Clever Cargo

by Beva John

  CLEVER CARGO

  A Forgotten Cargo Romance

  Beva John

  Copyright © 2020 by Beva John

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical without permission in writing from the author.

  Cover by beetifulbookcovers.com

  Cover image by conrado/shutterstock.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  CHAPTER ONE

  MAGNAR

  It is time to make a baby.

  As much as I would like to postpone the process, my mother is dying and if I inherit the throne without an heir, it will cause unrest among my people.

  Historically, the Brune are creatures of habit. They do not like uncertainty or risk. They want to know that the royal line of succession is secure.

  Which is why I now stand with my fiancé Lady Jing at the summer home of my future uncle-in-law, Lord Kitre.

  “Have you ever seen such an extensive collection of vintage human females?” Kitre asks. He motions to the rows of stasis pods with a satisfied air. He is a small, wiry traveler with dark blue skin, dressed in ornate robes that brush the floor.

  “No,” I say honestly. I have never seen such a collection, and the reality of it disgusts me. I find it morally reprehensible that anyone can own sentient beings – even if they are in stasis pods and have no consciousness. I estimate that there are over eighty women on display – possibly more.

  Over eighty women trapped in a thick clear liquid that preserves them.

  All of them wear ownership collars around their necks.

  Disgusting.

  Purchasing humans is illegal now throughout the Intergalactic Cooperative, but Brune law does not require owners to free their prior purchases. Technically, humans in stasis only have rights once they are released.

  I hope one day to make and enforce laws requiring all such humans to be freed.

  But until then, I will keep my radical opinions to myself and wait for an opportune time to express them.

  My father, King Tormag taught me well. Words cannot be unsaid. It is better to be silent than to speak unwisely.

  I ask Kitre, “When did you start your collection?”

  “Actually, the collection was started by my grandfather and I have merely added to it,” he says with false humility. “I believe that it has great historic value, and I think you’ll be surprised by some of the human females that are here.”

  Kitre is an obsequious rodent.

  I have no doubt that he litters all his conversations with the phrase “my niece Lady Jing, fiancé to Prince Magnar.” And once our baby is born, he will regularly entertain his guests with a description of today and how he helped me acquire a surrogate.

  My fiancé Jing urges me forward to see the collection more closely. “Many of them are from the Red Sands Company. Everyone knows they make the best surrogates.”

  I inwardly cringe at the phrase “Everyone knows” because if a statement of fact needs bolstering, it is merely an opinion, not a fact.

  But as I have often been reminding myself lately, I did not choose my future wife for her ability to discuss matters logically. I chose her for her aristocratic bloodlines. Jing is a suitable age, with suitable looks and suitable manners. She was the best candidate out of all those travelers I considered, and I have known her since we were children. Her mother is a close acquaintance of my mother, and over the years, Jing and I met at various social gatherings.

  Before I proposed, I had the head of our Military Civil Intelligence Serat prepare a detailed background report on her – as well as all the eligible single females in the top 100 families of Allathone. Jing was one of the few candidates who were not addicted to Trig or alcohol, have an eating disorder or come from a family with a historically poor birthrate.

  Jing is no scholar, but she should be able to converse in public without embarrassing me or causing an intergalactic scandal.

  It is enough for me.

  As the Crown Prince of Allathone, I do not expect my marriage union to be a love match. My parents did not love each other; they respected each other.

  I know for a fact that my father had several mistresses and years ago my mother dallied with her footmen. But they were discreet, just as Jing and I will be discreet.

  I do not care if Jing has a fetish for the natives of Enset with their beady little eyes and long hairy arms. Biologically, they are unable to breed with Brunes, so as long as she doesn’t pick up some nasty rash, we will be fine.

  We will combine her eggs and my sperm and together we will share a lifetime of distant politeness.

  As I approach the pods, I realize that some of them have surprisingly ancient technology. I grasp my hands behind my back and ask, “Do the pods ever malfunction?”

  Kitre says, “Occasionally. When that happens, if the human female is viable, she is then hired to work in my home. One of my housekeepers is a human.”

  I hope he is paying her adequately, but historically, Brunes have not treated humans well, and there are still strong prejudices against humans, with many travelers considering them mentally and morally inferior. Fortunately, those prejudices are gradually lessening, particularly since recent changes in the law have given all the inhabitants of Allathone civil rights – whether they are Brune, Namvire, Katoll, Human, or even Teek.

  Jing tugs on the sleeve of my coat and I follow her. As much as I dislike choosing a surrogate, I prefer to have a human womb, rather than a mechanical one, carry my future heir. Statistically, fetuses have a greater chance of being born live if they gestate inside a living womb.

  And Brune females have been unable to bear children for over a thousand years.

  Choosing a human surrogate, therefore, is a necessity if we want to have healthy children. Either we choose a surrogate from her uncle’s collection, or we arrange for another human female – possibly a current immigrant or we could hire one to travel here from Little Earth. Freeing someone from a collection seems to be the most expedient and ethical choice.

  As I walk down the aisles between these rows of women fully dressed within their pods, I notice their closed eyes and the attachment that fits over their mouths. I try to imagine how they will feel and what they will think when they are released into a new environment after who knows how many years in stasis. I have heard tales of some earth women going mad and others striking out violently when they are released.

  “Do you have a favorite?” I ask Jing.

  She looks over her shoulder, smiling at me. “I do have a few favorites, yes, because I have been looking at my uncle’s collection ever since I was a child. For years I’ve wondered which one I might choose when I was engaged.”

  �
��Show them to me.”

  She beams and almost skips down the row as she points at some of the pods. “I like the older ones best. I am fascinated by their clothing.”

  “I am more concerned about the width of their hips.”

  “I agree. We want our baby to have enough room to grow properly.”

  Not for the first time, I wish that my species had valued the health of their offspring more than fashionable fads.

  Historians argue over why a narrow waist became the ultimate symbol of feminine Brune beauty but following that fashion for centuries has permanently damaged our species, resulting in a negative birth rate. If it weren’t for carefully maintained intergalactic immigration, Allathone would be unable to function.

  I see from their attire that most of the human females were collected during the last few years of Old Earth’s occupancy. But there is one human female wearing a fitted dress that flares out over her hips. Her skirt is wide, and it is crammed into the pod, completely obscuring the shape of her lower limbs. “She needs a bigger pod,” I comment.

  “Ah, yes,” Kitre says. “She was abducted from Earth in the mid-19th Century, according to their calendar. She is my most recent acquisition.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “It is illegal to buy women in pods.”

  Kitre smirks. “Are you going to put your own future uncle-in-law in jail?”

  I will not cause scandal over one human female. I say, “I am not an enforcement officer. But truthfully, sir, you must not continue buying these. It just encourages piracy and bad behavior throughout the Cooperative.”

  “I will be discreet.”

  Discreet seems to be the fashion in the Brune aristocracy. I begin to wonder at the wisdom of choosing to marry Jing if her relatives are criminals.

  But to be fair, I must admit that a good percentage of my ancestors were criminals, too. No one becomes and remains King of a vast empire without some ruthlessness.

  Besides, if I don’t keep Jing, who will I choose? I don’t have time to find a different fiancé and my people would not think well of a ruler who abandons one female for another. It could make me seem impulsive or irresponsible.

  Kitre adds, “You may change your mind when you see her. She is beautiful. Look at that skin.”

  Human females come in a variety of skin tones – from pale pink to shades of brown – none of them a healthy blue.

  I lean closer to this one pod. The woman’s skin is pinkish, but I can’t see much of it other than her face and throat. Unlike many of the other women in Kitre’s collection, she is covered from head to toe. Her plain dress has a high neck with a lace collar, long sleeves, and the skirt reaches down to the floor.

  Her brown hair is styled in a knot on the back of her head with a few tendrils floating in the thick liquid.

  “Look at her earrings,” Jing says with a tone of wonder.

  The woman has small, rounded human ears with one set of earrings in her lobes, unlike Jing whose pointed blue ears have six sets of tagium rings glittering with jewels.

  The human’s earrings are tiny delicate ovals with a blue background and a white silhouette of a human female head and shoulders.

  “They are called cameos,” Jing says. “Very rare.”

  I recognize that tone of voice. I’ve heard it many times when I have taken Jing shopping. I narrow my eyes, wondering if Jing wants this woman merely because of her earrings.

  “She is short,” I say dismissively.

  “No shorter than I,” Jing says, standing closer to the pod. The contrast between them is marked – Jing so modern and the human woman so old-fashioned. Jing is wearing a short skirt and her long legs are half covered with boots that come up to her knees. In the current style of the day, she has long, shoulder length white hair. Her skin is blue, her ears are pointy. Her very small waist is decorated with a jeweled belt like most Brune females.

  I look closer at the woman in the pod. Other than her dress, she is unremarkable. A very average nose and chin. I have never found human females particularly attractive. Unlike many of my associates, I never obsessed over human porn viewings or requested human females at the exclusive brothel I visited with my father when I was a younger traveler.

  The Katoll seem obsessed with humans, considering their females to be the most responsive species sexually, but I have never bothered to make a personal case study.

  Not that I am considering any of these women as sexual partners.

  I am choosing a surrogate, nothing more.

  I decide that it does not matter which human female we choose. One will be very much like the next. As much as I would fight to the death to preserve any species’ rights in our society, I do not expect much from humans. With a few exceptions, like my own dear Nanny, humans are notoriously impulsive, naïve and often devious. It is our job, as Brunes, to gradually elevate them, setting a moral standard and encouraging civilized behavior. “Very well,” I say finally. “If you want this female to be our surrogate, I have no objections.”

  Jing squeals. “That is marvelous.”

  As we turn to leave, I notice that the female in the pod has black stains on one of her hands – on her thumb and two of her fingers. “What is that?”

  Kitre looks at data on his arm screen. “Ink stains, apparently.”

  It is too blotchy and random to have been added intentionally like a tattoo. “Can it be removed?”

  “Certainly,” Kitre promises. “And if not, you can always choose another human female.”

  I nod. “That is true. You may proceed, take the human female to an immigration center.” If the human woman is mad or violent, I do not wish to see it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  LOTTIE

  I had the strangest dream last night and now I am standing in a room with – well, perhaps I am still dreaming because the people in front of me are blue. It is the oddest thing. Their ears are long and pointed at the top, like elves or imps in a fairy story. But I have never heard of six-foot tall elves.

  I am standing in a glass tube and thick, sticky water is draining out around my feet.

  One of the blue elves holds out a hand to help me step out of the tube. “Welcome to Capital City. How are you feeling?”

  How odd. His lips are moving, but they don’t seem to match the words coming from them.

  “I don’t know.” I look around the brilliantly lit room and see that there are at least six blue elves.

  “What is your name?”

  “Charlotte Jamison. I go by Lottie.”

  “Lottie,” one of the elves says and touches a dark piece of curved glass attached to his forearm. The picture on the glass changes like magic.

  “Good heavens. What is that?”

  “It is a data screen.”

  What a clever device. I would like to learn more about it, but I have other questions that are more important. “Where am I?”

  “Ah,” the blue person says. “You are on Allathone in Capital City. You were recently activated.”

  None of this makes sense. “I don’t understand. How did I get here?”

  “You were abducted or taken from your own planet, Earth, in the past. Do you remember what year you were taken?”

  Abducted? I must be dreaming. But then someone asks me to please sit down, asks me if I would like something to drink. “I would not say no to a cup of coffee or tea,” I answer. Truthfully, a glass of whiskey might be a better choice given my bizarre situation, but I don’t want to appear less than genteel for my blue hosts.

  Someone hurries out of the room and returns a few minutes later with a cup of hot tea in a bowl with no handle and I sip it. It has a strange flavor, but the liquid is hot and I appreciate it.

  The physical touch of the bowl in my hands and the steam that rises from above it makes me know that I am awake, although I am in very strange circumstances.

  I look around the room and notice that the blue people are wearing matching uniforms – light blue trousers and long coats that button up the
front. There seem to be several males and the lone female has the most astonishingly small waist, accented by a wide belt.

  One of them says, “Let us continue. What is the last date you remember?”

  “As far as I know, the last date I remember is September 1872.”

  The blue person nods. “Yes, that matches our records. You were abducted and sold to a company called Red Sands and were recently found in a storage unit and then sold to a collector here on Allathone.”

  He says Allathone as if I am supposed to know what that is. “What is Allathone?”

  The blue person smiles. “Allathone is the home planet of the Brune.” He places a hand on his chest. “Our species. And you are in our capital.”

  This is amazing to me and fascinating. I had never thought there were other species in the great expanse of space. Or that I would ever be an explorer like Mr. Darwin. I frown. “How far away is Allathone from Earth?”

  “I have no idea,” the blue person says. “Earth is in a different galaxy.”

  Galaxy. I know little of astronomy, but I know galaxies are vast. “Good heavens,” I murmur.

  The blue person says, “No doubt it seems strange now, but you will learn more in time. We hope that you will be happy and productive here.”

  It is all too much for me to understand. “What year is it now?”

  The blue person gives a calendar year and says, “That is according to the Intergalactic Cooperative timeline, which is a different calculation than yours. It has been approximately 652 human years since your abduction.”

  This seems absurd and yet, well, I will continue to observe and get more information before I decide whether I believe these people. It could be an elaborate hoax.

  But over the next few days, I don’t believe it is a hoax – the entire situation is too elaborate to be a hoax. First, there are dozens of blue people. And occasionally, there are other species as well. In the hallways, I see one yellowish person that looks similar to a large lizard and several other massive creatures with light brown skin and rings of hair or fur around their shoulders and tails that look like lions.

  I learn that everyone does not speak English. Instead, I have a miniature translation device inserted under my skin, behind one of my ears that translates all the languages into English for me.