Arranged Marriage To The Rogue (Victorian Romance)

by Veronica Wilson

  And Stacey moaned with renewed delight as he slipped his pulsing prong deep into her again.

  Tavos cancelled all of his massage appointments for the rest of the week. He could recover the money in fees for interviews and speaking engagements as a pardoned absconder from the Sarmian wars. He stayed with Stacey for the remainder of her visit, in her bed, lying between her newly slender thighs and making love deep inside her day and night. Stacey Fagan ended up seeing very little of Nirvana Planitia after all. But she did not care, as she did get to see every last centimeter of the body and zazansa of Tavos of Sarma.

  THE END

  My Alien Invader

  The wasteland

  The crimson rays of the setting sun on her back, a lone girl rode her motorcycle across a blasted landscape.

  This place used to be beautiful.

  She maintained top speed, not an easy task with all the rubble lying about. Still, junior courier Cynthia Greene had a lot of experience with missions like these. Some would say way too much for someone of her age.

  Was the shopping mall located to my left… or to my right? She couldn’t tell, even though the city had been annihilated less than half a year ago. The area had changed so much since then, and she along with it.

  Everything and everyone is completely different now.

  She tried to remember the way things were before the war, but it was all blurry. It was more like telling a story than recalling actual images, sounds and sensations. It bothered her to no end.

  Against her inclination she slowed down a bit, having hit more dangerous territory. The debris was particularly plentiful here, and one misstep could result in injury, or loss of bike or her life.

  Goddamned aliens.

  Cynthia tried to pin the bulk of her rage on the arrival of the alien invaders, but deep down she knew full well who was at fault for this particular calamity; it was the military.

  When an organ is cancerous it has to be cut out, and that’s exactly what happened here.

  The concentration of cats (the aliens’ robotic soldiers) in the city had grown beyond containable levels, and the local population kept decreasing at a rapid pace. The United States was losing both soldiers and civilians. And so, the decision was made. The place was bombed until nothing was left.

  One worthless wasteland, coming right up.

  Nothing lived here now, every single survivor having been rounded up by either the military or the invaders.

  Although there is that one rumor.

  She recalled a tale, probably not much more than hearsay, about a mysterious figure that supposedly called the waste his home. This hermit was known as the Hood, first of the many new urban legends sprouting among the war-torn land. Cynthia couldn’t help but laugh at the thought. She had traversed this ruined place more than a dozen times, and she had never caught even a glimpse of the Hood.

  Incidentally, Cynthia also used to be one of the few surviving natives of this place, having been evacuated a good while before the bombing. One would think that coming back here would have caused her pain, but nothing could be further from the truth. The place she grew up in and this pile of dirt were so different that mental disassociation came effortlessly.

  I used to live in one place, but it stopped existing, she would tell herself. Now something else is in its place, and I just happen to do business there.

  Business. The word she chose surprised her. She was military, yet there was no place for patriotism inside Cynthia’s heart. Being a courier was a way for her to pay for food and shelter for herself and her family. As far as she was concerned, the army was just as much at fault here as the invaders were.

  Still, one must live off something. Even back in the camp, nothing but the basest of needs came freely. The rest had to be earned.

  There isn’t really that much choice in the matter.

  Now out of the debris-filled zone, Cynthia gladly picked up speed again. The sooner she got out of this place, the sooner she could deliver her package. The sooner the package was delivered, the sooner she could go back home.

  Home? So that’s what we call a military base these days.

  Still, the camp was much more than a military base. It was a refuge for civilians as much as it was a fortress and training ground for new recruits. Scouts like Cynthia were tasked with delivering messages and packages through the most dangerous of places. Radio, phones and the internet had been rendered useless, the invaders privy to every single piece of information on them. All messages were now delivered personally, and it was up to the couriers to make sure that the system worked. Some packages were valuable, pieces of some important plan of action or message. Others were red herrings, merely there to confuse the enemy. A courier might be granted any one of those, and would always be expected to guarantee its delivery with their life.

  And all of that for what? Preparation for an action against some enemy we know practically nothing about? The futility of her plight sometimes weighed on her like that, oftentimes passing as quickly as it came along. But it would always return.

  There were only two things she (and most likely every other human) knew about the invaders. First off, they took people. In the beginning, they only took women. When humanity struck back, the enemy started taking whoever they could get their mechanical limbs on. Speaking of mechanical limbs, the other thing that was known about the invaders was that they never fought personally, always sending their pet robots to do the fighting. Nicknamed cats because of their similarity to a cross between a humanoid and a large feline, those things could take a beating that would kill a trained soldier—and come back for more.

  And that was it. There were no ships in orbit, at least not detectable ones. Transports carrying shipments of cats seemingly sprang out of nowhere, probably due to some impossibly advanced stealth technology. Whatever type of communication was used to transmit orders was beyond anyone on Earth’s ability to figure out. In other words, the invaders had a huge advantage.

  If someone ever found a way for us to win this war, that’d be the punch line of the century.

  Suddenly, some hundred feet in the distance, an unusually large lump of dirt started moving around. Shocked, Cynthia gasped, her articulated thoughts shattering into a million pieces. She knew this area as well as she knew her back pocket. That bump way ahead in the road was not supposed to be there. It was even less supposed to rise into an upfront position and stare at her with a glowing white eye.

  Speak of the dev-

  Some sort of crash was imminent. Going at top speed, as she was, all that Cynthia could possibly do was to try to slow down as gently as she could and avoid a frontal collision. Teeth gritted, she slowly decelerated while executing a miniscule change of direction.

  The thing in her way did not seem to care, standing its ground as if there was no problem at all. This inaction persisted until the bike was but a few feet from it, just barely out of the collision radius. Then, it extended one of its legs toward the bike’s front tire.

  The result was as unpleasant as it was expected. Upon contact, the motorcycle passed over the cat’s mechanical limb, flying through the air past it like a newly taken-off airplane.

  Mustn’t let go! Cynthia gripped the control handles as hard as she could, ignoring the sharp pain that bloomed in both of her shoulders. With a dull thud, the vehicle hit the ground the proper way—wheels first, the suspension bursting immediately. A split second later the pain in her right shoulder tripled in intensity, practically screaming at her to let go. But she refused, remaining with her wounded beast of a vehicle up until it stopped moving completely.

  You’ve done well, old friend.

  All sensation gone from her fingers, Cynthia finally loosened her grip, allowing the bike to fall to its side accompanied by the sound of crumbling alloys. Full of adrenaline, she swiftly turned around—ready to face another hulking pile of metal.

  I’m not going down without a fight, you poor excuse for a household appliance!

  Openin
g the holster on the side of her right leg, Cynthia reached for her pistol. But at that moment, the full extent of her injuries rose up and hit her right in the face. The pain in her right shoulder was so intense that she practically fell to the ground. Shivering, her right hand flat-out refused to raise the pistol she was grasping.

  So it seems that my right shoulder is dislocated…

  On the verge of panic, she observed the metallic thing that stared back at her through that ominous, glowing eye. Her heart rate intensified up to the point where it seemed that it was just about to leap out of her chest. Then, all of a sudden, it slowed down as she came to a realization. Small arms fire was, for the most part, completely ineffective against cats.

  Dislocated shoulder or not, it’s taking me with it either way…

  Now ready to face her fate, Cynthia stared into the blank face of the enemy, its eye glowing brighter and brighter.

  The knockout beam, everyone called it. A target hit by the focused ray of light suffered complete shutdown of the nervous system with the exception of certain parts of the brain. Scientists speculated that this was done to enable greater efficiency in capturing humans. Had the beam shut down the entire brain, subjects would suffer brain damage within minutes—not that the process worked perfectly the way it was. People were found from time to time, those hit by the weapon but not taken by the invaders. The results were not pretty. The unconscious state they were put in did not pass by itself. For that, medical attention was necessary. Without it, victims of the knockout beam faced severe brain damage within twenty-four hours, or death from starvation and thirst within several days.

  I guess I’m about to find out just what that’s like, Cynthia tried to comfort herself with some quick humor. Averting her eyes due to the light having become too intense, she mentally prepared herself for the inevitable blast.

  The blast that never happened.

  Surprised, she turned to face the cat again, noticing that the light’s intensity had significantly diminished. Before her stood the mechanical creature, its focus disrupted, apparently trapped in some sort of electrical web. Mercilessly, the bolts of lightning that had ensnared it (not unlike a spider’s web) ravaged the thing’s body and made it convulse as if with some sort of seizure.

  Faster and faster the cat kept twitching, struggling against its restraints all the while. The episode lasted for several seconds, and the unsettling spectacle almost kept Cynthia from noticing the strange figure that stood in the background. It was dressed in a ragged black cloak, its hood lowered over its face.

  The Hood.

  She didn’t have much time to ponder the implications of the new arrival. Apparently in agony (or whatever passed for agony to robots) the cat let out an ear-piercing screech, drawing Cynthia’s attention back to it. A moment later it fell to the ground, its eye not glowing anymore.

  Relieved, Cynthia felt the stress leave her. In its place there came an even greater quantity of all-consuming pain. Surprised by the pain’s sudden arrival, she took a quick look at her shoulder. Instead of the usual, slender joint, there was a mass of misshapen, swollen tissue.

  I guess it was worse than I thought.

  Faced with a horrific view she wouldn’t even expect to see in a movie, let alone on her own body, Cynthia Greene blacked out. The sight of the Hood approaching was the last thing in her memory.

  An unknown location

  She could not remember the nightmare nor even what it was about. All that remained was a persistent sense of dread accompanying her as she woke.

  Reflexively she turned toward her injured right shoulder, the unpleasant sight from before she had fainted still fresh in her memory.

  Someone bandaged it up. The swelling is mostly gone as well.

  Letting out a single sigh of relief, Cynthia felt how dry her mouth was. After that sensation came another—the scent of freshly prepared stew. Sweet and powerful, the aroma completely overtook her senses. Much more importantly, it awakened her interest in her surroundings.

  Turning to face every direction like a disoriented animal, Cynthia tried to analyze the place. She had been placed on a bed, an old and squeaky type, yet still quite comfortable. The floor, the ceiling, and the walls were all crudely made of stone, signifying that she was in some sort of cave. The illumination was provided by several neon lights, tossed around in no particular order. Then she noticed something that didn’t belong in such a place by any means: cables.

  In no particular pattern optical, electrical and all other sorts of conductive wires covered everything she could see. It looked like the home of some gearhead Neanderthal.

  “So good that you’ve decided to wake up, my dear,” a voice echoed from one of the many passages in front of her. It was deep and a little coarse, as if the speaker had not spoken for quite some time. “I was beginning to think that the meal I made would go to waste.”

  A moment later, stepping in from the rightmost tunnel, a man came into the room. Adorned in a loose-fitting indigo jumpsuit, all that she could make out was that he was tall. His face was clean-shaven and ovular, definitely handsome in a non-rugged sort of way. His hair was a dark shade of brown, worn slightly longer and combed backwards.

  He looks like a dandy crime-boss-turned-hermit. Cynthia chuckled for a second, amused by his unconventional yet rather eye-pleasing appearance. It had been so long since she was alone with a man who was not her military superior. The feeling was new and exciting.

  So this is the Hood? Her memories resurfaced, downplaying the pleasant aspect of the situation. She had been in deathly danger, and the Hood, this man, had saved her life.

  “If you’re going to be busy staring at me for much longer, my dear guest” —he approached, pulling a deck chair from somewhere beneath a nearby pile of cables, before he set it up and placed it next to her bed— “then please allow me to put this somewhere.”

  Smartasses. The world is full of them, even now.

  It was only then that she noticed the large silver plate he held in his left hand, two bowls of stew carefully balanced on it. Greedily, she grabbed one of them with both hands, completely ignoring the cutlery carefully placed to the side. Her stomach roaring like a wild beast, Cynthia sated her hunger by unloading the contents into her mouth. She didn’t care how hot it was.

  That’s going to disagree with me later on, she thought when she placed the bowl back on the plate. The Hood stared at her with a significantly amused expression. His eyes didn’t go well with his face, she noticed. Their shade of brown was similar to his hair, but such a common color seemed kind of off on such an uncommon male face.

  “Care for another?” He tilted his head toward the other bowl, the hair on his head rippling in a synchronized fashion. “I am not all that hungry. At least, not compared to you.”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t,” Cynthia responded, ignoring the still-present roar of her stomach. At least she thought it was her stomach and not something beneath it.

  “Are you sure? You’ve been out for almost a day. You could use the protein. Fill out a little bit.” He raised his eyebrows. “Not that there’s anything wrong with the way you are now.”

  God damn it, he probably got a good look at me while he was fixing me up. The knowledge unnerved her, but not nearly as much as it should have.

  “Yes, please,” Cynthia finally replied, extending her right hand toward the other bowl. A second later, she also raised the left one, grabbing the silver spoon she had missed the first time around. Much more slowly, and trying to reproduce some of the table manners she had left behind long ago, she proceeded to down the meal.

  It’s not bad at all. She concluded, this time allowing herself to actually taste it. Although I can’t for the life of me identify the meat.

  Within a couple of minutes she was done, the second bowl back on the silver plate with the other one. Visibly pleased, the Hood placed it on the floor nearby, having cleared it of a rather sizeable mass of cables beforehand.

  “You have questio
ns,” he said, his expression betraying something between glee, curiosity and utter amusement. “I know you do. It would please me to no end to enlighten you.”

  He’s being forward. Strange for someone who is said to be so reclusive.

  She blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Who are you?”

  “An exile of war, down on his luck, struggling to survive in this desolate wasteland, of course.” His answer made sense, but it was still surprising.

  “Why not seek shelter in one of the camps?” She chose to follow up on what he said. “The way you took down that cat, you’d live a good life out there. The military and the state would pay a fortune to know your secret!”

  “And why, my beautiful guest,” his comment made her blush for a little bit, “do you think I would want what they have to give? Or rather, want to help them in the first place?” Dramatically, the Hood rose from his chair, gesturing around him with his arms. “This blasted land is the product of the army you speak of. The land that they—me, you—might have lived off comfortably is now destroyed completely, just to send a message. This area used to be good to them, and look at it now. What do you think will happen to me?”

  That… does make sense, in an offbeat kind of way.

  Slightly confused by the Hood’s way of thinking, Cynthia took a few moments to gather her thoughts. Everyone she ever knew had turned to the state’s mercy, yet this man chose to stay here.

  Stay and thrive…

  “How did you… how did you take down that robot, anyway?” she asked, recalling the way the thing had convulsed while it was trapped in the web.

  “An invention of mine.” The Hood seemed rather pleased to share this fact. “It takes advantage of the machines’ weaknesses. Nothing more and nothing less than that.”

  “I understand,” Cynthia said, doing her best to ignore the tingling in her nether region that this man’s presence so effortlessly invoked. “But that’s not really a good answer.”