd won the war. Maybe the Federation had utterly crushed the Oldies. Maybe they'd fought to a stalemate and were even now eyeing one another with suspicion across millions of kilometers of empty space. Or maybe not. Perhaps everyone he'd ever known was dead.

  It really didn't matter anymore.

  The sound of something rattling against the hull broke him free of his melancholy and he scrambled to his feet.

  Someone stared through the window at the back of the pod. For a split-second, their eyes met John's. Then the face vanished.

  Heart pounding, John raced to the door. He was reaching for the access panel when something stopped him. Taking a deep breath, he pressed himself against the plasteel to the right of the window and cautiously peered through. There was no sign of anyone. Frowning, he maneuvered to the other side and repeated the inspection. Again, no one.

  Swallowing hard and fighting down a rising fit of anxiety, John began to go through the pod's interior compartments. As he did, he was careful to keep one eye on the window. The face did not reappear, nor did the rattling. What he did find, however, was an assortment of supplies that far exceeded what he'd dare hope for.

  Unsurprisingly, he discovered crate after crate of medical supplies. Bandages, painkillers, sedatives--the pod was a junkies dream. Even an assortment of surgical tools had been awkwardly crammed into the corner of one of the compartments.

  At the very least, he wasn't going to die from injuries.

  The supplies of food and water were less substantial. The pod had been designed with two dozen occupants in mind, though, so John estimated he had enough dehydrated foodstuffs to last him at least six months. There was also a pair of sturdy, portable water filters as well. As long as he managed to find a local source of water he'd be okay.

  The final compartment held the most valuable resources of all. Everything he might need if circumstances drove him from the pod. There were several self-assembling shelters, rope, knives, solar generators. And the crowning jewel of all: a gleaming, snub-nosed laspistol. The weapon held well over a thousand charges, any one of which would penetrate the hide or armor of the fiercest native creatures. Even the pod itself wouldn't hold up too well against repeated shots.

  Clutching the laspistol tightly in a sweaty palm, John returned to the rear door. As before, there was nothing in sight. He continued to stare out the window for several minutes, taking the oppor
tunity to memorize the layout of his weapon.

  Taking a deep breath, he pressed his palm to the access panel. It was only then that the possibility the door might still be locked even occurred to him. Fortunately, it was not. The door slid open with a faint hiss, planetary air washing over him with a faint breeze.

  The temperature was a few degrees warmer than he was used to but otherwise unchanged. He breathed in a shallow breath, testing it. Unnecessary, perhaps, since the pod wouldn't have landed if the air had been toxic, but there was no harm in a few luddite precautions.

  Taking a cautious step forward, he peered around the edge of the pod. There were no lurkers, human or otherwise. The clearing and tree line appeared as deserted as they'd been on the first inspection. Had he simply hallucinated the face? Was it perhaps a side-effect of prolonged stasis?

  Straightening, John wiped the sweat from his palm on the side of his trousers. It didn't do much. The uniform was filthy--it'd been worn for decades, after all. There hadn't been any spares in the hold, either, now that he thought about it. Frowning thoughtfully, he jogged a few steps and paused when he felt the stitching begin to pull apart. That wasn't good. The fabric was already badly worn. A few days of hard work and he'd have to resort to sewing fig leaves or wandering around nude. Not that there was anyone to see him, though.

  Then he frowned, for a reason completely unrelated to the sorry state of his clothes. A heavy silence hung over the withered grass, the trees, everything. No birds, no chirring of animals. Utter silence apart from the faint rustle of the warm, humid breeze.

  A hiss sounded behind him and John whirled, lifting the laspistol.

  A creature perched atop the pod, watching him with narrow, orange eyes and bared fangs. It was remarkably humanoid, albeit scarcely larger than a child, and John's first impression was of a great, feathered demon. Over-long arms and three-fingered claws gripped the rounded edge of the pod's rear hatch, though the wickedly hooked talons quickly gave way to elaborate wings that stretched from wrist to the bottom of the creature's ribs. The face and shoulders appeared human, apart from a wide mouth sporting pointed incisors and four elongated canines.