As Fiona flicked herself she recalled how his tongue had felt as it lapped at her womanhood, and with her other hand she inserted two fingers into herself. She mimicked his technique as the memory washed over her, temporarily blotting out the drafty hovel she called home, the alien menace looming in the skies above, or the terrible burden she bore over the death of her comrades.
Fiona began to grind herself into Cole’s mouth and as if he could read the signals of her body he lifted her leg of his shoulder and set it on his outstretched thigh. The young man used his fingers to coat his cock in Fiona’s own moisture as he stroked himself to full readiness. Cole leaned backwards and folded his legs beneath himself as Fiona mounted his tremendous erection. Fiona was not a small woman, and holding her five foot eleven athletic body steady was no mean task, or so she had thought. Cole’s strong arms flexed as he gripped her waist and moved her up and down on his pillar of a cock, aided slightly by the thrusting of her hips and the opposing force she exerted with her tiptoes as she worked with him.
As Cole and Fiona worked together to bring pussy and cock into perfect collision the officer noticed that her lover’s skin was becoming bathed in an unearthly green light. As Fiona bounced up and down on Cole’s huge cock she looked up and saw that the afternoon sun at been blocked by the edge of the cliff. The shadow of the cliff had cast itself across the rocky outcropping on the beach and out into the surf itself. In between rising up and slamming down on her lover Fiona saw the algae that coated the rocks had become iridescent. Entire rocks glowed with an unearthly green as she watched the waves smash into the beach. She saw the tide coming in, and felt the splash of the first waves hit her feet. Fiona gripped Cole’s hair and pulled his head back so that she could plant a deep his upon his waiting lips.
“Put me on my back Cole,” she moaned as his shaft speared her pleasantly again and again, “I want to be with you and the light.”
Cole was only too happy to accommodate, and lifted her up by her waist, then lay her down on the wet sand as she draped her thighs across his shoulders. She hadn’t been fucked like this since she was in her twenties, and she reveled in the experience. Cole plunged his cock into her upturned pussy as he held her thighs to his shoulder until only her own shoulders and head were all that touched the sand. His massive cock drilled into her, and she felt as if her internal organs had to re-arrange themselves to accommodate him. She opened her eyes as he slammed into her again and again and it looked as if his body glowed in the strange green light.
Fiona orgasmed into her hand as she remembered the feeling of climax on that beach as the tide had washed in and covered her in a salty wave. She’d expected it, and held her breath as the water splashed over her, leaving her temporarily submerged as Cole continued to fuck her relentlessly. When he had pulled out and sprayed his load across her body the hot white arcs of his cum seemed to glow green as well. Fiona had pulled him into the waves then, and as they kissed the salty taste of the crashing waves mixed with his cum sent jolts of electricity through her body.
It was the kind of electricity that a person could never forget, Fiona thought to herself as she lay panting in her cot. She’d grown older and harder since that glorious day, and along the way she’d lost her army, her world, and her lover. Cole ended up leaving as casually as he’d arrived. They’d been separated during the war, a simple change in orders for him, a missive to return to Chicago to support that National Guard in quelling the civil unrest plaguing the nation. Fiona had remained on the front, and when the Izrid came it had been little more than a tactical retreat for all US forces. By the time she’d returned to Chicago, her birth city, the Izrid had all but decimated the global human military. In the years of her rise in the resistance she’d reconnected with Cole, only to find him entangled with a beautiful resistance fighter named Tara. Fiona was a pragmatic woman, and though she still harbored feelings for Cole, there was no room in her new role for emotions.
That much, at least, she had learned in her war with the Izrid, thought Fiona as she stood up and re-fastened her belt. Soldiers die, even the best, even the luckiest, and there was no getting around it. Better to be hard of heart and do what must be done than be soft and lose the initiative. Fiona had wept when she’d seen Cole’s body lying decapitated in that shelled out building. However, after five minutes she stopped, re-gained her composure, and beyond these brief private relapses into the past, she gave him little thought. There was no room in this life for such bright things, at least not for her. There was the war, the resistance, and that was all she could afford.
As explosions rocked the building Fiona put the photo back on her desk and strapped on her sidearm, then slid a knife into the sheath on her thigh.
“France was a long time ago,” she said out loud as she picked up the assault rifle from her desk and checked the magazine, “Goodbye Cole.”
The sounds of fighting had begun to reach her ears moments earlier, and for the first time in years Fiona had been determined to do something just for herself. Even if it was a simple act of self-pleasure and a distant memory, she had thought to herself. The resistance leader exited her small abode and into the concrete hall of the former industrio-hab. The building had once served as both a ceramics factory and a living facility, as the corporate entities of the day had been prone to requiring such all-inclusive loyalty from their employees. Small arms fire echoed down the corridor as loyalist fighters defended the building against whatever forces had set upon them.
Fiona gritted her teeth as she strode down the hallway towards the sound of fighting, and spit on the ground in disgust as she started bringing to mind every one of the resistance fighters in her current cell who might have tipped off the enemy. This was one of the many ghettos that surrounded the Complex held downtown area, and should have been relatively clear of security patrols. That was why she’d chosen to keep her people out on the fringes of the city, in the ghettos among the rabble population that most humans had been relegated to becoming. Fiona had never let the atrocities get to her, never let the grinding poverty and oppression drag her morale into the cycle of rage and depression that it did to most resistance members. Instead she used it, she treated those feelings like logs to be thrown on a fire, and that fire was her will to continue fighting. In the ghettos people left each other alone, as human on human violence was extremely common, given that poverty and desperation on such a grand scale lead to such intercene violence. This was Chicago after all, and it came to Fiona as no surprise that some people would kill each other over just a few ration cards, or a warm blanket when winter loomed.
The distinct sound of an Izrid plasma gun firing, accompanied by the stinking ozone and smell of burning meat that always followed, brought her mind back to the question at hand. Who had betrayed them? Her cell numbered only fourteen souls, and they had slowly occupied this building over the course of five days. They had arrived alone or in pairs, doing their best to avoid notice at best or at least suspicion if seen. Ghetto folk left each other alone, and it would have taken someone testing their perimeter security to notice that they were resistance, and that test in itself would have alerted them to danger. This was an inside job, and of that there was little doubt. Fiona hefted her rifle to her shoulders and turned to descend the stairs into the firefight as she continued to consider her team.
At the top of the stairs she saw Oliver laying face down in a pool of blood, his back shredded by projectile exit wounds. As Fiona descended the stairs she could see that Oliver had drug himself nearly two flights of stairs before dying. At the base of the stairs was the body of Simon, and his corpse was also torn to pieces by close range automatic fire. Fiona was a shrewd student of war, and to her veteran’s eyes it certainly seemed as if Oliver and Simon had engaged in a firefight at point blank range, against each other. Before she could investigate further Fiona heard the sounds of Taylor’s tactical shotgun, barking in response to the whining keen of the standard issue Izrid assault rifles. The resistance leader crouc
hed low and emerged from the stairwell to take in a view of the engagement.
In the courtyard lay the bodies of a handful of Complex soldiers, human scum who had chosen to fight on the side of the alien menace, apparently gunned down in a cross-fire between the sentries at the bottom of the stairs and those within the factory as the enemy attempted a frontal assault. In the street came the sounds of the Izrid plasma cannon again, and Fiona noticed several Complex soldiers and an Izrid elite warrior working their way down another corridor. The resistance leader realized that they were attempting to flank Taylor and whatever other resistance fighters held that section of the factory. Fiona did not hesitate to begin firing on the enemy as soon as she assessed the tactical situation. She fired in controlled bursts as she moved across the courtyard perpendicular to their position, allowing her to push towards cover even as she laid down fire. Her aim was deadly, and by the time her magazine clicked dry all three of the Complex soldiers were bleeding on the ground. Fiona reached the cover of the concrete wall just as the Izrid elite warrior returned fire with a flechette caster. The resistance fighter knelt down and slammed a fresh magazine into her rifle, then racked the slide as she looked for an open window that would let her escape into the factory. Her weapon was unlikely to damage the armored giant, and she had little desire to throw her life away in a brazen charge. She saw no opening, so scampered down the edge of the building until she came to an access door. She swiftly shot out the lock and dove in just as the Izrid stitched her position with several dozen bladed projectiles.
Fiona saw that she was in the main factory floor area, and from the sounds of battle ahead of her most of the fighting had already carried into this area. Most of the resistance fighters of her group had been living in this area of the building, and as she plunged deeper into the factory she could see evidence of a losing battle in progress. They had only been living her for eight days, and there was no way the Complex security forces could have found them this quickly, especially given their discretion. Since the methodology of Fiona’s resistance had changed, from the hit & run tactics that had served them for years were replaced with a focus on roadside bombs, vehicle borne explosives, and suicide bombers, they had to move more slowly and carefully through the landscape. Fiona had been given the only real private room that was available, everything else having been shattered by war years ago, and the rest of the group shared the main factory floor. Fiona walked across the body of Barrister, a troubled man whose first name she’d never learned, his body shattered by hard rounds. As she came upon the body of a slain Izrid warrior lying amidst two more Complex soldiers and the corpse of the bomb-maker Marcus, she was positive that they had been betrayed.
The Complex handled its own affairs, and only called upon Izrid warriors, who they now called Dragons, when a military action was being executed. It had actually been months since she’d seen an Izrid warrior in the field, as most of them simply existed in the war hives that sat motionless on the edges of the city. The hives were a sort of defacto border, one that no human who hoped to live tried to cross, effectively trapping everyone within the Complex municipality. If allowed passage out of the city limits people could be farming their own food, building actual homes, and instead they were confined to squalor and the control of the Complex. The fresh sound of Taylor’s shotgun drew Fiona’s attention, and she sprinted towards it.
Fiona rounded a large decrepit ceramic forge just in time to see four Izrid warriors and a full squad of Complex soldiers gathered around two resistance fighters. There were other bodies, some resistance and more Complex and Izrid, though the two at the center were alive. Paul was on his knees, looking up at Taylor, who held a shotgun to his chest. Fiona did not understand until Paul screamed up at the pretty redhead.
“I am a human being! I am the resistance!”
Taylor responded by pulling the trigger and blowing a ragged hole in Paul’s chest. The force of the blast hurled his body backwards and left him in a bloody heap against the ancient machinery of the factory. The redheaded woman racked the slide of her shotgun to chamber another round, and then looked back at a Complex officer and his two half-dragon bodyguards.
“Simon should have had Fiona subdued when you guys first hit the sniper’s nest with those rockets,” she said as she looked back towards Paul’s corpse, “But like I told you, that’s Fiona MacArthur up there, if he didn’t get a clean hit with the trank he probably just blew her away. Better safe than sorry. Hope your boss doesn’t mind a corpse.”
“His majesty demands results,” hissed the half-dragon Complex officer, his voice somewhat distorted by his Izrid vocal modifications, “He was non-specific about her survival.”
Fiona decided that she’d heard enough, and as she raised her rifle to her shoulder she whispered a quiet thanks to Oliver for giving his life in her defense. Emotionally the resistance leader wanted to lock eyes with Taylor before punishing her for the betrayal, though Fiona was nothing if not a pragmatic soldier, and tactical efficiency demanded a more calculated approach. Fiona let our her breath at a slow and measured pace as she sighted in on Taylor, then squeezed the trigger. Three hard rounds pounded into Taylor’s chest and the redheaded woman stumbled backwards with each hit until she toppled over in a spray of blood. The sound of her shotgun clattering to the ground rang in Fiona’s ears as she toggled the rifle to full-auto and sprayed the remainder of her magazine towards the cluster of enemies.
She had no idea how many of the enemy, if any, were killed in her salvo, though she had bought herself a few precious seconds to escape. Fiona slung her rifle without re-loading and drew her sidearm as she fled deeper into the factory, towards a small exit she had seen when they first came to the building days ago. Shots rang out as the half-dragons and Izrid warriors bounded after her, and she fired haphazardly behind her as she ran. Fiona came near the door and saw that it swung out into the alleyway, so knew that she could force her way through. She turned her pistol on the door and emptied the rest of her clip into the handle, praying that she had managed to cleave the deadbolt. She leapt at the last moment and her shoulder slammed into the door, thankfully her impact shook the door and it flew open before her. Fiona saw from the ground that a half-dragon, presumably from another squad, had reached the door from the alleyway. She swept her leg out for a powerful strike to the half-dragon’s knee, which knocked him to the ground. The resistance leader wasted no time in climbing atop him and driving the point of her combat knife under his jaw and deep into his brain. She heard movement behind her and turned just in time to see the armored fist of the elite Izrid warrior she’d fired at before eclipse her vision, and then the world went dark.
ACT II
Cava-Rek looked though the energy barrier at the ragged woman who crouched in the corner of the holding cell. The cell itself was one of the mysteries of the hive temple that he had yet to solve, having only spent the last five years roaming its many halls. The designers of the ancient ship had been of the builder caste, though they were a sub-breed that had died out long ago. No marvels or feats of engineering of this magnitude or complexity had been wrought since those ancient times. Cava-Rek had been able to re-discover some of the Izrid artworks of the ancient and bloody days of his ancestors. Such beautiful and terrible enrichment from those discoveries, back on the Izrid homeworld, had spurred him onwards to make a name for himself, to rise as a magister among magisters. The intercene wars that had forged the Izrid into the battle-hardened Hive that they had become were brutal affairs, epic in their glory and horrific in their atrocities. It was after these wars that the survivors had bred themselves into different castes, hoping to separate the Izrid nature into its component parts, so as to separate them and prevent a single being from possessing all of them.
This much and more Cava-Rek had learned while wrapped in the crushing coils of the brood mother. After mating with his magister caste brood bearer he had seen into her mind, and she had shown him the sleeping dragon awaiting him in the hive temple. It was
only then that he realized that he had never questioned the presence of the temple, always accepting it as the seat of the hive mind and of no concern. It was simultaneously above him and beneath him, and only as he lay submerged in the fluids of the brood bearer, filled with the hallucinogenic pheromones of his mate, that he realized his biology had betrayed him. His very breeding as a magister had contained a physiological blockage to the ancestral memory of the brood mother, of the hive temple as a seat of power quite beyond the simple symbolic component it has been serving as for his entire lifetime.
Cava-Rek had sprung from the pool and rushed to his command pulpit to begin sending signals to activate all weapons systems and stimulate all Izrid warriors to combat readiness. He ordered the hive temple to be displayed on his visual screen and he ordered his war hives to maintain full battle readiness. Now that he suspected a terrible truth to be revealed his paranoia was at its height, and he suspected other magisters might soon be seeking to claim his prize. Surely he was not the only magister to have had his sexual identity awakened by the bodies of the human females, and surely he was not the only magister to experience that desire turned from human captive back towards his own brood bearer. If his was able and willing to share with him the knowledge of hidden secrets aboard the temple then others must have done the same.
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